#ive been sick for four days now and ive worked with this comic for a week or smth bc studies are hard and i am already falling behind | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

otonymous · 4 years

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A Bolt From The Blue (MLQC Shaw - NSFW) - Part IV (End): Courage, My Love

Description: The final chapter. The Big Bang 😉 Warnings: NSFW/18+: Explicit/graphic language & mature themes — reader discretion is advised. Potential trigger warnings: physically aggressive behaviour, ex-boyfriends, angst, size kink, profanity, vaginal fingering and intercourse Word Count: 4237 words (~21 mins of thrills, real talk, fluff and smut) Author’s Notes: To all the lovelies who have been patiently following this story: you’ve made it! 🥳 Welcome to the final chapter in this Shaw saga, where we aim to go out with a massive bang (pun intended 😆). Once again, thank you all for every like, reblog, and comment I’ve received on this story. You are all amazing, and I appreciate your support! 💕

As always, tagging the lovely @op-peccatori — I hope you enjoyed this story! I certainly had lots of fun writing this! Please note the potential trigger warnings listed above, dear readers, and happy reading!

Jump to Chapter(s): One | Two | Three

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The quiet is back.

But there is no peace, no relief in the monotony that follows after the man known as Shaw burst into your life like a bolt from the blue, stirring up long forgotten feelings like dead leaves animated by a carefree wind — here one minute, gone the next.

And with each passing day, hope erodes.

Little by little, your heart learns not to race as the clock above the magazine rack approaches 1:30.

It becomes harder to remember the sound purple sneakers made walking through the store.

You stop hoping, wishing, to see a head of lavender hair; that the next person to approach the register would place a cup of Pepsi mixed with Coke on the counter, amber-eyed gaze speaking volumes without uttering a single word.

Days become weeks, and then eventually…

…you stop counting them altogether.

* * *

“You’re looking good. I see you’re doing well for yourself.”

He reaches for the jade pendant hanging around your neck, eyes flashing with amusement when you hit his hand away with an audible smack.

“What the hell do you want? Haven’t you already done enough?” You say through grit teeth, steps quickening as you head for the better lit part of the street, trying to outpace the man and silently cursing the fact that returning to the convenience store was no longer an option at this point.

“C’mon baby, don’t be like that. It took a lot of effort to track you down and I waited a very long time for you to get off work. It’s cold, dark and lonely out here. Is that any way to treat your boyfriend? Or friend, at least?”

“ ‘Ex-boyfriend,’ asshole, and you’re no friend of mine, especially not after the way you took my life’s savings and ran.”

“Baby, it wasn’t like that—”

“Oh yeah?! Did you try telling that to the loan sharks too before they came and trashed my place? I had to move, Leto, because it wasn’t safe for me anymore, not with the way they kept harassing me and the neighbours asking about your whereabouts. They even came to my office. I lost my fucking job. So don’t come around here and tell me that I’m doing well for myself.”

Breaking into a sprint, your mind races as you try to think of a way to lose your ex, anger and anxiety prickling every nerve in equal measure. He had ruined your life, singlehandedly taken away everything you had. And though you had known him once, desperation has a way of making monsters out of men.

And right now, for all you knew, he was desperate and dangerous.

“Please, I just want to talk. I don’t need much this time, just a little bit to get me through this rough patch. I’ll pay you back, I swear, just…just STOP FOR A MOMENT!—”

You shriek to feel Leto wrap his hand about your wrist, but before he could tighten his grip, another arm is thrown around your shoulder, pulling you back until you’re pressed up against a hard, muscular chest, staring at a close up of Snoopy riding a skateboard.

“You got business with my girl?”

That voice. Dangerous and cocksure, yet comforting like nothing else as the muffled words reverberate through the tiny bones of your ear, a prelude to the soothing ba-bump of his heart, rhythm steady and concrete as the ground upon which you stood.

Shaw.

He’s really here.

“Hehe. Your girl?” The derision in Leto’s voice makes you sick to your stomach; you can’t help but hold your breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop as he looks Shaw up and down, zeroing in on his old t-shirt. “Tsk, tsk. So, not only do you enjoy wearing second hand clothing, you also have the habit of picking up sloppy seconds?”

BOOM!

Deafening thunder rolls moments after a bolt of lightning rends the night sky in two, throwing a jagged spotlight on the fury written on Shaw’s face when he moves just as fast to grab a fistful of Leto’s collar. The muscles of his forearm bulge as he holds up the entirety of Leto’s bodyweight in one hand, the sky opening in a sudden downpour as your ex struggles in midair, rain dripping almost comically from dangling feet.

And when Shaw brings Leto’s terrified face up close, the ferocity in those amber eyes sends a chill up your spine.

“This is the last time you’ll ever talk to her, see her, even think about her. Or else I’ll find you and take my sweet time making you wish you were never born, do you understand me?”

Head bobbing in vigorous nods, drops of water fly off the tips of Leto’s rain-slicked hair. Seemingly satisfied, Shaw tosses him onto the ground at your feet, voice low yet audible as it cuts through the din of the storm when he says, “Beg for her forgiveness.”

The fear in his expression almost palpable, Leto looks between you and Shaw — cowardice etched onto features you had once found so pleasing a lifetime ago. He prostrates himself onto the wet pavement, voice cracking in between sobs as he yells over the sound of the rain:

“P-please…please forgive me! I’m a piece of shit! I’m nothing, I’m garbage! I…I deserve to go to Hell for what I did to you! I-I’m so sorry! Please forgive me!”

Leto reaches out a shaky hand towards your soaked shoes before he remembers Shaw’s warning, but it is too late. Black combat boots hit the concrete hard within an inch of Leto’s face as Shaw stoops, yanking back a fistful of hair and pulling until your ex is looking up at you like a pitiful supplicant begging for mercy.

“Satisfied?” Shaw looks to you as if he were asking about something as mundane as the weather. You nod, suddenly too tired to even speak. You wanted to wash your hands of Leto, wanted nothing to do with all that had happened since you finished your shift at the convenience store. All you could do was watch as Leto scrambled away on all fours the moment Shaw loosened his hold, running until he was nothing more than a speck of darkness merging with the night.

The rain is cold, wetness driving against your body to leech even the final bits of warmth from bone. Your clothes are drenched, heavy as they cling uncomfortably to skin. But you are too drained to care, lacking the energy to even notice when the dim light of the streetlamp above is blotted out — Shaw holding his leather jacket over your head in the place of an umbrella.

All you are aware of before your vision goes dark is the anxiety in his voice when he calls your name over and over again, how weightless it felt to be carried in the cradle of his arms.

How much you missed the scent you thought you had learned to forget.

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“Finally awake, Sleeping Beauty?”

You opened your eyes to gaze into irises of warm amber, the situation similar to one you experienced before except for the fact that this time, you were the one lying in bed, staring at a man who sat on its edge, brows knit with concern beneath soft lavender strands.

“If you slept for any longer, I would’ve had to knock on your neighbour’s door.” Shaw chuckles but the sound is hollow, mirthlessness obvious like the blanched knuckles of his tightly clenched fists.

“What…how did we…” You begin, voice raspy as it dies, a sudden sharp pain in your throat making you wince.

And immediately, Shaw is on his feet, rummaging through cupboards in your kitchen until he finds a glass. You watch him run the tap, fill it to the brim. Feel the strength of his arm around your back as he holds you up, touch lingering even as you down the water in gulps to chase the discomfort away.

“You passed out not long after your douchebag of an ex ran off with his tail between his legs. I found your keys in your purse, so I let myself into your apartment — hope you don’t mind. Although, to be fair, I was also carrying you at the time, so it’s not really breaking and entering.”

Head feeling like it would explode as the events of the evening come rushing back, you turn towards him…slowly…slowly, afraid Shaw might disappear before your eyes should any movement prove too sudden.

Thank him. Now. Before he goes away again.

He is close, so close that you can count those long, beautiful lashes; almost feel the minuscule shifts in the air between you every time he blinks — those pupils encroaching onto gold as they expand and pulling you into their depths as they do.

“Why are you doing this?”

He doesn’t flinch at your question, and you can’t bring yourself to be shocked by the discrepancy between what you meant to say and the words actually spilling from your lips. And as the grey memory of days spent counting the hours of his absence settles like lead in the pit of your stomach, the only thing you knew was that your heart couldn’t survive latching onto this sliver of hope only to have it ripped away again.

All you wanted…was the truth.

“Because I can’t stand to see you sad anymore.”

There is no smirk to stretch across that handsome face, only pain that hurts your heart to see it. Resignation heavy in his voice, Shaw takes a deep breath before he continues.

“Turns out I’m weak when it comes to you. Selfish. I know I’m no good for you; there’s no future with me. I can’t give you anything, can’t even promise you tomorrow, but…I just can’t stop thinking about you. Wondering how you are. Whether you’re eating well, sleeping well. If you’re safe…happy.

“Tonight wasn’t supposed to happen. I just wanted to make sure you got home okay, that some asshole wasn’t going to hassle you at work. But then your ex showed up and when he tried to get fresh with you, well…I couldn’t let that slide.

“Listen, I don’t know what’s wrong with me but…I’m sorry, if I ever made you sad, if I scared you. I’m sorry for everything.”

His gaze drops to the rip in his jeans, the drip, drip of the leaky faucet the only sound in the ensuing silence of his confession. That is, until you say,

“I’m sorry too…that you’re such an idiot.”

His head whips up, brows furrowed and mouth slack as if caught in a rare moment of speechlessness. The shock makes him seem years younger, lending him an air of innocence that you couldn’t help but smile at.

“In case it wasn’t obvious, I’m a grown woman, capable of making my own decisions. I’m not so naïve that I don’t know what I would be getting into by being with you. You say you can’t promise me tomorrow, but tomorrow isn’t promised to anyone. All we can ask for — hope for — is the here and now.

“Love takes courage, as does life. But a life without love…it’s not much of a life, is it? So I’m willing to be brave if that’s what it’ll take for us to be together.”

As quickly as they came, the words are gone, leaving you cotton-mouthed and faint as your heart pounds to send the blood rushing to your ears. That could’ve been the only explanation as to why Shaw’s “I knew there was a reason why I loved you” sounded so muffled you had to ask him to repeat himself.

“Too bad, I only say things once.”

And there it is again: the spark in his eyes, smirk on those lips — igniting the fire you only allowed yourself to feel in dreams of his body on yours, skin to skin like kindling to flame.

“Are you that single-minded about everything?” You ask, the smile on your face mirroring his as it approaches closer…

“Only when it comes to not letting go of the one I care about.”

…closer…

“Tell me one thing.” Your voice is barely above a whisper.

…and closer still.

Lips now a hair’s breadth apart, the gentle rhythm of his exhalation blows soft upon your cupid’s bow; a shy request. Your vision is filled with him, wonderfully awash with colour — lavender, amber, the soft pink of his mouth — and you wished you were the very clothes upon his body; saturated in his intensity, dyed in his hues.

His eyes fixate on your tongue when you wet your lips before asking, “That night, when you were hurt so badly you passed out in my store…why did you still insist on coming in?”

Shaw’s breath catches, hitching in his throat. You know because you can feel it, the way the warmth stops short on your skin. And when he speaks, the eyes that hold yours tell you this is no lie.

“Because if it was going to be the last night of my life, I didn’t want to go without seeing your face one more time.”

Love is a funny thing. Formless, senseless, yet the strongest thing that could bind two strangers. You hadn’t known Shaw for long, could count the days you spent together on one hand. And still, entirely without reason, he bled into each and every hour, crept into the darkest corners of your mind to fill your weary heart with a desperation that made it very clear that love was far from done with you.

That right or wrong, the only place you wanted to be was here — held in the arms that wrapped around your body: hot, tight, safe…

…Shaw.

His lips are softer than you ever imagined when he brings his face to yours, plush silk gliding corner to corner to cover your mouth in reverent kisses — one for each night he came into your store, watched over you from afar.

Your stalwart protector.

You tasted it now, the remnants of cinnamon on his tongue from the gum he was so fond of chewing, intensified by the memory of all the times you wondered about its flavour: pink bubbles popping in his mouth as he coolly dealt with the robber, the night you emptied his pockets as your neighbour stitched him up on your bed.

Shaw tasted sweet. Far sweeter than you ever imagined.

And when his tongue slides against yours — slow and sure as it explores your mouth with increasing fervour before drawing back just as you clenched around emptiness, yearning for more, the beast within you refuses to abide.

You like the shock that passes over his face when you move, sudden and forceful, to push him onto the mattress beneath you; the artless way Shaw sinks teeth into his bottom lip in response. You like how he watches as you straddle his hips — gaze earnest and body honest, hardening as you grind undulating circles upon his groin.

But, perhaps most of all, you liked the spark of something wild in those amber eyes, an unpredictability warning that if you weren’t careful, you’d be the one to find yourself pinned to the bed.

Because wasn’t that ultimately the push-and-pull that characterized so much between you and him? Maddening at times, but always, always binding you to Shaw like some red string of fate.

So you nod when he whispers “May I?”, unable to suppress a moan to finally feel his hands on you: tracing along your jaw, cradling your face…resting the pad of his finger on your lip before pushing past to stroke your tongue.

Every sound he makes pleases; the soft hiss preceding the bob of his Adam’s apple to feel your lips pucker around his finger to suck, pink tongue enticing as it swirls along the length of that digit, drawing it deeper into the hot wetness of your mouth.

You never saw yourself as seductive before, but Shaw made you feel sexy. Perhaps the impulse stemmed from some primitive desire, an instinctive call to please the man you felt so profoundly for that shame was the farthest thing from your mind when you pulled his hand from your lips to guide it to your breast, only partially aware of how wet you were becoming from his gaze alone — half-lidded and heavy with lust.

The heat of his touch permeates your blouse, white and transparent still in patches from the rain. You watch his hands as they play: cupping your breasts in a gentle squeeze, thumbs and forefingers catching your nipples to pinch and roll until they stood stiff against the drape of your clothing, the flush of your flesh bold through fabric.

“You’re so beautiful that there are times I think you can’t possibly be real.”

His voice is low, husky. You let it wash over you, almost frightened by how stupidly happy you become, willing the magic to linger even as his words dissipate amongst the sounds of the night: neon buzzing and the faraway screams of sirens in the distance.

A world apart.

Your hands find the broad expanse of his chest, tracing along muscle before circling the nipples that stood erect against his damp t-shirt. Each twitch is endearing, every erratic breath he draws to feel your touch making you fall harder. And when he tries to focus on unbuttoning your blouse while fighting the impulse to tear it clean off your body, the stirring between your legs grows in intensity until he finally pulls the silken panels aside, a quiet gasp escaping his lips to see his necklace nestled between your breasts.

“It really does belong on you.”

The admiration in his tone is laced with a hint of possessiveness that makes you throb. Shaw pushes himself to sitting, gathering you onto his lap in one smooth motion as he buries his face in your chest, inhaling deep. You gasp to feel gentle teeth sink into the flesh of your breasts, Shaw following the chain of precious metal with his lips until it leads to the pendant. And when his tongue slips out to draw the piece of jade into his mouth, he brings your nipple along with it.

“Oh!…”

The sensation is unlike any you’ve known before, the soft wetness of his pliant tongue a searing contrast with the cool, smooth stone rubbing against the sensitive tip of your breast in equal measure. You feel his smile on your skin when you fist your hands into lavender hair, spine curving as your legs begin to tremble.

And he had yet to touch you below the waist.

“Your body responds so well to me. I knew you were a good girl.” He looks up at you, teasing shamelessly even as he continues to lavish attention on your breasts.

“Just your girl, if you’ll have me,” you say without second thought, long past the point of caring to keep your cards close to your chest.

Something breaks in that expression, the final walls crumbling like dust when Shaw blinks once…twice, revealing eyes that shine with emotion when he replies, “For the rest of my life, if you’ll have me.”

* * *

“Hmm!—”

Your moan is muffled, swallowed by Shaw’s greedy lips like he does with every sound of ecstasy that leaks like you do around his cock, buried impossibly deep in your body as it rocks back and forth, back and forth on his muscular thighs…

…doing your best to adjust to his ample size.

He had barely suppressed a chuckle when you first slipped your hand into his jeans, a subtle mix of pride and amusement on his face to see your eyes widen when you couldn’t quite wrap palm and fingers around the entirety of his girth.

And foreplay had only just begun.

“Still doing okay?” Shaw asks, touch tender as he brushes loose strands of hair from your eyes, lips smoothing along the apple of your cheek to feel its pink heat. “We can go as slow as you want, there’s no rush. If it’s too much, we can stop—”

“No! No…I’m okay. More than okay, I’m great. Please…please don’t stop…don’t stop…”

Struggling to string words together, your breath comes in disjointed pants as Shaw begin to thrust up — the look on his face effortlessly sensual when he bites his lip to feel you spasm around him, tight wetness yielding in increments to accommodate his body as it broke new ground.

For you had never taken a man of that size, the litheness of Shaw’s muscular body belying the impressive package he’d been hiding in those jeans. Your jaw ached just to look upon the length of that thick cock, mouth watering as a fresh wave of arousal made you press your thighs tighter together. The movement didn’t go unnoticed. Shaw had drawn you to him then — deft fingers dipping low to trace the outline of your swollen folds through moist panties, lavender head bending to kiss its lacy trim.

He took his time preparing you, licking his fingers before he eased them into your pussy — first one, then two…curling deep until the slippery sounds of arousal told him the time was ripe to introduce the third, leaving you blooming for him even as he whispered, “Think you’re ready for me to make you my girl for real?”

It borders on overwhelming, this sensation of fullness — between your legs, within your heart. And as skin stretched to capacity to accommodate the sweet friction of his slide, you wished there was a way for the euphoria of this connection to last forever:

To the one you could never forget, no matter how hard you tried.

To this man you loved like no other.

“Shaw.”

His name is faint on your breath when he falls back onto the bed, taking you with him. And as you found yourself straddling his hips once more, the altered angles of your bodies gave him the leverage to make you gasp when he begins to thrust in earnest. The eroticism of his face, lost in lust, drives all thoughts from your mind as you drop a hand to your clit, fingers drawing tight circles before his hungry eyes.

The violence of your climax takes you by surprise, having no time to consider neighbours and thin walls as the lewdest sounds escape your lips at high volume. Intense convulsions wracking your body in waves, you clench in time around your lover. The sensation proves too much to bear, drawing out Shaw’s own release as he pulls out to spill onto the folds of your pussy — swollen and pink and trembling still beneath the coat of his pearlescent seed.

* * *

“I love you.”

Morning light trickles across your walls like the slow crawl of spidery legs. Shaw’s words hang in the air between you, a final, sacred moment shared between lovers before the rest of the world wakes.

You loved the hoarseness in his voice; a testament to the hours of noisy lovemaking you had shared in lieu of sleep.

You loved the weight of his hand, stroking softly at the crown of your head.

You loved the rhythm of his heart, echoing just below your ear to confirm his existence.

“I love you too.”

You look up into those amber eyes, trying to discern whether those four little words were sufficient in conveying that fact that you adored every fibre of the man before you.

The smile that graces his face in return is tender, honest…more brilliant than the day breaking in the East.

Your hands find his body, bare beneath the sheets. And as a curious finger traces along the ridge of the scar that runs in a broad stroke across his sculpted abdomen, your gaze falls on his t-shirt, draped over the back of a chair.

“You should probably throw that Snoopy shirt away, especially after what happened last night.”

Shaw follows your line of sight, chest rising and falling in a deep sigh. “Shitty as its previous owner was, I could never bring myself to hate something that reminds me of you. Aside from saving my ass, this was the first gift you ever gave me. And I never throw away gifts from my girl.”

His girl.

The mystery of life is that filled with unknowns though it is, we continue to live, brave in the face of the uncertainty that comes with every passing day. You had no idea what fate had in store for you or Shaw, had no way of knowing if your relationship existed on borrowed time.

The only thing you were certain of was that your feelings for each other were real, that try as you might, neither of you were very good at forgetting the other. That in this moment, here and now, the only thing that mattered was this love that hit you…

…like a bolt from the blue.

Thanks so much for reading! I hope you all enjoyed this Shaw saga! 💖

Check out more of my work here! 📚 (Please do not repost/copy/alter my work. Reblogs, on the other hand, are perfectly fine and much appreciated! 💖👍🏼)

Jump to Chapter(s): One | Two | Three

#mlqc #mr love queen's choice #love and producer #mr love dream date #evol x love #mlqc shaw #mlqc ling xiao #mlqc smut #mlqc shaw smut #mlqc fanfic #mlqc fic #fanfiction #my writing #elex

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eternityservedcold · 4 years

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ive been posting about my codex!wendy au on twitter for a couple days now but instead of just copy and pasting what i wrote on there ill actually expand upon it a little. also this post is gonna be really long but theres pictures so i hope that helps

if theres any moment where the timeline splits (not including moments before this that may have had a butterfly effect), it would be william carters train crash in 1904, which.... did not happen in this universe. he, with no small amount of shame, moves in with his rich and successful brother.

wendy and abigail grow up having, essentially, an extra parent, which thankfully means abigail didnt die. with their mother long gone, when jack dies in 1919 (not of magic-y reasons, just like... a heart attack or something), william is left to take care of the twins alone. he tries to find jobs so he could work himself to death and at least save his nieces, but due to his general lack of competence, he isnt finding much that can actually sustain them all.

wendy and abigail, who have noticed this despite williams protests that everything is fine, decide to do the smartest thing they can think of: run away from home so william only needs to take care of himself. im sure you can see why this is a bad idea, even in a universe without the codex umbra, but boy does it get significantly worse for them very quickly.

wendy gets hit by a car. abigail runs for help, but by the time she gets back, wendy is fine. and clutching a strange book.

over the course of the next few weeks, wendy and abigail manage to scrounge up a little money, and between this, wendy shows abigail some neat tricks the codex umbra taught her. abigail suggests, a bit jokingly, that maybe they could become magicians. the codex wendy thinks this is a great idea.

[transcription of text: “THE AMAZING MARY, Performing feats to astound and mystify”]

at the codex umbras suggestion, wendy adopts a stage name, “mary,” and the twins perform their first show. it goes very well, and they make a lot of money, so they decide to keep doing this, and hopefully save enough to go back home and take care of their uncle.

mary and abigail perform many magic shows, and end up becoming beloved around the country. admittedly they do get a bit lost in the sauce, but theyre teenagers, wouldnt you? except, mary often times seems to forget they theyre doing this for their uncle at all. in fact, mary seems all-around real different these days.

mary becomes far colder, more secretive, and will lock herself in her study for days at a time. abigail notices her sisters change in personality, and attributes it to the fame going to her head. unlike charlie, abigail never realized quite how deep mary had gotten into the codex.

mary and abigails final act goes very similarly to maxwell and charlies. theyre going through the routine when something goes horribly wrong, and theyre grabbed by the codex and taken to the constant. mary becomes the queen, and abigail the night monster.

mary rules much like her uncle, and brings most of the same people into her world. the differences are as such:

maxwell is still william carter, who replaces wilson as the “all-around” type. if he was in the game, he would only have slightly lower hunger drain, and otherwise be identical to wilson without a beard

charlie has taken the role of wendy, so to speak... winona died in a factory accident (the very same one that would have taken her to the constant in another life), and charlie keeps her soul in a rose

webber becomes the “canonical” protagonist instead of wilson. i would have made it william, but it is ultimately important that the protagonist is someone uninvolved in the carter relationship chart

wilson is actually a half-decent scientist so he replaces winona, i guess

adventure mode is the same but i wrote some quotes for funsies, here we go:

A Cold Reception

Looks like you found my portal.

Haven’t you learned “curiosity kills the cat?”

Let’s see if I can’t up the stakes a bit.

King of Winter

Oh, you survived, that’s fun.

Just remember, you need to be lucky four more times...

But I only need to be lucky once.

The Game is Afoot

Huh? You’re still alive?

That’s... impressive. I’m interested to see how this will go.

Break a leg out there.

Archipelago

How do you do?

This has been fun. You’re a good playmate.

But I think you should know I had a nasty habit of breaking my toys.

Two Worlds

How do you do?

I know you may not want to make another deal with me, but...

I’ll just give you all of this for free.

Food, gold, pigs, anything you want from this world.

All I want in return is for you to stay put, okay?

Darkness

Go ahead.

Keep going.

I think we both know what will happen.

Epilogue

You found me.

Was it what you hoped for?

Forgive me for not giving you a curtsy.

For what it’s worth, you were a fun playmate.

To me, at least. Maybe not to Them.

Maybe They’ll find you more fun when you’re here.

They’ll show you beautiful, terrifying things.

It’d be best if you didn’t fight it.

I’ve worked so hard to make this world.

I’ve made it so pretty for Them.

I thought I was so smart. So needed.

But even Queens are bound to the board.

In the end, I can’t change the game.

I’m not quite sure what They want.

Perhaps we’re just performing for Them.

Though that may be my mind playing tricks on me.

Hm. What year is it? Time is weird here.

Go ahead, stay as long as you like.

It’s not like I can throw you out.

Or you could put the key in and get it over with.

It’s a lose-lose situation.

That’s life, though, isn’t it?

...I think I’m done for now.

i also drew some disconnected cyclum-ish comics:

[transcript of text:

Mary: "After all I've done, you still help me. Why?"

Webber: "We trust you."

Mary: (offscreen) "I don't understand."

Webber: "If you were gonna do something, you already would have."

Mary: "I just don't understand."

Webber: (offscreen) "It's okay, Mary, you don't have to."]

[transcript of text:

William: "I missed you so much! I was worried sick, I can't even be mad at you..." (rambling)

Mary: "I... I'm sorry, do I know you?"]

im very much still developing this au but thats what i have so far.

#cant catch me gay thoughts #dont starve #don't starve #hi dont starve tags hope you have fun with this one <3

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ohshit-itsyagorl · 4 years

Text

Four Dipshits and a Michelle

Part 1

Hey, Loves! This is a fanfiction I’ve been working on recently. Hope you like it!

Summary: Michelle never believed in soulmates. But what happens when she turns seventeen and gets her mark? What happens when she inevitably finds the person with the matching tattoo? And what is she supposed to do with Peter Parker. Her best friend in the whole world. Her crush. Someone she feels drawn to for some inexplicable reason.

Michelle Jones never understood the infatuation human society had with soulmates.

As a little girl full of hopes and dreams, she admits she was rather fond of the idea: someone out there who was perfect for her, someone who she could share her life with, her soul-bonded partner.

Until her mom got sick. And her dad started treating his wife like his own personal punching bag and then left them with barley enough money to get by. And that sucked, but Michelle could deal with it. She really could.

(But she was not okay.)

But after that initial honeymoon phase, after seeing a relationship that was supposedly written in the cosmos fall apart, she was wrenched back to a sad, logical reality.

After giving up on her soulmate, she found it grating how often it came up in seemingly normal discussion.

This, Michelle thought, was rather ridiculous, considering they were all freshman in high school, and wouldn’t be turning 17 for at least two years, three for most of them.

When she woke up on the morning of February 27th, she was not expecting the day to be anything special or different.

Trudging to the bathroom, half asleep with hair in her mouth, she thought she might pass out. Damn her for opting to take the PCB (physics, then chemistry, then biology) route instead of being normal like almost every other kid at Midtown Tech.

The only bonus to PCB was that she had the same kids in her science class every year. Betty and Cindy and Ned and Peter. The only downside was Flash, who was insufferable on the very best of days. He was also on the PCB track.

(Ugh.)

Point was, Michelle had stayed up super late the previous night studying for a massive test with Peter and Ned, and she was absolutely exhausted.

(Physics could be a bitch sometimes.)

“Hey, Sweetie, how did you sleep?” Her mom was laying on the couch, nose shoved into her book, right arm hooked up to an IV. When Michelle didn’t answer immediately, she looked up and let out a soft oh. “Rough night?” She asked.

Michelle sighed. “Yeah. Big test today. Studied with the losers last night.”

“Well, good luck, honey.” MJ started walking toward the door. “Oh, and, Michelle? Don’t call your friends losers.”

Michelle ran a hand through her hair, the chocolate curls a tangled mess perched atop her head.

————————————————————

“Hey, MJ.” Michelle looked up to see Peter waving at her, toothy grin and glasses and a dark blue sweater. She narrowed her eyes, shaking her head. Too early, Idiot.

Physics went as well as could be expected. Lunch was a different story.

“I can’t wait,” Betty said dreamily. “I wonder what they’ll look like.”

“I wonder what my soulmark will be,” Ned said, looking up from his English notes. “With my luck, it’ll be worse than that senior with a foot tattooed down the right side of his face.”

Michelle snorted. “Yeah, maybe it’ll be a giant dick or something.”

“Maybe yours’ll be a unicorn, MJ. You know, to match your personality,” Ned fired back.

She stiffened, looking around at the group. ‘‘I don’t want a soulmate,” she muttered.

“What? Why not?” Cindy exclaimed, her eyes almost comically wide.

Peter looked up at that. His glasses had fallen down his nose considerably, and he shoved them back up his face. Dork.

Michelle shrugged. “I just don’t. They’re pointless.”

“Well,” Peter started, “maybe one day you’ll change your mind.”

She rolled her eyes. “Not likely, Parker.”

“Tell that to your soul-bonded partner.”

A soft chorus of oohs echoed from the Table around her. She needed new friends.

“Whatever. Even if I find my soulmate, I’ll just avoid them like the plague. Shouldn’t be that hard with all my practice when it comes to you lot.”

Peter let out a small uh-huh, and went back to whatever the hell it was he was doing.

It wasn’t like she and Peter didn’t argue. As best friends, it was kind of part of the job description. But Peter and Ned already knew how she felt about soulmates and soulmarks. Michelle was surprised he had pushed her on that front. Weird.

She cleared her throat.

—————————————————————

Sophomore year rolled around, and with it came Academic Decathlon. Michelle befriended Liz almost immediately. She was so nice, and perfect, and smart.

About halfway through the year after a field trip for AcaDec, Peter missed school for over a week. Something about catching a bug on the trip. On day 10, Michelle went to his apartment.

May opened the door. “Oh, hey, MJ! Peter is in his room. He’ll be glad to see you,” she said, a smile gracing her face.

Michelle walked past May with a small nod of acknowledgement. When she entered Peter’s room, she was fairly surprised to see that he, in fact, did actually look very sick. He was on the floor covered in sweat and shaking.

“Ohmigod, Peter! Are you okay?”

“Oh, MJ. Didn’t know you cared. How sweet of you,” he managed through chattering teeth.

“I don’t, Loser. Here,” Michelle leaned down, “let me help you to your bed.”

“No!” Peter scrambled backward over a pile of schoolwork, the pages sticking to his hands. The sweat, probably, thought Michelle

She quirked an eyebrow.

“I, uh—I don’t want to get you sick, is all,” he explained.

“Whatever, Loser,” she said. “I brought you your schoolwork, so… here you go.” She dropped the stack onto his unoccupied bed, spared Peter one more glance, shrugged, and turned to walk out of the room.

“MJ, wait. Thank you, for, uh, for the schoolwork.”

She flipped him off on the way out the door. Weirdo.

Peter started changing after that. He started filling out his shirts more. She figured he had started working out or something.

Not that she was looking at him. Because she wasn’t.

He no longer wore glasses, and dropped out of marching band and robotics club. He disappeared at nationals, showing up only for the ride home after the fiasco at the Washington Monument (of all the times to gain a rebellious streak AcaDec nationals was not the time or the place). Michelle glared at him nonstop for a week after that.

People started avoiding the topic of soulmates and soulmarks around her, knowing it was a touchy subject.

Over the course of the year, Michelle grew closer to Peter and Ned than the other kids in Acadec.

—————————————————————

“MJ?” Peter looked back at her from where he was squatting down in front of the DVD player. He was wearing sweats and a math pun t-shirt that stretched tightly across his chest. His arms across his legs were lithe and muscled. How had she never noticed before…

And she was staring. Michelle blushed furiously. Peter smirked. She flipped him off. He chuckled.

“What do you want?” She asked. His hair was gelled back like every day, but it was a bit mussed, falling onto his forehead. Her blood heated. She wanted to run her fingers through his hair, wondered how soft it would be.

Peter ran a hand through said hair, biting his lip. “Have you—uh—have you ever seen The Princess Bride?” He asked.

MJ rolled her eyes. This boy. “Bits and pieces. I was never really interested in that mushy, gushy, sappy shit. Besides, we are not watching that.”

“Uh, yeah, we are. It’s simply tragic how your previous social circle failed you,” he said, scrunching his nose up. It was cute annoying.

Michelle squinted at him, mouth becoming a thin line. He smiled back innocently. She flipped him off. Again.

She relented in the end.

Peter hopped up next to where she was sitting, stretching his arms up and over the back of the couch. Michelles’s eyes snagged on the bit of exposed skin where his shirt had ridden up. Were those… abs? She shook her head, looking back toward the now-glowing TV screen. Her nerdy best friend Peter Parker could not have abs. But.

Michelle had to admit that the movie wasn’t actually as bad as she had initially thought. The reason for that was mostly Peter. The absolute dweeb was acting out the fight scenes with himself. Watching Peter try and punch and defend himself at the same time was pretty funny.

MJ looked over at Peter during the end of the movie. He was looking at her.

“Why don’t you believe in soulmates?” He blurted, then proceeded to clap a hand over his mouth. “Shit, I’m sorry. You really, uh, really don’t have to answer that.”

And maybe it was the laughter they had shared together. Maybe it was the way she felt safe around him, or how his hair curled behind his ears, but, “My parents were soulmates. It—it didn’t work out."

That was all she was willing to share.

Peter nodded, swallowing thickly and looking back to the movie. “I think Ned’s right,” he said. Michelle raised an eyebrow at him. He cleared his throat, “Your soulmark is definitely going to be a unicorn. Or a pegasus. Or a rainb—”

“Shut up, Parker.”

Peter raised his hands defensively, grinning.

They talked for another hour, but Peter couldn’t seem to drop the conversation about soulmates.

“Hey, MJ?” He said, giving her a curious look.

Michelle hummed.

Peter ran a hand through his hair. With all the posing while acting out the movie, it looked like he had just gotten out of bed. Maybe even just had—

No. Best friend. Peter was her best friend. Nothing more.

“On your birthday,” he ventured, “when you get your mark, will you tell me about it? We could, like, make fun of each other’s or something. Once I get mine, that is.”

Michelle hesitated. Then: “Sure, okay. Yeah, that sounds good.”

Peter beamed at her and her heart did a backflip. It was worth talking about her soulmark to see that smile, different from his usually timid upturned lips. She tucked her hair behind her ear. “Awesome! What are best friends for if not to make fun of shit,” he said.

Best friend. The words stung a bit, even if they were true.

-----------------------------------------------------

Junior year came faster than any of them expected, and with it, standardized testing. Michelle was sad that Liz had moved away the year prior when her dad was caught selling alien technology illegally, but she was excited to be team captain this year. She, Peter, and Ned had all celebrated with aLord of the Rings movie marathon, but over the past few months, Peter and Ned had been sharing hushed conversations. MJ wasn’t sure what was going on, but it made her feel kind of shitty—like she was being pushed out of their friend group.

But then Peter would shoot her a shy smile, and she would feel a little better. There was definitely something going on, though.

Betty got her mark over the summer—a small cat’s eye in the palm of her left hand—but she had had no luck finding the person with the matching tattoo, much to her chagrin.

Michelle truly felt like she was rocketing toward her birthday. Somehow, she and Peter had found a way to turn her soulmate into a bit of a joke, which helped. A little.

That’s how Michelle found herself on the phone with Peter, wearing a tank top and shorts in the middle of winter, watching the seconds tick down to midnight.

“I’m so excited,” Peter said over the phone. “I can’t wait to see if it’s a unicorn or a pegasus.”

“Can it, Parker,” Michelle snapped. She was strangely terrified, though she wasn’t sure why.

“Okay, Magic Princess Unicorn—”

“I mean it, Pete.”

“Ten seconds, MJ.”

“Shit,” she whispered, hands shaking as she hastily put Peter on speaker, and set down the phone, turning to face the floor-length mirror.

“Do you see anything?” He asked. Did he sound… nervous?

Michelle scanned her arms and legs in the mirror, turned around and did the same on the back. “Fuck.”

“What?” Peter said, voice crackling over the phone. “What is it? Is it a Unicorn?”

“No,” Michelle gasped out. “I don’t see anything.”

It was true she didn’t want anything to do with her soulmate, but it did hurt that she didn’t even have one.

She let out a sob, then slapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide.

“MJ—MJ, calm down. It’s probably just somewhere else. Try taking your clothes off.” Michelle felt her toes curl into the carpet, her breath hitched. “Fuck,” Peter said. “I didn’t mean it like that—fuck, that came out wrong.”

You don’t need to apologize, Michelle thought. Instead, she nodded, then, realizing he couldn’t see her over the phone, she cleared her throat and said, “No, I get it—what you meant, I mean.” She cringed, Christ, she was absolutely horrible at this. “God, I hope it’s not on my ass.”

Peter let out a bark of laughter. Michelle smiled, then remembered her situation, frowned.

“Stop frowning, you’ll get premature wrinkles,” Peter said.

Michelle frowned deeper. “How do you know I’m frowning?”

“I know you, MJ. Now stop frowning. There’s only one way to know if you have a tattoo on your ass,” Peter said, choking on the last word. “Just check.”

Michelle loosed a breath. “Okay. I guess you’re right.”

She turned back toward the mirror, reaching for the waistband of her shorts and underwear, pulling them both down at the same time. Nothing on the front. She shimmied around a bit, before giving in and stepping out of her shorts. She glanced over her shoulder into the mirror. Nothing.

She took off her tank top next, checking her back first, since she was already facing in that direction. Still nothing. She turned around and ran her fingers over her stomach. Nothing there, either. Goddammit.

She slowly reached back to unclasp her bra and let it slide down her arms. “Mother fucker,” she said quietly.

She’s not sure how, but Peter heard her. “MJ? What’s the status? Did you find it?”

“Yeah, I did. And I fucking hate the universe.” She hissed.

Peter laughed nervously. “Well, what is it? Where is it?”

“Like hell I’m telling you!” MJ screeched.

“C’mon, Michelle, we had a deal!” Peter said. She could picture him laying down in bed, then sitting up abruptly, hair mussed like that night they had watched The Princess bride together. And that strip of skin she’d glimpsed and—fuck, she was thinking about him while she was naked.

“Peter, I literally had to take all my clothes off just to find it. I am not telling you about this ever. God, this is so humiliating.” Michelle looked in the mirror again and winced. Staring back a her was her naked body, dark skin gleaming in the moonlight, curls coming down over her breasts. She moved her hair out of the way to get a better look at her mark, and… there it was. A fist-size black spider sitting in the middle of her left breast, right over her nipple. She groaned, burying her face in the crook of her elbow.

“Oh, c’mon, M. It can’t be that bad,” Peter said.

“It’s bad, Pete,” Michelle sighed. “Well, at least this way my soulmate won’t be able to see my mark.”

Michelle stroked a finger over one of the spider’s legs and shivered. Peter swore over the phone.

“What?” Michelle asked.

“Nothing,” Peter said, though his voice was shaky. “Just got a shiver. That’s what I get for not wearing a shirt.

This boy.

And now she was picturing him shirtless. Fuck. With that mussed-up hair. Double-fuck. She looked down to find that the hand near her breast had grabbed on, kneading the soft flesh. Holy mother of god, an infinite amount of fucks. But it felt good. Really good. She let out a quiet moan.

“MJ? What’s going on, are you okay?” How the ever-living hell did Peter keep hearing her? She could barely hear herself.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she managed. Thankfully she sounded normal, if not a little breathy. “Just a little messed up after seeing the mark, you know? I wasn’t expecting to feel so… attached to it.” Because that’s what it was, she realized. She could already feel her connection to someone else, and she hated herself for loving it, for craving that sensation to be stronger.

“Okay. We should probably both go to sleep anyway,” Peter said. “I’ll see you tomorrow, alright?” He sounded worried, but he was willing to give her space. That was one of the things she valued most about their friendship.

“Yeah,” Michelle said. Then, when she heard him start to shift, presumably on his bed (God help her), she interrupted, “and, Peter?” He hummed in response. “Put a shirt on. It’s cold out.”

He grunted. “Yeah, will do, M.”

Somehow Michelle got the feeling he wasn’t going to put on a shirt. Idiot.

Part 2

#peter parker #peter parker fanfiction #spideychelle #soulmate #soulmarks #peter x michelle #michelle jones #eventual smut #masterbation #best friends #au #peter parker soulmate

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metaphoricallyroger · 6 years

Text

With Love, From Me to You - iv of iv [R.T.]

Summary: One-hundred ways to say ‘I love you’ over twenty-eight years.

Words: 3,265

Warnings: Implied smut. Language. Baby blues and pregnancy difficulties (at 77. 85.). Talk of illness and death (at 96. 98.).

Note: This follows both Bohemian Rhapsody’s and real-life events (generally for dates, minor plot etc.), picture whichever Roger you fancy! The title is taken from ‘From Me To You’ by The Beatles.

76. (1984):

“Can you believe he’s going to do this solo project? What a joke! Told me all I’d be is some dentist, too! As if I’d have ever done that.”

“Roger.” Heavily pregnant, listening to Roger screech about band problems, although extremely valid, isn’t at the top of your priorities at the moment.

“Four million dollars! I can’t believe it!”

“Roger,” you interrupt, louder now, “I’ve been having contractions since you left for the meeting. Could we please go to the hospital now?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were having contractions?”

“Because you were too busy yelling to listen properly!” You breathe in and out deeply to calm your heart rate.

“I’ll drive you to the hospital.” He bends at the waist to help you up, which you ignore. Just because you’re going into labour doesn’t mean you’ve suddenly become incapable of caring for yourself.

“Who else would I want to drive me?” Despite feeling nauseous and racked with pain, you smile at your husband as you walk out the door.

77. (1984):

“Are you okay?”

“What?” You snap out of the daze you have been in, staring blankly at the artwork above Robin’s cot.

“You’re crying, love.”

“I am? I didn’t- I didn’t realise that I was.” You wipe at your cheek and hot tears follow.

“What’s wrong? You can tell me, I’ll try to help,” he offers.

“She doesn’t want to breastfeed and my arms are getting so tired trying to hold her up, I can’t do this. It’s too hard this time around.” You whimper and more tears fall, landing on the baby’s head.

“Can I take her for a moment? I’ll be right back.”

You pass the four-day-old over and he disappears out of the room, returning with a pillow from your bed. He sits next to you and puts the pillow on your lap and transfers Robin back to you.

“Rest her on the pillow, and I’ll support her neck, okay?” You make a noise of agreement and move your arm for Roger’s which quickly replaces yours.

“There, she can take all the time she wants to feed, I’ve got her. Now, you get your udder out.” You know he’s trying to make you laugh, and it does with a sniffle.

78. (1984):

“Did you know it’s been ten years to the date that we first kissed?” Robin lies against your chest, having her morning feed, beginning to daze as she has her fill of milk.

“You remember when our first kiss was?” Roger looks up where he sits with the three-year-old Zoe on his lap, who he is letting poke her fingers anywhere she likes, including up his nose on accident.

“Of course, don’t you?”

“I could never forget you making the first move, love.” He shifts in bed, careful not to jostle the now dozing baby and steals the first kiss of the next decade of your lives.

79. (1985):

For the first time in years, Roger had returned from a meeting with Miami in a fit. He’d left happy this morning, but you presume something had gone amiss during the meeting with Brian and John.

“I can’t believe he’d be that much of a coward to set up a meeting through Miami.”

“He’s your family, Roger. Besides, weren’t you telling me you haven’t spoken to him nor would pending Armageddon?” You watch him pace back and forth like a trapped zoo animal, a lion if you’re being specific.

“What the hell do you think he wants?” He ignores your quip.

“Maybe he wants to be a part of the band again. Or maybe he just wants to talk, apologise.”

“That’d be bloody right. What, he finally got sick of Prenter and his club songs? Finally decided we’re worth something to him?” His voice seems to gain an octave with every syllable.

“Hey,” you call, “don’t get angry at me. I’m team Roger. Always.”

“I’m sorry,” he collapses on the settee in the corner of the room.

“You don’t have to accept his apology. But at least hear him out. Maybe you could be the bigger person?”

His hand comes up to pinch the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache forming.

“I hate that you’re always right.”

80. (1985):

“How was rehearsal?” You know it can’t have gone too well considering Roger went straight to the fridge for a beer without saying hello to any members of the household.

He bites his lip and his nostrils flare, making your eyebrows crease. His tone is solemn as he begins to speak.

“I really need to tell you something, but it’s about someone else and I got told I couldn’t tell anyone.”

You take Roger at his word and don’t require him to tell you. Something about this conversation has an overtone of loyalty, loyalty to whom, you aren’t sure. There is a small crease between his brows and he just looks sad.

“You don’t need to tell me. If it involves me, yes, I would prefer that you tell me, but if the person doesn’t want anything told, I won’t ask.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.” His hands curve around your hips as he takes another sip of beer and you rest your head on his chest, listening to the percussive beating of his heart.

81. (1985):

The band have been working hard (harder than you’ve seen in recent years) in the days leading up to Live Aid. You know that the practise and days of only see Roger at bedtime are going to be worth it.

Roger crouches in front of Zoe after having put earmuffs on Robin who is testing her balance on your shoulders. The earmuffs go over her blonde waves and he holds them away from her ears so she can still hear him.

“These are so you don’t lose any hearing in your young age and your mother doesn’t divorce me.”

“Okay, Daddy,” Zoe giggles, not comprehending what Roger’s saying.

The size of the earmuffs on the four and one-year-old is almost comical.

“You’re an excellent dad.” You kiss his cheek tenderly.

You turn back to wave at him as you make your way to the side of the stage and can’t help the proud welling of your eyes as Queen takes to the stage.

82. (1986):

The rain that has tapped resoundingly against the windows and dampened the sound of the city has finally eased. Roger lifts his head to nibble at the crease between thigh and hip.

“Oh, look, the suns out again,” you say, sweaty and joyously. You rest your hand on your stomach and look down at the man between your legs.

You run your knuckles along Roger’s cheeks, your fingertips gliding over blonde brows.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“Nope, you look good in that spot,” you return your hands back to the sheet whilst Roger’s head returns to its previous position.

83. (1986):

The party after Queen’s sold out Wembley shows is crowded with many people, most of whom you haven’t seen before, friends of friends of friends.

You sit in Roger’s lap, where he rattles the ice in the bottom of his now empty glass. You feel him shift under you as if to move you, but he yawns instead.

“Tired?”

“Mhm. It’s been a long day,” he sighs into your shoulder, flexing his fingers around your waist.

“Let me get you a drink,” you take the glass from his hand and stand up.

84. (1986):

“All the numbers you could possibly need are on the fridge,” you remind Roger as you move through the house, bags in hand.

“Don’t you worry about us,” Roger places a calming hand to your bicep, “we’ll have a right good time, won’t we girls?” The two angels look innocently up at Roger and nod.

“They’ve never been without me before.”

“You don’t trust me to look after my own children?” You ache to sooth the downturned lips of Roger’s.

“No, I do, you’re the only person I trust with them more than me. I’m just anxious.”

“Try not to worry about us, okay? I’ve got this. Go sort everything out with your parents.” His calming tone aids you in alleviating some of the panic you were feeling about leaving your kids alone for the first time.

“Okay,” you sigh, “okay.”

“Say goodbye to Mama, kids.” They both give you a hug and a kiss that you don’t want to let go of, but you do, if only to move onto Roger and cling even harder.

85. (1987):

“Why isn’t this happening?” Your tears drench your face as you sit, fully clothed, in a scalding hot bath.

Roger had tried to get you to take off your clothes but you ignored him, wanting to feel the weight of sopping clothing, forcing yourself to stay upright in the bath so you don’t sink below the water. It would be easy to do, at least your hair would be clean.

“We’ll just have to give it time,” he whispers into your hair, pressing butterfly kisses over the crown of your head.

You want to have another child with Roger. Having Zoe and Robin was easy, you feel as if your luck has now run out, and you ache with a fire you’ve never felt before.

86. (1987):

The restaurant Roger has booked a reservation at is fancy and bright, doing much to boost your mood after the past emotionally draining months you’ve experienced.

“After you,” Roger opens the door to the restaurant and guides you inside with a hand on your lower back.

87. (1988):

“How are you so calm?” You’re sitting on your hospital bed, going through the motions of contractions while watching your husband pace wall to wall in the private room.

“Done this twice before, remember?”

You clamber off the bed and pace with Roger, hands intertwined, as it helps you to feel like your labour is progressing rather than sitting, which feels like watching paint dry.

It’s Roger that cries this time when the midwife announces that the baby’s a boy, and it’s the sight of him holding his son, still sticky with newness, with such a look of awe that makes your own emotions bubble over.

88. (1988):

“Now, you have to be really quiet because he’s going to be asleep, okay?” Zoe puts her pointer finger to her lips and Robin follows, enjoying mimicking her sister.

Roger glances down at the girls and leads them to the living room where you sit with Henry in his baby capsule.

“Can I pet him?” Robin looks to you as she asks and you nod.

“Yes you can,” Roger laughs, “gentle, he’s still little.” He guides Robin’s hand, still too young to truly understand what Roger is saying. He helps her brush her hand across the soft skin of Henry’s forehead while Zoe waits her turn.

You sit back and watch the interactions with a soft smile.

89. (1988):

“Could you leave my shirt on?” You wonder, tilting your head back, trying to keep tears from spilling.

“What?”

Roger sits up on his knees between your bent legs, looking over your face with concern.

“I don’t feel comfortable naked any- anymore. I don’t look l-like I did at twenty-five,” you stammer.

“Hey,” he whispers, “This body has been a home for three beautiful children. This body has done amazing things that continuously leaves me in awe. I didn’t fall for you because of your body, I fell for you because of your heart and your mind, which hasn’t changed. I feel like you were a gift, made for me.” At every pause, a kiss is placed over your body, your fluttering eyes, nervous fingers, soft earlobes.

Tears, this time of happiness slowly spill from your eyes as you allow him to remove your shirt.

90. (1989):

Roger didn’t imagine his fortieth birthday beginning with the shape of your head moving up and down underneath the bed covers to be interrupted. But life, as it would seem, always has other plans.

“Mum! Henry spilt juice all over the kitchen table!”

“Can’t you clean it up yourself?” Roger hollers to your eldest. You pull back when you hear a crash and a wail that interrupts the once tranquil space.

“Sorry, rain check?”

“We had three too many children,” he huffs and rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, you say that, but you enjoy it.”

“That I do.” The skin around his eyes crinkles when he grins, showing age but they have that same shine, looking just as young as when you first met.

91. (1989):

The obligatory first day of school photos was taken, except this time, Roger was home to be included in them. He made you take about a hundred of them with both girls, singly and in a group. Your favourite one of the day, which will be framed, is a picture of Roger holding both girls up, backpacks too large on and kissing his cheek. His grin is so wide you momentarily think it will split his face.

“Daddy, will you walk me to my class?”

“Of course, Bubs.” Roger changes his pace so that it is slower than Robin’s, and you don’t say anything. There’s still plenty of time to get to class after you dropped Zoe off to her own classroom.

“Daddy are you sad?” Robin’s blue eyes look up at Roger whose matching one’s look back at her.

“No, I’m not, darling.” Once you all make it to the classroom, Robin runs off without a glance back once she gives a hug and a kiss to both of you.

You make it back to the car, relatively in control of your own emotions, but Roger, you aren’t so sure. He keeps mumbling under his breath about

“Don’t go getting sappy on me now, Taylor.”

“She’s so cute in her little uniform though. Her shoes still aren’t bigger than my hand, how is she old enough for school?” You watch him push his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose to cover his watering eyes.

“Want a hug?”

“Yes please.”

92. (1989):

You hear the clatter of the hammer against the floor and many specific expletives which makes you grin, but you remain on the lounge, waiting for Roger to make his way to you.

“I just smashed my thumb and busted it,” Roger stomps into the room and heads towards the bathroom.

“Hold on, I’ll kiss it better.”

93. (1990):

“Do I need a tie?” Roger looks at you from where he’s stood in front of the cupboard, trying to decide, last minute, of course, what he should wear.

“Yes, you need a tie, you’re getting an award, Roger.”

“Which one?” He holds up two ties, a blue and a black.

“The black one,” you point, sitting with Henry on the floor who’s playing with blocks.

“Does this look good?” Roger turns around from the full-length mirror and your eyes grow wide.

You swallow roughly, squeezing down the ball of lust in your throat.

“Brings out your blue eyes, pretty boy.”

94. (1990):

“How’s Montreux?”

“It’s really beautiful here. I wish you could all be here too.” Despite the joy in Roger’s tone, you can tell there is a hidden sadness behind it.

“I wish we could too. But you know the kids have school otherwise I’d be there at the drop of a hat.”

“I miss you.” Your own heart clenches as you hear him take a shaky breath.

“I miss you.”

95. (1990):

Roger hasn’t picked you up in what feels like years, but he does today. Your legs wrap familiarly around his waist and your hand goes up to run through his hair. It’s tender and cozy, and he still smells the same, like home.

“I missed you,” you whisper against his mouth.

“I missed you more,” he breathes, connecting his lips with yours.

96. (1991):

The brightness of the albicant lighting from the bathroom wakes Roger despite the door being half-closed. He glances to the side, checking the clock, and noting the early hour and the still dark house. He pulls himself out of the warm bed and rubs his eyes.

“You okay?” He stumbles into the bathroom where you’re ridding Henry of his pyjamas after he’s been sick all over himself.

“Just let me get him cleaned up. Go back to bed. I’ll be there once I’ve changed his sheets and mopped the floor.”

You don’t want to bother Roger. You’ve never seen him so physically or emotionally drained and the fine lines that have appeared seem to have taken permanent residence on his face this year.

“No, no, I’ll do it for you,” Roger presses a kiss to his miserable, green looking son's forehead and then yours before exiting the room to find cleaning products.

97. (1991):

“Take a deep breath.”

The paparazzi and journalists have been camped out in front of Garden Lodge for what seems like forever, and have taken it upon themselves to slander every movement from those coming and going.

It aggravated everyone that had any contact with the people behind the garden walls and often sent Roger spiralling into a rage that ended with smashed glasses and broken cigarettes he no longer smoked.

“How the fuck is that going to calm me down?”

“It might. Just try it, Roger.” You both get out of the car and you grab onto his clammy hand, giving him a pointed, yet reassuring look.

Together you make your way through the swarm of locusts and keep your eyes trained to the floor, ignoring any allegations thrown at you. You both seem to release a sigh of relief once you make it behind the green door, it symbolising something akin to a boundary between worlds.

98. (1991):

You add the cards and the flowers to Roger’s surprise whilst your two oldest kids run around with their homemade presents, putting them into place. The pancakes border on barely cooked and burnt, which in turn makes them odd shaped, but you know Roger will appreciate it, especially because your babies helped make them. You also made your own batch of pancakes just in case which are cooked for everyone else to eat, but that is beside the point.

“What is going on in here?” Roger walks into the room, bleary-eyed and warm with sleep.

“Hey! Turn around, this is supposed to be a surprise!”

“Did you make this all for me?” He stares at the thoughtful display despite your warning.

“Happy Father’s Day. You always surprise me, but it’s your turn. You’re important in this family too.” You press a kiss to his cheek and pull out his chair for him.

99. (1991):

You aren’t used to having the weight of an awake Roger on your lap. You run your hand through his hair and gently tug every time you come to the blonde ends.

One of his hands grips yours tightly, resting against his hip with nails creating moon-like imprints on your knuckles. If your lashes weren’t already damp, the sharp feeling would have brought tears to your eyes.

“It’s okay to cry.”

Roger stubbornly shakes his head, eyes swollen and red, waiting for the break. The ticking of the clock in the living room creates a metronome that seems to count down to when he will allow himself one moment of respite.

“Yes it is, baby, it is completely okay to. You don’t have to be strong for anyone.”

With a whimper, he turns himself around and buries his face in your stomach, and icy heat spreads with the tears he finally releases.

100. (1992):

“I love you.” You whisper in Roger’s ear, standing side by side.

You get a squeeze on the hand in response so gentle you almost miss it.

A/N: So that’s it! I hope you all enjoyed? Thank you for taking the time to read these four parts and all of the likes, reblogs and comments, they’re very appreciated. If you ever want to request an imagine, feel free to send an ask or message me, I’d love to chat! See you all next time …

#roger taylor imagine #roger taylor x reader #ben hardy imagine #ben hardy x reader #bohemian rhapsody imagine

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izzyfandoms · 6 years

Text

LAMP - Sick

Human AU LAMP with Remy as their 2-year-old son

Warnings: Mentions of Illness

Ships: LAMP

Here you go @i-can-explain-really I finished the Sick fic for you!!! Hope you like it!

General Taglist: @quillfics42 @ajdraws0430 @phantomofthesanderssides @creativity-killed-thekitten @phlying-squirrel

Masterlist

*****

Roman, Logan, Patton and Virgil had met in high school, getting together pretty quickly, and getting married only a few short years after they graduated. It had now been quite a few years since then, and the four of them now had a young 2-year-old son, named Remy.

This was a pretty regular Sunday morning. Patton was up early, making breakfast for the family. However, what wasn’t regular was the fact that Patton was coughing and sneezing, his nose blocked and his head aching.

He had been trying to make pancakes, having just finished making the mixture, when he suddenly sneezed loudly, hitting the bowl with his hand and sending it tumbling to the floor, pancake batter getting everywhere as it hit the floor with a bang.

Patton could barely even process what had just happened, his mind foggy. He sniffled loudly just as Logan walked in, hair sticking up and still in pyjamas.

"Patton, is everything okay?" He asked, before spotting the mixing bowl on the floor and the clearly unwell Patton.

Patton looked up at him, eyes watery and sniffling. "My head hurts." He mumbled, voice croaky.

Logan blinked a few times in surprise before his expression softened, and he opened his arms out to Patton, who immediately buried himself in Logan’s chest.

Logan rubbed his back sympathetically. "Okay, why don’t you go upstairs and run yourself a bath, get comfortable, and I’ll clean up down here. We can all have cereal for breakfast instead."

Patton leant back slightly, looking at Logan and frowning. "But... it’s Sunday. I always make pancakes on Sunday."

"But you’re ill. If you made pancakes, you’d likely infect them and we’ll all get sick too." Logan’s voice then softened. "And you need to remember to take care of yourself too, okay?"

Patton blinked a few times, before opening his mouth to respond, but he was interrupted by Virgil and Roman walking in, both dressed in pyjamas, and Virgil carrying a sleepy Remy.

"What happened here?" Roman exclaimed in surprise.

"Patton’s sick." Logan said simply, and Roman and Virgil gave Patton dual looks of concern.

"Honey, are you okay?" Roman asked softly, and Patton shook his head, still buried in Logan’s arms.

Logan ran his fingers through Patton’s hair. "Why don’t you go with Roman? He can help run you a bath."

Patton thought about it for a second, before nodding, letting go of Logan and immediately being picked up bridal style by Roman, who whisked him out of the room and back upstairs.

Just as they left, Remy seemed to wake up properly.

"Dada!" He exclaimed.

Virgil sighed. "Your Dad’s sick, Rem, so your Papa’s taking him upstairs to rest."

Remy pouted, starting to struggle in Virgil’s arms, continuing to whine. "Dada! Dada!"

Virgil struggled not to drop him, and glanced at Logan. "Hey, can you take him? I’ll clean up the kitchen."

Logan nodded. "Okay, I’ll take him to the sitting room."

Virgil passed Remy to Logan, but he continued fussing, kicking his legs and pushing Logan’s shoulder.

"Fa! Wan’ Dada!" Remy complained. Fa was short for Father, but he was too young to really pronounce that yet.

"Yes, I know you want him, but he’s upstairs, and we don’t want you getting sick too." Logan said simply, but Remy still looked on the brink of tears, so he sighed.

Logan shifted Remy onto his hip, taking his glasses off and placing them carefully on Remy’s face. The toddler looked shocked for a few seconds, before starting to giggle, his previous woes forgotten.

Logan then brought the now-calm toddler to the sitting room, placing him carefully on the couch and turning on cartoons for him to watch. He tried to take his glasses back, but Remy whined loudly, so he sighed and quickly passes him Roman’s sunglasses, and his son was content.

He then sat next to Remy, beginning to mark homework and tuning out the colourful cartoons playing in the background. Eventually, Virgil came in and Remy beamed up at him, the sunglasses comically big on his head.

"Pop!" Remy exclaimed, bouncing, and Virgil sat down in between him and Logan, before quickly pulling the squirming toddler onto his lap.

About half an hour later, Roman and Patton walked in, the latter still sniffling, with a very red nose and watery eyes, wrapped in a blanket.

"Dada! Dada!" Remy shrieked, trying to reach Patton, but his dad just smiled sadly.

"Sorry, Kiddo, I don’t wanna get you sick too." He said, before sneezing twice.

Roman helped Patton settle down on the other sofa, but going up to Virgil and plucking Remy off of his lap. He bounced Remy a few times in the air.

"How’s my little Knight?" Roman grinned, and Remy laughed uproariously.

"Roman, careful-" Logan warned, but he was too late, and Roman’s sunglasses slipped off Remy’s face, hitting the ground and breaking.

They all stared at it for a few seconds, before Roman just sighed.

"Well, guess I’ve gotta go buy some new ones."

Remy started giggling, and Virgil came up behind him, lightly tickling his feet while Roman held him. Remy starting laughing more, and Patton winced at the noise, which only Logan noticed.

"Can you two play with him upstairs?" He interjected. "Patton’s got a headache."

Roman and Virgil stopped, giving Patton apologetic looks.

"Sorry, Pat."

"I apologise, my Love."

They then took Remy upstairs, leaving Logan and Patton alone in the living room. After a minute or two, Patton whined, making grabby hands at Logan.

"Come cuddle me, I’m cold!"

Logan sighed, putting his work to the side, and getting up, going over to Patton. He sat next to him, and the smaller man shuffled closer.

"I swear, if you get me ill-"

"I won’t, I promise!" Patton protested, before putting his head into Logan’s lap and snuggling into him.

Logan ran his hands through Patton’s hair as they kept watching quiet cartoons. About an hour later, Virgil came back down.

"Remy’s taking a nap, and Roman decided to go work on his novel." He said, and Logan nodded.

"Okay, would you mind swapping places with me? I still have some tests to mark for tomorrow."

"Sure." Virgil agreed, and they switched places, Patton snuggling into Virgil’s side immediately.

Eventually Patton fell asleep, and Virgil managed to move, leaving Patton to keep napping on the sofa.

***

A few hours later, Remy was playing quietly with some toys in the sitting room, and the rest of his dads were in the kitchen, whilst Patton continued to sleep peacefully on the couch.

Every so often, Remy would look up at his dad, watching him snore, before he eventually dropped his toys and stood up, wobbling as he walked over to the couch and grunting as he climbed up. He then slotted himself in Patton’s arms, and fell asleep within minutes.

A bit later, Roman entered the room to check on Remy, cooing softly when he spotted the two of them curled up together. He immediately returned to the kitchen to grab his phone, and Logan and Virgil gave him curious

"Guys, look! Patton and Remy are being so cute!" Roman whispered enthusiastically, picking up his phone, and the two of them followed him back into the sitting room, spotting Patton and Remy immediately.

"You’re right." Logan said quietly. "They are undeniably... adorable."

Roman took a bunch of pictures, getting closer with each one, but all of a sudden his foot got caught on one of Remy’s toys, and he tripped, hitting the carpet with a loud thump.

This woke up both Remy and Patton, the latter looking quite startled, and the former immediately bursting into tears.

Roman started apologising excessively, and Logan and Virgil looked at each other and sighed.

Just a normal day in the Sanders’ household.

***

About a week later, Patton was fully recovered, and he was back in the kitchen, making pancakes. Remy was sat at the table nearby, colouring pictures of dragons and princes, and the two of them were chatting about cartoons and animals.

Everything was calm and happy, until suddenly Logan, Virgil and Roman entered the room, all coughing and sniffling, and Patton sighed.

This would be a long week.

#writing #me #lamp #sick fic #sanders sides #roman sanders #patton sanders #logan sanders #virgil sanders #fluff #sanders sides fanfic #sanders sides fic #remy sanders #sleep sanders

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galacticnewsnetwork · 7 years

Text

How a worldwide Star Wars fan group grew out of Columbia, South Carolina

Albin Johnson (helmet off) of Columbia stands next to Star Wars creator George Lucas before the 2007 Tournament of Roses Parade with members of Johnson's costuming group, the 501st Legion. Provided

COLUMBIA — During Albin Johnson’s darkest moments in life, Star Wars has been a source of light.

He lost a leg in a wreck. That led him to create a Star Wars stormtrooper costuming group that now has 12,000 members worldwide.

He lost a young daughter to cancer. That led to the construction of a pink droid that solidified his fan group’s mission in aiding children’s charities.

Johnson has turned his love for Star Wars into a powerful force.

Stormtroopers from his massive fan group created 20 years ago in Columbia have raised nearly $3 million over the past five years. They have marched in the Tournament of Roses Parade with Star Wars mastermind George Lucas, appeared at the MTV Movie Awards and, just last week, shared a red carpet with Britain’s Princes William and Harry at the London premiere of "Star Wars: Episode VIII — The Last Jedi."

They have a seal of approval from filmmakers as Lucasfilms' "preferred Imperial costuming group."

"It’s so liberating to get to play out all your bad-guy fantasies," Johnson said. “Stormtroopers are your average guy. He can be anyone."

'My own world'

Johnson’s route to becoming Stormtrooper TK 210 started in 1977 with his father, a former World War II pilot, being intrigued by a movie poster featuring battling spaceships. His father thought it was a war movie and took the family, then living in Charlotte, to see "Star Wars: Episode IV — A New Hope."

Johnson liked the movie because of the white-clad soldiers from the Galactic Empire that served with the movie’s villain, Darth Vader. Stormtroopers are among the first characters seen in the film.

“What were they? Were they men? Were they robots?” Johnson, 48, recalled. “I was trying to work the morality of why they did the things they did."

Johnson’s parents were very religious — they worked for the PTL Club, a Christian television program — and would occasionally throw away his Star Wars toys. A youth minister once told Johnson that Lucas was trying to lure kids into a cult.

He hid some of his Star War memorabilia and tried to read everything he could about the movie.

“I was in my own world,” Johnson said.

Albin Johnson (left) and his wife Kathy pose with R2-D2 and C-3PO during a 2005 Star Wars convention in Indianapolis.

His life changed after losing his left leg following a 1994 auto accident. Johnson was depressed, so a co-worker (and fellow Star Wars fan) at a Columbia Circuit City store encouraged him to buy a $2,000 Stormtrooper costume to wear to a showing for the re-release of "Star Wars: Episode V —The Empire Strikes Back."

"His eyes came alive when we talked about the movie," said Tom Crews, who worked with Johnson at the electronics store.

Few people dressed up in movie costumes to go to a movie in the '90s, especially in Columbia. It was a hit. Johnson bought a Stormtrooper suit for Crews, and they started posting photos of themselves in costumes on online bulletin boards.

They began to make friends with other fans dressing as Stormtroopers. Some were in other states, but they were joined by fans from other countries.

In 1997, Johnson, with Crews' help, created a fictional unit for the Stormtroopers, calling it the 501st Legion because “it rolled off the tongue.”

“We wanted to find people who are really into the movie and people who were really into the costumes,” said Crews, who is known as TK 512 in the legion. “We wanted to create something people wanted to belong to and wanted to grow.”

Since members were so far apart, Johnson adopted military lingo for local groups, known as garrisons, squads and outposts, so members were invested in growing the 501st in their state or country.

He had rules to make sure members dressed — and acted — properly, but he didn’t charge dues or try to make money selling costumes like similar Star Wars fan groups.

“It was not about perfection,” Johnson said. “It was about the relationships.”

The big break

That’s not to say the 501st didn’t struggle. The group’s first attempt at a gathering during a comic convention in 1998 in Atlanta included members who were not interested in dressing up or who preferred partying over marching.

But four years later, the 501st had its breakthrough.

During a Star Wars event in Indianapolis, Johnson was able to assemble 200 troopers to march to the arena. It was impressive and drew applause from fans waiting in line to get in. One problem: they walked across a street where a marathon was taking place. Peripheral vision in the masks is almost nonexistent. They stopped runners during their march.

Inside the arena, the crowds overwhelmed security. Johnson said he assembled his troopers and asked they each stand behind a security person to help usher fans through the event. That got the attention of Lucasfilm, the maker of Star Wars, which thanked the 501st and began a relationship that has helped legitimize the South Carolina-created legion.

Film company officials also recognized how Johnson led his group.

“His order of the day was, ‘Let’s have some fun,’ ’’ said Steve Sansweet, a former fan relations head for Lucasfilm. “He’s a personable guy who had an idea and threw it out there.”

Crews said he and Johnson wondered if Lucasfilm would come after them over copyright issues. Sansweet said filmmakers were leery at first, fearing that one of these rabid fans would rob a convenience store dressed as a Star Wars character.

But Lucasfilm took the 501st and other costume fan groups as a compliment.

“These can be our best emissaries out there," Sansweet said. "People love seeing them in the wild.”

Legion members take pride in making their own costumes or tweaking ones they buy to make them more authentic.

"We're showcasing our art," said Dan Rodriguez, the current 501st leader who lives in Maryland. "We want to look like we came right off the screen."

The pink droid

Just two years after the 501st’s big break, Johnson’s 6-year-old daughter Katie was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. Katie saw in “Star Wars: Episode II — Attack of the Clones” how the droid R2-D2 watched over Padmé Amidala while she was sleeping and wanted her own nighttime protector.

Johnson worked with friends to have a full-size pink version of R2-D2 at her bedside until her death in 2005. The droid was named R2-KT in her honor and now tours the country for charity events, visits sick children in hospitals and participates in Make-A-Wish events.

“This became a defining aspect of the 501st: We will be as charitable as we can for children,” Crews said.

R2-KT has become the Columbia-created 501st Legion's mascot, joining parades and visiting sick children in hospitals. The pink droid is named after 501st founder Albin Johnson's daughter, Katie, who died from brain cancer in 2005.

Johnson’s strong religious beliefs carried him through his daughter’s illness, said Crews, who now works with Johnson at the state's information technology agency.

Johnson refers to himself as a father of five, which includes Katie.

“He knows death is not death. It’s part of our existence,” Crews said. “You take some heart from that. Al has always found a way to see the brighter side of things no matter the low.”

R2-KT now has its own backstory in the Star Wars legend and the pink droid has appeared in animated Star Wars shows. Filmmakers borrowed the droid for more than a year so R2-KT could appear in the background of some scenes in 2015's “Star Wars: Episode VII — The Force Awakens.” (The pink droid does not have a cameo in “The Last Jedi.”)

'Power of the internet'

Members of the 501st have become a staples at Star Wars events.

Lucas wanted a group of Stormtroopers when he was grand marshal of the 2007 Rose Parade. Sansweet knew where to find them and recruited the 501st, which got a pep talk from the Star Wars creator ahead of a four-hour march.

“You’re all cannon fodder, none of you will probably make it,” Lucas joked, seeing how Stormtroopers' main role in the films is getting shot and dying. “We will remember you.”

Actor John Boyega, who plays Finn, former Stormtrooper FN 2187, poses with members of the Columbia-created 501st Legion at the premiere of "Star Wars: Episode VIII — The Last Jedi" in London on Dec. 12. Joel C. Ryan/Invision/AP

In the past week, 501st members took part in the premieres of “The Last Jedi” in Los Angeles and London. Their reward: They got to see the movie — and some British royalty.

Johnson stayed home. He is not involved in the legion day-to-day so he can spend more time with his family.

But he still chats with filmmakers, dresses up as TK 210 a few times a year and sends messages to members, who have reached into China and Russia — far from the Columbia electronics store where it all began.

“Even I’m surprised that it started here,” Johnson said. “But that’s the power of the internet.”

By: Andy Shain

Source: The Post & Courier

#star wars #501st #legion #albin johnson

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ridiculousn3sswrites · 7 years

Text

New York - Wave Pt. 7

*Peter Parker x Reader

*Summary: Reader goes to New York City with Peter to start over.

*Warnings: Swearing probably

*A/N: Oh hey look at who finally decided to update this. And tbh this is the most active I’ve been since the 12 Days of Loki.

Part One || Part Two || Part Three || Part Four || Part Five || Part Six || Part Seven || Part Eight || Part Nine

While waiting for takeoff, you took the time to say your goodbyes to your friends and what family you had in the city. You’d even said goodbye to the few officers you’d become relatively close with. Jameson, the officer there when you were arrested, was glad to find out you were alive, giving you his number and telling you to call if you needed any help at all. By the time you were headed to meet with Peter, it was nearing sunset. You were glad for that: you’d become just another nameless face on the dark streets.

The quinjet Tony had sent Peter in was at a somewhat abandoned airfield a little ways from the business district. You saw Peter waiting for you, his bag slung over his shoulder as his eyes scanned the field. When he finally saw you, he broke into a wide grin, waving you over. “(y/n)!” He called out, his enthusiasm palpable.

“Pete, my dude!” You laughed as you walked up to him. “What, Happy didn’t get sent with you?”

“Not this time, Mr. Stark sent me with an automated quinjet,” Peter replied.

“Sick,” you told him. “Looks like Tony’s finally seeing you as a big kid.”

“Shut up,” Peter laughed. You just smiled, and the two of you walked towards the quinjet. Soon enough the quinjet had entered the airspace and you were on your way to New York. You and Peter had settled into a comfortable silence, but with how Peter was, you knew it wouldn’t last long. Sure enough, almost twenty minutes after the quinjet had leveled out, Peter started talking. “So what happened to you? You’ve been missing forever, I thought you stopped being Wave.”

“Well, technically I kinda did,” you said. “I was unregistered, became a fugitive, got caught, and then escaped. Have you heard any news about anyone else?”

“Hold up, you’re a fugitive?” Peter asked, his voice going up an octave.

“Yeah, I thought that was kinda obvious with that whole new bill,” you told him. “I refused to register my identity and hero identity, so they went against everything to find out who I was anyways. Pieces of shit didn’t even wait until after I helped bring down a weapons deal, they took me when I was unconscious from some injury.”

“What happened to you?” Peter asked again, the severity of the situation actually hitting him.

“They took me to some hospital in the middle of the desert, where they were keeping all sorts of powered heroes, like you and me. They were drugging us so we wouldn’t be able to use our powers, but I know how to take out IVs so I was never drugged for long. I caused a ton of trouble in the hospital, and they moved me out to house arrest,” you explained. It was definitely different telling someone who could go through the same thing. “I escaped, got lost, ended up in Mexico, and now I’m back.”

“Holy crap,” Peter breathed. “So why are you headed out to New York?”

“I figured that maybe Natasha, Clint, and Kate could help me out,” you told him with a shrug. “Now it’s my turn for some questions. Have you heard anything about the others?”

“Natasha and Clint pretty much disappeared, but they’re trained to do that so I wouldn’t worry,” Peter told you. “Steve and Sam went missing, and now Bucky’s on the run again. Oh, Scott also went into hiding. Mr. Stark and the others are registered.”

“It sounds like Civil War all over again. So, how about you?” You asked.

“I’m not registered. Mr. Stark got me out of it cuz I’m still a minor,” Peter told you.

“That’s bullshit, they were still trying to force me to register,” you said. “It’s all because I’m with Steve and them, and we opposed the Hero Registry the first time around. They even managed to get Steve, I found him when I was in the hospital. He was supposed to escape after I got transferred.”

“Maybe he’s just waiting, you know Steve’s all about that perfect timing,” Peter tried to comfort you. He had moved to the seat right beside you, and from his body language he was conflicted about what to do. You saw him briefly consider going for a hug, so you decided to make the decision for him and hugged him. As soon as you pulled away, you saw his face flushed a bright red. “W-what was that for?”

“What? I can’t hug a friend?” You asked. When Peter didn’t respond, you decided to give him an actual answer. “Just thanks for letting me tag along to New York. I know I didn’t tell you that I was a fugitive until after we took off, but still, thanks for being on my side.”

“Of course,” Peter said. “We gotta stick together, right?”

“Yeah,” you agreed, nodding. “Oh, hey! You remember Nova?”

“Yeah, I trained with him a while ago. Oh crap, did he?” Peter trailed off. You nodded again, knowing what he was trying to say.

“He was cool, we were transferred to house arrest together and he helped me escape. He’s honestly probably the only thing that kept me sane while we were there,” you told him. “I’m gonna expose the government for what it is and help get him back to New York.”

“No matter how much he got on my nerves, he was still a good guy,” Peter said, voice nearly a whisper. You could tell that this entire thing was finally hitting him: the government was getting rid of the heroes that didn’t register, and some of those heroes were the ones that he knew the best. “So that’s what you’re gonna be doing in New York?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna lay low for a while and then expose the government through the news networks and maybe some of those comedy news shows too,” you told him. You didn’t hesitate at all, knowing Peter wouldn’t go and tell on you. At this point, he was basically your accomplice. “I dunno, I might do some hero stuff while I’m out there. I heard Daredevil and them are still running around, they seem like they’d be cool to work with.”

“That’s good, I’m glad you’re gonna be doing something more,” Peter told you. “The thing is, the quinjet goes back to the Avengers Compound in upstate New York, not the City. How are we gonna get you back without anyone knowing?”

“The official Avengers disguise,” you told him, opening your backpack and pulling out exactly what you needed. “A baseball cap, hoodie, and sunglasses.” With that, you pulled on the cap and sunglasses, shooting Peter a silly look from underneath them, making Peter laugh.

“Do we all really use that same disguise?” Peter asked, still laughing.

“Uh, yeah. It’s kinda ridiculous how well it works, though,” you replied, smiling. “How do you think I made it from San Diego to LA without getting caught?”

“Really? How far is that?” Peter asked.

“Right, you’re used to New York type of travel. Let’s just say it’s pretty far,” you told him as you pulled off your ‘disguise’. You could tell Peter wanted to know more of your story just by the way he had started fidgeting. Apparently he hadn’t changed much since he first joined, Steve told you that he’d always been very excitable and kind of dorky. “Alright, you want all the details?” Peter nodded, so you started from the beginning.

It only took a few hours to get to New York, definitely quicker than it would’ve taken you any other way. You and Peter didn’t start to panic until the quinjet landed, realizing that people would probably be waiting for Peter. You hid in one of the storage compartments, your phone on silent. Peter promised to text you once everyone was away from the quinjet so you could make your escape, and luckily it didn’t take long for that text to arrive. You snuck out of the quinjet, finding yourself in a hangar.

From there, you were able to sneak into the actual building. You’d never been to the Compound - only the Tower when that was still a thing - so it was a bit of a maze. You found your way into what looked like a communications room. After logging into one of the computers, you started trying to find the quickest way to the City. Walking was definitely out, it didn’t seem like there were any busses nearby that went that far, and finally you decided that you weren’t beyond stealing a car to head out. That was, until Peter texted you that they were sending him back to New York in a self-driving car. “Wow, that’s ridiculously convenient,” you muttered, shaking your head slightly. You pulled up a map of the place, quickly finding the place Peter told you to meet him at.

“(Y/n)!” Peter called out as soon as he saw you. You laughed as you saw his eyes widen comically when he realized what he just did, waving him off to let him know it was fine. As soon as you were in normal talking distance, you spoke.

“You know, they sure do trust you a lot more now,” you told him with a cheeky smile. “Alright, so we know Avengers cars are tracked, but are they bugged?”

“Nope, sometimes people talk about confidential stuff,” Peter assured you. “You’re good to ride in it. If anyone finds out, you’ll be hidden away in New York by the time they realize you were even here.”

“Who knew Mr. Goody-goody would be such a willing accomplice?” You teased, going to open the car door. Peter followed soon after, and the car ride back to New York City was relatively quick compared to the cross-country flight. Peter helped you to get relatively acquainted with New York, understanding the public transport system, the differences between the boroughs, things of that nature. While you were from a big city, New York and LA were each a universe of their own, and you knew that you needed to learn at least some things about New York if you were going to effectively hide. You already had a plan to play the new-girl card, but you needed to seem like you hadn’t just literally gotten to the city.

Soon enough, you arrived in Queens. After checking in with Aunt May, Peter showed you how to actually use the NYC public transport system to get to Manhattan. “Do you actually have a plan?” Peter asked as the two of you got off of the train.

“Kind of?” You responded. “I just gotta get a burner really quick and then I’m like at least 12% sure I’ll be able to find who I need to.”

“Well, there’s a Walgreens if you wanna go in and buy one,” Peter offered, pointing at the store up ahead. “And that doesn’t exactly sound like a plan.”

“Trust me, 12% is better than no plan at all,” you told him, already starting to walk off. You turned over your shoulder, calling back to Peter. “I’ll call you once I figure things out. Thanks Peter.”

“You know where to find me,” Peter replied before turning and walking away. You assumed he would head back to the station and get back to Queens, so you quickly went back on your path to the Walgreens, doing a quick mental check to see if you actually had enough cash available for a burner phone. Despite the unfamiliar city, you were finally beginning to feel some semblance of control once again.

Tag List: @potterjamesharry, @sharenaloveyoux

#peter parker x reader #peter parker imagine #marvel imagine #wave series #Mexican Reader

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donalsgirl · 7 years

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Oscar Isaac’s Mom Died. Now He’s Working Out His Grief in ‘Hamlet.’

Oscar Isaac spent most of the fall and winter at a hospital in Florida, caring for his dying mother, Eugenia. As her condition deteriorated, he found himself reading aloud to her from “Hamlet.”

“I would just read the play all the time, do bits for her,” Mr. Isaac said.

An Elizabethan revenge tragedy with a substantial body count and heavy existential dread isn’t obvious bedside comfort. But Mr. Isaac, his mother and his sister were all Shakespeare obsessives. When he was growing up, they watched Franco Zeffirelli’s “Romeo and Juliet” over and over. “Me doing Shakespeare was her favorite thing,” Mr. Isaac said.

So reciting “Hamlet” to her at the hospital felt like the right thing. Sometimes it felt like the only thing. “I didn’t know how to process any of this, but this I knew how to do,” he said.

As her health declined, Shakespearean questions that had seemed abstract — What drives the dissolution of a family? How do you overcome crippling loss? — felt immediate and real, he said.

Continue reading the main story

“I know it happens to everybody, but it’d never happened to me,” he said. “I know people’s mothers have died, but this was mine.”

Mr. Isaac’s mother died in February, but “Hamlet” is still with him. For most of this heat-struck summer, he is performing as the tortured prince grieving the death of his father, six times a week for nearly four hours a throw at the Public Theater.

Mr. Isaac certainly has other ways to spend his days. For one, his first child, a son, was born in April. And his film career is booming. In a few short years, he’s graduated from indie artisan, with films like “Inside Llewyn Davis,” to bona fide star with roles in “X-Men: Apocalypse” and “Star Wars: The Force Awakens.” He can probably take whatever theater job he wants to or not take any theater job at all.

That said, “Hamlet” is a play that exerts a strange pull on a lot of movie and television stars (Benedict Cumberbatch, David Tennant, Jude Law, Ethan Hawke), and it’s a role just about any classically trained actor and plenty of actresses have dreamed of playing.

But it’s also a tragedy that asks Mr. Isaac to relive the anguished death of a parent at every performance. In Sam Gold’s rowdy, deconstructionist staging, every time Mr. Isaac mud-wrestles, or lofts a prop skull or performs a mad scene in just a T-shirt and briefs, he seems to be working through his own loss, transforming raw private grief into riveting public performance.

“It’s for my mom that I’m doing it,” he said. “It’s to honor her life, but also her death, which was so awful.”

ON A RECENT WEEKDAY, an hour before rehearsal, Mr. Isaac hunched in a booth at the back of the Library, the Public’s restaurant. Looking slighter in person than onscreen, he was sitting underneath a skull-bedizened poster for an earlier production of “Hamlet.” His black warm-up jacket was a modish update of Hamlet’s “inky cloak.” It wouldn’t have been a huge surprise if he had drawn a sword from underneath the table or spotted a ghost over by the bar.

This symbolic brazenness seemed like a joke; Mr. Isaac was probably in on it. He has a roguish sense of mischief that underlies even his more serious roles (“Ex Machina,” “A Most Violent Year”). And he’s one of the few actors of his generation who can combine the unrestrained volatility of a Method actor with pedigreed classical chops.

His Hamlet is antic, mercurial, unpredictable, but each line of verse comes across clearly, almost conversationally. As Oskar Eustis, the artistic director of the Public Theater — who helped cast a Juilliard-fresh Mr. Isaac in “Two Gentlemen of Verona” in 2005 and “Romeo and Juliet” two years later — said, “That combination, particularly in such a handsome man, it’s amazing.”

It’s that charisma that helped the “Star Wars” director J. J. Abrams decide not to kill off his character, Poe Dameron, who will reappear in the coming “Star Wars: The Last Jedi.” “The idea of Oscar Isaac as Poe coming back into the movie and being an ally to the cause got my blood pumping,” Mr. Abrams wrote in an email.

MR. ISAAC LOVED THEATER early. Born in Guatemala and raised by evangelical Christian parents in Miami, he had his first roles in religious plays. Even then, he played antiheroes. His first lead? The Devil. He devised an entrance from underneath the bleachers, scaring an adored teacher and exciting the interest of the popular girl he had a crush on.

“For that little moment, I thought, this is what I want to do,” he said.

Eventually he fell away from the church, and though his parents supported his acting ambitions, for a while he stopped that, too. He turned to music, migrating from soft rock to grunge rock to heavy metal, before landing in third-wave ska groups like the Worms and Blinking Underdogs, which attracted a local following.

Still, he never really shook theater. He studied it at community college and apprenticed at Area Stage Company in Miami. The artistic director got him reading Shakespeare again. “I didn’t really understand it,” Mr. Isaac said, “but I liked it a lot.”

He even developed an infatuation with the film soundtrack to the Zeffirelli “Hamlet.” On an impulse, he auditioned for Juilliard, using a monologue from Shakespeare’s “Henry IV” and arguing about its interpretation with the head of the drama division in the middle of his callback.

Richard Feldman, one of Mr. Isaac’s Juilliard teachers, remembered sensing in him “the best kind of artistic ambition,” adding: “I’m not talking about fame, I’m not talking about fortune. I’m talking about the hunger to be really good.”

At Juilliard, he met Mr. Gold, at the time a directing student. Mr. Gold was immediately struck by Mr. Isaac’s “easy energy and an easy relationship to his talent and having an incredible amount of talent” and a shared belief that “acting shouldn’t look hard,” Mr. Gold said.

The two of them fooled around with some comic scenes from “Hamlet,” making a pact to work together one day on the whole play. They both got “bit by it and obsessed by it,” Mr. Gold said, speaking by phone. Those talks continued, and two years ago, Mr. Isaac signed on, saying he felt he had to do it “before the knees give out.”

“You can only be so old and be upset that your mom remarried,” he said.

Once he’d agreed, Mr. Isaac began reading academic books, watching famous past performances, playing a recording of John Gielgud’s Hamlet “and just listening to the beauty of that man’s voice,” he said. After creative tensions with the production’s original home, Theater for a New Audience, “Hamlet” shifted to the Public Theater, where Mr. Isaac had made his post-Juilliard debut, and dates were set.

But then his mother got sick and his partner, the documentary filmmaker Elvira Lind, got pregnant, and suddenly “there were a lot of things that really connected on a very personal level,” he said. As Mr. Isaac explained, performing has always helped him come to terms with his emotions. “This is how I’m able to function,” he said. “The only way that I’m really able to process stuff is through reflecting it.”

Some of the visual language that he and Mr. Gold settled on — the syringes, the IVs, the PICC lines — make his memories and associations even more visceral. His Hamlet wears rumpled clothes and has a 5 o’clock shadow (if you’ve seen Mr. Isaac’s movies, you know his facial hair is a key to character) to approximate “the look and feel of spending long hours visiting a loved one at the hospital,” he said.

In the first days of rehearsal, Mr. Gold worried “that there would be things in this play that would be such deep triggers that he wouldn’t be able to make it through the show,” he said. But he watched Mr. Isaac use the play’s words “to contextualize what he was going through,” he said.

Mr. Isaac didn’t worry about making a timeworn speech like “To be or not to be” sound new. As soon as he says the words, he is instantly reminded of his personal loss and “the feeling that grief can just make you want to stop,” he said.

At the same time, he never really discussed that personal life in the rehearsal room. “It was always a very subtle thing hovering in the air, ” Mr. Gold said. Instead, he threw himself into experimenting with the role — physically, vocally — and worked on making his colleagues laugh.

Keegan-Michael Key, who plays Hamlet’s pal Horatio, noted that Mr. Isaac, who bought a Ping-Pong table for the rehearsal room, “likes to have fun.” Onstage he’ll often monkey with a pronunciation or arch an eyebrow just to get a rise out of a cast mate.

“He’ll do it on purpose just to keep everyone on their toes,” Mr. Key said. “The more alive it is, the more uncertain it is, the more dynamic it is.”

Mr. Isaac said that performing the play hasn’t felt especially dour. When he comes offstage after four hours he feels energized, he said.

That’s in part because the play isn’t only for his mother. When he acts, he’s also thinking of his 2-month-old son, Eugene, named after her. The baby has Eugenia’s lips, he said, and her hands.

He brought Eugene to the first run-through (“I think some of the more philosophical and theological aspects of the play were above his head,” Mr. Gold joked), and it’s Eugene he thinks of when reciting the “to be” part of the “to be or not to be” soliloquy.

As Mr. Isaac explains, the speech is about dying — that’s the “not to be” part — but it’s also about choosing to go on living. And Mr. Isaac has better reasons to go on than Hamlet does.

“You have a child,” he said, “and you must — you must for their sake — you must say yes to life.”

Source

#oscar isaac #hamlet #the public theater

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camsthisky · 7 years

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Break Me Down and Build Me Up

< day 3 | day 5 >

This is day 4 of the 30 Day writing challenge, but it turned into a massive mess. It’s 7k+ and I might come back to it and clean it up a little later.

Prompts are listed here.

4. Write the worst possible way that your (BR)OTP could have met

Summary: What if Robin: Year One took place in the Young Justice world? A story how Robin and Kid Flash first meet. (This does differ a lot from the comic)

This wasn’t the worst possible way they could have met, so I didn’t quite fulfill the prompt. I had when i first wrote it, but four rewrites later and the story had changed quite a bit.

ao3 | ff.net

There was blood dripping into Dick’s eyes from his forehead, but all he could do was squeeze them shut. He couldn’t move his arms, couldn’t move his body. He hurt, he hurt so much that it was almost unbearable, but worst of all were the images. Two-Face bearing down on him with a baseball bat, Judge Watkins dropped to his death.

Dick just wanted to cry into Bruce’s arms and pretend that none of this had ever happened.

“Hang in there, Robin,” Bruce murmured, and Dick couldn’t help but cry out when someone lifted him up, his cape wrapped around him like a blanket. Bruce was carrying him, he realized, taking him away from this horrible place, from the man he’d just killed, from the man who’d almost killed him, and Dick’s breath hitched in his throat.

He didn’t deserve to have Bruce’s arms cradling him like this. He deserved to drown with the judge he’d just sentenced to die because he’d thought he could outsmart Two-Face, and he’d been wrong. He’d never been so wrong in his life.

“Stay with me, Dick,” Bruce demanded, and Dick felt it with every pain in his body as Bruce set him in the backseat of the Batmobile. “Just—keep breathing. Don’t die.”

Dick would keep breathing. For Bruce, if for no one else.

Dick woke up sobbing. Okay, so he wasn’t quite awake, awake, but he was coherent enough to realize that his whole body was on fire, the pain so fierce that he could barely breathe, and all he wanted, all he needed, was Bruce.

Where was Bruce?

“Here,” Bruce said, and when Dick opened his eyes, Bruce really was there, holding Dick’s hand with a death grip, sitting next to Dick’s bedside, and Dick sobbed harder—in relief this time. Thank God. Thank God. “I’m here, Dick. I’m right here.”

And that was enough.

The next time Dick woke up, it was with a bit more coherency. He was in his bedroom, he was alive, and Bruce wasn’t there. There was a muted pain humming just underneath his skin, and he thought he should probably be in more pain than he was in, at the moment. That question was answered when he turned his head slightly to the left and spotted the IV.

Pain killers. Of course.

Dick wondered if that meant Leslie had been by. Probably. Dick’s last memories of being awake were tinged with the red burning of indescribably pain that even a miracle butler couldn’t quench on his own. So, he couldn’t say for sure, but it definitely wouldn’t surprise him.

The door opened then, interrupting Dick’s attempt to figure his thoughts out, and Dick heard a few soft footsteps that could only be one person. Bruce paused when he saw that Dick was awake, and Dick tilted his head towards him—the furthest he could without making the pain sing in his veins, that is.

(It wasn’t very far.)

“Dick,” Bruce said, and his voice was thick with grief that Dick didn’t quite understand, because Bruce was the one who had told him to stay alive. He wasn’t dead, so Bruce shouldn’t look like that.

“Wha—?” Dick tried to ask, but he cut off in a hoarse cough. His throat was sore, swollen, and he couldn’t manage to get the words out. Bruce patiently helped him drink from a glass of water with a bendy straw in it. But when he was finished, when Dick opened his mouth to speak again, Bruce interrupted him.

“You shouldn’t speak,” Bruce said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Alfred had to intubate you.”

Oh.

He blinked, but his eyelids were heavier than normal when he tried, and he ended up with his eyes half-open. Bruce noticed, and he sent Dick a sad smile, tinged with bitterness and grief at the very edges, and Dick wished that he could stay awake, that he could talk so he could understand why Bruce looked like he’d just lost someone again.

“Go back to sleep, Dick,” Bruce told him, brushing his hair back. “I’ll be here when you wake up again.”

“—of all times to not pick up—oh. Hi.”

Wally peered over the top of the couch to where Uncle Barry was sitting at the dining room table. The TV was on mute, since Barry had told him he needed to make a “work” call. Yeah, Wally wasn’t stupid enough to believe Barry was calling anyone from the CCPD, especially since Barry was using a phone Wally had never seen before.

“I need your—wait. What? What happened?”

Wally wondered which superhero Barry was talking to, though, because his uncle looked super pale. Like he was about to pass out, and Wally didn’t like the look of it.

“Well, is he okay?” Barry asked the person on the phone. He paled even further at whatever answer he received, if that was even possible. “Hell. Do you know how long it’s going to take for him to recover, at least?” There was another pause, this one at least twice as long as the one before, and then Barry was speaking again. “Is there anything I can do? No, it’s not urgent. I just needed your computer to look up someone’s identity, is all. I’ll ask Clark, instead.”

Wally tuned out, not really interest in the rest of Barry’s conversation. He didn’t know who Clark was, and he didn’t know who was hurt, but Barry was going to put him on the backburner during runs if Wally interrupted another “work” call.

And if by the time Barry got off the phone Wally forgot to ask about it, well, that could all be put down to his stomach. He was curious, but he was also starving.

Bruce wasn’t there when Dick woke up again, even though he said he would be, and Dick had to push away the stab of betrayal, because he didn’t even know how long he’d been asleep. Maybe Bruce was in the bathroom, or eating dinner, or even patrol. Dick didn’t know the circumstances, and he wouldn’t think the worst of one of his most important people.

So Dick sat there for a few hours, waiting for Bruce to come back, but when the sun peeked through his curtains, Dick couldn’t take it anymore. He’d go find Bruce himself if he had to. There was no way he could sit there staring at the ceiling any longer.

He pushed himself into a sitting position slowly, careful not to jostle anything. His chest was completely swathed in bandages, his right arm was in a brace, his head was wrapped, and he felt like one big giant bruise. On top of that, Dick didn’t want to ruin whatever careful work Leslie and Alfred had done to save him. It was only when he was sitting up that he pulled the IV out with a slight wince, and then slowly started the process of getting out of bed.

It was just as he had stood upright that Dick’s door opened, and then a voice cried, “What are you doing?”

Dick blinked up at a pale Bruce, and sure, he was swaying a little, but he’d gotten to his feet with minimal damage, and it didn’t hurt that much. Dick was just about to tell that to Bruce, too, but the swaying turned into falling without his permission. Bruce dove forward, catching Dick just before he could fall forward and crack his head on his own bedroom floor.

“What the hell were you even thinking? “Bruce asked, and he sounded angry, just the barest undertones of worry in his voice. “You’re not in any shape to be out of bed, Dick!”

“I was fine,” Dick argued as Bruce tucked him back into bed, resolutely not telling Bruce that he’d only been up to find him. “Besides, I’ve been up for hours. It was just going to be a stroll around the bedroom.”

“Not until Leslie takes you off bedrest,” Bruce snapped.

Dick huffed, watching as, despite Bruce’s harsh word, he refitted the IV into the cannula as gently as possible. “I’m okay,” Dick said. “I promise.”

Bruce’s gaze snapped to his, his dark eyes glinting. “You’re not okay,” he growled. “Not even a week ago, you were lying downstairs in the Cave dying, Dick. You’ve been in a coma for days, and it’s only been two days since Leslie said that you were stable enough to move to your bedroom. That is not okay.”

Dick was taken aback. “But I will be okay. Just give me a few weeks and I’ll be swinging from buildings better than even before!”

“No, you won’t,” Bruce told him, a cold finality to his words that had Dick’s stomach sinking to his feet. “As long as I have something to do with it, you won’t be going out there again.”

Dick couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t draw in any oxygen, and his chest was so still that he feared that this was all some weird hallucination of death. To be tortured with his worst fears as he lay dying in the real world, because Bruce would never do that to him. He knew how much Robin meant to Dick, so he would never snatch it away.

“What are you saying?” Dick croaked out.

Bruce met his eyes, and Dick searched for some sort of sign that this was all some kind of sick joke—but no. Bruce looked nothing but cold as he broke Dick’s heart in half.

“Robin is finished,” Bruce told him, and Dick finally took a breath and proved that this was reality. He was alive, and this was really happening. Robin was being snatched from his very hands. “You’re fired.”

Dick didn’t speak again. He dropped his head, he gritted his teeth, and he cried silently. Bruce got up from his chair and left the room, left Dick, and Dick couldn’t understand why this was happening to him. First, he’d bargained Judge Watkins’ life and lost, then Two-Face had almost killed him, and now Bruce didn’t want Robin anymore, didn’t want him anymore?

How was any of that fair?! He’d already lost his parents, his home. He’d lost it already once, and now it felt like it was being taken away once again. One mistake. That was all it had taken, and now, Robin was finished.

Batman didn’t need him, and neither did Bruce.

“What?!” Barry yelled, startlingly Wally from his phone. From the other couch, even Iris looked bewildered, and they both looked over to the door Barry had just walked in, talking into his superhero phone. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Why would you do that?!”

Wally met his aunt’s eyes worriedly, because Barry sounded really stressed, and not in a good way. It was the same tone he used when the whole planet was about to get blown up or something. Wally wondered, not for the first time, if he could go with.

Probably not. Barry had a list of things of things he was allowed to do as Kid Flash barring some emergency—the same one that Robin had used when he first started out, if a little modified to adjust for Wally’s powers.

“No,” Barry hissed, and was that venom in his voice. Just who was he talking to? “No. No way in hell. Go talk to him and apologize for being a fucking ass before you lose him. He’ll forgive you, even if he shouldn’t.”

Woah. Barry didn’t swear. Like, ever. And here he was, so angry that he was cursing into his phone. Over apologizing? Wally was definitely missing the context of this.

Barry sighed into the phone, the tension falling from his shoulders as he plopped on the couch next to Iris. Wally’s aunt moved her laptop to the coffee table and intertwined her fingers with Barry’s free hand, and all Wally could do was watch. He hadn’t realized how tired Barry looked before.

“Of course I think he’s going to run away!” Barry snapped suddenly, sitting up ramrod straight and glaring at the floor. “He’s an eleven year old boy, and you just shattered his whole world! God, push past your ego for two seconds and go tell him you’re—he hung up on me!”

Barry stared at the phone in disbelief, his eyes moving to meet Iris’ gaze.

“He just hung up on me!”

“I don’t know what’s going on, Barry,” Iris reminded him gently, “and I can’t help you unless you tell me.”

“Is everything okay?” Wally asked hesitantly. “I mean,” he tried again when Barry’s weary eyes settled on him, “that didn’t sound too good, but not it’s not, like, the end of the world, is it?”

Barry slumped back into the couch again. “It might as well be,” Barry sighed, “because Batman just lost his partner.”

Iris paled and Wally sucked in a sharp breath. “You don’t mean…?”

Barry’s eyes widened, and he seemed to realize that he’d just implied that Robin was dead, and he waved his hands frantically in an attempt to backtrack. “No, no. It’s not—I mean, it was a close call, but that was over a week ago, and he’s been stable for a few days now.”

“So what did you mean, then?” Iris asked, and she looked concerned.

Barry looked grim, and he didn’t meet anyone’s eyes when he said, “Batman fired Robin.”

“You’re kidding,” Wally said. Then a sudden fear swept over him, because—because— “You’re not going to me, right? Fire me, I mean?”

“No!” Barry said, standing up and running a hand down his face. “God, no. Wally, you’ve got to believe me. I didn’t force you into this. This was your own decision, and I know I could never force you out of it. It’s your choice.”

Wally let his shoulders slump in relief. “Oh, thank goodness.”

“So what does that mean for Robin?” Iris wondered, her eyebrows furrowing. “Batman just decided that he’s done, so he’s done?”

“It’s complicated,” Barry said. “Of course he’s not going to roll over and take this, but he can barely move right now, and from what I heard, Batman and Robin weren’t able to save a hostage during the last fight, either. He’s not in any shape to fight for his costume, right now, and the longer that Batman sits on this decision, the more stubborn he’s going to get.”

“You said Robin was going to run away,” Wally breathed, his eyes wide. “Will he?”

“Probably. When he can move.”

“So what do can we do?” Iris asked.

Barry looked defeated. “For now? Nothing.” And it looked like it physically pained him to say it.

Well, Wally supposed he would have to take Barry’s word for it, because short of going to Gotham and finding the two people that most people in the city they protect had never seen, Wally wasn’t sure what he could do.

So, he did nothing, and he hated how helpless it made him feel.

Finally, finally, Leslie approved Dick for physical therapy, and Dick put his heart and soul into it. He hadn’t quite pushed past that feeling of feeling like Bruce didn’t think he was good enough, but Dick had a plan now. He’d get fit enough to go out as Robin again, and he would go out.

He’d done it before. He’d struck out on his own while searching for Zucco, so why not now, when he was properly trained? He’d prove to Bruce—to Batman—that he could handle being Robin, that it was a mistake to fire Robin.

In the meantime, though, he and Bruce were on pins and needles. Neither of them talked to each other, only Alfred, and Dick did his best not to be angry. Bruce just didn’t think Robin was good enough to be Batman’s partner, but Dick would show him.

It was a Thursday morning, just a week after Bruce had fired Robin, that Dick decided he couldn’t wait a minute longer. He was still a mess of bruises, and the brace wasn’t coming off anytime soon, but the sooner he got out of Bruce’s way and figured out what he was going to do, the sooner that he could prove his worth. He could already do a double-flip, after all. He was okay enough to do this.

So while Bruce was at work for an emergency meeting with Lucius, and Dick packed a bag, walked to the nearest zeta tube, and then he was gone, the only trace of him left behind a note to Bruce.

He could do this. He would prove himself.

Barry’s phone was ringing. It was the third time in the past ten minutes, and Barry was currently laid up in bed after a nasty encounter with a robber. Wally hesitated to answer it, though, because it was Barry’s “work” phone, and Wally wasn’t sure who’d be on the other line.

Whoever it was, they were persistent, and Wally wondered if there was something catastrophic going on. If that was the case, they had to know that Barry was too hurt to help them, and if they really needed a speedster, he would offer his services. He was pretty sure that this would count as one of those emergency times, and the list didn’t matter all that much.

He answered the call.

“Where is he?” a voice growled in his ear, and Wally froze, because that didn’t sound like a superhero at all. That was—Was that a villain? Had someone figured out how to contact the superhero cell phones? “Answer me! Where’s Robin?”

Oh. Oh. Wally let out a relieved breath, because he got it now.

“Uh, Batman?” Wally started, unsure how he was supposed to address the scariest hero in the Justice League. “Flash is hurt, so he can’t talk right now.”

There was a pause, and Wally waited nervously for Batman to start talking again. God, this was nerve wracking. From just the few words exchanged with the Dark Knight, Wally’s knees were starting to shake, and he couldn’t imagine what it would be like for Robin to work with Batman all the time.

“Kid Flash, I presume,” Batman said, a touch calmer than before. “Is Robin with you or the Flash?”

“Uh, not that I know of,” Wally sighed. “Can I ask why?”

“No,” Batman said, and then he hung up, apparently having gotten all the information he needed. Wally stared at the phone for a few minutes, and then gingerly set it down on the coffee table, because he could probably go a thousand years without hearing that growly voice and it’d still be too long.

“Thanks for that.”

“HOLY—” Wally jumped back and looked at the ceiling where there—holy shit. Robin was hanging from the ceiling like some kind of spider. There wasn’t even anything there. How was he even staying there?! Wally thought that Robin didn’t have any powers. “What the hell, man?”

Robin shot him a sheepish small and dropped down to the floor like a normal person—not that Wally was normal, but at least he didn’t hang from the ceiling like sort of ninja.

“Sorry,” Robin said, straightening up, and Wally realized that Robin looked really small. Didn’t Barry say that Robin was eleven? He looked more like nine or ten. Robin dropped down on the couch and sighed. “Man, that was a close call.”

Wally blinked. “What was?”

“The call.”

“Oh,” Wally said, realizing what Robin was talking about. “You’re—Batman’s looking for you.”

“I know,” Robin said, and he said it so easily, like he was so unaffected, that Wally was thrown for a loop. Because even running away, Wally didn’t think he would not feel anything if he heard that Barry was looking for him.

“What’s your problem?” Wally asked, feeling a little heated, because no one looked that apathetic about running away. They felt something.

Robin tilted his head towards him. “What do you mean?”

“Batman’s looking for you, and you’re acting like you don’t even care!”

“You don’t know me,” Robin told him, his voice calm but his fists clenched, and Wally took a step back, because now he got it. He got how someone like Robin was able to work with the terrifying Bat. He was just like him. “You don’t know anything about me, so how would you know if I cared or not.”

“Well you’re not showing it,” Wally argued.

“Doesn’t mean that I don’t feel it.” Robin relaxed suddenly. “So, the Flash is hurt?”

Wally huffed an annoyed breath. Robin was younger than him, and yet here he was, controlling the entire situation here, and Wally understood what Barry had been complaining about before. About Batman. This kid was kind of annoying, the way he took charge of the conversation, changing the subject like that.

Still, Wally didn’t know how to direct the conversation elsewhere, and he thought that maybe Robin would just go bother Barry if he didn’t get an answer from Wally, so he decided to take the easiest route.

“Yeah,” Wally told him, plopping down on the other couch. “He took a few bullets when he tried to move a group of people out of the way. He just got home like an hour ago.”

“Where were you?”

“At home,” Wally scowled. “It happened at work, so I wasn’t able to get there before he was already shot.”

Robin hummed contemplatively. “Sounds rough. So I guess you’re Kid Flash?”

“Yeah, so what?”

Robin smiled, but it was sort of empty, like he was forcing it on his face, and Wally couldn’t help but shiver. Maybe the ninja thing wasn’t the superpower. Maybe it was that creepy smile. It wouldn’t surprise Wally that just terrifying people was Robin and Batman’s power.

“Nothing, just happy that there’s another kid out there doing the crime fighting thing with me.”

Wally licked his lips. “Barry said that Batman fired you?” Wally asked more than said, and when Robin didn’t say anything, Wally kept going. “You don’t have to answer, but—why? You were the kid that inspired me and Speedy to even become superheroes. Why would Batman think it’s a good idea to fire someone like you?”

“I messed up,” Robin said quietly, and he wasn’t looking at Wally anymore. Or at least, Wally didn’t think he was. Hard to tell with that mask. “Judge Watkins was killed because of me, and Batman had to hurt himself to save me. He doesn’t think I’m good enough to be Robin.”

“So you ran away?” Wally asked, eyebrows furrowing, because this was the realest the kid had been since he’d ninja’d his way in. “What does that solve?”

Robin shrugged. “I was trying to prove to Batman that I could be Robin, with or without him, but I was hoping that I’d have a bit more time. It’s only been a couple of hours, and he’s already trying to track me.”

“Obviously he still cares about what happens to you,” Wally said. “So I don’t get why you don’t just sneak out of the house every night after he’s already gone out. Why run away?”

“I didn’t say he didn’t care about me,” Robin pointed out. He sent Wally a wry smile, like he was trying to laugh at something that used to be funny but tasted bitter at the edges. “As for sneaking out, you don’t know the security B has around the house. Batman’s super paranoid about everything. I’d never make it past the entrance to the Cave.”

“Oh,” Wally said, and he felt kind of sad for the kid. He had to run away in order to prove himself? That sucked. Batman sounded like a real tool. “Well, you can probably stay here for as long as you want. I know Iris won’t mind. Barry might, but he probably won’t even know you’re here until morning.”

“Why?”

“Oh, well speedsters have super fast metabolisms, so Barry’s on a lot of painkillers, right now. You could probably blow an airhorn in his ear and he won’t do much more than smile at you. I’ve tried it before.”

That startled a laugh out of Robin, and Wally smiled. The kid was kind of okay, when he wasn’t being a jerk. And as long as he didn’t put on that air of apathy, Wally didn’t mind hanging around him. Besides, being Batman’s partner had probably done something irreparable to his personality, so Wally didn’t think he should blame Robin too much.

“Well, Rob,” Wally said, clapping his hands. “What say you and I go upstairs and set up a sleeping bag for you?”

Robin, still smiling, stood up. “I’d like that. Thanks.”

“KF?” Wally asked him, standing at the stove with a blank look. The eggs were starting to burn, but Wally looked too out of it to care, so Dick didn’t bring attention to it. “Why KF?”

Dick shrugged. “Well, you gave me a nickname, and Kid Flash is a mouthful, so I shortened it.” Wally seemed to think about it for a second, and Dick supposed that he couldn’t let those eggs burn any more than they already were if he wanted anything edible for breakfast. “Kid Flash. The stove.”

Wally blinked. “The stove…? Oh! The stove!” He turned back around and switched off the gas, saving the eggs just in time. Wally grimaced down at the pan. “Well, I hope you like your eggs super crispy, because those were the only eggs we had in the fridge.”

Dick snickered. “I’m fine with whatever.”

Wally sent him a dark look. “I swear I can cook.”

“I believe you.”

“You don’t!”

“I do, too!” Dick said, grinning. “Just show me later.”

“Fine,” Wally grumbled. “But you’re not allowed to talk to me. You keep distracting me.”

“Who keeps distracting you?” Barry asked, looking not at all shot, and very coherent as he walked into the kitchen. He wrinkled his nose at the burnt eggs smell that permeated the room, and he rushed to open the window. “How the heck did you burn eggs?”

“With great skill,” Wally snapped. “They would have been fine if I hadn’t been distracted.”

Dick sniggered again, and Barry whirled around, catching sight of him sitting on top of the kitchen cabinets, ten feet up in the air. “It’s training,” Dick told him. “You know, multi-tasking. If you can talk and cook at the same time, you can do anything!”

Wally rolled his eyes, scraping the eggs onto two plates. “Yeah, yeah. You and your Bat-training.”

“Dick,” Barry breathed, and both Wally and Dick froze, because uh-oh. Dick was still in his Robin costume for a reason. And that reason had been that he had not told Wally anything about his secret identity. Of course, Barry’s speedster mouth had run ahead and gave Dick away before he could think about it. “Oh, shoot. Sorry, Robin. We’re usually in the Cave when…Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Dick said, jumping to the floor and peeling off his mask, trying not to show how nervous he felt. “I trust you guys.”

Wally was staring at him, two plates of scrambled eggs in his hands. Dick sent Wally a wobbly smile, and Wally sent an equally shaky one back. Then he turned his back on the kitchen and walked into the dining room.

“We should eat breakfast,” Wally announced. “Like, now.”

Dick laughed a little, because who knew that Kid Flash could be so awkward? He followed Wally into the dining room, and settled down in the chair across from Wally. Barry followed him out, looking contrite, but he didn’t look too put out.

When their pretty silent breakfast was over—which Dick and Wally spent the majority making silly faces at each other—Dick followed Wally back upstairs to the guest room (Wally had been staying with Barry and Iris for the past few weeks, but Wally wouldn’t tell Dick why. Which was fine. Dick was already intruding majorly, and he didn’t want to pry into anything Wally didn’t want him to).

“I think I should change,” Dick said, turning to Wally’s closest to pull out the bag he’d hidden in the hamper—which had been empty when he’d put the bag into it, but Dick had just pulled a few clothes over it and it was completely hidden from view.

“When did you hide that?” Wally asked, sounding bewildered.

Robin winced. “Uh, after you fell asleep. I left in the garden before, but I didn’t want anyone to steal it and look through it.”

Wally made a “huh” sound, but he didn’t sound anything other than a little weirded out, so Dick took the opportunity to slip into the bathroom, change into his jeans and hoodie, and slip back out. Wally was changed, too, and they went back downstairs. Wally wasn’t giving his face weird looks anymore, so Dick assumed that Wally had moved on from learning his secret identity.

Either that, or he didn’t recognize Dick. Dick honestly didn’t care about which it was, though. It was just nice to have a friend—at least, he hoped Wally was a friend—his age that he could share his secrets with.

“Why did you do it?” Wally asked quietly a little while later. They were the only ones home right then, since both Iris and Barry had to work, and Wally couldn’t help but be curious about Robin’s life, about his roots. “Why did you become Robin?”

“I’m originally from the circus. An acrobat,” Robin said, and it sounded like he was choosing his words very carefully. “And it was my first show on the trapeze without a net, performing with my parents. This guy, Tony Zucco, was trying to blackmail the ringmaster, scam him, or something. Maybe he wanted money, maybe he wanted something else, I don’t know.”

Robin sounded so miserable remembering, and Wally immediately felt guilty about asking. “Hey,” he said. “If you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to. We’ve all got our origin stories.”

Robin smiled, and even though it was tinged with sadness, it looked real and genuine. “I like you, KF, and I really want to be your friend. I want to tell you. You’d be one of three people who know this story, and I trust you.”

Wally could nod. “Okay. I—I want to be your friend, too.”

“So, Zucco wanted money,” Robin said, and Wally listened intently as Robin recounted the story of how his parents fell to their deaths, of how Bruce Wayne saved him from rotting in a juvenile detention hall, of how he snuck out of the house to avenge his parents. “Batman found me before I could do anything I would regret,” Robin ended. “We caught him, and then we became partners.”

Wally was dumbfounded. “Wow. That’s a lot to take in. Batman is a lot different than the stories I’ve heard about him.”

“Yeah,” Robin agreed. “Bruce can be a lot to handle sometimes, but he’s like a second father to me. We’re partners, you know? We know each other.”

“So why are you running?” Wally asked.

“What do you mean?” Robin asked. “I already said that—”

“I know what you said,” Wally told him. He leaned forward on the couch, eager to make Robin understand this. Maybe impart some wisdom that being two years old could give. “I mean, I’m a speedster. I know all about running. But it just sounds like you’re running from Batman more than you’re trying to prove you can be Robin. Why?”

Robin seemed to think about it, and they sat in silence for a long time. Wally could see the gears turning in Rob’s head, and he wasn’t eager to interrupt him.

“I don’t know,” Robin breathed after a while. “I just—I don’t know.”

He came at night, when Wally was softly snoring on the bed and Dick was just about to fall into a good sleep, even if he still sort of ached and he was sleeping on the floor. It was just a shadow in the window at first, plunging Wally’s room into darkness for a few moments, the streetlight blocked as the shadow search the room.

Dick froze, hardly daring to breathe. He was so glad he was on the other side of Wally’s bed, the furthest from the window. There was no way he could be seen from the window at this angle.

It was only when the light returned to the room that Dick pushed himself to his knees, his heart beating in his chest. It hadn’t even been two days, and he’d already found Dick? Was it a sure thing, or was he just guessing? Covering his bases before he started searching random alleys.

“Wally,” Dick hissed, and Wally’s snoring stuttered to a stop. “Wally!” Dick called again.

“Rob?” Wally murmured into the darkness, squinting over the side of the bed at him. “Wha’s going on?”

“He’s here!”

“Who’s here?”

“Batman!”

“Holy crap,” Wally breathed, sitting upright in his bed. “Where?”

“I don’t know,” Dick said, worried. “He was at the window a little bit ago, but it’s definitely him. I thought I’d be able to swing at least one more day here before he found me, but I think I was a little too naïve.”

Wally sighed. “Look, Rob,” he said, trying to sound all wise again, and Dick struggled to keep a straight face. “You said before you don’t know why you’re running away from him. Why not just face him and tell him you won’t take no for an answer? You chose to be Robin, so he can’t take it away.”

He thought that he’d been doing that by running away. Bruce hadn’t wanted a partner anymore, which was fine. Dick could handle that. He was smart enough to put two and two together, and Dick had messed up too big this time. He’d accidentally killed Judge Watkins, and Batman didn’t need a partner like him.

But Dick was Robin, and Bruce couldn’t take Robin away from him. By running away, Dick had thought he was going to prove it.

But Bruce didn’t just not want a partner, he didn’t want Dick to be Robin. He proved that by coming after Dick, and maybe Wally was right. Maybe Dick just needed to stick it to Bruce. The my way or the high way approach.

The door opened with a creak, and Dick stiffened, because there he was. Batman, hidden in the shadows, and Dick, who should have been used to after two years living with the man—who was used to it—squeaked in fright.

Bruce sighed—and Dick froze, because it was Bruce more than Batman that was standing in the doorway. Bruce pulled back the cowl and kneeled down next to Dick.

“Are you alright?” Bruce asked.

“Fine,” Dick breathed, his eyes wide. “I’m fine. Barry, Iris, and Wally have been taking care of me.”

“Speaking of Barry,” Wally said from the bed, his eyes just as wide as Dick’s when Bruce’s attention settled on his, “does he know that you’re in here?”

Bruce grimaced. “Probably not.”

“They have to still be awake,” Wally argued weakly. I mean, it’s barely awake, and Iris has that article due in the morning that she’s been freaking out over all day. How did you get past them?”

“I’m Batman,” Bruce said, like that explained everything, and even though it did, Dick couldn’t help but laugh at Wally’s gob smacked face. Bruce turned his attention back to Dick, and the laughter died on Dick’s lips.

Dick cleared his throat, his stomach a ball of nerves. “Hi, Bruce.”

“Hi, Dick,” Bruce said, not missing a beat. “Care to explain what that note was about?”

Dick winced. “Uh, you read that?”

“Of course I read it,” Bruce told him, settling tailor-style on the floor in front of Dick. “I came home from work to find my son missing and a note explaining pretty much nothing other than that you were running away.”

“Sorry,” Dick said softly. “I didn’t mean to make you worry or anything.”

“How could I not?” Bruce said. “I’ve been searching for you for two days, Dick, nonstop. You can’t seriously believe that just because I fired Robin that meant I didn’t want you.”

“Well, that’s what it felt like!” Dick argued, his temper flaring. “Every time you’ve benched me before it’s been as a punishment! Why should this time be any different? You said Robin was fired, and to me that sounded like you didn’t need me anymore!”

“So you ran away? Dick, I’ve been worried sick about you!”

“I was trying to prove that I could be Robin, with or without you,” Dick told him, glaring at the floor. “You wouldn’t listen to me before, so I thought that it would be better without me.”

Bruce settled a hand on Dick’s shoulder, both of them ignoring the way Wally was creeping out of the room to give them some privacy. “Dick, look at me,” Bruce demanded, and Dick did, but it was with some resentment. “Robin or not, I’m always going to need you.”

“That’s not—”

“Robin or not,” Bruce repeated, “I’m always going to need you. You’re my son, Dick. I know I’m not John, but I care about you, and you got really hurt a few weeks ago. I was terrified, Dick.”

“But being Robin is my choice,” Dick told him. “I know the risks, Bruce! Just like you do!”

“You’re a child,” and Bruce looked angry now. “I’m an adult. I can take a hit. You’re eleven, and you almost died.”

“So let’s work on more evasion maneuvers! More training!” Dick cried. “But this is my choice! Robin is my name, and you can’t take it away from me anymore than I can take Batman away from you! Robin is a part of me!”

Bruce was quiet for a moment, his lips thin as he stared down at Dick, and Dick realized he was trembling with emotion, tears spilling down his cheeks as he fought for the very thing that kept him alive sometimes.

He loved being Robin. He got to help people, he got to fly. Working as Batman and Robin, it was more than most people could ever dream of, and Dick absolutely loved making a difference. He loved giving people hope, and Bruce was trying to take that hope away. And Dick just didn’t understand why.

Bruce let out a slow, controlled breath. “Dick, I want you to listen to me, okay?” Dick nodded, biting his lip. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for trying to take Robin away from you, and I won’t do it again. But,” Bruce said before Dick could do more than suck in a sharp breath, “after your physical therapy, I’m not going to immediately put you back in the field. I was too naïve before, thinking you could get away with the basics.”

Dick blinked, his eyebrows furrowing. “What do you mean?”

“You know I trained around the world for years,” Bruce told him quietly. “I trained you for a few months and then set you loose, thinking that giving you practical experience would be the best option for you. And it was, but I think I let you out a bit too early.”

“But I’ve trained as an acrobat my whole life,” Dick argued. “It’s not like I don’t have any training.”

“Yes,” Bruce said slowly, “and that training has helped you a lot. But you’re also an eleven year old kid. So, I propose two more months of combat training, of simulation training for Gotham’s brand of criminals, and we can call this a deal. You in?”

“Yeah,” Dick breathed. It sounded fair. Bruce was worried, Dick got that now. He didn’t want Dick to get hurt, and Dick could last two months of training, because he’d done it before. “Yeah, I’m in.”

“Wait a minute,” Barry said, standing up in alarm. “Are you telling me that Batman is upstairs right now? In my house?”

“Uh, yes?” Wally tried. “Him and Rob are talking things out, I guess. Not sure how it’ll turn out, though. It didn’t sound very good.”

“Well,” said Iris, setting her cup of coffee down on the coffee table next to her laptop, “If it doesn’t work out with Batman, Robin’s always welcome here.”

Wally grinned. “Thanks, Aunt Iris.”

Barry sighed. “You know what, I’m going to go tell Clark what happened, and then Bruce is going to get in trouble. After that, don’t involve me anymore. I don’t think I could take it.”

“KF!” Robin called, vaulting over the banister and landing in the living room in a crouch. Wally could only watch with wide eyes as the grinning kid tackled him in a hug. “Hey, thanks for your advice, KF. It worked!”

“Um,” Wally said as Robin detangled himself from Wally, “glad to hear it?”

“You going home, kiddo?” Iris asked, looking properly amused. Wally shot her a betrayed look, because she knew he wasn’t big on hugging. “We definitely wouldn’t mind another night with you here.”

Robin smiled shyly. “Thanks, but Bruce is going to take me home now. Thanks for letting me stay here.”

“Anytime, apparently,” Barry said, and Iris slapped his arm playfully. “What? You said you’d take him if Batman didn’t want him.”

“Oh, Batman says he wants me,” Robin said to Iris innocently, and Wally had to squash the urge to ask where that charm had come from, because it only seemed to come out around Iris. Which, Wally didn’t mind much, since he found it a little annoying, but still. “Sorry, Iris.”

Iris laughed. “That’s okay. You gone on home, then. I’m sure Batman has missed you.”

“Bye, KF,” Rob said.

Wally smiled back at him. “Bye, Rob.”

Robin laughed, waved, and ninja’d back up over the banister again, disappearing upstairs—probably leaving out Wally’s bedroom window.

“Can’t they just use the door like normal people?” Wally complained as he collapsed on the couch.

Barry snorted. “Have you met Batman?”

Wally sighed. “Unfortunately.”

“It’s good to see you, Master Dick,” Alfred said when Dick and Bruce had appeared in the zeta tubes, and Dick almost started crying right then and there. Dick leaned into Bruce’s side, who’d taken the cowl off again, instead of running to hug Alfred since the butler wasn’t the biggest on physical contact. “I am glad to see that you are alright.”

“I’m okay,” Dick confirmed as Bruce wrapped an arm around him. “It’s good to be home.”

#dick grayson #bruce wayne #wally west #barry allen #young justice #dc #day 4 #30 day writing challenge #camryn writes

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andrewansahartwork · 7 years

Photo

TL;DR: I severely underestimated how much shading and blending work I would have to do in one sitting the night before turning this drawing in. This led to me finishing the drawing in a trance for several hours after the time I wanted to sleep, while shading everything sloppier and sloppier, and trying not to wake up my sick roommate with my laughter. Also I was shivering a lot because the air conditioner was running for no reason.

The assignment was to draw something that showcased the inside and outside space of a building.This is a drawing that shows off the inside of a Dunkin Donuts, but the giant windows also allow the road and the buildings across the street to be seen. I took this picture sometime last week on my phone, and have been drawing it for several days since then. I feel that the shading is fine for the top two thirds of this drawing. The bottom third is where it starts to get a little wonky. Not only that, but the perspective and size of everything inside the Dunkin Donuts isn’t the best. There is a reason for this, and it involves one of the strangest drawing sessions I’ve ever had.

Yesterday, I was a little behind on this drawing, and I had the line work finished, and in a state that I feel was near identical to the photo I took. I didn’t include the trees and traffic cones that were present outside the building, because I wanted to have the composition get simpler the farther your eye would trail off from inside the building. Anything outside of the buildings I felt added unnecessary cluster, and I didn’t want to make it hard to figure out what the drawing is of. So, I confidently thought I would be able to get all of the shading done yesterday evening. I get back from class at around 5:30, and ate dinner and relaxed until around 7:00. After a light power nap, I was rejuvenated and ready to start adding some detail to this drawing!

I didn’t want to add too much detail to the drawing, because I wanted it to be a simple image that clearly communicated the setting. But right before I started shading everything, I suddenly decided that I didn’t like the way the two guys sitting at the table on the drawing’s bottom third looked. So, I went back and changed them to have better proportions (they were way more stretched out due to a perspective error on my part). However, trying to fix one perspective error opened up a lot more errors. One thing led to another, and suddenly about thirty to forty minutes were gone. Not wanting to fall too far behind, I got right to work on shading (finally) until around 9:00 when I took a break to shower.

As I continued to work on shading everything, I realized my own meticulous detail obsession was getting the better of me. When I refer to “meticulous detail” in this context, I’m talking about wanting the lines that made up every building across the street to be as well crafted as possible. Those lines were drawn lighter than everything else, so I had to REALLY focus to see it when shading in the space with a lighter graphite pencil. At this point, I’m deep into the night (let’s say 12:00), and my ideal time of when I wanted this drawing done (11:00) was but a sad unobtainable dream. The desk lamp was my greatest source of light, as it was closer than the ceiling lights, the air conditioning was running for some reason, making the dorm and the hallway colder than usual, and my roommate also got a cold, and I didn’t want to keep him up. The air conditioning would lead to me shivering pretty frantically at random intervals, it calmed down after about ten minutes, but it was still interfering with my progress! So, at this point, I’m trying my hardest to give this drawing my own seal of quality, but I also want to finish it ASAP.

I should also mention that for long drawing sessions like these, I tend to put on Let’s Plays or Podcasts on Youtube (through my earphones of course) so I have something in the background in order to not go mad from just hearing my pencils, erasers, and blending stick rub against the paper for hours. During the hours I was adding detail to everything, I had listened to the entirety of the Stream Train playthrough of Space Quest IV. I didn’t intend on finishing the playlist of videos in one session, and the playlist also served as a timer for myself. At this point, I’m starting to panic a little (and I’m aware this sounds really cocky, which isn’t my intention, but I’m not one to stress out, at all).

In a rush to put something on I clicked the playlist for the Game Grumps Let’s Play of Zelda: Wand of Gamelon. If you don’t know, the game the two play in that particular series is an infamously terrible second party Zelda game developed for a legendarily terrible console called the Philips CD-I. So, in usual “Youtube Let’s Play of a terrible game” format, the commentators would start out calm (well, calm-ish, they knew how bad the game was instantly), and slowly lose their sanity as the Let’s Play went on. So, as I’m sitting in my chair, still shading in the drawing at around 2:00 in the morning, I was starting to get a little stupid. I attempted to contain my laughter at the commentary from the Game Grumps playthrough, and trying to speed through a shading and blending job while also trying not to make any mistakes. It devolved into madness for myself in a good hour.

It was around 3:00 AM when I start quiet laughing at almost everything. The Game Grumps were losing their minds playing this bad game, and I was losing my mind rushing to get this drawing done. I even laughed at the fact that the people sitting by the window in the picture I took were unaware of the fact that they were causing me to lose a ton of sleep. It was the perfect meltdown scenario, but I refused to quit. I was at the bottom third of the page at this point. If you pay close attention, you’ll be able to tell I didn’t put in nearly as much care to the bottom third of the page as I did the top two thirds. I was basically rotating 2H, HB, B, 2B, and 4B pencils getting all of the shades down on the page as fast and as carefully as humanly possible, while giggling like a tired hyena at Youtube personalities trying not to loose what was left of my sanity that night. I had severely underestimated my workload. It should be noted that around 2:00 AM, my blending stick stopped working for next to no reason. I didn’t know what to do, and I was pretty emotionally compromised (or at least that’s how it felt at the time), so I used three tissues in their place.

Upon completing the shading and blending, I noticed how there wasn’t much distinction between buildings and objects. Instead of adding more depth, I just added comic book-esque dark lines to most of everything. It doesn’t look as good as it could have, but I really wanted to sleep at this point. Mainly because I had an online test today that I could only get started on from 9:00 AM to 10:20 AM (I was able to take said test, and did well, don’t worry). It wasn’t until I stood up did I realize how much of a trance I was in. I stopped laughing, turned off the Youtube app, and noticed it was 4:20 AM. I set the mess of materials on my desk aside, and went to bed. Now that I look at the drawing, with around four more hours of sleep, it’s not the worst thing I’ve ever made, but if I had budgeted my time better, it could have improved. Oh well, you win some you lose some.

-I’ll post a better lit picture along with the reference picture eigher later tonight, or tomorrow.-

#art #drawing #picture

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mercenarypark · 7 years

Text

tf2 mercs and pets

ive been writing on this since yesterday and now im sick of it so heres a lot of words i made to distract myself from my father #animal abuse #abuse #physical abuse #antisemitism #insects #spiders #dogs #cats #birds #snakes #long post #text heavy

-medic, obviously, has a LOT of experience with birds. his mother had a cockatoo that he was basically raised with, and throughout his childhood he would always try to befriend the wild birds around their home [on the occasion he was allowed outside, that is]. in college/med school, he kept up that same trend, earning a less than stellar reputation as "that weird fucker who tries to climb trees around campus to get a better look at the birds’ nests", alongside his other reputations, "the weird gay jew who doesnt understand personal space" and "probably the cause of at least three "disappearances" throughout the semester since they were last seen harassing him"

-BLU engie gets ein[the canary] after a family member dies, they werent particularly close but the guy didnt have a will or any friends willing to take the bird, and engie was basically the closest living relative available [note: only BLU engie has the canary, not RED engie, and he recieves it a few years after joining the mercs]

-pyro kept the dalmation puppy they take in the comics, and he's a big comfort for them, they'll sometimes spend hours just playing with him or hugging him to calm themselves down from a panic attack; funny thing is, no one's entirely sure what pyro NAMED him, not even the people who can usually understand pyro's mumbles[engie, medic, solly, demo]. all 4 of them seem to hear completely different things so theyve just kind of accepted as a group that the dog has four different names that are all equally valid

-pyro also loves a lot of bugs, BLU py had a pet praying mantis for a while until the administrator made everyone move bases again, this time to a much colder climate- they were worried the mantis wouldn't survive the lower temperatures and released it before they left; theyve also kept tarantulas, ants, and stag beetles before -engie is also really into ant keeping and he and pyro bond over that, engie builds big elaborate setups for their ant colonies

-medic talks to birds, a lot, and seems to hold full conversations with them a lot of the time. not just his pigeon flock, either, but any bird- from sparrows to falcons to parakeets

-demo volunteers at the "kitten orphanage" shown in end of the line- hed work at the regular human orphanage too, but... he has too many bad memories of his own time as an "orphan". the kittens all love him, engie will sometimes come by to find demo sprawled on the floor on his back, three kittens on his chest, one asleep on his neck, one kneading its paws on his cheek, one chewing on his shoe...

-medic doesnt understand dogs. hes not scared of them, not really, he just. doesnt understand how they work. he cant read their body language at ALL and he was rarely around them as a child. he's ok with cats, though he still cant understand their body language that well, and sometimes irritates the shyer or more aggressive ones by being too affectionate- he only blames himself for getting scratched/bit though

-spy says he never had pets growing up, which is probably a lie- he just doesnt want to give anyone any information about his childhood and family life. he's mentioned once or twice that he wouldnt mind getting a pet snake, though, which engie thought was fucking hilarious and fitting

-scout actually didnt have pets growing up- her family spent a lot of time trying to make ends meet, and a tiny, shitty apartment w/ her, her ma, and her 7 siblings wasnt exactly an optimal environment for a pet. she always liked cats, though, and mice, and after she joins the mercs she grows to really love birds, too, because theyre Everywhere at the bases

-[RED] demo got his parrot, joyce, from BLU soldier[only RED demo has the birdman of aberdeen in my hcs]. solly found it in a bush somewhere as a chick, and brought it to demo. demo has no fucking clue how the hell jane managed to find a baby parrot out in the badlands, but he winds up taking her in, getting a lot of help from medic to get adjusted [medic is absolutely delighted and fawns over joyce the whole fucking time he loves her so much]

-demo's really worried for the longest time that he wont be able to take care of joyce properly ["i can barely keep myself together, how'm i supposed to keep you alive?"] but he grows to really love her and she becomes an emotional support animal for him, on some of his worst days he keeps himself from drinking himself into a blackout by keeping her busy and happy

-she becomes even more important to him after the WAR update events, as a living reminder of his old relationship with jane; it hurts him sometimes to look at her and remember the grin on jane's face when she first handed him that parrot chick, but he loves joyce anyway and nothing's gonna change that

-demo also used to own lizards, he's partial to bearded dragons

-both RED and BLU solly are licensed falconers and wildlife rehabilitators. no one's entirely sure how. but its the reason shes allowed to have her Horde of Raccoons and also her fucking bald eagle [note: BLU solly is the one with the Compatriot, RED solly is the one with LT bites and the other raccoons]

-engie grew up with farm animals, because of course. he's good with horses, pigs, cattle, and sheep, and working dogs. one of the times the mercs had their bases relocated, they wound up in texas so RED engie took everyone out to his family's old farm [he pays to have it taken care of while his dad's... gone and he's w/ the mercs]

-spy flips the fuck out when he realizes just how fucking huge hogs are. then someone[scout] absolutely knocks spy into the mud with the pigs and he gets trampled and everyone laughs. also spy is mildly terrified of horses. spy does not have a good time at dell's farm

-speaking of terrified of horses, demo,

well really he's not terrified, hes just distrustful. it takes a long time for tavish to warm up to engie's horses, with a lot of reassuring from dell that hes not doing something wrong

-medic's pigeons are extremely affectionate and loyal to him, first and foremost. at least one or two accompany him at pretty much all times, except for when they're locked into their aviary at night. they also love heavy, scout, and pyro, and like/tolerate everyone else

-heavy loves birds. his family has a lot of chickens, and hes very partial to them; he also has a parakeet, who his sisters take care of while he's with the mercs. RED heavy is the one that finds the red army robin; he sees an injured little bird in the snow and he brings it to medic

-jane “soldier” doe cannot take care of cats or dogs or other normal pets for the life of her but if you hand her an injured wild porcupine and say "hey, how do i take care of this" she'll know exactly what to do; sometimes both soldiers will just come out onto the battlefield bottlefeeding a squirrel or something, and somehow artfully dodge enemy fire while shooting rockets AND feeding a baby animal. how's that for multitasking

-scout's ma, peg, has a cockatiel that she gets after all her children have left the nest, so to speak. scout teaches it to whistle happy birthday and demonstrates that on peg's birthday and its sweet

-heavy has a very specific [canonical, at least w/ "pokernight at the inventory"] childhood memory of watching a boy kill a sparrow, w/ the implication that the memory haunts him a little bit; seeing the injured robin brought that memory to the surface, and it freaked him out more than he'd like to admit. he was kind of panicking when he asked for medic's help, but trying desperately not to show it

-spy hates dogs. he hates horses. he hates insects. he tolerates cats. but most damning of all, he hates birds. thats a big problem with at least half of the base loving or at least liking birds, and with all the pigeons/doves everywhere

-it takes YEARS before spy stops insulting or scolding medic's pigeons every time he gets the chance, and the main reason he stops is because medic absolutely was NOT having it... still though, spy has his limits. he never hurt any of medic's birds, or anyone else's pets, because he may be a mercenary but he does have some standards. mostly

-this is notable, because, hahahhhhhhh. im gonna eventually make a much longer post about this, but medic has a fair amount of Trauma[tm] from dealing with classic heavy's abusive bullshit; the thing is though, cheavy realized quickly that medic could handle being yelled at or physically punished for his mistakes or his worse quirks... but he had a very vulnerable flock of pigeons with him, that he regarded as family and who meant the world to him

-the scene in the comics where cheavy grabs archimedes tight and throws him to the ground was not an isolated incident, is what im saying. though it /was/ one of the more violent ones, since after a few threats and a few times of cheavy proving he absolutely would follow through on his threats, medic got the hint

-through his time working w/ the classics, medic becomes more secluded and on edge, and more prone to breakdowns and fits; and even more protective of his flock, urging them multiple times to fly away and leave him, to find heavy or scout or SOMEONE and stay with them, that he would come back for them when he could[but they always refused to leave him]... the baboon infant incident was a long time coming and he only held off on detonating it as long as he did through sheer willpower and a healthy fear of retribution

-ANYWAY. projecting aside.

-scout /would/ get a cat from the kitten orphanage but shes worried it would try to kill or eat some of medic's doves, since they basically free roam the base; so instead she goes by with demo sometimes to play with the cats and its Good

-ms pauling is a big dog person, and i mean that both in the "she really loves dogs" way and in the "she loves dogs that are Massive" way; she grew up with newfoundlands and bully breeds and shes still got a big soft spot for them; she has two shelter dogs, one's an 11 y/o pit+rottie, the other is a 7 y/o mutt that has some st bernard in it and who's blind in one eye; she spoils them rotten

-engie is really into fishkeeping and after all this merc business is over, he wants to have big fucking tanks installed in his home; hes also surprisingly passionate about the proper treatment of fish, like, he nearly decked spy once for saying betta fish just needed a fishbowl and not a whole aquarium setup

-medic has stolen at least a couple fancy pigeons from pigeon shows, mostly the ones that have been bred to an unhealthy degree to fit show standards, he spends a lot of time trying to give them the best care he can and maybe undo the effects of years of awful breeding

-i literally dont care about sniper so he gets no headcanons

im tired

#ask to tag /#reblog if u want idc /#captain's log #my writing #i guess?#tf2 posts

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cooperjones2020 · 7 years

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Second City, chp. 9

Summary: Sometimes she worries she’s settling — for a smaller job, a smaller city, a smaller life than she’d promised herself — but that was before she found out Jughead Jones lives in Chicago. That was before she found out the final secret of Jason Blossom’s murder.

A/N: FYI, Fletcher Foley is a real Archie comics character, but I haven’t read any of the issues he’s in.

ao3–>http://archiveofourown.org/works/11409360/chapters/26328312

Second City one / two / three / four / five / six / seven / eight / nine (ao3)

Nobodies Nobody Knows one / two / three / four / five / six (ao3)

9. In which a change of scenery takes place

She steps out of Jughead’s apartment and into an uber. Well, not immediately. She can’t telepathically summon ride-hailing services. Though she’s sure someone in Silicon Valley is working on that very problem in this exact moment. A hysterical laugh gets caught in her throat at the thought.

She’s worried Jughead will come after her, so she zigzags a couple of blocks until she’s on the far side of the square. In between a coffee shop and a wine bar, she finds a large hedge to stand beside, and then she summons the car. Thankfully, his neighbourhood is still busy on a Sunday afternoon, and there are many small black icons zooming around when she opens the app. The wait is less than two minutes.

Kevin, she knows, is at work, some special project keeping him up at all hours and in the office, even on weekends. Polly doesn’t pick up. It’s her day off, so Betty assumes her sister and her sister’s boyfriend are enjoying their last few days of kid-free time. And, while she’s so glad she and Veronica are reconnecting again, she doesn’t think they’re quite at the point for this. Even if they were, she also doesn’t think she’s quite ready for Ronnie’s particular blend of supportively brutal honesty. Archie is an option she doesn’t even consider.

So, she goes to the only person who knew her then.

She manages to recapture and hold onto her anger all through the car ride. It feels righteous, powerful, and, unfortunately, all too short. Because once she steps into Mary’s house, she bursts into tears. Something deep inside her, long forced closed and held together with glue, staples, tape, cracks open and grief stampedes through her. She’s vaguely aware of Mary pulling her to the couch, wrapping her arms around her, and rocking her. Mary rubs circles on Betty’s back and makes calm shushing noises. She speaks only enough to ascertain that no one’s been injured or died, then she just lets Betty unload until she’s empty.

She cries for an embarrassingly long time, in violent sobs that wrack her body and cause a headache to bloom behind her eyes.

At some point, she comes to and slides from the couch to the floor. It’s still light out, though it is the middle of summer, so all that really tells her is it’s before 9 pm. Her throat is dry and lips parched. There’s a water bottle on the coffee table in front of her. She grabs it and drinks half in a series of gulps. Mike must have brought it out for her. She hasn’t noticed him in the haze of her heartache, but he must be around somewhere.

Betty settles back against Mary’s legs and lets her stroke her hair, allowing herself to be comforted by the maternal gesture.

“He lied to me.” She doesn’t know if she’s talking about Jughead or her father, but, in the end, she supposes, it doesn’t really matter.

Once she gets to her gate, Betty tries to take up as much space as she possibly can without feeling guilty about it. She picks a seat at the end of a row and sets her purse next to her, her sweater in the seat next to that. Her suitcase she slides so it’s partially in front of a fourth seat. She creates a forcefield of belongings so no one can approach her.

Yesterday had scooped her out and left her numb, depleted. But the one good thing about a multi-hour crying jag is its cleansing power. Sitting at the gate, she feels a renewed sense of purpose.

As soon as it’s crossed nine o’clock, she calls Cynthia.

“Betty, why are you calling me? Why don’t you just come down the hall? We can start our Monday meeting a little early.”

“I’m not in the office, Cynth. I had a bit of a personal emergency. I’m actually at O’Hare waiting for a flight back to Riverdale.” In all her years of grown-up-hood, Betty’s never done something like this. When her father died, they’d known it was coming, so she’d made arrangements to work from home and had trained the person who’d filled in for her on the things she couldn’t do remotely. Anxiety bubbles in her stomach at the thought of disappointing Cynthia.

“Oh no, is everything okay? Your family?”

“No, they’re fine. It’s more a me thing. But I’m so sorry to just leave like this. I know I don’t have vacation time or anything yet, but I was thinking I could use some sick days? Though I don’t know how long I’ll be gone—no more than a week surely. But I can also just take it as unpaid time, I know I’m leaving you in the lurch. And I have a piece half-finished—”

“Betty, stop. We’ll survive. We were gonna run your FP Jones interview this week anyway before his pre-publication publicity circuit starts next month.”

“Oh right.”

The flare of anger she has at the memory of her and Jughead in the bar in May, the moment she first started letting him back in, gives her the courage to get to the thing she’s been thinking about since she cried herself to sleep, then woke up at midnight on Mary’s couch and bought the plane ticket.

“Look, about that. The personal thing. I have a piece to pitch you. I think we should extend the Jones series to three articles. I’ll still review the new book. But I wanna write about—about Betsy Coleman. About being her. About what really happened, all the stuff Jughead omitted from the story. I want to write about it.”

But Cynthia knows her. Knows how deeply uncomfortable she’d been at the prospect of being publicly connected to the character.

“Oh honey, no. Why don’t we just talk about that when you get back?”

She lets Cynthia talk to her down, but she makes notes on the story anyway, while drinking the largest Starbucks green tea frappucino she thinks she can get away with without totally wrecking her blood sugar. She doesn’t mind that Jughead had written about her, about their life. She’d always known he would, had believed it in all the years between their break-up and The Final Fissure’s publication. She couldn’t begrudge him the one thing that she knows has always kept him sane, the thing that he does so beautifully it would be a crime to keep it from the rest of the world. She can’t begrudge the world for wanting to share in that. But, now, she’s pissed that he made her the heroine. She’s pissed that he put her on a pedestal, even while her own family was just as dirty as the Blossoms, the Kellers, the McCoys. In the Civil War between the North and the South of Riverdale, it was the Montagues that were blameless. Her own Capulets commanded every gun, every sword, every gavel.

She does wind up talking to Veronica, huddled against a charging station, and Ronnie makes her laugh through the tears that occasionally threaten.

Betty is jealous of Veronica (what else is new?). She is jealous of how sure and easy things are between her and Archie. And god she’s jealous of the sex she knows they must be having.

“It’s like the universe was saying here’s what you get, Elizabeth. You finally get to have a really great lay and then it all comes crashing down around your ears,” she whisper-yells, all too aware of the businessman in the row behind her. She hates being on FaceTime in public. Headphones make it marginally better, but not enough dispel her anxieties over being heard.

“Betty, that’s not how it works and you know it. You and Jughead, it sounds like you were a ticking time bomb anyway. Both physically and emotionally.”

“Bomb is exactly the right word. Only there’s a hell of a lot more shrapnel than I predicted.”

“Are you sure you should be leaving right now? I’m sure Jughead’s worried about you if you just ran out on him. And your mother—look, I may have only known her a short while but Alice Cooper makes an impression. Don’t you want to be calm when you see her?”

“I need to know, Ron. And she’s out of town right now, so I’ll have some time to figure out what I want to say. To look for, I don’t know, something.”

“Do you want to talk to Archie? I can wake him up.”

“No, I’m not ready yet.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t know.” She feels her nostrils flare.

“How could he not know?” She doesn’t know what would be worse — if Archie had lied to her or if Jughead had lied to Archie. Even through her own pain, she’d noticed how deeply Archie had felt Jughead’s loss. She’d been so pleased when she’d heard they’d reconnected. She didn’t want to come between them. Even at the time, she’d felt guilty for being with Archie. And sometimes, she’s pretty sure he felt the same. But they’d needed each other then, to hold each other up when the foundation had crumbled beneath them.

No, she knows what would be worse. As much as she hates having Robin Scherbatsky-ed them, the thought of her lifelong best friend, the only person who’d always been there for her, who’d always been honest with her, even when it would have hurt her less to lie, the thought of him keeping something like this from her—Well, it’s almost as bad as Jughead keeping it from her.

As she readies to board the plane, she finally pulls up their text message thread. He called her eight times yesterday, before finally giving up around 11 pm. He also sent her twenty-two texts, none of which she’d read. When she’d awoken at midnight on Mary’s couch, she’d opened the apps to get rid of the notifications, then pulled up the internet to book her flight. She hands her boarding pass to the gate attendant to scan, then shuffles along the jet bridge and scrolls through them.

“betty come back”

“you can’t just wander around a neighborhood you don’t know”

“i have more to tell you”

“i really want to talk to you”

“please answer me”

“you forgot your food. and your bra”

“hello”

“i will keep texting and calling you until you answer me”

“i just want to make sure you’re safe”

“please betts”

“i didn’t want to make it worse”

“i should have told you a long time ago”

“but in my defense it was pretty clear you’d moved on”

“shit ignore that last one”

“betty”

“betty come on”

“answer your phone damn it”

“i’m sorry”

“just tell me you’re okay. please.”

“nvm, heard from mary”

“i’m here when you’re ready to talk.”

There’s one more text, from 5 o’clock that morning: “just please be ready to talk sometime”. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

Now, she responds: “can you send me copies of the security photos you have?”

He calls her when she’s still getting settled in her seat, and his voice is a familiar cocktail of anger, panic, and pain. “Betty, where are you?” Before she can answer, the flight attendant’s voice comes over the intercom. “Are you on a plane?”

“Yes.” She doesn’t mean to be short, but it’s hard to know what to say, what she can say in this moment.

“Where are you going?”

She debates not telling him, but knows he’d figure it out anyway. “Home. I need to talk to my mother and I need to do it in person. She’s not as good at lying to me face to face.”

He lets out a ragged sigh she can hear, even over the sounds of the engine warming up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this to screw up—”

But she cuts him off, “I’m not. Jughead, whatever else I’m feeling, and who even knows what that is right now, I’m glad I know.”

“Why did you walk out?”

“Not right now, okay? Can we just focus on the Jason Blossom murder mystery plot?” There’s so much still for them to say, but she almost understands why he’d asked her that yesterday.

He’s silent a moment, then he says, “Are you okay?”

“No.” She lets out of shaky laugh. “Fuck no, definitely not. But I will be, once I get some answers.” But then the flight attendant comes by and signals that it’s time to switch to airplane mode. “I have to go, Jug. I’ll—I’ll call you, I guess. Later.”

“Okay.”

She hangs up without saying goodbye.

She can’t get comfortable during the flight. The ache between her thighs and across her shoulder blades reminds her how long it’s been since she’s been with a man. It also reminds her of the cost. She wonders if there’s a metaphor in there somewhere, but the thought is too tiring. So, she stares out the window as the lake gives way to the fields and forests of Michigan, Ontario, and, eventually, to New York.

Betty walks out of the airport, and, for the second time in two days, dissolves into a puddle of tears, this time in her sister’s arms.

“Hey, hey, little sis—what’s wrong?” Polly’s perfected her mom voice over the years, and for a moment Betty lets it lull her into a false sense of security. Then she freezes as realizes she cannot tell Polly any of what she suspects. Not until she’s sure. “No-nothing. It’s just been a hard week and I didn’t realize how much I missed you.”

Polly pulls back from her, hands still on her shoulders. “Do we maybe need to stop for some ice cream and Midol on the way home?”

Betty manages to pull a laugh out of somewhere deep inside, her spleen maybe, and says, “I hadn’t even thought of that, but sure.”

“One pint of Tonight Dough coming up! Mom only has that no sugar added frozen yogurt at her house, and, believe me, you don’t want to eat it unless you have to.”

She lets her sister console her with the promise of frozen dairy products and pain relievers she doesn’t need as they bundle her suitcase into the car and pull away from the airport.

“I’m sorry I won’t be here for your visit, Betty. And mom won’t be back from her conference for a couple of days, so you’ll have the house to yourself.”

“That’s okay. I’m the one who didn’t give you any warning I was coming. Thank you for coming to get me.”

“Are you kidding? A whole hour of you to myself and I don’t have to answer Cheryl’s incessant texts about SPF and not wearing mom shoes and yes I’m sure we don’t need fast passes and Disney World and Universal are plenty, we definitely don’t need to go to SeaWorld too.” Betty rolls her eyes. Cheryl is some Frankenstein’s monster of sort-of-cousin and sort-of-sister-in-law and completely overbearing, but Betty couldn’t imagine her life without her. She just wishes Cheryl would stop trying to buy the twins’ love. One, it’s unnecessary, they adore her. And two, sometimes it makes Betty feel a little bad that she can’t do the same, no matter how much Polly hates when Cheryl goes over the top.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay, just for tonight? I can have Fletcher push back our reservation.”

“No you should go. Don’t let me derail your plans. Besides, I had to be at the airport so early, I didn’t sleep very well last night.”

Polly rolls her eyes but keeps them on the road. “Of course not. You could have gotten a later flight, you know. Like two weeks later.”

“I know, it was sort of an impulsive decision.”

“Betty Cooper doesn’t do impulsive.”

“Maybe now she does.”

Polly glances over at her. “You look happier.” It’s surprising thing to say, considering the tears that had met their reunion.

“Pol, I just busted out the waterworks when all you did was hug me.”

“Stop it. I mean, you seem brighter. Like you’re taking better care of yourself. You’re smiley-er.”

“You spend too much time talking to twelve year olds. But yeah, I think…I think overall I am. I mean, it’s been hard, being so much farther away from all of you and basically starting over. But I like my life so far.”

“I’m so happy for you even though I miss you so much. Maybe once we all get to Orlando, I can have the twins FaceTime with you.”

“That’d be great. We all? Who else is going on this adventure again? Besides Cheryl.”

“Me, the kids, Fletcher, Cheryl’s girlfriend. Cheryl’s picking them up and we’re all meeting up at the airport Wednesday, so Fletcher and I are going to spend tonight and tomorrow in Saratoga Springs, a little mini-vacation before the crazy.”

Betty turns her sister’s statement around. “You’re happy?”

Polly’s smile is so big that Betty thinks it must hurt. She grabs Betty’s hand where it rests on the console and squeezes it.

“Yeah, I’m happy.”

Betty’s heart clenches.

For the rest of the ride, Polly chatters happily about their vacation plans. As much as Betty had enjoyed Harry Potter world, the prospect of that many consecutive days in the full buffet of Orlando’s theme parks, packed into crowds like sardines, and in August no less—she thinks it sounds like her own personalized version of hell.

But most of all, she thinks, she’s glad her sister won’t be here to see what’s coming. That she’ll have time to think of how to tell her.

#bughead fanfiction #riverdale fanfiction #bughead #betty cooper #jughead jones #betty x jughead #riverdale #mine #second city

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