#is having the opposite of the intended effect of trying to get him to fade into obscurity | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

eliemo · 2 years

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Real Men

“Oh, I know you don’t,” the man said calmly, his tone sending shivers down Nightwing’s spine. And then his gaze slid to where Tim was tied against the beam, defenseless, and Dick’s heart dropped. “But he does.”

It wasn’t that Dick enjoyed torturing his brother.

It was just that the look on Tim’s face when every single one of his buttons were being pushed at once and he was so desperately trying to keep up that mature Robin facade in the face of childish frustration was priceless.

Besides, annoying his little brothers was what Dick did best. When the city was quiet, he had to find some way to entertain himself.

“Will you leave me alone?” Tim snapped for what had to be the fifth time in the last twenty minutes, glaring up at Nightwing’s perch on the edge of the rooftop. “I don’t need you to babysit me.”

“I’m not babysitting.” He wasn’t, not really. Tim had started going out on patrol by himself more and more and that was perfectly fine with Dick. He was Robin, he could handle himself. He could remember his own frustration at Bruce’s mother henning, years ago when he’d been Tim’s age, and he knew he’d only be a hypocrite if he tried to voice any concerns. Still. He was younger than Dick had been when he’d first started working without Batman’s supervision. “I’m just on patrol, Tin Man.”

“Then patrol the other side of the city!”

Dick smirked, ignoring him as he continued to follow Robin from the rooftops, balancing along the edge and watching Tim stalk through the alleyways from his vantage point. It wouldn’t hurt for Tim to have someone watching from up above anyway, especially when he was used to Batman being a second pair of eyes.

Not that he was worried about Tim. Absolutely not. He’d never hear the end of it if Tim started getting ideas like that in his head.

But Bruce clearly was, and if someone pressed him he could just pass it off as doing a favor for an antsy, overprotective Batman. He’d mentioned to Dick that night, subtle as ever, that Tim was going out on patrol alone again. He’d then pointedly reminded Dick that the streets had been growing more active every day.

It had been a thinly veiled suggestion that Dick tail him, just to make sure everything went smoothly. He was a little embarrassed by how quickly he’d scrambled to suit up and track his little brother down, the rush of adrenaline fading as soon as he’d caught sight of Robin, alone and unharmed.

Not that he listened to Bruce. He’d made the decision to track Tim down all on his own, because there was no way he was going to pass up the opportunity to pester his little brother all night. Keeping Batman from a heart attack was just a bonus.

“Come on, Robin,” Nightwing called, because Tim was still scowling up at him and, as entertaining as it was, he needed his brother to focus on the job. “You’ll keep an eye on things down there, and I’ll keep an eye on things up here. Efficiency, you know? The way Dad would want it.”

The comment seemed to have the opposite of the desired effect, Tim's eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Did he send you to follow me?”

“No,” Dick said, too fast to be convincing. Tim had always been too smart for his own good. “I didn’t even know you were out tonight.”

Only half of that had been a lie. Bruce didn’t send him anywhere. He was an adult, he wasn’t Batman’s sidekick anymore. He went after Tim because he wanted to, and he happened to be in town for the week.

“Right.” Something in Tim’s expression shifted, clear enough for Dick to notice despite the distance between them. “I can handle myself, you know. I’m just as capable as any of you.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dick said, the words coming out a bit more curt than he’d intended, frustration bubbling to the surface at Tim’s defensiveness. “Maybe I just wanted to check in on you.”

“I don’t need you to.”

“So you’ve said.” Dick deflated, still balancing along the edge of the roof as he followed Robin through Gotham’s dark streets. “If you’re really this pissy about it I can get out of your hair.”

Tim scoffed, steps faltering for a heartbeat as he glanced up at Nightwing, but some of the tension had seeped from his words when he spoke again.

“Whatever,” Robin said, just loud enough for him to catch from up above. “You can stay if you shut up.”

Dick smirked again, twirling his batons at his sides. “No promises. I’ve got a lot to say.”

“Yeah, we’re all aware,” Tim snarked. “You—”

“If I’m silent it’s just like you’re on patrol with B again, and where’s the fun in that? It’s like I’m the only one with a sense of humor.”

“Nightwing.”

“Patrolling with Batman’s like walking around with an angry brick wall. All broody and focused. And I’m pretty sure Red Hood—”

“Nightwing.”

Dick froze, left standing on the far corner of the rooftop by the time he realized Tim wasn’t below him anymore. He’d stopped a few paces away, shoulders tense, wide eyes darting back and forth beneath his mask.

Like Tim had flipped a switch, Nightwing dropped the act and fell silent, hands curling around his batons as he scanned the streets below, Gotham motionless and silent beneath him. “Robin?”

A beat passed, nothing but the wind and distant traffic to fill the suddenly heavy air. “Did you hear that?”

His voice was hushed, just loud enough for Nightwing to be able to hear from the roofs if he strained, eyes flickering back to his brother before setting back on scanning the streets.

“Hear what?” Dick asked, suddenly wishing he had Batman’s cowl. He’d kill to be able to scan for any nearby heat signatures right now. He really should ask Bruce to upgrade his mask. “I don’t—”

He wasn’t given a chance to finish his thought, the words dying in his throat when something cold slammed into the side of his neck, right where his skin was exposed, catching him so off guard so suddenly he nearly lost his balance completely. He blinked, reaching up to press a hand against the stinging skin, freezing when his fingers found metal.

And then Dick’s body was on fire, seizing in agony as it felt like every little inch of skin was being soaked in fire, his own scream lost to the shrill ringing in his ears.

Dick couldn’t call out to Tim, couldn’t turn his head to check on Robin’s status- to make sure his brother wasn’t undergoing a similar treatment. He choked on his own scream, the electric shock still coursing through his body, sapping all control from spasming limbs.

He didn’t even realize he was falling until he hit the ground, the wind knocked out of him, blinking up at the blurry sight of the roof where he’d been just seconds ago. The shock only lasted a few seconds but it felt like an eternity before it faded, ebbing away to make room for the white hot agony now shooting down his spine and leg from his less than graceful fall. It felt like he’d been dipped in acid, and then thrown on a pile of hot coals for good measure.

“—ightwing? Nightwing?”

Tim’s voice sounded distorted and far away, like Dick’s head was being held underwater, but he could still hear the panic in his little brother’s voice, clear as day, and Robin’s fear spurred something back to life in Nightwing’s chest.

He moved to sit up, to push himself up on shaky elbows, but the burst of pain came crashing down once again, shorter this time, but intense enough to send him crashing back down to the ground.

There was a blur of movement, Nightwing left gasping for breath as he watched a figure move towards him, muscles and limbs still twitching uselessly as the pain slowly subsided into a barely manageable throb.

He was barely able to make out dark clothes and a cloth mask before the sight of a boot flying towards his face sent his whole world spiraling into a dark nothing.

Dick came back to the waking world with the distinct feeling that he’d been hit by a truck.

It wasn’t the first time he’d woken up sore and disorientated, sometimes patrol left him with more bruises than clear skin in the mornings, but now it felt like every bone in his body had been meticulously removed, banged around a little, and forcibly shoved back into his battered body. His left leg and back hurt the worst, the pain heavy and intense, red hot waves of agony pooling through his skin with each labored breath.

Awareness came slowly, the world filtering in at a nauseating pace, and it took what little self control he had not to close his eyes and go back to sleep. It felt like he was laying on concrete, the ground beneath him cold and hard, digging into his skin and only aggravating his injuries.

Dick furrowed his brow and made a valiant attempt to peel his eyes open, breath hitching at the new spark of pain shooting down his skull at the attempt.

“Nightwing?”

The voice yanked him back to the present, small and far away, fuzzy memories piecing back together as Nightwing forced his eyes to open, blinking sluggishly to take in his surroundings.

It was some kind of warehouse, empty and clearly long abandoned, dust floating through the air in gray clouds. Grainy sunlight was filtering through a small crack in the high ceiling, the morning dawn steadily approaching. He’d been out cold all night. The thought made his stomach clench in panic.

“Nightwing?” Robin’s voice called again, and Dick snapped to attention at his brother’s call, frantically searching for the source. “Are you awake? Are you okay?”

Dick tried to answer, tried to call out and tell Tim to stop being such a damn worrywart and lower his voice before he made Dick’s headache worse, but all that came out was a garbled groan, the words lodged in his throat.

He tried to move, turn himself in the direction of Robin’s voice, only to freeze when something kept him still. Dick was on his stomach, he could register that much now, cheek pressed into the frigid concrete floor. His arms were held down against his back, something tying both of his wrists secure, his ankles given a similar treatment. Great.

Someone had taken them- someone had managed to get the jump on Nightwing and Robin on a routine patrol in a relatively quiet part of Gotham, and Dick had been left tied up and useless all night while they did god only knew what to Tim.

God, Tim. They’d taken his baby brother. He’d left Tim alone.

Dick couldn’t catch his breath.

Ignoring the pain, Nightwing forced himself to pick his head up off the floor, gritting his teeth when stars danced along his vision, threatening to send him spiraling back into unconsciousness. He gasped as he turned himself over onto his side, frantically searching for Tim, needing to see that he was here, that he wasn’t hurt, that he was still alive.

He fell onto his shoulder, squinting through the dim lighting, adrenaline and panic crashing into a weightless relief when he caught sight of a familiar blur of red and yellow.

“Robin,” he croaked, doing his best to shuffle closer. “What—?”

“We’re okay,” Tim said, too quickly, and it sounded almost scripted. Like he was trying to mimic what Bruce or Dick might have said to him in this situation. “Everything’s okay. Don’t move too much, I think your leg is broken.”

Dick responded by immediately trying to move his leg, biting back a whimper at the pain. “I think I fell.”

They’d fucking electrocuted him, attached something to his neck and sent him stumbling off the edge. He hadn’t even seen it coming. If they’d done the same to Tim…

“Are you alright? What did they do to you?”

“Nothing,” Tim said, and the fog was steadily lifting from Dick’s head, allowing him to properly assess Robin’s condition. Tim was pressed against one of the support beams, his arms tied tight behind his back. There was a bit of dried blood around his nose, his hair plastered against his forehead, but other than that he seemed unharmed. Scared, but unharmed. “I think they have some kind of… new camouflage tech, I don’t know. I didn’t see anyone until you were… you were already on the ground.”

Nightwing cringed, pushing down his guilt. He could focus on that when they were safe. “They didn’t hurt you?”

Tim shook his head, shifting in his restraints. “They just… they knocked you out and said… one of them had a gun and they said if I fought they’d…that you’d—”

He cut himself off with a ragged breath, quickly looking away, and Dick didn’t need him to finish to get a pretty good idea of what had happened after that. All because Dick hadn’t been fast enough.

“I’m sorry,” he said, quietly shuffling closer. There was still a good few feet of space between them, and Dick cursed his own weakness keeping them apart. “It’s okay now. We’re gonna be okay, I promise. I’ll get us out of here.”

Tim didn’t respond and Nightwing focused on the struggle with his own restraints, tugging uselessly, ignoring the way his muscles screamed in protest. They’d been tied with rope, the knot tight enough to cut off circulation, his wrists already sleek with sweat and blood. Whoever had taken them knew what they were doing, and Dick couldn’t get any leverage to begin trying to untie them.

“They won’t budge,” Tim said after a moment, and the resignation in his voice wasn’t something Dick was used to hearing from him. It didn’t suit him, wide eyed and lively as he always was, determined to do the impossible. “I’ve been trying all night.”

“Maybe you’re just weak, ” Dick said, hoping the familiar teasing did something for their nerves, even if he knew escape was hopeless for the time being. “Let the expert work, Robin. I’ll have us out of here before you can blink.”

Tim scoffed, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at his lips and Dick counted that as a win. “Whatever, Nightwing.”

Something else suddenly clicked into place, Dick freezing from his spot on the floor as he blinked up at his little brother. “They didn’t take off your mask.”

“Yeah,” Robin said. He sounded wary and a bit confused, but not overly worried about it. “Nobody even tried. They left yours on too.”

Somehow, Dick doubted that meant anything good.

He didn’t get a chance to voice his rising concern before the awful screeching of metal filled the air, a heavy door squeaking on its hinges as it was pried open, followed by heavy footsteps echoing against the concrete.

“Well, look who’s awake,” someone called, their voice grating against Dick’s ears, the sound only worsening the headache he was still nursing. “I hope you slept well, Nightwing. We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”

Nightwing bristled, counting at least three pairs of footsteps making their way towards the indisposed vigilantes.

There was no way in hell he was going to stay there, defenseless and vulnerable. Not when he had someone to protect. Every little movement felt like fire against his skin, but he was still Batman’s son. A few bruises and broken bones weren’t going to slow him down.

He pushed himself onto his knees, fighting back the urge to cry out against the pain, panting as he glared up at his captors.

There were three men, two trailing behind one who carried himself like the obvious leader, all broad shoulders and straight back, a stance that screamed a desperate imitation of the presence Batman held on Gotham’s streets. A stance they’d all seen, and beaten down, countless times before.

Dick might laugh, if the man hadn’t already proven himself competent enough to take down two heroes.

“Better than I’ve slept in days,” Nightwing said, keeping his voice loose and relaxed. “The electric shock really did wonders. Thanks for that, by the way. And the boot to the head was a nice touch.”

“Sorry for the rough treatment,” the man said, reeking of smug, fabricated politeness that was starting to remind Nightwing of Cobblepot. “Somehow I doubt you two would have gone willingly.”

“Maybe if you had asked nicely.” All three men were watching him now, looking mildly amused, and Dick scrambled to keep it that way. Anything to keep the attention off of Tim. “What, did you just want to chat? Show off your new tech, try to scare me a bit? You know, if you wanted to unmask me you should have done that while I was asleep. I bite. Seriously, just ask Riddler. One time—”

“They told me you would be a chatterbox,” the man said, cutting Dick off with a barking laugh. “But you really never shut up, do you?”

Dick shrugged- or tried to, held back by the restraints on his wrists, the pain in his shoulder nearly making him black out again. “It’s a talent.”

He hoped it covered up his rising uneasiness, the implication that these psychos had been in contact with someone who was already acquainted with Nightwing and his team promising nothing good.

“What do you want?” Tim snarled, voice ringing out through the warehouse, small but steady. Dick tensed, biting back the desperate plea on his tongue for his brother to stay quiet. “You went through all this trouble to kidnap us, didn’t you? Get to the damn point before someone notices we’re missing.”

For a moment Dick’s pride overpowered his fear, the leader smirking as he turned towards Robin. “I see it runs in the family.”

“He’s right,” Dick said, praying for the attention to turn back on him. “The big guy keeps a close eye on things, you know. And the floor really isn’t as comfortable as it might look. So let’s get this over with so we can all be on our merry way.”

The men chuckled, cold laughter making Dick shudder. “Somehow I don’t think we’ll have to worry about the Batman. Not for a while anyway.”

Dick didn’t have the guts to ask what he meant by that. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

“But if you’re really so eager, Nightwing—” The man stepped closer, and Dick forced himself not to cringe away. “The Bat is planning to shut down a very important operation of Penguin’s, and he’s been getting a little too close for comfort. I’d like to know what location he plans on hitting, when he plans on doing it, and how. You tell me exactly what I want to know, in detail, and both of you walk free.”

God, of course. Dick should have known this had to do with Penguin, everyone who worked around that man seemed to develop the same aggravating poshness before long. It would explain the new technology too- Penguin’s resources had always managed to rival their own.

It hardly made a difference, in Dick’s opinion. Because what mattered was that he had absolutely no fucking clue. At Bruce’s request, he’d spent the last couple of weeks monitoring an entirely separate rise in power on the other side of the city, leaving the routine chaos to Bruce and Tim, and Jason when he decided to pop in and be helpful.

He barked a laugh, hoping it came out less panicked than he felt. “What? You think I spend all day looking over Batman’s shoulder?”

“Don’t touch him,” Dick snarled, the words leaving his mouth before the other was even done speaking. “Don’t fucking touch him. I’ll kill you, do you hear me? He’s just a kid.”

The leader’s eyes went back to Nightwing, the amusement in his smile making Dick’s blood boil. “Do I look like the kind of man who would lay a hand on a child, Nightwing? Believe me, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Dick’s eyes flickered to Tim before he could think better of it, catching his brother’s gaze and holding it steady, like it could offer at least a bit of reassurance. He hoped there was something on his face that looked comforting, something that silently promised he’d get them both out of this.

They’d be fine. They always were.

Even through the panic and confusion, Dick could see the gears turning in Tim’s head, fighting to work out the best plan all on his own, to make sense of the man’s words.

He smiled, despite everything. That was his brother. His wonderful, genius, absolutely idiotic hopeful baby brother.

There was a blur of movement out of the corner of his eye, glancing away from Tim just long enough to see the man produce something small and metallic from his coat pocket.

“I hope it’s not too uncomfortable,” the man said, and Nightwing stared blankly. “Although I bet you haven’t even realized it's still in there, have you?”

It took Dick a moment, frantically trying to understand his captor’s words, before it dawned on him.

He had just enough time to realize that the cold sting of metal in his neck was still there, a background sting compared to the rest of his injuries, before there was a piercing buzz in his ear and the burning agony of the electric shock was back with a vengeance.

It took all of Dick’s strength not to scream, reminding himself over and over again that Tim was right there he had to be strong for Tim, forcing it back down with a choked off gasp of pain as his body seized.

He couldn't remember losing his balance but suddenly he was back on the ground, temple colliding with the concrete. At least the electricity was drowning out the pain of his concussion.

“Stop!” He could barely make out Tim’s voice, and he latched onto it like a lifeline, curling his bound hands into trembling fists. “Stop it! Leave him alone!”

And just like that, it was over. The air rushed back into his lungs, the force of the sudden relief hitting like a sack of bricks, his head swimming. His limbs didn’t stop spasming, twitching out of his control as he lay there on the floor, wracked with shivers and unable to curl in on himself with the way his arms and legs were tied.

“I’d really hate to keep doing that to him,” the leader was saying, muffled by the ringing of Dick’s ears, and it took him a moment to realize he was talking to Tim. Through the exhaustion and lingering pain, Dick felt a surge of protective rage flare to life in his chest. “So why don’t you make this easy for everyone, Robin? Tell me what I want to know, and you and your friend can go home.”

There was a beat of heavy silence before Tim answered. Or maybe time was just moving painfully slow for Dick. “How do I know you won't just kill us the second you get your information?”

“You have my word,” the man said, and Dick might have laughed if he had the strength. “As a show of good faith, I haven’t touched your masks. Your identities are being kept completely secret, no matter how…curious my employer may be. I was hoping it could help you to trust me a bit more.”

“If you wanted us to trust you,” Tim growled out, stupidly reckless, looking death in the eye with a smile. Dick was pretty sure he’d been the one to teach him that. “You wouldn't have kidnapped us.”

“Like I said,” the leader smirked, seemingly unbothered. “I doubt you would have come willingly. You vigilantes have a reputation. Now- are you going to tell me what I need to know?”

Tim hesitated, shifting in his restraints, and the panic hit Nightwing full force, allowing him to find his voice again.

“Robin,” he snapped, all eyes turning to him as he struggled for leverage to push himself up again. “Don’t tell them anything, do you understand? Not a thing. They— gah!”

He cut himself off with his own strangled cry, a brand new kind of pain shooting down his leg.

In his panic to be heard, he’d failed to notice one of the men making their way to his side, their boot now pressed firmly down on Dick’s broken leg, twisting their heel into swollen flesh beneath the battered Nightwing suit.

“Stop it!” Tim screamed again, renewing his fight against the restraints. “Get off him!”

“I’m fine,” Dick forced out, clenching his jaw as the man pressed down harder. He could handle this. He was not going to break under the boot of one of Penguin’s mindless goons. “Robin, I’m fine! Don’t- ah! You- you can't tell them anything!”

They couldn’t risk giving away any information, and he knew Tim was well aware of that. If it was a big enough operation that Penguin was this worried about losing it, it meant lives could be at stake. The safety of the city could depend on Bruce shutting down whatever Penguin was building up to this time.

“Well?” The leader sneered, stepping forward. “What’s it going to be?”

Tim pried his gaze away from Nightwing, meeting Penguin’s henchman with steely eyes, and the warm pride in his chest kept Dick tethered to reality. That’s my little brother.

“Go fuck yourself.”

Dick had just enough time to smile over the idea of Alfred chiding Tim for his language before he was sent under the waves of relentless agony once again with the click of a button.

Dick had no idea how much time had passed. He didn’t know how many times the electricity had been turned on and off, or if he’d even been given a break at all. He’d long ago given up on the fight not to scream, strangled cries he barely even recognized as his own filling the warehouse.

He was floating in and out of consciousness now, never able to escape the pain, choking and sobbing and doing everything in his power not to beg. He wouldn’t. No matter how bad it got, he would not be weak in front of Tim. He wouldn’t be the reason Robin gave in.

Bruce would come for them. They’d already been gone all night, which meant at any moment Batman would break down those doors and put an end to this. Their family would be here soon to take them home.

Dick could take this. He’d had worse. Even if he couldn’t recall anything off the top of his head, he knew he must have. He’d always had worse. But it was nearly impossible to think about anything outside of the torture he was being put through.

“Nightwing.” Tim’s voice had been the only thing keeping him going, scared and far away as it was. Robin’s words had been filtering through the air, just barely out of reach, like he was calling through a tunnel, slowly fading farther and farther until—

“Nightwing!”

Dick’s eyes snapped open (when had he closed them?) jolting upright with a gasp, panicked breaths coming out nothing but pained wheezes. It took him a moment to realize that the relentless shocks through his body had stopped completely, and it was just the two of them in the now silent warehouse.

“What?” He called, or tried to call out, anyway. All that came out was a series of awful sounding cough that made bile burn at the back of his throat.

“It’s okay,” Tim said, but his voice was shaking. “You’re okay. You’re okay, Nightwing. I’m here, just breathe. Come on, just take some deep breaths.”

Dick nodded, fighting the exhaustion even as his chest felt impossibly tight, tugging ruthlessly at his hands still bound together against his back.

He needed to pull himself together. He couldn’t fall apart like this, not when Tim sounded so scared. His baby brother should not be the one comforting him. Not now. Not ever. That was Dick’s job.

“M’ good,” he assured, even as it came out breathless and slurred. “I’m okay. I’m sorry. I… what happened?”

“You passed out,” Tim said, and the crack in his voice betrayed just how scared he was. God, he was still so young. “They said they were going to give you a break. I don’t know how long we have.”

Dick nodded, the movement making his brain feel like it was being sloshed around in his skull. “Do you know how long we’ve been here? How…how long have they…?

He didn’t need to find the words for Tim to understand the question. How long had they been torturing him? How much time have I lost?

“I don’t know.”

“Robin—"

“I don’t know!” Tim snapped, and he sounded frantic now. “Everything’s just…it’s all blurred together and it wouldn’t stop. They wouldn’t stop hurting you and I—“

“Hey, it’s okay.” He didn’t want to keep hearing about it. He didn’t think he could handle it. He could still feel the pain, phantom shocks running up and down his body, bound arms and legs still twitching against his will. “It’s okay, Robin. Really, I’m good. I’ve been tortured before, this is nothing.”

It wasn’t something anyone should ever have to say to their brother, their baby brother who was still just a kid, but he didn’t have a choice. He needed Tim to stay calm, to trust that Dick could hold out and take this.

“You can’t tell them anything,” Dick said, doing everything he could to keep his voice strong. “You know that, Robin. We can’t risk it.”

“I know,” Robin said, impossibly small, and Dick’s heart ached. “I know, but… but—”

“It doesn’t matter what they do to me,” Nightwing said. “I can handle it until we get out of here. Do not tell them what they want to know, do you understand?”

The silence that stretched in between them was suffocating, and Dick fought to make out his brother’s expression, a nearly impossible feat between their masks, the distance between them, and the fact that his vision hasn’t completely unblurred since the torture had stopped.

For a moment, a part of him was terrified Tim was going to refuse. But then he took a shaky breath, finally speaking again. “I can’t tell them anything.”

Nightwing nodded, falling limp against the cold floor. “Good. Thank you.”

“No, I…” Tim trailed off, taking in another shuddering breath. Like he was trying to keep himself from panicking. “I mean I can’t tell them anything. I don’t have anything to tell them.”

Dick froze, his weakening fight against the restraints pausing as the words settled in, the silence breathtaking as his heart leaped to his throat. “You—”

“Batman’s been working on this alone,” Robin said, voice like ice. “He said it was too dangerous and that I should just focus on keeping the streets quiet. He…Hood’s been helping out a little but as far as I know, Batman’s the only one working on this.”

It took a moment for Dick to find his voice, the fear starting to creep in for the first time. “Oh.”

“I tried to tell them,” Tim continued, and Dick hated how frantic he was beginning to sound. “I tried. I told them I didn’t know but they- they didn’t believe me, they… Nightwing, they’re not gonna stop.”

It should have been a relief- at least this way there was no outcome where these assholes got what they wanted- but it felt like a bucket of ice water had been tossed over his aching body, suddenly nauseatingly aware of the situation they’d found themselves in.

They were going to torture Dick in front of Tim for information neither of them had. There had been no way he was going to let Tim give up anyway, not when lives were at stake but…but the knowledge that there was a way out of this if it became too much, that there would be a way to end this if they broke Nightwing and he needed the pain to stop before Tim lost his big brother… it had been a sliver of comfort Dick hadn’t even realized he’d been holding onto. And now it was gone.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, breathless. “We wouldn’t give them anything anyway. B will be here any minute, I’ll get my ass kicked for letting you get captured, and these assholes will get put away for good. Just gotta hold out a bit longer.”

“You didn’t let me get captured,” Tim said softly. “You fell off a building.”

Nightwing huffed a laugh, resisting the urge to shut his eyes. “I was supposed to look out for you tonight.”

Another few seconds of silence followed before Tim responded, and Dick went back to pulling at his restraints, desperate for any kind of distraction. “So you were babysitting me.”

“It wasn’t babysitting.”

“Did Batman send you?” Tim demanded, picking up the old fight like the two of them weren’t being held hostage in a freezing cold warehouse with the promise of torture hanging over them like a raincloud. “I told him I could handle it!”

“He knows you can.”

“Clearly not!” Tim spat, and Dick needed to quell that anger before he did something stupid. “Both of you think I’m incompetent! I just wanted to prove that I could do one patrol without him over my shoulder every second. And then of course you show up, because you can never trust me to be an adult and—”

“I’m not doing this with you right now,” Dick snapped. It was harsher than he’d intended but he was tired and his body hurt and he didn’t have the energy to fight again. If he was going to die here, his last moments weren’t going to be spent with Tim chewing him out for caring. “Nobody thinks you’re incompetent, okay? Jesus Christ. Maybe we just don’t want you to get killed, you ever think of that? Maybe we’re sick of watching the people we love die.”

“I—”

“You’re not an adult, Robin,” Nightwing said. “You’re still a kid. And you’re my brother. I don’t care how pissed off it makes you, I don’t care if you hate me for it. Nobody’s going to throw you in the deep end and leave you there. I’m not gonna turn my back and let you do this all on your own.”

God, he owed Bruce an apology. Was this how he felt when Dick was nothing but a reckless little kid, demanding independence years too early?

As shitty as everything was right now, as out of control it had spiraled, this was the best outcome Dick could have hoped for. He didn’t want to think about what could have happened if he hadn’t been here, if Robin had been captured all by himself. If someone had tortured his baby brother for information he didn’t have. This was always the better option. Dick getting hurt in Tim’s place, in Jason’s or Bruce’s or anyone’s place, would always be the best outcome.

Tim didn’t get a chance to respond, and Dick was left idly wondering if his brother was still mad at him before a familiar buzzing rang to life in his ear, heart squeezing in panic just before another shock tore through his body.

It caught him so off guard he couldn’t even try to keep from screaming, jerking back against the cold floor, unable to escape the pain.

It only lasted a few seconds this time, but Dick was left reeling regardless, gasping and shuddering as the door swung open again and the distant sound of footsteps wandered closer.

“Sorry about that,” the leader said, and Dick groaned against the sharp pain in his head. “Had to make sure this thing still works. I’ve never used it this long before.”

Dick wheezed, peeling his eyes open. “It works just fine.”

The men ignored him, choosing instead to round on Robin, crowding the support beam the boy was tied to. The same flare in his gut was back with a blinding rage and Dick struggled to get himself off the floor, only to fall back down with a strangled gasp of pain, the room spinning as his entire body protested the struggle.

“Hey,” he growled, fighting with everything he had to find purchase against the cement and push himself onto his knees. “I said leave him alone-”

He barely got the words out before there was a hand twisted in his hair, roughly yanking his head back so hard something in his neck popped, and Dick’s vision tunneled. In his delirium, he’d completely missed a fourth man following the group inside, standing guard beside Nightwing.

The rest of the men ignored him, the leader’s eyes only for Robin. Tim looked dangerously small, sickeningly vulnerable under their stares, hands tied tight behind his back.

“I’ll ask you again, Robin,” the leader said. Even through his blurred vision Dick could see the glint of the tiny remote in his hand, and he braced himself for another jolt. “What is Batman planning?”

“I don’t know!” Tim insisted, and Dick’s heart twisted at how frantic he sounded. “I told you, I don’t know!”

The man sighed, and his thumb had barely moved before Dick was screaming again, the pain somehow worse, thrashing and bucking in the henchmen’s unrelenting hold, barely able to register the rough hand still twisted in his hair.

It felt like his skin was burning off. It felt like he was being drowned in acid, held under while he screamed, the chemicals flooding his throat and filling his lungs, eating away at his body from the inside out, skin peeling away piece by piece until he was nothing. He could still feel the chip on his neck, biting cold metal against his skin, the only thing he could register outside of the constant agony, like a cruel mockery of his own weakness.

He knew they were dragging it out longer this time, even if there was no way to tell for sure, everything an endless blur of pain and confusion that wouldn’t stop.

He wondered if his body could even take this. He wondered if his heart was going to give out. It would offer him some relief, at the very least.

And then, just like every other time, it was gone without warning, leaving him gasping and twitching, lingering pains and shivers still wracking his body. The man finally let go of his hair, roughly shoving Nightwing to the ground, and Dick landed hard on his back against the concrete.

“Nightwing!” Tim was shouting, thrashing against his restraints. “Nightwing! Stop it! Stop it! You’re gonna kill him!”

“He’s fine,” one of the men drawled. Dick couldn’t place where it was coming from anymore, couldn’t latch onto anything. “Batman’s kid can take anything. Isn’t that right, Birdie?”

There was a blur of movement coming towards him, and Dick had just enough time to refocus on the face of the man in charge before a boot was being jammed into his broken leg. It yanked out another panicked, agonized scream before he could even try to fight it, the piercing sound ringing through the warehouse.

“Stop,” he choked out, barely audible, the plea falling from his lips without permission. “Please stop, please—”

“Get off him!” Robin screamed, drowning out his own pathetic whimpers. “Stop it! Stop!”

The pain didn’t ebb, not even when the leader shifted his weight to stand directly over the fallen hero instead, ruined leg spasming behind him. He dropped his hand to dangle the remote in Dick’s face, and he flinched before he could stop the reaction, bracing himself for another shock.

But it never came. All he heard were Tim’s screams, desperate and dangerously far away, confusion making his already scrambled head spin.

“My patience is running thin, Robin,” the man said, garbled and distant against the ringing in Dick’s ears. “I’m only going to ask you one more time. You don’t want to go back to Batman with a corpse? Tell me what he’s planning. Now.”

It took another moment to register, everything too slow and wrong, but something cold was being pressed against his exposed neck, sharp metal digging ruthlessly into his flesh.

Dick’s breath caught as his sluggish brain finally caught up with him, the knife against his throat bringing a new wave of panicked clarity, the dread wrapping around his throat like cold hands, spurring him back into action. He twisted, frantic, fighting blindly to get as far away from the weapon as he could, away from the man standing over him, away from the warehouse.

It was wild and desperate, and he was rewarded for his efforts with a well aimed slap to the back of his already pounding head. The world tilted, his vision darkening, and the knife pressed deeper into flesh as Nightwing was held still and rigid on the cold floor, hands grabbing at his arms and chest.

He felt like a wounded animal, strung up to be slaughtered, all eyes on him like his torture was sick entertainment, not just business for Penguin. Every instinct was screaming at him to fight, to find a way out, to get the blade away from his throat because nobody was coming to help him.

They’d wanted to break Nightwing and Robin slowly, force the information out of fallen heroes, but with neither of them having any information to share, the men were getting impatient. Dick imagined Penguin had given them a very strict time limit.

He wished he’d had something to give them. Anything. Bruce would understand, he always did. Plans could be reworked and rescheduled. Losing an opportunity to put Penguin behind bars, even if it put Gotham in danger, wasn’t worth Tim seeing this.

If he’d been alone, if it had just been Nightwing tied up in a warehouse with a knife to his skin, the blade already pressing hard enough to draw warm blood, it would have been a different story. He’d have looked his torturer in the eye with a crooked smile, cracked a joke if he still had the energy, and taken whatever came next.

But he could still hear Tim, his pleading growing more frantic by the second, and Dick’s throat burned when he choked on a heaving sob. Nothing was worth this. Nothing was worth Tim watching his brother die, helpless do to anything about it.

He’d never wanted this. Tim was going to feel the same grief, the same helpless agony that Dick had felt when they’d lost Jason.

They all were. It was all going right back to how it was, all their progress undone just like that, and it was all Dick’s fault.

One of the henchmen pressed down on his broken leg again, successfully draining the rest of the fight out of Nightwing, and Dick couldn’t hear himself scream over his own racing heart.

They were going to kill him. They were going to kill him and he… he couldn’t… he couldn’t—

Craning his neck forced the blade in deeper, his blood warm and sticky as it dripped down his skin and soaked into his suit, but the new position let him see Robin again. He met his eyes, Tim’s wild and brimming with panicked tears when he locked onto Dick’s, his screams quieted for the moment.

And then everything went black, and Dick couldn’t breathe.

It took him a moment to realize that he wasn’t dead, and the agony from his throat being slit never came. The knife left his skin and the weight on his leg lessened for just a moment, leaving Nightwing gasping as he blinked against the unrelenting darkness.

The overhead light flickered back to life, giving him just enough time to see a blur of red and black before it barrelled into the weight on top of him, tackling the leader off of Nightwing, and Dick wanted to sob in relief.

He never got the chance. Jason had the leader on the ground in the blink of an eye, helmet doing nothing to muffle the unwavering fury in his cry as they both crashed to the cement. Anything his brother said was quickly drowned out by the surrounding shouts, the men getting their bearings back as the overhead lights came on again, guns drawn before Dick could even breathe out a warning.

“Stay down!”

Batman’s voice overtook the room, as it always did, even when he was nowhere in sight. Despite the situation, despite death still lurking just around the corner, Dick felt himself relax, the relief dizzying. Bruce was here. Everything was going to be fine.

Assuming he wasn’t about to be shot.

But then there was a flash of black, a familiar dark cape dropping from the rafters, and Batman was practically on top of him just as the gunfire rang out, one gloved hand cupping the back of his head, the other holding the cape over them like a shield, bracing himself against the barrage of bullets.

They were chest to chest, Nightwing close enough to hear Bruce’s ragged breaths over the gunfire, and Dick found himself with the overwhelming urge to reach out and clutch at his father, hold on for dear life and squeeze his eyes shut until this was all over. He wanted to go home.

But he couldn’t move. The restraints held steady, keeping his arms pinned against his back, stopping him from reaching out, from holding onto Bruce like the scared child he’d been reduced to, denied the opportunity to prove to himself that this was real- that Bruce was really here.

He hated the way his eyes welled up with frustrated tears, cheeks burning hot as Bruce raised his head up just enough to meet his gaze, jaw clenched tight as the gunshots died down for just a moment. Dick couldn’t stop his thrashing, yanking at his arms with renewed strength despite the way every little movement brought a new wave of agony, vision going blurry as he fought to free his arms just a little so he could-

“Nightwing.” He froze at Batman’s order, blinking up with wide eyes as Bruce moved his hand to cup Dick’s face, his hold just shy of painful, firm enough to keep Dick grounded to reality. “Stand down.”

He nodded, the movement cut off with a sharp gasp as the pain in his neck worsened, blood soaking his skin and seeping into the creases of his suit.

He knew it was just a cut, the leader had drawn blood just to prove to Robin he was serious about making the killing blow if he didn’t talk, but he couldn’t help the way his heart sank when Bruce’s eyes flickered down to the wound, unable to mask the worry behind the cowl.

“Stay here,” Batman said, and then he was gone, barrelling into the closest blur of movement, sending one of Dick’s torturers crashing to the ground alongside their leader. His head hit the ground, hard, and Bruce was back on his feet before the man’s eyes were even closed. “Hood! Get Robin, now!”

Dick could barely see what was going on, left without the strength to lift his head anymore, alone and trembling on the cold floor, muscles twitching and spasming, the lingering feeling of electricity coursing through his bones still refusing to fade.

But Bruce was here- Bruce and Jason were here and they were going to get Tim to safety. Tim would be fine. Everything was going to be fine as long as they got Robin out of here.

Please just get him home safe.

That was the last thought he had before that awful, familiar buzzing sounded in his ear again and Dick was thrown back into a fit of screams.

Whoever had gotten ahold of the remote had clearly kicked it up to the highest possible voltage, probably a last ditch effort to kill Nightwing before Batman inevitably shut them down.

Not that it was necessary. Dick was fairly certain at this point a particularly strong gust of wind would have taken him out.

He couldn’t even hear himself anymore, only able to register the pain and the faceless figures moving around above him. It felt like his throat had been ripped out, nothing but a gaping hole of mangled bones and blood, and Dick choked on another sob when he still couldn’t even reach up to grasp at it. He couldn’t move an inch, helpless to comfort himself at all, trapped and writhing on the ground in agony, blood pooling around his neck.

He was going to die. The realization hit him like a bucket of ice water, a horrifying wave of clarity washing over him in the midst of blind panic. He was going to die here on the floor, his family just out of reach.

“No!”

There was another figure, a flash of red and yellow, and even with his vision darkening at the edges, Dick would always be able to recognize Tim’s voice. Especially when it sounded so terrified.

There was something else in his voice, an unshakable anger he’d never heard come from his little brother before.

And then the pain was gone, and Dick felt like he was falling.

“Robin!” He didn’t know who was shouting, but their voice was sending pinpricks of pain along his skull, his ears ringing, and he needed them to lower their voice before he vomited. “Robin get off him! That’s enough!”

It was all filtering in like faraway echoes, Dick’s vision dangerously gray as he forced himself to turn towards the noise, blinking furiously to clear his head.

It felt like a dream- Robin on the ground with one of their captors motionless beneath him, blood stained gloves slowly stopping their assault, Tim’s hands closing in and out of shaky fists, his eyes welling up with furious tears behind the mask.

Jason was beside him in an instant, hooking his hands under Tim’s shoulders and dragging him away from the bloody heap on the ground, and for once Robin didn’t even protest.

“One of them got away,” Jason said, but his voice sounded like it was underwater. “I’m going after him. I swear to fucking god I’ll kill all of them, they—”

“Don’t,” Bruce snapped, just as distant. “Get Robin in the car and wait for me.”

“What? Did you not see what those fuckers did?”

“It’s handled.”

“Handled?” Jason echoed. “He got away! He—”

“Hood,” Bruce said, uncharacteristically desperate, and in the silence that followed Dick knew they were all looking at him. “Please. I need you to help me get them home.”

It was nothing short of a miracle when Jason dropped the fight just like that, picking Tim up again and draping the smaller boy over his shoulder. Robin had tears streaming down his face, violently trembling in his brother’s hold, but he didn’t struggle or protest, worryingly limp and silent as Jason hurried towards the exit.

Dick didn’t get a chance to watch them go, blinking up in surprise when Bruce was suddenly crouched beside him again, gloved hands hovering over Nightwing’s chest, eyes flickering across every little injury. Batman opened his mouth to say something, seemed to think better of it, and snapped it shut again.

“Dad,” Dick croaked, desperate to break the silence, ignoring the way Bruce shushed him gently. His throat burned, the cut along his neck feeling vaguely like there was still a blade stuck in his skin, but he couldn’t stop. “I’m s- I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Batman said, finally closing the distance to cup Dick’s cheek with one hand. “It’s over now. You’re safe.”

“Robin—”

“He’s okay,” Bruce assured. “Red Hood has him, he’s alright. You did good.”

“They didn’t- they didn’t touch him. I wouldn’t… they- Penguin wanted—”

“I know,” Bruce said, steady and unwavering, that controlled tone that had always calmed Dick down. It took him right back to that first night, a terrified child alone for the first time in his life, curled up and sobbing in a dark circus tent, looking up when a young man crouched in front of him with an all too knowing look in his eyes. “It’s being handled. We can go home now.”

Nightwing swallowed, wrists still slick with sweat and blood as he tugged at them again, and suddenly he couldn’t catch his breath. “Untie me.”

“I’ve got you, Chum.”

“Untie me,” he rasped again, eyes wide and desperate. “Untie me, please. B, please—”

Bruce was already removing the Batarang from his belt and lifting Dick from the floor as carefully as he could, his hold warm and grounding as he cut through the ropes like butter.

Dick didn’t even wait for his ankles to be cut free. He pushed himself off the floor, ignoring the dizzying wave of pain and exhaustion it brought, and wrapped shaking arms around Bruce, collapsing with his face buried in Batman’s chest.

A part of him, the little kid that still saw Batman as something untouchable, who still thought real safety and love was forever out of his reach, expected to be shoved away, snapped at to get it together, to get on his feet and get back to work.

But that wasn’t Batman, and it wasn’t Bruce. His children had never been soldiers.

Dick was crying the second he registered Bruce returning the embrace, sobbing into his chest and holding on for dear life, squeezing his eyes shut and finally letting go.

“I know,” Bruce soothed, holding on just as tight. “I know, Chum. I know. I’ve got you, I’m here. I’m so sorry it took us so long to find you.”

Dick shook his head, gasping and choking in between desperate sobs, wishing they were back home so he could feel Bruce’s heartbeat beneath him instead of the suit’s cold leather. “I knew- I knew you’d show up.”

“Always.” One hand moved to run through Nightwing’s sweat soaked hair. “I’ll always find you when you need me. I promise.”

Dick just held on tighter, the agony in his bones making his head pound. “I want to go home.”

“We’re going,” Bruce said, already adjusting his hold to hook an arm under Dick’s restrained legs. “Just hold on a bit longer for me, Chum. Stay awake.”

Batman was hoisting him off the floor without warning, cradling Nightwing close to his chest, and Dick didn’t even get a chance to try and obey Bruce’s orders before his eyes were slipping shut and the world faded away under a veil of darkness.

“Master Richard!”

Dick jolted awake with a gasp, his lungs on fire as he fought for air, trembling hands gripping the soaked sheets pooled in his lap, the room around him too bright, too loud, spinning dangerously before gradually tilting back into focus.

There was someone over him- Alfred, he distantly recognized with a rush of relief- holding him firmly down by the shoulders, keeping him on the bed. His own bed, he realized. He was home, in his room, safe and alive. It was over.

“Master Richard,” Alfred said again, a bit less frantic this time. “You’re home, you’re safe. You were just having a nightmare.”

Dick let out a shuddering breath, furrowing his brow as he fell against the pillows. He couldn’t even remember his dream, just pain and confusion and fear.

He let his eyes trail across the room, focusing on his breathing and Alfred’s steady hands on his shoulders as he took in his new surroundings. He noted, with a grimace, the IV hooked up to his arm, the steady beeping of a heart monitor somewhere out of his eyesight, and his leg propped up on a pillow, already wrapped in a cast.

Alfred followed his gaze, eyes softening as he let go of Dick’s shoulder to squeeze his hand. “You’ll be alright. I’ve got a steady hand.”

“I know,” Dick said, his voice weak and gravelly to his own ears. “I’m sorry for the scare.”

“Don’t apologize.” Alfred smiled, running a gentle thumb over his knuckles before pulling away. “I’m just glad you’re home safe.”

Something stirred beside him, and Dick turned his head just enough to make out Bruce slumped in the armchair beside the bed, chin resting in his hand, eyes closed, brow creased with tension and stress even in his sleep.

“He insisted he was going to stay awake,” Alfred said, watching Bruce sleep with a sort of sad fondness in his eyes. “I assumed he’d crash sooner, honestly. He hasn’t given himself a moment to rest since your trackers went offline. I haven’t seen him so frantic since…”

Since they’d lost Jason’s signal while the Joker was on the loose. Since he’d raced to make it to that warehouse in time. Since he’d screamed himself hoarse when the bomb went off.

Alfred didn’t need to finish his sentence for Dick to understand. They’d come dangerously close to repeating history tonight.

His eyes suddenly flew open, reality crashing back down with a jolt. “Tim! Where’s- is he okay? Is—”

“He’s just fine, Master Richard,” Alfred said, squeezing his hand again. “He’s resting, it’s alright. He wasn’t seriously injured, just… a bit shaken up.”

Dick nodded slowly, swallowing against the lingering uneasiness and doubt. “How long were we gone?”

“About two days,” Alfred said, and Dick’s heart sank. “You and Master Timothy disappeared early two nights ago, and we weren’t able to track your location until the next evening. It’s nearly three in the afternoon now, you’ve been asleep since they rescued you.”

“That… that can’t be right,” Dick breathed, and he could hear the heart monitor picking up speed, a shrill pulsing in his ear. His capture was still a blur, but it hadn’t felt like nearly that long. “It only felt like a couple hours.”

“Probably because your brain got fried, genius.”

Jason was leaning against the doorway, and whatever painkillers Alfred had Dick on were clearly doing their job. He hadn’t even heard his brother approach, and he didn’t jump at the sudden new presence.

“Thanks,” Dick muttered, still aching underneath the blissful numbness the medication was creating around him. “I do remember that.”

“You’re lucky there’s not permanent damage,” Jason said, and Dick watched as he rummaged for something in his pocket. “Penguin’s definitely gotten some upgrades. Tim and Bruce were gonna analyze it in a bit once things calm down. Fuck, this thing almost killed you.”

Dick only heard about half of what his brother was saying, because suddenly the blood was rushing to his ears, heart hammering in his throat as the panic hit full force, eyes glued to the tiny, sickeningly familiar device in Jason’s hand.

He shot up in bed, the wave of pain nearly sending him crashing back down, wide eyed and frantic as he fought against the sheets tangled in his legs.

“Master Richard?”

“Don’t!” It came out harsher than he’d expected, an ear-splitting bark that shocked the room into heavy silence. He thought he saw Bruce move, Batman no doubt jolted back to wakefulness by the sudden noise, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to register anything around him anymore, the safety of his childhood melting away to something unreal, fading to a background hum. “Put it- put it down! Please, I- please don’t! Please.”

He couldn’t stop the words spilling from his lips, couldn’t control the panic and dread piling up, suffocating him, eyes glued to the small device- the thing that would send him back into a screaming fit of agony with the press of one little button.

He couldn’t do it again. He couldn’t handle it, he couldn’t—

There was a high pitched screeching in his ear, a piercing pain splitting through his skull, and Dick flinched before he realized it was the heart monitor picking up speed, not the buzzing of electricity through his veins.

“Dick!” That was Bruce’s voice- he could just barely register him springing from the chair to hover at Dick’s bedside, Alfred close behind. “Jason! Put it down!”

There was a clatter, a whirlwind of commotion all around him, everything suddenly too distant to make out properly, and Dick let out a wordless cry of panic as his hands went to his hair, nails digging into his scalp as he curled in on himself in a futile attempt at frantic protection.

“Please,” came from his mouth again, breathless and entirely out of his control. He just wanted the pain to stop. “Please, no more please no more I can’t—”

There was a hand around his wrist, pulling his hand from his hair, and Dick’s breaths stuttered when his palm was forced against the side of his neck, digging into the tender skin.

“Dick,” Bruce’s voice came again, an anchor fighting to drag him back down to reality. “It’s gone. It’s gone, do you feel that? There’s nothing there.”

Dick fought to latch onto the words, blinking rapidly as the world spun, struggling to focus on the feeling under his hands, what Bruce was desperately trying to get him to understand.

There was a bandage wrapped around his throat, secure but not tight, the cloth crusted over with old blood. Bruce guided his hand along his neck, his eyes locked onto Dick’s, brow heavy.

“It’s gone,” Bruce said again, free hand reaching to squeeze Dick’s shoulder when all he managed was a terrified whimper. “We got it off of you, Dick. It’s not there anymore.”

There was nothing lodged into the side of his neck. There was no cold metal digging into his skin, leaving him helpless to the endless waves of electricity.

“There you go,” Bruce said when Dick’s breathing began to slow, carefully dropping his hand. Alfred was there in an instant, wiping the stray tears from Dick’s face with a handkerchief. “You’re okay. You’re safe now.”

“It’s alright, dear boy,” Alfred chimed in. “You’re home.”

There was shuffling by the door, and Dick lifted wary eyes to where his brother still stood, looking so much like a scolded child Dick almost burst into sobs all over again. It had been a long time since he’d seen Jason look so small.

“I’m sorry,” Red Hood said, and Dick didn’t like how close he looked to bolting. “Sorry, I didn’t—”

“It’s okay,” Dick said, voice still shaking when he reached out an unsteady hand. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s fine, Jason. Come here?”

Jason only hesitated for a moment, glancing quickly at Bruce and Alfred like he needed permission, before crossing the room in three frantic steps and all but collapsing at the bedside.

He had his arms around Dick in the blink of an eye, his head dropping to rest on his chest, and Dick, to his credit, got over his shock quick enough to return the embrace before his little brother could pull away.

“They were just standing over you,” Jason muttered, so quiet Dick almost missed it. “They were holding you down and you were screaming and he… he was just…he was going to kill you and I almost didn’t—”

“But you did,” Dick cut him off, because he was pretty sure nobody in this room needed to go down that path. “You guys got us out and we… we’re safe.”

His own words fell flat, empty on his tongue. He wouldn’t be able to believe that, finally breathe easy, until he saw for himself that Tim was alright.

Judging by the way Jason tightened his hold and refused to meet anyone’s gaze, Dick knew he understood.

Dick cleared his throat, the dull ache underneath the bandage making him wince. “Can… can I see him? Please?”

It sounded more desperate than he’d intended, but at this point he didn’t care. He didn’t care how he sounded, how pathetic he might look. He just wanted to see Tim. He just needed to know he was okay.

“He was resting when I last checked in,” Alfred said after a moment, but there was something off about his tone. Dick found himself wondering if there was something they weren’t telling him. “I’ll inform him you’re awake.”

“Alright,” he said, uneasy, gradually noticing that no one would quite meet his eyes. “Thank you, Alfred.”

Tim didn’t come to visit him that night, and he didn’t so much as even poke his head in the doorway the next day, either. The manor was unusually silent, Jason and Bruce spending most of their time at Dick’s bedside despite Nightwing only being able to stay conscious for moments at a time.

Dick kept asking for his baby brother, and each time he got a different version of the same answer. Tim was sleeping. Tim was working. Tim needed to rest. Tim was busy.

He was always busy.

The pain meds didn’t stop Dick from noticing the glances Bruce and Alfred shared each time he asked for his brother, something unspoken passing between them.

The dark, endlessly paranoid part of his brain wondered if Tim had even made it back at all. There wasn’t a trace of him, the excuses growing more and more flimsy, and there was a horrible burst of panic where Dick was convinced they were simply keeping his death a secret until he was recovered enough to handle the loss.

But they wouldn’t do that to him. He knew they wouldn’t, and yet…

He was being stupid. He knew damn well why Tim didn’t want to see him.

Hell, Dick could barely stand himself right now. He couldn’t sit in silence for longer than two minutes without the crushing guilt flooding back, disgust and shame wrapping around his throat and leaving him choking on air as the memories filtered back in, bit by agonizing bit.

His baby brother had been terrified, trapped and forced to watch Nightwing’s torture, and what had Dick done to keep him calm?

He’d broken. He’d screamed and cried and begged. He hadn’t been able to keep it together. He hadn’t been strong like he was supposed to be. He hadn't been able to take it.

He’d failed his job. His one real job.

He’d lost his composure in front of Tim. Tim had been stuck with that weight on his shoulders, left with the responsibility to stop the torture in exchange for information he didn’t have, and Dick had fallen apart. He’d made everything worse because he’d been too weak.

Tim had every right to be upset with him. He had every right to be disgusted and angry. Of course he didn’t want to see Dick.

He couldn’t exactly blame him. Even after the first day or so when the worst of the pain had started to fade, when they’d taken him off the drugs keeping him under, Dick found himself sleeping as much as he could, unable to stand the feeling of his own skin, his own thoughts, his voice in his head.

Bruce seemed to know exactly what was going through his head, the look in his eyes far too knowing for Dick’s liking each time he woke to Batman at his bedside, sitting vigil with a book or case file in his lap.

“Penguin’s in Arkham,” Bruce said in lieu of a greeting when Dick opened his eyes one day. He thought it might have been the third day since his rescue, but it was becoming increasingly impossible to keep track. “Everything went to plan.”

Dick nodded, the motion aggravating his still aching neck, and forced a wry smile. “About time.”

“I let Tim come along,” Bruce added, and Dick’s panic skyrocketed. “He insisted.”

“What? Is he—?”

“He’s fine,” Bruce said, a steadying hand on Dick’s arm. “He did well. I’m proud of him.”

“Okay,” Dick said, still breathless, not quite ready to think about that for too long. “That’s good.”

“I know he misses you,” Bruce said, and Dick quickly dropped his gaze. “He’s just had… a lot on his plate. He wants to—”

“Yeah, I get it.” It came out harsher than he’d intended, voice still raw from how much screaming he’d done recently, and Bruce fell silent. “It’s fine. He doesn’t have to talk to me.”

“Dick—”

“It’s whatever,” Dick said, even as his chest felt heavy, like something was pressing down just above his heart. “I don’t care, B. I’m not gonna force him.”

Bruce was silent, and Dick forced himself not to react when his father carefully pulled his hand away from his arm, taking the grounding warmth with him. But he didn’t move, didn’t get up and leave.

“It wasn’t your fault, Dick,” he said after a moment, and Dick didn't grace that with a response. He couldn’t. “You did everything you could. No one blames you.”

Dick didn’t say a word, and Bruce didn’t push. They stayed like that until Dick slipped under again.

They wouldn’t let him out of bed, no matter how much Dick protested. He might not have listened any other time, but sitting up was still an embarrassingly difficult feat, every little movement still bringing waves of pain and nauseating dizzy spells.

It wasn’t all bad, useless and weak as being bedridden made him feel, days spent in bed doing nothing to help the guilt still bubbling just below the surface.

Bruce had taken to doing most of his work next to Dick, the two of them still going over cases and mission reports together, and Alfred had a set routine for when he would bring Dick trays of food or tea, insisting he at least try to eat three times a day.

Which was why Dick thought nothing of it when there was a small tapping on his door at noon sharp, setting down his phone to smile up at Alfred.

Only to be met with his little brother hovering anxiously in the open doorway, a tray of food in his hands, his eyes fixed stubbornly on the carpet.

“Alfred was busy,” Tim mumbled, so quiet Dick had to strain to hear him. “He asked me to bring you lunch.”

Alfred had made up an excuse to force Tim and Dick to interact, was more accurate.

Dick forced his smile not to drop, strained as it suddenly was, heart racing in his ears as Tim stepped inside and carefully crossed the bedroom to place the food on the end of Dick’s bed.

“Thanks kiddo.” He hadn’t realized how rough his voice still sounded until Tim winced, eyeing his brother like he was worried Dick would keel over at any second. “You doing okay?”

“I’m fine,” Tim said, curt and dismissive, and Dick wanted to curl in on himself and disappear. “You should eat something.”

“I will,” Dick said, pushing himself up on his elbows when Tim turned to leave, because this might be his only chance to make things right. “Come sit for a second?”

Tim paused, hesitating, and for a terrifying moment Dick was certain the kid was going to bolt. But his shoulders dropped, the look in his eyes painfully resigned as he moved to take Bruce’s usual spot on the armchair.

He sat hunched in on himself, legs folded up to his chest, fingers digging into the fabric of his sweatpants. He looked so small, still so scared, and Dick was taken right back to the warehouse, his baby brother trapped and helpless, forced to listen to Nightwing’s screams. All while Dick was supposed to be protecting him.

The guilt was back with a vengeance, and Dick choked out the words he’d been holding onto since he woke up, tongue heavy and sluggish. “I’m so sorry—”

“—I’m really sorry,” Tim said at the exact same time, and he blinked up in surprise when the room fell silent. “What? For what?”

Dick froze, caught completely off guard. “For… for what happened. For all of it.”

“For getting kidnapped and tortured?” Tim demanded, incredulous, and Dick suddenly didn’t know what was happening. “Why are you sorry for that?”

“Why are you sorry?”

Tim stiffened, clutching at his clothes tight enough to rip something now. He glanced at Dick, skeptical and wary, like he thought it might be a trap or a trick question. “Because I didn’t save you.”

“You… what?”

“I didn’t save you,” Tim repeated, more desperate this time. “I didn’t do anything, I just- I just sat there and let them… let them—”

“You didn’t let them do anything,” Dick said, the conversation taking a very different turn from what he’d anticipated. “You couldn’t have stopped it, Tim. They restrained you. I was trying the whole time, those knots weren’t budging.”

“I could have gotten out,” Tim insisted, even as Dick could see the still healing bruises from the ropes around his wrists. “I should have been able to! I tried. I tried, I- I wanted to help you but I couldn’t… I- I was too weak—”

“You weren’t weak,” Dick said, pushing himself up fully when Tim’s eyes filled with tears. “You weren’t weak at all. Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay, Tim. Come here?”

Tim shook his head, wiping furiously at his eyes and pressing himself further back into the cushions of the chair. “I’ll hurt you.”

“You’re not gonna hurt me,” Dick promised, all the guilt and panic gone just like that. “Just watch my leg, okay? I’m alright.”

“I- I can’t—”

“Tim.” Dick held his arms out, desperate, hands trembling. “Please come here. Please.”

He needed to hold him. He needed to feel his heartbeat, hear his breathing, feel that his baby brother was alive. That he’d gotten out of there. That Dick had still managed to protect him, even if he’d failed to protect himself.

It was like a string had been cut, the tension dropping from Tim’s shoulders in the blink of an eye, and suddenly Robin was crawling into Dick’s bed, all heaving shoulders and broken sobs, clutching at Dick’s shirt with shaking hands.

“I’m sorry,” Tim choked out, and Dick just wrapped his arms around his back, holding him close against his chest, cradling his brother like he was a little kid again. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!”

“Don’t be sorry,” Dick said, muffled by the way he’d practically buried his face in Tim’s shoulder. He was alive, he was okay. They were okay. “Please don’t be sorry. You did good. You did everything you could.”

Tim shuddered in Dick’s arms, choking on another hiccuping sob. “I didn’t- I didn’t do anything.”

“Sometimes all you can do is nothing, Tim.” He took a breath and pulled back slightly, even as Tim refused to meet his eyes. “You gave me something to hold onto, and you kept yourself safe. There was nothing else you could have done, Robin.”

“I should have helped you.”

“You would have gotten yourself killed.” Dick didn’t want to think about that. He couldn’t go down that path without making himself sick. “We needed to wait for Bruce. That was the plan.”

“I know,” Tim said. “I know, I just… I felt so useless. You were… you were in so much pain.”

Dick swallowed down the memories, the phantom pains and panic. “I was alright.”

“No you weren’t,” Tim snapped, poison on his tongue, and suddenly he was out of Dick’s arms, glaring from the other end of the bed. “Please don’t… please don’t pretend you were. None of that was alright.”

Dick shrugged, hating the way it still pulled at healing bruises and aching muscles. He forced himself not to wince. “They shocked me a few times, Tim. It wasn’t that—”

“It was that bad. It went on for hours, Dick. You kept passing out and they still wouldn’t turn it off. I… you kept screaming.”

It hadn’t felt nearly that long. None of it had. “I—”

“You kept screaming for me,” Tim said, and Dick’s heart dropped. “And- and for Dad. You were… after a few hours you just kept screaming for help and I- I couldn’t get to you. And you… you couldn’t hear me trying to tell you I was sorry. I thought… I- I thought you were going to die before I got the chance to tell you I was sorry.”

Dick couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, the shame on his shoulders crushing, threatening to send him spiraling somewhere dark, fog tugging at the corners of his vision. He didn’t remember that part. He barely remembered any of it. He had no idea what he’d said. “I- I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“No, I’m sorry,” Tim cut him off, and Dick’s chest felt unbearably tight. “I’m… I’m so sorry, Dick.”

“Hey, it wasn’t your fault. I didn’t see it coming either, there wasn’t any way you could have stopped it.”

“Not for that,” Tim said. “Not for… not for the kidnapping. I- I know that wasn’t my fault, even if—”

“It wasn’t.”

“I’m sorry for everything,” Tim barrelled on, like Dick hadn’t spoken. “I’m- I’m sorry I don’t listen and I don’t- I act like I don’t want you around and I don’t let you help and- and I’m sorry I was so mean and—”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Dick said softly, barely above a whisper, but Tim fell silent anyway. “You’re just a kid, Tim. And I know how it feels to want to prove to everyone you can do it all on your own, but you can’t. No one can. Not you, or me, or Jason or even Bruce. We all have to rely on each other, okay? That’s the only way we stay alive.”

“I’m trying,” Tim said, and Dick let him slowly inch closer, closing the distance once again. “I’m really trying, I just… I wanna be good enough. I want to stay.”

Dick understood the weight of his words all too well. He’d heard himself say the exact same thing when he was Tim’s age. He remembered the look on Bruce’s face when he’d finally voiced those fears, those doubts, the desperate heartbreak in his father’s eyes, and he was sure it would have been like looking in a mirror now.

“You’re more than good enough,” Dick said carefully, feeling a sick sense of deja vu. He just hoped Tim needed to hear the same words Dick had all those years ago. “You don’t have anything to prove, not to us. Especially not to me. And you’re not going anywhere. You’re family, no matter what. You’re allowed to ask for help, alright?”

Tim nodded, wiping stray tears away with his sleeve, carefully maneuvering around Dick’s elevated leg to lean against his side. “You are too, you know.”

“I know,” Dick said, and it was only half a lie. “I’m okay.”

He knew he could, he knew he had people to fall back on, knew his family would be there to catch him if he fell.

But it was… different. It would always be different. There was no way to voice it, not here, not without sounding like a hypocrite and risking another argument. Tim was just a kid- he and Jason both, and Bruce already had so much on his shoulders, the weight of his city, a lifetime of grief.

Dick was the glue holding them together. The smile that kept them from falling apart under the stress of it all. He was holding their family up on shaking legs, walking a tightrope that grew thinner with each step, and he couldn’t lose his balance now. He couldn’t break again. He couldn’t let them see that.

But Tim didn’t need to know that. Not when his eyes were slipping shut, a grounding weight against Dick’s shoulder, his breaths finally slowing into a steady, relaxed rhythm.

“We’re okay.”

They’d be okay. Dick would make sure of it.

#batman #dc #dc comics #dick grayson #nightwing #tim drake #robin #jason todd #red hood #bruce wayne #angst #torture tw #kidnapping tw #hurt dick grayson #batfamily #batfam #writing #fanfiction

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ddarker-dreams · 4 years

Text

Debt Collection. Yan Childe x Reader [SMUT]

Tags: Mild dubcon ?, hate fucking, power bottoming, creampie, dirty talk, AFAB reader and degradation. Word count: 1.6k. Note: this could be considered apart of contractual obligations universe or something on the side. i’m not sure where it’d officially line up in the stories tl, i just wanted to write some sin .

This is the only plausible option left.

That’s what you told yourself when you walked into his office, what you told you told yourself when removing your clothes and when you climbed into his lap. He called it special treatment. Whispering huskily into your ear that you should be grateful he likes you so much, that anyone else would be dead in your position. The Fatui are not known for their leniency with debts. People go missing, their neighbors too frightened to question what might’ve happened to them.

Childe seems happy enough to remind you of this like it might make you feel better somehow. It doesn’t. All you want is for the stress on your business to be alleviated, for things to go back to how they used to be before him, even if it is wishful thinking.

Whatever his feelings are for you, you don’t care in the slightest. You’re doing this to get it over with.

“Mm, just like that,” Childe hisses out through clenched teeth, fingernails digging harshly into either side of your waist. “Take all of me in.”

Everything is so warm. His fevered touches, your face, every inch of your bare body. You do as he tells you, biting your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. Sinking down onto his dick, you despise the lascivious noises it makes from how terribly wet he’s made you. Childe’s gaze never falters from your own, watching unblinkingly as you take in every inch of his throbbing length. His grip on you tightens, steadying your trembling body, harsh pants leaving both of you.

You’re grateful for his lack of comments, already humiliated enough as is. The silence doesn’t last when he fills you completely, your walls slowly adjusting to his length. Even with the proper preparation, his considerable size causes mild pain. Each deep breath you take does little to steady your nerves. The weight of Childe’s stare is impossible to ignore.

Why is he looking at you like this? Why can’t he just silently get off and let it be over with? The passion burning in his ocean blue eyes is unmistakable, the waves of it threatening to drown you.

“Good girl,” he exhales, affectionately running a hand through your tousled hair. You let him do as he pleases. The odd intimacy behind what’s meant to be a tumble in the dark isn’t lost on you. “Now, you remember what I wanted, don’t you?”

“Y-yes, I do.” You confirm breathlessly, more blood rushing to your face upon remembering his vulgar instructions. Childe cups your face in his hands and presses a chaste kiss to your lips, pulling on your bottom lip with his teeth when he moves away. This is the first time he’s kissed you, you realize, lips tingling. He does it with such ease, as if the two of you were lovers. The thought alone is enough to make bile rise in your throat.

“I’m afraid my memory is failing me. Be a dear and remind me of what you’re going to do.”

Of course, he’d make this as difficult as he can for you, you shouldn’t have expected anything different. The lascivious words discussed during your agreement reverberate in your head, and you push past your hesitations to repeat them. “I’m going… going to fuck myself on you.”

You feel his cock twitch excitedly inside you and shiver. He urges you on, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “And?”

“And… I’ll make you cum inside of me.”

“Get to it then.” Childe leans back into his chair, pleased so far with your submission. You take a deep breath, raising your hips up, wincing at how he stretches out your walls. When nothing but the tip of his dick remains inside you, you slowly sink onto him again, earning a low noise of approval. He really isn’t going to help you, is he? While full of him, you gyrate your hips, getting yourself more accustomed to his size. Childe’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows thickly, looking down at you through thick eyelashes.

“I didn’t expect for you to take your time like this,” he chuckles breathlessly, voice guttural and husky. “Not that I’m, ngh, complaining, I could watch this all day.”

You furrow your eyebrows, indignant at his comments. That’s the last thing you wanted...! You wanted to get this over with, to push past the embarrassment he’s inflicted on you. Spurred on by his comments, you raise and lower your hips onto his cock faster, the sensation of being stretched less painful than before. Childe lets out a breathy moan at your increased pace. No longer willing to hold himself back, he thrusts his hips up, throwing his head back at how good you feel around him. You can already tell the area he’s gripping will leave bruises. Hopefully, they can be covered up so questions don’t arise.

“Do you… do you know how much I think about you?” Childe breathes out, each word more strained than the last. The sound of skin on skin fills his office, a far cry from the normal business that goes on in here. Not that he cares in the slightest. You don’t want to know the answer, honestly, but he gives it to you regardless.

“Mm, I’ve thought about it even when we talk,” Childe confesses, head throwing back as he bucks himself up to meet your hips. “What you’d feel like… all the cute little noises you’d make when I made you pleasure yourself on my dick.”

Childe’s words strike a chord deep within you, your face getting even redder than before. You feel yourself getting closer to a release and feel frustrated by your lack of self-restraint. Childe’s chest rumbles with a low moan at how your walls tighten around him. He’s half wanting to fuck you against his desk, losing any shreds of patience that he’s somehow managed to hold on to. But knowing that you’re working oh so hard to make him cum is too tantalizing to pass up. He sees your reluctance fade into desire, no longer able to deny carnal pleasure. You’re enjoying this as much as he is but just don’t want to admit it.

He leans forward, wrapping his soft lips around your nipple and biting it gently, laughing breathlessly at the noise you let out. Childe’s hand that was on your hip goes to your chest, greedily playing with the soft mounds of flesh. He adores how you taste, how lovely and exposed you are before him now. All of the efforts that went into procuring you earned him such a ravishing sight.

Spurred on by his touches, you can no longer hold yourself back. Your movements get sloppier as you chase your own release, chest bouncing as you hold onto him for balance. Childe lets out a content noise at this. His strength is commendable, your hazy mind notices, as now he’s the one lifting you up and bringing you back down onto his cock. Strength all but gone, you lean forward, hoping to muffle your moans against his glistening neck. Your walls clench around him, a high pitch noise leaving your lips when you cum.

Childe wants nothing more than for you to remember this. For you to remember him. “That’s... right, [First]. Don’t ever forget that I’m the one who made you feel this good.”

You can barely register his words, mind far too foggy to think of anything. Curses start to leave his lips, from a foreign tongue which you assume to be his native language. His cock thrusts upwards inside you as Childe desperately seeks out his own release. Your energy is all but gone, leading you to feel silently grateful that he’s capable of getting himself off inside you without much help. A surprised yelp leaves your lips as he tugs your hair back, forcing you to look him in the eye.

“I want you to see this,” Childe manages to get out through gritted teeth. A throaty groan leaves him, hips stuttering. “Watch me as I cum inside you.”

Childe releases himself inside you, thrusting up as far as he can before stilling himself. You feel his hot seed fill you up, Childe intent on dumping all of himself as far inside you as he can. He pulls you further down onto him, head thrown back and panting as your walls milk his throbbing cock. You wince at the foreign feeling, the implications of him cumming inside you nerve-wracking. Finally, he lifts his head, a slight flush on his own face.

The room is silent, save for your panting. He keeps one hand on your already bruised hip and moves the other to cup your face. Childe’s eyes soften as you try your best to regain yourself.

It feels hot, sticky, and humiliating. You look around, looking anywhere that isn’t at Childe. He lets out an airy laugh at your obvious embarrassment, much to your displeasure, and you shoot him a hopefully threatening look. It has the opposite effect as intended. Childe coos at the endearing sight, tracing his fingers over your body.

“That’s... all you wanted, right? Can I go now?”

Childe shakes his head and you frown. “Mm... not yet, no. I’d say this only covers a portion of the debt, sweetheart.”

You knit your eyebrows together, indignation flaring, and go to slap him against your better judgment. Childe snickers, catching your wrist with ease and places unexpectedly soft kisses against your knuckles.

“Relax, relax, I was kidding,” Childe winks and you roll your eyes. “Just know this won’t be the last time I fuck you.”

“You’re... utterly shameless.”

“Maybe I am, but what can I say? Now that I’ve gotten a taste of you, I might just be addicted.”

#idk if this is really considered dubcon but i tagged it just to be safe #childe #childe x reader #yandere childe x reader #tartaglia #tartaglia x reader #yandere tartaglia x reader #genshin impact #yandere genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #tw: dubcon #not sfw #my stuff

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shootingstarwritings · 3 years

Text

Keepin’ it in the Family

Manfred—Freddy for short—was a young man that spent his life in the shadow of his uncle’s side of the family. Meek, shy, unassuming, and more of an indoors type. “I’m more of a type B kind of fellow,” he would answer whenever someone asked him what kind of person he was. Meanwhile, Daniel Crawford and his son, Alex, were the exact opposite. Tall, strong, and always willing to get down and sweaty in an activity. They often dominated every family gathering and gleefully hogged the spotlight shined on them.

“Did you know Alex got a football scholarship… Daniel bought a second house… oh my gawd, li’l Danny got so buff last year, can’t believe he used to be my younger bro…!” On and on Freddy would hear until he got sick of it.

“Why dontcha join a team or somethin’, squirt?” his cousin Alex teased him while roughly messing up his hair. Although Freddy couldn’t deny his cousin was annoying and far too energetic, he couldn’t bring himself to hate him. There was always an authenticity behind his invites to play football with his friends. He was brutish but kind. That was all.

Freddy’s uncle Daniel was a different story.

On a certain day during a family gathering, Daniel concerned Freddy in a hallway. “Perhaps if you applied yourself more," he once told Freddy, the disdain clear in his voice, "you'd get as far as my boy does in life." The rest of the family was just a few rooms away, but their cheerful voices were worlds away. “But until you do that, I want you to stop spending any time with Alex. Honestly don’t know why he wastes his precious youth on someone like you.”

Freddy didn't respond but nodded while glaring defiantly at the floor. He jumped back as his uncle grabbed him by the throat and forcefully tilted his head upwards. Freddy let out a sharp hiss of pain but prevented himself from screaming.

With a low voice, his uncle Daniel said, “Look at me while I’m speaking, you little shit. Don’t want your mediocrity holding my golden son back. Stay away from him or else.” He punctuated his last words by shoving Freddy to the wall. “Can’t believe you and your father are related to us. Well, guess we know who got the better genes in the family.”

Freddy glared at him as he walked away. It was painful, but he could endure. As long as he lived, he would not let this abuse break him. The day would come when he would prove him wrong.

However, it all came to a head about a week ago, when Freddy announced his plans for a graduation party. Most of the replies in the texts he sent out for his family were some variation of, “Oh, I’m sorry Freddy, but your uncle Danny is planning to celebrate his promotion at work that day. Perhaps you can reschedule.” As always, Freddy remained overshadowed.

“Bastards,” Freddy’s father, a rotund and balding man by the name of Benny, exclaimed as he saw the texts. “Can’t even spare a day for you. It’s always those two pricks.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Freddy muttered, glaring down at the texts on his phone. How often had his family ignored him in favor of those two? How often did his uncle mistreat him to guarantee that his ‘golden child’ Alex would remain as successful as he was? The questions kept echoing in his mind until, finally, he decided to cut this cycle.

“If you want,” his father tried again, “we can spend that weekend just the two of us, son. We can travel and celebrate our way."

“It’s all right, dad. I know exactly what I’m gonna do,” said Freddy as he marched off to his room. He would have to draw up the runes and memorize the incantations before long. By being efficient, he would have the spell all set by dawn’s early light.

However, his father stopped him by placing a firm hand on his shoulder—a rarity. “Hold on son," Benny said in a tender voice. "I understand what you're going through, believe me, I know. I was never the golden child of the family either. Danny made sure of that." There was disdain in Benny's voice that Freddy had never heard from before, but he had little time to dwell on it as his father continued. "But, to me, you'll always be the golden child, Freddy. I just want you to know that." Then, Benny pulled his son in for a hug.

Freddy eagerly returned in, shoving his thoughts of revenge to the back of his mind for the moment. Now, he just wanted to spend time with his father. Dusk came and went, and the two bid each other good night as they settled into their rooms on different floors. With nothing to interrupt Freddy, he set off to work.

It began when he found a book of occult rituals and spells in his father's study. Never had Benny spoken about this to Freddy, and Freddy lacked the courage to confront his father about it. Instead, he took photos of the various pages of spells and tried them out for himself—another reason why he did not want his father to know that he knew. By doing this magic in secret, Freddy could indulge in his fantasies that were now just a spell away. Coaches, classmates, and neighbors all fell to his charms and rituals; fulfilling deviant actions according to his whims.

My father can never know, Freddy thought bitterly to himself as he drew the sigils on his rug with chalk, he’ll never know so he’ll always be proud of me, his pure and hard-working son.

Tonight would be the first time Freddy would attempt the possession spell as well as the first time he broke a rule he had set for himself when he first began to use magic: never involve a family member. Now, he read through the procedure on his phone and prepared to sink into an even deeper level of deviancy. A bit of the text at the bottom of the page was faded, but the instructions were all written out. It’s most likely flavor text, Freddy thought.

This spell would allow the invoker to project his soul towards an unassuming target. From then on, a battle of wills would begin, and the dominant soul would take over the body. The invoker is not guaranteed to be successful. Caution must be exercised, and a strong will is heavily recommended.

It was a frightening thought, but Freddy did not allow that to slow him down. His hands trembled with excitement and his heart raced with pure adrenaline as he pictured his uncle’s sexy yet punchable face.

In the heat of the moment, Freddy cast the spell alongside the rising sun. Once those accursed words left his lips, a sharp and painful sensation spread throughout his body. It was as if his soul was being stretched and twisted, like a rubber band. However, he just gritted his teeth and endured it as he always did. The suffering of a spell or his uncle’s harassment was all the same—nothing he couldn’t handle. However, when the pain continued to grow in magnitude, Freddy was afraid this spell was going to rip his soul in half.

Then came the release—the catharsis. The spell catapulted Freddy’s soul at a speed rivaling that of a bullet train’s. Freddy screamed both in terror and sheer jubilation as his soul traveled through the dawn-dyed sky. Everything, even the sun, was a blurry mess until he arrived at his uncle’s expensive house, where he finally stopped. He was back in control.

Slowly, Freddy glided through the halls of a home that alienated him for most of his life. While searching for his uncle’s room, he stumbled upon his cousin Alex sleeping on top of the covers, clad in just a pair of boxer briefs. Though Freddy intended to keep moving, he remained still and watched his cousin’s chest slowly rise and fall as he slept peacefully.

“You deserve a better father,” Freddy whispered, caressing his cousin’s cheek with his ghostly hand. His voice and touch were nothing more than a chilly breeze on Alex’s bare skin. When Freddy noticed the goosebumps that spread down his cousin’s arms, he drew back and excused himself from the room. His target still needed to be punished.

A few hallways later, Freddy found himself floating above his uncle. Daniel, just like his son, slept above his covers and nearly in the nude to deal with the brutal summer heat. Even so, beads of sweat still glistened in his half-naked, furry body. His breathing was just as peaceful and gentle as Alex's as it passed through his heart-shaped lips. "If only you were as kind as you look while sleeping," Freddy said as he glared down at Daniel. Hatred and lust pushed him forward, and he gleefully enacted his plan.

Having spent quite a long time manipulating the wills of men, Freddy knew that the best way to overwhelm them was to do so post-coitus. “You’ll be my ticket to happiness,” he whispered to his uncle, “you piece of shit asshole.” He began by running his tongue down his uncle’s bare chest, giving the nipple a lick.

The effect was immediate. Daniel’s eyes shot open as he shivered at the paranormal touch. He looked around, perplexed. “What the fuck?” he said.

Freddy snickered at his uncle’s confusion. He pushed his uncle back onto the bed, one hand twirling and playing with his nipples while another teased the bulge hidden by the briefs. “W-Woah, oh shit!” said Daniel, trying to kick his invisible assaulter away to no avail. When the sensation didn’t stop, Daniel attempted to rise only for Freddy to roughly shove him back onto the bed again.

“I’m not done with you!” Freddy roared to his uncle’s terror. The rush of power was intoxicating, and Freddy greedily drank in every pathetic whimper and moan from his uncle. He pulled his underwear off, revealing his uncle’s large hard-on, and threw it to the side. “God, you’re thick,” Freddy moaned as he took his uncle’s cock in his hand. “C’mon, cum for me, old man,” he said as his lips played with the pecs. He continued to mercilessly play with his uncle, humping his body to elicit more of his moans.

“N-No—aahh, mmm! Pl-Please stoooAAAAHH—stop!” said Daniel as he felt his core tighten. Freddy noticed it too and quickly released his uncle from his sexual grasp. “AH! Oh fuck, I’m—ngh!” said Daniel as his abused dick begged for release.

“Not yet, that's gonna be my climax, uncle," Freddy said. To reward his uncle was far more than what the bastard deserved. Instead, Freddy would steal his climax, his body, and his dignity. “You’re mine!” he said, caution be damned as he dove into his uncle’s body.

“F-Fred—OOF!” The sheer force of Freddy’s dive caused his uncle to bounce on the mattress. “Oh FUCK!” Daniel cried out as he felt impossibly full. Two souls occupied the same space, and much like the shifting plates of the ever-changing earth, stress was born of this conflict. Daniel gritted his teeth, even more sweat coating his convulsing body as he attempted to hold onto his consciousness. However, Freddy’s essence continued to spread.

The possession spell operated on a similar concept as ink falling upon a cup of pure water. Slowly, the water would darken as it took on the shade of the ink until it was almost completely indistinguishable from the original ink that tinted—or tainted—it.

Just as the ink colored the water, so too did Freddy’s soul spill and tint his uncle’s very essence—mind, body, and spirit. Daniel, of course, continued to push his nephew’s soul out of him. He kicked at his bed and gripped his sheets so tightly his veins were visible in his arms. Until the very last second, he tried to will his body back under his control. However, he eventually collapsed onto his bed, eyes rolling into the back of his head, and blacked out. His body convulsed for a few more minutes as it took on the last remains of Freddy's essence, before finally quieting down.

Freddy opened his new eyes and immediately put his attention back on his uncle's dick. "Oh god, uncle, you're so sensitive!" he said as he continued stroking himself. “I-I’m CUMMING!” he bellowed as he shot load after load in his new form, seeing white as he fell back onto the sweat-covered sheets. “Oh my god, Danny-boy, I can’t wait to wreck you today.” Freddy would seize the day, and by nightfall, he would make his uncle a shame upon his family.

A few hallways away, Alex had his own visitor.

“S-Stop, uncle!” Alex screamed as the much larger soul of Benny finished entering his younger body. “Y-You can’t—AH! AAAHHH!” He whimpered and moaned just as his father did before collapsing into a mess of convulsing limbs.

Alex blacked out, and his uncle Benny awoke. “God, that felt good,” he said, stretching his new, muscular body. It was pleasurably sore after the workout he gave his unwilling nephew. “Ya got a good lookin’ bod, kid,” he said, grinning as he rubbed his hands down his new form. “But it’s my turn to be the golden child, if only for a day,” he finished, excited to have his hole filled in a day filled with debauchery.

Unbeknownst to father and son, there was more to the spell lost as the ink faded from the page. It read as follows:

Just as the water becomes nearly inseparable from the ink, the souls also become unable to be torn apart. There is no hope for the water to become pure and no hope for the ink to be whole. They are bound together for eternity, as are the souls tainted by the invoker. The invoker’s body will perish upon the spell’s completion, and the invoker will remain in their new body until the possession spell is used again, thus killing the old target.

#male possession #dilf possession #jock possession #possession #male body possession

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nincompoopydoo · 3 years

Text

DEBRIS AND MISERY

CURIOUS MINDS THINK ALIKE ; PART 5 / ?

PAIRING: Loki Laufeyson x Female!Reader WORD COUNT: 3.1k SUMMARY: Through guessing games and walking on eggshells, it’s you and Loki that dance the strange choreography of two curious minds trying to figure out the other. A/N: Slow moving chapter! If any of you speak Norwegian and know that sentence is wrong, please tell me! I took a risk, not sure if it's worth it. Anyways, I promise there’s more stuff coming in the next chapters. Tell me anything about this chapter, what you love, what you hate. Enjoy xo gif from this gifset by@marvelheroes WARNINGS: Swearing? More paperwork. support my writing through ko-fi💖 MASTERPOST ; MASTERLIST

The narration of Miss Minutes accompanying the grainy animated graphics of a training video on how, why, and when a branch of a timeline is reset seems to be the source of Loki’s absentmindedness. If he is typically referred to as outrageously and mostly unnecessarily communicative, it is his mind that beats his mouth—the tumult of his thoughts is loud and overwhelming like the people who amass at taverns every evening to drink themselves silly whilst singing jolly drinking songs until the wee hours of the morning. Except, his thoughts are far from jolly. He, mastermind of language and a silver-tongue, has no words of any language to describe the complexity of his mind with accuracy.

Kraftig regn som faller i en fossende elv.

Like heavy rain falling on a cascading river. Water from the sky on water streaming through the ground—thunderous raindrops from above against the river that strikes every rock of every winding turn.

Those were the words of his mother.

Maybe, that’s how his mind should be described.

It’s the mechanical creaks of spinning wheels against the polished floor that pulls him out of his thoughts and finds that he had been staring blankly at a page of men riding jet skis of a magazine he'd nipped from the stack of junk on Mobius’ desk for the last minute or hour. A second or a day? He isn’t sure.

Time works differently at the TVA.

“Hey Casey,” he hears you chime, the cart squeaks as it pulls to a halt. “Do you have a paperweight or something I could use?”

There’s a sound of rummaging as the clerk searches the drawers. Loki restrains the urge to look.

“Uh, yeah...Here.”

“Thanks.”

Probably an infinity stone.

The clerk then wheels by, pushing the evidence cart as he casts a cautious glance his way.

Right. He did threaten to gut him like a fish earlier on although the threat was not as deadly as he intended but proved to be surprisingly effective. Yet, Casey is probably the type to be afraid of his own shadow, he would comply with any sort of threat even if it isn't death.

Pathetic. But amusing.

The training video continues to play in the background, and Miss Minutes’ stupidly charming and cheery voice is starting to sound like gibberish to him. At this rate, it’s white noise to him—attention elsewhere but somewhat listening to a certain extent. He loves multi-tasking and isn’t afraid to admit he’s great at it though it likely plays a huge factor in contributing to the uproar of his brain. It’s why he doesn’t get any sleep for most nights.

There’s just...so much to think about.

And now, it’s filled with the reminder of how you met another version of him. Somewhere. Sometime. An inferior Loki, obviously.

Suddenly, the jet ski magazine becomes less interesting, his mind fleeting.

Discreetly, he spins in his swivel chair and sees you through inked writings and diagrams on the glass partition of your cubicle. Your coat’s discarded, and you have your sleeves rolled up, looking less formal, less tense than before. Yet, still as fierce with that constant scowl of your brows. He watches you bring your fingers to scratch the left side of your cheek and notices a vague resemblance of a fading scar.

He hadn’t seen that before.

The glowing orange hue of the soul stone sits idly on top of a stack of papers beside you.

Loki makes some sort of contemptuous noise in his mind at the sight.

The TVA is a strange place. The thought of a cosmic organization that overlooks all of the time doesn’t make it any less weird and neither do the uniforms—dull color combinations and collars that never seem to end. And the Time-Keepers, well, he isn’t sure what to make of that. Things are a little too straightforward, too simple for handling such a complex matter of the universe—Time. It doesn't make sense.

You spark his curiosity. You had a connection with him. Another Loki trusted you to a certain extent. He wonders what makes you so special, that Mobius was willing to try everything to convince you to help.

He also wonders what your name is.

The clearing of his throat comes off as a sudden and disruptive sound that resonates clearly through the somewhat silent environment of the office floor. A subtle way to gaining your attention although it's proving ineffective. You continue to flip through documents, scribbling notes on a notepad.

He wheels his chair closer to you. For a moment, he catches sight of a white mug amongst the mess. It says, 'Rocket scientist at work.' There’s no way a person as intimidating as you have that kind of mug.

He clears his throat once more.

Still nothing. It’s like he doesn't exist to you.

Then, he notes your vague attempt to fight down a growing smile.

Oh. Oh. You—

Hm.

He scooches closer and taps on the glass partition a little too aggressively.

“I know you can hear me.”

His tone comes out in a sing-song manner. Finally, your eyes turn up to meet his. They are different from when you first saw him emerged into the hallway. Less angry and shocked. Now, you just look unimpressed.

Loki somehow thinks it’s a great idea to charm his way to you.

A grin finds his way to his lips, curving widely with oozing allure.

Or so he thinks.

“Pardon me, but I believe we haven’t properly met and I didn’t catch your name earlier on.”

You don’t say anything, only blink in response.

Tough crowd.

Loki shifts in his seat.

“...What is your name?”

He articulates his words with care, and he doesn’t know why he finds it a need to tread lightly around you. Like with a touch, you will transform into a fiery beast from his childhood nightmares and eat him alive.

You and Mobius are polar opposites—personality-wise. It’s a wonder how the two of you get along.

Do you scare him? No. Definitely not.

Do you intimidate him? Perhaps. But, he will never admit it.

Maybe it’s the way you’re gazing at him with that constant, deafening deadpan look.

Then, you finally give him an answer.

“Agent.”

And with that, you're back to scribbling notes on a notepad.

Agent.

Loki scoffs silently to himself.

Well, that turned out to be completely pointless.

He turns his back to you, returning to scanning through Mobius' jet ski magazine within his grasp.

Loki doesn’t see how you’re now staring at the back of his figure, tapping your pen against the notepad absentmindedly.

Curious minds think alike.

You needed a change of scenery.

With all the noise of the muffling narration of the training videos from Mobius’ desk, you began to feel like you forgot how to do your job. The only job you were created for. The disturbance seems to be putting your brain into a frenzy and it’s preventing you from getting your head straight on report protocols. Trying to think of better words to describe the things you’ve seen on Sakaar that weren’t words that meant trash and didn’t end up sounding unintentionally sexual, is where you draw the line.

Times are hard for the variant turned analyst.

The archives are serene amid your solitude. Extensive tables hidden between shelves of identical-looking binders that expanded throughout the hundreds of floors of the building. The spot that overlooks the three looming statues of the Time-Keepers is your favorite. The occasional swish of a passing elevator calms your nerves from all the frustration and pressure ever since you were released from your arrest. You’re just happy to be somewhere familiar although it’s not home.

Although all distractions are gone, you manage to find new ones as you gaze at the glowing ‘357’ signage from across the building as you decide to let your thoughts run for just a little while. You feel like you’re looking through foggy glasses and your brain feels like it’s about to shut down any moment.

Dream away the pain, then.

Then, you hear a voice from afar. Two voices. It’s Mobius; you’ll recognize that quintessential Texan accent anywhere from the times he would rave about a new jet ski magazine he’d found on a mission...something along those lines.

Much to your chagrin, you also hear Loki with that irritatingly posh accent of his.

You should probably move somewhere else. Run and hide before you're being pulled even more into this mess because you know Mobius is trying to get you to spend as much time with the variant turned analyst to gain trust.

You’re still not sure how it’s helping with his case. Loki has better trust in Mobius than you as far as you’re concerned.

Before you could even gather the mess of your files, the two men you’ve been trying to escape are already by the desk you’re sitting at. You suddenly notice the stack of files on the other end of the desk, not remembering seeing the archivist putting that there.

Crap.

“Let me park ya at this desk and don’t be afraid to really lean into this work...”

You look like a deer caught in the headlights, signaling to Mobius that you really don’t want to share a desk with Loki. He continues to speak to him, ignoring your silent plea. Then, he gestures to the seat across from you.

There’s still time to leave.

Mobius addresses you with the stretch of his pointer finger.

“You, keep an eye on him. I’m gonna get a snack.”

Well, too late.

With a turn of a heel, you and Loki watch him walk away and pass neverending shelves of the archives. Once again, the two of you are left alone in the silence and the white noise of the TVA.

You meet each other's eyes at the same time, struck with the thought that you and he will probably be seeing each other a lot until the Loki variant is arrested. Plus, you’re tired of giving him the cold shoulder although you believe he deserves it.

This is a different Loki. The one who’s still power-hungry. The one who still wants to rule.

Time to start fresh.

You notice he now wears a jacket, a color somewhere between green, grey, and brown with a striking image of the TVA’s official badge above his chest. The lapels of his jacket jut out in an attempt to replicate his sense of pride and confidence.

He must have been on a trip with Mobius to the Renaissance Faire in Wisconsin, 1985. Oh, how you would kill to tag along. Everyone who knows you knows about your obsession with Earth’s music pop culture, specifically the 1980s. It explains the cassettes you have lying around. Your apartment has more of it.

Unfortunately, you're grounded. That's reality.

Thus, you decide that Loki deserves a second chance because he’s also somehow looking at you for some kind of approval. You’re starting to wonder if this is the same Loki that was tapping aggressively on your cubicle earlier on.

With an open palm, you gesture to the empty seat surrounded by stacks of binders and folders. It's the first time he has experienced some kind of acknowledgment of his presence that you weren’t ranting or screaming about. Oddly calm. Oddly inviting. Momentarily, he shifts in his stance, eyes darting between a fading figure of Mobius rounding the corner and to the seat, across from you.

The air is tense. However, still breathable.

Loki slides into the seat, legs shifting under the desk as it brushes against your by accident. You shoot him a pointed look, and he responds with a coy expression, blinking at you innocently. It’s mischievous.

Classic Loki.

You turn back to your case file, ignoring the way his gaze seems to burn holes into the side of your face for a fleeting moment before flipping a binder open from the stack to his left.

You snore when you sleep.

Loki wouldn’t describe it as a snore; it's more of a wheeze. Soft and subtle but it’s there, cutting through the ambiance of the archives, drifting and resonating in his ears. Through turning pages, uttering words to himself for his amusement, and having an irritating lady shush him for that, he realized how it became a lot quieter. The grazing sound of pen furiously scribbling words onto the yellow notepad has stopped.

Then, he hears it. Your pathetic snores. Your cheek is unceremoniously pressed against the back of your hand while the other holds the orange pen that’s still pinned down on the paper, mid-scrawl. The tip of the ballpoint pen sits idly, halfway through the curved stroke of the last letter of the word, ‘debris.’ He cranes his neck, face tilting in an attempt to read the chicken scratchings of your handwriting.

0132: L1190 hauls me through the time door and I miserably land on Sakaar, the planet of wastelands and debris.

You are quite...miserable. In a comical way. And he knows how much you hated your time on Sakaar—Mobius warned him of your apparent irritation in reminiscent of being stranded and then having to resume paperwork immediately. He wonders if he, too, is the reason for another boiling rage.

Apparently, you were pardoned on behalf of not only Mobius but the Time-Keepers as well.

You, an agent, are recognized by the holy and almighty Time-Keepers.

You, an agent, who sleeps with your mouth agape.

The statues of the TVA’s creators loom over him like they’re watching his every step. Every movement. Every lingering thought. Right now, he has the urge to uncover, perhaps deduce, the holes within this whole mess. In a carefully calculated and discrete movement, he reaches to prod you on the forearm. You don’t move.

He prods you again.

You still don’t move.

Now, Loki is trying to chat up the archivist who watches him through narrowed eyes, glasses framing the austere and rigid structure of her face, in favor of files that turn out to be classified.

Classified, classified, classified. Only able to gain access to his own file.

His journey from the desk proved to be useless and unproductive although the much-needed stretch somehow made it a little worthwhile.

When he returns, you're surprisingly still asleep, brow twitching and lips still parted.

Aren’t you supposed to be keeping an eye on him?

The pen you held has now left your grasp, rolled over to his stack of binders. He notices the words inscribed on it, ‘Mars is there, waiting to be reached.'

Through your fury and chaos, he knows there’s a part of you that feels, a part of you that loves. And you love everything about the Midgardians’ space program. It's shown in the way you cling to collected memorabilia.

There are dark circles that adorn your shut eyes, barely hidden under your lashes. You’re exhausted, fractured.

Loki is having a difficult time trying to suppress how he likes the way the frizz of your hair glows against the glowing table lamps from the desk behind you. You’re raw, flaws presented on a silver platter for everyone to see. Maybe, that’s the reason why you entice him the way you do.

He’s staring. Right. Back to work.

Loki returns to running through neverending case files, engrossed in the pixelated monochrome images that accompany the monospace typeface of endless reports.

Then, he sees it.

‘Destruction of Asgard’ in big, bold, and red letters. It glares at him sharply, images of his once divine home of Asgard, crumbling at the feet of Surtur. Buildings, people, engulfed in the flames of the fire demon. The prophecy of the end, Ragnarok—it was meant to be.

His home, it still was. Although an untrue Asgardian.

He knows how it ends. He knows he dies. He wishes his true self, the one on the Sacred Timeline, could have done more.

He doesn’t realize the forming tears that linger. He doesn’t realize that in the sense of premonition, you’ve awakened. He doesn’t realize that even with sleepy eyes, you notice the grief that glints in his eyes.

“Are you okay?”

With three words, you’ve struck him with those eyes that seemed all-knowing. You see through the facade he has created, sealing the true nature of what is truly a child that is afraid of his destiny and to lose all he had ever known. His mother, father, and brother. His people. You see through it all.

You know that face. You’d seen it on Sakaar when he sat at the doorstep of your makeshift home, watching the splintered moon drift through the star-lit sky. You’d seen it in yourself through the dusty reflection of the screen of the tempad.

He longs for home. He longs for family.

For a moment, Loki sees Frigga in your eyes.

Then, his world shifts, hauling him back to reality. It’s you who’s across his way, not his mother. Loki blinks, partly to get his head straight with the excuse to blink away the sting in his eye. He shifts in his seat, rolling his neck and squares his shoulders.

“Yes. I’m alright. It’s just...”

Trailing off, he clears his throat. You follow his gaze and from your spot, you catch sight of those deafening crimson letters. Maybe, it was the spur of the moment. You blame your drowsy state, but there’s a growing warmth that spreads across your chest from the pit of your stomach. It’s subtle, a spark, but evident. Before you know it, you’re uttering words that leave your lips faster than your brain could perceive.

“I’m sorry.”

You don’t know when was the last time you said those words and meant it. Loki doesn’t know when was the last time he’d ever heard those words addressed to him, spoken from the lips of a stranger. Until now.

You mean it. He sees it in the curve of your brows.

Loki swallows, nodding curtly. For the first time, he has nothing to say. And as quickly as the moment comes, he brushes it off and so do you. Whatever is reminiscent of a residing unknown feeling, bubbling within, has disappeared.

He sees your hand reach for the pen and for a while, he thinks you’re about to reach for his arm.

But no, you’re back to scrawling notes on the paper and he’s back to studying useless documents.

It doesn’t take long for the two of you to fall back into your normal antics as you find yourself chasing after Loki, who abruptly left the desk with wide eyes.

Curious minds think alike. Mostly.

TAGLIST:

@lareinedususpense

@poubxlle

@mystoragehatesme

@the-maroon-panda

#loki #loki x reader #loki laufeyson x reader #loki x you #loki laufeyson x you #loki imagine #loki laufeyson imagine #loki series #sylvie #mobius x reader

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feelingbluepolitics · 3 years

Text

https://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/2021/09/23/robert-kagan-constitutional-crisis/

Much of this article is trash, written by a mewling conservative trying to distinguish Republicon policies and Republicon ideology as beyond and separate from "trump precursors" for "the last 30 years." Try 60 years, or more. Go all the way back to them with their fury and screams over Social Security as an evil Communist plot.

Kagan is a Never-trumper attempting to sound reasonable despite being a mental conservative, who thinks -- much like poor, beleaguered Joe Manchin -- that Democrats "need to let good Republicons" help them save the country.

He's one of those types of fools who, when he speaks of officials with integrity, is alluding to Mr. Anti-vote Raffensperger, who is to voting like so many white male Republicons are to immigration -- none too happy about illegal or legal. His hero Raffensperger is also one of the leading architects of the Republicon rash of Jim Crow 2.0 laws which Kagan points to as a prime symptom of Nazi-type fascism threatening American right now...but logical consistency fares extremely poorly on the Right.

However, there are some useful points in this article. The criticism leveled toward the Right by a [pre-trump] insider is one. And the insistent urgency of our nation's crisis is another.

"The United States is heading into its greatest political and constitutional crisis since the Civil War, with a reasonable chance over the next three to four years of incidents of mass violence, a breakdown of federal authority, and the division of the country into warring red and blue enclaves. The warning signs may be obscured by the distractions of politics, the pandemic, the economy and global crises, and by wishful thinking and denial. But about these things there should be no doubt:

"First, [t]rump will be the Republican candidate for president in 2024. The hope and expectation that he would fade in visibility and influence have been delusional. He enjoys mammoth leads in the polls; he is building a massive campaign war chest; and at this moment the Democratic ticket looks vulnerable. Barring health problems, he is running. [Or legal problems. Or even better, in order to be a bit safer, both].

"Second, [t]rump and his Republican allies are actively preparing to ensure his victory by whatever means necessary. [t]rump’s charges of fraud in the 2020 election are now primarily aimed at establishing the predicate to challenge future election results that do not go his way. Some Republican candidates have already begun preparing to declare fraud in 2022, just as Larry Elder tried meekly to do in the California recall contest.

"Meanwhile, the amateurish 'stop the steal' efforts of 2020 have given way to an organized nationwide campaign to ensure that [t]rump and his supporters will have the control over state and local election officials that they lacked in 2020. Those recalcitrant Republican state officials who effectively saved the country from calamity by refusing to falsely declare fraud or to 'find' more votes for [t]rump are being systematically removed or hounded from office. Republican legislatures are giving themselves greater control over the election certification process. As of this spring, Republicans have proposed or passed measures in at least 16 states that would shift certain election authorities from the purview of the governor, secretary of state or other executive-branch officers to the legislature. An Arizona bill flatly states that the legislature may 'revoke the secretary of state’s issuance or certification of a presidential elector’s certificate of election' by a simple majority vote. Some state legislatures seek to impose criminal penalties on local election officials alleged to have committed 'technical infractions,' including obstructing the view of poll watchers.

"The stage is thus being set for chaos.

..."Most Americans — and all but a handful of politicians — have refused to take this possibility seriously enough to try to prevent it. As has so often been the case in other countries where fascist leaders arise, their would-be opponents are paralyzed in confusion and amazement at this charismatic authoritarian. They have followed the standard model of appeasement, which always begins with underestimation. The political and intellectual establishments in both parties have been underestimating [t]rump since he emerged on the scene in 2015. They underestimated the extent of his popularity and the strength of his hold on his followers; they underestimated his ability to take control of the Republican Party; and then they underestimated how far he was willing to go to retain power. The fact that he failed to overturn the 2020 election has reassured many that the American system remains secure, though it easily could have gone the other way — if Biden had not been safely ahead in all four states where the vote was close; if [t]rump had been more competent and more in control of the decision-makers in his administration, Congress and the states. As it was, [t]rump came close to bringing off a coup earlier this year...

..."Where does the Republican Party stand in all this? The party gave birth to and nurtured this movement; it bears full responsibility for establishing the conditions in which [t]rump could capture the loyalty of 90 percent of Republican voters. Republican leaders were more than happy to ride [t]rump’s coattails if it meant getting paid off with hundreds of conservative court appointments, including three Supreme Court justices; tax cuts; immigration restrictions; and deep reductions in regulations on business.

..."From the uneasy and sometimes contentious partnership during [t]rump’s four years in office, the party’s main if not sole purpose today is as the willing enabler of [t]rump’s efforts to game the electoral system to ensure his return to power.

..."With the party firmly under his thumb, [t]rump is now fighting the Biden administration on separate fronts. One is normal, legitimate political competition, where Republicans criticize Biden’s policies, feed and fight the culture wars, and in general behave like a typical hostile opposition.

"The other front is outside the bounds of constitutional and democratic competition and into the realm of illegal or extralegal efforts to undermine the electoral process. The two are intimately related, because the Republican Party has used its institutional power in the political sphere to shield [t]rump and his followers from the consequences of their illegal and extralegal activities in the lead-up to Jan. 6. Thus, Reps. Kevin McCarthy and Elise Stefanik, in their roles as party leaders, run interference for the [t]rump movement in the sphere of legitimate politics, while Republicans in lesser positions cheer on the Jan. 6 perpetrators, turning them into martyrs and heroes, and encouraging illegal acts in the future.

..."Even [t]rump opponents play along. Republicans such as Sens. Mitt Romney and Ben Sasse have condemned the events of Jan. 6, criticized [t]rump and even voted for his impeachment, but in other respects they continue to act as good Republicans and conservatives. On issues such as the filibuster, Romney and others insist on preserving 'regular order' and conducting political and legislative business as usual, even though they know that [t]rump’s lieutenants in their party are working to subvert the next presidential election.

"The result is that even these anti-[t]rump Republicans are enabling the insurrection. Revolutionary movements usually operate outside a society’s power structures. But the [t]rump movement also enjoys unprecedented influence within those structures. It dominates the coverage on several cable news networks, numerous conservative magazines, hundreds of talk radio stations and all kinds of online platforms. It has access to financing from rich individuals and the Republican National Committee’s donor pool. And, not least, it controls one of the country’s two national parties...

"The world will look very different in 14 months if, as seems likely, the Republican zombie party wins control of the House. At that point, with the political winds clearly blowing in his favor, [t]rump is all but certain to announce his candidacy, and social media constraints on his speech are likely to be lifted, since Facebook and Twitter would have a hard time justifying censoring his campaign. With his megaphone back, [t]rump would once again dominate news coverage, as outlets prove unable to resist covering him around the clock if only for financial reasons.

"But this time, [t]rump would have advantages that he lacked in 2016 and 2020, including more loyal officials in state and local governments; the Republicans in Congress; and the backing of GOP donors, think tanks and journals of opinion. And he will have the [t]rump movement, including many who are armed and ready to be activated, again. Who is going to stop him then?

..."[Republicons] have refused to work with Democrats to pass legislation limiting state legislatures’ ability to overturn the results of future elections, to ensure that the federal government continues to have some say when states try to limit voting rights, to provide federal protection to state and local election workers who face threats, and in general to make clear to the nation that a bipartisan majority in the Senate opposes the subversion of the popular will. Why?

[They, just like trump, want and intend to be in power at all costs.

..."We are already in a constitutional crisis. The destruction of democracy might not come until November 2024, but critical steps in that direction are happening now. In a little more than a year, it may become impossible to pass legislation to protect the electoral process in 2024. Now it is impossible only because anti-[t]rump Republicans, and even some Democrats, refuse to tinker with the filibuster. It is impossible because, despite all that has happened, some people still wish to be good Republicans [sic] even as they oppose [t]rump. These decisions will not wear well as the nation tumbles into full-blown crisis."

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ourloveisforthelovely · 3 years

Text

Forever (one-shot)

Harry Potter Marauders Era

Request from AO3- If not it's good lol, but I was thinking the reader saves Regulus in the cave and he survives. And the rest of it shows how he copes and all. Very sad and angsty and like he’s depressed because it should have been him. Obviously, Sirius helps him and all but there's only so much he can do. You don’t need to write it but I feel like it would be a good plot

Rating- E- mentions of death, depression, suicide. Super angsty

_____

“It will be okay, Reg. Everything will be okay.”

Regulus’ eyes snapped open as the nightmare got to the point that he hated. Your soft voice was trying to calm him, as always. You were trying to make sure that he knew everything would be okay and only needed to trust you...but this time you were wrong. Every night it was the same thing...the same curse. Regulus watched you die in his arms every night. Every morning he woke up ready to greet death and be with you once again.

I never should have taken her with me.

The thought itself was folly. Regulus knew that you would have never let him go off to that cave alone. It was foolish for him to ever let you go but he did. Now the love of his life was dead but Regulus wasn’t. He survived after you pulled him from the water. It wasn’t until the two of you were able to get outside did he realize how injured that you actually were...and you died.

He would be forever haunted by the image of you dead in his arms. Your pretty face was no longer lively and warm but transfixed on him with set eyes never to move again. It didn’t matter how many times that Regulus pleaded with you to take another breath...just one more breath...you didn’t. The hand that was locked in his soaking shirt had dropped to your side as the blood now oozed from your mouth.

Regulus’ princess was gone...

It had been a little over six months ago and Regulus was still in the same state of grief that he was in on day 1. There had been no coping. Coping was some fairy princess that would always elude Regulus for the rest of forever. To say Regulus blamed himself was an understatement. He screamed “it's all your fault” over and over every day.

After about month two, Walburga had enough and called Sirius to come to get his younger brother before she killed him herself. Sirius, of course, came running. It didn’t matter if it had been years since he had actually spoken to his younger brother. Upon having the conversation with Walburga, Sirius was ready to step in. He would do whatever he could to save Regulus from slipping away to a horrible existence that would end in either murder or suicide.

Sirius tried.

Regulus thought as he slowly wiggled his way out of bed. The blood rushed to his head, almost knocking the younger brother backward. Regulus wasn’t sure how much alcohol that he had drunk the night before (or any night before that). It was never enough.

Drunk...that was how Regulus spent the majority of his day. He had never been much of a drinker before you died. Regulus didn’t like giving up that precious control that he loved so much. After your death, he welcomed not being in his head. It didn’t matter how much Sirius or any of his friends tried to hide the booze, Regulus found it.

Memories of the previous night filled his head. He had been drunk long before Sirius arrived home. Regulus was almost to the point of passing out when Sirius came in cheerfully talking to Remus about a new restaurant that they were going to. He only had to take one look at his brother before he realized what kind of state Regulus was in.

“Why, Regulus? Why do you keep doing this? Do you think that Y/n would want you living this way? She wouldn’t want this at all. Y/n loved you...more than anything. She would want you to make yourself happy...not be this depressed and depending upon booze and whatever it was that you were taking.”

Regulus barely looked up at Sirius. For some reason, his brother seemed taller than normal. Looking at Sirius from the couch made Regulus want to vomit.

“She begged me to stop….begged me to take her away...we could have lived in the country...I could have her with me until we died. There is no greater punishment for me than to keep living without Y/n. She made everything worth it.’

“If you keep going the way that you are going...you are going to end up dead.”

Sirius had intended for his comment to strike some fear in his younger brother but it had the opposite effect. Regulus looked thrilled. It had been the first time that he had smiled in months.

“Brillant.”

Sirius almost fainted when that single word left Regulus’ mouth. Remus’ comment of “you can only do so much” quickly plagued Sirius’ mind.

Regulus felt guilty for what he was doing to his older brother especially when Sirius was trying so hard. What Sirius didn’t seem to understand was Regulus was ready to get back to you...if that meant death then so be it.

His grey eyes flickered to the small vile that sat on the nightstand. The poison that was...sure to take him to the gods. Regulus smirked at the comment that left the clerk’s name at the potion shop. Regulus had gone into the shop the day before yesterday and asked for the most powerful death potion available...now it was his.

The clerk seemed a bit worried that such a young man was asking for such a horrible potion. Usually only sick and extremely old asked for such a brew. Regulus had made up some lame story about it being for rats that were scaring his poor mother to death (little did the shop clerk know that the rats were scared of Walburga...not the other way around). When Regulus offered to pay double the listed price, the clerk no longer argued.

“You must have some horrible rats.”

The old man finally commented as Regulus gave him a small smile before walking out without another word.

“I don’t care if it hurts.”

Regulus thought as he opened the vial. The potion in the cave was the most horrible thing that he had ever experienced but Regulus would drink it again if it meant getting you back. If this potion was that bad, it could be another punishment for him being so careless in your death….a final punishment that he would welcome.

Regulus froze hearing Sirius downstairs laughing over something stupid. He felt guilty for a brief moment.

“I’m sorry, Sirius.”

Taking one final breath, Regulus put the vial to his lips and downed its contents. He stood motionless for a moment as the intense urge to go to sleep washed over him.

Not so bad…

The next thing Regulus knew he was standing by what looked like the Black lake at Hogwarts on a sunny day. Looking over his shoulder, Regulus smiled seeing you sitting by the tree with a book on your lap. He couldn’t help but smile looking at you from where he stood.

Of course, she’s reading.

Thought with a smile as your hair blew a bit in the breeze. Shoving his hands in his pockets, Regulus quickly walked over.

“I should have known that your personal heaven would involve books.”

You looked up before instantly smiling. It took you three seconds to be on your feet with your arms around Regulus’ shoulder. If you didn’t let go of him for the rest of eternity that would have been just fine with Regulus. Breathing in your sweet scent, he felt calm and happy for the first time in ages.

“What are you doing here? I wasn’t expecting you for a while.”

You said with a smile before interlocking his hands with yours. Regulus shrugged.

“I didn’t want to be without you.”

Regulus commented as your smile faded.

“Regulus...no...not like that.”

He shrugged again.

“It was worth it. You made my life worth living. I did what I was supposed to. I got the locket and Kreacher is going to destroy it. It's up to someone else to finish the story. Our story is here.”

Your unhappy smile faded as you pulled Regulus down beside you. Laying your head on his shoulder, you smiled again.

“It's not so bad here, you know. There’s no rain, no stupid war, just…”

“Us.”

Regulus interrupted before leaning down for a kiss. You nodded.

“Forever.”

_______

@amelie-black @regulusslut @truly-insatiable @fandomsxxregulus @quuenofblacks @jessyballet @knreidy1 @acciosiriusblack @mimisparkle12 @teletubiswszpilkach @spiderxalmighty @exhsle @bennyberry @rubyroscoe1 @whymyparentscheckmyphone @criminalyetminimal @fific7 @hazncalsgal @brokencasbutt67-writer @authoressskr @fandom-trash-worth-it @hankypranky @summer-novak @emiwrites3reads @shaylybaby2032 @marichromatic @li0nh34rt @tas898 @stuckinsaudi1 @shadows-and-padlocked-hearts @knight-of-gleefulness @untoldshortsofthefandoms @sprnaturallover @deanwherescas @shitfaceddaniel @wontlookaway @mycuddlycorner

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isthisthingeven0n · 4 years

Text

starting over, with you : s.r

after everything you went through with spencer, life decided to give you another shot. and this time, neither of you took the opportunity for granted. (3.5K)

we’re finally here, the epilogue to this little series. thank you for reading and supporting it. i hope you like the ending as much as i enjoyed writing it.

knowing you / forgetting you / remembering you / with or without you / starting over, with you

“She truly is just wonderful,” Maggie happily sighs as she rests her head in her hands, staring out dreamingly to the front door whilst you clean the spout of the steamer. “what did I do to find someone so just,” Maggie trails off and you quickly notice from the corner of your eye her standing up straighter.

Following her line of vision, you clear your throat as the woman in question walks in. Her blonde hair flows behind her shoulders as she slips her jacket off, resting it over her tote bag.

“Hey, sunshine.” She beams to Maggie who suddenly has lost the ability to speak. “Hey, Y/n.” She waves over to you as Maggie chuckles under her breath nervously.

Moving to stand beside Maggie, you nudge her playfully. “Use your words Mags,” You mutter.

“Yeah, I know that,” Maggie retorts as she focuses on the woman she’s been seeing, Delilah, for the past few weeks. “what can I get for you, D?”

Raising your eyebrows, you just catch the smirk on Maggie’s lips before you busy yourself once again, not wanting to get involved.

Slipping aside from the counter you pick up two plates and the muffin you kept from this morning. “So, this is the girl then?” Sitting down opposite him, you can’t help but smile at the excitement in his gaze as he focuses on you.

“That’s Delilah,” You tell him, passing him a plate as you split the muffin in half. “you were in such a rush this morning I thought I’d keep this as a treat when you finished.”

Smiling brightly at the muffin in front of him, he shifts for a moment before taking a bite. “Nothing beats your blueberry muffins. Did you know that blueberries are filled with antioxidants and phytoflavinoids. They’re a top choice for doctors and nutritionists as they also contain high levels of potassium and vitamin c.”

Chuckling under your breath, you poke your half of the muffin with your knife. “I don’t think it counts as much once they’ve been baked though, Spence.” You state, glancing up as Spencer chews another piece of muffin, his eyes not leaving yours.

“True, but you’re a benefit of these muffins too.” Spencer mutters, tearing his eyes from you as your lips part, humour filling the space around you.

“Did you just try and use a line on me?” You remark as Spencer shakes his head profusely. “Because if so, it was shocking.”

Spencer shyly smiles up at you as a small laugh leaves his lips. “Well, something worked clearly.” He reaches out, taking your hand in his just as Maggie rushes over to you.

“Sorry to interrupt lovebirds, but we’re out of pumpkin spice syrup.” Maggie sighs heavily, focusing on you with endless apologies in written across her expression.

Taking your hand from Spencer’s, you rise to your feet. “If you’re gone before I get back, I’ll meet you at mine?” You ask as you rest your hand on Spencer’s shoulder.

“I’ll wait, Y/n.” Spencer tells you as he turns his head, kissing your hand gently before you follow behind Maggie. “Don’t you worry.”

You could already see kids rushing around in various costumes as parents ran frantically behind them. Giggles of excitement and evident sugar rushes fill the air as brown and orange leaves coat the ground.

Leaning behind the counter the all-consuming scents of cinnamon, hazelnut and pumpkin spice filled your nostrils, acquainted by the occasional breeze of fresh air whenever a customer entered or departed.

Halloween always came around too quickly as you busied yourself with seasonal treats and limited edition beverages that brought new customers in every year. Yet, this year it was different. Usually, you’d spend the holiday working through the evening and spend time with Gary or your friends. It was always a quieter holiday compared to others, but this year things weren’t going to be the same.

“Come on, you have to tell me what your costume is.” Maggie practically begs you as you shake your head once again.

“It’s a secret, Mags.” You remind her for the twelfth time this week. “Besides, Spencer picked it out.”

A loud groan escapes Maggie's lips as you glance over your shoulder as she crosses her arms. “That means it’s going to be all nerdy and not slutty.” She rolls her eyes, watching as you nod along, knowing it’s true.

“There’s some slutty element to it.” You shrug a shoulder, trying to convince yourself moreso than Maggie. “I personally love it,” You comment under your breath before returning to work in the hope of distracting your mind a bit longer.

“Are you nervous at all?” Gary emerges from the far side of the cafe, his left arm still trembling as he grips onto a tray tightly.

Looking between them both, you roll your eyes. “You two trying to push my buttons tonight?” You feign anger as Gary shakes his head whilst Maggie nods. “Of course I’m nervous, I’m shitting myself!” A laugh escapes your lips involuntarily as you lean against the counter with your back turned to the entrance. “This is my chance to make a good impression on the people who pretty much watched me for months whilst Spencer was,” You trail off, it’s still something you both struggle to openly discuss.

Maggie’s eyes dart over to the open doorway, Spencer standing proudly as he removes his purple scarf, his wild curls fluffing up outwards. “Y/n,” Maggie tries to interrupt, but you carry on regardless.

“It’s just, I really care about him, I, I think I might be in love with him.” You finish as a light sound follows as a smile graces your lips.

Biting his lower lip, Spencer steps forward whilst you remain oblivious to his presence. “I always thought I’d be the first to say it,” Spencer can’t help himself as you whip your head around like a deer caught in headlights. “shall we Miss Y/L/N?”

Stuttering silently as you focus on his hazel eyes, you feel a gentle nudge from Maggie as you mumble in agreement.

“Wow, this isn’t at all awkward.” Maggie jokes, causing Gary to give her a fatherly look as you move out from the counter, removing your apron and throw it back in Maggie’s general direction.

“Yes,” The word barely leaves your lips as you walk closer toward him, taking his hand as he guides you towards the exit.

Quickly you glance over your shoulder, receiving thumbs up from both Maggie and Gary before you step out into the Autumnal breeze, wishing you had brought another layer with you.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Spencer asks as he struggles to hide his smile, but he can sense your worries as you focus on the browning leaves as you shuffle down the street.

“I didn’t intend on you hearing that,” You admit shyly as Spencer’s grip on your hand loosens. “I mean, sorry, that sounds dreadful.” You force a laugh, looking up as Spencer keeps his eyes fixated on the street ahead, knowing there are two hundred more steps to take until you reach your car around the corner beside the lamp post with the missing cat poster that’s faded entirely.

“It’s okay.” Spencer mutters, but it doesn’t take a profiler to know he doesn’t mean it.

Pausing, you take a hold of his arm, causing Spencer to turn around as his long legs guide him back to face you.

“It’s not okay, Spencer.” You huff as you sigh into your hands, oblivious to the loving way Spencer is looking at you. Despite having barely made it back in time for Halloween and sleeping on the jet, Spencer couldn’t have been happier to walk in at that precise moment.

Taking your hands from your face, Spencer brushes his fingers across your cheek. “It is, Y/n.” He hushes you, his hand now cupping your cheek. “Because I think, no, I know that I am in love with you too.”

“Wait, you do?” Your immediate reaction is to deny it, but as Spencer dips his head closer towards yours and his lips brush against your skin, you listen to him mutter a simple yes before kissing you affectionately.

Leaning into his embrace, you deepen the kiss, only breaking as the sound of children giggling increases from down the street.

“Ew, they’re kissing!” One child calls out and you shyly bury your face into Spencer’s chest, hiding behind his scarf as you feel the vibrations of his laughter.

His hand rises to rest on your back. “They’re gone, Y/n.” Spencer mutters to you as you step backwards, trying to suppress the heat rising through your body as you carry on walking to your car as if nothing had happened.

“Oh my god,” Penelope squeals as she opens her front door, clad in pumpkin dress with her mouth ajar as you stand besides Spencer who is unable to stop his smile from growing. “you look amazing!”

Looking up at Spencer you can’t help but laugh as butterflies flutter around in your stomach, even after all this time he still can muster this effect on you.

You have to admit, despite your initial uncertainties about the costumes Spencer suggested they have turned out better than you envisioned.

“And Y/n, you look well,” Penelope stumbles over her words as she brings you into a tight hug. “and I, I want to apologise about well,” She looks up to Spencer and back to you.

“It’s all good, Penelope.” You tell her as she reaches for your hand, her eyes softening. “I should thank you really, I mean, without you I don’t think we’d be here.” You admit as Spencer wraps his arm around your waist, and it’s enough for Penelope to lose her mind as she sighs happily.

“Come on in lovebirds, god.” She huffs as you both walk in and pause as several pairs of eyes greet you.

“I have to say, it’s hard to find profilers intimidating when they’re all dressed up for a Halloween party.” You admit, and Spencer chuckles, nodding along as he pushes his goggles further up from his forehead.

The first to step forward is a blonde woman wearing a Super Woman costume. “Hi, I’m-”

“JJ?” You ask as she nods, glancing up to Spencer as your smile brightens. “I’ve heard so much about you! Well, I’ve heard a lot about everyone, but you’re Henry’s Mom!” You happily tell JJ who warms to you instantly, having only ever seen footage of you previously down in the dumps and unsure of everything.

Instantly, you are swept away by the women of the BAU, leaving Spencer watching in awe as Luke pats his shoulder. “You really got her to agree to this?” Luke motions to Spencer’s outfit.

“It was the first movie we watched together,” Spencer states. “and she makes a cute Marty.” Spencer half-smiles as he lip-reads your conversation with Emily and JJ.

“He really got you to dress as Marty Mcfly?” Emily chuckles into her drink as you nod along, taking a sip of the concoction Penelope created before everyone arrived.

“I’m not sure if I like it or if it’s the number of chemicals I’ve inhaled making Spencer’s hair white with dry shampoo.” You joke, and the sound of laughter spreads through the group as you glance over your shoulder, watching as Spencer is sat with Rossi and Luke, flashing you a reassuring smile.

“Gives you an idea on how he’ll look in the future.” Penelope nudges you, and JJ rolls her eyes.

“A mad scientist sounds about right.” You nod in agreement. “So, what’s it like, on the field? Spencer only tells me so much, but I’d love to hear more from you guys.”

Rossi interrupts your conversation shortly after Emily explained the latest mission and how she managed to get the cut across her forehead which conveniently was covered by her fringe.

“May I?” Rossi asks as he holds out a glass of wine to you, which you gladly accept.

Walking with Rossi, you follow him into the kitchen as you lean against the counter, feeling somewhat at home here as the music plays faintly in Penelope’s living room.

“You know, when Spencer was inside I heard your name mentioned countless times.” Rossi begins.

“Sorry ‘bout that.” You force yourself to joke, and Rossi senses the change in your stance as you hide your left hand in the pocket of your bodywarmer, picking at the tissue buried inside.

Rossi shakes his head. “No need to apologise. It’s never an easy thing to talk about, but we both know Reid well enough to know he can talk for days about anything and everything, but often miss the most important thing.”

You nod along with Rossi as you take a sip of your drink as a temporary distraction.

“Do you talk about it? What happened when Spencer was inside?” Rossi delves deeper, knowing the answer before you shake your head. “Something changed in him, but what didn’t change was his determination paired with his intelligence and though he can be an ass about it, he often is right about things.” Rossi chuckles to himself. “I listened to everyone talking about this girl in a cafe for months before Spencer went away, waiting for him to make a move.”

Listening intently, these were details no one had ever shared. This was the perspective you were missing in your story.

“Penelope offered countless times to march in and talk to you, but an old friend, Morgan, refused to let that happen.” Rossi sighs, remembering it like it were yesterday. “And he told us on the flight back to Quantico that he was going to see if you were open that evening and ask you on a date.” Rossi trails off, not needing to fill you in on the rest of the story.

“And he did.” You finish. “What was it like, knowing he was in there all that time?”

Your eyes follow Rossi’s as he looks out into the living room where Spencer is lost in conversation with JJ. “Difficult, knowing he was in there for something he wouldn’t have ever done. We all worked tirelessly, trying to find a way to get him out.” Rossi explains as he places his glass down on the counter, finding a spot amongst Penelope’s various trinkets. “Do you wish you knew? If you could go back?”

“That’s the million-dollar question.” You huff as you finish the last of your wine. “I don’t think I would, no.” You reason, thinking back on the heartache you went through, the unknown reason Spencer never called you. “It hurt, and I think everyone here knows that firsthand, but I don’t think I would’ve forgiven him if I knew without the full story that was to follow.”

A smile forms on Rossi’s face as he steps forward and kisses both your cheeks. “I can see why he’s so fond of you.” He pats your arm, leaving you alone with your thoughts for a moment before you step out, resuming the evening with everyone.

Hearty laughter echoes throughout the apartment as the hours roll on. Children have long gone home and have dealt with their sugar crashes as the adults roam the streets in search of a very different kind of candy.

Leaning against Penelope’s balcony, you welcome the fresh air as you run your fingers through your hair, thankful for the warmth the costume provides unlike the girls below.

The sound of the door opening and closing catches your attention as Spencer stands beside you, his arms resting on the railing as he looks out at the city below and the drunken chatter climbing up the walls of buildings.

“Did you know Halloween is one of the more dangerous holidays?” Spencer asks, and you raise a brow to him as his smile widens before he carries on. “Between 2009 and 2013 the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration reported 40% of deaths were caused by drivers who were intoxicated from 7 pm to around 1 am.”

“Cheerful, Spence.” You mutter as a chill spreads through you once more.

“Here,” Spencer speaks up, wrapping his arm around you as he kisses the top of your head as you watch girls stumble over their heels as they yell for one another. “I’m glad you came tonight.”

Glancing up to Spencer, you push his goggles further up onto his partially white hair. “Oh yeah?” You tease, something you can’t help but do as Spencer nods.

Spencer watches as you rest your head against his shoulder, your thoughts clearly elsewhere as you hum contently.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Interrupting your daydreams, you straighten up.

“When did you know that you loved me?” You ask the question that’s been circling in your thoughts all evening.

Pausing for a moment, Spencer turns to face you, his eyes darting over to the balcony doors as everyone remains occupied.

“Truthfully, Y/n,” Spencer starts as he exhales shakily, something you weren’t anticipating. “the night you came over and wanted to give us a go.”

Your eyes widen in surprise, that night was filled with mixed emotions.

* that night *

You weren’t sure how your feet had guided you to his front door, but here you were.

Crumbling the piece of paper back into your pocket, you force back any worries as you knock on his front door and step back, preparing yourself to turn back and run if necessary.

Yet, the door swung open, revealing Spencer in comfortable attire as he tiredly rubs his eyes before focusing on the figure before him.

“Y/n?” He mutters, shocked to see you after how you dismissed him days prior. “What’re you doing here? I mean, how did you get my,”

“Penelope.” You tell him, cutting him off as he nods, who else could it have been?

Silence settles over you both as neither of you are sure what to say. On your drive over, you had a vague plan in place, an idea of what you want to say. Yet, standing in front of Spencer up close, the stubble lining his jaw and above his lip, you were lost for words all over again.

“Would you like to come in?” Spencer steps aside from his front door, revealing his slightly messy apartment as books are scattered across the floor.

“Okay.” You force confidence to strive through your voice as you step inside, your eyes wandering over his vast library as the front door closes behind you. “What I said the other night,”

“Was perfectly valid.” Spencer comments, holding his hands up before resting them in his pockets.

You suppress your sigh as you focus on anything but him and your eyes lock on a beaten copy of a book in front of your feet, ‘The Narrative of John Smith.’

“I heard you, but I wasn’t truly listening. I mean, it was a lot to take on board.” A short laugh leaves your lips as Spencer nods. “If you’ll let me, I’d like to hear about it, all of it.”

Lifting your head up, you see Spencer focusing on you with a perplexed look crossing his gaze. “But, why? You made it clear that night that you didn’t want to see me again.” Spencer reasons, fighting against his heart as it yells for him to shut up.

“I don’t know.” You admit, lifting your arms up as you sigh. “I just, for peace of mind, please? I waited three months to hear from you, and now I have I, I don’t want to just let it go.”

Stepping closer, Spencer hesitantly reaches out for your hand and squeezes it lightly. “Okay.” He whispers before guiding you to his sofa. “Well, I guess I’ll start after you drove off.”

Looking in awe at your boyfriend, you can’t help but notice how he retreats into himself after his statement.

“I just knew if you were willing to give me a chance after all of that, after listening to my story I wasn’t just interested in you, Y/n. I knew I loved you.” Spencer tells you as you nudge closer into his embrace, rising on your tiptoes.

“Want to know a secret, Spence?” You whisper into his lips. “I knew I loved you the moment you opened the door.” You chuckle, closing the distance between your lips as you kiss him, only to be interrupted as the doors slide open.

“Love birds, come on we’re about to play say it or shot it!” Penelope calls out as Spencer’s cheeks burn up and his goggles fall down onto his face.

Chuckling to yourself you force his goggles back up. “Shall we?” You ask, stepping forward as Spencer nods, taking your hand and following you back inside to join everyone else.

We must develop and maintain the capacity to forgive. He who is devoid of the power to forgive is devoid of the power to love. There is some good in the worst of us and some evil in the best of us. When we discover this, we are less prone to hate our enemies. - Martin Luther King Jr.

The end.

TAGLIST (for this mini series) :

@koc-help @bellomi-clarke @castbyfox @http-cherries @easygoingtheatre @tomorrowmeansoportunities @rainsong01 @rexorangecouny @radtwinkie @eldahae @l0ve-0f-my-life

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luvvewan · 3 years

Note

EEEE can you do 11?? Obi wan and qui gon JA time period? :D

Thank you very much for the prompt, @general-flame ! ❤️ I realized after writing this blurb that you specified Jedi Apprentice and this actually follows new canon/Master and Apprentice. I hope you enjoy it anyway but feel free to send send another JA prompt and I’ll try to be more observant! 😬

11. “I need you to breathe for me. Slowly – in and out.”

—

(then)

When Obi-Wan opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was the bleary afternoon sky above him, sullen and swollen with dark clouds. He immediately vomited, and his confused head thought it must be rain water, this tepid liquid rushing up from his guts.

He tried to take a deep breath, but made a clumsy gulping sound instead. Warm pressure settled on the nape of his neck, and he felt the Force, suffused with healing, yet strained.

Panicked.

He tried to wrench away from the touch. His fingers dug into the grainy earth. He tasted the grain—no, sand—in the back of his throat. It was going to fill his lungs, but he wretched again. He could not stop, overtaken by great, shuddering heaves, the Force more shadowed than the sky, dark with fear.

I should not be afraid to die.

I am Jedi.

Hands beat on his back, while another clutched his arm, keeping him upright, although he was very tired and his vision had dissolved along the edges. A vice squeezed his lungs, the hand squeezed his arm. Voices drifted down from the clouds.

“Obi-Wan—“

“Steady now. Breathe, kid.”

Two voices; he didn’t recognize the second. He tried to obey it anyway, letting the order override his body’s twitchy, mindless reactions. Obi-Wan spit out wet sand, but didn’t vomit, which allowed a thin stream of air through. Then more. The sharp pinch in his chest eased. He wanted to suck in the clean, sweet air, glut himself on it. He sputtered instead, and the hand moved along his spine, wide palm stroking up and down.

“Easy,” A different voice, lower, closer. “Focus on calming your heart.”

Master. He was suddenly shaking, even though it was the opposite of what Qui-Gon wanted, and there was a skittering flurry in the Force, and he realized his heart was pounding as if it wanted to burst out of him. He was going to puke, ohhh—-

“Qui-Gon, he’s—“

“I know.”

Despite the cacophony in his ears, Obi-Wan could hear the disappointment there. He blinked up, forcing his eyes to center on the vague face-shape hovering above him. Water dripped onto him, this time from the ends of Qui-Gon’s long hair. He was looking at Obi-Wan.

Blue eyes striated with grey. Like the sea.

Obi-Wan coughed and shivered. “What,” he started to say, but was unconscious before he could finish the question.

What do you know?

—-

(now)

“N-N…”

“I need you to breathe for me.”

Obi-Wan choked and sputtered.

“Slowly-in and out,” Qui-Gon braced his Padawan’s shoulders in an attempt to ground him. Though instinctively he wanted to draw the trembling young man closer, Qui-Gon remained at the edge of the sofa, giving Obi-Wan space. In the chaos of the moment, it was difficult to remember the healer’s suggestions, but he was getting better at it.

Unfortunately, Qui-Gon had already been provided several opportunities to practice.

The Force energy surrounding Obi-Wan pulsed with rapid, unfiltered emotion—confusion, panic, fear. Qui-Gon felt the echoes of terror, as clearly as he could still hear the desperate gasps from that day, weeks ago. When the attacks came, Obi-Wan sounded like he was struggling for air.

Drowning.

“Do you want the lights on?” Qui-Gon asked softly.

Obi-Wan’s eyes were screwed shut; after a few seconds he nodded.

Qui-Gon waved on a glow lamp. The common area of his quarters looked aggressively normal, unaffected, their tea cups from earlier in the evening still sitting on the end table. It was only the blanket, thrown onto the floor, that spoke of any unease.

He picked it up, shook it out and draped it over Obi-Wan’s shoulders. “That’s it. You’re doing better. In and out.”

Obi-Wan opened his eyes and looked at Qui-Gon. His chest was still fluttering spastically, but as the minutes passed, he took more and more control, until at last the wild-bright panic faded. Obi-Wan sagged against the sofa.

“Well done.” He held Obi-Wan’s gaze, something that had been hard to do, as of late. He wondered when he would be able to look in those gray eyes again without remembering how they had widened with terror, silently pleading for help. Qui-Gon had failed his Padawan that day.

And now Obi-Wan was staying with him, rather than in the apprentice dorms. Obi-Wan had insisted it was unnecessary, embarrassed by Qui-Gon’s offer. But he was not sleeping, and Qui-Gon could not sleep either, imagining his Padawan in the throes of these ruthless attacks, alone.

He had made enough mistakes with this young man. He would do what he could to fix it.

Obi-Wan was glancing around the room, as if discreetly scanning for danger.

Qui-Gon understood that it was a side effect of the anxiety and trauma. As the soul healer explained it, Obi-Wan’s close call triggered primitive responses in his brain. His body currently perceived threats even in safe places, like his Master’s rooms in the Temple.

Or perhaps he is right to sense danger here, a niggling voice in the back of his head pointed out. After all, you did not protect him. Far from it.

He gingerly squeezed Obi-Wan’s knee. “I’ll get you some water.”

Obi-Wan blinked. In the weak amber light, he looked younger than his twenty years. “Alright. Thanks.”

Qui-Gon glanced at the chrono when he walked into the small kitchen. Close to daybreak. So it would be another early morning. He returned with a glass of cool water.

Obi-Wan took it with a quiet ‘thank you’ and sipped. His hair was flattened on one side of his head, the other half standing in riotous spikes. Qui-Gon had begun to believe the regulation Padawan cut in human males existed to endear them to their teachers. He smiled and smoothed the sweaty hair with his palm.

He noticed Obi-Wan’s mouth tense and his eyes dropped to the glass in his hands.

“You have no reason to be ashamed, young one.”

Obi-Wan snorted. “No, of course not. All senior apprentices lose their minds and have to sleep on their Master’s couch.”

It was meant partially in jest, but the words twisted Qui-Gon’s heart nonetheless. He set the glass on the table and leaned back on the sofa, crossing his arms over his sleep robe. “You have not lost your mind. Healer Che said this is not uncommon after a traumatic event.”

“Nor is it common.” Obi-Wan started to fiddle with his braid, then caught himself. “I don’t see how it’s especially traumatic,” he confessed, looking at Qui-Gon with bloodshot eyes. “I just need to learn how to swim.”

—

They were Temple-bound while Obi-Wan recovered. Unlike a physical injury, the parameters for mental recovery were ill-defined. Obi-Wan went to appointments with a soul healer; he rarely spoke of what was discussed in the sessions. Qui-Gon got the impression that his Padawan firmly wanted to move on, and was both irritated and discouraged by the attacks.

Qui-Gon wanted to move on too, of course. He and Obi-Wan had only just begun to mend their relationship after the fateful mission to Pijal, and Qui-Gon’s near-acceptance of the Council seat.

He sat on a bench in a less-traveled area of the Gardens. His eyes burned from interrupted sleep. The episodes were becoming much more frequent, nearly every night. He worried for Obi-Wan, who was currently sitting in a lecture, undoubtedly exhausted.

If he was a more experienced Master, would this all be easier? Over and over, he grappled with the idea that Obi-Wan needed someone like Mace, or even Yoda. The boy was so different from him. He never knew if he was providing Obi-Wan with the tools he needed to thrive, as a Jedi or as a person. Pijal had proved to Qui-Gon he could not give Obi-Wan up, nor were their problems insurmountable. He had returned to Coruscant with hope, and turned the Council’s offer down.

And then, on their very next mission following Pijal, Obi-Wan almost drowned.

Since then, Qui-Gon’s thoughts dwelled on a conversation he’d had with Obi-Wan, back when he still intended to join the Council.

“I’ve never taught you to swim, have I, Obi-Wan?”

“No, Master. But I know how—well, a little bit.”

“We’ll practice. Every Jedi should be able to swim like a Mon Calamari.” *

He could forgive some mistakes he had made as Obi-Wan’s mentor. Obi-Wan was his first Padawan, assigned to him by Master Yoda, and there were bound to be stumbling blocks. In this case, Qui-Gon had no excuse. For years, it had not occurred to him to ask Obi-Wan if he knew how to swim.

He had assumed, as with so much else in this relationship—assumed somewhere along the way, Obi-Wan had learned how to swim. He should have taken Obi-Wan to the Temple pools as soon as they returned from Pijal, as he had pledged to do.

Their lives were busy. He had forgotten.

He cleared his throat, looking out at the vibrant greenery. He remembered swimming with Master Dooku. Qui-Gon could swim, and swim well, before his first proper mission as a Padawan. Why had he let so many things slip with Obi-Wan? Admittedly, in the beginning, Qui-Gon had felt shades of resentment towards the boy, foisted upon him when he had not asked for such a sudden and complete change. Yet he had grown to care deeply for Obi-Wan, despite their differences. He thought he had done his best.

Pijal had opened his eyes. But not enough, or else he would have corrected the vital lapse in Obi-Wan’s skills as soon as he was made aware.

“We’ll practice.”

There were nightmares of his own, in which he was too late, and Obi-Wan did not…he refused to give the image life or dimension now, in the Gardens, amid other Jedi and the optimistic light of day. Yoda would tell him not to dwell on what-ifs. Certainly Qui-Gon had been reminded recently enough that dreams were easily misinterpreted.

He would bring up the swimming lesson with Obi-Wan, he decided. It was a start.

—

*dialogue excerpts taken from the novel Master and Apprentice by Claudia Gray

#star wars #obi-wan kenobi #qui-gon jinn #obi-wan #master and apprentice #qui-gon and obi-wan fanfic #prompts #luvewan fanfic

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wonder-womans-ex · 3 years

Text

The Boys of Yesterday

Sometimes, Saint wonders what his younger self would think of the person he is now.

There are days where he knows that even a hint of the present would make Saint of the past try a little harder; keep going with just a little more hope in his heart. There are days where he’s sure that he’s always wanted to end up where he is now, even if he didn’t always know it.

There are days that he knows the boy from years ago would hate him for. Those are the days where he’ll stop dead in the middle of whatever it is he’s doing as cold, palpable fear grips him, a reminder of the knowledge that he’s a disappointment to anyone and everyone in his life, even himself.

And then there are days where he has trouble reconciling the two people in his mind. He’ll think about who he was then, and he’ll think about who he is now, and it’s as if there’s a line between them. A chasm, wider than anything, bottomless and endless and always there, no matter how desperately he tries to fill it. Sometimes, though—usually, even—he can imagine a bridge. He can find peace with the fact that he was one person, and now he’s another.

But once in a while, it’s like he’s watching someone else make mistakes, powerless to stop it or make it right or even feel guilty about it. He starts thinking about the boy he was then in the second person—me and I and mine turn to Sebastian and knuckles bloodied from fights and a heart full of anger he didn’t know what to do with.

That’s the kind of day today is.

He can feel it as something shifts. He tries to shield himself, but, too soon, it’s like he’s watching from a distance as an eleven-year-old boy named Bash is standing with his feet in the ocean for the first time in his life. He sees a gust of wind blow a lock of deep golden hair into the boy’s face, and then the boy is laughing, smiling, in a way he’s never really known how to before.

If Saint were that boy, not just a bystander from another lifetime, he would feel the sand, soft between the boy’s toes as he wiggles them. He would feel the cold of the water on the tips of his fingers as he crouches down, dragging them through a wave just before it breaks.

This is the scene that plays in Saint’s mind as he stands, hands pinned next to his head, against the side of the Lupins’ boathouse.

He hears the water lapping at the sides of the dock, beating out a soft, steady rhythm. He feels a spray of seawater pass through the air, dousing the left side of his body in cool droplets.

He sees the deep brown, one shot through with sea-green, of Luke Deveaux’s eyes as they stare at each other, neither daring to breath.

For a few long moments, it’s like the world is waiting for something to happen. Luke and Saint may as well be the only two people in the universe, as far as either of them is concerned—no voices are audible from beyond the shoreline, where their friends are playing beach volleyball and listening to music and falling in love; and, for once, the bright white triangles of sails are absent from the horizon.

Finally, Saint whispers, “What are you doing?”

Luke shakes his head minutely. Were it not for the distance—or lack thereof—between them, Saint wouldn’t be able to see it at all. “I don’t know.”

Saint wants to say that he doesn’t know, either, but he can’t bring himself to say the words. Instead, he smiles—one corner of his mouth twitches up, lips parting just enough to reveal the slightest sliver of his teeth.

He feels as Luke’s fingers tighten around his wrists. A tiny part of him thinks he knows why, and the rest of him hopes beyond hope that he’s not wrong.

“Why are we here?” he asks, instead, but the only response he gets is Luke’s jaw clenching as something shifts in his eyes.

After yet another long moment, he tries, “Tweedle?”

“Please.” There’s a note in Luke’s voice that says stop talking, but Saint can’t. He doesn’t think he even knows how.

“Please what?”

Three boys, young and burdened, two of them freer than they thought and one of them out of prison but still in chains.

“Just… just let me have this. Even if…”

A promise of something more; a hint of a life more than just survival.

“Even if what?” Saint’s voice cracks at the end, pitching up into a half-fearful whisper.

Sitting alone in the dark and watching a life he hadn’t lived yet flash before his eyes.

He doesn’t hear the reply—he doesn’t even know if there is one—because he barely has time to think before Luke’s lips are on his, warm and insistent and slightly rough. He kisses back without thinking about it, too, reveling in the way Luke’s hand slides through his hair and pulls them closer together.

They’re standing chest-to-chest, now, hearts beating frantically against each other. There’s some sort of symbolism there, Saint reasons, as he feels Luke’s pulse quicken more the longer they kiss.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wonders how long he’s wanted this—how long he’s spent looking at Luke and thinking there was something there worth loving. He suspects it’s a lot longer than he wants to admit.

Slowly, carefully, he lets one of his arms curl around Luke’s waist. His thumb slips under the hem of Luke’s t-shirt, sliding over warm skin and then coming to rest in the divot of Luke’s spine. There’s an intimacy to this—not necessarily to the kissing itself, but to the fact that neither of them has stopped the kissing, even though they both know they can’t be doing this. Not really. Not anymore—or maybe not yet.

Indeed, when Luke eventually pulls back, he doesn’t push Saint away. He doesn’t leave without explanation, the way he usually does when forced to deal with genuine human emotion. He just takes a deep breath, and then another, swiping angrily at his eyes with the back of one hand. Saint pretends not to notice the tears pooling there, one of which has already started to fall.

They stare at each other for a good ten seconds—maybe more; Saint can’t tell. It’s always as if time falls away when he meets Luke’s gaze, and now is no exception. Then Saint says, “You kissed me,” and immediately wishes he hadn’t.

“You kissed me back.”

Saint wants to make a snide remark about pointing out the obvious, but he catches himself just in time, realizing that would be vastly hypocritical of him.

“Why?”

They say it at the same time, then fall silent. To Saint’s surprise, it’s Luke who speaks up again first: “I think you know why.”

“No,” Saint says evenly, “I don’t think I do.”

“Well, I’m sure you can guess.”

A boy, black-haired and grey-eyed, who looked like love but tasted like loneliness.

This time, Saint lets his mouth curl up into a smirk. “Probably. But why don’t you say it?”

It has the opposite effect from what he intended. Luke’s eyes darken, brow furrowing into a scowl. “You’re mocking me.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.” As he says it, Luke tries to push Saint up against the boathouse again, but Saint easily steps out of reach.

“Why would I be mocking you?”

“You fucker!” Luke is shouting, now; his voice is raised so much that Saint thinks the whole world must be able to hear. “It’s hard enough being in love with a… with a Hollow like you; you don’t have to play with my fucking emotions, too!”

That’s when he puts his hands against Saint’s shoulder and shoves.

Saint tumbles, practically in slow motion, off the end of the dock. He sees the anger drop from Luke’s face, replaced by an expression that looks to be part worry and part helplessness.

Splash.

The water is frigid—more so than he’d expect for this late in the summer��and it seems to envelop him completely, up and down and left and right fading away into a suspension that could last forever.

Just as quickly, it’s gone, and Saint’s head breaks the surface as he gasps for air. “Screw you, God!” he shouts, and, with a few strokes, he’s hauling himself back onto the dock. His shirt is soaked through, practically transparent, and his jean shorts are going to take hours to dry out, so he has no regrets about doing what he does next: grabbing Luke by the wrist and tugging as hard as he can until they both topple back into the water.

Dreams that felt like reality until he couldn’t tell the difference between flying and falling.

They’re underwater, now, hair drifting around their faces, and Saint registers that they’re still holding hands. Luke hasn’t let go, yet, and Saint isn’t about to, either.

Saint knows he shouldn't; they’ve just been arguing—but, then again, when aren’t they arguing? Plus, how is he supposed to not consider it, when their hands are still entwined and it feels like a crime to let go.

Luke's auburn hair is swirling around his face, defying gravity in the way only being submerged under water provides. His eyes are squeezed shut, which, Saint assesses, is probably a good idea, judging by the sting in his own. His gaze flickers down to Luke's lips—lips that were on his only moments earlier.

Suddenly, faster than he can think, Saint's self control leaves him and he leans in, connecting his lips to Luke's once again.

It’s even better than the first time. Fuck, it’s better than any kiss Saint has ever had. It’s passion and danger and something that feels a little bit like love.

At first, when Luke pulls away, severing the kiss entirely, Saint is terrified he’s done something wrong. But Luke only swims toward the ocean’s surface, pulling Saint along with him.

Saint, in his oxygen-deprived state, doesn’t understand—he wants to go back underwater, where Luke is his only tie to reality and everything feels like magic. Then he takes a breath, and the world comes back to him in painful clarity.

“Tweedle,” he says.

And, somehow, impossibly, Luke whispers, “I know.”

“But you don’t.”

Saint’s heart stutters at the way Luke smiles. “Why don’t you tell me, then?” asks Luke, and Saint can’t think of a good enough reason to disagree. He can’t think of anything except the way they’re as good as repeating their earlier conversation (and also the way Luke’s hair looks when it’s wet).

Two perfect eyes, full of a nameless emotion, staring at him from the other side of a bonfire and a bottle of beer.

Instead of saying anything, Saint leans in, closer and closer, until their foreheads are touching and he can feel Luke’s breath on his mouth and cheeks and nose. He hesitates for an instant, and then leans in, finally, finally, closing the gap between them.

This time, there really is something different. Somewhere, somehow, something makes a little more sense.

'I love you,' Saint will confide for the first time, later that night. He’s never said it before, because, before now, it’s never been true.

Sometimes, things are truer in the dark.

Sometimes, it takes too much courage to say what you really want to.

Sometimes, it’s easier to live in yesterday.

But sometimes, you don’t need to say anything at all.

amazing characters by @lumosinlove

thanks to @im-oknutzy-trash for letting me brainstorm at them and also writing one of my favourite parts of this when I was stuck <3

#st. tweedle #relic keel lumosinlove #luke deveaux #saint #saint x luke #first kiss #underwater kisses bc why not #my contribution to the 'luke pushing saint against a wall' trope #flashbacks? sort of?#why am I so bad at tagging #I guess we'll never know #✨angry kissing✨

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petra-realsnk · 3 years

Text

Rivetra fanfic (divergence au)

Under the cut there’s the second chapter of my Digging up a grave series! I really do appreciate your support guys. I was really excited to know that some of you enjoyed the first part, so I hope you find this one interesting as well. This chapter was quite hard to write. I wanted this part of the story to feel genuine while also setting some conflicts. I'm pretty clear about the direction the story will go, and it will probably end up having around 6 chapters. I’ll keep trying my best to bring you all a good burn! <3

Warnings: distress, sadness, mourning.

You can also read it in AO3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29610360/chapters/72925107

Digging up a grave (Chapter 2)

Petra wakes up in the military dungeons, oblivious to everything that has happened during the last six months. Levi is in charge of bringing her up to date, and informing her of her last duty to humanity. Erwin had asked him not too long ago if he could see his fallen comrades, and now he surely could. During their talk, Levi, who had sworn to live regretless, starts to doubt. What will he say once she finally asks him, "how did I die?"

The pendant duty

Petra woke up with a start. Seconds after she opened her eyes the memory of her nightmare faded, leaving behind it an agonizing sensation. The room was dark, and a faint musty smell stung her nose. The small bed was nestled against the wall in one corner, though she could barely see anything in the dim light.

She then remembered that she had been in the forest, and that the captain had found her, although she couldn't recall how she had gotten there. She also remembered her conversations with Eren before the expedition, but all the rest seemed to have been lost. There was not a single muscle in her body that didn’t ache, and a slight but persistent migraine pricked her temples. Her hands fearfully explored her body expecting to find a wound that could explain those after-effects. To her surprise, she didn’t find anything on the surface, which made her think that it was something internal, maybe caused by some fall or blow, which was somewhat correct.

At the thought of it, something twisted in her stomach, as it would surely have implied a problem for her squad, that would have had to come to her aid. It was even possible that her own captain had come to rescue her, which hurted her considerably. Petra was a proud soldier, she placed high esteem on her work, and would be lying if she said that she didn’t seek Levi's approval. For a long time Petra had tried to justify herself by thinking that all she wanted was to prove her worth, or that maybe she was too good-natured and therefore a little bit of a pleaser, even if the latter didn’t fit her at all.

Her breathing was still uneven, and from time to time she also experienced vertigo. Fatigue prevented her from caring too much about her condition, although it didn't take long for her to notice that something was wrong. Despite her blackouts, she managed to remember most of the things, but there was a fog separating her from everything… The memories, the people, the important events were there, but the emotional bonds that tied them had been distorted. She analyzed herself in the stillness of the room, until the sound of squeaking metal alerted her that someone was entering.

Thanks to the light of a torch she could see that it was Hange, who had just opened the gate of the cell in which she was. Petra felt misplaced as she realized she was imprisoned, and looked around her quickly, worsening her headache.

"Lay back down, getting upset will only make it worse", Levi said.

His voice moved something inside Petra, briefly clearing the mist that had separated her from reality before, bringing back for a second the sensation that linked his memory to her. She saw him appear from behind Hange, in civilian clothes and with his hands tucked into his pockets. Petra rested her head on the pillow once again, lying on one side without losing sight of her superiors.

"There you go! Just as when we found you… ”, said Hange in a rather calmed manner. As the commander approached she realized Hange wore an eye patch, then her eyes shifted to her neck, where now there was an honorific pendant with a green gem. Petra wondered what could have happened, and how was it possible for them to have been commemorated that fast…

“What happened?”, she asked them, unable to hide her urgency. Hange's expression turned grim, while Levi remained motionless, leaning against the opposite wall the bed was in, unable to look at her. Petra's eyes went from one to the other, trying to figure out if she should apologize for something.

“We figured you won’t remember”, said Hange, making a pause. “You see, Petra… During the 57th expedition, we were attacked by an intelligent titan who turned out to be an infiltrated member in our army. Levi’s squad was totally annihilated, including yourself”.

The room remained in silence as Petra stared the commander in disbelief. “Are they- are they dead?”, she started saying, but couldn’t finish before Hange interrupted, “that was six months ago”.

That last sentence made her body temperature drop. The meaning behind her words was starting to reach her, and soon she started to panic. Petra tried to incorporate herself as her coping mind began to separate her from that moment. Before her nerves collapsed, Levi pushed himself off the wall and started walking toward her.

“You died, your body had to be left outside the walls and the enemy transformed yourself into a titan. After six months you came to devour someone who had the ability to shift like Eren, and that’s how you turned back to yourself.”

Hange gave Levi a concerned look, for he was delivering way too much information very harshly, even though she quickly realized that was his best attempt to bring her back. As he finished speaking, Levi finally looked Petra in the face. She regenerated slowlier than normal, but now her face looked as usual if not a little bit pale. He had always been prepared to let go of anyone at any given moment, but he wasn’t ready for this.

“Hange, aren’t you busy now that you’re the new commander? How about you let me take care of her”, said Levi without taking his eyes away from Petra.

“Commander!?”, replied Petra, “Then Erwin…”

“Ah, you’re right”, said Hange with a saddened tone, “I’ll go take care of it now, you guys have a lot to talk about! See you, Petra.” This time she sounded more carefree, disappearing before Petra could say goodbye.

Rapidly her mind shifted to Ouro, Eld and Gunther… The pain was beginning to take over her, but the captain wasn't going to let her take a breath.

Levi continued to advance towards her and sitted on her bed, quite more closer than what he had really intended to. Petra felt slightly intimidated, had he stopped trusting her? “Is he trying to intimidate me?”, she thought to herself, although he just wanted to see her from up close.

“Captain… I apologize. I understood what you both said, but there are some things I can’t really grasp”.

After hearing the word “captain” Levi shuddered. That was the first time she addressed him after her death, so formal, as if… nothing had really happened. She gave her life to him once, and now that she’s given a second she’s already back on duty? His expression betrayed him this time. He had always known how devoted she was, and was aware of her fondness for him, but why now? After giving everything she had, after he had failed them, she was willing to continue believing in him? He was being dragged to a mindspace he couldn’t afford. He had to understand she hadn’t seen herself under that tree, nor falling from the chariot. That was on him.

“Petra, it is done now. You don’t need to talk to me in that manner. Your duty with humanity has been fulfilled for now. If you still want to do this, I won’t stop you, but for now you should just listen”.

His reaction softened her. She knew she probably was a titan now, but if what they said was true, they would have had to suffer her death anyways. Petra lowered her gaze, as the blood slowly returned to her cheeks. She really had to work up the courage to ask the following:

“What happened to us?”

The captain was then forced to look away. It was a most common question, but he didn't know what to answer. All the formulas that came to mind included the confession that he was not there, that he could not help them, and that he abandoned them a second time without being able to take them to their families.

“I wasn't there, but it looks like your back was broken.” He could not lie, although he chose the short version. He didn't want her to have to imagine it, even at the risk of sounding blunt. “If you want to know more, you should ask Eren.” That’s all he could give away, as he turned to face her once more.

"I see ..."

Petra bit the bullet nicely, keeping her composure. At least she was certain that Eren was fine, even though they had failed him too. She knew Levi was used to losing people along the way, and he'd had to let go of his squad as well. At least now they could carry the weight of that loss together, she thought. Then, as things started to fall into place, it suddenly hit her.

“My father!”

“We’ll take care of it. I’ll inform him personally that you’ve been miraculously found alive. We can’t really tell him the truth for now, but we’ll arrange something…”, he comforted her.

Petra’s face lightened up a little, regaining its usual beauty. She had a very close relationship with her father despite their silly arguments. She didn't want to imagine the suffering it would have caused him, and was dying to tell him she was fine. Her determination helped her feel better, since now she had in mind to go home as soon as possible.

“Thank you so much, sir. When will it be possible to go see him? I really need to let him know.”

Levi looked at her somewhat concerned, Petra's mind was jumping from one place to another, and he needed to talk with her about so many things... Things that had happened in battle, the truth about the titans, she deserved to know everything, although deep down he knew that would not satisfy him. Was there something else he wanted to tell her, or was it actually something he wanted to know?

“I’m telling you to listen. Now that you’ve eaten a shifter you have inherited their powers. As you might have guessed, that means you’re like Eren now. We can’t really lose sight of you for that. We can’t know for sure which titan you have, and as far as we know your condition seems more delicate than the others. We aren’t sure you’ll be able to transform and come back. Our only concern for now will be to make sure we don’t lose you. When the time it’s due, you’ll have to pass your power on to someone else”.

Petra saw that their conversation was far from over, and continued to listen with the same gesture of professionalism that had always accompanied her.

“There’s something more…”, continued Levi, “you can only live for thirteen more years after having inherited the powers. That’s in normal cases, so it’s very likely that you’ll have considerably less time due to your circumstances.”

Petra's eyes widened momentarily, realizing now that she would have to lose most of her freedom, and that her time was running out. It's not that she wasn't up to it, but she wondered what would become of her life. Did that mean that her father was about to lose her again? She even came to think that perhaps it would be better for him to continue thinking that she’s dead, so he wouldn’t have to bury his daughter twice.

“You will need to find a reason of your own. We’ll only ask you to keep yourself alive until we find some certainties. If everything goes on smoothly we should be able to meet with the people who transformed you. But until your time is up, you must decide how to spend it. Once you are better and clean yourself up, I will take you to see your father, if you want to”.

That comment, coupled with his visibly frustrated expression, brought Petra a small smile. They were close, and she could sense that he had cared deeply for her. As she looked at him, a chill ran through her arms. His attention always managed to move something in her. Petra felt ashamed of her own feelings, but it was obvious that she felt for him. Sometimes she belittled that affection as a childish crush, or distorted admiration. But other times, she felt that she knew him better than that, though it mortified her to admit how she had been carried away by Levi.

“I’m already starting to feel better. I will get to it as soon as possible. I would really like to get some fresh air. Is there anything else that I should know?”

Her voice was gentle, although there was some sadness to it. Guilt gnawed at Levi even though he didn't show it. Similar chills washed over him, unable to stop looking at the ghost on the bed. Erwin's death still followed him, and Petra's return had done nothing but show him a new version of hope and mourning.

They continued to talk about everything she had missed, sometimes looking into each other's eyes, sometimes avoiding their gazes. It was the first time that such a conversation took place on earth, an acquaintance bringing news to a dead person that could actually answer. There they remained, exchanging words for hours, caught up in an emotion that cannot be experienced alone.

-------

Ending note: Thank you so much for reading! In the next chapter, as you might have already guessed, they will be visiting Petra's father. Maybe something about that letter is about to be unveiled...

#digging up a grave #rivetra #rivetra fanfic #Levi Rivaille #levi ackerman #petra ral #rivapeto #snk fanfiction #shingeki no kyojin #canon divergence

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pi-cat000 · 3 years

Text

BNHA: something sad (Implosion)

Summary: The last time Katsuki sees Izuku alive the other boy is rushing to save him. A ‘the Sludge Villain incident gone wrong’ aka Izuku dies.

Characters: Katsuki Bakugo

Fandom: My Hero Academia

WARNINGS! Major Character death, swearing, heavy angst, graphic descriptions of violence

Other parts in this AU: (Something Sad), (Anger), (Grief)

...

(Katsuki gets a taste of vigilantism)

“GET OFF!” Katsuki struggles against the hands pulling him down. Down. Down into never-ending darkness. Ahead of him is Deku, trapped in a swirling cocoon of shifting green sludge. The idiot is smiling, so bloody pleased with himself like he isn’t seconds away from death. He yells and struggles but the shadowy figures holding him are unaffected. All they do is watch with empty eyes.

Katsuki flings himself upright, taking several hash breaths. The air is still, the silence oppressive. Around him, the walls of his bedroom loom, the single remaining All Might poster he still has up glaring down at him. He is shaking drenched in sweat, hands twitching, itching, eager to blow something up. Anything to loosen the knot of empty, pointless frustration stuck in his chest. In between breaths, Katsuki rolls out of bed, yanking a jacket from where it is slung over his lopsided desk in the same move. He is not wearing a shirt and he doesn’t want to go out completely exposed.

The front door is deadlocked and needs a key. A change brought about by his continued unsanctioned trips outside. Luckily, it is not his only exit option. Katsuki yanks open his bedroom window, sticking his head out, scanning the narrow walkway that runs between his building and the next. Nothing moves, the dark space is empty save for the apartment’s collection of communal garbage bins. Quickly, he shimmies out through the narrow opening, twisting so he can drop feet first.

It is four stories down and he lets himself fall, forming twin blasts in both hands to slow his descent.

He had long theorised that he would be able to increase and decrease his momentum with controlled explosive bursts. Pain shoots through his ankles as he lands in a crouch next to the bins but it’s not bond-breaking, so he guesses his theory is correct.

Katsuki straightens, listening to the muffled sounds of a TV playing somewhere in the building next to him. It doesn’t seem like the sound of his blasts had caught anybody’s attention. The air outside is muggy, still warm from the day's heat. Another beat passes and he is strolling off down the street, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, bare feet silent on the sun-warmed pavement. Slowly, his breathing returns to normal. Now, if he could only find something to distract his dumb brain from re-playing the scene of Deku’s final moments that would be great. He needs something to fuel his anger and rage so he can distract himself from the new empty bitterness, burrowing into his chest.

The few people he passes are salarymen returning from an evening drinking and they all give him a wide berth. He glares, daring one of them to comment on his appearance or take issue with the fact that he is a middle-schooler roaming the streets at midnight. None of them do. The cowards.

Katsuki is cutting through backstreets, making his way towards one of the busier sections of the city, when a faint groaning sound catches his attention. He freezes, listening, eyes darting over the plain brick walls, scanning the taller office buildings and apartment complexes for the source. There…around the corner… two streets down…there is someone groaning. He stalks forward, following the murmur of angry voices. In between angry muttering is the yelp of a person in pain.

Katsuki breaks into a jog, turning in the direction of the noise, following till he can make out conversation.

“I told you to pay up old man. You stupid or something.”

“Please. I don’t have any money…”

There is the thunk of something solid hitting flesh.

Katsuki comes to a stop near the entrance to a shadowed alleyway just big enough to fit a small car. There is a group of three adults in loose clothing, looming over a downed fourth person. A tall lanky man with a metal bat, a shorter guy with bulging arm muscles, and a greasy-haired man holding a knife are focused on an older man who is holding a briefcase over his head like a shield. Thoughts of Deku fade to be replaced with single-minded determination.

“Hey losers,” he strolls out into full view, “How about you fight someone who’s not missing his geriatrics appointment.”

All three would-be muggers, he’ll call them Tiny, Lanky and Grease-Hair, freeze, turning as one to stare at him. In his chest his blood seems to come alive as his heart rate ramps up.

“What the hell?” Tiny looks to his fellow muggers for confirmation, “it’s a kid?”

There are few seconds of disbelieving silence before Grease-Hair shakes off their collective aneurism. “Hey kid! Why don’t you fuck off? This is none of your business.”

“You weak, wannabe-thugs got a problem with the truth?” He smirks, fingers twitching. His response has three, four if you include the Brief-Case man, incredulous looks directed his way.

“You got hearing problems kid? He said to fuck off,” Lanky steps forward, resting his bat across his shoulder in a display of aggression.

Katsuki cracks his knuckles as loudly as possible and settles into a semi-crouch, ready to use his blasts to propel himself forward. It was time to put his newly confirmed quirk ability to the test.

“Guess the standard for criminals around here just really sucks.”

“You got a death wish brat?” Grease-Hair brandishes his knife, coming to stand beside Tall-and-Lanky, “I’ll make you cry so fucking much you shit stain.”

“HA! as if you could!” All at once his anger, excitement and frustration spike into a wave of adrenalin.

Before Grease-Hair can take another step toward him, Katsuki launches himself forward, propelling himself with as big a blast as he can manage without breaking his arms. As Katsuki is naturally hardier than the average person-a secondly quirk characteristic- the blast ends up being pretty damn big. WHOOOM! It rattles the glass in the adjacent windows. His last coherent thought before he lets his mind succumb to the rush of exhilaration is that he needs to take out one of these guys as quickly as possible to even the odds.

Crunch, is the sound Grease-Hair’s face and nose make when he slams his knee into it. The snap of bones breaking is unnervingly satisfying. Grease-Hair topples over, eyes blank, expression of shock frozen on his face as he takes an express trip into dreamland. The knife clatters on the concrete.

“Holy crap!” The two remaining men offer shouts of alarm. The bat comes hurtling towards his head and Katsuki hurls himself to the side, ignoring the stab of pain that runs up his shoulder when he lands at an awkward angle. He flexes his hands, throwing both arms up in direction of his attacker who is now trying to bring the bat down on his legs.

BOOM!

Fire and smoke erupt between them, throwing them in opposite directions. The bright flash of light and heat provides enough cover for him to roll on his feet. Tiny and Lanky stumble backward and Brief-Case man makes a run for it while they are distracted. In the main street, several car alarms go off. Katsuki, being unaffected by the explosion, recovers first and leaps through the smoke, fists clenched. Moving his arm around in an arching swing, it smacks into Lanky’s head. He barely feels this sting in his wrist and knuckles as the skin on his knuckles break against his teeth. Blood sprays into the air.

It is at this point that Tiny recovers enough to retreat a few paces and make a slashing motion with his hand. Some invisible force slams into Katsuki’s side and he is flung sideward away from Lanky. Pain blossoms in his ribs and he lets off a clumsily blast to slow his momentum. He still hits the wall of the ally hard enough to leave cracks in the brick. Blood fills his mouth from where he has accidentally bitten into the side of his tongue.

A quirk effect? Something invisible that hit hard and had some range to it. Not great for him. He pushes off the wall, crouching, ready to dodge. Tiny drags Lanky to his feet. They are both glaring at him, eyes dark.

He coughs, and, even as the distant realisation that this might not have been a good idea tugs at his thoughts, he grins, “You pieces of trash are weak shit.”

“You’re fucking dead,” Lanky fumes.

Unfortunately- or maybe fortunately- Katsuki never finds out what the two thugs would have done next in retaliation because there is a loud, amplified shout from the ally entrance.

“FREEZE COMBATANTS.”

A blinding white light flickers on and illuminates the entire alleyway, making him wince and bring an arm up to shield his eyes.

“Shit. Cops.” Both Tiny and Lanky turn, obviously intending to make a run for it, only to realise that the ally ends in a tall stone wall.

“WOULD ALL COMBATANTS TAKE FIVE STEPS AWAY FROM EACH OTHER AND FACE THE WALL!”

Katsuki glowers in the direction of the megaphone-enhanced voice but can only make out the silhouettes of almost a dozen figures against the spotlight. Well, he’s definitely in shit now.

“ANYONE WHO DOES NOT COMPLY WILL BE SUBDUED BY FORCE!”

“Shit. Damn it.” Both men throw their hands in the air in a display of surrender not willing to try and take on what looked like half of the Musutafu police depo. Katsuki begrudgingly follows suit, his breath beginning to even out as the rush adrenalin dips now that the fighting was over.

“Turn around and face the wall,” Is shouted once more, “Keep your hands in the air.” The silhouettes begin their approach. And they all awkwardly stand in a line and stare at the grey brick. Around them, blasted fragments of asphalt and ripped up concrete stand as damning evidence of his involvement. Guess he’ll be taking that ‘trip to the station’ after all. No way the bastards were going to let him off with a stern lecture after this.

“I hope you’re happy you psycho shit,” Lanky snaps, drawing his attention and he notes that the man is now missing one of his front teeth, “Got us all fuckin in arrested.”

Katsuki spits out the blood that has been collecting in his mouth since he hit the wall. It spats on the ground near the man’s feet, “You got beaten up by a middle schooler. I did the criminal underworld a favour getting your weak asses off the street.”

That hits a nerve going by how the man’s face twists into a snarl of rage “Why you little…” Lanky lunges towards him and is immediately blocked by a swarm of police officers who have since surround them and tackle the man to the ground. “HEY, DON’T MOVE!” “GET ON THE GROUND” There is a lot of yelling, swearing, and spitting but the thug is quickly overwhelmed.

“All right, you, the one standing on the left…”

Katsuki shifts his attention from watching Lanky get wrestled into cuffs to the tired-sounding cop standing a few feet behind him. Is it just him or does the guy sound annoyingly familiar?

“Put your arms down and cross them behind your back…” the sentence trails off.

“Bakugō?”

Katsuki squints over his shoulder at the familiar face of Senior Officer Watanabe. So…not just him. Fucking fantastic. Said familiar face is frozen, surprised, hands half way to opening a set of bulky cuffs.

There is a long exhale, “What have you done now.”

“Done?” Katsuki sneers, “I saw these assholes beating the shit out of some old man so I beat the shit of them instead.” Now the fight is over, that feeling of irritable restlessness is creeping back.

The Senior Officer shakes his head in disbelief, “Geeze kid, this isn’t like setting off explosives in the park, vigilantism is a serious offence.”

“What? I was supposed to do nothing then?” He grits his teeth. There, he can feel it, the anger flaring up again.

“You’re supposed to call for help. You’re lucky we got reports of the altercation and responded as quick as we did. You’re a mess kid.”

“Tch. I was handling it.”

The man looks at him funny before letting out a long exhausted breath, “Are you going to come quietly so I can get an EMT to look you over or do I have to put you in these suppressant cuffs?” A pause, “ And where is your shirt … and shoes?”

“Do whatever old man.” Katsuki ignores the second question.

A firm hand lands on his shoulder, which he tries and fails to shrug off, pulling him off towards the entrance of the ally. The cuffs are handed off to another officer. They pass Tiny and Lanky who are both now sitting cross-legged on the ground, hands secured behind their backs, facing the wall. Grease-Hair, still unconscious, is being fussed over by two men in white and red paramedic uniforms. There is a small crater where Katsuki had let off his larger blast.

“Your handy work I presume?” Watanabe asks.

“Hell yeah it is.”

That gets another sigh, “This is all going on your record. You do understand that, right?”

It must be the remaining adrenalin that has him laughing, “Like I give a shit.”

#bnha #mha #Baku no hero academia #my hero academia #katsuki bakugō #graphic descriptions of violence #major character death #coarse language #lots of swearing #vigilante bakugou #bakugou swears and gets into fights #Sludge Villain incident gone wrong #aka izuka dies #fanfiction #fanfic #bnha fanfic #angst #nightmare #something sad au

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bedlamsbard · 3 years

Text

Some new concept writing! There’s backstory for this one, but I’m not sure how much will get written because it’s relatively different from most of my extant concept writing and/or canon. The short version is that the Clone Wars ended, but not with Order 66; the Purge and fall of the Republic happened about 8-10 years later than in canon. (Caleb and Hera would have been in their light teens/early 20s at the time, so about the same time as AND in canon.) My worldbuilding brain is clicking over the differences and repercussions, but, uh, we’ll see if there’s more. (If I went forward, there would be some characters I haven’t written in five or six years turning up.)

About 3K below the break. Please note that I don’t warn.

***

Parasites, Hera Syndulla thought, but kept her face pleasantly bland. The description was unfair to only a small handful of her fellow senators, but as far as she was concerned was more than accurate in regards to the remainder. She sipped her wine and tilted her head a little to make it look like she was listening to Senator An’s description of the opera he had attended two nights previous, wondering if it was too early in the evening for her to go back to her apartment and scream into a pillow.

The occasion was a gathering to welcome freshman senators who might be inclined to the opposition party, which meant that a number of loyalist senators were here just to find out which of the freshmen were actually considering it. In Hera’s experience the opposition mostly just made noise before agreeing to whatever legislation the Emperor wanted to pass, but the numbers mattered and a show of disapproval was better than nothing. She wasn’t a freshman anymore, but her absence at the party would have been noticed by both sides; Ryloth didn’t hold much political sway but it was well-known.

A break in Senator An’s storytelling let her step away, gesturing vaguely at her now-empty wineglass as an excuse. There were serving droids roaming the room so she was able to deposit it with one of them; she was trying to decide whether to stay longer or leave when she noticed an eddy in the crowd, people stepping aside and trying not to seem like they were doing so. Riyo Chuchi was suddenly at her side, the older woman’s face drawn.

“What is it?” Hera asked her, low-voiced.

“The Emperor’s Inquisitor is making his rounds,” Riyo said, equally soft. She snagged two glasses from a passing serving droids and handed one to Hera.

She took it, tasted it, and then looked sharply at Riyo. “His?”

For the past two years, as long as Hera had been serving in the Senate, the Inquisitor assigned to Coruscant had been a woman, a huge Dowutin who delighted in terrifying the senators of both parties, as well as anyone else she came in contact with.

“I saw him in the other room,” Riyo said; the party spilled through half a dozen rented rooms and onto the balconies of each. “He’s human, young. I think I’ve seen him before, but I can’t think where.”

Hera raised her gaze as the movement in the room reached them. She felt Riyo draw back, but Hera stood frozen, her heart in her throat.

The Inquisitor was a tall human male, amber-skinned and dark-haired, with a fading bruise visible on his face. Despite that, and the scars that cut across his cheek, he was handsome; if he hadn’t been an Inquisitor Hera knew a dozen senators, female and otherwise, who would have been throwing themselves at him. His pale gaze moved across the crowd without seeming to see anyone in it, as if he did so only to make sure they knew he was there. If he saw Hera, he didn’t show it, just kept walking with steadied patience toward the balcony.

Hera put the glass back into Riyo’s hand and followed him before the Pantoran had a chance to protest her departure.

By the time she had reached the balcony, most of its occupants had fled back inside, though there were a dozen senators and their aides still standing by the refreshment cart there, trying not to watch the Inquisitor. He had retreated to the far end of the balcony and was standing with his gaze fixed on the cityscape beyond.

He must have sensed her approach, but he didn’t show any sign of acknowledgment until she stepped up beside him and said quietly, “Caleb?”

He turned towards her, his eyes widening.

He had, Hera knew immediately, been very badly hurt. There was something mad in his gaze, something more like a wounded animal than a sentient being; the scars that cut across his face had the look of something done deliberately rather than being incidental to combat injuries. For an instant his mouth worked silently, then he looked over her shoulder at the other guests still on the balcony. Hera turned in time to see all of them flee back into the room, leaving the two of them alone.

Hera had intended to be more circumspect about it, but since now everyone inside knew they were out here alone together she reached out and put her hand over his. He looked at it as if he had never seen anything like it before, but didn’t pull away.

“What are you doing here?”

His voice was rougher than it had been five years ago, something that sounded like an injury rather than a reaction to her presence.

“I’m the senator for Ryloth,” Hera told him. She wanted to take him into her arms, but didn’t dare, not when they were somewhere as public as this, not even with everyone else inside. Instead, she squeezed his fingers and asked, “Can you come home with me? I’ve got an apartment twenty stories down in the connecting building.”

He nodded. She could feel him starting to shake, the shock from her unexpected appearance beginning to set in. “You go first,” he said, low-voiced. “I’ll follow.”

Hera nodded, hesitating briefly before she released his hand. She wanted to kiss him, but couldn’t, not here, and not when she didn’t know how he would react to that. She licked her lips and told him her apartment number, then stepped away and went inside without looking back at him.

People stepped away from her as she came in, as though she had been contaminated by her interaction with the Inquisitor. Only Bail Organa and Riyo Chuchi came up to her, with Mon Mothma following them.

“Are you all right?” Bail asked her immediately. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” Hera assured them. “I know him.”

“How?” Mon Mothma asked, startled.

Hera hesitated, then said, “I need to talk to him first, somewhere that isn’t here. Alone,” she added, seeing Bail open his mouth. “He won’t hurt me.”

From their expressions, she suspected that they guessed “I know him” meant “I had an affair with him before the Republic fell and everything went to blazes in a handbasket,” but none of them said anything along those lines, for which Hera was profoundly grateful. Instead, she said, “I have to go.”

None of them tried to stop her. Bail said, “Be careful,” and Riyo squeezed her arm, her expression worried.

Hera smiled at them, then started to make her way out of the suite of rooms. As crowded as they were, it took her some time until she could get her cloak and leave; most of the guests hadn’t heard about her tête-à-tête with the Inquisitor and get out of her way as a result, the way people had done with anyone who encountered the previous Inquisitor assigned to Coruscant. By the time she had finally managed to leave, Hera was out of breath and irritated, and the effects of the wine she had been drinking earlier had worn off. The walk back to her own junior senator’s apartments gave her time to calm down and think over what Caleb Dume’s appearance might mean.

He had been a Jedi. He had been a Jedi, and he had believed in it so profoundly that it had sometimes made Hera feel a little ashamed of herself. Not for sleeping with him, which she knew his master had been aware of and somewhat amused by, but because she had never believed in anything that much in her life. She couldn’t believe that he had fallen in with the Emperor after the near-genocide of the Jedi, not willingly.

The look in his eyes hadn’t been entirely sane.

Hera went into the kitchen to start water boiling for tea, then into her bedroom to change out of her evening gown for something more comfortable. She was just pouring hot water into the teapot when her door chime sounded.

She set the pot down on the kitchen table and went to get the door. Caleb didn’t say anything as he came in, just waited for her to shut and lock the door behind him. Hera opened her mouth, but he put a hand up to stop her, then went prowling nervously through the apartment. Hera guessed that he was looking for listening devices and went back to the kitchen to finish making tea.

He came in a few minutes later. Hera went over to him, hesitated, then took him in her arms. For an instant he was stiff, then he returned her embrace. He was shaking badly, his skin fever-hot when Hera reached up touch his scarred face. He flinched when her fingers accidentally brushed the bruise around his left eye, but didn’t pull away.

“Can I kiss you?” Hera asked him.

Caleb nodded, bending his head to hers. Hera kissed him slowly and carefully; he kissed her back with desperation. When they stopped, breathing hard, he tipped his forehead against hers, his eyes closed.

“Tell me,” Hera whispered.

“He killed her,” Caleb said, his voice so soft that the words were almost a thought rather than spoken. “He killed Depa. Then he – he – he’d bargained with the Emperor for me. He killed her, and he – he –” He was shaking again, so badly that his teeth were rattling together. “It took a long time, what he did to me,” he said eventually. “Then he had me, and so did the Inquisition.”

“Come and sit down,” Hera said. She got him into a chair and a cup of tea into his hand, then pulled another chair over so that she could sit next to him, close enough to touch.

He drank his tea slowly, his eyes narrowed in concentration as if it was the only thing he was capable of focusing on. This close to him, Hera could see the scars barely hidden under the high collar of his black tunic, the same kinds of scars she had seen on freed slaves – left behind by a metal collar worn for too long.

Hera remembered the day the Purge had started. It was burned into her memory, coming down to join her family at dinner and finding them all watching the HoloNews coverage of the Jedi Temple burning. It had been barely a month after Depa Billaba and Caleb Dume had left, after Caleb had kissed her goodbye and promised that he would return after he had his knighthood, which he expected to attain within the year. She had stood there, sick to her stomach, and known that he was dead. He had been in her bed recently enough that she still had blankets that smelled like him and he was dead.

Except he hadn’t been dead.

“Who is he?” she asked him once he had finished the tea. Hera poured more, but he just played with the cut-glass cup, running his gloved fingers over the silver holder. “The person who hurt you?”

“My master.” His voice was utterly without inflection, but Hera could guess he wasn’t talking about Depa Billaba. He pushed the cup away as his hands started to shake. “He’s – he was a Jedi, a Temple Guard. He’d wanted me for a padawan years ago, but I didn’t know, and Master Billaba didn’t – but he was angry about it. When the Emperor – he bargained with him for me. We were still at the Temple. He killed Depa, and he – he hurt me.” He looked down at his hands as if he had never seen them before. “I heard them killing the others,” he added eventually. “He and the others who betrayed the Order. The other Inquisitors.”

“They’re Jedi?” Hera said, stunned. “They’re all Jedi?”

He nodded. “After he did – what he did – it was a – a stopgap, almost, you could call it – he left me in that room with Master Billaba while he went to the rest of the…of the killing. And when the others were all dead, he came back and did it again, to make sure it had taken, before he took me to the Inquisition headquarters on Mustafar to finish it. The Emperor had been planning this for a long time,” he added, his voice very soft.

Hera swallowed back nausea. She didn’t think Caleb meant by that what anyone else would have meant, but she wasn’t entirely certain that he didn’t, either. She was trying to decide how to ask when he said, very quietly, “There’s a way to force a master-apprentice bond, if the apprentice’s first master is dead. The Jedi won’t do it unless there’s no other choice because it’s so dangerous; it’s better to let the bond develop naturally, even if it’s weak. But – he –”

“It sounds like psychic rape,” Hera said hesitantly when he didn’t go on. She couldn’t shake the mental image of Caleb locked in some room with Master Billaba’s body, probably injured himself, as the rest of the Jedi fought and died outside the door.

He nodded without looking at her.

“Is he here?”

Caleb shook his head. “Five years is long enough that he can let me out of his sight without worrying that I’m going to run away. Or fall on my lightsaber,” he added, his voice a little distant. He licked his lips, a nervous gesture, then raised his gaze to her. “I’m glad to see you.”

Hera leaned forward, slowly enough that he could pull away if he needed to, and kissed him gently. He put one hand up to curve the backs of his knuckles against her face, kissing her back. “You can stay with me as long as you’re here, if you like,” she said. “I have a spare room.”

He nodded a little, kissed her again, and then sat back in his chair. After a moment of silence, he admitted, “That might not be a good idea. If anyone finds out, it won’t be safe for you –”

“Will anyone in the Empire challenge an Inquisitor if he wants to keep a mistress?” Hera asked. When he blinked, she said, “I don’t mean – you don’t have to sleep with me. But it’s what people in the Senate and the HoloNews will think.”

“My master would,” Caleb said quietly. “And he’s the only one I can’t beat in a fight, if it comes to it.”

“I have friends too,” Hera told him. “I know the Senate is pretty useless in the Empire, but it isn’t without meaning, even now.” She hesitated, on the verge of telling him that there were other Jedi who had survived, people who might be able to help him, but finally held back. Even if he had been forced into it, he was still an Inquisitor, and Hera didn’t know him well enough anymore to be able to gamble anyone else’s life on what would he would do.

“What happened to your face?” she asked instead.

He touched a finger to his scarred cheek. “I tried to run away and my master caught me. I’ve got others.”

“I meant the bruise,” Hera said, feeling a little sick.

“Oh. I was in a fight.” He hesitated, then reached out to take one of her hands, running his thumb over her knuckles. “How long have you been a senator?”

“Two years,” Hera said. “I ran against Orn Free Taa in the last election.”

“You’re smarter,” he said. “And prettier.”

“Right on both counts,” Hera said. “And I don’t take bribes. And my father’s a war hero. That helped.” She winced a little, but Cham Syndulla’s record was still better than Orn Free Taa’s, especially since Palpatine had removed his backing from the previous senator. She suspected that the Emperor thought that a pretty young female senator, especially a nonhuman one, would be more or less harmless; Orn Free Taa’s decades in the Senate had given him allies in both main parties and most of the smaller ones, even if he himself was mostly ineffectual. Hera had connections, but not the kind that would make her a serious threat, inasmuch as any single senator could be these days. “How long are you here for?”

He shrugged. “Until I get reassigned. They wanted someone as different as possible from the Hammer – the Inquisitor assigned here before me – as they could get, and I guess that was me.”

“Did you want to be assigned here?” Hera asked cautiously. She wanted to ask how he felt about the Inquisition, if he was a true believer – from what he had said she suspected not – but couldn’t come out and ask it, not yet.

Caleb shrugged again. “I didn’t have a choice. But my master’s not here, and that’s always a relief.” He smiled shyly at her. “I’m glad you’re here.”

She leaned forward and kissed him again. He had relaxed as they talked, and he kissed her back with less desperation now than he had before.

“Do you want to go to bed with me?” she asked him.

Caleb raised his eyes to hers. “Yes,” he said. “If you want to.”

Hera smiled and kissed him again, then got to her feet, drawing him with her. She could have and probably should have waited until she knew how firmly he believed in the Inquisition and the Empire, if he had, as the Jedi she knew put it, gone over to the dark side, but he was here now, and she had been so certain he was dead. For all the brevity of their affair, she had loved him very much, and she had known he had loved her – enough to know that even though they had never talked about it, the idea of leaving the Jedi Order had crossed his mind.

“Come on,” she told him. “If everyone’s going to think we’re having an affair anyway, we might as well have one.”

#cut scenes and concept writing #ryloth dream au tag #(one of those cases where the concept name is NOT representative of the actual content. it happens.)#as always comments are appreciated

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greenninjagal-blog · 4 years

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Deja Vu pt6

Hey guys! Surprise!! Have twenty pages of Dee picking a fight on TV. For those who are new around, [here’s] the first chapter and for those who need a refresher [here’s] the previous chapter!

Summary: Remus and Dee confront The Prince on live TV. Things go downhill rather quickly.

Word Count: 10447

TW: temporary character death, blood,

Read on Ao3 || My General Writing Masterlist

Remus is twenty-one and he thinks that people might not actually be worth saving at all.

There’s an electricity in the air, a buzzing so loud that he can almost taste it as he shifts his weight between his feet. There are so many people around him, nearly too many, packed together like sardines in all the crevices that they can fit. Remus wants so badly to kick his leg out just to see if with one nudge he could toppled the human domino train down all the way, but Dee gives his hand a small, gentle squeeze.

His hand is warm, his touch intoxicating in a way that no drug could ever hope to be. Remus has felt it before, in futures that never happened, but it still feels unreal as it's going on. He thinks maybe, possibly that he’s stuck right now, right this second and that his real body is somewhere else bleeding out on the ground.

But he also thinks, traitorously, stupidly, suicidally, that he doesn’t mind as long as he gets to keep feeling Dee’s hand in his right now.

Dee’s touch is featherlight, but Remus is hyperaware of every atom in his body at these moments: Dee goes on to talk about so many things, but Remus’s brain only hears touch, warmth, Dee, Dee, Dee. And the Shapeshifter has to say his name at least four times before Remus realizes that time is passing and he’s not passing with it.

It should be annoying-- Remus thinks that Roman would have tried throttling him by now--but Dee just gives him a wispy, honeyed smile and does it again, like seeing Remus short circuit is somehow the best sight in the world.

Which is sweet, sugary, splendid. It might even mean that Dee intends to stick around after those feelings fade away to the bitter acquired taste that is Remus’s company after a year. So very few people ever got past that: the kids at school had flocked to Roman’s cotton candy exterior and had eaten him all up and then got burned when they mistakenly thought that Remus was anything like his twin outside his face.

(He wonders even now if Roman still shares that face with him. Did he dye his hair? Get piercings? Or did he cover his mirrors so he wouldn’t have to remember Remus existed at all? Does Roman think about Remus nearly as much as Remus thinks about Roman?)

Oh wait, Remus knows the answer to that last one.

Dee squeezes his hand again, even without looking. He insisted on dressing presentably today: shining shoes and one of his new suits tailored to his exact size and a flattering face that just screams trust me with all your finances, I won’t rob you blind, Grannie! When they were getting their coffees, the woman in front of them had called him a gentleman and Remus almost choked on his drink at that. A pretty face, a kind gesture, a mask and Dee wore his like a skin walking alien and no one was any wiser about it. Except Remus.

He reaches over and steals Dee’s latte from his hand. Dee tenses, then relaxes and watches with an amused smile as Remus sniffs it.

“Not nearly enough vodka in this,” he decides and Dee laughs.

“Ah, yes, because the girl at the counter is surely old enough to be serving alcohol,” Dee says. “And the last thing I want to do is be on TV drunk.”

His nose scrunches up at the detestable thought, but Remus thinks it’s the exact opposite of what they should be doing. Dee? On TV? With no inhibitions? Remus listened to his late-night rambles on the flaws of society when there was nothing but sleep deprivation weighing on their souls and Remus was moved enough to find himself here today. There was something about his honesty, his psychological approaches, his confidence, that made him so trustworthy. He was a leader at heart and Remus was happy to follow him, even if it meant going right off a cliff.

(Not like he hadn’t done that a time or fifty before. And besides, Dee could grow wings if he wanted. He’d catch both of them and fly them to safety.)

“A dash of vodka is just liquid courage,” Remus says.

Dee turns his green eyes on him, the light through the window making sparkles in his irises, or maybe that’s just Dee doing subtle magic of his own. Whatever it was Remus decides he doesn’t ever want to look away again. Dee's eyes are priceless; Remus wouldn’t be surprised if Dee had stolen a hundred jadeite stones and shoved them in his eyes for safekeeping.

“Who needs liquid courage--” Dee says “--when I have you?”

Remus tips back Dee’s latte and slurps it so that his tongue burns right out of his mouth, because then at least there’s a reason for the mortifying smoldering all over his face. Dee reaches up and rubs the pad of his thumb over Remus’s cheek, tickling his mustache ever so slightly and laughs again.

“Darling,” he says. “You’re too easy.”

“You going to do something about it?” Remus challenges. “I wouldn’t be opposed to it right here, over this table, you know. Might wanna make sure little Timmy over there is covering his eyes first though. He doesn’t need his awakening until a few more years down the line.”

They’re close enough to the other customers that an elder woman with a pocket dog in her purse gives him a glare and a teenage girl in a sweater turns bright pink and stares out the window just a bit too hard. There’s a good chance that Remus could get both of them to do something more, but before he can open his mouth again, Dee is leaning in.

He’s using his usual height today, which means that Remus is just a bit taller, but Dee makes those three inches feel like hairbreadths. His breath is warm on Remus’s neck, and it sends shivers down his back when the phantom feeling brushes over his skin. He smells like cardamom, and Remus’s mouth freezes, his words long lost and forgotten in the prospect of Dee saying literally anything at all.

But in the end Dee just wordlessly hums and drops back to his flat foot.

It takes Remus a whole second to remember how to breathe. And another to realize that Dee took back his latte and was drinking it like he was entirely unaware of what he had just done to Remus, except that his lips slip off the rim on his cup and they’re curled upwards in that absolutely sensual smirk of his.

“It’s almost time,” the shapeshifter says moving on casually while Remus tries not to let his brain melt right out of his ears. “I should go get into place.” He peeks at Remus and glances away just as quickly. “You…you’re sure that you’re alright to do this, Remus? You don’t have to if it will hurt you.”

Remus wonders vainly if Dee was aware that the term “Martyr” was engraved on his ribcage, imprinted on his heart, seared into his soul. If there was ever a choice between himself and someone else getting hurt, Remus wouldn’t hesitate, and he never had. If Roman had ever looked, like truly looked, he might have noticed that, and then maybe things would have turned out even marginally different. But this time around, Remus nods at Dee and squeezes his hand back so hard that his fingers lose their blood flow.

“It’s not gonna hurt me,” Remus says, which might be a lie and not even a believable one, but they both pretend. “Besides, this means something to you, doesn’t it?”

Dee’s shoulders tense, and resettle, as if he’s reminding himself that Remus is not a threat. He licks his lips, chasing after the taste of espresso. “It does,” he says and it shouldn’t feel like Dee is telling him some big surprise secret, because they spent the past three days planning this whole thing out on the floor of their hotel room while Remus rolled that casino coin between his fingers and thought about how Dee’s hair looks soft and fluffy when he’s just waking up.

“Remus…” Dee starts. “There’s something I haven’t told you yet. About me. And… this.”

Whatever this is. He’s hesitating again, hovering like he’s on top of a fence topped with barbed wire and he knows that he needs to pick a side but can’t quite decide which side will hurt less: the spikes or the lava? Remus shakes away the unneeded thoughts to focus in on the trepidation in Dee’s expression, but as soon as he zeroes in on it, Dee smooths it out.

“Timing,” he says almost as if to himself. Then, “I’ll tell you after we do this. I owe… I owe you that much.”

Remus doesn’t think there’s a single thing that Dee could ever owe him at all. Not when Dee pulled his bleeding body off the balcony, not when Dee kissed him with all the tenderness in the world, not when Dee stayed with him in the face of literally everything. Dee can’t possibly owe him anything when Remus is the one standing here with a power that’s not even helpful unless it’s killing Remus, and Dee is out here trying to save lives with what he has.

But Remus is decently sure that if he opens his mouth to say any of that, what will come out will be something undoubtedly more emotional than they have time for and will probably scare Dee away entirely: a love confession, a proposal, matching headstones for their graves that they’ll probably be in much sooner than either of them would like.

“And Remus?” Dee says, like he doesn’t notice that he’s literally the only thing that matters in Remus’s little world. He gives Remus’s hand another meaningful squeeze. Then he pops up on his toes to brush a kiss to his cheek in a way that makes Remus feel like a middle school girl in a catholic school discovering how attractive boys are for the first time.

His heart beats so hard he thinks he can taste it around the coffee and whatever the hell it is that Dee tastes like.

“Thank you,” Dee says with sincerity.

“If we were characters in a book, this is the part where right before the author kills you off for dramatic effect.” Remus reaches out and clinks his cup with Dee’s. “Don’t make it that easy.”

Dee snorts in that very dignified way of his. “Of course, what was I thinking? My apologies. Here I was, assuming that the soothsayer might be able to help me to cheat Death but apparently I was mistaken.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be right there in your ear, Despacito,” Remus says pointing towards the earpiece he’s wearing. “You won’t be able to get me out of your mind even if you wanted me to!”

Dee smiles, quick and wonderful and Remus drinks in the sight like it’s the newest liquid craze, better than the latte in Dee’s hands, or the ice coffee in his own, or fresh drinking water in the middle of the desert. Dee’s hand drip, drip, drips right out of Remus’s, although the atoms in his fingers don’t stop tingling with sensation.

“I look forward to it,” Dee says as final parting and then he weaves his way out of the café. Remus bites his plastic straw and follows with his eyes until he can’t anymore. The people around them move out of the way for him because Dee gives off that aura of someone important and no one wants to be caught dead getting dirt on his freshly polished oxfords.

For all their planning, Remus still feels a little nervous with everything going on. They gathered as much information as they could about the day: the new registration office was being set up in a public library as a temporary location and it was closed for activity outside of the registration. Remus took particular pleasure in reading the heartwarming amount of public backlash about that from regular people who just really liked the library for some reason. The building is a lucky four stories tall-- which Remus thinks is nice. The library back in his hometown was two, poorly funded, and he’d been banned from visiting when he was ten because he’d seen the old librarian fall off a ladder and tried to help her by grabbing which did not go over remotely well.

The street is casual: a bunch of modern buildings with local shops and boutiques. Dee got sidetracked two days ago picking out new shoes from a window display and chatting with the owner who surprisingly was very informative.

“The Prince? My niece thinks he’s the greatest thing since sliced bread,” the older woman said while packing up a pair of single strap monks.

“Oh?” Dee said conversationally which made Remus look up from where he was flicking through a rack of sun dresses.

“I think he has a few screws loose,” the woman said. “No child his age should be running around in a costume like that. He’s just inviting danger to himself, not to mention those around him. In fact, Linda-- you know Linda right? She owns the chocolatiering place on fourth street? It’s got lovely chocolate strawberries-- Linda said over our weekly tea that if she got the chance, she would punch him in the face!" the woman chuckled. "But I don't blame her at all. All this nonsense about super powers and abilities and someone might start looking twice at how her baby girl can get any animal to eat out of her hand."

Dee raised an eyebrow. And the lady waved off his unasked question.

"Magic ability or pure coincidence! I don't care about any of that! If that FBE comes knocking on Linda's door the whole group of us shop owners are ready to stand up against them. Linda’s little girl belongs right here with her family and not anywhere near some secret government building or on some watchlist like a criminal!"

They left after that and paid a visit to the chocolate shop on fourth street. And what do you know, the little shop received a generous cash award from a lesser known chocolate secret society group thing. Remus doesn't remember the actual name Dee used, but he does remember that they were selling dinosaur shaped chocolates and he bought a box just so he could bite the heads off all of them.

The main street leading to the library-turned-registration office was closed off completely and marked that way with crowd control fences, which might have been for the best. In just the two days leading up to the grand opening, the city’s population seemed to have doubled. Remus was moderately amused by it, watching from the window of their hotel room: people came from the woodwork, springing into the city with the rigour of a bunch of busy ants who were so completely unaware of the exterminator coming.

Dee didn’t let him try looking to the future more than a few times and to be very ridiculously honest, Remus is kinda grateful for it. Every time he looks he feels something off about himself, something he can’t put a name to, something he can’t put a finger on. It just seems that one minute he’s fine and the next he’s hacking up blood.

Which by the way, means he’s dying according to WebMD and Google. Remus doesn’t let Dee see the worst of it, but the nosebleeds are stronger, and Dee’s not exactly stupid. He can tell that Remus is using more tissues, that he’s holding them to his face longer, that he’s pale and tired and his hands are colder to the touch.

They don’t talk about it. Not really.

They should.

But if there’s one thing that Remus’s mother taught him, it’s that if you avoid talking about something for long enough it will disappear and you’ll forget about it.

Perhaps the biggest thorn in their sides-- both of their sides and their lungs and the back of their necks right through the medulas killing them instantly-- is the charming Prince himself! The character seems to be everywhere and nowhere all at once: the news has him stopping burglaries and home invasions up and down the east coast, calming down violent criminals, and helping little old ladies cross the street, and flashing his award-winning, crowd-hypnotising smile at the cameras. And yet for all the several hours worth of footage that Dee and him had scoured through, neither of them can quite figure out what The Prince’s power is.

It’s mental, at least. Something to do with information based on what Remus can come up with. He can tell from the way that the guy reacts in the middle of any confrontation: there’s a moment where green lights flash in his eyes, flickering so quickly it might have been a trick of the camera if Remus hadn’t caught it so many times on so many different occasions. One moment he’s acting one way, the next he’s changing course entirely, moving or stopping or avoiding. Like he knows what’s going to happen.

Like he can see the future.

But somehow he avoided all the fun nosebleeds and the feeling of death over his shoulder. Like maybe when his power manifested people actually believed him! Like maybe his friends didn’t shove him away and maybe his mother loved him and maybe he stayed home and watched Disney movies with his brother all night when they were seventeen instead of letting him go to a party where everything went wrong.

Remus’s hands shook far more than they had any right to when he first made the connection, first made the comment, first made the joke out loud for Dee to laugh at without pay attention to what he was actually saying. Then he dry heaved into a trash can for fifteen minutes while Dee rubbed his back and pointedly waited for an explanation that Remus didn’t give him because Roman is nothing and no one and he doesn’t matter when Remus has Dee.

“Perhaps he’s a mind reader,” Dee suggested.

Whatever he ends up being, Remus decides that The Prince better hope he figures out some shit with Dee. Because if Remus has to enter the ring, he doesn’t think the Prince will be leaving it in anything other than a body bag.

“You seem very… invested in him,” Dee said when Remus told him as much over a breakfast of french toast and eggs at a dinner where the waitress didn’t tell them to stop making out in any flickers of the future he blinked at. Dee was choosing his words carefully. Too carefully.

“His face is very punchable,” Remus said, squeezing ketchup in his orange juice. “I’m surprised no one else sees it! Don’t you just get filled with rage when you look at him?”

The way Dee blinked said a lot, but Remus pretended not to notice as he used a straw to stir his drink and poured a bit of syrup in too. For flavor and fun. Dee doesn’t say anything more on the topic, and Remus doesn’t ask because he gets the feeling Dee will tell him the truth if he does.

And Remus doesn’t think that this is a truth that Dee wants to tell right now.

Maybe later. After Dee’s dragged the Propaganda Prince from his golden pedestal and Remus has had his fun in the mix. After they stop the FBE from their nefarious plans. After.

Remus tastes the word in his mouth and he’s not sure why it feels so foreign to him. It’s a strange mixture of bitter and unforgettable, of sweet and strange, of something he’s never tried before and might never get to taste again.

It’s better than blood. Less red too.

Remus taps his foot as he watches out the window of the coffee shop. There are a lot of people inside here and he’s not sure how many of them are regulars compared to how many of them want to just watch the possible freaks that have to walk down the street and enter the building pretending like they can’t feel all the world watching them do it.

Remus isn’t even one of the suckers doing it, but he can understand how it might make someone queasy. The number of eyes looking, watching, remembering them is something of a curse; the cameras are blatantly obvious and the gawking of the other people is unignorable. If things were different, Remus wonders if he might have been nervous about this, about entering the building, about taking a step out of line and telling the whole world what he could do.

It was supposed to be a secret, right? At least that’s what his mother had always encouraged him to believe. She told him to stop talking, to stop crying, to shut up and pretend nothing was happening, smile at the cashier, Remus, but don’t tell her that you can see her tripping over her shoe laces and cracking her head on the floor. When people asked his mother how her children were, she never had enough to say about Roman’s achievements.

Remus sticks his straw all the way in his mouth until it pokes his uvula and his eyes water.

She tried.

And in the end it wasn’t enough, isn’t enough, because now she talked so much about Roman that she didn’t even remember that he existed anymore. He’s grown up and she’s still the same.

He wonders if she would even recognize him if they passed each other on the street.

Something to think about. Perhaps he can convince Dee to take a trip with him to the other side of the country, to his hometown, to his old neighborhood. He’s sure that by now they have enough cash for a couple dozen eggs that belong on the outside of his old two story suburban house. After all this, after they save the day, after they put Princey boy in his place. After.

The clock on his phone ticks down, and Remus feels like his chest is going to explode if his heart gets any faster. The FBE registration office opens at ten a.m. and he’s not entirely certain the world will still be standing by ten oh five, but that’s what makes everything fun, isn’t it?

The coffee shop customers shuffle and move like a complex organism trying to rip itself apart but never quite managing it. Outside there are more people, pressed together, close enough to be touching, to be talking, to be nervous and excited and emotional. Camera flashes go off, news crews stand in the middle of the street with microphones interviewing the normal people who are treating this like a festival or a parade rather than the thinly veiled death threat it is.

They’re packed so closely together that Remus has a hard time seeing over their heads, and peeking at the temporary stage that’s been set up in front of the entrance to the library. There’s a podium on it, though, and decorations of a brilliant red, white, and blue, along with speakers and microphones being tested for the brilliant speech that the Prince is going to give for his adoring fans. There’s security and police patrolling everywhere, news crews and reporters and civilians watching with bated breath as the time draws near.

Part of Remus wants to wonder why here, why now, why did the Prince choose to come cross country out of the blue like this? Surely he could get just as much adoration from his fans in New York.

There must have been something that happened on the East Coast that drove him out here. Bad publicity that might make him look bad-- for a moment Remus entertains the idea that the Superhero managed to kill someone and now the FBE was graciously covering it up and sending him to Oregon so that he stays out of the way, stays out of trouble.

Too bad for him; Remus and Dee had claimed this part of the country as their own playground and they brought nothing but trouble with them.

Dee would take extra special delight in taking a bat to the Prince’s glass house reputation if the man let him. Remus would take extra special delight in watching Dee do it.

Remus tapped the screen of his phone again, checking the time. Dee should be in place by now, hiding among the normal people, slipping between the patrolling law enforcers, and plotting the best place to be in order to make his grand entrance.

((It was adorable watching Dee figure out what he wanted it to be: the man curled up in a sweatshirt with hair still wet from his shower and chewing the end of a pencil in between spitballing ideas at Remus. His eyes seemed to glow when he got excited, and they were hypnotizing to look at, swirling with all the colors: grey blue, jade, hazel, silver. Whenever he liked an idea he scribbled it down on a piece of paper and smiled with his fangs out and Remus had to resist the urge to kiss him again, lest they fall behind in their planning phase due to an excessive make out session.))

In the end, planning this whole thing wasn’t all that much different from their other heists: the casino where they met, the fancy banks, the jewelry stores, a privately owned winery. There was less of Remus looking at the future, true, but that just meant that they spent more time lying next to each other scouring the internet on their individual phones for relevant information and eating chocolate dinosaurs.

The clock strikes thirty-till ten and the whole world seems to hold its breath. Remus can feel it, the way the air holds itself and suddenly the whole coffeeshop, the patrons, the cashiers and the machines go quiet with anticipation.

“There!” yells a kid from a window seat, covered in chocolate from a partially devoured muffin and bouncing on the cushion. He presses both his hands to the cleaned window, as if he can phase right through it if he pushes himself hard enough. “There! It’s a car!”

“Where? I wanna see!”

“Is it The Prince?”

“The Prince! Move I want to see!”

Remus barely has time to brace himself before there are people pressing up against him, strangers shoving and pushing and yelling and trying to get to the window to see exactly what is going on. Remus himself leaves a nice face print to the glass that he suspects the long suffering employees are going to have blast cleaning later.

Assuming that the shop is still standing after all this.

Someone’s elbow goes into Remus’s spine and for a second Remus blinks and there’s a guy standing over him, pressing a hand to his pulse, and the manager at the front desk of their hotel is screaming again. Remus hisses out a harsh breath that fogs up the window and scrubs the thought, the concept, the memory from his mind. Because he’s not dead, he’s not dying, he’s not on the hood of a car. And the last thing he needs is to forget that.

The car that the kid had pointed out was actually a caravan of cars: black nondescript SUVs with tinted windows and tires thick enough to be bulletproof. The type of cars celebrities and CEOs and politicians ride around in when their limos are being deep cleaned. The crowd blockers leave more than enough room for the cars to parade through the street right to the stage. Someone outside even sets off a confetti cannon so it rains red and gold and white paper through the air.

Remus grinds his morals together and shoves himself backwards, knocking into about six more people who are swarming for his spot so quickly, so frantically, so vehemently, that Remus doesn’t actually make out any of their faces or forms or bodies. The whole shop was swarmed with people, but now all the bodies were pressed against the street windows and Remus thinks if they were on a boat, they would have capsized. He tugs the front of his leather jacket to straighten it and elbows his way through the front doors and out into the street.

Outside it’s not much easier to see anything. The cheering crowd is the most annoying thing ever. Although the hand made signs people are waving are a close second. Remus fights the urge to knock several of them out of people’s hands because the crowd control are watching like hawks and--

-- “HEY! HEY!” one of the uniformed guys yells at him. Remus flips him the bird, and because he’s so busy laughing at the guy he misses the sign holder’s left fist coming for his face.--

-- “HEY! HEY!” one of the uniformed guys yells at him. Remus flips him the bird, and because Remus knows better now he manages to dodge the incoming fist and drive his elbow up under his attacker’s guard and right into his diaphragm. There’s an exhilarating feeling flowing through him as the crowd around him jostles and shouts and falls to chaos in a way that completely derails the plan Dee worked so hard to put together.--

--Remus tears himself back to the present, stumbling slightly over a swaying ground. He coughs into his fist as his body is checked by a passerby into the outside wall of the coffee shop. There are flecks of red, so small Remus wouldn’t have noticed if he weren’t looking for them. That’s good, that’s great, that’s fine.

He’s fine.

The crowd pulses and the volume of dissonant cheering increases tenfold. Remus wipes his hand on his thigh and looks up to see over through the crowd for what was happening, although he already has a good idea. The cars must have completed their slow circuit and the doors of one of them must have popped open for the guest of honor to step out.

Another burst of confetti shoots out filling the air with white pieces of paper that almost look like snow. Remus ignores them mostly as he slips through the crowd in ways that his body probably shouldn’t be able to move: under an elbow here, passing a shoulder there, winking at the college student his face is three inches from as he scoots between him and an older woman with a crying child on her hip. He feels his spine crack more than he hears it as he moves.

He makes it to the crowd barriers with an impressive number of bruises, a bit of coffee from an off balanced teenager, and a scrap where someone hit him with one of those stupid signs. He’s close enough to the stage that his skin itches, that his throat burns, that his toes curl; the Prince isn’t even looking his way but Remus thinks that the white of his super suit would look excellent covered in his blood. There’s a rapier at his side that glistens in the sunlight, silver and shining and ready for use although Remus has yet to see him actually use it as a weapon rather than a fancy prop.

The Prince is an actor on a stage waving to his fans, a red herring meant to distract everyone from the implications of the FBE headquarters right behind him. He blows a kiss to the crowd and Remus gets the urge to punch his face again.

Instead he presses up against the barrier wall, hooking his arms around the metal bars to hold himself in place and watches with his tongue in his cheek. He nods at the techie standing on the other side: a guy with hefty headphones, bright purple hair, and a mouth mask with an anime character on it from a show Remus vaguely recognizes. The guy squints at him suspiciously for a moment but ultimately just shrugs and goes back to writing something in a pocket notebook and leaning against the side of a News Crew van he presumably works for.

On stage, The Prince approaches the podium waving still and smiling twice as broadly as before. Remus isn’t sure how anyone can look at him and think “safety” when his charming show of teeth also makes it look like his mouth was going to split his entire head open. A police line-up stands along the wings of the stage, like he’s a real prince about to address a nation.

Someone Remus doesn’t recognize is also on the stage in a suit. The Prince grins and shakes the guys hand like they’re old friends. They pose for a camera flash for a moment, sharing a laugh that can’t possibly be that funny, and the new techie rolls his eyes so hard his head shakes. Another person from the crew joins him standing side-by-side and they share a short conversation that leaves the one with the headphones glaring.

The guy on stage claps The Prince on the back and offers him the podium with microphones before stepping back clapping enthusiastically.

Remus thinks boredly that it would have been funnier if Dee were up there, dressed up in a stranger’s skin and stepping back only so that The Prince never gets to see the knife Dee shoves in his neck. But Remus knows Dee better than that; he’d never kill, and he'd definitely never deliver a fatal blow when his victim didn’t know his name.

(Remus wonders distantly, when he realized how much names meant to Dee. Was it before Dee offered up his name at that casino? Or later when Dee was breathing into Remus’s mouth and Remus was trying to figure out what was wrong with himself? Dee wanted people to know his name, wanted people to remember him when he left, wanted them to recognize him-- but he also didn’t and Remus isn’t sure how to solve that puzzle yet so he sticks it in the back of his mind to work on when its just the two of them alone in a hotel room in the dark.)

The Prince winks to someone in the crowd and finishes his last wave. Remus glances back at the line of SUVs but no one else comes out of them-- which isn’t that weird? Remus seems to recall the Prince being very specific that he had a team and a partner and yet he’s up there all alone receiving all the glory.

Of course they could just be shy, but based on how little information there actually is about the team and partner existing, Remus thinks that maybe it’s a farce meant to placate children’s dreams of being on a super team with their super hero!

(Remus is not alone in this thinking either. Dee’s favorite website called AnxiTEA has several dozen articles written about how The Prince sucks and that he’s just doing all this for publicity and recognition-- along with a carefully worded warning that if The Prince begins losing either of those things, he’s most likely going to become feral and turn on them all.)

Remus adjusts the earpiece in his ear just as The Prince opens his mouth to start off that particularly exciting, bold, inspiring speech of his. But before he gets more than a syllable out, a shadow floods from overhead.

The crowd collectively gasps and screams, spreading apart in every which direction; Remus lets out a hefty groan as the guy next to him bowls into his shoulder and he nearly flings over the fence. The techie on the other side drops his little notebook in shock, and his friend pulls out a phone immediately.

The shadow sweeps downward through the air like the largest bird in history. Remus laughs as he watches, Dee’s wings glisten with black wings that glisten yellow when the sun reflects off them. In fact just watching him, Remus has a hard time believing that Dee didn’t grow up with wings attached to his back. He makes floating and flying and landing look graceful, ethereal, easy and breathless and exhilarating. Dee lands on the stage due left of The Prince, safely with his knees bent to absorb the shock. When he stands back up, his blond hair flows slightly in the kickback wind and his trustable dark eyes sparkle.

(He went with the black and yellow color scheme. That had been Remus’s favorite option. The black of his suit makes the shimmers of gold look expensive, dangerous, and untouchable. Although, Remus is a little biased on the front that he always thinks Dee looks dangerous and untouchable. He’s a caution sign, a warning, and Remus can’t wait for The Prince to ignore it.)

“Hello,” Dee says and Remus thinks he can hear his barely concealed laughter over all the crowd's confused chaos. The police line behind The Prince lurch into movement at the sound of his voice, but the hero himself throws out an arm and stops them where they stand with hands on their tasers.

Dee raises an eyebrow, a polite expression on his face. And the Prince mirrors him.

“Oh wonderful!” the hero says in a confident tone, in a reassuring tone, in a placating tone that tells the audiences watching that there’s nothing to fear from the black winged Angel that just descended down on them like a herald of Death. Dee’s eyes shine with amusement that Remus can pick out even from over here. “Another friend like me!”

The Prince offers a hand to Dee, a handshake. Remus digs his teeth into his tongue as he watches Dee take it from above, like he’s royalty allowing the poor publicity prince to greet him.

“Not quite like you, my dear Prince,” Dee says. “If the wings weren’t a dead give away already.”

The Prince’s lips tighten. Remus thinks that his expression screams “calculating”. He looks at Dee like he’s still trying to figure out if he’s a friend or foe, and Dee’s body language offers no hints at all.

Or well, maybe a few hints. Remus can see it, because he can see Dee: the tilt of his head is a challenge, the light in his eyes is condescending, the openness of his body facing the crowd speaks in volume of who he’s actually there for. Remus can read every bit of Dee and it sends a shiver down his back to realize.

The crowd bobs and murmurs, unsure of what to do with the surprise visitation. Several camera flashes go off like someone is trying to prove to themselves that the wings are real. The techie on the other side of the barrier reaches up and hooks a finger over his mouth mask as if he’s debating ripping it off to breathe easier. Remus digs his chin into the metal bars of the crowd barrier and wishes he had some popcorn.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Prince,” Dee says silky smooth.

“Good things I hope,” The Prince says back. “I would love to sit down and have a conversation with a fan as elegant as yourself, but I really must be getting back on schedule. I’d be happy to sign somethin--”

Dee laughs pleasantly, although Remus thinks he should be swinging to dislodge the superheroes head from his neck.

“You are a riot!” Dee takes a few steps forward. “You think I’m up here to get your autograph?”

The Prince’s eyes narrow slightly. “Aren’t you?”

Dee flexes his wings just as slightly, letting them shimmer so beautifully for the crowd up front to see. “Oh no. I must confess I’m not much of a fan at all. I’d really much rather skip to the debate portion of this.”

“The debate,” The Prince repeats like he hasn’t ever heard the word before. Remus half expects him to snap at that guy behind him to offer up a dictionary so he can read the Webster definition before he responds. But in the end the Prince merely moves his arm back and settles his right hand on the hilt of his rapier.

“I’ve been fascinated by you, Prince,” Dee continues, gliding around him and stretching his wings so that the police line is forced to take another step back or get bumped. Dee circles the hero much like a snake starting to coil around its prey before the final strike. He’s slow and methodical and Remus doesn’t think anyone can look away from him. He knows he can’t. “They call you a superhero. The first real life one to walk the streets.”

The Prince follows Dee’s motions with his head. “I have no control over what the media says.”

Dee gives him another condescending look. Remus thinks it’s eerily similar to the ones that his teachers used to give him when Remus insisted that the other kids shoved him on the playground when he did nothing to them first.

“Of course you don’t,” Dee says. “The media can be rather misleading at times. After all they said that my way of handling an out of control child with an arbitrary grasp on fire was fallible. Incorrect. Deplorable.” Dee stops just over the Prince’s left shoulder and tilts his head. “Villainous.”

The Prince blinks, stiffening.

“Oh,” he says. “You were the one at the mall. In Idaho.”

“Yes,” Dee says. “And if I had done nothing, that child would have continued to operate under the impression that killing is an acceptable punishment for petty thievery. And yet I’ve received nothing but bad press, criticisms, insults for what I did while you get praise and recognition from your… adoring fans. I would say that’s quite unfair don’t you think?”

The Prince’s nose twitches. Remus watches his hand on his rapier tighten, but he refrains from drawing and making the first blow in front of a billion witnesses. The cameras couldn’t draw away even if they tried.

“Perhaps if you had tried talking first, rather than jumping straight to violence--”

Dee tuts and presses a hand to his chest. “I so do love how much you know about what happened there! With all the completely accurate information and that confident tone you’re wielding, my prince, one might be convinced that you had been there and watched that child nearly kill three innocent people after I attempted the talking part first.”

The Prince’s jaw set.

“Oh? Nothing to say?” Dee lowers his chin to look The Prince dead in the eyes. “The truth is that the child in question decided to attack a man robbing a previously insured jewelry store-- most likely out of desperation-- and decided to attempt to burn him alive. The action of which nearly killed me and my… partner if it hadn’t been for a spot of good luck. Then when I attempted to help preserve the criminal from the life threatening third degree burns he was suffering, the child called me a villain and demanded I and another brave bystander back away from the man so that he could die.”

Dee’s eyes flash blue and green and then a cold steel blue before they settle back on the silent superhero. “You and your original way of thinking are an inspiration to us all.”

The Prince’s face twitches again, the whole thing this time, twisting into a not-very-nice expression for just the briefest of seconds before he remembers that there’s a captive audience watching this play out. He takes a deep steadying breath and lets it out again.

“I apologize,” he says. “I jumped to a conclusion. You made an acceptable call in the face of a diffic--”

“I made the only call,” Dee inserts harshly. “And I don’t want your apology. Words mean nothing.”

“What are you here for then?” The Prince asks, and Remus can’t help the feral smile that etches across his features. He leans forward as far as he can without tipping the fence because he doesn’t want to miss a single second of this.

“Oh, that would be simple,” Dee says. “I want you to explain to the world, why you are trying to get hundreds of people killed.”

“I don’t follow.”

“I don’t suppose you would.” Dee says. “I can’t imagine that you’ve had to do a lot of critical thinking these past few weeks.”

The Prince scowls and opens his pretty little mouth, but Dee waves him off with a clandestine motion. There’s a delicious looking smirk on Dee’s lips: something that Remus thinks he can spend all day staring at. He’s having fun up there with all the attention on him, having fun with people hanging on his every word, having fun leading The Prince around like a dog on a leash. A showboat, a leader, an actor-- but Dee’s the director too, telling the cameras where to point and what to frame because this is his show, even if no one else realizes it yet.

“I’ve been following the FBE for a while now. You can imagine that as someone with an ability I tend to be interested in politics that directly affect me, as all good upstanding Americans should.” Dee flutters his wings a bit again. “However, I can’t imagine why anyone-- certainly not someone with the brains such as yourself-- would purposely align yourself to their less than noble intentions. They aim to take advantage of people like us, and you are using your… well earned celebrity status to convince the people that this is acceptable. Good, even! Surely you don’t truly believe that the FBE and Madam Secretary of Defense have your best interests at heart?”

The Prince shifts his weight around, looking for all intents and purposes like he was ready to leap across the stage and make Dee eat his own words, in the end he just settled back down.

“I do actually,” The Prince says. “I’ve been working with them for a while-- all of my team has. Madam Witchall has been a great help in getting this project on its feet so that the FBE can provide aid to--”

"I guess what it boils down to is this," Dee says, steam-rolling everything else the Prince might have wanted to say. Remus can pick the irritation out of his clipped tone, simmering under the guise of being passion rather than anger. "How much do you trust your government? How much faith do you put in people, Princeps?

"This is, after all, the same congregation that sends military recruiters to the more impoverished schools in America and hounds kids until they believe that their only option to get into college is to sign up for the military. Is that what they did to you as well? Convinced you, you were dangerous and unable to control yourself and that they could help you?"

The Prince’s jaw tightens so hard that even Remus can see it from where he’s standing. He wants to laugh, but he puts his hand in his mouth instead. The crowd is murmuring, mesmerized by the sheer audacity of this shapeshifter to show up and question the morals of their beloved hero. It would be funny, if Remus doesn’t close his eyes and see Dee’s charred corpse from that kid at the mall not so long ago whenever he tries to sleep.

Hero idealization was a dangerous thing. It needs to be nipped in its bud before it strangles everyone; luckily there’s no one better with a pair of shears than Dee.

"I do believe that’s none of your business," The Prince says.

"But it is," Dee coos just a bit too sweetly. His words come out slick with honey. "Because you are also a person of ability and I happen to care a great deal about people with abilities."

"We have a duty to those less fortunate than--"

"We--" Dee cuts him off sharply “--do not have a duty to anyone for anything."

He takes a breath, recenters himself, and when his eyes open again, they’re a piercing green that pins the hero to place on the stage for everyone to see. "In case you’ve forgotten, my dear Prince, we are mere humans, too. Not everyone wants to grow up to punch each other in the face. Some of us would like to live a normal life, without being forced into superhero dramatics."

His easy dismissal is inviting danger to come knocking. Remus likes that about him, the fearlessness. Did it come from after he had met Remus, or was it something Dee had grown up with? A symbol of faith in Remus’s abilities or a symptom of delusion? The mystery is tantalizing on Remus’s--

--tongue. Remus savors the taste of it with a grin. It’s so much better than blood, so much better than slushies, so much better than french toast and eggs and only one step down from the taste of actually kissing Dee.

Remus blinks, pressing against the barrier, his eyes catching sight of something else amongst the crowd although he isn’t sure what it is at first. A flash of a camera? A pushing shoving motion? It's something and Remus tries to follow it but it’s gone in the next half blink and he’s not sure what it was at all.

Then everyone is screaming and the crowd is in chaos and Remus gets slammed into the barrier again and shoved along it for a sharp second before he hits the ground. The noise roars over his thoughts, over his breathing, over his ability to comprehend anything that’s not how he’s being stepped on by careless bystanders fleeing the streets. Someone trips over him, someone steps on his ankle, someone kicks the back of his head and his lungs burn and his eyes itch and he knows he missed something---

--Tongue. Remus savors the taste with a hint of confusion. It’s better than blood that’s in his throat, than slushies in his memories, than french toast and eggs and only one step down from actually kissing Dee.

Remus blinks, pressing against the barrier, his eyes catching sight of something else amongst the crowd although he isn’t sure what it is at first, and doesn’t bother caring, because something else is happening and he needs to know what it is that causes the crowd to splinter apart like shattered glass. Dee is talking on stage, winding up the toy Prince to dance to his tune, and Remus is watching with his heart in his throat and unable to hear a word of it.

Then Remus blinks and Dee is not standing on stage because the shapeshifter’s body is morphing exactly the way it shouldn’t be. The crowd screams, and Dee’s eyes are empty in a way that Remus has seen a million times and abhors unlike anything else in the world.

Dee is not standing on stage because he’s actually fallen off it onto the asphalt ground below and there’s a spray of red mist in the air where he had been standing before. Remus is body-checked into the crowd barrier, and skimmed along it, until he hits the ground and feels himself get trampled over, but it doesn’t matter because he knows what he saw.

Dee is not standing on stage because he’s dead with a bullet in his head from---

---Tongue. Remus does not savor anything about the taste because whenever he closes his eyes the only thing he can see is Dee’s dead body and the only thing he can feel is copper clawing its way up his throat with the blind terror.

Remus leaps over the barrier, causing everyone around him to yell. The techie with the purple bangs in particular jumps back, but Remus ignores them in favor of watching, because Dee hasn’t seen him and doesn’t know what's coming and Remus wants to scream at the top of his lungs because watching Dee die never gets any easier to see.

It’s a bullet to the head. From the right temple through his brain at a downwards angle and Remus feels the blood sprinkle over him like sea spray straight from his darkest nightmares. He barely even notices, barely recognizes it, barely cares about it at all, because the next thing he knows Dee’s body is following it down right into Remus’s arms and unseeing blue-grey eyes stare at an empty sky.

The Prince is there too, mouth open and horrified, and even though everyone is screaming Remus can hear him start to say a phrase, a word, a syllable, “Re--”---

--Tongue. Remus’s mouth tastes like blood and absolutely nothing else because Dee is going to die from a shot through the head from a sniper, a shooter, an asshole and Remus thought maybe that Dee was over exaggerating before with his whole “the government is going to turn us all into weapons or eliminate us” rhetoric, but Remus thinks that he should have paid attention a little harder. Listened a little more. Believed a little better.

He stares at the building behind them, the library that’s being passed off as the FBE and the dark tinted windows that make the upper floors look abandoned completely. It’s like watching….it’s like…. it’s …

There’s a flash, a flicker. Then a heartbeat and then Dee is dying, dying, dead all alone and Remus feels himself body-checked back by a faceless person in the crowd and tossed to the ground to be trampled to death too.---

--tongue. Remus spits blood out of his mouth curling in on himself to stop anyone else from seeing because fuck him. He presses two fingers to his ear piece and pretends poorly that his throat doesn’t feel like someone took a pack of razor blades to it.

“Sniper shot, fourth floor, third window over,” Remus rasps. His heart pounds in his throat, in his skull, behind his eyes in a way that makes him want to tear his skin off to get the feeling to stop. Blood floods over his fingers, smearing on his chin, and across his sleeves no matter how hard he tries to get rid of it.

“One minute, forty seconds,” Remus coughs, and stares at the drips that hit the lower half of his shin, the toe of his boots, the asphalt.

Dee doesn’t react. Not at all and Remus wants to scream because he can feel time passing and he can’t stop the future from happening. He can’t, he can’t he can’t he can’t--

"You heard me, right?" Remus says maybe a little hysterically, because fuck, if they got this far and their mics weren’t even working and Remus just got the only person who ever mattered to him killed on live TV.

At this distance, Remus doesn’t know if he can make it, but even if he does, even if he tackles Dee down from the stage and the bullet misses them both it will go straight into the crowd, and there are people in this crowd-- people with lives, with families, with friends. They might have abilities, or they might not, but once that shot is fired the entire street will become a riot. Remus can hear the screams in his ears, ringing there so loudly it makes the present sound like a graveyard.

"I hear you," Dee says airily, acting like he’s talking to the superhero, but the words loosen the knot in Remus's chest, because he changed his speech, changed his stance, changed how much he knows about the future and now things will be different. The Prince eyes him rightfully warily, because Dee’s biggest weapons are knowledge and words.

"I hear you,” Dee says again directly to the hero, “I hear that you’ve been brainwashed into thinking that you owe something to the people who helped you control your ability, but the truth is… you could have done it without them, on your own. You certainly have the brains and the intuition for it."

He offers a hand out to the hero, casually, fluidly, and Remus almost laughs. He thinks if he opens his mouth again then only thing that will come out is blood and the people next to him will definitely notice that.

"Come with me, Prince of the People," Dee says right as the sniper lines up the shot. "Let’s discuss a better way to protect innocen--"

The gunshot is silent. Remus almost misses it in the collective intake of breath from every living thing in a ninety mile radius. Dee’s hand is out and the bullet catches the sunlight in a brilliant single flash.

-- through his brain at a downwards angle and Remus feels the blood sprinkle over him like sea spray straight from his darkest nightmares. He barely even notices, barely recognizes it, barely cares about it at all, because the next thing he knows Dee’s body is following it down right into Remus’s--

Dee’s skin ripples, his wings disappear. At this distance, Remus can’t tell what it turns into, what he impersonates, what he becomes that can fend off a bullet, but in the end it doesn’t matter at all because The Prince leaps forward with his sword drawn.

Remus blinks and the world feels like it tilts on its axis, spinning faster under his feet. He hugs the crowd barrier to steady himself. That… that isn’t possible. This isn’t what he saw. But there it is: The Prince wraps himself between Dee and the bullet, and draws his rapier so quickly that Remus almost misses it happening. It shouldn’t be possible-- It can’t be possible, but he’s faster than the bullet and somehow the piece of metal veers off trajectory into the stage at their feet and embeds itself there.

“That’s--” Remus’s breath catches, clumping up in a knot in the back of his throat that tastes a lot like blood.

The people in the crowd scream, the people near the front shove to move back, to get away, to find shelter and safety from bullets that were only targeting one man on stage. The police guard springs into actions that Remus can’t focus on because he’s so busy trying to remain upright when gravity is trying to drag him straight down to Hell.

“Are you alright?” The Prince asks, lowering his rapier.

“I--Dee--” Remus stutters.

“Was that... going to hit me…?” Dee asks in a tone that suggests that all the oxygen left the atmosphere.

“I don’t-- I can’t--” Remus swallows a mouth full of blood and it goes down his throat like thick, slow slugs trying to suffocate him. “I swear--”

“Have no fear,” The Prince says. “I’ll protect you. As long as I’m here, no harm will come to you. You have my word.”

“Re,” Dee says. He sounds like he’s several distant planets away. Remus’s hands are red and sticky and he swears if he closes his eyes that he can feel the misty spray of grey matter over his face when Dee falls from the stage, when his body lands in Remus’s arms, when those empty eyes stare up at him and see none of the grief in Remus’s eyes.

“I watched you,” Remus chokes.

He saw it. He knows he saw it and it was real and Dee died and Remus was left all alone like every nightmare he’s ever had. Dee died up on stage in front of the whole world and Remus saw his whole world shatter.

It happened.

“You can’t see the future, Remus!” Roman yelled four years ago and Remus has proved him wrong a hundred billion times over since then. He shouldn’t have to keep reminding himself of that.

“You died,” Remus says. “You died and I watched and I’m sorry-- I’m sorry, sor--”

“That’s all I needed to know, darling,” Dee tells him.

“Pardon?” The Prince asks, realizing maybe for the first time that Dee isn’t talking to him.

“You’re clever, Prince,” Dee says loudly, and Remus hears him so clearly in his earpiece it stabilizes him even when the world spins under his feet. Dee shoves himself out of the hero’s hold, stepping back twice, and looking downright murderous. “Far more clever than I gave you credit for! Did you just try to have me shot? Killed? All so you could look like the dashing hero on screen?”

“What?” the hero says and because he’s an actor Remus almost believes that he’s confused and not threatened.

“You just tried to kill me!” Dee snarls. “In front of all these people?! Because I dared ask a few questions about your motives?!”

The Prince stares at him, and Remus imagines his insufferable mouth is twitching into an awkward smile, like this is a joke that he doesn’t understand but doesn’t want to be rude.

“I assure you that is not the case here,” he says. “In fact I believe it’s far more likely that you arranged to have yourself attacked on this stage to emphasize a point on your part. I suspect you might have some type of protection against bullets, but even if you did I could not stand idle when there is a chance of you being hurt.”

“How noble,” Dee says. “Throwing yourself in front of everyone and asking nothing in return no matter the situation. A true hero complex.”

The Prince’s grip on his rapier tightens, but he says nothing.

“You say such pretty words, Prince,” Dee says. “Tell such convincing lies. You want people to step up and join you in a game of play pretend without realizing there are deadly consequences when abilities get out of control. You want people to follow you, to sing your praises, to believe you can do no wrong…. You’re the hero, of course! They’ll be so enamored with you, they won’t notice you leading them straight off a cliff.”

For a second the world stops turning, time stops passing, the crowd stops moving. Remus feels every atom in the air pressing up against him, itching, pulling, compressing against his skin as his heart pounds in his chest like some type of creature trying to escape his ribcage. There’s a ringing in his ears made from the silence between Dee and The Prince and it’s louder than any scream that the crowd makes, any gunshot a sniper takes, any calm Dee fakes.

“And I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.” Dee offers a complimentary shrug and then he launches across the stage, aiming for The Prince’s throat.

[Chapter Seven]

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chaseatinydream · 4 years

Text

pirate king (23) || atz

“Yeosang-hyung!”

The scream that leaves your mouth is completely uncontrolled, the breath in your lungs had simply forced their way to your mouth, where your tongue had formed the words, and his name had torn itself from your lips.

“Yeosang-hyung!”

For an infinite second, everything fades into the background. The screams, the fighting still going on in the background, the clash of swords, nothing matters except the man lying quiet and still at your feet. You can’t move.

Blood pools on the ground, bright crimson soaking into the wood of the deck. Yeosang’s body is unmoving, bloody and broken and momentarily, a maelstrom of complete terror crashes through you, wiping every thought and sensation from your mind except for a single sentence.

He’s dead.

You sink to your knees in absolute shock, watching as the deep red of his life blood oozes from his wound, staining his brown shirt almost inky black, crawling over his back like a curse mark. Your heart stops with every gush of blood from his wounds.

He’d saved you.

Your fingers curl around the sleeve of his shirt, your forehead pressed against his shoulder blade.

He had protected you with his body.

You feel your body shaking erratically with every heaving breath you take.

He’d sacrificed his life for yours.

Your throat hurts, raw and stinging. You’re confused for a moment, until you realise that you’re screaming, again and again into his shoulder.

“I hate you.”

Those had been the last words you’d said to him. The last thing you had done to him was hurt him, wound him beyond your comprehension, and yet, he had still chosen to save you.

Something warm mixes with the tears on your cheeks as a heart wrenching scream of pain tears itself from your mouth. It caresses your face, a soft, gentle puff of air.

“Don’t cry…”

The voice is painfully similar to Yeosang’s and you immediately understand how Seonghwa must be going insane from the voices of his dead family in his ears, the two words have the complete opposite of their intended effect, and the second you hear his voice in your head, you’re sobbing uncontrollably, tears soaking into his shoulder.

Even in death, his warmth is a comfort, just like when he was alive.

“Look at me…”

You shake your head desperately, wailing as you squeeze your eyes shut tighter, past the tears, past the blood. Guilt wraps itself around your throat, forcing out every breath of air from your lungs in the form of hopeless cries that rent the air around it to shards. You feel as if someone has physically dug their fingers into your chest, slowly crushing your heart, and the pain is all to real.

Thump, thump, thump.

“Please… Chin Hae… Look at me…”

You finally submit to his plea, bowing over him as tears stream down your cheeks. Please, please, please, just make his voice stop.

“Chin Hae…”

Your heart screeches to a halt as you stare unblinkingly at his face, uncomprehending.

He’s smiling so softly at you, blood smeared across his cheek and lips, but his cloudy, somewhat glazed eyes are gazing unwavering into yours, as if he doesn’t want to let them go. And even bloodstained, bruised, and sickly pale from the loss of blood, he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve seen all your life.

“Yeosang!” Someone rushes to Yeosang’s side, but you barely notice. You’re too busy studying every feature on Yeosang’s face, from the slight crinkle at the corner of his eyes, the gentle slope of his nose, the softness of his cheeks, the blood splattered birthmark nestled right beneath his eye.

He’s breathing.

He’s here with you.

And he’s alive.

“Choi Chin Hae!” Someone smacks you across the face and you’re finally broken out of your reverie to look at the person calling your name, it’s your master, and he looks furious with you. “Your patient is dying! Snap out of it!”

Terror and determination swarms through you as you snap back to reality, eyes narrowing and you force yourself to maintain some facade of calm. Right, right, right. You need to get your shit together, or else Yeosang will bleed out and die in a matter of minutes and it’ll be all your fault.

Focus!

You and San spring into work like the cogs of a well oiled machine, moving to tend to the different gunshots. You take the one closer to his shoulder blade, the musket ball having torn clean through the flesh of his shoulder but missing his carotid artery, blood is seeping from the wound and not pumping from it, no major artery must have been hit.

You desperately want to thank every god you know for this, but you have no time at the moment. Every fibre of your being is concentrated on saving Yeosang’s life, and you move like a man possessed, reaching and preparing alcohol compresses, trying to stem the blood flow.

Every bandage is soaked red.

Yeosang watches you work quietly, eyes still clouded over with pain and blood loss, the occasional whimper escaping him as you and San try to stop his bleeding. His skin is starting to fall in temperature, becoming cold and clammy, and when you take his pulse for the third time, the beat fluttering weakly like a caged bird under your fingertips, it’s much too rapid for someone bleeding out on the ground.

Terror grips at you.

You’re losing him.

“Chin Hae…” Fingers reach for yours and you take them desperately, squeezing back. His eyes trail your face and his lips move soundlessly, as if trying to say something to you. You tilt your head so his mouth is right at your ear, eyes mere inches from each other.

“Yeah?” A sob leaves your mouth, but you try to keep your voice steady. Yeosang stares at you, eyes never leaving yours, but he doesn’t seem to be able to see you anymore, gazing blankly at the same spot the whole time. The hand around your heart squeezes a little harder and you find it hard to breathe.

“I’m sorry…” He whispers, and suddenly you want to scream and cry at the same time because of this stupidly selfless man, who even almost at his deathbed is still apologizing to you, thinking that you’re still upset with him. His voice is nothing above a weak breath. “I’m deeply sorry that I betrayed your trust like that…”

You shake your head furiously, fresh tears streaming from your eyes. “I forgive you, I forgive you, I forgive you. It was my fault. I should have tried to understand you, tried to-”

“If I don’t make it…” He rasps quietly, and to your horror, you feel the grip on your fingers weakening. His eyes are starting to fade, the soft, deep brown closing. “Beneath my bed… In captain’s cabin… there is…”

Then his fingers lose their grip on yours, falling to the ground with a thud.

The sound reverberates in your ears like a gunshot.

Sheer, undiluted panic and forced calm rage a war in your mind. You firmly shove the part of your brain that is screaming in circles in your mid and shove it into the bilge basement, your trembling fingers reaching for his neck.

For a second, cold creeps over you when you feel nothing under your fingertips. Just as you’re about to scream and tear yourself to pieces, there’s a weak flutter.

Joy bursts in you, but you have no time to celebrate.

“He’s going into shock. We’re losing him.” The words sound foreign on your tongue as you turn to your master, fear etched in every line on your face. San continues pressing on his two musket wounds, one with the lead shot still embedded inside for fear of causing more bleeding, but you can see his mind furiously searching for a solution to save his friend.

Then he looks at you seriously, straight in the eye. “Get me a long stick.”

Your heart drops in your chest as you realise what he intends to do. “Master, that’s not safe-”

“I said,” San repeats very slowly, as if you didn’t hear him the first time, “get me a long stick.”

His voice is a command. You can’t refuse it.

Leaping to your feet, you search the area around you desperately. The fight is everywhere, but the pirates are forcing the soldiers to surrender their weapons… or die. You spot a wooden spear clattering to the ground as a soldier falls to his knees, blood gushing from his eye, but you have no time to care about him. You grab the weapon and rush back to your master, whose eyes are closed in concentration.

“Master?” You ask, kneeling beside him, the spear in your hands. The two of you have practiced this drill so many times, but you would have never thought you would ever do one of such magnitude in your lifetime.

“When his breathing returns to normal, stop me immediately.” San instructs you quietly, and without waiting for you to reply, he reaches forward and places his hands on Yeosang’s back.

Panic swallows you for a moment. Your master is walking a tightrope as fine as a sewing thread, with his very life dangling in the balance. What San is attempting to perform is a limited energy transfer, in which he connects the energies between his and Yeosang’s bodies, allowing his own energy to flow into Yeosang’s and heal his most dire of wounds.

But that isn’t the dangerous part.

With the state Yeosang’s body is in, Yeosang will unconsciously struggle to take every bit of San’s energy as possible to heal himself, even if he doesn’t want to do such a thing. Your master’s reserve store of energy will run out, and Yeosang will tap into San’s life source itself, essentially draining the healer of every bit of life.

In the best case scenario, your master will be in a catatonic state for the rest of his life.

In the worst case scenario, his body will be reduced to a pile of smoking ashes.

As your master is more experienced with controlling the flow of his energy to Yeosang’s, he’s going to be the one doing the operation. It’s your job to end it before your master is permanently damaged.

Fear lodges in your belly as you feel the weight of your responsibility settling on your shoulders.

You watch with bated breath as San inhales deeply, keeping his breathing in control as he searches for Yeosang’s soul, reaching for his. You can’t see this happening, but you know in theory what is going on, and it scares you that you may lose both your master and Yeosang in this attempt.

Suddenly, San’s eyes snap open. He looks straight ahead blankly, barely seeming to notice you, his gaze completely focused on Yeosang. You watch the bleeding with desperate intent, willing with all your mind for the flow of blood to slow, for him to breathe steadily once again, the prayer echoing over and over in your head like a mantra.

Please. Please. Please.

Whether it’s been seconds or an infinity, you don’t know, but you finally see the stream of crimson turn into a gentle flow, then it merely seeps from his wounds, and his chest starts to rise and fall once more.

An indescribable joy wells up in you, it blooms in your chest like a sunflower, relief tugging at you.

You turn to tell your master, but then you see San’s face pale and drawn, cold sweat trickling down his forehead. His breathing is hard and uneven, and to your horror, his eyes are glazed over with exhaustion.

There isn’t a second to spare.

Using the wooden spear, you knock your master’s hands away from Yeosang’s body and San slumps to the ground, heaving for air. He blinks blankly at you, as if completely disconnected from the world, but he’s alive, Yeosang is alive, the crew is safe and well.

That’s all that matters to you.

“You did it, master!” You sniff, wiping the tears from your eyes as you tell your master of his feat. “You saved Yeosang-hyung.”

But San’s grim words strip every bit of relief you feel.

“Only for now.”

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez fanfiction #hongjoong #seonghwa #yeosang #yunho #san #mingi #jongho #wooyoung #ateez pirate king #w; ot8 #w; pirate king #w; fanfiction

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bangtanlalaland · 4 years

Text

around the way girl | knj (m.)

synopsis ↳namjoon kim was the man you’d fallen in love with in college, while existing in a society where ambw relationships are rare.

→part of the bring it back collection!

— 1990’s!au; strangers to lovers!au

→pairing: underground rapper!kim namjoon x beauty supply store worker!black female reader

→genre: fluff, smut

→word count: 4.7k+

→contents ⨯ warnings: that beautiful, interracial love (AMBW) [if you’re racist, fuck off my page!] some major fluff action here, joon is so soft, (I stg he’s a dom but also a hopeless romantic. the DUALITY. agsgsjlldlejd), rapper joon makes an appearance, sweet love making, name calling (cute shit, I promise), also the use of DADDY, lots of kissing and caressing, body worshiping, oral (f receiving), protected sex (no glove, no love baby), fingering, over-stimulation, namjoon is so inspired by hip hop culture, y’all I tried really hard to sprinkle some 90′s vibes in there so bare with me ok,

a/n: heyyyy loves! I wanted to do something different, considering that I hardly come across any fics (specifically BTS) with a woc or simply a black reader. so here’s one to all of my beautiful, black queens out there! much love to you all & I want you to know I am here & stand with you.

song rec: “around the way girl” by ll cool j

☞ disclaimer: If any of the warnings listed above offends you in any way, please do not read. It is not my intention to start any sort of debate/argument in regards to racism, culture appropriation, etc. Therefore if any characters, settings, and/or facts/statements are incorrect, please disregard. However, this body of text is for entertainment purposes only. All characters, settings, scenarios, and dialogue are fictitious. Any similarity to events or persons, whether living or dead, is coincidental.

It was like a movie, from start to finish. Growing up, times were hard and challenges never ceased to fade. But, you pushed through — the good, the bad, and the ugly. Lost ones along the way, realized you couldn’t trust everyone, but you grew. As an independent, young, black woman living in America. And then something happened, that changed everything.

The year of 1998, when fall semester classes at your college just ended, which called for finding a seasonal job for the time being. And that’s how you ended up working at Queen Beauty Supply about two blocks from your place. You grew up knowing Mr. Park (who is the owner and now your boss) all your life. As you were a child, your mother supported his business, always stocking up on flexi rods, Just for Me relaxers, Goody brushes, and all. Even the endless amounts of barrette balls of every color you could think of, she made sure you had. And seeing that you blossomed, Mr. Park was more than honored to hire you for a seasonal gig. You loved him as if he was your family, just as well as he loved you.

It all started that one evening when you worked the register, fancy-ing some Poetic Justice-style braids, showcasing your figure with a halter top and mom jeans. A small stereo behind you blared the latest hits on the radio, Jon B currently on play. You flipped through the latest issue of Word Up! Magazine, admiring the new spread that featured Mya, Monica, and Brandy — your two in. acrylic, nails dragging across the pages. The sound of the bell jingles over the door, indicating the arrival of a customer. Your gaze turns up to greet said customer, and your eyes meet with the fellow that entered.

And damn were you blown away for a hot sec. He was cute, really cute. You hadn’t even realized he asked you something, while standing in front of you on the opposite side of the counter. He’s Asian, obviously. His eyes having told it all. They were different, not shaped like yours, but beautiful. Which was intriguing. But him simple being here in a beauty supply store was interesting, Yes, it’s ironic. The owner himself being Asian, but the intended audience is your fellow black folks. You could tell he’s obviously inspired by your culture since he sported a bucket hat and a loose, white tee that may have been just two sizes too big for him — which is rare nowadays to find on an Asian man. But, you don’t question it. Of course, you’re well aware people of all races are influenced by hip hop culture so in a way, it doesn’t surprise you as much. Okay, maybe a little. But still.

“Can I help you?” His eyes did a weird thing, but it was cute. He was cute.

“Do you have du-rags here?” Your eyebrows raise and head cocks to the side, having abandoned the magazine you were just reading.

“What do you want with a du-rag?” You question, knowing well the texture of his hair can’t form into waves, so you suppose it’s for a fashion statement. He starts blushing, his eyes shut and beautiful pearly whites on display. Damn, did he have you hooked on the spot and you didn’t even know his name yet. You had to hurry up and get him out of here for your own sake, so you took the lead. A few beats passed before he realized you were leading the way to what he needed. He stumbled a little.

“It’s uh- For my performance,” He slips, trailing behind you while passing by the rows of hair-care products, leading towards the back of the store.

“Performance? You dance?” You question, while strutting down the row of where the brushes, combs, barrettes and the jewelry wall was displayed — purposely swaying your hips back and forth just a tad too much for dramatic effect. He definitely noticed, his eyes glued to your form and wondering how your jeans could mold those curves so perfectly.

He blushes at the thought but replies, “I’m a rapper,” And that’s when you stop in your tracks, flipping your braids behind your back and placing your hand on your hip, giving him the same expression that you gave at the counter.

“A rapper?” You ask, while taking him in from head to toe. You notice his white Air Force Ones.

Damn, he is so fine.

He has style, you’ll admit that. But an Asian rapper? That’s unheard of, at least in your neighborhood.

“Do you, boo.” You shrug, while gesturing toward the wall on your left, that displayed various colors of du-rags. You step away to return to the register and then he speaks again.

“What about Blue Magic?” As if he hadn’t surprised you enough, you cross your arms, facing him.

“Well…. it depends on what you want.” You pause, and roll on your heels to walk again, he follows behind you.

“We have coconut oil, but the hair food is out of stock right now. The hair and scalp treatment is limited quantity, but we do have Castor Oil and Super Sure Gro.” You arrive at the row of hair care products, with numerous brands of oils, treatments, and more that cover the shelves. After leaving him there, you admired the way his eyes were shot wide, and you knew damn well he was not 100% sure of what he was looking at — as he searched for the product that piqued his interest.

And so it became a regular occurrence. He’d come in at least once every two weeks, buying the same thing. A du-rag and Super Sure Gro. Some days you’d even be a little extra to “up” your appearance, in hopes he’d notice or in some fantasy world, he’d compliment you. Maybe even ask about you or your day. Or if you’d like to go watch a movie with him or even hit up a spot for some good food. You ponder if he’d be into trying soul food someday. Your mom always did say that a way into a man’s heart is through his stomach. Well, more-so implying that you should know how to get down and dirty in the kitchen.

—

The bell jingles again, while you’re out on the floor stocking up the shelves with bottles of Luster’s Pink Oil Formula. Reaching below into the box to grab a few more bottles, you hadn’t noticed he was towering above you. You jumped slightly when you meet eyes with him, nearly dropping the contents you held onto.

“Don’t you know not to run up on a black woman like that? I may be little, but I can kick your ass!” You both break out into a contagious laugh. He stuffs his hands into his baggy jeans of his, that gorgeous smile spreads across his face. He clears his throat,

“I- Uh- I’m- I’m sorry, I-”

You shake it off, “You’re fine, boo.” Your hand finds its way into his shoulder, a light rub as you brush past him to head for the register. He hesitates, trailing behind you as he fights for the right words to say.

“I-I just, I-” You reach the front of the counter and turn to make eye contact with him. Your eyebrows raise slightly, taking in how he’s struggling to piece his words together. You place your hand on his shoulder again and note how he gazes at you with those same wide eyes you’d grown familiar with over the past few weeks. His lips parted slightly as if he was going to say something but didn’t.

“It’s okay-” You trail off, in hopes he’d catch on.

“Oh, right. N-namjoon. My name is Namjoon.”

You smile in response, lightly rubbing his arm with your palm.

“Is there…. Something you want to say? I promise, I don’t bite,” You state with a soft smile. You notice his shoulders easing themselves down. Part of you wonders what he was so tense for.

“You should come to my performance-” He says rapidly then pauses, looking down and then back up to you, “I would like it- I mean I think that you- You would like my performance.” He internally hates himself for being shy around you, his cheeks so tight and raised from smiling hard, and you could have literally melt in that moment. You thought it was cute to see him that way. To know you made him feel all flustered.

There was a grand amount of effort he’d built to approach you. The very, first day he arrived at the store, he wanted to say something then. He went home that night rehearsing how he’d spark up a conversation with you. He even recalls one time he’d seen you at a bus stop sucking on a lollipop, and how tempted he was to say something then. But he couldn’t. He was afraid of rejection, and he wasn’t sure how to approach you. So when he’d visit the beaut store and see your face, he’d grow warm on the inside. And when you would make eye contact with him, his heart would stop. When you would speak to him with that sweet voice of yours, he’d freeze.

So when you said yes you would be there, he cried afterwards. Not in front of you of course, but on the bus back to his place. He couldn’t believe that you didn’t reject him. Throughout the weeks, he’d contemplated because he didn’t know how you felt about people of his race. He didn’t know how your race felt about people like him in general. Although, it never mattered to him. Because he believed that love is love. As long as you’re happy with that person, that is all what truly matters. He believed everyone deserves to have that kind of love. Little did he know, you felt the same way.

And then things advanced between the two of you.

It was the night he invited you to an underground party, and it was live. Music thumped with never-ending bass, people danced and smoked, and the space felt warm and cluttered, courtesy of body heat. You gradually ease your way through the space, attempting to find some kind of “safe haven” amongst the grinding, moving bodies within the cramped atmosphere. The music settles down, which causes you to look ahead, realizing you’re in front of the stage where the DJ is posted up on the left.

“Alright, y’all! You already know what time it is.” The DJ blatantly announces through his microphone. The crowd somewhat reacts, but not to his liking you assume.

“I said… Y’all already know what time it is!” Everyone goes wild, screaming, chanting and whistling.

“Tonight, I wanna welcome y’all my boy. From the East side, he’s an up and coming rapper- Y’all check this,” He pauses for a moment, “He is a Korean rapper! Y’all feel me? What y’all know about a Korean rapper, aight?” He shakes his head throwing his hands up.

“Imma let y’all have this one, but I’m tellin’ y’all! You don’t know nothing bout this!” You smile uncontrollably, aware of who he’s talking about. Also somewhat anxious to see what the hype is about, your nerves making your stomach churn just a little too much while you’re out in public.

“Give it up for my boy, RM!” The DJ, swivels the record on his turntable back and forth. And there Namjoon was, appearing from the side of the stage, with his du-rag and bucket hat, loose tee, baggy jeans, and those familiar Air Force Ones you’d grown to recognize. You also peep the Cuban chain that adorns his neck.

And then the beat kicks in. Which was also familiar, you note that it’s the beat for “I Need Love.” Everyone starts bobbing their heads, including him. Including you.

He throws his hand up, shoving gestures to go along with the rhythm of the music, while using his other hand to firmly hold onto his mic.

“I’d like to introduce myself, The name is RM, Let’s rewind and take you back to when it first started, Very first time that I walked in the shop, I was startled and I swear I had felt my heart drop, You made me wanna get down on my knees, Begging, please, Coulda told you I was sprung the moment I seen ya,”

He makes eye contact with you and points directly in your direction. He’s talking about you, right? He’s got to be. There’s no way he isn’t. You continue bobbing your head to the beat, and you can’t fight the smile in return.

“Dang baby, how’d you fit in those jeans? Hips got a brother feeling like he’s in a dream, Couldn’t even keep my head straight, Yeah I’m Asian but damn, Somethin’ must have went left and messed up my fam, Sittin’, thinkin’, contemplatin’, and wonderin’, How could I get this fine lil shawty to blushin’? Hopin’ that you’ll say yes and lemme steal you from the scene, Treat you like a queen and show you what a real man can be,”

He stares at you for a moment too long, yet you’ve already grown too hot for the jean jacket you’re wearing over your tube top.

“I need love,” he adds before dropping the mic; everyone suddenly is hype, continuously cheering him on and giving him props for his performance.

“I told y’all! Give it up for my boy, RM!” The DJ adds, patting him on the back while smiling from ear to ear. But, his eyes are focused on you, and only you — who just can’t seem to shake off the bright smile plastered on your face, you attentively graze your bottom lip with your teeth to attempt stopping yourself from smiling so much. But, you fail. And he takes note of that, returning a smile to you. You could tell he’s blushing, his dimples appearing before he dips his head low.

So shy, yet so damn fine. How is that even possible?

—

That same week, he surprised you at work, stumbling in to rap a few verses about how beautiful you are to him, and he pulled a bouquet of roses he hid from behind his back. You remembered that day so clearly. You remembered kissing him, hugging him, holding his hand, smelling the flowers. You also remembered Mr. Park interrupting your little PDA session to scold you about: “No kissing and no sex on the clock!”

But, Namjoon loved you more than you could think. And he didn’t care who in the world thought it was wrong for you two to fall in love. Because the night you two had arrived at his apartment, lips intertwined with one another, and hands roaming each others bodies, was when everything became so clear.

You both stumble inside, too wrapped up in locking lips with one another. Namjoon guides you toward his bedroom; and being the klutz he is, he stubs his shoe on the baseboard leading to his bedroom. You both break the kiss, and you can’t help but chuckle at his clumsy ways.

“Why you laughing at me, huh?” He lifts you up and you can’t help the half gasp/half giggle that escapes your lips, immediately wrapping your legs around his waist as he carries you to his bed. He gently lies you down on your back and hovers above you. You unexpectedly snatch his bucket hat off, tossing it somewhere on the floor — his faded, white-blonde and dark brown strands on display.

“Did you have to do my Kangol like that?” He whines with furrowed brows. You tap his bottom lip, dragging your finger across the plump flesh.

“Shut up and kiss me.” His gold Cuban link chain hangs from his neck, prompting your fingers to tug it down, and you do so, his lips smashing with yours yet again. Your fingers lace themselves within his hair, admiring the feel of his oiled scalp. His lips massage yours in a way that’s beyond comforting, and you make sure to inform him how nostalgic kissing feels. Drawn-out moans spew from you, and you can’t help but wonder how in the hell could you be in this time and moment with him. Piece by piece all of your garments end up lost on the ground, along with his clothing. He had you caged in to his bed and kept himself hovered over you, planting kisses along your neck trailing down to your collarbone.

“Mmm, Joon.” You follow his lead, kissing his blush-colored lips, snaking through his silky strands. His hands travel behind your back to remove your lace bra, revealing your breasts that illuminate from the moonlight peeking through the blinds of his window, your chocolate nipples hardened and desperate for attention. His eyes are blown wide, cherishing every dip and curve of your body.

“Wow,” He admits, his erection growing behind his undergarment. He holds a few moments to etch this view of you within his memory, appreciating every trait of your being in this form. His hands find placement on your hips, pulling you to his body completely — the soft, plushness of your breasts pushed against his chest. He rubs the outline of your face, slowly dragging his index finger along your jawline.

“You are the most beautiful woman in the world. You know that?” You let out a small giggle, feeling vulnerable in this state. He kisses you, being sure to suck your bottom lip, pulling and tugging softly with his teeth. His hands roam down your back and land on your ass cheeks, gripping with force. Your breath hitches, and you find yourself wrapping your arms around his neck, in hopes to ease him in just a little more. Even though physically it isn’t possible. He teases your bottom lip with a swipe of his tongue, asking for entrance.

And you let him in, sucking and licking him back in response, both of yours saliva mixing with each others, and not a care in the world — too consumed in each other. He gropes your ass, causing a moan to slip from you. His large palms kneading the cushion-y flesh, and damn is he grateful for this moment in time with you. He pulls from your lips with an audible smack, and you relish in the sight of his thick lips all swollen and damp.

“I love you, ____” He admits with those delightful irises.

“I love you too, Namjoon.” He guides you to lie down on your back, hovering above you as he places kisses along your jawline, leading down your neck, taking his time to cherish every part of you. His hands roam along your sides, caressing the curves of your body. He kisses the area between your breasts and stops suddenly, eyeing you for approval. As if understanding, you nod. His tongue peeks out and circles your right nipple, he wraps his lips around the bud and sucks with tenderness, making sure to release with a pop each time while his other hand massages your left breast.

Your core aches as a result, needing to feel him so the void inside your walls can be filled. He repeats this with your other tit, sucking your nipple while massaging the other, pinching and rolling the bud between his fingers. Your core throbs with an intense pleasure, soaking your now soiled panties. He eases down further, planting kisses down your tummy and moving along the inner thighs of your mocha skin, praising the smooth, supple, flesh. His fingers tug the band of your lace panties, and he eyes you again for approval.

“Please,” You plead, and it was all he needed to hear to remove the garment and reveal yourself to him, treasuring the sight of your lips dripping from arousal. He wastes no time, as you feel his warm, wet muscle gliding along your folds, his nose nuzzling your clit in the process. Your fingers snake into his hair and hips buck upwards to move along the rhythmic motions of his tongue, while he devours you whole as if he’d become a man starved.

“Joon!” You praise, panting for air, Your gaze follows between your legs, cherishing the man that continues to eat you out. He watches your expressions, glaring deeply into your eyes as he does so. His fingers ease toward your folds, rubbing his digits along your drenched pussy, coating them with your wet. He watches you still, not wanting to leave your gaze as he enters a finger inside you. You moan his name in response. His finger delves deep within you, your walls sucking him in perfectly.

“So good for me,” He lashes his tongue out to lick your clit in a circular motion. The sight of him between your thighs makes your heart quiver. He deliberately adds a second finger, his lengthy digits curling themselves upwards and dragging along the walls of your womanhood. His nails dig along the flesh of your thighs, keeping you settled and under his grip, his lips suck on your clit til no end. His obscene noises send a shockwave of pleasure through you, and your toes curl at the sensation. He pulls his fingers from out of you and tastes your arousal that clings to him.

“Tastes so good,” He moans, and you can’t help your thighs from rubbing together to ease the tension that has built. Then, he blushes at the view of you, all horny and ready for him. Only him. How can he be so cute and so fine at the same time? You ask yourself this everyday. Your legs move on their own accord, struggling to draw him back in. He chuckles at your actions.

“You want more, baby?” He questions in that deep, sexy voice of his.

You nod in reply, “Yes, Joon. Please, daddy?” His famous dimples reappear, and those mesmerizing, pearly whites appear. He dives back down, trailing kisses along your tummy, leading to your mound. He worships your body as he had wanted to do since the day he met you, gripping and rubbing along your skin. He moans against you, admiring the feel of you under his fingertips. His lips encase around your clit again, and your body jerks from the sudden feeling. His tongue slides along your folds, sucking and slurping, making the most lewd noises.

His fingernails drag along your thighs, adding an odd tingle within you. You follow his motions and graze your nails on top of his hand, when an unexpected bliss washes over you — causing you to writhe underneath him. He continues sucking your clitoris until you can’t take anymore, your legs gliding up an down along his back, back arching off the mattress, eyebrows furrowing and you simply drowning in euphoria with trembling thighs as your nails drag along his scalp and your cries echo within his eardrums.

“Joon, daddy!” Your nails dig further into his hand, and fingers tug harshly onto his strands. Your core now sensitive to the touch, something you’d never experienced before. He moves his head back and forth, delving deeper and not wanting to let go. You scratch his back, now in hopes he’d give up. You’re nearly convinced he’s going to kill you with that tongue of his, and then out of nowhere, he pushes two fingers inside you. Your toes curl for what feels like the millionth time, and you whimper his name repeatedly.

He thrusts his digits into you, a loud squelching noise filling up the space. And you feel those plush lips wrap around your clit again. He ruts against the bed, wanting to feed the tension within his groin. Your feet now having fought the sheets you lay upon, twisting and turning due to the over-sensitivity. But in some strange sentiment, there’s another wave. And here you are having your second orgasm of the night.

“Fuck, Ungh- I’m cumming again!” Your body shakes violently, not having control over the orgasm that’s overtaken you. An uncontrollable scream slips out and you shove Namjoon away from you with a strained push, his chin now glistening with you. He wipes the residue from his face with the back of his hand, grinning at you fucked out and waiting on his bed. He pulls a condom from somewhere in his drawer and wraps himself up.

He was so thick, thicker than you thought. You lay flat on your tummy and Namjoon sets himself on top of you, caging you in again. He notes the glow upon your ebony skin as he coats his protected member with your drenched self, adding a line of his own saliva and finally diving into you with every inch he has, at a slow, steady pace. But the places he reaches leave you wondering what you’d done to deserve this kind of dick.

Magnificent.

“Beautiful, black queen,” he slips in between breaths, rocking his hips against yours. The position granting him a much deeper access. You gasp at his remark, clenching your walls tighter around him, he hisses in response. His warm breath fans the right side of your face, and he presses a kiss along your earlobe while adding,

“All mine. You’re my black queen, understand? Can’t nobody take that away from me.”

“Yes Namjoon,” You reply. “I’m all yours.”

His cock twitches at the sound of his name slipping from your lips within this state — having you underneath him like this, needy, desperate, and only craving him. He inches to meet your lips with his. His kisses are filled with want and desire, full of love. That sweet, sweet love.

“Give it to me daddy,” You say under your breath but audible enough for him to hear, and he takes heed to continue thrusting himself into you, his delicate, golden skin glimmering with perspiration. The sound of your bodies clapping against each other resonate throughout his apartment, as soft whimpers and moans fall from you, and he utilizes every millisecond of this moment to drown himself in your presence.

“So tight, so wet. So beautiful.” His hips buck in a gentle, yet stern manner, causing your body to jerk upward and eyes to shut close in response — his balls slapping your ass with each thrust of his hips, he continuously hits that sweet spot over and over again, your eyes rolling back due to the nostalgia. He eases his fingers in between your legs to rub circles into your clit simultaneously, and it doesn’t take long for your walls to contract for the third time that night.

“Fuck baby,” He coos with followed moans and groans, spilling himself while still buried in you. You shudder underneath him with nails dragging along the sheets, and muffled moans from burying your face, as you call out his name like it was the only function your brain could process.

He eases himself out of you, and you can’t help the low gasp that emits from you — having been so full of him and sensitive at the same time. A few moments later, and the slight shift of the bed indicates he vanished to discard the condom. You simply lay there, slowly processing that he’d given you the best sex you’ve ever had, being that his main focus was pleasuring you.

But it was in those final moments when Namjoon cuddled you afterwards, bodies attached together by sweat, gasping for air and basking himself in the warm, vanilla, sugar aroma of your essence — that he knew he was in love with you. And there was nothing anyone could ever say to change his feelings.

You break the silence having thought of Namjoon’s words you recall from his performance.

“Think you’ve found it?” He watches your form with raised eyebrows.

“Found what?” You trace circles along his chest, gazing upon his abdomen.

“Love,” You state, and a silence falls that makes your body warm up in a flash.

He shakes his head in a “no” gesture, “I don’t think I have.” The sudden pause of his sentence makes your heart drop.

“I know I have.” He kisses your forehead and draws you closer to him, holding onto you for dear life — like he’s afraid he’d lose you. You beam at his gesture, curling up into his figure. His heart thumps from the immense affection between the two of you. Your now closed eyes like an irreplaceable gift to him.

“My around the way girl,” He whispers to himself, while petting your hair and drifting off into slumber.

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