#man!! this took so long!! my back has this crick in it from being hunched over my tablet like a feral little himbo
turned 21 today, wanted to draw somethin miraculous for the occasion :)
8K notes
·
View notes
Young starker au prompt where tony comes knocking on peters door, crying after Howard slaps tony and peter is just like oh baby come here it’s not your fault and they cuddle and peter plays with Tony’s hair until he falls asleep
TW: Implied/referenced child abuse | Implied/referenced physical abuse | Brief mention of abuse related bruising
The moment Peter opens the door, he knows.
Tony was always so expressive. The human face has 43 muscles, and Tony used every single one of them in creative variety. There was not a single emotion Tony was capable of hiding from his face, least of all his eyes.
Peter took one look and knew in an instant that the man before him was broken.
Pain, betrayal, hurt, hopelessness. They all blinked at him in neon lights, in the downturn of his mouth and the agony in his eyes, the tic of a muscle in his jaw. The tense shoulders, hunched spine and the red mark steadily settling into purple on his jaw were evident but unnecessary hints.
"Oh, Tony," Peter managed, pulling the door wider, reaching for him. Tony went silently, pliantly, like a ghost. He was cold to the touch and there was no obnoxious, cherry red Mustang on the sidewalk, which meant he'd walked all the way here, sans jacket. Peter knew immediately there was more or less only one reason Tony would’ve left the house in such a hurry, redness marring his jaw.
Tony said nothing as Peter pulled him closer, trembling in his grip like a horse about to bolt. Peter knew the rules for times like this. They were simple enough.
Don’t ask. Don’t make promises. Don’t say their names.
He held Tony close as he tugged him through the doorway and kicking it shut, fingertips sliding along Tony’s cold hip as he marched him towards the bedroom. Aunt May was still on her overnight, but Peter knew she wouldn’t mind Tony being here. Not least when she saw the reason.
Tony was like a limp ragdoll, distant and glassy eyed when Peter pushed him gently onto the edge of the bed, hair mussed and flopping towards, his restless fingers the only sign of life, tap-tap-tapping away on his knee.
“Did you know the name of the space shuttle that NASA launched in 2011 was Endeavour?”
Tony liked when he talked. Liked topics he could focus on, topics that would draw him away from his emotions.
Peter had once distracted him on the situation by saying as many false facts as he could, until Tony had leapt to his feet and, in order, corrected every single one of them until he was blue in the face and breathless.
Now, though. Now Peter just wanted to take care of him, so he did. He peeled off Tony’s leather jacket carefully, gently, setting it over the back of his desk chair before he pulled his shirt off him, too. Tony seemed to blink back into reality then, head tipping a little, out of focus eyes fixing on him quizzically.
“Don’t get excited, Champ. My shirts are softer,” he hummed, running his palms down Tony’s bare shoulders. There were no other bruises, no other marks, which meant Howard must’ve hit him once and that was all.
It was a tiny relief, but Peter didn’t linger on it, leaning forwards to press a soft, chaste kiss to Tony’s collar before he moved to his closet.
He chose a ratty but soft and warm shirt, stuffing Tony into it like a stubborn toddler before pressing a hand to his chest and wrapping his other one around his back, guiding him into laying flat so he could work on Tony’s belt.
“You can’t tell me not to get excited then do this,” Tony rasped, and it was weak and quiet, but Peter smiled none the less, looking up at Tony with a gentle smile.
“If you nap for at least two hours, I’ll ride you until you scream,” he promised, pinching at Tony’s hip to get him to lift so he could tug off his jeans. The sound Tony made was soft, cheek turning into Peter’s sheets. It made Peter want to crawl on top of him, around him, cocoon him in a bundle of warm safety, but to do that he had to get Tony comfortable.
When his jeans were around his ankles he took off Tony’s boots, set everything aside, and crawled along the bed besides him, reaching down for the soft comforter folded at the bottom of the bed.
Tony was still cold but Peter payed it no heed as he curled up around Tony’s back, nudging him gently until they were spooning, cheeks cushioned on his pillow. He wrapped an arm around Tony’s waist, palm splayed over his stomach protectively as he used the other to tug up the comforter.
“You know, I’ve always found the name ‘Francis Crick’ quite funny. He’s one of the two scientists that discovered DNA, you know. I’m glad my name is bland. ‘Parker’ isn’t really something you can make fun of,” Peter spoke lowly, hugging Tony close.
His breathing was steady and Peter could feel the vibration of when he hummed, a light sound to show he was paying attention. He smelt like whiskey and aftershave, a perfect and familiar combination.
When the comforter was tucked up over their shoulders he moved his hand, burying his fingers in the long, soft locks of Tony’s hair. The strands were just the faintest bit stiff with the remnants of hair gel, malleable and raven under his touch. At the contact, Tony let out a long, shuddering breath, head tipping back into the touch.
When they were settled he wriggled forwards a little to press a kiss to the hinge of Tony’s jaw, thumb rubbing against his side soothingly. “Its never your fault,” he whispered, the one remark Tony had reluctantly agreed to permit as they lay in the shadowed room, Tony slowly acclimating to the heat, breathing evening.
“Never.” he twirled a lock of Tony’s hair around his fingers before shifting his hand, scratching his nails slowly and lightly over his scalp.
Peter stayed awake as Tony relaxed in his arms, pain and sadness slowly fading, chased by their entwined bodies and the soft nonsense Peter whispered in his ears. When he was sure Tony was asleep he kissed his jaw again, featherlight and warm.
“One day you’ll find the strength to admit to him that you’re so much better than he could ever be. One day, he’s going to look back on the life he could have had and mourn you, and you’ll be bigger and brighter than he ever was. And I’ll be right there with you. One day, he won’t hurt you anymore.”
He paused for a moment, watched the way Tony’s shoulder rose and fell.
“I promise.”
223 notes
·
View notes
“D” is for...? (Dimitri x Reader)
hi!! here’s another pre-timeskip dimitri x reader fanfic! as much as i love post-timeskip dimi, sometimes my heart just needs a break from all the soul-crushing angst :’)
this is my first time writing all of the Lions at once, so please forgive me if they’re a bit ooc! regardless, i hope you enjoy my fic~
all fluff and no spoilers!!
~*~
No... No no no...
You cradled your head in your palms and rammed your head against the hard, stone floor. Your ears perked at the tiny scratching echoing from the opposite side of your sorry, hunched-over frame and your eyes zeroed in on any sign of movement in the dark crevices between a bookshelf and the wall.
This is bad... This is really, really bad...
“(F/N)...? Is, uh, everything all right?”
“D-Dimitri!” Without much warning (or thought) you shot up to greet the royal, but the ebony side table you were under kept you on your knees. A sharp, throbbing pain blossomed from the point of impact and the recoiling force was enough to propel you face first onto the floor. Dimitri just barely caught the wobbling vase in time and set it cautiously back in place.
“(F/N), are you okay?! D-Do you want me to take you to the infirmary?! I can fetch Professor Byleth or even Mercedes to take a look--”
“No!”
“N-No?”
“I have to get him back!”
“Get who? (F/N), what are you--”
“My duck!”
Your... Your what?
Dumbfounded was not a strong enough word to describe what this man was feeling. All he could do was watch in silent confusion as you desperately clawed at an invisible being lurking in the dark. He stepped away and around the table you unceremoniously slammed your head on and peered into the darkness.
“Come here, darling,” you cooed gently, a tinge of anxiety tainting your sing-song plea, “c’mere, baby...”
“Um... Please come out, little one.” Dimitri commanded? Can you even call that commanding? What in Goddess’ name am I even doing He rubbed the back of his neck and looked around anxiously. Judging by the proximity of the bookcase against the wall, it wouldn’t be unreasonable to surmise that the duckling was stuck, or trapped in some way. Dimitri coaxed his chin in deep thought, assessing the situation like a tactician trying to sneak their captured comrade out of enemy territory.
“Boar. (F/N). The hell are you two doing?”
Both your heads whipped to face the steely voice by the entrance (you especially careful with your still aching head) and saw a frowning Felix glowering at the... activity, he walked in on. A glowing Sylvain followed shortly.
“W-Woah! Hey there, Your Highness! (F/N).” He purred your name sweetly and shot you a wink. “Is this really what you call flirting, Your Highness? Honestly... I know you don’t know much in the ways of love, but seriously--”
“Shhh!!!”
Sylvain’s mouth flew shut as Felix stalked over to the both of you cautiously. He planted his feet behind the side table and squinted into the dark. Sylvain took position under Dimitri just in time for him to hear faint scratching and weak chirps. A flurry of excitement and shock surged through the redhead’s amber eyes; Dimitri slapped a hand over the redhead’s piehole before a gurgle of surprise could leave him.
“(F/N),” Felix growled lowly, “what is that?”
“I-It’s--”
“Coming closer...!” Dimitri scream-whispered. Everyone instantly shut up and focused their attention down the dark trail. Soon a small, white puff with two beady eyes shimmied out of the corner and closer, closer, so close to your shaky outstretched hand. You all held your breath; the corners of your lips slowly turned up. You felt a tickling sensation at the tip of your middle finger. Almost...!
“Hey everyone! What’cha doin’?”
The spooked duckling let out a distressed cry and scurried back into its dark corner. Your insides twisted themselves into a knot as your heart ignited into pure rage. The air around you suddenly grew chillingly biting and murderous; everyone (even stone-cold Felix) shivered slightly. Your head whipped around so fast Sylvain could’ve sworn he heard a crack.
“Who,” you spat, pure venom dripping from your tone, “said that?”
Poor Ashe-- sweet, sweet Ashe. He was a dead man walking.
Your body coiled out from under the table like a snake snapping out of its hidden lair and you immediately pounced at the silverhead who scared away your baby. Ashe let out a small yelp and stumbled backwards, petrified in fear by the bloodthirsty glint in his classmate’s eyes. The three men who were with you scrambled to get you under control; it took Sylvain, Felix, and Dimitri’s beastly strength to keep you from separating Ashe’s head from the rest of him.
After that fiasco (and Dimitri hastily explaining the situation to the trembling archer), you finally calmed down and dutifully went back to your post, futilely calling and cooing to your lovely little duckling-- a direct contrast to the wild beast that everyone had just witnessed. Ashe, still understandably shaken up, kept to the door and informed anyone coming into the classroom to enter in a calm and peaceful manner (a ghastly glare from a certain (H/C) individual sent prickling chills down his spine every so often).
Before long, everyone in the Blue Lions was aware of the fuzzy little occupant wedged between the bookshelf and wall.
“Everyone, listen up.” Professor Byleth’s voice rang softly throughout the classroom. They paused, despite having everyone’s full attention. They looked at the spot where all their students were congregating and then the empty desks in front of them. With a slight sigh and a small nod, they continued.
“No lesson for today. Our top priority is getting Ms. (F/N)’s duck out of its... current location.”
Your features lit up and tears pricked the corner of your eyes. You bowed gratefully to your teacher and whispered sweetly to your darling duck.
“Please come out, sweetie... No one’s going to hurt you...”
. . .
“Ugh, Mercie... I can’t see...”
“Oh dear, I’m sorry... Is this better now?”
“Your Highness, are you feeling all right? You’ve been hunched over like that for awhile now...”
“I am fine Dedue, thank you.”
“I read somewhere that ducks like to eat plants and small creatures... Maybe we can--”
“Ow! ... Felix, stop shoving me!”
“Shut up, you idiot. If you can’t handle a little push like that, then you should probably spend more time training than chasing girls.”
“Ugh, I swear you two don’t ever change...”
“Everyone, I am going to try and say this as politely as possible,” you inhaled sharply, “but please shut the hell up.”
Several “sorry’s” resounded around you and you internally groaned. Byleth scooted over to you and tapped you on your shoulder, motioning for you to come closer.
“Have you considered moving the bookcase?”
“We did, but... Seeing how close the bookcase is to the wall, we might squish my lil’ duckling...”
Byleth hummed thoughtfully and took a quick glance around the classroom. “Perhaps... All these people crowding around it is making it hesitant to come out?”
You lightly gasped and looked at the smirking professor with wide eyes. Dimitri’s hypersensitive ears picked up the tiny sound you made and instinctively listened in. He eventually got the general idea and (alongside Byleth) informed the rest of your schoolmates to slowly back away.
Your back cricked and ached from being hunched over all day; your vision began to blur-- possibly a consequence from staring into the dark for too long. Your limbs shook slightly and you could feel a painful knot in your calves slowly tying itself into existence. You blinked away the pain and reconstituted your mental fortitude for the umpteenth time that day. You wanted to give up, to give in to your exhaustion, but--
Chirp! ... Chirp, chirp...!
Your foggy eyes drifted to the source of the noise and every muscle in your quivering frame clenched. Dimitri began to unconsciously float to your side but was quickly stopped by the firm grip Byleth placed on his arm. This was something you had to do alone, his professor’s eyes read. Dimitri bit his lip and tightened his palms into paling fists, praying to the Goddess to grant you strength.
Yes... Yes...! Almost there!
The prickly sensation of budding claws clambering onto your palm shot sparks through your body. Slowly shimmying out from under the table, you patted and held the little duckling close to your heart. You cooed sweet assurances into its ear as you sent the brightest, most triumphant smile to your classmates. Everyone cheered (silently, of course) and each one of the Lions took turns to pet and fawn over your fluffy companion. A look of surprise reflected in your professor’s eyes when your duckling took a particular interest in them, inciting a quiet giggle from you.
At last, the house leader sauntered up to you slowly, eyes trained on the minuscule bundle of fluff awkwardly waddling on your palms. He curved around the side of your frame and took the back of your hands in his gloved ones gingerly. Your classmates held their breath (and a few giggles from the more... knowing individuals) for an entirely different reason altogether.
“May I...?” Dimitri mouthed, unconsciously rubbing shallow circles into your hands. You nodded quickly, pushing your darling pet slightly away from your heart lest it get spooked by its quickening pace. The corners of the prince’s lips turned upward slightly as the tips of your fingers connected with his, forming a bridge between your hands and his much larger ones.
As soon as the duck crossed over, he slowly pulled the creature close to his heart and lovingly rocked it, akin to the tenderness of a mother cradling her newborn babe. It took everything in your power to hold in a squeal. You mentally engraved this heartwarming scene into your mind, tucking it away to cherish forever.
Dimitri’s azure eyes flashed to yours briefly before returning it to the duckling who has long become acclimated to everyone in the room. The longer he held the baby fowl, the bigger his smile grew; everyone felt at ease watching the scene before them. Believing that he has separated you from your darling duck for long enough, he began to extend his arms to hand it back to you--
Soft gasps filled the room and you stood there, absolutely dumbstruck. Your duckling was snuggling closer to Dimitri’s chest, black eyes on the verge of closing. A full day of hiding and scurrying must’ve tuckered the poor baby bird out, and it now laid sleeping comfortably on the palm of the prince.
A look of pure panic was seared onto the royal’s face as he looked at you worriedly and apologetically. A sizable lump formed in his throat while he tried looking to his other classmates for help. Students and professor alike shot him an equally baffled look, though the streak of resignation on their faces contrasted the anxious energy that exuded from Dimitri.
You gently cleared your throat, catching the attention of the frantic teen instantly. You held up a note to him that read,
“It seems to like you a lot. I really don’t want to disturb it... If you want, you can keep it for the rest of the day; just give it back to me tomorrow.”
“Are you certain?” He whispered, overly-cautious in rousing the duckling to consciousness. You smiled happily and scribbled down your response.
“Yup! I don’t mind. I know you’re pretty fond of it too. You look super happy holding it! Just please take good care of it.”
He would’ve bowed, but a curt nod would suffice in this situation. The serious look in his eyes softened instantly when the ultra-adorable bundle of love in his hands pressed further into him. He looked up at you and beamed.
“Have you come up with a name for it yet?”
You leaned back on a desk and mulled it over, letting your head roll back slightly in your deep contemplation. You traced the curve of your chin, mentally eliminating name after name in your head. What could you possibly--?
Aha!
The somewhat frazzled man almost leaped from how fast your head whipped back into place, and the throbbing in his heart swiftly escalated to rocketing levels at the sight of your breathtakingly gorgeous smile. You excitedly bounced over to him and stood on your tiptoes; despite your best efforts to allay the obvious height difference, Dimitri still had to bend over slightly to hear what you had to say. Your answer to his query almost sent him to the Goddess above.
“D-Dimi? ... Hah... If I may be so bold, I would think that you named it after me, using a name like that.”
“Good, because I did.” You whispered teasingly in his reddening ears. You stifled in a laugh at how absolutely red your classmate has gotten, and that lovely hue of crimson didn’t go unnoticed by the rest of your peers. For now, however, Dimitri’s social standing among the members of his house would last one more day all thanks to Duckling Dimi.
*bonus: Dimitri did not let go of the little duckling for the rest of the day, cradling and (when no one was present) humming to it every now and then. Despite already having a name, he couldn’t help calling it (Your Nickname)-- named after the cutest and sweetest person he knew.
90 notes
·
View notes
When the World Goes Boom (Part Four)
This bit was a challenge to write. I’ve actually moved into writing stuff down for the planning of this fic so things are getting more complicated. I would really like to know why I suddenly can’t write short fic anymore. This one is over 7000 words now with plenty to go ::sigh:: I hope you enjoy it anyway.
Spoilers & Warnings: Spoilers for season three, angst, 2115 words
Many thanks to @scribbles97 and @i-am-chidorixblossom for putting up with my crazy and reading this at random moments.
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four
-o-o-o-
Gordon accompanied Grandma back to the hospital. His father’s voice had been almost vacant of emotion when he made the request. Scott is asking for his grandmother, can you please come back in.
It wasn’t really a question.
Grandma shot him a worried look as he grabbed his wallet. John was still in the house office. Gordon had tried to speak to his brother, but Eos had growled at him at the door.
He got the message.
Didn’t stop him from worrying.
He recognised they were in a bad spot, but the outlook was positive. Alan was going to get better; Scott should recover soon. It was hard, but not insurmountable and he fought to maintain his positivity. He had to think positive. That was the key to everything.
Grandma was ever so quiet. There was none of her usually bubbly chatter. Instead it was replaced with a silent frown, thoughts obviously churning behind those eyes. It was disturbing. She hadn’t offered to cook a meal since they got here.
“They are getting better, Grandma.”
She blinked and looked over at him. “I know, honey.” A critical blue eye appraised his clothing. “You should bring a jacket. We’re not in the tropics at the moment.”
He rolled his eyes. “Yes, Grandma.”
She had dragged him and Virgil back here late last night, determined that he sleep in his own bed. Gordon hadn’t wanted too. He would rather have stayed with Alan. But his grandmother pointed out, and rightly so, that Alan was sleeping with medication tonight and would be fine under the care of the hospital. Gordon needed his sleep and he needed to go home.
Sure, Gordon needed to go home. This just wasn’t home.
But both brothers did as they were asked.
Somehow Virgil was gone before Gordon woke.
He suspected his older brother was taking his coffee intravenously to be out of bed that early. But he left a note and Gordon was to take the baton after Alan’s dressing changes.
Gordon’s lips thinned just thinking about that, but it meant he was going into the hospital anyway. Their father’s request was just timely.
The house in Parnell was close to everything important in Auckland, including the hospital. The early morning sun was bright and the view across the bay was blue and clear. His body ached for the water, but it wasn’t happening. He turned back to the car and forced a smile at the driver. He got a sad smile in return.
The drive was short, the hospital entrance like a maw, just like all hospital entrances, as he stepped into another world behind those doors.
A world from which he was willing to do anything to free his brothers.
Being Tracys they did get a little extra special treatment. Well, special in the way that they had to have it due to their celebrity. Scott and Alan’s room was separate from the main ICU, hidden away and secured by IR security and Kayo. Once past the guards, a small empty corridor led to three lonely chairs sat against stark white walls beside a door.
His footsteps echoed on the scrubbed linoleum.
Grandma gently took his wrist. “Gordon.” Blue eyes looked into his. “Could you please go and find Virgil and Alan?”
A frown. “Are you okay, Grandma?”
“I’m fine, honey. I just need to speak to your father.”
Alone.
It wasn’t said, but he got the message. “Okay, Grandma. Comm me, if you need me.”
“Always.” A soft smile and her hand briefly cupped his cheek.
He knew his smile in return was weak, but he gave it what he had.
As he turned to leave, the door opened and his tired father emerged. Gordon stopped in his tracks. Dad looked awful. Pale, bags under his eyes, immediate flashbacks to the early days of his return had Gordon’s heart thudding in his chest. A step forward, but Grandma grabbed his wrist again.
“Go find Alan, honey.”
A glance between his father and grandmother. “Okay, Grandma.” His hand wrapped around hers. “Comm me.”
She nodded once and let him go.
A nod, a smile at his father and he spun on his heel and strode back down the corridor.
Worry on his heels.
-o-o-o-
Sally Tracy was tired. But all the Tracys were tired so this was nothing special. Until all her boys were healthy and back with her on the Island, she wouldn’t be happy.
Jeff was overdoing it, of course. Her five grandsons inherited their stubbornness honestly from both sides of their gene pool. Lucy had been just as bad.
She looked up at her son and as always wondered how he had gotten so tall. She would always remember the tiny baby in her arms oh so long ago. He had grown into a man of who she was ever so proud, but the crick in her neck was becoming chronic.
Gordon was a relief.
Not that she would ever tell him.
“Jefferson, you should go home.”
“I plan to.” It was said with such depression her heart skipped a beat.
“Has something happened?” There had been something in his voice over comms, there was everything in his posture and expression now. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing, Mom.”
Hands on her hips. “Don’t you lie to my face, young man.”
“I’m not a young man anymore, Mom. I’m tired. I’m going back to the house.” He gestured towards the door. “Scott asked for you. He’s still a little disorientated. Be careful around the subject of Alan, he’s still forgetting his brother is safe.”
Sally grabbed her son’s wrist, a part of her mind registering the differences compared to Gordon’s
‘Worn’ was the word that came to mind.
She sought his eyes with her own. “What is it, Jeff?”
He twisted gently and wrapped her hand in both of his. “Scott needs you, mom.” A distinctly forced smile. “Go look after your grandson.”
Her lips thinned and she took his hand in hers and led him back into the hospital room. She didn’t miss his frustrated sigh.
“Grandma?”
The fear in Scott’s eyes brought her up short. She knew the symptoms of concussion, had even experienced some herself. She had hoped for some improvement.
She dropped her son’s hand and moved quickly to her grandson’s side. He was sitting up and hugging her before she even had a chance to say his name.
His broad shoulders were trembling. “Scotty?”
He didn’t answer, but his arms tightened. His hair brushed her cheek.
Her hands gripped his back, the hospital gown thin and crinkling under her fingertips. “Scott, honey, talk to me.”
A single sob on her shoulder. Harsh breathing. The tremble became a shake.
She clung tighter.
Behind her the door clicked shut leaving them alone together.
-o-o-o-
Virgil needed coffee.
Virgil needed a bucket of coffee. A swimming pool of coffee.
He needed a brother to get well and stop hurting.
Two brothers.
He sighed and leant against the elevator wall. Jeremy, his security guard, politely kept his eyes on the doors.
Virgil closed his. “I’m sorry, Jez. I’m not much company at the moment.”
“Understandable, Mr Tracy. No need to apologise.”
“Thanks for the early start.”
“Part of the deal, sir.”
Virgil opened his eyes at that. “Sir? Since when am I a ‘sir’?”
Jeremy snorted. “You will always be a ‘sir’, Mr Tracy.”
“You’ve never called me ‘sir’ before.”
His security guard smirked. “I use it as needed, sir.”
“Really? Well, quit it, Jez, or I’ll tell Gordon.”
The mock fear on Jeremy’s face did manage to draw out a small smile on his own lips, which was probably the purpose in the first place. “You should be afraid, very afraid.”
Jeremy dropped the fear and grinned just a little. “I trust you with my life, Mr Tracy, sir.”
It was Virgil’s turn to snort. “Would my squire like some coffee?”
Jeremy shrugged. “If Sir deigns it to happen, it will happen.”
Virgil rolled his eyes as the doors opened on the cafeteria floor. “Mocha or latte?”
“Mocha, thanks, Mr Tracy.” But the answer was distracted as they moved into the crowd, Jeremy’s eyes ever vigilant. The bustle around the elevators was tight and Virgil had no patience for it. It was a relief to break through the crowd into the café itself.
The surprise was to find Gerald, another of their security staff, seated at a table just inside the door. “Gerry? Who’s up here?” Virgil’s eyes tracked the tables and the answer was delivered to him as he caught sight of a lone figure in a dark corner. Pulling out his wallet, he fished out his credit card. “How long?”
Gerry was quiet. “About ten minutes, Mr Virgil.”
The credit card was absently passed to Jeremy. “Jez, get yourself and Gerry some coffee.”
“What about yourself?”
Virgil’s eyes didn’t leave the hunched figure of his father. “I can wait. Please give us some privacy.”
“Yes, Mr Tracy.”
He trusted them. They wouldn’t let him or his father out of their sight, but they would give them some distance and confidentiality.
He approached the table quietly, stepping around patrons and chairs. An ignored holoprojector spat the daytime broadcast from one corner, the sound adding to the drone of the room.
“Dad?”
His father startled, but visibly relaxed when he caught sight of Virgil. “You planning on sneaking up on your old man often?”
“I didn’t sneak, Dad. You okay?”
The sigh of frustration that hissed out between his father’s teeth was loud. “Virgil, for the last time. I am healthy and sane. Can you please stop asking? I’m not about to keel over because my day has been less than perfect.” That last came out quite loud and, if anything, was proof that his father was exactly the opposite of what he said he was.
Virgil kept his mouth shut and didn’t respond. Instead he stepped around the table to the opposite chair. “Is this seat taken?”
“Of course not. Sit down.” His father peered up at him. “Did you sleep last night? You look dead on your feet.”
“I don’t think you can talk, Dad. You didn’t even go home.”
Grey eyes levelled a stare at him, but his father didn’t say anything.
“How’s Scott?”
Something flickered through those eyes before they flickered away. “Not good. Your Grandma is with him.” Dad suddenly found his coffee particularly interesting.
“Still disorientated?” Virgil had already harassed the medical staff regarding Scott’s ongoing issues, but the only answers he could get were that his brother just needed time and rest.
It hurt to see Scott so distressed.
“His memory is erratic. He is terrified for Alan.”
Virgil sighed. “I was on my way to see him.”
“Your grandma has him in hand.”
There was something in his father’s voice. He looked up to find his father frowning at the table top. “Dad?”
“I’m sorry, Virgil.” It was quiet and parched.
“For what?”
The table top kept his father’s attention. “For leaving you.”
It was Virgil’s turn to frown. “It wasn’t your fault. We’ve been over this many times, Dad.”
“Yes, we have.” An indrawn breath. “Doesn’t change the fact I left all six of you to fend for yourselves.”
“We’re adults, Dad. We’re likely to do that anyway.”
Grey eyes slowly looked up and glistened in the fluorescent lighting. “Not like this.”
Virgil nearly didn’t hear the words that passed his father’s lips and as the man shook himself and straightened, he got the distinct impression that he wasn’t supposed to.
The engineer straightened his own shoulders in echo. “Dad, what is going on?”
Those eyes caught his for a split second before turning away again. A sigh. “Nothing, son. Now, you need either a bed or a bucket of coffee. At a guess you’re going to go for the latter, no matter what I say.”
Virgil levelled his gaze at his father, not willing to let the conversation drop.
“Exactly.” He stood up. “Name your poison.”
“TRACY!”
Both men jumped and on the other side of the room the two security officers leapt to their feet.
“How dare you challenge me, Francois Lemaire, in such an infantile manner. If you think I will go down without a fight, you are mistaken. Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war, I say!”
It took Virgil too many alarmed seconds to realise it was simply the ‘projector in the corner yelling the challenge across the café. Lemaire was outlined in light talking to a reporter. “I will not surrender. You hear me, Tracy? This is war!”
Virgil stared at the hologram.
What the hell?
-o-o-o-
End Part Four
41 notes
·
View notes
"A Touch Is All I Ask"
-
Summary: Basically, an Au of Au wherein an accident Lotor ends up traveling through the rift only for him to met and fall in love with Allura from another reality, but because life refuses to give him a break the rift creatures destroy both that Allura and her reality along with her leaving Lotor to travel the rift for centuries trying to find his way back home. Fortunately, he ends of being saved the Princess Allura from his reality. Which makes things all the more awkward as Lotor has to force himself to differentiate between this Allura and the Allura he had loved. The plot only thickens once Allura starts to develop feelings for him as she nurses him back to health.
Rating: T and Up
Words: 2k
Chapters: 1/?
-
He had lost everything in a single fleeting moment. A breath, a heartbeat, and soon nothingness consumed him. It ate away at the flesh and the bone, and pierced his dreaded, cold heart. His fingers reached for nothing, tiny cosmos, stars that have already long passed, and they bleed through his fingers. His fingers, these hands that have done nothing but bring about horrors, that only bring about destruction. Perhaps they were right, he is a curse. A blight on the world, a filthy obstruction. He felt the world around him drown, his body as heavy as lead and as weightless as a cloud. In space-time is obsolete. His mind and memories fragmented, and the voices that haunt him whisper in his ears in continual repeat.
The rift is relentless, a cruel, twisted mistress. An abomination, an unknown horror and they like a siren singing sailors to their deaths upon the steep rocks sing to him too as he wanders, and he drifts to nowhere. Howling, and lulling sweet tunes that fill the silence of his travels where there is nowhere and no one, and as the presumed days go by they fill the aching silence. He‘s long tuned them out-but-
~Lotor~ their eyes are amber like hers. Their hair a dark silver like hers had once been. Though, he had never heard her voice, he assumes that must have been what she sounded like. But, he knows that they aren’t his mother. Their image of her is picture perfect, not a single detail missed, but he knows. He’s no fool. He knows their games he knows their lies. They hiss when he pays the cheap imitation no mind, growling, and sneering.
~How dare you!~ they screech in union, a kaleidoscope of dissonant voices. His ears run red when the shrieking refuses to come to an end, but again he disregards them and simply keeps going, he keeps moving because he does not know when to give up. Because death is too easy, no matter how tempting it is to just collapse and sleep an endless dream. But, dreams offer him no repute, no reprieve instead they are nothing more than a reflection-a mirror world-a gateway to his own insanity. There is no peace. So, he must walk even though there is nothing.
~
“That's absolutely disgusting, Lance!” Pidge grimaces, her nose wrinkles as she spat out her tongue.
“Yeah, well, try actually being there and seeing it in person" he leans into her, his shoulder, bony and sharp, cuts into her side "let me tell ya, that changes a man"
“Just because you experienced it, doesn't mean I want to hear it” Pidge mutters into her palm "and can't you sit on your side of the ship?" she shoves him.
He brushes aside her last comment making himself comfortable “I thought we were friends, Pidge? Besides you who else do I have in this big lonely castle?"
"Why can't you bother, Hunk for a change" the girl surfs her screens in boredom.
"I would, but he's been too busy with his new girl-friend" he emphasizes his point by making quotation marks with his fingers "to hang out anymore-I mean whatever happened to the bro-code!?"
Pidge rolls her eyes "so, what? He can become a lonely, desperate misogynist, womanizing jerkhole?"
"I prefer the term lover man, Pidge"
"I think you missed the entire point of that statement..nevermind-the point being is that there are other men on the ship you could socialize with"
"I rather get stabbed in the spleen again than hang out with Keith out of my own volition"
"I wasn't talking about, Keith."
"Shiro's way too serious to do anything fun with. It's all Lance stop. Lance your drinking way too much. Lance you can't spike people's drinks. Shiro's awesome and all, but he doesn't have a single fun bone in his body"
"I don't think perpetuating liver damage is something I would personally consider fun"
"It's not about the drinks, the drinks are just secondary, where there's alcohol there's hot women, come on get with the program Pidge"
"Shiro's gay"
"I was gonna hook him up"
"With a dude?" She rose a dry brow.
"Of course a dude, unless he goes both ways, I can get him both"
"...Y'know it's a wonder why your single?"
"Is that sarcasm?"
"What about Coran" she dodges the question " he's a guy"
"Coran's fun-until he goes overboard. Y'know like the time he nearly killed us"
"That was your own fault y'know"
"How was I supposed to know pot would drive him into a murderous rampage-" The hiss and beep of the bridge door interrupts him. Hunched and bleary eyed, Allura wanders onboard in a complete daze, her heels clicking against the paneled walkway. Her characteristic bun hung lopsidedly off the side of her head, her ends frazzled and uncombed. Her eyes sunken with dark bruises and her favorite white jacket hangs haphazardly off her one shoulder.
Lance whistled “Boy, you look awful, Princess-or is that a new look your aiming for”
Allura snaps her head towards him with lethal speed, barely restraining the urge to strangle him
“I’m far too tired to deal with your nonsense this morning, so please do shut up unless you’d like be placed on toilet duty again”
The threat hangs in the air for a few minutes before Lance snorts, brushing her off awhile tugging at the hem of his turtleneck sweater in a nervous bout “Y-yeah, but no thanks, Princess, I've cleaned enough toilets and vomit to last me a lifetime"
Allura didn’t bother to comment but casts him one last warning glare before turning back to the teleduv, reaching out she taps it lightly bringing the ship's screens to life. The skies were all clear except for a bach of asteroids floating in the distance, but to her relief so far no enemy ships or anything remotely suspicious, as they travel the cosmos to Planet Greta off hidden on another less known side of the galaxy.
Even so, she didn't wish to take any chances and made sure to double check her assessment, while ignoring Pidge and Lance's continued conversation Bits and pieces dribble into the forefront of her thoughts here and there, but there's nothing she can make sense of being that the topic relates back to Earth.
Her checks repeat nothing new-Sighing, she cuts the feed to rub her face in annoyance. Everything hurt. Her body aches in a way that's more aggravating than truly painful. But, sleep has been hard to come by lately, the moment she closes her eyes-the nightmares began again. Her father’s blood upon her hands, splattered upon the blue silk of her gown, the sight of his mangled corpse lying at Zarkon’s iron boots. His face darkened, indistinguishable from the other bodies that littered the marble floors-
She clenches her fingers listlessly fearing that if she didn’t pay attention she’d find his blood on them again. Her skin burned, having spent the night trying to scrub the red away. Now, they just itch, the skin of her hands rubbed raw and dry. And yet, there's that lingering feeling of wetness that she just can't shake, despite knowing that it isn't there. Yet, she kept scratching her wrist as she stared out over the bridge watching nothing but stars pass them by.
“Lura?” she didn’t hear Pidge pace up to her. She turns in the girl's direction “you okay there? You’ve got that dead look in your eyes again?”
“I’m fine, Pidge. Don’t worry” she wonders if her voice always sounded hoarse, or is it just her, and she’s hearing things again. Whatever the case she just shakes her head attempting to ignore it. That and the throbbing headache that pounds at the back of her skull.
“If you say so….” Pidge didn't know what else to say or do other than offer the woman her space, and awkwardly returns to her seat.
"What's her problem?" Lance whispers.
"....I don't know. She looks sick-"
"She's not going to pass out again is she because-"
Perhaps, it’s time to give up and ask Doctor Alibhe for some sleep aid? Her nose wrinkles at the prospect, but what else can she do. She's tried everything: training until she's exhausted to the bone. Meditation only abandons her to her own traitorous thoughts which only leads to exasperation and a wish to lobotomize herself. So, no that was a no go. She's tried tea, acupuncture, oil massage. Worse case scenario, well, partially out of desperation a chiropractor who only charged her an exuberant amount of money and a nasty crick in her neck that took weeks to go away. Trial or error aside, she can't continue like this; people will notice, people are already noticing, if it keeps going the questions will never end. Pressing a fist to her brow, she huffs-if only the night didn't dreg up past horrors-
*Ping*
*Ping*
Her temples throb, cracking her eyes back open Allura finds herself thrown from her musings back to reality. The pinging of the teleduv continues causing her to pause and blink for a moment flicking the scanners back on.
"What?” out of bloody nowhere something pops up upon the monitors signaling a disturbance in the area. Brows tightly pinched together, she didn't see any ships-
“Enemy ship?” Lance asks in a brief moment of seriousness. Both his and Pidge's eyes dart from her to the screens above, bracing themselves for impact.
“It’s-" she squints "no” she shakes her head
“whatever it is-it’s far too small to be a ship-it’s-oh,
no” her heart plummets to the pit of her stomach.
“Oh, no what?”
“It’s another rift opening….”
“Well, that's just flipping fantastic!” Lance barks “More rift creatures! Is it bad that I rather deal with Sendak, heck even Zarkon himself any day over dealing with those walking-talking living embodiments of nightmare fuel!”
Allura swallows dryly. A lovely start to already dreary day-oh, stars, she's not sure how much more she can take of this insanity.
~
“Maybe we’ve been blessed by the Altean space gods!” Lance cries to the heavens “because I don’t see a single thing or y’know I'm not vomiting up my own entrails”
“Not if you don’t jinx us” Keith snaps. As quickly as it had come the rift had immediately snapped shut. Yet, no creatures of the rift made it out through the small opening. No horrifying illusions or imagery, just nothing. Just dead-end silence that did little to comfort her as she stares out among the stars and the blackness of space.
In their rush they took their respective lions on ahead with Allura placing Head Commander Hira at the helm and with the ship on high alert. When nothing assaulted them, Shiro suggested they take a look around by hand. Jetpacks loaded with full and pistols set on lethal everyone disembarked only to greeted by nothing.
Allura worries her bottom lip out of nervousness, she’s only glad that she hadn’t eaten anything for breakfast or else she would have vomited in her own helmet. Holding her pistol close, she prepares herself for anything by as the minutes trickle on by, besides the cluster of asteroids, nothing bizarre happens. An hour of searching and checking and rechecking the area's clear of any potential danger.
“I’m starting to think it was a false alarm, Princess” Keith calls out to her.
“Yeah, I’ve got nothing. Nada , zilch” Hunk tapped his scanner “besides the glitchy connection, I don’t see anything out of the ordinary”
“Me neither” Pidge mutters “it’s all just empty space as far as the eye can see.”
“Same here” Shiro adds, perplexed.
“Same with my end” Matt floats back to them “looked all over those asteroids over there, but like Hunk said zilch. Nada.”
“Perhaps, something was trying to get out, but couldn’t” Hunk states with an uneasy hitch in his voice.
It isn't unlikely, and it's probably the case, too. Though that does beg the question-if something were trying to claw its way out the rift what stopped it? Allura isn’t sure if she wants to find out.
“Hunk’s probably right” Allura agrees quietly, holstering her pistol “we should probably head back to the Lions. Oxygen's running low.” They weren't that far from the castle ship, but it's still a pretty good distance even with the lions.
"About time! This place gives me the creeps"
"Second that-"
“...more like it was a waste of time…” everyone moves on ahead of her as she can't help but linger, taking one more glance over her shoulder she scans her surroundings. It's times like these that remind her how vast the galaxy is. Enormous and all consuming like a sea with no bottom, no end. Left could right, and right, left. Shoving down the existential dread, she moves to to turn and head back until a twinkling light catches the corner of her eye. Stopping, she swivels back to look again-this time the twinkling is hard to miss, she squints, it isn't a star, as the source of the glittering is a top an asteroid closest to her. With bated breath she slowly, carefully maneuvers herself over to it. It's rocky texture is rough, the cold seeping through her gloves. With a grunt she heaves herself upwards, her thoughts oddly quiet as she focuses on climbing and hauling her weight until she reaches the top. Heaving enough to cloud the glass of her helmet, she stills to inhale a deep breath before she decides to lift her head up and freezes-
A massive body is collapsed upon the mountainous structure.
It-can't be-
Galra?
Hesitantly, she crawls towards him on all fours both curiosity and fear churning in her gut. Carefully, she reached over to quickly tap his shoulder to snap it away fearing a swipe of his large hand. Or a lunge. Squeezing her eyes shut she expects the worst, but when nothing came she instead hears a low, pained groan.So, low that if it weren't for her being so close she probably wouldn't have heard him. Placing a hand to calm her erratic heart, Allura steadies herself before gently extending both her hands to flip him on to his back, however it isn't without some difficulty. He's super heavy. With a grunt she manages and once he's on his back she's met with a rather gorgeous face, but unfortunately one she did not recognize. Examining his body, his armor is old. Eroded with rust and dented all over with the color of it faded. His face as handsome as it is, is marred with bruises painted black and dark blue, and dried blood dribbles down his obviously split lip. Yet, strangely enough she didn't find anything indicating his rank. No badge or medallion, no even a family crest holding his cape together. There's a satchel hung around his waist, but it wouldn't be wise to open it out here. He definitely looks the part of a high ranking galra general, but that begs the question, if he is, what is a seemingly distinguished general doing out here in the middle of an asteroid field? Did someone dump him out here?
Frantically her eyes dart around- but, she was so sure she hadn't detected a galra ship in the area-
Breathing heavily, she only finds emptiness.
-unless-
Her eyes fall back to him-the rift. Her eyes widen as she eyed him closer now noticing the markings on his face, a telltale sign of quintessence exposure. They weren't too bad, but it isn't something that can be ignored without consequence. Frightened out of her mind, she shouts back to her team over her shoulder.
“I found something!” drawing all eyes to her. I've definitely found something; she whispers to herself.
18 notes
·
View notes
A New Lease on Life - #59
WELL. It's been about a donkey's age since I've been able to update this. Normally I'd apologize for the wait…but…well, honestly, I've been beating myself up enough as it is and it's not like it happened out of the blue. Kinda-brief update for anyone wondering:
I've warned about an impending grief hiatus since my uncle Bob's cancer diagnosis, and the hiatus came to pass in December. Uncle Bob finally lost his fight to cancer after two years of treatment and fading. The end came on rather suddenly but after the deathwatch he went peacefully and without pain. His death really messed me up, especially since I was already suffering from depression. Our first Christmas without Bob was also our last Christmas with Granny Chance, his mother and my grandmother…she suffered a massive stroke in January and died soon afterward. In the space of a month, my family and I lost two members, one right after the other. In a word, the whole situation has been FUCKED and it's still not completely over. There are good days, and bad days…and, to quote a certain Del Toro film, "Then there are the really bad days." Between those, we're all slowly working our way through the fallout and healing process.
This chapter is the first I've been able to finish since SEPTEMBER, largely because all of my stories are currently in plot-required angsty-dramatic phases and I CANNOT WRITE SAD SCENES when I'm depressed. It's entirely IMPOSSIBLE, they always come out farcical or they just don't flow. It SUCKS. TBH, I don't know for certain if I'm going to be able to catch up to my previous writing abilities or pace anytime soon but I'm certainly going to try. Also, quick note if you're reading this on Tumblr – they recently enacted a WORDBLOCK LIMIT on text posts of 100 blocks. Yeah. We're now limited to 100 paragraphs including the title. If the chapter's low dialogue and has no notes, that's fine, but if not? Well, we're just screwed because THIS ONE ran 86 ¶s WITHOUT the notes, glossary, and pre-story stuffs. I'm not sure yet how I'll be handling that limit for good, whether that means posting links to sites without the bullshit limits, posting long chapters in pieces, or linking to the separate posts with the notes and glossary, but I'll figure it out in time. For now, I’ll be including the NOTES at the end and you can find the GLOSSARY at FFnet or AO3. Check out Spotify for a playlist centered on this arc - features suggested listening for this chapter and the next few, and much, much more.
Lastly, I'd like to take a moment to thank everyone for their patience and understanding, and give a shout-out to some wonderful people who've made this new chapter possible. This chapter is dedicated to Wolf, Newt, and Ihlni for their invaluable support and kind words – to my hubby Cold for letting me ugly-cry on him without complaint and never failing to remind me that life has to go on – to my ma-in-law for teasing me about earning a nasty hangover instead of acknowledging that I looked like death-on-the-rocks and was obviously crying before I answered the door – to my mother for being a bloody SAINT and to my father for intentionally being an asshole when someone to fight with was just what I needed – to Wanda Farmer on AO3 and vbt22220 on FFnet for their encouragement in reviews, the folks on Tumblr who offered kind words when I needed them most, and to all you wonderful people who've stuck by me, read my stories, and are still reading after all this time. Above all, though, this chapter is dedicated to the memory of Granny Chance and Uncle Bob – may they ever rest in peace.
Suggested Listening: Fuel "Hemorrhage [In My Hands]," Paramore "The Only Exception," Prince "Purple Rain," Survivor "I Never Stopped Loving You"
59: A Matter of Honor
The Lair, November 19th - around noon
Donatello wasn't known for being a fool; regardless, he felt rather foolish anytime the obvious failed to register until it was staring him in the face. This was just such a time. He didn't recall sequestering himself in the lab much less falling asleep at his workbench, but the proof was self-evident: a crick in his neck, a strand of insulated wire still stuck to his drool-sticky cheek, and sweat-smeared glasses half off his face. It took a moment of tired lip-smacking and searching to comprehend the facts—ah, right, he pulled an all-nighter to complete the vital signs monitor for Kimber's visit. From what he could see, the device was, indeed, completed. Too tired to consider the absurd picture he must make, he peeled the wire trimming off his cheek and set it aside.
What woke him? He searched his memory, found nothing, then turned to more closely examine his surroundings. A plate of now-cold PopTarts and a cup of coffee (helpfully covered with a cracked saucer) waited a safe distance from his elbow. Right - it was Saturday. This time last year he easily lost track of the days between all-nighters and the sleeping-binges that always followed them. Now he had a weekly reminder in the form of too-sweet coffee and half-burned pastries, courtesy of the confusing woman whose scent still clung to his skin. How blessed he felt in this moment…
The moment ended with a familiar sound—a sleep-slurred phrase he could recognize anywhere but never quite understood. Ya been away too long he got, and he recognized the terms sook, e'en, and nip though he wasn't fully certain of their context.* Beyond that the half-Celt tucked into the cot may as well have been speaking Greek for all he knew. The oft-repeated tease fell short in a particularly nasal snore. Donnie hoisted himself out of his chair with a chorus of protesting joints and slowly rounded the workbench. Silently, he regarded his sleeping woman, soaking in all the silly little details that caught his eyes—the freckles spattered across her skin, the flash of faded ink peeking up over her drooping neckline, the stubborn silver cowlicks sticking up at odd angles from her loosely bound hair—anything to remind himself she was still alive.
He shook his head in weary defeat. A full week after their desperate flight from Willsdale and every time he woke he still half-expected to find Amber cold to the touch, lifeless and painted in blood. Perhaps, he considered as he gathered her in his arms and made his way to their bedroom, this was one scar which would only be healed with time. Perhaps, he considered as he lay her across the neatly tucked quilt and curled up behind her, he could only conquer his fear of Amber's death by focusing on her life. Even as he tugged her flush against his plastron and groin and nuzzled into her neck, he couldn't erase the memory of her: bruised, bloody, and broken, and rapidly fading in his arms. He shuddered and sucked in a steadying breath of her scent.
She wasn't dead, she was alive now…it was enough…right?
Red Fern Florist, Noon
Normally, Red Fern Florist was a calm place – a quiet and classy establishment that just so happened to be run by people who didn't care about being quiet or classy. This, alas, was not a normal day, not even in the slightest.
Abilene Whitaker manned the register, eyes focused somewhere beyond the neon-streaked pages of her textbook and not registering a word. The backroom echoed with near-constant racket—crashes, curses, objects falling or being thrown… Abby sighed, pinched the bridge of her nose, and dragged herself off of the barstool to investigate. Sure enough, Mercy was stocking the shelves a tad too roughly…if by roughly one meant throwing the bags of supplies around like a spandex-clad steroid junkie at a WWE grudge-match smackdown.
"Alright, that's enough," Abby snapped at her blonde subordinate; Mercy froze, embarrassed grey-blue eyes meeting Abby's over a lean, hunched shoulder. "You've been stomping around and slamming things all afternoon. What on earth could be so horrible you've gotta torture the mulch?" Mercy cringed, fixing guilty eyes on the bag of mulch in her grip. Caught. "Well?" The blonde uttered a sound halfway between a groan and a growl, snorted, then slid the bag onto its shelf with more care than necessary.
"My man's ex is comin' by tonight," she admitted under her breath. "She's stayin' a few days."~
"WHAT?!" Abby squawked in protest. "He's bringing his ex over?! Aw, Hell naw! Girl, you drop that boy before I find him and punch him in the man-fritters!" Man-fritters?** Mercy couldn't help it – she sniggered at the visual – but her laughter faded into regret when she registered the rest of Abby's threat.
"No can do," she sighed, "it's kinda unavoidable." Abby crossed her arms, scrunched her lips into an almost exact replica of Leo's 'pissy leader pout,' and waited for an explanation. Mercy rolled her eyes, spearing her fingers into her hair and yanking. "Kimber…well, she's like me an' Amber," she explained under her breath. "Remember I told ya Amber…uh…went home for a few days? Well, she almost…um…didn't come back. Bitch-nipple's comin' over to see how long any of us can stay home without that happening. She invited herself, we voted, Raph lost, she won." Abby took a moment to let that sink in.
"Your guy tried to vote her off the island?" A grim nod from Mercy. "They broke up before she left, right?"
"…and she left before he an' I met," Mercy added even as she rolled her eyes.~ All the code-talk really got on her nerves but they had to be mindful of the security cameras. Abby leaned against the doorframe, lean shoulders at a sharp slant, and hazel eyes puzzled behind her fuchsia-streaked hair.
"You think she wants him back?" she asked quietly. "He won't…" She sucked in a nervous breath. "What if she tries to win him back?"
"You're kiddin', right?" Mercy scoffed. "He dumped her! He's been angsty as fuck over breakin' her heart, yeah, but I know'im—she could make all the moves she wants, he ain't gonna budge."~ Not to mention Kimber's still dead she added in her own head then shook it. After all, she was dead, too. The whole situation stank like a crappy soap opera. "I trust'im, Abbs," she added under her breath. "Raph chose me, not the Jersey-Devil-wannabe…jealousy's pointless when I already know the end result, an' that end result is he's with me."
Abby watched her a moment, scrutinizing and studying; just as suddenly as she issued the threat against Raph's genitals, she smiled. "You're a strong woman," the neon-haired clerk remarked lightly. "I ever heard one of Cherie's exes asking to stay, I'd bash the twat's teeth in. You need anything, you give me a call, alright?" Mercy nodded, halfway between a cringe and a grateful smile, and went back to the stocking. "So how are things going between you two, anyway?" Abby added taking up her share of the lifting. "You never bring him by, you never tell me much about him…how's he treating you?"
Mercy paused, brow furrowed, and scrambled for an answer that didn't make her sound like an absolute sap. She couldn't find one. "He makes me wanna listen to Faith Hill, watch him sleep, an' punch his ex in the teeth," she grumbled. The heat in her cheeks went nuclear at Abby's excited squeal.
"Oh-em-GEE!" the younger practically shrieked. "You love him!" Mercy shot her a sour glare.
"Woman," she groused, "shut yer ass – the bullshit's leakin' out."
The Lair, shortly after dusk - 00:00:00
Two weeks ago, Kimber Bryant faced down Leonardo and demanded the opportunity to make right the trouble she caused his family. Now she stood in the hallway, practically quaking in her mud-stained canvas sneakers, unsure how to proceed. It didn't exactly help that Leo was still glaring at her from behind and her other escort, Donatello, kept fiddling with the tablet strapped to his left forearm.
"Now remember, you've gotta keep the leads from getting tangled," the genius rambled without ever once looking at her. "A little perspiration shouldn't cause any unwanted interference—I insulated the outer casing well to deter any outside condensation or humidity finding its way into the monitor's internal components but there are limits." Kimber rolled her bottle green eyes over at Leo in hope of rescue from Donnie's babbling but received only a glare. "It's not fully water-tight," the genius continued with a shrug and 'meh' expression, still without even glancing her way, "so we'll need to cover it with a water-resistant dressing when it comes to bathing but other than that it—"
"Today, Donnie," Leo grumbled. The younger startled out of his thoughts, fingertips still poised on the holographic chart projected over his tech-tab. He blinked a few times in rapid succession as though refreshing his memory then turned to Kimber in question. From the looks of it, she seemed ready to chew her ankle off to escape the lecture. She really was so very different from Amber…how could they possibly be the same person underneath it all? Could a person's history and past choices really have that big an impact on their personality and attitude?
"Uh…right," he uttered with a wince. "Anyway, it's natural for your core temperature to fluctuate a certain amount over the day but if it drops too low, I'll get an alert. We may not have much time to get you back…so…" he trailed off in hopes she'd pick up the slack.
"Don't get comfy," she finished sourly. "Yeah, I got it. Git lawst."~ He crinkled his nose at her demand but said nothing; instead, he rolled his eyes in defeat and took off toward the lab.
"Remember our agreement," the eldest warned under his breath as he shouldered past her. "You have one chance, and you're to stay—"
"I got it, I got it," Kimber snapped in response. "Go dig t'at stick out'a ya ass before it gets stuck up t'ere."~ Other than a deep-chested growl of warning, Leonardo said nothing—he just stormed past her to some destination she didn't care to know. Rolling her eyes at his attitude, she made her way toward the light at the end of the hallway. The closer she came the more clearly she heard a familiar voice—a voice that still haunted her fondest dreams and worst nightmares.
Familiar laughter led her into the living area where two people were cuddled up on a lumpy sofa. The larger wore a familiar boyish grin that stole the breath right from her lungs. In her grip, the duffle-bag strap slid loose—sweaty palms, she realized. A fluttering, weightless sensation filled her veins—oh, no… 'Gawd dammit…why've I gotta still love'im?'~ She choked around the damned butterflies doing barrel-rolls in her gullet. Steeling her nerves, she shook off her mushy thoughts and turned the corner. 'It don't change nothin'—dead's dead, an' he never chose me anyway. It's better t'is way.'
Raphael…he looked so much the same and yet so different. His eyes shone with laughter where they once burned with distrust; his posture was relaxed where he always kept up a front before. Tucked into his side and 'narrating' the boxing match with absurd faked voice-overs was a tall, lean woman with short messy blonde hair. Kimber's lip ached to curl in a sneer as the blonde loosed a raucous laugh but she fought it back—Raph wasn't hers. If this…this woman in his arms was enough for him…well, she'd respect that. She only ever wanted to see him happy and by God, she'd do so, no matter how much it hurt.
One moment, everything in Mercy's world was perfect. There was a decent match on TV, Raph had 'bullied her' into not-cuddling with him, and for the moment they had no other obligations. As it always seemed to, though, everything fell apart in a single breath…a breath that carried a perfume of vanilla, sugar, and musk. The smell wasn't entirely unpleasant but it was strong enough to make her sinuses burn and her head hurt. Why must so many people marinate themselves in perfume and cologne?
As Mercy and Raphael turned to greet the newcomer in unison the arm around her waist slackened—bright golden hazel eyes widened—full, scarred lips fell slack in dismay. Those lips formed a single word—a name Mercy spent hours cursing that afternoon—but no sound came forth. Torn, she held her silence, eyes darting from Raphael to the stranger and back again almost desperately. She knew this moment would come, she just didn't realize how much she'd want to scream obscenities when it did.
The stranger broke the stare first, bottle-green eyes flustered behind their impeccable smoky eyeliner. She reached up to her modest neckline, grabbed at the pair of worn metal dog-tags at her chest, took a deep breath, then looked up again with a weak smile. "'ey, Raphie," she murmured in a voice still thick with smog. "Long time no see, huh?" The hulking mutant couldn't even get out a single word; he just nodded, his chin and lips unnaturally stiff. Even as he stared down Kimber Bryant he clenched his fingers even tighter to Mercy's waistband. Mercy glanced down at the sight of his three-fingered hand anchoring her in place by a belt-loop. Just that morning, she woke up with that hand tangled in the hem of her nightgown anchoring it at mid-thigh. She had nothing to fear.
She pried Raph's fingers loose, stretched an imaginary crick from her neck, and rolled off the sofa to her feet. "I'll catch up later," Mercy remarked with an entirely faked smile and made her way to the side door. "Compost prob'ly needs a turnin' 'bout now."~ On the way past, she silently took in what details she could, mentally comparing them. The other woman was her height but beyond thin and into skinny. Her hair was coarse—naturally red from the looks of it but with a texture similar to unraveled jute twine. A sharp glance told Mercy the other had practically no ass; no competition there. She rolled her eyes, punched in the security code to pass through, then let the door drift shut behind her.
Before she could get anywhere a pair of large, powerful hands snatched her by the shoulders, spun her about, and pinned her to the tunnel wall. "Why you leavin'?" Raph demanded sharply. His voice was barely below a shout but as so often before, Mercy saw underneath that posturing—she saw the suspicious shimmering in his eyes, the nervous tic in his jaw, the vulnerable hunching of his shoulders, and the lurching of his throat and plastron from frantic heaving breaths. Fear was the one thing he really had no reason to feel in this case but it was written all over him. She cupped his squared jaw, thumb tracing the scar splitting his lip.
"I ain't leavin', ya meathead," she corrected as he covered her hand with his in a frantic grip. "You were friends, right? Ya never got to say goodbye. I've seen how this's been tearin' you apart an' I'm sick of watchin' it."~ Her lips curled in a tease but it was entirely true—she was beyond sick of having another woman in their relationship, even a dead one. "Ya need closure, I get that—I'm backin' off so you can get it. Got it?" Raphael said nothing—he just stared back, visibly searching her words for subtext. When he finally spoke, what he asked made no sense.
"Why?" he demanded in a near-deadpan. Mercy wrinkled her nose but before she could speak, he continued. "Why're ya testin' me like dis? What've I done ta deserve dat?"~
"Testin' you?" Mercy shook her head and scoffed. "I'm not testin' ya, Red," she promised. "I know you and I trust you—you're not about to cheat on me with anyone, much less a dead chick, right?" He shook his head in agreement and his eyes softened; he belatedly released her hand, choosing instead to cup her cheek.
"I wouldn't do dat to ya," he confirmed gruffly. "I'd never…I promised not ta hurt ya an' I meant it…but…" He faltered, flustered and struggling to find the right words. "Dis ain't right…ya ought'a be pissed at me fer even lettin' 'er come here…heck, if dis happened to any other guy, he'd get slapped fer lettin' it happen!"
"You're not any other guy," Mercy reminded shortly, "an' I'm not any other gal. Jealousy won't help anything, it ain't healthy, and you weren't too keen on her comin' over, to begin with. I've got no reason to be mad at'cha, an' especially no reason to hit ya."~ Her eyes drifted back toward the side door, now closed, and she sighed. "I don't like it," she admitted as her hand drifted down to his thick neck, "but I know you need closure an' I trust you enough to not interfere."
Raphael said nothing—what could he possibly say?—instead, he took a step back, eyes wide. This wasn't the first time she professed her trust in him, nor would it be the last, but this utterance seemed the most improbable of all. Wait…no, there was one other moment even more unexpected—a recent moment, the moment he first witnessed Mercy Ross fall apart at the seams, right there in his arms.#
Tousled blonde hair spilled across his pillow like scattered straw. Unpainted lips, swollen from friction, panted around gasping breaths. Work-roughened fingertips clawed at the equally tough skin of his bare scalp and shoulders as he unleashed all his pent-up frustration on her finally bared skin.
"I trust you," she'd promised only moments before. "When are ya gonna start trustin' yourself?"
"Ya shouldn't trust me," he'd blustered, but despite his denials, he caved to her temptation. He knew from the first breath it would take weeks to clear her pheromones from his lungs; he'd never forget the taste of her or her keening cries of completion. When the madness left her eyes and the fire dulled in his blood, Raphael knew he'd never be able to see his Mercy the same, nor would he ever cease to be humbled by her seemingly unshakable faith in him—trust he couldn't recall doing a damn thing to earn.
That July, Raphael took a chance on happiness in the middle of an open rooftop—a single kiss followed by countless more, all sound-tracked with heavy metal. Ever since then, anytime he fell to the temptation of Mercy's lips, he lost himself completely. He wanted her—he needed her—he craved her—she was the air he breathed, vital to his very survival and responsible for every beat of his heart. Far below the filthy streets, in a dark passage forgotten by the world in general, he stole her lips and breathed her in reverence.
He loved her—loved her beyond the limits of his fears and follies—and that was why she knew he wouldn't let her down.
"So you two, huh?" Raphael ducked his head to avoid Kimber's eyes, hoping she couldn't see the traces of stickiness at his lips or the tenting of his patched trousers. She said nothing, choosing instead to examine the worn red tweed of the sofa arm she perched on.
"What of it?" he retorted slumping onto the seat at the opposite end of the couch.
"Looks like ya found a good one, 'at's all," she shrugged. He studied her silently a moment, searching for signs of deceit. In his heart, he knew this stranger was Kimber—his Kimber, the friend he threw away over his insecurities and fears—but her appearance was largely unfamiliar. Kimber was always on the chunky side of curvaceous but with an undeniable sex appeal. This new body was built like a scarecrow - all long limbs and frizzy hair - but underneath he could see the same sensual confidence Kimber had before she died. That sensuality was all Kimber - Amber lacked it completely, always coming across somewhere between odd and awkward. This woman, though visually unfamiliar, was definitely Kimber. Something in her eyes spoke of mischief…and regret. "Fer Gawd's sake," she swore under her breath and turned an acidic glare on him. He refused to meet it, locking his eyes on one padded and splayed knee. "I know t'a drill—I'm dead, not stoopid."
"Ya were never stupid, Kim, jus' stubborn an' naive," he protested but she waved him off.
"T'en quit lookin' at me like t'at." After a moment of resistance, he finally bit the bullet—he met her eyes. "Yeah, like t'at," the redhead grumbled, "like I'm gonna jump ya if ya take yer eyes off'a me or somethin'. I may be livin' in a homewrecker but t'at don't make me a homewrecker." This time, she was the one to hide her eyes.
A long, tense silence filled the room, broken only by the occasional sound from the Lab or utility room. In this unexpected but overdue moment, despite the drastically different appearance, Raphael saw Kimber as she was when they first met—not the over-confident temptress with the venomous smile and devil-may-care attitude but the lost, lonely, frightened runaway searching for her place in the world. Her new body was thirty-five if it was a year old, but she'd never looked more like a child to him than she did now. The night she turned Lefty and Northpaw over to the police and fell apart, Raph let the wrong head do the thinking and her heart suffered for it. So much heartache came from that one bad call—Kimber's death, too, was a result—how could he ever make it right?
"Rah-fay-el." The quiet – almost reverent – utterance of his name startled him from his brooding. Kimber faced the far wall but her eyes were locked on his askance. "Tell me t'a truth…did ya ever love me?" He blanched; she scoffed and picked at the faded red tweed covering the sofa. "I know we was close," she clarified in a soft tone void of accusation, "friends to be sure, but did ya ever love me like I loved you?"
He didn't answer—he couldn't answer, not around the painful lump in his throat. For so long, he wondered the very same. Loving Kimber, after all, would have made his betrayal a crime of passion rather than a bad move made in paranoid self-defense. Despite all his brooding introspection, though, he always came up with the same answer: he could have loved her, but he didn't…if he'd kept his head, maybe, someday, he could have loved her, but he didn't. "Exactly." Kimber's near-whisper broke his train of thought. "I knew ya didn't love me," she admitted even as her shoulders drew tight and her painted lips stretched in a sort of sneer. "I always knew it, I just t'ought…eh, no matter. I'm not gonna fuck up yer life again."
"I think ya got dat backwards," Raph pointed out dryly. "I fucked up yer life—I'm why yer…" He faltered, his throat clenching around the word as though to prevent him from voicing it. "Ya know," he settled for with a weak half-shrug, "like dis." Kimber watched him silently, eyes sharp enough to cut away his protective façade.
"Say it," she challenged. He flinched; she slid off the armrest and stalked over to face him, arms crossed in defiance. "Say it, Raph," she ordered, "ya know what I am—ya know t'a word, so use it. I'm…" She trailed off, one eyebrow cocked in expectance.
Raphael cringed. Of all the times he wished it was possible to completely withdraw into his shell, this was one of the worst so far. Weary hazel eyes drifted from Kimber's dirty canvas sneakers up her faded jeans and cotton blouse, up to her unimpressed eyes. "Yer…dead," he whispered as if confessing some great sin.
"Exactly," Kimber harrumphed and jabbed him between the eyes with one clear-lacquered fingernail. "Dead folks an' live folks jus' don't mix, ya muck-brained mawron.~ It wouldn't work an' I ain't about to waste my time tryin' ta make it work. Capiche?" He nodded, glaring up at her retreating back.
"Den why'd ya come back?" he asked, letting his hand fall back to his knee. "Dere had to be anutha way to test Don's theory, so why'd ya volunteer?"~ Kimber stilled in her pacing, carefully arranging her words before they could all spill out without concern for her feelings.
"I never got ta say goodbye," she admitted in a near-whisper, "not ta you, not ta Daron or Lefty, not ta anyone who mattered…but I've neva been t'at big on goodbyes anyhow, ya know?" Her voice cracked on the last words and she took a moment to compose herself. When she spoke again, she turned to the side as though watching him over her shoulder but her eyes remained hidden. "I made a lotta mistakes, Red—a lotta stoopid decisions t'at hurt a lotta people—an' much as I wanted to just stay dead, I lived ta regret every one'a t'ose decisions. T'at's why I came back…t'a fix t'a shit I broke an' atone for my sins. If t'at means stayin' here fer t'ree days while you an' Blondie play suck-face, so be it."
"Ya know you're puttin' yer life at risk, right?" Raph reminded, ignoring the suck-face comment. "Donnie ain't sure about da timing on dis thing, ya know. He an' the braided nutcase passed five days in her world but they weren't gone a whole three days, here. Who's to say ya'll have a full three days here? Who's ta say ya won't drop dead in an hour, or three hours, or even a minute from now?" He shuddered at the thought, his mind helpfully supplying several months' worth of nightmares to choose from, most of which ended with Kimber dying in his arms. "Ya froze, Kim, an' dat ain't an easy way to go; are ya really willing to risk goin' through it all over again?"
"It's my choice," she reminded with a stern expression reminiscent of an unimpressed schoolmarm. "No one asked me ta make t'at choice. Besides, see t'is?" She tugged her neckline aside to show him the small plastic device hung from her neck and the line of wire trailing down to her armpit. "T'is lil' t'ing's monitoring my core temp—we've got t'is covered. Trust me?"
Raph considered the plea a moment—for it was, indeed, a plea in every sense of the word—then gave a slow, reluctant nod. "I don't like it," he admitted in a throaty rumble, "but it ain't my job ta like it." There was much more to say, but for the moment, he hadn't words.
"Nope," Kimber agreed with a sly grin. "It's yer job ta help me give Daron a heart attack. What say we give'im a visit from t'a Livin' Dead Girl?" It was just a tease—just another excuse to ignore the elephant in the room—but for the moment, Kimber didn't care. She had more important tasks to focus on—messes to clean up, mistakes to correct, sins to atone for, and honor to regain. For now, the rest could wait.
The Lair - 00:35:00 and counting
Time stops for no man, people often said, and the same could be said for women. Never mind that Amber's cantankerous counterpart was staying in the Lair for the weekend…lurking around every corner…stinking up the place with her perfume…just waiting for a chance to bitch-slap Amber back into her place at the bottom of the food chain…
Amber shuddered at the thought and firmly shoved it into the back of her mind. Kimber Bryant made Amber all kinds of nervous but her presence didn't excuse Amber from her chores. There was too much to do—laundry to put away, studying to do, dinner to prepare— Something soft and furry brushed against her calf, startling her from her thoughts. "Right," she muttered as Kirk bypassed the laundry basket at her feet and hopped up onto Donnie's bed. "Gotta clean the litterboxes an' feed Kirkland too." After a mrrruhl of warning and a superfluous butt-wiggle said feline launched himself right into a pile of folded undergarments and began viciously mauling a sock big enough to double as an oven mitt. As he lay on his side, wrapped around the sock and kicking like a homicidal kangaroo, Amber sighed and shook her head in whimsical defeat. After how much she'd missed him she couldn't really be upset with the little murder-machine; cats, after all, would be cats, and socks could be darned.
"It's inevitable, Kirk," she teased as she hung a pair of patched canvas trousers in the frame-and-fabric 'closet.' "You're just gonna have to get used to sharing me with Donnie. I know I'm Mom but he's mine - you can't resent him forever." With an adorable cotton-muffled urrrr, Kirk glared at her over a mouthful of beige knit as if to say watch me. Ah, the jealousy of spoiled cats.
"Honestly, I'm lucky to have Donnie," she added to herself, doubts and worries filling her thoughts between wire hangers. Back before the dream connection was confirmed—before Donatello confronted her with his old Tonfa and confessed the name of her dead classmate—Amber could fool herself he wasn't the same Donnie she grew up with. She could tell herself that he didn't know all her dirty little secrets. He didn't watch her fall apart over the last few years of her life, partly from illness and her and partly from depression and apathy. He never heard how her poor choices in college may have led to the death of a classmate. He never knew she routinely slaked her carnal needs in impersonal encounters so her time with him in dreams could be focused on more important things than her hormones. If this Donnie wasn't her Donnie, then the mistakes of her past were only a secret to keep.
The problem was…now she knew this was her Donnie…and by the sounds of it, he remembered everything. Amber paused, fondling a strip of worn purple fabric. Even after countless washings, every one of those masks smelled strongly of his oddly comforting blend of coffee, machinery, musky exertion, and spice. "How can he even look at me, Kirk?" Amber murmured into the sweet-smelling fabric. "I screwed up with him so many times…I gave up on him, I – I gave myself up to other guys…how doesn't he hate me by now?"
This last question seemed the most perplexing. Sure, the purpose of those impersonal booty-calls was to shut up her hormones so her scant time with Donnie could be put to better use, but she always regretted them afterward. Regret, though, didn't count if a person intentionally committed the same crime over and over again, and she was guilty—guilty of closing her eyes, mentally replacing the other men with Donnie, and crying herself to sleep after they left. Regret was a weak word, really; what she felt wasn't weak. After all the time she spent hating herself for the infidelity, the idea that Donnie didn't hate her for it made no sense.
The dead silence tore her from her ruminations; odd, considering Kirk had a habit of 'answering' her every time she spoke.## After a quick glance at the bed, it was all she could do to keep from laughing. The little furball was out cold, wrapped around her favorite bra and snoring into one generous cup. The battered sock sprawled on the floor half under the bed—the enemy was vanquished. Chuckling at the absurdity, Amber crouched to retrieve the sock but paused when she noticed something wedged between the mattress and box spring. A warped silver wire binding, traces of green beyond the rings…surely she was mistaken, but it wouldn't hurt to check…right?
Amber tugged the notebook loose and promptly cringed in recognition. It was her journal, the one she hadn't written in for months then misplaced. Why was it jammed under the mattress like a nudie magazine? Curiosity drove her to investigate and she quickly discovered the litany of notes scribbled upside-down in the back. She quickly lost herself in the writing—questions and memories, hopes and fears Donatello couldn't bring himself to share with her, all centered around their years apart. Though she didn't dig too deeply, there wasn't a single word of blame or judgment anywhere—nothing that indicated resentment or disgust. Amber almost missed the sheet of loose-leaf that slipped out and fluttered to the floor—almost. The pencil-scribbled contents might have made her stumble if she hadn't already seated herself before. "I met my lover in a dream," she whispered in recognition.^ "That poem…I thought I lost it...I guess Donnie found it?" Soon enough, she hit the final lines:
Mibbe someday he will see –
Someday the truth I'll tell.
For now, I've only memories,
And dreams I shot tae Hell.
Or, rather, those should have been the final lines—they were the last she wrote. Someone, however, clearly thought the poem wasn't finished and added their own verse…in pen…neatly printed by a familiar hand straddling the border between calculating and persnickety. "No way," Amber muttered thickly as she scanned the added verse, wide-eyed and breathless. "Naw fookin' way!"~ No matter how she protested, the words remained clear, impossible yet obvious. Still marveling at their presence—and at the subtext—she never heard the soft ticking of a distant clock, or the even softer inhale accompanying.
Dreams can sometimes fall apart,
And memories can fade.
The truth you shared can't change my heart…
Your lover-friend I've stayed…
I'll see you in our dreams.
There was no stopping it, no holding back: Amber crushed the paper to her pounding heart in elation. He remembered. He understood. He loved. Perhaps, even…he forgave?
Sometimes emotions are too powerful for words; fortunately for Amber, squealing unintelligibly required none.
UP NEXT: (Currently in-progress)
Chapter List
- The vital signs monitor – At first I wasn't quite sure if such a device was on the public market, at least aside from 'smart' devices like FitBit and such, so I did what I do best: I researched the fuck out of it for funzies. Turns out there are more varieties out there than I expected, each monitoring different signs in different fashions and to different accuracy levels. Since Donnie's never been the sort to simply COPY others' ideas, we can safely assume he's combined the best of several devices. The result is a small electronic monitor [about the size of a 9-volt battery] hung from the neck by a lanyard, which measures core body temp by way of leads attached to an adhesive-backed electrode stuck in the armpit. We can also assume fitting the device on Kimber was incredibly awkward because she intentionally MADE IT awkward.
* Full statement including what Amber's snoring cut off: "Ya be'n 'way too long 'gain, ya sook—nae be'n by fer a nip'er a bosie. Wha's a lass ta think?" – This little bit of Scotchness is a routine in-dream tease from Amber. You've been gone [from our dreams] too long again, you old softy—you haven't even come by for a kiss or cuddle. What's a woman to think?
** Man-Fritters – Alas, I cannot claim authorship of this little snigger-inducing euphemism. That honor belongs to author Mimi Jean Pampfiloff in her Accidentally Yours series. While the first two books were pretty recipe [if you know what I mean] they were HILARIOUS recipes. I'm not ashamed to admit that the scene in the first one where the heroine belts out 80's pop hits to keep sane made me laugh so hard I spewed my tea, CHOKED ON IT, then spent the rest of the day CROAKING. It was WORTH IT. (That said, the author also used a lovely little nonsense-word coined by my IRL friend Autumn back when we were in high school but didn't notate it. I'd encourage Autumn to stop starting word trends without first seeking a copyright but that'd mean I'd have to pay her every time I stole her stuff, heh.)
Also: Abby has no accent. She's intentionally warping the Oh, Hell no! in hopes of showing Mercy just how upset the news makes her.
# Implied smut – The encounter referenced here didn't make it to in-story occurrence BUT it took place during the Absolutes arc, which took up too much time-and-space for the intended back-and-forth between worlds. It's written up and included in the "Gallery of Memories" as The Blonde and the Beefcake and it can be found HERE.) It's almost entirely lemon, BTW. ;P
## Kirk tends to 'answer' Amber every time she talks to him – I am SO not basing this on our cat Heiferlump. Nope, not at all! …fine. Yes. Heifer responds to EVERYTHING she hears, no matter who says it, and it's rare to find someone she can't bait into answering back. She's particularly adept at getting my father to argue with her and routinely tries to argue with the microwave beeper. O_o It's awesome.
^ The Poem, "Dream Lovers" – I've not posted the entirety of the poem in any chapters or even the GoM installment of the same name. NOW, however, you can find the entire poem in comic format HERE, on this story's Here on Tumblr, OR on DeviantArt. The comic includes Donnie's additions and a small blurb of backstory leading to this scene, and the Tumblr/AO3 posts include a glossary for the many odd words used in the poem. For convenience's sake, I've included the translation of the included verse below.
Again, since Tumblr’s decided to be an ass about wordblock limits, see FFnet or AO3 for the glossary if anything throws you off.
3 notes
·
View notes
F for the fanfiction asks
F. Share a snippet from one of your favorite dialogue scenes you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.
[Spoiler Warning if you haven’t read Common People]
Oh man, this is hard. I have to remember something I wrote.
I tend to go through trends of liking something when I first write it, liking it less each time I reread it, entirely forgetting it exists, and then reading it months later and liking it again. I was just rereading part of the second chapter today to remind myself of something for the chapter I’m working on, and this part made me laugh:
“What?” Tim asked. “I’m just checking to see if he has street cred.”
“Okay, look, squirt," Jason said. "You can’t say street cred while wearing that shirt.”
“What’s wrong with it?” he asked.
“You look like an Ivy League freshman on their way to their first lacrosse meet.”
Tim looked down at his button-up plaid shirt, khaki pants—seriously, what kind of asshole puts an eleven-year-old in khaki pants?—and loafers, and said, “I think you have no idea what people wear while playing lacrosse.”
But I’ll probably reread it on my blog tomorrow and be embarrassed by it because that’s the kind of person I am.
More after the read more because I ended up having way more on this than I expected.
I do like writing Jason and Tim scenes because I can just let their personalities play off of each other and they can be weird kids together. This scene makes me laugh too:
He turned his head so his ear was against the door. There was a quiet shuffling noise he couldn’t place. "Doing okay in there?" he asked after several long minutes dragged past.
"No, I'm dying." The response was immediate, but sounded distracted and far away.
"You are not." He pressed his ear harder against the door. The noises had to be from the far side of the closet. There was a quiet grunt followed by a thump.
"I'm having a heart attack." There was another grunt and then a rattle. What the hell?
"You can't actually think I'd fall for that, can you?" he asked, moving along the door to try to hear better. It occurred to him that he had no idea what was stored in that closet. Little Timmy could be doing anything in there. In the Alley, that probably meant he had a weapon. Maybe even a hastily assembled bomb, but he couldn’t imagine the rich brat assembling anything more dangerous than a bubble blower.
But if he was up to something, Jason wasn’t going to just sit around and wait for him to finish.
"It's not a trick,” Tim said. “I'm having a heart attack and dying."
Jason swung the door open on the last word, fists clenched and body braced for an attack. Instead Tim stilled and stared at him like a deer caught in headlights. He was surrounded by boxes, another small one in his hands. What looked like a decorative coat rack had fallen behind him, the top of it pointing at Jason’s feet.
“What the hell?” Jason asked. Had he been making a fort?
“This is what having a heart attack looks like,” Tim said.
I also really enjoy anytime Bruce and Jason talk because of the way it tends to go a little bit wrong despite best intentions. They’re bad at communicating, so just about everything turns into an argument, but I think you can usually see that Bruce is trying. I like this scene after the gala, for example:
“Jason, can I talk to you for a minute?” Wayne asked, inclining his head towards the hallway.
Here it comes, Jason thought as he stood up and followed. The smug told-you-sos and maybe a punishment for leaving early. Sure, Tim left early too, but Jason was the one with something to prove. His shoulders hunched more with each step until he was practically the hunchback of Notre Dame.
Wayne turned to face him in the hallway, expression serious. “You did well,” he said.
What the hell? Jason straightened up so quickly to stare at him he got a crick in his back.
“Much better than I expected,” he continued, because of course. He couldn’t just compliment Jason. He had to append an insult onto the end there.
“What did you expect?” Jason asked. “For me to yell at a few people and then go streaking through the ballroom?”
Wayne gave him a pointed look. “I don’t think yelling would have been out of character.”
“Fuck you. You don’t know me.”
Wayne rubbed a hand down his face. “This isn’t supposed to be an argument. I’m trying to say that you did well and I’m proud of you.”
Jason narrowed his eyes. He was sure there was still an insult buried in there somewhere. Proud for what? Not being himself? Not embarrassing the family?
“I know that couldn’t have been easy for you,” Wayne continued, “especially with some of the things people were saying, but you handled yourself well.”
“So, what?” Jason asked. “‘Handling myself well’ is not standing up for myself? Just letting people walk all over me?”
“No,” Wayne said sharply. Jason flinched, then quickly schooled his expression. He didn’t want to show Wayne any weakness. “It’s not rising to the bait. People are going to talk badly about you. Heaven knows they talk badly about me. It’s only going to get worse if you try to fight them. That doesn’t mean you can’t stand up for yourself.” A smirk danced across his lips. “I thought you handled ol’ Ronny boy perfectly.”
Oh. Apparently Wayne had heard what Ronny said. And then greeted him with a huge smile. He didn’t know how he felt about that. At least when people were yelling you knew where you stood with them. The idea that all those people were just constantly talking behind each other's backs while smiling to their faces made his guts twist uncomfortably. How was he supposed to ever know who he could trust?
“Yeah, well, maybe they deserved to be yelled at,” Jason said.
“They often do,” Wayne said with an obnoxiously sage tone of voice. What, was he going for a wise-man-on-the-mountain act? Trying to appear understanding? He couldn’t understand. He was one of them.
“Stop it,” Jason spat out. “Stop trying to act like you’re better than them. You were right there with them.” Wayne opened his mouth to respond but Jason steamrolled over him. “This was supposed to be a charity event, but nobody cared about anything except looking rich, acting rich, and getting along with the other rich people. Every person there could feed all of Crime Alley for a year without sacrificing a single luxury, but they don’t care about anything but themselves. You included.”
Wayne was silent. Good. Maybe he’d go away and Jason could get back to figuring out how to beat Tim.
“The gala raised 2.3 million dollars,” Wayne said, voice even. Jason knew that tone. It was the one people used when they were right on the edge of lashing out. He braced himself, but stood his ground. “We have a charity division that handles the distribution of funds, but perhaps you’d like to sit in on the meeting where they decide what to do with the money from this gala?”
That. Was not what he expected. He faltered, and Wayne seemed to notice. His voice softened.
“I know it might not have looked like it in there tonight, but we are… I am trying to help people.” He raised a hand as if to put it on Jason’s shoulder but stopped when Jason stiffened. He slowly lowered it again. “You have a better idea than me what would help people the most. You’ve lived it. I’m sure the charity division would appreciate your input.”
He shrugged, not meeting Wayne’s eyes. “Yeah, okay. Maybe.”
He thought he saw Wayne smile out of the corner of his eye, but when he looked fully it was gone. “Good,” he said, as if he’d completed a business deal. Fucker.
Probably my favorite conversations though are the ones while they’re climbing the fire escape in the 7th chapter. First, Tim and Jason’s conversation about Tim’s mom. I wrote, or imagined, so many versions of Jason learning about Tim’s mom. The first was actually as far back as the third chapter when Dick was telling Jason about how he came to the manor. Then when Tim mentioned his mom in the fourth chapter. Then when they were on the roof in the fifth chapter. Then after the gala in the 6th chapter. But it never felt right. It was too much information to give unprompted or Jason didn’t feel comfortable asking. Instead you get little references and Jason wondering, so I really enjoyed finally having the conversation.
“You should talk to Dad, you know.”
“I don’t think that’s ever true,” Jason muttered.
“I mean it,” Tim said. He stopped at the next landing and waited for Jason to catch up. He didn’t seem at all out of breath, which was terribly unfair. Jason needed in on whatever exercise routine Dick had him on. “I don’t know what’s going on with him and your mom and—” He waved his hand in wild circles. “But I’m sure he’s not keeping you from her on purpose.”
“Then what is he doing?” Jason asked harshly, breaking the sentence halfway through to breathe. Fuck, he didn’t want to talk about this when he was too out of breath to argue.
“I don’t know,” Tim said. “But he wouldn’t do that.”
Jason sneered. “I don’t know about that, Timmy. I haven’t seen your mom around.” He hadn’t asked. He’d kept not asking because it wasn’t his business, and it was clear nobody wanted to talk about it, but hell if it wasn’t relevant.
Tim’s eyes widened and he took a sharp breath. Then his face closed down. It was like he was trying to mimic Wayne’s robot act, but not quite succeeding. Tears bloomed at the corner of his eyes. “That has nothing to do with dad.”
“You sure about that?” Jason asked. Because he wasn’t. Tim was a baby when he came to the manor. He didn’t know what happened behind closed doors when he was too young to remember.
“Yes,” Tim spat vehemently.
“So, then where is she?” Jason pressed.
“I don’t know,” Tim said. He turned and stomped up the steps to the next landing. “Somewhere in South America, I think,” he said loudly enough to be heard over the percussive metal ringing. “Enjoying not having a kid slowing her down.”
Jason followed slowly after him. Tim stopped halfway across the landing and stared out at the thin sliver of road they could see between buildings. Jason stopped beside him and leaned on the railing. Headlights passed by in eerie silence. Up here, they couldn’t hear anything but wind whistling through the narrow alley.
“Everyone tells me she’s just busy,” Tim said, talking out into the night instead of to Jason. “Or...I don’t know, something. She owns her own company. She works hard. She travels a lot. But I know the truth. She never wanted me and I got in the way.” Jason wanted to say he was sure that wasn’t true, to reassure Tim in some way, but he got the idea Tim was tired of reassurances. And the truth was, he wasn’t sure that Tim’s mom cared. He knew better than to think every mom was good.
Tim slowly started walking up the stairs again, no longer stomping, but not bouncing either. So softly Jason almost didn't hear it, he said, “At least your mom had a good reason to give you up.”
Jason had to say something. He had to say something. It had already been too long, and the silence weighed heavier with each step he took. Finally, he croaked, “Tim.” Tim twisted to face him, one foot up a step. “Fuck her. She doesn’t deserve you.” Elegant Jason, real elegant.
Tim laughed roughly and wiped an arm across his eyes. “Thanks.”
And then, of course, Robin showing up. This is one of those scenes that I wrote a dozen times in my head because I love it so much. I mentioned in an earlier ask that one of my favorite things in any story is the reveal or realization moment, and this one has so many layers of who knows what that it amuses the heck out of me.
Then the whole fire escape rocked with one of his steps. He clung with both hands to the railing and stared at his foot wondering what he’d done for a good three seconds before he heard Tim say, “Oh,” and looked up.
Something very brightly colored was perched on the railing of the next landing. Someone very brightly colored was perched on the railing, head jerking back and forth between them at an alarming rate. Jason couldn’t see his eyes past the mask, but the way it was stretched taught from cheekbones to forehead suggested his eyes were wide.
“What?” he said. “What are..? How..? What?!”
Jason had never met Robin himself, but he’d always gotten the idea from people who had that he was better spoken than this.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, finally managing to sputter together a full sentence. Jason was already creeping back down the stairs, but he didn’t think he had much of a chance of running down fifteen flights of narrow stairs before Robin could catch him, and Tim wasn’t even making an effort to move. He’d hiss at Tim to follow if he thought he could without Robin hearing.
“Oh, hello,” Tim said. “It’s nice to meet you. Um. We’re good, thank you.”
Did he think he was at a cocktail party refusing service from a waiter? Robin wouldn’t care that they were “good, thank you.” He’d care that they looked like they were breaking into a building.
“You’re good? You’re on the outside of a skyscraper! On the… the… the seventeenth floor! At one in the morning!”
“I did say we should take the elevator,” Jason said before his brain caught up to his mouth. Robin’s full attention immediately turned on him. And God, did he look ridiculous. If Jason hadn’t heard more than one story of people getting their asses kicked by this fashion-blind monstrosity he’d probably be in danger of laughing himself right off the fire escape. As is, he stood very still and tried not to look like he was resisting arrest.
“Shhhh,” Tim said, and Robin’s gaze immediately swung back to him. It was both a relief and nerve wracking. He’d rather Robin’s attention be on him than Tim. Tim was smaller and really, really stupid sometimes.
He braced his shoulders. “We’re not doing anything illegal,” he said. He didn’t actually know if that was true. Was climbing outside buildings illegal? It might be trespassing. He tried to sound confident anyway. “Leave us alone. Go stop a crime.”
Robin’s mouth opened and closed a few times like a creepy ventriloquist doll. “I’m not worried you’re doing something illegal. I’m worried you’re going to get hurt!”
That sounded suspect to Jason but he went with it. “We’re fine.”
“You’re eleven and thirteen!” Jason blinked at him and Robin immediately added, “Roundabouts, I assume.”
This all made way more sense suddenly. Robin knew who they were. Read the tabloids, probably. No wonder he was worrying about them instead of beating them up.
“Right,” Jason said. “Well, we’re all good and kind of busy so shoo.”
Tim had a hand over his mouth and wide eyes. Jason couldn’t tell if he was amused or horrified. Maybe a mix of both. That was probably the same way Jason was going to feel in about two hours when this was all over, assuming it didn’t end in them falling to their deaths or jail.
“I… okay, no. I’m taking you two home. Right now. Immediately. I am not leaving two children out here on their own. At one in the morning!” He was really sticking on that one in the morning thing, which was fair, Jason supposed, except he probably would have been more concerned about the seventeen floors up thing himself. Then again, this was a guy that regularly jumped off buildings.
He saw Tim out of the corner of his eye sneaking backwards to position himself more behind Robin and really hoped he wasn’t going to try to knock Robin out or something equally stupid. Then he realized Tim had sneakily taken out his camera and was snapping pictures of the two of them. Of course he was. That kid had no sense of self-preservation.
“And if we refuse?” Jason asked.
“I’ll call Batman,” Robin said.
Jason scowled. It was a good threat. Batman would be way more likely to beat them up and leave them hanging from a light post for the police. He’d seen it happen, one guy dangling from his ankle, swinging and screaming while a buddy tried to help him down. Everyone ran and abandoned him to his fate when the sirens started though.
“Jason just wants to see his mom,” Tim said. He looked nervous at the mention of Batman. Maybe he had some survival instincts after all.
“What?” Robin asked.
“His mom,” Tim said, pointing up. “She’s on the twenty-first floor. Room 2112.”
Robin turned to him slowly. Jason couldn’t tell what he was thinking behind the white lenses. His face was still, barely moving. “You haven’t seen your mom?” he asked.
Jason didn’t see why it was any of Robin’s business. Tim must have thought it made them more sympathetic though. He shook his head.
Robin’s face stayed completely still for thirty more seconds before deteriorating into a look of pure fury. Jason took a step back. He was about ready to grab Tim and run, but Robin said, “Stay here,” and jumped off the fire escape.
He’d just left them there. Did he actually think they’d stay? Jason immediately started back down the steps but stopped when he realized Tim wasn’t following.
“What are you doing?” he hissed. “Come on.” Tim just stood there looking at him confused. “Now’s our chance, you idiot.” He jumped up the steps two at a time to grab Tim’s hand and pull, but Tim pulled back.
“He said stay here.”
Jason had to remind himself that Tim had no idea how the world out here worked to keep himself from snapping. “This is our best chance to escape.”
“We’re just going to get in more trouble if we run!” He lowered his voice. “He’ll tell Batman.” He said it like Batman finding out was the worst possible scenario, and Jason was prone to agree.
Thanks for your interest! If you want to know about specific scenes, feel free to ask about them. I seriously had to scan through the first few chapters to remind myself of some of the earlier conversations. I was just saying earlier today that I should go back and reread everything. Some of this I wrote over a year ago. (which is crazy to think about)
2 notes
·
View notes
Captivating, pt. 1
Happy birthday, @sylphidine! I wrote you the first part of a Nightmare Dork supervillain story! It’s set in the same universe as this one(x). It features standard supervillain courting procedures, which, as you may imagine, aren’t generally the best way to go about wooing the object of your affection.
Perhaps it was cliche, but they had first met in a bookshop. Piki had been taking a walk to clear his head and get away from his infuriating twit of a twin when a combination of interest and chill winter winds had driven him to seek shelter in a small cafe attached to a bookstore. Soon he was cupping a warm cup of coffee in chilled fingers and idly wandering the shelves to kill some time. And maybe pick up a new novel. He had been looking to replace his rather ratty copy of Salomé; the spine was practically coming apart on his. The filing system of the place seemed to be rather unintuitive, however, and he was having a hard time locating where the play might be if they had a copy.
A flash of white out of the corner of his eye made Piki turn his head in time to see a young man, white-blond and pale as death, vanish between the shelves. For a moment he fancied that it might have actually been a ghost, that there was something supernatural about this place he had stumbled into by chance. Maybe some kind of terrible accident...
The sound of shuffling books from the next aisle over ruined the fantasy and Piki wandered around the shelf to see the young man shelving a set of paperbacks. "Oh, do you work here?" he asked mildly, stepping forwards. The young man jerked, almost dropping the book he was holding, and turned to gaze at Piki with wide blue eyes. "I was wondering if you could direct me to where I might find a copy of Wilde's Salomé?"
The pale young man stared at him for an instant longer before dropping his gaze and hunching his shoulders, wringing his hands in front of him.
"...Do you not work here?" Piki asked.
The other gulped and opened his mouth as if to speak, but no sound came out and he closed it again, biting his lip.
"...Right. Sorry to disturb you. Thank you for your time," Piki said, giving up on any conversation with the silent waif. What an odd young man, he thought as he wandered back to where he had been searching before he had been distracted. Piki wondered if he was actually mute. Not that it was any business of his, really. He spent a few more minutes browsing before he finished his coffee and felt sufficiently thawed, having found nothing that caught his particular interest at the moment. He shrugged and started to head for the door.
A hesitant tap on his shoulder made him pause. He turned around to find the pale young man from before standing there, eyes downcast and holding out a copy of Salomé. "Oh," Piki said, blinking. "Thank you?" He took the book and watched with some interest as the young man nodded and scuttled back into the dusty labyrinth of shelves.
Piki hummed and glanced down to see that the novel had a sheet of notepaper sticking out from between the pages. He pulled it out, curious, and flipped it over to read the shaky, hastily scratched message that had been scrawled on the sheet. I hope this is what you wanted. I'm sorry about earlier. I'm working on being able to speak with others, but it's I hope you weren't too inconvenienced. Have a wonderful day! Sorry again, -Jack.
...That was actually rather charming. This Jack person seemed to be trying to overcome some personal difficulties of his, admirable. Piki wondered if he was like that with everyone, or if he had found Piki particularly intimidating. Well, probably not, not in Piki's street clothes. If he saw Piki in his proper get-up, fully powered and seething with shadows, well, that would certainly provoke an interesting reaction from the poor boy, he was sure. He smiled a little at the thought and idly folded the note back up to tuck it away.
He headed up to the cashier to pay for the book that Jack had so kindly retrieved for him. Piki snagged one of the pens littering the desk and scribbled a quick Thank you, this was just what I was looking for on the back of his receipt. He slid the paper to the cashier, folded in quarters to conceal the writing. "I was wondering if you could give this to Jack for me?" he asked, smiling when the woman nodded. "Thank you." Moments later he was back into the chill winter evening, black boots crunching softly through the new-fallen snow as he headed back home, a satisfied smile on his face.
Piki found himself gravitating back towards that cozy little bookstore only a few days later. It was still cold outside, after all, and Pitch was still a twit. Besides, the selection he'd remembered from his last search seemed promising, even if the organization of it was a bit perplexing. Piki knew who he could ask for assistance now. Though...
He stopped by the front desk to buy a spiral-ring notebook and a pen.
Piki wandered through the shelves, and it did not take long for him to spot the flicker of white as Jack vanished around one corner. He was on-shift, then. Well, presumably, at least. It was not outside of the realm of possibility that Jack did not work in the store at all, given that he appeared spectacularly unsuited for retail service. Perhaps he was just some neurotic passerby who took it upon himself to try to impose order on this place. Either way, he was fighting a losing battle.
Piki peered around the shelf. “Excuse me,” he said, and watched as Jack flinched and nearly dropped the paperbacks he had been clutching.
Jack whirled around and met Piki’s eyes for a moment before dropping his gaze back down to the floor.
“I- Did you get my note?”
Jack nodded.
“Well, good. I…” Piki trailed off. He retrieved the notebook from under his arm and tore out a sheet. I’m looking for some new reading material. Do you have any recommendations? he wrote on the dismembered page, before stepping forwards and holding out the sheet and pen to Jack.
It was the first time he saw Jack smile.
He'd returned to the bookstore regularly after that, and it became something of a routine for Jack and him to exchange notes in lieu of conversation for an hour or so as Piki nursed a coffee and became increasingly more familiar with the bookstore's layout and Jack's routine within it. It was when he prompted a soft little chuckle from Jack with one such note that Piki realized just how much he wanted to hear Jack laugh and speak with him, how much he wanted to be close to the young man.
If only he had some inkling of how exactly he could go about doing that. He had to be careful, about this, after all. Everything had to be perfect.
-------------------------
Piki really could have put just a little more effort into his secret identity. The way it was right now, a monkey could have figured it out. As a civilian, he didn’t bother to act even a little bit differently, or change his voice, or stop being glued to the side of his brother who obviously made up the second half of their little super-criminal enterprise. Seriously, twins who called themselves twins in their supervillian title? Might as well hand out business cards with their civilian identities. On top of all that, Piki wore a costume that left very little to the imagination, in more ways than one.
Not that Jack would complain about that particular choice.
That was, if not for it, he probably would not have taken any notice at all of the Black Twins. They were still small fry, barely on the radars of the City's heroes, let alone something of consideration for the higher-level villains. If Jack hadn’t immediately been able to recognize the bookstore patron who he had been having his eye on for the better part of two months, he would have completely forgotten first encountering them back when he'd been making his escape from the Guardians after nabbing the blueprints for the City's newest tech facility. They'd had some unkind words to say about ruining their reconnaissance mission or something, Jack wasn't sure. He mainly remembered the crick in his neck from the double-take he'd done at seeing Piki.
So it had been a blessing in a terrible, god-awful disguise.
And now, oh, now they were interesting. Or, at least Piki was interesting; clever and ambitious and leading a double life as well...
He could really do without Pitch, though. Pitch was brash and harsh and he had nearly given Jack a panic attack when he stormed into the bookshop to yell and drag Piki away. Pitch was a bad influence on Piki, he could see that much when he ran into the Black Twins during their nights of crime.
Which had admittedly been happening more frequently now that Piki has caught his eye. He couldn’t help it, he wanted to know more. The dark of night and villainous deeds felt more special, knowing that Piki was operating under the same star-strewn sky.
And, well, it was just nice to be able to actually talk to Piki.
Compartmentalization was a hell of a thing. He could trade effortless witticisms and barbs with any heroes or rival villains while he was the Winter King, but the second he went back to Jack Sickle, he couldn’t open his mouth without tripping over his own damn tongue. Trying to make small talk with strangers, or worse, acquaintances who might actually remember him, got his anxiety and stress skyrocketing in a way that heroic pursuit and very, very narrow escape never could. He could scale a skyscraper and break through the most sophisticated security system in the City, but he couldn’t ask Piki if he wanted to get a coffee with Jack at the cafe ten feet away.
Piki had been kind and patient and accommodating for Jack. And Jack… Jack had been pathetic. It wouldn't be surprising at all if Piki looked down on him. It had been months and he still couldn't so much as say “hello” without his stammer rendering the word incomprehensible.
Jack didn't want Piki to think he was pathetic. Jack wanted Piki to be impressed, to be awestruck. He didn't want Piki to have to be patient with him. He wanted to prove that he was worth something.
Jack Sickle couldn't do that. But the Winter King could.
All he needed to do was get Piki alone.
-----------
Piki swore under his breath and darted down a branching tunnel, cursing Pitch and cursing himself for ever thinking this was a decent idea.
Getting into some kind of glorified pissing contest with one of the most powerful metahumans in the City was a mistake. It had been so tempting, when they heard rumors of the latest heist target the Winter King was planning, to try to snatch it out from under his nose. It would have been so satisfying, returning the little favor that the Winter King had paid them. It had seemed like a good idea at the time.
His spite was going to be the end of him, and possibly the end of Pitch, too.
Now they were split up, and Piki was lost in the warrens of the sewers, and judging by the way the temperature was dropping all around him, the Winter King was closing in.
He didn’t have enough power to teleport, not without Pitch, and his talent for fading into the shadows was rendered utterly useless by the white plume of his breath that steamed in the frigid air. The Winter King would have to be blind to miss such an obvious sign, and while Piki wasn’t strictly opposed to going for the eyes, he doubted he would be able to blind the other villain. He didn’t even have enough shadows to lift the manhole cover he had planned on escaping out of, something he only realized when he reached the top of the ladder. Who would have thought the damn things were so heavy?
He was out of power, out of weapons, out of options.
Piki slid back down the ladder and grimaced at the sound of approaching footfalls. What did the Winter King even want? It wasn’t like they’d successfully managed to steal the stash before the Winter King did anyway. Piki dashed down another tunnel, ignoring the burning stitch in his side.
The footfalls picked up behind him, dammit. He was close enough to be heard.
An unexpected dead end cut the chase short, and Piki whirled to keep his back to the wall, hand fumbling along the stones behind him for a loose chunk of masonry, something he could throw.
The Winter King peered around the corner, stepping fully into the entranceway of the tunnel after Piki didn’t blast him with darkness. The brilliant white of the ice and snow practically seemed to glow in the gloom of the sewers.“There you are, boogeyman. All out of shadows already?”
“Not… even… close,” Piki ground out between gasping breaths. “I’m just… giving you the opportunity… to rethink antagonising me.”
“That’s terribly considerate of you,” the Winter King replied, smirking. “I should really return the gesture somehow. Hm, how about I show you some good, old-fashioned hospitality?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You can find the most interesting little trinkets for sale, did you know?” The Winter King withdrew a small, irregularly-shaped golden ball from a fold of his icy cloak.
Piki opened his mouth to snap a response back, but the Winter King tossed the orb and it burst into a spray of golden powder, covering Piki. The world dissolved into darkness.
------------
Piki started to stir thirty minutes after that, which had given Jack enough time to get him to the hideout and organize everything. He waited on the opposite side of the ice bars that closed off the room Piki had been placed in, trying to ignore the butterflies in his stomach.
Piki sighed and rolled over on the bed, before flinching and clutching at his head. “Ngh, Pitch, not so loud! Yes, I’m oka-” His voice cut off when he opened his eyes and took in his surroundings. He sat up abruptly. “What the hell?”
“Good morning. Well, technically morning. It’s about 3 am,” Jack said, and Piki’s eyes fell on him.
“What is this? Are you trying to ransom me? Pi- My partner didn’t successfully steal anything tonight, so if you’re missing anything, it doesn’t have anything to do with us.”
“No, no, it’s not anything like that. I just wanted to have a conversation. I think it’s taken long enough for that to happen,” Jack replied.
Piki raised an eyebrow. “Look, if you want to tell random strangers whatever thoughts pop into your head, just make a twitter account like the rest of us. I guarantee you it will be a lot easier than this was.” He pushed off the blankets and got off of the bed, scanning the room for an escape.
Jack smiled. “Oh, I would hardly call us strangers.”
“We’ve spoken only once or twice before this. Acquaintances would be a very generous term for it,” Piki replied, taking a few steps towards the barred doorway.
“Hm, I suppose. But I believe you do know me a lot better than you think you do.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
"Well, if you’re still having trouble working the puzzle out, maybe this will help..." Jack withdrew a small square of paper from a pocket and held it up for the captive man to read. In hesitant, jerky cursive that was far too familiar, it read: 'Hello, Piki.'
Piki's eyes widened, flicking from the note back to Jack. "You..." he breathed, disbelieving for a moment, and Jack felt a little rush of triumph. Then Piki’s eyes narrowed and his face twisted in a snarl. "What did you do to Jack?!"
Jack almost flinched back from the fury in that glare. "What? N-n-nothing," he stammered out, before he could think about it. The return of that hateful stammer made him reflexively grasp the frayed edges of his persona and wrap it more tightly around himself. He wouldn't be pathetic, not now. He was strong and cunning and in control; he had to be in control. The Winter King straightened his back and cocked his head, meeting the glare with a little smirk, letting the witticism roll off his tongue without thinking. "Well, nothing yet."
Piki surged forward, gripping the bars and baring his teeth. "You-!" He bit back whatever else he was going to say and wrenched his gaze away from Jack. He closed his eyes and let out a long breath, knuckles going white as he clenched the bars. He slowly loosed his grip, shoulders slumping. "...fine, you win."
Jack blinked. "Pardon?"
"You win. I'll do what you want. Anything. Just leave Jack out of this," Piki replied, not raising his head.
Jack felt his heart clench. The absolute failure of his plan crashed over him all at once.
After showing him the note, Jack imagined that Piki would catch on, connect the dots. That he would be impressed at how clever and powerful Jack had proved himself to be. Instead, he had thought Jack was just some helpless hostage of the Winter King. It would be infuriating, if Piki hadn't just shown how willing he was to sacrifice everything to protect him.
"Piki, I-" Jack reached out to touch Piki's hand, but pulled back before he made contact.
Piki might not believe him now, even if he dropped his disguise entirely. And if Piki did believe him, then he would hate Jack. Despite his dreams and grand plans, Jack hadn't established himself as a rival, as an equal. He had acted like a puppetmaster, and he had toyed with Piki. He'd been so focused on being impressive, on being clever, and now he had ruined everything.
Jack didn't want Piki to hate him.
What else could he do now?
The Winter King sighed and waved a hand. The bars on the cell dissolved. "Well, you're no fun at all," he drawled. "You should really work on spotting forgeries, in the future. It's something that comes in handy in our line of work."
Piki stumbled forward half a step at the disappearance of the bars. He lifted his eyes, blinking. "What?"
"Forgeries. You know, fakes?" The Winter King waved the note once before freezing it solid and letting it drop to shatter on the ground. "You can relax, boogeyman. I don't hurt civilians. Just happened to find out about your little crush and wanted to get a rise out of you. I admit, I didn't think you'd go the martyr route. Ah, well. You can see yourself out," he replied airly, gesturing down the hall before turning on his heel and striding off.
He'd gotten five steps away when he heard Piki spit out a dark, "Fuck you."
The Winter King glanced back over his shoulder and grinned. "Only if you ask nicely."
Jack managed to get around a corner and behind a closed door sealed with ice before he slumped to the ground and held his head in his hands.
5 notes
·
View notes
Cardboard Swords and Cat Puns - Chapter 1
Cardboard Swords and Cat Puns
Word Count: 3,108
Pairing(s): Romantic Analogical, Platonic Royality
Warning(s): Brief mentions of past neglect, swearing (honestly I don't know if this needs to be a warning but ok), I believe that’s it but tell me if there’s more !!
Summary: Logan and Virgil Eddington decide it’s time to expand their family from two to three. After months of planning, they finally jump in the car and drive down to their closest orphanage. They find two very interesting children there however that catch there attention more than the other children: a boy with a prince costume that has no true volume control and a boy with crude cloth cat ears on his head.
next chapter
A/N: alright, hi! So, first off, a little disclaimer, I have no idea what it’s like to be in an orphanage or how it actually works, so this is kinda how I imagined it would be like?? I apologize if I’m way off. And second, if enough people I guess enjoy this on here, I wouldn't mind continuing on with this.Or even if one person wants me to continue, then I’m honestly done for it. Like making it multiple chapters kind of thing. I’ll probably post this on AO3 too, because I have like no following at all on here, so yeah. Anywho, enjoy the story!
Logan Eddington stole a quick glance to his left. In the passenger seat sat his husband, Virgil Eddington, who was anxiously twisting the wedding ring around his finger this way and that as he stared out the window. Flicking his gaze back on the road, Logan took one hand away from the steering wheel to lightly rest it down on Virgil’s thigh, palm up and hand relaxed. Virgil took it almost instantly.
“Anxious?” Logan questioned.
“No.” Virgil replied, his voice quiet. Silence fell over the two for a few seconds. “Yeah.”
Logan gave a gentle squeeze to Virgil’s hand. “That’s what I thought. Do you want to talk about it?”
The man gave a dry chuckle. “What is there to talk about? It’s just the same things I’ve told you before.”
“Yes,” Logan said calmly, “but that doesn’t mean it won’t hurt to voice them out loud no matter how many times you have in the past.”
Silence fell over the pair again, the only sound breaking it being the blinker indicating when Logan had to turn. Virgil’s knee started to bounce unconsciously. “You know the usual. I’m gonna be a shitty dad to whatever child we adopt and their going to hate my guts. I’m not going to be able to give them the right amount of love and affection, I’ll just be a complete bore.”
“The children at the orphanage have either come from abusive families, families who did not want them, their family could not afford to take care of them, or their family members have died and this is where they have been sent. To be a shitty dad, as you had said, you would have to either be abusive or neglectful. Would you be either of those?”
“You didn’t include that I could be dead.”
“You are not dead.”
“I could be.”
Logan rolled his eyes. “Falsehood. You are not dead, abusive, or neglectful. You will be a fine father. This is a new experience for you, as well as me.” He pulled Virgil’s hand up to his mouth and gave it a very light kiss. “We won’t be perfect father’s, and it won’t be easy, but we will get through it together.”
Virgil smiled bashfully. “You sappy fuck.”
“I would also like to point out,” Logan said as he dropped they’re intertwined hands back on his husband’s thigh with a smile, “you are still using profanity that is not acceptable. I have told you the words you must use are-“
“Limited to crap and heck, hell on occasion, I know Logan. I’m using whatever the fuck kind of language I want till I become family friendly.” Virgil smirked, feeling his anxiety loosening up ever so slightly. Especially after his nerd of a husband let out a chuckle.
“As long as you don’t do it impulsively after this, then I suppose there is no harm in doing so.”
“Fuck yeah.”
+++
“These look pawsistively perfect, Roman!!” Patton squealed happily to his twin, the cloth cat ears on top of his head slightly cricked from his consistent bounces.
Roman chuckled softly, resting his hands softly on the other’s shoulder’s to hopefully cease a bit of the bounces. “Well, of course they are! They were made for you, brother!”
Patton giggled and quickly spun around, pulling Roman into a bone crushing hug. Honestly, if it wasn’t for the head of the orphanage, Ms. Baker, supplying Roman with cloth and a plain headband as well as helping him make the ears and everything, Patton probably might’ve just had some lame picture of a cat or something. Not like Patton would think it was lame, but it would be pretty lame.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you, Roro! I love them so much!” Patton’s grin was wide and bright. So bright it could probably rival the brightness of the sun.
Roman gave a few weak pats to Patton’s back. “Y-You’re welcome, Pat, b-but I can’t breath.”
“Oh, sorry!” Patton quickly let go, but his smile didn’t move at all. “Imma show Elliot my cool new ears! He’ll like to see them too!”
Roman straightened his prince costume and nodded his head quickly. “I will come with you! I must see his reaction as well!”
“Well, of course silly,” Patton giggled, “you made them for me.”
The bubbly boy grabbed a hold of his brother’s hand quickly and dragged him away from the mirror they were previously standing in front of. Patton led the way down the stairs and came to a stop in the room most of the kids all hung out. It was pretty much just one big playroom.
Roman felt Patton let go of his hand and he was off, running to the other side of the room to a dark haired kid in the corner. Roman was about to follow his brother when he heard the front double doors open. He quickly spun around, looking to see three adults walking in. One was Ms. Baker, while the other two were complete strangers, both male.
One of the men was wearing a sweaterswirt a few sizes too big for him with purple patches sewn on it. He was wearing black skinny jeans that were ripped in several places and his shoulders were slightly hunched. The man was very tall and lanky. A faint purple fringe fell over his face a little, casting a shadow over his eyes. The shadow caused his eyes to look black, but at a closer inspection his eye color was a dark brown.
The man next to him was about the same height and was also pretty lanky, if not just a bit more built. He was wearing a black polo shirt and a blue tie with khaki pants. Thin framed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, causing his piercing light blue eyes to seem slightly larger then they probably were. Dude reminded Roman a lot like a school teacher. While the first guy seemed to be anxious and nervous, this man seemed very serious and intimidating. Cool and put together. Roman found himself staring at him longer then he wanted to.
The school teacher’s gaze shot over to Roman, and he felt his whole body freeze up. For the first time ever, Roman Hart felt exceptionally silly in his princely garments. Quickly, the boy spun around, and sprinted to where Patton and Elliot were.
“Alright, here is where all of the kids are!” Ms. Baker said, grabbing some of the kids’ attention, which included Elliot’s and Patton’s. Though what also caught Patton’s attention was his brother, who was pouting and not looking at the two adults near Ms. Baker.
“What’s wrong?” Patton said to his brother.
“Stupid school teacher,” Was all Roman had mumbled. He then looked up, catching Patton’s pale green eyes. “Do you want Mrs. Fluffybottom?”
Patton stole another glance to the adults and after a bit, gave a slow and hesitant nod. “If it isn’t too much trouble…”
“Nonsense! It’s no trouble at all if she helps you! I will be back before you know it, my good man.” Roman gave a salute, before quickly running off to their shared room where the stuffed rabbit would be sitting on Roman’s bed. It was technically the princely boy’s rabbit, but he let Patton hold her when people who wanted to adopt came around. He would get nervous and the soft plushie kept him calm.
“I’ll be right back, Patton.” Elliot spoke quietly, standing up. Patton gave a nod and a soft smile and watched as the quiet boy left. He stood alone silently, waiting for his brother to come back.
+++
Logan was a slight bit disheartened he had made the kid in costume high tail it by just a single glance, but he was quick to brush it off as the head of the orphanage, a jolly woman, went on to summarize what they could do.
“I suggest the best way to find the right kid for you two is to go up to one and try and get to know them as they play in this area! We find it is the most comfortable for children because they are in a place that is familiar to them and they feel more relaxed. They’re more inclined to act like themselves then!” Ms. Baker explained to the two, ushering them in. “I’ll be staying in the area in case of any problems occur or you have any questions. Or you find the perfect dream child!”
Logan gave a polite nod to the woman and gently took a hold of Virgil’s hand, which he noticed was shaking and slightly damp. “Sorry.” The anxious man mumbled.
“It it quite alright. Let’s just walk for a bit and you point out any kid you feel like you want to get to know.” Virgil gave a little nod and onward they went, crossing the room slowly. Most of the kids’ had looked up from their playing for a second to look at the new people, and some even gave excited waves to Logan and Virgil.
Virgil knew it was going to take a while for him to relax and would only cause the two of them to lap around the room a hundred times, so after the third time, Virgil decided to pick one of the kids farthest away from any other because fuck it.
This child was wearing a light blue collared shirt and jeans with dirty and warn out sneakers. He had glasses like Logan, except the frames where much thicker and adorably too big for the small tot’s face. Speckles of brown freckles littered his slightly tanned face. The boy’s skin was darker compared to Logan and Virgil’s very fair complexion. The boy’s pale green eyes where bright and curious, but they also seemed to be looking for someone.
Virgil stopped and motioned towards the kid with his head. “That boy?” Logan asked. Virgil gave a nod in reply. “You’re ready?” Virgil was a little more hesitant with his nod this time, but he nodded nonetheless.
Logan gave another nod back and, still holding tightly to the other’s hand, approached the boy. It didn’t take long for the child to turn his gaze in the direction of Logan and Virgil and once he did, the kid froze up like a deer caught in headlights. As they stopped a good bit closer to the child, he reached up with his right hand to play with his left sleeve and his left arm wrapped gently around his middle section. He looked nervous.
“Hello.” Logan greeted first.
The child caught Logan’s gaze and shot his gaze back down to the floor. “H-Hi.” He replied back shyly.
Alright, so far so good, Logan thought to himself. “My name is Logan Eddington and this is my husband, Virgil Eddington.”
The boy glanced up for a few seconds to look at Virgil before looking back at the ground, not saying a word. After a few moments of silence, before Logan could ask a question, the boy said in a quiet voice, “My names Patton. P-Patton Hart.”
“Like H-E-A-R-T?” Logan asked. Logan doubted that it was spelled like that, but it was a conversation starter for this shy boy Patton.
Patton shook his head. “No.”
“So, like the famous comedian?” Virgil asked. It was the first time he had spoken once since they arrived in the building, except for the small little “sorry” for his sweaty palms to Logan.
Patton’s head shot up when Virgil spoke. His glasses had slid down the bridge of his nose because of the force, but he didn’t seem to notice. “W-What?”
Virgil raised an eyebrow. “The comedian? Kevin Hart? Or are you too young to know who he is?”
Patton blinked a few times, then shook his head, quickly pushing his glasses back up. “N-No no, I know him! I-I was just- I-I mean- I w-was a little- oh bother, never mind. Yes, l-like the comedian.” At this point the boy’s face had grown a tomato red color.
There was a few seconds where nothing happened, until Virgil started to quietly chuckle, which did turn into quiet laughter. Hiding his mouth behind a sleeve covered hand, he leaned against his husband as he tried to compose himself. Logan’s eyebrow’s furrowed and he found himself looked over at the child. They’re eyes met, and they both looked very confused.
“I’m sorry,” Virgil managed between laughter, “I promise I’m not laughing at-“ He was cut off by a snort and then his laughter stopped completely as his eyes grew wide and blood quickly rushed to his face. Oh dear.
The snort from Virgil, however, had only brought a soft chuckle from his husband and a giggle from the boy, which did surprise the two men.
However, before anything else could really go down, a rush of mostly white and a dash of red zoomed by and stood next to Patton. “Patton, I have arrived! Here you go,” The boy, who was in a prince costume, handed a stuffed rabbit to the boy, completely ignoring Logan and Virgil. “How are you?”
Patton hugged the rabbit to his chest and smiled hesitantly, adjusting the cat ears that were on top of his head. “I’m feline okay.”
Virgil let out a huff of amusement while Logan looked, well, unamused. Deciding to just ignore it, Logan looked to the other boy, which he remembered was the boy from earlier. “Who are you?”
The boy looked up and this time kept Logan’s gaze. He puffed his chest out and stood up straighter, wrapping an arm around Patton’s shoulder and bringing him close. “I’m Prince Roman Hart, but you can just call me Roman! I am this puffball’s brother, so if you’re planning to adopt him, then you’re adopting me too.” He stated in a matter-of-fact tone, not leaving any room for argument.
“Well, we had not even talked about-“ Logan had started before he was cut off by Ms. Baker.
“I see you’ve run into the Hart twins!” She said with a wide grin. Now that she had said that, both Virgil and Logan realized that the two were exactly identical, except for the clothing choice and Roman didn’t have glasses while Patton did. Virgil also realized that Patton had a blue barrette in his brown curly hair, probably to keep it from getting in his eyes, and Roman had no barrette, but a bobby pin. “Why don’t you boys run along while I talk to the Eddingtons?” She didn’t have to tell Roman twice. He quickly grabbed a hold of Patton’s hand and practically dragged him away from the adults as fast as he could, causing the other boy to squeal in surprise.
“What did you want to talk with us about, Ms. Baker?” Logan asked.
“I know you two were only looking for only one child today,” Ms. Baker started, a sort of sad smile finding her features, “I can understand why, kid’s are one big handful. They take up lots of energy, money, that kind of thing. I want to see all of these kids get a home, but… I really want to see Roman and Patton get a nice home.
“I’ve heard them talking during dinner before. All they want is parents that will love them, that’s it. There father had died at a young age for them and their mother was neglectful. They’re not perfect because of it, I’m sure you know. But they’re great kids once you get past that, I swear. You saw with Patton, he does have a shell that you need to break but he’s a very bubbly kiddo. And I know you haven’t been able to see much of Roman yet, but he’s a swell kid, I assure you!”
“Ms. Baker, I’m sure all of these kids here want a loving family and I would believe some would have a more tragic family experience in the past.” Logan pointed out, only to get a harsh elbow to the side from Virgil.
“That doesn’t mean shit. It was still a bad past nonetheless.” He hissed quietly. Logan’s eyes widened, and he cleared his throat.
“Of course, my apologies. That was uncalled for.”
Ms. Baker sighed softly. “Just, consider it at least. I assure you they are wonderful kids.” With that she walked off, leaving the two adults to their thoughts and discussion.
+++
Roman and Patton both sat in silence, both fiddling with one of the ears of Mrs. Fluffybottom.
“I thought they were pretty neat.” Patton said after a while.
Roman’s head shot up, eyes wide. “What? Pretty neat? What is that supposed to mean?”
“I’m not planning on leaving you for them, Ro. I’m just saying they were neat people. I’m not going unless they adopt you too!” Patton noticed the off look his brother had and frowned. “What’s the matter?”
The prince picked at a stray string on the rabbit’s ear, his eyes on the hardwood floor. “Maybe it’s best you do leave without me.”
Patton gasped. “Roman, no!”
“You’ll be able to be in a family, Patton!” Roman retorted. “I’m just holding you back from freedom. You should just go talk to the Eddingtons and tell them they can just adopt you. It’s not a double package.”
“It is a double package.” Patton sounded very serious, and he let go of Mrs. Fluffybottom’s ears to grab a hold of Roman’s shoulders. “Look at me.” He didn’t continue till his brother had looked at him. “I love you. More than any family that could ever want to adopt me. We’re family, blood family. You matter to me more than anything in the world. And if staying with you and never leaving you means I never get into a family, then so be it. I don’t care. I love you too much.”
Roman could feel tears prickle the corners of his eyes and he sniffed. “I love you too, Patton.”
“Boys!” Ms. Baker called, bringing both of the boys attention to her. “Go up to your room and back your things! You’re going to a new home!”
Both the brothers’ jaws had dropped to the floor. “B-Both of us?” Roman had stuttered.
“Well, of course, silly goose! Now scoot! You don’t want to keep them waiting, do you?” The Hart brothers turned to look at each other and once everything sunk in, they jumped and cheered.
“YAYY!!” They practically screamed, catching pretty much all of the kids’ attention as they quickly bolted up the stairs to their room.
Boy, were those two excited little beans. A new home, a new family, a new life. They couldn’t wait.
71 notes
·
View notes
Actions Speak Louder than Words (Chapter 3)
Hermione Granger has the bushiness of a raccoon’s tail for hair and an air of ‘I’m-judging-you’ surrounding her. It felt like facing Molly Weasley when she’s in the right, except in a perpetual state.
It was intimidating as hell for an eleven year old girl and Ron Weasley already knew this was going to be a challenge.
The whole school already knew the Slytherin duo’s agenda by now – bringing the second reckoning of the prankalypse since the Marauders and Snape, who currently is drinking his way to sweet oblivion, fuck Dumbledore and his ‘plans’ – and all the students practically sprinted themselves out of the library to get away from the crossfire.
Which is a mistake and someone should’ve stalled the Weasley in his tracks and made sure to never let these two particular first years meet, but oh well. They’ll know soon enough.
So Ron sat down on the chair across from Hermione, the setting innocuous and peaceful. Hermione’s brown eyes flickered upwards and went back to her alarmingly giant sized book and snappishly flipped a page. Her shoulders hunched inward, as if bracing herself for an attack.
“Is there something you need?”
Ron heard the impatience in her tone and laid down his cards without hesitation.
“Harry and I need your help in beating Fred and George.”
Instantly, she looked suspicious and interested all at once. A raven, eyes caught by the shiny object Ron was offering her. The audible slam of her book closing shook the table, nearly spilling the inkwell.
“Why?” she narrowed her eyes, sharp as an owl. “You don’t seem to need help.”
“We do.” Ron countered, unashamed. Pride has no place on the battlefield. “Fred and George are a year older than us and they know every inch of Hogwarts. They have the advantage, and are going to keep having the advantage if it drags on.”
She raised a surprisingly thin eyebrow, the expression eerily similar to a certain transfiguration professor. “I’m just hearing reasons why you’re going to lose. Why do you need me?”
“Cause you’re smartest person in the school and you’re not in Ravenclaw.”
Surprise and curiosity has her asking. “Why does it matter if I’m not in Ravenclaw?”
Ron grinned, looking delighted that she’s asking all the right questions.
“If you’re the smartest person in the room and your bravery is even more recognized that that, it can only mean you’re bloody amazing.”
Hermione, for the first time since coming to Hogwarts and realizing that she’s as alone as ever in such a magical place, giggled. It rang in the empty library and was high pitched from childish youth that was rare coming from the mini-adult.
Later, after Ron stumbles out with all the grace of someone who has just escaped being windswept by a hurricane, he plopped himself in a chair next to Harry and tried to breathe.
“I think I’m in love.” Ron said dazedly, struck by lightning.
“Can’t wait for the wedding.” Harry responded idly, going through his transfiguration homework like a madman.
Years later, nobody was even fazed by Ron’s declaration of marrying one Hermione Granger-Weasley. Only the fact that it took so long and that they hadn’t been married from the moment they met at all.
How can they, when the sixth time they played chess together in the Gryffindor Common Room (nobody dared to kick Ron out) a few weeks after they met, Ron reverently asked, “Marry me?” after she finally toppled his king?
“Maybe.” She responded politely. “Mom always says I should keep my options open.”
The fact Mrs. Granger was referring to her school subjects and career, not her love life, was probably the case. But Hermione was precocious as they come. And Ron Weasley wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Okay then.” He agreed, another business transaction occurring without either realizing it. It’s how they work. “I’ll ask once every year then until you give me a straight up yes/no answer.”
“Sounds fair.”
(It took until their early twenties and a war to have her break the agreement and outright tell him she wanted to get married. Ron didn’t really mind much.
Harry was both their best man and bridesmaid. It made for an interesting set of clashing green and red robes for him to wear, though he wore the heels on a dare.)
When the Golden Trio, as they were now being called these days, snatched up unassuming Neville Longbottom, people had the sense to be wary except for idiots like Draco Malfoy who mocked their chosen person.
They didn’t realize as Harry did that Neville had the toughest skin you’ll ever find in the Gryffindor house. Anyone else would’ve collapsed under the personality of Augusta Longbottom who even Black family members were cautious of when she’s in a flurry. Temperamental, snappish, and always judging Neville with close scrutiny that it was suffocating.
Put Neville in a quiet, tense environment and he’s a nervous wreck. The Dungeons were cold and entirely too silent, not a word spoken under the sharp eyes of Severus Snape. Neville is prepared to work under constant nagging and deprecating words shouting in his ear. Snape’s smooth, cutting remarks were a complete contrast to Augusta’s loud fury that it threw Neville off more than enough times.
But when everything is loud and rowdy, chaos surrounding him on all sides, Neville was a diving duck in water.
His awareness narrowed down, ignoring all sounds and mocking insults once he gets absorbed in the things he’s good at or focused on. The greenhouse was full of screaming, demanding plants that required constant diligence. The greenery were visibly colorful in both behavior and looks. Nobody seemed to understand that it was a minefield, not a set of instructions put on a board but bartering trades with sentient creatures. A give or take relationship Neville instinctively had a knack for with unpredictable, magical plants. He was a master at working under pressure with a hundred living things demanding for his help and attention.
He’s not good with words. His hands, on the other hand, speak another language entirely with coaxing actions befitting for negotiators and caretakers.
And Harry, who’s been gardening since he was six with dull flowers who can’t talk back, noticed it all.
So one day, he separated himself from Hermione and Ron arguing at the other side of the Gryffindor table and slithered in the seat facing Neville. The round faced boy paled at the sight of him, Harry’s reputation proceeding him.
“You’re Neville Longbottom, right? The one who’s really good at Herbology?” Harry started earnestly, green eyes shining.
Neville looked completely taken aback by the compliment and blushed furiously.
“Um, yes?” he squeaked uncertainly, glancing behind him as if it was possible the raven haired boy was addressing someone else.
Harry grinned cheerfully. It was terrifying.
“Excellent.” He rubbed his hands gleefully like an evil mastermind. Which wasn’t true. That’s Hermione’s job. “Because I wanted to ask you for help.”
“Help?” Neville repeated, sounding more like an actual plea for escape than imitating a talking parrot.
“Yeah, do you want to be our dealer? Since Professor Sprout likes you so much.”
Neville choked.
Of course, what Harry Potter meant was for Neville to provide dangerous plants and maybe even ask for some assistance in experimenting on them for any short-term affects that could be slipped into the twins’ drinks or food. But out of context, the eleven year old was completely unaware how it sounded in very different contexts.
Neville, however, surprisingly did.
The conversation spiraled from there until it finally clicked what exactly Harry was offering, much to Neville’s staggering relief that he wasn’t getting involved in criminal activities. His Gram would kill him if he did.
But, well, this was for The-Boy-Who-Lived. The Savior of the Wizarding World. And she said to make friends, so she would understand.
Right? Right.
So against his better judgement, Neville Longbottom became part of the group in not so legal ways.
“Professor Snape?”
Severus absolutely refused to admit how close he was to jumping three feet in the air by the haunting nightmare that was Harry Potter. Denial was a long, long river.
“Mr. Potter.” He said curtly, betraying nothing when everything in him wanted to hide beyond a desk and hiss, ‘What do you want from me? Leave me to die alone and away from your insanity!’
But he was a professional professor. And so he stayed where he was and tried not to stare at familiar green eyes that were gleaming all too familiarly for comfort.
“What’s being used to guard the third floor?” was Harry Potter’s upfront, absurd question that broke the stereotype that Slytherins didn’t know what blunt was until it hit them. Politics ruin people.
Clearly they’ve never met The-Boy-Who-Lived.
His mouth went on autopilot because sarcasm was an addictive habit that won him the title of being an asshole/favorite character (for some reason).
“Are your ears just decorations Mr. Potter? Or were you too busy congratulating yourself and Mr. Weasley for grabbing the ranks of the Slytherin House in the sole purpose to ruin other people’s reputations and time?”
And sanity he wanted to add, but didn’t. It would feel too much like admitting defeat.
Potter frowned, cocking his head to the side as if trying to impersonate a rather curious bird. Just looking at him gave Severus a crick in the neck.
“No, it’s not that.” The boy began, blatantly disregarding his words and striding in without any censorship. “I figured since you hate me and want me to get in trouble, you’d tell me.”
Severus stared at the boy’s backflipping sense of logic and tried to find where he came up with such an abysmal train of thought. And then he took in the expectant, completely oblivious look on Potter’s face that mimicked Lily’s whenever she had asked uncomfortable questions to older students into attempting to explain how such prejudice and close-mindedness is allowed in the Wizarding World.
The Slytherin Head of House wistfully recalled how gleeful he had always been from her pointed questions that left people stuttering and ashamed, and felt like this was karma kicking him back in the arse.
“It doesn’t matter if I don’t like you Mr. Potter.” He gritted out, shoving the redheaded girl in a box and burying it with a mental shovel. “You’re a student, I’m a professor.”
James’s son dared to shoot him a bemused look.
“Yeah, exactly.” He said slowly, as if he has the thought capacity of a slug. “Which is why I asked you since you know.”
Severus wanted to futilely argue against that inane point, but screeched to a stop when something finally occurred to him.
“Why do you want to know in the first place?” he demanded suspiciously.
Potter lit up. A spike of agonizing pain shot through the Potion Professor’s skull.
“Because if it’s dangerous, we can have point of references to use in beating other people at their own game.” Potter was just barely not implicitly stating the blasted Weasley pair’s names. Severus wanted to thunk his head against the walls until he had a concussion even Pomfrey couldn’t fix immediately. “And other than Fluffy, we don’t know what the other protections are-”
“How do you know that?”
Potter blinked, confused. Severus resisted the urge to shake him.
“Well, it was sort of implied we’ve already tried going in there,” which Severus probably would’ve noticed if he had been paying more attention instead of covering up his wariness with bullshit fronts. “Hagrid told us that Fluffy was his and there was a trap door he was sitting on. So, it’s kind of obvious once Hermione pointed it out. If Hagrid left his own kind of protection, then that means there must be other tests and stuff guarding whatever it is it’s guarding.”
“Why were you on the third floor?” he struggled out, half-impressed and half-bitter that some parts of Lily actually seemed to have transferred to her son from how he had been able to work it all out.
“For fun. And we were really bored.” His tone heavily implied the feeling ‘Duh’ rather accurately.
Severus narrowed his beady eyes at the Potter.
“So the only reason why you’re asking this is for academic reasons and to win your petty little war against the school menaces? You have no interest in what the school’s guarding?” he enunciated slowly, incredulous.
Potter shrugged.
“Not really.” His voice was drier than Severus’s nearly-empty glass attitude. “I’m kind of too busy trying to win a war.”
Maybe the absurdity of it all was finally getting to him, because Severus Snape burst into hysterical laughter and couldn’t find it in himself to stop.
This is a continuation to my little snippet here
Also, I posted this on AO3.
Okay, first, I am so happy that so many people loved this fic and am very flattered by it all. Seriously, thank you so much for the encouragement and comments, I love that this makes people laugh. Writing private headcanons that just keep extrapolating is my life now, haha. Anyways, I hope you enjoy, cause chaos I literally this fic’s agenda and I’m gleefully taking advantage of that.
39 notes
·
View notes