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absolutely-esme · 1 year ago

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Monster!Tim Coraline AU Idea

This idea would not leave me alone.

It’s a cross between a meta!/magic!Tim au and a Coraline au.

Before I get into it, I feel like I should explain. I was on a bit of an Eldritch!Batfamily and Cryptid!Batfamily kick. Then I found a collection of supernatural Tim aus. Then I stumbled across a Coraline au. There’s probably also some inspiration in there from vampire au fics.

It didn’t really jell until the idea occurred to me of a scene where some frightened villain asks Tim “What kind of monster are you?” and Tim says “The hungry kind.”

...

The idea is that somewhere back along the way, Tim’s family tree includes some kind of supernatural creature which may or may not have been an eldritch entity.

The supernatural heritage allows Tim to acquire abilities from other entities he has defeated, and Gotham is absolutely full of the supernatural if you pay attention.

Of course, Tim’s power isn’t all sunshine and rainbows. It actually comes packaged with some pretty nasty side effects.

One of those side effects is perpetual Hunger. Tim is always Hungry. There is no way to stop it. He eats enough to stay healthy, but he still feels Hunger at all times. Increasing his food intake will not help and will screw up his metabolism and cause him to need more for normal function. If this was allowed to spiral out of control it could eventually reach a point where he was physically unable to eat the amount of food he needed to function and starved to death on a full stomach.

Fixing it is stupid hard because this particular sort of magical inheritance is really fucking inconvenient. And, of course, whatever is up with his biology also makes him insanely susceptible to addiction, so no coffee for him unless he wants caffeine withdrawal symptoms all the time for however long it takes to fix that. The constant Hunger also makes it difficult to get enough sleep. Have you ever tried to go to sleep on an empty stomach? Not easy, was it? Imagine that every night.

The Hunger is fairly central to the nature of the magic. Whatever supernatural entity he’s descended from, it is the Hungry kind. The ritual of defeating another supernatural entity, taking a bit of the defeated entity’s power, and incorporating it into himself serves as a sort of metaphorical devouring, (and metaphors matter more to magic than they do to normal biology). That’s why he’s able to gain power and abilities from defeated foes.

...

Tim’s relationship with his parents is complicated. His supernatural heritage comes from his mother’s side of the family. She did her best to teach him about it and how to cope with it, but a lot of knowledge was lost over the generations due to persecution forcing those like them into hiding more than once. There may have been a few individuals who spiraled out of control and caused small-scale famines before losing their lives. It only takes a few cases for people to decide that a specific category of people is simply not worth the risk of having around. Janet always referred to herself and Tim (as well as anyone else sharing the condition) as “those afflicted with Gluttony.” This is the closest they have to a name for the condition.

One of the important things Janet Drake teaches her son is to pursue his passions. It is incredibly important for individuals like them to have things outside the self that they can draw satisfaction and fulfilment from, things that keep them going in the face of the relentless Hunger. This is what leads Tim to his night-time photography of Gotham, and eventually to his fascination with the Bats.

Janet’s passions are archeology and travel. Unfortunately, traveling from dig site to dig site is not a particularly stable or safe environment to raise a child in. She needs to do these things to remain in good health. Without her external coping mechanisms, she could start spiraling. If she starts spiraling, it might trigger her son to start spiraling too because children in their developmental years are delicate, and this type of hereditary magic is fucking inconvenient (there might be ways of managing things that make it easier to live with, but between the knowledge lost and the risks that come with experimentation, they don’t have much info on how anything works). She comes home as much as she can without the risk of compromising both their health.

She also taught Tim how to calculate appropriate portion sizes based on nutritional data so as not to screw up his metabolism, and how to fix it if he does mess up. She also stayed and managed the process the first time it happened because the process of returning the metabolism of one afflicted with Gluttony to normal after it’s gotten out of hand is difficult and unpleasant and Tim wasn’t old enough to handle it by himself. The nanny that had overfed him hadn’t been malicious or unreasonable, she’d just been operating on the assumption that he had standard human biology. It took months to get Tim healthy again. It took several hefty bribes to keep things under wraps. Janet doesn’t know if there are still people out there hunting their kind, but she’s not willing to risk it.

Janet may not know about the aspect of the family magic that lets them gain powers from defeating other entities. It’s possible that she was holding off on explaining this until he was older and more ready for the responsibility of multiple superpowers. It’s also possible that the knowledge got lost somewhere along the way and Janet didn’t discover it herself because she didn’t spend her childhood running around Gotham at night and was more the sort of person who would stay home and read when she had trouble sleeping.

...

Tim discovers his ability to gain abilities from defeating other supernatural things fairly early on. The type of defeat can vary, but it has to be something of significance. A fight will work for most, but there are other particular challenges that will work for specific cases.

The first things a young Tim is able to beat are these small things, invisible to most, that gain power from learning secrets. What that power is used for, I couldn’t tell you. They don’t seem to do much other than sneak around and learn secrets. Tim doesn’t know if there’s a proper name for these things or not, but he calls them Secret Hunters. They are absolutely everywhere in Gotham.

Secret Hunters are invisible to most, but Tim is able to see them. It might be because of his own supernatural nature, or it might be something else entirely. If it’s hereditary it must have skipped his parents’ generation. Neither of them seem to be able to see them. Tim gains improved stealth and a sense for when something is hidden from catching Secret Hunters until they wise up and start avoiding him. (Catching them works in place of a fight because secret hunters primarily operate on stealth and evasion.)

He can’t just magically know secrets, but he can tell when there is a secret. (He still figured out Batman’s and Robin’s secret identities on his own merit. The most this ability would have done is alert him to the fact that they had secret identities if that hadn’t already been obvious from the fact that they were wearing masks.)

He also gets various other abilities from other things he encounters while scrambling all over Gotham at night. Nearly doesn’t get out of some of the scrapes he gets himself into. He gains the ability to cut with his fingernails as if they were razors from something that nearly killed him. He gains the ability to climb like a goat from a Jersey Devil. Etc.

...

At some point, Tim is targeted by a beldam. He doesn’t get the kind of warnings that Coraline does, but his ability to sense secrets lets him know that the Beldam is hiding something, and any child raised in any part of Gotham knows to be suspicious of things that seem too good to be true. Tim doesn’t have a convenient seeing stone from the neighbor, but he does have the advantage of his own supernatural nature which the Beldam doesn’t know about.

Tim finds a button-eyed doll that looks like him after his parents leave on yet another trip, and thinks it’s a gift they meant to give him before leaving. They do often bring interesting souvenirs. It wouldn’t be at all unusual for them to find an artist who sews dolls to look like people and have one made based on pictures of him. Later on, he discovers the key.

This Beldam is older and more powerful than the one from Coraline. She has more power and more past victims to work with, so she’s able to make a larger, more populated world.

Oh by the way, I head-canon that the Other versions of people in the Other world are actually past victims of the Other Mother, remade and dressed up for whatever role she has them play. The three ghosts were just the three most recent and not fully processed for use yet. That’s why the Others are able to act against her sometimes (Other Wybie saving Coraline from the mirror, Other Father tossing the eye to Coraline) or say things she doesn’t want them too (Other Father says “so sharp you won’t feel a thing” and Other Mother kicks him under the table).

The Other Mother doesn’t know all that Tim knows, so the Other World has inconsistencies like Other Batman and Other Robin sitting across the table from Other Bruce and Other Jason. She doesn’t know they’re the same people. She just knows that they’re all important to Tim. She also tries to tell him to “eat as much as he wants” when his real mother was the one to explain the dangers of attempting to eat to fullness for people with their condition.

There isn’t a cat to warn Tim but he doesn’t need it. He can sense hidden intentions in everything, and he’s fully capable of uncovering the hidden secrets himself.

Tim doesn’t have a cat, but he does have Other Robin, who might have been made from whatever remained of someone close to one of the people mirrored in the Other World made for Tim. He doesn’t remember his life, but somehow he feels incredibly motivated to help a boy who cares dearly for whoever and is willing to let him know that they're living a good life out there in the real world.

Tim discovers the nature of the other world and sets out to free the souls trapped there. He fights the Beldam will all the viciousness and desperation of someone who knows they’ve only got one shot. He takes everything he can from this fight as he makes sure she won’t ever hurt anyone again. He doesn’t stop until the beldam is well and truly dead. Then he unravels Other Gotham and spills all of the souls out into the world where they can move on and rest.

This is how Tim learns to Sew. He can’t make entire populated worlds like the beldam, but that’s mostly because he refuses to do what she did. He can control things he’s made (though there’s limits on how much) and even see through buttons he’s sewn (onto cushions and such, he's not the Other Mother). He also gets some minor illusory powers that let him make things look a bit brighter/nicer/cheerier than they are. It takes quite some time before he’s comfortable with using these powers. Trauma is a bitch like that.

Part of the reason this version of Tim was so desperate to do something about Batman losing it out of grief is because he already has Evil Batman trauma from Other Batman, and he doesn’t need that shit happening in real Gotham.

By this point Tim has a collection of powers that allow him to navigate the more dangerous parts of Gotham largely without fear. Now he has to learn how to manage without using any that he isn’t one hundred percent certain he can sneak past Batman, which means he’ll have to divide his attention between learning from the training and not letting himself do things the supernatural way. This is going to suck.

It does, in fact, suck.

Oh, it turns out some of the rogues are a bit supernatural. He gains a bit of an intuitive understanding of the health of plants from Ivy. He gains the ability to taste emotions from Scarecrow. (Also, Johnathan Crane is a freaking weirdo, fear tastes like spoiled milk!) The rogues with supernatural tendencies are freaking terrified of the new Robin because he always seems like he wants to freaking eat them. The non-supernatural types don’t get it.

Eventually, Red hood breaks into Titan’s tower. Tim, by this point, is very good at deciphering how supernatural entities work and is packing an extensive inventory of powers. He realizes quickly that this is some kind of manipulative entity that feeds on rage and pain attached to an unwitting host. When he realizes that the unknowing (and therefore unconsenting) host is Jason Todd, he tells the Lazarus Entity in no uncertain terms to give Jason back or perish.

Jason, who does not realize he has a malicious, mind-warping, supernatural parasite and believes there to be no one other than himself and Tim present, is understandably confused.

Tim decides that the Lazarus entity has had its chance and springs into action.

Jason is treated to the terrifying sight of just what Tim Drake is like when he’s not expending conscious effort on not being something out of a horror movie. Suddenly he’s in the middle of a spider’s web and no matter how hard he tries to fight back everything around him is under the control of his opponent. Furniture flies around on puppet strings. Getting too close puts him in range of the freaking claws this kid apparently has!? Trying to get away just leaves him caught in strings and the more he struggles the more entangled he becomes! The new Robin is skittering and gliding around in a decidedly inhuman way.

Jason honestly thinks he's going to die when he finds himself bound with Tim standing over him. He passes out when Tim rips the Lazarus entity away from him and destroys it.

Tim gains the ability to heal from defeating the Lazarus entity.

Jason is surprised and confused when he wakes up bundled in a handmade quilt with his head in Tim’s lap and a cool compress on his forehead, feeling sore but more well and whole than he has since before he died.

Jason later decides that his memories of the fight at Titans Tower must be some kind of weird fever dream caused by his body purging the last of the Lazarus Water from his system. It goes along with Tim's account of things.

According to Tim, Jason entered the tower, initiated a lock-down, and then collapsed on the floor. Then, Tim moved him closer to a wall where he was less likely to get stepped on than in the middle of the walkway and did his best to take care of him there because Jason was simply too large and heavy for him to carry all the way to the med bay by himself.

This is far more believable and less of a mind screw than what Jason remembers. Obviously this tiny, baby-faced kiddo who played nursemaid for a stranger who broke into the tower and now looks up at him with wide, starry eyes couldn't actually be the terrifying, predatory creature from the nightmare. It was all just a bad dream.

He's honestly glad he collapsed before he had time to do any harm. The poor kid will never have to know what Jason went there to do. Jason knows, though, and he'll do his damned best to make up for it. He may have flubbed first impressions, but he is going to be the best damn big brother that ever big brothered.

...

Tim might or might not go full on feral cryptid when Bruce is lost in the Timestream. I haven't decided. He will probably pick a fight with the Lazarus Pit much to the confusion and alarm of everyone around.

That’s all I’ve got so far.

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jetii · 13 days ago

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Event Horizon

Chapter Fourteen: Remedy

Chapter WC: 7,969

Chapter Tags/Warnings: fairly graphic descriptions of wound care and blood

A/N: does anyone else blush so much more when they're writing fluff vs smut? bc my face is on fire

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Hyperspace, 21 BBY

Your back hits the mat with enough force to knock the wind from your lungs. You lay there for a moment, dazed and disoriented, before the world slowly comes back. Your vision blurs and you blink, trying to bring the ceiling above you into focus.

Anakin’s face swims into view, his hair loose and hanging around his face, strands stuck to his forehead and neck with sweat. He flashes you a grin that stretches the scar over his cheek and brow, and you roll your eyes.

“That’s three, Master,” he says between heavy breaths, smug satisfaction written across his features. You should get used to him beating you by now, but you still feel a surge of irritation and frustration, and it doesn't help that he's enjoying it.

"That's a low blow," you grumble. "Even for you."

"No, a low blow would be doing this," Anakin replies, and he brings his foot down on the outside of your knee. You cry out and kick him in the back of the leg, sending him to the ground next to you. He groans and rolls over onto his back.

"You fight dirty."

"You're one to talk," you scoff. "You kicked me when I was down."

"You said not to hold back," he replies with a smirk. Anakin wipes the sweat from his forehead and sighs. "Come on. One more."

"I'm done," you groan. "I'm sore. And I'm tired."

"One more round," he insists.

You hesitate, your eyes tracing the panels of the ceiling. You know you should stop. Your shoulder is starting to throb again, and the ache in your bones is getting harder to ignore. But the alternative is going back to your quarters to sit alone in the dark with your thoughts, and you know that’s something neither you nor Anakin are keen to do.

After the disaster that was Saleucami, Anakin was the one who insisted that the two of you train together. He claimed that you needed the practice, but you're not convinced. In fact, you're almost certain he just wanted to get a better read on your emotional state, but you decided it would be easier just to humor him.

Besides, there was little else to do but wait until the two of you could return to Coruscant and get clearance from the Council for your next assignment. The last thing you wanted was to sit and wallow in your own self-pity.

A few rounds of sparring in the mornings quickly turned into several in the evenings as the two of you fell into your favorite pastime: beating each other up and not talking about the things that really mattered.

It's a good distraction from the turmoil in your heart, the physical activity keeping your mind occupied and your emotions in check. You can't focus on the memories when Anakin is busy kicking your ass, and you're pretty sure the same is true for him. So you let him drag you out of bed and into the training room every morning and night. And tonight you let him convince you to stay until well past lights out. Again.

Anakin doesn't say anything. He just sits up and waits, unmoving. He stares at you expectantly, his brows raised, until finally you let out a resigned sigh and roll onto your side.

"Fine," you concede. "One more. But then I'm going to bed."

"Okay. Whatever you say."

"Don't get too excited," you huff. “I don’t plan on making this easy for you."

"You never do," he laughs.

You sit up and cross your legs, reaching forward and pressing your palms together. You close your eyes and take a deep breath, centering yourself. The Force moves through you, and your thoughts calm. You can feel the energy flowing around the room and into you like a cool stream, and the pain in your shoulder and chest fades to a dull, manageable ache. It’s only a temporary fix, and you’ll pay for it later, but for now, it’s enough.

"Ready," you say, opening your eyes. Anakin is kneeling across from you, mirroring your pose, and he's staring at you intently. You can see the gears turning in his mind, and you brace yourself. Whatever he's planning, you're certain it's not going to be pleasant.

"Me too," he says with a grin. He shifts his weight and tenses, preparing to strike.

"Good," you reply.

And then the two of you are moving.

Anakin leaps to his feet and charges towards you. His foot flies towards your head and you duck under it, spinning and lashing out with a kick. He grabs your ankle and tries to pull you off balance, but you twist your leg free and lunge forward. He dodges your fist and swings at your head.

You lean back, and his punch goes wide, giving you enough room to plant a hand on his chest. He's moving too fast, and his momentum carries him forward. You shove him backward, and he trips over his own feet, falling hard onto his back.

You drop onto his stomach and wrap your legs around his torso, pinning him down. Your knee presses into his chest, and he wheezes, his face contorting with pain. Anakin tries to grab your leg and pull you off him, but you press down harder.

“That’s three, Knight,” you mock.

You can feel his anger simmering below the surface, and it fuels your own. He hates losing, and the more you antagonize him, the angrier he gets. It’s not right, and it’s certainly not Jedi-like, but you can't help yourself. You revel in the feeling of it. You want to draw it out, let him stew in it, because it makes you feel better.

Anakin doesn’t reply. He’s too busy trying to get his breath back, his face red and his eyes watering. You're about to get up when he rolls to the side, catching you off guard and throwing you off. You land hard, the impact knocking the air from your lungs.

A bolt of pain shoots through your shoulder, and you yelp, cursing under your breath. Your arm feels like it's on fire. You reach up and cradle the wounded limb, your jaw clenched in pain. You take a deep breath, trying to block it out, but the agony is overwhelming.

“That’s four—oh, shit,” Anakin groans. His face is still red from the lack of oxygen, but there's no mistaking the guilt and concern that colors his features. "Sorry. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," you bite out.

"Let me see," he insists. He reaches for your shoulder, but you shake your head, scooting away from him. “Goldie, come on.”

"No."

To your horror, you can feel blood dripping down your arm. You pull back the sleeve of your tunic and grimace. Your bandages are soaked. The stitches must have come undone when you landed. You're not surprised. It's a minor injury, but it's deep, and it's taking a lot longer to heal than it should.

Anakin sees the blood, and his face pales. He looks away and swallows.

"Kriff," he breathes. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," you reassure him, leaning your head back against the mat and closing your eyes. Your skin feels hot. You're sweating, and your heart is pounding. "I think we’re done for the night. I need to rebandage this."

“You need to go see Kix,” he corrects, and your eyes fly open.

"I'm fine," you snap. "Really. It's not a big deal."

"Goldie," he sighs. He's using that tone, the one he uses when he's trying to be patient and reasonable, and it irritates you. "This is serious. You need to get this checked out."

"Anakin, it's fine," you insist.

"No," he argues, and you glare at him. His brows are knitted together, and his jaw is clenched. "It's not."

"I can handle it," you grumble. You don't want to deal with the medics again, and you definitely don't want to hear Kix lecture you about taking proper care of your injuries. Or worse, have him tell Rex what's going on. The thought makes your stomach churn.

"It's not about handling it." Anakin shakes his head and sighs. He rubs his eyes and runs a hand through his hair, leaving it a tangled mess. "It's about making sure you're okay."

"I said I'm fine," you snap.

He puts his hands on his hips and glowers down at you. “Too bad.”

With a jolt, your body lifts off the mat. You hover for a moment, weightless, before your feet touch the ground, and Anakin’s hand clasps firmly on your uninjured arm. His fingers wrap around your bicep, and he takes advantage of your surprise to begin pulling you towards the door. You try to pull away from him, but his grip is too strong.

“Obi-Wan will kill me if he finds out about this," he complains. You try to twist out of his grasp, but he tightens his hold, and you stumble. "Stop fighting me, Goldie. Just let me help."

"I can walk by myself," you growl.

"I'm not so sure," he retorts. He doesn't bother looking back at you. "I think you might fall over."

"Anakin," you protest, trying to pull away again. "I'm fine."

He doesn't let go, merely shaking his head and continuing to drag you through the hallways. It's late, and the ship is half-dark, lit only by emergency lights and the glow of the panels and switches lining the walls. It's a small mercy that the two of you haven't run into anyone else save for the few troopers on night patrol. They wisely choose not to intervene.

Anakin drags you into a lift and slams his hand against the control panel. The doors slide shut behind the two of you, and the room begins to move. He stares straight ahead, his shoulders rigid and his lips set in a thin line.

“This is stupid," you grumble.

"You're the one being stupid.”

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me," he snorts. "You're being an idiot."

"I am not," you argue. Your shoulder hurts like hell, and you're in no mood for a lecture. You know it's probably not the best idea to engage him, but you're angry, and the pain is making you lightheaded. "Let go."

"Nope," Anakin replies.

"Anakin," you warn.

"Look, I know you're mad at me," he sighs, and you narrow your eyes. "And I get it. You have every right to be, but—"

"I'm not mad at you," you cut in, your voice low. He turns his head and gives you a look. "Okay. Maybe a little. But mostly I'm pissed off at myself."

"For what?" he asks. His tone is soft and sincere. He's not being sarcastic or condescending. He's actually curious. "What did you do wrong?"

"I should've been faster," you explain. “I let Grievous get away, and this kriffing—“

“This again? Seriously?" He rolls his eyes and scoffs. "From what I heard, you almost took his head off. And he escaped by the skin of his teeth. You did great. Stop beating yourself up about it."

"No," you argue. "I should've been better."

"How could you have done better?" he prods. His brows are furrowed, and he's staring at you, his gaze scrutinizing.

"I..."

You trail off. You can't seem to formulate a coherent answer. You don't know what to say. You don't even know how to begin to explain the tangled mess of emotions roiling in your chest, and you certainly can’t tell him about what Grievous said to you, the memories that you thought were yours alone thrown in your face.

You don’t want to think about any of it, much less talk about it. Not now, not when the pain is threatening to overwhelm you. So instead, you look away and stay silent.

Anakin waits for a minute, and when he realizes you aren’t going to respond, he lets out a deep sigh and rolls his eyes.

"See, that's what I mean," he mutters. "You're being unreasonable. This is exactly why I'm dragging your ass to the med bay."

"I hate you," you huff.

"No, you don't," he smirks.

"Yes, I do," you insist. You glare at him. "Right now, I really do."

He shrugs. "That's okay.”

The elevator stops and the doors slide open. You step into the corridor and turn left, and Anakin sticks close to your side. His hand is still wrapped around your arm, but his grip has loosened. You're not sure if he's worried you'll run, or if he's concerned that you'll collapse, but either way, he stays close, hovering protectively at your side.

“Well, if it helps, I think you did a damn good job," he says after a few moments of silence. "Obi-Wan did too. He said the same thing."

"Really?" you can’t help but ask. He’d been less than thrilled when you spoke, and you find it hard to imagine he had a kind word to say about you after.

“Are you surprised? He's impressed by pretty much everything you do," he chuckles. You glance over your shoulder and catch the corner of his mouth twitch upward. "Honestly, I'm a little jealous. I thought I was his favorite."

"Oh please," you scoff.

"You know I am," he insists. "He says so all the time."

"You're delusional."

"Or maybe you just don't know him as well as you think you do," he suggests.

You open your mouth, ready to tell Anakin exactly how well you know Obi-Wan Kenobi, but the words die on your tongue, and your face heats up.

Anakin’s brows rise, and he grins. "Interesting. I'll have to ask him about that later."

"Don't," you grumble. You look away, your face burning, and try not to think about what Anakin would say if he knew the full extent of your relationship with his former master. You're not ashamed, exactly, but things are still tense between you and Obi-Wan, and you don’t need any more drama. You've had enough.

"Fine, I’ll let it go," he laughs. He squeezes your arm reassuringly. "For now.”

You're not sure if you should believe him, but you appreciate the sentiment all the same. You round the corner, and the doors to the medical wing come into view. You let out a sigh and shake your head. "This is going to be a disaster."

"It's not so bad," Anakin counters. "Kix likes you. He'll go easy on you."

"I'm not worried about Kix," you murmur.

He looks at you curiously, his brows furrowing. "Then who—"

His voice cuts off as the door opens, and the two of you step into the dimly lit medbay. You scan the room. It's quiet. A few troopers are stretched out on the beds in the front of the ward, and most are asleep. Two are staring at the ceiling, and they both turn their heads and wave as you pass.

The lights are off in the back room where Kix's office is located, and you’re hopeful that means he's in bed. But when you reach the entrance to the small cubicle and peer inside, you spot him, hunched over his desk, his brow furrowed in concentration. He doesn't notice you standing there. His head is bowed, and his arms are crossed over his chest, the blue glow of his datapad illuminating his face and the dark circles under his eyes.

"Hey," Anakin calls.

Kix jumps and nearly topples backwards out of his chair, but he grabs the edge of the desk and catches himself just in time. His eyes are wide, and his mouth falls open, his lips moving silently for a few seconds before he manages to form words.

"General Skywalker," he greets. He glances at you and blinks. "General Anathorn? What —"

"I’m fine," you interrupt.

"She isn’t," Anakin adds, and you glare at him. Kix looks at Anakin and then back at you, his brows rising. "Her stitches came loose. She's bleeding."

"Anakin," you hiss.

"I didn't even hit her that hard," he continues, ignoring you. "But she went down pretty quick, and now she's bleeding."

"I'm okay," you grumble. You pull your arm free from his grip and cross your arms, wincing as it pulls on the wound. "It's not that bad.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Kix says with a weary sigh. He rises to his feet and gestures for you to walk over to the nearest empty bed. He rubs the back of his neck as he follows behind you, and motions for you to sit down. "Alright, General, let's see."

The urge to protest is strong, but you’re starting to feel woozy. The blood loss and lack of sleep are catching up to you, and you're not sure how much longer you can keep going. You can't bring yourself to fight him. Not tonight.

You hop onto the bed and carefully shrug off your tunic, leaving you in your breast band. Kix steps closer and frowns. He takes in the sight of your bare skin and the dark bruises covering your torso and arms, the bandages around your shoulder stained a deep red. His face pinches into a scowl. "What happened here?"

"Anakin happened," you grumble.

"She fell," Anakin corrects.

“You fell?" Kix asks incredulously. His gaze flicks to Anakin, and his lips press together, his expression disapproving. "On your shoulder?"

"Not my fault," you mutter. “We were sparring, and—“

“You were sparring?" he repeats, and his scowl deepens. His voice is quiet, but there's a hard edge to it that makes you tense. "After I specifically told you to take it easy and wait until you had a proper check-up? I knew I should have tied you down when I had the chance."

"Oh, don't be so dramatic," you scoff, rolling your eyes. "I'm fine."

"Your arm is bleeding," he snaps. He pulls a pair of scissors from his pocket and grabs the edges of the bandages. "And your stitches are loose. This is not fine." Kix turns his attention to Anakin and narrows his eyes. "How many times did you hit her?"

"Today?” Anakin asks innocently. He shrugs. "I dunno. Like ten. Fifteen?"

"Ten or fifteen times?!" Kix shouts. The words echo through the room, and several of the sleeping troopers stir. One or two of them even sit up and look around. Kix clears his throat and lowers his voice. “With all due respect, sir, what the hell were you thinking?"

"We were just training," Anakin says defensively. "It's not like we were fighting. I could’ve hit her harder if I wanted to. I was holding back.”

“Oh, sure,” you scoff. Anakin glances over at you, and you raise a brow. His lips twitch into a cocky grin, and you roll your eyes, turning away and focusing instead on Kix. "Can we please just get this over with?"

"Yeah," he grumbles, and he starts cutting away the bandages. You grit your teeth as the material sticks to the fresh scabs, and Anakin shifts beside you, his discomfort tangible. "This is going to sting, General. Just try not to move."

"Okay," you mumble.

"You...don't need me here for this," Anakin points out awkwardly. "I'll just...uh...go..." He backs away, his hands up, and heads towards the door. "Let me know when you're done."

You nod, and then he's gone, disappearing into the darkened hallway.

You take a deep breath and look down as Kix grabs the edges of the fabric and pulls. The bandages fall away, revealing the three gashes running down the outside of your shoulder. The stitches are torn, and a mottling of purple and yellow bruises have formed around the edges of the wounds. It's not as bad as it was the first night, but it's not a pleasant sight, and your stomach turns. You look away.

"This doesn't look good," Kix observes. His brow furrows as he leans closer. He prods gently at the area around the cuts, his touch light and careful, and you wince. "Did it start hurting while you were fighting?"

"It always hurts," you say through clenched teeth. You close your eyes and try to ignore the way your skin is pulling. "That's nothing new."

"Hmm," Kix hums thoughtfully. He turns his head and studies the bruises. "Do these hurt?"

"Not really," you reply.

"What about this?" he asks, his fingers pressing against a sore spot. You hiss and jerk away. "Guess that's a yes."

He leans back and frowns, his gaze sweeping over the rest of your shoulder. "It's swollen." He touches near the bottom of the injury, and you gasp. He glances up at you, his brows knitted together. "That hurt?"

"Kriff, Kix, everything hurts," you snap. You take a deep breath and swallow hard, your jaw clenched in frustration. "Sorry, I'm sorry. That wasn't fair. Yes, that hurts."

"I see," he mutters. He lets out a heavy sigh. "Well, it looks like you did a number on yourself."

"Thanks," you grumble.

"I'm serious," he sighs again, grabbing a pair of tweezers from the tray next to him and pulling on a pair of gloves. "These stitches are going to need to come out. And you've got a pretty severe strain in your rotator cuff."

"Oh, come on," you protest. "It's just a scratch."

"A scratch?" Kix exclaims. He holds up the tweezers, the metal gleaming in the dim light, and points them at your face. "You call this a scratch? Have you looked in a mirror recently? Your shoulder is a mess. The bruises are bad enough, but this?"

He gestures to the open wound and the frayed threads hanging out of your skin. "This is an absolute nightmare. You're lucky at least some of these stitches held. They shouldn't have. You're not taking proper care of it."

"I'm not doing anything," you point out.

"Exactly," he retorts. "Which is why I'm going to need you to promise me that you're not going to be running around and getting yourself into trouble."

"But—"

"Promise me. No more sparring matches. No more fights. Nothing that's going to put any more strain on this." He taps the edge of your wound for emphasis, ignoring when you wince and jerk back. "You need to let it heal."

"Kix, please," you plead. You look up and meet his gaze. "I can't do that."

"Well, I guess that's too bad, then," he replies flatly. He picks up a cloth and begins to clean the blood off your skin. "Because until this heals, you're not going to be of much use to anyone."

"Kix," you say, a warning edge in your voice. He pauses and glances up at you, his eyes narrowing slightly, and you bite back the next words on your tongue. You let out a breath and sigh. "Fine. I promise."

"Good," he says with a nod.

"Does that mean you'll fix it now?"

"Yes," he chuckles. He grabs the tweezers and presses the cool metal against your skin. "Hold still. I'm going to take these out. I'm sure they're itching something fierce."

"You have no idea," you mutter. You sit still and hold your breath as he begins to pull the threads free, wincing at the sharp pinch and tug of the stitches coming loose. It takes a while. Kix is meticulous and slow, making sure each stitch is completely removed before he moves on, and you watch him carefully.

The tension in his shoulders tells you he's irritated. He's trying to hide it, but you can tell. You can hardly blame him. You don't think he's had a moment's peace since Saleucami, maybe even longer, and you feel a flash of guilt knowing that he's been dealing with your injuries on top of everything else.

"Hey," you begin tentatively. He glances up at you for a second, but his gaze flicks back to his task almost immediately. "How are you doing?"

"What do you mean?" he asks casually. He sounds indifferent, but his face says otherwise.

"Just, with all of this," you explain, gesturing to the empty beds in the ward and the dark corridors beyond the medbay doors. "How are you holding up?"

"Oh. Well, you know, the usual," he replies with a shrug. He tosses another ruined thread onto the tray and begins working on the next one. "Dealing with karking idiots who won't take care of themselves."

"That's not what I meant," you huff.

"It's fine," he says quietly. "It's my job."

"You—"

"We're all tired," he sighs. "I'm just glad I don't have to worry about anyone dying." He gives you a pointed look and plucks another stitch free. "Not yet, anyway."

"Kix," you admonish softly, a little taken aback by his bluntness, but he doesn't respond. The two of you fall silent as he continues his work, the only sound the quiet click of metal on metal and the soft rustle of fabric.

"So," he says after a long silence. He pulls the last stitch out and begins to dab at the edges of the wound with a wet cloth, his expression serious and focused, his eyes trained on your shoulder. "Why exactly were you sparring?"

"Why not?" you ask casually.

"Because you're supposed to be resting," he reminds you. "That was the agreement. If I remember correctly, and I do, you agreed that if you could leave your bed, you'd be good and take it easy until we docked."

"Oh," you murmur guiltily. "Right."

"And?" he prompts.

"And what?" you ask. You know exactly what he wants you to say, and you're not going to make it easy for him. You're not sure why you're so reluctant to admit your failure, but the words refuse to come out, and your jaw clenches, the stubbornness in you refusing to budge, even though it's obvious that he knows the truth already.

"General," he groans impatiently, and you relent, your shoulders slumping in defeat as you sigh, giving him a sheepish smile in return.

"I liked it better when you were afraid of me," you grumble jokingly. He rolls his eyes, but there's no missing the twitch of his lips, a small smile that quickly turns into a scowl as he shakes his head.

"You're unbelievable," he mutters under his breath. He turns to pick up the bottle of disinfectant, and you're about to make another remark when the doors slide open.

Rex strides through the entryway, his eyes scanning the room with an intense focus. You know the instant he spots you, because his face relaxes, and his expression changes from one of concern to annoyance.

He's standing just inside the room, his arms folded across his chest, his gaze hard. You can't tell if he's mad, but judging by the tightness of his jaw and the narrowing of his eyes, you'd say that he is. His eyes travel over you, lingering on your shoulder, and then they move to Kix as he tilts his head to the side and raises a brow.

"What's going on here?"

"Nothing," you say quickly.

"The General tore her stitches," Kix answers at the same time. He gives a cursory look over his shoulder and a nod to Rex before turning back to his work.

"Oh?" Rex says. He walks over and stands next to the bed, his arms still crossed, his expression neutral, but the disapproval is written all over him. "That looks bad."

"I'm fine," you reassure him as Kix turns back around and moves closer to you.

"No, she's not," Kix disagrees. He doesn't look at either of you, his eyes trained on his work as he pours disinfectant onto the cut and wipes it clean, seemingly immune to the withering glare you're shooting his way. "She's lost a lot of blood, and she's in pain. She should be in bed."

"I told you, I'm—"

"Fine?" Rex finishes. His tone is dry, and you can tell by the way his jaw clenches and his brow creases that he's less than impressed. He looks back down at your shoulder, his brows drawing together, and he shakes his head. "You don't look fine."

"I will be," you promise.

"If she takes it easy and listens to me," Kix adds as he picks up a needle and thread. "Now, not that I'm not happy to see you, Captain, but what are you doing here?"

Rex falters, and his gaze flickers between you and Kix. You can't help but smirk at the flustered look on his face. He clears his throat and squares his shoulders, his expression returning to one of indifference, though his cheeks are still a bit pink.

"I need a refill on my painkillers,” he says stiffly, and you duck your head, hiding your grin at the obvious lie. Kix stills, needle and thread hovering in the air over your arm, and he shoots Rex a dubious look.

"Painkillers?" he repeats slowly, staring at Rex for a second longer before he starts stitching the wound closed. He gives him another quick glance. "I can't get you to take those more than once every couple of days, and now suddenly you're running out? How's that possible?"

"You told me to use them, and I've been using them," Rex explains, a note of irritation in his voice. He takes a deep breath and shakes his head. "And now they're gone."

"Are you sure?" he asks.

"Yes," Rex grumbles.

"Have you checked everywhere?" Kix presses. "Because if you're not taking them properly—

"Kix," Rex cuts in impatiently. "I know how to take a pill. It's not that complicated. They're gone. That's all there is to it."

"Alright, fine," Kix mutters, tying the end of the thread and snipping it off before moving on to the next stitch. "I'll get you more. Just let me finish up here, and I'll grab them for you."

Rex nods, and he falls silent as Kix works. He leans back against the bed, his arms crossed over his chest, and his eyes drift to the ceiling. You stare at him, waiting for him to look at you, but his gaze remains fixed on the lights above.

After several minutes of awkward silence, Kix finally finishes and bandages the wound, and he rises to his feet and disappears into the back office.

You cast a look around, taking stock of the sleeping patients and empty beds. When you're satisfied that no one's listening, you turn to Rex.

"So," you whisper. Rex doesn't respond, and you continue, a hint of amusement in your tone, "What's the real reason you're here?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," he says flatly, his gaze still trained upwards, his face blank. His mouth twitches into a small smile. "I'm here for painkillers."

"Painkillers," you repeat. You raise a brow and study his expression, his face unreadable. You're tempted to push him for answers, but the truth is, you're not entirely sure what to say, and a strange unease settles in the pit of your stomach. "Well, thank you for checking up on me. But I'm fine."

"Good," he mutters, and he looks away, his eyes drifting towards the door to Kix's office, where the medic is still rummaging through his supplies. A frown pulls at his lips. "What happened?"

"Anakin and I were sparring," you reply honestly. "We got a little carried away."

"I see," he hums. He tilts his head towards the wound on your shoulder. "And why were you and General Skywalker sparring at 0200 hours?"

"Because we can," you quip.

Rex doesn't laugh. Instead, he lets out a long sigh, and he gives you a disapproving look, his brow furrowed. "Is that the best you can come up with?"

"I don't know what you want me to say," you huff defensively. You cross your arms over your chest and look down at the floor. "I'm not sorry."

"I didn't ask you to be," he says calmly. "But if you're going to get hurt again, I'd prefer it if you'd try not to do it in the middle of the night."

"Fair enough," you mutter under your breath. He lets out another heavy sigh, a low, tired sound, and he closes his eyes, his head dropping forward. You shift uncomfortably and bite your lip. "How did you even know I was here?"

"One of the night guard saw you being dragged by General Skywalker, dripping blood, and figured it was important enough to report it," he grunts. His head snaps up, and he opens his eyes, staring at the wall in front of him. "What was he thinking? What were either of you thinking?"

"Not thinking was kind of the whole point," you retort with a shrug, wincing slightly as the movement pulls at the newly-stitched wound.

Rex’s head swivels around to face you at the sound, and he narrows his eyes. You can tell by the way his mouth tightens and his eyes darken that he's worried, and a surge of guilt shoots through your chest.

You sigh and drop your hands to your lap. "Sorry. I just...needed to get out of my own head."

"What?"

"It's nothing," you mumble. You wave him off and look down at your feet. "Forget it."

He makes a low, thoughtful noise, and his fingers twitch, his hand clenching and releasing a few times before he finally speaks.

"I'm familiar with the concept," he murmurs. His shoulders sag as the tension leaves him, and he leans against the bed, his back against the edge. His expression softens, and his gaze is fixed on yours. "I just don't think it's worth getting injured for."

"Yeah," you say quietly, avoiding his eyes. "Me neither."

"Listen, I know it's been rough. We've all been through a lot, but..." His voice trails off, and he runs a hand over the back of his neck. You watch as he swallows hard and looks away, his eyes searching the floor, his face tight. "Just be careful. I don't want you getting hurt. And if you need to talk..."

"Yeah," you sigh. "I know."

"I mean it," he insists, turning back to face you, his brows drawn together in concern. "You can come to me."

He pauses, his lips pressing together in a thin line, and he glances over his shoulder towards the door leading to Kix's office. When he speaks again, his voice is barely audible, so quiet that you almost miss it. "Any time."

Your heart flutters in your chest at his words, and you bite your lip, a small, hopeful smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. You can feel your cheeks warming at the look he gives you, his eyes meeting yours, a softness in them that makes your chest ache.

"Thank you."

"Any time," he echoes.

He looks up and gives you a lopsided grin, his eyes crinkling at the edges, and you can't help but grin back. Your heart is racing, and you're overcome with a sudden rush of affection for him. It doesn’t take you by surprise anymore, but it still fills you with warmth. It's a nice feeling, one that you've grown accustomed to over the past few months, and one that you find yourself craving more and more.

There's something about him, his voice, the way he looks at you, the way he cares, that makes your heart flutter. You've known him for a while now, but recently it's been stronger, more intense. You're not sure if it's because of the time the two of you have spent together lately or if it's simply the stress of war weighing on your emotions. Maybe it's because you're finally starting to see you're not alone in feeling this way, that he might care for you as much as you care for him.

Whatever it is, it's getting harder and harder to ignore. It's distracting, dangerous. And right now, in the middle of the medbay within earshot of Kix and the other patients in various states of consciousness around you, you can't afford to let yourself be distracted. Especially by Rex. Even if you wanted to. Which you don't. Definitely not. No. It's better for both of you to keep your distance.

It's safer.

It's what needs to be done.

"General," Rex says softly, bringing you back to reality, his tone cautious. He leans forward slightly and reaches out his hand as if to touch your arm, but he stops short, his fingers hovering an inch or so from your skin. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," you say quickly, blinking and giving him a reassuring smile. You lean back a little and put a few inches of space between the two of you. "Just tired. Really tired."

"Okay," he replies skeptically. His brows draw together in confusion as his gaze travels over you, his eyes lingering on the bandage on your shoulder and the bruises scattered across your chest and abdomen, before settling on your face. “I just—“

"Rex," Kix calls.

Rex's hand drops to his side and he turns his head towards the office. You follow his gaze. Kix is standing in the doorway, a small paper cup in one hand and a bottle of pills in the other. His brow furrows as he studies the two of you. "Is everything okay?"

"Everything's fine," Rex assures him.

Kix doesn't look convinced. His gaze flickers from Rex to you and then back again. His expression turns serious. "Are you sure? Because if something's going on—"

"We're fine," Rex insists, taking a step forward and holding his hand out. "You can give me the meds. I'll get out of your hair."

"Okay," Kix says slowly.

He hesitates for a moment before walking over to Rex and placing the cup and bottle into his open palm. Rex thanks him and immediately pops a pill into his mouth, swallowing it down with the cup of water.

"Remember what I said about the dosage. You're only supposed to take one. Any more than that, and you're going to be sleeping for the next two days."

"I know," Rex grumbles. He places the cup on the table beside the bed and slides the bottle into his pocket. "Thanks."

"Anytime," Kix replies. He glances at you, a small smile tugging at his lips, and he shakes his head. "Don't let me catch you in here again. I'm going to start charging."

"I make no promises," you say with a grin.

"Figures," he sighs. He walks past Rex and heads towards the back office. "Have a good night."

"Night," Rex replies. He looks at you and clears his throat. "You coming?”

"Oh. Uh, yeah," you say quickly. You scoot to the edge of the bed and swing your legs over the side. "Where are we going?"

"We're not going anywhere," he answers. He nods towards the door. "You're going to bed. I'm going to go back to sleep. And tomorrow you're going to take it easy."

"But—"

"That was the agreement," he reminds you. He gives you a pointed look. "You promised."

"Right," you agree, hopping off the bed and landing lightly on the floor. You grab your bloody tunic from the counter and slide your arms through the sleeves. Rex watches silently as you adjust the fabric, carefully avoiding your bandaged shoulder.

He opens his mouth, and you hold up a hand. "If you tell me to take it easy, I swear—"

"You're not going to listen anyway," he sighs. "Let's just go."

"After you," you tease.

Rex shakes his head and begins walking towards the door. You fall into step behind him, your hands clasped in front of you, and the two of you slip quietly out of the medbay and into the darkened corridors beyond.

The hallway is empty save for a single trooper stationed at the end near the lift. He doesn't react as you and Rex pass him. He keeps his eyes forward, his attention focused on the empty corridor, and you follow Rex around the corner and into the next hall.

The lights are dimmed, and the soft hum of the ship's engines echoes throughout the empty passageway. The quiet is peaceful, and you feel a weight lift from your shoulders.

You glance at Rex. His gaze is straight ahead, his eyes fixed on the floor. You're tempted to reach out and try to touch his hand, but the risk of running into someone, anyone, is too high. You swallow hard and clench your fists by your side instead.

"You know," you start casually, "If you wanted to check up on me, you could've just come by."

"I don't know what you mean," he says without looking up. His voice is flat and even, and you can't help but smile at his attempt at sounding innocent.

"Come on," you coax, nudging his shoulder gently with yours, careful not to jostle the wound. "You can't fool me."

"I don't know what you mean," he repeats, his voice a little louder, but still without emotion. He turns his head, his gaze flicking up and catching yours for a brief moment before darting away. His lips twitch into a smile. "I'm just here for the painkillers."

"Yeah?" you prod. He nods once. "So, you're saying I was nothing but an afterthought, then."

"Yep," Rex agrees without missing a beat. You scoff, and he glances at you, his eyes shining mischievously in the low light. You can't help but laugh. The sound echoes through the empty hall, and he shushes you playfully, his lips twitching upward.

"What?" you whisper.

"Shh," he chuckles, pressing a finger to his lips. "You'll wake the whole ship."

"Sorry," you say, stifling another giggle, and his smile widens. You nudge him again and lower your voice further. "Thank you. For checking on me."

"Of course," he murmurs, and your heart skips a beat. You try to ignore the fluttery feeling in your stomach, but it's getting harder and harder to do as he slows his pace and falls into step beside you, his body a hair's breadth from yours.

The two of you walk in silence, stealing glances at each other as you go. The hallways are quiet and empty, and there's no one to see. There's no reason to rush. So you linger, savoring the moment, enjoying the closeness, the warmth of his presence. You feel better than you have in a long time, lighter somehow.

You look at Rex. His face is turned away, but you can see the small smile playing on his lips. It's barely there, but it's real, and you can't help the warmth that spreads through your chest at the sight. This feels right, comfortable. Safe. You can't remember the last time you felt like this.

“What?” he asks softly, his gaze flicking towards you.

You blink. You're staring at him, and you're not quite sure when that happened.

"Nothing," you mutter quickly, shaking your head and looking down at your feet, unable to hold his gaze any longer. He chuckles and bumps his shoulder against yours. You look back up, and his smile is wider now, his eyes shining with amusement. You bite your lip.

This is new. The playful teasing, the laughter, the smiles. The last time you had this much fun together was months ago, and you've missed it. A lot.

You keep walking, and he keeps pace, neither of you looking at each other, both of you pretending not to notice the other's reaction. But no matter how much you drag your feet, the moment has to end eventually. It doesn’t take long for you to reach the end of the hallway and stop in front of your door.

You turn to Rex and give him a sheepish smile. "This is my stop."

"So it is," he says quietly. His eyes flick to the door and then back to you. "I guess I should let you get some rest."

"Yeah," you agree reluctantly. "Probably a good idea."

The two of you stare at each other for a moment, neither of you wanting to leave. He takes a deep breath, his face contorting as if he's in pain, and then he lets it out and shakes his head.

"Take it easy," he tells you. He raises his eyebrows and gives you a meaningful look. "And get some sleep. That's an order."

You grin and roll your eyes. "I outrank you, you know."

"I know," he says. "But that doesn't change the fact that you're exhausted. You need to sleep." He points a finger at the door behind you. "I don't want to see you again until tomorrow afternoon. Understand?"

The commanding tone of his voice sends a shiver down your spine, and you bite back a smile as you nod obediently.

"Fine, I'll be a good girl,” you concede playfully, batting your lashes, your voice dripping with mock innocence. You press a hand against your heart. "I promise."

His cheeks flush pink as he clears his throat, his gaze shifting away from you. You smirk, pleased with your success, and Rex huffs, his eyes narrowing when they land back on yours.

"Go to sleep," he orders sternly. "I'm serious."

"I know," you assure him, your expression sobering. "I'll try, at least."

He gives you a knowing look, and your pulse quickens, a tingling sensation spreading through your body. You're not sure what it is, but something about his proximity, the way his eyes bore into yours, makes you feel a bit dizzy. You lean against the wall and take a deep breath, trying to calm your racing heart.

“Only if you promise to get some sleep too,” you say finally, tilting your head slightly, a small smirk tugging at the corners of your lips. "You look like shit."

He lets out a chuckle, and his eyes crinkle at the edges. "Yes, sir."

His hand lifts in a mock salute, and you laugh, a warm rush of affection filling your chest as he smiles back. He's always so serious. It's a nice change to see him like this, playful and relaxed, so clearly at ease. You wish he could always be like this. It suits him. He's always been handsome, but now, seeing him happy, carefree, it's almost impossible to look away.

You feel a pang in your chest, and your mind wanders. You wish it could last. You wish that he could stay. But it's late, and you're tired, and it's better this way. Better that he leave now before either of you do something you might regret.

You smile softly at him. "Anything else, Captain?"

"Yes," Rex replies quietly. "If you need anything—"

"I'll let you know," you finish. "I promise."

"Okay," he says, his eyes meeting yours, a look of understanding passing between the two of you. His hand brushes against yours briefly before pulling away. "Goodnight."

"Night," you sigh.

Rex gives you one last smile before turning away and heading down the hall. You watch him disappear around the corner and into the dark before you finally turn and punch the access code into the keypad beside the door. It slides open, and you step inside, the doors sliding shut behind you.

You let out a heavy sigh, your body sagging against the wall as you close your eyes. You feel lighter than you have in weeks, more at ease, and a small, contented smile plays across your lips. You're not sure how far the two of you can take this thing between you, but you're happy knowing that whatever it is, it's still here. That's enough for now.

Maybe it won't last. Maybe it will. You can't know. But right now, you can't bring yourself to care. For once, you're content to let yourself have this.

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#the clone wars #captain rex #clone captain rex #captain rex x reader #rex x reader #obi wan x reader #roy writes #they're SOOO *grabby hands*#need to c*mmission more art of them asap

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moonstruckme · 1 year ago

Text

On Thin Ice

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

This was requested by anon, but I'm not including the request because I'm going to write at least one more part and I don't want to spoil anything. But thanks so much for requesting, anon my love! I'm really having fun with it :) Also, just a disclaimer that I know next to nothing about figure skating, so while I tried to look most things up, there may be some inaccuracies

summary: when your usual figure skating partner Regulus is injured, you're forced to prepare the most romantic routine you've ever done with Sirius Black. You've known Sirius since you were little and have always found him irritating, but as you spend more and more time together, your feelings towards him start to change

cw: mention of injury (no details), Sirius Black is a relentless flirt

Figure Skater!Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 3.3k words

You want to be kinder to your friend, but you’re a bit angry with him. You’re not great at hiding it, either.

“It’s not like I can fucking help it.” Regulus rolls his eyes, and you do your best to undo the petulant pout of your lips.

“I know,” you sigh. “I know that. I’m sorry, it’s just, seriously? Why can’t Coach give me someone else?”

“You know why.”

You blow out another huffy breath, because you do know, but that doesn’t make you like it any better. Sirius is our best bet, your coach had told you, firm and impassive to your protests. He’s great on the ice, he always scores well, and Reg can teach him the routine while they’re at home. If we used anyone else, we’d lose time while they learned it. You’d sulked, and he’d given you a stern look. So suck it up.

And you’re trying. Kind of. You wouldn’t ordinarily consider yourself an ill-tempered person, but Sirius Black brings out the worst in you. Always has. He’s Regulus’ irritating older brother, always around to pull your pigtails when you were little and make fun of everything you and Reg enjoyed as you got older. And in everything you love about your best friend, Sirius is the opposite. Where Regulus is restrained, Sirius is brash; where Regulus is content with a few close friends, Sirius needs an entire posse around him at all times; where Regulus has a quick, quiet wit, Sirius seems to feel a joke isn’t worth telling if everyone can’t hear it. He’s loud and facetious and insufferable, and now he’s your partner in the most intimate routine you’ve ever done.

“I know,” you groan again, falling back onto Regulus’ bed. “I just wish I could change it. Who do I have to bribe to get you a miracle recovery?”

Regulus scoffs, but he lies down beside you sympathetically. “The doctor said it should be better by next season, but a fractured ankle doesn’t fix itself in a couple weeks.” His voice turns bitter. “Trust me, I asked.”

You wince guiltily. You’re not the only one suffering from Regulus’ incapacity. You’d both been practicing this routine for weeks. It was one of the most challenging and showy either of you have ever done. You were both supposed to have the chance to really shine, showing off your skills with complicated jumps and throws, some of which you’d never attempted before. But now Reg wouldn’t get the chance.

Ironically, it had been a fairly simple routine that had taken him down. One of your go-tos. You’d been performing it together for years, but maybe that sense of security was dangerous too. It’s too easy to land wrong, and one tiny slip had fractured Regulus’ ankle right in the middle of competition, forcing your coach to come help you get him off the ice.

You’d cried more than he had as the on-site medics had inspected it, completely unhelpful but unable to bear seeing your best friend’s features twisted in agony. It turned out that was nothing compared to the look on his face when they’d told him he wouldn’t be able to skate on it for months.

“How does it feel?” you ask, more gently now, and Regulus’ scowl softens in response. “Does it still hurt all of the time?”

“Not really, only when I walk on it. And they said I should be able to do that without much pain soon, just no jumping or anything.”

Your heart aches with sympathy, and you have to resist the urge to reach over and touch his hand, his hair. Regulus has never much liked being touched, which you understand, but it makes him a difficult person to comfort. You resort to your method with the highest success rate: distraction.

“Well, at least the cast is a fun accessory,” you say, forcing levity into your voice. “We could draw on it, it’ll be like having tattoos.”

“Pass,” Reg replies disinterestedly. “Tattoos are more my brother’s aesthetic than mine.”

“Ugh.” You roll your eyes, unable to stopper your irritation at the return of the conversation to Sirius. “Do you think Coach will let me have a new partner if I kneecap him?”

“If you’re going to kneecap someone,” comes a cool voice from the open doorway, “it’s probably best not to ponder your scheme so loudly in their house.”

You raise your head to find Sirius leaning against the door frame, arms crossed insouciantly in front of his chest. He looks at you with the eyes he shares with his brother, but where Regulus’ tend towards cool grayness, Sirius’ always seem to waver between gray and blue, like the sky during a storm. They’re flashing now, amusement mingled with cunning, as you meet them with a glare.

“Maybe I’m just giving you a red herring,” you say smoothly, “so you’ll never see my actual plan coming.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you, shortcake,” Sirius replies, grinning when your face goes hot at the nickname, “but I think I’ll start wearing protective gear just in case. Reg, think you could revoke this one’s key until after the competition?”

Regulus pretends to contemplate this, staring up at the ceiling. “No, she’ll only start coming in through my window again.” You grin at him, and the corner of his mouth twitches in response, remembering all the cuts and bruises you used to have when you were younger from climbing the old tree outside his window, late at night when you were both supposed to be asleep. The first few times you’d tried, rotting branches had broken and fallen from beneath you, but you’d kept at it until you’d plotted a safe course. You’re sure Reg would have snuck downstairs to let you in the front door if you’d asked him, but better you get in trouble than him. “Anyway, it’ll be entertaining to watch.”

“Whatever happened to brotherly loyalty?” Sirius feigns hurt, but gets past it quickly. “Well, I suppose you’ll just have to keep in mind that if I can’t perform, there won’t be a performance. I’ve already learnt half the routine, and I think you might struggle to find someone else skilled enough to catch up in time.” He winks at you, and you scoff, pointedly unaffected. “So I’ll see you at practice on Monday, sunshine,” he gloats, and disappears down the hallway.

You wait until you hear the click of his door to lay back down, passing a hand over your face exhaustedly. “I can’t believe I’m going to have to deal with that all of the time,” you moan.

Regulus chuckles wryly. “Welcome to my world.”

☆ ☆ ☆

“Y/N,” Coach calls frustratedly. “You have to let him throw you, not jump.”

You’ve almost just followed in Regulus’ footsteps for the upteenth time today, which isn’t exactly in line with your plan of getting Sirius injured, but you figure will do in a pinch. The truth is, your focus has been off all day. Switching to a new partner is always hard; you’re used to Regulus, you’ve spent years learning how to skate together, to anticipate the other’s movements, and finding that rhythm with another person takes work. But learning how to skate with Sirius is more challenging than even you had expected.

He’s distracting, for one thing. He keeps smiling at you, making faces when you mess up, and whispering obnoxious little pointers when you’re in the middle of a complicated move. And his own movements are bigger and more elaborate than you’re used to, lacking Regulus’ control. You can see, objectively, how it works for him. It gives his performance that extra bit of artistry that Regulus has often been accused of needing, but it makes him more difficult to anticipate. He’s stronger than Reg, too, so he throws you higher, flings you farther, grips you tighter. It’s a lot to learn, but your coach doesn’t seem very sympathetic to your plight. As far as he’s concerned, you’ve wasted almost an entire day of practice and are undoing weeks of hard work learning the choreography with your repeated mistakes.

You nod at him again, moving to reset, but Sirius slides in front of you.

“Hey,” he says, “I can feel you tensing when I go to throw you. Is something wrong?”

You cross your arms in front of your chest, breath still puffing into the air between you from the exertion of your leap. “No,” you reply shortly. “I’ll fix it.”

And really, you should have been able to fix it a dozen tries ago. You’ve practiced throws with Regulus for years now. You’re supposed to push down on Sirius’ shoulders, use the momentum of your spin to give you a little boost, and let him do the rest. But you can’t seem to manage the last part. Sirius’ hands on your waist had discomposed you from the first try, and you keep finding yourself trying to jump off the ground before he has a chance to lift you. It doesn’t work, you know it’s never going to work, but it’s like some fight-or-flight instinct takes over every time Sirius’ hands get close to you. You suspect it’s because you’re so used to Regulus’ touch aversion; this routine is meant to seem romantic, but between the two of you, it had always felt chaste, more about the mechanics of the movements than the meanings behind them. Sirius loves to be touched, though, probably too much. He teases you about how cold your hand is in his, the tentative way you touch his shoulder when you’re supposed to grip it, how you jolt a little when he rests his hand on the small of your back. You’re on edge every second he’s around you, which by the very nature of the routine, is often.

And so you keep jumping, which causes Sirius’s throw to be stunted when he can’t get a good grip on you, which causes you to fumble your landing. Every. Time.

“You can trust me, you know,” Sirius persists, looking half earnest for once in his life. “I’m not going to launch you too high or anything. Just let me do the work.”

“I’ve got it,” you growl, and Sirius raises his hands in mocking surrender, moving out of your way. You glide back into position, taking a deep breath to steady yourself. You don’t need his advice, you’ve been doing just fine without it for years. You’ll get it on your own.

☆ ☆ ☆

“Why is it,” Regulus drawls, coming into your room, “that when you mess up at practice, it’s still my problem to solve?” He sits on the edge of your bed, careful not to disturb the open bottle of nail polish you’re using. “I’m not even your partner right now, but both Coach and Sirius are complaining to me that you can’t sync up with him.”

You keep your eyes on your fingertips, sweeping the brush across your nails in careful, measured strokes. “I’m working on it.”

“What’s the problem?” He sounds more puzzled than frustrated. “Sirius is annoying, but he’s not actually an asshole. He won’t sabotage you.”

“I’m not accusing him of anything,” you say. “I just…I can’t get it right. I don’t know. He’s so different to you, and I can’t figure out how to make it work.”

“Well, you’d better figure it out soon,” Regulus replies, not without sympathy. “There’s only a couple of weeks until comp, and it seems like the both of you will need all the practice you can get together.”

You know he’s right, and that’s exactly what you’re dreading.

☆ ☆ ☆

The next practice goes about the same, the only difference being your coach’s mounting exasperation. Actually, no, there is one other change: Sirius’ movements become smoother, more sure, as he grows increasingly familiar with the choreography.

So basically, he’s getting better while you’re getting worse.

Though you all know there’s no time to waste with the competition coming up, Coach ends practice early in his irritation, letting you go with strict instructions to get your shit together before you meet again tomorrow. You promise him you’ll try, though you’re both coming to know that won’t be enough.

You take your time unlacing your skates, shrugging on your jacket and stopping to buy a hot chocolate from the vendor up front before going out into the brisk autumn air. You’d started this new routine after your first practice with Sirius, stalling so that he’d have a head start and you wouldn’t have to walk home in the same direction, but you take two steps outside before you realize your plan has been foiled.

“Coach will kill you if he catches you with one of those,” you say, and the cherry of Sirius’ cigarette burns orange as he takes a drag, eyes lighting with playful defiance.

He blows the smoke away from you. “You won’t tattle on me though, will you, sunshine?”

“Reg won’t like it either.”

“He knows,” Sirius says, as though Regulus’ opinion is of little concern to him. “You took your time in there. Ready to go?”

You don’t try to keep the suspicion from your face. “You were waiting on me?”

“I figure we could use some extra practice.” He drops his cigarette, stamping it out half smoked. “If you’re not too tired, I mean.” You give him an indignant look, and Sirius grins. “C’mon, it’s too cold out here for those leggings.”

You follow him reluctantly, sipping at your hot chocolate because damn it, he’s right. The wind had been cool when you’d gone into practice, but nightfall has stolen the little bit of warmth the sun provided. You wouldn’t be surprised if you woke tomorrow to find the trees prematurely bare of their leaves.

The Blacks’ house isn’t far, and your eager pace gets you there in a hurry. You’re thinking you’ll go to Regulus’ room as soon as you get inside, ditching Sirius and whatever humiliation he has planned for you, but when you approach the house, every window is dark.

“They’re at my aunt’s for dinner,” Sirius answers your unasked question, unlocking the door. “I begged off because of practice.” He laughs as you follow him inside. “Try not to look so happy about it, shortcake.”

You roll your eyes, starting up the stairs that go to the bedrooms. “When will Reg be home?”

“Late.” Sirius’ voice is close behind you. “You’re welcome to wait for him, of course, but we may as well make use of the time.” On the top step, you whirl, relishing the opportunity to look down on him for once.

“Fine. What are we doing here?”

You don’t know if you’d hoped he’d be intimidated, but Sirius appears as unbothered as always. “Like I said. Practice.” He brushes past you, leading the way into his bedroom. After a moment, you follow grudgingly.

Like everything about Sirius, his room is loud. Almost every inch of wall space is covered in band posters, medals from competitions, pictures of his friends. There are clothes strewn across the bed and shoes scattered about the floor, but if Sirius is even conscious of the mess, he doesn’t mention it.

“What did you have in mind?” you ask.

Sirius turns, and when his eyes meet yours, they’re surprisingly determined. “We need to figure out whatever it is that’s been holding you up,” he says. “We’ve gotta get past it.”

You feel like stomping your foot, but very maturely refrain. You’re about done with the subject of your failures for the day. “I don’t know what it is.”

“I think you do,” Sirius says cooly. “Wanna know how I know?”

“How?”

He grins. “Because you just admitted it.”

“You—I just asked how,” you splutter angrily.

Sirius gives you a knowing look. “Right, so it has nothing to do with you being afraid of me touching you?”

Your face heats. How could he know that? You look at him for a moment, and he looks back at you with that cool, even gaze, like he thinks he’s got you all figured out. As much as you resent him for it, he’s right. You’ve got no shot at a decent score in this competition if you can’t get past your mental block around Sirius. “I’m not afraid.” You roll your eyes, downplaying the admission. “I’m just not used to it, okay? I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed, but you’re not exactly a carbon copy of my usual partner.”

Sirius grins again, and for the first time you get the sense that he’s laughing with you instead of at you. “I have been made aware of that a few times over our lives, yes. But okay, you’re not used to it. Let’s get you used to it.”

You cross your arms over your chest, not sure where he’s going with this but fairly sure you won’t like it. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I’m going to throw you until you can handle it without flinching. Sound good?”

You look at him like he’s stupid. “The rink is closed, and there’s nowhere for me to land here.”

“Sure there is.” Sirius pats his bed cheerfully. You stay right where you are. Something changes in his expression, and you think you might detect a bit of kindness behind his teasing tone. “C’mon, sweetheart. I don’t know what Reggie’s told you, but I don’t actually bite.”

You huff, but go to stand in front of him. He’s shed his coat, revealing the plain black shirt underneath, and the sleeves grip his biceps. Even in the poor lamplight, you can see his eyes changing colors like schools of fish as they swim. Now blue, now gray.

“Alright.” Sirius sets his hands on your waist, and you tense automatically. “See, that’s the habit we have to break. Relax for me, shortcake.”

His words certainly don’t help, but you do your best, unclenching the muscles in your stomach and legs.

“Perfect,” he says, then launches you into the air. You barely have time to gasp before you’re landing on his bed, springs squealing in protest. “Okay, next time, try to spin or something.”

“I wasn’t ready,” you protest.

Sirius laughs. “I know. Sorry, couldn’t resist. Let’s try to do it like practice this time, yeah? So you go over there,” he motions to the door, “and run towards me. When I throw you, try to spin if you can, but don’t try to stick the landing or anything. Just land on your butt.”

You roll your eyes, moving to the door. “Yeah, I’m in no hurry to break my ankle like Reg, thanks.”

He winks. “Just making sure.” He spreads his feet a bit, bracing himself. “Alright, let’s give it a try.”

It’s easy to remember Sirius is an older brother when he gets all bossy like this, but you comply, gaining as much speed as you can on the way to him before he’s gripping you around the waist, tossing you into the air. You manage a half-turn before your back end hits the bed.

“Better!” Sirius exclaims, beaming at you. “You still seemed a bit tense, but at least you didn’t try to jump by yourself. Again?”

You can’t help a little smile of your own as you nod, pushing up off the bed and repositioning yourself at the door.

☆ ☆ ☆

When Regulus gets home, he finds you sprawled on Sirius’ bed with his brother sitting beside you, both thoroughly worn out.

“Did you fix it?” he asks.

You grin at the ceiling, wondering if it’s your pride or Sirius’ you’re feeling in the air, or both. “I think so.”

“Coach might get the chance to be mad at me instead, tomorrow,” Sirius laments. “My arms are fucking dead. Too many throws and I might drop you on the ice.”

“Don’t break my partner,” Regulus says warningly.

“Yeah,” you second, hauling yourself into a sitting position and going to meet Regulus at the door, “please don’t.”

You can hear Sirius’ eyes rolling as he says, “I won’t. See you at practice tomorrow, shortcake?”

It’s harder than usual to muster up annoyance for the teasing nickname. “See you tomorrow.”

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krinsbez · 1 month ago

Text

Random Transformers One Thought

A week later, I want to discuss two thoughts, one which is fairly trivial, but the other is a bit more substantial.

-First, kinda annoying that the rap theme namedrops Optimus, Megatron, and Bumblebee, but not Elita.

-Second...actually it's very involved and also involves spoilers, so I'm putting it under the cut.

-So, yeah, they portray Orion as doing all this crazy stuff and D-16 as his long suffering friend who has to clean up after him, but like...they also make it clear that Orion isn't doing it for himself, he's trying to help other people. He also, notably is entirely willing to accept the consequences of his actions. After both the mine explosion and the Iacon 5000, almost the first thing out of his mouth when confronted by an authority figure was insisting that he is at fault, he is to blame, and he should be punished, no one else. -D-16 is from the beginning taking the easy way out. Not only is his goal to just keep his head down and work hard, but he isn't willing to seriously argue with OP when he proposes they do crazy things, and until that moment in the cave, he is unwilling to seriously rebuke him either, always insisting that he is ok with the outcome, that he forgives him, that he isn't really mad at him, even when he very clearly is, because it's easier than risking losing OP's friendship. -Also, from the very beginning, OP has a Vision. He has a goal in mind of making their world better, and the hting is he isn't just impulsively doing shit for fun, he makes plans. And when they don't work he comes up with new ones on the fly to replace them! Also, notably several of his plans only failed because they're based on the flawed assumption that the people in charge would be willing to fix the flaws in the system if said flaws were pointed out and a better way was presented. -Actually, this is important, because OP's response to finding out the Truth is, once again to Make A Plan to fix it. WHile he undergoes character development, he doesn't fundamentally change as a person...and if you think about it, neither does D-16. because he's still taking the path of least resistance, he's still doing what's easier for him. The only change is that, now that he's a big powerful Trasnformer instead of a small. weak Miner, instead of keeping his head down, what's easy ot is to shout and break things. -And notably, it doesn't actually help! Like, yeah, he gets the High Guard on their side (which was OP's idea, remember), but then proceeds to squander that by making a loud speech that gets them captured. And his refusing to kneel to Sentinel was badass and all, but it didn't accomplish anything; OP showing up with an army and a plan did. -Like, D-16 says he's done saving Orion, but Orion just saved HIM, and also the reason OP needed saving is because he was trying to save D-16 from himself! -And then, having removed all opposition, what does Megatron do? He makes an angry speech and starts wrecking stuff, heedless of the fact that he's hurting innocent people. -In contrast, after defeating him, OP's first act is to start the Energon flowing, the second is to start handing out Cogs, and the third is to start forming a new government. His last scene is giving the Quintessons an ultimatum and taking the fight to them. Megatron's last scene is making a speech to the people already following and swearing to one day take revenge. -In short, the movie does an excellent job of showing why OP is The Guy and Megatron isn't and crucially, it does so by showing that ultimately, while Megatron talks a big game, when it comes down to it, OP is the one who gets results. Getting angry and hurting the people who hurt you feels good, but having a vision of a better world and making plans to achieve it works.

#Random Thoughts #Transformers #Transformers One #TF1

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katanablue · 4 months ago

Text

I originally had a totally different idea for this but I think I may just do a part 2 hehehe. ALSO IF ANYONE GOT ANY GOOD 07 DONNIE FICS ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Warnings: NONE JUST DONNIE BEING A CUTE GRUMPY DORK.

Another day another long boring shift full of talking to idiotic people who don’t know the difference between hardware and software and explaining to one too many elderly people that ‘No, you cannot print out the Internet.’

He’s just finished a call, rubbing the space between his eyes as he feels his daily headache come on. He’s impressed that he’s managed to nearly finish his workday without it appearing until now. He groans low in his throat, debating on getting up to grab a glass of water so he can take a pill or just sucking it up these last 30 minutes.

He gets his answer when an incoming call rings through his headset, making Donnie roll his eyes hard and into the back of his skull. He inhales deeply through his nose to prepare himself, letting it out when he clicks on a key to answer the phone.

“Thank you for calling tech support, this is Donatello speaking, how can I help you today.” He doesn’t bother putting on his customer service voice, his headache dully throbbing now as he waits for the other person on the line to start rambling about their dumb issue.

“Hi, how are you today?” You say, giving the standard pleasantries before delving into your computer issue.

Typical, of course his last call would try to make small talk.

“I’m fine ma’am, thank you. How can I help you today?” He repeats it, resisting the urge to roll his eyes again and leans back in his chair, swaying gently side to side. He thinks about what he should eat after, his eyes trailing to the clock in the Lair that signifies in big red letters that it’s nearly 2 a.m. Not the latest he’s stayed up but today’s shift was particularly exhausting. Maybe it’s the full moon or something, ‘Mercury in Gatorade’ as Mikey would sometimes call it.

“Hello?”

Shit. He totally just fucking zoned out on you.

“Apologies ma’am, I didn’t quite catch that. Would you mind repeating it?” Great, he just extended this call by about 2 minutes.

“Oh, that’s alright! I’m dealing with an issue with my laptop’s ability to open programs fast. It’s taking forever just to open something and I’m not quite sure why.” You repeat your issue, quietly sighing as you aimlessly move your mouse around your screen, hoping that the guy on the other side will be able to help with you.

Donnie immediately knows what the problem could be; slow processing speeds a fairly common issue for him but thankfully an easy fix.

So he starts by asking the standard questions: do you have any programs that take a lot of space? Any tabs open that you aren’t using? Anything running in the background?

When you tell him ‘no, no and no’, that’s when he sits up from his chair and squints his eyes. If those aren’t the cause of your laptops slow speed then what could it be?

“Well,”

Ah, there it is.

“I do play a few games but those have never caused me problems before. Could that be it?”

Normally Donatello’s irritation would increase when the customer would ‘suddenly remember’ something that could be pausing their problem. You, however? Didn’t spark that within him for some reason. In fact, besides your calm demeanor, it’s the way you spoke so kindly to him combined with the fact that you also game apparently that has Donnie not wanting to snap at you.

“Like what?” He asks, being sure to keep it professional.

And when you list his all time favorite game among some others that he’s obsessed with, he has to practically force himself to not totally geek out. Sure he’s played some of the popular games nowadays like League or Valorant, but hearing you say that you modded some old PS1 games to play on your laptop practically skyrockets his excitement.

Which in turn makes his headache pound harder.

He’s unable to keep himself from hissing when a pang shoots right through his skull, knowing you heard it when you trail off your sentence.

“Are you alright?”

Maybe it’s because he’s had a long day or maybe it’s because this seems to be shifting into a migraine, but the concern and sincerity in your voice makes an odd feeling bubble in Donnie’s chest. Surely no one would ever be genuinely worried over an I.T guy, not when you have more pressing matters on your hands.

“My apologies miss, I’m just uh, dealing with a bit of a headache right now. Although I think it’s turning into a migraine.” He grunts through his clenched jaw, swinging carefully around in his chair as he searches for his bottle of Advil only to suck his teeth when he shakes the container and hears absolutely nothing rattling around.

“Oh no, I’m sorry! Do you want to go grab some medicine? I don’t mind waiting.”

The corner of Donnie’s lip twitches upward. He brings his hands to massage at his temples, the motions doing something to relieve the tension in his head but not nearly enough.

“I unfortunately just discovered that I’m out of medicine. But that’s alright, I’ll pick some up after this call.” He doesn’t bother hiding his sigh, settling back in his seat as he prepares to ask you more questions to help you out.

“What about any oils? Got any of those? Usually lavender or peppermint do the trick.” You put him on speaker and go to your Safari on your phone to begin looking up other remedies, wanting to assist this poor I.T man.

Donnie’s not quite sure why you’re trying to be helpful but at this point he doesn’t exactly care, the throbbing getting worse by the second.

“It could also be too much pressure, literally, around your head. Do you wear headbands or anything like that? Could also be your headphones.”

“No, no headbands. And my headphones have cushioning all around so not those either.” He responds, debating on texting Mikey to bring him the peppermint oil that April bought for Splinter last Christmas.

“Ah, a man of comfort.” You laugh, fingers quickly typing in your question into the search engine.

Donnie finds himself smiling faintly at the sound, a fleeting thought of ‘Wow, I want to hear that again’ passing through his brain.

“Well, I can’t use regular headphones for gaming. I’m also a fan of those games that you play.”

You blink in surprise, your scrolling faltering for half a second before continuing on.

“No way, really?”

And so you talk for the next 20 minutes about said games; reliving memories, talking about specific moments you wish you could experience again, the soundtracks, the characters. Everything.

For the first 10 minutes, Donnie kept reminding himself that he was just prolonging his work call, that he should drive the focus back onto your issue so he can hang up and clock out. But the more he talked to you, the more he said ‘fuck it’ and allowed himself this one rare moment of normalcy.

He also nearly forgot about his raging migraine, until it pleasantly reminded him that it was still present with a sharp stabbing pain behind his eyes.

It’s what snaps him back to reality, his face grimacing from the white hot torment happening in his skull.

“I’m so sorry, we should really get back to your computers issues.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

God, why did he feel so awful saying that? And why did it make his stomach twist when hearing just how disappointed you sounded? It’s something he’ll have to dissect later, not when he’s already 30 minutes past the standard call time for support.

“Let’s see what we’re working with here.”

This is one of the rare times Donnie wishes he wasn’t so smart with technology because in less than 5 minutes he solves your problem. He wishes he could just be a little average to talk to you more even if it’s computer stuff.

“Alright, you shouldn’t have a problem anymore. Anything else I can help you with?”

Please say yes please say yes please say yes.

“No, I’m all good. Thank so much Donatello!”

“Donnie! You can call me Donnie.”

Fuck.

“Just your friendly I.T tech support here to help you 24 hours a day.”

Double fuck.

Why did he say that? It’s standard spiel protocol but still, how utterly lame…

You can’t help but giggle at him, your cheeks hurting from smiling so much from this total stranger.

“Alright then, Donnie. I’ll know who to ask for if I ever need help again.”

He smiles and asks for your name, just so he’ll know who he’s talking to if you ever do call again. He repeats it back to you once you tell him, the word rolling off his tongue in such a way that makes you feel giddy and grinning like a kid in a candy store.

“Have a good night, please don’t hesitate to call back if you’re still experiencing technical difficulties.”

And by Darwin he hopes you do.

#tmnt #tmnt 2007 #donatello x reader #2007 donnie #my writings

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nico-di-genova · 7 months ago

Note

For the ask game:

22. “I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice.”

For Lestappen please! 🙏🏼

Thank you, have a lovely day 🫶🏼

22. "I've seen the way you look at me when you think I don't notice."

Charles has just about had it. Had it with the media who shove microphones in his face and demand to know what happened, why he and Max had ended up tire deep in the gravel. Had it with Pierre making little jokes about Charles and his ‘anger issues’. Had it with the disappointed looks Fred keeps casting his way during debriefs, as the damage to the car is discussed and the cost it will take to fix it. He’s had it with the social media team, the word ‘inchident’, the way his bad English in his teens seem to be one of his longest lasting legacies.

“It’s okay, we can spin this," they say, as if he gives a shit. It was a race. He raced, he saw a gap, he went for it, Max moved, and they both ended up out. It wasn’t anything.

But jesus, if Max gives him another one of those looks, Charles is going to lose every bit of media training he’s ever endured and strangle him right on this stage. In front of God, the cameras and everyone. He clenches his fists in his lap, grinds his teeth, feels his jaw tense. The cameras are probably picking it up, so he schools his expression into bored indifference. A neutral mask, they will know he is unhappy but they will not know it is with the Dutch bastard staring him down from the other end of the couch.

“It was nothing. Just an inchident, right Charles?” Max says, with that edge of ‘I think I’m hilarious, aren’t I?’ that makes Charles want to actually scream.

Instead, he picks up his own mic and laughs, nearly a giggle as he’s been instructed, it plays cuter. Makes him look less like the track menace who rammed into the back of Max’s car on turn sixteen of the Chinese circuit, as he cursed out Max’s speed in the straights over the radio.

“Yes, hah, right. We will, uh, we will do better this weekend.” He hopes he doesn’t sound as strained as he feels, rehearsed, it’s harder to pretend when he can feel the weight of Max’s gaze on him like the full weight of his own car, plus half the rest of the grids just for good measure.

Max grins, wicked little glint in his eye, “Absolutely.” And then he’s spinning the attention away from Charles and back to the Red Bull’s performance in high wind conditions – there’s a tropical storm brewing off the coast and it’s been fucking with the weather. How his team is confident they will be able to pull away from the rest of the grid with enough ease that situations like the last race don’t happen again.

Charles thinks about beating him to death with the microphone in his hands. Not seriously, not in a way he would ever act on, just in a way that would mean he doesn’t have to stare at the back end of a Red Bull wing for another fifty-seven laps.

The rest of media day is fairly uneventful. He knocks out some joint video stuff with Carlos, does a few social media photos and merch signings, and tries to ignore the questions about Max that just seem to keep coming.

Only once does he bite, when someone asks him if he and Max will ever refollow each other on Instagram.

He laughs, “He will have to follow me back first.”

There’s a camera recording his response, grainy iPhone footage that he will definitely see on Twitter later. Good. Let Max see the gauntlet he’s thrown down. Let him see the Ferrari cap Charles had been signing with the easy flick of his wrist and sharpie across the brim. Let him see Charles does not care.

Because he doesn’t.

Why should he?

Except that maybe he does, because when Max shows up at his hotel room that night he can’t help the annoyed sound that escapes him.

“What?”

“So we’re fine a week ago, but you send me into the gravel and it’s you who gets to play the silent game?”

He’s been ignoring Max’s texts. There had been a lot of them.

“There is no game, I am busy. Meetings. Repairs. You know, the damage to the car.”

“Oh you’re moonlighting as your own mechanic now? Ferrari is that desperate?”

Max is angry, but more than that he’s hurt. Charles can see the flash of it in his eyes and in the tension when he clenches and unclenches his fists at his side.

“You’re-“ Max glances down the hall, at the Aston Martin employee who’s casting them glances.

Charles waves.

Max lowers his voice until only Charles can hear, “You are such a sore loser.”

The sting of it is well aimed, lands right between Charles ribs, pisses him off enough that he drops the act for a minute and tells Max to go fuck himself in Italian before slamming the door in his face.

It’s not that he’s never been called that before, more than he’s never been called it by Max. Somehow that hurts more.

Max wins in Miami. Charles has engine trouble on lap thirty and has to retire by lap thirty-two. The smile that he forces on afterward when he lies through his teeth that ‘it is like this’ hurts more than his pounding head after the DNF in China.

He tries to drown it all out by hiding in his room until his flight the next morning, instead he ends up at Max’s door.

“I hate you,” he says when the man opens it wide enough that Charles can slink past.

His hair is damp, sticking up in spikey points atop his head, and his white shirt is sticking to wet patches of his skin. He smells like ember, or leather, or something distinctly sharp. Charles tries not to think about it.

Instead, he paces tracks into the plush carpet and keeps his eyes glued to the movement of his own feet while the words spew out of him faster than he can stop them. It’s not all in English, spoken so fast he’s sure Max has missed most of it.

“I fucking hate you. You stupid. Moronic. Annoying. Idiot. You and your inchident like I am stupid. Fuck you. That was my race. My line-.”

“Is this about China?”

“Yes,” Charles spits, “Of course it is about China.”

Max crosses his arms. Watches as Charles motions wildly in the air.

“It is about China. And Suzuka. And Melbourne. About every circuit you follow me onto.”

“I follow you onto?”

“Shut up.”

“Interesting perspective.”

“Stop.”

“I didn’t even finish Melbourne.”

“Shut. Up!” He yells, he can’t help it, feels like something in his chest finally snaps and then there is a long silence where neither of them say anything at all. They both stare at each other, like someone took out a gun and shot the other. Charles does not yell. He is polite, kind, he is exceedingly lovely.

He does not yell.

Except that sometimes he does, and right now he would like to just so he could feel the pure release of it. Sometimes he does not want to be fucking kind. But he also does not want to yell at Max, realizes the pointlessness of it all.

“You want to be friends? Still?” Charles asks, because it is Max who had begun this whole dance of repairing whatever shattered thing sat between them from when they were kids. Max who had started texting him asking to play FIFA and paddle, to go running with him, offered his private jet for flights if needed. Giving everything hand over fist to Charles, assumedly because Red Bull had seen how well he listened to team orders, and behaved, and wanted to own him before Ferrari could lock him down again. Charles had played the game, and he’d maybe even become Max’s friend in the process, but there’s still a part of him that is twelve and bitter – bitter that Max has always had the money, the better kart, bitter he can’t seem to catch up no matter how hard he pushes down on the throttle.

“Do you want to be friends?” Max asks, keeping a wary distance from Charles that once would have felt normal but now seems unfamiliar. He looks at Charles like he is a ticking time bomb. Charles hates it. He hates feeling weak.

“I…I don’t know.”

“We don’t have to be, “ Max says, like the thought has not occurred to Charles.

“I know-.”

Max cuts him off like he can hear the growing edge in Charles' voice and wants to avoid alerting the housekeeping staff in the hall to their bickering.

“Then just say that. I won’t text. I’ll leave you alone. Don’t do something you don’t want to do, Charles.”

It is reminiscent of Max telling him choose whatever team he wanted a few months back, telling him to fuck expectation and do something just because he wanted it. Which was ironic coming from the three-time world champion who only wanted to race cars online. Charles chose Ferrari, because there was never realistically a world where he wouldn’t.

The simpleness of it, the way Max is so willing to just let him go, to give up on the bridge they’d slowly been building between them – Charles suddenly hates him all over again. Max Verstappen and his chivalry and his kindness and his brutal honesty because he has no need to lie. It sparks that familiar jealousy in Charles.

Which is maybe why he throws some of Max’s own medicine back at him.

“I have seen the way you look at me,” he blurts out, “When you think I will not notice.”

Max takes a moment to catch-up with the twist in conversation. His eyebrows doing this expressive little dance that Charles almost finds endearing before it settles on hurt shock.

“What?”

“You are not subtle.”

“I don’t-.”

“You’re only nice to me because you think you can fuck me now. That doesn’t make you special Max, that is all anyone wants me for anyway.”

There is a moment where he thinks Max will tell him to get out, a moment where he would go, it is a moment that is quickly lost in the anger that makes itself at home in Max’s eyes. The bridge crumbles, they are twelve and all they want to do is hurt.

“God, how do you see anything over that massive ego of yours, Leclerc.”

“You’re the three time champion, Verstappen. You tell me.”

Max steps closer, Charles steps back, he meets the resistance of the dresser and Max is suddenly there. Chest to chest, the two of them staring each other down with enough vitriol that it would probably put Pierre and Esteban to shame.

“You’re a fucking dick, Charles.” Max growls, “It’s not my fault Ferrari can’t pull their shit together enough to put you in a decent car.”

“Your car is a violation,” Charles spits back, “easy to win when you ignore the rules. Like always.”

They should stop, Charles thinks, knows they’re toeing along the precipice of something. But he’s sick of playing by the rules, so he pushes.

“Cheating is how you win, yes?”

Max's hands fist in the fabric of his shirt and push him further against the dresser before he even has the chance to blink. The furniture digs into his spine, until Charles can’t help the wounded sound that escapes him.

Max wrestles with something inside himself, Charles watches the struggle. He starts to pull away, but Charles grabs him by the hips and keeps him there. Max looks at him with that familiar expression, the one that Charles has been ignoring for months, want and need and longing all wrapped in steely grey that should be cold but might be warmest thing Charles has ever been cast in the light of.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Max says, and Charles feels rage. But it isn’t rage, not at all. It’s want. It’s the same feeling he gets when he’s gaining on Max in a race, hungry with the need to pass, to overtake, to get ahead and taste the clean air for once. It’s what landed them both in the gravel two weeks back.

Charles is smart, calculated when he needs to be, and right now he doesn’t want to play dumb.

“If I want you to hurt me?” he asks, really asks, even if he’s sure he hasn’t read the signs wrong.

Max’s expression does another dance, settles on the same want that Charles is reflecting back at him, “I don’t cheat.” He states.

Charles smiles, and it’s not the PR smile, all pretty for the cameras, it’s the smile of a man who drives on the limit and curses when he still can’t get ahead. “I don’t care. I’m going to beat you one day either way.”

Max wins in Imola, but Charles wins in Monaco.

They stand on the podium as the Monégasque anthem blares and he looks at Charles with pride, longing, reverence.

Charles notices, he always does.

#charles leclerc #max verstappen #lestappen #formula 1 #my fic #lestappen fic #I call this: want disguised as hate disguised as mess

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sylvancastor · 4 months ago

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Writing out my preferred way the battle at Rook's Rest should have gone because why not.

The beginning mostly stays the same. Criston signals for Aemond and Vhagar, but Sunfyre arrives first. Aemond sees him fly overhead and is pissed, but he doesn't wait to follow him into battle because he's not an idiot and as much as he wants the crown, he's aware of the intensity of the blow losing Aegon would be to their cause.

Still, Vhagar is slow and has to launch herself off the ground, so Aegon gets their first and has an initial fight with Meleys but Vhagar's quick arrival keeps Sunfyre's injuries from being quite so intense. The two of them attack Meleys side by side, but due to her speed and Rhaenys's expertise, she manages to keep evading them with fairly light damage.

Meleys takes off high into the clouds and Aemond and Aegon follow her. No one can see them from below. Aegon urges Sunfyre to engage directly with Meleys and the two dragons become locked together. Instead of intervening this time, Aemond simply watches as Sunfyre is injured and Aegon cries out for his help. Aemond only watches.

We can see the anger in his eyes. It would be so easy to allow Meleys to kill Aegon and Sunfyre. He could say he did his best, but that Aegon refused to battle carefully. He would be honored after he died and Aemond would become king. Aegon doesn't notice the inaction, too focused on saving Sunfyre and himself. In a desperate move, Aegon unclips one of his restraints to grab the dagger at his side and drives it into Meleys's eye as Rhaenys screams in shock and fury.

Meleys wails and lets go of Sunfyre, dropping out of view. Aegon is triumphant and turns to his brother with a smile. Aemond isn't smiling. We watch as he follows Meleys's descent and decides he's safe for now. He returns his attention to Aegon. It would be so easy to do the deed himself and blame Meleys. He contemplates it only for a split second, but Aegon's face goes from smiling to horror. We think he's understood what Aemond plans to do, but in fact, his eyes are fixed on a sight behind him. Meleys has darted up from behind, mouth open and poised to burn Aemond in his saddle.

Aegon doesn't hesitate. He urges Sunfyre forward and as Meleys breathes out a wall of fire, he throws himself and Sunfyre in front of it to protect Aemond from the blast. Before Aemond can react, Meleys sinks her claws into Sunfyre's chest and pulls him out of sight.

Aemond pursues, but it's too late. Meleys has bit into Sunfyre's wing and Aegon can barely stay in the saddle with his one remaining restraint. Meleys rips her head back breaking off part of Sunfyre's wing and the king and his dragon fall through the air, landing in the forest.

Similarly to the show, Aemond is able to defeat Rhaenys and Meleys on his own after Aegon's fall.

Later on, we learn the only reason Aegon was able to survive was the one remaining restraint held him to the saddle but allowed him to slide off to the side enough to evade some of the dragonfire. He's still burned and in pain. He sacrificed himself for his brother and Aemond can't betray him now. Not when he owes his brother a life debt, not when he's seen how deeply Aegon loves him. He becomes Prince Regent and reconciles himself to forever protecting his brother from this point forward.

#No idea if this is even interesting or well written but it's what I would have enjoyed #I'm imagining Aemond's contemplation of betrayal is only for about ten seconds.#a selfish impulse that ultimately leads to his brother's injury bringing Aemond immense guilt #because ultimately Aemond does love his brother but his desire for power cost him everything that actually mattered #maybe a bit too dramatic with the dagger to the eye part but I wanted to give Aegon something cool to do Lol #anyway hope there's at least a few people out there who enjoy the idea of Rook's Rest going like this #aegon ii targaryen #aemond targaryen #aegond #hotd #house of the dragon #hotd spoilers #hotd season 2 spoilers #hotd fanfic #bc I guess technically it is #rhaenys targaryen #sunfyre #vhagar #meleys

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adhd-merlin · 2 months ago

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title: the defector

Arthur & Merlin ● Gen ● Words: 548 (I am once again invoking the margin of goodwill) ● No Warnings ● Written for @merlinmicrofic 2024, for the August prompt: "Tell me."

Summary: Canon-era AU. In which Merlin met Morgana before he met Arthur — after she had already turned against Camelot.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Why should I let you live — let alone trust a word you say?” Arthur asks the sorcerer kneeling at his feet. He tips the boy's head up with the point of his sword. “Tell me.”

The boy doesn't look afraid. He should be, chained up and surrounded by enemies as he is. Then again, he did hand himself over.

It's still unclear what caused such disregard for his own life — if overconfidence, world-weariness or insanity. The last two wouldn’t surprise Arthur. Five years of war can do that to a man.

Yet the boy keeps his head very still.

“You shouldn't kill me because I can help you defeat Morgana,” he says. “As for trusting me… if I wanted to harm you, you would be dead already. I have no need for a ruse.”

Two of Arthur's men shift uneasily behind the boy. Leon places his hand on his sword.

Arthur lowers his.

“Bold claim from a man in chains. And these are no ordinary ones — they've held Nimueh herself. You think you're more powerful than her?”

There's a flash of defiance in the boy's eyes — and then of gold. The chains fall to the ground like withered leaves hit by a gust of wind.

“You tell me.”

All of Arthur's men draw their swords at once. Arthur points his too, his heart pounding.

The boy's bravado cracks. He staggers to his feet with his hands raised — an appeasing gesture, Arthur realises, but one easy to misconstrue.

Leon and Gwaine seize his arms — as if that could do anything to stop a sorcerer.

“I don't want to harm you!” the boy protests, alarmed, when Gwaine's sword presses against his throat.

Gwaine's eyes are fixed on Arthur's face, waiting for a signal. So are the boy's eyes, blue and pleading.

Slowly, Arthur lowers his sword again, gesturing at his men to do the same. They reluctantly obey, but Leon and Gwaine don't let go of the boy.

“Sire…” Leon starts, but he seems unsure how to finish his warning.

“You know she cannot be killed by any mortal weapon,” the boy says when Leon falls silent. “So did your father — it's why he kept the dragon alive. But he won't listen to you, will he?”

If he meant to get Arthur's attention, he succeeded.

It is true that, so far, Morgana has proved unkillable. Some say her sister sacrificed her own life to strengthen hers.

That's what they say. Arthur will give Morgana the benefit of the doubt for Morgause's murder — but Nimueh, he's fairly sure, was not complicit in her own killing.

Be that as it may, whatever depraved ritual Morgana performed has worked. And their only hope of victory — the wretched creature they keep bound in a cave; may it rot there — has been laughing at their defeats. It is no friend of Morgana, but it seems to hate all of Uther's blood equally.

“Why do you think it will listen to you?” Arthur asks.

The boy raises his chin. “Because he must.”

Dear God, let it not be insanity.

“And why would you help me?”

The boy's resolute expression turns earnest. “Because we both want the same thing — peace for our people.”

He sounds like he means it.

Arthur slides his sword back in its sheath.

#in a move that surprises no one i go for the dialogue prompt #i might expand this in future #but let's be real i probably won't #merlin micro fic #merlin fanfiction #merlin #*

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lookingforhappy · 3 months ago

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TUA: Young Blood Review??

yeah idk what to call this but I wanna talk about this book so bad so here's my thoughts

General (Spoiler Free) Review

It's pretty good! solidly between Okay and Good on my rankings which is honestly a really good outcome for me as I was worried it was going to be much worse.

There's some continuity errors with the lore the show has established (I will go over this later), but they're not glaring, just vaguely annoying because there's some pretty easy ways to fix them (I'll also explain later). But there's also some more fun additions to the lore that's in keeping with the show and the characters.

(there were also quite a few typos that were missed but it wasn't overwhelming, just noticeable enough that they probably should have caught them before they were published - at least one sentence is missing a word and several words are spelt wrong including in one instance the name of one of the OCs)

I could list all the aspects of it that are "okay" but I think u get the picture. in all honesty it's fairly unobtrusive which again, for me, is glowing praise lmao.

I thoroughly enjoyed this book despite all of the issues (that I will pull apart beneath the read more). In fanfiction terms I think it's best described as "fluff" as not much really happens but it's an interesting exploration of the Umbrella's, their powers, and their attitudes in the months before Ben's death.

major spoilers review under the cut ↓

and now, we shall tear this bitch apart lol

Continuity Errors

There's only one big issue that I have and that is the Umbrella's knowing that there were other children born on 1st October 1989. which they repeatedly refer to as october 1st children in the book.

The Hargreeves don't know that there's others, outside of the 7 of them, born with powers to mothers who weren't pregnant. They believe, and were likely told or manipulated by Reginald into believing, that he adopted all of the special children.

as is said in 2x10:

Lila is the first of the other 43 (+?) kids that they meet and is the one to reveal that there were others born with powers like them.

In the book, the Hargreeves' all know that there were other children born with powers (ch23 pg 164). and it's not a throw away line as a big part of the plot is that they meet Ryan, another of the 43.

which... kind of annoying and easily fixable. here's how I would've worked around this issue while still preserving the plot:

Ryan's powers are the ability to determine and gift powers to others. He is unable to gift himself powers and unable to gift new powers, change powers, or remove the powers of the 43. His powers also require a fair amount of effort on his part, as well as his physical touch to bestow them. When he uses his powers, and when those he's gifted with powers use them, earthquakes occur in that persons vicinity and toxic (flammable) dust appears in the air.

note the dust, the dust is the crux of my fix:

Instead of the Umbrella's realising that Ryan is one of the 43 due to prior knowledge, have them blame the powers on the dust making them hallucinate. Once the firefighters arrive and begin evacuating and putting out the fires after Ryan is dealt with, have them blame the hallucinations vanishing on the dissipating of the dust.

Or, have Reginald pose this to the Umbrella's and manipulate them into believing his story rather than their own eyes.

To prevent the universally disliked "it was all a dream" trope have Ryan's existence as a member of the 43 be confirmed to the reader through another POV, such as a third party, Reginald, Pogo or Grace.

Other/Minor Continuity Errors

The siblings consistently refer to Reginald as "Hargreeves" when in the show they almost always call him "Dad"

Diego says he painted his room black because he likes the colour black, but in the show his room is white/greenish with blue and brown wooden accents

Diego also says he hates the Umbrella Academy uniform and that he thinks it's too "cute" and that they should wear black uniforms instead... but in the show, the uniform changed styles between 2002 and 2006 to be a black spandex/leather thing

and Luther continues to wear a version of this outfit into his young adulthood

Since this book is set in 2006, the year that Ben dies, that doesn't give the Umbrella's much time to change (and for this to be one of the outfits that Allison remembers well enough to recall with Claire).

Ben is also a strange case in this book as his powers are more readily described, yet his powerset/style is more consistent with Sparrow Ben or with the new trailer than the actual Umbrella Ben.

The first issue is that Umbrella Ben's powers are only seen 2 - 3 times, but he uses them in a specific way each time:

he lifts/opens his shirt

the horror only comes out through his stomach

he seems to have little or no control over the tentacles themselves

he seems to be in pain or to be struggling each time

he doesn't seem able to move once he summons the tentacles

so it seems that this is the most effective way that Ben is able to use his powers,

however, Sparrow Ben's powers are a lot more controlled:

he is able to control indivdual tentacles with finesse

he doesn't need to lift his shirt but instead summons the portal over the top of his clothes

is not in visible pain or discomfort while summoning them

he is not stuck to one position while using his powers but instead uses them to traverse his environment

and in the s4 trailer his powers seem to have changed even more:

his tentacles are now emerging from his back, not his stomach

he is fully suspended in the air, his weight only supported by the tentacles

now, the Ben in this book has:

tentacles that emerge from his back

is suspended mid air by said tentacles at least twice

has the finesse to use his tentacles to pull a fighting Luther and Diego apart with injuring them.

He also rips his shirt everytime he summons the tentacles and has openings sewn into his uniform by mom to allow them to exit.

obviously this is a strange merging of all three Bens so far which ends in the continuity issue of Umbrella Ben's powers being more refined in this book, set months or weeks before his death, than they ever were while he was that bit older, and dead.

The book also makes a big deal about them not being able to wear anything other than the uniform, but Allison has a lot of clothes in her room as a kid and is seen wearing casual clothes in multiple magazines and posters

aside from Five, it's implied that all the others have casual clothes and are allowed to wear what they want during their free time.

Other Gripes

these aren't particularly big issues but they are choices that I don't personally agree with. If you enjoy/ed these choices then fair play.

I'm not personally fond of the use of the name Viktor and he/him pronouns in a prequel setting, as I'd prefer realism rather than pretending he's always been Viktor. plus I feel like we all know that he's Viktor. But he doesn't yet, and neither does anyone else. So to have Viktor consider why he dislikes the name "Viktor" and wants to change it is a little strange and not very well articulated when the name they're talking about is "Vanya".

I respect that Elliott Page prefers this attitude towards his identity pre-transition but in the context of fiction, and of Viktor specifically, I find it a little unneccesary and overly complicated.

Ben also "dies" temporarily on this mission and the medical inaccuracy continues to bug me.

s1 was so good at showing that they're still human and prone to injury. Diego ends up in a sling because of a bullet nick and Five is caught in an explosion he set off. But in the book Ben falls maybe 4 stories and is unresponsive, so Allison begins CPR without checking for a pulse or breathing. Ben is resuscitated almost immediately and has almost no complications from literally being dead after falling from that height.

It's not only completely disregarding the themes season 1 set, but also a really quite tacky fake-out.

The kids also drive to the party but forget the car and walk back in less time than it took to drive, and without shoes in Allison's case.

Grace is treated as though she is non-sentient. after all of the work and love and care that season 1 poured into showing that Grace did develop sentience, and the ability to love, to see her treated by every member of the academy (Diego isn't innocent either, though he is the nicest) as a machine is saddening.

in s1 she is trapped behind programming and unable to voice her opinions because of that. not because she wasn't sentient. her sentience and love for her children does peek through until she is eventually set free by Diego and Pogo.

her hint to Luther and Allison that she dissapproved of Reginald

her expressing her feelings of longing and loneliness through the painting she imitates

and then her immediately escaping the house with Diego to get out from under Pogo's watch and to confess her part in Reginald's plan

she is so much more than a robot that doesn't understand jokes, movie references, glitches when asked a question she doesn't know the answer to, and throws away clothes that her kids might want.

Ryan himself felt very underdeveloped. We know his powers, and that he's a very good manipulater/public speaker. We also know that he likes Bach and beer, but not modern music. He's lonely and trying to surround himself with friends and those loyal to him by gifting everyone powers.

but all we know of his origins is that he's from a small town called Dobbsville just upstate from the Academy. He dislikes his "friends" from there as they treated him like the only one without powers, and has a bad enough relationship with his family/guardians that he ran away to the City and gifted enough people powers that they let him live in their college dorm (probably illegally and) for free.

We don't know his last name, his family situation, the reason he ran away from home and towards the Academy when he feels fightened and threatened by them. etc etc.

He feels so open and undefined... it's so strange.

Good Things

because I did actually enjoy this book and maybe let's end on some compliments instead

Diego discovered his powers aged 2 & a half by throwing a knife and perfectly shattering a glass - and Reginald being pleased about it

Reginald told Viktor when he was 12 to take a pill anytime he felt uncomfortable - explaining why Viktor takes his pills after emotional upset rather than at a specific time in s1

The scene where they got dressed for the party was fun, I loved the rationale for their outfits and that Allison and Luther were dressed according to the old movies they'd watched rather than anything people would usually wear to parties.

Reginald manipulating them into going to the party just to neutralise Ryan. despite the continuity errors I loved that Reginald knew all along. I was about to be disappointed that they'd gone the route of making him oblivious but I loved this twist.

The Academy becoming unpopular due to Five's disappearance - he seems to be thought of as dead by the public which made them realise that they're not a "cute" organisation and then the support waned considerably until there's barelyanyone left who cares.

#tua #the umbrella academy #tua young blood #luther hargreeves #diego hargreeves #allison hargreeves #klaus hargreeves #five hargreeves #ben hargreeves #viktor hargreeves

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