viscountess-sharma·:

he is capital W whipped

Did a quick doodle last night, might clean it up later since it’s still kinda messy. :B

Megs catching Op on the dance floor during a fight, perhaps? B)

The Flower Crown Chronicles

AN: Thank you everyone for all your likes and reblogs! Here’s another chapter, which as always you can read over on ao3 here! I hope you enjoy it, you might just spot a familiar face!

CW: homophobic comments, racist comments, and bad language

Chapter 3: Lemonade Stand

Damian pulls up to Richard’s house – a whitewashed brick two-story building situated atop a hill – and parks along the side of the street, as the… occupieddriveway provides him no room.

He turns off his car and takes a fortifying breath before exiting. The midday sun shines full above with enough heat to fry an egg on the pavement. Damian approaches his brother’s, normally nice and peaceful, suburban house with trepidation.

What in the world are his siblings thinking?

Cassandra and Kory place clothing on a rack, talking underneath a boombox playing pop music.

Stephanie chats with two elderly women in matching outfits and conning them into buying a pair of lamps.

Todd, removed only slightly from the chaos, skateboards with a couple of kids on the sidewalk, engaging in more complex tricks that would find its inevitable end with someone breaking an appendage.

Drake sits inert in a too-small lawn chair, a wide brim straw hat shading his eyes as he reads off his phone.

And Richard stands in the midst of the chaos dressed in Bermuda shorts and a fanny pack looking inordinately pleased with himself. All over the, normally clear, driveway sits a collection of odds and ends with price tags slapped onto the sides. A crowd of random people browse through said odds and ends.

Little Mar’i remains the only member of his cobbled-together family making any sense. A collection of mismatched pitchers crowd a small folding table and a stack of cookies sits on a plate next to them. Combined with a large patio umbrella, a pair of sparkly purple sunglasses, her ever-present flower crown, and a printed paper sign that reads:

SNACKS FOR SALE

LEMONADE - $2

COOKIE - $1.50

She waves at him but remains seated at her table where a line of people waits to purchase refreshments from her makeshift booth.

Richard jogs over to him before Damian can act upon the impulse to retreat to his car and escape.

“Damian! So glad you could come!” his older brother greets.

“Richard, what madness is this?”

“It’s a garage sale?”

“We are billionaires.”

Richard sighs. “Bruce is a billionaire.” Damian raises an eyebrow; his financial portfolio is plenty lucrative. Drake coughs loudly from his plastic lawn chair, but his attention remains on his phone. Richard rolls his eyes. “Okay, maybe a few of us are billionaires but that’s not the point. A garage sale is more than just a chance to make money, it’s about getting rid of things you don’t need anymore and interacting with your neighbors! It’s a community bonding experience.”

“One; if you wished to rid yourself of unwanted items, donate them. Two; if you wish to bondwith the community throw a gala, or - if you must be plebian - a block party.”

“Your classism is showing,” comments Drake; ironic considering the irritating interloper’s own parentage.

Damian scoffs. “Oh look, gaze upon the field in which I grow my fucks and see it is barren.”

Stephanie walks over, pocketing a ten-dollar bill. “Damian’s meme-ing? Who taught you how to meme baby bird?” She slings an arm awkwardly around his shoulder. He stands as tall as Todd and his father these days.

“Tt. I am twenty-one, fatgirl, I believe that age is sufficient enough to know how memes work without another’s instruction.” He side-steps away from his pseudo-sister letting her arm fall.

She elbows him in the side, and he prides himself on not jumping to defend himself from the innocent roughhousing the attack is meant to be. “Well, I’m almost twenty-seven so that means you need to respect your elders.”

“Ah yes, you are aging and fat, truly a marvelous combination. Tell me, when did you last go on a date?” He ducks out of the way of a much sharper jab.

“Guys, guys stop fighting,” pleads Richard. “We aren’t together a lot outside of our… extracurriculars, and I want this to be fun!”

Stephanie smiles innocently like she had not just tried to assault him. “Sure thing big bird; just wholehearted good clean family fun with no weapons, murder or arson.”

“You eliminated half of all our family’s immediate interests,” Damian drawls. “And ninety percent of Todd’s.”

Richard throws his arms into the air and stomps away in a huff, but Damian spots a smile on his older brother’s face. Stephanie sticks out her tongue, but says nothing else, retreating to the shade of the garage with Kory and Cassandra.

“UNCLE DAMI!” A small weight hits his legs and Damian barely braces himself from falling over at the force of his niece’s overexcited greeting. He reaches down to pat her head; raven locks twisted into complicated braids accompanied by a bright purple flower crown. One of Marinette’s creations.

“Hello little one, how are you today?”

She beams at him with a gap-toothed smile. “Great!” she exclaims. “Grandpa Alfie helped me bake cookies to sell and Mom helped me make the lemonade. I’ve made thirty-five dollars already.”

Damian smiles at her. “A good start, you likely already recouped your initial investment. The heat of the day will only increase from here.”

He points to her stand; several people wandering over to look at the sign. “You should go back, you have customers.”

“Thanks! But I need more lemonade. MOOOOOM!”

Kory turns away from her conversation with Cass. “Yes, my little bumgorf?”

Mar’i rushes over to her mother with the empty pitchers. “Can you go inside and make three more pitchers of lemonade?” Kory pats her on the head, takes the jugs in hand, and walks towards the house.

Mar’i runs back over to him and hugs his legs tightly. “Thanks, uncle Dami.” She rushes to her station and starts talking the ears off of her soon-to-be customers.

Damian sighs in fond exasperation; Mar’i was her mother and father’s child through and through. Personable and suborn, with a pragmatic mindset.

He wanders over to one of the tables ladened with objects and peruses through the odds and ends Kory and Richard decided to sell. Collections of old books, racks of clothes, several odd dish and plate sets, and an entire blanket full of Mar’i’s old toys. Despite the utter plebian nature of such an event, they had done a marvelous job at appealing to a large range of tastes for the common suburbanite.

“Damian?”

He freezes at the call of his name, the familiar syllables twisting under a soft accent, and a feeling of dread - and not excitement, he reprimands his inner voice - pools in his stomach. He turns around.

Marinette stands a foot away, clad in a white sundress and wide-brimmed hat. Her raven locks are drawn into two low pigtails. She carries a small wicker basket filled with a collection of odds and ends.

“M-Marinette,” he replies, hoping no one else heard his unfortunate stutter. “What brings you here? Your apartment is located in the city; quite a journey to get here.” ‘Quite a journey,’ thought Damian sarcastically. That is the besthe could come up with?

“I spent the night over at Delun and Patrick’s.” She points out a couple browsing the electronics a few tables over. One is a large mountain of a man – thick beard, burly chest, dressed head to toe in black – who would not be out of place in a boxing ring or bike rally. The other, far smaller in comparison, wearing bright cherry red shorts and a button-up shirt with puppies on the fabric.

Marinette lifts the basket. “They like to weekend garage sale hunt during the summer. I decided to come with. And you? Garage sales don’t seem quite your speed,” she comments with a teasing smile.

He points at the house. “My brother lives here.” His brother’s house… which all his siblings are at… around here… right now…

Fuck.

A contingent of assassins or aliens or zombies would be greatright this second.

“Ahh…” she says brightly. “It’ll be nice to finally meet them, after all you’ve said. Well… Texted.” They kept a cordial correspondence since the park two weeks ago. And by cordial, Damian meant he never texted a single person more than Marinette – although Jon came close. Although this was the first time he had seen her in person since their outing at the park. Thankfully Marinette refrained from mentioning the impulsive offer to take her out to dine, which Damian immediately regretted, the offer far too overly familiar for their short and casual acquaintance.

He shakes away his mental musing. “Hold your judgment until you converse with them, many find them intolerable once they open their mouths.”

She giggles – an action which Damian normally despises for those older than small children in the single digits – but which the French woman somehow makes bearable.

“Oh, come on, they can’t be that bad.”

“No, they are worse.”

“Hey, who ya talkin’ to over here little D’?” asks Todd approaching from the sidewalk with windswept hair and a skateboard in hand. His older brother turns to Marinette. “Sorry if he said somethin’ rude miss. We tried socializin’ him, but it never took.”

Damian rolls his eyes at the juvenile insult. “Hello Todd, did you tire of enticing small children with reckless actions? Or did your injection have a point?”

Todd rolls his eyes. “The kiddos were plenty safe. They had more protection than me even.” True. All of the kids wore helmets and knee pads. Compared to a barren Todd, who forewent his leather jacket, and was clad only in jeans and a t-shirt. “And I always have a point to make. This one is makin’ sure you aren’t buggin’ a potential customer.”

“I’m perfectly fine. Thanks,” states Marinette with a half-amused, half sarcastic look stretching across her face. “It’s not like I’m standing here and can speak for myself or anything.”

“Ouch, customer’s got claws.”

“Todd do go make a nuisance of yourself elsewhere.” Todd ranked last in Damian’s siblings he wished to introduce Marinette to. He risked a quick glance over at Drake, who so far had not moved from his seat, but had stopped reading off his phone and now not-so-subtly eavesdropped on the conversation.

Okay. Maybe Todd ranked second-to-last.

His older brother raises an eyebrow. “Okay, okay, sheesh I was just tryin’ to be polite and all.”

“It’s fine Damian and I were just catching up,” says Marinette.

Damian inwardly groans. No.That would just make the annoying gnat more interested, not less.

Jason’s eyes perk up, like demented little meerkats popping from the ground. “Oh, you and Damian knoweach other?” He glances at Damian, years of silent fieldwork conveying a couple of concepts.

Knowas in civilian interaction?

Knowas in superhero civilian identity?

Orknowas in ‘my mother is on the way with assassins and she’s the welcoming party?’

Damian returns the look.

‘The first one, obviously.’

Unfortunately, that does not decrease Todd’s curiosity. “Well, nice to see Demon spawn making friends. I’m just gonna go this way, you two kids have-”

“You rude little brat!” came a screeching voice from the end of the driveway.

Heads swivel to find a frumpy-looking woman in too-tight yoga pants, and a ‘Live, Laugh, Love’ t-shirt standing with her hips cocked and arms crossed on the sidewalk. Large black sunglasses do little to disguise the utter disgust on her face as she gazes down at Mar’i’s makeshift lemonade stand. Her large white SUV runs parked in front of the driveway. Mar’i – utterly unruffled – stares back with a Pennyworth patented eyebrow raise as the woman grows more irritated.

Damian tenses, ready to jump to his niece’s defense. Whoever this woman thinks she is, she vastly overestimated her ability to manage anythinghis family can throw at her. Drake already has his phone’s camera flipped on and ready to record the interaction.

Richard, in full-on protective mode, jogs over to the stand. “What seems to be the problem over here?” he asks, placing himself between the irate woman and Mar’i.

The woman’s personality shifts in an instant. A sickly-sweet smile replaces her sneer. “Oh, I just wanted to let this girl know it’s illegal to sell food and drinks without a permit, and she was rude to me. The manners children these days have,” she giggles, high and nasally.

Damian exchanges a glance with Todd.

This dumbass has no clue.

“Well, I’m sure my daughter was perfectly respectable,” responds Richard, flat and unimpressed with the woman’s flirtatious simpering.

Two red blotches bloom on the woman’s cheeks as she stutters, “Oh, uh, well I don’t- I didn’t-” She bounces her head back and forth between Ricard and Mar’i like she’s trying to make sense of a complicated puzzle. Damian rolls his eyes, it’s not like they look so dissimilar; with the exception of Mar’i inheriting her mother’s skin.

“And this is my house and my garage sale, and I said it was fine for my kid to sell lemonade. Like any other normal kid during the summer.” Richard’s voice is juston the side of polite reprimand, rather than pure condescension.

“He’s trying to reason with her,” whispers a voice in his ear. Damian barely restrains jumping at Marinette’s comment. “That won’t work. She’s Delun and Patrick’s neighbor and happens to be the absolute worst.”

The woman continues to bluster. “Well- well, it’s still illegal.”

“According to what?” Richard asks incredulously. “Are you seriously raising a fuss about a six-year-old selling lemonade and cookies?”

Mar’i shook her head. “She said I had to take it down or she would call the police dad.”

Marinette scoffs. “She would too, she called the police because Delun hung rainbow banners during June.”

“This woman picked the wrong family to mess with,” Todd grumbles, stepping forward to join Richard. Damian shoots out a hand to stop him.

“Your interference will not alleviate the situation. Allow Richard to handle her,” he chides. Todd sneers but stays put.

Richard laughs “The police? HA! Yeah right!”

The woman’s face reddens even further. “Ugh! Do you even know who I am?”

Richard raises an unimpressed brow. “No.”

She huffs, puffing up her chest and tilting her nose into the air with haughty arrogance she could not at all carry off. “I’m Jessica Merope-Laverne the Hidden Fall’s HOA assistant secretary.”

“Okay… And?”

She stomps her foot on the ground like a petulant child. “And if you don’t make her take this down right now, I’ll not only call the police but also write a report about you breaking your HOA contract.”

“Come on Jessie lighten up,” says one of the men Marinette came with, the big one. “It’s just a lemonade stand, and you’re the one causin’ a fuss.”

She whips the sunglasses off her face and directs her red-hot glare at the two men. “Well, if it isn’t the Hamada-Cordons,” she sneers, making her already over-makeup face even more unpleasant. “Why are you out and about interacting with normal people? Shouldn’t you be reveling in your perversions elsewhere?”

“Sorry, hun,” drawls the shorter man in a heavy southern accent. “We only do our ritual sacrifices to the gods the second weekend of every month. We had just enough time to squeeze in some garage-saleing today. Where were you at the last bonfire, got lost on your broom on the way over?”

“They hate her,” Marinette whispers with a barely contained laughter.

“I think the sentiment is returned,” he responds.

“Go burn on a stake,” Merope-Laverne snipes.

“Why don’t you shove one up your-” the larger man slaps a hand over the smaller one’s mouth and smiles blandly.

“Ugh,” she sniffs pulling out her phone. “I will not be bullied by children and leftist sheeple into standing down. This is in clear violation of neighborhood policy, and I’m sure the county has rules against it too. I am not in the wrong here, I’m just trying to maintain clear order and rules.” She grabs her phone from her handbag.

“I think I have a plan,” whispers Marinette.

“Wait,” Damian calls, but she flutters away leaving the lingering scent of lemongrass and citrus in her wake.

“What?” questions Todd. “You’re gonna let hergo?”

Damian shoots him a piercing glare. “Shut up,” he mutters.

Marinette saunters to the driveway’s end, pushing past Richard and Mar’i, and stands in front of them like a tiny, but mighty, shield.

Marinette’s smile is thin and mocking as she says, “Jessica, poule mouillée, lovely to see you again.”

“Did she just call her a wet chicken?” breathes Todd. Drake looks ready to die over on his lawn chair from holding in laughter.

“Marnie,” sneers Merope-Laverne, clicking off her phone.

“Marinette,” she corrects without blinking an eye.

“Whatever. Get lost the adults are having a real conversation here.”

Marinette rolls her eyes. “No, you’re having… oh how do you Americans call it? Ah! Yes. A “hissy fit”. So, why don’t you do all of us and yourself a favor and just leave, before you embarrass yourself even more.”

Merope-Laverne turns an even brighter shade of red, and spits, “Why would I listen to the French hussy of those two queer-ass fags. I’m just trying to be agoodAmerican citizen and do my part to keep the neighborhood…” she looks over Mar’i with a disgusted glance that sends Damian’s blood boiling. “Civilized.”

Damian’s entire family stands at the ready to attack this woman with no questions asked. Her comments crossing the fucking line. Damian palms a small knife in hand ready to pounce. Further up the driveway, the smaller man Marinette arrived with struggles to break out of the larger one’s hold. Although the larger man’s face similarly looks apocalyptic.

But Marinette only smiles blandly, and shifts, ever so slightly, on her feet. It raises her shoulders and projects out an air of confidence and… power. The woman subconsciously backs up.

“Do watch your language, there are children about,” Marinette chides, her voice colder than ice. “But if you’re concerned about crimes sooomuch, maybe you should worry more about the bigger one happening right now.” She gestures to Merope-Laverne’s car which is gaining speed down the hill into the empty cul-de-sac below. “Your car is about to run a stop sign.”

The woman turns with a gasp and immediately starts chasing after her car with a hiccupping gait. She runs beside it, unable to open any of the doors as it makes its way down the hill and out of sight.

“How…unlucky,” Marinette comments lightly with a serene smile. The entire driveway falls into shocked silence.

Damian stares.

Blinks once.

Then twice.

Todd slaps a hand on his shoulder, and it is only through years of training Damian does not jump. “Demon brat you might wanna close your mouth, you’ll catch flies.”

He slams his mouth shut with an audible click, shooting a hateful glare at Todd. “Do be silent,” he grits.

His older brother shrugs, a shit-eating grin adorning his annoying face. “Sure, little D’. But just so ya know, that chick seems way out of your league.” Damian ignores the ridiculous implications and stomps over to the growing crowd around Marinette and Mar’i closely followed by Todd

“Miss Marinette!” Mar’i calls out in a high excited scream. His niece rushes the woman, who bends down and swings the little girl up into her arms. Marinette easily holds the girl up with one arm and uses her other hand to bop the girl’s nose.

“Mademoiselle Mar’i! Oh, what wretched things that woman said, are you alright?”

Mar’i giggles and nods her head. “Yep! You sure showed her didn’t you!”

Marinette laughs, “All in a day’s work ma petite fleur!”

Richard rushes over. “Mar’i you can’t just hug random people!”

Mar’i frowns, and a panicky dread fills Damian’s chest. “But Dad Miss Marinette isn’t random. She’s Uncle Dami’s friend.”

Richard’s eyes climb high on his face. “Oh!” Damian scowls at his questioning glance, and the irritating man just smiles like a cat with a canary and turns back to Marinette with an extended hand. Marinette shakes it firmly.

“Well, nice to meet you I’m Dick, Damian’s older brother. And you already know my lovely daughter Mar’i.”

“Dad she’s the one who made my crowns!” She points to the one on her head.

“And what wonderful crowns they are princess,” Mar’i jumps over to her father’s arms, and he catches her without hesitation. He glances back at Marinette with a sheepish grin. “No seriously, they’re wonderful crowns, Mar’i never stops wearing them. They’re sturdy.”

Marinette blushes, ducking her head. “Thank you. I make them myself.”

“Excuse me, comin’ through y’all.” A whirlwind mess of limbs and color elbows his way into the crowd. “Oh hun,” calls the smaller man Marinette arrived with. He throws two lanky arms around Marinette’s shoulder and smacks a kiss against her temple. “That was positively g-lorious!” He exclaims with a sing-songy tune. “You sure showed that bitc-” he spares a quick glance and Mar’i who just giggles. “-bitter old hag who’s boss. No one messes with the Hamada-Cordons!”

“Delun, you know I’m not related to you.”

He rolls his eyes. “Oh hush, hun, you are family in our hearts and that counts just as much.”

The larger man – Patrick, Damian decides – walks over with a smile and pats Marinette on the shoulder. “Good going, little lady,” he says gruffly.

“Yeah, that was serious Matilda-level shenaniganry right there,” comments Jason with a smirk. “I approve.”

“What’s a Matilda?” asks Mar’i.

Todd and Marinette gasp in synchrony.

“What’s a Matilda? Golden boy why haven’t you shown her Matilda?”

Marinette presses a hand to her chest. “Quelle honte! Quelle parodie! Oh, ma petite fleur, you’ve been deprived!”

“Okay, okay, sheesh!” Richard pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’ll be next on the list I promise.”

“Three pitchers of the lemonade, as requested!” calls Kory’s strong voice, breaking through the gathered crowd of people. She emerges balancing the three full pitchers on a platter. “What in the star fields is going on here?”

Mar’i wiggles out of her father’s arms and runs over to her mother. “Mom! A woman tried to get me to shut down my lemonade stand, and she said she would call the police, and dad tried to make her leave, and then Miss Marinette – she’s the one that made my flower crowns – she made her car roll down the hill like a Matilda! But I don’t know what a Matilda is?”

“Oh my, it seems I have missed a most glorious battle.” She raises an inquisitive eye at her husband, who shrugs with a look that reads, ‘We’ll talk about it later.’

“Kory, darlin’,” says Delun. “It was Jessie.”

Kory frowns. “Oh, that irritating zarbnarf! I am so sorry I was not here to defend you my little bumgorf.”

Mar’i shrugs, as in the way small children are often wont to do, the incident was mostly forgotten now due to the many people talking to and fawning over her. “It’s fine mom.”

“Wait,” says Todd, flicking his eye back and forth between Kory and Hamada-Cordons. “You all know each other?”

“We ran into Kory and Mar’i at the pool last summer and got to talking about weapons. We told her about our ax-throwing range in our backyard,” explains Patrick. “And invited her over to test it out.”

Kory beams. “And what magnificent fun it was!” Then snarls her nose. “Until Jessica interceded upon our enjoyment and threatened to report us!”

Delun scoffs. “Not that she could’a done a darn thing. We registered the range and put in writin’ long before she moved in.”

“Okay folks, the show’s over, no need to crowd up here!” calls Stephanie. “If you want refreshments, I’m sure Mar’i can take care of you.” Her loud voice and Todd’s menacing stance, disperse the crowd, thinning out everyone who was not an extended Wayne family member, or Marinette and her friends.

Marinette slides back over to Damian’s side. “I like your family. They seem…”

“Overbearing? Insufferable? Meddlesome?”

Marinette shakes her head. “Genuine.”

“Tt. Nothing but genuinely annoyingperhaps.”

She smiles, “Ah, but doesn’t that mean they love you enough to relax around you? A perfect façade seems nice upon the surface, but once one digs deeper there is nothing there but hot air. Genuine people are imperfect people, and that’s what makes them worth knowing and loving.”

The words strike him in the chest. A long-forgotten echo rises unbidden in his mind.

‘Can you not love me for who I am? Not what you want me to be?”

‘No. That’s not my nature. I’m too much of a perfectionist.’

“I- I- suppose there is an ounce truth to that.” Damian buries his mother’s sharp words ignoring the burn of abandonment and longing in his chest. He should not entertain such thoughts.

At least, not in the light of day.

“Miss Marinette! Uncle Dami! Here!” Mar’i, queen of convenient distraction, appears carrying a plate of cookies balancing atop two glasses of lemonade. Damian rescues the precariously placed cookies while Marinette snags the drinks.

“Merci beaucoup, ma petite fleur,” coos Marinette.

“Da rien!” beams Mar’i before running back to her stand. Marinette blinks, a delighted smile blooming across her face at his niece’s response.

“She wished to converse in your own language. I helped teach her a few basic sayings,” he says. Mar’i did not gain her mother’s particular… abilityto gain linguistic talents, nor if she had would it be appropriate for a six-year-old to go kissing people on the lips. He was not fluent in French, but his knowledge reached conversationally and certainly enough for the niceties Mar’i wished to convey.

“Comme c'est attentionné de vous deux,” Marinette says with a sweet smile.

Damian’s cheeks feel warmer than before. It must be the heat.

“It- It was of no hardship,” he mumbles, taking a sip of lemonade to avoid opening his traitorous mouth again. What was it about this woman that made him lose all sense of caution?

Before he can think too deeply on the topic, Stephanie and Cassandra approach.

Oh.

Ohno.

“Thanks for defending our little Mar’i,” says Stephanie, her hand darting out and grabbing one of the cookies from his plate, he was too slow to stop her. “Was that telekinesis?” she asks, stuffing the cookie into her mouth.

“Stephanie,” he hisses. “You can not simply ask-”

His pseudo-sister waves him away. “I’m just being friendly demon-brat, she used her powers in public and I’m curious.”

“That’s our little witch!” calls Delun, still nearby in a conversation with Richard and Kory.

“Not a witch!” Marinette calls back cheerily.

“You can make wards hun!”

Marinette rolls her eyes. “So can anyone else with an open energy connection and thirty minutes on the internet.” She turns to Stephanie with a shy smile. “It’s magic, in a way.”

Stephanie scrunches her face. “So, what? Like a meta?”

Marinette shrugs her shoulders. “Hmmm… maybe. I never looked too much into it. Meta abilities are… looked down upon in France.” Her tone makes it quite clear what she thinks of that. Damian’s knowledge of what the Europeans do with their meta-humans beyond cursory interactions with the Justice League is limited.

He shall have to correct that gap.

“There’s a Meta-Human Alliance chapter here in Gotham,” offers Cassandra, her voice low and melodious. Must be one of her good days to speak out loud.

The French woman smiles tightly. “Thank you, although I think I’ll pass. It’s just a bit of magic-infused luck.” Damian represses a scoff, although from Marinette’s side glance it seems he was not successful.

“You can see what your brother thinks of that. You can be boring too and call it statistical probability manipulation.”

Stephanie tilts her head. “And how does that translate to making a car roll down a hill?” Stephanie may be the one asking the question, but every single one of his siblings is paying attention, even if they are moderately decent at looking like they’re minding their own business.

Marinette, seemingly oblivious to the oncoming interrogation, perks at the question, her eyes lighting up. “You see it’s not impossibleJessica’s car would roll down the hill after her semi-loose gear stick slipped from park to drive; merely improbable.I manipulate the energies around such events to give them a higher possibility of happening.”

Damian raises a brow at the explanation. He certainly never forgot Marinette’s little demonstration at the festival, but he thought it mostly related to trick shots and coin flips. This sounds… larger.

“How can you make sure you manipulate the right energies?” asks Cassandra.

Marinette’s smile is wry. “Lots and lotsof practice. Along with the luck comes a heightened sense of pattern recognition. I knowwhat will cause certain chains of events to happen, as well as how people tend to react.”

“Though good heavens know we had to teach ya how to direct it,” interjects Delun, walking over. “Poor girl came to that first crochet meetin’ and Patty said she was leakin’ magic all over the place.”

Marinette flushes pink across the tops of her cheeks and rolls her eyes. “Yes, yes, I know. I was useless. I never really had formal instruction before I met Patrick and Delun, they helped me in honing energy direction and the pattern recognition.”

“That must make you a very good chess player,” muses Cassandra, always eager to suck others into her never-ending quest for a chess partner that will not run at the sight of her.

“I wouldn’t know, I’ve never played,” admits Marinette, taking a sip of her lemonade.

“Pity,” says Cassandra, with a smile similar to a canary-catching cat. “I can teach you some time if you want?”

“Back to the powers,” interjects Stephanie, cutting off Cassandra’s attempt to ensnare her newest victim. “By that explanation, you could manipulate people too?”

Delun gasps, clutching his chest. “Little miss sunshine? Goodness personified? Yeah right, you have a higher likely hood crusin’ through Spaghetti Junction during rush hour on a Friday.”

Marinette sighs, exhausted and annoyed. “That’s sweet Delun, but technically, yes. I could manipulate a person.”

Damian’s stomach drops at the admission.

What if-?

Had she-?

Are these feelings-?

Marinette continues, “But the amount of energy, time, and sheer force of will, to manipulate another person is hardly worth the effort – besides I manipulate statistical probabilities. Inert objects don’t tend to move or fluctuate, so the amount of energy used to guide them in a different path is minimal and quite stable. A personthough?” Marinette scoffs. “Do you know how many actions, thoughts, and emotions a single person has in a day? Never mind their interactions with others. Hundreds of thousands, if not millions. An object? A couple hundred at the high end. The headache it causes to directly manipulate a person’s actions; blinding.”

“Besides, only the lowest of magic users would go against will like that,” says Patrick, coming up beside his husband. “Little Miss isn’t a black witch, and neither are we.”

Marinette shrugs, but Damian notices a tense shift of her movement as if the woman is holding onto her emotions with razor-thin control. “Anything is possible if you feed enough power into it, and the situation is dire. I’ve never done it myself, but I probably could if there was no other way.” She smiles wryly. “Not that I would be involved in a situation which would require that kind of force.”

“Not that I’m saying you would, but sweetheart,” Delun coos, “ThisisGotham.”

“I’m trying to be optimistic,” Marinette sighs. “Stop ruining it.”

“This is the city where optimism goes to die a swift and painful death via vis a crime rate higher than America’s obesity epidemic,” says Stephanie, with a blinding smile. “Perfect for family vacations and relaxing getaways.”

Marinette grins, sharp and predatory. In her white dress and pigtails, the sight should not seem terrifying, but it is. “That’s why I carry brass knuckles and pepper spray on me at all times. It’s much easier to kick a person’s ass the old-fashioned way than play around with luck.”

Stephanie barks out a laugh, brown eyes glinting in the afternoon sun. “I like the way you think, girlie. You fight?”

“Whenever I get the chance, but I’ve lacked a good sparring partner lately.” She smiles at Patrick. “You’re great for boxing practice, but I’m missing the chance for kickflips, and grapple holds.” Patrick shrugs, but he does not appear offended.

Meanwhile, Damian tries suppressing the panic in his stomach at his sisters’ hungry grins directed at the smaller woman. “I have offered before,” he reminds her. “If you would like-”

Stephanie slides up to Marinette and places an arm around her. “Ignore him. Do you want a real fight? Well, Cass and I are always looking to add someone new into the rotation!”

“Well- I- uh do not think-” Damian sputters, losing control of the situation.

“Come on Damian, you said it yourself I would get along with them!”

Cassandra’s eyes brighten as she joins Stephanie and their newly captured prey. “Oh, did he?” she asks. “Damian is a great judge of character. We’ll get along swimmingly,” she grins as she and Stephanie lead Marinette away and interrogates her about her fighting routine.

Marinette flashes him a brief mouthed ‘sorry’ before becoming fully engulfed in the tumultuous current of his sisters’ attention.

“Sorry kiddo, that was a fight you were bound to lose,” comments Delun with a conciliatory pat on the shoulder. “Come on Patty, I wanted a chance to look in the garage. Looks like Nettie will be busy for a while.” The men walk away leaving Damian alone.

Damn.

He grips the plastic cup full of watered-down lemonade and takes a small sip. Still refreshing. He listens to the laughter coming from the three women with building dread. The stares from the rest of his family land on him with undisguised noisiness.

In most situations, Damian would solve this problem like he does all his others.

Vicious purging at the source for all non-necessary complications.

Marinette is a complication.

He risks another glance. Marinette’s face is bright and animated as she talks rapidly to Stephanie and Cassandra, her hands flapping in exaggerated movements to accompany her explanation. The sight, as simple and mundane as it is, tightens his chest in an unknown feeling. He does not like unknowns.

But she is seemingly one he can not bring himself to walk away from.

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What John found

It’s always been there.

As long as he can remember, as long as he thought to wonder what it was, as long as he realized that he couldn’t define it–because you can’t name something you’re missing when the only thing you know about it for sure is that it isn’t there.

He’s tried, of course.

Spent quiet moments with his eyes closed tight, exploring the edges of the void inside of him, desperately willing it to reveal its shape. Spent years running headlong into the things he was sure would ease the ache (hot sand and wind and gunfire and blood and danger and pain and death), scooping them in greedy handfuls into the chasm inside of his chest, only to find the emptiness even less bearable when it found him again. Spent evenings and nights and mornings making friends with the hollowness, deciding if he could live without whatever it was he didn’t have. He thought maybe he could.

He was wrong.

Spread out on the bed, fine linen soft and cool on his flushed skin, short fingers tangled into inky curls as Sherlock presses slowly into him–John Watson gasps out a sigh at the ceiling.

Sherlock finds John’s mouth with his own, pale fingers trailing up his ribs and tunneling under his torso and up around his shoulders. John winds his legs around strong thighs, hips rising to meet each slow thrust, moans swallowed by hungry kisses…

And this, John thinks, this is what it feels like to be whole. A lifetime of emptiness finally banished forever when the missing piece slotted itself into place, tumbling headfirst into what eases the ache (hot skin and breath and heartbeats and sweat and excitement and love and life) inside him.

He didn’t know what he was missing.

Until he found it.