#un-beta'd

[howdoyousleep3]

#4- “I’m hard // Sounds like a personal problem” with daddy James and daddy Steve? Those two together have been on my mind SO heavy lately and I love switch daddy Steve with all my heart <3333 James making Steve beg for help even though Steve is stubborn and dominant too 😵‍💫

I read this and was confused...and then reread it...and reread it...and had an oh moment so large I had to lay on my bed to process what this said exactly. Ya girl is different after this one. The sexual tension between these two is too damn high! You're the best, here go. 💗 ~2.1K words Notable tags: Sub/Dom Undertones, Daddy Dom James, Switch Daddy Steve, Humiliation, Verbal Humiliation, Dirty Talk, Orgasm Control, Begging, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Office Sex, Somewhat of an Established Relationship, Praise Kink

James doesn’t look up from the stack of papers he’s reviewing when he hears the door to his office open and close; the click of the lock tells him who it is right away.

He chooses not to say anything to welcome Steve into this space, continuing to focus on the papers that require his attention and signatures instead. He doesn’t look up, but he does glance at his wrist to take note of the time. 3:30 in the afternoon. That’s much later than he thought he’d be seeing Steve today. He’s impressed.

Steve isn’t phased by the lack of a proper greeting, moves about the office as if it’s his own. James half expects him to come and sit in the chair across from his desk where he sits, expects him to begin to whine and grovel right away, but how easily he’s forgotten who he’s dealing with.

“That is for good boys, Steven,” James comments in a casual and hushed tone when he hears the clink of glass and the sound of liquid being poured into said glass. He doesn’t have to look up to know that Steve has chosen bourbon from the selection of liquors. He does look up when Steve huffs though.

“Then I deserve a double.”

Brat.

James shouldn’t have looked up. He’s met with an image that never fails to make his dick fatten up in an instant— one sexually frustrated and exhausted Steve Rogers. James is certain his suit jacket was shucked to the corner of his own office within an hour of arriving to work, the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled messily up his forearms. His hair looks like he’s ran his hand through it every thirty minutes and James hopes it from frustration brought on by himself.

Frustrated or not, that ass doesn’t quit, much to James’ dismay. He wants to send flowers to Steve’s tailor, wants to take her face in his hands and plant kisses on both of her cheeks for the way her attention to detail makes Steve’s own cheeks look. James wants to grab at those ass cheeks, one in each hand, wants to spread them wide and drag his tongue from his heavy balls right over his pretty, puckered hole. The noise that would follow, deep and whiny and bitten-back, would surely make James’ dick damn near burst.

That ass doesn’t deserve such treatment after a sass like that; it deserves a firm smack instead. James bites his tongue, hoping his unimpressed look as he sits back in his chair does the talking for him.

“Don’t give me that look,” Steve mumbles as he makes his way to the seat in front of James’ desk before taking another long sip of his bourbon. James can almost feel the burn in his own throat. “I didn’t come here to get a lecture or to get Daddied.”

James resists the urge to openly scoff. Right.

He raises a challenging eyebrow, leans back further into his chair. Steve meets his pose and his gaze head-on, leans back in the same manner as James, spreads his thighs where he sits. The bulge between his legs is obvious from here and even with the low lighting of James’ office. It takes him longer than he’d like to look away from the outline of Steve’s cock.

“Then why are you here?” James counters, and Steve rolls his eyes. He’s going to have to do something about this attitude.

“I’m hard.”

Goddamn, that sounds so good James is almost inclined to tell Steve to repeat himself.

“That sounds like a personal problem,” James mumbles instead, eyes drawn to the way Steve licks his lips as he obviously fights the curl of a snarl. He doesn’t miss the way Steve rolls his eyes though.

“Mhmm, yes,” Steve bites out. “A personal problem for the both of us seeing as you’re the reason I’m hard.”

James tips his chin in amusement.

“How is this my fault?”

“How is this your fault?” Steve asks incredulously, free hand moving down cup and squeeze at his own dick, quite a handful that has James’ mouth watering immediately. This time he doesn’t hide the way he drinks Steve in, the way he takes his sweet time and lets his eyes take in such a display. Steve is more wound up than James thought he would be, more on edge and quick to react to James’ normal chiding. And while that means more of a headache for him in the present, that also means the payoff in the end will be sweeter than sin.

“Yes, how is this my fault? Tell me.” He leans forward in his chair now, elbows landing on his desk, eager to hear Steve’s words, his dick already perking up.

“You know damn well, Barnes. This is all your doing, all your—”

“Tell me.”

He uses a tone that Steve normally doesn’t hear in this office, Steve tightening his grip on his dick in response, hand having not left the front of his pants. The seconds that pass are thick with sexual tension, are thick with the unpoken question and confirmation of, “Here? Yes, here.” James doesn’t break their eye contact, their heavy gaze, and neither does Steve. Even as Steve lowers his glass lazily in the same manner his other hand lowers the zip of his pants, his eyes don’t leave James’.

“You’ve had me hard all day,” he starts, and Christ that was suspiciously too easy. “Had me hard since you woke me up too goddamn early, beggin’ to fuck me.”

Well, shit. James should have seen this coming, should have anticipated Steve’s bratty behavior stretching this far, trying to take the unspoken upperhand. He’s one hell of a sight, drink in one hand and girthy erection fisted in the other, lazily stroking himself as his mouth runs. James almost wishes he could backtrack, could have set more expectations or demanded something different of Steve. But few can withstand the direct attack that is Steve Rogers’ filthy fucking mouth.

“Been hard ever since you took yours and then left me achy and gaggin’ for it while you traipsed off to shower while givin’ me that goddamn, ‘Be a good boy for me, bubba’...”

James would smirk if he weren’t so distracted by the pleasant ache of remembrance in his dick as it fills out or the way Steve’s chin almost drops to his chest as his breathing becomes labored, fist continuing to glide.

“Showered hard, walked around my office hard, sat through two meetings thinking about how my shoulder ached from where you bit down on it when you fuckin’ filled me up. Contemplated jerking off in the bathroom just so I could drain my balls but that…the way you just…the way you told me to be good without telling me what that meant…”

James’ arousal hits him so hard in the center of his chest it knocks him into his chair, the bulge of his own erection surely visible from where he leans back as casually as he can manage. Steve spent the entire day hard…because he wanted to be good. Steve went about his day thinking of nothing but James, of the way James used him and his body, of the way his dick still throbbed because James didn’t let him come, and he continued to walk around sexually frustrated because the urge to be good outweighed any other desire.

Here sits Steve Rogers, a man whose name alone carries weight to it, carries hefty meaning. This is a man who commands a courtroom, who has pretty young things lining up for blocks to jump at the chance to squeal underneath him and call him Daddy. He is big, he is a force to be reckoned with and yet…

He wanted to be good for James.

It’s almost too much.

“That must have been frustrating for you, sweetheart,” James purrs, eager to hear more of anything. He feels himself slipping into his own urge to be needy alongside Steve, to press and push and get everything out of him, to not prolong Steve’s irritation any longer. He should threaten to take Steve over his knee, to smack that ass red and sit him in the corner for his attitude, but James is weak for this, is weak for Steve’s submission.

He can’t help but begin to reach for his own dick when Steve bites back one of those noises.

“I don’t even fucking know if this is what you meant, if you didn’t want me to come,” Steve whines, eyebrows knitting together as he looks down at his dick in his hand, briefly dropping his tough guy facade to show James how needy he really is. One more huff and Steve is gripping himself tightly at the base of his length, touch so rough that James can see from here how leaky and messy the tip of his cock has become. James wants to coo at the sight but before he can, Steve hits him with a whine of—

“And I’ve been so good…”

It’s pitiful and pure and dripping in the eroticism that is submission and James burns for it, always has, always does.

He did when they were in college, when James would wake to Steve crawling into his bed in their shared dorm, panting and whispering and rutting against him. He does when Steve’s spent too long being dominant, being Daddy, and he comes to James wanting something different, wanting something only James can give him.

He burns for it now as he watches Steve bring his glass up to his lips and as he tosses back what’s left in it with abandon, when he looks back up at James with half-lidded eyes.

“Let me fuckin’ come, James.”

Even showing his hand, even with his own cock out now, James knows he can’t let that fly, knows Steve is expecting something else besides an immediate give. Why else has what they share worked out so well for so long?

So, he whispers, “Ask me nicely, bubba,” as he tips his chin, reveling in the way Steve’s eyes fall to his cock, the way Steve’s tongue flicks out along his bottom lip as he watches with rapt attention the way James touches himself. Steve lets go of himself entirely, carelessly placing his glass down on James’ desk in front of him.

“Don’t make me beg, don’t do that to me.”

“Wouldn’t do it if I didn’t know for a fact you like it so much. C’mon— you know what I wanna hear,” James explains, voice resting just above a whisper. “Besides…you know how much I love hearin’ you get so sweet for me.”

Steve whimpers, actually fucking whimpers when he leans back into his chair, his hips kicking up with the same sassy attitude. His angry prick bobs beautifully, harder than steel and leaking like a faucet. Steve is making noises and acting as if he’s one gust of wind away from blowing his load without a single finger on him and it’s gorgeous. It has James risking a tighter hold on himself, one that makes him hiss gently as he immediately changes course and plays with the tip of his dick between a few fingers.

“James, let me come, please let me come,” Steve starts quietly and easily. “M’hurtin’, can’t make one move without feeling you inside of me, can’t…can’t have one coherent thought without thinking about the sounds you make when I’m the reason your dick is all wet.”

James moans throatily, lets go of himself.

“Love when you make my dick all wet…”

Steve doesn’t miss a beat.

“Mhmm, nobody does it like I do. All the more reason why you should lemme come, lemme come.”

“Take yourself in hand, go slow but hold onto yourself real good, tight.”

The instructions come to James easily, just as listening to them does to Steve.

“Please…”

“You’ve been so good, Steve,” he finds himself whispering, weak for giving Steve praise, for watching it wash over him pleasurably. “You’re a fuckin’ brat, but you’ve been so good for me today. Been hard all day, haven’t you?”

“Mhmm, so…so hard,” Steve mumbles pitifully between his teeth, fist working himself over without holding back. It’s a sight that makes James want to touch himself in full, makes him want to come right alongside Steve, but it must wait.

“I know, baby, I know. And you haven't done a damn thing about it, so good. You’re so close now, let yourself have it. Let yourself have it knowin’ Daddy’s so proud of you—”

“Oh shit…”

“— knowin’ Daddy’s gonna have you come over here and make his dick all wet again with that pretty mouth while you’re still sweet in the head from coming. Yeah?”

“You fuckin’ bastard, don’t ‘Daddy’—”

James clicks his tongue. “None of that now, Daddy doesn’t deserve that.”

Steve moans heartily, a noise James can tell Steve doesn’t want him to hear, but one that he can't help but let out when his orgasm is so incredibly close.

“On with it, come on now— make that pretty little prick come for your Daddy...”

[darknessaroundus]

Prompt: watching the sun set in Iceland! With flowers! And food ❤️🌹

This is set in the world of The Elusive Elenor Clancy (with apologies from me, for never having been to Iceland).

Thank you @earthlaughsinflowersblog - for such a good prompt.

When Jughead first suggests travelling to Iceland with him for work, she dismisses it as a joke. A few years ago leaving Willowdale’s town limits was a big deal for her. Last year being in LA was a big deal, and this year she’s trying to actually work up the courage to go to Budapest for Christmas.

“Iceland’s a good starting point,” Jughead had said, “It should be your first non-north American experience. It’s beautiful, and not overcrowded.”

Betty had shrugged it off at the time. It was just another one of his passing fancies. Like the brief moment in time he’d wanted them to get rid of all sugar, or his two week attempt at the Wim-hof breathing method.

On the September page of her calendar, she’d written “Jughead away” with a line stretching over the whole first week. She imagined loneliness, but also time to catch up on reading and writing.

Then all the pictures in her studio were replaced were replaced temporarily with postcards from Iceland. When she asked Jughead he said “My fans there sent them, I had to put them somewhere.”

The pictures on the postcards were all undeniably beautiful, sunsets that seemed photoshopped, huge expanses of ice, and beautiful hills. The world seemed wide open and empty.

After a week of staring at them, Betty said “I’ll go” and Jughead wasted no time booking the trip.

When their plane descends near Reykjavik, Betty can’t help but note how much nicer their roofs and mountains are.

In the taxi on the way to the hotel, she keeps trying not to be distracted by how big everything seems, how easy it seems to get lost in the scale of the land and the ski.

Reykjavik is tight packed and their hotel is clean and well appointed. Betty imagines writing at the desk by the window and the next day she does.

Jughead’s out interviewing a famous boat-maker all day and he’s encouraged her to explore.

Betty considers her one twenty minute walk to retrieve coffee, exploring.

Everyone has bright smiles and harsh angles, as if they are auditioning to become part of the mountains.

The coffee is good, but it doesn’t taste different than the coffee she has at home.

It’s too cold to spend too much time outside anyways.

In the afternoon she facetimes the twins in LA and they tease her for her exclusivity, refusing to acknowledge how good it is that she finished twelve pages today.

“You could do that in Willowdale, mom.” Dagwood points out, but it’s not exactly true. Betty can’t remember the last time she wrote that many pages in Willowdale.

Jughead drags her out to dinner with the boat maker who speaks perfect English, and orders her Hákarl but then doesn’t make her eat him, or even watch him eat it.

“Are you famous?” the boatmaker asks, and Betty shakes her head. She’s pretty sure she isn’t here, but later in the week they pass a bookstore that has a complete set of her first series displayed proudly in the window.

By the end of the week Betty has visited the largest church in Iceland and Perlan, as well as four bookstores and six coffee shops.

Each time she goes out she feels a little less like an explorer and a little more like herself, a writer travelling with her husband for work.

Two days before they leave Jughead rents a car and drives her to the UMI hotel, which looks like a modernist dream, and leaves Betty shrugging her shoulders and looking at the mountains.

The restaurant is nice though, the windows perfectly presenting the nature they’re surrounded by. They sit, talking and eating only food Betty knows the names of, as the sun sets the landscape around them on fire at six o clock.

At seven they are making their way back to the room and Jughead’s hand in warmly surrounding hers.

“Do you like it here?”

Betty’s not sure what to say. She thinks part of her would have rather stayed in Reykjavik which was starting to feel like home.

But every glimpse out the window here, feels like an image she’ll never forgot. Every day here has been longer and more memorable, than a week lived at home.

Travelling makes time stretch out in a way she hadn’t anticipated. She could see herself in Budapest now, in Hong Kong, or Sydney. “I do,” she said, just like she had at their civil ceremony, not so many years ago.

Jughead opens the door to their room and she walks into a bouquet that would have cost a fortune even in a country that wasn’t mostly frozen.

Where did one even find tullips this time of year?

“I love you,” She says, not about the flowers, per say, but about the care and attention he’s given to her, to this trip, to the way their lives have grown together.

His lips are pressed against hers, before the door even has a chance to close behind them.

[immopengu]

give me your money

I did this because @justanexercise sent me a reddit about a girl who gets mugged and her boyfriend runs away. lol. It became this clusterf* of a fic. Enjoy!

“Don’t move.”

Kara and Mike--or Mon-El, as his fraternity brothers called him and how he insisted he still be called even though he’s almost ten years out of college--both froze. It had all happened so fast. A person had stepped out of a covered doorway, grabbed Kara by the arm and pressed something sharp to her neck.

They had just come from dinner and were walking home instead of calling a taxi, which, really, Kara was furious about if she wasn’t so scared right now. She was in heels because Mon-El had wanted her to dress up for him. He had full out had an argument about it with her before they left her apartment, about how she wasn’t putting any effort into her appearance anymore. She had wanted to point out his jeans and t-shirt combo, but that had made him complain even louder about her trying to side-step the issue.

So to avoid arguing, she had put on a nice dress and heels. Then they had gone to a wings and beer restaurant and after they had eaten, he had looked at her apologetically and said he had forgotten his wallet at home. She had paid, then when she asked him to call a ride for them, since it was only fair after she paid for dinner and their ride, he insisted they walked and told her it would be good exercise for her. She wanted to stab him with the heels that were currently pinching her feet, and blamed him completely for being in the situation they were in.

“Now, just give me all your money and you guys can--”

Before the mugger could finish their sentence, Mon-El had turned and ran, full out SPRINTED away from the scene, leaving his girlfriend there. Kara and her mugger’s jaws dropped.

“Ooookay. That was... unexpected.” The mugger drawled out. On closer inspection, Kara finally noticed that it was another woman under all that dirt and grime. Another woman who was mugging her, and her boyfriend had abandoned her while Kara still had something sharp held against her throat.

So Kara did the only thing she was able to do at the moment and burst out crying.

“Oh my god.” The mugger almost dropped her weapon as she fumbled to stuff it back into her pocket. “What’s wrong--shit shit shit... please don’t cry. I honestly wasn’t going to hurt you.”

The mugger pulled out a crumpled tissue, pressing it to Kara’s face clumsily, trying to blot the tears on her face.

“Don’t cry.” The mugger’s breath reeked of alcohol. Kara just cried harder, taking the paper from the mugger to wipe at her face.

“Hey!” Two police officers had rounded the bend on their bicycles. “What are you doing?!”

“I’m not doing anything!” The mugger hollered back.

“Like hell!” The young female cop started pedalling towards them and the mugger kind of... stumbled away from Kara as the police officer did an impressive leap from her bike and tackled the woman to the ground.

“Gotcha!”

“AGH! Way to be dramatic!” The mugger was flipped onto her stomach and handcuffed. “Geez, Lucy! This is police brutality! You could’ve run both of us over!”

“Police brutality? I’ll show you police brutality--” ‘Lucy’ slapped the mugger on the shoulder. “What the hell are you doing? You’ve turned to a life of crime, now?”

While the little officer dealt with the mugger, the other police officer, a handsome black man tried to calm Kara down.

“I’m Officer Olsen, that’s my partner, Officer Lane.” Officer Olsen gave Kara a quick once over. “Are you alright? Did she hurt you?”

“No, I’m fine, I’m okay.” Kara wiped at her face with the tissue the mugger had given her, frowning at the coarseness of the material. Taking a closer look, she realized the tissue was actually a crumpled up piece of paper.

Out of curiosity, Kara smoothed it out as best as she could and read it in the dim light of the street lamps.

‘Dear Alexandra Danvers--’ Kara’s heart stuttered at the sight of the name. It couldn’t be. But there it was. Alexandra Danvers. Alex. Kara continued reading.

‘We regret to inform you---’

“I wasn’t doing anything.” Alexandra--Alex protested.

“You’re drunk again.” Lucy, or Officer Lane as her partner had said, gave Alex a little shake. “What the hell, Alex!”

“It’s just a little bit.” Alex confessed and wiped at her head. And wiped again.

“She’s bleeding.” Officer Olsen pointed out. “Lucy--”

“SHIT. I’m so sorry, did you hit your head? I thought you caught me!”

“When you flew through the air at me and tackled me to the ground?” Alex asked dryly. For a drunk person, Alex still sounded quite sharp-witted, even with the slurring. 

“Geez, Lucy--”

“It was an accident, James!” Lucy took Alex’s head gently in her hands, tilting it this way and that. “Did you hit your head, Alex?”

“No, I tucked and rolled.” Alex shrugged. “And it’s okay... just a reopened cut.”

“How did you--your lip is bleeding, too. Did you get into a fight? Are you okay?” Lucy sighed, still touching Alex’s face gently. Kara felt... a little bit odd at the sight, but kept quiet.

“We’re going to have to take her in, though.” Officer Olsen--or James, sighed, leaning against his bicycle. “She can’t mug people--”

“She wasn’t mugging me.” Kara blurted out. Both officers gave her droll, disbelieving looks. Alex looked at her in confusion.

“She was--we’re old friends. Catching up.” Kara continued.

“Oh yeah?” Lucy folded her arms. “What’s her name?”

“Alex.” Kara said immediately.

“You heard me say her name.”

“Well... w-well, I don’t want to press charges. I didn’t even call you guys. I didn’t need help, we were just... catching up.” Kara folded her arms, trying to look casual. A thought suddenly came to her.

“Oh! Did someone call 911?”

“No, miss, we were doing bike patrols.” James shrugged.

“Really?” Kara frowned. “There--did you see a guy running by?”

Alex let out a snort of laughter.

“Running by...?”

“My boyfriend.” Kara was half-embarrassed, but the anger was quickly burning through the humiliation. “He ran. Because--because, um. He thought I was getting mugged.”

“He RAN while you were getting mugged?” Lucy didn’t even really focus on Kara’s lame excuse.

James let out a low whistle. “That’s real cold.”

“I’m just going to, can you give me a second...” Kara pulled out her phone from her purse and called Mon-El. The phone rang a few times, then it went to voicemail. When she tried again, the call immediately went to voicemail.

“I think he’s hanging up on me.” Kara was dumbfounded. What was even happening?

“He just left you?” Lucy was incredulous. “He left you while this idiot was trying to mug you?”

“She wasn’t mugging me.” Kara said stubbornly.

“I’ll answer for her: he did. He ran like a baby.” Alex said in a loud stage-whisper.

“So nobody called the police. And for all intents and purposes, he left you in a dangerous predicament.” Lucy shook her head in disgust. “Maybe rethink your relationship.”

Kara just shrugged, tears of frustrated anger in her eyes.

“Hey, hey, let up.” Alex had noticed Kara’s rapid blinking. “She’s had a rough night.”

“And who’s fault is that, do you think, hm?”

Alex couldn’t quite answer, and started tipping sideways.

“Woah!” Lucy and James caught her before she could fall, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Not a concussion.” Alex grunted. “Just... drunk.”

“Maybe let’s take you to the hospital anyways.” James said worriedly. “That’s a lot of blood.”

“No hospitals. Don’t worry, head wounds bleed a lot.” Alex was swaying a bit now, and struggling to get out of the grip of the two police officers.

“What did you do? Did you fall down the stairs?”

Alex shrugged. “Got in a bar fight, I won. But then they jumped me when I was trying to find a place to sleep. They took my phone and my bag... and my wallet. And left me in a puddle.”

“Let’s get you down to the station--”

“No, I don’t wanna go to the station.” Alex set her feet on the ground, a familiar stubborn hardness in her eyes that Kara recognized.

“Um, my place is close by, and I have a first aid kit at home.” Kara offered.

“You want to let this idiot in your house?” Lucy gaped at Kara. This girl was either too kind or just really weird. “After she just mugged you?”

“I didn’t mug her.” Alex harrumphed, Alex’s eyes darted to Kara’s face, then darted away again. “Like she said, we’re friends.”

With dubious looks on their faces, the police officer walk them back to Kara’s place, and walk up to Kara’s place. It was quite a large loft, very open space with a large comfy couch.

“I’ll take her to get fixed up.” Lucy pulled Alex towards the washroom, after Kara had indicated where it was and offered some sweat pants and a t-shirt. It was at this time that Kara’s phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Kara!” Mon-El exclaimed. “Are you okay? I called the police!”

James was watching them as his radio crackled, calling for any units in the area to attend a mugging that was being called in by a citizen. With a sigh, he answered it, pointing to Kara’s phone with a raised eyebrow.

“I’ll make sure it’s not a new call.” James wandered off back towards the entrance of the loft.

“I’m fine.” Kara hissed, walking towards the balcony when she heard the bathroom door open. She needed privacy. “You just RAN?”

“What was I supposed to do?” Mon-El shouted back. “He had a weapon!”

“What the hell, Mike?!” Kara was literally screaming into the phone, ignoring him trying to correct her use of his name. She was FURIOUS. “Where the hell are you?”

“You know what, I can’t talk to you like this.” Kara could just imagine him rolling his eyes at her and she was SEETHING. “You calm down and we can talk about this like adults--”

“YOU RAN AWAY WHILE I WAS GETTING MUGGED!” Kara said forcefully into the phone, her anger literally making her see red. “You goddamn COWARD--”

“What did you expect me to do?! When you didn’t follow me I thought you’d already gotten stabbed so I ran to the police station--”

“THAT IS A LIE. There were TWO police officers on bikes right around the corner! And I tried to call you and you HUNG UP ON ME. So you ran past TWO police officers, and what, what did you do? Go back home to play games? Did you just--”

“I hid in the park to make sure he wasn’t following me, okay?! I was going to come back and get you--”

“YOU HID IN THE PARK?” Kara was at screaming volume again.

“Ah, hi. Miss. Um...” Lucy and James were standing there, wincing at the look of rage on Kara’s face.

“Kara.” Kara pulled the phone away from her face to speak with the police officers, ignoring Mon-El’s excuses and accusations.

“Is the man you’re talking to, uh, does he have dark hair? Kind of a beard and a big forehead?” James asked. “He was wearing a white t-shirt and jeans--”

“Yes, that sounds like him. Why?”

Lucy was trying not to laugh. “He ran right past us.”

“Who is that?” Mon-El’s voice on the phone was loud enough for everyone to hear.

“The nice police officers that you ran past.” Kara snapped.

“Can you tell him to come here?” James asked politely. “We need his statement.”

“You need to come here.” Kara said through gritted teeth. She was glad there were two police officers here, because then they can stop her from killing Mon-El.

“There’s police there?” Mon-El sounded whiny. Kara hadn’t realized how much she hated the sound of his voice until now. “I don’t really like cops. And they’ll laugh at me.”

“Yeah. Yeah, they would.” Kara rolled her eyes and pulled the phone away to speak to the police officers. “He thinks you two will laugh at him.”

“Uh, yeah. We would.” Lucy laughed. “What a loser.”

“Usually I’m not as... honest as my partner.” James was trying to hide a smile on his face. “But you seem like you could do better. A LOT better.”

Kara put her ear back to the phone. “So you’re not going to come over.”

“I mean, I’m already at home.” Mon-El groused. “And you know, maybe it was a good thing I didn’t stick around, right? Like my reaction was to just get away from there, cuz you know, I would’ve killed the guy.”

“What?” Kara was flabbergasted.

“My natural rage would’ve set in.” Mon-El explained, as if he was explaining to a child. “You know, people would’ve gotten hurt. I might’ve even hurt you when I’m like, in that berserker mode.”

“...you know what, Mike? Just forget it. Don’t come over, and don’t call me back ever. We’re done.” Kara hung up, stabbing her thumb on the hang-up button viciously.

“You okay?”

Kara nodded her head at Lucy’s question, realizing suddenly Alex wasn’t with them.

“Did Alex leave?”

“No,” Lucy motioned behind her. “I’m sorry, she just passed out on your couch. If you give me a few minutes, I’ll have her up and--”

“No, she can stay here if she wants.” Kara walked back in to look at Alex fondly, sleeping face down on her couch.

“Hm.” Lucy frowned a bit, and James also made a face.

“It’s fine, really.” Kara said. She grabbed the throw hanging over the back of her couch to drape over Alex.

“You’re not by chance going to cut out her kidney and sell it on the black market, are you?” Lucy looked at Kara suspiciously.

“What?” Kara balked at the idea. “No!”

After a bit more of Lucy questioning Kara, Kara was finally able to get the two officers out the door, promising to check in tomorrow and get Alex to prove that she was still alive.

Kara’s phone rang again, and without even looking, she knew it was Mon-El and hung up. She needed to shower, and then she would be going to work in... five hours. Great. So just three hours of sleep by the time she was ready for bed.

Kara rushed through her nightly routine, and it felt like she had just laid her head down on the pillow before she woke up to her alarm. It was already time to go to work. She let out a little scream at the sound of a loud THUMP, that sounded suspiciously like a body hitting the floor.

“Alex?” Kara popped her head out of the bedroom. The other woman was on the floor, and let out an answering groan before slowly pulling the throw off the couch to cover herself with. Satisfied that Alex was going to keep sleeping, Kara got ready for work, then stood over Alex, trying to think of what to do.

“Um...”

Alex opened her eyes blearily. “Whaa...?”

“I’m going to work now. I’ll leave my keys on the coffee table? Can you just lock up if you need to go out? Or just... just hang out or whatever.” Kara stammered. It was Alex. Alex whom she had not seen in forever. “You can, I have food in the fridge. You can eat if you want or-or just, there’s coffee--do you drink coffee? I also have juice.”

The confused frown on Alex’s face was all the answer Kara got, before Alex crashed again. Kara exhaled shakily, left the keys on the coffee table and fled her apartment.

At work, Winn and Kelly noticed that Kara was a bit off, but on further questioning, they didn’t bother her after. They were also very aware that her phone had been going off non-stop, and security had called up a few times saying her boyfriend was there to see her.

“Trouble in paradise?” Winn whispered to Kelly.

“I wouldn’t say ‘paradise’.” Kelly whispered back while they both watched Kara at her desk. “More like finally getting some sense into her and dropping that dead weight.”

The phone at Kara’s desk rang again and Kara picked it up, a vein jumping on her forehead from the stress.

“Hi, Cat Grant’s office--”

“Hey, Kara--”

“Marium,” Kara sighed. “Please tell my EX-BOYFRIEND to go away, and if he won’t you can definitely call the police--”

“No, Kara, he ran away.” Marium replied. There seemed to be a commotion in the background. “Some homeless woman chased him away. We have security here and we were going to call the police, but she said that she knew you--”

“Alex!” Kara stood up, her chair toppling backwards. “Don’t call the police, I know her! Please, I’ll be right down--thank you, Marium!”

Kara hung up the phone and ran for the elevators, dancing on the spot anxiously until she reached the bottom floor. Tapping her card on the security gate, she waved frantically at two of the guys who had Alex by the arms.

“Walter, Rajeet, please. She’s my friend.” Kara held out a beseeching hand. The two security guards traded looks then let go of Alex begrudgingly.

“Alex,” As soon as Alex was released, Kara pulled Alex off to the side so there were less curious looks. “Hi. Um, what are you doing here?”

“Your keys.” Alex held out the ring of keys. “I locked up, but I wanted to return it to you. You, um, had work stuff lying around so I came here hoping security would let me drop off your stuff.”

“You could’ve dropped it off in the mailbox,” Kara said, but hurried to add, “but I’m glad to see you.”

“Yeah, and if I didn’t show, I wouldn’t get to scare off your boyfriend again.” Alex grinned. Despite how dishevelled Alex looked, that smile shone through.

“Not my boyfriend anymore.” Kara muttered. “Oh, also...”

Kara had slipped the letter Alex had tried to use as tissue paper into the pocket of her pants when she got dressed this morning. It was the only confirmation she had that this was HER Alex. She had read and re-read the name on the letter so she would know that this was definitely her Alex. Now Kara handed the letter back to the other woman.

“Sorry, I read it.” Kara apologized.

“Oh. It’s fine.” Alex shrugged. It obviously was not fine. “I guess you have official confirmation that I’m a screw up now, huh? Just failing through my courses, on academic probation, losing my apartment, drinking away my problems, getting mugged... mugging you.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay.” Alex was getting angry. “I’m a shitty person and I... I should be the one to apologize. I’m really sorry. You didn’t have to fix me up and you didn’t have to let me crash at your place. And I tried to mug you--”

“You said sorry already.”

Alex looked like she wanted to yell at Kara, but just let out a frustrated sigh.

“Well, I just want to say thank you. Lucy’s a friend, but she would’ve busted me if you wanted to press charges.” Alex crossed her arms, her shoulders hunched.

“It’s okay.”

“You’re far too nice.” Alex muttered, and held out her hand. “I don’t even know your name.”

Kara smiled kindly, shaking Alex’s hand. “It’s Kara Zorel.”

Alex froze, jaw dropping, the grip on Kara’s hand tightening, before loosening suddenly.

“Alex--”

“Kara.” Alex seemed torn between going to Kara, and trying to get as far away from her as possible. “Oh my god. Kara. You’re... you’re my Kara?”

“I am.”

Alex shook her head. “I’m... I’m sorry. I gotta go. I gotta go. I need to, I need to walk this off.”

Kara took a desperate step towards Alex, but stopped when Alex held up a hand. Alex sometimes got overwhelmed with things and through trial and error, they had learned that Alex did best when Kara gave Alex the space to process first. Kara remembered.

“It is you.” Alex smiled, a soft ghost of a smile. Disbelief on her face. “I’m... Kara I gotta go. I’ll see you later. I  promise.”

And with that, Alex fled Catco, while Kara stood there, looking helplessly after her old foster sister.

[meanlizard]

How Many Walls Can You Demolish

Summary: Roman and Virgil get into a bit of a situation...

Pairings: platonic prinixety? i suppose?

Words: 1,443

Warnings: light-hearted fluff, comedy, um. lots of fourth wall breaks.

When Virgil walked into the kitchen that morning, it was to find Patton staring blearily upward. He paused, watching the unusually still man, before shrugging and going to the fridge. “Morning, Pat’n,” he muttered, still sluggish as the last dredges of sleep fell away. 

Patton did not reply. Now, Virgil was worried. 

Closing the refrigerator, Virgil squinted at him, eyes gleaming suspiciously. He hadn’t moved whatsoever from his staring contest with the ceiling. “Dad?” he prompted, and when no movement followed, he traced the other’s gaze. 

A dusty spiderweb, bereft of any actual spider. A barely perceptible crack. Bland, off-white paint peeling at the edges. 

So, nothing, then. 

Virgil was now thoroughly concerned. “Patton? Are you okay, man?” as he spoke, he moved to nudge him- only to be rudely interrupted by the unfortunately familiar sound of Roman stretching out an E note with his vocal chords. 

Virgil sighed, and Roman swung into the kitchen, the brightness of his entire existence being almost unholy. His hair was brushed and pushed to the side impeccably; there was nary a wrinkle in his pristine white-and-gold garb. His sash downright shone with cleanliness. As always, the sight of him made Virgil feel suddenly very aware of himself, and he hunched further into the comfort of his hoodie. 

“Good morning, darling citizens!” Roman called flamboyantly, gracing the room with a blinding flash of pearly-white teeth. 

Virgil didn’t bother to return the greeting. 

“Roman, Patton’s acting weird.” 

And say what you would about the obnoxious, annoying, loud-mouthed, insulting, pristine, ridiculous, quick-to-judge, far-too-handsome-despite-having-the-exact-same-face, petty, and entirely empty-headed prince, but he was certainly diligent when it came to any perceived danger that Virgil brought to his attention. Immediately, his attention was on the man in question, red-brown eyes looking him up-and-down for any sign of injury. 

Finding none, he shot Virgil a strange look. The latter indicated Patton’s staring with a nod, and Roman went back to inspect him. 

Then, as if the seriousness had suddenly worn off, he made a small ah sound and relaxed. His lips turned back into that ever-annoying smirksmile (smirkle? smirle?) and he waved a flippant hand that Virgil ducked to avoid. 

“Oh, come off it, Mr. Frowny With a Chance of Meatballs,” he laughed unconcernedly, “he’s just discovered the fourth wall, is all.” 

Virgil stared. He glanced back at Patton, still entranced in whatever it was he was seeing, and then back to Roman. “The... the fourth wall,” he didn’t so much ask as he did state, voice dry and flat. It was as if someone had murdered all the inflection that could be indicative of any emotion what-so-ever, thus leaving it as nothing more than a hollow shell of it’s former sarcastic glory. 

Roman nodded. “Yes. The fourth wall.” 

Virgil took a deep breath. He pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbed it, and then let his hand drop to the side. “No. Just-” he held a hand out to stop Roman’s incoming protest, and shook his head. “Just. Just no. Why are we even doing a fourth-wall breaking fic right now? It’s, like-” he turned his dead glare toward the corner of the writer’s computer screen, and shot them a quick, judgmental look before returning his attention to Roman.

“It’s 1:19 am. This came out of nowhere. And where’s Logan? We need a straight man.” 

Roman laughed. 

“Ha! Don’t you mean a-” 

Yes. Yes, Roman, I meant a gay man. Because you are all gay. 

Roman pouted, joke thoroughly ruined. Virgil smiled a little. Patton stared at the ceiling. Where was Logan? Working, probably. Or, rather, simply not there because the stress of adding yet another character to this catastrophe was simply too difficult for the writer to handle. 

“Would you stop that?” Virgil asked, exasperated. “I was willing to go along with this because you writers have no sense of time-” he stared, accusingly, at the various other writers in the fandom (some of which may be named Marin, Taylor, Vanna and Kat, but who’s to say), “but this is ridiculous. Too much of a good thing can be sh*t, you know!”

“Woah, slow your roll Paint Tool Sigh of Despair! This is a PG show!” 

Virgil rolled his eyes. “Is that why all of your nicknames suck today?” 

Roman recoiled as if physically stricken. “How dare you,” he gasped. “You know that’s not my fault. If anyone, we should blame the author’s creativity.”

Both sides turned, in unison, toward the dining table set up in the middle of the kitchen. The author’s Creativity was munching on a bagel, muttering in between bites as darkened glasses slipped down their round nose. Their hands, trembling, translucent things so clear you could see the very details of their veins, were thoroughly occupied; one was shakily rewriting a scene for the thousandth time with one, while the other crumpled up yet another drawing to start anew, and a third- a third? no- a fourth??? - shakily fidgeted with the rim of a mug full of a sludgy black liquid that could almost pass for coffee. 

As if sensing their stares, one dead, sleep-lined blue eye peered up at them, and they immediately turned away. 

There was silence. Then, Virgil released a shaky breath. “Roman,” he said, very quietly. 

“Yes, Virgil?” the uncharacteristically solemn Roman prompted. 

“I never thought I’d say this, but... I am so glad that you exist.”

“Dit-to my good sir. Dit-to.” 

Unsure why Roman said ditto in such an odd way, but still reeling from the creature that continued to scribble ominously on their kitchen table, Virgil decided to let it go and turn back to the problem at hand. Which, if you would kindly consult the paragraph far, far above this one, was Patton’s worrying stillness. 

“I thought he already knew about the fourth wall,” Virgil mentioned contemplatively, turning back to his (admittedly) favorite blue-clad side. Roman shrugged, clearly unconcerned, and moved to the fridge to take a carton of milk from it.

“Guess not. It doesn't really matter, though- he just needs some time," he reassured. "I mean, all we can do is just sit around and wait for him to process... well. Everything.”

Virgil was still largely unconvinced. 

Roman, glancing over at him as he poured some milk in some nondescript glass, noticed and let out a breath of slight exasperation. 

“Look,” he started in his best mollifying voice as he screwed the cap back on, “We’ve all been there. It took me five hours, and Mr. Roboto spent an entire three days completely out of it. It’s lucky that we’re just figments of a personality, and that food is just a thing authors use to humanize us further even in non-AU’s, or else he’d be in pretty big trouble.”

Virgil raised a brow, and Roman nodded. “Right, right. Off track, I know. But I'm just saying- don’t you remember going through this?” 

Virgil’s face, which had previously been rathee blank and slightly irritated (as was it’s usual state), suddenly became impossibly blanker. His eyes lost any gleam of life, expression falling into nothing but a wooden ghost of its previous humanity.

“I have always been aware of our entirely superficial existence since the day I was made. The continuous existential horror has made it hard to form any real relationship with any of you until now. Even then, a lot of our deep bond comes from the various universes and situations that fans throw us in. Roman, right now we are making out on a rooftop in New York. I have super powers. Logan is an empath, and he’s a royal tutor. We are having this conversation right now. There is no reality for us. We just do as we’re written to do. It is an ever continual source of anxiety for me, but one that I am used to, have always been used to, and will continue to be used to. So, I suppose the answer to your question is ‘no’. I do not.”

Roman stared. Virgil stared back. Roman looked up to re-read the paragraph, and, having finally processed it, turned back to Virgil. Wordlessly, he handed him the glass of milk. 

No words could be said, and a hug simply felt too awkward for them at this point in time and at this moment in this particular universe, so it was all he could offer. Virgil understood, because he could read just as well as you, and agreed with Roman’s emotions on the matter. 

As he took a sip, he felt indescribably touched. 

Patton, as if roused by the emotional scene, suddenly shifted. Both Roman and Virgil turned to look at him, eyes wide as if they’d been caught doing something they shouldn’t have, but Patton was just grinning, bright and unconcerned and... normal. Not at all the expression of someone who had just discovered that they weren't real and that choice was a neverending illusion.

“It’s as I thought,” he said, and his voice sounded relieved. “There aren’t any spiders there after all.” 

Virgil breathed. He thought, very seriously, about screaming. He carefully did not, instead bringing the cool glass of milk to his lips and taking a long, long drink of it.

He took a deep breath. Smiled.

"That's good, Patton."

general tag list: 

@princelogical

@smokeyrutilequartz

@kickthecel

@fangirlfiles1

@do-rey-me

@peanut0303

@cyndaquil17

@lady-literature

@anastasialestina

@i-will-physically-fight-you

@ironwoman359

[abitgingerwrites]

BKDK Positivity Week: Part 4

Day 4 (9/19) - Rise ★ Havoc ★ Amusement Park

Bakugou shakes out his fingers as he waits for Midoriya to get set up at the piano. Just thirty minutes of this, so Dr. Lisk thinks I’m trying. He flips back to the first page of the sheet music. “Hurry it up, you’ve already wasted 5 minutes of my time,” he grumbles out.

Midoriya jumps, and hurriedly gets his music in order. “R-right!” he squeaks out. “Uh-um… “

“What is it?” Bakugou bites out.

Midoriya scratches the back of his neck. “What tuning notes do you prefer to use? So, so I can write it down for the make-up exam!”

“Tch, is that all? Give me an F, low Bb, high Bb.” Midoriya plays the notes one at a time as Bakugou tunes, and makes some minor adjustments. “Alright, let’s take it from the top and see how it goes.” He steadies himself, pointed completely away from the piano.

Midoriya gives him a puzzled look, but is still too nervous around the other man to suggest anything. Instead, he turns to the keyboard and starts playing the introductory measures.

Taking a deep breath, Bakugou gets ready to play, but something about the piano has him on edge. It irks him at the back of his mind, but he works through it for the most part, because he is a professional goddammit. They continue playing through the first movement, Bakugou gradually tensing up throughout, until at last he cut off mid-phrase. “What the fuck are you doing? Don’t you see I have a cadenza right there? Ca-den-za. You know, the solo showy-offy bit? I’ll cue you when to come in again.” Bakugou shakes his head and mutters, “frickin’ lifeless classical player.”

Midoriya stares at him in shock through his little rant, shirking into the piano bench, but at the last remark his anger suddenly flares. “Hang on a minute. First of all,  you’re the one facing away from me, how am I supposed to see any cues from you? If we can’t even see each other, how do you expect us to communicate while playing?! And sure, you play - really actually amazingly, actually - but in any piece of music your part isn’t always going to be the most important line, so you need to learn to back off!”

The two stare at each other for a good minute, neither wanting to back down. Suddenly a phone chime goes off and breaks the tension. “...That’s mine,” Bakugou says, and checks his phone. It’s a message from Dr. Lisk, reminding him to play nicely with the accompanist-or-else. He sighs exasperatedly, and composes himself. “Whatever. Let’s try it again. Get through it once, then we can get out of here.” He sets his phone in his bag, and after a second glance, moves his stand back a bit to have line-of-sight with the pianist. “Better?”

Midoriya blinks, then his mouth spreads into a big smile. “Much!”

Bakugou has to look away, mildly dazzled. “Y’know, in lab band you played way more lively. Just- play more like you did then, will you? And let’s take it a bit faster.” He snaps his preferred tempo for a few beats. “Got it? Let’s do this.”

The first movement goes much better this time, and the pair even start to enjoy the performance, getting caught up by the jovial tune. Midoriya pauses appropriately this time for the cadenza, and is momentarily dazzled by Bakugou’s technical proficiency.

The second movement is much slower, with a somber, introspective tone. Bakugou starts off softly, moving into a lovely haunting theme with so much emotion it gives Midoriya goosebumps. Bakugou makes a point to make eye contact with him, as there a several moments where he plays with the tempo to up the ante. He thinks he sees tears in the pianist’s eyes at one point, and moves his horn as if to motion for a slowing of tempo to get his attention, before winking cockily and crooning out a delicate, lovely high note. Midoriya quickly shifts his gaze back to the music in front of him, only daring to look at Bakugou from the side, ears turning red.

The final movement begins, Bakugou setting a quick tempo. It starts off alright, and Bakugou whips out his flashiest runs. Gradually, without either of the two realizing it, the tempo starts to rise, and rise, and rise, until they’re speeding out of control. Midoriya tries to reign them in, but Bakugou lived in that moment, on the brink of collapse, and keeps powering through on pure muscle memory. They make it to the end, just barely, and Bakugou is gasping for air.

Midoriya lays his arms down, starting to feel a strain, and jumps when he hears the unfamiliar sound of Bakugou laughing. He turns to face him in a strange sense of wonder, but the laughter just continues, until Midoriya gets caught up in the infectiousness and breathlessness and awe.

Bakugou takes a seat next to him on the bench, laughter winding down. “Well that was a mess. Fun as hell, but such a mess.” He gives one last chuckle, then leans down, elbows on his knees. He turns to the green-haired man, and smiles genuinely. “You kept up. Guess I’m stuck with you now.”  He offers his hand.

Midoriya glances between the grin and the hand, before taking the latter and shaking it firmly. A similar smile graces his own mouth, and a fire is lit behind his eyes. “You sure are!”

To be continued...

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

[rowan-raven-rogue]

Dark!Caleb AU

Chapter 2: 2,861 words

For @yettinim

(I remembered I hate writing in past tense, so I’ve fixed the last chapter.)

“I know it’s terribly difficult to keep your eyes off me, Mr. Caleb, but you’re making me, unbelievably, a little self-conscious,” Molly says languidly. “Is there something on my face?”

“Nein, no, sorry Mollymauk,” replies Caleb, quietly, over his shoulder. Though the cart is, as of that afternoon, one small kenku lighter, the party is not piled atop one another as is their typical traveling style; Jester had taken to the cart with uncharacteristic silence the moment they’d left Hupperdook, her pencil scribbling morosely at her sketchbook. Nott had clambered into Jester’s lap, idly fidgeting with a stack of rings - woher hat sie die? - and the rest had entered a taciturn agreement to let the two share the loss of their little Kiri in peace.

Fjord is left to drive the cart, with the others on horseback, Beau and Yasha hovering just before the cart and Caleb and Molly single-filed behind.

Caleb looks over his shoulder again, and Molly cocks one eyebrow even higher.

“Darling, at this rate, we’re going to have to pull over and catch up with the others later,” Molly says. “Although, I’ll warn you, I’m not cheap.” The tiefling nudges his horse and catches up, neck and neck, to Caleb. The red slide of one eye is nearly imperceptible in the early evening sun.

“Is there someone following us?” Molly murmurs.

Caleb locks on the back of the cart, willing himself not to turn a third time. “Nein, no, I… think I am just nervous that someone saw Nott-” He stops just before steal- and that guard’s- and contraption.

“Well, they can’t exactly do much if we’ve already left town,” Molly says, conciliatory. Caleb nods.

“That is true.” For lack of anything further to add, Molly gives him a wink, and watches the confused pink crawl toward the wizard’s ears.

They travel in silence until the sun begins to dip below the hills, and Caleb ignores the feeling of eyes skittering like so many bugs over his back. Mollymauk’s eyes on him - that feels warm, and fluid, like the first slip into a hot bath - that’s odd, he thinks - and this is not that feeling. The others don’t seem perturbed, though, so he makes a firm mental note to set an Alarm as soon as they make camp, and to take the first watch.

They stop at a stand of trees at the roadside. Molly makes a show of unveiling the sumptuous rations he procured for them in Hupperdook, and with a full belly and a clear sky above, Caleb and Nott settle in to watch over the others as they unpack their bedrolls and sleep.

“Caleb?” Nott’s voice, rasping just louder than the crackling fire.

“Hmm?” Caleb pauses, one hand reaching behind his neck, where he realizes he’s been scratching at an invisible itch - more eyes.

“Are you alright? You seem,” and she waves a hand in front of her face.

“I’m alright,” he reassures her. He watches her watch him stare into the fire, out of the corner of his eye, before he continues. “Are you?”

“I think so,” she says, soft. Her ears droop, crestfallen, and the slits of her pupils widen her eyes into sad golden rings, like the ones she so covets covering her fingers. A clumsy rush of affection swells and tides to calm in Caleb’s chest.

“It was too dangerous for her to stay,” she says, as if in agreement with nobody in particular. “But… it’s nice, when someone doesn’t…” She trails off lamely, and Caleb wants so badly for just a second to snap his fingers and make her hurt disappear.

“Children see the good in things,” he agrees. “Or so I’m told. And you certainly have enough of it.” She smiles at that, sadly, without a glint of fangs in the firelight.

“Thank you, Caleb.”

Their watch passes, uneventful, and Nott rouses Fjord and Yasha for the next shift. Caleb curls into his bedroll, and through one drowsy, half-lidded eye, he watches Jester slink off after Fjord before sleep settles over him.

Later, hours or minutes indeterminate, something prickles him into half-consciousness.

The fire glows low and orange, just enough to make out a figure creeping at the edge of camp. Drowsiness leaks out and drains from him, but too slow - Caleb just makes out the full thought my Alarm spell? before the figure freezes, predatory, and approaches him with cold confidence.

He opens his mouth to cry out, to rouse the others, but his voice sinks to the pit of his belly, because surely he can’t be seeing what he’s seeing - a flashing glint in the moonlight off the epaulettes of the figure’s blue and gold military mantle -

- Trent - he’s found me -

Caleb bolts.

He tumbles from his bedroll, not graceful but certainly agile enough, a tangle of limbs and coat, and sprints. He has no conscious plan, nothing eloquent to think, only run. Behind him, he hears the figure give chase - only one, for now - and has sense enough to zig-zag, darting and weaving through trees and brush. He fumbles in a pocket, fingers closing around the end of a licorice root, Haste, Haste, bitte, and suddenly the trees fall away from his periphery.

The forest opens up into a clearing, eerily perfect and circular, with charred stumps and ashen, half-dead brush ringing the edge. The ground within is nothing but cinders, over which is spread a glowing, purple ritual ring. The runes pulse faintly; Caleb feels the arcane power surge over his skin and through his blood.

A body collides into his from behind.

It has been decades since, but Caleb’s body remembers what it’s like to be outmuscled in a schoolyard scrap - the figure digs a knee into his back and tries to work a hand into his hair, shoving his face into the dusty earth, but Caleb worms free, twists to face the assailant -

“Gib es mir oder stirb!”

Give? Give what? he almost manages, but somewhere in the scrap and tangle he freezes, because the face Caleb is looking into is a perfect mirror of his own.

No, not perfect - their jaw is just too cleanly shaven, to precise, military degree; their mouth untwisted into a messy, snarling grimace like Caleb’s own, but rather a calm, grim line; their eyes, unhollowed by years, colder, sharper.

This… is why the Alarm never warned me?

The other Caleb has frozen, too, reading him. Caleb scrambles, manages a solid kick to his mirror’s solar plexus, and realizes that the warmth he feels radiating from the hand locking his arm to the dirt is this second Caleb’s hand glowing, preparing something fiery and unpleasant.

“Geben? Was geben?”

His copy studies him through narrow eyes.

“You are guilty,” he concludes, and Caleb knows that look. It’s been years, again, since he’s needed to subject someone else to it, since he’s really needed the training he received on how to tell if someone is lying. The other Caleb wears his mask carefully, but Caleb can see the disgust peeking through. The glowing heat abates, and instead the purple runes surrounding the two brighten - Caleb listens carefully to his double’s whispering…

The clearing disappears, dissolving into smoke and sparks.

Caleb has the unhealthy sensation of his entire body being turned inside out. When he regains his bearings, he realizes he is on all fours, gripping cold flagstone, heaving. A boot connects with the fleshy part of his side, between ribs and hips.

“Up, curr,” mutters his own voice in his ear, contemptuously.

“Caleb! Was ist das?”

Caleb’s veins turn to ice water. The voice in his head resumes screaming RUN, RUN, RUN. His elbows and knees go numb, and he feels his hands curling into uselessness, his own breath too shallow and too massive to keep contained in his chest. The rhythm of it is too wrong, Trent, run, danger, run -

A wrench of pain at his scalp pulls his head up and face forward, and he looks, in person, into eyes he’s seen countless times, just before waking in a cold sweat.

Trent Ikithon smiles, wormlike. “Thank you for the gift, Caleb,” he says. “But he does not have what we seek. The tiefling, the female - it is hers. Quickly, before the circle closes,” and his voice edges just into something like lava. The other Caleb salutes, and as Ikithon drags him out of circle of glowing runes, Caleb watches his double shimmer and disappear again.

“Welcome back, Caleb,” Ikithon murmurs. There is a small pang in which Caleb needs to switch from alienness to familiarity of Zemnian. “I trust you have the sense enough not to do anything foolish. In your state, it would take next to nothing to incapacitate you,” and he chirrs, in a facsimile of kindness, “Nor do I wish to.”

Caleb straightens, swallowing dry into the pool of bile collecting at the base of his throat.

“You were not with me long enough, in your timeline, to have the privilege of visiting this study, were you?” Ikithon continues. “A pity. The Caleb Widogast of this timeline is quite useful. You might have been much the same.” Ikithon releases his grip on Caleb’s hair; a small spark, and Caleb smells a whiff of smoke, feels a faint gust of heat, hears the ghosts of screams. “If only.”

Caleb’s eyes dart around the study. Left - door, certain to be magically locked and trapped. Floor - ritual circle, likely teleportation. Desks - casting components (expensive, assorted spells) - bookshelves (useful) - fireplace - tables. Bowls, 16, scattered, assorted styles and materials - water-filled -

“Scrying bowls, yes,” says Ikithon, aloud. “At least you’ve retained some of your wits, hmm?” One wizened claw grazes over the hollow above Caleb’s collarbone. “Which reminds me,” he mutters, and crooks his fingers into Caleb’s shirt, hooking around the chain of his amulet. He pulls, and the pendant looses with a pop!

Ikithon tucks the protective amulet into a white fold of his robe.

“Not that there’s much point,” he concedes. “I don’t think you’ll be returning to your own timeline. Anytime soon, anyway. I won’t have much need to go looking for you.”

“My,” Caleb wets his lips and attempts again. “My timeline?”

Ikithon’s face glints with something that could be mistaken for geniality. “Yes,” he says, and crosses to a silver font with ornate embellishments along its rim. “This one, in fact.”

Despite every part of him still screaming to run as far as he can in the opposite direction, Caleb takes a step toward Ikithon, then another. He’s looking for Jester. The Mighty Nein could take me down, easily, but this other Caleb… that’s what Trent wants. For me to watch…

“Caleb. Come.” Ikithon says, harsh, and something deep in Caleb stirs to obey. He approaches, and peers uneasily into the bowl. Ikithon does the same.

The sound is all sucked away like bathwater down a drain, and Caleb sees -

- Yasha and Fjord, frozen, hands at their swords, struggling in minute twitches of muscle. Jester turns and runs, and - collides with the arms of a dark figure. She thrashes in its grip as a group of shadows emerges from the trees, splitting off and roughly grabbing the other two. A pair of hooded shadows smothers each one, and begin to shove gags in mouths and bind rope to bodies. Fjord, shackled, falls with eerie, silent heaviness, and Jester’s noiseless scream is stifled by the rag stuffed in her mouth.

Yasha, cornered by another pair, becomes a metallic flash of starlight among shadows, swinging her blade - a splash of blood darkens her face, her chest, the grass at her feet. She slashes again, but the second assailant catches her arm tightly from behind, wresting the blade behind her back. The clang-shut manacles make no noise, nor does Yasha’s sword as it drops to the blood-wet grass. Her face twists, frenzied, into a scream - she is gagged, and dragged, kicking wildly. A third figure emerges to slam a pair of manacles on her ankles.

The group is hauled through the wet grass, piled onto carts like so much cargo...

A hoarse cry is stuck at Caleb’s lips as the scene ripples away. His knuckles go white at the rim of the font.

“Warum?” he lashes, through grit teeth. “Why take them?”

Because they’re heretics and Xhorhasian rebels and… Fjord, powerful, mystery.

The Archmage’s brow creases deep into his ridged forehead, and he says nothing. Caleb knows better than to expect an answer. Nott will die, he thinks, on sight, and he swallows his own heart for a beat. He watches Trent’s eyes go ringed with yellow-white -

- this isn’t his doing?

“Verdammt,” Trent murmurs, his parched and greying lips barely moving. Caleb’s mind flicks -

- this isn’t his doing, this is a problem -

Trent snarls into his gnarled fingertips, clutching the stone around his neck. “Das Leuchtfeuer!” Quietly, but not quietly enough - and Caleb’s flickering thoughts flare into realization.

The Beacon.

“It is being intercepted.” Trent’s oily voice becomes dusty and urgent. “Find them, neutralize them, do not let it slip through our grasp, verstanden?” He peers deep into the water, eyes filmy and far away.

Trent wants the dodecahedron.

Jester has the dodecahedron.

Jester is being taken.

Is it better to let this other Caleb stop Jester and the others being taken, and let Trent take the dodecahedron?

Is it better to keep Trent from getting the dodecahedron, and let them be taken?

If Trent does not know where the dodecahedron is, then I do not know where Jester is.

I can’t help if I don’t know where they are.

Can I help at all?

Caleb takes a deep breath and reaches into his pockets, left hand fumbling for a length of string, right hand for a piece of wood.

At the other end of the room, Schmidt materializes and begins noisily upending each of the scrying bowls.

Trent’s eyes drain of their haze, and he relinquishes his grip on the font. “Vas?!” he snarls, and steps away from the bowl, just enough, just enough - and Caleb darts forward, tipping it over and splashing the water in sheets over the marble floor.

“Gottsverdammt!”

Caleb finds himself paralyzed, an unfortunate mirror of Fjord, or Yasha, unable to move as Trent advances on him. There is poison in his jaundiced, rheumy eyes. He snaps a furious hand at the opposite wall, and Caleb feels a crawling wall of force shatter Schmidt out of existence.

“Caleb,” he says into the pendant at his neck. “The visual on them was lost. Track it on your own until I...” He turns, listening. “Then get closer! There is only so much time before the circle…” His eyes narrow, and he hmmphs. “Return, then. It is not lost, yet.” He drops the stone on its chain, and with a twist more sharp and dextrous than expected of the old man, he backhands Caleb sharply across the face.

A wave of cold, visceral fear jolts from the point at which the Archmage’s hand struck him, and pools in his chest.

“Always that streak of willfulness in you, Caleb,” Trent says, delicately rubbing the backs of his knuckles. “No matter. No dog knows obedience until he has a master.” Caleb struggles, vainly trying to move, to run, to cast anything he can think of.

In a flash of purple, the circle at the center of the room glows, and his doppelgӓnger appears.

“Meister, I-”

“Silence.” Trent gives him a moment to survey the chamber. Caleb watches himself swallow his composure, then bow his head.

“What is next?” his own voice, murmured from strange lips.

“You will follow them,” Trent says, unctuously. “The thieves are traveling by wagon, heading northwest. You are skilled, their numbers will mean nothing to you. Destroy them.” He surveys the study in disgust. “By that time, I will have a new circle in place. I will contact you with instructions to create the second circle in your timeline.” The other Caleb snaps his head, affirming in a nod. “Until I complete the scrying ritual, I will not be able to look into your timeline, Caleb. Do not be foolish. Do not fail me.”

Caleb’s double steps back into the fading circle.

“Wait,” says Trent. He looks to his captive, still paralyzed. He circles Caleb thoughtfully, then runs one twisted hand over Caleb’s shoulder and down his arm. “That tiefling… if she keeps hold of her possessions, it may be easier to retrieve the Beacon if she believes you to be of her timeline.” He grips Caleb’s arm roughly, and wrestles his coat from his shoulders. “And it would do to separate this one from his spellcasting components, I think. Here,” and he tosses the coat to Caleb’s double.

The other Caleb sheds his blue and gold mantle, frowning, and reaches to his hip for a holstered spellbook. He flips through it, then whispers, brushing light fingertips over his own chest and to his belt; his neat uniform shimmers, and the threads begin to fray, tatter, weave themselves into a passable facsimile of Caleb’s worn traveler’s clothes.

He dons Caleb’s coat, steps into the teleportation circle, and disappears in a flash of purple.

[darknessaroundus]

Based on this image prompt from the lovely @earthlaughsinflowersblog​, who also took the photo.

Jughead’s never felt the pressure of a publisher’s deadline till now.

When he first started writing the only deadlines that existed were self imposed, and he was motivated to reach them, spending long nights in diner’s, florescent lights and coffee keeping up.

After his first book was a middling success Jughead’s agent wrote him encouraging emails, and once even sent him a pound of his favourite beans, as a “finish it soon gift”.

That deadline was met easily and that book became the kind that led to movie contracts, and special editions without any real new content.

It had also led to this moment, his publisher handing Jughead the keys to his cabin in upstate New York, and telling him that he had “one month.”

On the train right up north the old Douglas Adams adage “I love deadlines. I love the whooshing noise they make as they go by,” keeps running through Jughead’s mind.

He’s very skeptical that a change of scenery will chase the cobwebs away from his mind, but somehow by the second day they do, and he finds himself typing for hours on end, and sleeping in the daylight.

Every morning on the front porch a new basket arrives, stocked full of food - meat pies, and fruit pies, berry jars, boiled eggs, fresh baked bread, luminous goat cheese. It’s the kind of basket dreams of the country are a made of.

A week passes like that, his life at the computer in the afternoon with a fresh baked scone, the evening at his compute with pate on toast, and then deep into the moon filled night, with lots of raspberries.

Because of these hours he never meets whoever his agent has arranged to drop off his food each morning.

Sometimes in the late afternoon he goes for walks. He goes to the lake, and circles it, sometimes bringing a book and finding a quiet spot in the shade.

One afternoon, he falls asleep with Prelude to a Bruise on his lap, and wakes to the sound of splashing.

He opens his eyes, still stuck in the shallows of sleep to a mermaid, wet hair, and arms that stretch into the sky as if they are trying to grab the sun.

A few blinks later, and he realizes it’s a girl, in a bikini, diving her way back into the lake. She vanishes beneath the surface of the lake to appear less than six feet away, pulling hair away from her face, and smiling at him, her cheeks flushed.

“Hi,” she says, “You must be Jughead Jones.”

His name being spoken from her lips surprise him. It’s not like his face is unknown, but the name that’s associated with the book that’s made him famous is the one on his birth certificate. Only friends call him Jughead.

“Who are you?” He asks. He’s curios now, how he knows this name, why she’s there, looking beautiful, but also confident, like this is her lake and not his editors.

“Betty Cooper, I make your food.”

This makes her even more intriguing. Jughead has loved the food. He still dreams about the peach cobbler he ate on his first day here.

“I like your cooking.” He says rather lamely, not meaning to undersell it.

“Oh, I don’t just cook. I grow most of the stone fruit, and the berries, some of the vegetables. I don’t have cows, but the chicken’s are all mine, and the eggs of course.”

Betty’s blushing now, as if this fact was embarrassing, and not impressive. All Jughead could make was books, that involved words, and even that he was struggling with as recently as a week ago.

There are so many things Jughead wants to say - complimentary things all of them, but instead he sits there a little sleepy, very impressed, and unsure of himself for the first time in years.

By the time he pulls himself together enough to say anything, Betty’s dived back into the lake, which she swims across with surprising speed.

It feels a little like meeting a fairy for the first time, or rather a witch, someone whose power surpasses Jughead’s own, at least as far as the real world is concerned.

He knows he’s made a terrible first impression, but he’s determined to make a good second one.

So he goes to bed at nine, sets his alarm for five, and when Betty arrives to drop off his basket, he’s sitting on the front porch with two mugs of coffee, a smile on his face, and words on the tip of his tongue.

[darknessaroundus]

For the @riverdalebingo​ square “not a date” date - Unbeta’d - I’m sorry

The first time it happens, the coffee shop is so busy, Betty’s just grateful to find a seat, any seat. Even if the man who admits that it’s empty half scowls at her when she sits down. 

It doesn’t really matter in the scheme of things. She needs somewhere to study while her roommate and her roommate's boyfriend get busy (or more accurately, stay busy) and she’s already spent 7.50 on a scone and a coffee.

An hour later she looks up from her book to see that her table-mate is staring at her still untouched scone like he wants it in his mouth now. It’s surprisingly a good look on him. 

Betty’s stomach is all filled up with pumpkin sugar latte so she asks her table-mate if he wants the scone.

“Really?” He says skeptically, one eyebrow raised, and Betty’s not sure how she didn’t notice how cute he was earlier.

“You can have it as long as you tell me your name.” She offers, winking back.

He grabs the pastry, eats one far to large bite and says “It’s Jughead.”

It’s her turn to say “Really?”

“No, but that’s the name I go by.”

“Ah. I’m Betty.”

He smiles his response, a crumb falling out of his mouth, and really Betty should be appalled by it, Alice certainly would, but instead she’s charmed. 

The next time it happens she’s at the table first, knee deep in the romantics and genuinely pissed at Percy Shelley, when Jughead asks “Is this seat taken?”

She smiles up at him, happy to see him there again. The cafe’s full and she’s glad to return the favor of table sharing, “It’s all yours.”

They talk a little, nothing deep, just about classes and books. They’re both graduate students in English although at different schools. 

The fifth time Jughead asks to share a table, and their seventh time sitting together, the cafe is over half empty. 

That’s the last time he bothers asking, they just end up sharing the table for hours most weekends, half studying, mostly talking, the conversations opening up, blooming into something real. 

It’s only when someone in Betty’s program asks her out, that she realizes what is going on. So she turns down Robert, with a kind but true statement, “i’m already seeing someone.”

That evening, as if Jughead already knew what Betty had said, he kisses her for the first time, at their table.