#i watched under the red hood properly last night and this is what i got

[a-crystalclearsquid]

little jason

[withlovewriting]

Mixed Drinks and Smoke Rings 7: Kill The Wolf

Chapter Seven: Kill The Wolf

Is this the start, the start of something? Out of the dark, born out of nothing, Oh, what a rush, I didn’t see it coming, Is this the start, the start of something?

Summary: New to town, you didn’t need a friend, you needed a dealer. Thankfully, a girl from your Narcotics Anonymous meetings knew just the guy.

Characters: Fezco (euphoria) x Non-descriptive Reader

Words: 4,250

Chapter Warnings: Comments referring to drug use, thinly veiled threats, reference to attempted suicide

Series Warnings: Addiction, sexual themes, cursing, abuse (various), smut, drug use, teenagers being fucking idiots. 18+ only, minors DNI

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taglist: @iamasimpingh0e @chelseagirl77 @zeida

Daniel's Halloween party was the first party in East Highland that you'd properly attended.

You didn't count McKay's, solely because you'd spent the majority of the night passed out on too many benzos, and although you hadn't planned on staying stone-cold sober all night, you knew that Rue was struggling with her sobriety. Especially since she was trying to herd a 2-drinks-too-drunk Jules -- who never normally drank like this, apparently -- around the crowded living space.

You'd offered -- albeit lacklusterly -- to help her, knowing Rue wasn't equipped for the shock of being the sober one.

Rue had assured you it was fine. She didn't expect anyone to stay sober around her just because she couldn't control herself, but you shrugged anyway and handed your cup to another student who passed you.

Begrudgingly, you wouldn't let Rue do this alone. She was doing so well with her sobriety, and quite frankly, you cared more about hers than you did your own. So instead, you filled a new cup with water and cheers'ed her, pushing your way through the crowd, finding Jules on the dance floor, and joining her.

You were used to parties like these. Hell, a year ago you'd have been in your element; some kind of drink in your hand, some kind of pill under your tongue, and some kind of powder up your nostril. You really weren't fussy.

Yet as you pushed your way through the crowds, Jules now dancing with another girl, a part of you was begging to go home. Heading outside, you needed some fresh air to try and soothe the headache that the thumping bass was giving you. It was much easier to ignore and even enjoy when you couldn't see straight.

You saw the cloud of smoke before you'd seen the man himself, almost like a signal. X marks the spot, right?

You slowly made your way over, watching as he spoke with Rue, the two seemingly making up from whatever fight they'd recently got into. Rue -- who had noticed you first -- said something, causing him to turn in your direction, before returning his attention back to her, continuing a much lighter conversation. You decided, now they'd both acknowledged you, it was safe enough to head over and join them.

You less than gracefully threw yourself onto the sofa next to Fez, the man puffing away on a joint, as if it was the last one on Earth, "Rue already told me 'bout your little pact. I said I wouldn't-"

"I'm not here to try and convince you, don't worry. I'm here because I'm sober."

"Whatchu mean?" He questioned, watching the people as they stumbled around.

"I don't have the patience for drunk people."

You couldn't even bring yourself to glare at him when he'd chuckled. It sounded ridiculously hypocritical to yourself, too, "You don't remember much of the last party, do you?"

"Not at all. And it was much more fun," turning your attention to Rue who was standing by the side of the couch, you sent her an apologetic smile, "No offense."

"None taken." She smirked.

"Nice costume," Fez said, his eyes trailing from your shredded skirt to your red, glittery face, "Little red riding hood, right?"

"After she slaughtered the wolf."

Rue squinted at you for just a moment, "I don't think that's how the story goes-"

You waved your hand, cutting her off mid-sentence, not all that fussed in the fairy-tale lore. Patting the cushion next to you, you watched Rue as she finally took a seat, "You look good, Rue."

"Oh, thanks."

You brushed some dirt off her shoulder, fixing her lapel and sending her a small smile, unaware of Fez's watchful eye.

"So, she kills the wolf in your story then?"

You turned your attention back to Fez, a devilish smirk gracing your lips, "I don't need some strong, handsome man to save me. I can skin the bastard myself. Even get a nice new rug out of it."

"That's fuckin' sick," he chortled, nose scrunching up a little.

"Bloods a bitch of a stain to get out, but I think it adds to the design."

He shook his head, but his attention was quickly pulled away by Jules, who had drunkenly stumbled right into the pool, "Yo, ain't that your home girl?"

Rue sighed, both a little annoyed and a little concerned with Jules' behavior. Forcing herself up, she made her way to the pool area, ready to drag the girl out.

Fez watched them for a second before the hand that held his joint moved towards you, offering it up on a golden platter, "I won't snitch. Promise."

Your eyes looked between him and the offering, and you'd wanted nothing more than to accept it and smoke the whole damn thing. Fez had good drugs, but even better weed. Probably why he smoked it all the time.

Yet as your eyes darted towards Rue -- who at this point would honestly have no idea if you took a hit or two -- you turned your head, meeting his blue eyes, "Promised her I wouldn't. I don't wanna go back on that when she's been trying so hard."

Fez shrugged as if it was nothing, before placing the joint back to his own lips. His cobalt eyes, however, still observed you.

"How long you been doin' this shit for?" Turning your body to face him a little better, your quirked brow made him explain himself, "Drugs."

You were quiet for a moment, and he could only assume you were trying to calculate.

"Not that long, actually. A couple of years, I guess. How long have you been doing it?" You asked, watching as he stumped out the roach.

"Dealing? Shit, I dunno. Feels like forever."

"And it's just you and Ash, right?"

He took a little longer to reply this time, as if thinking through his answer, "Uh, yeah, kinda. My Grandma still lives with us, but-"

"Oh shit, really? And she's like... Cool with you dealing and shit?"

Fez couldn't hold in his chuckle, "She's the one who taught me how. Man... My Grandma was the best fuckin' dealer you'd ever meet."

Although you could tell Fez clearly adored his Grandmother, his voice was tinged in a type of sadness you were unaccustomed to, "So why isn't she dealing anymore? I mean, no judgment here, like at all. But leaving you and Ash who's what, like 14, to deal with the drug side? Seems a little-"

"She ain't really have the choice. Had an accident a couple years ago. She's uh... Not really how she used to be, you know?"

You'd never seen, or even heard a peep from his Grandmother any time you'd spent at Fez's, not that you'd remember either way. But you did remember the door that was cracked open. Was she... Was that her room? It felt too private to ask him.

"What's her name?"

Fez licked his lips, taking a sip from his beer before answering, "Marie, but everyone called her Kitty."

"Kitty. I mean, why the fuck not. There's already a Fezco and an Ashtray, at least hers is normal." You nudged his side gently, the man sending you a smirk in response, "And what about your parents? They not around, or..."

Fez's face turned stoic, the smile quickly dropping from his lips, and you could see his shoulders tense slightly. Clearly, it was a pretty sore subject to him.

"Dunno my mom, and my Dad's a piece of shit. Not much else to tell." Rubbing his hand over his head, he sent you an apologetic smile, "We're both way too fuckin' sober for this conversation."

You were both quiet for a moment, enjoying the slight thumping that could be heard from the closed door, "What about you? I mean, I know your dad's around, but where's your Mom?"

If Fez's shoulders had tensed at the mention of his family, yours damn well locked up, "She uh, she packed up and left a couple of years ago. That's why my dad's the way he is-"

"What, a piece of shit-"

You turned on him quickly, eyes full of fire, "Don't, alright? You don't know what he's been through. You haven't got any fuckin' right to judge him."

He knew he could fight you on this, and maybe he should've fought you on it, but the look in your eyes... Shit, he knew that look, and it was one he'd never be able to wear down, let alone win against. Fierce, unyielding loyalty wasn't an easy thing to crack, and now wasn't the time to start chiseling. If he’d go to war for Ash as a brother, he could tell you’d go to war for your father as a daughter.

So instead, Fez placed his hand over your thigh, giving it a small, reassuring squeeze. A silent apology.

Untwisting your figurative panties, you sent him a quick smile, watching him for a moment before sipping some of your water.

A splash from across the garden pulled your attention away, both you and Fez watching as a now drenched Rue pushed herself from the pool and forced her way back inside through the throngs of people. You went to stand, but the hand on your thigh squeezed gently once more, causing you to turn your attention back to Fez.

"She's alright. She just gotta get used to being on the other side of the problem."

"I still don't think she should-"

Patting your thigh, he sighed, "Go if you want, but she need'a go through this. She's probably more upset knowing this was how she acted than anything else."

His words hit you right in the chest, making it a little harder to breathe. 

Leaning back in your seat, you placed your own hand over his that was still settled on your thigh. It felt much warmer than your own.

"I don't think I ever said thank you for that night at McKay's. You didn't even know me, and I was a total bitch to you, but you still made sure I was OK. I don’t know many people who would do that. So, uh... Thanks."

He remained quiet but nodded in acceptance of your apology. But you'd opened your mouth and now you suffered from a serious case of not being able to shut up,

"And shit, everything with that Mouse guy. I had no right to even come around that day, and it was all my fucking fault, and you kept me safe and shit. I probably cost you so much money and you're letting me pay it back by literally sitting in the store for a couple of hours a day, and I'm damn sure that it isn't paying you to have me there and-"

  "Ay, ma?" You stopped, your wide eyes turning to him, cheeks feeling warm with embarrassment, "It's aight. Really. Shit happens, ain't no point crying over spilled milk, right?"

Watching him for a moment in total awe, you didn't know how to thank him properly, or if you ever could. He could sense your nerves as your fingers vacantly toyed with his own, feeling the expanse of the back of his hand, 

"I have never met a dealer like you before. Shit, I don't think I've had a friend like you before-"

"Oh, we friends now, huh?"

Your brow wrinkled as he let you stew in confused, anxious silence for a moment, "Thought you didn't need a friend, jus' a dealer?"

Swatting his chest as a relieved smile crossed your face, you couldn't help but smirk, "Yeah well, I'm sober tonight. A dealer ain't gonna do shit for me. So I guess a friend will have to do."

You sat outside with Fez for a while longer, enjoying the cool breeze that passed through every once in a while, minding your own business whenever he'd attend to a deal. Or at least, until one annoyingly familiar voice put the first crack in your peace.

"You sell pre-rolls, man?"

Looking up, your eyes watched the boy with disdain as he merely smirked down at you, "Hey there, stranger."

He paid Fez the money owed, the older boy watching him closely when he walked away, eyes glancing back at you every so often.

"Old friend?" He questioned, watching as the younger boy sat across the garden on a lounge chair, his weasel-like little face still turning every now and then as he sat with the McKay twins.

"Not really," Placing your cup of water down on the floor, you sent Fez a small smile, "I'll be right back."

Although you could feel Fez's eyes on you as you walked over to the younger boy, you refused to turn around, and instead, you held eye contact with the boy ahead, "Wes. A word?" 

The McKay twins turned, watching the encounter as Wes blew out a puff of smoke, "Whatever you say, sweetheart." 

When it was clear he wasn't going to move his ass, you grumbled, grabbing him by the ear and quite literally pulling him away from his friends. When you were far enough away from their nosy little ears, you turned on him.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

"I was invited-"

"By Daniel? I'm pretty fucking sure you weren't."

"No, by Troy and Roy. Shit, did you have to drag me away like that." He moaned, attempting to soothe his sore ear.

"Look, Kat's here, and I know damn well she wouldn't want to see you. The shit you pulled? You're fucking sick, man."

"Shit, send a girl to public school, and suddenly she cops a conscious? It's like I don't know you anymore," he smirked.

He might've only been a junior, but damn did you want to backhand the little prick, "Get your shit and go. Seriously, before she sees you."

Turning to march away, his voice stopped you dead in your tracks, "You know, Liam asks about you sometimes. My cousin said he still bangs on about you every now and then. I thought I recognized you at the last party. Drugged out on someone's sofa... Definitely your style, right? But I wasn't sure. What I am sure of, is that Liam would be very interested to know you're here, not even an hour away."

You were certain you could feel the blood in your veins thicken and chill, slowly crawling through your veins and causing your heart to somehow both beat erratically and stop altogether.

Spinning around, your eyes flashed with fire, "This isn't a fucking joke, Wes-"

"I'm not fucking laughing." He told you, stepping closer, forcing himself into your personal space.

His eyes darted behind you before he quickly stepped back with a sardonic smile, his eyes taking in your body before he spoke,

"It was nice to catch up. I'm sure I'll be seeing you again."

You watched him with bated breath as he made his way back towards the McKay twins. 

"Everythin' good?"

Fezco's voice was soft, almost as if he was scared you'd flee like a scared animal. When you didn't respond, he placed a hand on your back and gently led you to the sofa.

"You sure you don't wanna hit? I don't even know where Rue is no more."

You wanted to rub your hand over your face but stopped just in time to keep your make-up intact, "I don't think weed is gonna do shit for me tonight, Fez."

He remained quiet for a moment, fully aware that the tone of the night had changed. Your eyes kept darting towards the group of younger boys, rowdy and loud as they puffed out clouds of smoke.

"That your sworn enemy or somethin'?" He joked, lighting up another joint.

"Hmm?" Snapping out of your thoughts, you turned to Fez, eyebrows raised.

"You been starin' at him like you tryin' to set him on fire with your mind."

Sending him a feeble smile, your fingers began to toy with the hem of your skirt, "His cousin went to my old school. He was uh, good friends with an ex."

"Oh shit. It bad?"

Watching the smoke that fell from his mouth, you took a moment to really think about it. The world wasn't black and white, and neither was your previous relationship. It was full of grey, too.

It was good. Sometimes. Especially in the beginning. But isn't that always how the story goes? That's how people like that get their claws in you. Because if they were an asshole from day one, you'd never entertain them in the first place.

But the bad times?

Holy fucking hell, they were bad.

"I mean, he's an ex for a reason, right?" You mumbled, inspecting your fingernails.

Fez said no more, his eyes soft as they watched you fidget. Placing his hand over yours to halt their movements.

"My Grandma, she uh... She always told me not to fall in love, you know? Said it's the one instinct you can't trust."

Cocking your head, you blinked a few times, taking in the words he'd said, "Surely you don't believe that?"

Fez shrugged his shoulders, "Never really had anyone to prove her wrong."

"So what, you just... Don't date? Just on the off chance you'll fall in love?"

Even in the low light, you could see Fez's cheeks burn a bright pink, "I mean, I ain't never really had time for it, you know?"

You watched Fez as he continued playing with your fingers, both your hands resting on your lap. He only looked up once your hand squeezed his.

"You doin' well tonight," Fez peered up at you through his long lashes, clarifying when your brow furrowed, "The whole stayin' sober thing. It was nice to actually be able to converse wit' you at a party for once."

"Yeah well... Don't get used to it." You sent him a feeble smile, suddenly feeling bashful under his denim blue gaze, "I'm much more fun when I'm unconscious."

 He let out a huff of laughter, watching as your eyes twinkled in the low outdoor lighting, "You really not enjoying tonight?"

A loud laugh from the other side of the garden pulled your attention away, and Fez watched as your smile dropped, watching the group of kids from earlier smoking a joint as a group of girls joined them, "I was."

"Yo, you uh... you wanna get outta here or somethin'?"

Turning your attention back to him, you sent Fez a timid smile, "Sure. Let me just go find Rue, make sure she's OK first."

You pushed your way through the crowd, eyes darting around as you tried to find Rue. Eventually, you spotted her, standing next to a panic-stricken Jules, the two staring out into the crowd. Before you could make your way over to them, a large hand clamped down on your shoulder,

"Hey, can I have a word?"

Turning, you lifted a brow at Nate, unsure of why, or how he was at the party. Especially with Maddy standing only a few feet away sipping on a drink. As you tilted your head towards the girl, she dropped her eyes, refusing to make contact with yours. Unsure of what you'd done wrong, you returned your attention back to the boy and nodded, allowing him to maneuver you through the waves of people.

He walked you towards the end of a hallway, past some people who were waiting for the bathroom, and into an empty bedroom. 

"What's up, Nate?"

He stood, leaning against the closed door for a moment, watching you in silence. Although you'd both seemingly put any hostility behind you, you couldn't help but feel yourself cower slightly under his cold gaze. Any understanding between you both had seemingly vanished.

"Maddy told me you'd spoken to her."

Shaking your head a little, you tried to recall the conversation you'd had with the girl, "Uh, I mean yeah... I don't understand why-"

"You're right, you don't understand. You've been here what, a couple of months? You don't know me, or Maddy, or anything about our relationship," Nate pushed off the door, moving into your personal space and backing you up against a chest of drawers on the other side of the room, "For everyone's sake, I'd butt out."

"I know you think you have some kind of hold over her, but one day Maddy is gonna realize that you're a piece of shit, Nate." You did your best to hold his eye contact, but you couldn't help the tremble in your voice.

A malignant smile pulled at his lips, his dark eyes raked over your face, "It's sweet that you're trying to look out for her, really. But I think the last thing Maddy needs is advice from some pill-popping junkie, who got kicked out of private school because she was so high she tried to throw herself off the roof."

"You don't know shit." Your chin wobbled as you tried to keep from crying.

"You know, you private school kids are all the fucking same. Offer up some drugs, and they love to fucking squeal." Tucking your hair behind your ear, Nate’s other hand was placed on the drawers next to your body, caging you in.

"If you don't want your business getting out," Nate's hand dropped from your hair, grabbing your jaw as he turned your face up towards him forcefully, "Then I suggest you stay out of mine."

His face was so close, you could smell the alcohol on his breath and you finally couldn't hold in the tears any longer. He pushed off you, finally making his way out of the room.

Your chest heaved, feeling like you hadn't been able to take a real breath since you stepped inside the bedroom.

Tears were streaming down your cheeks as you pushed the door open, shoving your way through the crowd, your previous attempt at finding Rue now far from your mind.

She'd found you, though.

She was unsure of what happened between Jules and Nate, but the moment the blond saw him strut into the party like his shit didn't stink, her whole demeanor changed. Rue didn't know what was wrong with Jules, she'd been standoffish lately, but she knew whatever was running through the girl's mind was about more than just her.

Before she could question the girl, the bedroom door swung open again, and Rue watched as you high-tailed out of there, tear stains down your cheeks as you forced your way through the dance-floor, and although Nate was now standing with Maddy again, his eyes were trained on you, a haughty smirk as he watched you leave.

Fuck Nate Jacobs.

Fuck Nate Jacobs, fuck Nate Jacobs, fuck Nate Jacobs.

He knew. Maybe not everything, but if there was one thing you'd learned about this shit-hole of a town it was that somehow, everything got out.  Whether it was the truth, or not.

You could feel yourself spiraling. Vomit was crawling up your throat and that shitty voice inside your head that you'd managed to force down all these months was now loud and proud at the forefront. 

The one telling you that you weren't good enough.  Because if you were, your Mom would've stayed, right? Your father wouldn't fucking hate you, forced to  find solace at the bottom of a bottle just to get away from his disappointment of a daughter.

A pill-popping junkie. An addict.

That's what everyone thought of you, right? The moment you passed out on the couch at McKay's party, the rumor was set in stone. But it was happening long before then. Pills were the least of your worries.

So if they already had this preconception of you, who the fuck were you to disappoint?

Pulling out your phone, you dialed a number that you'd unfortunately never forget. No matter how desperate, or high you were at the time.

Fez had grown tired of waiting for you to come back and had decided to just go find you himself.

At first, he was worried maybe something had happened between Jules and Rue, and that's why it had taken so long to say goodbye, but when he saw the two of them together, Jules seemingly sobered up, a frown settled on his face.

Gaining Rue’s attention, he'd asked her where you'd gone.

"I uh, I'm not sure. I think she left."

Rue wasn't sure why she didn't tell Fez exactly what she'd seen. Maybe she was still trying to comprehend it in her own mind. In fact, what had she seen?

Either way, she was a little too distracted by Jules' sudden shift in disposition to concentrate on more than one person at a time.

"Ay, what's her number? I'll try to ring her."

And he did. Multiple times. Each and every time, your phone simply rang and rang, until he was connected to your voicemail.

He tried not to worry too much; you were stone-cold sober and able to make a conscious decision. Maybe the night had just taken its toll, and somewhere between trying to find Rue and pushing your way through the crowd, you'd said fuck it and left. You didn't have his number, so he tried not to take it personally.

As he took one last look around the crowded room, his eyes met Nate Jacobs. He sent Fez a cocky smile, watching from the other side of the room, but shit... That wasn't any of his business.

[cdelphiki]

Kid Jason and Bruce bonding over cars, 5k words of fluff, no archive warnings apply.

“Good morning, lad,” Alfred said, one Saturday morning just as Jason stepped into the kitchen, “What would you like for breakfast?”

He’d skipped ‘family’ breakfast in favor of sleeping in, which Alfred had said multiple times was perfectly acceptable. He was 12, after all, and needed his sleep. 

With a smile, Jason started crossing the kitchen, over to the pantry, as he said, “Hi, Alfred. I was just gonna get some cereal.”

“Then help yourself, lad.”

Despite saying ‘help yourself,’ Alfred both got him a bowl and the milk out, but otherwise let Jason pour himself the cereal. He then traded Jason the milk for a spoon before going back to whatever he was preparing before. Kinda looked like bread. He was kneading dough, whatever it was.

“What’s Bruce doing in the garage?” Jason asked, after he’d watched Alfred for a few minutes and got through half his bowl of cereal.

Alfred rolled the dough up into a loaf shape and dropped it down into a glass pan as he said, “Why don’t you go see for yourself?”

He didn’t even look over, but Alfred must have heard Jason frown, or something, because he then asked, “You like cars, don’t you?”

“Well yeah,” Jason stammered. He did like cars, but why did that mean he had to go ask Bruce what he was doing? “I just don’t want to bother him.”

Bruce was obviously doing work or something. He had spent almost the whole week working, and then had to take Jason out yesterday, so he probably had stuff he had to get done around the house, right? With… the tools.

“You won’t be bothering him,” Alfred said, like he thought it was impossible for Jason to bother Bruce, “I’m sure he will be more than happy to tell you about the work he’s doing on his cars.”

So he was doing work then.

Just… on his cars…

Jason looked down into his bowl and scooped out his last bite of cereal, contemplating whether he would go bother Bruce.

On the one hand, Bruce had said he would show Jason his cars if he just asked.

But on the other… he didn’t know. Things were good with Bruce so far, he was kind of scared if he bothered Bruce too much, he’d ruin it.

But as soon as Jason set his bowl back down, after finishing off the milk, Alfred walked over and took it, saying, “Go on, lad.”

And, well. Jason was supposed to listen to Alfred, right?

Back at the door to the garage, though, Jason hesitated. Bruce was back rummaging through the toolbox, but his Volkswagen was moved out to the middle of the floor, out of its normal parking spot in the line of cars away from the doors.

He didn’t turn around, though, when Jason hesitatingly pulled the door open and stepped down onto the the little set of three stairs that led to the garage floor. It wasn’t until he found whatever it was, it looked like a funnel from where Jason was standing, did he turn around and notice Jason.

“Hey, bud,” he said, as he pulled a little earbud out of his ear, “what’s up?”

“Alfred said I should come see what you were doing.”

Bruce nodded and put his little earbud in a case on the work bench as he said, “Oh, well I’m changing the oil on the cars today.”

“All of them?” Jason surveyed the garage and couldn’t help but think doing something like that would take ages.

“Most of them,” Bruce nearly hummed, as he opened the driver’s door to the Volkswagen and leaned inside. A second later, the hood popped.

Jason hopped down the last two steps and walked over toward one of the lines of cars, the one with the red lambo he’d been drooling over every time he was in the garage. He hadn’t had a chance to actually look at it, though. Because every time he was in the garage, Bruce was ushering him someplace or another.

Bruce peeked over at him, but didn’t say anything when Jason put his hand down on the hood of the car. It was gorgeous. Shiny and flawless. Not a single scratch on it anywhere Jason could see.

It was obvious it was taken care of, but Jason would have never thought Bruce did the work.

“Don’t you have people for that?” Jason asked, as Bruce opened the hood on the Volkswagen and propped it open like he’d done it a million times.

With seventy-four cars, he probably had done it a million times.

“Have you seen people around here I’m not aware of?” Bruce asked, a hint of amusement in his voice as he checked the car’s oil, using the little stick thing. Jason had never actually seen someone do that before. Mostly because his parents hadn’t owned a car. He’d seen people do that on TV and stuff, though.

“No one’s mechanic lives with them,” Jason scoffed, turning fully from the Lamborghini to watch Bruce. Although Jason wouldn’t put it past a rich weirdo with a million cars to have a live-in mechanic.

Bruce huffed, what Jason assumed was a laugh, but he said, “I’m my own mechanic,” as he started messing with something in the car. Jason was kinda curious what.

“Why?”

“Is it so wrong I have a hobby?” Bruce asked, looking up at Jason finally.

“Yeah, it’s weird,” Jason answered with a shrug, “You’re rich.” Rich people had hobbies there were like, horses. Horses and… well. Jason didn’t actually know, outside of illegal stuff, obviously.

“I like working on my own cars,” Bruce said, as he walked back over to his tool box and slipped on some gloves, “At least, on the cars I can work on. Some of these are just easier to bring to the dealership.”

“Really? Why?” Jason asked, looking back around at all the cars. Bruce actually had about ten cars, mostly sport cars, “Which ones?”

“It’s all the computer systems in the newer cars, I don’t feel like owning the equipment for every single car, especially if I don’t drive that car much, anyway. And cars like the Tesla you have to get parts for on the blackmarket, and it’s far more trouble than it’s worth.”

With a slight grin, Jason asked, “So you’re saying you don’t buy stuff from the black market,” as he pointed to himself when Bruce looked over. Regardless of his intentions, Bruce had exchanged money for him. Which was technically buying a child on the blackmarket.

Bruce just rolled his eyes, though, and said, “I try not to.”

“Why do you own like ten cars?” Jason asked, as he started inspecting the other cars in the line he was at. Next to the Lamborghini was a sleek black sports car and Jason was pretty sure was a corvette. He really needed to study the symbols on cars more. It was a little ‘V’ on the hood, so he was like, 98% sure.

“There’s only nine here and one is Alfred’s,” Bruce said, like that made a difference, “and I like cars. They’re fun to collect.”

“Do you actually drive them all? You always pick the Tesla when we go anywhere.” Or that one time the Volkswagen.

Although maybe Bruce brought the sports cars out on his dates or whatever he did at night. Jason had never watched him leave or anything.

Bruce leaned back over the Volkswagen’s engine compartment as he said, “I try to drive each one at least once a month, even if it’s just around the block.”

“Oh,” he said, shoving his hands into his hoody pocket. He was wearing his Wayne Enterprises one, since he’d sweated all over the Batman one.

Maybe Bruce was right and he needed a summer hoody or something, because it was hot in the garage, too. Since the door was open to the outside and all…

Jason walked over to the open garage door and leaned back against the threshold between inside and outside and asked, “How often do you do this?” as he motioned at everything inside the garage.

“Every six months,” Bruce said, as he wiped the sweat off his forehead with his t-shirt sleeve. Then he stood up and looked straight as Jason as he asked, “Do you want to help?”

“What?” Help?

Bruce would actually let Jason help?

“Come here,” Bruce motioned with his head for Jason to come over, “I’ll show you what I’m doing.”

Jason pushed off the wall and took an aborted step forward as he asked, “Really?” Couldn’t he like, fuck up the car horribly??

Why would Bruce want him to help?

“Of course, this is a good skill to know. One day you’ll have a car of your own to take care of.”

“I will?” Jason asked, a little dazed as he did cross the garage to where Bruce was working.

Not many people owned cars, where he was from. He’d never actually dreamed that one day he’d own a car.

But maybe he should have. Because… if he got a real job, like doctor or lawyer or something, then he’d have enough money to buy one.

And if he did that, he’d probably need one to get to work and stuff.

“Of course,” Bruce said, like he hadn’t even thought the opposite. Once Jason had fully approached the car, and inched up to the side of the engine compartment, across from Bruce, he said, “Okay, tell me what all you know about cars.”

“Uh,” Jason stammered. He didn’t know much about cars, in the grand scheme of things. He’d only recently been able to research them! “Well. I know that’s the engine,” he continued, pointing to where the engine was, hiding under a cover, “And it has, uh, cylinders and pistons…”

He trailed off, but when he looked back up at Bruce, Bruce was smiling brightly, like Jason had said the right thing, so he tried to return the smile.

“Great, you already know more than most drivers,” Bruce said, as he walked back over to his workbench. He grabbed a pair of gloves and held them out for Jason as he said, “Engines have oil in them we need to change, to make sure it’s staying clean. Dirty oil damages the engine, which can cause some serious problems. Engines also burn off oil, so changing it ensures we’re keeping enough in there for the engine to work properly.”

Jason listened attentively as he rolled his sleeves up and pulled the gloves on. Bruce went to on explain how they were going to get the old oil out, replace it, and change the oil filter. He’d known kind of vaguely the basics of all that, but he’d never heard it be explained in detail.

Bruce walked him through everything, and even let Jason do some of the work. Like pull out the old oil filter and insert the oil extractor down into the car. Bruce took a step back once he showed Jason what to do, and even let Jason extract all the oil. By himself.

It was actually super easy. No wonder Bruce did his own oil changes.

While Jason was watching the oil slowly drain from the engine and into the extractor, Bruce went and got two huge bottles of oil off the shelf, which was stocked with, like, twenty bottles of the stuff.

“That much?” It looked like he had two gallons of oil, or more. Probably more. The bottles were bigger than milk jugs.

“Yes,” Bruce said, as he set the two bottles on the ground next to the extractor, “This car needs almost six quarts.”

Jason had no idea how much that was, because who measured shit in quarts?? But he nodded and watched from the side of the car as Bruce took the extractor out and slipped the funnel in, then poured the entirety of one of the bottles in.

It wasn’t until he started pouring in the second bottle did Bruce say, “Okay, I need you to pull the dip stick out and check the level.”

Jason bounced back around to the front of the car, so he could reach the dip stick. Bruce stepped to the side, further out of the way, but couldn’t go too far since he was still holding the bottle over the funnel, but it was fine. Jason could reach it just fine.

“Pull it out and wipe it off,” Bruce explained, when Jason located the dip stick, “then dip it back in. That will give you an accurate reading.”

Nodding, Jason grabbed the rag Bruce had set next to the dip stick and did exactly as told. Once he had the ‘accurate’ reading he held it up into the sun and squinted at it, trying to figure out if he was supposed to be able to tell if it was low. “Uh, it’s below the bottom dot.”

“That means we don’t have enough in there. You want the oil between the two dots.”

“Ah.” Jason nodded, and watched as Bruce poured more into the engine, a little at a time.

Each time he had Jason check the levels again, until the line was almost all the way to the top dot. Once it was, Bruce nodded contentedly and said, “That’s good enough,” and put the bottle of oil back down on the ground, “Now we just have to put the new filter in and we’re done.”

Doing that was a piece of cake. It was basically just the reverse as removing it. Then Bruce had Jason put the engine cover on by himself and they were done.

Just like that.

“Great job,” Bruce said, as he removed the stick holding the hood open, then motioned for Jason to step back so he could drop it shut. Jason jumped when the hood slammed closed, but then smiled when Bruce added, “You’re a pro already.”

“This is some people’s job,” Jason said, as he stepped back into the sunlight, shining in through the open garage door behind him, where he could get a good look at all of Bruce’s cars.

“It sure is,” Bruce said, “Mechanics is a very good field to go into. We’ll always have a need for mechanics.”

“Unless all the rich assholes start doing it themselves,” Jason said, walking along the edge of the driveway, toward the other row of cars on the other side of the garage.

Bruce huffed as he peeled his gloves off and tossed them over at the work bench. “If I crashed one of these,” he said, walking back to the Volkswagen with the key in his hand, “or the engine failed or something drastic, I’d let a mechanic fix it. I just do the routine, easy things.”

“Oh.” Jason supposed that made sense. It probably wasn’t fun if it was super tedious or whatever.

While Bruce started up the Volkswagen and backed it up into its spot, in the row of cars across the way from Jason, he wandered down the new row of vehicles.

All of the cars Bruce or Alfred drove the most were closer to the door to the Manor, so that’s where the Tesla and Bentley were. On this side was some cars Jason didn’t even recognize. He’d need to do a lot of research on fancy-ass sports cars to figure them out, too.

That was, until he stopped on the last car in the row and recognized the SRT logo on the side of the grille.

“No way,” he whispered to himself, as he circled the car.

There was no way it was what he thought it was.

He’d just seen a documentary… or four… about this car three days ago. It was an expensive car, sure, but not like million dollars expensive. It wasn’t even 100k, if he remembered right. He hadn’t been expecting Bruce to have one.

Then again, Bruce owned a Volkswagen. And this was an awesome car.

“You like that one?” Bruce asked, from across the garage.

“Is this a Hellcat?” Jason asked, before he cupped his hands around his eyes so he could try to peek inside. Sadly the tinted windows were too dark, though, so he stood back up and looked over at Bruce.

And Bruce looked… delighted. That was the only way Jason could describe it. He looked delighted.

“It sure is.”

“Dude,” Jason exclaimed, excitement bubbling up in him so quickly he felt like he would burst, “No way! What year is it? Does it really have a red key? How fast does it go? Why don’t you drive this one everywhere!”

Bruce grinned probably the most genuine grin Jason had ever seen but he couldn’t even though about it, because holy shit. He was right!!!

This was like, one of his favorite cars ever.

He’d watched four different documentaries, all on youtube, all because of the red key and how the regular black key governed the engine but the red key unlocked over seven hundred horse power.

And besides being so fucking cool that a car could go so fast, it was such a funny image, picturing seven hundred horses pulling a car.

Bruce walked over to the key lock box, up near the door to the manor, and put his Volkswagen key away. Before he shut it, though, he pulled out a bright red key and Jason just about lost it.

“Oh my God, that’s so cool.”

“Do you want to go for a ride?” Bruce asked, holding the key up, but not yet crossing the garage.

“Are you serious?” Jason asked. Bruce unlocked the doors in answer, so Jason exclaimed, “Yes!” and quickly rounded to the passenger side to open the door and look inside.

The first thing that hit him was the new car smell.

Such a wonderful, beautiful smell. Probably one of his favorites.

“This is so cool,” he whispered, in hushed awe as he slipped into the passenger seat.

There was a backseat, but there was almost no windows back there, and barely any space, and he wanted to see. Not be trapped and blind to everything happening. So Jason buckled himself into the passenger seat and just hoped Bruce wouldn’t make him move.

But Bruce just walked around to the driver door, smiling softly as he slid in and buckled himself in. “Feeling good?” he asked, as he dropped the key into the cup holder.

Good????

Jason was fucking ecstatic.

“Are you gonna go fast?”

In answer, Bruce pressed down on the brake and pressed the start button, then revved the engine loudly.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Jason said under his breath, trying not to grin too wide when Bruce put the car in drive and slowly pulled out of the parking spot.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” Bruce said. Jason didn’t even have enough time to agree, though, before Bruce lined the car up with the garage door and then gunned it.

Mostly because Jason was too busy laughing, watching the trees and bushes that lined the driveway speed by.

He only had to slow down a little for the gate, because somehow he told it to start opening before they got anywhere near it.

“You’re gonna get pulled over,” Jason said, through his laughter as Bruce hit 60 MPH out on the road outside the estate. On a road with a speed limit of 20.

“Probably,” Bruce agreed, obviously not caring one bit as he shifted gears and started going faster.

The car only his 70, though, before he slowed down to come to a stop sign at the end of their long, semi-private road.

“Okay, we have a couple options here,” Bruce said, looking over at Jason, “There’s a high school with a large parking lot we can play in, or there’s an industrial area with a network of roads that are deserted on Saturdays. Which do you think sounds better?”

Jason fidgeted in his chair, but asked, “Which one can you go faster on?”

“The industrial complex,” Bruce said, immediately turning the car to the left and zipping off again.

Bruce did keep the speed down, though, as they drove through all the little neighborhoods. Which was probably good, because Jason saw a few kids playing in their yards, and hitting a kid would probably be super bad.

But it only took a couple minutes before they were suddenly staring at a wide open straight road.

A huge wide open straight road, with four lanes running in either direction.

Obviously it was meant for tons and tons of traffic, but true to Bruce’s word, it was completely deserted.

“This was built up to be a large industry area,” Bruce explained, as he pulled onto the road and came to a stop right in the middle of it, “and there ended up being only two companies to move here. It’s one of my favorite places to play with a car.”

“It looks like a race track,” Jason observed, leaning forward in his seat so he could see over the dash, at the brake marks on the street right in front of them.

“It’s used as one. Ready?”

Quickly, Jason sat back in his seat again and nodded enthusiastically.

He was so ready.

Bruce smiled and put one hand on the wheel, the other on the clutch, then floored it.

Jason it thrown back into the seat hard, they accelerated so fast.

And all Jason could do was laugh.

Bruce treated the road like it’s a race track, circling it several times, making the car slide sometimes in his turns, the tires squealing as he did, every single time making Jason laugh harder.

It was the coolest fucking thing Jason had ever done.

They drove for nearly half an hour, Bruce driving around some of the smaller roads around the big huge buildings, and even doing a donut in the middle of a parking lot. Jason just knew that had to be terrible for the tires, but it was so cool to do.

So, so cool.

But eventually, Bruce did turn back to the manor, and by then, Jason’s stomach and cheeks hurt from laughing so much.

“You like this car, huh?” Bruce said, once they were going slow again, back through the neighborhoods with the kids.

“This is like, my dream car, dude,” Jason said, sitting back up to look at all the buttons on the dash. He hadn’t paid much attention to any of them. “Or, well, one of them.”

He had technically just learned about it a few days before, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t instantly become a dream car.

Bruce held a hand out, motioning at the radio as if saying ‘go ahead, mess with it,’ so Jason did.

He pressed all the buttons.

“Why is a Hellcat one of your dream cars?” Bruce asked, after Jason had figured out how to work the radio and was flipping through the seventy-billion satellite channels.

“I watched a bunch of youtube videos about these the other day,” he said, “I thought they were so cool with the red key. And badass looking too. I didn’t know you had one.”

“What are your other dream cars?” Bruce asked, as he grabbed the red key from the cup holder and held it out for Jason to take.

Happily, Jason took it and started inspecting it, looking at all the buttons in it, before he found a little switch that released the actual key from inside.

Although, obviously the car didn’t need the key. It needed the chip inside the key, that told the computer it was present.

“There’s a lot,” Jason eventually said, as he kept playing with the key. He couldn’t really think of car names, though. “I’ve seen a lot of really cool cars. I just never got to research them until, ya know. You gave me a laptop and stuff.”

“Right,” Bruce said, slowly, “What have you been researching on your laptop?”

“I saw an episode of some show about Roush Mustangs,” Jason said, as he dropped the key back into the cupholder and pulled his legs up on the seat, to sit criss crossed, “those look cool. Although your lambo is way cooler. Your Tesla is awesome, too. I always wanted to see a Tesla in person, then you had one.”

“The Tesla is my favorite commuter car,” Bruce said, as he shifted gears and sped up, now they were back on the semi-private road that led to the manor, “but almost all my other cars are more fun to drive.”

Jason nodded. He could see that, since the Tesla literally drove itself. “This one looks so fun to drive.”

“Tell you what,” Bruce said, once he reached the gate to the manor. This time, he had to come to a complete stop and type in his code and do the eye thing, “If you’re still here when you’re 15, I’ll tech you to drive on this car.”

“What?” Jason said, a little stunned. Because, “really??” He hadn’t even… thought that far ahead.

Not like that, at least. He’d only thought about getting through living with Bruce until he was 18, so he could move out and go to college.

But obviously if he was going to make it to 18, that would mean being here when he was 15 or 16, and…. well. That was when kids were supposed to learn to drive.

Why would he have ever thought Bruce would do that, though?? Teach him to drive??

That was what parents were supposed to do for their kids, and Jason was just a foster kid Bruce got stuck with, because Gordon made Bruce take him.

But, but, but… Bruce said he cared about him… so…

“With the red key?” Jason eventually asked, as Bruce pulled the car into the garage, and started slowly backing it up into its spot.

He paused, however, to give Jason a flat look as he said, “No.” He couldn’t hold the face, though, because he started laughing and added, “No way, with the regular key.”

“Aw.”

Although he supposed 500 horsepower was nothing to sneeze at.

“But,” Bruce said, “I might let you test out the red key, once you prove you’re a good driver.”

“Really?” Jason asked, sitting up straighter in his seat, trying to gauge Bruce’s sincerity.

He didn’t look like he was lying, so Jason cheered, “All right! I can’t wait to be 15.”

“Why don’t you focus on turning 13, first,” Bruce said, cutting the car off.

“Fine,” Jason whined, collapsing back into his seat dramatically. He righted himself quickly, though, to unfasten his seatbelt and hop out. “That was so cool, though.”

Bruce got out of the car himself, and just watched with a smile as Jason bounced up to the front of the car, to look at it and all the bugs they picked up.

Poor bugs, they didn’t stand a chance.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

Jason whirled around, a second later, when Alfred cleared his throat from the manor door.

“If you gentlemen are done, lunch has been waiting for you for quite a while. Do come eat it before it gets any colder.”

“Sorry, Alfred,” Jason said, at the same time Bruce said, “Sure thing, Alf.”

Alfred quickly retreated, so Jason turned to Bruce and asked, “Is he mad at us?”

“Nah.” Bruce shut his door and started walking to the manor door, but stopped when Jason didn’t start moving in step. “He’s not mad, Jason. That’s the face he makes when he’s very happy and doesn’t know how to show it.”

“Oh.” He wasn’t quite sure why Alfred would be ‘very happy,’ but Jason wouldn’t complain about that.

Bruce took a step forward, so this time Jason followed along, and stopped on the steps as Bruce put the key back in the box.

“You’re really going to teach me how to drive on that?” he asked, pointing back at the Hellcat. He kind of had a hard time believing it.

“Yes, I promise,” Bruce said, smiling when Jason shot him a grin.

“All right!” Jason cheered, grinning so wide his face started hurting again. “No take backs, okay?” he said, holding his fist out toward Bruce, “Fist bump.”

Now it was Bruce’s turn to be startled, apparently, because he looked at Jason’s fist like he had no idea what to do as he said, “What?”

“You’re hopeless,” Jason groaned, slouching dramatically before he straightened up and reached for one of Bruce’s hands. “Look, it’s easy.”

Bruce lifted his hand cautiously, and let Jason forced his fingers to form a fist as he said, “Make a fist. There. Okay, now pound it.” Jason make his own fist again and bumped it against Bruce’s hand, grinning wide again. “There. No take backs, we fist bumped.”

“Uh, yes,” Bruce said, like he couldn’t figure out what to fucking say. His smile grew wide, though, and then morphed into something fonder. “I swear it, no take backs.”

Jason fidgeted, under Bruce’s stare, so he quickly pushed open the door as he said, “Come on. Alfred said lunch is getting cold.”

He didn’t want to think about whatever Bruce was thinking.

They’d just had a freaking awesome time, Jason was not about to ruin it. No sir.

So he skipped on ahead, to the kitchen where Alfred had a couple paninis sitting on the counter, and just focused on the fact that Bruce was going to teach him to drive.

In the Hellcat.

All because Jason liked the car.

How fucking awesome was that????

This is chapter 46 of Reclaiming Innocence, slightly edited to read as a one-shot. Link to story can be found on my masterlist. 

[mochegato]

Truth Be Told

This night was not turning out how she had thought it would turn out… Actually, up until a few minutes ago, it wasn’t much different from how she thought it would go.  She hadn’t been holding out much hope for the guy Rose had set her up with.  They did not have similar vetting styles or criteria.  So despite Rose’s most heartfelt hopes, the date with an overly sugary prick, oozing with fake charm and inauthentic compliments, was a complete flop and yet completely expected. 

While that man was annoying, he was not the cause of her current frustration.  No the current frustration was the man that had attempted to grab her as she walked home, her stilettos in her hand, because truthfully, she’d rather risk the dirty sidewalks of Gotham than the pain and blisters wearing those for another twelve blocks would cause.

She’d kept an eye on the man for the last block as he followed her, getting slowly closer and closer in a vain attempt not to alert her.  Joke was on him, she was always on alert.  But she wasn’t positive he was actually a threat.  Lots of people in Gotham were creepy, it didn’t mean they were a threat. 

When he finally grabbed her arm, she twisted immediately hitting him in the face with one of the stilettos.  He screamed in pain, bringing his hand up to his face.  She took advantage of his momentarily distraction to run.  She was confident in her fighting abilities, but there was always a chance for him to get a lucky hit in and a fight avoided if possible was safer than a fight engaged… or something like that.

He took advantage of his greater size and lunged at her before she could get out of his range.  He jerked her back with such strength and force, she couldn’t stop him or brace herself.  She fell as he pulled, dropping her shoes as she did.  He angrily swung for her head as she laid on the ground.  She rolled out of the way just in time and heard the crunch as his fist connected with the concrete.

She took a breath and stood up, moving behind him to punch him hard in his kidney.  He crumpled to the ground, gasping for breath.  She took advantage of his position to knee him in the face, breaking his nose.  He groaned in pain and cradled his nose.  Marinette paused for just a second to take a breath before running again.  The ogre moved quicker than she had expected and grabbed her arm with his good hand, yanking her to him.  She used the momentum to drive her palm into his chin.  He staggered back a few steps, giving her enough room to kick him in the chest.  He fell back against the building next to them, hitting his head on the bricks with a sickening smack and slid down the wall, crumpling into a pile at the bottom.

Marinette edged closer to him to see if he was still alive, tensing as she got closer, ready to bolt if he so much as twitched.  She breathed a sigh of relief feeling a strong pulse and let herself relax for a moment.  Her whole body immediately tensed again as she heard a sound of something dropping behind her.  She slowly turned around to see a figure with a red bat across his broad chest a few feet away from her.  Her body relaxed minutely at the sight.  He was one of the bats.  One of the more violent ones, if she remembered correctly, but only against people who hurt kids.

She watched nervously as Red Hood sauntered slowly up to her.  He stopped a few feet away from her, looming threateningly over her.  He stared at her silently for a few moments, or at least she assumed that’s what he was doing.  It was rather hard to make out where exactly he was looking with his mask on.  She just barely stopped herself from jumping when he lifted his hand out to her, holding her shoes.  She looked at them dumbly for a few seconds before finally taking them with a quiet “Thanks.”

He didn’t react, or maybe he did, she just couldn’t see it under the mask, which was doing nothing to calm her.  Finally after she’d gotten her shoes back on he decided to break the silent, looming, threatening presence aura.  “That was amazing,” he gushed out.

Her eyes widened at the comment and snapped up to the mask’s eyes.  Of all the things she had been anticipating, that was not one of them.  “Uh… Thanks,” she answered uncertainly.  She studied him for a moment and realized he hadn’t been sauntering earlier, he had been staggering and now he was swaying as he stood turned.  “Are you… um… are you okay?  You’re kind of…” she motioned to his body.

Red Hood tore his eyes away from her eyes, with great force of will to examine his body for what she meant.  He stumbled as he tried to check himself for injuries.  He was fine.  He hadn’t even been involved in this fight and Scarecrow’s goons hadn’t landed almost any of their hits.  He was perfectly fine.  He looked back up to meet her eyes again and cocked his head to the side for a moment.  Her eyes were blue but he couldn’t quite tell the shade with his mask on.  The filters in the mask were making them appear slightly different than they really were and he needed to see her eyes properly.

Marinette failed to stop herself from jumping slightly when his hands moved lightning quick to remove his helmet to see her better.  Marinette gasped at his freshly exposed face.  “Should you be doing th…”

“Wow… you’re fucking hot,” he grinned.  He had definitely made the right decision removing the helmet.  He could see her much better without it. He could now make out the rosy hue on her cheeks at his comment and the exact bluebell shade of her eyes.  He had been right.  She was even more gorgeous without the filter.

“Um… thanks,” she gave him a nervous smile.  What the fuck was happening right now?  “So are you.”

“I am,” he nodded in agreement.  “But you’re hotter.  I’m Jason.”  He reached his hand out to shake hers.

Marinette drew in a breath and clenched her lips closed.  Her eyes turned concerned.  “Oh, you definitely shouldn’t be doing that,” she tried to lightly chastise him, but he was looking at her with such an earnest, hopeful expression she couldn’t help but smile at him and take his hand.  “Hi.”

“Hi,” Jason… should she call him Jason or Red Hood.  She really shouldn’t know his name… but she did so… Jason said again breathlessly.

“Hi,” Nightwing added loudly from behind Jason, breaking their moment.  Marinette yanked her hand back and looked back and forth between the two.

Jason groaned loudly and shook his head.  He looked up to the sky for a moment, but quickly returned his focus to Marinette.  “Oh fuck off, Dickhead.  I’m working here.”

“So the body is yours?” Nightwing prodded.

“No,” Jason grinned proudly at her.  “It’s hers.”

Marinette gave Jason a panicked look before switching to look at Nightwing again.  “He attacked me and I stopped him.  He’s still alive.  I checked.”

“Yes you did,” Jason confirmed delightedly.

Nighwing tapped his ear piece and knelt next to the body, examining it.  “Oracle, can you send police to my location, please?  We have an unconscious body.  Looks like he’ll need a medic too.”  He nodded at whatever was said in his earpiece and took a beat to collect himself before walking up to them slowly, watching them analytically as if trying to assess the situation.  “You okay, ma’am?”  He asked with a guarded tone.  Marinette looked over to Jason who rolled his eyes at her and looked away in annoyance at Nightwing’s interruption.  Marinette looked back to Nightwing and nodded slowly.

“Glad to hear it.  Sorry about Hood,” he grinned charmingly at Marinette in a manner she was sure was supposed to lull her into a sense of calm and trust, but after an entire dinner of smarmy smiles, Nightwing’s grated on her instead.  Jason’s earnest smile however… that was something else. 

Despite Jason’s previous insult, Nighwing continued walking closer until he was close enough to throw his arm over Jason’s shoulder.  “Scarecrow had a particularly potent drug and Red Hood got hit with it a few times.  So Hood could have been saying absolutely any crazy thing.  I’m honestly surprised he can even walk right now.”

Marinette caught on quickly.  This was Nightwing’s way of mediating potential security breaches, in case Jason had done anything that could compromise his and their identities, like removing his helmet and telling her his name.  Marinette could sympathize with the attempt after her years of trying to manage the miraculous identities secret, but he’d come with his fake smile and fake concern and she was done with fake people today.  So, mess with him it was.  “So I shouldn’t have taken him saying I was cute seriously?” she asked innocently.

Nightwing paused for just a second.  If Marinette hadn’t been watching, she would have missed it.  “No!  No,” he stuttered.  “I mean, it doesn’t STOP him from saying true things.  And that certainly is true.  It just…”

Jason finally tore his intense gaze away from Marinette to whirl on Dick and shove him away, which was actually quite lucky for Jason, as the shoving motion is the only thing that countered his momentum and kept him from falling.  “Stop hitting on the woman I’m hitting on,” he hissed at Nightwing.  Nightwing gasped at seeing Jason’s naked face, not even a domino mask to hide his identity.

Jason twirled back toward her, but overcorrected and turned past her.  He had to slowly turn back until he faced her and pointed his finger at her accusatorily.  “And I didn’t say you were cute.  I said you were fucking hot and you are.” He smiled proudly at his statement.

Marinette giggled both at Jason’s bluntness and the horror on Nightwing’s face.  She raised her hands in surrender, letting Jason take the win.  He nodded smugly at her acquiescence. 

“Okay Romeo, let’s get you home,” Nightwing said, clapping Jason on the back and not so subtly pushing him past Marinette and down the sidewalk, or at least attempting to. 

Jason swayed back toward Marinette, raising his arm to balance himself just high enough that it landed perfectly on Nightwing’s shoulder in a way that would have been considered smooth if it had been in anyway intentional rather than sheer dumb luck.  “Dickweed, if you stop me from getting her number I’m going to fill all of your uniforms with itching powder,” Jason growled threateningly.  He leaned in closer to Nightwing until their faces were a few inches apart.  “ALL OF THEM.  If she’s willing to give me her number, I’m going to take it.”

“And what good would her number do Red Hood?” Nightwing gritted out pointedly.

Jason blinked and pulled his head back clumsily.  “Don’t know.  But it’ll do Jason Todd a lot of fucking good.”  He smiled roguishly at Marinette.  “And if I’m extremely lucky, maybe eventually, some good fucking too.” 

Marinette sputtered at him completely exposing his identity and his honest admission of his intentions, her mouth dropped.  Nightwing groaned.

Jason moved closer to her, trying to keep his steps measured and graceful.  It didn’t really work, but it reduced the stumbling.  “I never did catch your name, Helen might come close but couldn’t match.”

She blinked a few times to catch up with the rapid change in tone and quirked her head to the side.  “Helen?”

He nodded slowly at her, his eyes still focused solely on her.  “Of Troy.  Face that launched a thousand ships.  Surely yours could launch a million.”  His voice was reverent and his smile had softened becoming affectionate rather than roguish.

“Oh my God," she giggled, an incredulous smile settling on her face.  "Is he like this when sober?”

“Not with me,” Nightwing said rolling his eyes, or at least she thought that’s what he was doing under the domino mask.  His entire head rolled as he did it.  “But he is usually pretty blunt,” he acknowledged.  “But with the serum added in…”  He trailed off, letting her fill in the gaps.  Nightwing looked back over at Marinette appraisingly.  “Look…”

“Marinette,” she supplied.

“Marinette…” Jason repeated.  He let the name linger on his tongue.  “That’s a beautiful name.  Epic poems could be written about that name and that smile.”

Her cheeks reddened and she had to look away from the intensity of Jason’s stare.  She shook her head and coughed to try to calm her heart.  She raised an eyebrow at Nightwing.  “So I take it that it was a truth serum?”  The deep sigh Nightwing let out was confirmation enough for Marinette.

“It is a truth universally acknowledged that you are sexy as fuck,” Jason interrupted her.

Marinette, whose mouth had been open to continue her thought, snapped it shut with an audible clap and turned bright red.

Nightwing choked and tried to cough to cover it.  “Jesus, Jason.  Take it down a notch or ten.”

Jason shrugged at him, smiling proudly at Marinette’s expression.  “Equal and opposite flirting rule.”

“Excuse me?” Marinette interrupted.  Because that sounded like he was flirting to the same level she was and she had definitely NOT been flirting at that level or at all.  Damn, she needed to up her flirting game.  She opened her mouth to say something but snapped it shut quickly.  Now was not the time.  He was drugged out of his mind.  She was not going to hit on someone who was buzzed beyond belief.

“The level of flirting exhibited shall match the level of awesomeness of the subject of the flirting,” Jason explained calmly, still smiling his soft smile at her.  And honestly, if he kept that up, she was going to rescind her stance on flirting back at him.

Marinette stared at him for a few seconds “Uhhh,” she started, internally groaning at her very intelligent response.  Eloquent conversation?  Nailed it.  Very deserving of the ‘awesome’ title.

She blinked a few times and turned to Nightwing.  “I understand the value of a secret identity.  I assume you won’t take my word on it, but perhaps you could take a fellow hero’s word?”  Nightwing raised an inquisitive eyebrow at her.  “You’re part of the Justice League, right?  You can check with Ladybug.  She’ll vouch for me.”

“Ooohhh,” Jason suddenly let out, moving in between her and Nightwing.  “Ladybug!  She’s fucking hot too and so amazing.  Almost as much as you.  You fight like that without a magic suit to help.  That’s so impressive.”  Marinette could feel her cheeks grow even redder.  If this kept up, her face was going to be as red as her mask, and there would be no hiding her identity.  “You’re friends with her?” Jason continued, oblivious to her inner turmoil.  “Batman won’t let me meet her.  Are all your friends as hot and amazing as you?” 

“I’ll check with her the next time I see her,” Nightwing confirmed over Jason, putting his arm around his waist again to guide him down the street.

Marinette nodded at him.  “It was nice meeting you two.”

“Wait,” Jason lunged out of Nightwing’s arm toward her, nearly knocking her down.  “I didn’t get your number.”

Marinette looked to Nightwing.  “Uh… I don’t think your… teammate wants me to do that.”

“Ignore that happiness killing asshole.  Dick has always been like that.  Besides, we’ll need your number to keep an eye on you, right?  I volunteer,” he grinned brightly.

Marinette opened her mouth and shut it again.  She determinedly refused to look at Nightwing, Dick apparently, and focused on Jason, fixing him with a pointed stare.  “If I give you my number, will you stop giving me personal secrets?  Yours and your other partners’?”

“My brothers?”  Marinette’s eyes snapped to Nightwing’s this time.

Nightwing slapped himself on the forehead.  “Little Wing…” he groaned.

“Yes your brothers’.  And go home and sleep this off?” she continued.

“Yes I will.  Although I’d sleep better if I knew you were there too, watching over me,” he added earnestly.

“No, you wouldn’t.”  She pulled out a sheet of paper to write it on but he shoved his phone in her hands instead. 

“Just put it directly in here,” he offered instead.

She closed her eyes and sighed.  She looked over to Nightwing for guidance, but he shrugged at her, defeat clear in his slumped shoulders.

“I definitely would,” he countered her.  He turned toward Nightwing.  “You should have seen her take out that thug when he tried to grab her.  She was amazing,” he sighed out dreamily.  “She knocked his ass out.  Hey!” he perked up as if suddenly realizing something.  “She’s a knock out who knocked his ass out!”  He turned back toward her and leaned on Nightwing in a daze.  “I think I’m in love.”

“I am so sorry about him,” Nightwing looked at her pleadingly.

Marinette waved him off and put her name and number in Jason’s phone.  “Truthfully?  Significantly more honest, respectful, and romantic than the date I had tonight or in the past… while, so… Have him give me a call tomorrow if he still feels the same.”

“Oh I will,” Jason grinned at her, taking his phone back and laughing at the (Helen) she’d put next to her name.  “It was nice meeting you Marinette.  It was the highlight of my week.”

Marinette grinned and pushed up to kiss him on his cheek.  “Mine too.  Now put on your helmet before you out yourself to anyone else.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jason nodded.  He put his helmet on as she walked away, but rubbed the area of his helmet over his cheek where she had kissed him, a goofy smile on his face.  He would definitely call her in the morning.  He would make sure he remembered.  He wasn’t stupid enough to let someone like her get away.

Continued in Well, Well, Well, If It Isn’t the Consequences of My Actions

@boldlyanxious

[ragingbookdragon]

The Secrets Best Left In The Dark

Batsis x Batfamily One-Shot

Word Count: 4K Warnings: Angst, Mentions of Death

Author's Note: I thrive on angst, so I have no apologies for y'all. Enjoy! -Thorne

They’d never claim their eldest sibling was cowardly. Far from it, she put her life on the line every day, in and out of the suit, defending those she cared for with a strength that they’d never seen in anyone. But while everyone in their family was typically hot-tempered and ready for a beatdown, she was calm and quiet. Always kind, and never letting anger, or any type of other emotion show besides pleasantness. For a while, they merely assumed she was the doormat type, simply on the basis that she never argued with their dad over anything—the whole “It’s my way or the highway” and his way was what she always went with—and that made her seem like an alien surrounded by humans because everyone argued with Bruce. That, and the fact that whenever she got into the rare fight during patrol, she’d never hit anybody. She was trained to take down multiple combatants and not once did she ever punch, hit, or kick a single person.

It was practically abnormal to be in the Batfamily and never lay a hand on a criminal, and yet that was what their sister did. Hardly ever did she use force to get what she wanted, always relying on stealth. Even on the minute cases when she got caught in an infiltration and had to fight her way out, she used electrified gauntlets to subdue them, rarely coming to blows. So, in a sense while everyone in her family was an aggressive fighter, she was a defensive—or perhaps a passive one—and that’s how she acted in life too. Always passive by nature, but always playing the peacekeeper between brothers and between fathers and sons.

They never knew why she was such a way, from the stories that Diana and Clark used to tell, back when it was just their sister and Bruce, she was a whirlwind that got into fights with anything that dared breathe in her direction—apparently, she made her angriest siblings look like mice. But no matter how many times they pried or even asked Bruce (apparently, he didn’t know what changed either—and this was coming from the World’s Greatest Detective), she never talked about it, simply saying that she grew out of always being angry and wanted to be calmer.

They suspected she held a dark secret—but no one could’ve prepared for just how dark and damaging it had been to her all these years.

***

In hindsight, taking a trip into Scarecrow’s lab was a bad idea, but when the offer had come up in the cave from her father, (Y/N) was happy to lend a hand, knowing that with his recent injury, he wouldn’t’ve been able to get out there during the night. It was also amazing, in the twenty-seven years she’d been alive, and in the past nineteen years that she’d been a vigilante, she’d never seen her father take a break—she could count on one hand how many times he had, and even then, he was still working in the cave, so technically it wasn’t a break.

But after tangling with Bane and Croc, he’d broken a few ribs and after repeated complaints and worries from her, his sons, and Alfred, Bruce finally agreed to let his children handle patrol. Which is why when the quadrants of the city were split up between Dick, Jason, Tim, and Damian, it left (Y/N) to pick up specific places that Bruce wanted checked out—she warmly agreed to do so. And while she was confident in her abilities to do everything, he asked of her, she should’ve called for backup when it came to infiltrating Scarecrow’s hideout.

***

Another vent went off above her and she ducked, eyes narrowing as she watched the orange fog, appearing blue through her detective mode, drift out. She would’ve sprayed it, but she’d used up all of her explosive gel covering the others. Now she simply had to avoid them and hope that her gas mask filtered properly—so far, it was. A shrill laugh echoed through the speakers above her, and shivers went down her spine.

Anytime now, Batgirl. You will fall too.

She frowned. “I’m not afraid of you, Doctor Crane.” Ducking under another pipe, she added, “I can help you if you’ll let me.”

Help me? Help…ME? You can’t even help YOURSELF!

Scarecrow had always been a talker, much like the majority of the villains they faced, and he was looking for a rise. She came to the end of the corridor where the pipes met a brick wall and she sighed, searching for a way through. A vent covered the top right corner and she pulled out the grapple gun, pointing it at the grate. She pressed the trigger and it latched onto the metal bars; grasping the cord, she yanked as hard as she could, stepping backwards when it fell, hitting the ground with a clang.

(Y/N) heaved herself up into the vent and crawled on her hands and knees, as quietly as she could, twisting and turning through the maze of confined metal. When she came to the end, another grate covered the exit and she pressed her foot against it, pushing until the bolts popped loose and she could slip out.

From the looks of it, if the advanced chemistry equipment were any help, she’d ended up in Scarecrow’s lab. He wasn’t in sight, but that gave her time to look around and see if he’d changed any formulas recently. She raised her wrist and tapped at the blue screen, taking a moment to run a program. When it beeped, (Y/N) sighed in relief and reached up, pulling the gas mask off—the air was clean.

She set the mask down on the counter and put a finger to her ear. “Batman, do you read me?” His voice came through a moment later.

“I read you Batgirl. Loud and clear.”

“I’m in Doctor Crane’s lab,” she said, poking around at the notes he’d scrawled out. “I don’t see anything new. The formulas all look the same.”

“Compounds?”

She frowned and read. “Honestly, it’s a bit hard to decipher. His handwriting is a lot like Red’s when he’s had one too many energy drinks.” A quiet huff came from over the line, telling her that he was amused. “I’ll send you pictures of it and see if you can.” (Y/N) snapped a few photos. “Get ‘em?”

“Just now,” he replied, and she walked over to one of the lit Bunsen burners.

“Looks like he’s got something brewing right now though,” (Y/N) leaned over and peered into it, careful to avoid any steam that was rising.

“Recognize it?”

She paused. “It’s not the usual stuff he’s got. It looks almost golden and—”

All at once the dish exploded and she had just enough time to cover her face from the shattering glass, letting out a gasp as she recoiled.

“Batgirl, what happened?”

(Y/N) coughed and waved a hand, and when her hand appeared double, she breathed out in shock. “Oh no,” she whispered.

“Batgirl, report.” She hurried to the exit of the lab as Scarecrow’s cackle sounded overhead.

“I’ve been hit with a blast of toxin.” Pulling open the door, she fumbled with her utility belt then let out a sigh.

“What’s wrong?”

(Y/N) shook her head and weaved down the corridors, the faster she got to her bike, the faster she could get back to the cave.

“I don’t have any anti-toxin on me.” She pushed against the doors and stumbled out into the cold and rainy night. Her mind was already beginning to fog over as she climbed onto her bike, and she barely had enough focus to keep it steady while she programmed it to auto-drive.

“I’m sending one of the boys to you.”

She grunted and lifted her foot as the bike revved and shot forward. “Don’t. I’ve already programmed the bike to the cave’s coordinates. I’ll be back in less than fifteen minutes.”

“You won’t make it that long.”

(Y/N) groaned as the lights began to flash around her and she saw faces and images passing her. “I just have to…focus.”

Horns blared around her as the bike weaved in and out of cars and she held onto the frame with all the strength she had. His voice started echoing in her ears and she shut her eyes, trying to block it out.

You could’ve saved me.

Another groan escaped her, and she heard, “(Y/N), talk to me.”

She shook her head. “I can’t—I have to—focus now.” But with every passing second, his voice got louder and more insistent.

You let me die. You watched me die.

(Y/N)’s eyes filled with tears and they dripped down her cheeks. I tried to save you. she thought, hoping it would suffice, but she knew it wouldn’t. I tried so hard to. The last thing she remembered was turning onto the street that led to the cave.

***

Bruce was already pushing away from the Batcomputer when the boys arrived back at the cave, Dick and Damian from the Batmobile, and Tim and Jason from their own rides. Knowing that their father wasn’t one to sit around, it wasn’t out of the ordinary for him to be moving, but with how quick and worried his movements seemed, they knew something was wrong.

Dick pulled the cowl away from his face and asked, “B? What’s wrong?”

Bruce didn’t respond at first, hurrying towards the medical station they had. “Your sister was dosed with fear toxin and she doesn’t have anti-toxin to counteract it.”

Jason, who’d already taken his hood off, was already in the process of putting it back on. “Let one of us take it to her.”

Their father shook his head, rummaging for an antidote. “She’s coming back here.”

“Here?” Tim repeated, striding over. “Fear toxin works within seconds on normal people, minutes for us.” He looked at his brothers. “She won’t have enough time to get back here and not be under the effects.”

Bruce nodded, focusing as he poured a vial of glowing green liquid into the needle gun. “I know.” He looked at Tim. “That’s why I’m getting it ready for her.”

“Father, can we do anything?” Damian questioned, pulling away the domino mask from his eyes.

“Get ready to be on the defensive if she’s offensive,” he replied. “I don’t think she’ll hit anybody, but you never know.”

“She can’t hit that hard. (Y/N) only weighs—” Jason cut off as the rev of an engine cut though the air and they turned to see their eldest sister coming in on a sleek black motorcycle, that was shaking badly.

“(Y/N)!” Dick yelled and the bike suddenly shifted and toppled sideways, throwing her from it. It slid across the cave floor in a hail of sparks, metal, and plastic flying in every direction as (Y/N) rolled too.

They started running towards her, hoping to stop her when her back collided with one of the glass cases that held their suits, and she went limp.

Bruce reached her first, and knelt down, setting the antidote aside to check her first. The way she hit the case and with how hard, it was possible that she could be seriously injured—or worse.

“(Y/N)!” he called, hands coming to pull her away from the case. She whimpered and he let out a sigh—she was still alive. “(Y/N), can you hear me?” he inquired, reaching up to pull the cowl from her face.

Her brothers crowded behind him and they all stared in horror as tears streamed down her cheeks, and blood out of her nose.

“I’m sorry,” she bawled. “I tried to save you.” Bruce looked at her then grabbed the needle gun, bringing it up to her neck.

“Hang on, (Y/N). You’re gonna be okay.”

She grabbed his hand and cried, “I held on as long as I could, but my grip was slipping. I’m sorry I couldn’t hold onto you. I’m sorry I let you go. I let you die. I’m sor—” her sobs cut her off as she curled in on herself, and as if finally snapping out of a trance, Bruce pulled his hand from her grip and pulled the trigger of the gun.

(Y/N) jerked as the needle entered her skin and they watched the neon green liquid in the vial emptied. She fell into whimpers and mumbles of “I’m sorry” before her eyes rolled back and she collapsed in Bruce’s arms.

He stared at her for a second, feeling numb at his daughter’s admissions. Whatever her fear had been, it’d been there a long time, and he had no idea what it was about. Sighing heavily, he drew his eyes to his sons, to Jason.

“Will you take (Y/N) to her bedroom while I get an IV ready?”

Jason nodded and bent down, picking up his unconscious sister. He tucked her head in the crook of his neck and looked at Dick. “Get the doors, yeah?” Dick nodded and hurried ahead of him, while Tim and Damian followed in suit.

Bruce was left alone in a matter of moments, and all he could do was rise to his feet and ready the medical supplies, all the while, thinking back on every night that (Y/N) had gone on patrol in the last nineteen years—and the last time someone died in front of her.

***

Her head felt like an overripe melon ready to burst, and that first moment of cracking her eyes open was the biggest mistake since she told her dad what ‘Thot’ meant. The second she opened them, she shut them once more, inhaling deeply through her nose as the fog started to clear from her mind.

“Queenie, hey, you’re awake,” Jason murmured, and she nodded, blinking a few times before his face came into focus, Dick appearing Tim appearing behind him.

“Go get dad,” Dick said to someone, and she figured it was Damian since neither Jason nor Tim moved.

(Y/N) started shifting, trying to sit up when Dick put his hand on her shoulder, gentle, but firm as he said, “Don’t try to move, Barbie.”

“Where’s dad?” she asked, craning her neck to see.

“Damian’s going to get him sis,” Tim answered, smoothing out the blanket covering her. “Just relax. You took a beating when you came into the cave.”

“I did?” she questioned, eyes widening in shock when they nodded, faces pinched with worry.

The ceiling light turned on just bright enough to give sight and they looked at Bruce who was coming in, Damian following.

“(Y/N),” Dick moved, letting Bruce take his spot, and he took her hand in his, running his thumb over the back of her hand. “You had us all worried.”

She frowned and exhaled heavily. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.” She gazed between them, and something in their eyes made an emotion she couldn’t describe rise in her chest.

“Why are you all looking at me like that?” (Y/N) met Bruce’s eyes. “What happened?” Before he could answer, she gasped and looked at her brothers. “I didn’t hurt anyone, did I?”

A chorus of hurried, “No’s!” rang out and she sighed in relief, reclining back on the pillows.

“Oh, thank goodness.” She went silent, then started, “But…something did happen, didn’t it?”

Her brothers glanced between themselves then they looked at Bruce who sighed and squeezed her hand, drawing her attention to him.

“What?” she asked and when he said nothing, she repeated, “Dad, what?”

His steel blue eyes met hers and he murmured, “You were apologizing for…letting someone die.”

Whatever had flashed in her eyes that told them she knew exactly what they were talking about was shocking enough because Jason said, “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t wanna, Queenie.”

(Y/N) fell silent for a full minute and when she spoke again, her voice was quiet and the look in her eyes was far away. “Before Dick came to the manor it was just you and I patrolling Gotham. At eight, I wasn’t really let out of your sight, but one night I had wandered off while you were dealing with Two-Face.” She looked at Bruce. “I found an injured GCPD officer on a bridge. He had been tailing Killer Croc.”

She glanced at Tim. “His name was Grady Richards.”

Tim’s eyes fell to the tablet in his hands, and he tapped at the screen for a few moments, then read, “Hero cop Grady Richards honored after dying in line of duty. He fell off a broken bridge on Miagani Island.”

Bruce’s eyes found hers again. “He didn’t fall, did he?”

(Y/N) felt tears grow in her vision and she shook her head. “No…no he didn’t.” Inhaling deeply, she recounted, “Croc came back and there was no way either of us could’ve taken him, so we ran. And Croc chased us.” She shut her eyes, remembering the night.

***

Fear pulsed through her veins as she sprinted as far away from the overgrown crocodile as she could. The GCPD officer was ahead of her, but he stopped and spun around to see her.

“Hurry!” he yelled, pointing back to the car. “Get to the cruiser!”

She spared a glance over her shoulder, eyes going wide when she saw Killer Croc picking up one of the concrete guards.

“Duck!” was all she heard, and she hit the ground, watching as if in slow motion as it flew overhead, then smashed into the top of the cop’s car, glass and metal shattering under the pressure.

Someone grabbed her by the back of her suit and hauled her up, slinging her behind them, and the back of the GCPD officer’s uniform came into view.

“Start running, Batgirl! And don’t stop!” he yelled, and when he has his sidearm drawn, he looked down at her. “You’ve got as much time as I have bullets.” He turned, opening fire, and she took a moment to stare before scrambling to her feet to start running.

A cry of pain sounded behind her, and against her better judgement, she turned and looked, gaping as Croc’s arm sent the officer flying. He hit the guardrail and collapsed against it and her feet were moving before she could stop them.

The first punch went to the back of Croc’s knee and she knew it had to have hurt her more than it did him because he didn’t even flinch. But when those glowing yellow eyes peered down at her, she knew she was in trouble.

“Looks like I’ve got an appetizer for the night!” he laughed and reached for her, but she ducked and rolled out of his way, standing in front of the wounded GCPD officer, who weakly looked up at her.

“What are you—doing? I told you…to run.”

She couldn’t beat Killer Croc, and she knew it, but she shook her head and stared down the villain before her.

Croc’s attacks were wide and though she was small, she was pushed to her limit rolling and dodging every one. After a few moments, she was practically dead on her feet, huffing as her lungs begged for air. She kept wiping away the rain that splattered against her mask and on a particularly unlucky step, she found herself slipping.

And it was all the opening that Croc needed because he swiped at her and she flew backwards into the officer who’d managed to stand, just barely. Colliding with him tipped his balance and they went over the guardrail, barreling towards the ground.

She reached out as fast as she could and grabbed hold of the metal beam that ran the length of the under bridge, crying out in pain as it pulled the joints and bones. Her other hand gripped the officer’s and she held on tight. Croc leaned over the bridge, apparently not seeing them because his footsteps went off in the opposite direction, leaving them in silence.

Time passed and she wasn’t sure how long, but both her arms were getting tired, and she looked down at the officer.

“Sir?” she called, and he looked up at her. “You have to climb. I’m starting to lose grip.”

He tried to reach up but let out a cry and grabbed his side with his free hand. Pulling his hand away, she saw the crimson dilute with rainwater.

The hand that held the ledge began to cramp and she started hyperventilating. “Please, you need to hurry! I can’t hold on much longer!” Again, he tried, and she looked down at him as her fingers began to shake.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered and let go of his hand, and the last thing she saw until he hit the ground was the sight of his eyes, wide with fear and pleading.

***

“I watched his head explode when he hit the ground,” she said, tears pouring down her cheeks as she stared out the window, watching the rain hit against the glass. “I had to make a choice. Either both of us died or one of us lived.” (Y/N) looked at Bruce. “And I chose my life over his.”

No one could believe their ears at the story she’d told, but suddenly, the self-sacrificing attitude their sister had, the way she’d bend over backwards for anyone, made perfect sense—she did it out of atonement, for a wrong she carried since she was eight years old.

“I pulled myself back up onto the bridge and I ran as far as I could and didn’t look back,” she said. “I kept my mouth shut when the paper ran his story and never told anyone about it.”

(Y/N)’s breath shuddered. “I just pushed it down as far inside me as I could and tried to forget about it.” Her eyes met Bruce and she tearfully stated, “But every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face.”

He leaned forward and took her hand. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked softly, dark brows furrowed in hurt.

She swallowed thickly and shook her head as she replied, “I killed someone that night. I was terrified about what you would’ve said. About what you would’ve done.” He gazed at her and (Y/N) whispered, “I’m sorry, dad.”

Bruce dropped her gaze and took a deep breath before murmuring, “It was just an accident, (Y/N).”

“I let go of—”

“I would’ve been more upset having to bury my daughter,” he interrupted, and she fell silent, gaping at him. He searched her face and reached up, placing a hand on her cheek. “I understand why you kept this secret, but you should’ve come to me, (Y/N).” Shaking his head, he added, “You didn’t deserve to be buried under this for nineteen years.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, lowering her head and Bruce shook his head in response.

“No, I’m sorry.” When she met his eye, he continued, “I’m sorry I didn’t know you were carrying this. Then and now.”

(Y/N) swallowed and rested back against the bed. “I send his widow money on the anniversary of his death. I slip it into the pension she’s given.” She let out a sigh. “It’s the only way I’ve found that I could sleep at night.”

Her eyes drifted to the window and Bruce placed a kiss to her forehead. “Get some sleep, sweetheart.” She nodded and before he left, he said, “And when you feel up for it, we’ll see about setting up a fund in his name.”

She wished it didn’t make her as emotional as it did, but silent tears dripped down her cheeks as the door closed, leaving her and her brothers alone. They gathered on her bed, leaning close to offer their support, and she was thankful for them doing so. And for the first time in nineteen years, when (Y/N) closed her eyes, she didn’t see Grady Richards’ face.

[canarydraws]

Cosmolian red

Last session was a rough one, read more under the cut :,D (warning for bloody eyes and drug mention)

Ok so in order to properly explain what happened and why we were where we were I’m going to go back a little bit. A couple sessions ago the party had been approached by a man named Cecil to look for a special artifact in the capitol city of Rtisna (not related to this story but said artifact happens to be one of possibly hundreds and all of them just happen to look like a clone of our celestial warlock, Fenix. Who also happens to look a lot like Cecil. Cecil did not explain this and our warlock boi is just as confused as the rest of us). Anyway, we go to Rtisna and while looking for the artifact, stumble through a portal that leads to the shadowfell. We soon learned that the artifact/clone was somewhere in the Shadowfell and we were directed to a place known as the Citadel of Shadow to continue our search.

As a player I was stoked to be there lol. The shadowfell is not a place Lucéena remembers visiting but it is relevant to her story specifically because she is a Shadar kai; it‘s her home realm. The shadowfell is also a place of interest because of its nature. The shadowfell is a land that can be influenced by memories and strong emotions, and it was only by our second night we started to see memories from our party brought to life. Most of them were painful as these were more likely to have had a big impact on our characters, but we saw a variety of things. We saw our warlock’s dad and rogue’s boss/mom figure hugging in the forest, a wedding someone had been to, our cleric’s temple being burned to the ground, our wizard and her best friend being abused by their master whom they are still on the run from, and we saw the moment where Lucéena’s foster father was murdered.

This hadn’t been something she had discussed with the others before and I hadn’t spoken about much, if at all, with the other players. There had been no need and it goes without saying that the memories there were painful for her. It was just her and our cleric, Eclipse on watch when this memory started to play. …Except it dawned on her that Lucéena had never seen the murder itself, which meant this wasn’t her memory. Just as she realized this, the cloaked figure in the memory pulled back their hood and revealed the younger face of our party’s rogue, Weiss, who was sleeping not too far away.

The first thing Lucéena felt was shock, then an all consuming rage as she calmly got up, pulled out her rapier, and stabbed Weiss through the shoulder, pinning her were she lay. A lot of shouting ensued from both sides. Lucéena was furious that Weiss had killed him and furious that she had taken all the blame when Weiss could not be found. It is why she left home. How could she stay and face trial for something she’d had no part in? Worse, how could she be accused of killing the man who had given her everything? Weiss on the other hand was flippant. She had been paid by her superior to assassinate Aredhel and she didn’t know who had hired her superior. Her carelessness only made Lucéena angrier and she was getting more aggressive when Weiss fucking threw Cosmolian Red in her face. (Cosmolian red is a drug used in our campaign that is incredibly dangerous to consume. It has terrible side effects but allows you to look into the astral sea and supposedly has one hell of an euphoric rush.)

Long story short, Lucéena failed her save and then I had to roll on a table to see what terrible side effects she got. For one, she could indeed see into the astral sea, she could see numerous stars and the lights of souls inside each of her friends. The dm described the sight Lucéena saw as so beautiful and overwhelming that she began to cry. From the other’s perspective, Lucéena’s eyes started to bleed and shortly after she took 16 points of psychic garage and fell to the floor, comatose.

For the rest of her party’s credit they seemed pretty pissed at Weiss for what she did to her and a few moments later our cleric had me up with a lesser restoration (tho her eyes were still bleeding profusely and she could still see stars). Lucéena also saw an astral dreadnaught and I think it saw her too :,D. Then I had to act mad at Weiss, high, and afraid of eldritch horrors no one could see all at once lol. I would almost say that moment was funny if it had not been so stressful. Lucéena was teleporting around, swinging her sword at nothing, and then she also saw a weird aura around Fenix tethering him to something in the astral sea which freaked her out more. For his credit tho he was the one that was the most successful in calming her down.

…and then the dreadnaught tore up the treehouse we had been hiding in and yeeted us into a tower. In which Weiss died, Fenix and Lucéena went unconscious, and Eclipse was a badass and healed/revivified everyone. (Where would we be without clerics guys). A lot more Lucéena plot relevant things happened in there too but I’m gonna try and cover that in another post. This is long lol.

[joannasteez]

𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: EZ Reyes x Reader

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆: Mature Themes.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 4.7k

Credits to who made the gif @angelreyesgirl

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @my-rosegold-soul @appropriate-writers-name @est1887 @xladymacbethx @blessedboo @brownsugarcoffy @elektriknachosss @queenbeered

Let me know if you’d like a tag!!!

✞

Your annoyance was simmering, daring to merge into the depths of some irreversible state of agitation. The engine of the classic Dodge Charger RT in your possession had, with incredibly poor timing, began to knock. The unsavory noise resonating into the thick air of the street, stilled heat of the day pushing back the regular ebb and flow of the Santo Padre streets to make way for the obnoxious sound of your engine. Your head was spinning, dazed by the bitter humidity and a steady brew of fear trembling in your fingers to dance just under the surface of your skin. The classic car was given by your father, who'd gotten it from his father, the mass of glistening matte black metal of significant value. If the engine failed, you'd be reduced to tears, wading in the dread of some existential crisis.

Your grandfather had had this car for twenty years, the imprint of his essence etched into the leather seats, and when he became grey and withered, he relinquished it to your father for another fifteen years, till finally, it was yours.

You pulled over just as the last knock sounded, the tremble in your fingers worsening. Your eyes welled, sure to leave a soft red glassiness. The need for air consumed you, the space to walk freely about, a puff of smoke or two maybe.

The pavement was hard under your feet, slam of the door accented by vexation. You picked behind your ear, that nicely rolled spliff safely kept and waiting to be lit. The lighter in your front pocket an easy grab, the flicker of orange a short friendly blaze as it singed the paper. The pull you took was slow, measured, as if to savor this minuscule moment of stillness that lived among others not so still. Not so peaceful. With release, you blew into the air, dried eyes taking in the vast blue of the sky. The never ending expansion blurring your vision as your mind sifted through slim courses of action. If you could just get the car to your garage, then you could figure the battery out on your own, saving time you didn’t have on a mechanics trips you couldn’t afford. All you needed was a—

"Need a boost?"

"Yes". The answer was so quick, it nearly gave you whiplash. The tension in your bones dissipating as you got rid of the sizzling flame around your spliff.

The stranger spun his car from its position just beside yours, the hood of it now facing yours head on before he turned it off and got out.

"Thanks so much for this".

"No problem. It's a nice ride you got, don't really see too many classics rolling around Santo Padre much", he said, eyeing the shine of the paint job. His fingers skimming the hood before he lifted it. "Where'd you get it?"

You step closer to him, a grin stretching your lips at his admiration. The RT was your pride and joy, the height of your ego bursting through to rise above some invisible ceiling whenever folks gave it compliments and stares of approval. "My dad had it for a while, gave it to me when he couldn't keep up with it anymore".

With a nod, he retrieved the cables from his trunk, the wide stretch of his back shifting just under the white fabric of his t-shirt to reveal the curve and ripple of muscles. They traveled down his arms, the bulge of them mixing with defined veins that ran across thick powerful looking fingers. He stretched one of those hands out toward you.

"Ezekiel Reyes".

You considered his hand for a moment, slipping it into your own as your eyes racked him with all the subtlety you could muster. It mustn't have been enough because that innocent friendly smile he gave you had turned into something more knowing. He knew you were checking him out but he didn't mind much. "Y/N".

His thumb skimmed the back of your hand just before letting go, turning his attention to attaching the cables to both cars properly. You minded his movements with the cables closely, triple checking the order in which he connected them with a hawks eye, a concentrated intensity that your dear old Charger RT deserved. Abruptly then, like the quickness of a blink or some single strike of lightning, a thought came to you. "Wait, not Reyes as in Carniceria Reyes?"

"Yeah it's my pops shop",

"Felipe's a real sweet guy. It's not everyday you can look through a deep book collection while the butcher cuts up your dinner". You paused, giving the beauty of his face another glance. "He should've warned me though, never told me both his sons were so handsome".

"You met Angel", he stated, a low dip in his tone. Was it disappointment?

"A couple of weeks ago. He was passing through when I stopped by to pick up somethings. He's a real charmer your brother, but I wouldn't worry. I don't think he's messed up your chances just yet", you flirted.

The assurance produced from him a toothy grin. "I'm not worried".

Silence took ahold of you then, anticipation of the moment charging the pressure in your chest to fall straight to your gut. ‘Please work' you whispered while swinging the door wide to slide into the warm leather of the drivers seat. With the key in the ignition, you twisted your wrist forward, a huff of relief puffing from your chest when the engine roars to life. You close the door quick, that relief bubbling under your skin, your head sticking out the window.

"Thanks again Reyes".

He stepped to the window, those warm endearing eyes taking in the summer glow of your face. His tongue slipped just over the plump flesh of his bottom lip. It was a rosy color, the curving dip of it enticing. He liked the way you said his last name.

"It's no problem".

You put your RT in reverse, backing away from his broad body. "See you around?"

"Maybe", he called.

You speed off, the rev of the engine blending into the ebb and flow of the town once again. Existence dipping into the horizon.

✞✞✞✞✞

You'd saw him again at some hole in the wall you frequented at. The smooth slow tempo of some classic 70s song strumming through the stereo to seep into your ears richly like fresh honey. The atmosphere was subdued, the short clinks of beer bottles and incomprehensible murmurs of frivolous conversations sating the air. It was the perfect place to think, to allow your mind to wander directionless through the never ending abyss of happenings and circumstances that had presented themselves down through the week. You made idle chitchat with the bartender about a laundry list of things of no particular significance, small smiles and light chuckles ringing from you both every now and then.

The night was going good, till you felt a creeping touch just at the low end of your back.

"Let me buy you a drink". The voice was rusted, withered by too much tobacco.

You held up the beer in your hand. "I've got already, I'm good".

This guy was tipsy, blood red creeping into his eyes, body swaying just the slightest bit. "Don't be like that, let me buy you another".

"I said I'm good", you asserted. The coolness of the bottle creating a tingling sensation in your hand. You'd crack it over his head if he touched you again.

"Sorry I'm late, everything alright?", another voice asked, but this one you knew. That deeply textured tone wrapping sweetly around your senses. You tore your irritated gaze set on the almost-drunk guy, softening it as you took Ezekiel in. He looked slightly different, refreshed it seemed, or maybe it was just his barbered hair. A Mayans kutte rested over him, comfortable like a second layer of skin, the black leather accentuating the swell of his muscles. You'd have to figure out later why your eyes diverted to them so often, they were becoming a hindrance to your thinking.

"Everything's good now", you played. Giving him a light peck to the cheek to sell the story. His arm wrapped around you in what appeared to be some reflexive reaction, all natural like he'd done it countless times before. When he realized Ezekiel wasn't leaving, the guy swayed away in true tipsy fashion. Mumbling incoherent things with a griped attitude. Ezekiel took his chair, the proximity of it in regards to yours making the point of his knee knock and slide the smooth plain of your jeans. You watched him take a glance over the bar before he called for a beer.

"Thanks for that".

"No problem", the corner of his lip turning up. "Seems like you've been needing my help a lot lately".

"Don't flatter yourself Reyes, this is just a coincidence".

"Any reason why you're at a bar alone?"

Your face screwed up in a show of confusion, but you could guess quickly the reason for the question. "Any reason why you're at a bar alone?"

He sipped at his beer. "Outside gets loud sometimes y'know, hectic. It's quiet in here. Good place to think".

"Exactly".

"A little unsafe for you though no?" And there it was.

"Everywhere's unsafe for me Ezekiel, I'm a woman. I mean I couldn't guarantee safety in my own home if I wanted to, but that's just how the world works". You paused, mischief rising in your face. "Don't worry though, I've got a little surprise for anyone who wants to test their luck".

"Oh really".

"Yeah, you men are dangerous out here. I gotta be prepared always".

His brows furrowed. "That's a bit of a big generalization to make".

"But if it's true it's true. Name one thing a man doesn't get dangerous about. Doesn't even have to be rejection", you say, turning to fully face him.

He considers the question for a moment, staring into the color of your eyes as if he'd find the answer in them. "Love".

"A man who loves, whose in love, would do any and everything, no matter how mad the shit is. He'd risk lives, his life even. If that's not dangerous then I don't know what is".

A speck of something lit in the hazel of his eyes. As if your words had brought to the present some memory buried deep within the grave of his soul. What you said hit rather close, closer than expected. "Who is she?"

"Doesn't matter, it's in the past".

"Humor me".

His jaw ticked before he spoke. "Her names Emily, but that shits all just history now. Doesn't matter". He turned the focus from himself. "What about you. Whose going all reckless about you".

"Who says he exist"

"You just did, I never specified who in particular".

So much for playing dumb. "His name is Jason".

"Sounds like an asshole".

You snort, the teasing of a headache coming as you thought on the insufferable man that was Jason. "He is. He's got that weird alpha male thing about him. Has to be in control of everything, doesn't know when to leave well enough alone".

The muted energy of the bar rose between the two of you, each taking quiet sips of your beer. You took notice of the way he surveyed the room from where he sat. That golden gaze sifting through the space and over bodies with quick ease. He was assessing, the gears in his head turning, calculating and considering every and all the possibilities of danger. It reminded you of someone.

"How long were you in for?", you ask.

"How'd you know?"

"You've been on the defensive since you sat down, lookin’ everywhere like someone's gonna up and shank you for no reason. My cousin was the same way when he got out, always looking over his shoulder". You shrugged. "Grew out of it eventually.

His eyes were a bit sullen, as if the truth would scare you. "Eight years".

"He was in for fifteen, and that prison shit is unbelievable, I mean the stories he's told me are crazy". You laugh suddenly at a memory, the resonance of it making him smile in admiration of the sound. "He did this thing for a while when he got home where he'd only have one knife, one fork and one spoon in his kitchen and I swear it was the funniest shit".

The smile falters, his body shifting awkwardly in the bar stool, embarrassed. 

"Oh my God Reyes don't tell me you've been doing the same thing".

"In my defense I live alone".

"But what if you have a special guest over, you'd be a sorry ass host", you tease.

"If you wanted to have dinner with me then just say that".

You force away the heat daring to rise in your cheeks. "We have to take a trip to home goods before I even consider a dinner with you”.

You both give hearty laughs, till the vibration in your pocket pulls your focus. With a quick slip of your phone, you realize how fast time had gone on. “Shit I gotta go, but it was real nice seeing you again Ezekiel".

"It was good seeing you too".

You press your hand against his patch, laying a sweet lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Make it home in one piece for me yeah".

"I have to. You might need me again".

"I'm counting on it".

✞✞✞✞✞

You were a joke it seemed, the universe and fate in a gaming mood, as they were using you as a source for their own amusement. Commissioning their faithful associate to do the heavy lifting of masking their scents. The two of you were at the right place, at the right time again, what a damn coincidence. Before the present week, you'd never even seen Ezekiel's face, just learning of his existence a week or so before that, and now you'd seen him twice in a matter of days. This night being the third.

He was surrounded by men who donned the same kutte as him, curious eyes swimming through the sea of bodies as they did in every other setting, till they met yours. He came to you without a second thought, eyeing the tight leather of your pants and how they clung to your thighs. The cropped cut of your vintage top revealing skin he longed to touch. Since the first time he saw you his mind raced with thoughts of your voice, visions of your lips touching his skin again, plaguing his body with the desire to have you.

You stepped away from your group of friends, meeting him half way. "You're just stalking me at this point. Not that I mind".

He clutched the openings of his kutte, that signature grin lighting his face, even with the casting over of the nights darkness. "Something told me I'd see you again. How's your RT?"

"Good, resting in my garage. I've been kinda scary about replacing the battery".

"Why?"

"I'm good with cars don't get me wrong, but something about fucking it up just makes me sick. It's a lot of history behind that car. I don't wanna destroy it".

"Understandable", he nodded. Noting the caution behind your words, the way you spoke with such passion and care about the thing you loved. It was endearing.

The heavy crunch of gravel and sand tore through the beginnings of some silent stare, an undeniable enticement brewing. It was Angel.

"I see you met this asshole already", the older Reyes said.

"I'm not an asshole Angel, just 'cause I turned you down".

He sent a smirk your way. "You didn't turn me down, we made a mutual decision that you couldn't handle me remember?"

"Right. That's exactly how it went".

A call sounded through the dewy air of the night, signifying the start of a race. You started toward a cherry red car.

"That's me", you said. In regards to the call.

Ezekiel was confused, intrigued. "You racing?"

"Yeah, the mustang", you called, strutting over to your 1970's Mustang, adding the slightest dip to your hips. Giving the brothers something to admire, before dropping low into the leather seats.

With a quick twist, the mustang roared to life, the rumble tearing through the air, growling like a fierce rolling thunder through hazy storm clouds. Another car pulled up on your right, the blue electric color of it dazzling, clashing against the fine cherry red of your own to deliver a sweet contrast for the eyes that watched on in excitement. A woman, with a dangled bandana in her hand, set herself between your car and the other, whistles of admiration thrown her way as she gave the summer evening crowd an alluring smile. At the point of her finger you revved your engine, adrenaline pumping through your veins, rushing from your chest to pulse under your skin. The leather feel of the steering wheel was smooth, the grip you held to it steady. With the downward pull of her hands she set both cars to race and you pulled your mustang swift into the night.

The road before you was a muddled darkness, the outward spreading glow of your headlights stabbing it and tearing it apart as your wheels took a glide against the smooth road. At the mark line, you shifted your car into reverse, whipping left, back into drive, soaring back down the road to where the crowd watched and waited. Their rigid bodies of anticipation lit by your headlights, bellowing screams waning under the busting sound of your revving engine. Your mustang tore through the finishing mark, the tingle of victory surging through you.

Pulling back up to the crowd, you rolled your window down, a slim roll of hundreds placed in your hand by the guy who’d set the race up. You showed up to win and now you were done.

Ezekiel and Angel were a little ways away from your car, your voice carrying over to them. "A little party at my place. You and your guys are cool to come".

They both nodded, heading to their bikes when Angel answered after you. "We'll follow you".

Ezekiel swung his leg, resting on the seat of his bike as he buckled the helmet over his head, his fingers gripping the ape hangers, feeling the vibration of the engine as he followed the sleek vibrant red of your car. The afternoon he met you, he'd been turmoiled, plagued with the natural uncertainties that came with being a member of the MC. That new patch stitched into the upper corner of his kutte had bought a sense of pride and belonging he hadn't felt in forever, it gave him drive, fueled his determination, but as the saying goes, all that glitters is not good. Expectation deceived him, the reality of all things made clear. And that reality was shoveling makeshift graves for men whose names he couldn't even remember, but he remembered yours. Committed himself to it like the loving kiss he gave to the jar that held the remnants of his mother every time he stepped a foot into his fathers house.

He found you flustered, out of yourself with anxiety in the dimming light of the afternoon, and then at the bar, body rigid, eyes wired and ready to do your worst to a guy who could barely keep his posture straight, and now he was following behind you, backing his bike toward the sidewalk that laid just in front your home.

Upon entry, the knock of the speakers bled a thumping bass that pulsated through the floors. Your home had seemed to expand with every new corner that came into view, the walls pushing back to make room for the swell and scatter of bodies. Sweet smells mixed with more pungent ones, the hazy aroma of weed slipping past him as he walked further into the house. A hand placed itself at his side. It was you.

"Can I get you a drink? A beer or something".

"Yeah a beer is cool".

You intertwined your fingers with his, leading him to the kitchen where the sound settled some. Beer bottles clinked, the air releasing as you opened them, handing one over to him.

He gave a quiet "thanks" before sipping, eyeing the way your lips wrapped around the top of the bottle to taste the liquid. They looked soft, full and alluring. He redirected his gaze before the temptation overtook him to do something impulsive that had the prospect of unnerving you. His eyes flitted to the side of your face, an illustration about two inches or so etched into your skin. He hadn't noticed it till now.

You could feel him staring as you tasted the beer, the heat of it tingling your skin. "It's a dagger".

He reached forward, thumb skimming over the finely crafted design, it was a professionals work. With the simple touch of his thumb, your nerves were riling, heat rushing to pulse under your skin, he could feel it. It drew him closer, lured him in. "Did it hurt?".

"Like hell, but when you've felt more painful shit, tattoos like this don't really compare". You lifted the hem of your top some, bringing his fingers to feel the raised skin there. Four inches or so worth of a healed gash rested under his considerate touch. "Got it when I spent a year and a half inside. Grand theft", you admitted.

The reasoning behind telling him wasn't sound in the slightest bit, but what was reasoning when Ezekiel had awakened such dormant feelings inside you. With those beautiful, sunny colored eyes and the warm hand caressing your side, you were liable to tell everything. Truths you hated and dark secrets that laid deep inside your past. You reached up to lay a kiss to those pouty lips, the feel of them mesmeric, dazing. Fulfillment burdened itself onto you, finally you'd got a taste of that rosy pink bottom lip, and now your body was calling for more. Begging for it with such longing that you licked your way through his mouth, his tongue acting in kind. It was slow and all consuming, his body pressing you into the counter to surround you.

"Come with me", your voice airy. Breathless. You lead him to the back of the house. Your room first on the right. A gasp left you when your feet left the floor, body in his arms as he laid you against the fresh feel of the sheets. You kicked your shoes off with ease but the discarding of other pieces left behind a sinking feeling, a pressure forming in your chest to push down straight into your gut. He was glorious, the plains of his skin bound by rich thick tanned muscles and long veins. The dilation of his pupils darkened the air around him, physique imposing. This is what you’d wanted, Why were you feeling so anxious all of a sudden?

"What's wrong?"

Your body had raced miles ahead of your mind and now you were trying to catch up. "I don't know, I just... I feel..."

"Nervous".

"It's sounds so stupid when you say it out loud".

"But it's not, It's natural, and I'll do whatever you want me to do. Whatever makes you feel comfortable baby".

He sounded so sure of it, it made you believe him. You laid against the pillows, beckoning him with the outstretch of your fingers. "C'mere".

He obeyed, body atop yours, your legs wrapping loosely around his waist as your head tilted up to give those lips another kiss. It was messy this time, fueled by desperation, your tongues slow to lick as they tasted each other's. The remnants of beer still there. He took hold of your lip, sharp teeth pulling before he kissed his way down to the heated flesh of your neck. There he sucked, bombarding your skin with pressure causing your hips to grind against the coarse fabric of his jeans. The thin cotton layer of your underwear leaving you to erupt with a fresh wave of need. He feathered kisses down your body, pushing your legs up and apart to open yourself for him. A shudder drove down your spine, that soft wide tongue of his licking so close to where you needed him. He peeled away your underwear leaving you bare before him.

"Talk to me baby. What do you need".

You could hear the pulse of your heart in your ears. "Take care of me Ezekiel, make me feel good".

He hummed, loving the airiness of your voice. So drenched with need for him you were. He was methodical despite the desire boiling in his blood threatening to burn through his skin, so he'd settled with toying with you for now. Giving that sweet glistening clit teasing licks. They were measured, the constraint of them existing solely to wreck you, to kill your resolve completely till you were reduced to in-apprehensible words filled with air. The wide-ness of his tongue felt so good, your nails running over the faded part of his head as your hips drew tight circles.

The teasing, the game of it all. He didn't know but you loved it so much. "That feels so good baby, so good", you praised.

Your words were disembodied, wandering in another plain of existence as they rolled off your lips. Your senses were bursting at the seems, and then reborn again to erupt on impact when he sucked against your sensitive nub, lapping your slick salaciously. As if he'd been starved for years, only just finding you now. The line of your spine arched, waist swiveling, grinding to meet his wet tongue. A low "fuck" fell in the air as your felt the rise of your impending release. With taut, rough fingers he hooked at the back of your knees, pushing them into the sheets. The action opened you completely to him, no choice but to surrender to his will and the feel of his lips as he drew you closer to the edge.

"Please, I'm so close", you whimpered. Vision splotchy, thump in your ears intensifying.

He sucked at you again, holding his lips still as your body shook. Quivering against the sheets. He reverted back to soft licks, tasting as you rode the high.

He rose when you settled, eyeing the heavy rise and fall of your chest as he did away with his jeans. "You Ok?"

It took you time to register the question but when you did, you threw a pillow at him. "You just sucked the soul out of me, don't ask me that damn question".

He laughed, watching your eyes dim in bliss. You hadn't noticed, but he'd done away with his underwear as well, the weight of him causing the bed to dip as he came up to where you laid. His thick fingers rolled you over, setting your face to rest against the pillows as your hips raised in the air to rest against the hot flesh of his length, the veined skin laying along your slit. You moaned in anticipation, pushing back against him.

He gripped your cheeks, spreading them to see the quivering flesh of your opening, the flushed pink shinning in the dim light of the room. His tongue slipped against his bottom lip again, reveling in the taste of you as he pushed in. He groaned, and you gave a single fleeting "yes" , the thickness of him giving a delicious stretch, rigid length hot as he pushed and pulled in and out of your depths in a slow manner. Wanting to test the waters same as he did moments ago before building you back up again. The squeeze of you made his chest tight, head swimming with delirium.

"You feel so good mama, so tight around me", he groaned.

His thrust were dizzying as they picked up to set a steady pace, your hips rolling and pushing to take him deeper. To reach that place in you that would force your vision to blur and be replaced by disfigured stars. You reach to lay a finger at your overstimulated bundle of nerves, rubbing the soft slick flesh with lazy pleasuring circles that spurred the knot in your gut to grow. A single tear fell to dampen the pillow, your depths tightening at how full you felt, at how unrelenting the stimulation of his strokes were.

The sharp drive of his hips made you go rigid, the vice like grip you formed around him causing him to fall into his own high. Pace going all slow sloppy to ride out the blissful feeling.

He pulled from you, both your body and his collapsing against the bed. His face formed with satisfaction, a beautiful buzz running through him. "You know what this means right?"

"What", you asked.

"We’ll have to see each other around more often now".

[realcube]

'you're..you're wearing that-' he hesitated, swallowing the lump forming in his throat, 'for me?'

navi | taglist | nsfw part two

summary ➵ on your first date with tamaki, he’s already wondering why you romanticise a guy like himself

content warning ➵ reader wear make-up, a dress and the accessories pictured above, very insecure! tamaki, mild angst & fluff

credit ➵  thank you to @suneater18​ for the request and the pics belongs to hippieartesanatos

the moonlight penetrated through the sombre clouds which waved overhead, creating a picturesque night sky for you to admire on your date; as if the heavens were smiling down upon you, congratulating you for scoring such a nice guy.  

well, at least, that is what you would’ve thought if your date was sooner to start. currently, you were shuffling on a park bench, fidgeting with your phone as your eyes flickered between the screen and the gorgeous sight above you, anticipating when your date will finally arrive so you can admire it together.

however, twenty minutes had passed since nine o’clock — the time you had both agreed to meet each other at — yet you were still sitting alone, tamaki no where to be seen. what make it even worse was that he was ghosting all your messages and calls. 

perhaps it was the first-date jitters speaking but there was a voice lurking in the back of your head, whispering that you have been stood-up. however, you were too ashamed to just get up and leave now, so you figured that you may as well call your friend and ask them to join you.

your eyes burned with tears which you choked back as your fingers worked on their own to search your contacts for your friend’s number. there was a part of you that believed you were being to hasty but you truly couldn’t bare to just sit here and act ‘hopeful’ any longer. with shaky hands, you tapped your friend’s contact as your thumb hovered over the phone icon.

“(y/n)!” 

you froze upon hearing your name called from a distance, your immediate reaction being to whip your head around to see who — or what — was in such desperate need of your attention that they were willing to yell your name from half-way across the park. 

and of course, it was none other than tamaki amajiki himself; dashing towards you at full-speed in a torn suit, muddy shoes and..his hair seemed to be unevenly cut. he wore a determined yet petrified expression as he came hurdling in your direction, a single stray tentacle dragging behind him as he ran.

a smile of both confusion and relief tugged at your lips, the pads of your fingers dabbing lightly under your eyes to rid of any puffy skin or dampness while simultaneously ensuring that you wouldn’t mess up your lashes or eyeshadow. 

“tama! you’re here!” you squealed, your hands automatically clasping together in excitement as he approached the bench, about to fall into the seat beside you due to how tired he was but pausing as he watched you spring to your feet and open your arms for a hug. his lips slowly curled into a weak smile, his expression softening and he didn’t waste a single second before throwing his arms around you, pulling you in for as tight of a hug that his worn biceps would allow him to.  

despite the fact he reeked of an ungodly amount of body spray, you still basked his embrace since this is the moment you spent the last three hours or so preparing for. you were quite shocked at how shabby he looked but you decided against questioning it, out of courtesy. but on the bright side, it really made you feel better about the outfit you had spent hours styling, yet you were still not completely sure about.  

tamaki suddenly pulled away from the hug so he could fall back onto the bench, letting out a hefty sigh and momentarily zoning out in order to catch his breath. you weren’t too sure whether it was appropriate to giggle or pout at the sight so you chose to not do either and instead, just awkwardly stand and stare at him.

a sharp inhale was all tamaki needed before he was finally able to sit up slightly and bow his head, folding his hands to you before blurting out, “i am so sorry i’m late, (y/n)!” and before you could even get a word in, he began his breathless explanation, “i got a small tear in my shirt and mirio said he’ll fix it but he made it even worse. then nejire said she’ll style my hair but she only knew a few male styles and said my hair was too long and before i could say anything she was chopping away at my hair-- and somehow mirio’s dog got ahold of my suit and it made the tears even worse! i was so stress and y’know when i’m stressed i stress-eat, so i began eating fish snacks and before i even knew what was going on, it was nine o’clock. so i ran here as fast as i could and i tried to manifest tentacles to help me move faster but it turns out i didn’t eat enough fish snacks so i only have one tentacle and i can’t even move it properly- look!”

the fact he said all of that in seemingly one breath left you stunned in place, with you eyes fixated on his rapidly moving lips until they instinctively shifted onto his single tentacle, laying dejected by his feet until it started squirming around. however, that was all it seemed capable of doing — squirming. 

“uuh,” you hummed, trying your best to stifle a snicker as tamaki was clearly in genuine destress. “it’s fine, tama! i was a bit worried that you wouldn’t show but it doesn’t matter, you’re here now so let’s focus on that.” 

your words somewhat calmed him down as his shoulders visibly relaxed, his red eyes tearing off the concrete ground to meet your kind gaze. a slight gasp escaped his lips as he noticed how gorgeous your make-up was, but before he could utter a compliment, his eyes went further downwards as he tried to process the whole of your outfit.

his cheeks immediately burned red at the sight; your stunning purple dress, shimmering heels and matching crystal accessories which were evidently worn to complement his own aesthetic. a certain piece which he was drawn to, was the golden, gemmed ear cuff you wore with pointed tips to form a similar shape to his own ears — one of his biggest physical insecurities.

“you look..” tamaki mused, momentarily cutting himself off to think of a word that would do you justice, “perfect.” his voice was hushed, hardly above a whisper but you were still able to make out what he said and a sheepish grin crept onto your features.

“thank you, baby!” you chirped, perking up slightly and giving him a little twirl, causing a burst of red to explode on his cheeks which he was quick to try cover with his hands. it was moments like these when he wished that hoodies were first-date appropriate, that way he could just sink back into his hood and pretend he doesn’t exist.

“you look really nice too.” there was nothing wrong with a little white lie every now and again. however, it wasn’t even said with the intent of being a lie as you secretly thought that the scruffiness kinda suited tamaki, like, he looked badass! like your prince charming who accidentally fell into a ditch.

your compliment didn’t help the increasing temperature of tamaki’s cheeks either, causing him to slump farther back in his seat as he muttered garbled speech under his breath. it took a good few seconds but eventually he was able to peer at you with a single eye through the inbetweens of his fingers,  “a-and i like your little ear cuff thing.

everything he said only widened your beam and make you feel more giddy, to the point where you were practically bounced in place, “thanks, tama! i saw it and immediately thought of you, so i bought it.” you stifled a squeal at how observant tamaki was being, praising all the small details of your attire which you thought would go unnoticed. “i decided to wear it today because remember how you showed me the tie you bought for our date?” you explained, vaguely gesturing at said tie which hung in tatters around his neck, “yeah, so, i thought we could match.”

it took him a few moments to process what you just said and while his brain was running on overdrive, you were met by his rapid blinking and frozen stature. having known tamaki for a while now, you knew how this was a fairly common occurrence when was truly stunned by something, so you allowed him some time in silence to consolidate. 

“so..” he started, trembling hand dropping from his face and onto his lap so you could see his whole bashful appearance. his gaze seemed to be trained on the floor, until he finally looked up to reveal the twinkle in his eyes, “you’re..you’re wearing that-” he hesitated, swallowing the lump forming in his throat, “for me?”

the thought that you were ashamed to be with him was something that constantly taunted him from the back of this mind. you were heavenly in a way that his words simply could not describe, though that didn’t stop him from trying. it was beyond him how a person as divine as yourself would even give him the time of day; let alone insist that he was beautiful, leave encouraging notes in his locker, comfort him when he shows even the smallest sign of being upset, give him praise on all the thing he was insecure about and so much more.

when he looked in the mirror, he did not see what you see. he viewed his ears as creepy and not a feature he should put on display, hence a part of the many reasons why he’s so fond of his hood. but here you were, all dolled up in his favourite colour just to showcase that you were with him. your ears decorated with pretty cuffs that made them look a similar shape to his, at first glance.

when he’d walk beside you through the corridors of the school or under the shade of the trees in the park, he’d feel the eyes of jealous passersby burn holes through his skin; despite the fact you weren’t even dating him yet, people just hated seeing a guy like himself by your side, apparently. 

he stopped eating before meeting up with you so he wouldn’t have any weird manifestation that could draw attention to himself. he started wearing his hood up at all times so people wouldn’t judge him for his elven ears. he refused to touch you just in case people thought you were dating and became envious of him, which would quickly turn to hatred. 

so why would you want to look like him? why would you want people to know that you are on a date with him? why did you act proud to be with him?

you quirked a brow at how confounded he sounded, thinking over your answer with a hum; you wore this outfit for tamaki and yourself because you thought it was pretty and it suited you. however, it didn’t take a genius to figure out that there was no need to give tamaki the full truth right now so instead you allowed him to enjoy his rare surge of confidence by replying with simply, “yeah, for you.”

you weren’t going to be surprised that he was flattered, by now you were well aware that tamaki held all your opinions on him in high esteem so that’s why you always tried to be as nice to him as possible — that, and it was just in your nature to be kind towards him when he’s been nothing but respectful to you back.

however, what you didn’t expect was to hear faint sobs from behind his hands and watch as crystalline tears poured escaped from the inbetweens of his fingers, racing down the back of his hands. “tamaki..” you murmured, reluctantly taking a seat next to him to wrap your arms around, rubbing comforting circles in his shoulders like you usually did when he was sad. although, you weren’t even completely sure that he was disheartened by your statement. 

“i’m sorry.” you spoke in a hushed voice, leaning in close to his neck until your nose brushed against his skin, resulting in him tilting his head so it rested upon yours. “are you okay?”

“please don’t apologise.” he croaked, stifling his snivels to try show that he wasn’t upset. “you did nothing wrong. in fact, you’ve done everything right. i’m the one who’s been messing up.” he felt your hand ghost over his own and without a second thought, he intertwined his finger with your own, freeing his other palm to place it on your shoulder and exposing his pale, tear-stained face is the process. 

“i know it’s hard but you should tell me what’s on your mind, tamaki.” you hummed, gently caressing the back of his hand with your thumb and planting a kiss on the damp skin of his cheek. his cologne was still suffocating strong but if you were to die, it would ideally be while cuddled up to him, under the celestial night sky. 

opening up had never been an easy task for tamaki; especially about a subject that concerned his physical appearance and emotions. but there was a knot in his chest that would simply come undone when he was with you. he couldn’t explain it, but all the barriers and walls he had established to avoid getting his feeling hurt or heart broken would come crashing down whenever he was with you. perhaps it was a familiarity, maybe it was your reassuring presence or might just be pure love and adoration. 

either way, he found him himself babbling on about anything and everything that bothered him with little regard for his own pride or secrecy, he voiced every thought that came to his mind in the moment. he told you just about it all — all his problems and insecurities —and you listened, offering him encouragement whenever he’d cut himself off, saying something along the lines of, ‘i-i’ll stop now, i sound silly’ or ‘you’re probably tired of hearing me prattle on’. though, of course you didn’t want him to stop until he had gotten everything off his chest as it was a rare sight for him to talk for such lengths at a time so the last thing you wanted to do was discourage him.

“i just..” tamaki stammered, coming to the end of his passionate ramble, “don’t understand why you want to be seen with me, let alone wear those.” he raised his shaky hand from your shoulder to gesture to your ear cuffs, “don’t get me wrong, they look cute on you, but i just don’t get why you’d want to have ears that look like mine.”

“because yours are beautiful!” 

he winced at the compliment and at how sincere you sounded, “well, i’m glad you think that, (y/n).” he muttered, not even having to finish his statement as the dejection in his voice made it obvious that he did not view himself in the same light. his gaze dropped to his feet which were shuffling uncontrollably,  “i don’t know why i’m making such i big deal about this. aren’t you annoyed?” 

your let go of his hands only to slip them around his neck and pull him into your embrace, you felt him tense up in your arms but slowly allow himself to relax his cheek onto your shoulder. “i’m not annoyed, baby. i get what you mean and it’s horrible that you feel that way.” all tamaki could do would tick his tongue in agreement. 

“i know i tell you this all the time but i honestly think you’re so attractive, inside and out. i was so excited when you agreed to date me, i could’ve died of happiness on the spot!” you chirped, momentarily jerked your head backwards so you could peck the tip of his nose, giggling as he scrunched his face up cutely at the sudden touch.

your angelic laugh rung through tamaki’s head, forcing his lips into a smile as he gawked at your adorable action. “i love you..” tamaki uttered, raising his voice ever so slightly to ensure that you heard what he said, “so much.” thanks to you, his sobs were now just mere sniffles into the crook of your neck. 

you inhaled sharply, eyes-widening at his words; you would’ve never thought he would be the first on to say ‘i love you’, but you were far from disappointed, in fact you felt yourself melting further into his touch.

you felt his grip on you tighten, his breathing slowly retuning to it’s regular pace as he squeezed his eyes shut, cancelling out all his other senses so he could focus on the way your body felt against his own. 

he wanted to be confident. he wanted to take pride in himself for you. he was tired of restless nights filled with tears due to his worries berating him for simply existing in your presence. 

it wasn’t going to be easy but he needed to start acting on everything you said. because eventually, it wouldn’t just be for you, it’d be for himself.

and of course, it didn’t go unnoticed by you when he started wearing his hood less often, when he began holding his head up higher as he walks by your side, the way he now shoots warm smiles at people who try to glare at him.

and five years later, how he didn’t bat an eye at deadly glare that the waiter — that had been subtly flirting with you all night — shot at him as he got down on one knee, in front of the whole restaurant. 

[therewasatale]

Deal?

On Ao3.

Summary:  ReverseAU How Vetinari decided to become a watchman, and how Vimes started to plan out to become the Patrician.

Note: @lurfck art from tumblr really inspired me, go and see their art. its pretty cool. I always wondered that when will I get back to the fandom and Here. I. Am. With an AU that noone asked for, but it keeps me up for nights and makes me write.

Commander Vetinari pulled back the hood made from dark fabric. Water droplets cascaded of the material joining into those on his cape. Reaching up, he took off his helmet and with it under his arm, walked down the corridors of the Patrician Palace. He let his footsteps echo and glanced at one of the paintings. He looked into its eyes for a few seconds, and then walked up a staircase. Arriving at the office, he waited and then knocked slowly and deliberately.

"Come in, Commander."

Inside, Lord Vimes gazed out the window looking over Ankh-Morpork. Drops of rain knocked on the glass, the commander knew it was reinforced multiple times, but their sounds still managed to be heard in the room. As the door closed, the man turned, with a small smile on his face.

"Good evening, Vetinari."

"Sir." Said Vetinari. "You have sent for me."

To Patrician's waved towards his table, upon which a kettle steamed, accompanied by two cups. They took a seat about the same time, and the Commander placed his helmet on a stack of unregarded paper nearby. Vetinari glanced at the uppermost one just under his helmet, then turned his attention towards the Patrician.

"So, are we celebrating with tea?"

"You don't drink anymore, and neither do I. And besides, Sybil always brings a box of tea as a gift when she visits."

The edge of Vetinari's mouth twitched, and turned slightly upward. A rare thing indeed. "How many boxes do you have?"

"More than enough, I already had to dedicate a separate room for them." Vimes glanced at him and added. "But there are always taste testers of course."

The Commander nodded and reached for the kettle. "How many years has it been?"

"As if you don’t know exactly. " Lord Vimes snorted, but he couldn't suppress his smile. They both knew the answer very well.

"We have exciting years behind us, starting with that dragon."

"Both of us almost died."

"You had more close calls than I am, if I am not mistaken," said Vimes after thinking a bit.

"Really? I thought they tried to kill you more."

"Well, they tried, but mostly you got in the way."

"Thanks to you," smiled Vetinari into his cup. "Since, if I recall it correctly, this all was your idea to begin with."

Lord Vimes snorted, but he couldn't really argue with it. It happened years before, when both of them were just kids, and didn't know what kind of future was waiting for them.

Samuel Vimes entered his room and stopped after a few steps. Something was off, he really couldn't put a finger on it, but it made the hairs on his neck stand up. He glanced around, then blinked into the darkness. He opened his mouth to say something but decided against it. Well, maybe it will make him look like a fool a bit.

"You shouldn't be here," said Vimes, and waited.

The shadows moved in one corner and a figure stepped out. He wore clothes colored in various shades of black, only broken by two ice blue eyes.

"It's nice to see you too, Vimes." Havelock Vetinari pulled the black mask and hood down from his head. "Don't light the candle."

"I can't see in the dark." Said Vimes with a small snort.

"Take four steps forward then you can sit down to your table."

"Why are you here?" Vimes walked with outstretched hands and felt the corner of his desk around the fourth step. Finding the chair, he took a seat. He could not see or hear it, but he still managed to feel the movement of his guest. When he spoke, the voice came right next to him.

"Just wanted to have a quiet night." He pulled out a small bottle from the depths of his dress, which landed on the desk with a soft clink.

"What? Are you trying to poison me?"

"If I wanted to kill you, Vimes, I could have done it the moment you stepped in."

There was a silence and then Vimes gave out a nervous sigh.

"You always knew how to put people at ease. What did you say, why are you here?"

"I'm just here to talk."

"Oh."

"Vimes."

"All right, all right. But I don't have a glass."

"It's fine." Out of the corner of his eyes Vetinari watched as the young nobleman glanced in his direction and then towards the bottle. "Wine from Überwald. I recently got it." The cork got out the bottle without a single pop.

"Oh." The silence waited patiently for him to continue. "And how are your studies in the Assassins Guild?"

There was another pause.

"It's...fine. I'm learning a lot." Vetinari sipped his wine and let the pleasant heat of the alcohol spread through him and show on his face. "My father is satisfied, too, if I am not mistaken."

"That's good."

Vimes tasted the alcohol carefully. After a few sips he could feel the slight redness spreading across his face as he shuddered pleasantly. His eyes began to get used to the darkness, and he could just make out the slightly hunched figure sitting next to him.

"When was the last time we met?"

"At your mother's funeral," said Vetinari. "The next day I was sent to the assassin's guild to start my studies."

"Hm."

There was yet another period of silence.

"And how is your dad-"

"Do you have to appear on balls yet? Considering you reached marriable-age."

"What are you talking about?!" Sam scoffed turning red and becoming even more flattered as he heard Vetinari's chuckle. "Very funny. But yes, sadly, I have to. Believe me, I don't enjoy it very much. Especially since Sybil is the only sane person there who I can talk to. The Rust family is the worst."

"How so?"

"I think they're trying to be friendly."

"Don't trust them"

Vimes snorted and rolled his eyes. "Like I would ever."

Vetinari nodded silently. He was trying to swallow his slight nervousness and suppress it just like he did with his other feelings. Ever since he started to study to be an assassin, he hadn't been able to move around in the city as much as he wanted. Without that he hasn’t been able to keep his eye on everything. This was to his father's delight no doubt, he was always focused on keeping up the legacy.

They sipped slowly from the wine, letting time wash over them. Vetinari sometimes glanced towards the window or checked the shadows for anyone hiding in them. He knew he haven't been followed, but he could never be absolutely sure.

"Things could be better."

Vetinari turned his gaze towards Vimes and waited. He knew there was more to it.

"With a different Patrician, I mean. Maybe, if someone would really care about all those crimes, and find a better way. Even this city has rules."

There was a small chuckle.

"What? It could work, I know I'm an idealist, but it could really work. With a different system."

"What I would call you indeed starts with an "id-", Vimes."

The younger man barely held back a scoff, but his face turned became slightly pinker, and not just from the wine.

"The city is changing," said Vetinari.

"But not in a good way."

There was a silence, they could hear the city's dull noises.

"Well, if Lord Winder manages to piss someone off properly, then, when the time is right I'll be able to do something. However, if you ask me, the past will just repeat itself."

His words had a kind of edge that even Vimes noticed.

"I really don't know what to say about that."

"Then don't," said Vetinari.

"But maybe it could be done differently."

"You, really are an idealistic idiot."

Vimes now actually scoffed and drank another glass of wine. Finally, he sighed, and he too stared out the window. "Do you want to be an assassin?"

He didn't get an answer.

"Sorry. I just...you don't seem too happy."

"Then how do I seem to you?"

Vimes shrugged. Again, he really didn't know what to say. He didn't see that as Vetinari looked at him, an idea began to form in the assassin's mind.

"The city could be better." Vetinari surprised even himself when he began talking. Well, no turning back from now.

"What?"

"You just said it. Maybe it needs an idealistic idiot, like you."

"You just had to call me an idiot, don't you? And what do you mean someone like me? I'm not good at with politics and aristocrats."

"But you can learn it." Vetinari's voice had a smiling tone in it. He noted to himself that he hasn’t received an immediate 'no'. The younger man, next to him, seemed to be immersed in his thoughts.

"Well," he said after a while.

"Yes?"

"It wouldn't be easy," Vimes said. "I would have to learn a lot and kiss a lot of butts." Grimacing, he emptied his glass once more. When he spoke again, his voice became more determined. "And I could only be a Patrician if I knew someone was watching my back."

"Oh, well in that case, I can assure you-"

"Within the law. Someone would watch me, within the law."

Vetinari raised an eyebrow, now he was looking straight into Vimes' eyes.

"What are you trying to say?"

"You could be a watchman."

"I beg your pardon?" Scoffed the assassin.

"With your knowledge and skills. You would be an ideal watchman." Repeated Vimes.

"Ideal for who?"

"For me, of course." He realized what he just said. "I-I mean, to be next to me. I would trust you; we grew up together. I know your father, and you knew my mum and dad. So, I could trust you. And this-" he made a vague gesture indicating the whole of the city. "It could be more...good. Better. Maybe it would work, really work. It would be fairer."

Vetinari didn't move, but the look in his eyes and the sound of his voice softened a little. "You idealistic idiot."

"So? It's a deal then? If you become a watchman, I'll be the Patrician." He added after thinking for a second. "Somehow."

They locked gazes for a minute.

"All right, it's a deal." Said Vetinari, and for the first time in a long time, he let himself truly smile.

 Vetinari refilled the cups.

"It's a shame I didn't see your face when you got my letter. And when you found out I kept myself to our agreement."

"Oh, you didn't see my face?" Said Vimes with a barely hidden smile. Despite looking into the commander's eyes, he was unable to read anything from them.

"Of course not, my lord. Since our deal was to watch over you once when you've become the Patrician."

The patrician shook his head, still amused by the memories. "Well, it was surprising. And as you see, I did keep my word." He gestured around the office. "It did take some time, but it worked. But what I'm sorry about is that I didn't see the face of guild teachers when they found out you were joining Night Watch."

"Well, I am pretty sure I almost gave them a heart attack. On the other hand, I did offer them something to keep them busy." Vetinari glanced at him one last time, before he turned his eyes towards to his cup and finished his tea.

"You mean, they immediately put big price on your head but were unable to get rid of you no matter how hard they tried?"

"They've often said I was being a rather ungrateful student." Lord Vimes allowed himself a small chuckle, and so did Vetinari a smile. They really had a history behind both of them. But even that night, he was already aware. He let his blue eyes rest on the face of the ruler, and seen him turning serious.

"I'm sorry." Said Vimes finally, pushing aside his emerging guilt so he could speak.

"Sir?"

"Your father, I didn't think he would..."

"Kick me from the family because I don't follow the tradition of becoming a professional assassin?" He waved it off. "It's not your fault, and you were right back there. I didn't want to be an assassin anyway."

Vimes' cup stopped on his way towards his lips.

"Sir?"

The lord of the city took a small sip. "Nothing. I'm glad that you chose something different. And better."

"So am I, sir." He glanced at the man. "Did I ever tell you that after my father disowned me, Sybil immediately tried to convince her dad that they should adopt me?"

Vimes had to cough when accidentally breathed in tea instead of air. "She did what?!"

 Of course while they talked, the letter was with them, hidden in one of the Patrician's desk. It was stored with outmost care, but it did develop a few creases from handling.

It had the following two words written in it:

'Your turn.

H.V. '

[bubblegumbeech]

Time Just out of Reach

Prompt fill for @sailor-toni and @ghostlyhabato

Pssst hey, hey you. Ship this with me.

He didn’t have his crown when he awoke. It was the first thing he noticed, and it had confused him as he blinked back flashes of fighting, desperate and vicious as cloaked figures, all too familiar yet made strange and unknown, locked him away. Relying on ancient magics and powerful spells, the traitors had been unable to defeat him properly, as warriors, and Pariah curled his lip at the memory.

But he’d still had his crown then and it took him a moment, having stormed away from the accursed coffin and it’s nauseating sleep, before he remembered the first time he’d awoken. There had been a child, incredibly powerful and with the kind of support Pariah hadn’t had since the peak of his reign’s popularity. He’d been the one to defeat him in the end, alone, in a battle that no ghost could say was anything but fair.

It settled something in him, almost. It was frustrating, naturally, to be defeated by a child. But in the Infinite Realms such things were rarely as they seemed, and it was unlikely that despite everything the one who had defeated him was truly as young as he looked. And he had defeated Pariah, unlike those before, in a proper fight.

The loss of his crown was only a natural progression of such, and while Pariah knew somewhere in the back of his mind that he would have reacted differently had he awoken earlier in his sleep, or even with the crown still atop his head, it was clear there was little to do either way. His ring was gone as well and there would be no commanding of armies this or any day. 

Instead, he decided to work on himself. To stretch out half formed and aching muscles from their prolonged and unnatural sleep and to walk once more throughout his own keep. 

There was much to be done, frankly, the castle itself had fallen into a horrible state of disrepair, and the grounds had become entirely overrun with all kinds of ghostly and dangerous plants. 

Once, just to see what would happen, Pariah had tried calling upon his skeletal army, but no matter how much power he pulled into the spell or how much he strained his core to its limits, the ground slept beneath him. It was almost freeing, knowing there was nothing to be done but to work and ready himself.

He spent the mornings getting reacquainted with his form and its abilities. The ectoplasm of the zone felt cleaner than he remembered it, and it helped energize him. It wasn’t long before he slipped easily back into his previous exercise routines and the strain was pleasant after so long sealed away. 

There was so much he missed, in the little things. Taking the time to prune and shape the weeds and vines around his grounds helped him to feel accomplished, like he was finally doing something after so long doing nothing. So much so, that going into his castle, using the energy he had to restructure and rebuild where it had started to decay and fall apart, felt worthwhile. 

It was nice, learning how to exist all over again. Without the need for conquest or dominion, there was a focus on the mundane and simple. Pariah had hardly remembered what that was like. If he had ever known at all.

The feelings and moments of quiet, by himself in his own keep brought back memories. Memories of certain people, certain events, things he’d lost long before. But like everything else that caused pain or bitterness to build back up within him, he pushed it aside and got to work, releasing the feelings out into the realms and focusing instead on what was before him, what he could touch with his own two hands. 

One day, as he was carving a particularly sturdy vine into a new possible weapon design, he was interrupted. Rather rudely in fact, by someone who thought it somehow acceptable to storm into his keep. 

Fortunately for the ghost, Pariah’s isolation had gifted him an unusual amount of patience and he’d let it live, if barely.

That had, naturally, been a mistake.

It turned out that ghost was only the first of many, many, ghosts that thought to challenge the great Pariah Dark for his title and crown. A title and crown, Pariah thought with no small amount of annoyance, that he’d already lost.

The ghosts were rare and few between at first, a momentary interruption in the mundane rebuilding that had become Pariah’s world. As such, he took those moments to remind himself what it was like to spar again, his core humming in his chest at every cross of blades, seeking challenge.

Rarely though, did the ghosts that had the blind courage to attack him, Pariah Dark, the first and only High King of the Infinite Realms, also have the strength to back up their bravado. So he’d held back. 

Another mistake.

It led to some of the more foolhardy ghosts returning to challenge him again, barely any stronger than they’d been when they first attacked. It was pathetic truly, to be so constantly accosted by those so clearly weaker than him. Then again, someone strong enough to match his strength would know better than to challenge him, would know better than to want that crown on their head. 

Pariah sighed, he was expecting the dragonling to arrive at any minute now. She was excitable and easily riled in a fight and Pariah had been using it against her in an attempt to desensitize her for a true battle. Soon, he’d move on to teaching her how to block more quickly and then how to use her powerful transformation abilities more smoothly in combat. It was a beginner’s mistake to think that the larger you are the greater your advantage at all times.

After he defeated her he’d have enough time, he thought, to start exploring the far tower. He’d been avoiding it so far, the memories present in that place were strong and could be overpowering, but there was only so much more work he could do on the rest of the castle while leaving it untouched as it was. Pariah disliked leaving a job undone, it itched under his skin, grating. 

“Behold Pariah Dark! I have come once more in my eternal quest to defeat you!” ah, there she was. He unsheathed his sword, it was time to see how much she had retained from their last bout. 

Pariah was cleaning the tower, starting with the bottom and working his way up. Not avoiding anything, just… prolonging the moment where he would reach that room. The one that held enough memories to start a flood, dammed only by Pariah’s firm refusal to open the door just yet.

He should have known that wouldn’t work.

“It seems out of character for you,” said an achingly familiar voice from just behind him. Pariah didn’t turn around, he didn’t know what he’d do if he met those eyes, and he couldn’t risk it. Not against this fragile peace that had formed in the time outside of his coffin, as short in comparison as it was. 

“You sent them to me didn’t you?” Pariah realized, pulled a particularly stubborn purple weed that had been growing through the cracks of the elegantly carved stone that made up the inner walls of the room. “This is another one of your schemes.”

It had been some time since they had last spoken and longer still since they had done so with no swords or weapons between them, and Pariah refused to allow it to affect him. He’d felt the burn already that came from trusting that voice. It was better, certainly, to keep the door locked.

“What makes you think I had anything to do with it?” his uninvited guest said. His voice was closer and Pariah flinched, quickly turning around only to see him there at the door, Clockwork. 

He was, unfortunately, still achingly beautiful. His features fine and chiseled, though his hair was hidden entirely by his hood, a practice he’d kept up after one too many comments about his unnecessarily alluring appearance. Many times he’d contemplated simply cutting his hair or doing something else equally horrid, but every time Pariah had talked him out of it, mumbling soft compliments as he combed through it in the mornings or tangled his hands into it at night. 

Had he cut it then? Since Pariah was locked away?

Since he locked Pariah away?

“It’s always one of your schemes” Pariah hissed. He walked deeper into the tower to get away, but it was useless. Clockwork simply glided along behind him, not acting at all like the bitter enemies they were, “you conniving, backstabbing pawn of those who watch and never act.”

Clockwork rolled his eyes, they were red. When had they become red? They used to be a deep purple, soft and mischievous and full of knowledge that even Pariah would never hope to match. Pariah had thought, once, that they were equals. He wondered now, if Clockwork had ever thought the same.

“I am simply visiting an old friend, surely my leash is long enough for that?”

His leash. So it was true then, Clockwork had been tied to the Observants’ will, just as the rumors suggested. It explained, Pariah supposed, why he had not been there when he had woken up before. “Is that what I am then? An old friend?”

Clockwork took mercy on him and shifted forms into his older self. His eyes were just as sharp, just as keen, but the urge to touch, to take for himself, lessoned as he watched muscles deteriorate and a beard grow long and knotted from the other ghost’s chin. “How would you describe it then, Pariah? Enemies?” Clockwork chuckled, “no, of course that’s how you would describe it.” 

Heart of the Realms he needed to get away, there was too much between them and the small moments of interaction he’d had sparring with random ghosts or seeking out current knowledge of the realms were hardly enough practice to deal with someone like Clockwork. 

But he didn’t stop following Pariah further into the tower and the familiarity of walking these halls, Clockwork at his side, was enough to force him into a stop. Why was he here? Just to make Pariah miserable? That seemed something he would do, conniving as he was. 

“It’s rude, you know, to enter a ghost’s lair uninvited,” he tried. 

Clockwork smiled, tilting his head in the way that meant he was being obnoxious on purpose. Pariah had, foolishly, assumed it would not be the kind of thing ever aimed at him. How bitter, to be proven wrong in such a way.

“I was under the impression that I had a standing invitation,” because he had. Because if anyone, Pariah had trusted this bastard the most and had not wanted even a day separated from his side. 

“I am not the one who betrayed his King.”

The time around them stilled, the realms silent in their entirety for just a moment. Clockwork’s expression was sheltered when Pariah had turned to look at him and he smiled bitterly, “The realms were never meant to be tamed Pariah. Not even by you.”

A familiar argument, one they’d had countless times, one that Pariah had thought unimportant in the scheme of things. He’d thought at the time, that if he could get the entirety of the realms under his control, infinite and expanding as they were, he could make Clockwork understand. It was his duty, it had been entrusted to Pariah. Just as the time stream had been entrusted to Clockwork. 

He should have known better really. 

“Then I rescind your invitation, you can leave now.”

Clockwork bowed, deep, formal, and it made Pariah grit his teeth. He’d never bowed to anyone but those pathetic eyeballs and Pariah knew what it truly meant to receive formalities from an Ancient. “Then I shall take my leave.”

Finally. Pariah refused to watch him go, and instead turned back to the walls he’d been so studiously clearing of their overgrowth before he’d been interrupted. 

The weeds had returned, covering every single inch of the room, just as they had before Pariah started clearing them away almost a week prior. Damn him. 

Pariah had finished the entirety of the tower’s first floor when he had returned, entirely unwelcome. “I don’t recall inviting you in,” he said, focusing on his work. He was restitching a cloth that had once been beautifully embroidered. Pariah’s own hands were hardly any good for delicate details but he made do through endless trial and error. He had all the time in the realms afterall, and it was in his nature to complete a task in its entirety. 

“No?” Clockwork said, his voice dry and purposefully pitched to piss him off, “so you don’t have an open door policy? You seem to have so many ghosts that come and go.”

He scowled, “they are fools, young and easily excited. They hope to defeat me and earn the crown for themselves. I am simply teaching them the error of their ways.” This stitch was particularly difficult, and in order to do it properly he’d need to focus. Something unlikely to happen with his current guest.

There was something uncertain in the ambient ectoplasm around them. A gentle wave gliding back and forth between a tentative hope and a deeper, darker mistrust. Pariah ignored it. There was no reason he should be so intune with another ghost’s moods, especially not this ghost.

Unlike Pariah, who wanted this conversation finished and to be left once more to his peace, Clockwork was an instigator, clearly here only to frustrate. He floated closer, just out of reach, “teaching them? It’s been some time since you bothered to take an apprentice.”

Pariah set down his work and stood up properly, Clockwork had shifted into an adult form since showing up and the mischievous tilt of his lips left Pariah frustrated and frazzled. There was no reason for him to be here, except to torture with his presence, precise and devastating. 

“They aren’t apprentices, you of all ghosts should know better than to think I would ever be so patient as to take someone under me.” as King, he‘d always been too busy, too easily frustrated, too stressed. Clockwork had been there, the nights where Pariah had wished he could give it all up, had spoken in whispers about what could have been if only he’d refused the crown. 

Clockwork smiled, a show of his fangs, and Pariah clenched his fist to stop from reaching out. If he tried, he could close the distance between them quick enough to pull Clockwork towards him entirely. Perhaps he’d end this game if Pariah called his bluff. Pariah wondered how many futures he saw, where Pariah did just that. He wondered how confident he was that those futures would not be his own. 

“I just thought to inform you,” his smile only stretched wider and Pariah wondered what had him so delighted, for surely it meant nothing good, “that I have taken on an apprentice myself.”

That had not been what Pariah expected at all. Clockwork was rarely around children or younger ghosts in the time Pariah had known him, and while many of the more powerful inhabitants of the zone spoke often of their desire for children, he had not heard such from Clockwork in the times they had known each other. 

Was that simply another truth that had been hidden from him, was the ghost he’d known nothing more than a lie, perfectly catered to Pariah’s own desires in order to trick and to trap him?

He looked over at his unwanted guest, unease threaded through his core. The mischievous smile had yet to fall and as much as Pariah wanted to bite it, he turned away instead, “are you hoping for us to meet? I should think you wouldn’t be so foolish to bring someone you care for anywhere near me.”

“Not at all,” Clockwork answered easily, floating closer once more, “besides, you’ve already met.”

Already met? Surely Clockwork wouldn’t have taken one of the foolish, eager ghosts that thought to challenge him in his time awake as an apprentice. They were hardly suited towards him and his subtle manipulations. 

But he hadn’t met anyone else since waking, few ghosts that remembered his reign wished to meet with him, and there was little reason for someone that had caught Clockwork’s discerning eye to seek out a failed king. Unless he had come to spy on him? No, there was little Clockwork did not know, and even less that he could not simply discover for himself using those accursed mirrors. 

Clockwork tilted his head, a mischievous smile still in place, “you don’t want to know his name?”

So it was a him, that narrowed it down marginally, “I wouldn’t know it either way.”

“I suppose you wouldn’t have known the name of the ghost that defeated you, too busy getting stuffed into that coffin of yours.”

Pariah reached out, a blast built in his palm, to attack. But Clockwork, as always, had expected it and floated easily out of his reach, dodging the ectoblasts Pariah released after him as he fled the keep.

Good riddance. 

The next visit, Pariah had been the first to speak, “where is my crown?” he asked. 

Clockwork had shifted into his older form and gently stroked his beard, pretending to think about the question Pariah had asked. As if he didn’t know the answer, as if he didn’t know everything. 

“Would you really like to know?” He didn’t. Not truly, but he had wondered, if he asked, what Clockwork would say. He should have known it would be something cryptic and aloof. He’d never once bothered with straight answers before, it was unlikely he’d start now.

Pariah walked over to him, his steps steady and measured. He stopped just out of reach, as Clockwork had been doing to him in their visits and wondered, fleetingly, if it affected him at all. Surely not, as aloof as he’d been. If he felt as tortured by Pariah’s presence as Pariah felt by his, there would be no need for these games. They would simply avoid each other and that would be that.

He grabbed a book from a nearby shelf, they were in his study, private as it once was, and Pariah had been reading with the intention of catching up on the things he missed. Such as Clockwork’s new ward, the Half-ghost child that had been dead hardly a year before defeating Pariah. 

“Does your ward have it? Has he been claimed king? If so I’ll be sure to tell the fools that still visit to go after him instead.”

Humming, Clockwork floated over to Pariah’s desk. It was freshly carved, intricate designs by Pariah’s own hand. “There are some that do so already, but no, Daniel doesn’t have your crown Pariah. No one does.”

So there is no king.

“I see,” he said, opening his book to a random page and feigning interest. It was difficult, to be sure, when the most interesting thing in the whole of the infinite realms was here, sitting on Pariah’s desk. “You haven’t gotten any better at answering questions.”

Clockwork laughed.

And Pariah left the room. 

The next time Clockwork came to visit, it was just after a spar he’d had with one of his regular guests. It had been an improvement on her part, her control of her natural abilities was getting better and she had actually attempted to use technique instead of her admittedly limited brute strength.

But it had also been one sided, as all these matches were, and Pariah found himself itching for something more exciting. For a fight worth the effort of keeping his core lit. 

“Your teaching methods could use some work,” Clockwork had said, his voice smooth with an echoing touch of gravel, as he leaned over Pariah’s shoulder to see the weapon he was sharpening.

Pariah almost knocked him away, but as always, Clockwork was a moment ahead. Somewhere in the future. Never truly there, where Pariah was, always waiting instead where he would be. He growled.

“Then it is for the best I was not teaching.”

Clockwork smiled, “my mistake.” 

There was little doubt in Pariah’s mind that Clockwork had never made anything as simple as a mistake. There was too much that he knew, too much he could see. The decisions he made might not always lead to exactly what he wanted, his obsession unwilling to compromise the free will of others, but Pariah had no doubt that each and every one was perfectly calculated to the smallest minute detail. Mistakes were off the table.

He grabbed the weapon he’d been working and felt the weight and balance of it in his hand. His core, fresh from an unsatisfactory fight just moments before, hummed with energy. 

It would, Pariah mused, be enjoyable to catch Clockwork in a fight. But it was not something he did lightly, his powers, as grand as they were, were rarely suited for battle, and Pariah found himself wondering if he attacked now, would Clockwork fight back? Or simply stop time and flee, coward that he was. 

“The scar suits you,” Pariah said, stepping closer. Clockwork didn’t back away, but his expression twisted into something cruel. Pariah didn’t think about how well suited his features were for it, didn’t think about other expressions Clockwork might make and how Pariah had once made it his mission to see every single one. 

“Admiring your handiwork?” he said, his tone brittle and biting. 

Pariah was within an arm’s length now, “I had aimed for them both. I suppose it’s fortunate that I failed, seeing that you gave as well as you received.”

There was a tense silence and Pariah felt it almost like a physical barrier built between them. If he lifted his sword now, would it shatter? 

“I like to think I gave much better,” he said, nodding at Pariah’s eyepatch, “seeing as out of the two of us, I succeeded.” 

He lunged, but by the time the blade struck the ground, Clockwork had long disappeared. 

“Sever yourself from the observants,” Pariah demanded once he’d seen Clockwork again. 

There was a beat, a moment of time, and then Clockwork sighed, “and what, put myself into your less than merciful hands?”

He was in his youngest form, by all rights he should look vulnerable, weak, but he only looked tired. An expression Pariah had grown all to familiar with in the twilight of their relationship. Pariah scoffed, “better I than those useless snakes, they know not what they have. I’ve heard what they call you now, pet, attack dog. It’s demeaning.”

Clockwork looked up at him, his eyes deep and endless, “you are no longer a king Pariah. You hold no sway over the realms any longer.”

Said as if it were a gift, a token granted to him for his service. Then again, in the eyes of one such as him, it may very well be. Clockwork had always been bound in core and form by the duties required of him. 

“What hold do they have over you?” He asks, in need of an answer. Of something. Why would someone so powerful, so immeasurable, bend to the yolk of another? Especially those slimy optical wastes of ectoplasm. 

But he wouldn’t get an answer, not from Clockwork, and they both knew it. “The realms exist as chaos, those who seek to find order, or try and force their will upon it seek to destroy chaos. Everything that exists, exists with a sense of its own self preservation.”

Yeah, in no way was that an answer, and judging by the soft smile on Clockwork’s youthful face, he knew it too. “Yet you ally yourself with those things?”

Clockwork hummed, “everything is the way it’s supposed to be.”

Because of course it was.

“If you take a picture it will last longer,” Clockwork said nonsensically. 

Frustratingly, he was here, again, in Pariah’s keep, his personal lair, floating just an arm’s length away from him. Out of reach. “Is that supposed to make sense?” Pariah growls.

But Clockwork remained aloof, “you’re staring.”

Of course he was. Clockwork was in his adult form, all well-formed muscle and casual strength, soft skin blemished only by the scar Pariah had given him that fateful night. The claim he had carved.

“I’m admiring my handiwork as you said.” 

Clockwork tensed, “are you now? Looking to repeat the performance?”

He had been reading a book. Just, casually there, near Pariah in his own lair, reading a book. As if he owned the place himself, as if it were his. As if he were welcome here, to sit there carefree and out. of. reach. 

“Perhaps, if you wish to spend all of your time in my keep, I can leash you here.” he said, taking a page from Clockwork’s own book and ignoring the question. He stepped closer. 

Clockwork floated away, casual as ever, infuriating as ever. “I’m afraid I do have duties to attend, outside of babysitting you.”

“Is that what this is then?” Pariah growled, “your new masters sent you here to keep an eye on me? To make sure I am truly beaten, unwilling to rise again?”

“Something like that,” Clockwork drawled, “are you, Pariah?”

He crossed his arms, “Beaten? Am I not?”

Clockwork frowned, Pariah wanted to grab him by the chin, tilt his head up towards him and pull that infuriating hood away so he could no longer use it to avoid Pariah’s gaze. He held himself back, the other ghost was too far out of Pariah‘s grasp for now. Reaching for him too soon would only cause him to float away.

“You exist still,” he said, ignoring Pariah’s scoff, “you exist. Is that not what matters?”

Yes, he existed. He spent his days sparring with ghosts too weak to give him proper challenge, fixing a crumbling castle one single brick at a time, and waiting, with unwanted anticipation, to see if the ghost that had taken it all from him would bother to visit. 

“And what a glorious existence indeed,” he spat.

Clockwork was a child again, floating around and above Pariah’s head. He’d asked him once, if the changes were voluntary or natural, and Clockwork, true to himself as he ever was, had given a vague answer that hadn’t actually answered the question at all. 

“How is your ward?” Pariah asked, his eyes never leaving Clockwork as he circled above him. 

He hummed and gave a noncommittal answer, likely unwilling to speak too much about the young phantom, unwilling to place him in the line of Pariah’s sight. It was an unnecessary caution, Pariah held no interest in the boy outside of his relationship with the Ancient. 

The crown held little interest either, with how much Pariah had lost to keep it the first time. 

“I’m sure your new masters are thrilled you have taken in such a powerful ward,” he had meant it with mostly dry sarcasm. It was clear, in all the actions of the observants before, that they disliked things that were different, things that didn’t fit neatly in their pathetically limited labels. 

He hadn’t expected Clockwork to growl as if it were a threat. It caught him off guard. He'd known Clockwork was hardly loyal. It was, if anything, the most predictable aspect of who he was. A being created in chaos was not going to ally itself to any one doctrine for long, and especially not to the doctrine of another. 

It was why, Pariah thought, the observants kept him chained so thoroughly with responsibilities and rules, unable to go against what they demanded and busy with pointless, petty tasks. Had he been wrong?

 “He is my responsibility,” Clockwork scowled, aging into an adult, “as he is meant to be.”

So they didn’t know. It was likely, knowing Clockwork and his propensity for twisting language to his advantage, that they had said something threatening or demeaning towards either Clockwork or the boy and he had simply taken it to mean what he’d like. 

It also meant that it was something he was keeping hidden from them. An advantage, Pariah thinks, that a better man would refuse to take advantage of. But Pariah was no king anymore, there was no proper way to get what he wanted, no code of honor and chivalry. And what he wanted, was kept tantalizingly out of his reach. 

Why shouldn’t he grab what he could, to pull it closer to him?

Pariah had not slept since he awakened the second time from his slumber. The idea, while once a pleasant excuse to ignore his responsibilities for the sake of rest, was no longer appealing to say the least. He would not admit, even to himself, the fear that crept upon him at the thought. 

He was not scared to sleep, he did not lie awake, staring at the swirling mist and ectoplasm of the realms around him in fear that if he closed his eyes they may never open again.

“You should sleep Pariah.”

“Clockwork,” he greeted, not bothering to stand, “you of all people do not get to tell me that.”

There was a soft shuffle of fabric and Pariah felt the subtle change in the ambient ectoplasm of the zone as Clockwork sat beside him on the ground of his once grand courtyard. It had taken some time, but Pariah had managed to tame the plants and vines that had claimed the land for their own. 

In his impatience he had sheared more than was perhaps necessary, leaving much of the ground barren and lifeless entirely. There was nothing to be done, but to keep the plants tamed and wait for the rest to grow again. 

“It was supposed to be the merciful option,” Clockwork lied, “You always liked to sleep in, if I remember correctly.”

Pariah refused to look up at him, he didn’t know what he would do, should he see him, softly glowing and silhouetted against the sky, close enough to touch, and he was unwilling to test his own resolve. “I had a reason to stay in bed then, if I recall correctly myself.”

Clockwork didn’t rise to his bait, “if we had planned instead, to take your core… we would have failed. You would have won and gone forth to take more of the realms as your own.”

Because of course he would have, fresh from Clockwork and the other Ancients’ betrayals. He would have been angry, vindictive, the scar he had now would have been nothing in comparison to what Pariah would have done in retaliation for such betrayal from those he’d trusted so thoroughly. 

“You would have lost your resolve. And without it, the others would have fallen to my blade.”

Clockwork didn’t answer, of course. But he didn’t need to. One didn’t need the ability to look into the branching paths of the future in order to know someone else well enough to predict. And Pariah felt the truth in his words hit as Clockwork hesitated.

Without thinking, Pariah reached towards him. His hand had gotten almost close enough to grab the edge of that damned cloak before Clockwork was once more out of his grasp. 

The weeds around him had grown back, his work entirely undone. Petty bastard.

“Fright has yet to bother me as you do.”

Clockwork floated towards him, grabbed the book from his hand and floated away. Pariah didn’t resist, any hope of actually reading had fled at the other’s sudden appearance. 

He hummed, flipping carefully through the book. It was on gardening, Pariah had read through to the section on encouraging natural growth, methodical as always in any task he undertook. “You can hardly blame him, with the pumpkin and all.”

Pariah scowled, “he can’t still be trapped by that.” It was rare, quite frankly, for his royal knight to be trapped for long at all in that thing. 

There was always some foolish ghost or other entity that wanted to test their courage, and it only took one before Fright would be freed to roam the realms under his own power. The sorcerer that bound him in the first place had learned that lesson quickly and was now spending their time trapped in a tailor made dimension of their own. 

“He’s not.” Clockwork answered easily, then he paused, mused something over, and said, “he’s been training with Daniel. But he won’t come see you after your last time awake, not after what he and Vladimir did to trick you.”

That was a new name, “Vladimir?” Pariah asked, voice deceptively soft, “am I supposed to know who that is?”

“You are,” Clockwork smiled, never a good sign, “he was the one who woke you up after all.”

Frowning, Pariah walked over to grab his book back, Clockwork let go of it easily, not having read a single passage and for some reason this frustrated Pariah further. Why grab the book at all if he wasn’t going to even pretend to read the damn thing? 

“I suppose you were behind that as well then?” He asked.

But Clockwork just shook his head, that infuriating smile still on his face. Pariah could have fixed that once, wiped that damn smirk away with naught but a touch or a well spoken word. He held his ground instead. 

He was clearly enjoying this somehow, basking in Pariah’s torment, “not every aspect of your existence is meticulously planned I’ll have you know.”

“I’m sure,” Pariah said dryly, “there’s many decisions I’ve made in my time that have led you in unplanned directions.”

“As was your goal,” Clockwork floated back, away from Pariah. He stepped closer in response, unwilling to allow the distance. 

Pariah forced his posture to relax, it wouldn’t do to look the part of predator stalking prey. The goal, after all, was not to scare him away. And Clockwork had always been skittish, in moments like this. 

It had taken time, in the beginning, to get as close as he had. It would take time again. 

He had all the time in the realms. 

“It gave me great pleasure to see you flustered,” he was almost within reach, almost close enough to touch. 

Clockwork’s back pressed against the wall, Pariah stepped forward, caging him in. “Surely there were easier ways to seek your joy.”

Humming, Pariah stepped even closer, naught but a moment between them. “When has a challenge been anything but enticing to me?” He reached up to finally pull away the horrid hood that had been obscuring the other’s face, but his hands closed around empty nothing.

Clockwork had once again slipped through his fingers. Damn. 

Vlad Plasmius. 

A stupid name that reeked of a grandiose sense of self importance and naivety. And, knowing that he was the one to wake Pariah in a foolish, short sighted attempt at his crown, it was likely apt as well. 

He’d turned one of Pariah’s most loyal against him. Stolen what was Pariah’s and had yet to see due consequence. 

“I’d warn that your face might become stuck if I wasn’t so sure it already had, is a scowl the only expression you can make these days?”

Pariah’s scowl deepened, “what is this Plasmius to you?”

Clockwork blinked, a moment of genuine surprise flickered across his expression before it melted back into his typical neutral expression. 

“A nuisance mostly. His exploits tend to disrupt the flow of the realms and he rarely thinks about anything as dull as the consequences of his actions,” he tilted his head, allowing his gaze to wander, “and his determination to steal Daniel as his own has become grating.”

Pariah’s scowl lessened, he’d thought for sure, with the Half-Ghost’s penchant for chaos, that Clockwork would have a more favorable opinion of him. Often, it was the most obnoxious, frustrating, logic defying, gremlins of the infinite realms that caught his eye, and his affections. 

Things that existed beyond the simple calculations of his sight, wrenches in the works of otherwise well laid plans. They were Clockwork’s favorite, his desire for mischief surprisingly genuine for one so ancient and omniscient. Though, perhaps that was why. The Ancients may not be chaos themselves, but they had certainly been born from it.

“You haven’t thought to share custody?” Pariah asked, curious. It was uncommon amongst ghosts, as obsessive as they were, but not unheard of. Especially when obsessions were involved, it was difficult after all, for a ghost to let go of something their core had claimed as their own.

Clockwork’s smile was tight, “I don’t think I have it in me to share.”

Pariah looked over at his companion, the ambient soft blue of his glow and its contrast against the shadows of his hooded cloak. He watched as the watches, clocks, and other time keeping devices embedded and decorated throughout his form ticked, discordant from each other; each one a slightly different pace from the others. 

He watched as Clockwork’s face, as handsome still as it was the day he locked Pariah away, softened from sardonic and annoyed to something more gentle as the silence stretched on.

“Neither do I,” he said. 

“You shouldn’t seek me out, if you have any desire at all to keep what limited freedom you have,” Pariah warned.

He had walked down one of the winding stairs in the far tower only to see Clockwork there, halfway down and leaning out of the window. His legs were fully formed for once and Pariah had to bite back a remark involving just how long it had been since he’d last seen them. 

It was novel, to see Clockwork in his entirety. 

“I have little choice, my duties as they are,” he lied. It was unlikely the Observants had any desire for him to leave his tower, poised at their beck and call. If they had demanded he keep an eye on Pariah at all as he claimed, it had been with the intention of using his screens. There wasn’t much that could be hidden from them after all. 

Pariah stepped close, just enough to look out of the window beside him. It was like standing beside a lightning storm, as static and electric as the space between them had become. 

“They do not fear I’ll steal you away from them?” He folded his hands behind his back, held them there, clenched tightly in restraint. 

Clockwork’s smile was bitter, as it often was nowadays when he was reminded of his bindings, “there is little you can do.”

“There is little I would not do,” he countered. 

He stepped away, his legs fading once more into a familiar tail and Pariah bit back disappointment. 

“You assume I would return here? Should I be relieved of my duties?” Clockwork asked, snide.

“You assume I would not chain you here myself?” He would, with no hesitation at all, if he thought it would hold. If something as simple as chains and binders could keep something like Clockwork.

He walked towards him, internally rolling his eyes when Clockwork kept level at his height even as they descended. It was a small, petty thing, him not allowing himself to be vulnerable in any way, and it was very Clockwork. 

“You could not hold me.”

“I could try.”

Pariah, finding more and more time to himself as the Castle’s restoration saw its completion, was looking into the observant’s laws. And their prisoners, and their actions after Pariah himself had been locked away. 

It was boring, tedious work to shuffle through the information given to him. The countless detailed notes of the Observants countless boring meetings were beginning to blend together in his mind. It would be easier, he knew, if he simply skipped to the parts that were important to him. The ones that involved Clockwork and their claims to him.

But that was against his nature, so he read, and read, and fought down the rising urge to simply fly over to their courts of judgement and raze it to the ground. It would be quicker, and more enjoyable as well. But it wouldn’t give him the answers he needed, and it wouldn’t guarantee Clockwork’s release from his duties. 

He continued reading. 

“You’re calmer now, without the ring,” Clockwork said, once more stating the obvious. 

Pariah put down the papers he was staring at, the words had long blurred together and there were more pleasant things here now to keep his eyes occupied. “I should hope so, with all the trouble you went through to separate me from it.”

His companion nodded, the hood shifting slightly with the movement to cover his face even further and Pariah frowned. 

“You would have been more successful in your conquest had it never been gifted to you,” Clockwork said, “it is perhaps for the best, that you fell to its charms and lost your patience.”

Pariah doesn’t know why he brought this up. It could be to agitate or remind him of their animosity. It could be one of those strange roundabout explanations Clockwork used instead of apologies, or it could be his attempt at distancing himself. A reminder of how far Pariah had fallen in the end. 

“Carefully planned no doubt,” Pariah said, his voice light. “A gift given to disrupt what goals I had, to speed up my fall and more quickly end my reign.”

“A necessary evil, to lessen the cost.”

Pariah smiled, sharp, “are you saying I’m a larger threat without it?” 

Clockwork turned his gaze away, “you're certainly more meticulous. It’s terrifying really.”

“What do you see in those futures of yours?” He asked, not expecting an answer. 

He didn’t get one, “many things. Different branches and paths, some brighter than others, some barely there at all…” Clockwork floated to the window and looked outside, “it would be easier, Pariah, if you bothered to be predictable.” 

Ha, Pariah smiled, “If you truly struggled to predict my actions, we would not be here now. At least not as we are.”

Clockwork gave a hum of agreement, “it is what you are going to do next, I think, that I struggle to see.”

Pariah had taken the chance, with Clockwork’s back to him, to get closer. To crowd himself near without touching and spoke in his ear, “I disagree. There is no doubt in my mind you see exactly what I am going to do, what I have planned. What you fail to see, my dear timekeeper, is how to stop it.”

He disappeared before Pariah could get his arms around him. 

But no matter, Clockwork had been correct when he’d called Pariah meticulous. 

“I’d rather you not call me your ‘dear’,” Clockwork said, appearing far enough away that it was a wonder Pariah had heard him at all. 

They were outside, the weeds and plants of his courtyard finally, properly tamed and pleasant. He lifted the petals of a particularly pretty purple plant to his lips and kissed it gently before replanting it into the ground. 

“I could,” he offered, “call you by the name of a flower instead.”

Clockwork clicked his tongue, “I do think pet names are beneath you. You’ve never used one before.” That was certainly true, but he’d also had an image to uphold before, and many other ways to see Clockwork flustered. 

If he had known how well something so simple had worked though, he would have started using them an eon ago. Ah well. 

“Perhaps I grew romantic in my forced sleep?,” Pariah said, his expression slipping into a smirk. Clockwork’s careful distance was a set back and a hopeful promise tangled together and he didn’t bother trying to move closer. He knew better than trying to corner a startled animal, trying to corner a skittish Ancient would unlikely end any more in his favor. 

There was movement out of the corner of his eye, ah, Clockwork had shifted to his younger, child form. Was that a defense mechanism of some kind? Or did he do it out of spite? It would take some time, and likely some subtle experimentation, if Pariah ever wanted to truly solve that particular mystery.

But he was finding he didn’t mind the thought of taking his time, slowly unwrapping all of the things Clockwork had long kept hidden from him. The imperfections and jagged edges. Patience was starting to become second nature, in his dealings with the other ghost. 

“Are you saying you dreamed, Pariah?” Clockwork asked, disbelief coloring his tone. Pariah wondered, if he refused to answer, would Clockwork ever know? He could not read minds, would he simply look at a branching path where Pariah was less inclined to be petty and seek his answer there? Would there be one?

Pariah was stubborn afterall. 

The silence stretched uncomfortably and Pariah reveled in it. How novel, catching Clockwork off balance like this. He wondered if he could make it worse. If a gentle push would break the tension or heighten it.

“Afraid that you’ll fall for me again, if I should be endearing towards you?”

Clockwork made an incredulous noise, something between a cough and yelp, and Pariah had to bite back a smile. Much of the fun would be lost, should Clockwork realize he was being messed with. 

His form aged as he started to rant, his low, deep voice colored with irritation and sang like music to Pariah’s ears. He didn’t even bother listening to the words, content instead, to feel Clockwork’s frustration in the ambient ectoplasm around them. Perhaps this feeling was why Clockwork had started these visits, marveling in Pariah’s own flustered discomfort. His mistake. 

“-An obsession with conquest, control-“

“Obsessions change,” Pariah interrupted softly. 

He was met with only silence, and when he looked over again towards Clockwork, the ancient had frozen entirely. His gaze was locked on Pariah himself, before he broke it away, looking instead at the keep around them. The rebuilt castle, the carefully manicured courtyard, the area set aside for his spars with the younger ghosts that returned so often, so ready to prove themselves. His posture softened.

“Yes, I suppose they do… if you allow it.”

This time, when Clockwork left his presence he didn’t bother to stop time and sneak away. There was no need likely, Pariah had not bothered to get close enough to stop him from simply flying away. 

He leaned back into the grass, his core humming in satisfaction and anticipation. 

It had been some time since Clockwork’s last visit. Too much time. 

The visits had become regular, expected disruptions to Pariah’s rather dull afterlife, and their absence soured on his tongue. He tried not to let the frustration show in his lessons with his students, hitting one harder than necessary would hardly teach a ghost how to better dodge, and attacking faster than they could keep up with would hardly help them plan their next move. 

So he put all of his frustration towards renovation once more. Sure, the castle had been properly rebuilt and looked as grand now as it ever had, but Pariah had learned of more modern comforts in his studies, as detailed and meticulous as they were, and desired to have some for himself. 

He just needed to figure out how to implement the overly complicated designs to something that had long been simple. First he would start with an aqueduct of some sort. It would be nice to have regular access to more purified ectoplasm with which to bathe or shower himself, and the well in the center of the courtyard that dug deep enough to access the steady supply at the heart of his lair only allowed for him to pull up so much before it would be depleted.

If instead, he built some kind of purifier, something that could take ambient ectoplasm or even throwaway energy from the realms around him, he could imitate the water systems mortals had invented for their own homes. Perhaps he could create something similar to this ‘sauna’ he’d read about. A room packed full of purified ectoplasm for the sole gain of sitting inside to relax. 

There was nothing more rewarding, Pariah thought, than working towards a goal and seeing that work bear fruit. Patience and perseverance were all a ghost needed to succeed.

Pariah worked as he waited for Clockwork to return.

“You seem to be in a bad mood, your majesty,” the dragonling said. She had long learned to use the most advantageous aspects of her abilities without fully shifting her form, but her speed at doing so needed work and Pariah had started leading her into Katas specific to each trick she had developed. 

He glared at her, “I don’t have moods,” he lied. “But if I did, it only makes sense that I would be irritated to find my day interrupted by your foolish challenges.”

There was another young ghost there as well, a small dokkaebi that looked like it had once been a broom or something similar. He had attacked Pariah alone multiple times himself and had apparently convinced the dragonling to team up with him in their next attempt at Pariah’s nonexistent crown. 

It had been nice, the extra bit of challenge it took to defeat them both without causing serious damage to either of them. 

The dokkaebi scoffed, “if you really didn’t want us here you wouldn’t have this time in your day set aside.” 

Pariah frowned and threw a gentle ectoblast towards him. It grazed his shoulder and he yelped in response. That should teach him not to sass his elders. “It is a foolish decision for a ghost to make plans when those around him seek to ignore them so entirely.”

The dragonling chuckled at the dokkaebi’s misfortune and Pariah snapped at her to concentrate on her own training. It was a poor showing of his self control, that even ghosts as young as they had noticed something off. 

He was building a blueprint for the aqueduct’s filter when a feeling not unlike that of being covered entirely in slime settled around him. He scowled, “I don’t remember inviting you into my keep, watchers.”

“We are the Observants,” Pariah rolled his eyes, “we have come to judge you for your deeds.”

Entitled bastards.

They likely thought themselves more powerful than they were, Clockwork having lowered himself as he did for whatever nefarious, long term plan he was no doubt biding his time to implement. But Pariah was not bound by contracts or schemes, and even without his crown a handful of inactive ectoplasmic waste such as these were hardly a threat. 

An annoyance though, considering what would happen should he actually shatter their cores. The last thing he wanted was for them to send Clockwork in their stead, even if it would break the impasse he’d caused with his prolonged absence. 

“I have done nothing worth being judged,” Pariah said, his knowledge of what was and was not mentioned in each of the Observants’ ridiculous laws was encompassing and complete. There was somehow, despite their likely efforts, no laws against rebuilding one’s own lair or meeting challenges set against oneself. 

Even in the rules of their contract with Clockwork, there was nothing that confined him permanently to his tower. It was stated, quite plainly, that he could leave in the performance of his duties as given by the Observants themselves. 

Clockwork had stated many times that one of those duties had been to watch over Pariah. 

The Observants, predictably, disagreed, “you have left the realms in terror and abandoned your duties as King.”

“What I did as king is not under your jurisdiction, and you know well that I was dethroned. You wouldn’t be here now, attempting to threaten me otherwise.” He stood to his full height, towering over his uninvite guests. 

They wavered, giant, bulbous eyes that never blinked, Pariah held back his revulsion in favor of allowing his fury to take stage instead. “The clause of the King, as I remember it, was right by conquest. The fate of the realms to be given to the hands of whomever defeated me under their own power. The crown is no longer mine, it does not heed my call. I have no duties to be found in remis of.”

“Your reign of terror-”

His remaining eye twitched, “I did as King. To whom such laws do not apply.”

It was tedious, dealing with their repetitive denials, their attempts at enforcing laws that did not exist to their standards. But Pariah calmly shot down every accusation, every mentioned offense, citing written laws and countless examples of other ghosts and their versions of compliance. He had done nothing since he awakened, and it was this nothing that both infuriated them and protected him now.

“How does it feel, I wonder, to have been so thoroughly outsmarted by a child? Less than a year dead at the time, as I’ve been informed. Did your council throw a fit, when he absconded, erasing the position of High King from the realms until someone else should attempt to take up the mantle from the start as I had? Did it affect your plans? Were you hoping, when I awoke a second time, that I would start once more on my trail of conquest, crown or not?”

One of the Observants glared daggers at him, a nerve clearly struck, “we had hoped you’d stay true to what we believed you were. You left the task incomplete.”

Pariah grinned, “I don’t know what you mean, are the lands of the realms not united now?”

It squawked, “in what way?!”

“Why, against me, of course.”

The conversation with the Observants had been long, tedious, and mostly fruitless for both sides. They could not make anything stick against Pariah, not without breaking their own vows as they stood and making themselves powerless entirely. Yet all the same, it would not stop them from attempting to pass new laws and regulations, with the sole intent of catching Pariah out on it. 

They would fail, of course, he had painstakingly sorted through every record and law, every court decision ever made since the foundation of the Observants’ Order. There would be no ghost, Observant or no, as thoroughly knowledgeable as he, in what could and could not be done. He was meticulous like that. 

It had been a flaw, in their eyes. Made him slow to action. And the reason, he suspected, he had been gifted that ring. They had thought to use his rage, to falsify impatience, to more quickly advance their plans. 

Their mistake. 

Taking a moment to relax and stretch his limbs, Pariah stood to leave.

“Pariah!”

He had opened the door to see a flustered looking Clockwork on the other side, easily within reach. His hood had been mussed, likely caused by him rushing over to Pariah’s keep after so long purposefully ignoring him, and Pariah could see wisps of long white hair peeking through, no longer completely hidden. He’d kept it long.

“Where- I- I couldn’t see-,” Clockwork’s eyes darted around the room, looking for something that had long left, before settling on Pariah, an embarrassed flush spreading across his cheeks. 

Realization dawned quickly as Clockwork noticed just how close they were to each other and attempted to create space between them. Not quick enough though, as Pariah curled his hand around a gloved wrist. 

He stepped close, Clockwork moved back, almost like a dance, until the stone wall of the corridor blocked his retreat and he had nowhere left to go but Pariah’s arms. 

Marveling in the feeling of finally, finally having Clockwork exactly where he wanted him, Pariah purred. When he looked down to admire his prize, Clockwork had ducked his head further beneath that damned hood, avoiding his gaze still. Annoyed, Pariah lifted his free hand and tugged it forcefully away. 

It was a view easily worth the wait, Clockwork’s flustered expression, framed beautifully by soft white hair, even longer than Pariah last remembered and tangled in a mess by the constant presence of his hood. Pariah longed to card his fingers through it, to gently brush away the knots and feel the silky strands beneath his fingers. So he did, drinking in Clockwork’s gentle shiver like fine wine as he leaned closer, trapping him against the wall. 

Once he was done, he allowed his arms to lower, circling around a tapered waist and pulling the other ghost closer to him. Even stopping time, it would be impossible now, for Clockwork to disentangle himself and escape. Pariah’s grip was as gentle as it could be, but it was unyielding. 

“You did not tell me they could block your sight,” he muttered gently into Clockwork’s hair.

“It is not my job to tell you things you already know.”

Pariah hummed, trailing his hand along Clockwork’s back, documenting in his mind every soft hitch of unneeded breath, reacquainting himself with the more sensitive places now available to him. “Once I destroy that useless council of theirs, I will have to find a way to cage you for myself,” he mused.

Clockwork bit him, fangs sinking into Pariah’s unarmored shoulder. 

Well, he would at the very least attempt it. 

Final comments

[djarinbarnes]

Nothing Personal - Dave York (1/2)

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summary: after finding out data from the CIA’s security sector has been stolen, the Director finds you to be the perfect fit to find out who the mole inside the office is. 

pairings: Dave York x female reader

word count: 3.5k

warnings: 18+, smut, oral sex (a little bit of both), vaginal sex, anal sex, (wrap it!) age gap, drinking, cheating... 

a/n: helloooooo! I got this idea one night after watching the equalizer 2. it just popped into my head tbh. there will be one more part of this! :D enjoy!

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Slow days at the office made your head spin. After two full weeks of looking for decent information and not coming up with anything remotely interesting, you considered chucking everything into the bin by your side.

You knew there had been a breach in the CIA security sector, and that vital information holding the locations of enemies of the state had been stolen. You just didn’t know how it was possible.

Rumors around the office suggested a mole buried somewhere between the agents and everyone thought they knew who it was. Nothing had been confirmed, though, and that made you uneasy.

”Agent Y/N?” Your head shot up from your folder, taking in the Director standing with her arms folded over her chest, waiting for your vocal confirmation.

”Yes?” You close the folder in your hands, getting up from your seat while buttoning the blazer you’d undone earlier that morning.

”A word in private, please?” She nods toward an office and you nod, following behind her as she leads you into the booth and close the door after her. She turns to you, arms folded over her chest yet again, before taking a look up and down your body, inspecting you.

“I can trust you, am I right?” She’s the first to speak, and you look at her with wondering eyes, nodding your affirmative, urging her to continue. She’s looking for the words but ends up simply telling you. “We suspect the mole is Agent York.”

Your eyebrows raise in surprise, truly taken aback by her revelation. David York was one of the best agents the agency possessed, and here you were told that he was the one who possibly leaked the information that was so important to the agency, leading more than 10 people losing their lives.

You sigh as you watch her approach you, her hand coming to rest on your upper arm, just under your shoulder. “I think this is a job for you.”

A few moments pass in silence, before you nod subtly. “What do you want me to do?” you ask carefully, and she sighs deeply.

“Whatever deems necessary.” You nod again, eyes trained on a speckle of dust on her jacket collar. “I’m gonna make an office announcement that we have a lead in the case. I want you to find a way to plant a bug on York. Just so we’re sure.”

The office was swarming with voices when the Director let it be known that there had been certain leads in the case. She thanked you, making all eyes fall on you, including the set of chocolate orbs you were now supposed to get a bug on. Your eyes met his and you offered him a smile, getting one back in return.

You had no idea how to plant a bug on him. He was reserved, yet cheery at the office, and you knew he cared a great deal about the three people situated on his deck in a frame. You had a shitty gut feeling about the whole ordeal, but you knew the Director was counting on you.

“York!” you approach his desk, pushing through the crowd of agents congratulating you on finding the lead. “How about we go out and celebrate?” You lean over his desk with a smile, his eyes coming up to meet yours. “On Friday?”

You watch him, his eyes scanning over your face, thinking over the possibilities. If he was the mole, he certainly wasn’t going to bite the bait you had thrown out into his pond. His lips tugged into a smile before his hand lands on top of yours.

“Already told you to call me Dave.” His smile is warm as he rests his chin on the palm of his other hand. “Alright. Friday. It’s a deal.”

The conversation is flowing between the two of you, his laughter filling the space in between the two of you. It’s weird to see him so carefree, when he’s always so serious at the office.

You catch him watching you as you bring your martini to your lips, sucking the gin in between your lips, your lipstick leaving a red stain around the rim. You swiftly grab the olives resting on the toothpick, bringing it to your lips, your eyes finding his as you wrap your lips around the fruit.

The drink hiding within the fruit drips down your chin as you bite the fruit in half, giggling as his hand grabs a napkin off the bar, wiping your chin gently. You look at each other for a few, short moments, before he turns and takes another sip of his beer.

“You know…” you subtly trail your hand up his thigh, watching him as an intake of breath gets stuck in his throat. “We could always continue this celebration somewhere else?” Your hand comes to a rest on top of his crotch, the bulge noticeable under your palm.

“Y/N… I…” you watch as he struggles to find the words, uncertainty clouding his face. “I’m married. I have two daughters. I…” He sighs as you move your hand slightly, the friction delicious against his straining erection.

“If you change your mind…” you lean in and leave a soft kiss against his lips, “You know where to find me.” You get off the bar stool and make your way out of the bar, making sure to swing your hips to satisfy the hungry gaze you’re feeling on your ass.

Just before leaving you wrap your coat around yourself, taking one last look over your shoulder, admiring in the man at the bar, beer back to his lips, watching you as you take your leave.

You couldn’t help but lay your fingers against your lips when you’re finally on the street, the tingling of the kiss still lingering. You sigh and make your way home, occasionally looking over your shoulder, but finding nothing.

You get back to your apartment and lean your back against your door with a sigh, hopeful that your advances would bear fruit. You shrug your coat off, hanging it on your hanger before taking your heels off, sighing when you finally set your bare feet against the floor.

You saunter into your bedroom, pulling off the tight dress before walking into your bathroom. You take your appearance in, looking at yourself in the mirror. You bite your lip, looking over the garter belt tight around your waist, matching the underwear you had put on.

Your head whips around when you hear your doorbell, shocked for just a moment before you make your way through your apartment, finding your robe and putting it on. One look through the door spy has your grin widening.

You cover yourself just a bit before opening the door, revealing the brunet agent in front of you, lips parted as he takes you in. “Dave?” your voice is low, watching him as he pushed his hand through his hair.

“I don’t know what I’m doing here.” He sighs, wringing his hands before letting his eyes fall.

“I know.” You whisper, stepping one step back into your apartment. You let the fabric of the robe loosen slightly, watching him as he gulps. “Come in.” You motion with your hand. He makes his way into your apartment, closing the door before coming to a halt in front of you.

“I shouldn’t,” His hands are warm on your hips as they caress you softly, fingers opening the robe slowly, letting you have a moment to change your mind. “Shouldn’t be here.” His eyes trail over the skin he’s revealing, hands swiftly letting your robe fall to the floor.

“But you are.” The second the words leave your mouth, his lips are against yours, his hands grabbing at your skin. He pushes the tailored jacket off his shoulders, letting it land on the floor with a thud. He lifts you by your thighs, turning and pushing you against your front door, his hips grinding into yours as his lips continues the assault on yours.

“Bedroom, Dave.” You whisper against his lips, pushing at his shoulders for him to let you down. He doesn’t, he simply continues the movement of his lips against yours, walking you both through your apartment and into your bedroom. He turns as he comes to a halt in front of your bed, sitting himself down on the edge.

You pull back slightly, taking in his swollen lips, his hooded, lust blown eyes, his heaving chest. You push him back, his back flat against your sheets as you straddle his hips properly. He watches you as your hands caress your thighs and your stomach before sliding around the rounding of your breasts.

You slide your hands between your breasts, unclasping your bra, letting the fabric slide off your arms. You watch as his eyes widen just a bit, biting your lip as his hands, previously limp by his side, comes up and caresses the skin under your breast, making you shudder slightly.

You move your hips over his slowly, grinding your crotch against his, erection painfully hard under his pants. His fingers pinch your nipples, drawing a wanton moan from your lips, goosebumps rising on your skin.

You lean down and press a sinful kiss to his lips before your hands undoes his tie and unbutton his dress shirt. You whimper as his strong hands tighten on your ass, the pulp flesh giving in slightly underneath his hands. His hands urge your hips to keep grinding against his, drawing moans from your lips as the trail down his chin to his neck.

Your hands pull off his tie and opens his shirt before you scoot down, trailing kisses against his chest, circling one of his nipples with your tongue. Your lips tug into a smile when he groans. You slide down further, unbuckling his belt while your tongue is dipping into his belly button. His hand comes to rest under his head, bringing his head up to watch you.

He groans as you finally get his dress pants open, getting off his lap and situating yourself in between his legs. You bite your lip as you grab both the hem of his pants and boxers, pulling them down his hips to his knees when he lifts them slightly.

You salivate when you take in the erection now laying against his stomach, the revealed tan skin turning you on. You slide your hand up his thighs and catch his eyes from where you’re crouching, his eyes urging you to go along. “Come on. My cock isn’t going to suck itself.”

You bite your lip and oblige, grasping his cock in your hand, giving it a firm tug. You situate yourself on your knees closer to him, bringing your lips to the tip of his cock, watching his face as you place a chaste kiss upon it.

You slowly engulf his cock within the heat of your mouth, relishing in the whimpers spilling from his lips with no remorse. “Fuck, your mouth is so…” a strained groan embeds itself in his throat as you open your jaw, forcing your head down to take in what you could of his hardness.

“Jesus Christ,” you look up from between his legs, your eyes meeting the bare skin of his chin, his head thrown back against your sheets. You slide your hands up the inside of his thighs, raking your nails through and over the hairs on his skin.

You feel his hands tangle in your hair, helping you give him pleasure by guiding your head up and down his legs. “Fuck, wife won’t suck me off,” the words falling from his lips are rough, the arousal deeply embedded into his vocal cords. “Knew you’d suck my cock well.”

You moan against his length, pulling back slightly to swirl your tongue around the head. You cast a look at his face before straightening your back, hands around his cock to pump it in the absence of your mouth.

“Do you wanna fuck me, Dave?” you whisper sultrily. “Fuck me like your wife doesn’t let you fuck her?” You let go of his length, rising to your feet as you undo the garter belt, letting it fall to the floor behind you, your panties following soon after.

“Ain’t ever seen something as sinful as you.” The words leave his lips before he can restrain himself, quickly coming to sit on the edge of your bed yet again. His hands grasp your hips, pulling you close to him yet again. “So young.”

His mouth trail kisses against your stomach, down the space between you belly button and your pelvic bone. “So beautiful.” You look down at him, your fingers coming up to slide their way through his locks, pulling him closer. He looks up at you, pupils blown wide with lust.

“Hands and knees. Now.” He orders and you oblige, walking around him with your hand sliding against the hairs littering his chest, turning his body as you climb on to the bed, letting him get the full view of your most private parts.

You hear him muttering under his breath as he takes you in, feeling the bed give in under his weight as he situates himself behind you. Whatever deems necessary, is all that fills your head as you hear him lean down, feel his tongue against your cunt before he’s sliding into you with no restraints.

A wanton moan leaves your lips as his cock fills you, his hands everywhere, exploring your body like it’s the first one he’s ever laid his eyes and hands upon. You whimper as his thrusts rapidly increase in speed, his hips slamming against yours with brutal force.

“Gonna fuck you so good,” the words are gritted out through his teeth, fingers grasping your hips tightly, his wedding ring cold against your heated skin, sure to leave marks in their wake. You cry out when he hits your g-spot, your fingers tightening in the sheets beneath them, your lip stuck in between your teeth in attempt to keep yourself quiet.

“No, no, let me hear you…” he groans, his hand pulling your hair into a ponytail before he tugs it back, making you arch your back, his thrusts picking up the pace even more. You whine out, pushing yourself up to rest against his sweaty chest.

His fingers tug on your nipples, emitting more moans from your lips as he continues the punishing pace of his thrusts. His lips land against your neck, sucking a deep bruise into your skin, his grunts filling your ears.

“Fuck, Dave!” you whimper as his fingers pinch your clit before drawing tight circles against your sensitive bundle of nerves, pulling you over the edge into an earthshattering orgasm. You fall forward, cunt convulsing around his cock violently.

“Atta girl,” you can hear the playfulness in his tone as one of his hands leave your body, your ears ringing too much to hear whatever he’s doing. You feel a drop of saliva land against your ring of muscle, a wet finger circling the hole soon after. “You want me to fuck you like a whore?”

His thrusts have slowed, and you whimper out a please before you feel his finger sinking into the last knuckle, emitting a guttural moan from him and you urge him to continue by grinding your hips back into his.

“Can I fuck you here?” he groans, his finger wiggling around experimentally before you move away from him, opening your nightstand drawer to pull out lube and a condom. You throw it toward him and watch as his cock twitches, his balls hanging heavily under the thick length.

You get back on your knees, waiting patiently for him to do whatever he wishes with you. You hear the foil package rip open, a short moment passing before the cap of the lube comes undone, the cold liquid soon after sliding down the crevice of your ass.

“Please,” you moan as his fingers make their way back into your ass, two digits this time. You cry out as he curls his fingers inside of you, biting your lip as he inserts another. The loss of his fingers is short-lived as they’re soon replaced by the head of his cock, breaching your tight ring ever so deliciously.

“My god.” He groans out as he slides into you fully, his balls coming to rest against your cunt. You whimper out, the feeling of his cock stretching you unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. It’s warm and comforting, just feeling him take a few moments to relish in the feeling of you.

He moves slowly, groaning as your tightening ring of muscle milks him every time he thrusts into you, hips rutting against yours. “God damn it.” He whispers out, his eyes surely trained on the back of your head, the length of your spine down to where he’s deeply buried within your ass.

You feel your second orgasm approach slowly but surely, and you know he feels it too. Your muscles are clenching, your vision is blackening and before you know it, you’re thrown over the edge again. You feel his cock pulsating inside you as his hips rests snugly against yours, cock buried inside your ass to the hilt.

You’re exhausted by the time he finally pulls out, his lips peppering kisses on your back gently. You hear him get off the bed and find the bathroom, the sound of him moving around a bit, possibly cleaning himself off bringing you back to earth.

“You’re amazing.” The words are spoken softly behind you, and you hiss slightly when a wet cloth comes into contact with your used holes, cleaning any remains of your actions. You giggle softly, sensitive from what the two of you had just done.

“Stay the night.” You whisper as you finally lay flat against your bed, crawling up and under your covers. You smile when you feel him lift the covers, getting in behind you, his arms gently coming around your middle.

“I can’t stay, no matter how much I want to.” He whispers into your ear, a kiss landing against your shoulder as his fingers glide across your stomach. “Do you mind if I take a shower?” You turn your front to him, your hands coming up to clasp his face in them.

“Not at all…” you whisper before attaching your lips to his, your tongue gliding over his bottom lip, trying to get him to stay as long as possible. Even if you want him out of your apartment after what the two of you just did, you still have a mission to complete.

You sigh against his lips as his arms pull you closer, before he reluctantly lets you go, getting out of your bed and into your bathroom. You wait a couple of seconds before you hear the shower running, making your way out of your bed as well, scrambling around the floor to find his pants.

You search his pants, coming up with nothing. You sigh and sit back on your feet, chugging your lip in between your teeth, buried in thoughts. You quickly make your way out to your front door, picking his jacket off the floor before searching the pockets.

You grin when your fingers come in contact with his phone, and you pull it out, walking the short distance to your purse to pull the bug out of your purse. You listen for the shower, letting out a breath when you hear it still running.

You quickly slide the bug into the headphone jack, knowing that he would never look there. You quickly place it back into his jacket when you hear the shower turn off, making your way into the bedroom again. You lean against the doorframe of the bathroom, watching Dave as he wraps a towel around his waist.

“I don’t want this to be a one-time thing.” He turns to you as he sees you appear in the mirror. A smile tugs on your lips as you approach him, your arms coming up and around his neck. You lean in and place a kiss on his lips, his arms coming around your body, pulling you close.

“Me neither.” You whisper against his lips as you pull back from him, laying your forehead against his. He places another kiss on your lips before pulling back, giving your ass a firm squeeze. He leaves you in front of the mirror, lips tingling from the memory of his.

He comes back a few minutes later, fully dressed. You turn and spit into the sink, washing off your toothbrush before putting it back into its place, approaching him slowly. His eyes rake over your still naked body, and you feel yourself relish in the way he’s eating you up with his eyes.

You slide your hand over his jacket before straightening his tie, pulling him down by the fabric to place another kiss against his lips. “I’ll see you on Monday.” You whisper between the two of you, watching him as he takes his leave.

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part two

let me know how you like ittttt! 🥺♥️

[umikawa]

this was written at 3/4 am...so sorry if it’s bad..

Semi Eita x Gn reader. Best friends to lovers except I cant write best friends to lovers properly. 1.4K words

Warnings: fifth-grade humor of laughing at poop. Cursing, I think. The tiniest smudge of angst. The ocean?

“It’s cold.” His face was scrunched up, nose red from the harsh wind.

You don’t look at him, staring down at the flower in your hands. “It’s the ocean, what did you expect?”

“Hot weather with hot babes!” He shouted, shoving his hands in his pockets. “No offense.”

“Why would I be offended, you’re not looking so hot right now.”

He smirks, tilting his head at you. “You think I’m hot?”

“Yes.”

He blinks at your blunt answer. Even though he had expected it, it caught him off guard. Mouth agape and the reddening of his cheeks not coming from the cold winds.

He zips his jacket up to his chin, putting the hood over his head. “Whatever, let’s just go somewhere else.”

You smile at his back, following after him. “Okay.”

The ocean trip became a regular thing, complaints spewed from his mouth multiple times yet, he never bothered to change the date you two would go. Always opting for that January day, never before, and never after.

“Eita, I’ve been meaning to ask something.”

His fingers stop strumming his guitar, the slight echo of the strings filling his ears as you looked at him. “What’s up?”

“Why this day?” He perks a brow at you, confusion etched over his face. “Sorry, I mean- we take this trip every year on the same day and I’ve always wondered why.”

He blinks, rubbing his cheek. “I actually don’t know. I just figured it’d be routine to do it, almost like a holiday.”

“Anniversary?”

He looks at you, your head tilted and he can feel a smile making its way to your face. “Yeah, an anniversary.”

A seagull passes above you, waves crashing against the shore. A splat resonates through the empty beach, stifled laughter coming from him before he bursts into a fit.

It was childish sure, laughing uncontrollably at the sound of droppings splattering against the pavement. But, the way his eyes are screwed tightly, how his arm clutches his stomach, and tears prod at his eyes. It’s all perfect.

He finds himself coughing a second later, his laughter dying down as he struggles to catch his breath, fanning at his eyes to dry the tears that rolled down his cheeks.

“Eita are you okay?” You ask him, rubbing his back.

He nods, reaching behind you for a water bottle, chugging down every last drop, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down with every sip. “Yeah, sorry I got too ahead of myself.”

“It was a bit childish.”

“Well, I’m sorry for having the humor of a fifth-grader.”

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing.”

He blushed, yet another reoccurring thing that comes along with the trip, he always ends up blushing at something you’ve said.

“Shut up.”

And every time, he brushes it off as nothing despite the rapid beating in his chest.

-

“When are you gonna tell them.”

He jolts at the voice, looking to his left to see Tendou a little too close for comfort, staring at him like a fish out of water.

“What are you talking about?” He asks.

The red-head shoulders slumped, fingers rubbing his temple. “When are you gonna tell (Name)-Chan you’re in love with them?”

He blinks, the tips of his ears growing red. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Oh, so you don’t like them? I guess I should tell Kenjiro, he’s been wanting to ask them out.” He says, waving with two hands as he exited the room, leaving Semi alone with his thoughts.

-

“You’re acting weird.”

He jolts at your voice, sheepishly smiling as he rubbed his neck. “I don’t know what you mean! I’m perfectly fine.” You stare at him, letting the silence overcome the two of you, sweat building on his forehead at your stare. “So did Shirabu talk to you about anything?”

You tilt your head at him, “what do you mean? Why would he talk to me outside of volleyball?”

He nods, it’s not like that second-year cared about anything other than grades and setting to Ushijima. “Oh sorry, I just thought he’d ask you about something.”

“Oh, that’s what this is about.” He looks at you, expectant eyes waiting for a response. “He didn’t know how to confess to the person he liked so he asked me for help,” you looked around you, leaning closer to him. “But don’t tell him I told you, he threatened to serve a volleyball at my head.”

He couldn’t help but laugh, at the threat and himself. He couldn’t believe he’d gotten so hung up on something that didn’t even happen.

He freezes, Tendou’s words filling his mind.

“When are you gonna tell (Name)-Chan you’re in love with them?”

Shit.

-

“Ei, I think I’m stuck.”

He looks around for you, not seeing you but he can still hear your grunts. “Where are you?”

“I’m down here!” He sees your hand poke out from a hole in the sand, the color draining from his face before he runs to you.

He lays on his stomach, looking down at you. “How’d you even manage this?”

“I got bored so I dug a hole.” You say, staring at the crab that had unluckily dug its way into the hole. “Save him Ei, he must return to the sea.” You said, holding the grab above your head as if it were a deity.

He snorts, picking the crab up from your hands. “You’re such a weirdo.”

You glance up at him, his cheeks burning when you puff out your cheeks at him. “Whatever, just help me out.”

He props himself up on his elbows, smiling down at you. “No, I think I’ll let you stay down there.”

“But Eita!”

“No buts.” He said, wagging his finger in the air. “Though, I must say,” he starts, tapping his chin. “If you are quiet for a couple of minutes and let me talk I’ll get you out.”

The word deal falls from your mouth in a snap and his heart pounds in his chest.

He’s quiet though, no words are coming from him but his mind is a jumbled mess, words popping up in his head a mile a minute but he doesn’t speak.

He’s scared.

Scared of losing his best friend. Scared of losing the person he’d cry to at night when the nightmares wouldn’t stop coming. Scared of losing the one who baked him cookies the first night he stayed in the dorms away from his parents.

Terrified of losing you.

“Eita?”

He looks down at you, concern written all over your face and you look around, trying to get out yourself so you can hold him, tell him he’s fine even if you’re the reason why.

Time stops, and the ocean crashes against the sand.

“I love you.” He says, and time begins again.

Your head feels foggy, the three simple words he’d uttered occupying the space in your heart.

Semi Eita loves you.

“In what way?” You ask, clutching the hem of your, no his jacket, blurred eyes looking at him.

“In the, I want to kiss you really badly and take you out on dates, show you off to my friends and classmates, kind of way.”

“You didn’t have to make it rhyme.” You say, wiping under your eyes. “I love you too.”

He beams for what feels like the first time in forever, cheeks tingling at the heat that rushes, as well as the stretch of his smile.

The weight in his shoulders fades when you smile back at him, pushing yet another crab out of the hole, wincing when it pinches you. He laughs at you, reaching down for your hand, pressing a feather-light kiss to the finger the crab pinched, watching you turn your head away from him.

He grins, picking up the tiny shovel you used to dig the hole you were trapped in, “Now, let’s get you out of there.”

Bonus!

“Gee (Name), I don’t know how you do this so easily.” Semi groaned, fist-pounding against his thigh. “Damn it burns like hell.”

“Eita, it’s just face wash.”

He sits up, accidentally hitting his forehead against yours, “Sorry! I’m so sorry!” He exclaims, fingers hovering over the spot. “Does it hurt? Do you need ice?”

“Eita.”

“What?”

“Kiss it better?” You ask, innocently smiling at him.

He stills, heat rushing from under his shirt, to the tips of his ears. A snicker comes from behind you, Tendou and Shirabu sharing a knowing look before whipping out their phones.

“Oh, (Name)-chan, mind moving to the right a little bit?”

[phis-corner]

demon’s daughter

I decided to re-open the taglist for this fic because I am sometimes a pushover, so now you can either ask or comment to be on the fic’s taglist or the permanent taglist! 

Additionally, I have no consistent update schedule. My first draft is written by hand- I always like to stay two chapters ahead, so I posted this chapter when I finished copying chapter 5 into a Google Doc and proofreading.

Also, fun fact: I hate chocolate. My senses just do not like it at all. I also have a very sensitive tongue and can taste the barest hint of spiciness in foods, which also means I have zero spice tolerance whatsoever. As a Chinese-American with family in Sichuan, this means I get force-fed a lot of extremely spicy foods anyway.

Masterlist Chapter 1 Chapter 2 [Chapter 3] Chapter 4

“Why are you letting them stay? He tried to kill Dick!” Timothy points at Damian, who glowers at him from across the cave as Alfred stitches Richard’s cuts.

Marinette sighs. “Akhi was not trying to murder Richard. If you paid more attention, you would notice that all of Richard’s wounds are carefully placed in non-lethal areas meant to slow him down instead of severely injuring him.”

Batman does not say a word. He hasn’t spoken since Richard called him to verify their claims.

“They were raised as assassins, Timmy. It’s normal that they’d feel threatened a lot, and act accordingly. They’re family now. Give them a chance.” Richard replies, and Marinette blinks. She did not expect to have Richard defend them so easily.

“Pardon me,” She pipes up. “But ‘they’ are currently present.”

“Right. Sorry.” Richard has the sense to look guilty. Timothy just glares.

Damian squeezes her hand three times, their signal for I would like to leave. Marinette sighs as she exits the Batcave. Being accepted into the family is… a work in progress.

.o0o.

Slade is put into Blackgate not long after with the information Ubu gave after being interrogated by the Bats. Damian and Marinette were not allowed to go. 

Too young, Richard had said. They had interpreted that as You cannot be trusted to keep him alive. He did make the right call though. Damian would have tried extremely hard had he gotten the chance.

Of course, the League did dispose of him not long after anyway, but it was the thought that counted.

Damian and Marinette spent their days in the Manor sparring, reading, or practicing their instruments. Richard, who seemed determined to bond with them, bought them both new sketchbooks, for Damian’s drawings and Marinette’s designs. She had discovered an affinity for clothing design while undercover on a mission, and had been designing ever since.

Cass (she insisted that they call her that instead of Cassandra,) was always happy to spar when asked, and although nobody ever defeated her, it was a welcomed challenge to fight someone who knew your every move, sometimes even before you did. Damian grudgingly admits she is a worthy sister, which makes Marinette smile and Cass beam.

Jason had his own home and only visited every once in a while, and Timothy was rarely seen. It didn’t help that Damian continued to make snarky comments whenever they did see him, but if Timothy was scarce, Father was practically nonexistent.

Since they came to the Manor, their father has said a total of two words to the both of them, and that was just their names when he exited his study as they passed by.

Marinette is determined to make her new family work, and so when she finds Timothy completely by accident, typing away on a laptop in one of the less-used rooms in the Manor, she takes a chance.

“You do know we are not trying to replace you, right?” She asks softly, sitting down in an armchair and deliberately not making eye contact with him. 

Timothy snorts. “But is that not what you’re doing? Bruce chose to take in everyone else. I had to blackmail him into letting me be Robin. And then the biological kids show up, born and raised like fucking royalty, so who would care about Tim Drake? The little kid whose parents didn’t even want him and his neighbor only adopted him because he knew his most well-kept secret.”

“We have more in common than you think.” Marinette says quietly.

“Yeah, right.” Timothy laughs bitterly. “The Princess of the League-”

“I wasn’t.” Marinette interrupts.

“Huh? But-”

“I wasn’t the Princess.” Marinette keeps her voice calm with considerable effort. “As soon as I was born, Ra’s gave me over to Lady Shiva. He declared me unworthy because I was a girl, and I was raised as the lowest-ranked assassin. I may have been Shiva’s protege, but that just meant she went even harder on me. I did not know even my last name until after my first death when I was five. I did not properly meet my brother until last year. Ra’s decided that I could be acknowledged, but maintained his stance on feminine inferiority.”

She chuckles hollowly. “You fear being replaced by your father figure’s biological children, Timothy. But your fear is unwarranted. Bruce Wayne chose to adopt you, because he is a good man with copious amounts of generosity. However, it evidently does not extend to his biological children. Talia dumped us at Batman’s feet and left without another word, without looking back. And Father? We may have been a complete surprise, but he has said two words in total to us since that first night- our names. You need not worry, Timothy. You shall not be replaced.”

Marinette stands, her message conveyed, and pauses in the doorway of the room. 

“Have a good afternoon, Timothy.”

The next day, Marinette and Damian watch on live television as their father is killed by Darkseid.

.o0o.

The funeral for Batman is somber. Everyone cries except for Marinette and Damian.

She thinks they should be crying, but Marinette simply didn’t know her father well enough to really mourn him. Damian squeezes her hand, and she squeezes back. The twins stand, faces carefully blank, shoulders straight and unmoving, like rocks in an ocean of tears.

Crime in Gotham runs rampant when they think Batman is gone, and so Richard becomes Batman out of necessity- and chooses her twin brother as his Robin.

Nobody else sees how it crushes Timothy, because Cass has left for Hong Kong, abandoning Batgirl and making her own identity as Black Bat. Jason is holed up in a safehouse somewhere, Richard and Damian are in their own little world as they prepare for their first patrol together, and Alfred needs time to mourn too.

So she finds herself knocking on the door to Timothy’s room, one hand holding a plate of sandwiches and a freshly brewed coffee because he hasn’t left his room since the funeral. Marinette quietly enters upon his muffled “Come in” and sets the plate down next to Timothy, whose eyes are red-rimmed and have even larger bags than normal, and yet he continues to work.

“I… noticed you have not come out to eat, so I brought some food and fresh coffee. Black.” She adds, after a moment of hesitation.

“Thanks.” Timothy mumbles, immediately going for the coffee. “Why are you doing this?”

Marinette shrugs. “Everyone else was caught up in their own situation and had issues to work through too. I am relatively unaffected by the circumstances and therefore my observation skills have not declined.” She says simply. “You should also eat. I will not stop you from drinking the coffee, but you cannot work on an empty stomach, either.”

He begrudgingly eats a sandwich, still typing away at his laptop all the while. Marinette notes the tension in his frame.

“Would you like to talk about it? I have read that venting is significantly better for one’s mental health than keeping it bottled up.” She offers.

Timothy suddenly slams the laptop shut, hard, but Marinette doesn’t flinch. The reaction was trained out of her a long time ago. 

“It’s not- it’s- my entire life, I’ve been trying to prove myself. Robin was- Robin was special. I wasn’t the first Robin, but it was a reminder that I was worth something to someone, that I could do good and be useful. And then Bruce dies, Dick becomes Batman, and he just names Damian as his Robin like my opinion on the matter meant nothing, booting me out of the position, without any semblance of an explanation and-” He breaks off into sobs.

The sight of somebody crying makes Marinette more than a little awkward, because what is she doing? She doesn’t know how to comfort a crying person, but she does know that Timothy was touch-starved as a child. However, she isn’t the most touchy-feely person on the planet either, so she just settles for rubbing his back as he lets it all out.

Once he’s run out of tears, she silently hands him the tissue box she plucked from his desk. 

“Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne, you are not worthless.” Marinette says sternly. “Nobody is worthless, and you are far from being anywhere near so. You are the cleverest and most intelligent of us all, a capable, quick-thinking strategist, and you have detective skills that rivaled Father’s. I believe Richard chose Damian as Robin because Robin is always supposed to be Batman’s sidekick. He is always taken under Batman’s wing because there are things he hasn’t learned, that Batman can teach him. Richard sees you as an equal, and therefore cannot keep you as his Robin because you have graduated the mantle. It is time you created a new identity and moved on. Do you have anything in mind?”

Timothy sniffs once. “Thank you. I really needed that. And as for the ideas,” He reaches over and pulls out a sketchbook, a smile spreading across his face. “I’ve got a few.”

.o0o.

They brainstorm ideas for almost three hours before Timothy falls asleep. Marinette easily carries his light frame to his bed and drapes a blanket over his shoulders before quietly exiting his room.

Thankfully, she managed to convince Timothy that the cowl was a terrible idea. Marinette returns to her own room for her sketchbook. Batman and Robin will have each other’s backs. But Red Hood works alone, leaving Red Robin with nobody to watch his back.

Timothy is Marinette’s brother too, and everyone else is headed into the field anyway. She, like Damian, also had the phrase ‘justice, not vengeance’ drilled into her head, and Richard had made sure to remind them daily to aim for non-lethal spots. Not that she planned on taking a life ever again anyway.

Marinette flips open her sketchbook to a bookmarked page and smiles. It seems that Starling would be making an appearance very soon.

.o0o.

It is almost time for Richard and Damian’s first patrol as Batman and Robin. Marinette heads downstairs to wish them well, but freezes at the sight of her twin in Timothy’s old suit.

“This is unacceptable!” She screeches, hurrying forward and looking pleadingly at Richard. “You cannot let akhi out into Gotham looking like a traffic light!”

Richard frowns, as does Damian. “But you never had a problem with Tim wearing it.”

“Tt. Timothy had little to no prior experience in combat before being trained as Robin. Damian has been trained to utilize the shadows in combat since birth. Wearing those bright colors will make him stand out and put him at a disadvantage.” Marinette tuts, already scribbling out a new design in her sketchbook.

“Then what do you suggest, ukhti?” Damian asks.

“I have a design in mind. The colors will stay, but the yellow and green will have to be significantly darker, and the red should be dulled as well. Sadly, you will have to wear that monstrosity tonight, but I can have the suit finished in time for patrol tomorrow, as will mine and Timothy’s new suits.” She replies, not glancing up from her book.

“What do you mean, Marinette?” Richard questions, and Marinette feels a tiny twinge of annoyance at how he handled telling Timothy about Robin.

“I mean that Timothy and I have crafted new identities as well. You did not expect him to just stop fighting crime, or for me to just sit at home while everyone else carried out Father’s mission, did you?”

Damian nods, a small smile pulling at his lips. “It will be nice to see you in the field too, ukhti.”

“What will your names be?” Richard prods curiously.

“I will not tell you just yet.” Marinette smirks. She shows her twin the finished design. “Does this look alright, akhi?”

“It looks wonderful, ukhti.” Damian replies. “Thank you.”

She sniffs. “Well, somebody had to fix the lack of fashion sense in this household eventually.”

.o0o.

Everyone else in the family may use capes, but Marinette decided that Richard’s Nightwing suit was by far the best because of its lack of one. Capes were long, heavy, a waste of fabric, and overall useless.

The Starling suit was primarily black, with a dark emerald mask covering the lower half of her face (because why carry a gas mask and rebreather when it can be built in?) with gloves and boots in the same color. A single silver star with curved sides was splayed on her chest, and a dark green utility belt rested on her waist. Her steel war fans had holsters strapped to her thighs.

All in all, the suit was built for the shadows. Marinette had learned to master slipping through the dark, unseen, and Gotham was the perfect place to utilize that. Starling would be nothing more than a ghost, a legend, if she had her way. After all, the less citizens knew, the less likely the information would hit the underworld, and that way, the vigilantes wouldn’t have all their cards out in the open.

Damian looks much better in his new suit as well, and Timothy is also grinning when he steps out of the male’s changing room. (A/N: the new 52 suit. I’m not letting him out of the Cave with that ugly cowl, or the traffic light costume with an extra R. Don’t even get me started on the Drake one.)

Richard, cowl still down, smiles as bright as the sun itself. “Good to see you, Robin. Tim, Marinette, can I ask your names?”

Timothy fastens his domino. “Red Robin.”

Marinette pulls her face mask up and curtsies with perfect posture. “Starling. I wish to work in the shadows, if that is alright.”

Richard puts on the cowl and becomes Batman. “You guys all look amazing.” He grins, and it is unsettling to see Batman smile. Oracle logs into the comms from the Clocktower.

“You all ready?”

They split the city in half. Red Robin and Starling take the North while Batman & Robin will cover the South. 

Starling trails Red Robin from afar, leaping from building to building and only using her grappling hook when the distance is too great to close by foot. They stop four muggings and two attempted assaults, all without Starling being spotted. The criminals think they hit their head on the alley walls or each other instead of her fist from behind.

It’s almost three in the morning when Batman calls it quits and they return to the Cave, changing out of their suits and showering. They are somehow all unharmed, so Alfred sends them up to bed.

Damian and Marinette brush their teeth before climbing into bed and flipping off the lights.

“Tonight was actually quite enjoyable.” Marinette remarks. “It is a nice feeling, to know that you are helping people.”

Damian hums sleepily. “It is good to know that we are continuing Father’s legacy.”

Marinette smiles. “Yes, I suppose so.” She burrows deeper into her blankets. “Sleep well, akhi.”

“The same goes for you, ukhti.”

For once, Marinette doesn’t have a nightmare.

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Note: some of them didn’t work. I am terrible with technology and have no clue how to fix this.

[olivia-anderson-fanfic]

Satisfied, Part 21

First

Previous

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~~~

Now that she didn’t have the adrenaline of ‘gun! to my head!’ keeping her awake, her eyes drooped. She ran her fingers over every fold of her costume to look for bugs, then frowned when she didn’t find any. After triple-checking herself she found that the criminals had actually been nice enough not to do anything. Huh.

She opened a portal and stepped in front of the bat family, smiling weakly as she gave a wave. “Salut.”

Nightwing rushed forward and slung her arm around his shoulders to keep her properly upright. “Christ! What did they do to you?”

"Some sort of tranquilizer,” she mumbled, closing her eyes. “We need to warn the Waynes.”

She could feel Nightwing tense under her, and the silence that spread through the bat family told her that they, too, were struggling to come up with an answer to what she’d said.

“You’re not in any state to do that,” said Batman, finally.

“I can open a portal.”

“You’ve been to Wayne Manor?” Asked Nightwing, his smile evident in his voice.

Shoot. They knew how her powers worked now, she had to be more careful.

She opened an eye just enough to send him a glare. “No, but I’ve been outside it.”

His smile dropped. Good.

“You need to get home,” said Red Robin. “I’ll make sure everyone turns around.”

Marinette blinked a few times and looked up at him. “But patrol --.”

“Go,” said Red Hood with a sigh. “And take tomorrow off, too.”

She groaned quietly and pouted, but they were smart enough to look away. Dang. After making sure that everyone wasn’t watching, she opened a portal to her bed and dropped onto it.

She closed the portal and exited her transformation just before her eyes shut.

~

Two nights later, she was out on patrols again. The bat family had complained and tried to talk her out of it, but they couldn’t exactly stop her. She hopped over a rooftop and checked around, only to pause when her receiver crackled. She turned it on.

“Language!” Said Batman and Nightwing.

She grinned. “What happened?”

“Since when have Gothamites had bulletproof windows?” Red Hood complained.

Red Robin’s grin was evident in his voice when he spoke: “Oh? Are you alright?”

“Well, considering I just bodyslammed into a window, I’ll say no.”

She snickered. “I assume you do that often?”

“Obviously.”

“That’s probably why they’ve started doing that, then.”

“Shut up! I’m in pain!” He complained.

“Wait! Everyone, shut up! Why did you bodyslam a window?” Said Robin.

“I don’t know how to pick locks. Also, there was a burglar.”

There was a chorus of everyone screaming 'WHAT' and Marinette rolled her eyes.

“Where are you? I can pick locks.”

“WHY?” Asked Nightwing.

She shrugged. “Chat’s dad sucked. Anyways, where are you?”

He mumbled an answer and she headed in that direction.

She couldn’t help but laugh when he came into view, laying spread eagle on the sidewalk and glaring at the window above him.

“Hey.”

He looked up. “Yo.” He pushed himself to his feet and they walked to the door.

She pulled two pins from her pockets and went to work on the locks. After a few minutes of work, it finally clicked. She opened the door with a bow so deep Alfred would be jealous. “After you.”

He grinned and pulled his gun out. She took out her pistol.

They stepped inside the dark house. There was a family tied up on the ground of the living room and she smiled kindly as she knelt down, untying them. “You should all get out of here.”

“My wife is still here! You have to help her!” The woman whispered urgently, locking a hand around her wrist.

Marinette nodded. “Of course. We’ll do our best. You need to get your kids outside, ma’am.”

They looked reluctant, but they complied.

She glanced at Red Hood and her smile dropped. They raised their guns in unison.

They slipped through the halls together, footsteps muffled by the carpet. They kicked open doors, leaning in with their guns at the ready, then continued on to the next.

Within a few minutes they had cleared the whole house, all that was left was the door to the basement. They shared grim looks and she swung the door open slowly.

They stepped down a bit, hands searching the walls for a light.

They only got a few steps down before a shot rang out. The railing between them splintered and the pair whipped around, guns out.

It took a minute for their eyes to adjust to the light. The criminal was holding the woman in front of himself as a shield, revolver pointing at each of them in turn.

“Drop your weapons!” The man screeched in a high voice.

The vigilantes glanced at each other. There was no way they could get a clear shot at him with the woman in front of him, anyways. They flipped their safeties on and dropped their weapons over the railing.

She narrowed her eyes slightly. The man was clearly in a panic. Any wrong movements might make him shoot. However, as her eyes found their way to his revolver, she recognized he couldn’t have more than five shots in his gun.

She bit down on the inside of her cheek.

Before Red Hood could stop her, she had hopped the railing. A shot rang out, nailing the wall where her head had been seconds before.

Four shots to go.

Unable to stop for a second, she dropped to the ground and reached for her pistol.

Pain. She registered the pain before she heard the shot. Her shoulder screamed in protest as the bullet clattered to the ground at her side. Her suit did nothing to lessen the pain, it only kept her body in one piece.

She just needed to hold out a little longer.

Three shots left.

She pushed herself to her feet, fighting the urge to cradle her arm as she held out her pistol.

Another shot. This one hit her square in the chest. She stumbled back a few steps with the force of it. A coppery scent filled her mouth.

She couldn’t care. As long as she was the one being shot at...

Two shots.

“LADYBUG, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU --?” Began Red Hood. Apparently he’d snapped out of his shock.

Crap. She’d hoped it would last longer than that. She could see the criminal turning his gun onto him in his surprise and forced herself forward --.

The shot hit her leg. He must have realized that his normal shots weren’t working and was trying to slow her. Or maybe he was just shaking. It didn’t matter. She tried a step forward. She wheezed in pain. Blood dribbled from the corner of her mouth.

She shifted her weight onto her other leg.

One.

She lunged the last distance and grabbed the hand he was holding the gun with, forcing it down and pain unlike anything she’d ever felt before raced through her from a point on her side. She broke into a wide grin even as she was forced to stumble back, her hand flying to where the bullet had hit.

They’d won.

She turned her head to look at Red Hood, to tell him that it was safe now, that he could get the hostage now. The words died on her lips.

Why’d he look so horrified?

She waved her hands to say ‘get a move on’ when something caught her eyes.

Her hands were slick with red.

Her gaze fell to her stomach. Maroon stained her spandex.

She had lost consciousness before she’d even hit the ground.

~

Pain jolted her back to the present. Her vision was a blur of color. She blinked her tears away.

Red Hood was leaning over her, using his trademark jacket as a temporary way to bind the wound.

She smiled faintly. Good. His jacket didn’t match his outfit anyways.

Oh. Wait. He was saying something. She stared at his mouth, watching it move and move, but unable to hear anything above the ringing in her ears. Was it from all the gunfire? Was she dying?

She didn’t want to know.

He picked her up as gingerly as he could and, after saying something to the likely traumatized woman, raced her outside.

God, she wanted to sleep. Her eyes drooped over and over again, only to jerk back open with every painful step. She pressed her face into his shoulder and tried her hardest not to cry.

~

Her back hit the bed and she shot awake. The bat family were all leaning over her, yelling at... her? Each other? Themselves? They were all yelling over each other, but she couldn’t distinguish voices or words. She supposed she should just be glad she could hear again.

She could see everyone cleaning her wound, but her body had stopped feeling the pain. Was this shock? Wasn’t shock bad?

A hand reached out to touch her earrings and she caught it before it could take them off. She tried to speak but blood gurgled from her throat. Still, Nightwing seemed to get the idea, tugging his hand from her grip and moving to tend to her wounds.

Her shoulders relaxed. They were trying to treat her in her suit. Good. She didn’t want them to know.

~

She opened her eyes blearily. Sunlight streamed through the window, assaulting her vision.

She groaned and reached a hand up to block the light, only for pain to race through her veins. A guttural scream escaped her lips.

A person she didn’t even notice shot up from where they’d been sitting and stepped into the light.

She blinked a few times, then gave a weak smile. “Hi.”

“You’re stupid,” said Robin, leaning over her to make sure she hadn’t irritated her wound.

She grinned. “No, you.”

He snorted. “That’s all you got? No witty comeback today?”

“Well, I was shot.”

His smile dropped a bit at that and he had the decency to look sheepish. “Oh. Right.” When he was sure that she hadn’t messed her body up any more than she already had, he dropped back into his seat.

She closed her eyes and relaxed into the soft pillows. She should ask what type of mattress this was. It was worth saving up for--.

“Why’d you do it?”

She opened an eye to find Robin watching her intently. She sighed softly and turned her gaze to the ceiling. “I... the guy had a gun. I can’t -- or at least I thought I couldn’t -- get hurt by guns. Red Hood and that lady could. What else was I supposed to do?”

He frowned. “But you’re not invincible.”

“Apparently not,” she agreed. “But I thought I was.”

He didn’t say anything else. Instead, he stood and closed the curtains for her.

~

She woke up a while later and, after very carefully testing out her wound, pushed herself up to a seated position. It hurt, but she could make do. She checked her bandages just to make sure she was fine.

Then nearly jumped out of her skin as her eyes found Batman standing in a dark corner.

Her shoulders relaxed as he came to sit at her bedside.

“Salut,” she chirped, giving a small wink.

He didn’t smile, though that wasn’t all that surprising. “Hi.”

Her grin slid from her face as she looked around. “How long have I been out?”

“The better part of two weeks.”

Horror flickered across her face. “Two weeks? And you didn’t wake me up?” She started shoving her blankets away, only for him to press her back into the bed.

“Lay back down. You were shot five times, you need rest.”

She scoffed. “What I need is to report in for work. My boss is lenient but she isn’t that lenient --.”

“Relax.”

“Relax?” She repeated incredulously. "How am I supposed to relax? My job is on the line!”

“Your job will be fine.”

“Not everyone is rich! I can’t afford to just miss whenever I need!”

Batman frowned. “I can give you money if that’s what you --.”

“What’s with you rich people and offering money like its nothing? My problem isn’t money! I actually enjoy my job, I don’t want to lose it!”

The man sighed and held up his hands in an attempt to placate her. “I can put a word in for you --.”

“And let you or my boss figure out my identity? No thanks! Let. Me. Go.”

They stared each other down.

“You’re acting childish,” he said finally.

“Childish?” She repeated, her voice screaming danger. She pushed herself out of bed despite the pain and stalked towards him, jabbing her finger into his chest. “You want to call me childish?”

She didn’t know why she did it, honestly. Maybe it was the stress about her job. Maybe she was still woozy from her bullet wound and the sedatives she’d been put on to lessen her pain. Maybe it was her anxiety about the fact that she’d been hurt. But she did:

“Mr. Idon’twanttokillanyone is really going to call me childish? Newsflash: your personal morals don’t matter! They stopped mattering the minute you decided you were going to become a vigilante.”

His eyes widened. “I --.”

“Shut up! It is your duty to make sure that these people -- these people that trust and depend on you -- don’t come to harm --!”

He frowned. “I don’t let them come to harm.”

“You don’t -- you --!” She clenched and unclenched her fists. “The moment Joker breaking out of Arkham became a pattern and you decided to keep sending him there, you began bringing harm to them. Every little breakout is your fault! You can’t seriously think Arkham will continue to hold him, can you? No! But you keep sending him and people keep dying!”

The man sighed softly. “I don’t want to become like the people who killed my parents,” he explained.

She tried not to scoff too hard at that. “Your feelings don’t matter! This is your duty now, but that doesn’t make it about you! You think I actually want to kill someone? To kill him? I don’t -- I’ve never --” She swallowed thickly, tears threatening to spill over. “-- I can’t even stomach the thought! But at least I understand it’s necessary!”

He opened his mouth to protest again, but she didn’t want to hear it. Tears blurred her vision as she picked up her yoyo and jumped out the window. She didn’t even bother to look back, to pay attention to the familiar architecture, to pause to make sure she wasn’t hurting herself more, to do anything at all.

All she cared about was getting away from that.

~~~

i was gonna put the words “sorry in advance” at the beginning of the chapter but didn’t want to ruin the surprise

still, i considered being nice and i feel that deserves a little praise

don’t worry guys you’ll get a bit of fluff tomorrow i’ll make it up to you i swear--

~

ah, yes, the scene that started it all

i remember reading this post and expanding on the scene a little

and it eventually became the story you’re now reading

go send the post and poster some love, it’s great

~

Me: *starting to finally get to sleep after tossing and turning all night*

My ghost: *opens the door* hey just coming to check on you are you alright are you sleeping well --

~

Taglist

@comet-kun @thatonecroc @trippingovermyfeet @swiftie-miraculer13 @nickristus-dreamer @moongoddesskiana @i-am-ironic @indecisive-mess-named-me @thebooki3h @insane-fangirl-of-everything @deepestobservationwombat @theymakeupfairies @fatimaabbasrizvi @clumsy-owl-4178 @fanofalittletoomuch @iamablinkmarvelarmy @nathleigh​ @lilkymilky @silvergold-swirl @dino-lovingreen-angel @thestressmademedoit @kissa-chan @ladybug-182 @alysrose-starchild @t1dwarrior-of-earth @spyofthenightcourt @rowanrouge @nik-nak-3 @momothefemur @aestheticnpoetic @labschaos @our-preciousss @mochinek0 @eliza-bich @mythogaychic @severelyenchantedwonderland @sashakoi @smolplantmum @bluesimani @tropestropestropes​ @kitsunebell @keepingupwiththemalfoys @sassakitty @2confused-2doanything

[andavs]

So I watched Bumblebee...

...

The jeep was bright blue and the most obnoxious vehicle Derek had ever seen, but it was perfect. It was a 1980 CJ5 and once the list of defects was read aloud, he was the only bidder so he got it for next to nothing. Not that the price could’ve kept him from buying it, because Laura had a thing for jeeps. 

Specifically older jeeps, none of that Cherokee or Sahara or SUV kind of models—she liked Jeeps. And she also liked to rant about shoddy craftsmanship of modern models and how they weren’t really jeeps… Derek usually tuned her out by the time she got to the wave hierarchy.

For someone who didn’t actually own a jeep and never actually had, she really liked jeeps.

And she would really like this one.

There was the expected wear of a vehicle over thirty years old and some body damage from an accident; the leather seat was ripped, and it looked like there was a scorch mark near the driver’s side door, a sizable dent in the passenger side. Aside from that, it seemed as though the jeep was relatively well taken care of, until it ended up in a county abandoned vehicle auction.

It would definitely take some work, and he'd probably have to replace everything under the hood, but it was worth it to see Laura happy and excited.

It had been a long time since she was happy and excited.

Now he just had to get it home to get it fixed up, without it breaking down on the side of the road. And despite the fact that he was going to have to fix every part of it in some way, that seemed like the much greater challenge at the moment.

The jeep lurched violently as he shifted, and he struggled briefly to get it into gear. That was where he could really feel the age of the car; he never had any difficulty shifting in his Camaro.

"Clutch, dude."

He slammed on the brakes and the jeep swerved violently to the side of the empty highway. Derek twisted around in his seat to threaten whoever the hell stowed away in the back seat, eyes glowing and furious— 

But the back seat was empty.

There were no other heartbeats, no muffled breathing, and the trunk was far too small for anyone to fit into, even if they did somehow manage to conceal the sounds of a living, breathing person.

"First clutch, then gas—seriously have you never driven stick?"

That time the voice came from the other direction, and he turned back towards the front.

The radio was off, his phone was in his pocket...

“Oh, and there’s a weird kind of delay? So wait a second before the gas or it stalls, and you gotta put some muscle into it.”

Derek did as the disembodied voice instructed and the car jerkily started forward again.

So the jeep was haunted. Cool.

*

The ghost’s name was Stiles, and he was the most obnoxious person, living or dead, that Derek had ever met. He never thought he could have such disdain for a disembodied voice, but the very sound of it was starting to fill him with such a deep-seated rage and irritation that there were new claw holes in the side of the leather seat.

Okay, not entirely true. He’d grown to hate a lot of radio personalities over the years, but at least there were music breaks and they were limited to the hours of their show. They babbled for an hour and then they stopped.

Stiles had no such limitations. If the car was on, he was talking.

And talking.

And talking.

“I was stuck in an impound lot for who knows how long! Of course I want to talk!”

Derek rolled his eyes, thankful that Stiles didn’t seem to be able to see anything, because he would probably have something to say about that too. 

“Well I don’t,” Derek said flatly, hoping his tone conveyed just how much he didn’t want to talk, “so shut up.”

His tone did nothing.

“Was that supposed to be threatening?” He wasn’t laughing, but Stiles sounded entirely too amused, which just pissed Derek off even more. “What are you going to do, hit me?” He taunted. “Punch the dashboard? Run into a tree? I’m dead, dude, you can’t hurt a ghost!”

“Are you sure about that? Because I’m sure I could find a way.”

“Please do, I’d love to watch you fail.”

Derek turned onto his street. He was almost home. In just a few short seconds, he could turn the car off. 

“You can’t even see.”

“But I have a very vivid imagination.”

He turned into his driveway.

“That sounds like a brooding silence,” Stiles continued. “Deep frown, furrowed brow, are you clenching your jaw? I think I can hear teeth grinding.”

As if he could hear anything over the deafening, rattling roar of the shitty jeep.

Derek said nothing as he unclenched his jaw.

“Do you have prominent cheekbones? I’m picturing cheekbones, maybe some artfully tousled—”

“Oh look, we’re home,” Derek interrupted, deadpan, and parked the jeep in his garage.

“Oh no, don’t you dare turn me off! Derek! Der—”

He turned the key and breathed a sigh of relief at the blissful sound of silence.

*

It was a full week and a half before he turned the jeep on again. 

A week and a half of standing in the door of the garage, staring at it for three minutes, and then closing the door and walking away. 

A week and a half of opening the driver’s side door, hesitating, and slamming it shut again (because the lock didn’t catch properly unless he slammed it). 

A week and a half of steadily mounting guilt eating away at his stomach until he couldn’t take it any longer and stormed out to the garage at four in the morning to turn the damn car on, only to be greeted by an irate Stiles calling him a dick and a number of other colorful names. Followed by the deafening squeal of audio feedback in retaliation.

They finally reached a tentative truce; Derek would start the jeep every day, and Stiles would learn to shut the hell up when Derek needed a break.

Starting the jeep daily turned into taking it out for a drive daily, usually to the auto parts store so he could get some advice from the employees about what he needed to buy for it.

“Everything,” was the answer he got, so he sighed and handed over his credit card, silently wondering if this stupid jeep was even worth it. 

He wasn’t giving it to Laura with a ghost, so why even bother fixing it up? He asked himself that a lot, late at night while he stared up at the ceiling in bed. He didn’t need a jeep, especially one with so little room for anything more than two people. His Camaro had a larger backseat, a larger trunk, more power—it was better than the old blue jeep in pretty much every way except getting up a steep driveway without scraping the front bumper.

Except his Camaro didn’t contain the last remaining consciousness of a person. 

His Camaro wasn’t the one thing keeping that person from fading from existence. 

It wasn’t the one thing he enjoyed talking to.

Well, not talking to—bickering with, more like. Arguing. Insulting. Their conversations were usually just shy of mutual verbal abuse, and for some reason, Derek kind of enjoyed it. He was spending thousands of dollars and hours of labor to continue interacting with a single person, in a manner that could barely be considered more eloquent than a YouTube comments section.

Maybe it was because no matter how nasty he got, Stiles gave it right back. Stiles didn’t walk away and cut off contact. He didn’t let Derek’s shitty moods linger in his mind and poison their next conversation. He didn’t drag it up to use it against him. He called him a dick, a tool, a monumental douchebag, and moved on to his next thought.

Except it wasn’t just bickering and insults. Not anymore.

Because Stiles got it. He understood. He understood when Derek went quiet for days at a time and drove through the neighborhood for hours without saying a word. He understood when Derek started the car and just sat there in the driver’s seat in his garage, staring at the unfinished drywall he’d put up and never painted. He never even taped the seams.

“I get it, dude,” Stiles said during one of those days. “So I’m just going to keep talking and you can jump in whenever you’re ready.”

And oddly enough, it helped. When Stiles rambled on from one topic to the next, spewing facts and anecdotes he’d read at some point, it dragged Derek out of his spiraling thoughts and guilt and grief and gave him something to focus on that wasn’t his own self-loathing. His pity parties, as Stiles had dismissively named them, but even that helped in some twisted way.

“I’m not going to be the goody bag at your pity party,” he’d said like he was quoting something, and then given Derek entirely too much information about the bathroom situation in Versailles. 

“You’re going to have to replace the transmission as soon as possible if you’re going to keep driving this,” Dave said, shaking his head at the mess under the hood of the jeep. 

Derek nodded, resigned, and handed over his credit card.

*

For all that Stiles talked, he never talked about himself. Derek wasn’t really sure how the whole ghost thing worked, but if Stiles could remember the entire history of the imperial system of measurement, it seemed like he should remember his own life. And yet, he never mentioned it. The entire history of the Genovese crime family, yes, Derek had heard it twice, but nothing personal about Stiles.

The few times Derek had asked, he got vague answers. The kind of answers that made it sound like he was hiding something big. Talking around specifics, not referencing any names, occupations, locations—anything that could be used to identify him.

Normally, this would be a giant red flag and send Derek running into the night, but Stiles was a ghost. He was dead. He couldn’t even change the radio station, let alone hurt someone, so Derek let it slide. Plus, he was fun. And Derek couldn’t remember the last time he’d used that word to describe anything in his life.

*

“You’re going to have to pound this out,” Dave said, gesturing to the pretty significant dent on the passenger side of the jeep. “What happened? Did you hit a tree or something?”

Derek shrugged, told him it was there when he bought it, and accepted his recommendations for a few body shops in the area. But the thought lingered.

It had crossed his mind before, plenty of times, but never more than a passing thought. It felt strangely invasive, asking a ghost how they died. Was there etiquette for that? How did one approach that subject this far into a relationship?

“Did you die in this car?” Derek asked bluntly one afternoon, ripping off the bandaid with all of the tact and finesse he usually showed in social situations.

Luckily Stiles was used to that by now and didn’t bat a proverbial eye.

“Probably? Don’t remember.”

Derek frowned at the freeway in front of him, letting the roar of the jeep’s new engine fill the silence. “You don’t remember your death?” That seemed like the kind of thing that would leave an impression.

“Weird, right? Kind of seems like a major milestone in someone’s life.”

To say the least.

“Dude, you have to look me up!” Stiles said excitedly, like the idea just came to him. “Stiles Stilinski, with an I.”

Derek didn’t exactly jump for his phone, and not just because he was driving.

“Where’s the I?”

“Everywhere, it’s like the only vowel in my name. Just do it. I need to know if my death was as embarrassingly pathetic as the rest of my life.”

Well that was depressing. And a very effective guilt trip.

When he got home and parked the jeep in his garage, he pulled his phone out of his back pocket and guessed how to spell Stiles’ name. He guessed wrong, and even when he corrected it, he didn’t find anything. Just an old voter record website and some totally locked down social media profiles that didn’t even have a picture of his face.

“Wow, so I made zero impact even in death.”

Derek shifted uncomfortably and kept himself from pointing out darkly that even if Stiles hadn’t, his jeep had made a big one. Into something very hard.

“Okay hang on,” he bounced back quickly, “if my jeep was in an accident, there would be an accident report! That should say what happened!”

This was turning into a much bigger project than Derek expected.

“How am I supposed to find that? You don’t know where it happened, and even if you did, I don’t think the cops give out accident reports to anyone who asks.”

Stiles sighed dramatically. “Just get a laptop.”

*

Derek wasn’t sure which law he’d broken by using a sheriff’s login to access a national law enforcement database, but he was pretty sure he could go to jail for it.

“It’s fine, I do it all the time,” Stiles had assured him, but he had a feeling a sheriff was much more likely to overlook his own son committing fraud with his account than a complete stranger. Even if his son was directing all of it. As a disembodied voice through his car.

Derek glared at the radio and adjusted the computer on his lap. It was a bit of a tight fit with the steering wheel in the way. And also because it was a jeep from the eighties and was roughly the size of an oven.

Stiles stepped him through the search process. When the license plate and VIN number came up with nothing (and who knew their VIN off the top of their head, even in death?), he got more creative until finally, there was one, single result.

“It says here there was a car accident, a hit and run,” Derek summarized as he scanned through the report. “The jeep was found on the side of the road, no plates, no VIN, no witnesses. The unidentified driver was unconscious and taken to the hospital.”

“Unconscious,” Stiles repeated, immediately latching onto the same point Derek did. “So I’m not dead!”

“Would it say if you died later at the hospital?”

“Probably depends on how much later it was. When did the accident happen?”

Derek scrolled up to the date. “About a year ago. You don’t remember any of this?”

“Conveniently, it’s a total blank. Where did it happen?” Derek read off the county name, just two over from where he lived, and not the one he’d bought the jeep in. “Great! Just a few hours from Beacon Hills!”

Derek froze, heart starting to pound. It couldn't be...

“California?” It was a stupid question; the state was huge, everything a few hours away from them was still in California.

“Yeah, you know it?”

“No,” he lied, and if Stiles heard the lie, he didn’t push it.

There was no way this was a coincidence, Derek thought frantically. Beacon Hills wasn’t that big and since he left, he’d never met anyone who knew where it was, let alone someone who came from there.

"You have to find me, Derek, I need to know!" Stiles was practically yelling to get his attention, and when Derek still didn’t respond, he sighed dramatically. "I know it's a pain in the ass, and I'd do it myself, but I’m literally a disembodied voice in a jeep.”

Making him feel bad about the fact that he had a body. Annoyingly effective strategy.

“And how exactly am I supposed to find you?” Derek asked, giving in but telling himself he was just playing along. Warning alarms were going off at the back of his mind, every part of him screaming not to go back to the place where he’d lost everything. But he couldn’t bring himself to outright refuse this one thing for Stiles. The only thing he’d outright asked him to do since buying the jeep.

“You know where the crash happened, right? Look for the closest hospital and start there.”

Derek glared at the radio, not appreciating his condescending tone in the least. Stiles was such a dick sometimes.

Most of the time.

The moments he wasn’t a dick were the real anomalies.

“And say I find you,” Derek returned in his own snotty tone, “how exactly am I supposed to identify you? I don’t know what you look like!”

Stiles scoffed like that was somehow Derek’s fault. “Caucasian male, twenty-five, brown hair, brown eyes, five ten, roughly a hundred and fifty-seven pounds, tattoo sleeves on both arms.”

Derek blinked at how quickly he’d rattled that off, but most importantly, 

“Tattoos?”

“What, I don’t sound like I have tattoos?”

“You’re trapped in my car, you don’t sound like you have a body at all.”

“Watch it, buddy. We don’t know that I’m dead, so this isn’t your car yet.”

Derek had a receipt from the auction and a very large credit card balance that said otherwise.

*

As it turned out, the county of the car accident wasn’t exactly a metropolitan area, so there weren’t very many hospitals to search. In fact, there was exactly one within an hour of the crash site.

“You have to go! Even if I died, they’ll at least have the record,” Stiles said like that was an upside. Like Derek wasn’t about to stroll into a hospital and start asking questions about unidentified dead people like some kind of creep.

“And then I get to be the one to call your family and tell them,” Derek muttered quietly under his breath, and if Stiles heard him, he didn’t respond.

He pulled into a parking spot at the back of the lot, even though there were plenty of open spots closer to the hospital, and sat there for a while, psyching himself up for what was about to happen. He was about to walk into a hospital and ask about the probably protected private information of the man whose ghost was haunting the jeep he bought in a county auction.

Totally normal.

“So are you going in, or…?” Stiles asked after a long few minutes of silence.

"Not if you keep bothering me,"  Derek snapped, but took off his seatbelt anyway. There was no way he wasn’t going in.

“Be fast!” Stiles yelled at the last second before he turned off the car.

*

He dragged his feet a bit to the front desk in the lobby, rehearsing how exactly he was going to phrase this, but the woman behind the computer saw him coming and smiled welcomingly and he couldn't turn back after that.

“Can I help you?” she asked with a cheerful smile.

Derek plastered on his best charming smile in return. His approximation of a functioning human being with basic social skills.

“Yeah, I’m looking for a friend of mine. He was in a car accident last June, in a blue jeep.” He rambled on about a disappearance, devastated family, and how they’d been scouring nearby hospitals for any unidentified patients. 

“Oh, of course,” she said sympathetically. “Can you describe him?”

He rattled off the description Stiles gave him as she typed them into the computer, and waited (somewhat) patiently while the system searched. His claws were leaving impatient pinpricks in the wooden desk, but they would probably wouldn’t be too noticeable.

“And you said this was last June?” she asked, clicking around a few times. “We had one John Doe admitted after a car accident that month, a white male in his twenties, with tattoos.”

Derek’s heart started pounding. That had to be Stiles.

“What happened to him?”

He was having a hard time interpreting her professionally neutral yet still pitying expression. “Oh, sweetie. He’s still here.”

*

John Doe 24, was what the name tag outside the door said, and through the blinds in the window, Derek could see the room was filled with machines, blocking his view of the man lying inside. There was a steady beeping, the mechanical whirs and hisses of a ventilator, something dripping from an IV bag.

The social worker who led him there opened the door and stepped aside for him to enter.

The first impression Derek had was that underneath the smell of hospital and sterile medical equipment, he could smell the jeep. Or the person who had driven the jeep for so many years that the scent of him was permanently embedded in the interior.

His second impression was, once the face under all of the wires and tubes and tape registered…

He didn’t know what he expected Stiles to look like. His voice sounded young, a little high and scratchy, he knew a lot about a lot of things—a nerd, was what Derek would say if pressed. Someone who spent way too much time reading Wikipedia and had a “fun fact of the day” calendar for every year since he learned how to read.

Stiles did not look like a nerd.

He was skinny, his cheekbones prominent, but he’d been in a coma for a year. A little weight loss was probably normal, as was the messy, amateur haircut. Brown hair, moles, an upturned nose, but the real identifying trait was the tattoo sleeves. Runes and symbols, starting at his wrists and continuing up under the sleeves of his hospital gown. Most of the symbols Derek had never seen before, but the ones he did recognize…

The triskele.

On its own, it could be nothing. A complete coincidence. But paired with everything else around it...

Stiles knew about werewolves.

“Is this your friend?” the social worker asked, looking hopeful.

Derek swallowed. “That’s Stiles.”

*

Derek slammed the jeep’s door behind him and started the engine.

“Well?” Stiles immediately asked. “What happened?” 

“You know about werewolves,” Derek found himself saying, even though he intended to work that in a little later. After the whole I found your comatose body in the ICU reveal.

There was a beat of silence before a slightly high-pitched and unconvincing, “What?”

“Your tattoos. You know about werewolves?”

“Well that explains why you took this whole haunted car thing so well.” He didn’t elaborate. “But you saw my tattoos? You found me?”

“Yes, I found you,” Derek snapped. “You’re in a coma and you have symbols from werewolf lore tattooed on your body, including the symbol of my dead pack. Why.” Stiles wasn’t a wolf, he could feel that much from seeing him in person. But the only other group that studied werewolf lore so closely were hunters, and if Stiles turned out to be a hunter…

“I’m in a pack, okay?” He paused, and if he had lungs, he would probably be taking a steadying breath. “I’m an emissary, and now you need to call them and tell them where I am, so they can get me out of this coma!”

“What makes you think they can?” Derek snapped, still on edge and maybe a little scared of losing the most intimate connection he’d made with anyone in years. Which was really just sad.

“My consciousness is trapped inside my jeep, Derek, this clearly isn’t your average coma!”

Valid point, Derek admitted with a bitter eyeroll. He could also admit to himself, bitterly, that he couldn’t keep Stiles in a coma forever so he could keep talking to his car. It was selfish and cruel and probably sadistic on some level. The fact that he was completely inept at connecting to real, live humans wasn’t Stiles’ cross to bear and it shouldn’t keep him from potentially waking up and living his life.

“Fine,” Derek said after a long, loaded pause. “Who should I call?”

“My dad, sheriff of Beacon Hills. He’ll handle the rest.”

*

The McCall pack rolled into town like an army and hadn't stopped working since. 

Now that they'd found him, there was always someone at Stiles' bedside at the hospital, while everyone else had set up camp in Derek's garage to work through the problem. They'd brought a mountain of books, computers, all types of occult paraphernalia—anything they could possibly need to fix this.

Meanwhile, Derek was going through an absurd amount of money buying gas for the damn jeep, because now that they had Stiles back, in any kind of form, the pack didn't want to turn off the car and lose him again.

Derek tried to explain that he’d turned the car off and on countless times and Stiles was still there, nagging him constantly, but they didn’t want to risk it. He wanted his garage to stop stinking of exhaust, but there was no way he could deny a father the chance to talk to the son he believed to be dead for over a year.

(Though he definitely wished there was a way he could deny Stiles’ desire to sing ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, screaming it into the garage in the middle of the night over the roar of the jeep’s engine.)

Beyond setting up their base of operations in his living room and taking over most of his home, the McCall pack was also able to fill in a lot of gaps and answer a lot of questions. Namely, what the hell happened to Stiles.

A rogue faction of the Argent family had been closing in on the McCall pack at the time he went missing, and given the way both he and his car had been scrubbed of his identity, it wasn't much of a leap to suspect the hunters were responsible.

"But why not just kill you?" Lydia mused aloud. She was settled in the passenger seat of the jeep with four open books stacked in her lap. "Why go to so much trouble to hide your identity when they could've just killed you and dumped the body? We're right by the mountains, there's plenty of places to do it."

"Why does it sound like you've considered doing this before?" Stiles asked, sounding insulted and a little wary.

"Because you really piss me off sometimes," she said dismissively, and moved right along. "There's no way what they did is neater, especially with the risk of you waking up at the hospital."

"It’s because even hunters wouldn't kill an emissary," Derek cut in from the doorway, stepping forward and putting himself out of his misery. It was actually painful listening to young and inexperienced packs try to navigate the intricacies of the culture. "Emissaries are considered neutral and vital to maintaining the balance, and killing one is like declaring all out war, even as a hunter."

"Ha! See? I'm vital!"

Derek ignored Stiles’ interruption. "Leaving him in a hospital to die from his wounds, completely anonymous, is probably the cleanest way they could’ve handled it. If they killed him outright and his body was identified, it would only be a matter of time before his pack traced it back to them.”

Lydia looked at him thoughtfully for a long moment, processing. Then her eyes hardened.

“Then that’s what we’ll do.” She closed the book at the top of her stack with a threatening finality Derek had never mastered. “We’re going to war.”

*

Considering that up until recently, Stiles had become something of an emotional crutch and coping mechanism for Derek, it was ironic that he suddenly found himself filling that roll for all of Stiles’ pack.

Scott, the impossibly young alpha sought him out on the back porch almost every evening, and spent an hour picking his brain on everything from werewolf culture to the guilt he felt for not finding Stiles himself sooner.

“I never felt him die, but after so many months…” Lydia confessed quietly one morning in the kitchen, her hands clasped tightly around a mug of coffee that had turned lukewarm an hour ago. Her eyes were haunted with a grief Derek knew all too well. “It was easier. To accept that I was wrong. It was easier to give up.”

He ran into Stiles’ father just outside the garage door at four in the morning, leaning against the wall with red-rimmed eyes.

“I had alerts for his name, the plates…” he started, and Derek could remember that regret. The constant, unrelenting scream at the back of his mind that he should’ve known. That he should’ve done more. That he should’ve been able to stop her.

“The plates were removed,” Derek explained, hoping to save the man from some tiny bit of what he’d gone through. “The VIN, all of the insurance information, his wallet—anything that could identify him or the car.”

"But he was a—” He swallowed, cutting himself off before his voice got loud enough for Stiles to hear through the garage door. “If he didn't have any ID, it's standard procedure to do a search for missing persons, I should've gotten an alert, I should've found him!"

"Hunters have people everywhere. It's possible the police kept it under the radar for them."

The Sheriff rubbed a hand over his mouth, practically vibrating with emotion.

"My son has been sitting here for a year, as a John Doe. Just three hours away."

Derek had nothing to say to that.

*

"Is he hot? He sounds hot."

Derek froze outside the garage door at Stiles’ question. He would deny to anyone who asked and himself that he in any way cared about the answer.

"He's very hot," Lydia said with an uncomfortably approving tone. "Muscles, stubble, a great ass."

Derek wanted to die.

*

In the end, it was a simple fix. 

In his last moments of consciousness, when the hunters were approaching the crashed jeep to drag Stiles off, he’d run. Not physically, his body had been too broken for that, but mentally. His consciousness fled, and aided by his emissary magic, it jumped to the closest thing capable of housing it.

“At least there wasn’t like, a skunk walking by,” Stiles joked, and Derek was the only one who grinned at the thought. 

“Both his body and consciousness need to be in the same place,” Lydia explained, and she made it sound like that alone would allow Stiles to return to his body. A simple fix.

So Derek disconnected the radio from the dashboard, and the pack took it to the hospital, and Derek was left sitting there in a silent car, staring at the loose wires dangling from the dash and suddenly feeling more alone than he had in years.

The pack hadn’t asked if he wanted to go and he wasn’t about to impose on such a monumental and emotional moment, but he wanted to. He wanted to be there when Stiles opened his eyes. He wanted to see how he looked when he was happy or annoyed, how he looked when he called Derek a dick, if his eyes went distant in those rare moments he went quiet. He wanted to see the recognition on his face. 

But would he recognize him? 

Would he remember him at all? 

Did a ghostly consciousness retain memories of what happened outside of its body, stuck in a car radio?

He started the car once more, a new habit when he wanted to just stop thinking and live in the now, but aside from the rumble of the brand new, powerful engine, it was quiet.

Stiles was gone.

*

“He wants to see you,” Lydia said with some judgment two days later. This time her coffee was still warm and the bags under her eyes and lightened. A book on werewolf traditions was open in front of her, to the chapter on formal declarations of war, so she was clearly intending to make good on her promise of justice for Stiles.

Derek couldn’t say how Scott and the Sheriff were handling things because he was pretty sure they’d been sleeping at the hospital since Stiles opened his eyes. He hadn’t seen them once.

Derek concentrated on pouring himself the perfect amount of coffee and retreated to the garage. The new radio arrived that morning.

*

He was being an idiot, Derek told himself, sitting there in the jeep in the hospital parking lot. The new radio was still in its box in the passenger seat, because though he’d gone out to the garage to install it, he ended up at the hospital.

Stiles wanted to see him, so he clearly remembered him. He wasn’t going to walk into the room and meet the eyes of a stranger.

But he didn’t think he could handle seeing the recognition and then being looked over for something better. Stiles had his friends and family, the people he loved and who loved him, the most important people in his life right there at his side. Derek had a strained and distant relationship with his sister across the country and an unhealthy attachment to the disembodied voice of a ghost that used to live in his jeep.

Stiles’ jeep.

He would probably be wanting his car back now that he wasn’t dead, and Derek wouldn’t deny him that. He couldn’t even if he wanted to, not after everything Stiles had done for him. Put up with for him. He had a stupid, deeply ingrained impulse to repay debts out of self-defense, and restoring the jeep Stiles loved so much could only account for a fraction of what Derek owed him.

“That might be the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Stiles said, and Derek’s eyes flicked over to the loose wires hanging from the dashboard. 

Great, now he was hearing his voice in his mind. Would he ever escape Stiles’ commentary on every thought he had?

“No,” Stiles answered, matter of factly. “So are you going in, or…?” 

Derek glared out through the windshield at the Subaru parked in across from him, telling himself he wasn’t going to let the phantom of Stiles’ judgment dictate his life. He lasted all of twenty seconds before he turned off the car and got out.

*

The John Doe name tag had been replaced with one that said Stiles Stilinski, was the first thing Derek noticed approaching Stiles’ new room. There was also a slightly creepy illustration of a rabbit with a basket of Easter eggs taped up next to it, even though they were nowhere near Easter.

Derek really took his time staring at it, shamefully stalling but refusing to give in to the soulless, judgmental eyes of the smiling rabbit. He wasn’t being a coward, he just wasn’t going to lose to that damn rabbit.

“Creepy, right?” Scott said as he came up beside him, and Derek nodded. “His dad and I are about to go grab some lunch, but you can go in.”

Derek nodded again, and as the Sheriff passed him, he squeezed his arm reassuringly. Or sympathetically. Derek didn’t know him well enough to know how to interpret that.

A full two minutes after they left, Derek pushed open the door and walked into Stiles’ room.

Stiles didn’t notice him at first; he was frowning down at the remote to the TV, and stabbing at the buttons, trying to change the channel from a sappy Lifetime movie. It looked like he hadn’t quite found his coordination yet, but given that he’d been in a coma for a year, Derek was amazed he was moving at all. Magic probably had something to do with that.

He still looked small in his hospital bed, but his shoulders were broad and suggested he wouldn’t look very small at all once he regained his strength and muscles. There were dark circles under his eyes and a scar in his hairline that was hard to ignore, but he was sitting up and the breathing tube was gone and when he finally changed the channel and sneered down at the remote in victory, his brow crinkled.

Derek’s life would’ve been a lot easier if he’d been ugly.

Stiles looked up to the TV to see what channel he’d landed on, his tongue poking out through his lips in concentration, and froze when he noticed Derek standing in the doorway. Silently, without announcing his presence, like some kind of stalker.

They stared at each other for probably a solid minute, Stiles totally confused and Derek suddenly at a complete loss for anything to say after a month of saying whatever the hell he wanted to Stiles through the radio. Then it visibly clicked on Stiles’ face and he smiled crookedly and reached out, and Derek had no choice but to step forward and take his slightly shaky hand.

A month of talking and driving, arguing, bickering, fighting, and sitting in stubborn, angry silence, and now finally, they were touching.

“Hey, Derek.”

His voice was quiet and scratchy, still regaining its strength after a year of silence, but that was definitely Stiles’ voice.

Stiles was back.

[glimmerglanger]

Whumptober 2020 - Day 24

Remember I said I had another pair (technically two pairs) of interconnected prompts for the rest of the month? Well, this is the first part of the first of those sets. Conclusion tomorrow, at which point I’ll put it up on ao3. Written for:

No 28. SUCH WOW. MANY NORMAL. VERY OOPS. 

Accidents | Hunting Season | Mugged

Modern AND firefighter au, I suppose? Warnings for car accidents and severe injuries, Obi-Wan being a bit of a flirt while badly hurt. Part two turns into a meet-cute full of whump? Pre-Codywan.

~~~~~~~~

Obi-Wan saw accidents most every day. He’d grown used to assessing collisions with a clear head, taking them apart like a puzzle. Twisted metal and spilled fuel were only distractions, there to get in the way of his job, which was, at the end of the day, doing his best to make sure everyone involved walked away alive and as well as possible.

He knew the best way to open a crushed door on an old pick-up. In fact, he considered, panting up at the ceiling, trying to think around the crowding, noisy pain in his head, he wouldn’t try to take the door in this situation.

Someone - he didn’t know who, hadn’t gotten more than a passing glance at the vehicle - had T-boned his truck. They must have been driving a tank, he thought, with a weak laugh, because they’d driven away just fine afterwards, leaving him half-off the road, crushed against a tree, dark smoke rising out from the hood through the frozen air, his truck alarm blaring on and off for no reason he could discern.

He needed to focus. He knew that. Needed to stay conscious. Think his was through the situation. 

So...so, no, he wouldn’t have tried to open the door, not if he’d been sent out to the scene of the accident from the station, not if it were someone else sitting in the driver’s seat. Metal was pressed all against him, crushed around him. Crushed into him, he considered, twitching the fingers on his left hand and stopping as a wave of cold heat rocketed up his arm.

The front of his vehicle had been striven in by the tree he’d hit, on his way off the road. There was pressure, against his lower gut, the hard, rounded edge of the steering wheel, he thought. Internal injuries would, he considered, explain the problems he was having breathing deeply. Focusing.

That was right. He needed to focus. Someone had hit him, slammed into the driver’s side door, pushed him off the road and into this tree, left the truck smoking. He smelled something burning. They’d driven away. He’d watched the red of their brake lights disappear, tried to focus on the license plate and caught, perhaps, a pair of sixes….

And now he was pinned into place, metal holding him in a cold embrace. Opening the door, pulling the metal away all at once, could end up causing major hemorrhaging. So, if he’d been the first responder, instead of the person trapped in their truck, he would not have pulled the door right away.

His head swam. He could taste salt and copper in the back of his throat.

It was dark, he considered, staring through the cracked windshield. And he’d been on the way home, after a terribly long shift. The night was in that twisty period where it might have been better called morning, the wrong side of three A.M.

He considered the likelihood of anyone else driving down the road before the blood loss got him and didn’t like the answer he got. His cell was on the other seat, in his coat. There but unreachable.

Obi-Wan swallowed, half-laughed, and shut his eyes, just for a moment.

When he opened them again, his ears were ringing. The truck alarm had stopped, which was a relief. He was shivering, all over.

He stared forward, wondering, absently, what had woken him up. It must have been the light, he considered, groggy. For a long beat, he assumed the sun had come up, surprised he’d lived that long. It took him a long, confused moment to realize that it wasn’t the sun’s rays streaming in through his windshield, distorted by all the smoke.

The angle was all wrong. And the light was too white-blue and focused.

Headlights, his brain supplied, after he considered and discarded a half-dozen other options. Another vehicle. For a moment, he thought it was going to hit him, too, and he braced, but the lights weren’t moving.

They just stayed where they were, and he stared forward into them, thoughts getting more sluggish by the moment, until someone swore, loudly, close by and said, “Holy shit, there’s someone in here.”

Obi-Wan rolled his head to the side. The noise had come through his broken window. He blinked, his night-vision gone from staring into the light, and said, “Yes, hello.”

“Fuck,” his as-yet-unseen visitor said, eloquently. He had a nice voice, though, this strange man who had found Obi-Wan on the side of the road. Soothing. “Hey, are you alright?”

“Not really,” Obi-Wan said, feeling a crooked smile stretch across his mouth, his focus drifting away again. “How are you?” His eyes were very heavy, too heavy to keep open. He shut them, just for a moment.

He snapped them open again to his guest snapping, “Hey, hey, I need you to stay with me, alright? Keep your eyes open, alright?”

The voice was coming from a different place. Obi-Wan’s head wasn’t working right, and he recognized that, from somewhere far away. He rolled his head to the other side. There was a man in the passenger seat. Obi-Wan was almost certain he hadn’t been there before.

He was...unfamiliar. Obi-Wan had never seen him before. He had close-cropped dark hair. A set, unhappy look to his mouth. A scar down one side of his face.  “Dashing,” Obi-Wan slurred, vaguely worried that he seemed to have stopped shivering at some point.

“What?” the man asked. He wasn’t sitting properly. He had one knee on the seat and was leaning over the center console towards Obi-Wan. He was, Obi-Wan realized, after a bleary moment, doing something down by Obi-Wan’s hips. Obi-Wan looked down, head dropping heavily, and watched him slice through the seat belt with a knife.

“I said you look very dashing,” Obi-Wan gasped out, the consideration that, perhaps, this man was trying to help him slowly rising in his head. He licked his lips and asked, “Do you think you could call 911?”

“Rex is on the phone with them now,” the man said. Obi-Wan wondered who Rex was. 

“Oh, good,” he said, instead of asking. He couldn’t seem to lift his head again, which was a shame. The angle hurt his neck, terribly. He blinked, trying to focus, and managed to rasp out, “Thank you.”

The man laughed, sudden and sharp, startled, and Obi-Wan wondered what was funny but...he was too tired to ask, so tired, and--

“Hey!” the man said, loud and sharp, close. “I need you to stay awake,” he said, and, oh, he’d put a hand on Obi-Wan’s cheek, pushing his head back up so it wasn’t just hanging. He had warm skin. Calluses on his palm and fingers. “Can you do that for me?”

“Probably not, I’m afraid,” Obi-Wan told him, too tired to try to lie. The man swore, and...oh, he wasn’t in the passenger seat anymore. Obi-Wan wasn’t sure how he’d gotten around the truck, but he was reaching in through the driver’s side window. Obi-Wan blinked up at him, he seemed blurry, and asked, “What’s your name?”

The man frowned, briefly, and turned to snap some words that were just white-noise in Obi-Wan’s head. Maybe he was talking to someone else. Whoever was calling 911. That would be nice. He shut his eyes.

“--Cody,” the man said, hand cupped warm against Obi-Wan’s jaw. “Hey, did you hear me?”

“Cody,” Obi-Wan slurred, because that was a name, wasn’t it? He’d wanted to know the man’s name, hadn’t he? “The handsome man. From my truck.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” the man said, he flashed a smile that looked reassuring, turned and spoke to someone else for a beat. Obi-Wan leaned against his hand. He couldn’t support the weight of his own head. It felt like it weighed roughly a ton. “Hey, hey, no, none of that, stay awake. Hey, we can’t keep him like this, he’s not going to last.”

“Fuck,” another man said, voice very similiar, so similar that for a moment Obi-Wan thought it was still Cody. “Well they’re not going to--”

“--going to hurt,” someone said. Cody. Obi-Wan blinked, made a questioning sound, and tried to scream. He didn’t think he succeeded. There was white-hot pain, lurching through his body, turning the world inside out for a moment, so that nothing else existed outside of his bones and gut, all set on fire and frozen to ice and--

“--give my hand a squeeze, can you do that for me?” There were spots of white, overhead, Obi-Wan stared up at them, drifting. The pain had gone away, somewhere else. Everything had gone somewhere else. 

Something leaned over, blocking out the spots of light. A face. Handsome. Cody. “Hey, hey, there you go, that’s good,” he said, “you just stay with us, alright? Squeeze my hand, can you do that?”

Obi-Wan took a moment to remember where his hand was. Oh, it was warm. That helped locate it. He closed his fingers, as best he could, and heard Cody make a relieved sound. Thinking about his hand brought back awareness of the rest of his body, of something soft under his back.

He was, he realized, after a long minute, laying down. He squeezed Cody’s hand again and slurred, “What?”

“We’re taking you to the ER,” Cody said, and Obi-Wan blinked at him, because that didn’t make any sense. They were supposed to wait for the ambulance. But he was vaguely aware of the thrum of an engine. He tried to focus past Cody’s face. There were… seats, he supposed. Another man, sitting in one of them.

“Why?” he asked, trying to take stock of the rest of his body. They’d...wedged him in to the backseat of a vehicle, he thought. His legs were up, elevated. He couldn’t move his left arm, but it felt warm and far away. 

“Because you were going to die if we left you there,” Cody said, drawing back Obi-Wan’s focus. He had his other hand on Obi-Wan’s stomach, pushing so hard it hurt, more than a little. Pressure, Obi-Wan thought. Pressure to keep his blood inside, where it belonged. He was… sitting in the leg-room in the backseat, wedged in awkwardly.

Obi-Wan closed his eyes and slurred, “Wear your seatbelt.”

Cody made a sound. A laugh. And then he squeezed Obi-Wan’s hand and said, “Hey, no, eyes open, come on.”

Obi-Wan shook his head, just a little, and Cody shouted something at someone, maybe him. But it didn’t make any sense to tell him to drive faster. He couldn’t drive at all. And the dark behind his eyes was so warm and welcoming.

He sank into it, vaguely aware of a squeeze around his hand before he slipped under, completely.