#my French blood demands heads start rolling | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

winterbrrrd · 4 months

Text

The Drugs

Our first kiss was by the Indian Ocean with the shisha boy

Who lit the coals of my first hookah

In the same way he would light the green in my first pipe.

I don’t remember a thing about what it looked like,

How good the grass was,

Only the sight of the ocean stretched out before us,

The infinite darkness and the way he would bring me back to the dance floor

And give me my first French kiss, too,

And I would return to my dorm room

And lift my wrap skirt over my head

And eat an entire bag of thin red lollipops.

The shisha boy followed me to Stone Town but I was forbidden from going out with him

On account of the brief kidnapping in Dar Es Salaam.

The weed started as a distraction

From the pain and humiliation of

Being that dumb white girl who

Goes to Africa and gets

Kidnapped because it’s

What she deserves.

They held a meeting about me.

Everyone in the group with me in the middle and they made me confess my sin,

The sin of having trusted

The wrong person

And having wound up in a fake cop car surrounded by four large men demanding all my money

Or else.

And the sin of having rolled out of the slowly moving car and being rejected by the first woman my sobbing self reached out to hug.

It was my first time experiencing death.

It was one week before I would experience addiction.

Weed made me manic,

Non-organically.

I smoked it in the rafters of the barn,

Laughing hysterically as Rosie drank vodka out the little plastic bags they came in,

Blabbing about Horse Face and how she fucked him in the ocean.

Drink would come soon, too,

First in the hotel adjacent to Heathrow -

Two Vodka Smirnoffs -

Then on the plane back to Chicago -

Four vodka crans,

Drunk enough to leaf through the albums on the back of the seat in front of me,

Stumbling on something called “Lady Gaga”

And dancing in my seat hard enough to draw stares.

Weed was blurry.

It first made me psychotic when my brother was a missing person.

I would sit under my lofted bed with Ry and cry eyeliner tears to screamo

Or sit under my lofted bed with Ethan and combine words to make new, non-sensical ones.

Or I would smoke and the pain of living would lift out of my body like a specter, to the point that I felt nothing when

I dragged the safety pin across my arms,

Deep enough to draw blood that would bubble like the seeds of a raspberry and

Drip down the dorm shower drains with the rest of the filth of me.

Psychosis came soon.

It came with Evan,

This delusional love I had for him

That persisted into the grassy patch behind the dormitory,

The moon to my right,

His room to my left

And I cried because I didn’t know why I needed him,

This beyond-heathen,

This demon.

In psychosis, I subsumed the darkness to the extent that I became it,

believed it.

I let it overtake my being, all rationality, all sympathy I once possessed for others.

And the weed was always there guiding me

Deeper into the mineshaft,

To the places they warn you not to go

With old booby traps and withered bones.

The weed charges $15 for a one hour tour into the abyss and,

Clearing its throat,

It begins:

It could get a little darker,

Don’t you think?

I was delusional in my love for Evan,

The way I allowed it to consume me as earth does heaven.

The way I confessed my love

And he shrugged it off

And I got so drunk, I puked red wine in the dorm toilets

And screamed at my bewildered friends:

IFUCKINGHATEMYSELFANDWANTTHISTOEND

I could go through the list,

Tell you every psychotic moment,

Like the time I accused Jenny’s boyfriend of leaving drug paraphernalia in my sink

And even reached out to her sister

To say I thought he was dangerous.

What I didn’t realize then,

And never got to tell Jenny because now she’s dead,

Is that the paraphernalia turned out to be my own.

Or I could tell you about the time I smoked weed through a public breakdown and turned thousands against me,

Sparking wellness checks and

CPS calls and

An eventual failed suicide attempt at seven months pregnant

But I don’t think you would understand

The gravity of that kind of disconnection,

When you’re convinced everyone has it out for you,

That you’re a literal warrior surviving on an isolated planet

And there’s nothing anyone can say to reach you.

And the stories get worse and more complicated and humiliating and so I’ll stop there,

But the point is that

I can come up with a handful of splits from reality that weren’t related to substances

But I can come up with a whole lot more that were.

I’m slightly suspicious when I’m sober.

When I’m high,

I’m convinced.

And my mind goes to terrible places

Of unending suffering and nihilism and fear,

So much fear

That I turn it on its head

And become what I’m afraid of.

And I don’t want to be that person.

I want to feel a full range of emotions,

Not just stupid and flat.

I want to feel like I can be trusted not to

Flip like the switch my child turns on, standing atop little boxes from the trash.

I want to be the person who feels love and not just death,

Not just emptiness,

Not just falling asleep to stock images of washed up corpses.

Weed not only awakens my demons -

It frees them.

I’ve been consuming this laundry list of substances since April and I am tired.

I had the sex.

Too much of it.

I had the stupid early 20s-somethings times at the bar with the flirting and the jokes you can’t remember five minutes later and the humiliating Ludacris karaoke in the little purple dress that shows off your love handles in all their glory.

I had the rapes.

I had the scary intoxicated car rides.

I had the dizziness and the sweating and the shaking from combining a prior night of drinking with too much adderall and a weed edible.

I had the cheating man who shared my name.

I had the night of convincing a 40-something to leave his wife.

I had it and I had more than I knew what to do with and now I must reckon with all of it.

Stare at it.

Hold it and then

Release.

I have lived in the extremes since youth

And I don’t need intoxicants to amplify what already exists within me.

Numbness begets chaos

Because you don’t give a shit what’s happening around you.

Just existing,

Not participating in your own life,

Means people can stretch and mold you like slime made of glue.

Sober me is just me. It’s just me without a megaphone. Me without living in double speed. Me who likes to sit for hours and read non-fiction about the funeral home industry. Me who wanders through the woods, learning to see the trees through photography. Me who spends hours researching abandoned buildings to explore. Me who plans the weirdest roadtrips. Me who drinks tea (??) Me who reads tarot. Me who has friends and doesn’t push them away by being erratic and unstable and careless with my words.

And that’s what I want to say to you.

You are me and I am you

But I am I

And you are you

And I can’t choose your adventure for you.

But I choose light.

I choose to acknowledge that I might not be an addict,

But I am certainly not benefiting from the chaos or the extreme impact on my mental health,

And so sobriety is simply safer for me.

And I think the word addict feels so wrong to you,

Partially because you haven’t seen the full extent of me,

But mostly because you are afraid of admitting what you know about yourself:

That I am you and you are me

And you are using weed to distance yourself from

An unsustainable reality

In the same way a homeless man drinks beer from a brown bag as he wanders the streets.

And the drugs get more intense depending on the intensity of the circumstance

And how hard you have to try to forget.

But that doesn’t mean you’re not an addict.

It just means you have a cop out against admitting it

Because someone is always worse off,

Right?

Is that any reason to settle for mediocrity?

Or does fear have a gun to your head,

A chain to your bed…

This was meant to be a poem for no one but I think it’s only for you.

Because I want you to know why I’m certain

And I want you to be certain, too.

If not about me,

Then at least about you.

Do you want to live in an abandoned house forever,

With molding walls and raccoon poo and nails that reach four inches into your feet?

You could demolish and rebuild,

Sure.

Anyone can build a pine box piece of shit.

But this old home has potential.

You could grab your hammer,

Strap on your kneepads,

Lean the ladder on the roof,

And put in the work it takes

To restore.

#poems on tumblr #spilled poetry #poem #my writing #outsider poetry #confessional poetry #epic poetry

0 notes

theshelbyclan · 3 years

Text

Welcome to the chaos, little one

Summary: Giving birth is never easy, especially when it’s a Shelby x Solomons baby…

A/N I’m so slow with requests but a while back the lovely @fandom-puffrequested: Omg sorry to be a pain but I’m a sucker for Shelby chaos 😭😭😭 can I request something linked to A Very Shelby Christmas where the labour of baby Solomons is just as chaotic? But it could also be sweet like the bros finally accepting Alfie bc they all care about YN so much and can’t stand to hear her in pain, all while YN is screaming that she’ll cut off more of Alfie’s dick than his rabbi would even dare to if he ever tried to bed her again 😭😭😭 omg the chaos 👉👈 ily 💓💓 Here we go! This is part 2 to the story A Very Shelby Christmas

Words: 1638

***

“Not now, Y/N,” Arthur groaned. Ada rolled her eyes, remembering keenly when her brother had spoken those iconic words before. “It’s not like I can help it, Arthur,” you spit.

Polly grabbed you by your arm as you doubled over again, “Alright, sweetheart, it’s time. Come with me…” “Not yet, Aunt Pol,” you panted, “It’s too early.” “The baby doesn’t have it’s own pocket watch yet,” Ada commented matter-of-factly, as she took your other arm. “Fuck!” you called out again as another contraction set in, “Fuck, fuck, fuckity-fuck!” “Nice.” “Oh, piss off John, you want to try this?” “Not really…” “Tommy!” you turned to the one family member who hadn’t said a word yet, “Get him.” “And who would that be, eh?” he replied in a low voice. “Thomas…” Aunt Polly warned softly. He raised his eyebrows, “Finn? You want Finn at the birth?” “WHY WOULD I WANT MY FUCKING BABY BROTHER HERE?!” Tommy waved a vague hand, “General comfort?” Now Aunt Polly’s eyes flashed with anger, “Thomas! Go get her husband, right now!” Tommy sighed deeply, still trying to ignore the fact that his little sister was now Mrs. Solomons, and said, “Come on boys, let’s get them all together and wet this baby’s head! Leave the women to it.” And you groaned, “Thank you…” Once Alfie would be here, everything would be easier.

*** “Solomons!” “No need to shout, mate, I’m right here, ain’t I?”

Slowly Tommy lit a cigarette and started smoking it, “It concerns my sister.” “You mean the glorious creature that made me the luckiest man on earth by marrying me? My wife? Mrs. Alfie Solomons?” A small twinkle appeared in Alfie’s eyes as he saw Tommy’s jaw tense up just a little at his words. “Yes.” “How is the old lady doing?” Alfie asked conversationally. “In pain,” Tommy replied, “She’s in labour, more to the point.” “You fucking what?” “She’s with her aunt Alfie, she’ll be fine.” Alfie blinked a few times, “Tommy I swear to God if you’re playing some fucking game with me I will shoot you between the eyes right here and now. You’re telling me my wife is in labour and you’re standing there casually smoking a cigarette, waiting for some fucking woman to tell you it’s done?” “Yes,” he nodded, “Well, I was about to go the Garrison. Thought we might bury the hatchet and you could join us.” “Have you lost your fucking mind…” Alfie said slowly, while rubbing his chin. Tommy cleared is throat and with a slight hint of uncertainty in his voice said, “It’s tradition.” “Well, if you’ll pardon my French, fuck your fucking heathen traditions, I’m going to my fucking wife and you are fucking coming with me. And bring your fucking family while you’re at it!”

*** “Why are we here?” John leaned in to Arthur slightly while asking the question in a hushed voice. “Alfie insisted.” “Why?” Arthur raised his voice, “Ask Tommy, alright? I don’t bloody know! I’m guessing it’s another Jewish thing…” On the other side of the door, you were most definitely in labour now. The pain was worse than anything you’d experienced before and you were seriously questioning your sanity at this point. “Aunt Pol?” Ada asked carefully after about an hour. Polly moved over from your side down to your legs and said, “What is it?” “Something’s wrong.” “THOMAS!” Polly bellowed as soon as she had taken a look, “Get me some more towels.”

“What’s happening?” A panicked Alfie asked from the hallway. But Polly pushed him aside and started ordering Finn to boil more water. “Woman!” he demanded, “You fucking tell me.” “She’s bleeding,” she answered quickly, “and I can’t see why.” “What can we do, Pol,” Arthur asked, wild-eyed. “Get a doctor. One we can trust.” Arthur dragged John with him, even before Polly had finished her sentence. “What about Sabini’s men?” John asked, “We were supposed to deal with them tonight. What if they come here?” “Shoot them,” Tommy said simply, as he lit another cigarette in a nervous manner. Inside the room, you were now screaming your head off. Of course you had realised giving birth would be painful, but not like this. The sight of Ada going slightly pale didn’t help either and panic had started mixing in with the general anxiety of the process, so your screams got louder and louder. “Pol…” Ada called out again, “What do I do?” In that moment, Alfie pushed passed her and fell down by your side, “I’m here,” he said softly. “I can see that,” you panted between shouts, “but why? You’re not supposed to be here.” “Out,” Aunt Polly said strictly, “This is no place for men.” And then Tommy walked in as well, averting his eyes and grabbing your hand at the same time. “What?” he said when Polly send him a death-glare, “If Alfie gets to stay, so can I!” “Fucking children…” “Alright, sweetheart,” Polly focused on you again, “This baby needs to come now.” Your eyes grew wide, “What’s wrong?” “Nothing,” Alfie replied for her, “You’ll be fine. You’re doing brilliant, babes.” “How the fuck would you know!” you shouted out. He shrugged, “Educated guess?” “Had a lot of experience with this, eh?” Tommy grumbled sarcastically. “This,” Ada pointed at the both of them, “This is why men shouldn’t be in here.” “I’m not fucking going anywhere, especially if my wife is in danger.” Tommy just shook his head in reply. “Danger?” you asked suddenly, “What does he mean in danger?” “No danger, love,” Ada soothed you, “if you just push.” And so you pushed, with every bit of strength you had in you. But then a gunshot sounded outside, followed rapidly by another two. Everyone looked up. “John,” Tommy clarified with a single word. “You’re being awfully cavalier about baby brother John getting shot there, Tommy…” Alfie commented. Tommy looked at Alfie with a frown that spoke volumes, “John just shot Sabini’s men. I told him to.” “Oh, good. Saves me the bloody trip.” “I can see some hair!” Ada called out suddenly. “What colour?” Alfie replied at once. And John stuck his head around the corner of the door, “Took care of them.” “We heard,” Aunt Polly grumbled. He hopped from one foot onto the other uncertainly, “Anything else I can do?” “Yeah, you can fuck off mate!” “Alright, I’ll stay, since you asked so nicely.” “John, just get the fuck out!” your sister shouted. The birth was chaos enough as it was and now all these boys were only adding to it instead of helping. And on top of it all, Finn stumbled in practically falling over his own feet with a bucket of water, splashing Aunt Polly in the process. This was more like a madhouse than a family occasion. But John pointed at Alfie indignantly, “He gets to stay!” “Push, Y/N,” Polly urged again, and so you did. “Nice one,” John laughed at Finn, “you literally had one job, mate.” “Mrs. Gray?” Alfie asked carefully, “Sorry to interrupt you there, alright, but I just wanted to quickly check, because you mentioned the hair, yeah? What colour? Because I’m sure I’ll love my son all the same if he’s blond, but I might just need to mentally prepare myself…” And then you finally burst out in anger, “Can you all just shut the fuck up for a second! I’m actually trying to have a fucking baby here!!” “Right, sorry about that love,” Alfie moved closer to you and grabbed your hand again, “Please continue. You’re doing brilliantly, even if he is blond…” Tommy chuckled lightly in the background, which made you even more angry somehow, “Alfie, I swear to God or Adonai or whatever you want to call him, do nottouch me again because remember how you said you couldn’t remember your circumcision?”

“Yes,” Alfie mumbled in mortal fear.

“You will remember when I do it. Remember how you told me of your rabbi doing it when boys are eight days old, because then it heals faster?”

“Yes...” he gulped.

“I’ll make it slow sweetheart. Really fucking slow.”

“Right,” he said with big eyes, “What exactly would you have me do then except for just standing here like some great big bloody useless piece of shit?”

“Shut up!”

“Noted.” *** You weren’t sure what had happened exactly in that last hour. Apparently you’d lost a lot of blood and things had gotten hazy very quickly. Ada and Aunt Polly had stopped talking altogether and they had managed to save you, despite the bickering men in the background. You did remember that Alfie and Arthur had gotten into a fight at one point, but apparently they managed to resolve it quickly when the doctor arrived and they took turns in beating him up because he was no longer needed. Anger really does bring people together.

Of course, none of that really mattered now, because you were now holding a perfect baby right there, in your arms. Finn just stared at the baby, completely in awe. “Not blond…” John sounded a little disappointed. Arthur grinned, “But bloody perfect.” “Gorgeous, just like the mother,” Polly hugged you carefully. “Shelby good looks.” Tommy nodded slowly, with a sense of pride in his voice. “Any names yet?” Ada asked, “I bet you’ve picked them out ages ago, haven’t you?” “I have,” you smiled, “but couldn’t say them out loud yet, so we didn’t really discuss it. It’s bad luck.”

Uncharacteristically, Alfie hadn’t said a word yet.

“Mr. Solomons?” you said, gazing up from your one love to the other, “I believe you have a daughter.” And finally he smiled, deeply and incredibly in love as he held her tight with both hands. And in the most tender way possible he looked at you, grinned and said, “Fucking hell!”

***

Masterlist

2K notes · View notes

ikevamp-shrine · 3 years

Note

Hey can I pls have d, v, f and w for jean and Mozart?

Jean

D = dirty secret (a dirty secret of theirs)

- Already done here

V = volume (how loud are they? what sounds do they make?)

- He starts out quiet

- Low words of his love for you and how much he only wants to please you

- It's more body language at the beginning- shivers, bumps rising on his skin that follows the path of your palm, mouth parted just a tad

- When his eyes begin to betray the faux control he has that’s when he makes noise

- And my lord how beautiful they are

Little pants and sharp hisses when you swallow him whole, his toes curling and thighs trembling when he wraps his fist in your hair

- French curses slip from his lips like water splashing from a basin when he has you bent over, hands running up and down the curve of your hip as he slowly pushes into your needy core

- Murmuring in that deep, demanding voice about how warm and wet you are, how easily he can take you, how positively ravishing you look completely at his mercy

- Has non-dirty, dirty talk down to an art

F = favorite position (this goes without saying)

- Doggy through and through

- He likes seeing you, feeling all of you

- Loves being able to run his hands down the arch of your back and rest his hands on that delicious rump of yours

- Tends to lift your legs to wrap around his hips from behind, your arms shaking, his hands supporting you in the space between your thighs and that soft little belly of yours he just loves to touch so much

- He bought a mirror shortly after trying this position for the first time

- Purely just because he wanted to see the bouncing of your breasts and the sensual twist of your features as he pounds into you (and I mean completely rails you)

- And by God does he enjoy pushing down on your shoulders to make you bend further, making that arch of your spine deeper

- He’ll demand a “stay” when he cums inside you so he can pull out and watch as that pearly thickness seeps from your heat and slide down the expanse of your quivering legs

- Literally has to pick you up because you can’t move after he has you under him for hours

- He asked once, voice quiet and unsure, “does it not hurt to be in one place for so long?” and all you could do is chuckle and kiss his cheek because yes, it does hurt but damn does it feel good

W = wild card (random headcanon)

- Jean tries to hide his face when he comes

- He doesn’t know why, it’s just his immediate reaction

- And tis a shame it is because when that fiery, lustful blush paints his moon kissed skin and his dark brows knit together, eyes rolling shut- you swear a masterpiece is before you

- Sometimes feeling him hide between your breast and in the crook of your neck or hearing those naughty moans muffled by the pillow he dug his face into is enough

- But other times you just need to see his face become so overwhelmed by the pleasure you give him, so you do what any sane person does...

- You grab his heated cheeks with one hand and turn his face towards you so he has no choice but to obey you

- The satisfaction you receive by witnessing his eyes fly open from your forwardness, tears gathering in those night sky orbs, is tremendous

- He would never admit it but when you bend him to your will and force him to show his face to your prying eyes makes his cock genuinely hurt from how intense he comes

Mozart

D = dirty secret (a dirty secret of theirs)

- To distract himself from the horrid swaying of a carriage he was in, Mozart envisioned you

- Your smile, hair, scent, soft skin, the way you bite your lip when he thumbs over the vein in your neck, the way you so submissively open yourself up so he can slide between your legs

- He started to remember the night before and how tight the silk ribbons were around his wrist, and how lost in the pleasure you looked as you rode him, never allowing him to touch you without his begging first

- He couldn’t stop thinking about you

- Needless to say, he cursed himself for being a wretched fool and quickly unbuckled his pants, pulling them down just enough that his member sprang free, flushed and pulsating painfully

- The moan that drifted through the air as he gripped himself and pumped once imagining it was you, still brings a blazing blush to cheeks

V = volume (how loud are they? What sound do they make?)

- Not loud or very much vocal per se

- More needy sighs and shuddering breaths than anything

- Hisses when you clench down mid-thrust, trying to stay connected, his lower back flexing and shoulders flinching at the pleasure

- Open mouth pants to catch his breath as you claw wildly around you, hoping to ground yourself, his hips slamming roughly against yours

- Low curses and mumbles of foreign languages that make your blood pump rapidly

- He knows all too well and will purposely whisper sharp words in your ear, his voice shaky, giving way to a rumbling moan against your neck

- Sharp inhales and muffled grunts when you push him down and claim him as your own

- His dirty talk is off the charts though-

“That’s it. That’s my good, little meine liebe- taking me all in like that.”

“Sing for me, my love, let the heavens know how nicely I fuck you.”

- Even when you’re straddling him on the piano bench, his cock soaked with your arousal, your fingers on the keys, his hand guiding your jaw to look at his narrowed eyes, looking and whimpering like the absolute mess you are, he still lacks mercy...

- “If you mess up the notes one more time, you’ll be crying with frustration instead of moaning out my name when I bend you over these keys and turn your ass red.”

F = favorite position (this goes without saying)

- Already done here

W = wild card (random headcanon)

- he is sooo soft for you after you fall asleep, especially after your throat had gone raw from screaming so loud when he fucked into you not too long before

- Pulls the sheets up closer to your chin to chase the chill of night away

- Runs gentle knuckles along the side of your face, rubbing a finger over the red and swollen bottom of your lip

- His gaze is so unguarded and sweetly adoring when you huff lightly in your sleep. He’ll chuckle lowly at your hands searching for him and will pull you into his chest; completely encasing you in his warm embrace, cupping the back of your head protectively as if it's just you and him against the world

- He can hear his heartbeat in his ears as his chest tightens at realizing just how much he loves you

- Has to kiss the crown of your to distract himself from the stinging in his eyes

- this man is so rough and prickly but when it's just you and him he becomes the biggest puddle of mush

ABCs SMUT MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST

SHOTS MASTERLIST

#ikemen vampire #ikevamp #ikemen series #ikevam #ikemen vampire abcs smut #ikevamp abcs smut #ikevam abcs smut #ikevam jean #ikevamp jean #ikemen vampire jean #ikevamp mozart #ikemen vampire mozart #ikevam mozart

111 notes · View notes

mochegato · 3 years

Text

Colossal Debts

For @maribat-secret-santa-2020. Timinette and platonic Jasonette requested.

Jason owed him big for this. Tremendously. Monumentally. Colossally big. This was Tim’s night off. His night to relax at home… with a few cold case files and maybe video games. No family, no obligations, no playing nice. Just him, alone. Not even his friends were going to be over. Just relaxation. But nooooo. Jason called and coerced him into helping him, or more specifically one of his drunken, loud-mouthed, idiot friends. Make no mistake just because he let Jason coerce him into helping, that in no way meant he wasn’t going to collect big on this. Tremendously. Monumentally. Colossally big.

He scanned the room looking for someone who looked like he would be a friend of Jason’s but didn’t see anyone who stood out as an obnoxious jerk. If Jason made him come all the way down here for no reason, Tim was going to make him take his nights for the next month. He yanked his phone out of his pocket to give him a call only to have the phone start ringing before he could get past the lock screen. Speak of the Devil… He pushed the answer button and opened his mouth to ask Jason what the hell, but Jason spoke before he could.

“Where the fuck are you?” he demanded. “You said you were going to the bar.”

“I am at the bar,” Tim hissed back. “I’m looking for your friend but I don’t see anyone that stands out. Are you sure he’s still here?”

“I said ‘her’, dumbass. And yes she’s still there. She just called me saying she was going to walk home since you weren’t there,” Jason growled back. “I swear to God, if something happened while you were fucking around…” he gave an aggrevated sigh. “Look for a woman who looks completely out of place in a seedy bar and way the fuck out of your league. Someone who seems like pure innocence and sunshine… drunk sunshine, very drunk if her friend is anything to go by. Probably pouting and sitting back down after I threatened her to get her not to leave on her own.”

Tim scanned the bar again and saw a petite woman slump into a chair at the end of the bar and drop her head on her arms dramatically. “I can’t see her face, but black hair, small?”

“Probably. Her name is Marinette. Don’t call her small to her face unless I’m there to see you do it. And Tim?” He waited a beat to make sure he had Tim’s attention. “Mistreat her in any way and I will throw parties in your townhouse every night during your entire three month stay in the ICU.”

“Yeah, yeah, got it.” Tim rolled his eyes. Jason could at least come up with a somewhat new threat. “One wrong move with your drunk girlfriend and you’ll kill me.”

“Not my girlfriend and I won’t be the one to do it. There will be a line. She’ll be at the front of it.” He hung up without further explanation.

Tim sighed and made his way over to the woman he was pretty sure was Jason’s “friend”. He sat down next to the woman close enough to make sure she knew of his presence but far enough away not to invade her personal space.

“Not even remotely interested. Thank you, next.” She mumbled into her arms, lifting one of her arms to clumsily wave him away.

Tim cocked his head to the side with an amused smile. She had an adorable French accent. “First time I’ve been turned down before the person even interacted with me.”

“Exciting day for you. Congratulations.” He was pretty sure she was slurring her words slightly but between the mumbling into her arms and her accent, it was hard to tell.

“Thank you.” He nodded to her even though she couldn’t see it. “I’m Tim.”

“Don’t care,” she singsonged in an annoyed voice.

Tim gave an amused snort. At least she was an amusing drunk. “I’m Jason’s brother. He sent me to come pick you up. I take it you’re Marinette?”

Marinette’s head popped up to take him in and she immediately regretted it, dropping her head back down with a groan. “Too fast. That was a mistake.” She kept her head buried for a few moments to let the blood settle before slowly turning her head to face him, still resting her head on her arms. Tim’s breath hitched slightly when her eyes met his. Her eyes were bright and brilliant and utterly captivating. She was looking at him with a soft smile. “So you’re Jason’s brother. Not what I was expecting. Which one are you?”

“Tim,” he repeated with a smile.

“Oh, you’re the smart one.” She nodded with a teasing smile. She raised her head slightly to see him better.

Tim scoffed. “I’m surprised he didn’t say the annoying one.”

“You’re all the annoying one.” She gave him a knowing smile, as though she was letting him in on a joke. Her face suddenly turned serious and penitent. “Thank you for picking me up. I’m sorry for whatever threat he used to get you to come. He’s always been so overprotective. I’m sorry you got caught up in it.” She smiled gratefully at him and Tim’s heart skipped a beat at the sight.

She suddenly straightened up in her seat and turned back to her empty drink in front of her, frowning at the sight. She moved the ice cubes around, searching intently for liquor she hoped it was hiding. “I’m sorry for interrupting your night.” She turned back to him with concerned eyes. “Oh! Did you have plans for tonight? Were they fun?”

“Uh, no.” He looked down sheepishly and rubbed the back of his neck. “I was just relaxing.”

“I’m sorry. Oh, you should get a drink! You can celebrate with me. You can’t celebrate without a drink.” She motioned wildly to get the bartender’s attention. She was suddenly very excited, her grin incredibly wide and all signs of weariness and serenity gone.

Tim stared at her for a few moments trying to figure out how to respond. “No, I’m good,” he said calmly, trying to bring her emotional levels back down. She pouted at him and gave him puppy dog eyes. Tim looked over to her drink to keep from looking her in the eyes. He needed to distract her, and himself. “What are you celebrating?”

“My company! I just officially launched my company on Monday! Isn’t that so cool? It’s so cool.” She nodded to herself. “Oh! We should have a drink to celebrate.”

“Yes, very cool. Congratulations,” he confirmed.

She narrowed her eyes at him and huffed. “I know you’re just patronaging… parrotizing… patronizing! Patronizing me, but I’ll take it anyway because you’re one of the only ones to say it. So, thank you very much.” She gave him an overly wide smile. “You should get a drink to celebrate!” She exclaimed excitedly, eyes opening wide as though she just thought of it.

Tim chuckled. “No, thank you. I’m good and we should probably cut you off too.” He handed his card to the bartender. “I’d like to close out her tab, please.”

She pouted at him, her euphoric mood suddenly plummeting along with her shoulders. “But it’s a celebration.”

“Is this man bothering you?” The bartender eyed Tim suspiciously.

“He doesn’t want to celebrate with me.” She sighed and slumped onto the bar again, resting her chin on her arms. “Nobody wants to celebrate with me. Even my friend left,” she reported morosely.

“I was sent to take her back to her home,” Tim assured the bartender.

She kept a skeptical eye on him and addressed Marinette again. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”

“Hm?” Marinette looked up at her with a confused look. She looked over to Tim again. “Oh, right. No. Yeah. I’m fine. My brother sent him. If he tried anything, Jason would cut it off.” She returned her unfocused gaze to the bartender. Suddenly she straightened up, hands grasping the edge of the bar almost knocking over her empty glass in the process. “His hand! I meant his hand. He’d cut off his hand! Not…” she surreptitiously looked Tim up and down. She slumped back down into her seat and hid her head in her arms again. “I’m not drunk enough to finish that sentence.”

The bartender nodded with a chuckle and left to ring up the tab.

“So… brother?” Tim prompted her laughing.

“Hm,” she hummed in confirmation. “Self-proclaimed.”

“How did you two meet?”

“Bar fight. In Paris.”

“Of course you did. Did he step in to protect you in the middle of it, start it, or both?”

She scoffed at him. “I started it. Actually, legally, I didn’t start it. The guy who grabbed my ass started it. I just finished it. Jason pretended to be my brother to the cops and made sure I got home safe. We hung out a lot after that for…” she eyed him critically, “… reasons,” she finished uncertainly. “The brother title stuck.” She looked around the bar, eyes drifting from one thing to another with no apparent link. “Stupid cover. Brother,” she scoffed. “His French wasn’t that good.” She turned to Tim with a bewildered look. “And do we look alike? Even a little bit?”

She scoffed again and faced forward, moving her arms to rest them on the bar with a thump but missed the bar. The momentum threw her forward and her reflexes were just a beat too slow to stop herself from crashing into the bar. She braced herself for the impact but instead felt a soft, warm embrace halting her movement. She looked up at her savior in awe. Tim looked down at her with a soft smile. “Careful. The bar moves.”

Marinette blushed as she settled back on her seat. “Thank you,” she answered quietly, looking away from his eyes.

Tim nodded and moved back to his seat, but kept his arms around Marinette until he was certain she was stable. “So was the reason you hung out so much after that so he could cover for you in more bar fights?” Tim joked.

Marinette hummed affirmatively. “I know you’re being condensate… condescend… joking, but kind of. They seem to follow us. Or maybe it’s just fighting in general that I can’t get away from.” She frowned at the bar, remembering something that Tim desperately wanted to know more about. He didn’t like the frown on her face. He wanted to get her to smile again.

“I wasn’t trying to be condescending or patronizing. Promise. At least not towards you. Jason, yes absolutely. But not you,” he spoke with sincerity in his voice.

She stared at him wide eyed for a few moments before looking away shyly. “Okay.”

As if to accentuate her earlier point, he heard loud yelling halfway down the bar. One man stood up and started shoving another over something Tim couldn’t quite make out. Tim jumped out of his seat and reached for Marinette to get her to safety. He’d just come back later to get his card. Protecting Marinette was more important right now.

Marinette brushed his hands away inelegantly. “We’re fine here. That guy there, with the glasses? He’s going to jump in any second now. That’s going to push the fight in the other direction. Once he jumps in his friend is going to jump in too. They’re going to be fum… stum… fighting around that big table there. One of them is going to be thrown on it. Probably glasses’ friend. That’s going to get Curly, the bald one? Curly was the bald Stooge right?” Tim opened his mouth to respond but she was already moving on. “So Curly’s going to jump in, right? Once he’s in the bartender is going to pull out that bat and probably the gun she keeps under the bar and stop it, ‘cuz she likes him.” She looked around in panic. “Don’t tell anyone! That’s a secret. I think.” Deciding nobody was around to hear, she slumped back down and continued her narrative. “The fight will move away from us until the bartender ends it.”

Tim eyed her skeptically and turned to watch the bar fight unfold. His mouth dropped as it happened exactly like Marinette had predicted. He whipped his head around when he heard a loud bang next to him. “Oh my God someone stole my phone!” she whisper shouted to him, searching around frantically.

Tim looked down to the source of the noise, something hitting the floor, he sighed disbelievingly. He bent down and picked up her phone she had dropped and handed it back to her. “It’s right here.”

She looked between him and the phone a few times. “Oh my God,” she whispered out, “you stole my phone.”

Tim stared at her for a few moments and started laughing incredulously. She could predict the events of the fight, incorporating observations of multiple figures, inputting social relationships, attitudes, and physiques, but she couldn’t figure out she dropped her phone. He looked at her fondly for a moment before furrowing his brow when a thought occurred to him. “So… you were here with a friend and your friend just left you alone?” It seemed incredibly irresponsible considering her current state and honestly, Tim was a little worried about what Jason would do to the friend when he found out.

Marinette scoffed. She turned her head to give him an insulted look. “You think he’s better at taking care of me than I am?” She straightened up in her seat to her full height attempting to look more intimidating and faced her body toward him. “Even drunk, I could handle myself as well or better than him.”

Tim held up his hands in mock surrender. “No. I am not doubting your capabilities,” he tried to placate her. “I’m just saying having more than one person, especially when drinking is involved is safer.

Marinette stared at him for a few moments deciding if she thought he meant it or not before seeming to come to the conclusion he meant it. She nodded at him. “Agreed. To be fair though, he…” She raised her arm up, propped her elbow on the bar, and sloppily plopped her chin on her hand, staring at him intently. “…you have gorgeous eyes.”

Tim gaped at her and blushed, caught off guard by the sudden change in topic. “Than…”

“To be fair,” she continued not letting him finish his expression of gratitude and returning her glossy stare toward the bar. “He wasn’t exactly sober either and his girlfriend was caught in that rogue attack across town and he was too worried about her to think straight. That’s probably why you’re here instead of Jason anyway.” Tim whipped his head around to see who was close enough to hear her, but almost the entirety of the bar was focused on the remains of the fight. There was nobody close by, but she was drunk enough to suddenly start announcing things loudly enough for everyone in the bar to hear. He really, really needed to get her out of there but they were still waiting on his card and the receipt.

Marinette suddenly furrowed her brow and looked down at the bar top. “Oh. I don’t think I was supposed to say that.”

He tried to fix her with a stern look but it came out softer than he intended. “What did you mean by that?”

Her face quickly morphed to a blank expression when she faced him again. She blinked a few times. “By what? I don’t know what I said. I don’t know anything, not a thing. Mind completely empty.” She tried to tap her temple to indicate where her brain should be, in case Tim needed the visual reminder, but flinched back when she accidentally poked herself in the eye instead. She scrunched her eyes shut and turned toward the bar again. “And filter completely missing,” she tried to mutter under her breath, but instead said it just as loudly.

Tim stared at her for a few moments uncertain how he felt about her clearly knowing their secret, or at least Jason’s and having the will but clearly not the ability to keep quiet about it. He burst out laughing, deciding giving into the absurdity of the situation was the best response. “You’re a terrible liar, you know that?” He nodded to the bartender who just returned his card after dealing with the fighters.

“I know,” she announced in an exasperated voice and throwing her arms out to the side. “You would think I’d be better by now. You should hear… I really like your smile, too.” She smiled sweetly at him.

Tim smiled self-consciously. “I like yours too.”

She beamed back at him and turned back to the bar. “… hear some of the excuses I’ve come up with.” She turned to Tim with a desperate look on her face. “I once said I had to water my hamster. I don’t even have a hamster.” She looked back to the bar again and slumped back into her seat. Her face turned sad. “I want a hamster.”

She waved her arms wildly as a thought occurred to her. “Wait!” She looked at him with panic in her eyes. “If Jason’s your brother and my brother… does that make you my brother too?”

Tim stared at her for a second. “No. Not even remotely.”

“Are you sure? Transitive properties and all.” She looked at him uncertain.

“I am absolutely positive. In no way could you be considered my sister,” he promised.

She sighed in relief, relaxing back into her seat with a contented smile. “Okay, good. You should get a hamster.”

“I think it’s time to get you home,” he said shaking his head and getting up. He reached out to help her up and support her.

She looked over at him stricken. “Oh no, I made you uncomfortable! Do you have a pho… phoban?” she scrunched up her face in concentration. “Phobia!” she announced proudly. Before leaning into Tim. “Do you have a fear of hamsters? I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have brought them up. It’s okay, you don’t need to get one.”

Tim fought the smile that wanted to appear on his lips at her concern. “No,” he assured her.

“Oh.” She looked down trying to come up with another reason for his sudden decision to leave. “Did I make you mad because you hate hamsters?” She asked in a very serious tone like that was the most rational next explanation.

He didn’t even fight the smile and chuckle this time as he wrapped his arm around her waist to help her toward the exit. “No. I have no opinions on hamsters at all.”

“Well that’s just sad,” she dismissed him and curled into his side, allowing him to guide her outside. After a few steps she stopped and stood up straight. “I annoyed you!” she moaned ruefully.

“No.” He ran his hands up and down her arms to calm her and get assure her he was not upset. His breath hitched when she turned her watery, shining blue eyes to his, pausing his hands as he got lost in her gaze. He shook his head to focus back on the task at hand, not hitting on the beautiful, sweet, funny, interesting, drunken friend of Jason. “It’s just getting late and I think you could use some sleep,” he said gently.

“Oh… okay,” she answered slightly dazed from his gaze as well. Her gaze shifted to take in his face. “You’re very handsome. You have great hair too. Does it naturally do that?” She reached up to touch his hair, but jerked her hand back so violently she would have fallen over if Tim wasn’t supporting her weight. “I am so sorry. That was not okay. I forgot you’re just here because Jason asked you. I don’t know you and I can’t just touch you without your permission.”

Tim looked down pointedly at his arm around her waist but she completely missed the look. She groaned and hid her head in her hands. Tim tightened his grip around her waist and continued leading her to his car. “It’s okay. I’m glad I came down and met you. And, if I was offended I would have tried to move away instead of leaning into it. You can touch my hair if you want,” he assured her. “And anything else,” he muttered under his breath.

She looked up at him with a cute look of wide eyed confusion. “What?��

“What?” he answered back just as innocently. “Um… So… You and Jason are close?” He asked carefully trying to distract her while he opened his car door for her.

She hummed noncommittally. “As close as Jason lets anyone get. He’s like the big brother I never wanted. I think I was adopted against my will.”

“Oh?” He prompted as he closed the door. He needed her to stay awake so he knew where to take her. And it had the added benefit of allowing him to get to know her a bit better… and possibly blackmail on Jason.

She hummed again when he got in on the driver’s side. He watched her fumble with the seat belt as she spoke. “Something about the dead heroes club?”

He froze. He snapped his eyes to hers. “You were a hero?”

Her eyes bugged out and snapped up to his. “Noooo, what?” She looked back down at the belt latch, trying a few more times to get it to click. She huffed after a few more tries. “Reverse polarization.”

“What?” Tim asked her trying to figure out where the hell that had come from.

“Reverse polarization. That must be it. The… the square part is repelling the other square part. That’s why I can’t get it to work.” She nodded to herself. “Reverse polarization. They don’t want to be together.” She paused for a moment. “If that isn’t some kind of symbolism… I don’t know what for, but something.”

Tim gave an amused smile and pushed the latch into the buckle. Marinette gasped and looked at him in awe. “How did you stop the polarization?”

“Magic,” Tim answered looking away, fully realizing there would be no way to explain the lack of magnets involved.

Marinette gasped. “You’re magic too?” She stared at him excitedly for a few moments before her face scrunched up again. “You guys aren’t magic. Batman doesn’t like magic. You lied.”

Tim stared at her, thinking very carefully about his next words and running through all the things she just revealed. First, she knew he was a bat. Second, she knew Batman didn’t like magic. Third, she said ‘too’. So either she knew someone who was magic or she was magic. Fourth, she had taken him seriously and thought he was lying to her. He decided the last one was the immediate issue. The rest could be dealt with when she woke up in the morning. Or when he could corner Jason. “Sorry, it was a joke. I didn’t think you would take me seriously. I’m sorry for misleading you. It was not my intention,” he promised solemnly.

Marinette studied him and cocked her head to the side and finally nodded. “Okay. I don’t like liars. Even though I am one, but I don’t like it.”

“So why do you?”

“Have to,” she shrugged.

“Because you’re a hero, like Jason?” he prompted again.

“Hero’s not the right word.” She shook her head jerkily. “You don’t have heroes.”

Vigilante,” he suggested.

“Yes!” She looked excitedly at him then realized their conversation. “Nooooo.” She looked straight out the windshield. Tim focused on the road as well and pulled out into traffic. “I was never a vigilante,” she continued absentmindedly.

“Were you a hero?” he asked again. “A hero that died and came back?”

“Hm? What?” She raised her eyebrows at him as though seeking clarification. “I’m sorry my English isn’t very…” she screwed up her eyes to think, “… well.” She nodded proudly at herself.

Tim scoffed at her. “Your English is excellent. You have to focus to mess it up.”

“Aww, thank you!” she beamed at his praise. “I haven’t been speaking it very long.”

He opened his mouth to press the subject but decided that wouldn’t be fair to her. He wouldn’t want someone to take advantage of him if he were in a weakened state. He wouldn’t do it to her. “Where do you live?”

She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the door’s glass. She rambled off her address. Tim chuckled lightly. “I meant here… in Gotham. Not France.”

Marinette’s eyes flew open. “Oh! Um.” She frowned to think about it. They hadn’t been living there very long and she remembered more by sight than by actual address. “6th street. No 7th. 8th? 9th. Definitely 9th. Sorry,” she smiled sheepishly at him and closed her eyes again. “No!” she jumped forward, “27th!” She looked away and frowned. “No, that’s not right either.”

Tim sighed and tried not to smile at the cute faces she was making. He decided this was absolutely fruitless. The only solution would be to call Jason. He picked up on the fourth ring with an annoyed voice. “No, you can’t date her.”

“That was not the question. And also, fuck you. Where does your girl live?”

“She’s not mine and why don’t you ask her?” After a beat, he amended himself. “Actually, she is. She’s mine. You can’t date her.”

Tim scoffed at him. “She already said you adopted her like a little sister. B rub off on you, Jay?” He smirked as he drove knowing exactly the face and gestures Jason was making to that. Before he could respond, Tim continued, “She doesn’t remember her address.” He looked over to her. Her head was resting on the glass again and her eyes were closed. Her breathing was even and her mouth hung open slightly. “And I’m pretty sure she just fell asleep. I can link to the batcomputer and look it up, I guess.”

“NO! I don’t want B to know about her yet.”

“Why,” Tim asked suspiciously, the previous conversation about magic popping into his mind. It could be just Jason being Jason and wanting to keep everyone at arm’s length or it could mean something was going on with this woman and he didn’t want Bruce to act on it.

“Because it’s B. I want her off his radar as long as possible.”

“That tells me exactly nothing.” He rolled his eyes. “Is she dangerous?”

“Only if you try to grab her ass or try to hurt someone. I just don’t want Bat dad getting his hands on her,” he explained, his growing annoyance clear in his voice.

“So, she is a hero, a magical one.” Tim nodded at the confirmation.

“No…” Jason answered tentatively. “… It’s complicated. And I’m not going to explain it. Just… take her to your place for tonight.”

“Why my place?”

“She needs some place to crash. She’s a good person. And you want to hook up with her despite me telling you to back off.”

Tim nodded his head to the side in acknowledgement. He wasn’t wrong. And if she slept at his place tonight he could keep an eye on her to make sure she was okay and maybe talk to her in the morning. “Fine. I’ll take her to my place.”

“And Tim?”

“Yes?”

“You sleep on the couch.”

“You know I have a guest room, right? A few, in fact.”

<><><><><>

The next morning came earlier than Tim was prepared for. He really wanted to stay in bed for a few more hours, but he was afraid of Marinette waking up in a strange bed and freaking out with nobody there to answer questions. He dragged himself out of the guest bed and started making coffee for them. He would have started breakfast for them, but he didn’t know how long she would be sleeping and he couldn’t cook. He just decided he could order some food to be delivered when he heard shuffling from the kitchen entrance.

He looked up to see Marinette in the doorway, nervously rubbing her arms, an anxious smile on her face. She looked absolutely beautiful despite being a bit rumpled and disheveled. “Hi,” she waved awkwardly.

Tim gave her a disarming smile. “Hi.”

She looked around uncertainly. “Um… if you don’t mind me asking… Where am I?” The apprehension was clear in her voice.

Tim smiled calmly, trying to reassure her that she was safe. “You’re in my townhouse.”

“Right, right. Cool. Cool.” She shifted nervously. “And we didn’t?” She motioned vaguely between them.

Tim’s smile widened at her expression. “No. I slept in the spare room.”

“Oh thank god.” She let out a relieved breath. “I didn’t think we did considering I’m still dressed but… Oh, no offense to you. I just…”

“Weren’t yourself or able to make responsible decisions last night?” He asked with an amused glint in his eyes and a smirk. He motioned to a chair at the counter.

“Yes.” She sighed out, grateful for his understanding. She suddenly straightened unnaturally stiff and studied him apprehensively for a few moments. “You say that like you know I wasn’t making responsible decisions last night. Tell me I didn’t do anything I should regret or be embarrassed about last night, please.”

“Other than saying you wanted to jump me and get married and have babies in a house filled with hamsters?” he offered innocently.

“OH MY GOD!” Her face turned bright red faster than she could bury it in her hands to hide it.

His laughter boomed out of him. “I’m kidding. I’m totally kidding.” He only laughed louder when she gave him an absolutely adorable pout.

“That was not funny. You’re mean.” She sat down in the offered chair with a huff. “Stop being mean to the hungover urchin you housed for the night.”

His laughter calmed quickly and he had the decency to look guilty. “I’m sorry. You’re right. That was mean. You were perfectly polite and sweet all night. You didn’t do anything embarrassing at all. The only thing I would be embarrassed about in the morning was telling me my eyes were pretty and I was handsome. Which isn’t even embarrassing, I’m just easily embarrassed. It was very nice to hear though.”

The rosy color returned to her cheeks as she studied his eyes searching them to see if he was telling the truth this time. She must have found that he was because she looked down and nodded. “Yeah, drunk me is very honest.” Tim blushed slightly at her admission. “I swear I’m not usually like that. My friend and I were just celebrating and things spiraled.”

Tim nodded in understanding. “Congratulations again, in case you don’t remember me saying it last night. You never said what kind of company it is.”

“Thank you.” She gave him a grateful smile. “It’s a fashion company. I’m a designer. I’m really excited to finally have a store front up and running.” She looked around his townhouse, really looking at it for the first time. “Um… no offense. Who are you?

Tim chuckled. “And drunk you has no memory retention.”

“I am so sorry,” she moaned into her hands.

He chuckled. “Don’t be. I don’t drink often but when I do, I’m pretty much the same, and significantly less cute in the process.” Marinette blushed and looked down to try unsuccessfully to hide it. “I’m Tim. I’m Jason’s brother. He asked me to pick you up last night since he was helping with the rogue attack.”

“He was?” She looked at him, the picture of innocent confusion.

“Oh, sober you is much better at acting dumb than drunk you.” Tim commented with a shake of his head and handed her a cup of coffee. “I’m impressed. I would have believed that if I didn’t know better.”

Her eyes widened at him. “What did…”

“Just that you knew Jason was a vigilante. Is there more?” he asked with a teasing smile.

She opened her mouth to deny it before she thought better of it and narrowed her eyes at him playfully. “You were going to be nice to the hungover urchin. I’m too hungover for mind games.”

“I actually never said that. But I’m willing to make it up to you.” He offered her a charming smile and leaned across the counter toward her. “Want to go get breakfast? My treat. We can talk and get to know each other… if you want.”

Marinette beamed at him, “I would love to.” She suddenly got a mischievous glint in her eye. “How pissed do you think it will make Jason?” Tim hummed noncommittally. Honestly he wasn’t sure. Jason seemed surprisingly okay with Tim bringing her to his house, but Jason was also extremely overprotective of the people he cared about so…

She leaned forward conspiratorially with a devious grin. “We should take a picture that makes it look like more is going on and send it to him.” Tim raised his eyebrows in surprise. Did she just… “Actually, maybe not.” She waved away the idea and leaned back in her chair again. “You’d be the one that would have to deal with the aftermath of that. That wouldn’t be fair and Jason can be an absolute asshole when he’s being protective.”

“Jason would hate it. Let’s do it.” Tim’s expression morphed to match her previous grin.

Marinette’s face brightened with excitement. “Really?”

Tim nodded, “I am always up for messing with my brothers.”

Marinette looked away shyly. “Okay, well, I was thinking you could take a picture of me kissing your cheek and send it to him? If you’re okay with me doing that.”

“I am absolutely okay with you kissing me,” Tim nodded, pulling out his phone. His cheeks colored quickly when he realized what he said. “I mean…”

“Ready?” she interrupted, the slight blush on her cheeks the only indication that she had heard him.

He nodded mutely and positioned the phone to take the picture. He nearly dropped the phone when he felt her soft lips brush against his cheek. It took a moment for him to remember he was supposed to be taking a picture of the kiss, not just enjoying it. Too quickly, she pulled away, looking at him with expectant eyes. “Did we get it? How does it look?”

He stared at her dumbly for a few seconds, still recovering from the kiss. “Um, right,” he turned to view the picture. “You look gorgeous. It! It looks gorgeous. I’ll just… I’ll send it to Jason.” His fingers fumbled through the screens to send the picture. Would she mind if he set it as his screensaver? It wasn’t creepy if the picture was her idea, right?

“And… could you send it to me too?” she asked timidly.

He looked up at her in surprise and quickly gave her a happy grin. “How about you take one with your phone. Maybe I can kiss your cheek this time.”

Marinette’s cheeks turned bright pink. She bit her lower lip and nodded at him. Tim grinned as he leaned forward to press a kiss to her cheek. Maybe he owed Jason instead. Tremendously. Monumentally. Colossally big.

#maribat #maribat secret santa #timari #timinette #platonic jasonette

304 notes · View notes

falling-pages · 3 years

Text

Fight for me: Hikaru x Renge

Renge tends to Hikaru's wounds after he gets in a fight to defend her.

Renge Houshakuji x Hikaru Hitachiin

Genre: Fluff, hurt/comfort, first kiss

Warnings: None

Hikaru knew how to throw a punch, but holding his own against three men was above even his own skill level.

It was amazing he had lasted so long in the fight until Mori spotted him and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck like a kitten, tossing him from the circle and finishing the fight himself. Those three upperclassmen didn’t stand a chance--yet he felt his blood run hot at the thought that he had to be saved when he was trying to save someone else.

Toui Kendarishi and his dumb fucking mouth just had to get under his skin, again.

A sharp scrub against his cheekbone jerked him back to reality. He hissed, going to swat at it, before the girl grabbed his wrist and pushed it back down.

“Don’t get mad at me, I’m just trying to help you,” Renge grumbled.

Yeah, some help she was. With every dab of the cotton ball and slab of ointment he relived every moment of the fight, every right hook and gut punch and kick he had endured for her, and she had no idea. The only soothing thing about this therapy appointment was her nails scratching his scalp, but only to distract him from a bad bout of pain.

He only rolled his eyes, jerking away as she moved on to his mouth. “I know you didn’t just roll your eyes at me,” she said, tugging at his bottom lip. His top lip had taken the brunt of Kendarishi’s fists, and all he tasted was his own blood in the back of his throat. He was sure he was a monster to look at, blood staining his teeth and tongue. As it dried against his skin, Renge thumbed it away, smearing it against her hand before she took a washcloth to it.

“So observant,” he hissed, resisting the urge to spit at the taste clouding his senses. Sarcasm was his trusted defense mechanism, and he relied on it heavily now to distract himself from the feeling of her fingers playing with his lips.

A harsh scrub against the wound was her own way of backtalk. “Sass me again, and I’ll stop, and you can explain to Kaoru why you look like a fucking Picasso,” she said.

“Tch.”

But he listened. The blood and spit and pain rendered him essentially mute, much to her amusement, as she worked. His eyes wandered around her bathroom, impossibly pink and frilly for a college apartment. Like the rest of her place, it was like Paris had vomited itself inside, the chunk of the concoction muddled in the bathroom. A pink fuzzy rug was below him as he was perched on her gilded toilet, a gaudy shower curtain boasting images of the Eiffel Tower, and even her mirror was embossed with rhinestones. Everything, from the toilet paper pile to the cosmetics cases, were perfectly stacked and organized, with not a speck of dust or dirt to be found.

Geez. And he thought her shrill demands of perfection in high school were bad. Their host room was spotless thanks to her dictatorship, but this was on another level.

“Admiring the bathroom, I see,” she said, sucking in her cheek as she fiddled with opening a band-aid. Her nails, long and purple, couldn’t quite find the purchase to pinch the covering from the adhesive side.

His life and health were quite literally in her hands, but Hikaru couldn’t hold back the snicker from his bleeding lips. “It’s mental,” he said, reaching up to help her with the band-aid.

Renge ripped it away from him, glowering down her nose at him in the most egregious French expression she could muster. He hadn’t known her in France, but he imagined that was the look she gave every servant, every waiter, every busboy who didn’t fit her exact demands. “I’ve got it,” she spat, turning her back to him. Her shoulders shook, but because of the effort of unpeeling the band-aid or some unknown emotion, he didn’t know.

“Here,” she resumed, turning to face him, and Hikaru’s heart cracked at the tears welling up in her pretty brown eyes, the heaviness in her voice. It sounded so heavy, despite its usual nasal tone, and exhausted, defeated. What had she gone through when her back was turned?

He made her cry. He knew he could take the teasing too far sometimes, but bringing a girl to tears was childish, a middle school prank he had sworn to leave far behind him. But he had done it again, not even to a nobody, but to the girl who was fixing him up, his friend, whom he had grown up with and bruised two ribs defending.

As she leaned down to apply the bandage to his cheek, he tried to meet eyes, to apologize without aggravating his poor lips, but she evaded his glance, pursing her lips and focusing on her work. Her hands shook, lightly grazing his temple.

“Renge, hey, I’m--” he grabbed her wrist, and she jerked away, stepping back until she hit the wall. His voice forced more tears from her eyes, and she buried her face in her hands as she sobbed, massive pink bow bobbing with every movement.

“Just stop, Hikaru, stop!” she yelled, muffled by her closing throat. “I can’t take it anymore. I can’t keep stitching you back up when you snap, I can’t take how mean you are. We aren’t in school anymore, we’re adults, we’re in college, and you’re just puffing your chest like you’re invincible, picking fights and losing them.” She finally showed her face, anger and fear and… something he couldn’t place etched into the lines beneath her eyes. “You want to know what’s mental?” She gestured to him, waving her hand up and down his whole form. “This is mental. You getting into fight after fight and not learning a damn thing from them, that’s what. It’s amazing you didn’t break your nose.”

Blood and anger coiled in the back of his throat. He lunged forward and grabbed her arm again, firmer this time, and yelled out, “I did this for you! I got in this fight for you!”

Renge pressed further against the wall, but she stopped fighting. Her hands shook in his tight grasp. Eyes as big as a silver dollar gazed up at him, heart thrumming wildly in her chest. “What?”

“I got in a fight with Kendarishi, right?”

“Yes.”

“And who is he to you?”

Renge blushed, letting her eyes drift to his chest. She spotted a new bruise mottling on his collarbone. “My ex-boyfriend.”

“Exactly.”

Hikaru released her wrists and watched as they fell to her side, like all the resistance had been sucked out of her. “Every time I fight with him, it’s because he said something bad about you. And then he started saying stuff about me fighting for you, so I just can’t win. I just have a lot of motivation and a lot of anger.”

“Why do you care so much what he says about me?” she asked, still not meeting his eyes.

“Because it was some bad stuff, Ren,” he said. “And I know we haven’t always gotten along, but you’re my friend, and I’m not gonna stand there and while he calls you a ‘fucking French whore who screws every guy she meets.’”

She swung at him, but he blocked, whining, “Hey, he said it, not me!”

When he put his hands down, she was shaking, with rage and sadness and something that looked an awful lot like determination in her eyes. “Bold of him to call me a whore when he’s the one who cheated.” Her hands ball into fists, and her eyes scanned him again--with a less medical glare, this time, and more of a vengeance. “And he did this to you?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll be back.”

“Wait!”

Hikaru grabbed her by the back of her shirt and suddenly realized exactly how Mori must have felt watching him fight it out on the academic lawn. Renge’s feet scrambled on the tile, but he held her in place, dragged her back in front of him to block her path. “What, so you’re going to go fight him now since he fought me?”

“That’s not a good enough reason?” she pouted.

“No, but…” Hikaru rubbed the back of his neck. “You were just lecturing me about fighting him. Seems a little hypocritical to me, Ren.”

“Don’t use words you don’t understand,” she huffed, leaning back against the wall. She didn’t fight him when he leaned in closer, securely caging in her body. “You were just defending my honor. Let me do the same.”

“Mori dragged me out of the fight, so I’d say he fucked them up good enough,” Hikaru said, and his heart thumped especially hard when she laughed. Oh God, it was like the tinkling of a bell, cool and clear and exactly what he imagined confectioner’s sugar to sound like. He felt himself dragged with a current, down the slope of a well, but he didn’t mind; he looked into her eyes and allowed the feeling to bouy him along. If he weren’t bleeding, he might have just kissed her, but he didn’t need her slap adding to his injuries.

Renge’s breath hitched when he leaned closer, resting his forearm parallel above her head. She was so busy in high school that she never noticed how soft his eyes were, almost golden, like the rising sun over a field of wheat. It reminded her of mornings on her family’s country estate, when she would meditate and do yoga and drink tea while the world quietly joined her in consciousness, when everything was soft and drowsy. Such beautiful eyes, bruised and marred and bloodied for her.

“Renge, I--”

“Don’t,” she whispered, lacking her usual venom. “Let’s enjoy what we have right now.”

Hikaru bit his lip, immediately regretting it as the pain surged back through him. When Renge laughed again, he couldn’t help it; he leaned down and pressed his forehead against hers, drinking in that sweet, drawled perfume that he so often used to make fun of her for wearing. She smelled like a doll, but she was anything but--smart, outspoken, a firecracker all wrapped up in that pretty pink bow.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, lowering his hand to her hair without thinking. He caressed the silky locks, trailing his fingers down to touch her temple, tucking the stray hairs behind her ear. “And so soft.”

“You know I’m anything but soft,” she grumbled, but his touch was warm, and like a moth to a flame, she went to him, brushed her knuckles against the bruises on his collarbone. If it hurt him, he gave no indication; from the way he was looking at her, an asteroid could have hit earth and he probably wouldn’t have noticed.

“Sound pretty soft right now.”

Renge rolled her eyes. “Oh, shut up.”

“Gonna make me?”

Never one to turn down a challenge, Renge pushed up on her tiptoes and kissed him, as gently as she could manage. In an attempt to avoid his wound, her mouth only landed on half of his, but he could still taste the cinnamon on her breath, the stickiness of her lip gloss on his skin. Some hell of a first kiss, but at least it was a kiss, so he didn’t mind.

He ran his hands up her sides, tickling her ribs above her shirt. She broke the kiss with a giggle, bumping his nose with his as she threw her head back in laughter. What a beautiful sight he had there, all at the expense of a busted lip and a bruised eye.

“Remind me to get in a fight more often, if this is the payoff I get,” he whispered, grinning at her pointed glare.

“Don’t you dare,” she ordered. “You need to let this lip heal so I can give you a proper kiss.”

Hikaru raised an eyebrow. “That wasn’t a proper kiss?”

“No.” Renge lowered her eyes back to his mouth, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him back in. “Once you’re healed, I’ll show you how the French really kiss.”

Kofi & Commission

#ouran high school host club #ohshc #hikaru hitachiin #renge houshakuji #hikaru x renge #hikarenge

36 notes · View notes

tallyovie-writes · 3 years

Text

Pictures of Us | f. w. Part 2

part 1

Summary: all the paintings choose a student to patron, the Lady chooses you and watches as you and Fred Weasley grow in the same direction

Warning:none, might contain little angst, nothing serious

2k words

@sirenswhispers @discoverablefeelings @capture-the-moment-on-camera @sophieswizardswheezes

Sixth year, December

The corridors buzzed with excitement. With only less than two weeks to the Yule Ball boys were running around in desperate need of finding partners while girls were frantic about not being asked. Of course the already paired ones watched the madness spread with a smug smile on their lips.

The Paintings also had the time of their lives, the new puppets on their chessboard gave back a little life to their fading colours. Now they could play matchmaker from an even bigger selection.

The Lady wanted to be proud to say she did not take part in such childish acts, but she had a mission with those two before the second task. It's not like she could do much, but occasionally if she heard a french boy talking about inviting her patron to the dance she faked sadness as she gave the poor boy the news that you were indeed taken.

You weren't indeed taken.

Madness has yet to engulf you, but you weren't calm either. Collita was asked by a bulgarian boy, but you had doubts whether there weren't threats made by her that overpowered the poor boy's common sense.

You would have been fine with the two of you going together, but now that she had a partner, you weren't planning on being the third wheel.

You forced these thoughts out of your mind for now. You had more important things going on.

The Lady's corridor was full of students as usual, so you weren't surprised when you entered the DADA classroom someone almost knocked you off your feet.

"Watch where you are goi.....oh..." you started telling off your attacker, but as you looked up Fred Weasley held eye contact.

Ever since that encounter in the potions storage room things have changed. You haven't really met after that, the two of you gave a wide berth to one another. No funny business, no prank. When you did run into each other, a sudden awareness filled your body. He made no snarky comments, his usual sarcasm nowhere to be found. You didn't bring up the secret of the castle, and he didn't bring up the date. Like an unspoken deal has been made without either of your knowledge. It was awkward at best. You didn't think anyone noticed, there was only bad blood between you before.

He didn't reply, he didn't apologize for running you over. He took a long look at your face, lingering on details only he could see. Without his usual grin, he left the scene as fast as he came, robes flying around him.

"What was that? Has something happened between you two?" seems like someone noticed after all.

"Nothing besides me agreeing to a date, him agreeing to let me in on a secret, and our mutual ghosting. How is your french boy by the way?" you feigned innocence.

Collita's jaw hit the floor.

"I'm joking. Don't get your knickers in a twist."

"You know I wouldn't even be surprised. With all the sexual tension you two radiate, I wouldn't put it past you that I could find you in a broom closet with him."

Now it was your turn to let your jaw hit the floor.

"Well then, good to know nothing is going on..."

Boy, if you'd known...

Sixth year, yule ball

It wasn't that bad of an evening. You could say it could have been quite magical. The house elves outdid themselves, even the usual house rivalry crawled back to its gloomy hole.

The icicles lost their naturally given cold arua just like the stone walls' usual grim facade. White dominated, but was quickly swept by the wide range of colourful dress robes, Dumbledore's glittery lilac fabric showing how it's done properly.

It really wasn't your date's fault either that you didn't really enjoy yourself. The poor boy tried everything, but besides polite conversation you weren't capable of anything else.

You were standing alone by the food table, the ravenclaw boy left a while ago to try his luck somewhere else, probably with bigger chances.

You saw Collita bent over from laughter silent tears running down her face, her date was watching her with parted lips in amazement. Eyes big, positive surprise written on his face. Collita did that to people. She was naturally gifted with a charming personality, she drew you in, spoke to you like you were on a pedestal.

She made you feel seen. A secret talent that you were rather jealous of on several occasions.

Suddenly you felt sick of the swirling mesmerized faces, the colours were too vibrant, the music too loud, too many bodies pressed together.

Before the walls started closing around you, you left your previous position and made your way to the exit that led to the gardens. The only sound that was registrateable to your ears were only your own footsteps.

Fresh air cut your rapid breathing shorter. You slowed down, the Great Hall's chokingly sweet smells started to fade away into the night.

"Wouldn't say rushing to the night with only a light silk material covering you was a smart choice, wasn't it? I took you to be a lot smarter than that, love. You're gonna get sick." a soft voice interrupted you.

Fred Weasley stood next to the bushes.

"Well, being sick would mean I wouldn't have to see your ugly face in class, so..." you replied but your voice lacked its usual fierceness. You were too tired.

He chuckled at your reply.

"I don't wanna go back there.." you started in a low voice, barely understandable, but gathered your poise and frowned as you said the last sentence. "They are too happy in there anyway."

"Is that jealousy in your voice?" he found so goodly which strings of you he should pull.

"And what if it is?" you snapped at him.

A ghost of his usual smug grin appeared on his face.

"Get your big nose out of my business by the way!"

"Well love, you know what they say about big nosed guys..." he lazily shrugged, hands in the pockets of his robe.

"Get lost, Weasley, I'm not in the mood today."

Maybe it was the hint of desperation in your voice, or the pathetic look you might have presented, but he stopped picking your brains.

"Come in, Y/S/N, you might even find the bloke of your dreams tonight." Fred tilted his head to the side.

"I'm not interested in 'finding a guy' to be my only goal." you scoffed at his remark.

"Well then, as the only guy you talk to right now, I feel obligated to spare you from the clutches of the cold and sickness, so pretty please get your ass in here."

"I'll stay until I decide it's enough. But thank you for your concern. Bye Fred Weasley, 'find the girl of your dreams' tonight." you rolled your eyes at him.

Little did you know, he already did.

Despite the cold, the Lady felt your frozen heart start melting, even if you haven't realized yet.

Sixth year, few days after the Yule Ball

"I don't understand why you thought it was a good idea to freeze your pretty little ass out there in a low cut silk dress in winter."

You groaned out in frustration.

Collita didn't spare you despite the fact that you were bloody sick, and fuckin hurting everywhere.

"Madam Pomfrey said you won highest fever of the year." she mentioned between stealing a few of your get-well sweets. "At least you finally won something." she winked at you.

"Get out, and let me suffer alone you bimbo!" you hissed at her, but the sharp pains shooting down your neck really destroyed to effect you were trying to achieve.

"Alrighty, my little pathetic friend, I suppose I can leave you to your demise. Be a good and obedient patient." she sent you a kiss and strolled out the Hospital Wing.

In the Hospital Wing, after curfew

After Collita left you to suffer on your own Madam Pomfrey gave you a light sleeping tonic. You welcomed the sweet oblivion in the place of pain.

A light noise disturbed the calming darkness. Opening your eyes was a too heavy task, so you relied on your hearing. A soft fumbling could be heard, but the person near your bed executed the deed quite clumsily as the most colourful swearing left their mouth.

Fighting against the tonic's luring effect, you tried opening your eyes. When you did, you almost jerked back in surprise.

Fred Weasley stood there with an innocent smile on his face, like a child caught in a naughty act, his hands were midair frozen on the spot hovering above your stack of sweets.

"What the fuck are you doing in the middle of the night standing near my bed?" you demanded and pulled your blanket further to your neck. "Are you setting up a prank?"

"Have a little faith in me, Y/N...if it were a prank you would only know it before it happened and that's already too late. Can't a bloke visit his sick classmate? The classmate he warned against the cold?" you scoffed at his pointed stare.

"In the middle of the night?"

He started scratching the back of his neck.

"Good point. A point I should probably elaborate on." he didn't seem like someone who wanted to elaborate.

"Don't let me stop you from doing that..." you rolled your eyes at him.

He seemed a little awkward and you could barely hide your amusement. It is not every day a Weasley gets a little intimidated and loses his usual cockiness.

"You see..." he started but his gaze was still fixated on his hands. "...I felt a tad responsible for you catching a cold.

Your eyebrows raised in surprise.

"If it weren't for me dancing on your nerves in the garden making you irritated enough to stay outside longer than intended, you wouldn't be here right now." he sounded a little guilty and you couldn't help the warmth that started spreading in your stomach.

You started to chuckle.

"Weasley. It's alright." you felt a sudden bravery envelop you as you said the next words nonchalantly. "You owe me another secret and we are even."

You waited for his reaction.

He didn't disappoint. He lifted his head, brown eyes locking into your own. Now you weren't sure if it was a wise idea to make him remember your deal back in the potion storage room.

"And here I thought I could bribe you with chocolate that I nicked from the kitchen...you are not a woman easily pleased." he didn't seem that sad about this fact.

"Where would be the fun in that?"

"Right."

Silence fell upon the two of you. Eyes still interlocked, you weren't sure if minutes or hours passed by. The Hospital Wing's darkness faded, and the freckles splattered across his face became more contrasted than before. He tilted his head to the side, his gaze burned your skin.

Suddenly becoming aware of the weirdness of the situation you cleared your throat and looked away.

"Since the tonic made me hungry like a wolf, I'll accept that nicked chocolate." you said, trying to break the silence.

Fred smiled and threw you the bar he fumbled around with before. Your catch was nothing sort of graceful and you felt embarrassment tint your cheeks.

Looking down at the bar in your hand you felt your eyes grow big.

"How did you know this is my favourite?" you asked astonishment, creeping into your voice.

"Lucky guess." he shrugged. You didn't need to know that every time the Grand Hall's tables were filled with this, he couldn't look away from the joy radiating on your face. Just like now.

"Your taste is impeccable, I gotta say."

Oh yes, his taste was indeed impeccable, but not just in chocolate.

#harry potter #angst #enemies to friends to lovers #enemies to lovers #fred weasley #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley x you #george weasley #slytherin #fred weasley fanfiction #fred weasley x y/n

120 notes · View notes

kjack89 · 3 years

Text

An Agreement Between Gentlemen (Chapter 1/?)

Because nothing says ‘independence day’ like writing the participants in a French rebellion as members of the British upper class...

The Bridgerton AU that no one asked for. Will be at least 4 chapters, probably, to be published on a schedule only God herself can predict. Developing E/R, hijinks and shenanigans. All of the shenanigans.

One might recall when, not too long ago, the author of this paper hung up her pen and retired from reporting on the drama that each new season of fresh-faced debutantes and their endlessly anxious mothers brings. But alas, dear Reader, the excitement of this season has proven too much for this Author to suffer without company – which is why the pen has been passed to a new scribe.

But the fortuitous timing of the season has not been met with equally thrilling events for sharing here, as indeed, the most recent ball, hosted annually at the start of the season by the ever-insufferable Thénardiers, was positively under-attended. Not by the eager mothers that are the backbone of any season or their equally eager daughters, but by the young, eligible men who usually at least deign to make an appearance, dance a few dances, and exchange niceties as is expected for men of their station.

Instead, the only poor sap who wandered into the Thénardiers’ den of matchmaking was the Baron of Pontmercy, who was positively beset by hopeful ingénues, the most brazen of which was undoubtedly the Thénardiers’ eldest daughter, Éponine. While this Author notes that Miss Thénardier has had a patchy history with suitors and thus cannot be fully blamed for attempting to sink her claws into one as eligible as the baron, this Author must also sympathize with Baron Pontmercy, who seemed only to find himself with one moment to himself.

Then again, rumor has it that his single moment was interrupted by an unknown young lady with an equally unknown chaperone who whisked her away posthaste. Her identity is one mystery both this Author and Baron Pontmercy are equally eager to discover, but the more pressing question is where the others of Baron Pontmercy’s gender were when they should have been equally beset by potential brides.

Never fear: Whatever answers I find, dear Reader, I shall certainly share with other enquiring minds. For a nominal fee, of course. While there are rumors of young men meeting in the backroom of a certain gentlemen’s club to discuss the overthrow of society, capitalism, and the King himself, this Author, being of the gentler sex, finds herself unable to obtain an invite, and as such, alas, cannot bring herself to comply with their lofty goals. LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 20 MARCH 1831

The air in the backroom at the Musain Gentlemen’s Club was hazy with smoke and thick with plentiful conversation as its guests, all young men dressed in their dinner best, traded stories and jokes in between sips of their drinks.

At least one among them was not drinking, though – Enjolras, who sat in an overlarge armchair towards the back of the room, his back to one of the large windows that spanned almost the entire height of the wall. He alone was also not joining his friends in their merriment, his brow instead creased as he read over something.

When he had finished, he glanced up. “Combeferre,” he called, barely raising his voice despite the cacophony of the room.

Not that he needed to: the moment he spoke, the room fell quiet as all eyes glanced at him as if waiting for him to continue. In return, he just arched an eyebrow at them. “Well, don’t let me put an end to your fun.”

A dark haired man sitting at a table in the far corner playing cards with two others raised his glass in a mocking toast. “Worry not,” he called in return. “You won’t.”

Laughter broke out yet again at that, and most of their number returned to their previous conversations as Combeferre pulled up a chair next to Enjolras’s. Enjolras pursed his lips, looking unamused. “Why is Grantaire even here?” he asked Combeferre, who, quite to the contrary, looked like he was trying not to laugh.

“I imagine because you have not yet told him that you wish for him to leave and never return,” Combeferre said evenly before giving Enjolras a rather assessing look. “Assuming, of course, that is what you wish.”

Enjolras ground his teeth together. “That’s not the point—”

Combeferre cleared his throat. “No, the point is that you had a comment, I assume, about the pamphlet I gave you to review.”

Enjolras still looked disgruntled, but seemed more than willing to allow the change in subject. “The pamphlet is fine, but I imagine you already knew that.” He handed the pamphlet draft back to Combeferre before asking, “What do you imagine the distribution schedule to look like? With Parliament sitting this week—”

He was interrupted by a thin, rather-nervous looking man appearing at his elbow, the doorman to the establishment who was paid a decent sum by each man inside the room to not interrupt them and to report nothing of their comings and going to any who might enquire. When Enjolras had made that arrangement, he had been thinking of the police; when his friends had followed his lead, most were thinking of their mothers.

“M’Lord Enjolras, I do beg your pardon—” he started, sounding almost as nervous as he looked.

Enjolras’s brow furrowed again. “It’s fine, what is it?” he asked, a touch impatiently.

The doorman bobbed his head and cleared his throat. “There is a, ah, a woman seeking entry.”

Bahorel, seated nearby, let out a wolf whistle. “The young ladies of the season are getting restless!” he crowed, to much laughter.

“Restless, and bold, if they are coming into the city to seek their groom, and without a chaperone to boot,” Bossuet said with a grin.

“Leave to Enjolras to be the one to cause all tradition to break,” Jehan sniggered.

Enjolras could feel his ears burning red but he studiously ignored the jeers and catcalls from his friends, instead frowning at the doorman. “May I ask why are you telling me this?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice even. “Last I checked, it was your policy to restrict admittance to men, despite my protestations to the contrary.”

“Of course, M’Lord, it’s just…” The doorman quailed slightly at the look Enjolras gave him. “The woman in question claims to be your mother.”

Immediately, all jokes ceased as identical, horror-stricken looks crossed the faces of each of his friends. Enjolras blanched, all the blood draining from his face. “Did you confirm that I was inside?” he asked, a little desperately.

The doorman shook his head, his eyes widening. “No, of course not, m’lord’s discretion being of utmost importance to this establishment.” He hesitated. “That said, she did not appear to believe our denial, and is threatening to come inside and verify for yourself that you are not here.”

Enjolras groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course she is,” he sighed. He glanced at Combeferre as if considering asking for his assistance, but seemed to think better of it, instead standing and drawing himself up to his full height. “Right,” he said. “Well, I think you’ve got everything handled here, so I suppose I’ll just go, er, handle this situation.”

Combeferre again looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh. “Of course,” he said. “And, if you do not return, I shall call upon you later this week, shall I?”

“Yes, but the question will be more whether you should call upon me at my house or at the hospital,” Enjolras muttered, and it was to Combeferre’s credit that he still somehow managed not to laugh.

The same could not be said for Grantaire, who started humming what Enjolras recognized vaguely as a funeral dirge as soon as he headed towards the door, and Enjolras gave him the nastiest glare he could muster. Of course, Grantaire was unaffected – if anything, it only caused his grin to widen, and he raised his cup in yet another mocking toast as Enjolras swept out of the room to go deal with his mother.

It was anyone’s guess whether his mother or Grantaire irritated him more.

He started to ask the doorman where his mother was, but found that he did not need to ask – her voice was echoing all the way from the entrance hall. “I am the Dowager Marchioness of Enjolras,” she was practically shrieking, and Enjolras winced, mentally calculating how much money it would take to smooth this particular incident over. Certainly less than when Courfeyrac almost burned the place down, but almost certainly more than when Bahorel and Grantaire had gotten into a fistfight and broken two statues and a chandelier.

He really needed better friends.

And a different mother.

“I demand to speak with my son!” his mother continued, her voice rising in both volume and pitch. “And do not give me this nonsense that he is not here, I know quite well where my son is!”

“M’lady, I apologize, but as I have said, we cannot confirm that your son—”

“I shall confirm it for myself,” Enjolras interrupted, saving the poor proprietor, who had never looked more relieved to see him. “Mother, kindly stop screeching at these gentlemen for doing their jobs.” His mother spluttered incoherently but Enjolras knew better than to allow her the chance to regroup.

Instead, he grabbed her by the elbow and steered her to the door, glancing over his shoulder to nod his thanks at the proprietor. As soon as they were outside the building, Enjolras dropped any pretense at propriety. “What the hell were you thinking?” he snapped, not releasing his mother from his grip. “Coming all the way into the city to find me? Pray tell what could possibly have been so important to cause such a scene!”

His mother yanked her arm from his grasp and glared up at him. “A scene?” she repeated, her voice deathly quiet. “My dear son, if you consider that a scene, you are ill-prepared for what is soon to follow.”

Enjolras sighed and tried not to roll his eyes. “There is no need for theatrics—”

Without warning, his mother slapped him across the face. “Theatrics?” she hissed. “When I have spent every waking moment these past several years trying to ensure your future and the future of our house!”

She made as if to hit him again but Enjolras caught her wrist, staying her hand. “Madam, you may be the Dowager Marchioness but I am the Marquess of Enjolras, and I will not permit you to assault me in the streets, my mother or not.” He released her arm before adding sardonically, “Besides, think of the gossip.”

Again his mother gave him no warning to gird himself, but this time, she burst into tears, sobbing into his shirt. “Oh, for the love of—” Enjolras took her again by the elbow, gentler this time, and led her to where her carriage waited. “Get a hold of yourself,” he snapped. “You have already made enough of a scene this evening.”

“Perhaps a scene is what it will take!” she half-shouted in return. “For you to finally listen to me, to hear what I have been telling you!” Enjolras rolled his eyes, holding out his hand to help her into her carriage, but she stubbornly refused to move. “Since you clearly don’t listen to me when I make arrangements solely for your benefit.”

“I assure you, you have never once done anything solely for my benefit,” Enjolras said tiredly. “But if it will stop your screaming then please, tell me the latest way in which I have ruined your plans for my future.”

“The Thénardier ball!” his mother wailed, crying again. “All those eligible young ladies, and you could not even deign to show your face! How am I to get you married at this rate?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes so hard he half-feared he would pull a muscle. “Hang the bloody Thénardier ball,” he ground out, hesitating for only a moment before picking his mother up and placing her inside the carriage, swinging up after her before she could protest.

“What are you doing?” she cried as the carriage moved off at double speed, and Enjolras thanked whatever higher power there was that his mother’s driver also clearly did not wish to linger.

Enjolras sighed. “You wanted me attention,” he said tiredly. “So you have it, albeit not in public where you clearly wanted it.”

For one long moment, his mother just glared at him, tears shining on her cheeks. Then she sighed and sat upright, her pose turning almost prim as she drew a linen handkerchief from her sleeve and delicately dabbed the tears from her cheeks. “Very well,” she said calmly, all traces of earlier hysteria gone in an instant, and Enjolras realized immediately that he had been duped, that he had played directly into her hands.

She had anticipated that making a scene would be the easiest way to get him to leave with her.

And now she had him as a captive audience for however long it took for her driver to reach her house. And while he was not a betting man, he would wager all his money and lands that she had directed her driver to take the long way.

His mother was smiling at him, a cold, unpleasant smile, and Enjolras groaned, tipping his head back against the pillowed cushions. “Please don’t tell me that you really pulled all of that because you wished to discuss the Thénardier ball.”

“Don’t be foolish,” she said before tapping his knee. “And sit upright, you will cause your clothes to wrinkle.” Enjolras groaned and reluctantly sat upright, glaring balefully at her as he waited for her to continue. “No, I merely wished to discuss something and this seemed the easiest way.”

“Then by all means, please tell me: what do you want to discuss?”

“Why, what else?” she asked, a small smirk lifting the corners of her mouth. “Your marriage.”

----------

There were few things that Enjolras loathed more than being hoodwinked by his own mother into a conversation he’d been spending the past several years avoiding, but as he stood staring up at the rather imposing façade of a house he had been to only perhaps a handful of times, he thought this just might rank.

Still, his options were decidedly limited, and he hesitated only a moment more before climbing the stairs to the front door, knocking briskly. In telling of a house less used to visits during the season, it took a moment for the butler to answer the door, and Enjolras shifted uncomfortably on the stoop as he waited.

“May I help you?” the butler asked as he opened the door.

“Yes,” Enjolras said. “I’m here to see Grantaire.”

The butler eyed him warily. “And who should I tell Mr. Grantaire is here to see him?”

It took everything in Enjolras not to roll his eyes. “Tell him that the Marquess of Enjolras requests his presence,” he said dryly, hating the way the butler’s eyes widened when he realized just who was standing in the doorway.

“Of– of course, m’lord,” the butler said, immediately opening the door wider to usher Enjolras indoors. “Beg your pardon, m’lord. I’ll just, ah, go fetch Mr, Grantaire.”

He retreated up the stairs and Enjolras finally did roll his eyes, sighing heavily as he wandered a little further indoors. He had spent half his life, it seemed, going from one grand house to another, so very little surprised him, but he was intrigued by what he might find in Grantaire’s house. While his own park-adjoining manor had been in his family for generations, and was decorated accordingly, Grantaire came from new money, and this house had belonged to a different family entirely not even a decade before.

He paused to examine a small portrait of two young children, a boy and a girl, when he heard footsteps clattering on the stairs and he turned to look up as Grantaire joined him, a jacket rather hastily thrown on and buttoned incorrectly.

“My Lord.”

Grantaire’s voice was pitched just slightly higher than usual, in a way that indicated genuine surprise at finding Enjolras standing in his foyer, but somehow still retained the telltale lilt that Enjolras had long since realized meant Grantaire was making fun of him.

He scowled automatically. “Enjolras,” he corrected with an exasperated half-sigh.

Grantaire inclined his head, a smirk twisting his lips. “My lord Enjolras,” he said, and Enjolras’s scowl deepened.

“Just Enjolras,” he said flatly, not waiting for Grantaire to escort him into the house, instead crossing the foyer to peer into the front sitting room.

“By all means, make yourself at home,” Grantaire said, following him.

Enjolras twisted his head to give Grantaire a smirk of his own. “As you seem so keen to remind me, I outrank you,” he said. “And believe me when I say this is one time I will feel no guilt using the trappings of the nobility to my advantage.”

Grantaire just snorted, brushing past him into the sitting room, ignoring the tea that had been set on the table and instead making his way over to the drink cart against the far wall. “Forgive me, but I can think of many instances where you undoubtedly used your title and your family to your advantage without any guilt,” he said dryly, pouring himself half a glass full of amber liquid before pausing, considering it, and adding another finger. “But let’s save that particular fight for a different time.” He turned back to Enjolras and raised his glass in a mock toast. “For now, before I forget my manners any further, let me say welcome to my home, and please, allow me to pour you a cup of tea.”

“I am capable of pouring my own tea, thanks,” Enjolras said, a little stiffly, and he sat down on one armchair before leaning forward to rather stubbornly do just that.

Grantaire did not join him, as if he thought keeping physical distance between them might keep things civil. “Only you would think that hospitality was an insult.”

Enjolras arched an eyebrow. “The way you said it, it was.”

“You underestimate my capacity for being genuinely polite,” Grantaire said dryly, taking a large sip of his whiskey.

“Do I?”

“Tell me, my Lord—” Enjolras gritted his teeth but chose not to interrupt him. “—if not to insult me to my face in my own home, what brings you here, and at tea time no less?”

His voice was calm, pleasant even, but Enjolras felt himself flush in realization that he had done exactly that. And no matter how frequently he might wish to throttle Grantaire with his own hands, that was offensive even for him. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, looking down at his tea as he stirred it. “I have been rude.

Grantaire looked briefly surprised, as if he had not expected an apology. But then his smirk was back in full force. “All is forgiven...my lord.” Enjolras really might shatter his teacup at this rate. “But you still didn’t answer my question as to why you are here.”

Enjolras set his teacup down and straightened, looking Grantaire in the eye. “I came to ask for your help.”

Grantaire laughed. “So you come to my home, uninvited, you insult me to my face, and you still have the audacity to ask for my help?” He drained half of his whiskey in one long gulp. “You are lucky you have been granted the face of a Greek god, Apollo.”

“Don’t call me that,” Enjolras sighed, though he knew it was a losing battle. Grantaire had called him that on the first day they met, when Grantaire was finishing college and Enjolras just beginning, and he had continued to call him that for all the years since. “Look, I am sorry, and not just because I need your help. I am ill suited to polite society and the longer the season drags on, the more foul my temper becomes.”

Grantaire made a small noise of agreement. “You and I both,” he murmured, draining his glass and pouring himself another before finally joining Enjolras, settling into the armchair across from him. “Very well. You have my attention.”

Enjolras leaned forward, sudden urgency in every line of his body. “Word has it that you were instrumental in helping Lord Joly and Mr. Lesgle avoid scandal last season when both were in love with Lady Musichetta.”

“Well, we avoided a big scandal at least,” Grantaire said, eyeing Enjolras carefully. “There must always be a little bit of a scandal or none would believe it.”

Enjolras waved a dismissive hand. “Either way, all three are happy, and living at Lord Joly’s estate, and not a word about them has been wasted in Lady Whistledown’s papers this season.”

Grantaire arched an eyebrow. “I am astonished to learn you have read any of the newly-revived Lady Whistledown’s papers, let alone with enough frequency to speak with such authority on the subject.:

Enjolras flushed a mottled red and looked away. “It’s an easy conversation topic,” he muttered, “when I am forced to speak to those with whom I have nothing in common.”

“Such as the twittering nitwits your mother foists upon you at every turn?” Grantaire asked lightly.

Enjolras met his eyes evenly. “Exactly. And exactly why I am here.”

Grantaire’s eyes narrowed. “You’re here to better learn how to talk with women?” he asked, almost certainly purposefully obtuse. “I admit, I am an expert on the subject, but—”

“Of course not,” Enjolras snapped. “Not to mention if I did need help in that arena, you would be the last person I would turn to.”

Grantaire laughed. “Your loss, he said cheerfully. After all, to have bedded as many women as I with a face like mine requires quite the expert hand at wooing.” Enjolras rolled his eyes and Grantaire smirked before taking another sip of whiskey. “Very well. If you are not here for my help in speaking to young ladies to finally secure a marriage match, then why are you here?”

“Because I do need to marry someone,” Enjolras said, trying not to sound as desperate as he felt. “But I need it not to be real.” Again he met Grantaire’s eyes. “And you are the only person I can think of who can help me pull that off.”

#enjolras #grantaire #exr #enjolras x grantaire #enjoltaire #enjolras's mother #les amis #les miserables #fanfiction #bridgerton au #lady whistledown #developing relationship #hijinks and shenanigans #and eventually #fake marriage #canon era sorta

41 notes · View notes

barnesandco · 4 years

Text

Eat the Rich: Chapter 1

Eat the Rich Masterlist

The Avengers are tasked with tracking down an elusive thief, and retrieving the grand amounts of money she has stolen. Even after capture, she turns out to be impossible to break, save for a mystifying interest in Bucky.

Written for @mermaidxatxheart ‘s #jamiesmadwritingbash, under the Robin Hood AU prompt, with the dialogue prompt “What’s a pretty little thing like you doing, running around with the end of the world on her his arm?” in bold in this chapter.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: mentions of nightmares, memory loss and recovery, brief mentions of Bucky’s Winter Soldier days, and canon-level violence. Lots of frustrated Avengers. A bit of flirting.

A/N: I can’t decide if I want this series to make people laugh or cry, so good luck. Please comment and reblog!

Divider by the fantastically talented @whimsicalrogers!

The Avengers are confused. Perplexed and far out of their depths, they’re strewed about the meeting room with variants of displeasure on their faces. Bucky wears the biggest scowl of all, sitting ramrod straight in an armchair intended for postures far more comfortable. The source of their malcontent hovers in a hologram above the conference table, somehow managing to look bored while handcuffed and bound to a steel chair in the most secure interrogation room in the Compound.

You’re a thief. A crook who has been stealing big money from bigger people, in a slew of prominent heists that eventually led to the Avengers’ recruitment to your case. High stakes burglary isn’t their field, but when certain people threw their weight around, demanding a serious investigation, Earth’s Mightiest Heroes had no choice but to play detectives to one elusive criminal.

A flirtatious one, too, Bucky thinks, remembering your first confrontation, as he traces the seams of his metal arm with the softer pads of his flesh fingers.

Sam, Nat, and Bucky had tracked you all the way to Paris, where, one night, Sam gave chase while Bucky waited to intercept you on the predicted escape route, in an alley behind one of the classiest bars in town. Their prediction had proved accurate, and you had pretty much run straight into Bucky’s waiting arms.

The ensuing fight should have been an easy one, and Bucky made the awful mistake -- the mistake he hadn’t made since meeting the Widows in the Red Room -- of underestimating a woman, and he ended up paying for it.

His fists clench in his lap at the memory of how you had pulled a very Widow move on him, and he had wound up on his back with your thighs around his neck in a chokehold almost gentle. You had leaned over him to tie his hands together, and left him panting, out of breath, and with the taste of rust in his mouth. Clambering off, and wiping away the blood at the corner of his lip, you had then said, “I look forward to our rematch, handsome,” before disappearing into the dark, French night.

“Barnes?” He hears Stark call, and he blinks. “You still with us, or are you daydreaming about your girlfriend?” The room grows silent, and Bucky can sense suppressed smiles and silent glares, the latter aimed at Stark from Steve.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he grouses, letting his metal fingers dig into his kneecaps.

Sam, coffee abandoned on the table in front of him, eyes twinkling says, “We heard her through the coms, Barnes. In Paris, and in Buenos Aires.”

“And Oslo,” Peter pipes up, and Bucky falls back into the memory of autumn frost crunching under his feet, the reverberations of the orchestra in the opera house as he followed your coat-tails -- you played violin, because why the hell not -- down the busy street. Power-walking turned to running, and you had ended up in a crowded, posh bar with Bucky backing you into the wall in the hallway leading to the restrooms, holding your hands in one metal fist behind you.

Still, you had been unperturbed, trying to distract him with gemstone eyes while he called backup -- Stark, soaring in stealth mode above the fjord. “What’s a pretty little thing like you doing, running around with the end of the world on his arm?” You had asked, gesturing toward his metal shoulder, no struggle, no flight or fight.

Red-lipped smiles, you had given him, and he had been so close to pulling out the handcuffs until a trio of burly security guards had appeared, your backup, apparently, and engaged him in enough combat to allow you to escape.

“She seems to like you,” Sam finishes piercing the haze of another battle lost, less violently at least, and Bucky rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, well, I don’t like her,” is the best he can come up with, and he stands, moves towards a window overlooking the grounds, addressing the bulletproof glass, next. “What I would like is for us to get the money back so we can all go on our merry way and pretend this ever happened.”

The room falls quiet at that. Every person here is acutely aware of the fact that they’re no closer to getting the money back -- nobody could ever spend the amounts you’ve stolen recently, so quickly; FRIDAY’s run simulations on it -- and you haven’t budged under the interrogations you’ve faced thus far.

Barton enters the room as soon as he gets off the quinjet, still in his typical Bed Stuy uniform -- ripped jeans and purple t-shirt -- and Bucky, alongside Natasha and Sam in the observation room behind the one way glass, can see the angle he’s going with.

It’s almost cliché, or maybe it’s just Clint, so relaxed and loose-limbed with too much pizza in his system and likely smelling of one-eyed dog -- Bucky adores Lucky, but he’ll never admit it -- the way he turns his chair around and sits, resting his chin on folded arms atop the back of the chair.

For a moment, Bucky worries he’s fallen asleep right there, until his blond head lifts ever so slightly and he says, “Would you like something to drink?”

You quirks a smile. “I’d like a proper introduction. What, were you raised in a barn?” The smirk is teasing, but there’s no bite, like you’re greeting an old friend with an inside joke. Barton traces the edge of the table.

“Almost. Ever heard of Waverly, Iowa?” He asks.

You shake your head, and then, grin, informing, “No, but I have heard of you, Clint Barton.”

“So you didn’t need an introduction.”

“I’m a prankster, can’t you tell?” Bucky thinks of the navy blue dress in Prague, the tiny but powerful stink bombs you had kept in a thigh holster, how you had left them coughing.

“Jokes are all well and good but, uh, stealing isn’t so funny,” Clint answers., sitting up, and Bucky can hear in his hardening tone that he’s starting to get serious.

“Depends on who you’re stealing from,” is your flippant response.

“Also depends on who has to get the money back, too, and let me tell you, we’re a little tired of playing games.”

“Then I guess I win, right?”

“Are you sure you don’t recognize her? Her tactics seem familiar,” Sam says, and the sensation that has been aggravating the nerves in an unlocatable part of his brain since he saw her for the first time worsens, but Sam’s question is addressed to Nat.

“She’s not Red Room, if that’s what you mean. The Widows were trained to be merciless. She avoids getting more physical than she needs to,” Natasha answers, retying the band on her braid, flaming red hair coiled over her shoulder.

“She broke Bucky’s nose,” Steve points out in protest.

Nat shrugs, leans forward to doodle on the notepad resting on her knee. “If it was me, I might have knocked some teeth out. Maybe pulled a knife or garrotte.”

“You have to tell me where you get those sting-y things,” you say the moment Nat enters the room, eyes sparkling and wide with awe. Bucky winces as he remembers the short-circuit from that little electric disc. The engineers in the bank had been pretty troubled by the thought of what could’ve caused that kind of damage to the internal systems, until he his fist around one of their necks gave them something else to worry ab--

Steve’s hand on his shoulder startles him back to the observation room instead of Hydra’s clutches, and he says, “Hey, Bucky, how’s it going?” with a nod to the room in front of them. Vibranium cuffs peek out from under the large, green hoodie that envelopes your form, making you look deceptively soft.

“She wants to know where Nat gets her taser discs.”

“You’re eager for those even after you’ve felt how much they hurt?” Nat asks calmly, and Bucky imagines an ice-cool smirk on her lips as she reminds you of how exactly you were captured. It was the tasers that brought you down, after Sam, Steve and Bucky flew and ran you to exhaustion through the streets of Algiers, costing Stark some collateral payments. He hadn’t minded too much, just been happy to have you in custody, finally.

“They look like they’d be fun to use. Pretty handy around certain metal armed men, too,” you suggest playfully.

“Yeah, he isn’t going to talk to you, but I’ve been looking forward to this chat of ours, so why don’t you start by telling me your name.”

“I don’t have one. I’m a ghost story,” you say, and Bucky assumes Nat is looking unimpressed, because you press forward with the joke. “You’re going to need a medium to talk to me.”

“And where do you suppose I find one of those?”

“You have one. Isn’t Bucky Barnes a ghost story, too?”

Sam’s about to name what is sure to be another way to cause unnecessary injury when Bucky butts in. “It doesn’t matter how she hurt me or how she could have hurt me,” this, with a glare at Natasha, who smiles down at the paper. “We have a burglar with billions stashed away and a buncha angry billionaires breathin’ down our necks to find it.”

“Well why don’t you give it a go if you think it’s so easy?” Looking up from the hangman sketch, Nat fixes emerald eyes on his, reminding him, once again, of the unusual interest you’ve taken in Bucky. One that started with mid-battle conversations of a different nature, and that has extended into custody. Something that’s been bugging Steve, his protective instinct whirring into overdrive -- Bucky sees his eye twitch from across the room at Nat’s remark -- no more so than during Steve’s turn to question the captive.

“You guys are all taking your turns playing Good Cop Bad Cop, but I haven’t seen Robocop yet. Why is that?”

“You left him tied up in Paris–”

“There’s an innuendo in there somewhere,” you sing-song, head tilting rhythmically from side to side. Bucky clenches his fists in the observation room.

“–so he isn’t much obliged to see you,” Steve finishes, bypassing your interruption.

Playful eyes with laser determination, unperturbed by locked rooms and handcuffs, focus on a spot just above Steve’s shoulder, almost looking through the glass, even though Bucky knows it’s just a mirror for you. “What a shame. I was hoping our little back alley tussle wouldn’t scare the big, bad White Wolf away.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Are you going to tell us where the money is or do you want formal charges and a jail cell?” He asks, shifting so he blocks your line of sight, folds his hands on the table, and broadens his shoulders, all-Captain and no-nonsense.

“Giving up on me so easy?”

“I wouldn’t call it easy, miss. We’ve been looking for months and tried just about everything to get you to cooperate.”

“Not everything.”

“She’s yawning,” Sam proclaims indignantly, glaring, shocked, at the hologram where indeed, the source of their troubles is yawning, like you could fall asleep, tied up and all. “Unbelievable.” He shakes his head, and Bucky stops a snort from escaping. He’s seen all kinds of interrogations, faced a fair few, too, and this woman is just warming up.

The ensuing discussion and debate continues for hours, until the sun sets behind the window Bucky’s standing by, and what silences them is the thump with which Clint puts his hearing aids on the table in front of him. Sam’s coffee wobbles dangerously, and everyone sighs as Clint wordlessly tells them to shut up. Murmurs of agreement to rest and get a fresh start tomorrow echo through the room, and Bucky catches Barton’s eye, and receives a wink.

Later that night, in his room, Bucky knows he’s not going to get a minute of sleep. It’s just an intuition, something his very bones are telling him, and he sees no reason to dispute it. Under the throbbing ache in his head, there’s an itch in the grey matter of his mind, somewhere he can’t reach, and he twists and turns. The feeling is recognizable as the vexation inflicted when he’s on the verge of a memory, but those return either by dream or by sense these days.

Dreams are for the bad memories, the days of the Winter Soldier, his subconscious loosening whatever locks his mind placed to compartmentalize the pain, to stuff it all away. The nightmares, the terrible memories leave him shaking, but therapy helps. By a few percent, but when the load of pain is as heavy as his is, every small burden taken off his shoulder helps.

Sense brings back the time before Hydra, although it’s sometimes hard to believe there was one. Steve’s face buried in his shoulder, be careful, Buck; Romanian take out, his mother’s hands; faucet dripping, water running out; oranges exploding on his tongue, a month’s salary plus overtime from working at the docks for that sweet rush once a year. The Depression, the first war -- trench memory brought back by a rainy run in Central Park, the scent of muddy petrichor in the air -- snowfall in the Alps, Dugan’s cigar. His body remembers, and then shows his mind the way.

However, this, this infuriating personality that has him incensed and restless, she isn’t in his mind in any capacity, but Bucky thinks he knows her. Or that he might have, once. And he needs to know her, again, because he hates not knowing. The nightmares hurt, and the memories of what he’s lost do, as well, but not knowing, existing in the strange limbo between certainty and loss, it’s unbearable. If this woman knows him, if she’s another key to another past, another piece of him, he has to talk to her.

“FRIDAY?” He asks groggily, sitting up.

The screen in the wall across from him blinks blue in acknowledgement, along with a “Yes, sir?”

“Is Steve up?”

“Captain Rogers is awake and having a cup of coffee in the kitchen, Sergeant,” FRIDAY tells him, and Bucky curses at the idiocy of consuming caffeine at this hour of night -- whatever’s in that shit works even on the serum and that can’t be good -- replacing his sweatpants with jeans once more and heading out to find his friend.

Steve has his back to the entryway, deep in thought -- dumbass, anyone could sneak up on you like this -- when Bucky comes in and clears his throat. The mug in Steve’s hands looks comically small, and Bucky sits down across from him at the island, reaches forward to take it from him, and downs the remaining half.

It’s just one more testament to how disturbed Steve is -- as if the careless consumption of coffee at midnight wasn’t enough -- that he lets Bucky steal his coffee. Blue meets blue in the silver dusting of moonlight, and Steve tries to locate Bucky’s purpose in his eyes before asking him for it verbally. “What is it, Buck?” He’s tired, too many missions weighing on those eyelids, but too worked up to let them close, to find rest. What Bucky’s going to say won’t help.

“Let me talk to her.”

#ayesha writes #jamiesmadwritingbash #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you

268 notes · View notes

chocolate1721 · 4 years

Text

My brain won’t let me rest until I share these prompts.

Ok, so the class is in Gotham and it’s the last night before they leave. They went out to eat and on their way back to the hotel they run into and injured Harley and/or Ivy. The class freezes while Mari and Chloe rush over to help them. Mari starts tearing her clothes while Chloe is making sure they are coherent. They class comes back to their senses and start hurling insults at the rogues and start talking about calling the police. They class gets more hostile towards Mari, Chloe, Harley, and Ivy as they move towards them. Suddenly the Joker appears behind the small group. The class runs away and leaves Mari and Chloe behind. Marinette jumps up and stands in between the Joker and the injured rogues.

Joker is impressed. Very few men would even think of getting in his way, but this child doesn’t hesitate to do this. While Joker is assessing Mari, Marinette subtly grabs a (conveniently placed) crowbar that she found on the ground.

Chloe is trying to get Harley and Ivy to stand up, so they can all get out of this situation. She is successful but both Harley and Ivy are leaning heavily on her.

Marinette takes a swing at Joker, when he gets too close. Joker is getting more and more intrigued by her. He taunts and teases her. Getting close then backing away when she swings at him. Looking to see how far he can push her.

Harley is terrified. She sees the look in the Joker’s eyes. She knows that look. He is interested in this girl who is protecting her and Ivy. But she can’t do anything to help.

The Joker slowly maneuvers the group into a corner. Marinette still swinging at him, but he keeps walking closer to them. She realizes that the only way out is past Joker, so she stops backing up. The next time she takes a swing it connects with his forearm. He blocked it. Joker yanks the crowbar out of her hands and tosses it away from them. He walks closer to the group, but Mari refuses to move.

[[More]]

Before he gets to them several dark figures swoop down and fight him. After he is defeated, Marinette grabs the closest vigilante (perferably not the love interest) and demands that they help Harley and Ivy.

Mari and Chloe stay at the hospital while both Rogues get worked on. They answer the questions from the police and batfam. They refused to leave the hospital until they knew that both of the women would be ok. So they stayed the night. Waiting for the Rogues to wake up.

The next morning Harley and Ivy were shocked to see the girls who helped them. They watched as the girls slept in those uncomfortable hospital chairs. The police arrived not long after Marinette and Chloe woke up. The police officer asked them who their guardian was. Marinette and Chloe were then taken to the police Stanton as they waited for Bustier to pick them up.

It was around lunch when they were informed that the class could not be found. Gordon was walking by when he saw these two girls go very, very pale. They turned to each other and started whispering in French. He paused and watched as the officer asked the girls what was wrong.

“We are supposed to go back to Paris today. Lately our teacher hasn’t been taking roll call, and she takes what our classmates say as fact. We’re hoping she didn’t leave for Paris without us.”

“Who are we kidding Maribug. She wouldn’t do a headcount for a trip to the museum, why do we expect her to do it before leaving a country.”

Gordon was shocked, then scared. He rushed to his office and called the airport. After several people told him that the information he was wanting was classified, and being transferred around a bit. He slammed his hands on his desk and informed the person on the other end of the line that “THERE ARE TWO MINORS WHO BELIEVE THAT THEIR TEACHER LEFT THEM BEHIND WHEN SHE TOOK THE REST OF THE CLASS BACK TO PARIS! NOW TELL ME IF THEY BOARDED THE F*CKING PLANE OR NOT!”

He got what he needed, and he was furious. Not only did the teacher not do a headcount but they have video evidence of one student ripping up two tickets, that he assumed where for the two girls in the lobby of the precinct.

He called Bruce Wayne, since he is technically responsible for them while they are in Gotham. He explained the situation, and Bruce was more livid than Gordon is. He told Gordon that he would pick the girls up and take care of getting them back to Paris. Gordon sighed and went to tell the girls. Who took the news rather well. He talked with the girls, asking them if this was normal for their teacher. They had no reservations, well the blonde had no reservations, about telling him every toxic, manipulative, and downright mentally abusive thing their teacher has done.

By the time Beuce Wayne, and his hoard of kids, arrived; Gordon was going to send a tip to the French Board of Education about this. He pulled Bruce aside and told him about the teacher. Bruce agreed that this teacher is aweful and he is going to make sure that she is never allowed to teach anyone again.

Bruce took the girls back to the manor and had Tim arrange a flight to Paris on their personal plane. He also had the girls call their parents and let them know what happened. Sabine was out for blood. He talked to the parents and let them know he will personally bring their children back to Paris.

After talking to their parents all that was left was to have the plane get ready. They agreed to wait until tomorrow to leave for Paris. This gave Jason enough time to teach both girls how to shoot many different types of guns. Damian was teaching Marinette swordsmanship, he was rather impressed on how dedicated she was. He is a difficult teacher, harsh and strict, but she was enthusiastic and learned from her mistakes. Chloe and Dick has a blast in trying to “one up” the other with flexibility and gymnastics. And finally, Tim has finally found another insomniac coffee addict. Mari and Tim trades coffee recipies.

The entire Batfam went with Marinette and Chloe back to Paris. They didn’t want to miss watching their father rip this teacher apart. Then we’re then introduced to the Dupain-Cheng bakery. . . . . . They literally had to pry Jason’s fingers from the door to get him to leave.

Bruce launches a formal investigation into the school, and Bustier. The Board of Education does this as well. It didn’t turn out well. Bruce suggests that Chloe and Mari wait a few days before going to school. See if the school contacts their parents about why they are missing. When 4 days passed and the school didn’t contact them, the girls showed up after lunch one day. Along with their parents, investigators for Bruce and the Board of Education, and the entire Wayne family.

Bustier is confused and asks the girls why they have been ditching class. This sets sooo many people off. Sabine, Jason, and Chloe have to be physically held back from attacking Bustier.

Marinette, passes Chloe to be father, and steps up to Bustier.

“We didn’t skip school. You left us in an alley with an injured Harley and Ivy, when the Joker appeared. Then when we were rescued by the Batclan and went to the hospital to make sure they were alright, you didn’t try and find us. You left us in Gotham.”

“Marinette, you need to be more responsible. The Joker is very dangerous and trying to protect two criminals was foolish. Also Lila has to get back to Paris to help her mother with some upcoming business.”

This set off so many people that they had to be removed from the class room. Bruce stepped up to Bustier.

“Did you do a head count? If not then why are you putting one student who said they have prior engagements, who should have already gotten it done if they were going to conflict with scheduling or not have come on the trip at all, over two students who were in danger?”

Bruce is beyond livid. He is about to blow a fuse. Until a purple butterfly appears, then Marinette yeets him out of the way. Everyone watches as the akuma goes into one of her hair ties. The class is panicking and are tripping over themselves to get out of the room. Chloe and Marinette’s parents are telling her to fight hawkmoth. Marinette just calmly stares “hawkmoth, if you akumatize me, I will come after you and no one else.” Not long after that state was made. A pure white butterfly emerges from the ribbon.

The class are amazed by this. Adrien smiles and said “see Marinette is our everyday Ladybug, she even rejects Hawkmoth.” Marinette turns towards Adrien and b*tch slaps him. “I may have rejected him, but I shouldn’t have to be in a situation where I have to do it.”

Alya and Lila start yelling about how Mari and Chloe did this for attention, then Lila’s lies are revealed and she and alya get sued.

Lots of salt please. Adrien, Alya, Lila, and Bustier salt. I love my salt

#maribat prompt #mlb x dc au #maribat #mlb au #dc au #alya salt #lila salt #bustier salt #adrien salt

697 notes · View notes

mrsalwayswrite · 4 years

Text

Safe (Eugene Roe x Reader)

Based on this post by @problematicfavesareproblematic because its too cute and I can’t help myself apparently.

This is also my first Eugene Roe fic!! Yay!

All translations are via Google...someone please tell me if they are wrong!

Warnings: angst? fluff?

Words:1500

Tag list: @happyveday @evelynshelby @sydney-m

"Get everyone in the trucks! Go! Go!" Winters commanded his men, walking down the line of waiting vehicles.

Doc Roe looked up from wrapping a bandage around a man's shoulder. He watched the men scurry around like ants after a child kicked their home in childish glee.

Operation Market Garden was collapsing around them. Since learning about the operation, while the other men cheered at the idea of Berlin by Christmas, Roe felt nauseous. Something about the operation did not sit well with him. Call it intuition or a sixth sense, he just knew it could not be that simple. Before they dropped into Holland, he had convinced all the medics he knew to bring extra bandages and morphine, anything they could get their hands on. He hoped it would be enough.

"Can you get up?"

The Private grimaced, face pale. "Thank you, Doc. I'll find a seat myself."

"We'll find you some morphine at the aid station." Roe nodded at the Private before starting along the line of trucks, eyes and ears open for the call of a medic.

He caught sight of Spina helping a limping Private onto a truck bed before climbing in himself to continue administering aid. As he continued, he checked people off his mental list. He saw Shifty, Moore, Liebgott, Ramirez, Tanner, Talbert...more and more raced back to the trucks, some with blood tainting their skin and uniforms. He would have to check on them later.

There was one face in particular he had not seen yet.

The further he walked, dodging men retreating, the more his heart pounded in his ears. She was supposed to be in the back. She was supposed to be safe.

"Non, non, non, où es-tu?" He whispered to himself, panic creeping under his skin. (No, no, no, where are you?)

Ever since she had been wounded in Carentan, Winters had kept her from the front lines unless absolutely necessary. Usually, she was holed up somewhere and watching the men's backs, using her sniper skills. Shifty may be their sniper on the ground, but she was their sniper from above. Their guardian angel. If she had been sent to assist...the situation was worse than Roe had previously thought.

Sometime between Toccoa and Aldbourne, he something shifted between them. He could not pinpoint an exact moment. It was somewhere in the lingering touches, the soft smiles exchanged, the comforting words and stories to cheer one another up...somehow, he had fallen in love. Now he needed her just as much as air. She was his lighthouse, his beacon of hope. She had to be safe.

Glancing to his left, he headed towards the truck with what looked like most of her platoon in it. "Luz! You seen y/n?"

Luz looked down at him from his seat. "No, Doc. Last I saw she was protecting the retreat." Remorse and concern filled his eyes as he answered. They both knew what that meant. She would be the last to evacuate, the last to safety, the one most likely left behind.

Roe started running.

"Merde." He swore, eyes darting everywhere for a sign she was nearby, that she was alright. She had to be. It was that loyalty that he both loved and hated in her, how she would make sure "her boys" were safe, protecting their backs and lives, and in the process, be willing to sacrifice her own.

"Y/n! Y/n!" He began calling out in desperation. Ignoring the stares of some of the men, he wrestled internally with his own panic. His cries bordered on hysterical at this point.

They had never spoken those three little words to each other. Never put a name to what existed between them. They just were whatever the other one needed. Over the past two years, that grew until they were each other's world. How they sought each other out. How in a group, they always looked for the other first before anyone else. The quiet nights they cried together.

"Richardson! Is y/n with you?"

The man glanced around the back of the truck that he was waiting to jump into. "No, Doc. She missing?"

Roe did not wait to reply. He kept moving. He had to. Otherwise the growing terror in his mind would consume him. "S’ll vous plaît, Que Dieu la laisse être en sécurité. S'il vous plaît." (Please, God let her be safe. Please.)

"Doc! Over here!"

He zeroed in on Toye's call at the last truck. Pushing anyone who got in his way, he raced to where Toye stood watching. Once Toye noticed him coming, he sat back down, turning back to the person sitting next to him.

Rounding the side, he felt his heart and mind restart as he saw her. She sat next to Toye and some other Private on the uncomfortable wooden bench, her beloved rifle in her lap. As if sensing him, she looked up to meet his gaze. A soft smile -his smile- touched her lips. The panic and terror threatening him vanished like a mist in the wind.

"Mon amour." He breathed out, relief flooding him. There was dirt smeared on one side of her face and a small cut on her chin. Otherwise she appeared fine, even if her clothes looked disheveled and dirty beyond saving. She was alive. (My love.)

Without a further word, he jumped up into the truck and knelt down in front of her. "Hey, you." He held her face in his hands, gazing into her eyes for a long moment before pressing their foreheads together.

"Hey you." She whispered back, her hands cupping his own face. He could taste her breath on his lips. "I'm alright, Gene. I promise."

Leaning back, he ran a hand through her hair, wondering what happened to her helmet. Then he felt something wet and sticky on his fingers. Pulling his hand back, he saw blood on it...her blood.

Immediately he went into overbearing doctor mode.

"What happened?" He demanded, turning her head to the side and trying to find where the bleeding stemmed from.

"I'm fine."

He glared at her before resuming his inspection. Carding his fingers through her hair for an extra second, he began inspecting underneath, silently praying it was minimal. He could not lose her. There was nothing gushing so that was a good sign. She still seemed coherent, her eyes were not dilated, other good signs.

"I just hit my head a little on a brick wall when one of those explosions went off. It's not a big deal."

"Doll, shut up and let the man look you over." Toye drawled from beside her, watching the two in amusement.

Roe rolled his eyes as she stuck her tongue out at Toye. She winced when he touched a particular spot on the side of her head, hair matted with blood. After a moment, he leaned back on his knees and began digging through his medic bag.

"There’s a laceration but it doesn't look deep. You're lucky." He wrapped a bandage around the cut and her head to hold it there. Suppressing a chuckle, he continued to wrap it as she narrowed her eyes at him. She hated being fussed over. In his opinion, she could deal with it. She needed to get better...for both of their sakes.

The truck suddenly lurched, beginning its escape from Holland and the disastrous mission.

Roe shoved the Private next to her over, ignoring his protest, and slipped to her other side. Quietly he took her hand in his as his eyes scanned the others. He had been so focused on her; he did not even think about if any of the other men in the truck were injured. Luckily none were.

"I'm sorry I scared you. I had to help." She murmured, voice barely above the rumble of the trucks.

He sighed, squeezing her hand then pulled her closer into his side. "I know, mon amour, I know." He looked down, meeting those eyes he adored. "Doesn't mean I have to like it."

She laid her head on his shoulder. "No, but you can't protect me from everything. This is war."

"I can try. Tu es tout pour moi. J’ai besoin de toi à mes côtés. Toujours. Je promets après cette guerre de continuer à vous aimer et à vous chérir comme vous le méritez." The words poured forth, needing to be said, needing to be spoken aloud, even if just for his own sake. Though he meant them with all his heart. (You are everything to me. I need you by my side. Always. I promise after this war to continue to love and cherish you as you deserve.)

"Gene, you know I don't speak French. It's not fair cause I wanna know what you're saying."

"I'll teach you, y/n. I promise." He could not help but press a chaste kiss to the top of her head as they bounced along the road.

Looking at the blue sky and clouds above, he prayed he would be able to fulfill both of his promises to her, that they would both make it through this war. Most of all, he prayed for her to be safe, even at the expense of his own life.

#band of brothers #Band of Brothers fandom #band of brothers fanfic #eugene roe #doc roe #eugene roe x reader #doc roe x reader #joe toye #world war 2 #reader insert #hbo war #mzwrites

178 notes · View notes

zebrabaker · 4 years

Text

Families Lost and Found

Here we go, a brand new story, ft Jasonette, with a side of badass Marinette.

Marinette had many fond memories of being young. Her Mama singing her ancient lullabies as she combed her jet black hair. Visiting with Aunt Talia twice a year, and meeting her Godson Damain Al Ghul. Celebrating Chinese New Year with her maternal family in China, and being slipped small weapons along with her hongbao, eating jian dui with her cousins in between lessons. Her Aunties teaching her how to use her beauty to beguile and bewilder. Her Uncles showing her how to hold a knife. Her Maa-Maa showing her how to sew hidden pockets into all her clothes, and Ah-Gung showing her the many pressure points on a man that could cripple someone in seconds. Her older female cousins taught her how to use her bu yao as a deadly weapon, all the soft spots on a person that would hurt the worst when stabbed with the sharpened hair ornaments. Her older male cousins lessons were in subterfuge and misdirection. By the time she was seven, Marinette was well aware that most girls her age weren’t taught these things. But hey, Marinette was the next head of the Parisian branch of the Triad. Her younger cousin Bridgette would be her second in command, as she was the daughter of Maa-Maa and Ah-Ghung’s second child, Marinette’s Uncle Lee Cheng. Marinette knew her second and third cousins were scattered across Europe, ruling their branches with a velvet covered iron fist, as they were all taught, by family law.

She had been on her way home from a ‘family gathering’, really just a meeting at the front Cousin Yo owned, a large rental hall that could be equipped for any even. In reality, it was a trimonthly gathering of all heads of the Triad’s French branch. They were all, aside from her and her mother, from different cities across the country. She was almost back to her penthouse when she saw it, a man leaning against the wall of her building and staring at the five star Italian restaurant across the street. The restaurant that just so happened to be her eighteenth birthday gift from Mama, and a front for a smuggling ring the Triad had started almost ten years ago. They didn’t smuggle drugs or guns, but refugees, people who needed a new place to call home for some reason or another. Could he be a cop? Or worse, from the Russians? They had been rearing their heads again, trying to push their experimental heroine blend onto Triad streets, and Sabine had been sure to stomp them into the dust.

Waving her hand nonchalantly, her guards paused, and Marinette advanced on the man. His eyes snapped to hers, and his gaze seemed to bore into her very soul. His hair was peeking out from under a rather beat up beanie, and most of it was black, aside from a few white strands hanging over his eyes. She could see that under his mismatched clothes, he was wrapped like a mummy in bandages.

“Sir, are you okay?” She asked, raising her hands to show she means no harm.

“I... I’m from Talia. She said to find -” He manage to get out, before his eyes roll back in his head and he drops like a brick.

“Boys!” Marinette calls, and her guards, two men from the Italians, ‘gifted’ to her as goodwill gifts on her sixteenth birthday, Tony and Bobby, leapt into action, grabbing the man under the arm and throwing his arms over their shoulders. Marinette grabbed her key card from her phone wallet and swiped it at the keypad that opened the door to the lobby. The building was owned entirely by members of the Triad, filled with families of those in service to the organization. It was securely guarded 24/7, and the higher up in the building you were, the higher ranked you were. Marinette was in the penthouse, an entire floor to herself. Her guards and closest confidants had apartments on the floor just below her. Waving off the doorman, Marinette made her way straight for the elevator bay and pressed the call button for her personal elevator.

The ride was agonizingly slow, but after what felt like hours, the car arrived at her hallway. Digging her keys out of her purse, Marinette quickly unlocked the door and ushered her guards inside.

“Set him on the couch and go home, I need to check him for injuries.” Tony and Bobby shared a discomforted look, but nodded and obeyed her orders. Marinette quickly grabbed her first aid kit from the bathroom, a massive, clunky thing that could probably stock a small doctor’s office for days. When she came back, the man was still asleep on the couch, breathing slowly and deep. Now that she looked him over more carefully, his clothes were clearly stolen, as none of them seemed to fit quite the same. With a sigh, Marinette drew the medical scissors from the case and began to casually cut away his jacket. Underneath that was a hoodie, with presumably another layer underneath. This would take a while. Sighing, Marinette pulled away and threw aside the scraps of material. There didn’t seem to be any blood on him, but she would have to keep going to be sure. After the hoodie came a long sleeve shirt and a tank-top, and he was left coated in bandages from the waist up. He was swaddled like a damn mummy, oddly enough. He had mentioned Auntie Talia...could she have? No, Great-Uncle Ras would never allow some random outsider or underling to be bathed in the pits, he was far too possessive for that.

Right as she started cutting upwards from the hem of the man’s pant legs, he sat bolt right up, gasping. He saw her and scrambled backwards, while Mari just raised an unimpressed eyebrow at him.

“Where am I?” He demanded, eyes darting around the living room.

“Relax, my name is Marinette, and you’re in Paris, in my penthouse. I found you outside, you collapsed. My guards and I brought you in. I started cutting away your clothes so that I could assess you for injuries. I believe you’ve had some experience with my Auntie Talia and her League, and she sent you to find me. She would have said to find ‘she who rises’. It’s the meaning of my name, Marinette. Now, please sit down. I’m not armed, and I don’t intend to harm you. Look, you can pat me down if you need to make sure I’m not armed at all.” The man gave her a wary look, before taking a deep breath and sitting back down on the couch, perched on the very edge of the cushion. Good, Auntie Talia had instilled him with some preservation instincts.

“So, Auntie? I’m going to assume you’re related to Ras and Damain, then.”

“Not at all.” Marinette scoffed. “My family runs the Parisian Triad, and all future heads are trained by the League for a year and a day. Ras trained my mother at the same time as Talia was beginning to train. They consider themselves sisters, making Talia my Auntie. I am, however, Damian’s godmother. He’s a sweet boy, once you put aside the homicidal tendencies. Are you hungry? I can have the place across the street, the one you were staking out, run us some food. Anything specific you want? Their ravioli is to die for.”

“That would...that would be great. I’ll eat anything.” The man (who looked to be around her age, late twenties) seemed caught off guard by her kindness.

“So, it appears you have me at a disadvantage. You know my name, but I don’t know yours.” Marinette commented, texting James, the head chef of Nona Gina’s to bring over her usual plus a plate of ravioli.

“My name is Jason. So, you mentioned the Parisian Triad.”

“Yup. My Mama is the current head, I have a year and a half before I take over. Tradition states I become head on my twenty-fifth birthday.”

“Any chance you’re looking for a new body guard? I’m gonna need to find a job, and I can guarantee that I’m good.” Marinette paused, thinking for a moment. Both her guards were more than adequate, but Bobby had come to her last week, and asked to be transferred to a more sedate job, as his wife (Laura, a lovely woman) had just birthed their third child, and he wanted a little more time off. Jason, on one hand, was likely League trained, and probably had no where else to go. On the other hand, he was a complete unknown, and it would be a week at least before she would be able to contact Auntie Talia and have a response as to whether the man was telling the truth. Well, Bridgette always said she was too soft.

“Good news for you is, I am. You can start as soon as the family doctor looks you over and gives you a clean bill of health. The issue is, what will your cover be?”

“Er, cover?” Jason asked.

“I’m going to need an excuse to suddenly have a random guy escorting me all over Paris, and it’s not exactly common knowledge that I’m the next head of the Triad. I’m also something of a public figure here in Paris.” Marinette blushed at the reminder. Her brand, MDC, had taken off not long after she graduated, thanks to Jagged bragging about her at every turn. “I mean,” she snorted. “we could go the route of claiming you’re my boyfriend or something.” Giggling, Marinette stood and made her way towards her room. “Try to think of something, while I grab a quick shower. I can’t stand family meetings.” Leaving Jason seated on the couch, lost in thought, Marinette shut her door behind her and fired off a quick text to the number saved as “Auntie T’ in her main phone, before grabbing a pair of pajamas from her walk in and heading to the attached bathroom. She had some thinking to do.

#jasonette #maribat #badass marinette #tw: triad #FLAF #my writing

452 notes · View notes

ourloveisforthelovely · 3 years

Text

Lost Part 7

Harry Potter Marauders Era

Link to Part 6

Pairings: Regulus Black x Reader

Rating: M- smut

_____

“Time to be a good girl…”

You repeated the thought again before stepping into your bedroom. The room was cool and quiet as you waited to see if you could hear the television. Your parents would be so lost in their Christmas specials that they wouldn’t realize their youngest daughter was being ravaged by her boyfriend (whom they thought was a perfect angel).

“Reggie?”

You whispered his name as you went to flip on the light. A hand immediately caught yours as you were turned and pushed against the wall.

“Leave it off, for now.”

Regulus’ voice was calm and cold as he took both of your hands in his and held them over your head.

“You’ve kept me waiting.”

“Yeah, for maybe 10 minutes.”

You replied, sounding a little sassier than planned. Regulus chuckled in the dark before shoving his body against yours.

“I should shut that smart mouth up.”

You bit your lip. He wanted to play his games and tonight you were more than excited about it.

“You said that you had a surprise for me?”

Regulus tilted your face to his. You could see his face in the moonlight. He gave you a little sneer before leaning down. Thinking that you were going to get a kiss, you puckered your lips waiting to feel his mouth on yours. When you didn’t get the sensation that you wanted, your eyes snapped open.

“Only good girls get surprises. You’re being a bit too snarky.”

Regulus replied.

“I was good all night.”

You protested. Regulus finally leaned down to kiss you. You kissed him, perhaps a little too eagerly.

“So why was my brother watching us all night?”

Regulus asked. He had let go of your hands and backed away from you at this point. Walking across the room, he sat down in the armchair in the corner. Regulus put his arms behind his head and stretched his legs out as if he owned the whole damn place.

“I think that he’s concerned about us. He actually asked if we ran off and got married.”

Regulus patted his lap.

“Come here, love.”

You didn’t wait to be told twice before rushing across the room and taking your place on his lap. Regulus was silent for a few moments as you lavished attention on his cheeks and neck.

“What did you tell him?”

“No, of course. I think he is just worried because of your family…”

“I would consider him a fool if he didn’t worry.”

Regulus replied. His left hand gently reached up your leg and stopped at the hem of your dress.

“I remember something about black lace knickers.”

He commented. You quickly jumped off of Regulus’ lap and hastily unzipped your dress. The garment hit the floor leaving you only in the lace thong that you had picked out when shopping with Lily the day before. To your relief, Lily hadn’t asked any questions. Had she noticed, she would probably be “checking up on you” at that very moment.

“They’re new...I bought these yesterday.”

You commented, knowing that you were probably offering information that Regulus didn’t care about. He had flipped the small reading lamp on and was looking you over like a hawk. Those grey eyes studied each and every inch of your body. Tonight, the two of you had more time to do whatever you wanted and he was going to enjoy every moment of it.

“Let me see the back.”

Regulus ordered. You turned, feeling his eyes on your ass.

“I like them. Back on my lap, sweetheart.”

You quickly sat back down as Regulus manhandled you so that your back was against his chest. He reached out and slowly rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt. You swallowed back a ball of tension the moment that the dark mark on his arm came into view.

“Be sure to bring these back to school.”

Regulus commented as his left hand began to slide up your body. You gasped as he greedily cupped your breast and tugged at your nipple.

“Hush now. We don’t want mummy and daddy knowing what we are doing in here, do we?”

Regulus whispered in your ear. You frantically shook your head as Regulus nuzzled his face against your neck.

“That’s a good girl. Where do you want me to touch you first?”

You quickly grabbed Regulus’ hand and placed it over your knicker covered mound. He slowly started circling your clit with his middle finger. You pressed your lips together to stop a moan from coming out.

“Keep quiet. You can’t let mum and dad hear.”

You though, trying to keep your moan to a minimum. Regulus dropped his mouth back to your ear as he slid his hand into your knickers.

“Love, you’re so wet. Too bad you can’t moan too loud. I love hearing you cry my name.”

“Reggie, you’re killing me.”

You whimpered. Regulus laughed evilly.

“Poor baby.”

You clenched your eyes closed as his long fingers teased at your entrance. Turning your head, you shoved your lips against his as Regulus pushed two fingers inside. The realization that this was one of the more erotic things that you had ever done hit you like a brick. You were on your lover's lap while he finger fucked you with your parents and sister right down the hall.

Regulus quickly took over control in the hungry french kisses. He knew that if he didn’t keep his mouth on yours, you would be crying his name in no time.

“I’m close.”

You whispered. Regulus gave you a mirthful grin before yanking his hand out of your knickers. Your eyes snapped open as you thought about protesting but stopped yourself.

“That was mean.”

Regulus gave you that sarcastic little sneer that he was so good at.

“Why don’t you go lay down on the bed and I’ll show you what I brought.”

You jumped off of Regulus’ lap and raced to your bed.. Laying down, you looked at Regulus with those “I have been very good” eyes that usually got you what you wanted. Regulus liked to think that he had complete control of the situation when it came to making love like this but you knew that you were the one with control.

Regulus, meanwhile, stood up and slowly began to unbutton his shirt. He tossed it carelessly to the armchair that he had been sitting in.

“Lose the pants too.”

You demanded earning a smile from Regulus.

“Soon.”

Regulus quickly took his place over you on the bed. Placing a knee on either side of your body, he reached to his back pocket and pulled out his school tie. Regulus couldn’t help but smile the moment that the realization clicked in his mind.

“That’s crafty.”

You commented as Regulus took both of your hands and his and raised them above your head. He wrapped the tie around your wrists and headboard.

“This was the surprise?”

You asked. Regulus nodded.

“Yes, try to get out of that.”

You attempted to move your hands but were unable to. Regulus appeared to be thrilled with his handiwork before leaning back. This was just like at school. You wouldn’t be going anywhere that Regulus didn’t want you to.

Meanwhile, you moved your hands again before smiling up at him. It had been a long time since the two of you had done something like this and you were more than thrilled for this to be happening.

“You know that I like this...and the fact you brought your school tie…”

You said fighting the pangs of desire going through your body. Regulus smirked as he stroked his fingers over your breasts and stomach.

“I figured that you would enjoy that detail.”

Regulus slowly moved his position off of you to pull the lace knickers up. Sliding a hand back over your mound, he stroked you for a few moments before releasing the lace material and letting it playfully snap against your body. You squealed at the impact as Regulus shoved his hand over your mouth.

“Love, you’re going to get us in trouble. Hush, now.”

You nodded and placed your hand over Regulus’ taking your time to stroke over each of his fingers. Regulus didn’t move for a moment.

“Good girl.”

He praised before taking his hand away. His grey eyes fell down to your knickers.

“Maybe we should take these off? Ass up, sweetheart.”

Regulus suggested before tugging the fabric over your hips and down your legs. You whimpered realizing that you were totally naked while Regulus still had his dress pants on. Trying to move your hands, the frustration of not being able to touch your lover was beginning to set in. Regulus chuckled, his voice dropping an octave.

“You’re not touching me...might as well get over it. As for me...well, I can do what I want.”

You swallowed back a sigh as Regulus leaned down for a kiss. The kiss was sweetly innocent. His hands, however, was the devious party. Regulus cupped your breasts as he shoved the plump flesh together.

Leaning down, Regulus took your left nipple into his mouth. He nipped at the tender flesh as his right hand continued to tease the right nipple before letting his hand slide down your body. The moment that his hand came into contact with your core, you could have come.

“Don’t think about it.”

Regulus muttered as he kissed the nipple that he had been paying so much attention to. Grey eyes rolled up to yours as he got off of the bed. You bit your lip as Regulus unbuckled his belt and pushed his trousers down his slender hips.

“Would you like a nice blowjob?”

You asked, licking your lips. Regulus smiled and shook his head.

“This is all about you, sugar. Now, I would rather taste those pretty lips.”

Regulus took his place on top of you and came back for another kiss. You sighed as he nibbled on your bottom lip. Right as he was about to start teasing your tongue with his there was a knock at the locked door. Regulus was glaring over his shoulder as your mother’s voice came from the other side.

“Sweetheart, are you still awake?”

Regulus looked down at you with a raised eyebrow. His hair had started to fall into his eyes as he mouthed “answer her.”

“I’m just finishing up a homework assignment and getting changed, mum.”

You choked out as Regulus started rubbing his cock against your clit. It took all that you had to not start moaning as Regulus grinned like the little devil that he was. Your cheeks were blood red as you realized the situation that you were in. Your mother stood on the other side of the door while you were tied to your bed with your boyfriend about to fuck you. Regulus was obviously enjoying himself with the whole thing too.

“Reggie, please.”

You whispered, pleading for him to behave for just a moment. He shook his head before pushing just the tip inside of you. Teasing your entrance, he watched with a devilish little grin as you tried to focus on not moaning while your mother was on the other side of the door.

“Okay, sweetheart. You’re father and I are going to bed. Sleep well.”

“You too.”

You managed to get out. Regulus waited until he heard her footsteps on the stairs before looking back at you smugly.

“Regulus Arcturus Black, you could have gotten us in trouble.”

Regulus quickly shoved the rest of the way in.

“Mummy needs to go away. It's my turn to have you.”

He commented.

“Dirty boy.”

You replied with a smile. The smile alone told Regulus that you weren’t mad. He set a slow steady rhythm. It wasn’t fast enough to make you want to come but enough to set a maddening sensation in your tummy.

“You like it though.”

Regulus groaned. He reached up and undid the tie that held your hands above your head.

“Turn on your stomach.”

Regulus commanded as he pulled out to let you do as you were told. You had barely got situated with your ass when Regulus shoved back in. Leaning down he pressed a kiss to your spine.

“Hold on to the headboard, love.”

You quickly did as you were told. As soon as your hands wrapped around the bars, Regulus increased his speed. You were thankful for your headboard at this point.

“Damn it, I want to make noise.”

Regulus growled. You frantically nodded.

“Me too.”

“I want to make you scream.”

Regulus grunted. You shoved your face into your pillow and screamed as loud as you could.

“Well, that works...could be better though…”

Twenty minutes later, you lay snuggled against Regulus’ chest. His long fingers stroked through your hair as he waited for your breathing to return to normal.

“Maybe the next time we meet up to have sex, if we aren’t back at school, we can sneak off to a hotel or something.”

You suggested. Regulus smiled.

“We could always go to one of my family's estates? We aren’t using all of them at the same time. Besides...we could play house and see what it’s going to be like eventually.”

You smiled against his chest.

“That would be nice.”

Over the next week, Regulus would sneak out to come to see you as much as he could. This morning in particular, the two of you sat at a small cafe in London. You sat snuggled against Regulus’ side as the two of you sat quietly whispering to each other.

“So you really meant it? We are going to be open about being boyfriend and girlfriend at school? What if it gets back to your parents?”

You questioned as Regulus took a sip of the tea in front of him. Putting the cup down, he turned his attention back to you. He was thankful that the little cafe was drafty. This provided all of the more excuse for you to be as close to him as possible.

“Don’t worry about my family. If anyone says anything either Evan or myself will take care of whoever it is.”

You were surprised. Evan Rosier was okay with Regulus dating you...a muggle-born? What was this world coming to? Better yet, what did Regulus threaten Evan with to make his best friend okay with this?

“Reggie, how is Evan okay with us as a couple?”

Regulus shrugged.

“I think he was sick of me being a miserable bastard. Plus the whole Slytherins adoring Hufflpuffs seems to actually be a thing. Evan may be a difficult and disagreeable dick at times but he actually cares about my happiness...you make me happy so Evan is looking the other way. If he suddenly decides our being together is a problem...well, it won’t end great for him.”

You snuggled your face against his shoulder as the door to the cafe opened and closed.

“Regulus?”

Both Regulus and yourself looked up to see none other than Orion Black looking down at you...

_______

@amelie-black

@realgaytrash

@truly-insatiable

@nikki-sixx-is-daddy

@swinginsoulbailiffrascal

@velveteencurls

@kitkatkl

@bisou-doux

@brokencasbutt67-writer

@authoressskr

@hankypranky

@fandom-trash-worth-it

@summer-novak

@li0nh34rt

@tas898

@marichromatic

@maggioli-m

@stuckinsaudi1

@knight-of-gleefulness

@shadows-and-padlocked-hearts

@shaylybaby2032

@emiwrites3reads

@untoldshortsofthefandoms

@sprnaturallover

@shitfaceddaniel

@spiderxalmighty

@wontlookaway

@mycuddlycorner

75 notes · View notes

liron-ao3 · 3 years

Text

Brilliant

A Doctor Who–Destiel–Malec Oneshot

"This is brilliant!" the Doctor exclaims. She pushes some buttons on the console of the TARDIS. "Brilliant!"

"How is this 'brilliant'?" Alec asks. "We're trapped in a TV show."

"No, we are trapped in a TV series, Shadowhunter," Yaz hisses.

Castiel huffs in frustration. "It's probably just one of Gabriel's stupid jokes."

"Gabriel?" the Doctor asks. "Oh, the Archangel. Amy loved him, but not as much as she loved you, Cass."

"Where do you know his name from?" Dean demands to know.

The Doctor rolls her eyes. "I watched the show, Dean. Crappy ending, sorry."

"You... what!?" Dean asks.

"Nevermind. That's more brain-wracking than the usual time travel paradoxes. But I'm thrilled to meet you all. Umm—what are you doing, Magnus?" She raises an eyebrow at the warlock who lets his magic run over the console.

"This is worse than the technology in the Institute," he mutters.

Alec pulls him away cautiously. "Maybe you shouldn't mess with it then, love?" he suggests, smiling strained, holding tight on his husband's hand.

"Aww, you're the reboot version. I was so happy when Netflix saw sense. And your boys are the cutest," the Doctor chirps.

"Boys?" Magnus asks.

"Doctor, they might be from episode one of season four. Look at their clothes," Yaz whispers, but it's loud enough for Dean to hear it.

"There are only three seasons of Shadowhunters," he states. "It ends when they marry and Clary loses her memories, but gets them back in the last few seconds. It wasn't the best ending, but at least the gays were happy." Dean's grin reaches from ear to ear before it falters at Castiel's stern look.

"Dean, did you watch 3b without me?"

Dean shrugs. "If you wouldn't always run out on me or die then we coulda watched it. It was on my playlist for aeons. And I needed something to distract me from… You know." He waves his hand up and down the angel.

"Jesus! That's like that time when Sam and I were in this weird Hollywood dimension, with that Russian guy that looked like Cass!"

"Wait!" Magnus says. "I watched Doctor Who for six decades and Supernatural for fifteen years—I agree, Doctor, the 'finale' was crap. But if you all know us from a show called Shadowhunters, then we must be in some kind of dimension that morphs everything into a TV series that everyone else has watched."

The Doctor claps her hands together. "The French mistake—one of my favourites!"

"No, Russian." Dean shakes his head and rolls his eyes. He always loved the Doctor and was excited for a woman to take over the role, but he thinks he might have been able to live without her enthusiasm about their little get together. They have a world to save, after all.

"Chuck has a strange sense of humour, but that doesn't sound like one of his interventions," Alec states. "Why would he put us all in the TARDIS?"

"What do we all have in common?" Dean asks.

"We're kinda humans," Alec says.

"Time Lady."

"Angel."

"Warlock. And you're not fully human either, Alexander."

The shadowhunter chews his lips.

"But you three have some kind of mojo," Dean supplies.

The Doctor furrows her brow. "You're right. Cass has grace, Magnus magic, and timelord technology is so highly evolved, it could be seen as magical. If there is a—" she trails off and points her sonic screwdriver first at the warlock then at the angel. Then she listens to her ship. "You're right," she says and putters about the console.

"Care to fill us in?" Alec asks.

The Doctor pushes a button and a high-pitched sound makes them all cover their ears. "Gotcha!"

"What?" Castiel asks.

"I know what we have in common. We all have a fam. You've got the SPN family, and you," she turns to Alec and Magnus, "your fans call themselves shadowfam. And I?" She smiles brightly. "I have Yaz, Graham, and Ryan."

"You agreed on team TARDIS, Doctor," Magnus reminds her.

"Still, feels like fam to me." She shrugs. "So…" She quirks her lips in thought. "Some blood magic, maybe?"

"But family doesn't end in blood," Dean argues.

"Right, Bobby taught you that. Wish the showrunners remembered that in season 15," Alec murmurs. Dean gives him a strange side look.

"Is something wrong, Dean?"

"Nah, Cass," he says and pulls his gaze from the intertwined hands of the Lightwood-Banes. "So, maybe some rune thingy?"

Alec pulls a face. "Could turn Yaz and you into forsakens. Maybe even the Doctor. Better not."

"Can't you just put the coordinates in and throw us out in the bunker. Or in front of it? No idea if the warding would keep the TARDIS out or not." Dean frowns.

"Wouldn't work," Magnus says. "If this dimension, or whatever it is, thinks that we are all fictional, then the coordinates can't bring us into our worlds. We might end up in your dimension. I like our vampires better."

"Awesome!" Dean groans.

Magnus curls his fingers around his chin in deep thought. "I could summon a dimension demon, but they usually demand things one would rather die than do."

"Like what?" Castiel asks.

"The last time I had to pay one, he wanted me to drink seelie wine."

"Doesn't sound too bad," Dean says.

"You've never had seelie wine. That stuff is worse than the touch of a Djinn." Dean whistles in acknowledgement.

"Could still be worth it. I mean we need to get back to our friends, and yours are surely waiting, too," Yaz supplies.

"The TARDIS is stuck in this dimension, Doc?" Alec asks.

"Yes. Positive."

"Then we should begin," Magnus says, conjuring chalks. "We all will be home soon."

***

They stand in a circle around the pentagram drawn on the floor of the TARDIS.

"We must initiate a bond. Once this bond is sealed,..." Magnus starts.

"...it cannot be broken until the demon retreats," Castiel ends his sentence and smiles softly at Alec, who blushes fiercely.

"Well, this time, I won't be the one who'll break it in a gay panic," he huffs. Yaz snickers.

Dean furrows his brow, ignoring Castiel eyeing him. He recites the summoning spell together with Magnus and the Doctor. Green flames rise in their midst. They aren't hot, but their sight hurts the eyes. A deep growl speaks to them, and Castiel turns pale.

"I haven't heard this demonic dialect in a while," he calls over the noises. "Did he say what I think he said?"

Magnus worries his lip between his teeth. "I think he did."

"I can't."

"What, Cass. What does he ask for? Give it to him. It can't be that bad," Dean shouts.

"It isn't. At least not for me." Castiel looks at the Doctor. "Any Supernatural sequels you've seen by any chance?"

"No, sorry. I got stuck at the Destiel YouTube vids. Didn't get around to checking future releases. But you two always reminded me of Rose and me, you know?" She looks sad at the memory of her lost love.

"No. A human doppelgänger won't do," Castiel says firmly. He says something in the demon's tongue and gets a rumble in reply.

Magnus nods at him. "My magic can hold the circle. But hurry."

The others stare at them. "Why doesn't the TARDIS translate his words?" Yaz asks.

"This demon is too old," the Doctor says. "Even older than evil itself. No one speaks this language anymore but angels and demon-blooded ones, as it seems."

"Lucky me, huh?" Castiel presses out. He lets go of Magnus' hand and turns to Dean. The warlock holds the gap with his magic. "I know how you see yourself, Dean…"

"We don't have time for the whole death speech. Fast forward," Magnus hisses, clearly struggling to hold the bond.

Castiel frowns at him but nods. He turns his face back to Dean. "I'm sorry. I know you never wanted that to happen. It's simply what the demon demands. It doesn't have to mean anything, okay?"

"What are you talking about, man?"

Castiel smiles at him. "I love you." And then he leans in and kisses him. It's chaste but after a moment of shock, Dean returns the kiss, and his hand cards through Castiel's hair. Thunder booms around them and dense fog separates the different duos. The demon disappears with a screeching noise and when the fog thins out, the places where the two couples were standing are empty.

"It worked!" the Doctor rejoices. Yaz grins at her. "Let's get to the boys."

"No, Mulder, this isn't a UFO. It's surely just a high-quality film set," a redhead in pantsuit and coat says as she strolls into the room.

"Scully!" the Doctor cheers. "Brilliant!"

#fandom fusion #doctor who #shadowhunters #supernatural #destiel #malec #deancas #metafiction #crack taken seriously

9 notes · View notes

elareine · 4 years

Text

JayTimSpooktober - Ghosts

Revenant: “One that returns after death or a long absence.”

In folklore, a revenant is an animated corpse that is believed to have revived from death to haunt the living, sustained by feelings of anger or the need for revenge. The word revenant is derived from the Old French word, revenant, the “returning” (see also the related French verb revenir, meaning “to come back”).

—

Everyone accepts that Jason came back to life because of something that happens in another universe, including Jason. It’s a glitch, never meant to happen until it did, and he digs himself out of the grave with his bare hands and doesn’t think twice about it.

There are other things to focus on. His anger when he returns and finds out that the Joker is still alive—has been allowed to harm others—burns hot and bright enough to tear the city down. So that’s what he does.

It’s weird how his body changed. He’s as tall as Bruce, now, and almost as beefy. They can go head-to-head in terms of strength and speed. With the amount of malnutrition he experienced as a kid, Jason never expected this. The Lazarus Pit really is amazing.

He’s ready to kill anyone he needs to. Later, he’ll look back at the choices he makes—attacking a kid, really?—and he will be ashamed of some of them, but not all.

Even when he leaves Gotham, the anger never stays behind. He loves hanging out with his new friends—loves them, even if he’d never say it—but it doesn’t fill the void.

Eventually, he returns to her, the city that birthed him, the one that he loves despite her protector. He delivers justice, not revenge, and pretends that’s enough.

Slowly, almost without him noticing, one person comes into focus: Tim Drake. It’s like… wherever he turns, Tim is there, offering him a hand, steady and patient as the sea.

One day, Jason grasps it.

Tim doesn’t flinch when things get ugly. He just rolls up his sleeves and gets to fixing it. And gradually, almost reluctantly, Jason starts putting in the work, too.

It’s easy to be with Tim. Not that the guy is uncomplicated, by any means—we’re talking abandonment issues a mile wide here. Jason could deal with that, though. His is the kind of presence that makes itself felt; doubly so when he intentionally dials it up. Even Tim finds it hard to imagine Jason leaving him after the guy sleeps wrapped around him every night for over a year. They share an apartment long before either of them consciously makes the decision to do so.

Tim’s brilliant and kind and necessary to Jason. It’s easy to tell him that. In turn, Jason listens when Tim whispers that he’s loved, and he’s starting to believe it.

At first, his reconciliation—well, his truce—with Bruce is solely for Tim. It’s not that the other man expects it of him, but Jason sees how stressed their fights make Tim. Honestly, he’s getting a bit tired of the constant anger himself.

So they work on it. Bruce visibly bites his tongue when Jason does his thing, and Jason stops demanding for him to compromise his morals, and somehow, someway, they actually reconcile. Now he’s invited to family dinners every Thursday. Imagine that.

In fact, he needs to get ready for that soon. Alfred wouldn’t appreciate him showing up in his sweatpants. Then again… Tim will be home in half an hour, and he likes watching Jason change. Jason stays where he is.

Today’s a Jane Austen kind of day. His phone is on silent and out of reach on the table. It’s his day off, and recently, that has started to mean something.

“I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is not my nature,” Jason reads and smiles. That’s Tim to a T. Loyal to a fault.

Maybe the quote can be about Jason, too. He likes that thought more than he’s willing to admit. For so long, his life has been nothing but anger, of a need to get his revenge… but looking around, thinking of where he is—in the apartment he shares with his boyfriend, waiting for him to come home so they can attend family dinner and then patrol Gotham’s darkness together… he’s come a long way, doesn’t he?

For the first time since he died, Jason Todd is truly content.

And then he’s feeling weird. His hands are shaking—no, they’re blurring, fizzling out at the edges.

He’s so tired. Maybe he just needs to lie down. Close his eyes. Sleep…

Jason jolts. This isn’t good. The last time he thought like that, he—

He scrabbles for his phone. Tim. He needs to call Tim. If he’s been poisoned, if this is a panic attack, if he’s sick, if he’s dying—no matter what, Tim can help. Tim always makes everything better.

Tim…

—

Tim can’t find his boyfriend. Which is weird, considering they live together and are supposed to head out for a family dinner in, like, ten minutes. Jason can be flaky, but he’d never let Alfred down like that.

Still, they get caught up sometimes. Even if it’s supposed to be a day off for Jason.

Tim texts him. No reply.

He calls, and the sound comes from the living room. What the fuck?

Worried now, Tim checks the surveillance footage.

It looks like a typical day off for Jason—lounging around, making food, reading on the couch—until he gets up and all of a sudden, alarm visible on his face, hand going for his phone on the table next to him… and then the footage goes staticky. When it resumes service three minutes later, Jason is gone.

Tim tries to restore the lost footage to no avail. Each time he looks at the static, he feels like throwing up.

Their living room is now a crime scene, but one reluctant to give up its secrets. There’s no sign of a fight. Jason wouldn’t go without a fight. If he’d been taken, Tim would expect blood, a broken table leg, bullets in the walls, gunshot residue—something, anything to tell him what happened.

All there is, is a pristine room and Jason’s cell phone on the table.

Tim calls Kon. “Can you hear Jason anywhere?”

And his best friend tries, he does, but he comes up empty. That’s when the panic really starts to set in.

Tim goes searching. At first, the others assume that Jason just left. He’s done it before.

They’re wrong. Tim knows Jason. He keeps looking, trying not to feel bitter because that’s pointless and small feeling next to the overwhelming worry.

His first visit is to Arkham. Then it’s Black Mask’s and his cronies turn. None of them feel like talking, of course, but Tim can be persuasive if he wants to be.

No one knows anything.

Dick joins in his search not even a week later, tracking down Slade and Deadshot. Three days later, Tim enters an old lair of the Joker and stumbles over Damian collecting DNA samples from old splatter. Months pass and Bruce starts to worry, too. Roy and Kori are with Tim from the start, checking their old hideouts, visiting old enemies outside Gotham. Hell, the Green Lanterns are checking other planets.

Jason’s family is looking for him, and they can’t find him.

Eventually, all the avenues are exhausted. It’s not that they stop looking, precisely, it’s that there’s nowhere left to look.

Tim looks, anyway. No matter where he goes, what he does, Jason is always there, just out of reach. They all think he’s deluding himself, pushing back his grief. They’re wrong. Tim knows that Jason is gone. His absence is everywhere, and Tim misses him like he didn’t know it’s possible to miss someone.

But if Jason is dead, then he will not go unavenged this time, Tim vows. Not again.

And yes, maybe Jason left. Maybe he just had enough of Tim, of the life they were building together, of their relationship. Perhaps Tim was too much too fast or not enough. He’ll never know.

If that’s not grief, then he doesn’t know what is.

#elareine writes #jaytim #jaytimspooktober #character death tw #might clean this and the last one up and post on ao3 later

121 notes · View notes