#(blithely ignoring all other indicators he's right-handed)

[psqqa]

......they didn't think the whole air guitar thing through in terms of court view angles and handedness, did they?

[sserpente]

A/N: Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday dear Loki, Happy Birthday to you! Let’s wish our favourite Trickster all the best! ♥ Requests from @hanzimmer and anon.

Words: 2422 Warnings: so much fluff, Asgardian!Reader

Midgard wasn’t so bad after all. You hadn’t been so sure—after all, you had heard the stories. Pollution of all kind, wars over silly things like religion and food drenched in unsaturated fats. You wrinkled your nose, hoping that Thor had organised some proper snacks for his Yule… no, you corrected yourself, his Christmas party.

He had invited his closest friends from Asgard—Heimdall, Sif, Volstagg, Hogun, Fandral and you. Heimdall was the only one who, for obvious reasons, had been unable to attend. So here you were now, walking towards this huge building they called Stark Tower. You were familiar. Loki had used it to open a portal to lead an alien army to New York City.

You smiled at the thought of meeting Loki again despite of what he had done. Odin had sentenced him to remain among the mortals for a few centuries to come, serving and aiding them if need be, as an “Avenger”. You had not seen him since the day he had let himself fall into the void beneath the Bifrost, believed him dead and mourned and cried your oldest and most dearest childhood friend… and had rejoiced and hurt all at the same time when he returned and wreaked havoc on Earth.

He must have changed so much—but not enough for you to stop loving him. He had no idea, of course. You had been friends for as long as you could remember and Thor had always been around too. He had loved occupying your attention by bragging with his berserker skills wielding his hammer and creating thunder and lightning.

You suppressed a giggle. Loki and you had often sneaked off together after supper, stealing some fancy dessert and hiding somewhere in the castle so you could chat in peace. How often had you wished Loki would dare a chaste kiss then?

Looking back at it today, it made you wonder if Thor had purposely tried to keep you away from his adoptive brother. Come to think of it, he had always attempted to find a way to embarrass Loki one way or another, and often with the help of his friends who were currently walking right next to you, a little confused about the elevator technology in this realm.

When the metal doors opened again with a pling, you were not disappointed. Thor had decorated the spacious living area with all the Christmas decorations Earth had to offer. There were tinsel and baubles and other ornaments, nutcrackers and fake icicles and snow, sparkling Christmas trees, countless holiday lights blinking away, candy canes, gingerbreads and a massive Santa Clause statue.

“My friends! I’m so glad you could make it!”

The other people in the room you knew from Thor’s stories whenever he returned to Asgard to see if everything is alright. You recognised Captain America instantly due to the muscles and Hawkeye and Black Widow. The two men remaining must have been Tony Stark and the scientist who turned green when he was angry. The person you were interested in the most, however, was the god dressed in green and black next to Thor.

Your face lit up when you spotted Loki and his lips parted barely noticeably in response. You greeted Thor with a brief hug but never took your eyes off of him. Then, for a second, you took in his appearance, admiring how much more grown he looked… how much more mature and experienced. His innocence, so you realised, had vanished from his aura like damp fog in a forest.

You shivered when he spoke your name. “Good to see you.” You weren’t quite sure what he had expected from you but apparently not that you would throw yourself into his arms, pressing yourself against him as if he were a piece of wood in midst of a roaring sea.

“How are you doing, you silly Trickster?” You muttered once you managed to let go of him again, almost complaining when his hands left your body.

His smile was faint but honest, albeit there was still confusion sparkling in his eyes.

“I didn’t think you would be glad to see me.” He admitted instead of responding.

“W-why wouldn’t I be? Loki, I haven’t seen you in years. I thought I had lost you. Did Thor not tell you how the guards almost threw me in prison because they wouldn’t let me see you after New York?”

He frowned. “Not a word.”

“I almost stabbed them… I missed you.”

Loki had no chance to reply this time. Volstagg scattered forth towards the buffet, forcing you to step aside and indicating Thor must have finally started the festivities. You had barely risked a look at the buffet yourself yet but the selection of cookies, cakes and sandwiches looked indeed very promising.

The Warriors Three and Sif made sure to ignore Loki as best as they could—they had nothing to say to him anymore, after all and just like back in the old days, Thor made no move to change that. So while he was introducing them to some Midgardian Christmas traditions, you stepped aside with the fizzy drink he had handed you, quietly talking to Loki.

“Loki!” Volstagg suddenly called out, followed by a chuckle by Fandral. “You need a refill.”

You covered your own glass when they poured the same pinkish liquid (Thor had said it was ‘cotton candy liqueur’) into Loki’s who watched the scene with utter dismay. You could see Thor grinning from the corners of your eye and even Hogun was cracking a smile—Sif only rolled her eyes and one of the mortal men you did not know and had not yet made any effort to get introduced to, pressed his lips together so he would not burst out laughing. Idiots. Just leave him alone for once, will you?

“Who is who?” You asked once they had turned away again. “I recognise the redhead and the archer, and Captain America, what about the others?”

“Stark is the man to the left.” Loki said, downing almost the entire drink at once. Alcohol was supposed to numb unease, after all.

“The one with the beard?” The one who had failed to show his amusement when Volstagg clearly made Loki uncomfortable, you added mutely.

“Yes. The other is Bruce Banner.”

“The Hulk.” He nodded.

“How are they… treating you here?”

Loki snorted. “After what I have done? They seem to have forgotten I was the reason they assembled in the first place, not, however, that it was I who attempted to subjugate the planet.”

You glanced at him for a moment. “What happened, Loki? You were never like that. You never wanted a throne, you merely wanted your father to treat you and Thor as equals. Why Midgard?” Loki’s expression was pained, yet at the same time, relief flooded him. No, you were right—he had never been like that. Thor had still not realised that but here you were, his oldest friend whom he had secretly been in love with for decades, realising in a mere second that there was going on with him.

“Not here.” He shook his head slightly, making you frown. Something was up, you could tell. Something weighed heavy on his mind, tearing him down. You sighed. It was nothing new that besides Frigga before her death, no one but you ever truly bothered to listen to what Loki had to say. It had never been as important as what Thor had had to say.

Not here, he had said. Well then for now, all you could do was cheer him up a little. “What cake is that?”

Loki raised his eyebrows, irritated by the sudden change of topic. “Thor said something about marshmallows.”

“What are marshmallows?” He shrugged. “It looks really good though…” You said, a devilish grin forming on your lips. “What do you think? Let us grab that cake and get out of here?” Just like in the old times?

Loki smiled—it suited him, being this blithe. You wondered when he had last had the chance to be like that. Sneakily, you reached for some white forks (they were very light, a very cheap material, apparently) all the while Loki yoinked the cake. You made sure no one would notice before you followed him out of the vast room and took the elevator to another level where it was so quiet one could have heard a needle drop.

“Where exactly are we going?”

“My room,” he answered. “I am quite surprised they gave me one to be truly honest.”

But very apparently, their generosity had been kept within limits. Compared to his chambers back on Asgard, Loki’s room here on Midgard was pathetically small. A single bed and a desk along with a wardrobe and a tiny bedside table were the only items of furniture and to be quite frank, the room resembled a prison cell more than a proper accommodation. Unlike the rest of the Tower, there was not a single piece of Christmas decoration in here. You were almost disappointed. Surely, Loki would adore some green and gold tinsel as well. You wondered if Thor had even bothered to ask if he wanted any.

You didn’t need his permission to sit on his bed, you had never needed it back on Asgard either. Loki and you were so close you sometimes wondered why he had never tried to take you with him on his conquest. You wouldn’t have minded to be the queen of evil if only that meant you could be with him…

Loki sat down next to you, setting both your glasses aside. You grinned when you handed him a fork and you both dug into the marshmallow cake as if it was going to be your last meal.

“Oh…” You mused. “It really is good.”

“Hmm…” He confirmed.

You giggled. “I’m glad you didn’t lose your sweet tooth.”

Your heart jumped when Loki winked at you, his mouth still full of cake. You had already transformed the pretty and edible creation into an utter crumbly mess but then again, who needed those paper plates these mortals used as dishes, regardless of the cute snowmen and snowflakes on them?

“It was not the same without you, you know.” You said then.

“I bet Thor kept you occupied.”

You shook your head, the both of you still munching away.

“We barely spoke after your death, I mean… after we thought you had died… to be truly honest, I think I only tolerated Thor because he is your brother.”

Loki tilted his head. “One might think it was the other way around.”

“Yeah… that’s probably what he is telling his mortal friends right now. I meant it, Loki. I really missed you. I was heartbroken when they told me you had flung yourself down the Bifrost…”

“And then?” He interrupted. “Were you repulsed when you learned about what I did here on Midgard?”

You shook your head. “I was worried for you. You were always on my mind. Did you… Did you ever think about me?”

“Well, of course I have, I love you.” He blurted out, only to close his mouth in utter shock the fraction of a second after.

You nearly choked on the cake. “W-what did you just say?”

“N-nothing, I… I said I have been in love with you unconditionally for centuries.” Loki bit his tongue, his eyes widening. You had positively never heard him stutter before. What he was saying was true, there was no mischievous sparkle in his blue eyes, but even though your heart leaped at the thought of him reciprocating your romantic feelings, your first instinct was to figure out what had made him spill the truth like that.

Unceremoniously, you reached for his pinkish drink and gave it a smell. Yours smelled different, without a doubt.

“Oh, Loki… they’ve spiked your drink with a truth potion I believe.”

“They did what?”

“That… that must be why they snickered so much upon refilling your glass, my love. I’m glad we left, I bet they were waiting for you to make a fool of yourself.”

Loki scoffed. “Well… I did that now anyway, did I not? Perhaps you should leave, I—”

You only smiled. “I love you too, Loki.” You said, making him look up in utter surprise. The cake between you on the bed was now entirely forgotten. You brushed it aside, not caring whether the icing would stain his bed sheets.

“What?” He breathed as you crawled towards him and made yourself comfortable on his lap, feeling confident now that he had admitted his feelings for you.

And as you wrapped your hands around his neck, you smiled, touching his forehead with yours.

“Nothing you do could ever stop me from loving you, Loki. If Thor had not thrown this stupid Midgardian Yule party… I might have never seen you again.”

Loki took a deep breath. “I think I understand now what Thor meant by ‘Christmas miracles’…” He uttered in response, his lips only inches from yours. Laughing quietly, you closed the small distance between you and pressed your lips against his. It was a chaste kiss—to test the waters, get used to how it would feel and, much like you had anticipated, it stole your breath away.

“Let us leave together.” Loki suggested hoarsely when you broke apart again, his breath ghosting over your lips.

“How? Odin sentenced you to be here, with Thor. He would know—and Thor and his Avengers would come after you.”

“Oh, they will not.” He retorted, a mischievous smirk growing on his lips.

“Loki? What have you been up to again?”

“I have the Tesseract.” He revealed smugly.

“You… what? How?!”

“Shhh… keep your voice down, sweetling.”

“I’m sorry… how? It’s supposed to be on Asgard, locked in the king’s treasure chamber.”

“Well, it was. Until I took it. We could go anywhere. They will never be able to trace us.”

You bit your lower lip, excitement rushing through you. Life on Asgard was dull without Loki and you certainly did not desire to stay here on Midgard with those mortals and their strange traditions and customs. Loki’s proposal was a dream come true, at long last.

“Then let us do it.” You beamed, making him smile. “But first… we finish that cake. Leave them a goodbye present.”

Loki laughed—and you did not move off his lap again until the very last crumb of the marshmallow cake was gone.

-

A/N: If you enjoyed this story, I would appreciate it so much if you considered supporting me on Kofi! It’s either for caffeine or red wine, I’ll take both. ko-fi.com/sserpente ♥

[problematicfavesareproblematic]

What We Want and What We Can Have

Part Two- My Love, Don’t Fade Away

WHOOPS IT’S A PART TWO THAT NO ONE ASKED FOR (part one lives hither)!

Warnings: cannon-typical violence, angst, unresolved tension encroaching resolution, more of Ron and his big beautiful brain, Ron has like three feelings and you take up two of them, non-edited nonsense bc feelings don’t wait for approval

I listened to Reminder by Mumford and Sons as well as I Don’t Feel It Anymore by William Fitzsimmons. Let me know if any of you crazy kids are interested in my BoB heavy-feels writing playlist bc ya know i’ve got one.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The grey smoke from the burning church stung your eyes, and as you feel your tears trickle down your cheeks you wonder if they are soot-stained as well. 

 Around you, you can hear the screams of bombs whistling through the air- the harmonizing shrieks of the wounded and dying ringing in your ears as you watch Gene running towards the smoldering building, but you can’t seem to do anything other than watch. You know you need to do something, anything to help the medic save the handful of people bursting through the smoke like ashen fireworks.  

Yet all you seem capable of doing is dumbly stare at the ruins of the makeshift hospital you’d just watched explode. 

 The makeshift hospital you had been tasked to watch over.

For weeks, you’d been monitoring intel reports for any sign that the Luftwaffe had been intending to bomb the town of Bastogne. Weeks of pouring over intercepted and forwarded information and maps and citizen chatter that you’d been so sure indicated that the town was safe from harm, that the air attacks would be solely focused on the woods. 

Yet here you were, standing in the heart of a bomb-pocked town with ice in your veins and a terrible hollow in your heart.

 You’d failed. You couldn’t have been more spectacularly wrong.

 The irony of your mistake ending in fire was not lost on you, and as your eyes danced up with the flames and plumes of smoke you were filled with the same helpless feeling that had found you after learning of the fate of your mother, sister, and brother-in-law all those months ago. Only this time, you had no one to blame but yourself.

 You had done this. You’d missed something and now all of those wounded soldiers and brave nurses and innocent people were dead and trapped.

 When Gene grabs your shoulders you nearly jump out of your skin, blinking for the first time in what felt like hours and forcing yourself to focus on the drawn face of your friend. Something in his eyes gives you the impression that he’s been trying to get your attention for a long time.

 “Y/N!” he shouts, using his grip on you to pull you back towards the jeep. “We have to go, we’ve gotta go back—”

 “I-I should stay,” you stammer, limbs feeling like lead as you stumble along stiffly. “I don’t think…”

 Gene, ignoring your quiet mumbling, all but shoves you into the car and takes your previous seat as driver.

 Eyes having drifted back to the smoldering church, you try again to get your fumbling mouth to work enough to speak.

 “Gene, I think—”

 “You’re not staying here, Y/N.”

The way he says it leaves no room for argument.

“Bet you don’t even realize that your face is bleeding like a stuck pig….”

 When you raise your hand to touch your cheek you feel that he’s right, you are bleeding- most likely from the initial blast of debris that had hit you when the bomb hit.

As Gene whips the jeep around to take off down the road, you feel the cool wind sting at your eyes, the air so drastically different from the smoke you’d just been breathing that it makes you lightheaded.

 “I killed them,” you murmur, despite the fact that you know Gene can’t hear you. “I killed them.”

 Gene is crying when you look over at him but you can’t find it in you to offer him any comfort. What would the point be? What could you possibly say when everything you’d just witnessed was a direct consequence of something you’d missed?

 Ron was wrong, you think to yourself as you look back to the rapidly approaching forest. It is better to feel nothing. I want to feel nothing.

 Almost as if all you had to do was think about it- a strange calm settles bitterly in your chest, joining the hollow that had been deepening each day since you’d seen Blithe get shot through the throat.

 Just as you’d wished, you slipped into the numbness of nothing.

 ~

 Ron was worried about you.

 No, he was more than worried. He was concerned...deeply concerned.

He had been for a while now- ever since you’d come back from a scouting mission with Blithe’s blood on your hands and a grim look of defeat marring your pretty face. He’d tried to talk to you about it, going as far as to pull you aside and wash the blood from your hands in hopes of getting you to open up privately- ignoring the confused looks of your superiors and his colleagues as he did so.

You had been, were worth any rumors that could come from his intentionally infrequent sign of humanity.

 But you’d given him nothing more than a weak smile and whisper of thanks before slipping away to find Nixon. It was like that moment in the attic had never happened.

 Seeing you come back from the town of Bastogne had shocked him, too. Not as much in terms of the blood pouring from the cut on your cheek, but in the absolutely dead look in your eyes he’d found when he had begun questioning you as to what had happened.

 “I was wrong,” you’d said emotionlessly, barely flinching when Spina had brought an alcohol-drenched rag to your wound. “I missed something, and now the town is gone.”

 Before he could even begin to think of a reply, Spina had asked him to help get you to CP so the other officers could figure out the next course of action. And once he had, you’d had no more to say.

 That night, Ron had poured over the information you’d been given concerning Bastogne, glaring at Nixon until the other man had relented and reluctantly given him the small wooden box you kept your reports in. You hadn’t ‘missed’ anything- there had been nothing to indicate any sort of attack to the town for you to miss. You had done nothing wrong.

 Not that he’d be able to convince you of that. Ron knew you well enough by now to know that your stubbornness could rival his own if you indulge yourself in it enough. He’d learned that long ago in Georgia upon meeting you, that you had not gotten here by accident or through any sort of familial connection- but rather by sheer determination and steadfastness and unapologetic bullheadedness, not to mention a natural gift for finding patterns in behaviors and translating them into strategy.

Watching you work, then and now, had been nothing short of marvelous. 

 But this wasn’t you. This heartbroken husk of you that he had been seeing now made his already frozen body feel even colder.

 Ron needed you back.

 Unbeknownst to you (and initially to him as well), you’d become the reason he fought. At first, it had been a more practical explanation: you worked tirelessly to secure the information needed to build strategies and he felt the need to reward that hard work with his own successful execution of the plans you’d made. Then, upon completing the task, you would come in and use any of the information you found to build the next strategy. It had been transactional, an exchange of services that helped the both of you work towards the mutual goal of winning the war.

It was simple.

 There was no real event to precede his shift in perspective. One day you’d been Y/N and the next you were Y/N. He’d nearly said as much in the attic, when your eyes had burned him alive with their curious sincerity and your heart had called to him so sweetly he’d nearly kissed you. 

 Seeing you now, blinking slowly in the warm candlelight while the voices of the choir wrapped around everyone like a thick blanket, Ron wondered if he should’ve kissed you.

He wonders if, by doing so, he could’ve somehow stopped you from getting to this point.

 You hadn’t been at the frontlines earlier that day for the siege of Foy, yet you looked just as drained as every other man in the company who had. Even with his heavy jacket wrapped around your shoulders, your fingers still trembled as you picked at the dirt beneath your nails, making him wonder if you were shaking from something else other than the cold.

 You startle slightly as he reaches over and places his hand over yours, head quickly turning to look at him and the tiniest dust of pink coloring your cheeks when you realized how close your face was to his. Almost as if you’d forgotten that he was sitting beside you in the pew, that only an hour ago he’d forced you to accept his coat while he scribbled out the names of the men now under his command onto some paper he’d asked one of the sisters for earlier. He hadn’t bothered writing your name- you were not like all of the others, you weren’t something to oversee and keep in order.

And as far as Ron was concerned, you’d been connected to him since D-Day. 

 He didn’t need a note to remember that.

 A shy, small smile turns your lips up at the corners- the action not seeming to quite reach your eyes but Ron felt the sincerity in it all the same. Flickering your gaze back down to his hand resting over yours, he watches as you hook your thumb over his small finger, pleased at the warmth he feels as you momentarily play with the silver ring he always wore there.  Watching your profile, he only takes his hand away when you return your attention to the young girls in front of the altar, allowing his gaze to linger on you for a few moments before turning back to his list.

 Feeling another set of eyes on him, he looks up and catches Lipton looking over his shoulder at the exchange. The other man quickly turns back upon being caught, and Ron studies the back of the other man’s head for a few moments before making up his mind.

 “Y/N,” Ron says quietly, tilting his head towards the door of the church once your eyes find his again, standing and rolling his sore shoulder. “C’mon, I’ll drop you off at your billet on my way to Battalion.”

 The offer seemed to surprise Lipton, but you take a deep breath and nod shortly.

 “Alright,” you say softly, “let me go return Luz’s lighter and I’ll meet you at the door?”

As he nods, you stand up carefully and side-step in front of Ron out of the pew, meeting Lipton’s smile with a weak one of your own as you give the man’s shoulder a quick squeeze.

 “Night, Car.”

 Lipton pats her hand affectionately and then you’re striding over to the pews where Luz, Liebgott, Randleman, and Heffron have set up camp.

Ron watches you go as he loads his gear back on, once again feeling Lipton staring at him. There’s a familiarity in the way Lipton is looking at him- it’s a look everyone seems to send his way, ever since Donald Malarkey started the rumor on D-Day.

 “You wanna ask me, don’t you?” Ron asks, watching the other man fidget.

 “Ask you what, sir?”

 “You wanna know if they’re true or not,” he clarifies, sizing the other man up. “The stories about me?”

 Lip said nothing, and when Ron looked over his shoulder at the man he saw that Lip was looking away. The man amused him, to say the least. The man’s bravery was starting to show in ways that filled Ron with every confidence in him- glad to have a Lieutenant with a backbone in his newly appointed Company.

 “Ever notice with stories like that, everyone says they hear it from someone who was there, and then when you ask that person they say they heard it from someone who was there?” Ron steps from the pew to stand before Lipton. 

“There’s nothing to ‘em, really. I bet if you went back 2000 years you’d hear a couple Centurions standing around yacking about how Tertius lopped off the heads of some Carthaginian prisoners.”

 Lipton seemed to consider that for a moment before replying. 

“Well, maybe they kept talking about it because they never heard Tertius deny it.”

 Slinging his gun over his shoulder, Ron lets a smirk show on his face and squares his shoulders. “Well, maybe that’s because Tertius knew there was some value in the men thinking he was the meanest, toughest son of a bitch in the whole Roman Legion.” 

 When Ron looks over to where you are, he is glad to see that some of the tension in your posture has lessened. He can hear you mumble something that amuses Luz and Bull to no end, unable to help but feel a tinge of sadness at the fact that you’ve still got that hollow look in your eyes.

 “If I may speak freely, Sir?” Lipton says, breaking Ron from his trance and allowing him to look back to the other man. When he nods, the new Lieutenant dips his head indicatively in your direction.

“I’m worried about her….a lot of us are, Sir.”

 Ron keeps his expression neutral, nodding at the comment.

“Is there a question in there, Lipton?”

 A grimace crosses Lip’s face as he seems to ponder his words carefully. 

“No, Sir. It’s more of an observation, if anything.”

 “Go ahead.”

 “I know that, technically, Captain Nixon is meant to be her immediate supervisor,” Lipton says with a bit more confidence. “But I worry that he’s been, er….neglecting some of his responsibilities in favor of more cathartic activities….”

He cuts himself off, looking from side to side quickly before lowering his voice.

“Captain Nixon has been passing the brunt of the analysis work to Captain Y/L/N, if not ignoring it entirely. And, as great an officer as Y/N is, Sir—”

 “I understand, Lieutenant,” Ron interrupts Lipton just shy of insubordination, giving the confused man a nod before realizing that he’s unintentionally called the other man by his new title. “Thank you for bringing it to my attention. You were right to do so.”

 After informing Lipton of his promotion, Ron quickly turns on his heel and makes eye contact with you once more. As you fall in to step with him through the doorway of the church, Ron processes the new information he’s been given.

 While he’d never really liked Lewis Nixon, this revelation has only solidified his stance on the man. It was one thing to drink on the job and still be productive- whatever arrangement this was was unacceptable. 

 Your hand is soft in his as he takes it, the fumble in your stride telling him that you hadn’t been expecting him to do so. But you still don’t let go, you still follow him past Battalion and you offer no resistance when he guides you inside of the small cottage you’d been assigned to.

 When Ron gently takes your face in his hands, your eyes flicker down to his mouth before he even begins to speak.

 “Do you remember what you asked me in the attic, a few months ago? About what I cared about?”

 You nod slowly, and as your gaze meets his he could swear that you’re about to burn him to ask once more. You seem to lean into his touch, and while there is still caution in your eyes he thinks he may also see a flicker of intrigue in your irises as well.

 “Things you can’t have. Things you shouldn’t care about.”

 You say it as if you didn’t need to think about it very hard to remember- something that makes his heart stutter in his chest.

 “You, you know that I was talking about you.”

 Then, you do something that Ron will never forget.

 You smile.

And this time, it reaches your eyes.

~ ~ ~ (*looks over at all the homework/chores I’ve neglected in favor of writing this* WHOOPS

BUT FOR REAL HERE WE BE AGAIN. HOPE I DIDN’T DEPRESS Y’ALL TOO MUCH BC I KEEP DOING THAT WITHOUT INTENDING TO OK LOVE YOU BYE )

taglist: @mrseasycompany​ @itswormtrain @mrsalwayswrite​ @happyveday​ @sunsetmando​ @ricksmorty​ @liebgotttme​

[cygnetofthesea]

WA AU: Finding Home

Boxing AU: In search of her father, Iris comes across Barry, the famed boxer of Central City. What started off as a quest to find a home, Iris finds love and a partner in her journey.

Iris watched his movements through the cage, focusing on his hands as a means to distract herself from what was actually happening.

She didn't know if she much succeeded if her thrumming heart was any indication. Or the hitch in her breath as she watched Barry's head snap back with the blow from his opponent. She wanted to call out to him. She didn't know what she'd say, implore him to just tap out or to throw an uppercut before going for the solar plexus?

But she remained silent. She knew if said a word or made the slightest noise, he would hear it. He always did and she knew he'd get distracted, worrying more about her being in distress than the fact he was meant to focus on winning the match.

They both hated that she had to watch him fight but both felt a sense of comfort with her being there. At least they were within reach of one another.

Iris tracked his movements, the sweat making his body shine under the floodlight over the ring, his feet moving swiftly as he dodged a blow. Barry was a slim man, tall and lanky, that when she had first met him she couldn't believe this was the intimidating champion fighter of Central City.

She had let out a startled laugh when he introduced himself, shaking her head as she glanced at him, head to toe.

"You're just a slip of a person," she blurted out before she could stop herself.

He stared at her in response, taking in her slight figure and she blushed. Iris supposed she was one to talk.

"Can I help you with something?" he asked when she struggled to rectify the situation.

"Um yeah actually, I was wondering who I'd see to train."

His stoic expression faltered then. Once again, those green eyes roved over her and she couldn't help but become entranced by that particular shade. It wasn't deep green, but it wasn't seafoam green either. It was somewhere in the middle….like a pond green. Pond green eyes framed by thick lashes.

He did not have the makings of someone who was supposed to look intimidating and yet, he stood with an air of someone who could quite possibly incapacitate someone in a minute flat. His arms were wiry but with thick bands of defined muscles. They made themselves known as he crossed his arms across his chest.

He was examining her, she could tell, his head cocked to the side. She felt heat creep up her body, but she wasn't going to be swayed. She may be small but she was big. She had always been scrappy but bouncing around from foster home to foster home had taught her to fend for herself just enough to get to safety.

People always underestimated her small frame but Iris had learned to use it to her advantage. She wasn't going to let anyone dismiss her. It was with that thought, Iris straightened, leveling him with a stern look.

"Anyone ever tell you it's not polite to stare?"

Those eyes flickered up to look at her, a hint of amusement, as he slowly straightened his head.

He shrugged, "Never had a mother to teach me manners. Besides, if you're here to fight, I'm going to have to size you up."

Iris filed away that information. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "Neither did I, but at least I didn’t rudely stare at you."

He quirked an eyebrow. "Oh didn't you? And what about that 'just a slip of a thing' comment? Pretty rude, if you ask me."

Iris bristled, heat traveling up her neck. "Well, I'm not asking you. I was, however, asking about a trainer."

"Right, I don't train. I'm a fighter—"

"I know that," Iris cut him off, trying to keep the impatience at bay. She needed to move things along and this handsome jerk wasn't making it any easier. "You're a world champ and all," she continued blithely. "That's why I need your trainer. Harrison Wells."

Barry Allen narrowed his eyes, looking at her carefully. He stepped closer to her until he towered over her. Damn, he's tall she thought, craning her neck up to look at him.

They were so close now, Iris could feel the heat emanating from his body. She swallowed thickly as he once again let his eyes flicker over her, pausing at her lips. Instinctively, she curled her bottom lip and bit down as though retreating from his heavy gaze in fright. But the way her blood hummed in her body was anything but fearful. His eyes darkened before looking at her eyes again.

"Harrison Wells doesn't just train anyone. If you know anything about him, you ought to have known that."

His voice was slightly hoarse but she ignored it, looking at him defiantly. "I'm not just anyone."

"Who are you?" The question was weighted as though asking a million other questions simultaneously.

"Iris. Iris W—" Iris hesitated, belatedly realizing it was safer to go with an alias. Especially considering the dangerous nature of her investigation. "Williams. Iris Williams."

"Iris," he repeated softly, causing her heart to jerk in her chest. He hummed thoughtfully, his gaze never wavering. "I don’t know an Iris Williams. Especially one that might need to see Harrison Wells."

"Well, why would you? Look, I'm not here to see you, so just point me in the direction of Harrison Wells and I'll be out of your hair."

"No can do. I wasn't kidding when I said Wells doesn't train just anyone."

"Ok, fine, can I at least talk to him? Make my case or…" she trailed off. She had wanted to say or just ask some questions but she knew that would arouse suspicion. Iris was in fact there to get answers, not train. Harrison Wells was connected to her father and she needed to know how.

"Or what? What is it that you need?" His gaze was penetrating but there was something in them that made Iris feel warm, like he was really just trying to understand her. "What are you running from?"

She hadn't expected that. She had been running her whole life, chasing peace and stability, but this time it felt like she was finally running toward something. He didn't give her time to answer before he spoke again.  

"Tell you what, I'll train you."

Iris balked at him. "What? What are you talking about? You just said it yourself, you don't train."

He nodded in agreement. "That's true but I'm willing to make an exception."

Iris scoffed, still trying to make sense of the abrupt turn of events. "Well, that's all nice and everything, but I wasn't looking to be trained by you. There's a reason why I wanted Harrison Wells."

"Oh yeah? And what would that reason be exactly?"

He looked over her again, taking in her thin summer dress, her neck, before dipping down her sternum to where her dress lay low on her chest.

Suddenly he grabbed her by the waist, his large hands spreading to grip as much of her as possible. The sudden touch caused her to jerk, her hands falling against his hard shoulders. She gasped as the feeling, looking over to the men and women still training on the other side of the gym. No one seemed to pay them any attention.

"W-what are you doing?" she breathed, turning back to look at him. If she needed to, she knew she could always knee him where it'd hurt most, but she was transfixed by the look in his eyes and the feel of his hot palms bleeding through her dress. Her survival instincts should have kicked in by now—      would have—but as she looked into his eyes, there was no sign of malice, just caution and question.

His hands gave her a light squeeze before sliding up her slide until his thumbs reached the top of her ribs. "You're not wearing a wire are you?"

The questions brought her back to the present. "What? Why would I be wearing a wire?"

He didn't say a word, holding her gaze, and carefully, just barely brushed the underwire of her bra, her raised arms on his shoulders making it easier for him to access.  

Her breath hitched and she gripped his shoulders tighter. She wasn't sure what she was trying to do, pull him closer or push him away. His lips parted and it brought her back to the present.

She shoved against his shoulder, but he pulled her back, letting his hand slide down to her waist where it was still very much tantalizing but definitely safer.

He searched her eyes. "What are you running from?" he asked again, softly.

She felt so exposed in that moment, more exposed than her sunny dress could make her. Her hands dropped down to his biceps, distracting him and she took that moment to push against him once more.

He released her, studying her. She felt breathless from his stare. No one had ever looked at her like that, at least not while she was looking back.

She gathered herself, exhaling. "How do you know I'm not running toward something? If you can't help me, then there's nothing for me here."

She pivoted before he could say anything else, letting out a shaky breath as she headed toward the exit.

"Let me train you," he called out.

Iris's steps faltered. She looked over her shoulder, confusion clear on her face. "Why would you do that? More importantly, why would I want to do that?"

"You want Wells and he trusts me. If I can trust you then I'll lead you to him. Until then, I train you."

"I don't have time to waste," she said with a shake of her head. She turned away, resuming her trek toward the exit.

"This thing you're running toward. Is it not worth it?"

Iris stopped once again, her eyes falling shut. Of course it was. She didn't know what she wanted with Joe West, if it was just answers or an actual relationship with him, but she at least had to give herself a chance.

She swung around, her expression neutral as she assessed him. "You sure like to take liberties touching me." She didn't know why she said it but immediately felt the heat rush up her neck.

"I apologize, it won't happen again. I guess I don't trust very easily," he said. He looked sincere at least. "It's common in the boxing world, especially between trainers and their boxers though. We help position them and feel the movements. You'll have to get used to it if you want to do this."

She considered this for a moment. "Ok," she finally said with a nod. "When can we start?"

She had spent the next few weeks training with him and it was, in a word,     grueling. Beyond running, Iris never much worked out. She's had to knee or elbow some people growing up but most of her conflict involved running. Certainly not what she was doing with Barry at the gym.

On her first day of training, he eyed her appearance as he did when they first met. He walked slowly over to her when she had entered the ring.

She had worn a baggy sweater over her sports bra and leggings. "You won't want to wear anything heavy or loose," he said. "It'll slow down your movements, add unnecessary resistance."

"Oh! I was just cold on my way over," she explained, quickly shedding her sweater, looking around for somewhere to put it. He held out his hand for it and placed it on a chair at the corner of the ring.

He turned back to look at her again, taking in the new stretch of skin over her abs. Her sports bra was designed like a crop top, covering her chest but leaving her arms and torso bare. Iris felt her breath grow heavier under his gaze and fought to fidget in place. She didn't want him knowing how she made him feel. Partially because she wasn't entirely sure herself.

There was something intriguing about Barry Allen. When she had read about him, he was described in such a brutish way, she had almost hesitated in reaching out to him. Every single piece about him had been written with an awestruck tone even when some had disparaged him.

There were very few pictures she had seen—apparently he didn't like having his photo taken or talk to journalists—but the angles didn't quite show off his full figure. All that she could tell was that he had muscles and that he was tall. Extremely tall. Perhaps not so much by most standards, but to Iris and her five feet, two inches, he was a giant.

And that was exactly what she had seen when she first met him. Except he didn't look as menacing as the pictures made him out to be or as rough as the articles implied. Sure, he had been stoic, but not the ruthless man she had been amping up to approach.

But maybe this was worse. The quiet way he would look at her as though he was taking in every single movement, every single part of her didn't seem to escape his notice. And those eyes. Generally, it took Iris some time to be drawn to a person, but his eyes had immediately captivated her and she couldn't seem to look away.

He slanted his head, looking at the base of her throat. "That doesn't bother you?"

Iris's hand flew up to her throat, where the crop top had almost a turtle neck. She shrugged. "It's ok. It's keeping me warm."

He nodded in understanding. "You're going to be plenty warm in the ring. Especially with bodies all around you. It gets hot here very quickly. Maybe wear something that comes up to your collarbone."

She nodded, a stray lock of hair falling across her face. He reached up, hesitating before brushing it away. He tucked it behind her ear and let his finger lightly travel to her long, wavy ponytail.

"And you're going to want to put this in a braid. One of those crown things might be good since you're hair is long. Fighters with long hair tend to braid them or keep it short. Less of a distraction and less potential of your opponent playing dirty and grabbing it."

"Oh," Iris grimaced at the thought of her hair being pulled. She had been on the receiving end of those and not only was it painful, but it was terrifying too. The sudden yanking into some greater pain. "Right, of course. I can do that now."

She reached up to her hair but he stopped her hand from approaching. "It's fine for today. Just future reference."

He gave her another once-over before nodding. "Ok. Ready to get started?"

What a loaded question. Was she ready? Probably not, but if she waited until she was ready she may be waiting for the rest of her life. It was now or never.

She squared her shoulders and forced confidence as she looked at him. "Ready."

And that was how she found herself here, months later, her body a lot more firm and defined than they had ever been. Except she wasn't the one fighting in the ring.

Once Barry had learned of her motives, he stopped her training.

They had been dating, so to speak, for two months at that point. The pull between them was undeniable and both had resisted for their own reasons. Iris wasn’t looking to get close to anyone only to lose them and Barry didn’t want to pull her further into his world full of matches where sleazy characters gambled on him. But after they found themselves going for a walk one night in a bout of insomnia, it was hard to deny themselves something good in this world for once. They were exactly what the other needed.

But even then, Iris had done a good job of keeping things mum about her intentions. She was worried about pulling him further into her complicated mission and Iris always believed she was meant to go on this road on her own. But after signing up for a fight behind his back, she had finally shared the last piece of herself.

She had been preparing dinner for the two of them when he stormed into her apartment. He had an intense look on his face that she hadn't registered right away, smiling brightly instead.

His face softened at her smile and she remembered how he had once muttered her smile couldn't be explained by science.

"Hey honey," she said, letting her palm slide against his cheek. His day's worth of stubble rubbed against her palm pleasantly.

"Hey," he murmured, leaning into her touch before kissing her. She thought it was going to be a brief peck in greeting, but he lingered, breathing her in and deepening the kiss.

She certainly wasn't complaining as she sighed, melting into his warm and tight embrace. His fingers dipped underneath her top, tracing the skin softly.

She pulled away softly before she lost her breath and turned off the stove.

"Good day?"  

His mouth twisted, blinking a few times as if to wake himself up. He pulled away from her. It was only then she noticed the stress on his face.

"Hey, what's going on?" she asked while he pulled a rough hand through his hair.

He didn't look at her for a moment, as though contemplating how to start before he met her eyes, searching. "What's the endgame here, Iris?"

The question threw her. They hadn't officially used the boyfriend-girlfriend label yet, but they had talked about being exclusive and wanting to explore the undeniable connection between them. She thought they were on the same page but she felt dread dip into the pit of her stomach.

"What do you mean?"

"With your training, Iris. What is this all leading to?"

She let the relief fill her before she considered his words with a  frown. "I told you," she said. "I wanted to be trained by Harrison Wells."

He barely let her finish before he nodded, leaning against the counter. "Right, right, you said that. You're running toward something and training with Harrison Wells is going to get you there. But what are you running toward and why is Wells your answer? How is he the ticket toward this life you're trying to achieve?"

She felt her heart thud uncomfortably in her chest, her stomach in knots. But instead of acknowledging her building anxiety, she narrowed her eyes. "Where is this all coming from?"

"Did I or did I not tell you that you weren't ready for the first round of fights? That you weren't ready for the ring yet?"

"Y-yes, I heard you!" she said indignantly. "I didn't sign up for them like you asked."

"No, that's true," he said, pulling out a sheet and unfolding it. "But you signed up for something much worse: The League Battles."

He held up a copy of the sign-up sheet but Iris didn't have to look at it to see her name scrawled in her handwriting. She swallowed thickly.

"So I'm going to ask you again, Iris. What is your endgame?" He enunciated each word firmly, his eyes intent and his mouth set. She hadn't seen him look so grim since the first day she met him.

She sighed, looking away as she fumbled to pivot.

"I just wanted to give it a shot. Look, I know I'm nowhere near a pro at this point, but I have to experience a fight at some point, don't I?"

But even as she spoke, Iris could feel her excuse was feeble. She was in over her head when it came to these fights, but she didn't know what else to do. She had signed up for the League Battles out of desperation and hadn't thought about the consequences.

Her father had attended the League Battles at one point years ago. She didn't know why, but maybe the mysterious man that ran the show could lead her there and rumor had it, the winner of the League Battles not only won the prize money but a chance to meet the elusive Eobard Thawne.

If she couldn’t get answers through Harrison Wells, then maybe this Eobard Thawne would be her chance.

"'Just wanted to give it a shot?'" he repeated incredulously. "Do you even know what the hell the League Battles are? Even I've never entered it."

"Yeah because the fight only ever happens every ten years, you'd have been only eighteen when the last fight took place."  

Barry let out a sharp exhale, pushing off the kitchen counter and walking toward her. "That's not the point. The point is, I've been training to fight for nearly two decades whereas you've only been properly training for a couple of months. That does not make you prepared in any way."

"Well, I've got to try at some point don't, I? Why are you stopping me? I've worked hard for this, I earned this."

She felt the irritation prickle and take over any trepidation she felt. She's had enough of people telling her what she could or couldn't do. It was starting to get very old.

"Hey, look I'm not messing around here, Iris. I'm not telling you haven't worked your ass off these last  months, I'm telling you that you're not ready for this fight. You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into."

The intensity of his eyes shook her but she decided to switch gears. "When are you going to lead me to Harrison Wells?"

"Iris, you need to finally tell me why you're looking for Wells. Anyone looking for him, that needs to find him, knows exactly how. The fact that you didn't tells me you don't know what you're getting yourself into."

Her eyes flashed at that. " Don’t do that. Don't condescend me. How are you the authority on what I do or don't know? You're the one that has no idea."

He stepped closer, his eyes pleading. "Ok then tell me. Please, Iris just tell me. I'm here for you and I'm trying. I've told you things about the operations here that I shouldn't have, but I did. I trust you but I feel like there's this whole part of you that I don't know about." He hesitated, looking vulnerable. "Don't you trust me, Iris?"

He said it so softly, rushing out with his breath. She felt a clench in her chest and a prickle in her skin at the hurt in his eyes. She couldn't bare that look, least of all because she was the cause of it.

She looked away. "It's…it's complicated."

He made a sound of disbelief. "Complicated? You don't think I understand complicated?"

Iris felt remorseful. Of course he understood complicated, he wasn't any more or less different than the orphans she met in foster care. Perhaps the thing that caused him to stand out more was the fact that he had been recruited by a boxing trainer at a young age and barely experienced the world after that.

"I know you do, it's just you're going to think I'm a fool."

His hands came up to her arms, caressing her skin in a way that eased the tension from her shoulders. "Hey," he said softly, waiting for her to look at him again. "I could never think you're a fool. Never."

And with his soft, beautiful pond green eyes looking into her, Iris could almost fool herself that there was love in his gaze. So the words came tumbling out, the story of her father, learning that he could be out there, needing to feel closure and not like she's just made up of fractured pieces.

A tear slipped down her eye, caught by his thumb. He wiped it away, sliding it down her cheekbone, across her jaw with the softest and warmest look Iris thought she'd could crumble in his arms and he would catch her.

He did. He pulled her into his arms and softly kissed her face: her eyes, her forehead, her temples, her cheeks, the corner of her lips. All the while, he mouthed words of love and reassurance against her skin.

He pressed his forehead against hers, pulling her into his safety. "You're not a fool." His lips brushed against hers as she spoke. "I've got you. We're going to find him."

She looked up at him with grief and despair in her eyes. She had carried this heavy weight her whole life and even though she was able to see the good in things, there was the ever-present dark cloud just underneath the surface that came out in times like these.

He held her securely in her arms and she basked in it. For the first time in her life, someone saw all the horror and unpleasant parts of her and still      chose     her. She felt like he was keeping those pieces together, his grip strong and sure around her.

She wanted to drown in the sensation.

She pulled back just enough to press her lips firmly to his, sliding them against his giving mouth. She felt his exhale, hot against her as he lunged for her. It was the way he kissed her, the way he held her that made her finally realize how afraid he was for her. Her own anger and frustrated had clouded her ability to see his fear when he brandished the sign-up sheet, but she felt it now in his kiss. The urgency, the firm grip as his fingers raked through her hair and pressed her to him. She could scarcely breath.

One of his hands pressed flat against her chest, shifting the neckline of her blouse enough to feel her heartbeat against her skin.

"Iris," he rasped, letting his lips slide over her jaw, leaving open mouthed kisses on her neck. "Let me do this for you. Please."

She gasped, her head tilting back from the pressure of his ardent kisses, his shirt bunching under her desperate grip on his shoulder.

She could barely process his words, her body burning under her touch, but she would later come to understand the implications of them.

"I'm standing in as your proxy," Barry later told her.

She stopped wrapping her hand abruptly, looking up at him. "What are you talking about?"

He bent down, sliding in between the ropes of the ring. His eyes were cautious but his steps were sure as he approached her. He took her hands in his, his fingers taking in the tape and cutting it.

"Wait, I wasn't done," she protested.

He ignored her and only pulled her closer, looking into her eyes. "I'm standing in your place for the League Battles. It's been done."

She felt her blood run cold. "Wh-what do you mean? I signed up. How are you—?"

Barry's hands trailed up her bare arms softly. "I'm not letting you get into this fight. You're not anywhere near prepared, you don't have a fighting chance of making it through this."

"Ok but why not just take my name off entirely? Why did you have to take my place at all?"

He shrugged casually. "You need answers and I'm going to get them for you."

"No!" She gripped his waist. "Don't do this. If it really is as dangerous as you say, it's not worth it. There could be other ways."

"Iris, you may have been wrong to sign yourself up without a thought, but you weren't wrong in your instincts. I've never thought to fight in the League because I never needed anything from Thawne, but I've heard the whispers. He's the Wizard of Oz and the League Battles are the yellow brick road. This'll get us closer to finding your dad."

She shook her head, fear mounting. "Don't do this for me, Barry. Please, you don't have to."

His brows furrowed. "Iris, you were willing to risk yourself, an untrained fighter. Why are you so afraid of me doing this?"

"Because I can't lose you too."

The words escaped her before she could stop them but the moment they were out, she realized she was tired of hiding anything else from him. She was tired of keeping him in the dark and she didn't want there to be any more secrets between them.

A small, sweet smile spread across his lips and Iris felt her heart clench in response. It amazed her that his face could get so soft and boyish especially when she saw him turn on the stoicism whenever they were out in public. But alone, when it was just the two of them, she was given the rare treat of his warmth.

He leaned into her, his large hands taking her face and pressing it against his own. "Why do you think I'm doing this? I'm not losing you and I refuse to let anything happen to you."

Iris's heart swelled and looked up at him. "First sign of trouble and you get out, ok?"

The corner of his lips curled into a slight smile and Iris already recognized the look on his face: he was humoring her. "Sure thing, babe."

"Just…just don't let anything happen to you ok? Or else, I'm stepping in, fists flailing. I'm not joking," she added when he laughed.

He nodded, pressing a smiling kiss against her lips. "Ok, mo chuisle."

It wasn't the first time he's said that to her in his perfect Gaelic, but it was the first time she heard the deeper meaning behind the words, what she meant to him.

And it was because of those words, mo chuisle, she was on the other side of the fence watching Barry fight against the brutish man, twice his size.

Mo chuisle, my darling, a chuisle mo chroí, pulse of my heart…    she was the pulse that kept his heart beating and so he would fight for her. But he was hers too and she couldn't stand to see anything happen to him.

The moment she stepped foot into the arena, she could already feel the difference between the regular matches she watched Barry fight and the League match. The air was grimy even as she spotted some well-dressed people. A stark contrast from the regular matches, the League Battles attracted the richest and the finest within a fifty mile radius, betting on prime fighters. And right now, there were people betting for and against Barry.

She clutched the necklace around her neck, her knuckles white with the force as she watched Barry throw several jabs in quick succession until his opponent finally dropped to the ground. Barry didn't waste any time as he drove an elbow into the man's solar plexus before grabbing him in a hold.

The referee slammed a palm against the ground once, twice…thrice and the bell rang, signaling the end of the match.

The crowd roared as the referee grabbed Barry's hand and raised it in the air, announcing him as the winner but Iris couldn't hear any of it. The crowd sounded muffled to her ears, her eyes trained on Barry, the adrenaline pumping through her body.

As though on autopilot, Iris moved past the crowd as Barry's pond green eyes met her. Like magnets drawn to one another, he released the referee's hold on his wrist and made his way to her, his lip split, body soaked in sweat.

They collided against one another, his slick body seeping through the thin fabric of her clothes but she didn't mind. She wrapped her arms around him, kissing his face as her heart thumped painfully against her chest, feeling his own on her body.

"You did it," she breathed through the salt of his sweat. "You did it, you won."

Despite his split lip, he pressed a hard kiss to hers as she let her fingers bury in his wet hair. "Of course I did," he breathed. "I'll always come running home to you."

The impending fights that were only going to get more grueling loomed over them, but in that moment, Barry and Iris held each other in their arms and savored the moment. They were in this together and she would make sure that he always came running home to her.

[prurientpuddlejumper]

Parental Advisory [18+]

K!nktober 2020 Kink Bingo!: Ass Worship

Summary: You bring Frederick Chilton to meet your parents over a weekend. Chilton is rude them. You do him in the ass at your parents’ house. 

This oneshot stands on its own, but it’s also a side-story from the A Punchable Face That I Want to Kiss universe, which has a gender-neutral reader. So this is either pegging or penis depending on how you’re interpreting the reader! (And since even I am not sure, it’s going for the Ass Worship square in @thatesqcrush​’s Kink Bingo instead of pegging or anal)

*There is no weird parent voyeurism or whatever, the walls are thick in this house OK? They’re just there for the awkward social interaction of bringing home a pompous douchebag XD 

5,059 words

“That went quite well,” said Dr. Chilton, voice smooth and velvety with confidence as you settled into the guest bedroom upstairs.

You grimaced, and quietly shut the door behind you. When you didn’t answer, he looked over to see a teeth-gritting expression plastered on your face. He raised an eyebrow. You tried to coax your face into a genuine smile, but only succeeded in stretching the corners of your mouth more tightly until you looked like some kind of face-eating killer-clown monster.

“Did it not go well?”

“Ummmm...” you stretched a long vowel and scratched the side of your neck to fill the pause as you made up your mind on exactly how to explain this to him.

His velvety confidence broke and he closed the distance between you in a quick stride, taking your shoulders and searching your eyes with worry etched into his brow.

“Tell me.”

“Frederick, you can’t just tell people it’s obvious they come from dirt because of the length of stitches in their hem!”

“That is not what I said—I observed the indications of working-class design popularized by the—”

“Frederick!”

“I was showing interest in their cultural heritage.”

“And you thought that was the way to do it?!”

He quieted. “They were not fond of me, then?”

“As first impressions go, it was pretty bad.”

“Shit.” He sank down onto the edge of the bed—a floral lavender comforter matching the rest of the room, tucked crisply around the sides as if it had never been slept in before, which it hadn’t. Frederick rested his elbows on his knees and let his forehead sink into his hands.

He was worried. He had only been dating you for a year, but you were different than his usual flings. For one thing, you had stayed with him for an entire year. You were affectionate and honest. You didn’t care about money. If he made a snipe about you being a hot mess, you would mock him right back for caring too much about appearances. It was, he eventually discerned, because you hadn’t come from a wealthy family, and never envied those who did. You were actually happy with who you were and scorned the idea of status symbols—like his car, his watches, his house, his Montblanc pens—whose only purpose was to display wealth. It annoyed him at first, but then he wondered, if you were not after him because he was a wealthy doctor, what did you see in him?

He was still figuring that out. If possible, he would like to spend a lifetime figuring it out—he even planned to ask you to move in with him—but he may have just ruined that.

***

Dr. Chilton’s poor impression began hours before he even met your parents. Since you were just going home to family, you wore a plain t-shirt and jeans. Despite your specific instruction to dress casually, he wore a suit. And so, the first thing your parents saw when they opened the front door was a pair so mismatched, it looked like an illicit student-professor affair.

He then handed them a very expensive bottle of wine as a gift—but, as was Frederick’s habit, it was too opulently out of your parents’ price range to be interpreted as anything other than boasting. Your father grumbled, “Thanks,” in a way that Frederick seemed blithely unaware meant “fuck you.”

After that, Chilton began observing things like bargain-bin Sherlock Holmes, and generally being Chilton. He mentioned that their entire house could fit inside his garage. After a few minutes of stilted conversation he said, in not a flattering way, that he could “see where you got it from now.”

You hadn’t expected the first meeting between your elitist doctor boyfriend and your down-home parents to go well, but you had hoped he might lean more toward the charming side of his charming asshole spectrum, just for today. He had a way of getting under everyone’s skin at first, including yours. But he was sweet, underneath his WASPy upbringing, and you were sure they would see that.

When Frederick excused himself to the bathroom, your father immediately let out the complaints he had been barely containing for the last hour. “So that’s not going to last much longer, is it?” he snorted, leaning forward in his La-Z-Boy recliner. “How do you stand it? Did you hear him correct me about searing steak? As if that dandy would know the first thing about grilling.”

“He’s right, you know,” you said. “Searing doesn’t lock in juices, it just adds flavor. I Googled it.”

“Now he’s corrupting my own child!” your dad shouted, throwing his hands in the air. “You gonna be a know-it-all now, too?”

“As if I wasn’t already,” you challenged, hand on your hip. Your dad wasn’t wrong, though, so you laughed it off and shook your head. “I know, I know. That’s just how he is. Once we got into a disagreement about how ‘pajamas’ is pronounced, and he wouldn’t let it go until... Well, I just started using the word sleepwear.”

“And he wears double-breasted suits,” your mother chimed in behind her hand.

“Oh? What about it?”

“They’re so sleazy!” she cried.

“They are?” If this was some sort of well-known fashion knowledge, your parents never passed it down to you. You always thought Frederick looked good in whatever he wore.

“I don’t know what you see in that pompous little twerp,” your dad sighed heavily, then grinned. “I bet I could pick him up with one hand and toss him out the window.”

“Dad!”

“Bet he screams like a girl,” your father roared with laughter, slapping his knee.

“Oh, he does,” you said with a cold, tight smile. “And if you lay a hand on him, you’ll be singing like a girl, you get me?”

The laughter stopped, and you found yourself in the most intense familial staredown since Thanksgiving 2008. Your father’s eyes silently growled, “You would threaten your own father?!” and yours narrowed and hissed, “I will if you threaten my boyfriend!”

Your mother broke the silence with a patient, pleading voice. “I get it. He’s rich, and he’s not bad looking. But you know you don’t have to marry for money. Your father and I have enough, and I thought you were doing well for yourself working with the FBI.”

“You really think I’d be with someone for money?” you said, mouth agape with bewilderment. Sometimes you wondered if these people knew you at all. “He’ll grow on you, trust me. Just… try to ignore the condescending shit that comes out of his mouth. It becomes endearing eventually.” Footsteps creaked on the second floor, announcing Frederick’s imminent return. You put on your sternest kindergarten-teacher face and pointed across the living room at your parents. “Both of you, behave!”

***

You stood beside him and tenderly ran your fingers through his thick brown hair—a gesture he adored, reserved for evenings at home and mornings before grooming so as not to ruin his perfect coif. He closed his eyes and leaned into the comforting sensation, grateful that you were, at least for the moment, not upset with him.

“I was trying to be friendly,” Frederick explained, his voice sounding as much like a whining child justifying why he had tracked dirt into the house as it did like a man.

Your gentle fingers clenched tightly in his hair and tugged down on the back of his head with enough force to make him look up at you, eyes opening wide with surprise. You narrowed yours.

“You weren’t trying to get them to like you, you were trying to prove that you were superior to them. It’s what you always do,” you growled.

He stared back at you for a few beats, trying to decide whether to be offended, chastised, or turned on. With your fingers curled roughly in his hair, controlling his head with a firm grip, he knew you were not truly angry. You were slipping into character, playing a game at ‘punishing’ him, which he could stop in a word if he wanted to. But the evening would be more fun if he gave you more to punish him over.

“I did no such thing,” he huffed. “If your parents confuse intelligence and culture with condescension, that is hardly my fault!”

Your lips crashed down on his with a snarl, shutting him up as your tongue invaded his mouth to stop his from wagging. The kiss was bruising at first, an act of dominance, but his loud, muffled moans into your mouth and his soft, yielding lips coaxed you to slow down and enjoy it. Your grip in his hair grew softer again, turned into gentle caresses, and your kiss grew deeper and more passionate. Fuck if you didn’t love it when he was bratty. When you finally broke away, his face was flushed and there were stars in your eyes. You slowly sucked the mingled saliva off your lower lip while you appraised him.

“You are a very rude boy, Frederick,” you said, a long, predatory smile slowly slanting over your lips. “Aren’t you?”

He swallowed, obediently staying seated but leaning forward with anticipation. “Yes.”

You threw a leg across his lap, straddling him, and pushed the center of his chest until he was lying flat on the bed. You followed him halfway down, caging him in with your arms and staring down at him with mock anger. His cock was already twitching under your thigh, and a wave of arousal washed over you, making it hard to keep up your performance. But you wanted to see him squirm.

“Rude boys need to learn their place.” You lowered your mouth to his, but stopped an inch before kissing him. He tried to tip his head to meet your lips, but you sat up, grinning with the feeling of power over him as he whimpered with disappointment. “Nope. You were a bad boy today, Frederick. You haven’t earned another kiss yet.”

“What can I do to make it up to you?” he asked, his voice already heavy with lust.

You thought about it, stroking your chin. “You always act like you’re so much better than everyone,” you observed, reaching between your legs to idly stroke his growing bulge through his pants. His hips jerked, pushing his cock into your palm. “What would your high-society friends think if they saw you with your ass in the air, begging for a lowly commoner to fuck you?”

His adam’s apple bobbed sharply. He liked the idea. He liked it a lot.

“I want you to strip for me,” you ordered in a calm, matter-of-fact tone. “Then I want you on all fours.”

Normally he wouldn’t have hesitated, so when you looked down and saw tension, not arousal, in his eyes, you were concerned.

“Will your parents hear us?” he asked, a blush creeping up the sides of his neck. “I was hoping to walk away with at least a neutral review from your family, and I assume being overheard in the throes of passion will not result in favorable points.”

You smirked devilishly. “Then you’d better be quiet.”

***

After a few minutes for each of you to shower and prepare, you had Frederick just as you’d asked. Naked and on his knees. “That’s my good little slut,” you praised, running your hand over his ass and giving it a light smack—not enough to make much noise, but the light contact was enough to make Frederick whimper softly with need. “Such a beautiful ass.”

“Touch me more,” he breathed.

“Good boy, telling me what you want, but you have to be more specific. Where do you want me to touch you?”

“Anywhere,” he whispered with such honesty it was heartbreaking. He really didn’t care, so long as you were touching him. It made you want to forget everything else, hold him as tight as you could, and never let him go… but this was punishment.

“I see,” you tutted. “First you’re rude and arrogant, and now you can’t make up your mind.” You let your hand trail off, and he whimpered louder the moment you broke contact. You stalked a circle around the bed, taking your time to just enjoy the sight. It was only a double size bed, so unlike the monstrosity Frederick owned, you could easily prowl around the entire thing as you appraised his form like he was displayed on a pedestal. “You really are handsome,” you purred, eyes gliding over his broad shoulders and muscular arms, bulging with thick veins bulging all the way down to the backs of his hands. He wasn’t especially tall and seemed so bookish in his suits, but those biceps could crack your head like a walnut, and you’d let him. But he glanced up and met your eyes with a pathetic, questioning look that told you he didn’t really believe you. You could tell him over and over again how perfect he was, but for someone with such a big ego, he was remarkably insecure. Then again, maybe the two went hand in hand.

You finished your circuit and finally stepped up to the edge of the bed behind him, welcomed by the sight of his shapely ass with his tight hole eagerly waiting for you, his weighty balls hanging below, cock already standing in rigid defiance of gravity.

“Now that’s a pretty picture,” you let out a throaty growl of appreciation, and couldn’t resist running your hands down the rounded curve of his ass cheeks. “I can’t wait to fuck this perfect ass,” you moaned.

He breathed deeply, shuddering as you climbed onto the bed behind him, the front of your thighs pressed against the back of his. “Thank you. Thank you,” he whispered as your hands roamed over his back and sides. You dipped one down his soft stomach, smoothing over the raised scar and fine hairs that grew coarser beneath his belly button until you found his cock. It was already rock hard. You took its velvety skin in your hand and gave a few lazy strokes just to hear him choking on his breath, to feel his body tense and go slack at the same time. You brought your fingers to your mouth and tasted his salty precum, closing your eyes as it sent blood surging between your thighs. You licked each finger with a loud wet noise, and hummed as you savored it to be sure he knew what you were doing. When his hips shifted, trying to grind against you, and he whimpered a lusty, “Please,” you knew it had worked.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” you asked, voice thick with arousal.

“Y-yes,” he stammered, shifting back to grind his hips against yours.

“Say it then, Doctor Chilton. I want you to tell me what you want me to do. Tell me what will make you feel good. I want to hear you beg for it, remember?”

“Please?” he whined more desperately. You didn’t give an inch.

“Please what?”

He groaned miserably, and didn’t answer. As strong as his need was, he hated being vulnerable enough to ask for what he wanted out loud, and it didn’t help that you had goaded him earlier about begging. Now he was going to deliberately be stubborn. But you were patient. Before the night was over, he would beg.

“You know,” you pondered aloud, spreading and kneading his thick cheeks, “if you have one thing to feel superior about, it’s this ass.” You gave it another light smack, and he jumped. “It’s so big, and I love—” you cut yourself off, ducking down and kissing the inside of his thigh. You kissed all the way down to his knee, and all the way up until you were moving his balls aside, gently toying with them in one hand so you could press your lips to the juncture of his leg and hip. His breathing was coming out harder, more erratic, but he was still managing to control his voice until you switched legs and gave a sharp nip to his thigh that made him yelp and clap a hand to his mouth. You teased and marked his thighs until they were shaking, then dragged your teeth up his buttocks and gave him a firm nip. Now you really got into it, moaning as you sucked on his flesh, leaving stinging red marks all over his pale ass cheeks. He groaned with pleasure, but stubbornly kept his hand over his mouth, denying you what you wanted—hearing him beg for more. It was a battle of wills he could only win for so long.

“Too bad,” you pouted, dragging your fingers slowly up the sensitive flesh between his balls and his ass. You licked a broad swathe along the same path, and his muffled whimpering and the writhing of his hips was like music, spurring you on. “I really want to finger that perfect ass of yours, but if you can’t tell me that’s what you want...” The tips of your fingers found his tight entrance and circled it slowly.

A long whine came from deep in the back of Frederick’s throat, and finally he panted out, “I… would like you to—please.”

“To what?” you asked, feigning innocence.

He snarled with frustration, squeezing his eyes closed as he answered, “F-fingers!”

���That’s not a very polite way of asking, but it will do for now.” You poured lube over his ass and worked it in until everything was nicely slippery and circled his entrance again, teasing circles that slowly spiraled toward the center, finally pressing a fingertip inside him.

“More… please…” he whimpered. You complied, building up slowly, sinking one finger into him, then once he was babbling frustrated demands for more, stretching him open with two. Pumping your fingers, you curled them down toward his stomach to stroke that tender bundle of nerves that made him cry out with pleasure, toes curling, when you found it.

“Quiet now,” you warned, pressing a chaste kiss to one of the hickeys you’d left, “You don’t want anyone to hear.” The strangled sounds he made into the mattress as he struggled to keep quiet were almost enough to send you right over the edge. Even though you were focusing entirely on his pleasure, it was a turn-on for you, too. “You feel so good, taking me like this,” you cooed, your voice only cracking a little. “So tight.” Wet noises filled the room, and the huffing of his breath came harder. You reached between his legs and barely touched his burning hot cock when his will broke.

“Please—please fuck me,” he panted, ragged and hoarse like he would die if you didn’t. “I want you to fuck me. Oh, god, oh, god. Please!”

“What a good boy, begging so pretty for me.” You slowly removed your slick fingers from his core, and he looked back at you, eyes pleading for you to fill him again. You raised your eyebrows at him expectantly, almost stern, on the cusp of complete victory and he knew it, but was too lost to care anymore. The urgent flames of his arousal burned every muscle in his body, and he would say everything he knew you wanted to hear if it meant he could come.

“Please, please fuck my ass. I am sorry for being rude. I was bad. I know I am rotten and do not deserve you, but please, I am begging you to fuck me.”

An aching pang twisted your heart and took you out of the moment and any desire to torment him. You bent low, pressing your body over the length of Frederick’s back, grasped him by the chin, and twisted his face to lock eyes with you. “You deserve me, Frederick,” you said, voice steady and serious. “You are not bad. You are wonderful, and I love you. I wasn’t trying to… I wanted you to feel humble, not undeserving. You deserve to be loved. Do you understand?”

He nodded, and leaned all his weight onto one arm so he could draw your head down closer and kiss you, fervent and warm. It was a little quick and desperate, all wet tongues and sliding lips, but with a loving softness to it that melted you. “Please,” he urged, “if you make me repeat positive affirmations now before you will fuck me, I swear—” He glowered petulantly, though it was a thin performance. It didn’t escape your notice that he cut his sentence short, as there was no actual threat to fill in the blank of what he swore. He would patiently endure any torture you threw at him, and you both knew it.

You chuckled at his adorable defiance, kissed him lightly on the nose, then ruthlessly pushed his shoulders down into the mattress. He fell with a satisfied moan of anticipation. “Look at this,” you pronounced, as if you’d just walked in on the scandalous scene. “The great Doctor Chilton with his ass in the air, begging to be taken by some nobody. How shocking, simply shocking,” you teased, elongating each syllable the way Frederick did when he was being particularly snobby.

“Please, please fuck me,” he pleaded, voice pitifully small and helpless, half-smothered against the mattress, playing his part as if his depravity were on display to his peers.

Your voice dropped a quarter octave and took on a hungry edge. “I could never turn down such a desperate request from such an esteemed gentleman.”

Frederick had been waiting a long time, and moaned loudly as you finally pushed inside of him, not bothering or not aware enough to control his volume. The pace you set was deep and steady, not punishingly hard, but not languid and easy, either. Sliding in and out of his tightness, you gripped his hips, and angled yours to hit the sweet spot inside him. You knew the moment you’d found it—suddenly, he could barely contain his whimpering and moaning, babbling nonsense as he began to fall apart.

“You were trying to prove you were better than everyone today, weren’t you?” you leaned over him and hissed in his ear as you thrust.

“Yes,” he admitted, his voice strained and panting, so close to his release. He was drooling onto the blanket.

“What have I told you about being humble?”

“To… try it?” he struggled to answer, voice jostling as you thrust into him harder, his hips rocking to push against your thrusts, deepening the penetration.

“That’s right. Because you’re not better than anyone else, are you?”

“…No,” the answer tore from his throat in a shameful gasp.

You sank your teeth into his shoulder, and he cried out with pain and pleasure. “You’re a dirty slut who likes to be dominated, aren’t you?”

“Y-yes.”

“And you’re perfect just as you are and don’t need to prove anything to anyone, aren’t you?”

“Ye—” he almost answered, but then his hips stuttered in their movement and stopped.

“I love you. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he breathed. His hips began to move again as his confusion cleared, meeting yours as they crashed against his muscular ass.

“I think you’re perfect,” you smiled, feeling his muscles tense as his climax neared. “And you would never contradict me, would you?”

“Never.”

“Good.” You sat higher again to get a better angle on his prostate and took his dripping cock in your palm, stroking in time with your thrusts, overwhelming him with sensation. His whole body convulsed beneath you. He shoved a pillow into his mouth just in time to keep the entire house from hearing his lung-shattering wail, his back arching as he painted his seed over the pristine lavender blankets, coming so hard he nearly came on his own face. You slumped down over him, and he reached for your hand, his fingers laced with yours.

His back rose and fell with each panting breath as he slowly came down from the high, both of you exhausted and sweating and pleasantly sleepy. You rolled over into a more comfortable position to spoon him. The hairs on the back of his neck were soft and ticklish against your nose as you nuzzled him, pressing gentle kisses all along his neck and under his jaw, feeling his pulse surging hot beneath your lips. He groaned softly in the aftermath, melting in your arms. Longing to have more of you to hold onto, he flipped over so he was facing you, wrapping his powerful arms around you snugly, burying his face under your chin. His hair was a mess, partly stuck to his forehead with sweat with one giant cowlick on the side he had pressed against the mattress, and you couldn’t resist running your fingers through it to muss it up more. More happy noises came forth, and a few wet, sucking kisses clung to your throat.

“I love you,” he murmured, and the sound vibrated up your neck.

“Fuck, I love you so much,” you whispered back, wrapping a leg around him to pull him even closer, his spent erection pressing into you. You could feel the stickiness of his release smearing over your leg, but at this point, you were both going to need a shower anyway. “I love you.”

For several minutes you just lay there recovering, warm in each other’s embrace, softly whispering praises. Finally, he pulled back, an ocean of green eyes gazing back into yours with a question in them. He pondered it for a long while, and finally, instead of asking, declared, “Tomorrow, I shall correct my mistakes. I run an entire hospital of psychopaths; I can manage to make your parents like me.”

“Why are you so worried about what they think?”

“I do not care what they think. I worry about what they think and tell you. They… are important to you. If they disapprove, it may sway your feelings. Not right away, perhaps, but that familial bond will gnaw at you day by day, like a rat chewing through bone, until you share their negative opinion, and…” he shrugged, his eyes glassy, “…I will lose you.”

You caressed the side of his jaw and neck, thumb stroking his cheek, and peppered his face with kisses. Smoothing your palm down his shoulder, you pulled yourself close until your forehead knocked against his. “Nothing is going to change the way I feel about you, Frederick. Nothing. I love you. I don’t care what they think. It’s not like I’m just now discovering that you rub people the wrong way,” you chuckled. “That’s part of what makes me love you. You can be… officious. It takes time to get to know you. But I have never regretted a single minute of it. They’ll come around.”

His surrounding arms tightened around you possessively, quietly affirming that he understood.

Circling your hand idly over his back, still damp with sweat, you admitted something you hadn’t told him. “I was more nervous about what you would think of them,” you said, and he pulled back to pin you with a stare demanding an explanation. You squirmed under his gaze, cheeks heating up. “I didn’t want you realizing I’m complete born-and-bred trash.”

“I was already well aware of that, darling.”

A low growl stirred in your chest. “Still rude,” you snarled gleefully, rolling him onto his back, pinning his shoulders down, and biting his neck. He yelped and scrambled into a sitting position, taking you with him until you fell off his lap to the side.

“S-sorry!” you gasped, afraid you had bitten him too hard for him to balk so dramatically, when he was usually willing to play along with anything. A split second later, you realized it wasn’t pain on his face. His lips were curled as if he had stepped in something slimy. Or rather, rolled in it. Which he had.

“Eeuughh!” he shuddered.

“Since when are you so squeamish?” you asked with a sultry look to remind him of all the times he had licked himself off of your fingers.

“It was cold,” he shot back.

And kind of everywhere. He came a lot. And none of it had been intercepted by any orifices, so his full load was painted across the blanket like a Jackson Pollock.

You thanked your lucky stars that the guest bedroom had its own half bath stocked with washcloths, so you didn’t have to venture into the hall while sticky with sex. But after cleaning yourselves up and changing into sleepwear, you stared with dismay at the floral-patterned blanket you and Frederick had ruined.

“I do not accept responsibility for this,” Frederick said. “Having sex in your old bedroom was your idea—I cannot be held accountable for ruining your childhood memories.”

The speed at which Frederick shifted to weaseling out of blame overwhelmed your ability to keep a straight face—you smirked, snorted, and gave in completely to a belly-shaking laugh. He raised an eyebrow and glanced at you sideways.

“Frederick...” your shoulders bounced, “Does this look like a childhood bedroom? My parents moved after I graduated college.”

“Ah.” The tips of his ears turned red with embarrassment. You recalled how impersonal his own bedroom—and entire house—was, and your heart ached to think that he couldn’t even recognize that an ordinary childhood bedroom would be cluttered with forgotten toys and old posters. “That would explain the lack of baby pictures.”

“You can ask my parents to show you the photo albums,” you said offhandedly, and smiled at the way he perked up with genuine interest.

“I have been curious what species of gremlin you evolved from...” he smirked.

“My parents would love it if you let them show you the family albums. I will be mortified, but they’ll love you for it.”

“The key to their hearts, as it were?”

“You know, yeah. It might actually tip the scales. It might even make up for this,” you gestured at the blanket which the bodily fluid and lube stains were definitely never washing out of.

He sank down onto the edge of the bed and covered his face with his hands. “Fuck.”

• ● • ━━━━━─ ••●•• ─━━━━━ • ● •

Tags:

@beccabarba / @caked-crusader / @itsjustmyfantasyroom / @thatesqcrush / @dianilaws / @permanentlydizzy​ / @mrsrafaelbarba​ / @da-po / @madamsnape921

[asmolbirb]

A Dandelion By Any Other Name

Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier Rating: K Word count: ~3.7k AO3 link in the notes (as I’m not sure whether Tumblr is still hiding posts with external links from the search)

“Something’s wrong with him. I need you to fix it,” Geralt growls. He’s holding Jaskier by the back of his collar, and he pushes Jaskier forward now, in case Yennefer had any doubt who he meant. 

“It’s really nothing,” Jaskier babbles. “A temporary affliction. I’ll be right as rain within the fortnight, don’t you fret.” He pauses. Then he goes limp in Geralt’s grip, causing Geralt to lose his balance for a split second. “On second thought, Geralt, I’m feeling quite weak, and also feverish, and there’s a strange ache in my right thumb. There’s nothing for it, I shall simply have to ride on Roach while I recover, though I warn you this illness is nigh incurable–”

“He seems fine,” Yennefer observes, speaking over Jaskier.

Geralt only shakes his head. He lets go of Jaskier, who crumples to the floor with a surprised cry, to shrug his pack off his shoulder and root around in its depths. After a moment, he pulls out something clutched delicately in a loose fist, and when Yennefer reaches out for it, he unfurls his fingers to drop a single dandelion into her palm. 

Jaskier has picked himself up off the floor by now. He brushes himself off with exaggerated gestures. He is conspicuously silent.

“He’s been coughing those up for at least a week. Maybe longer,” Geralt explains. “He won’t tell me when it began.”

Yennefer examines the bedraggled flower. Half of its yellow petals are missing, and the brown center is coarse to the touch. “He’s been coughing full blossoms for the past week?”

“He is right here, and he’s telling you, he’s fine,” Jaskier insists again. He is summarily ignored.

“Yes,” Geralt says to Yennefer. “Is it a curse?”

Yennefer huffs a laugh and rolls the flower between her fingers, watching as a few more petals detach from its center and float to the ground. “Some might call it that.” She turns her gaze to Jaskier, and Geralt does the same. Jaskier’s eyes are wide, a plea writ large upon his face. When he catches Yennefer looking, he shakes his head slightly. Whatever he is asking doesn’t seem to deter her, though, because she smirks and says, “Your bard’s in love. Rather desperately so, if the state of this blossom is any indication.”

“Fuck,” says Jaskier. 

“Love?” says Geralt.

“There is no cure,” says Yennefer. “At least, there is none that I can offer. The flowers feed on unrequited feelings; whoever he loves must return his feelings in order to starve the flowers of their fuel, and no potion in the world can force someone to love another. Now, I can offer a palliative measure--”

“No,” Jaskier says quickly, all humor gone from his voice. “I know the treatment of which you speak, and I don’t want it. I’ll deal with this myself.”

Geralt rounds on him. “You’re no healer,” he points out. “If there is a treatment, take it! Even a temporary reprieve may give you time to seek another cure.”

But Jaskier only shakes his head. “It isn’t that easy,” he says, and he sounds weary to the bone, stripped of all the pretenses he dons like a second doublet. “All magic comes with a price. Isn’t that right, witch?”

Yennefer nods. “The treatment temporarily removes the flowers by utterly eradicating the victim’s affections,” she explains to Geralt. “With nothing to root in, the flowers will wither. But the flowers are not uprooted entirely, and if he were to fall in love again, they would return, this time doubled in quantity. At that point, the only outcomes are true cure or death.”

“I would have to be a fool to willfully hasten my own death,” says Jaskier. Silence reigns for a long moment. Then Jaskier brightens, albeit with visible effort. “Do you both have cotton stuffed in your ears? As I’ve been saying all this time, this affliction is temporary, and this little detour was a complete waste of time. Come along, Geralt, you’ve got monsters to kill, and I, ballads to compose.” So saying, he heads for the door, leaving Geralt and Yennefer standing alone in the foyer of the abandoned cottage she has claimed for herself. 

“He will die without the treatment, unless he is able to eradicate his feelings himself,” Yennefer says as Geralt shoulders his pack once more. She holds the flower out to him, but he shakes his head in silent refusal, and she crushes it instead, releasing a shower of brown and golden dust. Geralt can just make out patches of faint yellow smeared upon her fingertips. “The disease starts with petals and progresses to full-stemmed flowers. For him to have been coughing blossoms for a week already… It would be kinder to put him out of his misery than let him suffer through the rest.”

Geralt grunts in acknowledgement. With a final nod of thanks, he turns to follow after Jaskier.

“Men and their pride,” he hears Yennefer sigh just before the door closes.

--

Jaskier refuses to stay with Yennefer, going so far as to threaten to steal away on Roach in the middle of the night if Geralt tries to keep him here against his will. 

“You could try,” Geralt says in a low tone. Nonetheless, he sets a course for the nearest town. It is a detour from the border they had originally been pushing toward, but Geralt would prefer to have a healer close at hand in case Jaskier’s condition deteriorates further.

If Jaskier notices Geralt nudging Roach further to the west, he says nothing of it. Instead, he keeps up a constant stream of chatter, pausing only to retch dandelions into the tallgrass every so often. They set up camp once the sun has sunk beneath the horizon, leaving in its wake a painted sky and a noticeable chill. As Jaskier works on setting a pile of kindling aflame, Geralt leaves to hunt down dinner; when he returns, wild fowl in hand, he catches Jaskier trying unsuccessfully to hide the growing pile of dandelion blossoms tucked in against his lute case. 

“Who’s the unlucky woman?” Geralt asks, stepping into the firelight.

Jaskier starts, dandelions spilling from his hands. He hastily brushes them away. “Gods, Geralt, must you always sneak up on me? This is why you have an image problem, you know. Don’t get me wrong, the whole tall, dark, and murderous vibe is fantastic -- really brings out the color of your eyes -- but the skulking tips you firmly into the realm of, well, somewhat unhinged.”

Geralt only glares at Jaskier, waiting for him to tire himself out, and sets about roasting the fowl.

“Anyway, killing my beloved won’t cure me,” Jaskier continues blithely, “so don’t even think about it. Not all problems can be solved by whacking away at them with those oversized butter knives you carry around.” He settles cross-legged next to the fire with his lute balanced across his knees and strums a few chords.

“Then how?”

Jaskier shrugs, picks out a quick flurry of staccato notes. It is not a melody Geralt has heard Jaskier play before, and with a flash of surprise, Geralt realizes Jaskier is nervous, is using the lute as a shield, seeking a familiar comfort in the midst of an uncomfortable conversation. “The same as any disease: by letting it run its course.”

“You mean to let it kill you.”

“Would you miss me?” Jaskier asks, and he sounds genuinely curious, as though he has no idea how Geralt might answer. “Would you think of me, from time to time? When you have to bathe yourself and can’t quite reach all the parts that ache, you’ll regret showing no thanks when I was there to handle such unpleasantries for you.” Jaskier clicks his tongue. “I can’t bear the thought of you downtrodden with guilt, wishing you had shown me proper appreciation while I was alive. For the sake of sparing you such a depressing fate, I shall fall upon the sword and graciously allow you to shower me with compliments. Go on, Geralt, do your worst.”

“How can you be so nonchalant about your impending death?” Geralt snarls.

Jaskier scoffs. “Oh, that’s rich, coming from you. Geralt, you have, on multiple occasions, willingly waded into the cavernous maw of a selkiemore. You have lost all right to comment on the nonchalance with which I may or may not approach my impending death.”

Geralt shifts uncomfortably. It’s different for him. Every bone in his body, every ounce of blood that flows through his veins, has been intentionally tailored to keep him alive even in the face of certain death. Jaskier, on the other hand, is indescribably fragile. Geralt could break him without expending any conscious thought. Quite a few things could break Jaskier without expending any conscious thought. Including, apparently, Jaskier himself. 

“Besides, this whole conversation is pointless, seeing as I won’t die of this,” Jaskier adds. “Feelings are ephemeral, as you well know, Witcher. These, too, will fade, and the garden in my lungs with them.”

“Then take the treatment. If you mean to cast off your feelings regardless, quicken the process and spare yourself this pain. This uncertainty.”

Jaskier smiles and strums another series of chords. Something about the notes infuses the air with a melancholy that lingers even after the song fades. “A fool’s errand. Have you ever been in love, Geralt?” He doesn’t wait for Geralt to answer. “You would find as many descriptions of love as creatures that have walked this soil. For a cuckolded husband, love is an empty promise, a harbinger of heartache; for the devilishly handsome man climbing out the window, love is sweeter than wine and indescribably more potent. And yet there is one overarching constant, and that is that love burrows into your soul. It builds itself a little house and plants its roots into your heart, until it is so intricately braided into the core of your being that to rip it out would be almost more painful than letting it tear you to shreds in the first place.” He looks up at Geralt, and his smile doesn’t reach his eyes anymore. His fingers dance absently across the strings of his lute, repeating certain sequences once, twice, before tripping into another partial melody. “I would simply be trading one pain for another, don’t you see? It’s as much a part of me as all the rest. And what good is a life without the things that make it worth living?”

Geralt watches him in silence. In Geralt’s experience, the things that make life worth living only carry meaning if one is alive to enjoy them. “No love is worth dying for,” he says finally. 

With a loud gasp, Jaskier clutches his lute to his chest and shoots a scandalized look at Geralt. “He doesn’t mean it, darling,” he croons to the instrument. His eyes flutter shut as he presses his cheek to its neck. “You are worth the world to me. I would face a coven of succubi without fear to keep you free of harm.”

Geralt studies Jaskier: the tension stiffening his shoulders, the way his lips are pursed as though to suppress a cough. After a moment, Geralt decides to allow Jaskier the out. “And where would you find a coven of succubi interested in enticing you?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

“You’re a horrible friend, Geralt,” Jaskier comments, but there is no heat in his voice, and his shoulders loosen fractionally. He turns away to litter the ground with more dandelions, and Geralt has an unsettling feeling that he has only acquired more questions in his quest for answers. 

--

Jaskier wakes up with a rasp in his voice and dandelions clustered on either side of his bedroll, evidence of a fitful sleep interrupted by his need to periodically clear his airways of detritus. The yellow blossoms are interspersed with flecks of green from leaves and budding stems that have joined the mix. Geralt frowns at the sight. Despite Jaskier’s protestations, it is clear his disease is worsening. The realization sits uncomfortably in Geralt’s stomach, like days-old meat or sour milk.

They break down camp in companionable silence, with Jaskier pretending his sleeplessness was due to the rough ground and humid air and Geralt pretending he doesn’t see the flecks of blood painting the ground near Jaskier’s lute. Despite the obvious pain Jaskier is in, he acts as though nothing is amiss, and he spends most of the day working on a ballad to commemorate Geralt’s recent victory over a pack of drowners. 

It is easy to let Jaskier’s voice fade into the background as Geralt mulls over what little he has gleaned in the past 24 hours. Desperately in love, Yennefer had said, and yet Jaskier has given no indication of having fallen in love at any point in the past few months; he has not slipped away to engage in any clandestine trysts, nor has he bemoaned the abrupt and dramatic departure of a paramour. He has prattled about fair-haired maidens here and there, but never for long. Certainly never to the extent of suggesting someone had built a home in his soul.

Nonetheless, some such suitor must exist. If the flowers were not evidence enough, Jaskier had all but admitted it when he’d cautioned Geralt -- rather unnecessarily, in Geralt’s opinion -- against violence the night before. 

That must mean, then, that Jaskier is willfully keeping the identity of his beloved secret from Geralt.

The irritation churning in Geralt’s belly grows. Of course Jaskier owes Geralt nothing, not company nor gratitude nor his heart bared upon his sleeve, and it is his right to keep whatever secrets he wishes. But Jaskier has never been one for discretion, has in fact made a point of oversharing and bestowing upon Geralt knowledge he had never asked for, and Geralt doesn’t know how to respond to being locked out by the bard now.

Anger coils tight in Geralt’s chest, leaves the taste of wood ash ground into the backs of his teeth. Would Jaskier have ever told Geralt that he had fallen for someone if Geralt had not seen the flowers tumbling from his lips? Would he have waited until his throat was bloody from the violence of his coughing, until he was gasping for breath between bouquets of dandelions? Or would he have left Geralt to wake up only to find Jaskier cold to the touch, lute cradled delicately in his arms, chest still, a spray of dandelions peeking between his lips-- 

“Oren for your thoughts?” Jaskier says, breaking Geralt out of his reverie. “You’ve been quiet today, Geralt. Quieter than normal. Don’t tell me my melodic stylings have finally wooed you! I appreciate you coming to your senses, of course, but perhaps you could delay that epiphany by a day or two? This unfinished mess of a song is hardly a shining exemplar of my talents. It would be the height of embarrassment to have rendered you speechless with this.”

Maybe Geralt still feels a little wrong-footed by realizing Jaskier is a better actor than Geralt had thought, or maybe it is simply the nature of things that churn in the belly to come rushing back through the mouth, but Geralt blurts out, before he’s quite figured out the rest of what he wants to say, “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“Tell you what, exactly?” Jaskier asks slowly, sounding lost. “That the ballad is unfinished? I wouldn’t have thought you needed that made explicit, considering your two very functional ears and all.”

Geralt grunts impatiently. “Your disease,” he says. “You knew what it was from the start. Why did you hide it?”

That hunted expression is back, thinning Jaskier’s lips and hunching his shoulders and sending his gaze skittering sideways. “Because there was nothing to tell,” Jaskier hedges. “I’m simply a fool who has given my heart to another, and now I’m on a quest to retrieve it. It’s not really a team activity, is it?” His lips quirk up in the ghost of a smile.

A shadow passes over his face then, and he holds up a finger, says, “Give me one moment, please,” and disappears into the underbrush just as wretched coughs begin to wrack his body. 

Geralt nudges Roach to a stop and waits. Jaskier emerges some minutes later, breath ragged, a yellow floret clinging to his bottom lip. “What was I saying?” he asks.

Geralt’s eyes are drawn instantly to the splash of yellow, such a stark contrast against the pink of Jaskier’s lips, the piercing blue of Jaskier’s eyes. He is no closer to knowing who has planted dandelions in Jaskier’s lungs, nor why Jaskier is running away from them instead of into their arms, nor what Geralt has done to lose Jaskier’s trust and confidence so thoroughly. But it is becoming glaringly evident that Jaskier doesn’t want to talk about this, least of all with Geralt, and Geralt refuses to push him on the only boundary he has ever set for the sake of slaking Geralt’s own selfish curiosity.

“Hmm,” he says after a moment, instead of what if you’re wrong, instead of what if you fail, and he pushes Roach forward so he won’t have to see Jaskier spitting blood into his handkerchief. 

--

Moonlight illuminates the planes of Jaskier’s face, highlights the bridge of his nose and the expanse of his forehead peeking out from beneath messy night-blackened locks. The fire has died down to a pile of glowing embers littered with the bones of their dinner, and in the distance, Geralt can hear a coyote calling. Geralt can hear a great many things, actually, even without having consumed the appropriate potion: the rhythmic chirping of crickets permeating every inch of the night, the whisper of wind rushing through the foliage, the way Jaskier’s breath rattles in his chest.

He traces Jaskier’s recumbent figure with his eyes and wonders how long Jaskier will be able to sleep tonight before the need to breathe wrenches him awake. Nearly every blossom passing through his lips now is anchored to a stem, though the stems extend only a few centimeters before tapering to jagged ends sticky with sap. Even without knowing when Jaskier first started coughing up dandelion petals, Geralt can see that Jaskier doesn’t have much time left, but the nearest town is still a day’s ride away, and a longer journey by foot.

Getting Jaskier to a healer quickly won’t matter, though, if Jaskier refuses the treatment anyway. Jaskier seems hellbent on throwing his life away, and for what? The thrill of butterflies in his stomach? Some poetic notion of embodying the same grandeur he romanticizes in his songs? 

Respect may not make history, but dead bards tell no tales. Or something like that. Geralt has never been good with words, not like Jaskier. 

That’s why Jaskier was the one to finally rehabilitate Geralt’s reputation, after all, and that, too, with only a single song. Geralt has no doubt he would have spent his whole life trying unsuccessfully to outrun the shadow Blaviken had cast upon him had Jaskier not chanced upon him in Posada. It is Jaskier who can sway whole courts in his favor while Geralt stands aside and watches, Jaskier whose coin pays for rooms in inns and bath salts and new clothes. Jaskier is the one with the ability to grasp at straws and spin golden tales from them. 

It is not a talent Geralt has ever wanted -- silence is a powerful weapon in its own right -- but it is one he has come to appreciate. He cannot deny it is easier to rend a wyvern in half when he has the prospect of a warm bath to look forward to, and Jaskier’s gentle hands washing the grime from his hair besides. It is easier to stomach three nights of tasteless wild game when he knows Jaskier’s songs will earn them flagons of mulled ale at the next tavern. It is easier to shrug away the insults still occasionally hurled his way, the fear and disgust that so often paint the faces of the very people who hire him, when he has only to look to Jaskier to find admiration and fascination and laughter and--

“Ah,” says Geralt, realizing quite suddenly that there is a warmth in his chest, as though someone has snuck into his heart and built a home there, a crooked little thing with a furnace that heats him through to his core. Somewhere along the way, Jaskier has woven himself indelibly into the tapestry of Geralt’s life, and the thought of untangling their threads no longer fills Geralt with the relief it once did. 

And then-- “Fuck,” says Geralt, remembering that Jaskier is desperately in love with someone who isn’t Geralt, so deeply that he is willing to die for them. Come morning, they will both be coughing up flowers, side by side. And isn’t that disgustingly poetic, to offer a garden to someone who already has one growing in his lungs? The both of them hurt, both of them hurting, wanting and unwanted, together and yet both so utterly alone. 

The story of Geralt’s life: It’s like something out of one of Jaskier’s ballads.

--

Geralt awakens to Jaskier’s face blocking his field of vision. Jaskier’s eyes are wide, his lips slightly parted. It is a rare sight, as Jaskier has never been one to relinquish the comfort of a lazy morning without incentive, and Geralt immediately fears the worst. His gaze flies to Jaskier’s bedroll, where he prays he won’t yet see the long stems that signify the final stages of the disease. 

Thankfully, he doesn’t. 

In fact, he doesn’t see any flowers at all, only a handful of loose yellow florets scattered upon the ground, occasionally being shuffled about by the light morning breeze. 

“If you change your mind,” Jaskier says shakily, drawing Geralt’s attention back to him, “I’ll kill you. Not only for breaking my heart twice over, but for sentencing me to death by dandelion, of all the blasted flowers on the Continent. Do you know how few things rhyme with dandelion? I couldn’t have had roses or lilies or sage growing in my lungs, just waiting to be immortalized in song?”

“If I change my mind, I’ll give you the sword myself,” Geralt tells Jaskier, and drags him into a kiss that tastes of dandelion and desperation and something worth dying for. 

[op-peccatori]

sweeter than dreams (nsfw) | MLQC Lucien

Fandom: Mr Love: Queen’s Choice

Pairing: Lucien/Reader

Rating: 18+

Word count: 3400

Summary: On your way back home from the winery, your impromptu nap is interrupted by an inappropriate dream involving your boyfriend (and current pillow). The man in question reacts in a way you don’t expect.

Warnings: explicit nsfw content/sex, (public) vaginal fingering, Lucien’s teasing, semi-public sex, oral sex

a/n: It’s Lucien’s birthday month!! and my thirst for him as at an all-time high. This is an alternate version of the winery date, where they’re already dating.

Your eyelids flutter open to warm light on your skin. Your head is burrowed into a firm pillow, your breath heavy and heart-pounding from where your sleep lead you. 

 A dream crafted solely to torment you, with violet eyes and a wicked tongue. Not the first, and most definitely not the last. You freeze as you realise you’ve been squirming on an uncomfortable seat, pressing your thighs together in a desperate attempt to relieve the ache brought on by your own mind, and some fantastic wine.

The pillow under your head moves then, a familiar silhouette providing shade when you squint up at it. As your awareness creeps back in, you realise that a jacket is draped over your form, shielding your bare thighs from the air-conditioning in the moving bus. 

“You seem to have had a restless nap,” comes a low, modulated voice that is an eerie echo of the one you just woke up from. A tilt of your head shows Lucien staring back at you, mouth tugged up in a strange smile. Your heart restarts its stumbling song at seeing the very face you had just been pressing fervent kisses to in a damning dream. “Had a bad dream?” 

At his words, the sound that comes out of your mouth resembles a panicked croak, and Lucien’s mouth purses in what you think is a kind attempt to suppress a laugh. Your face warms at the thought of telling him, of him knowing of the truly depraved things your mind is capable of conjuring.

“Not-not a bad one per se,” you say, wincing at the rough note brought with sleep. “Just...unexpected.” And with unfortunate timing, as you’re on a public bus and not in bed where you could’ve easily slipped a couple fingers into your underwear to take care of your throbbing sex – it wouldn't be the first time. “It was probably the alcohol.”

“Hmm.” He studies you intently, looking for something in your face that you dearly hope he doesn’t find; you try your best to look like someone who didn’t just have a wet dream about him. “Alright. We should be home in another twenty minutes.” 

Damn. 

“Oh, okay.” You stay still, cuddled up to his side, wondering if you did anything to indicate what you were dreaming of while you were out. You seem to be in safe waters, not sensing anything from him. Perhaps Lucien had also drifted off? You can only hope there wasn’t anything for him to notice. You throw your thoughts toward anything other than his warmth, the subtle tones of his cologne, the way he smiles at you. 

“And now that you’re awake, I’ve been meaning to ask – would you like to switch seats?" he asks sheepishly. "We did agree to take turns.” You agree easily, eager to have the chance to stare at something other than his hands and the old lady in the seat across the aisle, who seems to have dozed off as well. Just to avoid more contact that wouldn't help your situation, you get out of your seat – tugging at the hem of your skirt self-consciously –and let him step out before sliding in, settling into the window seat with no small amount of relief. 

You keep his jacket on your legs, not quite ready to leave the sense of safety it gives you and half-worried that there’s a smell because you know you’re not imagining the damp cloth pressing against you. 

You’re also not imagining the hand that has crept under the cloth to rest on your thigh. More concerning is the way your body reacts to it instantly; breathing hitching in your throat, walls clenching around nothing, the absolute need that rushes through. Just a little higher, and it’ll be where you need it. With how worked up you are, it wouldn’t take long if he works you as fast as you know he can. There aren’t too many people on the bus, and you’re sitting towards the back anyway. Your thoughts whirl around your mind as you try to think of what you could do to give him a hint. Should you just tell him? He wouldn’t leave you wanting. The physical aspect of your relationship is quite new, but Lucien has been really good to you.

And then the old lady coughs loudly, breaking you out of the hold of your desire. You’re on the bus. You can’t ask your boyfriend to finger you in public. What would he think? 

Lucien’s thumb traces soft patterns on your skin, almost absentmindedly, and you bite back a sigh at understanding that he probably means to provide comfort, not pleasure. You feel a bit embarrassed at how you let your baser instincts overwhelm you. 

Leaning into him with a small, fond smile, you turn to look out the window at the tall trees that pass by, marvelling once more at the beauty of the maple leaves; as the sun begins its slow dip below the horizon, it paints the sky in bold strokes of red and gold. The image it creates arrests you long enough that you almost don’t notice the way Lucien’s hand has caressed its way to the tender flesh of your inner thigh, the back of his hand meeting your other thigh in a snug greeting. 

As you sit there with his hand very solidly between your thighs, suspicion is slow to dawn. Is he just trying to warm it or–

Cool lips press against your ear. “I almost didn’t hear you moaning in your sleep, it was so soft...but when I did?” His teeth close around the shell of your ear in a playful nibble, and a gasp tears it’s way out your throat. “Do you know how hard it was to keep my hands to myself?” The sensual tones of his voice wash over you in tandem with his fingers pinching your skin harshly. 

“Lu-Lucien!” you say, voice hushed and eyes wide. You look around in a panic, but the other passengers aren’t paying attention to the cosy couple at the back of the bus. 

“I had to sit there, feeling so left out, listening to you whisper my name so needily, left to only imagine what could possibly be driving you to react that way. My fingers? Or my cock?” he breathes, a light chuckle leaving him as you tense and look up at him pleadingly when his hand moves higher. He returns your look steadily, completely calm but for the perfervid look in his eyes. “Don’t be shy. Let me see.” Long fingers press against your slit, rubbing it lightly through the thin cloth. “Oh? You’re wetter than I thought.” 

Your mouth parts when he rubs your clit, the firm pressure making you nearly jump out of your seat. He pauses at once, removing his hand to wrap his arm around your shoulders, tucking you in to his chest as he turns to face you more. Before you can voice your protests or slump over in relief, his left hand has already replaced his right in its position at your entrance, rubbing and coaxing and tormenting. 

“Someone will see,” you whisper, teeth clenching when he just laughs in response. Desire throbs unwaveringly through you, and you hurry to make sure the jacket stays in place. “Lucien!” 

“Are you going to stop me?” he asks, mocking and knowing, fingers dipping into covered puffing lips. Your hands curl around the edge of your seat, struggling with indecision. You both know one word from you will be enough for him to stop but...you can’t bring yourself to say it. It feels good. It feels really good. The fear of someone seeing is still present, but it’s a thrilling sort of apprehension. His jacket is shield enough, and the way he’s curling around you is intimate enough to discourage most people from looking too closely. 

The calm you talked yourself into feeling is cracked when a dexterous finger gets past the cloth to push into you with long, slow strokes. He stops when he’s knuckle deep in you, feeling the way your falls flutter and squeeze and pull at the digit with visible delight. Your hips cant up, trying to get him to move his hand, but he just kisses you on the cheek, soft and cruel.

“You’re terrible,” you whimper into his chest as you lean your forehead against it in resignation. The arm curled around you tightens briefly, fingers tangling into your messy hair. 

“And you shouldn’t have teased me,” he replies blithely. His finger begins a lazy massage within your slick flesh, sending smooth waves of pleasure coursing through you that keep you close to the edge but not giving you enough. “What exactly is a man to do when the woman he loves begs for him in her sleep? I was this close to pulling you over my lap.” 

You can’t believe you’d thought him innocuous. A fool’s mistake. Your boyfriend loves his traps, and you do enjoy playing the role of prey; you glare at him in outrage, breath stuttering on a low moan. “I was asleep-“ 

“Speaking of which,” he cuts in smoothly, ignoring your grumbling. “What exactly were you dreaming of?” 

Your thighs close in around his wrist as he slips another finger into you. The rhythm of his hand quickens, your fingers clenching around his sweater as you try to remain steady. You can’t bring yourself to reply, a mortified blush blooming across your face at the very thought.

“___,” he warns, tugging on your hair lightly. It's enough to let you know he will get it out of you one way or another. “Tell me. Please?”

“You-we were outside my apartment, I think,” you stammer, your skin warming all over, the flush deeper on your cheeks. His fingers slow down deep within you, palm brushing against your swollen nub. Your eyes squeeze shut at the contact. “I’m not sure why. And...we were kissing.” 

“Go on.” 

“...That’s all.” You brace yourself.

He pinches your clit roughly and you keen, hastily burying your face in his sweater to muffle the noise. You don’t want to look up and see if anyone heard that. “That’s most definitely not all. Go on.” 

“And then...I turned to open the door you pu-pushed me against the door...and lifted my skirt.” You nearly cry out as he strokes you harder, fingers curling to rub against a sensitive spot. “Your mouth was...on me.” 

“And then?” his voice is huskier, breath heavy against the side of your face. You swallow your smirk and lift your head, brushing your lips against his. His eyes have darkened, his gaze burning with anticipation. 

“And then you fucked me,” you whisper against his mouth. 

It feels as if your confession has frozen time itself. Everything around you falls away as you watch each other, breath mingling, the tip of your nose brushing his. You slide a hand onto his crotch, satisfaction clenching your insides at the bulge you find there, at how he stiffens against your touch, at the way his eyes flash with barely restrained desire.

“Right there? Against your door?” he asks quietly, lips curving wickedly. Your fingers trail a curious path over his erection, encouraged by the slight hitch in his breath. You would've missed it if your faces hadn't been so close.

“Mhm.” The quirk of your lips fades as his fingers slip out of you, and you watch in slight dismay and with a lot of hunger as he leans back and pops them in his mouth, eyes glinting with satisfaction. And then he’s lifting his arm off your shoulders, lacing his fingers through the ones trying to tease him, stopping that game right there. 

“Well, our stop is almost here,” he announces, looking past you and out the window. You watch him with pursed lips, trying not to wilt with disappointment. And he tried to give you crap for something you can’t even control, only to do this.

“Right.” 

As the bus slows to a stop near your building, you both rise to your feet and move towards the door. Before you can exit, Lucien drapes his jacket over your shoulders instead of putting it back on.

“It’s a bit chilly outside,” he tells you cheerfully, and you fight down the urge to stomp on his foot. The short walk to your apartment is filled with silence on your part, and oblivious remarks on his. You make a mental appointment with your vibrator, because the urge to do something violent to Lucien is still very much present, stoked by his apparent indifference to your state of being.

As you both step out of the elevator, Lucien walks you to your door. You would think he’s oblivious to what’s on your mind, but you know better now. You’re starting to doubt he’s even capable of missing things happening inside you.

Mind made up, you stop him with hands bracing against his chest. You lift up on your toes, palms curling around the back of his neck to pull him down to you; he’s already smiling as you press your lips to his, slipping your tongue into his mouth and moaning at the taste of him, at the way his tongue intertwines with yours and licks into you. Your hands traverse the length of his torso greedily, lingering on the firm planes of his abdomen as his arms wind around you, crushing you to him. You want and want and want.

You pull away panting, the feeling of his erection pressing into you setting off another hoard of butterflies. You feel lightheaded with desire, feeling as if you could wrap your leg around him and grind yourself to completion out here in the hall. 

“Do you want to come in?” you ask, eyes glossed over as you step away from him. Your fingers dig into your purse blindly, looking for your keys. 

“Hmm. No, I don’t think so,” he says distractedly, much to your surprise. You turn around to hide the disappointment you know is clear on your face, mingling with disbelief. The way he just kissed you wasn’t chaste by any stretch of the imagination. Is he really going to tease you and just – go to bed? That’s cruel. 

“Al...right, then. I have an early – morning!” Your sentence ends in a yelp as you’re pushed up against your door, your purse falling from your hands and Lucien’s body pressing into you from behind. “Lucien!”

He kisses up the slope of your neck hotly, ending at the base of your ear, where he bites into tender skin. His arm wraps around you, tugging your shirt out of the waistband of your skirt, slipping his jacket off of you and throwing it to the floor. His hand creeps under your blouse, palming your soft breast while the other slips up your skirt, pinching your slit; stuck between his body and the cold wood, you can only writhe in response to his rough handling. 

“Isn’t this how it went?” He tugs at a taut nipple in emphasis, kissing along your jaw. "We don't need to go in."

“Ah, but – the security camera!” you moan, deeply aware of the ever-present security device in the lobby, and of the irresistible way he’s pressing into you, his dick hard against your rear. 

“Do you trust me?“ 

“Yes.” You angle your head in a way that lets you meet his fervid kiss, lifting your hand to brush his bangs back and deepen the meeting of your lips. His intensity frightens you on some level, unconcealed and bright in this moment, ready to set you alight with its force.

“Do you want me to stop?” 

“...please don’t stop.” Even more frightening is your own devotion, the pure want, the willingness to let him fuck you outside your apartment with no shame and only eagerness. 

He guides you into pressing your palms against the door, back arched and ass presented to him to caress and knead. He tugs your panties down your ass, following along the same path to go down on his knees. He helps you step out of them, stuffing them into his back pocket before he turns his focus to you. He tucks the hem of your skirt into the waistband and parts the round globes of your ass, revealing your slick sex to his ravenous eyes as he squeezes a handful of flesh, pressing reverent kisses across whatever parts his hands don't cover.

“I’m a selfish man, ___.” The first flick of his tongue against your clit has your eyes fluttering, mouth parting on a curse. “I don’t like sharing you, not even with dreams. Not if I’m not there with you.”

Your laugh dies in your lungs when he tongues you swiftly, relentlessly and with precision, hands holding you in place as you moan and cry instead, forehead falling to your door with a thump. Your pleasure builds up in an earth-shaking wave and is held there as he rises to his feet swiftly, unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants hastily.

“My gorgeous girl,” he purrs. The tip of his cock slides against the plump flesh of your rear, leaving wet streaks on your skin as he strokes it to the visual of you spread and ready for his taking. “Did you really think I would leave you like that?” 

“Ah – I thought you didn’t want to.” 

“Oh darling,” he croons, feigning hurt. His hand comes down on your ass in a light, chiding slap. “I always want you. And to help make your dreams come true. Especially ones so...improper.” 

“Lucien,” you moan as he slides into you, thrusting shallowly as he stretches you out, warm palms heavy on your hips. “So good. You feel so good.” He snaps his hips into yours, skin slapping against yours, the sound lewd in the silence of the building.  He angles it just right, taking a moment to still deep within you and begin a slow, hard grind as his hand wraps around the front of your throat firmly. Your shoulders slacken as he squeezes lightly, your desire throbbing and wound tightly deep within you. 

“There we go. Good girl,” he praises you as you push back into him, prompting him to transition into sliding his cock out and back in, in hard thrusts, pulling you by the hips back into him with each one. He moves as if he’s mad with desire, drilling into you as you let out a wail of his name and other things you can’t quite comprehend at the moment. “You want me to fill you up, darling? Is that what you wanted? Oh, my filthy girl.” You reach down to your clit desperately, rubbing it in tight, furious circles. Your eyes roll back into your head as the high wave finally crashes and snaps, your walls clamping down around him, sheathlike and unyielding.

“Please, please, please – come in me, come in me!” You’re overcome by the hunger for it, for wanting to feel him come within you, for leaving his mark in you.

He lets out a throaty groan as your velvet heat drags him into unravelling, throbbing, filling you up in unsteady thrusts. In this moment, Lucien is nearly incoherent in the way words of adoration leave his lips. It's just you and him. You both stay there for a moment, breathless and sweaty, with you struggling to stay upright on your trembling knees and him hissing as he tucks himself back into his pants.

Who needs dreams when you’ve got a man like him?

Lucien helps you straighten, pulling you into an embrace to nuzzle your cheek, his arms wrapped around you to keep you from sinking down like you're sure you will. You tilt your head back and catch him in a languid kiss, content to rest your head on his shoulder, lazy with a kind of tranquillity only his arms can bring.

"God, I love you." The sudden force of it nearly leaves you incapable of further speech. The words are simple, like the cloak pockets of a magician hiding unknown depths. You hold back a giggle at the way his cheeks, already flushed, darken at your words. His eyes, though – you don't miss the blend of love and possessiveness in them, the triumph in his smile at quenching your thirst, the way he sticks close like he can’t bear to put any distance between you both. You wonder if it rivals your own desire to never let go, to spend every moment with him: learning, healing and loving. Playing games that leave you flustered. Blushing when he teases you, watching him try to keep a tight rein on his mask and fail when you bare your heart. 

Your eyes close against soft lips on your forehead.

“Now we can go in.” 

[written-on-the-trees]

Strawberry Necklace Part 8 - Yungblud Fan Fiction

Word Count: 1925 words.

Warnings: None, for this part. Smut, fem-dom, and prostitution for the whole story.

Summary: Nova explains to her sister about her relationship with Dom...but it turns out Stella isn’t the only one who’s interested.

Where else can you find this:  Ao3  |  Wattpad

Part Seven  |  Part Nine

"So...strawberry necklace boy."

 "Hi Stella. Yes, I'm well, thank you. I got you a latte - no, no, there's no need to thank me." Nova replied blithely, ignoring every unspoken question she'd just been asked and smirking at her sister, who was glaring at her from the chair she'd just dropped into.

 "Nova!" Stella whined: "Stop it! You got a boyfriend, and you're trying to talk to me about coffee. Seriously!"

   Nova just laughed.

 Stella glared and bunched up a napkin and threw it at her hand, but that only made Nova laugh harder at her sister's annoyance.

 It was tempting to keep annoying Stella by evading her questions - both because it was amusing and because talking about Dom was going to be awkward as hell - but her sister would probably move onto throwing heavier objects at some point, and Nova didn't want to get kicked out of another coffee shop. So instead of being a bitch, she shrugged and gestured for Stella to ask her questions.

   Of course, Stella already had a whole load of them - which she had apparently written in her notes app, if the way she started reading off of her phone was any indication: "Right, firstly...is he still treating you right?"

 "Stella, it's been two days since we decided to see each other outside of work - "

 "It's important!" Stella insisted.

 "Yeah...Yeah, he's still treating me right." Nova smiled softly. Because even if it had just been two days, so far everything had been good. Better than good, in fact.

   Stella nodded, apparently satisfied by what was probably a ridiculously sappy expression on Nova's face.

 It was hard not to look a bit sappy; Dom might have left last night, after getting his own text messages about who the hell was on his Instagram story and demands to explain himself from his housemates, but that didn't mean he hadn't made his presence felt this morning. She'd woken up to a really cute text message, and a delivery man knocking on her door to hand over a bouquet of all different kinds of pink flowers.

 Maybe it was just the honeymoon period, but that didn't stop her from feeling like he was amazing.

   "Good. Secondly, are you two dating now? Just seeing each other? Engaged? Planning to elope to Vegas next week? Where are you at? Am I going to be an auntie soon?"

   Nova choked on the sip of tea she'd just taken.

   "Jesus Christ Stella!" she spluttered: "Dating! We are dating! There are absolutely no plans for marriage or children at this point."

 "You sure?"

 "Yes!"

 Stella smirked: "Because I know you have a tendency to announce things via Dom's Instagram..."

 Nova glared and jabbed a finger at her sister: "Fuck off, it happened once."

 Little shit that she was, Stella just laughed: "Speaking off announcing things, have you told anyone else yet?"

 "I didn't mean to tell you. Fucking Sinead and her fucking Instagram." Nova sighed half-heartedly, bearing no actual ill-will to either her niece of her social media: "But no, I haven't told anyone - honestly I only plan on even telling mum, dad, and Orion because I don't want Dom thinking they won't approve of him."

   It was entirely true.

 Nova's relationship with her parents and younger brother was...strained at best. Her parents might be former hippies, but they were judgemental pricks, and Orion had some sort of youngest-child-and-only-boy inferiority complex that meant he was always looking for ways to prove he was 'better' than Nova and Stella. In truth, they probably wouldn't approve of her seeing Dom, but that disapproval would be focused on her, not him; because that was what they did. Disapproved of her.

 She got it; no-one really wanted a dominatrix for a daughter, but it had started getting old around five years ago, and by now she was completely over it. She knew her parents loved her, but they just didn't approve, and though they certainly weren’t afraid to show that, Nova didn't really care anymore. It was old news, as far as she was concerned, and Stella knew all of that, so she was quick to move on to her next question, because there was simply nothing else there to cover.

   "Speaking of family, Sinead thinks you're literally the coolest person in the family now." Stella rolled her eyes: "She's not shut up talking to me about how cool you are because you're dating this famous rockstar, and now she's somehow got Ciara and Finn on board, so you're going to be very popular this Christmas."

 Amused by Stella obviously being put out by her daughter's favouritism, Nova smirked: "I mean, I was already the coolest person in the family, but it's nice to finally have it recognised."

 "Go fuck yourself." Stella responded casually, taking a sip of her latte: "They've all been keeping it really secret, but are you and Dom keeping it a quiet? Sinead's really nervous about letting it slip if she shouldn't."

 "We haven't really spoken about it. From what I can tell, he's never been hugely obvious when he's dating someone, but he doesn't go to many lengths to hide it either. He seemed more worried by my family not liking us dating than anyone else, but for now..."

 Stella nodded in understanding: "Sinead and Ciara can keep it quiet a bit longer. I'm not entirely sure Finn actually knows who Yungblud is, or even if it's the same person that you're dating, so there's no risk there."

   Nova wouldn't lie and say that she was relieved that the girls wouldn't say anything yet. She didn't want to fuck anything up for Dom, which meant she'd have to take his lead on whether anything went further than their families.

 In any case, it might not be a problem. If they tried dating and it didn't work, then it was probably better that it wasn't widely known that they'd been together at all. Dom wouldn't need the questions, and Nova wouldn't need the attention - it would be much better not to have the whole world know about them if there wasn't actually a them. Besides, she wasn't trying to be flippant, Nova had other things on her mind than Dom's Instagram followers.

 She was thinking of quitting her job.

 It wasn't because of Dom...she was just getting tired of being a dominatrix. She'd been doing it since she was twenty-one - not to mention the two years she'd worked in a brothel before that - and she was thirty-two now. It was boring. She was bored of her clients - with the exception of Dom, of course - she was bored of her lack of a real social life, and she was bored of the constant effort to try and look like she was in her early twenties because looks were a huge part of attracting and keeping clients.

 To put it simply...she was bored out of her mind. If she was being honest with herself, she'd admit that she had been for a while, but now she was dating someone - with the intention that the dating would turn into a relationship - Nova was wondering if it was time to move on. The only thing that was stopping her was...not knowing what she was going to do if she did pack it all in.

 Unfortunately, there was no easy answer to that. And so she wasn't going to dwell on it while she was having coffee with Stella.

 Instead, they carried on speaking about Dom, for a little while. Stella was insistent on getting the chance to meet him, but Nova warned her that it wasn't going to be for a while. She wanted to see if they made it past a month yet - if they did, then she would think about him and Stella meeting, since Stella lived so close. About the rest of the family, Nova wasn't sure, but she was sure that she wasn't in any rush for him to meet them, so that was fine for now. After that the conversation turned to a few other bits and pieces, before Stella had to leave to get Finn from school.

 Nova made sure to hug her sister tightly, a silent thank you for so open to Dom being a part of Nova's life, while still wanting to make sure he was good for her, before both of them left together, walking to the tube station together before going to their separate platforms. Nova had every intention of just going back to her flat and making the most of having no clients today, knowing she had and appointment with one of her less preferred customers tomorrow, when a text message from an unsaved number dropped down from the top of her phone screen, interrupting the news article she was reading while waiting for the train.

 An unsaved number, not an unknown one.

   What the fuck does she want?

   The text message itself was uselessly vague - messages from Nova's 'boss' always were. The old woman didn't like to put anything even potentially incriminating in writing. If she had something to say about business, she'd say it over the phone or (as she preferred) in person.

 And it seemed she had something to say.

   Meet me at your house. Five o'clock.

   Nova cursed internally.

 Helen Birch was a woman of few words, but somehow she always managed to make every single one of them feel like they were weighted down with lead. Maybe it was from years of experience, both as a dominatrix and a madam (although she would never admit to being the latter), or maybe it was just her personality, but either way it made reading her texts feel like being threatened...although in this case, it was potentially because Nova was being threatened. Not explicitly, of course, but nothing good ever came from such blunt commands from Helen.

 Sighing, Nova slid her phone into her handbag and boarded the train that had just opened its doors in front of her.

 The way she saw it, she now had two choices.

 One, ignore the message. It would piss Helen off, and likely only invite more arsey text messages. Helen didn't actually employ Nova - that would suggest there were contracts and paperwork and physical evidence - but did own the house Nova rented to work in, and she also took a cut of some of the money Nova got from some clients, if those clients were direct to Nova from her. And over the years she had sent Nova a lot of clients. She'd really helped Nova find her feet as a dominatrix, providing not just clients but also good advice and help when Nova needed it.

 Basically, it would be really rude to go with choice one.

 Choice two, however, was doing what Helen told her. And that...that set a bad precedent. Helen wasn't her boss, and Nova didn't have to go when Helen called. If Helen wanted to tell Nova something, she could ask Nova if she could meet like a normal person. Nova didn't want to give in and make Helen think that she could command Nova to do as she wished, whenever she wished.

 But if she didn't go with choice two, she'd have to wait longer to find out what Helen wanted. And more than anything else, Nova wanted to know why she was being summoned to her workplace.

   Looks like I'll be going to work after all.

    Whatever happened...it should at least be interesting.

[holyfool-arcana]

The Holy Fool: Chapter 3

Hook, line, sinker

Word Count: 2.1k Warnings: Mentions of infant death and murder, implied sexual relationships,  Rating: M Description: An Arcana AU set in a Vesuvia that is half-noir and half-fantasy.

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Liuyin’s left ear had been both yelled off and pinched beyond sensation by the time Doctor Devorak returned, and they were pretty sure it was as red as a sunset by now. Luckily, Auntie Liya had grown weary of tormenting them for their impulsiveness and left to brew herself some tea in a huff, and Liuyin had retreated back into their own room, changing out of the funeral robes and veil, and into a casual set of clothing once more.

That extra layer of blazer made them feel better, like a suit of armor, and Liuyin had healed themselves up as well, a bit vexed by the lingering sting where their hair had hung over their ear.

Thus, Doctor Devorak was greeted by the sight of aunt and apprentice in the courtyard veranda, two cups of tea between them when he emerged from the autopsy and packed the baby back into its original bundle.

Liuyin smiles at him and gestures him to one of the stone benches-- Aunt Liya scoffed, rolled her eyes, and then begrudgingly produces a matching third teacup that had been tucked up her sleeve before pouring out some tea as well, Liuyin seemingly unperturbed by the judgemental airs as they steepled their fingers and turned to the auburn-haired man.

"The baby died in water. But it wasn't drowned this morning, and I also doubt it was drowned in the harbor," Liuyin says plainly.

The doctor blinked, frowned, and then stared at Liuyin, rather taken aback. "How did you figure out?"

Liuyin smirked internally-- they were only half-sure of their prognosis, with the rest being guesswork. "There's a certain smell to bodies found at sea, from the salt, and when I'd been holding onto it this morning, the body was already stiff as a board."

“And the drowning?” the doctor asks, admittedly with a bit too much excitement.

Liuyin had opened their mouth, most likely intending to tell them, before being cut off with a resounding smack to the table coming from the older woman.

"Liuyin," Aunt Liya interjected with a withering look between the two of them, knowing and probably resenting the fact her ward was enjoying the banter. "We don't speculate on the manner in which the bodies our clients bring to us died!" She admonishes.

Liuyin replied, nearly reflexively, “Sorry Auntie,” while not sounding very remorseful at all.

By clockwork, as if this were a dance they’d perfected by now, Aunt Liya had said in the vernacular dialect of Langya, “Silly child, we’ve seen so many dead, why the interest in this particular body?”

“You’re not curious at all, auntie?” Liuyin asked blithely, with that same sort of calculated shrewdness they’d exhibited at the docks. Be just vexing enough to get others to dismiss you, but not enough to want to harm you or arouse suspicion. It involved a fair amount of playing at stupidity in moderation, something that must have come by either years of practice or as instinctively as breathing.

When Julian tried his hand at it, it came wrapped in a bundle of cavalier flirtatiousness. For Liuyin, it was a calculated mix of ignorance and innocence projected onto a face with eyes far too clever for such a con.

Yet Julian Devorak watched in amazement as the very woman who raised Liuyin from an infant huffs and busies herself with chugging down the chrysanthemum tea in dismissal at their ward’s pretense of innocence, having seemingly bought the lead.

Hook, line, sinker.

“Our lack of curiosity is what has kept us alive and fed,” Aunt Liya replied pointedly. “Our clients are wealthy, or powerful, or both. What’s to stop them from believing we’ve outlived our uses? Especially if secrets were shared with,” and here, she levels a sharp gaze at the doctor, who’d at least had the good grace to look down at the steaming cup. “Outsiders with no regards for what we do, our customs and rituals.”

Liuyin was openly frowning now, and had been opening their mouth-- perhaps to argue, perhaps to agree, perhaps, and this was a ludicrous belief, Julian had thought to himself, to defend his own honor.

He cuts them off by standing with a flourish of his overcoat, having gauged by now that he had, as with most places, overstayed his welcome. “Ah, well Madam Zheng, Apprentice Mei. It’s been an honor, to be certain, but I must be off.”

No use driving a wedge in between Liuyin and their aunt, especially given the way they’d indicated their regard and appreciation for them on the way to the coffin-house.

The witchling looked as though they wanted to interject further but hadn’t the opportunity-- Julian readjusted his gloves, nodded sharply at them, and then made his way down the cobblestone path of the courtyard to the front door. He doesn’t wait to clarify Liuyin’s abrupt call for him to wait, nor Madam Zheng’s hiss for her apprentice to stop being so foolish and reckless to chase after such a man.

With a hint of ruefulness, he thinks that the old witch is right.

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“I suspect foul play,” Julian greets Asra with no other prelude as he sidles in from the back door to the shop, stooping before he hit his head on one of the lower ceiling beams.

“Mhm? That’s nice,” the white-haired magician replied absently, stooped over a table on which laid a prosthetic arm as well as a spread of cards.

Unbidden, that old longing returned to his chest like an instinct-- not really love, no, and even calling it a crush was pushing it, but that inclination to act like a foolish schoolboy and (metaphorically) tug at Asra’s curls or chatter his ear off till the other would just literally shut him up by crushing their mouths together, give his hands something better to do.

A flash and then the impulse was gone.

After a brief pause, Asra prompts, gesturing. “The arm and the missing fiancee? Or Liuyin’s baby?”

“Well,” Julian cleared his throat, deeming whatever Asra was doing safe enough to pull a seat up for, slinging his arms around the back of the chair. “I’ve only taken a look at one of those.”

“So the baby is a foul play case,” Asra murmurs as he reshuffles his deck of tarot cards and then flips one over, frowning at the horned figure on it.

“I think so. I think Liuyin would agree, but her aunt wants the case closed and baby buried,” he muses. Not in a suspicious manner, he had gauged-- Julian knew enough about that sort of thing, the wanting your secrets buried six feet deep where no one could hear even a whisper of it. It was almost… protective, in its own strange way, slightly overbearing or smothering, which reminded him of Pasha and the way she scolded him when she got too worried for his safety and recklessness. Idly, he wondered if Liuyin were the same.

Asra seemed to agree, flipping over another card-- a smiling youth who looked suspiciously like the person occupying a corner of the doctor’s thoughts, an orb with a star shining within it cupped in their hands. “The Old Witch doesn’t like asking questions. Says they’re bad for the business.”

“I can tell, dear,” Julian replied automatically, earning him a look of near-scorn from the magician. “But is it because she doesn’t like to or doesn’t want to?”

“What difference does it make, even?” Asra raised a brow. “A baby died. Case closed and over with.”

“Don’t tell me your cards aren’t saying there’s more to it than that,” Julian replied, reaching out a hand lightning-quick, laying it over Asra’s.

“I’ll take another avenue,” he responded firmly. “It’s not a matter I want to pry into. Liuyin’s business and mine remain separate for their sake.”

“So there is something more, you agree.”

Asra turns to him then, something like fire in his violet eyes as he carefully, using his free hand, encircled the wrist that Julian had caged his other hand with, extricating the offending appendage. “Ilya.”

He’d never heard him sound this dangerous before, truth be told. It was sending shivers down the hair on the back of his neck.

Asra continued. “Whatever happens, my affairs are my own, just as Liuyin has their own matters to attend to. I suggest you don’t try to reel them into this. Are we understood?”

What if they want answers, what if they want to be reeled in?

It was so silent that Julian could hear the soft rasp of his own breathing, the dull thud of blood in his ears. “Yeah,” he found himself nodding obediently.

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“Blessings for the rich, blessings for the poor!” Liuyin chanted listlessly, waving the stack of talismans in their hand as they assailed yet another group of unsuspecting tourists in the Temple District.

“You! Good sir over there! You look like you could use a little… magic in your life,” Liuyin said with as much charm as they could muster after staying up the previous night, chasing after a baby-corpse-snatcher in the dark, and then getting yelled at by their aunt for consorting with the likes of cads like Doctor Devorak who stuck their noses too far into other peoples’ businesses. As a result, they were made to hand out talismans as punishment to the tourists, which, between the tourist-wrangling and the general lack of success this endeavour turned out to be, was far worse a task than having to clean the cadavers brought in.

The tourist, probably not expecting to be beset by a figure who dressed like a religious fanatic and spoke like a particularly ambitious but dead-inside street vendor, had shaken off their grip and stalked away.

Other attempts bore similar fruit, with only one or two accepting their talismans-- Liuyin had checked the sigils inserted subtly into the charms for protections that had a persuasive air-- one that manifested as a small voice in the user’s head that suggested they visit a particular coffin-house on the edge of the Center City and the Temple District for any blessings, curses, exorcisms, and funerals they needed to undertake.

Their punishment, as per usual, ended at sundown. Liuyin gazed over at the setting sun and groaned, wiping a clammy hand down their face and slumping against a nearby wall. Finally, finally, their workday was over.

With great enthusiasm, they’d torn the veil and forehead ribbon from their head and balled it up, shoving them along with the talismans into the pouch slung from their shoulder, getting started on the white robe they wore atop their actual clothing as well, undoing the sash.

“You didn’t look the type to be into public indecency, but I suppose appearances are deceiving,” a voice said right next to their ear, and Liuyin jumped forward several feet before realizing who it was.

“Gods and devils,” Liuyin had blurted out, “Please don’t sneak up on me again, Doctor Devorak.”

“Call me Julian,” he grinned down at them.

“Julian, please don’t sneak up on me again,” they corrected, letting their robe hang loose, opening onto a pair of loose trousers and neck-high blouse, so much for public indecency.

“Won’t happen again, darling. ‘Pon my honor,” he’d said, holding three fingers up and clasping the other hand to his chest in a gesture like taking a vow.

They looked half-amused at that, softening the words, making them less suspicious than they were earlier. “What do you want?” Liuyin asked, query mirroring what they’d demanded from the doctor just earlier today-- heavens, it was only today that this entire fiasco had taken place. Not even twenty-four hours later, and they’d been bantering with the taller man as if they were old friends.

“Ever to the point as usual,” he’d said with a grin. “Come, walk with me. I was looking for you, but your aunt said you were out-- while chasing me off with a sword.”

“Ah, right, the peachwood sword. I believe she thinks you’re a wicked spirit,” Liuyin muttered, earning a hearty chuckle from Julian. Their aunt used it to banish wicked spirits, as was common in their line of spiritualism. Liuyin had their own, usually left in their room along with the rest of the charms and trinkets, unless they were going to perform some ritual or blessing or another, in which case they had it strapped to their back.

“Then, my dear,” Julian says, swivelling around to face them with a hint of mischief glinting in his eyes. “Would you be adverse to an evening of wickedness?”

Liuyin raised a brow expectantly. “Where did you have in mind?”

His answering smirk promised a world of trouble. “The Red Market.”

[pinnithin-writes]

Good Jokes

Chapter 4

Later that day, Tommy did two things to make Gordon’s life a little easier.

Item one: he did end up trapping Benrey under a fire door. It was an accident. Totally. Tommy knew it wasn’t a permanent fix, but it would at least get the entity out of their hair for a few hours while he regenerated a body. In the meantime, they could make their way through the facility much quicker.

Item two: he stopped calling Gordon by his first name.

Dr. Coomer had been firing off a cheerful, “Hello, Gordon!” every few minutes and it was driving the new guy nuts. He was sick to death of his own name. Tommy realized he had subconsciously discarded the word ‘Gordon’ to spare his sanity and now found himself casting around for a replacement.

‘Freeman’ felt blasé. Lazy. Like something Benrey would call him, if he ever bothered to call anyone anything. ‘Dr. Freeman’ made Tommy feel the same way ‘Dr. Coolatta’ did. It was ostentatious. Distinguished. Not at all a fit for Gordon - Tommy had a feeling he knew how to misbehave.

...Mister? Mr. Freeman? That made him sound like a high school history teacher. It was… hilarious, honestly. He couldn’t picture this maniac with a crowbar lecturing at the front of a classroom if he tried. And Gordon didn’t strike Tommy as someone pretentious enough to correct him on the title. He was sharp enough to appreciate the joke. Provided he wasn’t too stressed out to catch it.

The first time he called him that, Gordon accepted it without comment, did a double take, and gave Tommy a questioning, brows-raised look. Mister? He mouthed. But, as predicted, he didn’t correct him. Tommy could not keep the shit-eating grin off his face. The name stuck.

The military showed up, with their artillery and their uniforms and their brief stint of hope, but they were just as bloodthirsty as the aliens, gunning the researchers in Black Mesa down like prey animals. Were these three men he ran with the only people Tommy could trust? No, not even that, the only people who didn’t outright want him dead? It sure was starting to seem like that. He steeled his nerves for further violence as they pushed on.

Reaching the surface was a short-lived victory. Tommy caught a fleeting glimpse of the red canyon walls, the searing blue sky, before government ordered ammunition rained down on them and forced them below ground again like rats. His heart ached. He wanted to taste the sun on his face. Feel the desert sand radiating its latent heat. Following his team into the cold metal belly of Black Mesa once more was probably the hardest thing he’d done that day.

Benrey didn’t stay gone for long, materializing in the form of a skeleton while his flesh was piecing itself together particle by particle in another dimension. He was practically haunting the group, revealing himself only to Gordon and slowly driving him insane. Tommy could see him, as well, but he ignored the entity. If he was this desperate for attention, he would have to try a little harder to gain any from him.

He later got the attention he craved via dozens of slugs of lead. Bubby and Coomer quickly took out the skeleton as soon as it visibly approached them, and Gordon had promptly passed out seconds later. Tommy rested his hands on his waist, surveying the mess and shaking his head. They were too close to the military threat right now to justify resting here.

God, he was bone tired, though. They had been running hard for at least a day now. It was honestly a miracle Gordon hadn’t lost consciousness sooner. He drew in a deep breath, casting a cursory look at his remaining companions.

“Do you think we can get him out of here?” he asked.

Bubby wiped a spatter of blood from his jaw and shrugged. “I’m not carrying him,” he grumbled.

“We could roll him like a barrel,” Dr. Coomer suggested blithely.

As funny as that would be, it was probably best not to give Gordon any more blunt force trauma than he had already taken today. Falling down a staircase because your coworkers pushed you would be a pretty idiotic way to die, especially after everything Gordon had survived already. Tommy removed his lab coat and passed it off to Bubby, who passed it off to Coomer.

After he neatly rolled up his sleeves, picking up Gordon wasn’t hard for Tommy to do. It was just a matter of nudging the rules of weight and mass a little to his advantage. Tommy never broke reality; he just leaned on it occasionally until it gave enough ground for him to do what he wanted. Gordon’s limp head lolled against his chest as he hefted him in his arms. He did his best not to pay attention to that.

“Fine lifting, Tommy!” Dr. Coomer exclaimed.

Tommy nodded in thanks, grateful that the old boxer didn’t get hung up on the details of the implausible. Bubby, however, had a question on his face, studying Tommy carefully as he stood there carrying a man who had fifty pounds on him, at least. But he didn’t ask, so Tommy didn’t answer.

He cast one last look at the pile of Benrey bones on the floor. He’d catch up later.

“Let’s go,” he said.

They pressed on wearily in search of a sheltered place. Tommy carried Gordon like the precious cargo he was, fully appreciating that the other man wasn’t conscious for this. Otherwise he’d surely hear how loudly his heart was pounding against his ribs.

I’ve got you, Tommy thought. You’re safe.

---

A new sense of normalcy elbowed into their lives. The following day, the team worked its way in a wide arc through an unexplored section of Black Mesa, dodging aliens and soldiers alike as they went. It had only taken 24 hours for the reality of fighting for their lives to settle in, and while they were all still pretty haggard from the previous day’s events, everyone seemed to be handling themselves a little better after a night’s rest and some time to process.

Gordon had improved more than anyone. After dealing with the shock of the Resonance Cascade and watching his world turn on its ear, he had concluded that the only way out was through, and he would be the one to get them there. His words were still a rapid-fire tangle of his unfiltered thoughts, but Tommy could see his decisions growing more critical, his actions more confident as they worked their way toward freedom.

Good thing, too. Tommy was beginning to sense a strangeness in the air the deeper they explored Black Mesa. A warping of the space around them, a stretching of the threads of time. Someone, somewhere, had grabbed a towline and yanked, and Tommy could sense it yanking him, too. It felt…bad. It felt wrong.

He tried to explain as much to the team, now that their soundness of mind was relatively more stable than it was yesterday. But it was hard to verbalize the concept of reality shifting like a tectonic plate to people whose top priorities were not getting eaten or shot. “I think time might be expanding and contracting,” was what Tommy said. “I think you might be having a caffeine overdose,” was Gordon’s troubled reply.

Alright. If nobody wanted to believe him, Tommy wasn’t going to waste his energy making them. He trailed behind the group, as was his habit, and quietly did his best to keep his companions alive.

On the upside, with Gordon feeling more normal, Tommy’s jokes were starting to land again. As they uncovered more and more horrifying secrets hidden in the intestines of Black Mesa, Tommy could feel his own sarcasm reaching astronomical levels just to cope.

What the hell were they doing down here? Tommy had been aware of the planar research the facility was conducting, but seriously? A freezer full of human flesh? Ethically questionable cybernetic experiments? Vats of toxic waste, just out there in the open? The absurdity of it all would almost strike him as funny if their circumstances weren’t so dire.

Bubby met it all with grim acceptance and Dr. Coomer seemed wholly oblivious. Only Gordon was reeling with the same amount of consternation that Tommy was experiencing, exchanging glances with him that asked, What the fuck? What the actual fuck?

Dr. Coomer, who was rapidly gaining Tommy’s respect by going toe to toe with their enemies boxing style, kept worrying about his ‘green goop’ allergy anytime they were near the nuclear waste. Tommy honestly wasn’t sure if he was serious or not, and he fought down a snicker whenever it was mentioned. In a way, everyone was allergic to nuclear waste. If you really thought about it.

Gordon eventually raised a concern about their exposure to radiation. Little late there, bud, Tommy wanted to say, but Bubby beat him to the punch with an acidic, “It’s just brain cancer, you can live with that.”

“I don’t thi - hm,” Gordon said.

“I don’t think you can live with that,” Coomer agreed.

Gordon paused, then reconsidered. “I mean, you guys have shown me you - your superhuman potential, so maybe you can,” he said. “Maybe you can. I’m willing to believe… quite about anything right now, so.”

Tommy rolled his eyes as he hopped easily up to the pipeline they had been following. Anything except time being altered, apparently. He tried not to hold it against him. Baby steps. Tommy gazed down at Gordon and jerked his chin for him to follow.

“The cybernetics department was very well funded, Gordon,” Dr. Coomer informed him brightly as he clambered up the pipe.

Well funded? Tommy couldn’t keep the snark out of his voice. “Yeah,” he agreed dryly, “they even gave us these flashlights.”

Gordon, after clearing a gap, turned to give Tommy a puzzled look.

He smirked and indicated his perfectly ordinary flashlight. “They’re Weather Channel brand, you just kinda turn a crank and they go.”

Gordon’s laugh, genuine and sweet, rang through the chamber, and Tommy was surprised at the relief that washed over him when he heard it. If Gordon was feeling well enough to take a joke, they were on the right track. They were doing okay. He smiled and kept moving forward, hope fluttering in his chest.

The nuclear reactor that was actively leaking waste was so mind-numbingly ridiculous, so pointlessly and blatantly dangerous, that Tommy barked out a short “ha!” of a laugh when he rounded the corner. The sheer amount of radiation exposure this facility possessed was unheard of. It was a miracle they didn’t all have massive brain damage. Okay, well. Maybe that was up for debate.

“This place is huge,” Gordon remarked.

“Yup!” Tommy proclaimed, eyeing the acid green sludge with a mystified grin. “And it’s all built to code. The U.S. lets us do this. This is all to regulation.” He raised his arm in a dramatic, sweeping gesture, unable to contain his mirth. “Everything.”

Gordon began chuckling. “I mean, I’m not too worried about the government right now,” he reasoned, before his attention was stolen away by the animals that were swimming in the murk. He popped a few rounds off with his handgun, marveling at the beasts’ ability to survive in such a toxic environment.

Tommy was too pleased with himself to even bother acting like they were a threat. “Those creatures aren’t from the - from the incident,” he continued. “Those were here. That’s also to regulation. You’re allowed… five percent.”

He was barely keeping his tone even and Gordon was doing an amused little exhale through his nose as he tried to hold in his laughter.

“We’ve been breeding them for twenty years to eat radioactive waste,” Dr. Coomer added, eyes twinkling with mischief as he played along.

Tommy had never wanted to high five another person so badly in his life.

Dr. Coomer didn’t even manage to ruin the mood by dying, twice, in rapid succession. He miraculously reappeared only seconds later, when they had all regrouped on a catwalk about three stories above the pit of waste. Tommy arched a quizzical eyebrow at the old man. Coomer simply shrugged. Huh. He sure wasn’t kidding about the cybernetics department being well funded.

Gordon, who was already questioning his own sanity, didn’t even ask about it. Benrey was back, of course. Hovering around the group like the disembodied fuck he was. Tommy let his gaze slide away from him like water anytime he was in his line of sight, but Gordon couldn’t shake the spectre from his mind as it floated only paces behind them. He had been doing a well enough job of pretending the entity wasn’t there until Benrey fired a nine millimeter round at him.

“Okay,” Gordon declared, finally snapping. “There is something fucked up going on.” He cast a nervous eye in the skeleton’s direction.

Bubby and Coomer looked perplexed, while Tommy just folded his arms. He was ignoring Benrey for everyone’s sake - the more attention he got the more powerful he became - but a small part of him was just being petty. Oh, Gordon wanted everyone to believe something unlikely was happening? But nobody took his word for it? Wonder what that felt like.

Gordon kept talking as he pointed at Benrey. “There is an invisible assailant. I want you guys to believe me - I need you guys to believe me.” His tone took on a pleading edge, and it was too much for Tommy to leave him hanging anymore. “There’s - okay - th-”

“I mean, aside from the extra creatures,” Tommy interrupted him, “I’m just seeing normal nuclear power plant stuff, Mr. Freeman. You’re starting to concern me.”

Gordon’s nervous words stuttered into a chuckle. While he turned aside to contain himself, Tommy sliced a chilly stare toward the simpering skull a few yards away. Shoot at him again and see what happens.

Benrey’s returning gaze was icy. But he hung back.

The group assured Gordon that he was not, in fact, losing his mind (“Could just be the radiation,” Bubby offered), and kept going until they reached a door with a label so weathered it was almost unreadable. Gordon, with newfound confidence, gave Tommy a roguish grin as soon as he saw it.

“What does this say?” He asked, even teeth flashing prettily. “This is another one of those fucked up things like the break room. I can't read this.”

Tommy let out a quiet, surprised breath. The fact that Gordon was referencing the moment they met at a time like this made him feel amused and touched in equal measure. Heat rose from his collarbones to his cheeks as he returned his smile. Wait, he had asked him a question, hadn’t he? He squinted at the door and realized he could actually decipher it.

“This says-”

“Prolapse?” Gordon guessed cheekily, and Tommy almost choked on his own laughter.

“Pro Lab Engine Testing,” he managed to gasp out, right before the door opened and a ghoulish creature lunged at them.

Dr. Coomer was on the thing in a blink, knocking it out with a heavy-knuckled blow to the cranium before it could even touch anyone. They all gave the old scientist an impressed look before stepping around the corpse and through the entrance.

“I’ve never been in here,” Tommy commented as he ducked under the doorway. “They only let me into the Scrub Lab.”

Gordon laughed like a bell tower. It rang straight through his heart.

Tommy was never one for drugs, but Gordon Freeman’s sunshine smile made him understand why some people were. Every time he saw it he wanted more, and hearing Gordon’s laughter was quickly becoming addicting.

Awfully inconvenient of Armageddon to happen right when he was getting to know the guy. He should be asking him for his number, not checking to see how many bullets he’d taken. Well, Tommy thought with resolve, all the more reason to get him out of here alive.

Chapter 3 <-----> Chapter 5

[aconitemare]

[jaydick] Before That, And Colder

Chapter Four

AO3

Previous Chapter

Dick kicks his foot in the air repeatedly, inspecting the pink flowers on his white Oxfords. He’s pretending to ignore the people around him — possibly, he is actually ignoring them, as the outlines of their bodies blur around his fancy footwear. He leans farther back on Jason’s desk, conjuring the picture of ease. To his left rests Jason’s Red Hood helmet in a gargoyle-fashion. Everyone here knows Jason Todd is the Red Hood, but Dick is just Richie Grayson, D-list celebrity. The sleeves of his pretentiously silk bomber jacket, embroidered with colorful roosters, slip slightly down his shoulder. 

“Is this really the best time to be hiring people? Specifically this person?” This question comes from James — or “Wingman,” as Jason earlier informed him of. James is up-and-coming, bat-themed, Gotham-based vigilante who believes the Red Hood is absolutely critical to public safety. Dick has not yet shared this detail with Batman, having only received it an hour before this current meeting, but he’s hoping they’ll share a good laugh over that.

“No time like the present,” Jason says without much concern. He stands beside the desk, a few feet from Dick. 

Dick catches James crossing his arms from the corner of his eyes. The defensive body language convinces him to focus more on the arrangement of people. Suzie Su still sits on the recliner, seemingly indifferent. Her sisters, one of which Dick recognizes as the waitress who intercepted him and Miguel earlier, flock around Su either on the couch or near her armrest; all except for Night, Dick’s blackjack dealer yesterday, who now occupies a distant corner of the room by herself. Miguel sits in the recliner opposite Suzie Su, playing with his tie. James stands the closest to Dick and Jason and busies himself with looking like he eats nails for breakfast. 

“The son of Bruce Wayne is hardly a sound addition to the Outlaws,” James points out. 

Suzie Su’s head swivels towards Jason. “Oh, no,” she says, suddenly invested, “Whatever ‘the outlaws’ is, count me out of it. I’m going legit, you promised!”

Jason takes a page from Dick’s book and seats himself on the corner of his desk. He grips the edge, knees spread, so that he looks like he’s riding a horse. For an unstably diverse crowd, he’s rather at ease at the head of it, Dick notes. Jason holds up a silencing finger and begins his address, “Firstly, the Outlaws are too legit for any mere mortal to handle, that includes you, Su, so stuff it. Secondly, James, you can also stuff it because no one’s inviting Richie Rich onto the team except you, it would seem.”

So, does that mean I don’t get to see the Super Secret Clubhouse and make friendship bracelets? Dick almost says. Instead, he receives a text alert and checks his phone to see Bruce left him a message. 

What is your plan of action? it reads.

Dick quickly shoots back a non-committal text, wary of Jason sensing Batman’s concern through the phone. Luckily, Jason doesn’t pay Dick’s texting any mind, preoccupied with his stand-off against Wingman. 

James persists, undeterred by Jason’s skilled dismissal. “Batman isn’t exactly in your corner, Todd. He is, however, in Wayne’s pocket. As is Richie Grayson.”

Dick frowns; his current persona is apparently no longer a good fit. He will need to adjust accordingly. Dick sits up straighter on the desk and tucks his legs. “I have my own funds, as a matter of fact,” he speaks up. Jason’s eyes slice into him — oh, right, Dick’s not supposed to talk while meeting the in-laws. Oh, well. He continues, “I work for the Bludhaven Police Department.” 

Dick touches his jacket collar and inspects the interior fabrice. “I try to dress nice when there might be cameras so I don’t make Bruce look bad, but most of it’s bought off-price at Marshalls.” This last part is a lie as he rarely buys his own photo op clothes. Bruce has a personal stylist who keeps everyone’s wardrobe at the Manor stocked. Dick hit up his old bedroom on the way to the hotel. 

“You’re a cop,” James repeats. 

Dick holds back a wince. So much for Agent 37’s kick-ass undercover portfolio. “Every cop’s a little dirty in the ‘Haven,” he says, hopefully smoothly.

Unfortunately, James does not find this comforting. “So not only are you a cop who knows about the Iceberg’s business, but you’re not even a good cop?”

Dick points at Jason. “He murders people,” he deflects. 

Jason sighs obnoxiously loud. “Richie has information and contacts,” Jason increases his volume when James looks like he wants to say something else, “neither of which are anyone’s business at the moment but mine. Believe it or not, but I’m pretty attached to my life, in both a literal and figurative sense, and so if I say the guy from that one lady-service Pantene commercial is going to keep my organs safely inside my body, rest assured, I have done my research.”

This standing ovation inspires Dick to wonder whether Jason saw that commercial on cable or some other venue. He tries and fails to imagine Jason watching Friends reruns. Maybe he caught it off some gun review video on Youtube. This is the kind of media Dick assumes Jason consumes. 

“Great to know,” says Suzie Su flatly. “So, Richie, who’s trying to whack our boss?”

“No one yet. There have been no attempts on his life thus far,” Dick responds. Then, “Also, you can just call me Dick.”

“Shouldn’t be too tough,” Suzie Su remarks.

“The situation will escalate, though,” James states,  “There is no doubt that Red Hood is the final target.”

“Correct. Which is why it’s important that we trust each other,” Dick says. He levels a gaze at everyone in the room except for James, which should indicate to him that he’s the object of criticism without presenting Dick as outwardly hostile. “If we are too busy suspecting each other without any evidence, we allow for outside threats to slip past our radar.” Dick can only hope they will take this to heart; it will be harder for him to investigate Jason’s people if they’re also investigating him.  

“Truth,” Miguel agrees as he stands to his feet and walks towards Dick. “Although it kind of worked out for us this time, right? You following me, us following you?” As he approaches, he extends a hand and Dick dismounts from the desk. “Welcome to the team, Dick,” Miguel says, clapping Dick on the shoulder as they shake. His smile is warm and sincere. Dick feels an equally genuine grin spread across his face. 

“Alright, alright,” Jason says, leaning from his spot on the desk to bat an arm at them. “What did I just say about teams, dude,” he gripes. Miguel shrugs rather blithely before he returns to his chair. Dick appreciates what he hopes will be the one easy-going personality in this tense bunch. 

Jason claps his hands together and stands. “Okay, here’s the deal: I want someone always watching my vehicle for the next, fuck, two weeks, I guess? One week?” He looks to Dick for confirmation. Dick mouths, ‘longer.’ “One week to start, cool,” Jason locks in his answer. “I don’t mean from the cameras, as I really am hoping to catch this person ASAP and get back to my regularly scheduled gangbanging.”

Dick watches the crowd: Miguel gives a whoop, Suzie Su rolls her eyes, one of the sisters not standing in the corner laughs. 

“So, that means I need you,” Jason flourishes his arm in the air and brings it dramatically down like a hammer, finger pointing sharply at Miguel, “to physically be in the parking lot.”

Miguel looks around in bafflement. “I’m the owner. That would look weird,” he says, gesturing towards himself.

Jason rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure everyone is lining up for your autograph, too, now come off it. No one here is instantly recognizable except for me, and that’s mostly to do with the helmet,” Jason pats the helmet beside him emphatically, “giving me serious red Darth Vader vibes.”

Dick suppresses a laugh. Jason hears him anyway, but that turns out to be not so bad. Jason’s eyes flicker towards him but they’re absent of reproach, which is how Dick realizes he had expected to be growled at for his humor. But Jason made the joke, didn’t he? He goes so far as to smile, not threateningly, but pleasantly. Dick wants to call it soft even. 

Jason’s eyes are back on the ragtag team within the second. He explains properly his reasoning to Miguel. “The subject’s abilities and target range are unknown to us. You’re our safest bet for handling whatever he might be capable of. And you can wear whatever you want.” Dick assumes that last bit is weighted with the implication of a supersuit, although Miguel’s secret identity may very well be known considering the lack of visible confusion on anyone’s face. Of course, that could just be indifference; no one in this room seems particularly interested in each other. 

“If you see someone snooping, wait it out. If you see someone put something on my bike, apprehend them and bring them to me where I can then proceed to shoot their brains out,” Jason instructs. Dick tries to say something, but Jason says over his attempt, “If they’re guilty.”

“Not really the problem,” Dick mutters. 

“The Su Brigade can, I don’t know, keep doing what you’re doing, I guess? Keep an eye on suspicious figures.”

Dick chimes in, “This time, however, immediately report to Jason or myself. Don’t rush in unless the threat is urgent. Don’t,” he motions to James, “text James, or whatever it is you guys did. That was sloppy and uncoordinated.”

James shifts his weight more evenly. Dick instantly recognizes the implicit challenge and straightens his back. “Text you, huh? What, you the boss now?”

Dick files through his possible responses, weighs the best tone to take, the stance to adopt. Should he pick up the gauntlet and try to assert dominance, or go for diplomacy? He doubts this will come to blows, but the direction he takes this could have later consequences, could affect Jason’s safety even in the long-run. 

Dick almost misses the change in Jason’s posture, but it’s instantaneous. “He’s close enough,” Jason has already spoken, no longer leaning against the desk but standing with his hands deceptively plunged into his jeans pockets and his searing green eyes locked on James. “More the boss than you are, at any rate, so yeah, I’d text him.” He sounds almost casual, accent set in a lazy Gotham drawl, yet there’s an angered click to how he sets his teeth. He’s intimidating, alright, the sharp cut of his cheeks complementing his strong jaw. He’s quite Hollwood-esque actually, Dick thinks — at least before he realizes Jason is looking right back at him. Jason raises his eyebrows and spins his fingers in a prompting manner. “Well? Anything else you’d like to derail the meeting with, Dick?”

And just like that, Jason manages to personally undermine the power he just gave him. Dick is bordering on impressed, restrained only by his sudden irritation. Dick simply smiles and says, “You’re the boss.”

“Fantastic. James! How do you feel about interrogating people you can’t beat up?” Jason proposes to the next member of the non-team. 

Dick thinks James could question people without beating them up just fine, especially after the practice he got in while interrogating Dick. James doesn’t comment on whether he’s up to the task, however, but replies, “Who am I interrogating?”

Jason grins and quickly bows his body. “A witness. Exciting, right? Unfortunately, no, not exciting. This will suck for you. Daniel Garcia, the second victim, should be at Gotham General Hospital — fingers crossed he has insurance, because otherwise you’ll have to find out where he lives and talk to him there.”

Dick could be projecting, but he thinks James puffs up his chest at this. “I can find anyone anywhere,” vows James.

“I’ve no doubt, buddy. I just would prefer he not have to relive everything the second he gets home because a stranger wants to hear the gory details,” Jason explains. His tone is slightly scolding. There might be some decency in him yet. Dick immediately feels guilty for being surprised. Jason is a good guy. A good guy. He’s said as much to Bruce. Did he forget to tell himself the same thing?

“Bring some flowers to soften things,” Dick suggests.

“Flowers don’t soften a crowbar, Dick,” Jason disagrees. Still, he adds for James, “But yeah, bring flowers. The family won’t like you for it, but they’ll hate you even more if you don’t.”

“Do we have to do anything?” Suzie Su asks, a little unhappily, it would seem. Dick doesn’t trust her. Then again, would she be so openly disloyal if she was double-crossing? The only person in this room Dick trusts is Miguel — and even then, if there’s one thing Batman has been trying to drill into him for half his life, it’s that trust is a liability. Anyone here could logically be a mole. Anyone here could be loyal, too. 

“No, Suzie Su, I expect absolutely nothing from you and that’s why I dragged you to a staff meeting, so you could sit on your ass and pick at your nails,” Jason intones. Suzie Su drops her manicured nails to her lap and glares at him. Jason sticks his tongue out in response. “You and your lovely sisters of questionable bloodline are my ears to the ground.”

“So, same as before?”

Jason cocks his head, shakes it up and down as if weighing the question, and says, “K-i-i-i-i-nd of? It’s like what you were doing before, but not complete garbage. Need I remind you that you let this idiot into my office.” Jason jabs his thumb in Dick’s direction.

Miguel raises his finger. He’s properly relaxed in his cushiony recliner, legs crossed and arms spilling over the back. “Ah, but you let the idiot stay,” he reminds Jason. 

Dick twists his lips. “Thanks, Miguel. Or whatever.”

“Or whatever,” Jason decides. “Alright, everyone out of my office and onto the things I demand of you. Dick, you’re coming with me.”

The crowd is already dispersing. Dick hops off the desk and pats the wrinkles from his pants. “Why’s that? I thought you didn’t want me breathing down your neck.”

Jason’s back is to Dick as he fastens his Red Hood helmet over his head, which tips Dick off that some of his people outside the office might still not know who’s under the mask. Jason’s response is rougher than before. “You saw the tapes, didn’t you?” The energy from only a minute ago has melted from his voice. The helmet lights up then and Jason’s next words are modulated, shrouded in static. “That makes you the expert.”

Dick does not miss the irony of this statement. 

  ___________

  Dick has Jason drive him to Bludhaven. Jason has many cars and not a single one is worth less than $80,000. “How do you blend in?” Dick asked on the way to his shitty apartment across the pond, Jason looking absolutely put-upon by the half-hour drive.  His Red Hood helmet has been stowed away in a personally customized, hidden compartment. “I don’t,” Jason simply replied. Dead guys, according to Jason, don’t need to feign poverty. Especially if those dead guys are better known for their underground empires and resort casinos. However, two rich men in a luxury vehicle don’t have much business commiserating with the family of boys like Terry Weind. So, the two stop by Bludhaven to pick up Dick’s Saturn and allow him to change into less flamboyant clothes. 

Dick chooses a threadbare BPD t-shirt and jeans. Jason stays in his signature ensemble of leather jacket and combat boots. He raises his brows at Dick’s outfit, but Dick insists it’s a good choice. Even if they don’t like the police, he’s still out of uniform and unarmed, and they’ll know this isn’t his territory. He’ll seem like a commuter, which might even win him some subconscious sympathy; many people in downtown Gotham have to commute to Bludhaven, albeit usually for a fishery job and not the police department. 

Jason waits in the car for Dick to come out. Dick invites him in, but secretly he’s relieved. The place is a mess. If how he keeps his office is a hint, Jason’s habits are immaculate. They would put Dick to shame. Dick taps Jason’s window to signal they’re switching to the Saturn. Jason takes an excessively long time to part with his car, all but cooing at it, but does eventually make it over. He settles into the passenger seat, looking Dick up and down.

“What?” Dick asks, perhaps defensively. He should’ve said something like, “Like what you see?” but it’s too late for that. 

Jason shrugs casually, but his eyes flicker to Dick’s hair. “Nothing. You just look normal now.” 

Dick jams his keys into the ignition, because he has to be rough for the car to start, and rolls his eyes. “You mean my hair’s not gay?”

“Eh. Less gay.” And then Jason is reaching out and ruffling his hair, fingers curling through the still-damp waves. Dick stuck his hair under the bathroom sink’s faucet before putting his shirt on. He got water everywhere, but he needed to get the product out. He weirdly hopes Jason doesn’t feel any lingering stickiness, that his hair is soft to touch. 

Jason’s face abruptly screws up in confusion as if he isn’t sure how he got here. Slowly, he retracts his hand and sits straight in his seat. Dick didn’t notice how open Jason’s body language was just a moment ago, but he notices how it closes. His knees no longer point towards Dick but to the windshield; his arms, once extended towards him, now fold across his chest. Dick stares at him for a moment, trying to piece together the puzzle he suspects they almost had. 

Jason’s presence always has that mystifying effect on him, however, like he’s a monument to all the almosts they’ve been. When Jason was Robin, they were almost friends. When he was the Red Hood, they were almost enemies. Then they might have been brothers, could have been, maybe. There had been that night on the rooftop when Dick had managed to slip through Spyral’s many fingers — when Barbara had run away and Damian had embraced him and Tim demanded why, why — Jason had drawn blood as his voice broke because you don’t do that to your. Almost.

They are always on the verge of some new meaning. 

“Well?” asks Jason. “Are you waiting for me to set up the GPS? You know the address, let’s go.”

Dick quickly recovers and begins edging out from his spot between two other parked cars on the street. “What are we, drag racing? Jeesh.” They avoid traffic for the drive over but do swing into a corner store once they’re in Gotham again. Jason buys the most expensive bouquet available while Dick fiddles with a rack of playing cards. Pokémon? Magic? Would Terry care about either of those games? He sees Jason head to the counter and grabs a random card pack to check out. His phone buzzes in his pocket just as he finishes counting off the dollar bills. He hands the cashier $16 and unlocks his phone. It’s from Bruce.

Any progress?

Dick begins typing out an answer when he remembers the boundaries he agreed on with Jason. He said he wouldn’t share any details with Bruce unless Jason okay’d it. He could let Jason know Bruce is asking, but even mentioning Bruce tends to sour him. Dick would rather get through this meeting with Terry Weind first. He makes a mental note to inform Jason later and give Bruce a non-answer if he says no. 

Ten minutes later and they’re standing on narrow porch steps. The wooden planks are dark and splintery and covered in cigarette butts where an ash tray has been knocked down. Dick squats down and picks it up; ceramic, woodsy-green and leaf-shaped. He sets it atop the paint-chipped banister while Jason knocks on the door. The walls are thin enough that Dick can trace the sound of someone walking down the stairs. It’s summery outside today, the earth baked through by the sun, but he’s thinking of winters down here. Even with a good furnace, these walls must let the chill in. 

A woman opens the door in her nightgown, one hand on the knob and the other on the frame. Her eyes are red and the skin beneath them sags. Her skin is almost ashen. She looks tired. She is tired, she’s exhausted, Dick can feel it when he looks at her. Her exhaustion is a heavy substance that spreads out and sinks into his flesh. 

“Are you Terry’s mom?” Jason asks. He has the flowers already at his chest. His voice is stiff with emotion. Dick recalls his comment about Daniel reliving trauma and wonders if that’s what Jason is doing right now. 

The woman nods and says that, yes, she is, but little changes in her expression. Dick had been expecting confusion, but she accepts the flowers without hesitation. Evidently, they are not remotely the first ones to share condolences. “My name’s Laura,” she says, touching the waxy petal of a calla lily. Her voice is soft and deep as if it’s been anchored to the bottom of the ocean.

“I’m Jason.”

“Dick,” Dick says after him. 

Laura opens her mouth silently for a few seconds before carefully telling them, “I appreciate you boys coming here and wishing us well. It’s been hard, but we’re grateful to the community’s response, it’s been wonderful. I hope you don’t mind me not inviting you in, it’s just that I work grave and don’t get much sleep, and Terry’s resting.”

“We understand. But actually, we’re not just here to offer our sympathy — though you do have it, of course,” Dick conveys. He rushes the words of each clause so his speech comes out in quick, nervous chunks. He’s dipping head, taking up as little room as possible while moving closer to her. Jason takes a step back to accommodate him. He wants to represent himself as sincere, perhaps too sincere to the point of being clumsy. People often think inept and trustworthy are the same thing; the logic goes, you can’t be hiding any tricks up your sleeve if you’re more likely to spill them on the floor. 

“If you turn us away, we get it, don’t worry,” assures Dick, “but this is our city and our kids are getting snatched.”

Laura begins shaking her head. “Oh, no, he’s not answering any questions — ”

“We won’t ask as many questions as the police,” Dick hurries to say. “We don’t need to. We,” here, Dick breaks off his speech and looks uncertainly at Jason, feigning hesitance. Then he takes a galvanizing breath, readying for his big leap, this information he’s sharing only with Laura. “I work part-time at the Park Row Memorial. I’m a guard, similar work to what I do with the Bludhaven Police. We have it monitored 24/7 so it doesn’t become a high-crime area again.” Dick sighs in frustration and bites his lips. “Laura,” he says firmly, staring into her eyes. Her pupils have dilated along his story. Good. “I saw Terry that night. The police haven’t even asked Park staff yet, they don’t care. But I saw it happen and I think I can do something about it.”

The best cover story is always based in reality. The best lies are true. 

Laura’s eyes drop the ground as she thinks. She’s also biting her lip. Dick ponders over whether she does that often and Dick got lucky, or if she’s mirroring him. Either way, he’s won her over. She shuffles to the side and waves them in, her movements less languid than before. 

She leads them to the stairwell and says, “If he doesn’t want to answer questions, he doesn’t have to. I’m not going to force him, you got it? Get what you can and hope it’s useful.” With this, she climbs the steps to the second floor, Jason and Dick following at an appropriate distance. They pause at the top step while she enters Terry’s room and explains in hushed tones his guests. She relates Dick’s reason for being here and then there’s a long pause before Dick detects a faint, “Sure.” 

Dick and Jason share a look that confirms: they’re in. Laura places a light hand on Jason’s bicep and guides them to the door. “I’ll stand right here,” she says firmly and waves them forward. Dick looks around for a chair, sees none, and settles on the windowsill facing Terry’s bed. He’s faired better than the next two kids, all injuries considered. He was out of the hospital in a month. He lies in his twin-sized mattress beneath a crisp sheet, a blue comforter shoved to the foot of his bed. A square bandage covers his right cheek, there’s stitching over his right eyebrow, and there’s more stitches on the right side of his skull. His right arm and knee have been set in casts. Dick remembers him curling onto his side at one point in the video. 

In the wake of the other victims’ hospital records (courtesy of Oracle), Terry’s assault had been carried out with perfunctory brutality. Dick recollects the scene but recalls no hesitation in the attacker’s swings, yet their violence has clearly increased. Perhaps they are doing someone else’s dirty work and the job has just now awakened a taste for pain in them. Or maybe it’s one guy after all and they’re adjusting to the role. 

“So, you know the fucker who did this?” Terry speaks up first. His voice is a little rough and definitely fatigued. Despite his current infirmity, Dick can tell he’s a sturdy kid. He’s got the same build Jason had at that age, youthfully broad with natural muscle in the absence of training. A body with room to grow in. 

Dick shrugs. “Not personally. But we hold out hope. What did his face look like? Any defining features?” he attempts, even knowing that Terry’s report claimed to make out nothing from the night of the attack.

Terry was looking at Jason beforehand, which Dick can’t blame him for. Jason takes up most of the room as he stands by Terry’s feet, stock straight with his massive arms folded. Dick has a habit of downsizing Jason in his head. In general, Dick’s guilty of subconsciously diminishing certain people’s threat levels, letting his familiarity with them obscure the danger they still pose. He does his best to put himself in Terry’s shoes and see what he might see; he accomplishes this by summoning the first night he encountered the Red Hood before he was also Jason Todd, fallen boy wonder. Even without the vigilante get-up, the man’s intimidating. 

Now that Dick has asked a question, however, Terry’s eyes appraise him. Dick once again folds in on himself, tucking his arms closer to his sides and leaning back so he’s as out of Terry’s space as he can be. Then Terry’s eyes stray to the floor and he mumbles, “Looked like nothing. It was dark.” But he doesn’t say it like it was nothing. 

“You saw something,” Dick contests. He’s not going to wheedle or coax, he decides, because that would just leave Terry room to equivocate. “You don’t know what you saw, but you saw something, and whatever that is will help us more than pretending there weren’t streetlamps.”

Terry grimaces. The twitch of his battered face reminds Dick of his age and his heart aches. There should be a grace period for children, an exception made for those still new to this earth. He hates that pain is one of the first things they learn. “He was white, I guess,” Terry supplies. His good fingers have found a loose thread on the hem of his pushed-down sheets. He picks at it. “He never said a word the whole time. It was quiet. He — I saw his hands. I thought, I thought the police would find his thumbprints or whatever, on me, but that’s not how it works, they said. They were all fucked up.”

“The hands or the police?” Jason interjects.

Terry doesn’t look up from his loose thread, but one half of his mouth pulls up into a faint, flickering smile. It manages to be bright even so. “The hands. There were old scars all over the knuckles. Dry, too, like he never heard of lotion.”

Dick supposes the attacker could work in manual labor, but it’s unlikely if there were truly that many scars and all old. “Just the knuckles?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

Dick guesses he’s experienced with combat. The ugly, close-up kind. Still, just the knuckles, that sounds more like punishment than accident. And the dry skin? That could easily be eczema, although wouldn’t a seasoned killer think to cover up, prevent skin follicles from falling into a lab tech’s hands? It is summer, but Gotham runs more humid than dry, so perhaps they’re dealing with a foreigner. “And the face?” he prompts. 

Terry abruptly drops his hand from the nervous thread and sighs raggedly. “Nothing, man. I couldn’t see anything, okay, it was,” Terry falters, “confusing.”

“Confusing how?” Jason asks.

“I don’t know!” Terry’s voice pitches in frustration. “It was weird, all swirly and shit.”

Dick can hear the criticism leak into Jason’s tone when he curtly repeats, “Swirly.” 

Terry backpedals. “I said I don’t know,” he mutters. 

Swirly voices sound familiar to Dick. He used to have one for a time when he played James Bond for Spyral. “I think we might have a contact, Jay,” Dick muses. 

“Really?” Jason says with noticeable surprise. “Swirly’s our big break?”

“Emphasis on the might and ixnay on the big.” To Terry, he says, “Tell me, does tsuchigumo ring any bells?”

Terry’s face scrunches up. “Does what huh?”

Dick will take that as a no. “Oh, well. Still worth looking into,” he says. Dick stands and retrieves the card pack from his plastic bag. He holds it up for Terry to see before setting it down on the bed. Terry takes it immediately and brings it up to his face for inspection. “Your mom has the flowers. I wasn’t sure what to get you, but let me know if you need or want anything. Oh.” Dick swivels his head around the room. There’s not much to it aside from a bed, a dresser, and a box T.V. collecting dust. “Do you have something I can write my number on?”

Jason chooses that moment to step forward, sliding between Dick and where Terry lies. He leans across, a crisp, laminated paper balanced between his index and middle finger. “Here’s my card. Let me know if you have any more information or if either of you need help,” he explains. Terry sets Dick’s gift down and gingerly accepts the card. He flips it over: no logo, just a phone number.

“That’s it?” says Terry. “What contact? Who did this?”

“It’s too soon to tell. I wish I had more to give you two,” Dick says sympathetically to Terry and Laura, the latter of whom hasn’t left her post by the door. She rests her cheek on the frame and watches on.

Terry has more questions though and he’s edging on excited. “Are you P.I.’s? Why do you even care? I bet you fucking did this, or one of your boys — ”

“I understand your distrust,” Dick says over him. He glances nervously at Laura to gauge what she thinks of the accusation and if she’s about to step in. She’s a little straighter, body no longer depending on the wall, but her face is still impassive if alert. Dick hurries to smooth this over. “You don’t know us well enough to understand why we care. We have to prove ourselves, I get that. And we will. Until then, you’ve got nothing to lose, right? All we know is you didn’t see anything.”

Terry stares at him silently, suspicion darkening his eyes. There is risk in coming here, of course, depending on how well Terry’s attacker can trace Jason’s footsteps. But Dick has already weighed the risks and he’s betting that Terry’s part is done here insofar as the criminal is concerned. Luckily, Terry can’t identify what he’s got to lose or how much he has told them between the lines, so the charges drop like that. 

There’s a few beats of silence before Jason starts fidgeting. “Yea-a-a-h, we’re going to go now,” he announces, pointing over his shoulder towards the window. Dick could cringe, he’s so awkward. 

“Thanks to both of you,” Dick says and smiles as warmly as he can. He trails closely behind Jason who shuffles towards the door, his body too tall and too broad to fit comfortably in the modest room. Unthinking, the pads of Dick’s fingers feather over Jason’s back as if to guide him forward. As Jason moves, Dick lets his fingers linger in the air, covering up the touch with empty space. He curls his fingers in and tucks them behind his back. Laura follows them out. 

“Thank you again,” Dick says at the door. “We’ll be in touch if anything develops,” he promises. And he will be; if not as Dick then certainly as Nightwing. 

Laura thanks them half-heartedly. Dick suddenly feels self-conscious about the Pokémon cards. He may as well have given them a box with nothing inside it or a flashlight without a bulb. He heads back to the car, feeling Laura’s heavy gaze on his shoulders the whole way. 

Dick is buckling himself in when Jason opens the passenger door. “Mind sharing with the class what information was so decisive you had no further questions?” he asks as he climbs into the car. 

“No questions Terry could answer. This is the best we can do for a lead,” Dick explains. He needs to make a call, but that will have to wait until they’re on the road and not idling outside a victim’s house. Maybe he can take them to a restaurant, buy Jason a drink, a friendly gesture. Would Jason want to drink with him though?

“Yeah, about that,” Jason says as the car shoots off, “what lead?”

Scratch the drink; neither of them are lightweights, but on principle, they shouldn’t drink during an ongoing investigation. Still, he could buy them some sub sandwiches. He used to buy food for Tim all the time back in the day, as a reprieve from the typical Batman and Robin style of accidentally fasting until the case is resolved.

They reach a redlight almost immediately. Dick drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “Spyral uses this tech called ‘Hypnos 2.0.’ They slide in kind of like contacts? They’re eye implants basically, but they transmit information between your brain and the brain of whoever’s looking at you. Their most common application was hiding your identity. If someone looked at you, they’d just see a scrambled mess instead of a face.”

Jason’s face scrunches up as he stares out the windshield. He scratches his head. “Scrambled like Picasso or.”

The light turns green. “More like a spiral,” Dick says lightly, nodding conversationally. 

“Thematic,” Jason comments. 

“Very. And the uniforms weren’t too shabby either.” He adds the joke more to test the waters than anything, gauge how delicate a topic Spyral is between them. Everyone in their family has a slightly different relationship with Dick’s double life. Bruce and Damian’s have been the easiest, marked by faint curiosity about his activities and begrudging acceptance of help from associated colleagues. The others have been noticeably more dodgy and uncomfortable regarding for Spyral. Dick’s stint as as Agent 37 has made everyone evasive, even for bats. 

If Jason would normally have an emotional reaction to Spyral, he’s too preoccupied for one now. Dick can practically see the gears in his mind turning as his eyes narrow and his chin falls to rest on his hand. Dick feels simultaneously relief and shame; of course, Spyral is just a lead. Spyral may have been Dick’s life at one point, but to Jason, it’s just an organization. At best, contacting Spyral could save his life. At worst, well, Dick’s not expecting Jason to unpack whatever baggage Dick left in Gotham. 

Dick resists the urge to grimace at his own thoughts. He’s overthinking. Can one overthink a ruthless spy agency that up until a year ago controlled his every movement? 

Jason’s voice, slow and thick with the sound of a city that’s always been his, reels Dick back to shore. “Dare I ask what the uniform entailed?”

“Cargo pants,” Dick answers simply. He’s watching the road ahead, but he can hear Jason make a pleasantly surprised noise. They pass a fire hydrant painted to look like a sunflower. Dick thinks it’d be nice for Bludhaven to do that and makes a note to push the idea at city hall after the case. 

“So, you think that this guy is from Spyral?” Jason asks. 

Dick shrugs. “That, or he’s connected enough to snag some tech. We should check first with the other two victims, see if their descriptions match up with Terry’s. If they do, it’s probably Spyral and not some low-grade black market street vendor. Nine of out ten optometrists do not recommend mind control contact lenses.”

Jason slams his hand down on the middle compartment. “Mind control?” he exclaims. When Dick glances at him, Jason’s expression is mostly shock with a sliver of what might be plain rage. But that would be an overreaction considering all the other crimes Spyral is guilty of. All the crimes they’re guilty of, especially Red Hood, although making that argument would be more trouble than it’s worth. 

Dick tries not to let Jason’s sheer judgment weigh on him. Dick has far more pressing guilt elsewhere to torture himself over. Still, it’s hard not to feel righteous rage on Jason’s behalf. He often forgets this part of Jason’s character, this abrupt sense of justice that powers him, but it’s no less prominent than it is in Bruce or himself. It might actually be stronger in Jason, a little left of center, but bleeding red nonetheless. Unfortunately, car safety dictates Dick not be on the receiving end of justice, so he replies as casually as possible, “Well, that’s what Hypnos is, essentially.”

“No way.” Jason points an accusatory finger that Dick sees from his peripheral. A street corner features a hot dog stand. Dick nearly pulls over, but the finger might kill whatever buzz a chili dog can offer. “Don’t ‘that’s-what-Hypnos-is-Jason- obviously ’ me. You just said it transmits info.”

Dick did not think his tone had come off condescending in the least. But if that’s what Jason got from it, then perhaps he missed casual and landed on dismissive. Bludhaven must be eroding his tact already. “Sorry. When I said it transmits information, I meant it as a blanket statement for everything it does. Hypnos can alter memories, which is more-or-less how the identity protection works, by modifying one’s memory of a face. It can send someone a location address or really anything you have stored in your own memory, which is helpful. It can also send orders.”

“Yeah, I bet that’s helpful, too,” Jason derides. He looks like he smelled something bad. Was Dick this perturbed by Hypnos when he first joined Spyral? He doesn’t think so. He had been so quickly embroiled in so many terrible things. What was a little crowd control in the face of cold, efficient, and constant murder? 

The guns. The feel of one is his hand like death itself, how they loomed in his bedroom and among his gear, beckoning him closer to an edge everyone wanted to push him off of. The guns had overshadowed all else for him. 

“Either way,” Dick carries on, “it’s unlikely this guy has his hands on Spyral tech without Spyral knowing something about him. They keep close enough watch over people that have nothing to do with them, let alone people that have access to their technology. He could be anywhere from an engineer to a passing contact, but he’s no ghost.”

“Terrific. Exactly what I need, a mind-controlling stalker from an quasi-omniscient spy organization hellbent running around on the streets of Gotham.”

Dick shrugs. “Gotham’s had it worse.”

“Have I?”

“I don’t know. Have you?” Dick retorts. 

Jason scowls. “Wouldn’t be my first assassination attempt, I suppose,” he concedes.

Dick perks up and offers him a grin. “And it won’t be your last!” he crows. 

Jason just stares at him, utterly perplexed. His brows are furrowed and his mouth is curled above his teeth in bewilderment. 

“Because you’ll be alive,” Dick hurriedly explains. “You know, like, woohoo!” He takes one hand off the wheel to pump the air triumphantly. 

“Woohoo,” Jason repeats hollowly. “Insanity.”

“What?” asks Dick. They will be coming up on the grinder shop soon. Should he suggest lunch to Jason or just drag him in? He’s leaning towards dragging. That seems more effective.

“That we’re all just living to hopefully get killed a day that’s not tomorrow,” Jason observes. 

It’s not more cynical than funny, but something in Jason’s tone — the utter resignation, perhaps — makes Dick laugh anyway. “Everyone on earth’s on borrowed time, really,” he says, not unhappily. Death hasn’t frightened him since he was young. Exposure therapy, he called it once during some Titans mission that feels a lot farther in the past than it is. “The reckless and foolhardy like us, we’re just more aware of it.”

Jason blows air out from his nose in a mix between a snort and a laugh. “And here I thought vigilante-types were less aware of their own mortality.”

“Are you kidding? You have to know you’re walking towards death to find that exact path each night. Snatched purses, drug rings, elitist assassins dressed as owls, fear gas and escaped convicts and murderous clowns — and we run right towards them with open arms,” Dick says, irony guiding his grin as Jason smirks back at him. 

“And open chest cavities, half the the time,” Jason tacks on. 

Dick nods fervently. “Yes, let’s not forget that,” he tries to say seriously, but laughter trips him on the last word. “I don’t know. I think it’s all very sane, actually, to see what’s going on and get involved, do what you can to make everything a little bit better. But too much sanity can look like insanity, for sure.”

Jason does snort this time. “Keep moralizing like that and you’ll sound straight out of a conversation between the Joker and B.”

Dick wrinkles his nose. “Ew. I hope not.”

“‘We’re the same, you and I,’” Jason croons in a wispy, sing-song voice. “‘Sane and in-sane.’”

Dick can make out the small, white-background-red-letters sign of Hester’s Grinders a few yards down the road. There’s just enough room before the fire hydrant — this one plain, chipped red — to safely park. “Alright, alright, I get it. I’ll keep my philosophies to myself. And so long as we’re changing the subject — hungry?”

Previous Chapter

[wistfulcynic]

Across The Snowy Places (3 /5)

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!! I don’t celebrate since I moved to the UK, but I do miss it. Not just for the food but because it’s good to take some time to reflect on the things we’re thankful for. Today I am thankful for each and every person reading this story ❤️❤️❤️

Oh, and if you thought things were trope-y before? JUST WAIT. 

SUMMARY: Desperate to avoid another disastrous setup, Emma Swan tells her sister-in-law Mary Margaret she doesn’t need a date for Thanksgiving dinner… because she’s dating her neighbour, Killian Jones. The neighbour she tries to avoid but can’t seem to get out of her head.

Killian has been captivated by Emma from the moment they met, and he’s thrilled at this opportunity to get closer to her. But when they are trapped in a freak snowstorm in a room with only one bed, can he finally take the chance he’s been longing for, or will his actions drive Emma away forever?

In other words: TROPES GALORE

On AO3 | Tumblr Ch1 | Ch2 

Always and forever thankful for @thisonesatellite​​ who is somehow both the angel on my shoulder and the DEMON ON THE OTHER ONE 😘

@kmomof4​​​​ @shireness-says​​​​ @snidgetsafan​​​​ @darkcolinodonorgasm​​​​ @snowbellewells​​​​ @stahlop​​​​ @mariakov81​​​​ @courtorderedcake​​​​ @jonirobinson64​​​​ @tiganasummertree​​​​ @ohmightydevviepuu​​​​ @shardminds​​ @jennjenn615​​ @superchocovian​​

-

CHAPTER THREE: THURSDAY

Killian knocks on her door at the stroke of eight. He’s punctual, Emma thinks. Add that to the already alarmingly long list of things she can’t manage to hate about him. 

She opens the door to find him grinning, holding up two paper cups and a brown bag. She tries not to smile back but it’s no use. His good humour is infectious and she’s relieved he seems to have put the awkwardness from last night behind him. 

“Are you always going to bring me food?” she asks with a scowl, like she’s not itching to see what he’s brought. 

“Perhaps. But I rather think that the most important thing I have for you this morning is coffee.” He offers her one of the cups. 

“Hmph.” She accepts it, and takes a skeptical sip. Then she sighs. It’s perfect. 

“How do you know I like cinnamon syrup in my coffee?” she asks as he gives her a knowing smirk and saunters into her apartment. 

“You told me,” he replies. “Remember, the day you couldn’t find your keys and were trying to dig them out of your bag and hold your coffee at the same time? You ended up dropping your mug and spilling it everywhere. You were so upset and when I asked what was wrong you said you’d used the last of your cinnamon syrup in that coffee now forming a puddle on your doormat.” He chuckles at the memory. 

She stares at him. “That was ages ago.” 

“Aye, about a year I’d say. Just after I moved here.” 

“And you still remember it.” Like he remembered that she was adopted. She’s sure she only mentioned that once, in passing. 

He meets her gaze, his eyes warm and sincere. “Of course I remember. And also”—he reaches inside the bag—“I remember your fondness for these atrocities.” He withdraws a bear claw and holds it out to her with a grin. 

“Oh, my God.” Emma practically pounces on the pastry. “I really needed this,” she says around an enormous mouthful. “Thank you, Killian.” 

“My pleasure, love.” His voice sounds rough and Emma looks at him sharply, but his attention is focused on folding the paper bag into a neat square. 

She swallows with some effort. “Didn’t you get yourself anything?” she asks before taking another, much smaller bite. 

“Ah, no, coffee’s enough for me,” he says. “I’m not much of a one for breakfast.”  

“But it’s the most important meal of the day!” Emma is genuinely surprised; Killian’s always given the impression of being a pretty healthy eater. She knows he cooks for himself most nights, if the delicious smells from his apartment are any indication. 

In fact, she now recalls, he’s invited her to join him for dinner more than once. 

He regards her with an expression she recognises as Teacher Face, having seen it on Mary Margaret far too often. “That’s rubbish manufactured by breakfast cereal advertisers, Swan,” he says, in a tone that suggests she should really know better.  

“It’s no— is it?” 

“Indeed.” 

She frowns. “How do you know?” 

“Historian, love.” 

“Maritime history.” 

“That doesn’t mean I’ve never studied any other kind.” He quirks that damned eyebrow at her. “Shall I tell you about how everything you learned in school is wrong?” 

She really wants to refuse, but—“I’d like that, actually. I always hated history class but I love documentaries and things. I think maybe I just hated it because the teacher was so boring.” 

“Aye.” Killian nods. “That’s an all too common complaint. Sometimes I think I should have gone into secondary teaching, to try to catch the kids before they have a chance to decide that history is dull.” 

He sounds so earnest, thinks Emma, polishing off the bear claw and licking her fingers. It’s not what she expects from him, and she feels that irritating flutter in her belly again. She looks up to find him gazing intently at her mouth as she sucks the last of the glaze off her thumb. The flutter intensifies. 

She offers him a hesitant smile. “Ready to go?” she asks. 

He blinks and gives his head a slight shake, then returns her smile somewhat weakly. “Ready when you are, love.” 

-

Ten minutes after they get on the road the snow begins. The flakes are large and heavy, and they settle rapidly even on the warmth of the highway. 

By the time forty-five minutes have passed the snowfall is so thick Emma has to squint to see as far as the front of her car. She’s slowed almost to a crawl, clutching the steering wheel and cursing Mary Margaret with every breath. 

“I told her I didn’t have snow tires!” she cries, hating the panic in her voice. “I can’t go any faster than this and also I can’t see. Which means no one else can see me. What if someone who does have snow tires comes along faster and rear-ends me?” 

She doesn’t dare take her eyes away from the swirling white beyond her windshield, but she can see Killian in her peripheral vision, frowning at his phone. “It’ll be all right, Emma,” he says soothingly. “There’s a little inn just up here, we can stop there for a while. 

His voice is calm and carries an authority that she can’t help responding to. Slowly she releases her breath and feels her shoulders relax. “An inn?” she asks.  

“Aye. Surely they’ll have someplace we can sit for a while until the snow lets up. Look, here’s the turning.” 

“All right,” Emma agrees, gingerly navigating into a narrow road marked by a large brown sign that she can just make out through the snow. Anything to get her off the slippery highway in her un-snow-tired car, she thinks. 

The inn turns out to be delightful, quaint New England clapboard with a large stone fireplace full of roaring fire and a lobby bursting with well-loved furniture. The stern old woman at the reception desk gives them a glare when they stumble in, snow-covered and shaken, but softens visibly when Killian turns his blue eyes on her and pleads their case. 

“Of course you’re welcome to sit in the lobby for a while,” she says. “Though I have to warn you, the forecast says the snow’s going to keep going at least until tomorrow morning.” 

“How did this happen?” Emma wails. Her hands are still shaking with nerves and she’s too upset to protest when Killian takes them in his to warm and steady them. “I checked the forecast last night and it was fine!” 

“Freak storm,” says the old woman with a shrug. “It happens. Would you two care for a pot of tea while you wait?” 

“That would be lovely,” Killian replies with a smile. “Thank you.” 

The woman brings them tea and a plate of beautifully decorated sugar cookies in the shape of turkeys and cornucopias and Pilgrim hats, and Killian entertains Emma with stories about history, true ones he swears, that have her laughing and gasping and cringing by turns. It doesn’t escape her notice that he’s distracting her, helping her relax after her panic in the car, and though she would never admit as much to him she’s grateful for it.

They manage to linger over their tea for nearly an hour and a half, but when the pot is empty and the cookies eaten and snow is still falling just as heavily as before—heavier, even—they are forced to concede that they’re stranded. Killian goes to see about getting them some rooms for the night while Emma calls Mary Margaret. 

She answers on the second ring. “Emma, thank goodness, I was just about to call you. You’re not out driving in this are you?” 

“No, but Killian and I are stuck on the road.” 

“Oh no!” 

“No, no, not like that. We’re at an inn, but we won’t be able to make it to your place or anywhere else today.” 

“No, of course not! No one is, actually, the snow started so early and came on so strong. So we’ve decided to postpone the dinner until tomorrow.” 

“Mary Margaret, I don’t know—” 

“Tomorrow, Emma. The forecast is calling for sunny skies.” 

“The forecast has been wrong before,” says Emma with a heavy irony that Mary Margaret blithely ignores. 

“It won’t be this time,” she says firmly. “I’ll expect you and Killian by noon at the latest.” 

Emma sighs. “See you tomorrow,” she says.  

She hangs up and turns to see Killian approaching. “MM says they’ve postponed the dinner because no one can make it through the snow, but it’s rescheduled for tomorrow,” she says. “Are you free?” 

“Aye, love, that’s fine,” he replies. He tries to smile but there’s a nervous tension to his posture that makes her frown and wonder what the hell else has gone wrong. 

“What’s the matter?” she asks. 

“Um.” Killian scratches at a spot behind his right ear. “It, uh, appears that a number of people pulled in here to escape the snow, and most of them decided to stay the night before we did. There’s only one room left.” 

“Of course there is.” 

“I’m so sorry, Emma.”

She shakes her head, too frazzled and mentally exhausted to be angry. “It’s not your fault,” she sighs. “Look, can we just— let’s just go to this room, is that okay? I could really use a bit of alone time.” At this point she doesn't care where they go as long as it’s someplace quiet and private where she can decompress. 

“Of course it’s okay,” says Killian. He holds up a key. “It’s room six.” 

-

Room six, it turns out, because as Emma has discovered over the course of the past few hours the universe hates her, contains one bed. A double bed, according to the description, but when they stand together in the doorway looking at it, it appears much, much smaller. 

The bed is small because the room is small, and when they step inside and close the door behind them they realise it’s also icy cold. Killian fiddles with the knobs on the ancient looking radiator and Emma kicks it with the heel of her boot, but it remains resolutely non-responsive. 

“I’ll call Granny,” Killian offers. 

“Granny?”

“That’s what the old woman told me to call her. Perhaps she knows how to fix the radiator, or where to find someone who can.” 

Granny apologises profusely but says that the inn’s maintenance man is with his family for Thanksgiving and wouldn’t be able to get through the snow. She claims the pipes in that part of the building are temperamental and tend to turn off and on at will. 

“It might come on later,” she says, “but I can’t guarantee it.” 

She offers Killian a discount on the room and and although he thanks her warmly, as he hangs up the phone he can’t help reflecting that no discount in the world could provide much comfort in his current situation. 

He fills Emma in and she sighs, collapsing backwards onto the bed and throwing her arm across her face. “I suppose it’s fitting, really, everything that could possibly have gone wrong with this day has gone fucking wrong.” 

“Sod’s law,” agrees Killian. 

“So what are we going to do?” 

“I don’t know there’s anything we can do, Swan, except make the best of it. I’ll sleep on the floor—” 

“You can’t.” 

“Of course I can, it’s no—” 

“No, Killian, you really can’t,” she says, sitting up and glaring at him. “You’ll freeze. And there aren’t enough blankets. We’re grown fucking adults, we can share a bed for one night. It’s no big deal.” Her eyes dare him to gainsay her. 

“As you wish, Swan,” he says. 

She nods and begins to unzip her boots. “I need to do something mindless for a while,” she says. "I’m gonna see if there’s a dumb movie on TV and just veg.”

“Very well, I’ll leave you to it.” He turns and heads for the door. 

“What? Where are you going?” 

He stops and looks back at her with a small frown. “Granny told me there’s a library downstairs that guests are welcome to use. I’ll go there and find something to read,” he replies. “That should give you a few hours to yourself.” 

Because she said she needed time alone, Emma realises. She forgot all about it, but Killian clearly didn’t. She looks at him, at the confusion wrinkling his brow and his hair mussed by the wind and snow, and she thinks about how calm and supportive he’s been all day. How he’s turned out to be far better company than she ever imagined, and how she really doesn’t want him to go downstairs and read while she’s here in this cold room alone. 

She doesn’t want him to go. 

“Um,” she says hesitantly. “You could stay? If you’d like.” She attempts a careless shrug, without success. 

His face softens with an emotion that she refuses to analyse. “I’d like that very much,” he says.  

He takes off his shoes and she her boots and they get under the blankets together, wriggling a bit to warm up the cold bed. Emma takes the remote and flips through the channels until she finds Miracle on 34th Street. The original.

“It’s just starting!” she says with a genuine smile. “At least that’s one good thing to happen today.” 

“You like this movie, then, I take it?” 

“It’s one of my favourites. It’s technically a Christmas movie but Ruth and David and I always watched it on Thanksgiving, since it starts with the Macy’s parade. It was like our official start to the Christmas season.” 

Killian smiles. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen it.” 

“Not a fan of old movies, Mr History Professor? I’m surprised at you,” she teases. 

“I love old movies, just not Christmas ones.”

She turns to look at him but the teasing smile dies on her lips when she sees his face, and remembers. “Your brother,” she says, wanting to kick herself. “His accident happened on Christmas.” 

Killian nods. “And it’s when my father left us, too. Boxing Day the year I was eight. Christmas is not a great time for me.” 

She feels a surge of sympathy, of kinship—her Christmases pre-Ruth were also not great—and an almost overwhelming urge to comfort him, to assure him that this Christmas won’t be like the others. They can spend it together, she wants to say, and make some new memories of their own to wipe away the old ones. The urge astonishes her but it also feels right, and she ruthlessly squashes it before it can carry her away. She can’t promise him Christmas or anything else, she reminds herself firmly. This closeness she thinks she’s feeling is only an illusion, brought about by the stress of the day and the pure coincidence of them both having unhappy childhoods.

She says nothing, but Killian’s sad smile is making her heart ache and before she can think better of it she slides closer to him on the bed and tucks her arm around his, letting her head fall onto his shoulder. His muscles tense beneath her fingers and for a moment she thinks he might pull away. “Well, if you wanted to start watching Christmas movies, this is a good one,” she says. “Heartfelt but not manipulative. I think you’ll like it.”  

She holds her breath then releases it slowly as he relaxes, as he leans back against the pillows and lets his cheek rest on the top of her head. She smiles. 

-

When the movie ends, Emma brushes the tears off her cheeks and reluctantly untangles herself from Killian. He’s insanely warm and it’s not until she sits up that she realises how relaxed she was cuddled up and watching one of her favourite movies with her head on his shoulder. She also realises she’s starving. It’s past three in the afternoon and she’s had nothing to eat all day but a bear claw and some cookies, and Killian hasn’t actually eaten anything. 

“Hey,” she says, “Is there a restaurant in this place?” 

He smiles at her, and it’s a different smile than the ones she’s used to from him. Softer, and simply happy. “I believe so,” he replies. “Are you hungry?” 

“Starving.” 

“Me too. Shall we go see what they’ve got?” 

Granny greets them warmly and apologises again for the heater, promising to make up for it with some good hot food. She points them towards the small diner attached to the back of the inn and tells them to have whatever they like, it’s on the house. 

The diner is Americana just shy of kitsch, with cracked Formica tabletops and a neon Coca-Cola sign. An old jukebox wails from a corner in the back and the waitresses wear ruffled aprons and very short skirts. Killian stops dead in the doorway, his mouth dropping open as he takes it all in. 

“This is everything I ever wanted an American diner to be,” he says, and Emma laughs. 

They sit in a booth and examine the menu. It’s packed with all the cheesy, greasy things that Emma loves, exactly what she’s craving, and she wavers between grilled cheese with tomato soup or a cheeseburger. 

“What are you having?” she asks Killian. 

“Um, fried chicken, I think.” 

“That doesn’t sound very healthy,” she teases. “Aren’t you all about eating your vegetables?” 

“What makes you think that?” he asks, frowning at her.  

“Well, whenever I come home with takeout you give me a look and ask if I’ve eaten anything green lately.” 

His frown softens and he looks abashed. “My apologies, Swan, I shouldn’t pass judgement on your eating habits,” he says. “It’s very bad form. Sometimes I just—” he breaks off, looking down at the menu. 

“Just what?” 

“Just… struggle to think of what to say to you,” he confesses with another scratch behind his ear. “And fear that if I say what I truly wish to you might never speak to me again. You can be a bit prickly, love.” 

“Prickly,” she repeats, staring at her own menu though the words are a blur. She’s heard such things before but somehow never thought she would hear them from Killian.  

“It’s not a criticism,” Killian says quickly. “Just a fact.” He reaches out to cover her hand with his, and she surprises herself by not pulling away. “I like your prickles.” 

She smiles, a tiny quirk at the corners of her mouth. “No one likes prickles.” 

“I do. They’re a challenge, and as you know I love those.” 

“You have mentioned that once or twice,” she says, risking a glance at his face. He grins at her and she can’t help returning it, holding his gaze until the waitress arrives to take their order. 

-

When they return to their room after the meal, armed with toothpaste and brushes and two men’s undershirts courtesy of Granny, it occurs to Emma that despite the pitch blackness outside their window it’s only about six in the evening and she doesn’t normally go to bed until past midnight. What the hell is she going to do in a tiny freezing room with Killian Jones for six hours? 

You know what you’d like to do, whispers a voice in her head, and Emma firmly shoves away her memories of the warmth of his body against hers as they watched the movie that afternoon, the strength of his arm beneath her hand. She wants to know what that arm feels like wrapped around her, wants his heat warming her bare skin. She just wants him. 

She looks over at Killian and he gives her a hesitant smile. She’s having an increasingly difficult time reconciling this man, this self-avowed history nerd who is nervous about being alone with her with the smooth flirt who rarely spends the night alone that she’s spent the past year unsuccessfully trying to avoid. 

Killian clears his throat. “Shall we see if we can find another film to watch?” he asks. “Or one of your baffling football games? I understand that there are many to choose from on Thanksgiving Day.” 

“You find football baffling?” she says with a laugh. 

“Aye, certainly, in the sense that it baffles me why you would call a sport ‘football’ when only one player’s foot ever touches the ball,” retorts Killian. 

“Uh huh. And I suppose you like soccer.” 

“Proper football, aye.” 

She rolls her eyes dramatically and he chuckles. “I’m not really in the mood for football, but another movie would be nice,” she says. “Um, should we…” She gestures vaguely with her hand. 

“Should we what, love?” 

“Should we get ready for—I mean, it’s way too early for bed bed, but there’s nothing else to do and no place else to sit, and it’s kind of uncomfortable wearing jeans under the covers, so—” 

“Its okay, Swan,” he says gently. “I don’t really fancy lying in bed in my jeans either. It’s definitely not the most comfortable thing, though this afternoon was lovely.” 

She nods. The afternoon was lovely, but they were clothed then and now they would be... not. 

“Great,” she says. “I’ll just, uh...” She sidles past him into the bathroom where she brushes her teeth and changes into one of the shirts Granny gave them. It’s big enough to cover her, just, but leaves her legs completely bare. Her hands tremble as she smooths the fabric over her hips, and when she thinks about Killian seeing her like this her heart tries to beat out of her chest. 

When she comes out again Killian is also wearing one of the shirts. It’s tighter on him, of course, stretching across his chest in a way that makes her mouth go dry. She watches his shoulders flex as he folds his jeans and shirt neatly and lays them on a chair, then stands up straight and runs a hand through his hair. His shirt rides up, exposing a strip of pale skin sprinkled with dark hair just above the waistband of his boxer briefs. 

“Bathroom’s free,” she tells him. Her voice is breathy. 

“Thanks, lo—” he breaks off when he turns and sees her, his eyes visibly darkening as they travel down the length of her body. He nods, swallows hard. “I’ll just be a minute,” he says. “Why don’t you see what’s on?” 

"Okay,” she agrees, and they shuffle around each other in the small room, carefully avoiding even the whisper of a touch. When the door closes behind him Emma dives beneath the blankets, mentally berating herself. What the hell does she think she’s doing, preparing to snuggle in bed with Killian, wearing only a very skimpy t-shirt? What does she actually want to happen here? She huffs a frustrated breath and grabs the remote. The first thing that’s going to happen, she decides, is she’s going to find them a damned movie. She can’t think about anything beyond that. 

Killian emerges from the bathroom a few minutes later and gets into the bed beside her, looking wary. As he settles back onto the pillows his leg brushes hers and the sensation of rough hair against her skin makes her jump. 

“Sorry,” he says. 

“Don’t be.” She slides closer, hears his breath catch. “Warmth, remember?” 

“Aye.” Tentatively he puts his arm around her, lets her snuggle against his chest. It’s firm and warm, and she can feel the rhythm of his heartbeat. He tucks the blankets around them and she sighs in contentment. 

“Have you ever seen Home Alone?” she asks him. 

“I have not.” 

“Well, you’re in luck. It’s just started.”  

After Home Alone they watch Die Hard, and although that’s another of Emma’s favourite movies they’re barely halfway through when she finds her eyes drifting shut. Killian’s chest is so warm beneath her cheek and his arm around her so solid. His body is pressed all along the length of hers, and despite the fact that the tip of her nose is numb from the icy air in the room she feels snug and cosy and safe. With a small hum of contentment she lets her eyes stay closed and sleep carry her away. 

When she begins to snore Killian switches off the TV and watches her instead. Her hair is mussed and tumbling over his chest and shoulder, tickling his neck and his nose with its sweet scent, and her own nose is pink from the cold. She sighs in her sleep and snuggles closer, tucking her leg between his. His arm tightens around her and he clenches his jaw as his cock jerks in response. 

Steady on, mate, he tells it. Now is not the time. 

He has to tread very, very carefully here. This day, with the snow and the bed and the snuggling for warmth, the conversations and the meals together, has all been so intimate. Seemed so intimate, but he knows it’s a false intimacy based on proximity and stress, and once they leave this little bubble they’re in it will evaporate into the air. If he moves too quickly, pushes too hard, then once that illusion of closeness is gone he and Emma will be further apart than ever. And Killian knows now that this would break his heart. 

So he resists the urge to stroke Emma’s cheek, to press a kiss to her forehead or let his fingers slide beneath the hem of her shirt to brush her bare skin. Instead Killian cradles the woman he’s rapidly falling in love with close against his heart and closes his eyes. 

Slow, he reminds himself. Take it slow, or she’ll run. 

He turns his face into Emma’s hair and wills sleep to come. 

-

[thevengeanceuniverse]

Touch in the dark Ch 1.1 (Tony)

This is based off of a Stony mob story ‘The Way You Look’ which is fantastic and got me obsessed. Let me know what you think!

Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Tony Stark, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers/Tony Stark

Summary: Steve Rogers and James Romanov are two of the six mob lords of New York City. Eight months ago, they saved Tony Stark from being beaten to death and put a gun in his hand to kill his father. He's been living in bliss ever since. Mostly.

Except for the fact that he's gay in a time that it's a death sentence, the man he loves was almost killed for loving him and the man he needs help from hates him because they love the same person.

Oh, and Fury swirls in with his cape to tell him drugs are flooding the city.

Also found https://archiveofourown.org/works/23556382

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“To what do I owe the pleasure, mal’chik?”

James Romanov lounged easily in his leather chair, framed by stormy grey drapes that bordered the wide expanse of wintery New York sky visible through the window behind him. Planted behind his heavy mahogany desk and dressed elegantly in a bespoke suit in navy blue, he looked more like some English lord rather than the leader of the ruling mob of Brooklyn. But even if you were ignorant of the violent acts committed by the Russian Bratva, or brotherhood, the coldness in James Romanov’s blue-grey eyes was an obvious enough warning to those smart enough to see it. It also gave him the name that most people knew him by. Winter.

Antonio Edward Stark stood across from him, pushing down his unease as he met the mobster’s eyes squarely. “I was hoping to take you up on your offer, if it’s still available.” Tony made conscious effort to speak smoothly but respectfully, tamping down any hint of nerves in his voice or stature. He knew James wouldn’t hurt him (okay, more like 90% sure but that’s still good odds) out of respect for Steve, but his gut still churned with anxiety.

James merely waited, mild expression firmly in place. Tony knew that though he was his best friend’s lover, James still didn’t trust him. He didn’t begrudge the other man, it was only a few months that he’d come into their lives and being the leaders of two of the biggest mobs in the city didn’t exactly lend trust easily.

His voice sounding loud in the heavy silence, Tony elaborated. “I was rude to you in the hospital, the night that Steve…was emotional.” A more diplomatic way of alluding to the fact that Steve had gotten high off the morphine used to treat the pains from his wounds and broken down. He had been grieving, mourning the fact that Falsworth--one of his oldest friends from the army and a man who had saved his life just as much as he saved his--had turned against him because he learned that Steve loved men as well as women and tried to kill him for it. Steve hadn’t taken it well, said things in anger and ripped his stitches trying to leave his hospital bed.

Tony had told James that he would handle it, basically dismissed him from the room like a lackey. And Tony had stood by his word, ignoring the fact that he had in no way endeared himself to James Romanov, Steve’s oldest friend and past lover. But at the time, that hadn’t mattered--only Steve had mattered in that moment. But moments pass and times change and now he needed to undo the damage he had done.

“I’m sorry about the way I acted, especially after everything you’ve done,” Tony continued. “You’re the one who saved Steve’s life and was responsible for all of his care and I am eternally grateful for that--”

“I didn’t do any of that for you,” James interrupted, waving his hand dismissively. “And I don’t need you to remind me of my own actions. Stop wasting my time, why are you here?”

Tony hesitated. Things had changed between them all since Tony had started living with Steve. James hadn’t attended a family dinner since he had come back from Russia, and things between him and Steve were still tense. But James was the only one he could ask.

“Before I killed Howard,” he said softly, “you asked if I wanted to learn how to use a knife. If the offer’s still on the table, I’d like you to teach me.”

James tilted his head, looking at Tony more intently.

“What changed your mind? The last we spoke of it, you decided you didn’t like close quarter attacks.”

Tony nodded. “I still don’t. But you were right, if I truly want to support Steve I need to be involved, I need to know his life to know him. And his life--your lives--are violent ones. I need to be able to protect myself and not be a liability to him.”

“What a noble goal,” James murmured mockingly before his voice hardened. “But you need intention if I’m going to put a weapon in your hand and spend time training you. My time is too valuable for someone with half-baked conviction who’s going to just quit once things get too scary. This isn’t some quaint little hobby you can pick up and drop when it gets too hard. Nor is it like using a gun. Knives are bloodier and much more intimate; will you be able to handle that? The smell of the blood, the hot spill of it over your hands?”

Tony grew pale at the images James put in his head, flashing back to the times Howard’s hands had been stained with his own blood. Of the nights after killing him that stretched out into eternity, unable to sleep, unable to eat, unsure for who he was even grieving for. Howard, for taking his life? Peter, for stealing away the only father his brother had known? Himself?

But then he thought of Steve. Steve, who had to leave his hospital bed with a barely healed bullet wound in his chest, to weed out the bad seeds in his organization. Steve, who went into surgery for multiple stab wounds on top of his reopened gunshot wound, while Tony could only wait in the hospital corridor not knowing whether the man he loved was going to survive the night. Steve, who had to be on enforced bedrest for six weeks before he could come home, becoming angrier day by day as he worked through grief and anger and betrayal.

Tony had been helpless through it all, unable to anything but hold his lover in the aftermath and comfort him best he could.

Holding tight to thoughts of Steve, Tony felt his resolve harden. “I’m not going to stop until I’m good enough to kill you.”

A deadly silence fell over the room, time enough for Tony to fully absorb his own impetuous words and have a moment to regret his life choices. After years of Howard’s abuse, he didn’t usually feel comfortable to mouth off the way he just did but he got fired up when he thought about protecting Steve for once. Yep, that’s it. If he dies, he’s blaming Steve.

Stumbling out an apology, an explanation--kill someone as skilled as him that’s what he was trying to say--

He is shocked speechless when James bursts out laughing as if the threat was the funniest thing he’d ever heard instead of lunging over the desk and eviscerating him like the image his mind oh so helpfully provides. Thankfully, when James finally speaks the only thing bleeding is his sarcasm.

“I’m sure.”

Tony could only guess that not many dared to threaten the mob boss and the rarity of someone doing so made the situation hilarious. The fact that it was Tony, wiry and slim and with no deadly training whatsoever made for great comedy in the face of the infamy of the Bratva leader. James had been their boss for many years after seizing power and had extensive experience in brutally reinforcing his claim. Tony doubted he feared anything.

Therefore, Tony didn’t bother being insulted at how blithely unconcerned James was, just blessed his good luck. “Will you teach me?”

James raised one shoulder in an elegantly careless movement. “I’ll talk to Steve about it. You’re under his protection and while we have a long-lasting alliance, I don’t want him coming at me when you come home marked up with cuts and bruises. Besides,” he indicated Tony’s form, “he might get jealous that he’s won’t be the only one getting his hands on you anymore.”

Tony felt his face fill with heat, but he knew that James meant nothing by the comment. In fact, after walking in on James and Steve’s shared kiss months before, he was sure that rather than his body, the one who James would rather be holding was Steve. It was part of why things were still so awkward between them, and why Tony didn’t mind if James disliked him. He knew that if he was in love with Steve and Steve had chosen another, it would be difficult for him to try and like that other person. That was why he had no intention of hiding all this from Steve. These two didn’t need any more secrets between them, and neither did he and Steve.

Hopefully, it would only give James and Steve another thing to talk about. Though Tony did suspect that Steve might object to him coming home battered and bruised with the way his protective instincts flared up for any of his own. But if they were going to make this work, sooner or later they would get to this point and Tony saw no point in wasting time. Steve’s near death experience was a wake-up call, hammering in the unpredictability of their lives and the fact that their safety was hard fought commodity. Tony wasn’t going to take it for granted and he wanted to be able to protect those he loved when the next threat came. A mobster’s life was unlikely to ever be a truly safe one.

“Is there anything I can do in return?” Tony offered. He wasn’t sure what he could offer, before coming to live with Steve he only had $26 to his name. Now everything he had was either a gift from Steve or Aunt Sarah or something crafted by hand from Peter, so it was too precious to trade. But it felt wrong to take something for nothing.

Surprisingly, James’s face closed off, all signs of his laughter wiped away and eyes as chilling as they had been when Tony walked in. Tony was reminded all at once that while the man in front of him had saved his life and ensured his care, he was not his friend.

“You have nothing I want.”

Tony took it for the dismissal it was and left.

[emilx311]

So, enough of you asked about it I decided to write it. It did not go according to plan at all! It was supposed to be funny and fluffy with ridiculous Uchiha and then I started writing and we got well....this. Hope you all enjoy anyways. Also, the twigs used later on in the chapter are from Mokuton plants. The Uchiha gather them after battles from things Hashirama has grown to use for some religious rituals. 

Read it on AO3 or below the cut. Also, donate to my Ko-fi

Tobirama had been rather nervous about returning to his new clan compound with his husband. Madara had taken his drunken marriage and Tobirama’s subsequent reveal of his true identity and motivations amazingly well, but he’d had little hope the rest of the Uchiha would be as open-minded. He’d been fully prepared to deal with anger, suspicion, and even hate being tossed his way. The reality he was currently encountering was vastly different from his expectations. Really, Tobirama reflected, he should probably just stop expecting things when it came to the Uchiha.

He’d entered the compound at Madara’s side with the clan head’s arm wrapped around his waist. He held himself loosely and kept his head up high, as though he had every right to be there. No matter how the Uchiha reacted he refused to act ashamed. He had done nothing wrong (okay, agreeing to marry a drunk man after plying him with drinks was maybe a bit wrong, but Madara had been fine with it once he sobered up so the rest of the Uchiha could deal). He’d been braced for cutting words, demanding questions about who he was, hell, he’d half-expected at least one person to try to physically pull him away from their clan head. There was none of that.

There was shock and confusion from the Uchiha within view of the gate, certainly, but there was also awe, admiration, and even a faint amount of jealousy directed towards Madara. Said clan head was practically radiating smugness as he clutched the albino to himself even more tightly, sending a firm message of ‘mine’ to his gaping clansmen.

Tobirama was confused by the seemingly defensive gesture. No one had made any hostile moves or suggestions. Hell, no one had even said anything insulting or indicative of concern. The Uchiha in no way seemed about to attack them, but maybe Madara knew something he didn’t? Either way, he did feel safer closer to the one Uchiha he trusted not to harm him in any way, so he allowed the gesture without complaint.

“Hey, Aniki, I heard you were about to get home! How was the tri-WHAT THE HELL!” An Uchiha who must be Izuna shrieked upon catching sight of Tobirama, or more specifically the arm around Tobirama’s waist. He flailed for a moment before managing to gather himself. “Who’s this aniki and where did you find such a lovely creature?” He demanded. Tobirama blinked, slightly taken aback. He’d been expecting demands to get away from Izuna’s brother not…flirting. Also, lovely? He wasn’t, he knew very well that his colouring was strange and off-putting

“Hello to you too Otouto” Madara replied dryly, before smirking, full of pride. “This is Tobirama, my husband” he said tugging the albino even more firmly into his side. The Uchiha, who had almost recovered from their surprise, were back to gaping. Tobirama wanted to join them. He had expected Madara to break the news slowly, perhaps even hide it entirely for a time, not just announce it casually in public. He couldn’t help blushing at all the renewed stares he was getting.

“WHAT! ANIKI NO FAIR!” Izuna quacked, “you just snatched him up?!?! Without letting the rest of the clan have a chance to court him?” Izuna was panting by the end of his rant while Tobirama wasn’t doing much of anything, frozen with shock and disbelief as he was. That was the Uchiha’s issue with this? Not that his elder brother and clan head had married and brought home an unknown person after a short-term mission, not that he could be a soy, not that he might be there to hurt them, not even that he might be from an enemy clan (which he was even), no, he had an issue with the fact the rest of the clan hadn’t had a chance to marry him themselves. Tobirama had always known the Uchiha were rather irrational (see kidnapping people with red eyes), but now he was fairly convinced that they were all just insane.

“Too bad, so sad brat! I’m the clan head which means I get first priority and he said yes when I asked. We went to the temple that night, before you start getting any ideas, so out marriage is signed, sealed, and witnessed by the Gods” Madara taunted his brother. Izuna grumbled a bit before finally giving in.

“Still unfair, but fine, whatever. Congratulations on your marriage and all that. May it be long and blessed, yada yada” he said. He sounded flippant, but Madara could see the sincerity in his brother’s eyes. He was just opening his mouth to thank Izuna when Tobirama finally managed to shake off his shock.

“What the hell?” Came out of his mouth without him really meaning to. The surrounding Uchiha blinked and looked at him in questioningly.

“Tobi?” Madara asked his husband, concerned.

“None of you have any issues with this? At all?” He glanced around, the Uchiha all looked confused. “your clan head came back and declared he’d married some random person none of you have ever met and you’re all just okay with it???” His disbelief was clearly audible. The Uchiha had to admit their clan head’s new spouse had a point (pretty, blessed, and smart…Madara-sama was so lucky!), but he was missing a rather vital point.

“Of course, you’re one of Amaterasu’s blessed! She works her will through you. If you were to do anything to Madara then he deserved it for angering her” Izuna explained blithely. Tobirama opened and closed his mouth a few times before finally deciding not to bother with that, for now. It was working in his favour, and he would have the rest of his life to try and pound some sense into his new clan.

“Oh…” was all he said for the moment, truly surprised. “I knew the Uchiha collected those with red eyes for religious reasons, but I had no idea you held them, us, in such high regard” he confessed, careful not to use the word kidnap. The Uchiha as a whole seemed rater taken aback by that. It was Madara who finally spoke up, asking the question the whole clan was wondering about.

“If you didn’t think we took them to treasure them why did you think we went to all the trouble, and what did you think happened to them here” the clan head wondered. Tobirama pinked a bit.

“Other than religious reasons, no clue. As far as anyone outside the Uchiha are concerned they basically vanish off the face of the earth once they pass the compound door” the albino shrugged helplessly. Having some tact, no matter what his brothers said, he avoided mentioning the theories other clans had about how the red-eyed were treated. Kept as concubines was one of the nicer suggestions he’d heard after all. He was pleased to see that quite a few of the Uchiha, including Madara and Izuna, were looking a bit sheepish. A few seemed to be able to tell from his face some of the things he was not saying.

“It might help if the, what do you refer to us as, blessed? It might help if the blessed were permitted to visit or at least write their families and friends” he mentioned. He carefully modulated his tone so that he didn’t sound accusatory, just hesitant and helpful. He even lowered his eyes and leaned towards Madara in order to sell the act. Thankfully, the clan looked thoughtful instead of angry that he’s suggested something contrary to their traditions.

At that point there was a commotion at the end of the street. Tobirama turned to see six men and women hurrying towards them. Based on their ages and attire he assumed they were the Uchiha elders. The groan the Uchiha brothers gave upon seeing them all but confirmed that theory. Hashirama and Kawarama acted similarly when confronted by the Senju elders (he and Itama were bothered by them far less often since they were not next in line or clan head). Taking a deep breath, he prepared himself mentally for the unpleasantness ahead. Madara, probably feeling similarly, lets go of his waist only to grab his hand. Tobirama’s not sure who the gesture is for, but appreciates it none the less.

“Madara-sama!” The first elder cries, finally reaching them, “what have you done?!?” Madara stiffens.

“I have gotten wed” Madara replies honestly, daring them to find fault in him for it. Sadly, for them and their continued health, it seems they do.

“You have wed without consulting the counsel first? And to a male, who cannot provide you with heirs to lead the clan upon their passing!” The same elder exclaims, looking at Tobirama like he is less than the dirt beneath his feet. Madara’s chakra churns angrily while Izuna and the other Uchiha around are all but gaping in disbelief that the elder would dare say something like that. Even a couple of the other elders seem taken aback.

“Excuse me?” Madara bites out stiffly, but the elder doesn’t seem to notice the warning signs (or the way those nearby are trying to subtly inch away from him).

“You are the clan head; you have responsibilities to the clan. That you would ignore those for some pretty face is inconceivable! Your father must be rolling over in his grave! Stop this foolishness Madara-sama, set the whore aside and take a bride who can contribute something to the clan!” Izuna facepalms at the sheet stupidity of what this supposed “wise advisor” was saying and decides to intervene, if only to spare his aniki’s blood pressure.

“They wed in front of the Gods as is proper, which I’m sure you already knew, so my brother can hardly just ignore him and declare someone else his spouse. Multiple marriages are not permitted by the Gods. But since this is another thing you must already know; you must mean that my brother should ger rid of his new bride entirely.” It was a trap, that much was clear even if Tobirama didn’t know what Izuna was trying to do. However, if seems the elder is too blinded by rage and his own importance to see the danger.

“yes, exactly! He and his taint must be removed entirely from the clan and especially from Madara-sama himself!” The elder seemed ecstatic that Izuna was listening to him, however the Uchiha heir looked like the cat that got the canary.

“So, you would have the clan anger Amaterasu-sama by killing one of her chosen vessels and denying him the rights and place due to him by birth, an action that would, of course, call the Goddess’ wrath down upon us?” Izuna kept his enquiry toneless. The elder, who had been beaming at Izuna, suddenly froze as what Izuna had said seemed to sink in. The other elders had gone pale at the beginning of their heir’s question and were sneaking glances at Tobirama’s face. He glared at them defiantly. Clearly, whoever had alerted them to the situation had neglected to mention a few details, not that that was going to help them if Madara’s expression was anything to go by.

“Amaterasu-sama? Why would she care about-“ the elder cut himself off as he truly looked at Tobirama for the first time and blanched. It was clear he’d finally realized how badly he’d fucked up.

“please, Madara-sama, I didn’t know” the elder tried to defend himself, but Tobirama would tell that even he knew it was in vain.

“Silence!” Madara bellowed, allowing all the anger that had been in his chakra to show on his face. “You have disrespected my chosen bride, questioned my leadership and my devotion to this clan. You have also insulted and threated the life of a being kissed by Amaterasu-sama herself. You have committed blasphemy and treason and the penalty for those is death. Is there any here who find this sentence unfair?” He paused to look around at all those gathered nearby. They were all silent and he saw many shaking their heads at the question. “Good, Izuna” Madara nodded to his brother who quickly and cleanly beheaded the man. Tobirama shook slightly.

“You didn’t have to do that. He was simply worried about you marrying someone unknown and the future of the clan” Tobirama murmured to his husband. Madara was unrepentant, but surprisingly, it was another elder who answered, this one garbed as a miko.

“Madara-sama did exactly what he should have. To insult one of her blessed is to insult Amaterasu-sama herself. Had he allowed the one to do so to live her anger at the insult may have spread to the whole clan. Madara-sama was fulfilling the Uchiha’s duty to protect those she has blessed and the clan head’s duty to protect his clan” she stated calmly. Those around her nodded.

“Uchiha are all crazy” managed to escape from Tobirama’s mouth as he took in the scene. He winced as soon as it registered that he’d spoken aloud and was about to apologize for his words when the miko began to chuckle.

“perhaps so” she agreed, “but a life without any crazy would be rather boring, don’t you think?” Tobirama snorted and couldn’t help but smile back at her.

“Perhaps so” he admitted. Besides, it wasn’t like the Senju were totally sane either (they had produced Hashirama after all).

“So, does anyone else wish to protest the gift Amaterasu-sama has seen fit to bestow upon Madara-sama?” The miko asked. The clan was silent. “So be it, on behalf of the Gods I welcome Tobirama-sama to the Uchiha clan as the spouse and partner of Madara-sama, may their union and leadership be long and fruitful!” Tobirama was surprised how loudly the Uchiha cheered at her declaration, and at how genuine their happiness and welcome seemed. He was also surprised how touched by this he was.

“Thank you” he said quietly but sincerely, blushing fiercely. Madara pulled him back into his side, wrapping his arm securely around his husband once again. He’d hoped to have more time to talk with those members of the clan he trusted most and figure out how to present things to the clan as a whole, but he was also unlikely to get a better opening than this.

“Since everyone is here, I have something else to announce” Madara started, getting the attention of the clan. “When Amaterasu-sama blessed me with Tobirama she also graced me with a revelation. She wishes for our war with the Senju to end, for us to make peace with them. I have been hesitant to accept Hashirama’s offers, but with Amaterasu-sama’s approval I will proceed with an alliance”. There was a moment of deep, dead, silence as the clan processed his declaration, red and black eyes widening in surprise. No one seemed to know how to react.

“Uh” one of the other elders finally spoke up hesitantly, “I mean no disrespect Madara-sama, but are you quite sure you properly understood Amaterasu-sama’s message? That she did not bless you with Tobirama-sama as a sign of our approaching victory?” She asked.

“No, she made her wishes very clear” Madara responded. Most of the clan still seemed unsure about how to react, whispering to each other and eyeing the corpse still on the ground. They were all tired of war, but could they truly make peace with the clan that had killed so many of their kin?

“Madara-sama” the miko finally spoke up once again, “would you allow me to read the portents to verify Amaterasu-sama’s will?” She inquired. Madara inclined his head to her in acceptance.

The miko led them towards a temple near the middle of the compound. Outside, a few feet away from the entrance, was a circle of stones filled with ashes. Quickly and efficiently, with the air of someone who had done this many times before, she took some firewood from another miko and built a small pyre in the pit. Absently, Tobirama noticed that most of the clan had followed them here. He wasn’t sure how to feel about this, except to hope that it would work out in his and Madara’s favour.

Once the pyre had been built the elder intoned a prayer to Amaterasu for guidance and then lit it on fire using the traditional Uchiha fireball, though a very small one. The elder waited a few moments, ensuring that the flames had caught to her satisfaction before she nodded. This must have been a signal of some sort for the other miko from earlier came forward once again and handed the older miko a small bundle. As she lifted it high and allowed the contents to fall into the flame Tobirama saw that it was a mixture of herbs and small twigs.

When the herbs and twigs hit the flame, they caused it to flare in size and shoot off several sparks. Thick smoke drifted mostly upwards except for a small tendril that seemed to almost curl around Tobirama and Madara. The elder was nodding thoughtfully as the fire burnt quickly down to embers. When there were only ashes left, Tobirama was shocked to see that one of the small twigs had remained untouched and was now sticking straight up out of the ground in the center of the circle.

“It seems Madara-sama was correct about the Goddess’ will” the miko mused. “Amaterasu-sama calls for us to make peace with the Senju” she announces grandly. The Uchiha once again erupt into noise as Madara puffs up smugly and Tobirama looks on in bewilderment.

[ssaalexblake]

No but the aunts in caos are so brilliantly written like, Zelda’s entire aesthetic and self image is based around being a bad ass bitch, Zelda Spellman? She’ll kill you, she’ll threaten to do something horribly disfiguring to you and you buy it because you know she’d be willing to go through but... In actuality she’s not actually Good at doing it, despite her willingness to throw down at any given moment. 

Who is good at it? 

Hilda. 

Why? 

She has to be, actively Because she does Not look or seem like she will be willing to throw down at any moment.

Zelda very much is that bitch she wants you to think she is, she didn’t care about straight up beheading a dude and she was willing to work her way through whoever volunteered to be next, but like... She’s never Really had to be that person who is good at petty revenge. 

She was the popular older sister in school with the cool brother Edward (like, probably, she talks about him like he’s an older sibling), she's the Super Devout child of night, she displays herself in ways that align perfectly with the ideal in that culture and actively revels in said culture, until she became a teacher she had quite clearly never been the proper target of actual childish bullying before. She threatens Shirley in response, talks big, but none of her own threats pan out (and tbh, buttoning her lip and eating her familiar's legs isn’t that harsh contextually, i mean, Nick literally staked the weird sisters’ feet to the ground and they’re still fans of him, so i really doubt a little lip buttoning is considered super awful), but Hilda’s ideas? They get Used and they are brutal. 

Hilda suggests to Zelda what to do her attempted tormentors, she stands over her and watches to make sure Zelda gets the magic right, too, implying Hilda’s experience and Zelda’s lack of it and that Zelda also acknowledges this fact. Hilda also tries to steer Zelda away from her more eclectic revenge methods to her own, Significantly scarier methods. She also manages to banish a vengeful ghost like it’s child’s play. 

Hilda says it in part one to the ghost kids, and when she says her harrowing at zelda’s hands was brutal (gonna assume there were Traditions involved here bc i’ve not seen evidence that zelda’s actually any good at that type of thing when thinking spontaneously), that she’s good at revenge, after all, she’s had the practice where Zelda hasn’t. 

Hilda’s not devout, Hilda attended Sabrina’s catholic baptism as a witness, was excommunicated for it and didn’t actually care for religious reasons (it was Inconvenient to not have access to the church when their lives went to hell, but that was about it), Hilda dresses and acts like a bubbly over-loving aunt from one of the Cutesy fairy tales, she does not fit in aesthetically or personality wise into that church, and people react to her because of this and she’s had to learn to be brutal and vindictive and like the type of person you would meet in Grimm’s fairy tales.  

Whereas Zelda is content to react to Shirley’s antagonizing with creative magic and threats, Hilda? Hilda straight up murders her. No mercy, no warning, no sympathy or empathy, she fucked with Zelda and will die. Hilda, also, immediately murders a dude who gets handsy with her even though it will pretty much, really, just result in her own death because of exactly who the man was. She stabs the fuck outta satan (so does Zelda tho), decides to perform an exorcism b/c why not right???? Manipulates the shit outta the weird sisters when they have Ambrose, is ruthless enough to just set a demon on those witch hunters and therefore be the Only one present in the entire area unharmed by the hunters at all and like, more badass stuff i’m sure I’ve forgotten. 

But honestly, i think the Most indicative thing as to what utter Steel Hilda is that... She’s the one Sabrina actually listens to. Sabrina who has inherited Zelda’s inherent sense of extra-ness and stubbornness, who has every ounce of her biological father’s arrogance and pride and pretty much blithely ignores every directive Zelda emphatically tells her (Like, sometimes Zelda Is being extra and gotta say it, occasionally petty, but equal so to the times she is not, either way, Sabrina does not listen), but... Sabrina seems obedient to Hilda, more worried about her wrath than with any other character on the show, arguably even Satan, sometimes (Before she realises exactly what getting on his bad side can mean, anyway). 

And i think that is Incredibly telling to the subtle power dynamics in the family, when Hilda puts her foot down, Sabrina is more likely to actually fall in line and examine her actions. Sabrina is weary of crossing that line in ways she is not even slightly with Zelda, and it is So So So So telling. 

I just think this genuinely makes Zelda and Hilda a nuanced display of sisterhood and parenthood than most like, Actual parents on TV. Normally you’re given the hardass parent and and friend parent and that’s it, that’d be the dynamic. But Hilda and Zelda function as both elements simultaneously, frankly making them better parents than most parents on TV too, tbh, even if at the start you think you’re being fed this usual dynamic, the show slowly shows you Zelda’s soft edges and Hilda’s hard as steel edges, while simultaneously giving you the reasons for them to have such characteristics. 

and like, i Still can’t believe that the most nuanced character writing i watch at the moment is on the trashy satanic soap opera whose plot i can pretty much guess totally accurately as i go along @ other shows care about character work pls 

[blueboxesandtrafficcones]

Second Chance at Forever - Chapter 10

Chapter 10 of this year’s entry for the @dwsecretsanta, my present to @wordsintimeandspace!  Beta’d by the always-kind @stupidsatsuma​.  Extra thanks, cause this chapter needed a major rewrite and she was super helpful!

@doctorroseprompts​ and @timepetalscollective​ as an AU fic

General warnings for: alcohol use, cursing, discussions of sexual activities

Masterlist

AO3

Summary

Once upon a time, a boy and girl met at a bar and fell in love - until he ghosted her.

Five years later Rose Tyler’s best friend Mickey is getting married, and arranges a dinner for her to meet the groomsman she’ll be walking with - unaware that the two already know each other.

John Noble’s not sure how his friend and mentee managed to connive with the Universe to bring the One Who Got Away back into his life; all he knows it carefully built and maintained walls are crashing to the ground with no warning.

“Take me home.”

The movies lied.  In a rom-com, such a declaration would immediately cut to the couple getting hot and heavy, barely making it somewhere private before ripping each other’s clothes off.

This wasn’t a movie.  They still had to gather up their things, Rose complaining as she put her stilettos back on, and make a stop at the toilets before reaching the car.

Instead of passionately snogging each other until they were rudely interrupted by an amused copper like in the movies Donna adored, they merely buckled in and left.  John drove one-handed, the other resting on the seat divider, palm snug to Rose’s.  She was curled up on her side facing him, and every time he glanced her way she was already watching him, a soft, happy smile on her face that brought an echoing one to his.

The ride was silent, heavy with anticipation and excitement, and John had to repeatedly force himself not to speed.

Reluctantly stopping for a red light at a tiny intersection, and only half-seriously considering going through it, John looked at her when she let out a soft giggle.  “What?”

“We’re not going to die if it takes an extra five minutes to get back to mine, but we will if you don’t drive better,” she teased, leaning forward to press her lips to his bicep; even through three layers the touch burned his arm, making his mouth dry with desire.

“You don’t know that.”  He didn’t know which part he was refuting, and he didn’t care.  Rose was looking at him with want, the same desire burning through him, and he felt on top of the world.  He would say anything to make her laugh, make her smile.  She had spent too much time crying over him; he never wanted her to again.

“Pretty sure I do,” she sniggered.  “Light’s green.”

John floored it, the car jumping ahead as she laughed loudly.  Deciding it would be in his best interest to ignore her until they arrived, lest he give in to the desire to park in the next semi-legal parking space he came across and pull her onto his lap, he brought their joined hands to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand before lowering them to rest on his chest over his heart.

She didn’t make a peep for the last ten minutes of the ride, and he expertly parked at the curb with one hand.

“Impressive, eh?” he said smugly, turning the car off before shifting to face her, hopes dashed when he found her sound asleep.  After a moment he pushed his disappointment aside, bringing his free hand up to brush a stray hair away from her mouth before rubbing his thumb against her cheek.  She was adorable.  “Rose,” he called softly, heart melting when she let out a snuffle and leaned closer without waking.  “Sweetheart, we’re home.”

She whined, brow furrowing, and he leaned forward, pressing his lips to her brow, moving lower to brush against her nose and cheek.  It amazed him, that she was here next to him, part of his life again. He didn’t deserve this second chance, but he would be damned if he squandered it.

“Rose.”

“G’way,” she mumbled, and he gave up.  Picking her purse off the floor he carefully dug out her keys, ignoring the lip gloss, tissues, gum, mobile, and cash, only giving the sealed condom a moment of mourning before snapping the bag shut again and tucking it in his jacket pocket.

Getting out of the car, he took a moment to stretch before going around to Rose’s side.  Her block of flats faced onto a quiet, residential street, and no one was about at the late hour.  Carefully opening her door and getting her unbuckled, he tried one last time to rouse her with little success before scooping her up into his arms.  Kicking the door shut and using the remote to lock the car, he made his way to the front doors.

A doorman held the door for him, though he paid him little attention as he focused on getting Rose inside without a concussion.  “Thanks.”

“What in the stars is this?”

It took a moment for the familiar voice to process, and John almost dropped Rose when he looked up and realized the helpful doorman was none other than his own grandfather.  “What’re you doing here?”

“I could ask the same of you,” Wilf replied cheerily, “and with my girl to boot.”

“Your girl?”  John vaguely recalled her having mentioned adoring her doorman like he was her grandfather, and shook his head at the coincidence.  He’d known his grandfather worked as a doorman in a posh block of flats, mostly to get away from John’s mother’s nagging, but he’d never considered Rose could be one of his tenants.  “Of course she is.”

“Martha and her bloke’s rehearsal dinner, eh?  Mickey, I suppose,” his grandfather chattered, standing there blithely as John adjusted his grip on Rose’s dead weight.  “I didn’t know you knew Rose.”

“I didn’t know you did,” John shot back.  “But, and I’d only ever say this when she couldn’t hear me, she’s not exactly a feather.  D’you mind?”  He nodded his head towards the lift call buttons.

“Right, right, course,” Wilf obliged, hitting the up button.  “Now, normally I don’t let strangers in to carry unconscious people up to their flats, but for you I suppose I can make an exception.”

“Thanks,” John rolled his eyes, relieved when the lift dinged, doors opening.

“D’you need help?”

Stepping in the lift, he shook his head and adjusted his grip again.  “No- just, could you hit the button?  I don’t know what floor she’s on.”

Wilf leaned in, pressing the button marked PH before stepping back.  “We’ll be talking about this, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” he muttered, calling as the doors shut, “And don’t you dare call Donna!”

His voice must have been louder than intended, because Rose shifted a bit in his arms, blinking sleepily.  “Wha’?”

“We’re at your place,” her murmured, “can you stay awake long enough to get inside?”

“We might have to skip foreplay,” she sighed in reply, knees buckling for a moment when he set her on her feet.

They arrived then, and he guided her out into the vestibule.  It was a fairly small space, with a door on either side, a painting of the Jurassic Cliffs and a plant on the opposite wall from the lift.

“Which one?”

Rose gestured vaguely towards the left, and still keeping her pressed against him for support, he managed to get the right key on the first try.  The door swung open, and they shuffled through it together.  Once it was locked behind them he set the keys on the small table by the door before scooping her up once again.

“Bedroom?”

“We could do it on the couch,” she muttered, burying her face in his chest, and John snorted.

“Maybe another night.”

“End of the hall, then.”

He moved carefully through the dark flat.  Floor-to-ceiling windows to the left let in the moonlight, enough to see vague shapes.  It was a large space, sparsely decorated, ending at a long hallway. They passed two doors on either side before coming to the end, where double doors waited.  Opening both, he carried her inside.

“Light?”

“Left.”

He shifted that way and she reached out, moving the slider on the dimmer halfway up.  It was still fairly dark, but he could see enough that he wouldn’t trip and kill them both.

To the left stood a raised king-size bed, headboard against the same wall as the door so as to offer a view out the window.  Once again floor-to-ceiling windows covered the far wall, a breathtaking view hidden behind venetian blinds.  A small sitting area was tucked in the far corner, with a floor lamp and cozy armchair arranged next to a tiny bookshelf.

On the right side of the entryway the wall only extended a few feet before turning, a large dresser nestled between two closed doors.

John led her towards the foot of the bed, where a plush bench waited.  Rose dropped onto it, leaning against the foot of the mattress as she arched her back.  Darting his gaze away from the spectacular view of her chest, he knelt instead in front of her to undo the ankle strap keeping her heels on, discarding them off to the side out of the way.

“You should get ready for bed,” he said gently, shaking Rose’s knee.  “Wake up, babe, just long enough to change.”

“But we were gonna shag,” she whined, struggling to sit up.

He shook his head, standing.  “Not tonight. I don’t want you falling asleep on me.  C’mon.  D’you need help?”

“Please?”

“Just tell me what.”  He bent down to kiss the top of her head, breathing in her strawberry shampoo.

“Dresser, top drawer.  Should be a nightgown,” Rose yawned, waving towards the far wall.  He went dutifully, easing the indicated drawer open to find sleepsets for various seasons, ranging from skimpy nighties to flannel pajamas.  After a moment of hesitation he pulled out one of the silk nighties, bringing it back to her.

“This okay?”

She was on her feet now, bent over as she lowered pantyhose and a tiny scrap of lace.  He swallowed hard at the sight of them, almost missing when she spoke because he was so distracted by his imagination running rampant.

“Yeah, thanks.  Can you get my zip?”

She turned her back to him, and after a moment he got the hint, stepping up close to her.  Unable to help himself he pressed his hips to her bum, pleased when she rocked back against him.  Sweeping her hair out of the way and pressing a kiss to the nape of her neck, he undid the hidden hook and slowly lowered the zipper.  It stopped just above her bum, exposing creamy flesh to his view, and he rubbed his knuckles along her spine as he sucked at her neck.  “Done.”

Rose rolled her shoulders, letting the dress drop to the ground, and that easily she was naked in front of him, throwing a coy but sleepy smile over her shoulder.  “Like what you see?”

He pulled her back against him, her hips and back pressed against her front, lips against her shoulder.  “Very much.”  A regretful hum.  “I ought to be going.”

“What?  Why?”

“You should sleep.”

Rose sighed, stepping away and slipping the nightgown over her head before smoothing it over her hips.  “Fair enough, but please stay.”

“I…”  His palms itched to hold her again, to settle on her hips and pull her back against him, but he couldn’t quite trust himself to stop there and so didn’t start at all.  “Is that a good idea?”

“Please?”  She pouted up at him.  “We can just sleep, really, but… I want to sleep in your arms.”

Trust shone in her eyes, no hint of doubt or concern, and swallowing harshly, he agreed before he could think better of it.  “Okay.”

Her face lit, and she darted forward to kiss his cheek, chest pressing against his.  “Loo’s the door on the right, there should be a tee big enough for you in the same drawer if you’re not comfortable in just your pants.”

Then she turned, climbing onto the bed on her hands and knees from the bench, and he dearly wished the nightgown was another inch or two shorter.

How the fuck was he going to survive this night?

Rose drifted awake after the best night of sleep she’d had in years, yawning as she snuggled down into her pillow.

Her moving pillow.

Eyes snapping open, she looked up into the twinkling blue eyes of John.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” he said softly, and she realized his hand was rubbing up and down her spine over her nightgown.  “Sleep well?”

“Perfect,” she smiled back, memories of the previous evening slowly seeping back.  “Thanks for staying.”

“Wouldn’t have missed this for the world,” he rumbled.  “Best night I’ve had in forever.”

“And we didn’t even shag.”

In a flash he rolled her onto her back, settling their bodies together.  She was surrounded by him, every inch of her pressed against him, and she melted back into the mattress as her thighs cradled his hips.

His head slowly lowered to hers, teasing, lips brushing against every part of her face but her lips until she was squirming below him.

Desire made her limbs heavy, languid as they wrapped around him and pulled him tighter against her.  He was hot and hard against her hip, and she let out a moan when he finally deigned to kiss her.

He hitched her leg higher, kissing her deeper, and she was just reaching for his pants when her phone began to beep.

“Ignore it,” he ordered, mouth moving to her jawline, and she obeyed, until the second time, when she realized it was actually an alarm.

“Hang on,” she mumbled, shoving ineffectually at his shoulders.

John ignored her, kissing his way down her neck, and she was so tempted to just dismiss it before it chimed a third time.

“Seriously, John.”

After a moment he reluctantly rolled off her, spreading across the mattress with a groan while she reached for her purse.  She didn’t remember bringing it into the bedroom, but assumed John must have gotten it in the middle of the night.  Fumbling the mobile out of the purse and setting the condom on the nightstand within easy reach, Rose groaned in disappointment as she read her texts and checked the time.  “Shit.”

“What?”

Rose rolled back to cuddle into his chest, kissing it before laying her head over his heart.

“I promised Martha I’d go to her dress shopping appointment today,” she said apologetically, “and it’s in forty-five minutes.  It’ll take me half that to get there.”

“Skip it,” he suggested hopefully, hand settling on the back of her thigh before sliding up, and she shook her head regretfully.

“I want to- believe me, I want to- but I promised her.”  The hand stopped on her bumcheek.  “Plus, we agreed to wait, remember?”

The why of that agreement escaped Rose at the moment, certain it had been made in a moment of insanity, but John reluctantly let go of her and nudged her away so he could sit up.

“Yeah,” he sighed.  “I know.  And for good reason.”  Despite his amiable words, the heat in his gaze as he studied her suggested he’d rather toss that out the window as well.

“Damn our insistence at doing this right.”

“Oh, baby, I’ll do you right,” he promised darkly, before snorting.  “Wow, that was cheesy.  Right, do you want some breakfast before you go?”

Her stomach rumbled on cue, but she bit her lip in hesitation as she sat up as well, watching as he got out of bed and stretched.  “Doesn’t seem fair?”

“How so?”

Rose climbed down as well, heading for her loo.  “Well, I bring you home with the promise of sex, basically pass out on you, then this morning I’ve got to run off.”

John shrugged, going to her dresser where his clothes sat folded on top and began to dress.  “That’s a relationship,” he said simply.  “It’s not quid pro quo.  I’d be happy to make you breakfast because I lo- care about you.  Any sex we were or weren’t going to have has nothing to do with it.  Plus, I could hear your cat yowling from the bloody moon.”

“In that case, yes please.”  Going up on tiptoe, she kissed him languidly.  “Now, get out of my bedroom before I drag you in the shower.”

“As threats go, that’s not particularly effective,” he mumbled against her lips before pulling away.  “And I suggest if you really want to make that appointment, you lock the door.”

Martha kept one eye on the clock as she waited impatiently.  The boutique was running behind schedule, which was fine because Rose wasn’t there yet anyway.  Checking her mobile for the dozenth time, she resisted the urge to text her.  Sure, last night at the party Rose had been enthusiastic about joining, but maybe she was just being polite?  Or worse, something had happened with John - she’d seen them sneaking out together, hand in hand.

“Martha?”  The saleswoman appeared just as Rose burst through the boutique door, looking around wildly.

“Yes,” Martha, directed at the woman, before waving with relief.  “Rose!  Over here.”

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” Rose blurted, hurrying over to them and settling down next to Tish.  “I got stuck behind an accident about half a mile from here, then parking was a nightmare.  Did you get my text?”

Martha shook her head, and Rose groaned.  “Shit. My mobile died just as I sent it, I’d hoped it had gone through but… today’s just not my lucky day.”

“That hickey on your neck says otherwise,” Tish joked, and Rose’s hand flew to her neck, eyes widening.

“Oh, please tell me you’re kidding.”

The attendant cleared her throat, drawing their attention, and if possible, Rose went pinker.  “Sorry!”

“It’s okay, we were just starting,” Martha smiled brightly, even as she plotted how to get the full story from the woman.  “I’m Martha.”

“Martha, I’m Peggy, I’ll be helping you today.  Why don’t you tell me a little about your wedding?”

They were soon given free reign to wander the sample dresses, and Martha ‘just so happened’ to end up near Rose, looking through the same rack.

“I really am sorry,” her new friend muttered, still blushing.

“It’s okay,” Martha promised, adding as casually as she could, “I didn’t want to get out of bed either.”

Rose made an odd choking noise, and Martha hid her smile with a turn of her head as she pretended to study the beading on a dress.  “I wasn’t- we weren’t- I mean-”

“It’s okay,” she interrupted, elbowing the blonde with a wink.  “I think you and John make a great couple, actually.”

The other woman’s mouth opened and closed several times before finally muttering, “Thanks.”

They spent the next minute flipping in silence, before Martha asked, “So, tell the truth – how is he in bed?  When we were students, my friends and I always wondered.  Something about him just screams ‘dynamite’.”

Rose went stock still, and Martha almost checked to make sure she was still breathing.  “Um…”

Martha let her alone, still searching for the perfect dress and pulling out the occasional potential as she waited her out.

“We… haven’t,” her friend eventually muttered.

“What?”

“John and I, we haven’t… yet.  This morning- well, almost- but… no.”

“Really?”  Turning away from a dress, Martha directed her full attention on the blushing woman.  “Not ever?”

Rose dropped her eye, and Martha almost quivered with delight.  She knew it!  Since that dinner where they’d supposedly been introduced, Martha had suspected the two of a previous relationship but hadn’t been able to confirm it.  She, Jack, and Jackie had plotted a set-up, but a miscommunication meant no one was on hand to observe (her word; Mickey’s was ‘spy on’) their interaction, and all were still fully in the dark.  But maybe not for long.

Shifting her stance, Rose bit her lip and glanced around the shop.  “Today’s about you-”

“No, no, it’s okay!” Martha rushed to reassure her, certain if she didn’t spill now she never would.  “Please, I care about you both.”

Something about her earnest expression made Rose nod.  “We were together for about a week and a half five years ago before it ended abruptly.  We hadn’t seen each other since until that dinner with all of us.”

Martha tried her best to control her expression, and keep her tone casual as she replied, “I’d kind of gotten that vibe, but didn’t want to pry.”

Rose rolled her eyes, turning back to the options.  “Well, I should thank you, really, because you put us back in each other’s orbit.  We’re taking it slow this time, but…”

“Slow progress is still progress,” Martha offered, flipping through dresses again, mostly watching Rose as she considered one.

“Yep.  But where fast progress needs to be made is here.  What do you think of this dress?”

“Oooh!”