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ragnarokhound · 1 month

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((you don’t have to do both if you don’t want to, you can consider this one a back up / alt))

“If you don’t know where to go, you can always come here.” 💞

From this writing prompt list i reblogged in...november lmao fljdsjfa

anyway this grew legs and sprinted away the second I picked it up yesterday - clearly it just needed some time to proof lmao. Thank you for the ask, tauria!! From *checks watch* almost 5 months ago fjdslafjsa I will be cross-posting it to Ao3 in my new oneshot collection fic :)

Warnings for: Vague allusions that Ra's Al Ghul is a creep (what else is new), threats of gun violence, canon-typical violence

15. “If you don’t know where to go, you can always come here.”

When Tim arrived in Gotham this morning, he had no way of knowing that his day would end in Jason Todd’s bed.

Frankly, he wasn’t really sure what bed he’d end up in— because his own certainly wasn’t an option right now. But If he had to pick, Jason Todd’s was somewhere near the bottom of whatever list he’d make.

He didn’t exactly plan on this, okay?

But, uh. Let’s back up a little.

—

Tim knew his day was going to go to shit when he got back from the airport at 7 AM.

He had his driver drop him off two blocks away from his townhouse for the sake of caffeine at the hole in the wall place he likes. Wealthy CEO he may be, but a sixteen hour flight is still a sixteen hour flight and Tim is cursed with an inability to sleep in the air.

Don’t ask. He’s tried. It doesn’t work.

So he wants coffee, and he wants a shower, and he wants his own bed. In that order.

With the first thing on his list acquired and blessedly burning his tongue, he managed to tug his brain cells together enough to realize that the building they’d passed that had been shrouded in tents and canvas was his building.

"What's going on here?"

The worker outside his building looks up from her clipboard, her face wrinkling into apprehensive confusion.

"Hello, sir. Can I help you?”

He hasn’t slept in roughly seventy two hours. He is not awake or patient enough for this.

“My name is Tim Drake. I own this building. What’s going on here?” He repeats.

The woman raises her eyebrows and looks down at her clipboard again. “Mr. Drake?” She questions, clearly expecting him to look like a grown-ass man and not a sleep-deprived college student coming home from spring break or whatever.

“Yes. Timothy Drake-Wayne. Why are you—” he tries to gesture with the hand still holding his suitcase handle, walking towards the tarps and tents erected around his townhouse with increasing trepidation, “—here?”

“I’m sorry sir, but you can’t go in there. Not for at least forty-eight hours.”

Tim stops in his tracks.

“Forty-eight—?”

“We've been scheduled to fumigate the property today.” She says it like she’s reading it out of a handbook. “It won't be safe to enter the building for at least forty-eight hours. You should have received prior notice. Uh. Sir.”

Tim's jet-lagged brain kicks into overdrive.

Bruce hasn't made any disappointed noises about Tim’s perfectly normal work ethic lately so it probably wasn't a misguided attempt at benching him. And besides, rendering Tim’s apartment inaccessible is counterproductive on that front.

Dick wouldn’t. They haven’t been exactly— great, lately but he wouldn’t. Besides, if he wanted to get Tim out of the house more, he’d show up to drag Tim out into the daylight himself. This is a little too roundabout for him.

It’s too much work to be Steph. She would think it’s funny, but there’s no way she’d follow through.

Damian might, but this doesn’t quite fit his preferred methods for making Tim’s life hell. It could be some cloak and dagger maneuver to leave him vulnerable, faking a complaint to the city so he’ll—

And then Tim thinks about the call.

The call he’d brushed off at fuck o’clock in the morning somewhere over Europe, too busy with another project. The call his secretary took for him instead. He thinks about the distracted confirmation he’d given to whatever it was she’d asked him about five minutes later.

He also thinks about the form he signed about two weeks ago, before this last minute trip to Hong Kong had consumed his entire attention. The one with “Two Weeks Notice” stamped across the top. His stomach sinks.

“Today,” he repeats.

She looks apologetic. “Today,” she confirms. “And we just started about an hour ago. I’m very sorry, Mr. Drake-Wayne but—”

"No it's—" he says through gritted teeth, "fine. I'll just. Make other arrangements."

—

He does not make other arrangements. Though not for lack of trying.

Tim has a handful of safehouses scattered throughout the city. He has options. He gets a taxi to the closest neighborhood, and nearly falls asleep in the backseat. The cabby has to knock on the glass divider to get his attention when they come to a stop. He grumbles and hauls his suitcase out of the backseat, and tips the man excessively.

Shower. Bed. Sleep. He’s so close he could cry.

Except when he finally rolls around the block, coffee half gone and trying to remember if this safehouse is the one with in-unit laundry or if he’ll have to haul his shit down to the laundry room, his building is a blackened husk with police tape all around it.

He stops on the sidewalk. He peers up at the window of his unit, squinting at the peeling black wood and shattered glass. He ponders whether two is enough data points to be considered a pattern. And whether he could get away with napping in the alley on this street or if that’ll end with him stabbed and robbed.

As he’s pondering, he catches sight of a passerby and stops him.

“‘Scuse me,” he says apologetically. “What the hell happened here?”

The guy looks up from his phone and takes in his rumpled clothes, his suitcase, and the scorched remains of his apartment.

“Oh, uh. Yeah, there was a big fire about a week back? Bad fire. Took out, like, half the block. Cops are saying it’s arson.”

“A week ago,” Tim repeats. The guy’s eyes widen.

“Oh shit, bro, did you live here?”

“I’ve been out of town,” he explains numbly.

“Dude, that sucks. And right in the middle of con’ season. Good luck finding a hotel!”

“Yeah,” Tim sighs as the guy walks away. “Thanks.”

—

The next safehouse he tries isn’t in much better shape.

He remembers hearing about Freeze going on a rampage a few days into his trip, but he hadn’t realized another one of his places had been caught in the cross-fire. The cold burst the pipes, and now the whole place is undergoing renovation.

He hears all this from the crotchety old lady who lives in the next building over (her building needs renovation too, but will the city pay for it? Of course not, they weren’t ‘directly impacted by disaster’ so they won’t see a penny of relief funds even though their pipes are on the same line. Typical) and when he finally extricates himself from the conversation, it’s almost noon, his second cup of coffee is long-since empty and he’s at the end of his goddamn rope.

By the time he sees his next safehouse, he isn’t even surprised anymore.

“Does God hate me?” He asks the boarded up building. “Is this a punishment? What did I do? What the fuck did I do?”

He is 99% sure at this point that someone is burning his bolt holes. There’s a short list of people with the resources and the intel to do it, and while he’s not above ruling out the likes of Damian just yet, he seriously doubts anyone wearing a bat is behind this.

Besides, Dick would have noticed by now if Damian were sinking this many resources into convoluted covert ops designed to make Tim suffer. Definitely. Probably.

Fuck it.

He goes around the back and hops on top of his suitcase to reach the clunky camera watching the back entrance. This building is on the shittier side, closer to Crime Alley than his other haunts; cameras break all the time around here. He’ll have it replaced after he’s a functional human again.

Reportedly, this building was tagged for ‘high toxicity levels’— which is pretty typical for any building where fear toxin or Joker gas are found in any amount. They must have found a lot to condemn the whole building, but Tim is confident he’ll be fine. The airborne shit dissipates to safe levels within hours depending on the ventilation. If it was in the air, it’s long gone. Anything else needs to be injected to be effective.

Once the camera’s busted, he kicks out the boards and heads inside.

He drags his suitcase in after him, and mourns the shower he probably won’t be getting. The hall lights are out, and chances are the water’s been shut off along with the electricity. But at this point, he simply does not give a shit. All he wants are four walls and a mattress.

Leaning on the door to his floor to make it open, he stumbles out into the hallway—

And catches sight of the glistening curved dagger stabbed into the wall next to his door, the hilt gleaming green in the sinking sun.

“Nope,” Tim says, spinning on his heel and going back down the stairwell double time. “Nope, nope, nope.”

He is now 100% certain that the League of Assassins has been burning his bolt holes. Ra’s al fucking Ghul can eat his whole ass.

—

Seven blocks away, Tim sits on the sidewalk in front of a bodega and contemplates a third cup of coffee. The shittiest one yet.

See, here’s the thing.

The thing is, he has options.

He could go to the Manor. Or the penthouse. Or to Steph’s place. He’d have to answer some unnecessary questions like ‘Master Timothy, you know you can’t sleep on aircraft, why didn’t you sleep before your flight’ or ‘Tim, why didn’t you come here first, you know you can still come to me if you’re in trouble, right’ or ‘why did you agree to fumigate your fucking house, you loser, lmao’. (Stephanie is not going to let him live this down).

He is absolutely certain that he would be welcomed in any of these places and after a completely undeserved amount of fussing, he could take a fucking nap and someone else would deal with the League bullshit for him.

And that’s the thing. There’s the rub.

No one should have to deal with the League bullshit for him. This is his problem. He’s not in a hurry to bring them down on anyone. Not even Damian.

With grim resignation, he reaches for his phone to try and find a hotel room (during a con’ weekend apparently, RIP) and maybe get a fucking handle on this whole stupid thing, when he hears:

“Hand over your wallet!”

He lifts his head slowly and finds himself looking down the barrel of a gun. A gun held by some guy wearing a ski mask in broad fucking daylight. There’s another guy next to him who’s watching the street. There’s a third guy somewhere behind him who he can’t see, but he can hear the scuff of his boots.

Sure. Why not. With the day he’s had, this might as well happen. He holds up his hands placatingly.

Tim contemplates his muggers. The guy with the gun is jittery, probably new to this, or hopped up on something. He keeps glancing between Tim and the bodega behind him, so they were probably planning a run on the till. Might have chickened out, or thought Tim was an easier target, an unexpected meal ticket plopped right in their path. Or they were already inside when Tim sat down, which wouldn’t bode well for his situational awareness seeing as he just came out of there himself.

The grinding gears of his tired brain keep getting caught on the fact that this is happening in the middle of the fucking day. Tim glances at the street corner and bites his cheek in frustration. Yeah, he’s smack dab in the middle of the Alley. Figures.

“Are you deaf or somethin’ man?” The guy with the gun is saying. “Hand over your fucking wallet!”

The other guy doesn’t seem as crazy-eyed. He’s nervous, though. He keeps looking around like he’s expecting Batman to materialize, to come whistling down the street like a beat cop.

“Dude, come on, it’s not fucking worth it,” he says, grabbing at the gunman’s shoulder. “We got the money, let’s fucking go.”

The third guy kicks over Tim’s suitcase. “Yeah, come on, Don, let’s just grab this shit and bounce.”

Tim can’t do anything. He’s not Red Robin right now. He’s Timothy Drake-Wayne, CEO of Wayne Enterprises, and he’s getting mugged in front of a bodega at two in the afternoon in a rumpled suit and tie and still toting his suitcase from his early morning flight.

His hands are trembling from unspent adrenaline, too much caffeine, and not enough sleep. His eyelids are the heaviest they’ve ever been in his godforsaken life. His ears are ringing. He could knock all three of them down in less time than it takes to tie his shoelaces. But he can’t.

“Shut up, Johnny, look at him shaking! What’s he gonna do? If he doesn’t wanna get shot, rich boy’s gonna hand over all his fucking shit!”

“Hey, let’s just—” Tim tries to say.

Stars explode across his vision as Tim takes a punch he genuinely wasn’t expecting. He stares up at the blue sky for about half a second, more confused than anything else, before the gunman grabs him by the front of his shirt and hauls him up to shout in his face.

“What’s it gonna be, pretty boy?!”

Caught on the exhausted edge between vigilante training and the preservation of his identity, Tim is frozen. He doesn’t know what to do. He kind of wants to cry.

“Gee, Donny, what is it gonna be?” A fourth voice says, full of false cheer.

Tim blinks. So do the muggers.

He knows that voice.

“Who the fuck—?” The gunman drops Tim, spinning around and into a fist. He tumbles down to the ground, out cold.

Everything happens pretty quickly after that.

Jason Todd is in civvies. He’s sporting a worn out looking hoodie and a pair of jeans that have seen better days. But his heavy boots are the same ones he wears for his uniform, and the kick he delivers to Johnny’s face is all Red Hood.

Almost in a daze, Tim watches him fight with the usual mix of seething envy and raw desire that rears its ugly head any time he gets to see Jason in action. He’s fast, decisive. Efficient. Beautiful. Tim wishes he had Jason’s skill. And he wishes—

Well. He wishes a lot of things about Jason Todd.

Tim is pretty sure he and Jason are friends. Maybe. Probably. They’ve pretty much moved past the whole “replacement”, “zombie-dickhead” part of their relationship and have graduated to occasionally providing backup on ops that overlap in each other’s sectors, ganging up on Dick when they’re all in the same room, and maintaining a surprisingly steady stream of vigilante gossip to keep each other in the loop.

So, ok, yes, due to the aforementioned, he’s pretty sure they’re friends. And also because Jason wouldn’t have stuck his neck out for him otherwise. He would have just let him get mugged.

Watching Jason fight is one of Tim’s favorite pastimes. But right now, Tim’s usual appreciation is soured by the gut-roiling embarrassment of being caught in this position by Jason of all people. His eyes itch. His cheek throbs. He’s so fucking tired.

“Hey, little stalker,” Jason says suddenly, holding out an expectant hand in Tim’s face. The muggers are groaning on the ground around them. Tim isn’t sure when that happened. He might have zoned out. “Did you know that you had a stalker for a change?”

Tim flushes. “I resent that. I haven’t stalked anyone in years.” He takes the hand. It’s warm, and calloused, and big around his.

Jason laughs at him and yanks him to his feet. “Liar.”

Tim’s mouth twists into a scowl. He tries to glare at Jason, but he can feel himself swaying and Jason still hasn’t let go of him, and it’s ruining everything.

Also, lowkey, Jason is right. But in his defense, it is literally their job to stalk people, so.

“I haven’t stalked you in years then. Just other guys. Bad guys. Not non-bad guys. Fuck. You know what I mean. Whatever.” He pauses; recalibrates. “Had?” He asks.

Jason’s eyebrows inched higher and higher the longer Tim talked. Tim doesn’t blame him.

“Yeah. Had.”

So much for the League, Tim muses.

Jason gives him a once over before tugging decisively on Tim’s wrist, easily grabbing the handle of his suitcase and starting to walk with both in tow, to Tim’s rising horror.

“You’re coming with me, shortstack. What’s wrong with you? Are you drunk? You look like shit.”

Tim tries to yank his wrist out of Jason’s grip, but the asshole doesn’t budge. “I’m not drunk,” Tim snaps. “I’m fine. I’m just. I’m just… really tired.”

Jason stops abruptly, and Tim stumbles into his shoulder.

“I can see that,” he says, steadying Tim with an amused but ultimately sympathetic look. He loads Tim’s suitcase onto the back of a motorcycle that Tim literally just now noticed.

God, he’s fucked. And not even in a fun way.

“C’mon,” Jason says. “Don’t fall asleep on the way over— road rash sucks ass.”

—

They don’t talk on the way to— wherever Jason is taking them, but once they’re parked in a random garage and walking towards the elevators, the game of twenty questions begins.

“So why’ve you got League assassins after you, anyway? Piss in a lazarus pit? Push over the baby brat on the playground?”

“Ra’s al Ghul wants my body,” Tim says, dejected but resigned to this bizarre fact of his life. “Since I was seventeen, I’m pretty sure.”

Jason wrinkles his nose. “Ew.”

“I don’t think it’s a sex thing? But it could also be a sex thing.”

“Again. Fucking ew.”

“Yeah. Also I blew up a bunch of his shit and I think he’s still salty I got away with it.”

“Is that why you weren’t at the Manor?” Jason asks, herding Tim out of the elevator and down a long hallway. “Or anywhere but a random street in Crime Alley?”

Tim nods. “Yeah. They found all my safehouses, but— my mess. My problem.”

Jason thwacks him upside the head.

“Ow! What the fuck?”

“You’re the dumbest person on the planet.”

“Am not. B is on-planet right now.”

“Then you’re pretty fucking close,” Jason snarks, fishing out some keys and opening one of the apartment doors.

Tim scoffs at him as he’s pushed inside. “Oh, please. Don’t try to tell me you would let Dick swoop in and solve all your problems for you.”

Jason rolls his eyes, stepping into the side kitchen and popping open the freezer door of the fridge.

“Dickiebird can’t even solve his own problems,” he says as he rummages. “But maybe when I’m fucked up enough to let three nobodies robbing a fucking bodega get the jump on me, that’s a sign that, maybe, it might be time to call in the cavalry. Dick isn’t the only person who’s got your back.” He presses an ice pack to Tim’s face until he takes it himself, and keeps steering him through the apartment. “Just saying.”

Tim would protest with all of his very good reasons why Jason is definitely wrong here, but he’s too busy processing the fact that Jason has led him into a bedroom. With a bed. There’s a bed, with a mattress and pillows and blankets. Right there. Tim stares at it with lustful eyes.

Jason catches him staring. He rolls his eyes, but he’s sporting a small smile that Tim has the presence of mind to memorize. He walks over to a dresser and pulls out a big shirt and a pair of shorts that he hands to Tim.

“Look. If you don’t know where to go, you can always come here. No guarantees I’ll be always around, but, yeah. Mi casa es su casa, or whatever.”

Tim eyes him up, clutching the bundle of Jason-smelling fabric in his hands. “And you’d do that for me because…why, exactly?”

Jason flicks his forehead, a stinging reprimand. Tim hisses.

“Because, dumbass, you need help and I feel like it. And you don’t actually suck to be around, so shut up and be grateful.”

“Oh, yes,” Tim deadpans, rubbing at his forehead. “So grateful to be allowed the privilege of squatting with you.”

The thing of it is, Tim is grateful. But Jason doesn’t need to know that.

Jason squawks, and before Tim can duck, he’s snatched Tim around the neck in a headlock. His arm is thick and doesn’t budge no matter how Tim shoves and kicks. The ice pack and the clothes go flying, and Tim just about dies. Jason is warm.

“Jason—!”

“Brat!” Jason crows, not giving an inch. “I paid for this place fair and square— you’re the only squatter here!”

“Blood money doesn’t count as square!”

“Tell that to half of Gotham, kid.”

“I’m trying to, thanks for noticing,” Tim says, finally wrenching himself free of Jason’s grip, stumbling into the bed and giving into its siren song. He sits down heavily on the edge, toppling over sideways and reaching pathetically for the fallen ice pack that’s just out of his reach.

“And don’t call me kid—” he complains, muffled by the pillow. It also smells like Jason. “You’re barely two years older than me.”

The cold ice pack is pressed into his fingers. He cracks an eye open to look, but Jason is just smirking at him, like he’s giving Tim the win. Ass.

“Coulda fooled me, shortstack.”

Tim rolls his eyes, and onto his back, toeing off his shoes and letting them clatter to the floor. He can’t tell if Jason’s bed is the best bed in the world, or if he’s just deliriously inventing things.

Frankly, Jason Todd’s bed is the last place he ever thought he’d end up, this morning or otherwise, so he’s never bothered to speculate. He does not have a contingency plan for this.

“Is there a reason you keep calling me short,” he complains, “Or will I just need to fill in the blanks myself?”

“Can’t help it. You’re just so small,” Jason coos. Tim props himself up on an elbow at that, raising a disgusted eyebrow.

“You don’t hear me constantly talking about how big you are.”

Jason grins like he just won the lottery; Tim shuts his eyes the second it’s out of his mouth.

“Baby, you don’t know how big I am.”

He does, actually. Not in a creepy stalker way, just— there was this one time. A big rogue breakout at Arkham, all-hands on deck type of situation; Tim, Cass, and Jason were covering Poison Ivy in the park. Acid-spitting pitcher plants were involved.

And look, Jason’s tactical gear is fine in the day to day, but it’s not like any of them had time to prep a neutralizing agent, so when Jason needed his pants off, stat…uh. Well. Tim was right there.

He knows, okay?

“Alright,” he rallies, trying desperately not to replay the memory of Jason adjusting himself through his boxers. All of himself. “I walked right into that one.”

“Oh, trust me. You’ll know if you’ve walked into it.”

Tim scoffs, but he can feel how red his face is.

And the thing is. He says it without really meaning to.

But he still means it.

“You gonna put your money where your mouth is, big guy?”

The change is immediate. Jason had been halfway out the door, but now he turns to Tim, giving him his full, undivided attention. He looks at Tim, laid out in Jason's bed, giving him a very slow once over. The scrutiny is at once nerve-wracking and thrilling.

“Thought you didn’t want my money,” Jason murmurs.

The temperature in the room spikes. If it weren’t for the slow throb of his bruised cheek, Tim would think that he’s already asleep and dreaming.

But he isn’t. He’s very much aware that he’s wide awake.

Tim swallows. “Well. It’s not your money I want.”

Jason’s grin is electric.

He stalks over to the bed, and Tim is frozen like a rabbit, waiting to see what he’ll do next. Jason settles a knee on the sheets between Tim’s legs, looming over Tim and boxing him in against the mattress. Tim’s free hand reaches up of its own accord to tangle in the collar of Jason’s hoodie, and the cotton is softer than he expected.

Jason’s eyes rove over his face, dark and heavy. He catches Tim’s face in his hand, swiping his thumb lightly across the bruising hot ache of his cheekbone. He leans in deliberate and slow and—

—and stops about an inch away from Tim’s mouth.

“Get some sleep, babybird,” Jason teases, his breath puffing gently over the skin of Tim’s lips. “You can proposition me again tomorrow.”

“It’s, like, 3:30 in the afternoon,” Tim argues, breathless.

“Yeah, and your body thinks it’s 3:30 in the morning. You’re dead on your feet. Don’t make promises you can’t keep, and go the fuck to sleep.”

Jason moves to rise. But Tim hooks a stubborn arm around his neck and pulls him down that last remaining inch.

The kiss is— bad. At first.

Tim basically smashed their mouths together to prove a point, and Jason muffles a surprised sound against Tim’s teeth. He lands heavily on top of Tim at an awkward angle, and he’s kind of crushing him. Tim refuses to let go, but— Jason doesn’t pull away.

Jason gentles the kiss instead, and Tim thrills. He levers himself up onto his elbow, wrapping an anchoring arm around Tim’s back. He finds a home between Tim’s legs, and he lets Tim kiss him until Tim's lips are tingling and his fingers go slack; until he can’t keep his eyes open anymore.

Somewhere between fifteen minutes and a small eternity later, Jason presses one more kiss to the corner of his mouth. He curls around Tim on his side, and Tim turns his face into Jason’s neck with a soft wondering sigh.

“I’ll keep it. Promise. Wait n’ see,” Tim mumbles. Jason snorts, but doesn’t budge, and Tim can hear his smile in his voice, lilted and lulling.

“Sure, babybird. I’ll wait. I got nowhere else to be.”

Tim is already asleep.

#one hundred thousand years have passed #i creak up out of the soil gasping and hacking and coughing #'i lived bitch'#'have some jaytim that grew legs on me'#my writing #asked and answered #jaytim #ladytauria #hurt/comfort #this one is sillier and more light-hearted than the other ones #the hurt is more like 'near tears travel exhaustion' than your typical aftermath of violence lol but it so definitely counts #i held a gun to the head of the muse that said 'this is way too short' and pulled the fucking trigger #i KNOW it's a very fast get together but i did Not want this to become my next 5 digit wordcount fic okay. okay. oka #the bones of a long 'tim and jason vs the league of assassins' fic is hiding here #and if i actually wrote that this would have ended much differently #but i am Not Writing That okay I am Writing Cowboys and also Werewolves Right Now. I Do Not Have Time For This!!!!!!#prompt fill

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lolottes · 6 months

Text

Nord Weston

Wes screwed up.

He had finally managed to convince that Danny Fenton and Danny Phantom were one and the same person. Then he was congratulated and told what they were going to do to him....

This is not what he wanted!!!

He had to get to Dash as quickly as possible because he had Jazz's number (He couldn't contact the Fenton children directly after all, he would have been too visible)

But he had a plan! He was going to move again and… It was true that he and Fenton were A LOT alike....

Despite the (deserved) hostility from his friends, Danny followed his plan. They didn't really have anything better even if they had already made arrangements.

This is how a trio of brothers rushed to Gotham a new city as part of a JL witness protection program

I hesitated between twin brothers or whether they share the same identity, so if you want to play it like two West Westons, go for it, this time I'm not doing a second very similar prompt

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good-beanswrites · 18 days

Text

A drabble for an anon asking about the prisoners watching their music videos! This is focused on specifically Mikoto’s initial shock at seeing MeMe for the first time, but just know that Double comes with a whole new set of shocks as he truly listens to John for the first time ;-;

Mikoto was no criminal.

He didn’t know how to break into locked rooms, or hack into complex prison security systems. He figured there was no way in hell he’d be able to see these so-called incriminating videos that the Warden was recording, and had resolved himself to an eternity of wondering what they could be. He was shocked when he didn’t need to do a single thing to gain access to them – Es simply adjusted the computer monitor and told him he could hit play when (and if) he wished. Then they left the room.

“A-are you sure?” he called, but they were already gone.

Mikoto blinked at the screen. It showed a stretched version of his apartment couch, near his bathroom wall, broken to reveal sky above. He thought he could spot his tarot cards at the bottom of the frame. Had Milgram broken into his home to film this?

He scoffed, and hit play.

Distorted guitar started up. He flinched as his own face appeared for a moment – looking directly into the camera and making a wild expression he would never have made if someone was recording. His body tensed up more as he heard his own voice start to sing lyrics he’d never spoken before in his life. He wasn’t even a good singer, and here he was sounding like a professional.

There were plenty of ways to accomplish all of this, of course. Software could mimic one’s voice, making him say anything these crazy reality hosts wanted. A team could easily add some digital effects to a stunt double and match his appearance perfectly. Knowing that didn’t make the experience any less unsettling.

He watched himself commit a nasty murder. He watched himself return home bloodied. But it was all ridiculous. How could Milgram even claim that this was him? He’d never raised a hand to anyone in his life. Were the other prisoners’ videos as outlandish as this one?

But then, a switch.

The song shifted to a new melody. He appeared to wake up from his couch, and suddenly Mikoto got the sense that this was him.

He was struck with how familiar this new segment sounded. It simultaneously felt like a favorite song he must have played on loop not too long ago, and one that he’d never heard before. As it played, each new note and lyric felt right on the tip of his tongue.

It ended as quickly as it began. The song returned to the heavy-metal-murder aesthetic it had started with, and once again he felt like he was watching a cheap copy of himself onscreen. He watched another murder, a shower scene (had the warden seen all that? How embarrassing…) and then he turned to his bathroom mirror.

At the same time as his musical counterpart, Mikoto leapt backwards in horror.

His eyes remained glued to the screen. His hand flew up to grab the lower half of his face. It was fake, he told himself. AI and CGI and all that. It was fake. It had to be.

Something deep inside of him said “no. That’s real. That’s me.”

Something else deep inside of him echoed the sentiment.

The video was less than four minutes of music, but by the end he was panting and tugging at his hair as if he’d endured hours of prison torture. He burst out of the room. He sucked in breath after breath. The melodies still played in his mind, lines repeating in his memory as he tried to put as much distance between himself and that little television screen.

He found the others in the common room. They gave him a knowing look, but somehow he knew his experience had been very different from their own. Es approached him.

They studied his expression for a moment. Thankfully, they didn’t ask anything stupid, like “how did it go?” or “what did you think?”

Instead, they just told him, “if you ever want to watch it again, just let me know, I can get it set up for you.”

He would want to see it again. Of course, it would be better, then. He would take a moment to calm down. He’d watch it later and everything would be okay. He’d have a clearer mind. He’d pick out all the little camera tricks they used to make it. He’d be sure it was a fake, and laugh about how ridiculous he was being now.

Of course. Of course.

He nodded to Es, unable to produce any words. Es left him.

The rules in this prison never made any sense, but in this case, he was grateful. He wouldn’t need to figure out any snooping or hacking to get access to the video again. After all, he was no criminal.

… he wasn’t, was he?

#milgram #mikoto kayano #thanks again!! this was super fun to do 👀#i was so sad that they cant see their videos in canon so it made me so happy to work out how it may work/feel #you know when theres a song you used to love but its been too long and you sort of forgot the words #but as theyre playing youre like ‘ahhh i knew that’#thats what im picturing #something unnervingly familiar #as mentioned in the hcs i think john would have a very different reaction #hed be happy to see himself but upset to see mikoto so afraid of him #:(#i like to think that john watching meme is what prompts some of his lyrics in double #i think the opening shots of bring it on would convince fuuta that someone had just hacked his cameras #but then there would be shots they shouldnt have any way to get #and the same for mikoto seeing his apartment/the train station and then suddenly himself in the shower…#he probably laughs it off with the others knowing that they came back a bit more calm than hes currently feeling #so he fakes it as long as possible before having another Moment alone in his cell that night #OUGH #drabbles

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jennamacaroni · 2 months

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Deborah is always giving things to people, and people think because she is very rich and very capable, she doesn't need anyone to give things to her. But Ava gives her something. [you take over from here]

its been two and half years that i've been ruminating on this prompt and never have been able to figure out what this gift could be. this morning i finally found my answer. thank you for sending this prompt which i'm sure at this point you've long forgotten about <3 love u

The package arrives by courier the same evening that Deborah learns ‘My Bad’ is going to network television. After an obscene bidding war, the purchase price from NBC Universal’s deal will be more revenue for Deborah than all 2,500 Palmetto residency shows combined. It also happens that NBC has the Super Bowl next February, and network executives pitched the big game to Deborah’s team as the perfect lead-in to maximize viewership.

That’s how big Deborah Vance is in popular culture these days. Big enough to follow up the most-watched television program of the year.

It’s kind of stunning, Deborah thinks, as Marcus offers her the iPad with the contract pulled up, ready for her signature. Maybe in her wildest dreams she imagined this level of fame and brand recognition, but it was never all that realistic. Especially not at her age. It was impressive enough to sustain her Vegas residency as long as she did in a culture where even the most prolific actors are put out to pasture after age forty. But here she is, about to sign the biggest deal of her career, north of seventy years old.

Josefina interrupts them before she has the chance to sign, knocking softly on the doorframe to Deborah’s office, holding a small package wrapped in a recycled paper grocery bag. “Sorry to interrupt, Deborah, but this was just delivered.”

Deborah waves her off. “Leave it in the kitchen, I’ll get to it later.”

Josefina turns to follow Deborah’s instructions, but something changes her mind. She hovers instead in the entry to the office, a strange look on her face.

“What is it?” Deborah asks, studying Josefina’s frown, mind going back to Ava hovering in a similar doorway holding the envelope from Kathy back after Frank died. She shakes the memory away and stands, holding out her hand and beckoning Josefina forward and to get on with it. She thought this was finally over, that after nearly hitting her with the Rolls Kathy would have gotten the goddamn message.

Josefina enters but stops short of handing it over. She looks Deborah clear in the eye and says, “It’s from Ava.”

Ah.

Deborah isn’t sure if anyone on her staff is still in contact with her ex-writing partner, but it’s been six months since Deborah fired her on that Hollywood rooftop.

First came the denial: Ava teary eyed on a night that she should have been celebrating, not believing Deborah’s words. I can do three months severance and extend your health insurance for six. Then came the anger, weeks of indignant and resentful texts and voice messages, Ava at her worst poking at every tender part of Deborah she knew, which is just about all of them. Deborah never once wrote back. Then bargaining for her job back, even when Deborah knew she was doing just fine writing for television back in LA, that she was even becoming pretty successful. Then came the weeks where Deborah heard nothing at all, Ava’s messages stopping completely, no updates on any of her social media that Deborah most definitely didn’t keep checking, just to make sure. Ava’s name in the credits became the only way Deborah knew she was still out there, still okay, still working.

Deborah clears her throat, swallowing down the acute tightening, ignoring the quickening of her heart rate.

“I’ll take it,” she says, curtly, “give me a minute.”

“I already opened the champagne Jimmy sent,” Josefina explains, handing Deborah the box across the desk. This was a night for celebration, but Deborah suddenly feels like anything but.

“I said, give me a minute,” she snaps, more forceful this time. Her tone clearly hits the mark because Josefina and Marcus share a knowing look before seeing themselves out. The contract, Jimmy, the champagne, it can all wait.

She sits back in the opulent wing-backed chair and lets out a long exhale, holding the small wrapped package and measuring its weight. There’s not much to it really, just wrinkled paper, crooked lines of clear packing tape, and Ava’s chicken scratch with her name and address.

She unwraps it carefully, like she’s afraid of what might be inside. There’s a plain white envelope with Deborah’s name written small in the center and a box for a pair of noise canceling headphones. She slips her finger under the seam of the envelope, tearing it open. A piece of note paper is tri-folded inside, Ava Daniels in neat block printing stamped along the top of the personalized stationery. Deborah chuckles, thinking Ava has come so far from writing solely on post-its. The note is simple, Ava’s messy handwriting in black ink in the center of the page:

For your collection. - Ava

Deborah opens the box but there are no headphones inside, only a bunch of balled up paper surrounding an oblong taped up ball of bubble wrap. Contained within are two ceramic figures, an unlikely pair: it’s quintessential Deborah in her favorite updo wig, a pants suit dusted in golden glitter, complete with golden high heels and microphone in hand. The other is a slightly shorter and paler figure with short auburn hair, striped t-shirt, high waisted jeans, and thick black Doc Marten boots. The tiny Ava is holding a small black notebook. They’re both laughing, and if placed side by side, the salt and pepper shakers turn slightly into one another, like they’re leaning in and sharing a raucous joke.

Deborah tears up, staring down at them centered on the desktop, Ava the pepper to her salt. The other half of her pair. She misses her desperately then, and if she’s serious with herself, has been for the past half of a year, never letting herself truly sit in those feelings until now.

She picks up her phone, squints at the screen through tears, and pulls up Ava’s contact. Before she knows what she’s doing, Deborah hits the call button.

The phone rings twice, then is sent to voicemail.

The recorded message says, “It’s Ava, drop it like it’s hot.”

Deborah clears her throat. She has no idea what she even wants to say. I miss you. I’m living my dream, I’m famous as hell, about to be more rich than ever, but I’m not happy. Not without you. Please come back. None of it is worth it without you.

But that would be selfish. Ava is doing fine, thriving even, without Deborah. She needs to let her be. Instead, she says, “Hey, it’s um, it’s me. I got your package.” She sniffles, swallowing tears. “They’re perfect. Thank you.”

She hangs up.

After her hands stop shaking and she’s gathered herself, Deborah carries the shakers to the wall of china cabinets where her collection is fully lit and on display. She makes room right in the center one at eye-level and sets them together, close enough to touch, their heads leaning into one another.

A few moments later Deborah signs the contract and the house celebrates, Jimmy toasting Deborah and her accomplishments over the phone to a bottle of Dom Perignon, a vintage for 1976, the very year Deborah filmed the late night pilot and ended up starting her stand up career.

If anyone notices the new addition to the salt and pepper shaker collection, no one mentions it.

#hacks #hacks hbo #filling some prompts to get back into it #so if you remember sending one i never answered you might get lucky :)#ava x deborah

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