#mighta put way too much effort into the hair but that is okay

[sartorially]

Crossposted from @dailygrims​!

I have a sale going on over on KO-FI, if you’d like to see WIPs or buy an adoptable.

#homestuck #homestuck grimdark #grimdark equius #equius zahhak #horrorterrors #BODY HORROR #DECAPITATION #ART TAG #this one was fun! #mighta put way too much effort into the hair but that is okay

[there-must-be-a-lock]

Lost At Sea (But I Am Home) [Part 1]

Dean x Reader 

Word Count: ~4600

Warnings: Smut (vanilla, but explicit) and Dean emotions. 

A/N: This came from a request by MJ on the occasion of her birthday. It was supposed to be done, like, months ago, but there was much loss of sleep, tearing out of hair, rending of garments, wailing, etc. before it came together. I hope it’s worth the wait. I missed these two.

This is not a coda, exactly, and not a sequel, exactly, to Marked. It’s a fic of its own, but you might want to read that first. There will be two more parts to this. 

Big thanks to @thoughtslikeaminefield​ @fangirlxwritesx67​ @justcallmeasmodeus​ @mskathywriteswords​ @itmighthavebeenintentional​ @fookinghelljensensthighs​ and all the rest of the gay screaming crew for your brainstorming, reading, and inspiration help. Y’all are the best. 

We show great loyalty to the hard times we've been through. We are filled with riches and wonders.  Our love keeps the things it finds, and we dance like drunken sailors,  lost at sea, out of our minds. You find shelter somewhere in me, I find great comfort in you. And I keep you safe from harm.  You hold me in your arms. And I want to go home, but I am home.

“Riches and Wonders,” The Mountain Goats

*

Dean used to think that love might feel like safety. 

When he pictured a relationship, a family, a partner, he used to picture apple pies and picket fences. Love, in his mind, was always tied to comfort, PB&J with the crusts cut off, security, and all the other things he knew he’d never have again. The person he is, the things he does… he wasn’t meant for that soft kind of love. 

Dean’s gotten so used to hiding his softness behind sharp edges and impenetrable walls that sometimes he forgets it’s still there. The sort of woman he once thought he could love would be shredded to pieces before she could get close to it. 

Then he met her. 

When he tries to talk about it, tries to describe the way she makes him feel, he ends up stuttering and stumbling over the words, because it’s nothing like a quiet house on a suburban street. It’s not safety that he feels when he looks at her; it’s nothing so simple as that. She makes him feel about as safe as a fucking hurricane, except that when the wind is howling around them, when rain is falling and the churned-up waves are rising, Dean looks at her and knows, with absolute certainty, that in spite of the storm raging around them and within them and between them, they’re going to be okay. 

So, yeah, Dean was wrong about love. He’s starting to realize that he was wrong about a lot of things.  

*

Dean storms into the kitchen and almost rips off the cabinet door in his haste to get a glass, and he doesn’t notice Cas sitting at the table until he’s slamming the whiskey bottle down on the counter and going for the first gulp. 

Cas just raises an eyebrow. 

“Don’t give me that,” Dean grumbles. He knocks back the rest of the glass and pours another before sitting down across from Cas, slumping in his chair and glaring down at the pitted surface of the table like it’s done him some personal wrong. 

“You had an argument,” Cas says, gravelly and implacable. 

“You listening in?” 

“It wasn’t a conscious effort. More like an unfortunate inevitability.” 

Dean winces. “Guess we were a little loud at the end there.” 

“Yes.” 

Cas doesn’t ask. He just sits there, drinking his tea. Dean really didn’t intend to spill his guts, but fuck, his thoughts are rattling around in his skull, too loud to hold in. 

“When something’s wrong, you’re supposed to fix it,” Dean blurts out. “Right?” 

“What sort of thing are we talking about here?” 

“Just… she was pissy all day. Fuckin’ quiet, and trying to avoid me, and… fuck, I don’t know, I just kinda snapped eventually. Mighta lost it on her a bit. And she was having one of those days, I guess. Had a nightmare last night.” 

“And… you apologized?” 

“Well, yeah. She just wasn’t having it, said she needed space to sort through it on her own. ” 

“And that bothers you.” 

“Fuckin’... yeah. Because if she’s mad at me, I’m the one who’s gotta fix it, right? I’ve gotta take care of it, I’ve gotta make things right, and she just won’t fuckin’ let me. How the fuck am I supposed to make her feel better if she won’t let me?” 

“Did you ask her that?” 

“Well, yeah. She said it wasn’t anything I could fix, it was just… something she had to deal with. Went to work, wouldn’t let me drive her. The fuck am I supposed to do with that?” 

Cas gives him a look like he’s being the densest motherfucker on the planet. 

Dean scowls down at his glass and takes another sip, trying to sort through the tangle of his emotions. His insides are a mess, disorderly and beyond his control, and it’s infuriating. 

“I wish I could fuckin’ do something,” he says softly, swallowing around the knot in his throat. “I want to just… take care of it for her. Make it better.” 

“Even though she said you couldn’t,” Cas prods. 

Dean shrugs helplessly. “If she’d just let me,” he says feebly, all too aware that he sounds petulant and whiny. 

Cas rolls his eyes. 

“Fuck off, Cas. She’s just… out there. Walkin’ around without me, and I don’t know what she’s thinking, and there’s nothing I can do.” 

“What exactly are you afraid of?” 

Dean bristles. He opens his mouth, closes it again, and then takes a sip of whiskey to cover his confusion. 

“I just don’t like it,” he admits gruffly. “Not being able to do anything.” 

“Did she say she’d be home later?” 

“Yeah. After work.” 

“You know that she loves you.” 

“Fuckin’... yeah, Cas, Jesus.” 

“You believe this is something you’ll work through?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, without hesitation, almost surprised by how much he believes it. 

“You trust her. You know she can take care of herself.” 

“Yes. What… what’s your point?” 

“My point is that she is a grown woman, a remarkably capable and strong one at that, and there are going to be moments when she does not want you to fix her, or take care of her, or make things right for her. Clinging to the illusion of control is only going to make things worse.” 

Dean feels like a fish, opening and closing his mouth stupidly. Part of him wants to get angry; it would be easier than dealing with the uncomfortable ache in his chest. He knuckles at his eyes and takes another drink. 

“Fuck, Cas, don’t sugarcoat it or anything,” he mumbles. “Should never’ve introduced you guys.” 

“I’d say I’m sorry, but…” Cas shrugs. 

Dean makes a face at him. There are a few minutes of comfortable silence as he listens to the ever-present background whisper of the air circulating through the bunker, like the lungs of some gigantic underground beast, and to the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat. 

“I miss her,” he says hollowly. 

Cas gives him a wry little half-smile. “I believe they call this personal growth.” 

Dean scowls. “Don’t patronize.” 

“You weren’t the one slamming the door behind you. You admitted you wanted her to stay. That’s new, for you. Growth.” 

If Cas wasn’t so fucking right, Dean would probably hate him right now. As it is, he has all too many memories of walking out on Cas, or shoving him toward the door…  it’s either cry or laugh, at this point, so Dean digs the heels of his hands into his eyes and huffs out a laugh. 

“Shove it up your feathered ass. You gonna have a drink with me, or what?” 

*

Years ago (probably before he was technically old enough to be meeting girls in bars) Dean met a girl — Sasha? Sandra? — in a bar. He doesn’t remember her name, but he remembers the freckles on her pale shoulders and the long corkscrew curls that framed her face when she lay down, like a tangled halo on the pillow. 

After, as they caught their breath, Dean played with her hair, twisting one curl around his finger and releasing it again, fascinated by the way it bounced back into its spiral. He remembers putting his arms around her and telling her she was beautiful, and he remembers that she looked away, eyes suddenly shuttered. 

“It’s okay,” she said softly, and started looking for her shirt. “You don’t have to pretend it means anything. That was fun.” 

He learned quickly, from her and from others, what was expected of him. They wanted him to be confident, if not cocky; strong, but not too rough; kind, but not exactly sweet… they wanted him to be charming, and fun, and not much more than that. Above all, they wanted him to leave. 

He learned. Leaving became second nature. Leaving was better than waiting around for the inevitable day that they would leave. 

Women didn’t want tenderness or romance, at least not from him. Maybe they wanted those things from someone who might stick around, but Dean would never be that guy. Dean might be the thrilling story they told their friends the next day, a fondly scandalous memory, just dangerous enough to feel like an adventure: I can’t believe I did that. 

He learned to take what he could get. He learned to separate the emotional from the physical. He learned to hold back, to tell stories without showing the scars they’d left, to share tiny slices of the truth without ever really revealing the messy whole. He learned to wall off his soft, vulnerable places. Nobody wanted to see those. 

It was easy to put those walls up, even easier to hide behind them. Dean started to think he was safe there. He thought his carefully constructed fortress was stronger than any storm. Then she happened. 

She keeps proving him wrong. Dean’s getting used to it. 

*

She still hasn’t gotten home yet, by the time Dean bids a bleary-eyed goodnight to Cas. She had the late shift, and he knows that, but his stomach is jittering cold under the blanket of whiskey heat, and he doesn’t expect sleep to come easy. 

He hears the echo of Cas’s voice as he tumbles into bed: you know that she loves you. 

He falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow. 

When he wakes up in the middle of the night, there’s wet heat and suction enveloping his cock, and he’s thrusting up into her mouth helplessly, rock-hard, gasping her name into the darkness before he’s fully conscious. Dean’s caught in the limbo between waking and sleeping, trying to separate reality from his dreams, but this feels too good to be a dream. Dean’s never dreamed anything this good. 

She’s rubbing her thumb along the cut of his hipbone, stroking sweetly even as her tongue does something that should probably be illegal. He reaches down and grabs her hand, lacing their fingers together, and she lets out a low, pornographic moan, her throat vibrating around the head of his cock. 

“C’mere,” Dean pleads, hoarse and sleep-slurred. She pulls off with an obscene slurping sound and crawls up his body. She must’ve taken off her jeans before she got in bed, but she’s still wearing her shirt and underwear, and Dean’s pretty sure he hears something rip as he wrestles with the fabric. If the harsh way she’s panting is any indication, she doesn’t care either. 

“I’m sorry,” she says fiercely. 

“Missed you,” he whispers. His voice sounds broken, pathetic, but it doesn’t matter; she’s here, warm and soft in his arms as they fumble in the darkness. 

She’s finally naked, straddling him, and Dean reaches for her blindly, pulling her down for a kiss that’s more of a clash of teeth when they both misjudge the angle. Dean wraps an arm around her lower back and crushes her to his body, fisting the other hand in her hair, holding on for dear life as they exchange deep, bruising, biting kisses. She clings right back, fingers stroking his jaw and his neck like she’s trying to read the Braille of his skin and bones. 

Dean’s breathless by the time she breaks the kiss to wriggle back and line up. His eyes have adjusted enough that he can see the faint silhouette of her body, charcoal against jet-black, but the important thing is the way she feels, like solid ground or safe harbor in a storm. 

He thrusts up helplessly, stuttering out a nonsense string of vowel sounds as she takes him in all at once, slick and welcoming. Dean’s spine bows with the way it drags pleasure from every part of his body, wrenching and twisting through him, winding him tight. She leans in and rests her forehead against his, so close they’re breathing the same air. Dean digs his fingers into her hips and feels the way she flutters around him, smooth silky wet skin, living heat, pulsing like a heartbeat as his body answers with its own heavy thud of arousal.  

“You came home,” he chokes out. 

“Of course I did,” she says. 

She rocks her hips and Dean surges up to meet her, grinding in deep, pulling her down against him. He’s closer to her than he’s ever been to another person, and it’s never close enough. 

Home. 

*

Dean considers himself a giver, when it comes to sex. 

It’s always been a point of pride: no matter how casual it was, no matter how easy it was to walk out the door afterward, he put his partner first. Not like it was a fucking chore, anyway. He’s heard stories, heard the way women talked about other men, and it genuinely confuses him sometimes; those men have no idea what they’re missing. 

It’s not often, in his line of work, that he gets to make people just feel good. He hasn’t brought anything positive into the lives of most people he’s met; he’s brought danger, and bloodshed, and nightmarish fucking violence. Those rare moments when Dean can bring someone pleasure, instead, have always felt like a gift. 

He remembers the first time he figured it out, the way the girl (Jenny? Jessie?) sounded when he found the right spot, the face she made, the way she twitched around his fingers, and he remembers the awed, wonder-struck glow in his chest. He remembers thinking, I did that. It was satisfying in a way that had nothing to do with his own orgasm. 

Getting off is great and all, but Dean’s never cared too much about comfort or pleasure. He takes a utilitarian approach to the basic needs of his own body, whether it’s sex, food, sleep, or whatever else. He’s always been fine with his hand, a burger, and four hours of shuteye on a crappy motel bed. He’s never asked for much more than that. 

Watching someone else enjoy themselves, though? That’s worth taking his time, doing it right, appreciating every moan and every spasm of pleasure that flickers over her features. It’s not so much about what he wants. It’s about what he has to give.  

*

Dean’s never been a morning person, but he’s starting to understand the appeal. It’s just them, in the morning, before they’ve had time to pull on the invisible armor they wear when they have to face the rest of the world. It’s a nakedness he never thought he was capable of. 

He wakes half-sprawled across her, one arm over her chest and a leg hooked over her thigh, like he was worried about her escaping from him in dreams. His face is tucked into the side of her neck. He inhales deep, immersed in the smell of her shampoo and her sweat and her skin. 

He traces the soft lines of her body, running a feather-light touch from the round of her shoulder, across her collarbone, down the center of her chest and then back up to map the curve of the underside of her breast. He rubs his thumb back and forth over her nipple, feeling the skin start to respond to his touch just as she sighs and stirs, and then he trails his fingers down to brush the inside of her thighs, down and up, one and then the other. 

It’s not like he’s trying to tease, he just can’t stop touching her. He could spend eternity running his fingers over her smooth skin, dips and curves and hollows and swells like an entire landscape under his hands. He maps it all, awed, until she’s breathless and squirming. 

In the end she just grabs his wrist and shoves it down, showing him exactly what she wants. She holds him there, cupping her hand over his, rocking up, hot and slick under their entangled fingers. 

Dean waits until she’s trembling, straining, close. 

“On your side?” he whispers, and kisses her cheek. He doesn’t pull his fingers away, just rolls with her and fits himself against her back. She arches, raises one knee, and she lets out this desperate throaty moan when he has to move his hand for a second to adjust, but then he sinks in and he can feel her shudder down to her toes. 

He’s been so focused on her that he didn’t realize how hard he is, but he’s dizzy with it, suddenly, like every drop of blood is rushing to his dick and throbbing, his nerve endings on fire with the searing slippery friction of her body opening up for his. Jesus, he’s so close it should be fucking embarrassing. 

She’s whimpering on every breath, clenching and dripping around him as she grinds into her hand. Dean reaches forward and slides his fingers under hers again, and he can feel the way she squeezes, muscles pulsing in waves of silky heat. He rolls his hips and she arches her back, biting out an anguished sound. 

They’re barely moving, rocking against each other gracelessly without the leverage for more, just a push-pull-shove-tug that builds into something powerful and unavoidable. Dean can feel it pounding through him with every shallow thrust and every little groan. He’s losing control, swamped by the sensations, barely holding on. 

Dean focuses on the way she feels under his fingers, the rhythm, pressing and circling, working her just the way she likes. 

“Not yet,” she gasps, practically writhing in his arms. “Want to feel you.” 

“So fuckin’ close, just -” 

She hisses, grabbing his wrist in a steely-strong grip like a handcuff and forcing his hand away as she snaps, “Dean, come for me.” 

He can’t help himself. It hits him immediately, sucks him under, sweeps him up and whirls him around, until all that’s left is how fucking good it feels: her sweaty skin against his, her soaked cunt squeezing him over and over again as she comes, wringing it out of him, and her fingers bruisingly tight, a bright spark of not-quite-pain around his wrist, as pleasure twists in his gut and spirals out and carries him away. 

He’s dimly aware of the way she’s shaking, the sound of her voice, but it takes a conscious effort to understand the ragged words: “So good, Dean. So fucking incredible, feeling you fall apart for me.” 

They’re both trembling. She loosens her grip on his wrist and brings his hand to her mouth, kissing the center of his palm and then every fingertip in turn. The sweat between them starts to tickle as it cools. 

She turns in his arms, pulling back to look at Dean with a sparkling smile and a curious, level gaze. He can see the gears working behind her eyes, cogs clicking into place, but he can’t for the life of him figure out what she’s seeing as she stares. Then it clears, and she’s just beaming at him, giving him the same open, tender expression he sees every morning when they wake up together. He can see it all over her face, how much she loves him. 

Dean’s not sure what he did to deserve that smile, but he’ll spend the rest of his life trying to earn it. 

*

He’s heard it so many times: take care of your brother.

It wasn’t just Sam, though. It was always very clear to Dean that being a man, being strong, meant protecting others. It meant making the hard choices, putting on a brave face, shouldering the weight so that others didn’t have to… no matter how he felt, no matter how hard it was sometimes, his job was to take care of the people he loved. 

He remembers smiling, hugging his mom, trying to make her smile again: It’s okay, Mom. Dad still loves you. I love you, too. 

He remembers putting a hand on his dad’s shoulder, looking into bloodshot eyes: It’s okay, Dad. I’m really glad you’re home. 

He remembers setting his jaw, holding his head high: Shoot first, ask questions later. Watch out for Sammy.  He remembers that curt, military nod he got in return: That’s my man. 

So that’s what Dean did. He protected people. When he loved someone, he did whatever it took to keep them safe. It was the foundation on which he built his entire life; it was the cornerstone of every structure, every wall, everything that held him up and held him together and kept him from falling apart. 

You’re going to be okay, Sammy. I’ve got this. I’m okay. Don’t worry about me. I’ve got it all under control. 

Then she happened. He couldn’t keep her safe from himself. He failed. 

He tried to push her away, after. He tried to rebuild all those walls, for her sake, but she just knocked them down again. She demolished everything, right down to his crumbling foundations, and she loved him not in spite of what she saw in the wreckage, but because of it. 

Dean has always believed that he isn’t a man, isn’t strong, isn’t worth loving, if he can’t protect the people around him. She claims he’s wrong. He was skeptical, at first, but she keeps coming home to him; it’s hard to argue with that. They’re building something new together, and it feels solid. 

*

“Get your fucking moose hands off me, Sam, I’m fine,” Dean snarls. “Motherfucker, you’d think I never needed stitches before. Stop fussing.” 

Sam lets go of his arm with a huff, and Dean sits down on the bed a little harder than he meant to. 

“Welcome home,” she says flatly from the doorway. 

“Maybe you’ll have better luck with him, I give up,” Sam growls. He shoulders past her, closing the door behind himself. 

“It’s really not a big -” 

“Lie the fuck down, you moron,” she snaps, eyes blazing. “Bad enough you have to go and get yourself half-torn to pieces. If you make things even worse because you’re too fucking stubborn to deal with basic first aid, I swear to god -” 

She’s got that face on, the one that means it’s pointless to argue.  

“Okay. Okay, see? Lying down. Jesus.” 

Dean settles back against his pillows, trying to hide his wince as the movement sets off shooting pains down his side. She stands next to the bed, looking down at him, and her jaw is set as she takes in the big gash across his ribs and the swollen punctures in his shoulder, visible through the shredded, blood-stained remains of his shirts. 

“We’re gonna have to take care of that,” she says briskly, but her voice is shaking. Dean can see the fear in her eyes, and guilt twists in his ribcage. 

“I can deal with it,” he protests automatically. “It’s not a big deal, I’m fine, you don’t have to -” 

“Dean,” she interrupts. “Don’t. It’s me.” 

I’m fine, it’s not a big deal, I don’t need you. It’s the first line of defense, has been for as long as Dean can remember. In all those years, she’s the first person who really bothered to break through. She makes it look easy, too, like a tornado going through a crooked old fence. 

Dean feels off-kilter and flayed bare, suddenly. Now that he’s not bothering to keep up appearances, he just feels raw inside, like the monster clawed something deeper than his skin. 

She bustles around for a moment, gathering up bandages and antiseptic, and Dean’s throat feels too tight. He missed her. He always misses her, and now instead of letting him hold her, kiss her, touch her, she has to patch him up… and part of him is so pathetically grateful that he doesn’t have to do it himself, even though he knows that he could. He can take care of himself. He should be the one taking care of her. 

He just wants to hold her. He wants to reassure them both that he’s still breathing, that he’s home, that he’s safe. 

She comes back with scissors. She gently moves the ruined flannel aside and then snips up the front of the t-shirt, biting her lip intently and then scowling as she pulls the fabric away from his skin to reveal the livid bruises that are already blossoming across his chest. 

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he tries. His voice cracks on the last word, and her eyes snap up to meet his gaze. She opens her mouth to argue, pauses, frowns, then closes it again. 

She’s studying him. Dean feels a prickle of embarrassment, cheeks flushing under the weight of her stare. 

“What is it?” she asks softly. 

He wants to say, just come here, hold me. He can’t seem to force the words past his lips. 

Dean raises his less-injured shoulder in the barest suggestion of a shrug. It hurts. He rolls his eyes at himself and clenches his jaw. He can’t quite look at her. 

She watches for another second, and then she sighs, putting the scissors down on the nightstand. 

“Okay,” she whispers. “Can you sit up? At least help me get that off you.”

She slides into bed carefully, doing her best not to jostle him, and Dean sits up, gritting his teeth against the pain. She helps him ease the remains of both shirts off his shoulders and then tosses them aside. Dean settles back, fitting himself under her outstretched arm, shifting slightly onto his good side so that he can rest his cheek on her chest. He has to squeeze his eyes shut tight to ignore the way they’re burning. 

“I’m really glad you’re home,” she says, hoarse and fervent. She brings her free arm up to cup her hand to his cheek, and her thumb brushes back and forth in a soothing, mindless rhythm. 

Dean wants to apologize, wants to reassure her, wants to thank her… he fucking hates scaring her. 

He wants to promise that he’ll never scare her again, but that would be a lie. He wants to ask why she bothers, but they’ve had that conversation one too many times before; Dean’s starting to accept that there’s nothing he can do or say to convince her that she’d be better off without him. She’s stubborn that way. 

“I love you,” she says softly. “I got caught up. I’m sorry.”

Jesus, Dean can barely breathe. 

He wants to ask, What did I do to deserve you? He wants to ask, How do you always know? 

“Just for a minute,” he whispers. 

“As long as you want. I’m not going anywhere.” 

He’s choking on all the things he wants to say, variations on thank you and I’m sorry and I love you. 

He listens to her heartbeat, feels the rise and fall of her chest under his cheek, takes in the smell of her shampoo, and he reminds himself that he’s home. 

It’s nothing like the home he used to dream of; he lives in a bunker, no fucking picket fence in sight. He’s bleeding from a half-dozen places, and no matter what he might think in the brief stretches of peace between apocalypses, he’s never really safe. 

In this quiet moment, she could be mistaken for the soft sort of woman he used to imagine falling in love with, but she’s so much more than that. This tornado of a woman is sharp and tough and smart enough to break through every wall of bullshit he hides behind, and it’s terrifying, being exposed like that, but Dean wouldn’t have it any other way. 

It’s not what he pictured, but this is home. This is love. 

He doesn’t say anything. He has a feeling she’ll understand anyway; she always does. 

.

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Next part is here. 

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#dean winchester fic #dean x reader #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester smut #supernatural fanfiction #spn fic #supernatural smut

[blackbutler-readerinsertsandjunk]

Hallooooo, was wondering if you could do Joker with a fem!s/o who is studying to be a prosthetics engineer??? Headcanons or shorts are fine!!!

ahhhhh I was originally gonna do some headcanons but then I decided I wanted to do this and MAN AM I GLAD I DID because it was fun and it came out great I think

I did some research on prostheses and how the long-term management of them goes and it was really fascinating, I hope it’s as accurate as possible!!!

“… Hey, darlin’? I knoo ye’re pro’lly busy an’ all, but would ye mind takin’ a look at my arm again…?”

(Name) immediately looks up from her textbooks at the sound of JOKER’s voice, and smiles at his request. He’s got that bashful look on his face, the one he sometimes gets before he says something self-deprecating or just when he thinks he’s bothering people. It’s not really his nature to be so timid, so she’s learned very quickly what those kind of tells mean.

She waves him toward her, but also gets up from her chair to meet him halfway with a kiss. “Never too busy for you, babe.” She gestures to the bed so they can sit down. “I need to take a break anyway. Is it bothering you a lot?”

Joker shrugs as he tugs his shirt off so that she can easily see and manipulate the prosthesis. “Jus’ enough t’ bug me. It’s achin’ a bit where the socket’s attached, an’ I couldn’t juggle right t’day. Like I’m havin’ trouble grippin’. Kept, eh… droppin’ the ball.”

He earns a laugh for his efforts, the best sound in the world that he’s come across so far. “Okay, silly boy, don’t make me laugh while I’m looking at this!” She scoots closer, her fingers touching only lightly against the prosthesis’ socket. The look on her face is focused, just like it always is when she’s practicing her craft.

(Surely inspecting her boyfriend’s prosthetic arm counts as homework? She makes a note to ask her professor about that later, though she’s happy to have a look even if it doesn’t count. She likes taking care of Joker.)

“You’re making sure to take it off when you go to bed, right?”

He gives her a cheeky wink. “At least when I sleep over wit’ ye, me beauty!”

“Joker,” she chuckles. “You’re very cute, and your flirting is very charming, but if you want me to be able to help, you know you have to answer me seriously. You take it off at night even when you’re not over here, right?”

“Aw, I’m jus’ funnin’ round. O’ course I do, darlin’, I do. I knoo it ain’t ‘ealthy t’ keep it on while I’m sleepin’, an’ it’s right uncomf’table, it is, too.”

She kisses his cheek before moving to continue her examination, running her fingertips around the edge of the socket. “You’re washing the socket with soap and water every day?”

“Jus’ like the rest o’ me, aye.”

“The stump, too?”

“Oi, ye think I’m gonna go t’ the trouble o’ cleanin’ the socket an’ not remember t’ do the stump?”

A giggle is his answer as she shakes her head. Well, he’s got a point there. “Okay, okay. I get it ― you’re a very clean man. And you make sure to put your lotion on the stump and massage the skin for a few minutes?”

He rolls his eyes, but it’s clear by his grin that he doesn’t mind all the questions. “Whenever ye ain’t round t’ do it f’r me. Ye knoo, it feels a lot nicer when ye’re doin’ it. Ye doin’ it, feels like I’m bein’ all pampered an’ taken care o’. Doin’ it on my own, feels like I’m jus’ playin’ wit’ m’self.”

“Joker!!” (Name) can’t help bursting out laughing at that one. It takes a few seconds to collect herself, throwing her head back. She pats her other hand lightly against his chest. “Oh, my God. You’re so bad.”

He joins in her laughter if only because it’s so contagious. One of the things he loves most is being able to make her laugh. His lips press against the top of her head, the shape of his smile parting her hair.  “Ain’t that one o’ the many reasons ye love me?”

Once she’s recovered, she clicks her tongue at him. “Well, yes. Okayyyy, so you’ve been doing that. This is all good. You’re doing what you’re supposed to do to take care of it, but sometimes things can still go wrong even if you do everything perfectly, you know?” She shifts her hand down from near the socket to place her fingers in his prosthetic ones. “Give us a squeeze, love?”

“Ah, wit’ pleasure,” he teases, and his fingers tighten a little around hers.

The small frown that forms on her face isn’t promising. “Hm, that’s strange.”

“What is?”

“Well… it’s just that last week, when you grabbed my ― er, well―”

The sound of Joker snickering interrupts her, and also turns her face bright pink.

“― When we were fooling around, you didn’t seem to have any problem gripping. Doesn’t seem like your hand is quite as strong now.” She fixes him with a look that’s very knowing and very withering. “Have you been doing the exercises the physical therapist gave you?”

Joker’s expression and the way he immediately darts his eyes away tells here verything she needs to know. “I, well… mighta skipped ‘em t’day. … An’, er… yesterday. Maybe… the day before too.”

“Joker―”

“Ah, don’t nag me, darlin’!! I been doin’ ‘em, ye know I ‘ave. I just… been busy the last couple days, so I missed ‘em.”

Even knowing she can’t be too mad at him, (Name) lets him know how much she disapproves by sighing. “There’s your problem. That’s why you had trouble today.”

She pushes up for another kiss, gently locking her arms around his neck.“Listen, babe. I know it’s hard to find time, and it’s tempting to just sit there taking a break on busy days. And I know you’ve had this arm for like a year now. But you have to try and keep up on your exercises as much as you can, and you still need to do these even though you don’t go to therapy sessions anymore. Otherwise this is what happens; it gets harder to do things, and you get sore.”

“I knoo, I do. It’s jus’…” He rests his forehead against hers, exhaling a warm puff of breath over her lips. “Jus’, I thought when I got this damn thing, after I got outta therapy, that’d be it. ‘S all so much, an’ I’m doin’ the best I can.” The smile he gives her is genuine and nervous, half-afraid that she’s truly angry with him. “Please don’t be mad at me, darlin’.”

“Oh, honey.” She draws him into a hug, combing through his hair and pressing kisses to his neck, jaw, and temple. Any possible anger she had would have melted away with that plea, but how is she supposed to reassure him that she was never cross in the first place? “I’m not mad. You’re doing your best; I know that. It’s not easy. I just want you to take care of yourself.”

Her arms squeeze tighter, pulling them closer together. “Having the arm means a lot to you, and I know that. I want you to be able to have it and use it for a long time. You’re doing great.”

The way his whole self shudders as he lets out another sigh speaks volumes. He really was worried that she’d be upset with him. Both arms wrap around her waist, staying like that for a minute. “I’m sorry, beauty. I really am tryin’, I swear. That’s what I want too… be able t’ have it f’r as long as I can. Always room f’r improvement, I guess.”

“Yeah, exactly. That’s all.” When she moves back, (Name) slides her arms back so she can set both hands on his face. “How about I help you do your exercises?”

A shy, hesitant look in Joker’s eyes prompts her to add, “I promise I’ll make it really fun.”

#Black Butler #Kuroshitsuji #Joker #scenario #romantic #fluff #drama #suggestive #medical #sort of??? idk how else to tag it dfhdakfjadld #anyway this was a really cool thing to explore #and I just hope that I got everything at least close to being accurate!! #Joker is babe and he deserves to be tAKEN CARE OF DAMMIT #queued

[evitcani-writes]

Some WIPs

Deciding what “finished” piece I’ll be doing after the Zombie AU is done (two months ish until the final chapter is posted). I’m torn between the magical academy ghost AU and this new thing I started this weekend. I thought I’d share the first part here and see what you guys thought. <: 

(My current WIPs are still ongoing, just some re-calibrating on my part with regards to vampire and hunter.)

--

“Will you marry me?”

A thousand cameras zoomed in on Taako’s pristinely made-up face, his perfect hair, his expensive outfit. They waited, breathless, for his response. <i>No</i>, he thought and smiled wide, eyes crinkling. That would give the headlines something to squawk about.

“Of course,” he laughed and let his new fiancée slide the heavy ring on his finger. “Why’d you even ask if you knew what I’d say?” They embraced a brief moment. A kiss long enough to call passion, but not too long to be immodest.

The whole world collectively let out their bated breath.

“What the fuck was that delivery, Keats? I don’t think you could have sounded more like an insurance commercial if you tried,” he said, voice too low for the cameras to hear.

“No,” his fiancée’s doppelganger whispered back. “He got stage-fright at the last moment and excuse you, my delivery was perfect.”

Taako did a double-take.

Usually, Kravitz and Keats were easy for Taako to tell apart. Keats—the prince he was <i>really</i> marrying—was as different from his body-double as could be had in personality. Keats was quiet and—despite their circumstances—seemed to at least enjoy Taako’s companionship. Kravitz on the other hand was far more adventurous and extroverted. He did not, however, much care to spend any time with Taako that he was not being paid to do. Even with makeup and magic, Kravitz or Keats would give themselves away with a nervous tic or idle fiddling.

And Kravitz was a better kisser.

It took Taako a lot of effort not to frown in displeasure. Not only could his coward of a fiancée not be there to do the proposal himself, they’d done <i>something</i> to Kravitz to make him look more like Keats than usual. The first part wasn’t entirely surprising, but the latter meant they had a new scheme in the works with which they hadn’t seen fit to inform Taako about.

Kravitz and Taako let their touches linger as they pulled away. They waved to the cameras, hands held tightly. Taako gave Kravitz a tug and pulled him away to a nearby car, laughing as they made their escape.

As soon as they were seated and the doors were closed, their smiles faded. Chilly silence settled between them. They both took out their phones, not looking at each other. “Look cute for a second,” Kravitz commanded and leaned over. He pressed a kiss to Taako’s cheek and held out his phone for a picture.

Taako grinned up at Kravitz’s work phone, burying his newly be-ringed hand in Kravitz’s hair so it was visible in the shot. “You’re good, take it,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Think the rich bastard will pay overtime if I stand at the altar for him, too?” Kravitz said against his skin, stubble tickling the side of Taako’s face. Taako laughed helplessly, caught off-guard by the comment.

Kravitz took a couple pictures and then sat back, looking over them critically. This was the part that really sold the act. He was the best at giving their relationship a touch of guileless romance. Taako watched him somewhat enviously. Then, he turned to look at Twitter to see which one Kravitz posted.

Taako was laughing genuinely, eyes closed. His hand was tangled in Kravitz’s perfect hair, pulling it from its carefully crafted form. Kravitz was pressed against his side, eyes closed in reverence. “Like a day-dream,” his tweet read, “Luckiest man in the world.”

He’d replied a second later, “Forgot the hashtag grimaceemoji grimaceemoji grimaceemoji don’t tell him!!”

Taako snorted and retweeted the picture.

He wished he’d gotten the whirlwind romance that Kravitz was so good at making up.

“Okay,” he said and leaned against the car door. “What’s up?”

Kravitz took a glasses case out of his side pocket and put them on, alternating between his work and personal phone. “Hm?” He glanced up at Taako over the rim of his glasses.

“What are the wonder twins up to?” Taako glanced at Kravitz’s personal phone. It was an older smartphone with a beaten and scratched case, pattern of skulls and broken hearts. He’d always wondered if it was a poorly picked gift from someone Kravitz hadn’t wanted to offend by turning down. “They did something to your face. Besides, thought you mighta got fired and they were cooking up another drone in the vats to replace you.”

Kravitz blew out a puff of air wearily. “Don’t joke about that,” he scowled and set both his phones aside. “Now that the prince is as grown as he’s going to get, they wanted to <i>replace</i> my out-of-date sculpts and textures. Takes time to recover from, which is why I’ve been gone.”

Taako winced in some sympathy. “Sounds painful,” he said, almost curious enough to ask outright about the process. He’d only once seen Kravitz changing from his professional pieces.

“Mhm,” Kravitz said, eyes dropping back to his work phone. “<i>[Motherfucker]</i>,” he swore suddenly in his own tongue and pinched the bridge of his nose. “<i>[I have shit to do this weekend!]</i>”

Taako blinked, staring at Kravitz. “What? What’s going on?”

His own phone buzzed.

He looked down at the text owlishly. It was from the Palace.

“The third is sick. Double will accompany to Neverwinter,” the text read.

Now, it was Taako’s turn to swear. Even if Keats and him hadn’t planned any appearances, they needed to be reported as having been at the private resort. The resort had been Taako’s idea. Kravitz had been on retainer and was staying nearby, of course, but this was meant to be <i>their</i> weekend. Taako didn’t need to love Keats, but he wanted to think of him as a friend, as someone he could work with for the next few hundred years.

“I’m supposed to be home soon,” Kravitz complained under his breath and picked up his personal phone. “I’m calling my mama,” he warned Taako and set the phone against his ear. “Just deal with it.”

Taako wondered when he’d ever given Kravitz the impression that he cared if Kravitz had a personal life. Now that he was thinking about it, he couldn’t recall Kravitz having <i>ever</i> mentioned his family. Conceptually, Taako knew he must have had one; it was cheaper that way. Somehow, he’d gotten the idea Kravitz had burst forth from a tube of bio goop and immediately put on a suit.

“<i>[Hey mama]</i>,” Kravitz said into the phone. “<i>[Work is going to keep me this weekend.]</i>” He paused, listening. “<i>[I know, I know. Tell bub congratulations for me.]</i>” He paused again, staring ahead and looking somewhat forlorn. “<i>[Okay, I will. I love you, bye.]</i>” He hung up the phone and rubbed at his ear.

“Missing something?” Taako raised an eyebrow.

“It’s fine,” Kravitz said airily and shoved his personal phone in his pocket.

“Doesn’t sound fine,” Taako observed, waiting for an answer. He knew he was being nosy, but excused it for the moment. “‘<i>[Congratulations]</i>’ is only used at weddings and Decade Feasts.”

Kravitz blinked at him, head tilted slightly. “You speak—?”

“Yup,” Taako said and laced his fingers in his lap.

“My brother is getting married this weekend,” Kravitz sighed and glared out the window. “Not far from the resort. They just revoked the <i>four hours</i> of time off I requested a <i>year</i> ago.”

“Well, let's go then,” Taako grinned.

“W-what?” Kravitz laughed, turning to look at Taako. “I can’t. The wonder twins really would replace me with some other corporate drone.”

“Not if I decide to go,” Taako said, finger dancing in the air. “You’re supposed to be my bodyguard when you’re with me. You can’t just take off and leave me alone at this wedding for strangers, right? You get to go to your brother’s wedding and I get shitty wedding champagne. I’m your plus one, of course.”

“Taako, I can’t disrupt my brother’s wedding with two weird nobles showing up,” Kravitz snorted, but looked like he could imagine it.

“We’ll both change in the car,” Taako insisted, leaning forward. “You become, well, whoever the fuck you are normally and I’ll, uh, wear glasses like Clark Kent. No one will know!”

Kravitz eyed him speculatively. “You’ll need more than glasses.” There was a calculating look in his eyes that made Taako slightly nervous and a little giddy.

When was the last time he’d been allowed to have <i>fun</i>?

[Part 2]

#taakitz #taako #kravitz #fake dating au #cyborg clone monarchy revolution au #have fun making sense of that tag BABYYYY #taz #The Adventure Zone #taz balance #writing #my writing #wip #don't believe what's on tv

[eliniei]

Those Hard Days - Chapter 7

Summary: Rae’s brother always made sure she was tough as nails. But when her father flips her world upside down, will she find that there’s a limit on how strong she can be?

Warnings: Rape/Non-con (non-graphic, fade-to-black), child abuse, underage drinking, underage smoking, drug use, violence, major character death

A/N: My baby boy Curly finally makes his appearance

AO3: here Fanfiction.net: here

Masterlist

Previous Chapter |  Next Chapter

Chapter 7 - Realization

The next day, Two-Bit and Rae decided school was probably a good idea. Thankfully, it turned out to be a normal day. Ponyboy had noticed that she’d left her books at his house and brought them in for her.

She’d had a hard time concentrating on her schoolwork, but that wasn't too unusual. Being Dally’s little sister, he always got on her if she didn’t do her schoolwork, but since he didn’t put much stock in his own education, it rubbed off on her. At least she was smart enough to get by without much effort. Instead, she spent most of the day shooting spitballs at the backs of people's’ heads.

Lunch was usual- sneaking out in Two-Bit's car with Johnny and Pony, and driving over to the DX where Soda and Steve worked. They had a couple of Cokes, and then went back to school for their afternoon classes. After school, Two-Bit drove home and Rae walked with Pony and Johnny. They left Johnny at his own house (his parents, thankfully, were not home), then continued on to the Curtis’s.

"How was your day, Pony?" Rae asked after the silence between them stretched for a while. He shrugged.

"Okay, I guess. Yours?" he replied.

"Boring." The rest of the way back to the house was quiet again. The walk felt like it would take forever. When they finally got there, they found Dally stretched out on the couch, watching TV, a lit cigarette between his fingers. He looked up when they got through the door. Rae instantly brightened at the sight of him.

"Dally!," she exclaimed, almost dropping her books on the coffee table.

"Hey," he greeted both of them and put out his cigarette. He took his feet off the couch and sat up. He gave Ponyboy a pointed look that made the poor kid scurry to another room.

"I heard somethin’ from Tim this mornin'," Dally said, when they were alone. He offered her the seat next to him. “Sit.”

"What?" she asked, her smile disappearing at his tone. Her insides tightened and she hesitated. Something told her she was about to get an earful.

"Come on, sit down. I won't beat ya up or anythin'," he said, sensing her unease. She obeyed her older brother and dropped into the cushion next to him. "Anyway, Tim told me that ya’ll were skippin' school, yesterday."

"I wasn't feelin' to great. Two-Bit took the day off to stay with me." He nodded in understanding.

"He also told me that you'd been cryin'. I know you- I raised you- and you don’t cry for no reason." He paused for a moment. "You did, didn’t you?" Rae opened her mouth to argue but he cut her off, pointing an authoritative finger in her face. “Ya know you can’t lie to me.” She closed her mouth and sighed through her nose, silently cursing Tim.

“I needed my school things.” Dally curled his fists into tight balls and sucked an angry breath.

“Christ, Rae, you should’ve told me and I would’ve gotten them for you,” he said, voice rising, the time-bomb starting to tick away. The familial rage they shared quickly flared up in her chest, too.

“How the hell could I? You’ve been gone, Dally!” she snapped louder than him, her face heating up. She clenched her fists in the couch on either side of her and lowered her voice. His whole body tensed up, unused to being reprimanded, especially by someone younger than him. She didn’t mean to get so mad- she really didn’t- especially not at her brother. She wasn’t mad at him- she didn’t blame but... If he’d just stop for a second and listen to her... “You left me,” she said as evenly as she could, blue glare turning sad. “You didn’t...didn’t even see if I was alright.”

Dally stared back at her in silence, his jaw working behind a closed mouth. Finally, he dropped her gaze and looked off to the side, his eyes downcast. The ticking froze. Her anger subsided seeing him so genuinely shaken.

“Sorry,” he said, quietly. He sighed. “I’m sorry, Rae. I didn’t think-I didn’t know how…” Before he could finish and before she could help it, Rae huffed a laugh and Dally’s head shot back in her direction. “What?”

“You sure look stupid when you’re upset.” He smacked her lightly on the side of the head, but laughed as well and pressed his forehead against hers. She felt the tension leave his body.

“I promise I’ll be around more, alright?” She nodded with a smile and closed her eyes. “We’ll get through this. I’ll make sure of it.”

Before they could say anything else, someone burst through the door. The siblings separated lightning fast. Rae instantly recognized the form of her best friend.

"Curly!" she exclaimed and shot up from the couch.

“Am I interruptin’?” he asked with his stupid, crooked, sarcastic smile. She looked back down at Dally, whose expression went from soft to annoyed, the look he saved particularly for Curly Shepard. He stood up and got into Curly’s face.

“If you weren’t Tim’s kid brother, I’d beat the shit out of you,” he cursed.

“Oh, I’d bet he’d let you, too,” Curly retorted, staring up at her older brother, that arrogant smile glued to his face. Rae rolled her eyes as an awkward silence stretched between them. Finally, Curly took a step back and cleared his throat.

“Walk?” he asked, looking towards Rae. She looked to Dally, who frowned but motioned towards the door with his head.

“Go on. I’ll see ya’ll later.” He reluctantly moved out of the way and let them out the front door. Before Curly could make it through the frame, though, Dally spun him back around and shoved a finger into his chest, giving him the evil eye.

“Don’t worry, man,” Curly assured her brother, flashing a serpentine smile that Rae was sure made Dally’s blood boil. Man, something was really riling him up. Curly forced him arm out of Dally’s grap and straightened his jacket. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll be goin’.”

“What the hell was that about?” she asked when her friend finally joined her at the bottom of the steps.

"Don’t worry about it. Been lookin' for ya, though," Curly said as they started on their way. “Weren’t at the usual hangouts, so I figured I’d try here.”

"I guess you’ve heard, then" she said, flipping the collar of her jacket up against the cool breeze blowing in her face.

"Yeah, I heard. Tim told me," he answered. She nodded. “He didn’t wanna, but-”

"It’s fine,” she said, quickly. “You should know. I should’ve told you but-”

"It’s okay. I'm just real worried 'bout ya," Curly said, throwing his arm around her shoulders. She stumbled in surprise.

"I-Thanks for worrying," she said, trying to right herself. She smiled and wrapped her arm around his waist.

They stopped at the Tastee Freeze for a malt and some fries before going back to the Curtis's. While they sat in their booth, he started talking about the fight he’d been in. Rae took a good look at his face as he talked. Curly had a nice shiner on his right eye.

"I'm glad you're okay. Those Brumly boys can get dirty," she said when he’d finished his story. "What’d ya do this time?"

"I dunno," he said with a shrug. "They mighta grabbed the wrong brother. Tim and I do look a lot alike, huh?" He smiled conspiratorially. "But I do know Tim took one of their broads on a date." His smile was infectious.

"That’d prob’ly do it," she confirmed. He nodded and they both went quiet, finishing off the fries they shared between them. Eventually, she looked up at him and they locked eyes. She couldn’t help but notice the pretty brown of his eyes.

“Rae, I-,” he started, looking particularly nervous and totally un-Shepard-like. “I just want you to know that, well, I can protect you too. I want to-to protect you.”

“What’s this all-?” Curly slid their cokes out of the way and leaned across the table. She noticed an expression on his face she'd never seen in all their years of being friends. Her stomach tied in excited knots as his face got closer to hers. Was this why Dally was always threatening him? Was this-?

“Can I?” he asked, his voice steady but unsure. She blinked, completely take aback. Sure, she’d thought about it before but he’d never... Her cheeks started heating up but at the thought, and slowly, she nodded. Rae closed her eyes and leaned in the rest of the way. Their lips met for a few short seconds before Curly fell back into his seat.

"Sorry," he said, quickly, and shifted his position, uncomfortably. He looked out the window next to him.

"How long?" she demanded.

“Huh?”

“Come on, Curly. You ain’t that dumb. How long?”

“A-a while, okay? I just didn’t know if-” He angled his head back towards her but she gave him a sheepish grin. He blew out a long breath, and huffed a short laugh. She rolled her eyes.

"Maybe you are stupid. Come on," she concluded and threw her jacket back on.

“A little,” Curly affirmed as he got out of his booth and held out his hand to her. She took it and slid out of her seat. He returned his arm to her shoulders and they started walking back to the Curtis house together. When they got there, Ponyboy was sitting on the front porch, smoking a cigarette and talking to Soda. The older brother waved at the pair when he saw them coming.

"Hey, Rae. Nice to see ya, Curly," Sodapop said. Curly nodded. Two-Bit walked out the door and saw the two together.

"Oh ho!" Two-But chortled. Rae’s face went red again and she separated herself from Curly. Soda laughed as well.

"Well, I'd better go. Tim'll beat my head in if I’m gone much longer," Curly said as he turned to walk off. "I'll come see ya soon." After a wave, he was gone, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket, greasy hair shining in the receding light.

"See ya," she said to his back. She watched him until he turned the corner, a smile spread wide on her lips. She turned back to her friends giving her a look and her smile disappeared into a glare. “What?”

“Dally’s gonna be mad,” Two-Bit answered, and taunted her with a dumb grin on his face.

“How’d you know?”

“You ain’t never looked at him like that before. And your face just got red as hell.”

“How long have ya’ll known?” she asked, looking at each of her friends in turn. Soda held up his arms in mock surrender when her eyes landed on him.

“A while,” he confessed.

“Well, I-,” Ponyboy started. His ears started going red. She raised an eyebrow.

“It’s pretty obvious if Pony picked up on it,” Two-Bit blurted out, laughter overtaking him.

“You callin’ me stupid?”

“Nah, kid. Just a little clueless.” He clapped poor Pony on the back hard enough to make him cough. “Easy, kid. Damn.” Rae rolled her eyes and shoved him into the pillar next to him, then stomped up the front porch and disappeared inside.

#those hard days #rae winston #The Outsiders #outsiders #the outsiders fanfiction #Dallas Winston #dally winston #curly shepard #Sodapop Curtis #darry curtis #Ponyboy Curtis #Two-Bit Mathews #Steve Randle #Johnny Cade #stay gold ponyboy #stay gold

[iphoenixrising]

Future!au continued

It’s been a hard few weeks, but I’m still alive. Please forgive the mistakes.

Dammit. He can see your boots, Dick.

Seriously.

**

Talking Bruce down out of riding to the Perch, tout-fucking-sweet takes an intense amount of effort. It goes about as well as you’d expect.

From his place on the ledge outside the window, Dick is watching to make sure nothing opens and no hint of past-Tim slips by while he adds his two cents when needed. He takes a stroll down once and a while, checking for a mop of hair peeking over the curtain rod.

“I disagree.” Is definitely echoing, so B’s moved down to the Cave, “the more we have on our side to keep him in one location—”

“I do not believe more is better in this instance, Father,” Dami counters tiredly, swaying slightly on his feet. He feels somewhat better after a fast shower, but the weight of the last two nights is starting to wear on Baby Bat.

“Lookit, Bruce. When we say he ain’t in a good place, that’s not any kind of exaggeratin’,” Jason fills in.

“My point exactly, Jay, even more of a reason—“

“Think about it. If we give ‘im better toys n’ intel, then he’s gonna stay in the Perch with moderate bitching. So’s we need you ta work on gettin’ something that ain’t gonna give Timmers more about the future than he needs ta know, yeah?”

The obvious pause is B starting to reason through it all.

“Besides, once we ‘re sure Timmy’s run factor has decreased, you’ll have everything we need ready,” Dick placates on the way back to the window, waving a voila hand as he crouches down again, arms akimbo on the sill.

It takes Bruce a minute to think through his usual amount of contingencies. He already has access to all the security camera in the Perch (you know, Ra’s and such) on the back-up system he’s accessing via Tim’s laptop, conveniently open and ready, at his workstation in the Cave, which is probably the only reason B is any kind of okay without how this is going to go and not already knocking on their front door.

(Because of course their Tim knew. He’s already here as living proof.)

Apparently stuck in the BatCave, he feels slightly better pacing between Tim’s workstation and the big computer booting up after everything hit. Clark is forlornly floating by the big screen, laptop on his knees to log into the JLA archive listing.

“The only problem is I’m going to need time to fix the BatComputer before I can get you anything good. The power surge last night killed my system, and I didn’t get any alerts until a few minutes ago when the usual scans didn’t run on time. The back-up for the main body of BI and Security are running through O, but still, the sooner I’m back online, the better.” At least he can calm down slightly because if they’re Tim knew he’d be thrown into time, he would already have plans on how to be stuck in the past. Nothing immediately comes to mind, so it’s possible the time stream hasn’t caught up yet to cause any noteable differences (but, like Barry had told him once years ago, every foray into time has a consequence).

The Red Robin laptop has the permissions he needs to access some of the older data concerning their own universe and how the time streams can be manipulated without breaking anything (Barry). He can get to exactly what folders and files he needs, but it doesn’t escape B’s notice the permissions are keeping him off one virtual server, the one usually housing certain ghost drives. So, any plans concerning said time travel tech is going to be annoyingly absent

(Well played, Tim. You want this to take some time in the past, do you?)

In mid-town, it’s Damian swearing hotly. (Tim and Father together would never allow the BatComputer to be vulnerable from any external sources—)

Which is very large indicator for sabotage and hints how obviously their Tim knew about the event and apparently made contingencies for it.

The three Bats exchange a knowing look.

“We still have plenty of resources even if the BatComputer is down,” B placates, and diverts the path slightly to rise up on his bare toes and look over Clark’s shoulder at the current listing the reporter is scrolling through. “But this is going to take me hours once I start, so it’ll have to wait until we have something useful to get Tim back to his correct time.”

Another exchange because the BatComputer being down only means B is vulnerable without the usual scans and alarms. No one is comfortable with that possibility (not taking into account the absurd amount of people that know where it is anyway). Dick sighs from his spot because one of them is going to have to go down and lend a hand. He’s thinking they should rock-paper-scissors for it.

“J’onn is in the WatchTower if we need to get into the JL’s locked vaults,” Is Clark from the background, “three of us have to be there to open it, and who knows? We might have something in the archive that won’t give Tim too many ideas about the future.”

“True. All right then you three, I need a time frame,” and B still sounds a little less like the night, meaning he’s concerned (because, you know, BatDad). “Get me his year, and I’ll have something in a few hours, regardless.”

“There, that’s going to be more helpful than throwing things at him faster than he can process,” Dick is already making plans before he stands back up on the ledge, makes his way back down to the bathroom again so he can make sure Tim hasn’t used the vents to his advantage.

Jay leans over the table, closer to the system, stretching out the tight muscles in his back. “‘Sides, we ain’t been able ta pin our Timmy down yet, B. No comm, phone, the works. Mighta gone ta the past, but we need some confirmation, you feel me?”

“Titans Tower also picked up preliminary data on the surge, which is my theory for the record.” Dami checks his phone again, but no updates from Garfield or Rachel (they are, however, invested in seeing their time-traveler. They may or may not take his firm no).

“Good, we can use the intel.” B takes a second to lay his forehead on the nape of Clark’s neck, close his eyes, get a breath.

Dammit, Tim. Trying to keep the temptation at a minimum. Because the World’s Greatest Detective could save the family, all of his boys, so much pain just with a few careful words—

Maybe he had known from the start.

Juggling his significant other and his laptop, Clark isn’t even a little surprised how easy Bruce makes it to lay a palm down and work some of the tension out of tight tendons. He’s scanning everything from confiscated possessed roller skates to some magical cat statue Constantine swears is legit. He is going to talk with their tech people about more…organized filtering because categories like we’re not sure what this does shouldn’t be used in their archives.

When Bruce raises his head enough to press his mouth gently over Clark’s pulse, it makes a shiver roll up his spine, but B is already off to start jumping into Tim’s system while long lines of code run on the big screen.

“Any footage could tell us if Tim got switched with his younger counterpart, so let me know when you’ve got something. In the meantime, send me the month and year. I’ll find something Tim can use.” He takes a second and looks over at the speakerphone, his sigh soft and fond. “I’m here if you need anything. All of you know that, right?”

“I am fairly certain we do, Father, as it is immensely convenient to have Batman on speed-dial. A few hours at best is all we are asking. Allow us time to get him acclimated.”

“I understand, Son. No hovering.” Yet.

It makes Jason bark out a laugh and go stir his soup. It’s a natural thing to slide a chair out with his ankle on the way, get a hand hold of Baby Bat’s worn t-shirt, and slide his tired ass down where he can lay himself on the table and doze if need be.

“No lecturing either, B,” is called from over a shoulder, “we’ll catch ya up in a few hours.”

“Eat something. Try to sleep in shifts if you can,” is completely serious and very not asking. “Love you, boys.”

“We love you as well, Father.”

“Ditto, B.”

The dial tone sounds for less than a second and Jason sighs, running a hand down his face, his muscles tight with everything, with Tim, a Tim they can’t touch enough, a Tim they can’t help put back together, a Tim they can’t try to save.

And it fucking guts him.

Dami does the only thing he can. He slides silently to his feet, moves swift and silent to wrap his arms around Jason’s hips to lay his forehead between the tight muscles of those shoulders, gives them both a minute to breathe.

“Go and shower,” Dami tells him softly. “No masks, no suits. We make Tim comfortable as we are able.”

He puts the spoon down and covers the lightly simmering soup, turns the fire off. All mundane until he turns abruptly, reaches out an arm, and pulls Dami hard against him, holds on tight. And the current Robin merely allows it, allows his boyfriend to do what he must, what will make him feel in control when they are essentially—

Powerless.

When he sees Dick peek back in, brows drawn in concern, Dami’s eyes slide to Jason and back to Dick. One eyebrow arches high, giving Dick all he needs to know in just one move.

Dami gets a half-grin and a nod in reply, a little message received.

While they could all do with a distraction in light of the visitor in their Perch, Damian merely sends Jason off to the shower, watches Dick strafe down the side of their building to meet him in the guest bathroom. He does so with complete confidence they will take care of each other, regain their strength, then return to help him deal with this Tim Drake, and he knows with an easy, small smile while he stirs the soup again and checks his data, washes out mugs and blatantly moves a photo of the four of them from the front of the refrigerator to the side, that when he is able to finally collapse, his tethers will keep him from falling too far.

**

He makes himself throw up the pill he’d taken in front of the versions of Robin, N, and Hood before he climbs out of the shower. He chooses a dark towel to dry off in case he gets things like, you know, blood on them or anything. Luckily, the cabinets are still stocked with supplies so he counts on his future self taking care of his own injuries.

(Natch)

Putting gauze pads back on the sore, cracked skin is just another type of contortion, getting enough covered to be on the train to just fine.

(The sensors in his suits Jason mentioned bother the fuck out of him.)

He gives his Red Robin tunic a longing look, but picks up everything to go back downstairs, use the facilities to fix his busted utility belt and throw the specialty cloth in a washing machine.

He has a moment.

A long moment.

The vent right by the dresser goes downstairs, bypasses the kitchen and living room completely so he wouldn’t even have to—

The knock on the window by the bed answers that question before he can even squat down to get the vent cover off. Dick is bending over to look at him through the glass like he knows exactly where Tim’s brain is. The masked vigilante holds up one finger, wags it side-to-side in an ah-ah-ah, then points to the closed door.

A muscle in Red’s jaw jumps, his eyes narrow on the vigilante.

Dick’s mouth quirks up to one side in a try me smirk.

It’s so familiar, a vestige from those good times sparring, solving cases, watching stupid movie, saving each other’s asses, and all of the in-between (the guy who was once his friend, his mentor, someone who would fucking catch him). It’s Dick that chose Damian as his Robin over him. An old ache that still hits him at odd moments when the idea of going back is a muscle memory of better fucking times. Things that aren’t there anymore.

The utility belt hanging from one hand gives a sharp noise, startling him out of his revere, making him get the fuck with it. He turns away from Dick and the vent, looking at the compartment he’d just busted and the inconsequential slice in his palm from clenching down too hard, pissed at himself and the situation he really doesn’t want any part of.

(At least he’s not a gun-toting Batman, right? Always a bright side.)

He doesn’t turn at the second, more rapid knock, doesn’t see concern drawing Dick’s brows in, just goes to the damn door with bare feet and clothes slightly too big for his frame, totally not focusing on how the Bats have taken something that’s (used to be? Time fuckery and such) his, his Perch, and commandeered it for their own purposes (no problem, didn’t need that cape anyway, right?).

Nope.

All good, nothing to see here.

When he opens the door, the boots outside the window walk off.

Damian is at the table in a pair of dark shorts and a Henley, hair still wet; he’s intent on the tablet he’s holding while Jason is nowhere to be seen.

The youngest Robin looks up immediately, those green eyes and stark Bruce characteristics in his older face still a jarring thing settling in, but Tim’s eyes look away before Damian’s expression gets softer, his eyes missing nothing.

“Bel— ah, Drake,” the youngest is on his feet, pushing the chair out.

“It’s fine,” he holds up the good hand, already on his way to the door downstairs, “I’ve got to get some maintenance done and start looking for a way back. Don’t let me—” keep you.

But it’s a crazy thing when Damian is just right there so fast, his eyes wide, and a hand so much bigger than Red remembers wrapped around his bicep, stopping him before he gets halfway across the room.

“But a moment, Tim—“

Is completely lost because the instincts don’t fail him, still read watch your ass when his suit and sundries drop, his body moving to grip the wrist and prep for a nerve-strike of epic proportions.

(Because he and Dami? Not good. Even if this one doesn’t seem eager to watch him fall to his death or stab him with pointy things, he still has to go with what he knows.)

He’s only stopped by the fact Damian just goes with it, lets him trap the arm with an expression so full of calm and something like trust, Tim’s arm halts mid-strike and he literally can’t go through with it.

“I am sorry,” Damian immediately placates, down on his knees with an arm twisted in Red’s grip, “I should not have surprised you, and I am sorry, Tim. Please forgive me in this.”

Fucking what now?

He drops Damian’s wrist like it fucking burns, steps back with wide eyes, and a surprising urge to throw up (again). The small shot of adrenaline hits his system without an outlet, making his hands shake just a little—

(just enough for Dami to notice)

—because everyone has limitations, and he? Is no exception to that rule.

But he’ll be damned if he lets the demon of all people know that.

(Maybe that whole ‘eight hours of sleep before dabbling in time travel’ would be a good idea.)

“It’s…” he glances away, teeth bared at himself, “it’s my bad. I shouldn’t have jumped you.”

Damian doesn’t move as Red gathers up the pieces of his suit again, but those eyes miss nothing.

“I’m going down—”

“You are injured,” smoothly interrupting, Damian holds up his wrist to show the smear of blood left on his forearm and rises to his feet slowly to give Timothy every indication of his movements, “something easily fixed, Tim—ah, Drake.”

“It’s fine,” he starts out, his too-long hair covering his eyes. “I mean it’s just a scratch—”

Hands gently take the balled-up uniform out of his grip, “and yet, your immune system is still compromised and overworked. It would be appropriate to make certain it has no other obstacles affecting your health. I am certain you would rather be at peak than fighting off infection.”

It’s not snarky and demeaning like he expects, but an easy observation, one that makes him finally look over at the bigger, broader Robin and something else that makes his chest a little tight and his skin warm. It’s something that might set off a few receptors in his brain because the danger warnings might go down. Or not. It’s 50/50 really.

Easy, like he’s being absurdly careful, Damian takes his wrist in a light grip, and holds up the hand for inspection.

(If he even knew what was going on under the t-shirt, he’d know why the immunities are fucked.)

“This will take only a moment. Indulge me?”

And with Damian asking, being really nice by, you know, not trying to kill him or anything, Red can’t find it in him to say get fucked. Instead, he breathes slowly and assesses, trying to keep the irritation down to a minimum. His silent is taken as concession.

He sits down at the table gingerly, ready to jump at the next second, watching Damian move around the kitchen with a disturbing familiarity. His eyes flicker over to the tablet still moving with updating numbers, but forces his eyes away, keeping back from anything he might learn that could possibly collapse the universe or something.

He stares down at the table instead, hand palm-up while the big first aid kit he keeps under the sink in his own time seems to have grown into a tackle box full of fast and furious fix-it.

He doesn’t watch the antiseptic wipe swiping over his heartline or the gauze pad against the small slice, reaches for tape only to have Damian get to it first, those eyes intent on the barely noticeable injury.

“This isn’t necessary, you know,” he tries hesitantly, the calm concern on Damian’s face making him slightly...uncomfortable.

The current Robin hums back at him, unconcerned.

And that’s where they’re at when noise down the hall is the return of Jason and Dick from the Guest Room, the latter with a towel over his damp hair, the two of them talking quietly before they reach their visitor.

“Fuck that was good,” Jason gives a watered-down version of his usual sly smirk to the older vigilante, “blew my mind, Baby Boy.”

“You’re not the only one with a dirty mouth, Jay Bird,” Dick smirks back from under the towel, his bare upper body moving smoothly while he dries his hair, shirt over one shoulder. Getting in the guest bathroom window and naked had been something more primal than Dick wants to admit since suprise sex really isn’t par for the course when things like time/space visitors are on their proverbial doorstep, but Dick had felt so fucking raw when he got a load of that old version of Tim, something he missed during his time getting back to his Nightwing days, and Jay seemed to understand the need for intimacy, not even questioning it while the water washed over them both.

And the fact Dami asked without asking, knew both of them needed the distraction to stay ahead of the emotions, to try keeping some kind of distance is just another quirk they need to keep Tim from noticing.

(Because they’ve got a broken bird in their house, one they can’t fucking fix since that would potentially change the future. It’s helplessness and the drive to want do something that makes all the frustration need to be...handled before they can face him again. In some ways, it helps them to put back on the neutral faces, to keep them from reaching out too far.)

“Gotta keep provin’ it, yeah? Got me right where ya wanted, Dickie.”

“I know your weaknesses, and a good blow job is just one of the many.” Dick comes back smartly, but it’s lacking some of his usual panache.

“Don’tcha evah let Mask know that shit. Don’t wanna have baddies lining up ta suck me off.” Jason tries to keep up the banter, even when his battered hands work at his sides, flexing, clenching, keeping himself from reaching.

A slight laugh, still a little off his game, “You know, that might be a better weapon in your extensive arsenal of crime fighting, Little Wing.”

“That’s fuckin’ sick shit, Dick.”

“Wow, really? With a mouth like yours, I’m going to take that as an achievement.”

The two pause at the scene across the room. Even though they’d been preparing for it, knew what was waiting for them to face without a cowl and multiple options, it still tugs at them, this reminder of where they all used to be.

(Giving Dami a few extra minutes to ease Timmy down had been a good idea after all.)

A younger, more worn Tim Drake with hand extended sits on the edge of his seat, a cold example of fight or flight. His suit is lying out on the back of a kitchen chair with the usual sundries (and a compartment in the utility belt is busted, gleaming in the overhead light), but the two of them stop because they get a real look under the mask.

He’s not filling out the clothes of his older self, thinner and worn, the bones in his face sharp and cutting, framed by too-long hair. The tight flex of his muscles give an idea of how tense he holds himself, a trap ready to spring.

Dick breathes in slowly through his nose, a hand worming around to pat Jay on the wrist.

The two move again just as Tim’s head snaps over, eyes already narrowed, ready for the next fight to come his way.

(The comparison is unconscious, thinking about their Tim and how he has laugh lines, how his muscles go pliant in their hands, how the calculating look melts away when it’s time to let go of the mask.)

He’s half-risen out of his chair on instinct, sinking back down when he realizes he’s not going to have to defend himself in the immediate future. (Maybe.)

Damian finishes up and closes the kit. He might squeeze Tim’s fingers unconsciously before he releases the hand completely.

“Feel better, Timmy?” Dick asks cheerfully, dropping his towel on top the washing machine as they make themselves at home in the kitchen.

Red notices it all, his mind filling in how comfortable they are here as Jason pointedly grins at him and walks around the table to the food he has ready and warming so he doesn’t walk behind the skittish former Robin.

“Fine,” he remarks while Damian moves to put the first aid kit back. “Thanks for letting me use this as a temporary nest.” A glance down at his wrist computer and he’s still got—

Fucking nothing.

Dammit. The coordinates aren’t plotting correctly, and without that little factor, he’s pretty well fucked. The amount of re-coding and configuring the computer for the future is going to be hours’ worth of work and fuck he’s just...tired.

But most times, there’s no rest for the weary. “I should get back to it. Time isn’t going to open up and just, you know, let me go back. There’s still a lot I have to do.”

He doesn’t need to say, the less time here the better, but well, that should be pretty obvious at this juncture.

Jason surprises him by sliding a warm plate right under his nose, letting the panini take up his vision, and his stomach, the traitor, rolls with hunger.

“Ain’t gonna matter if ya take a minute n’ eat something, you feel me?”

Dick slides into his seat across the table, giving the illusion of space while not really giving any, “besides, you have to get some sleep first, remember?” And apparently Dick isn’t going to let that go of that any time soon. “If you want to finally tell me what time you’re from, B and Clark are going to hit the JL archives while you’re napping and try to find something about the device that brought you here. Schematics would make it a lot easier on you, right, Timmy?”

He blinks at the plate in front of his nose, his gaze automatically following it down to where Jason puts it on the table for him. His mouth waters a little and he really has no idea how long it’s been since he’s eaten anything (So...maybe they have a point).

Hesitantly, he looks up at the future Dick’s softly smiling face and haltingly gives the date in his own time, shoulders drawn up tight because it had been such a long fucking year.

Dick pauses, and the mental calculations are pretty obvious. What Red doesn’t expect, however, is Damian’s head to perk up or Jason to noticeably pause with a bowl of incredible smelling soup ready to put in front of him, too.

“Oh,” Dick’s voice is only a puff of air.

His head tilts quizzically because what? (It’s not like they would know the whole story. He hadn’t even told Kon and Bart all of it, fuck he’d never do that to them, never put that on anyone. Cassie got less than an hour span of time, and it did a number on her. Besides, it’s fine, really. It’s. Fucking. Fine. His fuck-up started it all, his mess, his fault because he’d thought he was so smart. Thought he had them when it was really the other way around…)

Jason swallows hard, eyes fluttering closed for just a second when he gets the year (Christ Timmy, Jesus H. Christ). Damian’s face falls in neutral lines, calm, cool, and collected.

“The Insurgent Crisis, right?” is all Dick has to say, drawing his eyes (well, he was Batman at one time, so he’d probably get some fucking memos about pain-in-the-ass alien invaders). “Tim, how long… how long has it been since you and the Titans came out of that fight?”

And no. No he doesn’t want to throw this down, doesn’t want them to know why he’s starting to feel like a heaping pile of sick sucks. Let him eat this tasty-looking (yes, he can fucking admit it even if Jason could have poisoned the fuck out of it) food and go the fuck downstairs where he doesn’t have to stare at their faces.

“Everyone hates alien dick bags,” he comes back lightly even though the bruises on his sides, the scars to his fucking brain from that whole debacle still make him want to scream just a little.

“S’at why yer feverin’?” Jason makes it a question because even though his mind is slightly still hazy going back that far and about some of the shit going down back then, he can remember Di talking ‘bout the aftermath and how fucked it was for alla ‘em, just trying ta keep standin’. ‘Course, his Timmy had talked about it through the years, only once and a while when he was pushing the edges of his endurance.  The set to this Timmy’s jaw, the twitch of his fingers, all of it like a roadmap, giving him more deets than Baby Bird probably wants them to have.

(Fine line yer walking, Timmers. The gun-totin’ Bats makes a helluva lot more sense, yeah?)

Keeping it calm, Jay finally puts the bowl down, makes himself keep moving to feed his other boys.

“It’s been a few days,” Tim admits grudgingly. “It’s…fucked-up timing, that’s all. I handled it—”

“We know you did, Hab—Tim,” Damian’s hand moves out of Tim’s sight, grips the back of Jason’s thigh when he puts plates down in front of him. “In time...you do tell us some details of that fight, so do not feel you must hold back. You may share whatever details you would like.”

“Excuse me, I what now?” And the horror, the utter fuckery that is the Mind Trap makes his hands clench with the memory, with the damage done to the Titans, with the possibility they might have to face those fuckers again in some unknown time period. “Do they hit Earth again?”

(He shouldn’t have even asked because he really shouldn’t get details of his future. That’s a bad time-travelling vigilante, bad. Still, the please, please, no is forefront in his brain pan.)

“That ain’t why,” Jason counters softly, letting his sweetheart do what he needed. “Timmers, we ain’t…good in yer time. We getcha, but it does get better, you feel me? We get better. So’s it was just the right time when ya finally did lay it out.”

He can suck in a breath, but just barely, and the world tilts just slightly, just a enough for him to see something else has been building here, the evidence in almost everything he notices pointing him to a completely different headspace in how he should be dealing with the future Batclan.

He’ll try to wrap his stunned brain around the entirety of the situation when the panic in his chest calms it the fuck down.

The next words out of Dick’s mouth, however, aren’t going to let that happen anytime soon.

“You weren’t even healed up from the fight before that,” is Dick’s half-exasperation.  “You had a bad few months moving from—”

Shit, shit.

They knew about the Triad.

His stomach rolls with nausea strong enough to trigger his gag reflex, makes him shove back in his chair with a hand over his mouth.

(The ‘fight before that,’ just a little vacay off the coast of Peru with some terrible bad guys that tortured him for his tech.)

And the three future Bats have an abrupt, sickening ah-ha moment in the memory of their Tim’s voice when he admitted he hadn’t taken time to really heal much before mind-controlling invaders thought Earth looked like it was on point.

Words like compromised and post-traumatic stress were a huge part of that.

Or, well, this apparently.

Red pauses because the food in his stomach rolls uncomfortably and he takes his own moment to close his eyes try to fucking breathe, half-meditate, anything to keep him from jumping into another remix from the part of his brain that has a technicolor rewind.

(They knew. They knew and he fucking told them about what happened on that ship.)

Dick abruptly leans over the table, snapping his fingers close to Red’s face, making those eyes blink, the body jerk, and attention focus.

“Stay right here with us, Tim,” because Dick remembers the flashbacks, remembers it with crystal clarity, and by the time he’d been back far enough into Tim’s life, the third Robin had been going through them for almost a year by himself.  “Focus on my voice. You’re in Gotham City, USA. It’s Wednesday morning. It’s ten years away from all of that.”

“Baby Bird,” is low and subtle, almost hypnotic, and his eyes slide over to Jason standing between Dami and Dick still with both hands flat on the table, “s’all right. I fucking promise, s’all right.” Slowly, one of the hands lifts, turns, reaches out.

It’s insane enough that he stares down at that offered hand, eyes going back to Dick’s earnest gaze, when he looks further at Damian who is holding both palms up just slightly in the universal not dangerous, nothing to see here.

Instead, he shifts mental gears, tries to pull out the second most effective weapon in his arsenal, deflection.

“I don’t even know why would I tell you that shit. I…I handled it. It’s done.”

The sad smile on Dick’s face tells him more than he realistically can believe at this juncture (and dammit, he used to be so good lying to Batman).

“Just like Jay said, Timmy. Eventually…eventually, we do everything we can to get you back.”

He blinks noncomprehendingly, gripping the seat of his chair in tight enough for his knuckles to go white.

“It,” Dami eases in, not moving but subtly sliding the water glass closer, “it was a… process, you understand. However, Richard and Jason do not lie.” And it’s a smile for him again, one that has it’s own tinges of old hurts and struggles, one that makes Damian Wayne more human than the kid that desperately wanted him gone. “The four of us, the Robins. We have come to be family, Tim. We are…closer now.”

And like he can’t help himself, his eyes go to Jason Todd (how he knew, how they all knew).

“It ain’t easy ta find anyone what can understand how we live, Timmers. Was only a matter of time ‘til we stopped tryin’ ta kill the one what could have our backs, you feel me?” Jason shrugs a shoulder casually, looking at Dick and Baby Bat before he comes back to Tim, “wouldn’t trade none a’ it. Bet dime ‘gainst a dozen, the you that likes being a pain in the fucking ass would say the same shit.”

His brain blinks off and on, all the evidence sliding into place.

Communal drawers, familiarity with his systems, being able to override the lab, checking on the future him, sensors in the suit because they knew he was abducted off the street, Hood gets he fucking loves paninis with the crusts cut off, all of it supports what the three are telling him.

At some point, he must have made his way back into Gotham, back into the nest of crazy crime fighters. He works with them (they have access in his database, have log ins, have pieces of him he usually hides), maybe even deals with their various and sundry issues because it’s all too obvious how they’ve earned a place through his security and protocols, how they’ve carved out places in his life.

This time, this time, when Jason Todd lays a gentle hand over his clenched fist on the table, for the first time since he’s known the guy—

Tim Drake doesn’t flinch.

**

With hands a little steadier than before, shoving shit like trauma and immediate escape plans to the back of his brain pan, Tim picks up the sandwich and takes a trusting bite.

Fuck, it’s awesome.

The future Bats are right there with him, probably riding the dredges of their own patrols and crime fighting for the night, giving an uneasy silence the background for the meal while everything just…processes.

(The soup is also awesome, and he’s mentally filing away the fact Jason Todd can cook without it tasting like Bruce’s lame attempt at sandwiches. Thank-you, Alfred, for teaching at least one Robin how not to poison himself.)

He starts in hesitantly around a mouthful of fucking delicious, “I’m not...exactly sure what device brought me here. It could have been a few different things.”

Dick’s attention is slightly sharp, the oldest palming a sleek cell phone that looks miles ahead of the antiquated piece of crap iPhone Tim is used to seeing. He types out one handed while eating,

“Can you start from the beginning, Tim? Try to give me whatever you remember, any detail could help narrow down the possibilities.”

“I had some left-over Insurgent systems in the Tower, running analysis on them,” he admits, taking another bite so he doesn’t give away too much. “I think something might have reacted badly to the scans, triggered… I don’t know, something, and whoosh. Here I am.”

Dick looks up from his phone, shaking Tim just slightly when it’s undivided attention, “that’s a good place to start. Bruce is in the middle of a tech refresh,” stretching the truth, but Tim doesn’t need to know that, “and he needs help, even if he won’t ask for it.”

All of them, even Tim, roll their eyes at the Dark Knight’s antics.

“So I’m going to the Cave for a few hours while you get some sleep. While I’m there, we’ll start looking at the inventory and old records. We’ll find you what you need, Timmy.”

Tim looks back down at his food, jaw working slowly as he chews, shifting in his chair because he’s not the intel guy or the extra soldier here, and he can’t jump the fuck in and have some answers waiting. It’s such a strange thing to just be sitting. He needs things to occupy his brain. “The scans were probably running when the portal opened up, so any results would be good.”

Damian likewise takes out his cell phone, taps a few things easily, “I will give Garfield and Rachel the time frame as well. Perhaps they may be able to find the correct configurations.”

He almost opens his mouth to tell them anything about the tech is probably on his ghost drive, but saves that little bit of information for when he’s got a few minutes alone to try hacking into it himself. Instead, he stuffs his mouth full and lets the detectives work the case around him. He doesn’t realize his shoulders are sagging, eyes falling half-mast, his body running down with a few minutes of chill time.

“Ain’t gotta worry ‘bout it, Timmers. ‘Tween alla us, we’ll getcha what cha need,” Jason waves his spoon, talking around the bite of sandwich.

It’s so casual and careless, something that might have fallen out of Jason Todd’s mouth a hundred times, something that jars him right down to the bone. And Tim stutters on it for a second, lets it sink in instead of deflecting it. “...I...appreciate the help, thanks.”

And something, something in the way Dami’s eyes get soft when he smiles again, when Dick reaches out, reaches over and squeezes his hand tightly for longer than just a second before drawing away, in the way Jason seemed to know his quirks, all of it, fucking all of it—

Makes him utterly fucking terrified.

Because once he was on his own, after the R was taken, he figured all those years of bleeding and broken, of fighting the good fight as a Bat, of being welcome in the Cave, in the Manor, in their lives, of being one of them—

Was just…over.

It was a searing, painful thing, a burn in a place nothing else could touch, a stab so sharp and biting it left him weak even when he had to keep moving.

Even when his friends died around him, even when he was the only one left fucking standing to fight—

Losing his place as Robin broke something integral, something he could never fix. A wound that couldn’t be stitched or bandages, something the bled like a motherfucker until he had to fight just to fucking breathe sometimes.

And in a crazy turn of events, he’s staring down at the mostly eaten food, taking in this new world, and those wounds are still there, bleeding sluggishly, still killing him in degrees. His brain isn’t numb to it all, the smallest actions and reactions, the exchanged looks and easy comfort, all of them looking to him like it should be totally natural. It’s fucking with them, not getting it back from him. That’s what all the looks being thrown around means, the aborted movements, the calm and careful way they’re treating him.

He really is…one of them.

(Mental note: trading gun-toting Batman future in exchange for BatClan is more of a win than he could have ever hoped for. Next steps once he gets back to his own time—find the correct series of events for this future. Execute.)

**

Dick smiles down at him with such a fond expression, and all that sudden attention is…well, he’s not sure yet. There’s a lot of land between the two of them in his time, as little interaction as possible. It’s not fine, not what he ever wanted to happen, it just… was.

(So that look might just make his shoulders relax, his chest lift a little easier)

The ruffle to his hair, the sudden yet inevitable octopus hold engaged (and wow, it never gets any easier to tolerate, especially when his fucking back is a raw mess and his joints are starting to get fucking achy). It’s a whirlwind of motion and he’s just suddenly left with the two Robins that literally wanted him dead at one point or another.

That are now being stupidly careful with him.

Which is still a double-take for his brain, just not one that makes him want to deliver things like nerve strikes.

Sneaking away from the table to head downstairs while Dami and Jay finish clean-up is absolutely a waste of time because Jason Todd manages to play the movie he set up earlier and paused on the TV, blocking the door downstairs with his big body.

When the opening plays, he doesn’t even have to guess. It’s Thor: Ragnarok.

Slowly, slowly, his narrowed gaze goes back to the smirking vigilante. The one that easily offers him the remote.

“How did you know—?”

A shrug and that smirk,

“This isn’t out in theaters yet in my time.” And he just shouldn’t even though a shiver goes up his spine and the couch kind of looks inviting.

“It’ll be soon, Timmers. Yer just gettin’ a first lookit, yeah?” Jay drawls it out because that asshole knows about his nerd obsessions.

Shit is starting to get real.

“The temptation is strong with this one,” he deadpans tiredly because really.

Damian however tuts at him, drying his hands and flipping the towel over one shoulder. It’s an easy thing when the two herd him over to the said overstuffed couch with hot chocolate instead of coffee.

“Richard has a point,” Dami chides gently, tucking an awesome fleece Flash blanket (…yup, that’s never going to change) around him, “we shall give you entertainment and allow you to rest while we gather supplies.” And the ghost of fingers, something he wasn’t apparently supposed to catch, as the back of his neck, sliding over the tips of his too-long hair. “It would be beneficial if you could manage a few hours of sleep. However, I understand your reluctance to do so.”

But, well, Tim’s a detective, Demon.

“You have dark circles under your eyes,” he starts off the list, “a tremor in your left hand, and your muscles are drooping. You’ve probably been awake over 48 hours straight.”

“It seems more than just your humor has rubbed off on me,” the youngest admits to cover the fact he’d been discreetly checking on how warm this past-Tim has become. Even with the antibiotics they witnessed him take earlier, he still looks too pale, more than just exhaustion creeping up on him.

A second mug of hot chocolate appears over Robin’s shoulder because some people make pretty good plans when his boys needed someone else to be just a mite more stubborn, “very funny, Baby Bat. Still, Timmers called ya out, yeah? Half-dead and still on his motherfuckin’ game.”

Jay steers Dami with familiarity, prodding his mid-back until he’s on the other end of the couch. And because the Hood is a man what knows his boys, he lets the movie play, moves to put the discarded tablet in Dami’s hands, taps a few things out on Timmy’s wrist computer to show him the place for a few more deets on the time travel algorithm. There’s another blanket to lay over Baby Bat, and he moves away, fakes being busy in the kitchen, giving the two exhausted birds a little time—

To drift off and finally sleep.

When he comes back in twenty minutes to the movie still playing, he smiles softly when he takes the tablet and wrist computer from lax hands, uses all his Bat-talent to test the heat on Timmy’s forehead and lean down to press his mouth to Dami’s.

He’s going to hold down the fort while Dickie works the Manor side of things. He’s going to be easy-like with Timmers, banter and cajole him outta the snap when he needs to because Bats? Well, they don’t give in. Maybe they oughta just give Timmy a little reminder.

#future!au #second part #tim drake #jason todd #damian wayne #future Robinpile #this was waaaay hard #my fic #my writing

[pyropsychiccollector]

Danganronpa: Another IF (Chapter 2, Part 1)

            By the time everyone had left the courtroom, it was almost nighttime. They all moved to the cafeteria, after Monokuma told them he’d cleaned up the body and crime scene so that they could use the laundry room again. Not really eager to believe the monochrome bear, the students had Kirigiri check on the former crime scene for them; and as it turned out, the bear was telling the truth. Naegi would’ve done it himself, but he had his hands full comforting Sayaka.

            “The room was pristine. The body has been removed.” Kirigiri reported. Out of everyone, she seemed the most calm and collected, even after everything they’d been forced to witness. Mondo was the first of them to speak as he clenched his hands.

            “Fuck… We don’t even get time to grieve?” The biker tsk’ed.

            “Ahh… What of my bedsheets?” Yamada asked as he was slumping forward in his chair. It had been ‘decided’ that Togami would not go without his, and while Sakura did offer hers to Yamada, the otaku just let her keep them.

            “They were cleaned once more and folded neatly on the table.” Kirigiri told him calmly, running a hand through her lilac hair. “To be honest, it was as if a murder hadn’t occurred in that room, when I inspected it.”

            Junko scowled from her place as she hugged her elbows.

            “So much for ‘remembering’ Fukawa’s sacrifice…”

            Naegi shook his head as he rubbed Maizono’s back soothingly.

            “No… Even if we don’t have a physical reminder, we can’t just forget about her! Or Hagakure. We should walk toward the future, carrying them in our hearts…”

            As she nuzzled into him, Maizono nodded sadly in agreement. As a number of them appeared to take time to grieve in their own ways, Asahina spoke up in a chipper tone.

            “C’mon, guys! Cheer up! We gotta turn those frowns upside down! ‘Sides, if we all work together, I’m sure we’ll get out of here. Sooo… Let’s all join hands and push forward with a great big smile!” The swimmer mustered the biggest smile she could. However…

             “Cut the crap… You’re not making anyone feel any better.” Togami spat out.

            “Huh?” Asahina, among others, looked toward the heir with confusion.

            “A murder still took place, regardless of your preaching… It won’t be long before we see fallout. Murder isn’t just a fantasy or a nightmare anymore, and everyone here is uncomfortably aware of it.” The air around the blond was smug and arrogant. And though he didn’t seem to agree, Leon acknowledged his point.

            “Hagakure mighta fired the first shot… But dude, it’s like Naegi said. The guy never would’ve murdered if Monokuma hadn’t given us those videos!”

            Togami turned on the All-Star in aggravation.

            “And you don’t think Monokuma can produce the same result again? Manipulation or not, Hagakure has shown what we all are capable of.”

            Asahina stared, wide-eyed.

            “B-But… We’ve gotta work together and fight back against the Puppetmaster so that no one else gets hurt…!”

            “What did I just say? Cut the crap!” Togami snarled. “You’re not making anyone feel any better… ‘Fight back’? ‘Work together’? Pah! This isn’t some damn never-ending ninja comic!”

            “Or is it…?” Yamada wondered.

            “It seems whomever is behind this – the ‘Puppetmaster,’ so to speak – has far more power than we had imagined.” Celes pointed out. “This Puppetmaster has taken over Hope’s Peak Academy – despite its heavy security – and then fortified it even further… He built the seemingly high-tech Monokuma – he assembled a vast store of daily necessities for us… And above all, there’s that execution… Far too much effort has been put into all this… That this could be the work of a mere madman is unfathomable… I believe it’s safe to say that resistance is not in our best interests.”

            “If so, what are we to do?” Sakura asked.

            “We abide by the rules.” Togami crisply replied. “If you absolutely want out… then cheat everyone else and win the game… That’s your only option.”

            Fujisaki looked down miserably.

            “I… I can’t…”

            “What was that?” Togami snapped.

            “I don’t want to live… if it means someone else has to die… I can’t bear… to kill anyone else…”

            Leon cocked his head.

            “Waddya mean ‘else’?”

            “Hagakure! He’s dead because we voted for him!” Fujisaki argued. “We killed him!”

            “You know we would have gotten killed if we hadn’t voted for him, right?” Junko tried to placate the programmer. “We… didn’t have a choice…”

            “Indeed! Any further attempts at self-flagellation and you’ll have crossed the border into masochism!” Yamada chipped in. However, Fujisaki didn’t look any more comforted by their situation.

            “Hey, Fujisaki…” Naegi said in a gentle voice. “You’re not the bad guy here. Neither are Hagakure or Fukawa… It’s all his doing… All of this is on the Puppetmaster’s hands. He coerced us into casting those ballots… and who knows what would have happened if we said no… He called it an ‘execution,’ but, in the end, the Puppetmaster’s still the one who pulled the trigger! So… it’s not ourselves we should hate… but that damn Puppetmaster!”

            Not even a moment after Naegi gave that speech, the school bell rang out, signaling that nighttime had arrived. As usual, Monokuma appeared on the screen, though he had a little more to say this time.

            “Ahem, may I have your attention, please? The time is now 10 P.M. ‘Nighttime’ is now in effect.  The cafeteria is now off-limits, and the door will be locked momentarily. Oh, and one more thing… There was an ugly trace of self-justification poking its head out of that discussion you guys were having. Here and there and gone and yon… I could whack that mole with my eyes closed! Listen up, and take this to heart… The act of judging someone is a heavy cross to bear! Make sure you can feel that weight! Order can only survive on the shoulders of sacrifice and responsibility! And with that, I wish you all a good night. Sweet dreams…”

            Junko’s hand twitched as she scowled.

            “What… the hell was that?!”

            “All of this is on us? Somehow, I don’t buy that…” Leon scoffed.

            “That piece of shit! Always sayin’ whatever the hell he wants…!” Mondo roared.

            Everyone filed out of the cafeteria soon after that – they didn’t have a choice, with nighttime in effect. They dispersed and returned to their rooms, resolving to figure out what to do the next day. Well. Almost everyone went to their own rooms…

            “Um… Makoto?”

            Naegi noticed the idol hadn’t bothered to leave his side, or move toward her door, which was the next one over.

            “What’s up? Want me to stay with you for a while?” The Luckster blushed a little as he knew that suggestion might’ve been… a little too intimate, but considering the events they’d gone through that day, Maizono looked like she needed that intimacy.

            Which is why he was a little confused when the idol blushed even more deeply than him.

            “W-Well… Sort of. I was actually wondering if you’d be okay if I stayed in your room for the night.”

            As Naegi’s brain registered Maizono’s request, his blush deepened as well, and he totally lost his composure. However, his brain soon realized what she really must have been requesting.

            “O-O-Oh… You m-mean like a room exchange…”

            Sayaka dragged a foot on the ground, and she did not look up at him as her blush did not go away.

            “Um… no. I really do mean, can I stay the night with you?” Only now did she look up at the Luckster, and he could see the most serious and hopeful gaze he had seen from her yet. This wasn’t some joke. As he desperately tried to work his jaw, Maizono shyly tried to explain herself. “I-I mean… I know it’s unusual, frowned upon, whatever… I just… I need that reassurance you won’t die on me next… y’know? Even… if it’s just for one night…”

            Makoto’s heart thundered inside of his chest a mile a minute, the more Sayaka spoke. She… cared about him that much? Granted, he was the only person she ‘knew’ in this godforsaken place, but he was honestly touched. He was… ecstatic. Excited. And yet… he didn’t want to get carried away. Whatever special connection they had now, that could all go away the minute they left the academy. There was no way an ordinary guy like him would end up with the Ultimate Pop Idol. He shouldn’t even be thinking about that stuff when the thing Maizono needed was companionship after a traumatic experience.

            … But he was human, and Makoto couldn’t help but lingering on those thoughts, even if only momentarily.

            “S-Sure! I don’t mind!” Makoto yelped out after he realized he’d probably made her wait several minutes in uncomfortable silence. Thankfully, she didn’t seem to mind, and her relieved smile was enough to send his heart aflutter again.

            “Thanks, Makoto…”

            Naegi was not expecting the heartfelt hug… but he did not shy away from it, as his arms wrapped around her waist and he buries his nose in her hair. He could never get enough of her scent.

            ~*~

            “Arms out! Up and down, up and down~! One. Two. Three. Four…”

            “One! Two! Threeee! Four!”

            “Faster on the up and down! Bring ‘em in, and out again! In and out! Work that muscle tone! Speed and power! Let’s burn that butter!”

            … The next morning, Monokuma had summoned them all to the gymnasium. A good number of them dreaded that the monochrome bear was hitting them with another motive so soon… But no… Instead, he attempted to make them do exercises. Most of them didn’t participate – hell, the only gung-ho one was Ishimaru, though that was hardly a surprise.

            “Ahh, man… It feels great to get a good workout! Being indoors all the time is bad for your body!” The sadistic bear gushed. Leon just rolled his eyes.

            “You’re the one who locked us up in here, man…”

            “Don’t fret the small stuff! That’s my motto~. Ack! I just said something cool just now, didn’t I? Have I won you over? Have you fallen so hard for me you could die? Is the weight of your love crushing?”

            “What do you want from us?!” Sakura bellowed. “Surely you did not call us here simply to exercise…”

            Monokuma straightened up rigidly.

            “Simply… to exercise? Waddya mean, ‘simply’?” He raised his arms threateningly. “You only mock my workout… because you can’t handle my workout! The Monokuma Workout is filled to the brim with secret techniques from the Monkey Assassin Style! Techniques passed down through the generations, from a secret fighting style used in an empire of darkness~.”

            Yamada just gaped in awe at the childishness.

            “That sounds like the kind of embarrassing idea a middle-schooler would come up with…”

            Makoto sighed.

            “Whatever, just answer the question… Did you really just call us here to do some exercises?”

            Monokuma shook with rage.

            “Goodness gracious! Heavens no! I don’t have that kind of time!”

            “Sooo…?” Makoto prompted him.

            “Ahem! I have an announcement! For every Class Trial you survive, a whole new world inside the academy will be made available to you!”

            “A new world?” Junko cocked her head.

            “Don’tcha think it would be kinda suckish if you had to spend your whole lives here without any excitement? Plus, you Generation Z-ers start getting all cranky when you run out of things to do! So with that… you’re free to begin exploring. Enjoy the post-Trial world to your hearts’ content!” Giggling, Monokuma took his leave. The students were left somewhat flabbergasted by this development.

            “A new world…?” Sayaka murmured.

            “Like, a way out?” Asahina exclaimed.

            Celes frowned.

            “The chances of that are low…”

            “You can’t say shit ‘til you’ve actually looked!” Mondo bellowed.

            “Regardless… It seems we need to perform yet another search of the premises...” Sakura suggested.

            “All right, soldiers! Let’s split up and move out!” Ishimaru declared. “Once we’ve completed our rounds, we’ll rendezvous in the cafeteria for a debriefing!”

            Togami rolled his eyes and scoffed.

            “Are those the only words you know?”

            “It’s called consistency! Now, move out!”

            They didn’t need further prompting. The thirteen remaining teens dispersed, with a handful staying on the ground floor to check out the locked areas there. Most of them moved up to the second floor…

            ~*~

            “So, this is the second floor…” Naegi mused as he and Sayaka reached the top of the stairs. Other than the hallway lighting changing a little, the second level of the school gave off the same creepy vibe as the first.

            “The hall looks pretty long…” The idol remarked. And she was right. Other than one little turn, which could easily be avoided, and the one branch-off by the stairs that led to some double doors with an anchor painted on them, the corridor looked like it could go on for a while.

            “Well, let’s have a look around! If we can’t find an exit, maybe we can find some clue to the Puppetmaster’s identity!” Naegi remained hopeful. Sayaka nodded in agreement, and the two set off for the double doors first, since that was the closest place to check out.

            Inside, they found a bunch of lifeguard equipment, two more doors that had what appeared to be card readers next to them, and…

            “A Gatling gun?!” Naegi yelped as he took a step back out of instinct. For indeed, there was a gun mounted on the ceiling, pointed at the doors. Implying that there was some rule about who could go through which door.

            … In hindsight, Naegi supposed he shouldn’t be surprised by the lengths Monokuma went to for “punishment.” He just hoped no one would fall victim to the gun… That’d be way, way too similar to how they lost Hagakure…

            “Yeah, you just missed him.” Junko explained as Naegi regained his bearings. The Luckster only just realized that she, Fujisaki, Asahina, and Celes were there in the room, too. “Basically, only girls can go in the left changing room, and only guys can use the right one. We use our ElectroIDs to get in, and he’s gonna update the rules so no one can borrow each other’s IDs.”

            Celes folded her hands under her chin pleasantly.

            “You can thank me for that. We would not want Yamada or Leon to slip in uninvited.”

            Naegi sweatdropped as Celes specifically named them. Leon might’ve been a bit of a womanizer, but he wasn’t nearly as bad as Yamada… At least, in Naegi’s humble opinion…

            “The changing rooms also have exercise equipment! Fujisaki chirped. But she was easily outdone by Asahina’s enthusiasm.

            "Naegi! They have a pool! A pool! You gotta take a dip with me!!!”

            Naegi grinned sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head.

            “Maybe later, Hina. We still got some investigating to do, don'tcha think? Besides, do you even have a swimsuit?”

            Asahina pouted and tilted her head.

            “I’ll just swim with my clothes on. No biggie.”

            Naegi’s face became a tomato as perverted images ran through his brain of Asahina’s clothes sticking to her well-toned body, and for the first time in a while, he heard Sayaka giggle beside him. And despite his embarrassment, he couldn’t help but crack a small smile. Even if the last trial still plagued her mind, it seemed like Maizono was steadily feeling better. This made him feel a lot better, too.

            “Do I need to chaperone you kids~?” The idol teased and stuck out her tongue. Needless to say, Asahina was confused, but the other three girls looked as amused as Sayaka did.

            Naegi just pressed on as best as he could, despite his intense embarrassment.

            “A-Anyway… I’ll still hafta pass, Hina. I still wanna explore other areas before any… swimming.”

            “Aww! Not you, too! These three all passed on it, too.” The swimmer humphed cutely. “Swimming’s always the answer!”

            ’… No, I think that only applies to you, Hina…’ Naegi dryly thought to himself.

            “You’re probably right~. She IS a swimmer, after all.” Sayaka teased Naegi, making him look gobsmacked at her. Again.

            “H-How did you…!?”

            “You should know by now, silly~. I’m an esper!” Sayaka chirped. Naegi just twitched a little.

            “Yeah, you’re kidding. You just have really good intuition.”

            Sayaka tilted her head back and forth cutely.

            “Nope~. Definitely psychic!”

            “…” No matter what, Naegi was not going to fall for that again. No way, no how.

            …… But still… There was always a possibility… Right…?

            ~*~

            “Huh… So there’s a third floor, too… Probably even more.” Naegi muttered as he and Maizono looked at the gate covering up the stairs to the next level. Leon was loitering around that area of the hall, too.

            “Yeah… Same deal as before. Sakura couldn’t budge it an inch, and the same goes for the plates on the windows.”

            “… I hope we don’t get access to that third floor…” Sayaka wearily sighed. They all knew what they had to do to get another level of the school opened to them, and that just wasn’t worth the price.

            “So, what else does this floor have to offer?” Naegi asked the All-Star, who crossed his arms.

            “Well… There’s a couple more classrooms, and there’s a library. I didn’t stay to check it out, ‘cause libraries aren’t my thing… Kirigiri, Togami, and tubs stayed, though.”

            “How about the first floor? You originally stayed behind with Mondo and Ishimaru, didn’t you?” The idol asked curiously.

            “Yeeeah… But Ishimaru kinda gave me the boot, ‘cause the nurse’s office was still locked, and there was only so much in the dorm area that was locked. I’m sure somethin’ opened up there, but Mondo and Ishimaru have it covered.”

            Makoto rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

            “So… We have a pool, some exercise rooms, and a library as the second floor’s ‘main attractions’… It’s not a whole lot to get excited over. But maybe the library…”

            “Yeah, I think we should go and check on those guys,” Sayaka agreed. “There might be something in there.”

            Leon rubbed the back of his head roguishly.

            “Hehe… You guys do that, I’m gonna scope out the pool, if ya catch my drift~.” Leon winked and took his leave. Sayaka groaned terribly contained exasperation, and Makoto laughed bashfully.

            “So, let me get this straight… It’s bad when Leon’s perverted, but when I get perverted thoughts, suddenly it’s okay?”

            Sayaka puffed out her cheeks adorably.

            “It’s different! Very, very different!”

            “How?” Naegi was truly baffled.

            “It’s cute when it happens to you!”

            … Aaand the Luckster was back to doing his impersonation of a tomato…

            ~*~

            The library was clearly the largest room on the second floor. And still, despite its wealth of books, there wasn’t a whole lot that was useful to them. There was an archive room with various files, too – but if there were any hints to the Puppetmaster’s identity planted amongst the shelves, they would be at it for a while, sorting through the “useless” books. Yamada was rather put out there wasn’t any of his doujinshi in that library… But that was neither here nor there.

            There was a laptop that didn’t seem to be working. Kirigiri was planning to show it to Fujisaki later, to see if there was anything she could do with it. The last thing was a dusty letter that was left lying out in the open, which in essence explained that Hope’s Peak, for vague reasons that they didn’t go into detail about, was forced to close its doors for an indefinite amount of time. Their current working theory was that it had something to do with why they were trapped and imprisoned there, but without more information, there would be no way to confirm or deny it.

            Once Naegi and Maizono had a cursory look around the library and archives, they followed Kirigiri, Togami, and Yamada down to the cafeteria to rejoin their classmates. It wasn’t too much of a surprise that they were the last group to return, but it didn’t look like the others had been waiting too long.

            “Good work, soldiers! Does anyone have anything to report?!” Ishimaru initiated the meeting.

            “There is a library!” Yamada exclaimed exuberantly.

            “There’s a pool! A pool! And changing rooms with a whole bunch of exercise equipment!” Asahina added with just as much energy.

            “However, there was nothing resembling an exit…” Sakura conceded. Naegi vocally agreed. Ishimaru just nodded his head.

            “Despair not, my friends. For I have made a groundbreaking discovery… Listen to this! We now have access to the storeroom and the large bath here in the dormitory! There’s a wealth of food, clothing, and supplies in the storeroom! Why, it’s an exercise in excess! Now we can snack whenever we want!” The prefect chuckled heartily.

            Celes placed her hands on her hips.

            “Try not to forget that leaving your room at night is forbidden…”

            Mondo seemed dissatisfied with all their attitudes.

            “And what about the important part: a way out?”

            Ishimaru hesitated in answering.

            “Well, uh… You see…”

            “Was there somethin’ in that storeroom we could use to bust outta this joint?!” Mondo’s hand twitched angrily.

            “I-I… I regret to inform…”

            “Damnit, guys… This ain’t the time to be squealin’ about new places to jerk around in! We’re trapped in here, damnit! Trapped! We’re supposed to be lookin’ for a way out!”

            “Now, now… Trying to find faults in everything we do isn’t going to accomplish anything…” Celes chided the biker. “Adaptability. It’s all about being able to adapt… So let’s enjoy being locked up together~!”

            “Screw that!” Mondo snarled.

            Ishimaru sighed.

            “Well, for the time being, continue your recon, and if you find anything, you can make a report then…” The prefect sounded much more dismal than when he had started the meeting.

            “So we’re done for the day?” Kirigiri asked for clarification.

            “Ah, yeah…” Ishimaru sighed again. He had truly believed they had gained some precious commodities with these new territories to explore – they all had believed that – but to be reminded there was still no sign of a way out… It was disheartening.

            Naegi suspected this was the Puppetmaster’s strategy. He would build up their expectations, only to knock them back down; to be honest, that did seem to fit with his “all I want is despair” M.O. Regardless, as tough as it was to swallow, Naegi was not going to lose hope. New discoveries were still waiting to be made, and their group’s harmony was still fairly strong, even after everything that had happened to them thus far.

            If only he knew about the despair that was to come in the near future…

#Danganronpa #Makoto Naegi #Sayaka Maizono #Mukuro Ikusaba #Makoto x Sayaka #Makoto x Mukuro #Naegi x Maizono #Naegi x Ikusaba #Naezono #Naekusaba

[casandpuppies]

October Destiel AU Challenge: Day 7 - Ride ‘Em, Cowboy

31 Days of Destiel Drabbles: Day 7 - Bar/Club scene

This particular drabble is brought to you by this post. I saw it and instantly thought of Dean, for some strange reason. And thus, this was born.

Castiel officially hates his brother.

Alright, hate is a strong word. But it’s fair to say he’s sufficiently displeased with his brother, even though it’s not exactly fair to lay all the blame on Gabriel for his current predicament.

But he’s only here because Gabriel knowingly took advantage of the fact that Castiel cannot, for the life of him, say no. So, when Gabriel asked him to cover a shift at his club—because there was really no one else he could call, and he wouldn’t ask if there was any other option—it had really only taken one round of his brother’s puppy eyes before Castiel had reluctantly caved.

It was just one night, he told himself. And it’s not like he didn’t know how to do the job. He’s done his fair share of bartending to put himself through college and grad school. If he does say so himself, he’s pretty good at it. His social skills aren’t really stellar, but he can make a damn good drink, and he’s attractive enough that it seems to make up for his lacking conversational skills. At least, that’s what Gabriel tells him.

How bad could it possibly be?

Very bad. Every minute Castiel is here is another minute that reminds him why he hates the bar and club environment. The loud music, the flashing lights, and the obnoxious drunk people causing a ruckus all around him are experiences he does not miss in the slightest.

A blonde woman who looks barely legal slides up to the bar. “Heeeeeyyyy, bartender!” she slurs. “What’s on your tap tonight?”

Castiel’s about to tell her the special brew of the night, but then she gestures crudely towards his crotch and winks, before bursting out into lewd laughter. He barely refrains from pulling a disgusted face. “Perhaps that’s enough for tonight, ma’am. I suggest drinking some water before anything else.”

“No fuunn! Why are the cutes ones so boring?” She pouts and saunters off.

He sighs distastefully and stares impassively at the bar scene in front of him. If nothing else, he’s certainly grateful that he doesn’t have to do this for a living anymore. What Gabriel can possibly see in this line of business, Castiel will never know.

A series of loud wolf whistles and cheers draws Castiel’s attention to a large crowd congregating nearby. The realization of the crowd’s location hits him, and he allows his lip to curl up into a brief sneer. One of the more annoying things about Gabriel’s club is that it’s western-themed, which isn’t necessarily bad by itself. But he’s installed one of those ridiculous mechanical bulls, and he swears that thing alone causes him more stress than anything else in this building.

Personally, he fails to see the appeal. Why would anyone in their right mind want to be flung around by some metal contraption while people around you laugh at your misfortune. All for what? To look “manly” or “macho,” maybe? It certainly doesn’t look like it would be fun. Not to mention the possibility for injury is astounding, even with the padded floor Gabriel’s got around the area. Especially when copious amounts of alcohol are involved. Then again, maybe that’s the problem. These people aren’t in their right mind.

There’s another round of raucous cheering from the group. Most likely, it’s another drunk redneck who’s crawling past “comfortably drunk” into “shitfaced” and is getting too rowdy. This wouldn’t be the first time tonight. In fact, on two separate occasions, he’s had to chase people off the ride for trying to fit more than one person on the back of the bull, totally ignoring the fact that rules clearly state that only person is allowed on at a time. He’s even had someone try and hang on to the underside of the bull. Best to put a stop to it before someone gets hurt. Glancing around, he sees no security guards in the area, and sighs to himself. Another check of his surroundings reveals no patrons at the bar, so he should be good to go check it out.

He throws down the bar rag and makes his way over to the crowd. When he pushes his way through the throngs of people, he’s surprised to see not a drunk redneck, but a very attractive man with sandy, brown hair and bright, green eyes, and wearing a nice, button-down shirt and a tie. He looks like he could have come straight from the office.

Other than the strange attire, he seems fairly normal. He’s doing a really good job of staying on the death-trap, but Castiel doesn’t see what the big fuss is. Maybe this guy’s just got a lot of enthusiastic friends or something. With that thought, he’s about to head back to the bar, but then the music picks up, and the guy flashes the crowd a wild grin, winks, and uses the bucking motion to push himself up and suddenly he’s standing on top of the moving bull and starts dancing. Actually dancing.

Castiel’s jaw almost hits the floor. The guy can’t be that drunk. There’s no way he’d have that kind of coordination otherwise. Honestly, he doesn’t know whether to be upset or impressed. He’s seen people clinging on for dear life get thrown to the floor, and this guy is…well, he’s surfing the bull. That’s the only way Castiel can describe it. He’s not even hanging onto anything, and doesn’t seem nervous in the slightest—on the contrary, he looks like he’s having the time of his life. And he must be a professional dancer or something, because he’s doing a really good job, making it look so easy and moving fluidly with the continuous jerking motions. Also, extra kudos to the guy for doing all this while wearing dress shoes. Castiel knows from experience that those things have no traction whatsoever.

The guy jumps and Castiel is certain he’s going to see him crash to the floor, but he lands successfully and resumes dancing on the trashing metal bull. The crowd erupts into joyous yells, which seems to encourage the guy more, because he smirks and continues to absolutely floor Castiel with his skills and bravery. That’s about the point where Castiel kicks some sense back into himself and remembers that he’s here to put a stop to this. Because, as talented as the guy is, he could still easily fall and get hurt, and this is definitely against the rules.

“Sir!” Castiel calls over the music. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to get down!”

The guy doesn’t seem to take notice of him at first, but after his second attempt, he turns and acknowledges Castiel. Unfortunately, that acknowledgement is in the form of a devilish grin and not dismounting the bull.

Castiel frowns and crosses his arms. “Sir, it’s against the rules to stand on the bull. I must insist that you get down or I’m going to have to call security and have you escorted out.”

The crowd around him seems none too happy with the idea, and he receives a chorus of booing for his efforts. The green-eyed guy, however, spends a moment staring down at Castiel while the mechanical bull continues to move below him.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he says at last, with just the right amount of country accent to be endearing to Castiel. “You win.” He jumps down, and Castiel flinches back, prepared to watch this guy faceplant. Instead, he hits the ground safely, just a few feet in front of Castiel.

Once the guy is on solid ground, Castiel lets out a relieved breathe he didn’t know he was holding. “Thank you.”

The guy winks at him. “You gonna escort me out, now?”

Okay, he’s definitely drunk enough. Now that he’s this close, there’s the telltale glazed look and a light flush evident on his face. At least he’s not hammered, though. A definite plus. Castiel hates dealing with drunk people. “Alright, I think you’ve had enough for the night,” Castiel says with an exaggerated eye-roll. He makes his way back to the bar, because he’s probably left it unattended for too long, and when he makes it back to the counter, he sees that the man has followed him. He raises an eyebrow at him in what he hopes is a “can I help you?” kind of gesture, rather than a rude one.

Green-eyed guy laughs, and Castiel hates the fact that it’s such a nice sound. “You know, I don’t think I’ve seen you here, before. Think I’d remember a pretty face like yours.”

Castiel’s body betrays him, and his cheeks turn red. “I’m just—uh, I’m just helping my brother out. My brother owns this place. I don’t actually work here.”

“Ah.” The guy sits down at one of the seats. “I’m Dean.”

“Castiel,” he replies automatically.

Dean tries to pronounce his name a few times. He must be drunk enough, because his name is not that hard to pronounce, thank you very much. Finally, he gives up. “Can I call you Cas?”

Castiel nods. What harm could it cause? It’s not like he’s ever going to see this guy again. He wordlessly slides a glass of water at Dean. Dean accepts it with a grimace. “You have someone you can call for a ride, Dean?” Castiel asks casually as he goes about tidying up the bar.

“Naaaahhh,” Dean answers, the grin still firmly in place. “Well, I came here with Charlie. That’s my coworker. Boss was being a dick to her today, so I thought I could cheer her up.” Castiel nods along politely, not sure why he needs to know all this. Oversharing seems to be a trait of drunk people, though, so he doesn’t question it. “Think she mighta gotten lucky, though. Think I saw her leave with a bombshell.” He ends with a snicker that slowly dissolves into a full-blown fit of giggling. Castiel doesn’t see what’s funny, but he waits until Dean’s finished to say anything.

As soon as he does say something, he regrets it instantly. Rather than doing the logical thing and offering to call a taxi, he opens his mouth and says “Last call is in an hour. I’ll give you a ride home if you’re willing to wait.”

He wishes he could take the words back, because really? What is he thinking? Just because the guy is attractive doesn’t mean this is a good idea. He could be a serial killer or something. But Dean looks so happy at the prospect that Castiel can’t bring himself to take it back.

“Ooooh, does that mean I’m getting’ lucky tonight, Cas?” He leans across the counter and gives Castiel his best ‘melt your pants off’ grin.

Despite his subconscious telling him not to (if nothing else, Gabriel will never let him live it down), Castiel rolls his eyes and gives Dean his own playful smirk. “Let’s get you sober, first, and then maybe we’ll talk about getting you in my pants, cowboy.”

Without missing a beat, Dean retorts, “only if I’m riding you,” and Castiel chokes on his own breath.

Dean doesn’t quite “get lucky” that night in the way he was probably hoping, but numbers are exchanged, and things actually turn out even better than they might have had this been a one-night stand. In retrospect, they’re both very lucky.

Years later, it makes quite the story to tell at family gatherings, when relatives ask how they met. On the plus side, he does forgive Gabriel for making him work that night.

#destiel #deancas #destiel fanfic #deancas fanfic #destiel fic #october destiel au challenge #Mandy's writing