#i need to be put under pressure i need squeezed i need smushed and i aint getting that

[savetheghost]

wanna be put in a room with craft stuff for 10 years

[rudystopit]

Love Letters

[asahi x f!reader]

summary: you've known Asahi since middle school and recently you developed a crush on your closest friend. you spend all night writing the prefect letter.

warning: nsfw but wholesome, body worship, overstimulation, unprotected sex, and eating out.

wc: 2k

you put the letter into your pocket and you're off to school. you walked enjoying the beautiful trees and you watched the people walk by. today was a beautiful day. you wondered what asahi was doing after practice. as if thinking about him summoned him. he walks up behind you with some of his friends.

"hey y/n," he said. you smiled up at him and kept walking to school. you walked in silence as the boys talked about plans for the weekend. once you guys got to the school, you switched out your shoes and headed to class.

all you could do was thinking about him. asahi. his beautiful brown hair and soft honey eyes. how he smiled, how even though he's tall he still was gentile and caring. i zoned out for most of the class and lunch. just drifting through life as your nerves were buzzing.

after everyone had left you went to get your shoes and wait for asahi outside the gym. he comes running up.

"hey y/n, whatcha doing here?" he asks and plops down next to you. you play with your fingers and look at the ground. you kept your head down. "hey, what's wrong?" his hand gently placed itself on your back and he leaned closer.

"oh it's nothing," your hand drove into your pocket and pulled out the pink envelope. he looks at the letter and was about to open it when the coach came out. he yelled at him to get his ass in here and asahi left.

you're heart was racing as you sat there. you stared off into space as you go up and went home.

asahi gets shoved into the gym and heads over to the locker room to change. he looks at the pink envelope and puts it safely into his bag.

"what's that?" daichi said leaning up against the doorway.

"hmm? oh, y/n gave it to me," he said pulling on his t shirt.

"oooh. a love letter?" he coos and shoves asahi.

"i doubt it, we've been friends since middle school," he smiles and walks to practice.

you laid down on your bed and sighed. "oh did i fuck up this bad! what if when you reads it, he thinks i'm weird. or he starts hating me, or it makes everything awkward!" you yell. you close your eyes to stop the tears. you sniffled and fell asleep.

after practice, asahi walked home. he tossed his bag on his bed and checked his phone. normally he has at least a text from you but there was nothing. he thought it was weird and remember the letter.

he opened the pink envelope. his hand were shaking. 'why am i so shaky? maybe the jokes daichi was making were true. what if this is a love letter from y/n? do i like her?' he opens the letter and reads the words. his heart is beating in his head.

he picks up his phone and sends you a quick message. you hear you phone ping and you opened it. you smiled and sent back a quick message.

you put on a pair of shorts and a baggy hoodie. you figured he had read the letter and just wanted to hang out like normal. no need to get dressed up.

you walked a few blocks and knocked on the door. you hear heavy footsteps running to the door. asahi opens and smiles down at you. his cheeks had a slight tint to them. he invites you in and you two walk to his room.

you sit on his bed. you look over his room. the pink envelope was on his desk. your eyes widen and your heart sinks. jesus christ he did read it. he sits on the other side of you.

you two sat there awkwardly for a few minutes.

"how was-" "was school-" you guys spoke at the same time. "you first," he said.

"oh, how was practice?" you looked away playing with your hands.

"oh ukai was going hard on me for being late,"

"sorry," you interrupt.

"it's fine, i don't mind being late if you're the reason," he smiles. "well daichi was getting in case in the locker room. he was making jokes about me and," he stopped. he moves to hold your hands. you look up at him and his face was bright red. "and i read your letter," he says looking away.

"oh, i'm sorry," you move your hands out of his. you get up, "it's fine if you don't like me back," you head towards the door. "i'm just gonna-" you were cut off by his hand hitting the door. you slowly turn around. he's looming over you.

"y/n..." he starts. he looks down. he goes back to his bed and sits down. you stand against the door. "i guess i've liked you since middle school," he says. "i just never knew how to say it," you walk over to him.

you stand in front of him as your hands loop around his shoulders. he looks up and arms his arms around your waist. he pulls you close to him. you play with his hair. one of his hands creases down your hip and ass to bring you knee onto the bed. you straddle his lap as he buries his face into the crook of your neck.

he tightens his hold on you and you giggle. he smiles. he realizes he's in love with you. he wants you. only you. he never wants to let go.

you pull away and he looks betrayed. you lean in and kiss him. he easily melts into the kiss and leans back onto the bed. his hands travel underneath your hoodie. he drags it up and you sit up. you pull it off. you tossed it by his desk. he just stared at you. he wanted to remember every inch of you.

you look at him, looking at you, and your face goes instantly red. you hands played with the hem of his shirt as he just soaked in all your delicate features. his hands rest on your hips.

he was in a daze as his eyes dart around your body. "hey ahi," he looks up at you in a haze. you unclip your bra and let it slide down your arms. his eyes widen. he sits up and, in a shift motion, pins you against the bed. he kisses you. you smile into the kiss and you hand push up his shirt.

he sits up and rips off his shirt. he drives back down and kiss your neck. his fingers tangle into his long brown hair. he pecks your soft skin. he kisses at the base of your neck and your breath hitches.

you feel him smile against your skin and sucks on the soft skin. you grip his hair and arc your back. his hand slips under your back to pull you closer to his chest. his hand creases your lower back and his fingers slip under the waistband of your shorts. he moves away from your neck and pulls down your shorts.

you bite your lip and look away. he can't help but stare at your beautiful body. his fingers grip your chin. he pulls you to look at him. "you're so beautiful y/n," he whispers. your face goes bright red as he chuckles.

he sinks off the bed. he pulls your legs off the bed. he places your legs on his shoulder. he licks his lips as he kisses your thighs. his lips circle around your sensitive clit. he leans forward, pushing your legs up. he holds your thighs as he sucks your clit. you squeeze your knees together and moan out his name.

his hands pull your legs away from crushing his head as his tongue swirls around your clit. one of his hands moves to massage your boob. your hand rests on top of his as he plays with the flesh. your other hand tangles your fingers into his hair and you pull your legs closer causing his face to smush into your pussy. he moans into you as you tighten your grip on his hair.

he looks up to see your face bright red and eyes shut closed. your mouth hangs open with silent moans. he quickens licking to see your face twist in pleasure. you moan out his name as his fingertips leave bruises. you arc you back as you come. he laps up your juices.

you loosen your grip on his hair and you legs go limp on his shoulders. he massages your thighs as you come down from your high. he pulls away and climbs onto the bed. he leans down a kisses your forehead. your legs are pressed against your chest. he pulls his sweat pants down just enough for him to slip his hardened member out.

"god i've been waiting to do this for a long time," he whispers. he drags the tip of his dick across your slick folds. he looks up at you.

"if you're just gonna tease me," you were cut off by him slamming into you. you let out a breathy moan.

"goddamn, keep making noises like that, i might not last long," he groans out. he leans down and kisses your cheek to let you get adjusted to his size. you put your hand on his cheek. he smiles and snuggles into your hand.

"you're such a teddy bear," you giggle. he glares at you but holds his adorable smile. he leans down and kisses you. you wrap your arms around his neck. he slowly moves out. you whence at the movement.

"sorry," he whispers. you smash your lips back into his. he thrusts back in and continued at a slow pace. he licks the bottom of your lip and you open your mouth to let him explore. His tongue grazed over every inch of your mouth. He quickens his pace. You moan into the kiss.

He pulls away from the kiss and continues to rut into you. He watches you jerk underneath him. Your cute little moans fuel the fire in him as he pounds into you. You closed your eyes and let the euphoria feel wash over your body. Asahi continues at this pace, whispering sweet nothings into your ear as he tries to bring himself to finish.

"Damn y/n, you feel so good," he grumbles. You just sigh in agreement. you feel him tense up and his trust become sloppier. His hand rubs circles into your abused clit. The pressure building up in your stomach comes undone by his constant pounding and the overstimulation from his finger. "Come for me, babygirl," he whispers.

You do as your told and within seconds you spit out profanities and his name. The slick made it easier for him to trust in and out. your pussy clenches around him. He groans and you feel him fill you up. He weakly thrusts a few times and shrugged your legs off his shoulders. He falls onto your chest.

You wrap your arms around him. You play with his heart as he steadies his breathing. you two laid like that for what felt like hours. His eyes were closed and his face was soft and fast asleep. You smiled and closed your eyes to join him in sleeping.

That morning you woke up to soft kisses littering your face, neck and chest. You flutter your eyes open. He looked up at you. "Good morning sweetheart," he whispered and kisses you chest.

"Good morning chi," you whisper, letting your hands brush through his chocolate locks.

[turtle-steverogers]

Mikey I have Feelings about Steve Rogers specifically tonight and I want you to hear them

- Steve likes apple just fine but he actually doesn’t like the taste of cinnamon so he doesn’t actually eat a lot of apple things; Bucky experiments with different pastries until he finds one that’s close enough to the regular thing that everyone (including Steve) is happy.

- Sometimes Steve gets overwhelmed by all the sights and sounds and smells and textures and it’s all too much. He goes into his room, sits on the floor (the bed is too soft), puts on a sleeping mask and puts in heavy-duty earplugs. (Can you tell I read “Suspended Silence” again tonight? 😂)

- Sometimes if Steve is mentally overwhelmed (which happens a lot after a lot of PR-type stuff, he’ll take tweezers to his legs; the hairs don’t snap out so much as they pull or drag out. It’s not the sharp pain of other hair, it’s slower and more all-encompassing. He’ll pluck until he feels calm again.

- He’ll only sleep around you (let alone *on* you) if he really truly trusts you; it doesn’t happen for the team for the first year and a half at least.

- Steve likes almost all flowers except marigolds; Sarah died in October, and marigolds are the flowers of October, so there were a lot at her funeral. Same with narcissus for Bucky, at least until he gets back. (Bucky never saw his funeral; all he knows is the flowers are pretty, and finally Steve starts to see them that way again too.)

- Steve had a little bit of a lisp way-back-when that no one told him about because they all knew it was caused by his bad hearing. It was fixed almost immediately after coming out of the vita-ray chamber because he heard people talking and subconsciously mimicked them. However, no one spoke to Steve in Gaelic after Sarah was gone, so his Gaelic sounds just the slightest bit off.

- Sometimes if Steve is minority stressed, he’ll grab his sketchpad and work on warm-ups: straight lines, loops, etc.

- Steve has Sarah’s wedding ring tucked away somewhere; it was in the Smithsonian, but he took it back. When he’s not on a mission, it goes on the same chain as Bucky’s dog tags.

- Nomad!Steve went a little crazy on beard care products… however Bucky definitely appreciated it!

- He has to have someone (usually Bucky or Natasha) proofread his mission reports because his commas are ATROCIOUS. He never could sit still in class long enough to learn when to put a comma, so they just go wherever he thinks they should.

Steve has a four-foot-tall stuffed dog named Frank that Bucky won for him at Coney Island

Hope you like them ❤️ feel free to elaborate on anything that catches your fancy! I love these types of conversations with you where we keep hyping each other up.

Also how are you?? ❤️

YOU HAD FEELINGS AND GAVE M E FEELINGS OKAY LETS BREAK THIS DOWN

-YES to the apples one! The juice is real good and refreshing and helps him feel less nauseous, but apple pie and apple fillings are way too sticky and dense for him, and he feels like he can barely swallow them! And yeah, the cinnamon taste it just so overwhelming-- no. Bucky ends up mushing down the apples a whole bunch and using less cinnamon to make little mini apple strudels that Steve really loves!

-(Thanks for reading again, pal!) Yes! Steve with sensory overload is one of my absolute favorite headcanons. I headcanon that he's always had sensitivities, impairments or not, but the serum just exacerbated everything and he shuts down so quickly. Bucky walks in on him sometimes lying spread eagle on the floor and he like goes over him and asks if he'd rather company or not and usually ends up with Steve in his arms while he squeezes the heck out of him. (Steve likes pressure)

-Yes! He also bites his nails and picks the hell out of his cuticles, which serve the same sort of soothing repetitive purpose

-YEAH AND THE FIRST TIME HE DOES fall asleep around them, he's in the huge squishy armchair in the communal living room, curled up with his legs tucked under him and his face propped all smushed on his fist and they're all struck by how goddamn young he looks ("Nobody fucking wake him" "Wasn't planning on it")

-And once he shifts his view on flowers, he gets a marigold tattooed on his bicep! The stem loops around his arm

-STEVE WITH A LISP YEAH That tracks, I can totally see it! And yeah, I can see his Gaelic being just the slightest bit stunted, but he's still entirely fluent.

-He also doodles swirlies and little comics! Like cartoon mini Avengers

-Sometimes he twists the ring around in his finger, or holds it to his cheek or lips to ground himself if he's stressed or needs centering

-OKAY BUT BUCKY DOING HIS BEARD CARE F O R HIM I'm such a sucker for like,,, intimate grooming. Shavings, haircuts, washing hair/bathing together. So sweet. Bucky rubbing in some beard butter and kissing Steve's forehead. "Looking good, sweetheart"

-You know, it's fucking hilarious you bring up this headcanon and also very creepy because me and @misspluckyplum JUST wrote a scene where this exact thing was happening. Like I'm pretty sure this line was actually written: The grammar he could help with. Steve wouldn't recognize a comma if it hit him in the face. I think he struggles with that sort of thing partly because he couldn't focus when he was at school, and also because he had to miss so much of school, so some of the more basic technical stuff he missed out on. Grammar is hard for him on paper!

-FRANK MY BELOVED on bad days, Bucky finds him dead asleep on top of Frank send tweet

These were wonderful, thanks pal!!! I'm good! Had a bit of a stressful week, but I'm much better now. How are you??

[snarkwrites]

ssw | pietro maximoff; you make my heart beat faster. [ suggestive ]

Notes:

Okay, so.. This is kind of a follow up to the one shot I wrote a few months ago, happy birthday. So this picks up the next day. Idk where this idea came from or if it even makes sense when read immediately after that one, but ah well. My brain kept nagging at me to write the thing so I wrote the thing.

[ happy birthday ] for those who haven't read it already.

The translation: ty chuvstvuyesh', chto delayesh' so mnoy, kotenok = "do you feel what you're doing to me, kitten?" loosely via Google translate.

Prompts:

taken from either [ HERE ] or [ HERE ] give or take. It could be one or the other or a mix of both at my own choosing.

the daydream of him inside you // seeing the bulge in his pants // you make my heart beat faster. - those were all the prompts / inspiration used to write this.

Fandom / Character:

MCU / Pietro Maximoff x Barton!OFC, Nicola.

Other Writing Nicola / Pietro can be found in:

[ happy birthday ] + several other oooold posts way back on the blog I think. I wanna write a fic for them one day. We shall see, though.

Warnings:

[ NSFW. Absolutely no minors.] If you're underage, this was not written for you -nor should you be reading it. If you choose to keep reading, this is strictly a you problem. I can't do anything about it. I warned you.

Things you need to be warned about before reading: implied sexual encounter.

Yes. I realize that I don't go full into writing out the scene. But there's enough here that anyone underage has zero business reading it. So, I'm warning you guys now.

Tagging:

@chasingeverybreakingwave

@kyleoreillysknee

@micolegg

@mrsstevenbuchananstark

Other Stuff:

[ ABOUT MY WRITING | TAG LIST DOC - IF YOU WANT TO BE TAGGED, THAT IS. ]

“Are you feeling okay? You’ve barely touched your food, Nicola.”

My mom’s concerned question cut through my thoughts and I made myself smile, nodding. Taking a bite as I replied through a mouthful, “I’m fine. Was just thinking. That’s all.”

“About?” my mom eyed me expectantly. Hints of an amused smile played at her lips. I hesitated for a moment. If I didn’t know any better, I’d almost swear that somehow she knew something was up.

,, would it be a stretch to think so? One, she is my mom and two, I’ve been acting skittish and just plain out of it all damn day...” the thought came and as quickly as it did, I shoved it down in the depths of my brain.

I shrugged. “ Nothing in particular.” I gave the vaguest answer I could come up with. If she had one tenth of a clue what I’d really been thinking about just now, I’m honestly not sure how she’d react to it.

I’d been replaying last night over and over again in my mind all day. Every single part of me was dying to ask Pietro if it meant anything or not but at the same time, every single part of me was also scared to death to do that very thing. The one or two times we’d been alone with each other today and I did try, the words got stuck in my throat. And he wasn’t behaving any differently than he normally did, so I kind of just… Let it go. Started to convince myself that making the two of us love the night before was just a one time thing. As my best friend Simone would put it, “Sometimes, you just need to scratch that itch.”

The whole problem with her theory is that even now, having scratched this particular itch.. I wanted to do it again. And again.

I wanted so much more than that too. The brief glimpse I’d gotten of Pietro beneath the sarcasm and the flirty swagger the night before completely did me in. I’d gone from trying hard to keep him at arms length to falling head over feet in love with him and knowing this drove me crazy.

I felt someone staring at me.

I looked up just as Pietro was looking down. Pouting to myself a little, I reached out to grab the spoon in the bowl of mashed potatoes to scoop another serving onto my plate. Pietro reached for the spoon at the same time and when our hands brushed, I felt this little jolt.

He moved his hand but not until he’d let it linger against mine for a second or two. His gaze not leaving mine for the entirety of it. Under the table, my thighs clenched tight. I could see his hands all over me again in my head. Feel his cock buried deep inside me.

I went from a little wet to full on soaked between the mental imagery and the brush of his hand against mine. My stomach coiled.

My body tensed a little.

I dropped my gaze first, busying myself with putting more potatoes on my plate. Pietro kept watching me.

My parents were talking at the head of the table as my mom fed Nathaniel some smushed peas and carrots... My little sister scarfed down her food and then shot out of her chair and out the backdoor to go play a game of tag with my brother in the backyard before it got to dark to play and they had to come inside.

I dared to glance up from shoveling food into my mouth and Pietro gave a teasing wink. Biting his lip as he openly fucked me with his eyes.

And there it went.. The lazy flip flop of my stomach. And no matter what I tried, I couldn’t tear my eyes out of the ocean blue depths of his.

I couldn’t take any more of the torture that was being around him and not having the courage to ask what I was dying to know so I stood and grabbed my plate as soon as I finished eating, making my way into the kitchen to put it in the sink.

I went ahead and washed it while I stood there. I was just drying the plate and about to put it away in the cabinet overhead when I felt Pietro’s muscular body press against me from behind. Wordlessly, he took the plate from my hand and sat it on the top of the stack inside. I turned to face him.

This put us body to body.

I swallowed hard. My mouth opened and closed and for about five or six seconds, I willed myself to say something. Do something.

But I couldn’t bring myself to. Because as much as I was dying to know whether last night was a one time thing or if there was really something between us… Parts of me were scared to death that if I asked, I wouldn’t like the answer.

And that kept me quiet.

Pietro’s hand raised. Reaching out. Brushing strands of hair out of my eyes. I barely restrained a whimper at the touch. His eyes flashed a brighter blue and his head tilted slightly as he stared down at me.

Lost in thought.

His hips pressed into mine harder. When I felt the bulge in his jeans, I took a few shaky breaths. His hand rested on my hip, squeezing. Digging the tips of his fingers into it. He leaned down slightly and his mouth grazed the shell of my ear as he asked, “ty chuvstvuyesh', chto ty delayesh' so mnoy, kotenok?” in a breathless whisper.

If I thought I was wet before, hearing him speak to me in his native tongue had me soaked. Absolutely flooded. The only word I could pick out of whatever he’d asked was kitten. And as usual, when he called me kitten, my heart fluttered just a little more in my chest. He rocked himself into me clumsily and I sucked in a breath.

“Pietro.” I muttered. I was right on the verge of asking him what he’d just said. And asking him about what the night before truly was, if he felt anything or if it just kinda… happened. But just as I thought I’d finally be able to get the words out, it’s like my brain froze up all over again. I frowned at myself in frustration and sighed, shaking my head. “Nothing. It’s silly.”

I heard my dad calling my name from the next room, so I stepped away from Pietro reluctantly and went to leave the kitchen. Pietro grabbed hold of my hips, holding me in place for a few seconds. Staring down at me.

“ I need to talk to you later, kotenok. Alone.”

All I could do was nod. Tell him that I was going to go up to my room in a few minutes.

He nodded.

I stepped away and walked into the next room, only barely managing to pull myself together enough to talk to my parents without either one of them seeming to be aware of just how flustered I truly was.

As soon as I got done talking to my dad, I made my way upstairs. Shutting the door to my room and leaning against it just to hopefully pull myself together.

I still couldn’t.

I flopped across my bed, picking up the Anatomy book and my notebook, preparing to start studying again for the final I had coming up soon and just as I settled into it, there were two knocks at my bedroom door.

I slipped off the bed, wandering over to the door. Opening it.

Pietro leaned in the doorway, gazing down at me. That hungry look in his eyes again.

I stepped out of the doorway and let him into my room, shutting the door behind me. When I turned around to face him, we were body to body. Leaning into me, he put a hand against the door, just above my head. I could feel him straining even harder against his jeans. His other hand raised, resting against the side of my face. Cradling my cheek as he closed the distance between our mouths.

I started out with my palm down. Determined to keep distance between us until I finally worked up the courage to ask my question, hear my dreaded answer and be done, but by the time his tongue slipped past my lips and started to trace my teeth, I was clutching at the front of his fitted black shirt instead. He nipped at my bottom lip, tugging until I felt it swelling under pressure. The kiss deepened until I got so lightheaded I thought I’d melt.

He seemed to sense this because he crushed me against him and the hand cupping my face drifted down. Skimming down my side. Stopping at my hip.

The kiss finally broke so we could breathe and we pulled apart; breathless. Staring at each other quietly. Wide-eyed.

“Kotenok…” he muttered softly. Fondly. His voice dying away as he stared down at me like he was lost in thought. Trying to say something.

“What’s up?” I mumbled, my stomach flipping and flopping lazily.

“Last night was..” he went quiet on me again and I tensed a little, bracing myself for him to continue. Preparing myself in the event that what he was about to say wasn’t what I longed to hear.

So it shocked me when he was closing the distance between our mouths all over again as he muttered in a lust-filled whisper, “Last night was more than just sex. You make me feel things that I haven’t before, kotenok.”

My breath caught in my throat and I didn’t realize it until I finally took a breath and it was shaky. I gazed up at him, letting his words sink in. Trying to wrap my head around it. I went to say something, to tell him that I felt the same way and I didn’t do what we’d done last night often, but he pressed the side of his finger against my lips, silencing me and continued to speak.

“You make my heart beat faster.” he took hold of the hand I had rested against his chest, placing it over his heart. I gasped quietly as I looked up at him again and saw the way he was looking back down at me, a look of pure and total adoration.

He looked nervous as hell. Fidgeting a little. Not quite sure what to do with his hands after he moved one off my hip and let go of my hand with the other. He went to step away, swearing under his breath and I realized that he wanted me to react somehow.

I pressed against him from behind. My hand wrapping around his where it lingered on the knob to my bedroom door. “Don’t go. Please?” I asked in a hushed whisper. Pietro turned around and when he did, I melted against him. Raising my arms to wrap them around his neck. Dragging my fingers through a thick mess of platinum blond. Tugging at it as I rose to tiptoe and crashed my mouth against his. Laughing softly when our noses bumped and our lips connected all over again; hungry. Desperate. Frenzied.

He reached down, twisting the lock on my door knob so that it was locked and no one could come in by accident. A low growl rose up from the depths of his chest, hanging in the air between us only to be swallowed by the kiss as our mouths reconnected and it deepened. I rubbed myself against him clumsily. Needy.

His hands locked across my ass and he slipped me up his body, stepping over to my bed. Dropping me against my mattress softly and positioning himself on top of me. Pressing his hips into mine. Bucking against me as his mouth strayed from my own, working it’s way down the side of my neck. His lips caught on my pulse, making me shiver and rock myself up into him as I gave a needy whine and raised my legs, squeezing his hips with my knees. The kiss broke and he muttered against my mouth with a teasing grin, “ Think you can be quiet for me, kotenok?”

“ I can try.” I whimpered as his mouth worked down the front of my throat, teeth scraping against skin. Stubble tickling me. Making me cling to him as he snapped his hips against me and his hands moved down between us, catching in the hem of my shirt. He pulled me up to a sitting position and pulled my shirt off, tossing it onto my bedroom floor. I tugged at his shirt, whining impatiently and he chuckled. Nipping softly at my bottom lip as he teased, “Patience.”

“Pietro.” I pleaded.

He tugged his shirt over his head, letting it settle on the floor near mine. And then he was leaning in. His hands moving up my sides. Stopping to squeeze my breasts, growling to himself quietly before reaching around. Hooking a thick digit beneath the band of my bra and working the clasps free. He pulled it off, balling it up and tossing it on the floor with the rest of our clothes as he leaned into me even more, my back pressed flat against my bed all over again. He positioned himself on top of me, his body spreading my legs wide and as his head dipped down, my fingers curled in my blanket and thick blond hair.

His mouth worked across my collarbones. Then lower. He squeezed my tits together, mouth diving down. Latching onto one of my nipples. Tongue circling lazily until he’d teased it to a point and I was squirming beneath him, rocking my hips, desperate for any kind of friction I could get. My fingers caught in the waistband of his jeans and I worked the button and the zipper free. He pulled away and slipped off the bed to shed his jeans and underwear and eyed me hungrily. Leaning down. Meeting my gaze with a mischief filled smirk as he took off my pants. Holding my gaze the entire time.

I kicked my pants free at the ankle and he was on top of me again. The tip of his thick cock brushing right against my fabric covered crotch as he bucked into me and muttered against my mouth, “Are you ready for me, kotenok?”

“Please?” I begged breathlessly, barely managing to keep my voice a whisper as I did so. When he smirked at me as if he were pleased with himself, I realized exactly what his goal was.

He wanted to see just how close he could get me to getting loud.

I pouted up at him and he chuckled. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re being a tease. I know what you’re trying to do.”

“Oh?” he muttered, his hand disappearing between us. Slipping into my panties. Fingers working me open. Burying deep in my throbbing, wet sex. I arched my back and gasped, my fingers tangling in his hair, tugging at it as I rocked against his hand.

It wasn’t enough. I wanted him buried to the hilt inside of me. Now.

But Pietro was in a teasing mood tonight. Something told me that the more I begged, the more he was going to prolong it. And if I didn’t beg? He’d prolong it.

I was absolutely fucked.

One way or another, he was going to have me screaming his name by the end of the night.

[that-damn-girl]

(7) Bucky and The Bed

Completed

Chapter 6

Bucky and The Bed Masterlist

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x (cis)fem!reader

Words: 4000+

Summary: You and Bucky are stranded in the middle of a snowy nowhere when there is an 'electronic blackout' during your mission. With no back ups or any way to contact your team, you take refuge from the worsening weather in the only cabin you find  in miles. Not to mention, with no power, Bucky has become your personal heater and there's only one bed.

Chapter type: Soft smut. Fluff. Teasing.

Chapter/Trigger warning: Smut. 18+ only please. Language.

A/N: Thank you for continuing to read this series. Hope you like this part!

Laying on your side, as consciousness slowly sipped into you, you noticed a few things around you before you could open your eyes. A heavy arm laid on your middle, not exactly clutching you in its grasp, but rather just holding you close, safe and sound in its hold. A warmth, fulfilling and rich, cocooned your body. Low and soft, broken moans and grunts poured right into your ears from behind as short gusts of warm breath tickled your cartilage.

Most prominent of them all though, was the hard length nestled bare in between the soft skin of your butt cheeks. The gentle rutting of Bucky's cock on your ass ignited a desire to flow through you. Although half asleep, the feel of it all was too overwhelming to ignore. Half, incomplete moans in your ears in his morning gravely voice were much more delicious than ever.

Somewhere in the back of your head, you could sense that he wasn't awake, grooving his member against you in his sleep. That somehow made it that much more intimate, to know that even when unconscious, he sought for you and your warmth. That even when unconscious, in his most vulnerable state, he trusted you with every part of himself.

You couldn't help but buck your hips against Bucky, relishing in the way the grunts behind you sounded heavier with much more feels. It only caused your core to tighten, a heat to pool between your thighs. Even though you weren't fully awake yet, your brain still unconscious enough to not remember much in clear details, your sleep laced mind knew who it was behind you. Holding you closely, giving you a sense of security,  making a wave a pleasure course through you and he pleasured himself. Almost as if thinking of anyone else but him in that moment would feel wrong.

"Bucky," you moaned as he humped harder against you. Hearing your sweet voice calling out his name sinfully, something propelled him to clutch his arm tighter around you and bring your behind closer to his. As his length pressed more firmly against you, telling you just how hard he was, you unintendedly moaned louder. 

His name leaving your lips in such an erotic manner gradually roused him from his sleep. As the haziness cleared from his mind, Bucky immediately stopped what he was doing, quite ashamed of himself for taking advantage of you like that, wondering what he started doing it in the first place. 

Bucky noticed the feel of your smooth skin bare under his touch. He couldn't help but drag his curious hands across your torso but stopped when his fingers touched the underside of your breasts. He blushed quite hard too. Despite the blankets covering your forms, he could see your bare shoulders peeking from underneath. 

He blushed even harder as he realised neither you nor him had any layers on beneath the blankets. It didn't help his case when he realised his member was settled quite snugly between your ass cheeks.

Bucky wrecked his mind to remember why the pair of you were in such a state of undress, until the last night came back to him. The confessions, the moans, the words, everything came rushing to him, to remind him how lucky of a man you had made him by accepting to be his girl. In an instant he was overjoyed. Overjoyed to know that all of it was real, to know that none of it was a dream. 

"Y/N," he said, bending down to place a trail of soft loving kisses on your shoulder and along the curve of your neck. 

Now nearly awake, you tilted your head to give him more space and gingerly brought his arm from underneath your breasts to upon it. Taking the hint, he kneaded and softly squeezed your boobs. You bucked your hips against his again, but his hands stopped you from taking anything further.

He let out a sigh before turned you on your back and looked deeply into your eyes. For some reason, his eyes looked regretful to you, "I am sorry, Y/N. I didn't know I was doing it in my sleep. I don't want you to think that I was taking your advantage or anything. You have to know I'd never do anything like that-"

Smushing his face between your palms, you quickly cut him off with a kiss. Bucky was taken aback for a second, but he took a hold of his bearings and kissed you back passionately. A hand looped around your waist and he rubbed your back which led him to palm your ass fondly.

You pulled back and leaned on your elbows to look at him in the eyes. How much more perfect could a man be? Caressing his cheek, you tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear, "I was enjoying it, Bucky. And I know you'd never do anything of the sort. Why do you always forget that I told you," you leaned forward and pecked him on the lips slowly, "I trust you."

Bucky smiled widely in between short kisses, thanking his stars for finally letting him have someone as precious as you. You kept kissing each other for a while, drunk on the newfound love between you two. Hands roamed the other's body slowly, sensually, appreciatively.

Bucky had never been as close to heaven as he had been in that moment. His warm body bare against yours, not separated by any nonsensical thing; you in his arms, taking comfort in his hold while giving him some too. Kissing you, touching you, loving you. Really, this was no less than heaven for him.

You trying to rub your thigh against his erection was a wonderful bonus.

Putting you back on your back, Bucky slightly leaned over you as he laid on his side. You swore you could see stars alone from the way his plump lips kissed you, his tongue caressing your inside your mouth.

"Can I touch you this way?" You asked, carefully laying a hand on his shaft under the blankets. 

Bucky drew in a sharp breath at the touch, a bit surprised but loving it nonetheless. "Trust me, it’s more than okay," he said. He was about to ask you something too, but you beat him to it.

"You can touch me anywhere anyway you want to, really. I'm comfortable with it as long as you are." 

You delicately wrapped your palm around him and started pumping him slowly. His member throbbed under your touch, making you feel immensely good for having such an effect on him. Gently sweeping your thumb over his head, you used the little beads of precum to lubricate his shaft. Bucky hid his face in the crook of your neck as you did so, a lewd Ah escaping his lips.

He soon brought his fingers downward to your sex. Running them through your slit and finding it wet, he seductively whispered in your ear, "All of this for me, doll?" 

"Everything, for you." You whispered back. He collected your on his fingers before taking them up to your clit, stroking it tenderly, making you only wetter by the second. You bit your lips as a new wave of desire coursed through you. 

You focused on pleasuring Bucky as good as he pleasured you. Holding his member a little more tightly, you flicked your wrists with every up and down movement as much as your cramped up position allowed. Your thumb caressed his head every so often, making him moan obscenely every time you did that.

And his moans, oh god his moans.

If you thought his morning voice was sexy, his moans and grunts were another level entirely. Listening to his gruff, gravely voice repeat your name  with Ohs and Ahs - uncontrolled, purely on instinct, just for your ears, was a new high for you.

Your need to see him was just as bad as your need to hear him. Gripping the blankets with your free hand, you pushed them away from yourselves as your legs worked on kicking them off. Cool chilly air hit your exposed heated skin when Bucky wasn't covering you in a much more merciless manner than you had anticipated. But one look down your body to glance at his member being stimulated by you; to glance at the drops of precum escaping his slit as you worked on him was worth it.

It didn't last though. You couldn't help closing your eyes and tipping your head back in pleasure as Bucky stepped up his game. Switching between massaging your sensitive nub in various invisible patterns, he had already increased his pace as he put just the right amount of pressure. When you pushed the blankets off of you though, it was a different story. 

He raised his head from your neck to glimpse down where you stroked him and he did to you. Realising that you liked watching it as you played with his shaft, that you loved to see his thick throbbing member let slip precum under your touch, it did something to him, igniting something raw and carnal inside him. 

In an instant he worked his fingers harder and faster on your sensitive clit. Increasing his pace further, he put all of himself into stimulating you, bringing you closer to the edge. The world, the surroundings, nothing mattered to him. It was you and only you on his mind. Being ravished under his fingers, seeking him and his touch to achieve that ultimate goal. 

Closing your eyes, you relished in the feels Bucky was giving you. The scent of your arousal lingered heavily in the air. His full lips attached to your neck, lightly nibbling and sucking the most sensitive of parts. Overwhelmed with all the sensations being bestowed upon your body, you desperately needed to clutch onto something, to keep yourself anchored to the real world. With nothing else to hold onto, you bunched up the sheets in your hand.

Bucky noticed the pace of your hands on his cock faltering for a few moments as your moans rose in volume. He didn't mind it though. It must mean he was doing something right. He was quite proud of it.

"Bucky- ah - it feels so good," you said with your eyes shut tight, desperately trying to focus on pumping Bucky but his fingers worked so well on your pearl that it was hard to concentrate on anything else.

"You are so good," Bucky mumbled in your ear before littering your neck with hot wet kisses, his warm breath pounding your neck. He loved listening to the gorans and mewls falling out of your lips, loved knowing that he was the reason behind them.

The coil in your belly was tightening more and more, yearning to finally be able to let go. You arced your back as he played with your clit, massaging it with expert roll of his fingers. It was dizzying, the rush of feels which followed soon after. 

Moaning helplessly, you let the tension in your abdomen uncoil as you came in Bucky's fingers under his ministrations. Pleasure coursed through your veins hot and fast as you withered next to him.

Your hand unintentionally gripped Bucky's cock harder. Bucky groaned, unbelieving how good it felt. His fingers rubbed you some more, determined to prolong your orgasm. You mewled as his fingers kept teasing you, stretching your orgasm.

You stroked him faster, driven to get him to orgasm as well, deploying all the tricks you could think of. You whispered sweet nothings into his ear, telling him how good he had made you fell, how good you planned to make him feel. 

Reaching the edge himself, Bucky bucked his hips into your hand, desperately awaiting to climax, your touch bringing nothing but delight to him. A few strokes later, Bucky too let himself go, finally tipping over the edge, groaning obscenely. Hot thick ropes of his cum landed on your torso in short bursts, painting your skin with his release.

Panting heavily, you both tried to calm yourselves down from your high. You turned to look at Bucky. Smiling candidly, wide and bright, his expression mirrored your own. Despite your cum-stained selves, the moment felt so raw, so pure, it was heartwarming to say the least. If it were possible, you had already lost yourself in his eyes.

None of you had to say anything to know how wonderful it had been for the other. Your gazes showed everything there was to be known. Holding your hand in his, he interlaced your fingers with his before bringing them close his lips and softly kissing your knuckles. 

Something tugged at your heart from the way he looked at you, his gaze looking deep into your soul with all the love he held for you. Only you. As if you'd hung the moon and the stars, as if you'd bring them to him if he asked you to. Glancing into his gentle blue orbs, you realised you just might. 

Overwhelmed once again with the intensity of his gaze, your chest rose and fell and breaths quickened. And here you thought you were calming yourself down. But how could you, when he was looking at you so lovingly? You knew you were in love with this man. 

But now you knew you were deeply and irrevocably in love with this man.

You couldn't, however, tell him that. Not outright, anyway. While you wanted more, so much more, things needed to be escalated at his pace. His comfort was just as important as yours. If he wanted your relationship to go slow, it'd go slow. Moreover, you were much too afraid to lose something as precious as your and his bond.

Afraid you'd do something, or rather say something you'd regret later, you attempted to divert his attention from your face. Swiping his cum from your skin on your finger, you lewdly licked his cum off your finger, all the while holding his gaze, appreciating the tangy yet sweet taste of him in your moan. 

Watching you, Bucky groaned, "You're going to be the death of me," Cupping your face, he smashed his lips against yours. The kiss was rather hard, hot and heated, and you loved every second of it.

Pulling back, gleeful, bashful smiles once again took a hold of his handsome face. You couldn’t help but let them take their hold on you too. 

You were happy. You were very happy, in fact. But the universe was set on making you feel anything but that.

The near empty cupboards in the kitchen stared back at you, as if mocking and teasing you, challanging  you to somehow improve their state. From the scarce number of jars and cans there were, at least half of them were already expired or not at all edible. What little food was left, it was just that. Little. 

Since day one you and Bucky tried to ration what was left, but even then the daily rations were too small. Normally, the lack of food wouldn’t have bothered you much. Though it wasn’t ideal, you could’ve hunted wild animals to survive. However, where you were stuck seemed to have little to no fauna. You only consoled yourself by reminding your panic stricken mind that if FRIDAY's calculations were true, you'd only have to for half a week more to get back home. 

If.

You didn't doubt Tony's creation, god you didn't at all. But your brain only conjured the worst case scenarios every time you thought about getting out of your predicament. 

You were soon put out of your misery as a pair of strong familiar hands closed around your waist from behind. The wall of Bucky's body pressed firmly against your back. His head dipped to place soft comforting kisses on the curve of your neck, his long locks ticking your skin as he did so. Leaning back against him, encompassing your arms around his own, bending your neck, you greedily took the calm and comfort his presence provided you. 

Oh what a pleasure it was for Bucky! To be able to hold you, cherish you in his arms as and when he desired too. He didn't need to restrain his a-little-too-friendly touches anymore, fearing you'd deem him too forward. He could kiss you sweetly and passionately to his heart's content - and receive the same from you.

A heaven, really.

Resting his head in the hollow of your shoulder, Bucky tightened his arms around you some more. He didn't like the thick heavy layers which were separating you from him. He much preferred feeling your skin against his, your warmth pressed into him without any barriers. If you needed anything thick and heavy, it should've been him covering your body like in the between the sheets that morning, or the night before.

Shaking his head mentally to clear off the creeping ideas, Bucky wondered since when he had become so possessive and territorial. But you were in his arms, safe and sound. It was all that mattered.

"Hey there, is something wrong?" he asked, remembering you seemed distressed a few seconds ago.

"It's-" you started, but stopped yourself before you could continue. Maybe you were worrying for nothing. Maybe all would turn out well and fine as FRIDAY had said. You didn't want to worry Bucky too with your panic laced thoughts. "It's nothing."

Even you could tell how unconvincing that sounded. Bucky furrowed his eyebrows, his voice taking a serious note, "You know you can talk to me, right, doll? You can tell me if something's worrying you."

You leaned into him more, thankful for his comforting presence behind you. "It's probably nothing, but…" And you proceeded to tell him all about all your worries.

Bucky turned you around, keeping his hands on the small of your back. Cradling your face in his metal palm, he said, "It's gonna be alright. Don't worry about it. Everything's gonna be fine."

You were about to say something, but he continued, "Even if things don't turn out as they're supposed to, we'll find another way. We'll work something out. We always do." Looking softly into your eyes, he added in a gentle voice, "I'll take care of you."

Smiling, you circled your arms around his torso and laid your head on his chest, "I know, me too." 

Bucky kissed your head before tucking your head under his chin, "I know you will."

Snuggling closer to the warmth he offered, you said, "It's just so fucking cold." 

"Well, I know of a few things that we could do to keep ourselves warm." 

Pulling back a little, you tilted your head up towards him, your mind thinking of one thing only to keep yourselves 'warm', "You are one insatiable man, Bucky. And I'm loving it."

Bucky looked at you amusingly, his sugary sweet smile replaced by a smug one. Bucky lowly spoke in your ear, "As much as I'd like to undress you and take you apart by my fingers right here, right now, again," Your cheeks flushed as you remembered the fun you'd had that morning right after your supposed breakfast, "I didn't mean that." 

Looking at your confused face, totally not admiring how cute you looked, he continued, "I meant we could spar. It's been a while, you know?"

Cheeks still tinged with your blush for taking his words in a completely different way, you nodded your agreement and moved to the living room. The couch was already moved towards the fireplace, leaving which there really wasn't much furniture to move around to get some open space in the middle. Shrugging off a few layers, you stretched - Bucky totally didn't ogle at your ass while you did so, and started sparring with him.

The atmosphere was light and fun like it had always been with the two of you. Kicks and punches were thrown and dodged, different techniques were applied and rendered useless as each tried to out do the other. The offences were serious though, just enough to tease and enjoy the physical back and forth. After a while of dancing around each other with hits and jabs, it finally looked like one had attained the top hand.

Bucky had your head in a lock with an arm circled around your neck and another across your waist, keeping you immobilised. Though it didn't sound bad. On the contrary, you very much liked the position he had trapped you in.

"What're you gonna do now, Y/N?"

If only he knew. 

Biting your lips, you started wiggling your hips in front of his crotch, pushing your behind back and lightly twerking your hips as best as you could. Bucky wasn't hard then, but you knew if you continued like this it wouldn't take much time.

Catching onto your play, Bucky chuckled, "Oh, that's playing unfair, doll."

"Are you telling me you don't like it?" You asked with a smug smile.

"Quite far from it, baby. I love what you're doing to me." He quickly turned you around without letting you leave his grasp and swiped your leg from under you, letting you fall on the rug below - but gently, of course. "But I won't let you win because of that." He trapped you underneath him by sitting atop your torso, his weight managed on his legs while one arm pinned both your wrists above your head.

Just what you had been waiting for. Jerking your wrists and breaking your hands out of his hold, you grabbed his collar before using his weight against him, throwing him to his side. It didn't take you long to mount him just as he had mounted you before. You didn't pin his hands though, opting to lean forward and run a finger down the side of his face instead, "You sure about that, Mister?"

Flipping you on your back again, quite easily since you didn't restrain him - not that you were trying to, he took the upper hand again and fixed you under his weight. "Quite sure about that."

"Oh, just come here," Smiling unabashedly, you pulled yourself up to sit  on your hips. Your arms curled around his neck as you kissed his full lips lovingly. Though short lived, Bucky enjoyed the kiss thoroughly before he stood up, pulling you up along with him. 

Bucky was walking backwards, you hand clasped in his, dragging you to the couch for an afternoon of cuddling. When his leg hit the corner of the couch at an awfully bad angle, he realised too late he had miscalculated the distance to the couch as he tumbled to the ground with a thump and groan, his eyes contracting in pain.

"Bucky," you shrieked, eyes widening as you saw his descent. Rushing to him, you quickly knelt by his side and raised his head to your lap. "Shit, you alright?" You stroked head gently, looking for any injuries. You'd admit later you were a little too worried.

"Yeah, I'm okay," Buck muttered, "Just didn't expect that."

Suddenly he heard laughter from his side. Peeking open his eyes, he looked at you laughing hysterically. Confusion crept on his face, unsure whether you were trying to take care of him or make fun of him.

"What? What is it?"

In between laughs, you panted as you said, "The Winter Soldier, the White Wolf, one of the most skilled men to walk on this planet, undefeated by an Avenger but defeated by a rusty old couch."

As Bucky heard the irony roll off your tongue, he couldn't help but chuckle alongside too. That, however, wasn't long lived as he was once again enraptured by your beauty. The grin stayed on his lips, but for a different reason then.

Your eyes crinkled beautifully in mirth as the harmonious sound of your laugh filled the air. You were clearly enjoying yourself, while he was enjoying watching you being happy his heart thumping wildly. Looking at you in that moment, Bucky knew he'd do anything humanly possible to keep that radiant smile on your face.

Man, he really had fallen hard for you.

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Chapter 8 

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[fanficshiddles]

Blushing in His Colours, Chapter 8

Mia woke up the following morning, but she thought she was dreaming.

Loki had his arms wrapped around her from behind, holding her close. She felt so safe and secure in his embrace, she never wanted to leave.

Images from last night flooded her mind, making her blush. She knew this was just the start too, she didn’t doubt that Loki had many wicked and fun ideas in that brain of his. That he would be starting off gently and slowly with her, because that’s the kind of person he was, she had discovered. With people he liked, anyway. And he certainly seemed to like her.

‘What are you thinking about?’ Loki hummed, nuzzling into her hair and making her giggle as he lightly strummed his fingers over her stomach, making her squirm.

‘Just… about last night.’ She said shyly.

Loki turned her around and cupped her cheek, smiling at her softly. ‘All good I hope.’

‘Definitely!’ She said quickly.

He leaned in to kiss her gently on the lips. ‘I haven’t scared you away then with my little accident last night.’ He chuckled.

Mia giggled again and shook her head. ‘Of course not. I uhh, don’t think a guy has ever cum that quickly for me before.’

Loki smiled and cupped the back of her head as he hugged her. He found he didn’t want to let her go, he had never felt so content before… A swelling in his heart whenever he looked at her.

‘I almost did just from undressing you.’ He purred.

Mia smiled as she hid her face in against him. She started getting aroused though when he slid a hand right down her back, to her bum where he gently patted her.

‘I will need to take you over my knee soon, give you a spanking to test where your pain limit is, so I know where the line is between punishment and fun.’ He hummed, he stopped patting her and just held her bum in his large hand.

Her eyes widened, but she kept her face hidden as she shifted very slightly.

‘Does a spanking for fun sound appealing to you, little one?’ He asked knowingly.

‘Uhm…’ She didn’t respond, feeling shy again.

Loki smirked as he rolled her over enough onto her back, he leaned up and half over her as he slid his hand down her front. ‘Well, I will need to find out for myself.’

She whimpered when his hand sneaked between her thighs, but she let them fall open for him naturally.

‘Good girl, Mia.’ He nuzzled her nose with his own as he slid his fingers through her folds, making her moan. ‘Mmm, it does seem all this talk of spanking has turned you on.’ He grinned, kissing her lips as he sought out her clit and started circling it slowly.

He concentrated solely on her clit, an even pace and steady pressure that soon had her body writhing and moans coming from her lips. Loki felt like he was in a trance as he watched her beneath him, knowing it was his doing she was losing control like that and experiencing so much pleasure.

‘Cum for me, my little sweetling. Let me see you lose control again.’ He growled softly.

She came undone for him like she had been waiting for his permission. Her eyes closed and she threw her head back, her mouth opened in a silent scream as she arched up towards him. Her legs started shaking and she grabbed hold of his arm tightly for something to hold on to.

Mia slowly came down from her high, Loki continued stroking her very softly, letting her down gently until he brought his fingers up to his lips to taste her. ‘Mmmm. I will most definitely never tire of making you cum. Such a delightful feast for my eyes.’

She blushed furiously under his comments and still from her orgasm. She giggled shyly and turned her head into him again.

‘How about we go shower together before heading down for breakfast?’ Loki suggested, stroking her hair.

‘Yes please, Daddy.’ She nodded eagerly. Loki almost faltered at hearing her call him that for the first time, his heart exploding happily. More so because of how naturally she said it.  

He scooped her up before she could even sit up, and carried her through to his bathroom. Kissing her on the way, making her continue to giggle.

Loki couldn’t keep his hands off of her in the shower. He washed her hair for her and her body too. She wanted to return the favour, so he had to crouch down so she could reach his hair. He couldn’t resist slipping one of her nipples into his mouth when she was reaching up to rub the shampoo in his hair, making her gasp and almost collapse as her knees turned to jelly.

But he just hadn’t been able to resist, since it had been right there on front of him. At the perfect height.

When Mia was rubbing body wash on his chest, she couldn’t help but notice his hard cock. Loki hadn’t been expecting her to do anything for him, but he would be lying if he said he wasn’t utterly delighted when she sank down to her knees and started licking at his tip.

‘Oh god.’ Loki moaned, closing his eyes. He was going to try and last longer this time if possible.

She put her hands on his thighs to anchor herself as she took him into her mouth. She started sucking him and had barely taken him down far at all when she felt him starting to throb hotly against her tongue, right before he came again. She swallowed some of his cum, but some dribbled down her chin and was washed away down the drain.

When she looked up with a giggle, Loki was dragging his hand down his face and it was his turn to be blushing slightly.

‘I think I have a problem, pet.’ He said sheepishly, making her giggle again.

He’d never had this kind of issue before. Normally women could go down on him for a long time before he came, his stamina and control usually spot on. But Mia was going against everything for him, never had he been so attracted and turned on by a woman.

But this mortal was something spectacular, that he was sure of.

And she was his.

-

Mia hadn’t been sure what to expect when she and Loki had first started dating. He hadn’t seemed to be an overly affectionate kind of guy, especially in public. But she was pleased to discover that he didn’t mind showing affection with her, even on front of the others. And he was highly possessive, something she secretly loved.

That morning at breakfast, he couldn’t keep his hands off of her. Even hauling her onto his lap while they ate at the table instead of letting her sit next to him.

‘Great, is this going to be a regular thing?’ Tony asked, grimacing teasingly as he sat down at the table with Nat, Steve and Thor. Having walked in on Loki stealing a kiss from Mia.

Mia just shyly looked down at her breakfast, while Loki grinned like the Cheshire cat.

‘Yes, it most certainly is. Mia is mine now and the entire realm will know about it.’ He said possessively, tightening his arm around her.

‘Oh pass me a bucket.’ Tony said as he pulled a face.

‘I think it’s sweet.’ Nat smiled over at the couple.

‘I just hope you can keep him under control, Mia.’ Thor laughed. ‘My brother, as I am sure you know already, is a mischievous one. Don’t let him get away with any tricks.’

Mia laughed and nodded at Thor. ‘I’m sure I can manage to keep him from getting into too much trouble.’ She grinned.

Loki smirked and slid his hand under her top, giving her side a good squeeze. Making her laugh.

-

Mia was watching Loki, Thor, Clint, Wanda and Tony practicing in the training hall a few days later. She was watching from the side-lines and taking some pictures for social media. Even did a live stream for five minutes that fans went crazy over.

Thor wandered over to see her when he needed a break.

‘I just wanted to say, I have never seen Loki so happy as he has been these last few weeks.’ Thor beamed happily.

Mia smiled. ‘I don’t think I’ve been this happy either, to be honest.’

‘It is nice that he is settling down with someone. I had been worried that he wouldn’t find someone that makes him happy and vice versa.’ Thor put his hand on her shoulder and gave her a gentle squeeze.

Loki came storming over when he saw Thor touching her. He narrowed his eyes at Thor and stood right by Mia.

‘Is this oaf bothering you?’ Loki asked.

Thor chuckled. ‘I was trying to steal your mortal from you.’ Thor said jokingly.

Loki glared at him and grabbed Mia, pulling her into him in a crushing hug with her face smushed against him. ‘She’s my mortal!’ Loki growled.

Mia laughed against him and Thor laughed too.

‘I know, brother. Anyone trying to even just flirt with Mia will feel your wrath.’ Thor patted Loki on the shoulder before heading back to fight.

Loki shook his head and rolled his eyes. He looked down at Mia when she tried saying something, but was muffled against his armour.

‘What was that, sweetling?’ He chuckled and released her so she could look up at him.

‘I said, and likewise, anyone trying to steal my God from me, will feel my wrath.’ She grinned.

Loki chuckled again and brushed his thumb against her lower lip. ‘I imagine you could have quite the wrath on you too if you wanted.’ He grinned.

[krisdreaming]

Hey I know writing is hard so I'm really sorry but could I request an emergency request? When I feel bad I kind of flip it on Kuroo so... could I get a request where Kuroo has to study for uni and asks his s/o to maybe face time with him despite it being late and all? the stress kinda piles up on him and he totally breaks down on ft tears and gasping for air and everything,, s/o comforting him and all... idk it's tough lately thank you so much don't pressure yourself into writing anything

Hey love, you’re completely fine! I have emergency requests open because I have a little extra time this week and I’m feeling really good, so it’s the perfect time for me. Nothing to apologize for at all!

warning: idk if this will affect anyone, but this does include Kuroo experiencing a panic/anxiety attack, and if reading something like that would affect you, skip this one! I’ll pop it under a cut. Sometimes seeing our faves experience things like this can hit differently than when it’s reader experiencing it, so I wanted to make sure to put this disclaimer! 

Also, overall, I think this is a more graphic depiction of an anxiety attack than I’ve ever written before. It’s pretty heavily based on personal experience, but I know everyone experiences anxiety differently!

The read more went wonky in my drafts, so I really hope it works!!

-

KUROO

He’s just feeling off, he can’t even quite explain it. It feels like he’s on edge, he can’t quite focus on the work in front of him, it’s like his body & mind just don’t want to function properly anymore. He doesn’t know what to do, so he calls you.

“Hi baby.” You’re in bed - he can tell that much by the low light and the fact that your face is half smushed into your pillow. He instantly feels guilty for even calling you.

“Sorry,” He mumbles, “I dunno I guess I just wanted to talk. But you’re in bed.”

“I wasn’t even asleep, I’m watching Netflix,” the view shifts until he can see your laptop screen. “What’re you up to? Still studying?”

He isn’t sure what it is, but just looking at your face and hearing your voice makes tears spring to his eyes. He blinks hard and tries to hold the tears back, but it doesn’t really work too well.

“Tetsu, what’s wrong?”  Your face is starting to blur and swim on the screen, but he can hear the concern in your voice.

“Um,” He’s trying to get his voice to work and sound normal, “I just - everything is -” He shakily props his phone up on the desk so he can dig his fingers into his hair, tugging slightly to try to bring himself back to reality. The tears from earlier are starting to squeeze out even though his eyes are clenched shut.

“Tetsu,” You’re really worried, he can tell that much from your voice. “Please, look at me, okay? Can you do that?” Slowly, he opens his eyes, and can just make out that you’re sitting up against the wall at the head of your bed, and the lights are on in your room. Your entire focus is on him.

“I can come over there,” you say the moment his eyes meet yours, and he shakes his head, hard. He couldn’t bear it if he inconvenienced you any more than he already is.

“Okay, okay,” You say softly. “But I’m staying on this call with you for as long as I need to. Because I want to.” He gives a shaky nod.

“Hey, breathe with me,” You say, and it’s at that point that he realizes how long he’s been holding his breath. You take in a slow, deep breath, and he tries to do it along with you, but it’s more of a gasp. The sound that comes out next seems to be accompanied by more tears, and he realizes now that his face is completely wet.

“Don’t force it,” You say, “You’re okay, Tetsu. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. All you need to do right now is breathe. Even if it doesn’t come out perfect, that’s okay. We’ll keep doing them.” You take another deep, measured breath, and he does his best to do it along with you.

He’s not sure how long it lasts, the gasping and the tears and the attempts at breathing, but eventually, he realizes that he’s matching your breaths almost every time, albeit a little more shakily.

“Are you doing better?” You ask softly, pulling the phone just a little closer to your face. 

“I - yeah. I think so,” He scrubs at his face, and he knows he’s going to wake up with a raging headache tomorrow, but the worst is over. “Thank you. I’m sorry, but, thank you.”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” You whisper, soft but stern. “Baby, I love you. I want you to be able to come to me for things like this. For anything. And I want you to know I’ll always be here.”

“I love you so much,” He murmurs, propping his chin on his arms. “If I go to sleep now - will you stay, until then?”

“As long as you need me. Longer.” You promise. “I’m not going anywhere.”

[elliethesuperfruitlover]

Don’t Disturb This Groove

A/N: This is going to be a song fic and a Nathan Young fic, it’s gonna be a little intense, I do admit. This comes from me getting multiple ideas from multiple songs. For now, the song’s are gonna stay apart, but I might create a two part plot from this. I hope you enjoy!

Songs: Pour Some Sugar on Me by Def Leppard

Don’t Disturb This Groove by The System

Warnings: smut, oral sex (both genders receiving), bad words, alcohol, overall fluffy smut, biting, hair pulling, food (it may trigger some people), unprotected sex (wrap it up folks)

    Nathan and you had been home for quite a bit, just relaxing and trying to calm down from the day put before you. He’d ended up dying...a fucking gain somehow. You walked into the room that he, Curtis, Simon, Kelly, and Alisha were in and there the fucker was, dead as a doorknob. Curtis explained and said that apparently Nathan tried to demonstrate how he performed oral sex on himself, but he accidentally snapped his neck, killing himself. As per usual. You weren’t surprised, but one of these days he might be in the middle of an orgasm and he’ll forget to unwrap his hand from around his neck. Yes, he has a choking kink, and he reminds you each time he’s on the edge. You could be taking a shit and Nathan would walk in, wanking off with one hand, opening the door with the other, and ask you to wrap your hand around his neck. He’s just like that.

  “Good god I’m tired. Autoerotic suicide isn’t all easy and happy y’know.” Nathan says, rubbing his neck while nursing an ice cold glass of water.

“Yeah, yeah, next time you try to suck your own dick in front of your friends, put some pillows down for the mess.” you sneer, sarcastically looking at Nathan, whose mouth opens at your comment, almost leaking water on your freshly mopped floors.

“Okay, I get it, I’m too strong for my own good. Maybe I should show you some moves and we could 69 standing up.” Nathan says, imitating eating you out.

“Nathan please, you can barely lift a box, but I appreciate the offer. One of these days I’m gonna dominate you and shut you up for once.” you say rolling your eyes.

  He chuckles to himself, polishing off his glass of water. He places the glass on the counter, reaching up to grab a handful of pick n’ mix, which hilariously he got himself into community service for. A little stripe of pale skin peeks out from his shirt when he reaches up, and you rush over to kiss over it, eliciting a giggle from Nathan. You stand back up and peck his lips, covered in crumbs from his snacking. The two of you sit in the kitchen, enjoying each other’s company. Occasional soft kisses and mumbles of sweet nothings are shared between the two of you. Nathan’s hands are on your waist, and your foreheads touch. You can feel the other’s heart beating in time with yours. The warmth of each other is all you need in that moment. Nathan’s curls brush against your shoulder as he places his head between your neck and collarbone. He smushes it in, and you giggle softly, knowing that he was very vulnerable. He’s a huge softie when he wants to be.

    “I love you Nathan. I really do,” you mumbled into his neck, balling his shirt up in your fist.

“I love you too. Even if I don’t show it most of the time, I really do care about you.”he whispered back, a very light dusting of pink covering his pale cheeks. 

    Earlier when the two of you were at the Community Center, the clouds were ready to rain, but it hadn’t happened yet. Nathan always got a little nervous when it rained because of how he gained his immortality and the general fucked up aura about The Storm and what it caused. Not that Nathan’s slate was clean before stealing that pick ‘n mix, but nobody deserves to be almost crushed by very large hail, then have to deal with multiple murders. The sky finally emptied itself and it began to rain, but it was peaceful in a way. The two of you came apart, then drifted to your patio, where you watched the back garden become supple with the cloud’s rain, the birds hiding in their trees, huddling together for warmth. You got one brilliant idea, and opened the door, taking Nathan’s hand with you, dragging him after you.

  You took your hair down and immediately got wet, but you stopped caring the moment your feet hit the wet grass. You ran around, free from worries, and splashed about in the rain, ruining your jeans. Nathan followed close behind, watching you in awe, as he’d never seen such a carefree version of anyone he’d known, besides himself. You heard the song Pour Some Sugar On Me blasting somewhere in your head, and you were vibing to say the least. That mixed with Nathan watching you, and his general horniness created him walking up behind you, and he kissed you, grabbing two handfuls of your ripe ass. He put his hips against yours, and the two of you stood in the rain, making out like it was the end of the world. Nathan slipped his tongue through your lips, battling against yours, wanting it to never end. You jumped and he caught you, your legs wrapping around his waist, proving for optimal pressure on your clit. Your lips smacked together, and your hands went up to play with Nathan’s curls, which became slightly wavy under the rain.

  The pace slowly sped up, Nathan’s bulge becoming more pronounced under your ministrations. He broke away from the makeout session, moaning against your neck and he bit it lightly, the rain lightly muffling your whimpers. He bit down harder, making sure to let your voice catch in your throat, making you get even more rough with him, keeping your promise from earlier. He drops his head, moaning to the sky and heavens above, his eyes closed from the feeling of wet denim and pressure against his cock. He lifted you against his body, trying to hit orgasm, thrusting against you. However, God had other plans, as lighting strikes near the both of you, efficiently scaring the shit out of the both of you.

“Christ on a cracker!” Nathan yelled, slightly dazed from his mid-coital bliss.

  You both went back inside, soaking wet, looking for warmth. You placed your clothes in the dryer, and decided to head to the shower, warming up twice as fast.

“We showerin’ together? Or do you want me to join you while you touch yourself while thinking about me. Want me to shove my cock between your fat ass cheeks and cum on your back.” Nathan says, whispering in your ear, creeping behind you.

“You can come with me, and if you’re lucky, I’ll let you come in me.” you say, bending your ass over to give Nathan a nice view, turning the hot water on.

  The two of you actually did shower, but Nathan is too horny for his own good. He reached around and groped your tits, grinding his cock against your ass cheeks, his pubes softly scrubbing against your back. He moved from your breasts to your pussy, touching lightly along your folds and lips, dipping near your hole every now and then. He got closer and pressed his chest against your back, his nipples hard and erect, rubbing against your shoulder blades, causing Nathan to let out little groans and soft sounds from his pink lips. He turns you around, and makes you watch while he slips a finger, no two, into your sex, soaking them in your slick. He knows that you don’t orgasm from certain actions, so with his other hand, he starts jacking himself off, his hand moving up and down, rubbing along the head of his dick, pleasuring the both of you simultaneously. He looked into your eyes, piercing them, wanting you to feel everything that he was doing. Emotionally and physically, he wanted you to feel it and absorb the pleasure. He brings himself closer to the edge, but you have other plans, thus again.

  You turn the water off, and step away from Nathan’s fingers, which were rubbing against your walls. Nathan was quite soft as a person, and he followed you to the mirror like a lost puppy, entranced by your sultriness. You stepped towards the mirror, which was steamed up, and hopped onto the counter, spreading your legs to expose your vagina, pointing your toes for presentation. Nathan went up to you, kissing your lips, and grabbing your thighs. He closed the distance between the two of you, his dick entering you, halting when his length hit its mark. He softly moaned against your lips, beginning to thrust, his hips meeting your spread ones. The sound of your lips smacking against each other grew, just as your hips meeting did. You could feel his head meeting every fold in your wall, and that feeling was pure, unbridled, pleasure. He started moaning with each thrust, as you had put your nails against his back, and went up and down against it, causing him to speed up his pace. Nathan had a special place in his kinks for pain, especially inflicted by others. Your legs were around his waist, and you pulled him closer, and the mirror only stayed fogged where the two of you were, warming yourselves up. His cock sped up even more, his balls slapping against your pelvis, created noise in the cramped bathroom. Even as your body took his penis, it still stretched you as your pussy squeezed his cock, forcing Nathan to ease into his first orgasm of the night, painting your insides with his seed, moaning into the open. You held him as he shook, and he made ragged breaths, tumbling through the aftershocks.

  Nathan slowly pulled out of you, recovering slowly. Your legs came down from the counter, and his cum slowly dripped from you, getting on the floor, but you’d mop later. You kissed Nathan’s cheek and made sure that he was okay before you dried him off and dressed him, as well as dressing yourself. It was nearing dinner time, and your stomach grumbled just at the thought of eating. You’d only had a light breakfast, consisting of raisins and cheese. You put on some chicken nuggets (A/N: i had to.), and Nathan rounded the corner, making motions with his hand that indicated that he wanted cuddles. The two of you sat on the couch in the living room, which was over by the door, which still made you feel...special. Nathan was on top of you, his head between your breasts, and his arms behind your back. You played with his curls while he relaxed, and you rubbed his back slowly, as his eyes drooped. You let him nap for the time being, and you closed your eyes as well, as the chicken nuggets usually took some time to get fully ready. As long as you didn’t wake up to the house on fire, you were dandy.

“Wakey wakey. Chicky nuggies!!” said a voice, presumably Nathan, as there wasn’t a weight on top of you, and you smelled chicken nuggets.

“Thank you baby.” you said, grabbing the plate and beer from him, sitting up.

  The two of you dug into your food which consisted of chicken nuggets and applesauce as you keep forgetting to go out to go do some shopping. You also talked while you ate, and since Nathan was recovered from his orgasm, his funny attitude was back. He was talking about the time he died from getting pushed from a ledge, which was how he found out about his immortality. He wasn’t always happy with his power, and he was speaking of replacing it. Never dying is something from the fucking A-list, he’d even said it himself. You had no developed power yet, even though you experienced the same storm. It still baffled you, but Nathan told you not to worry over it. Easier said than done.

“These nuggies are cooked to perfection.” Nathan says, eating his last one, then obscenely burping, slightly alarming you.

“Well, excuse you sir.” you said, taking a sip of beer. (or root beer if you don’t drink).

   After a while, the meal drew to a close, and Nathan, a good man himself, took the plates and bottles into the kitchen and washed them. 

  You were stretched out on the couch, still somewhat tired from your nap. Nathan joined you on the couch, taking the opposite side, and your feet joined near the middle. You two turned on the television, and slowly joined in the middle to play with the other’s hair, cuddling against each other. Nathan sighed against your touch and closed his eyes, not sleeping, but just enjoying the presence. The tv played quietly in the background, and the rain had calmed to a meer drizzle, adding to the aesthetic. You reached down and kissed Nathan’s forehead, void of wrinkles. He put his lips to yours, and the two of you were making out again, but much softer than before. His hands wandered slowly, but still gave the same effect. He made you feel special. That was all that mattered. His tongue played with yours, lackluster, and he softly ground against your hips. Little whimpers were shared between the two of you. Every now and then, you would turn your heads, trying to mix up the angle to find a new perspective. 

    This carried on for some time, and the television slowly faded to just fuzz. Nathan began to get a little whiny, and moaned against you, his pretty green eyes sparkling with lust. His hips were starting to get more impatient, it seemed, ready for some action. He was transfixed on you, and only you at that moment in time. Something that was very rare for the irish chatterbox.

   Nathan got a little restless, so he decided to pick you up (successfully this time) and carry you to the shared bedroom. He put you down softly on the bed, and stripped himself of his clothes, but of course, he was wearing his zebra bikini briefs. They made you chuckle as you also rid yourself of your clothes. Nathan hovered above you, worshipping your body. He took you in, all of you, and he took his place between your legs, not entering you yet. His mouth gravitated to your breasts, more specifically your nipples. He suckled them, softly, treating them too tender, much too unlike his usual demeanor. You whimpered at his antics, and moaned at his tiny bites against your flesh. He switched sides, and while he was playing with you, one of his hands reached down to touch over your folds, forcing a moan from you. Nathan kissed down your body, leaving a trail of purple and red along your torso. He made his way over your pubic mound, then immediately placed your clit under his tongue, kissing and biting it. This action was met with your loud gasps, then taking a hold of Nathan’s head, and thrusting against it. He looked up at you while he worked, and made his way down to your hole, prodding it with his tongue, forcing the muscle inside of you.

   Wet kisses and breathy moans filled the air, Nathan trying his hardest to get you over the edge before his hand working him to orgasm does. His tongue slurps away at your excretements, and whenever he takes small breaks to breathe, your slick covers his face, even wetting some of his curls. Just as you’d almost reached your orgasm, you yanked him back towards you, mumbling an idea.

“I want to 69 with you. We don't have to be standing, I just want to share feelings.” you say, breathless.

  Nathan softly nods, and places his leg over your hip, settling his mouth once again over your sex. You take his dick into your mouth as soon as he gets back to licking your pussy, trying to work as quickly as he does. Luckily, Nathan loves receiving blowjobs, so you had your work cut out smoothly. You ran your tongue over the vein prominent on the bottom of his dick, and kitten licked the tip, sending Nathan into a frenzy below, uh, above you. Every time you bobbed your head on his length, he let out a harsh breath on your hole, grunting against it. Soon enough, the two of you reached a reasonable pace, and Nathan bent his knees, lightly mouth fucking you. You groaned along his length, and he replied back, biting another mark on your vagina. At this point in time, you started taking his balls and sucking on them, quickly jerking him off in replacement of your mouth. Nathan started speeding up his licks on your pussy, as he was being worked closer to his edge, and wanted it to be a mutual orgasm. You did an old party trick, and slipped both his cock and balls into your mouth, moving your mouth over both bits, teasing him to no end. He came with a high moan and a grunt, and you swallowed every last drop, wishing that you could make him cum a second time.

  Nathan stopped making efforts to please you when he came, as he could be a bit sensitive sometimes, but he slipped into your wet heat before you could even get a joke out. Your breath caught in your throat as Nathan thrust into you, wasting no time in trying to get you to orgasm. Somewhere off in the distance, the song Don’t Disturb This Groove started playing, and you’d forgotten to put a sock on the door before the two of you crashed on the bed. That was the least of your worries as Nathan softly made love to you, as his libido calmed down after his orgasm, but not too terribly much, as he wanted you to reach that beautifully erotic peak as soon as possible. He bent his head and kissed your lips, only doing so to cover his own moans, his hips working in succession with your mouths. He made little sounds, doing quite a shitty job at hiding them as his hips picked up with a new vigor, working to bring you closer. His cock slipped in and out of your vagina, still stretching it with his girth, and hitting just the right spot, just left of your cervix. You let him know by tightening again, sending you straight to that euphoria filled abyss. Your knees bent around his back, Nathan tensing up as you tilted your head back, and came against his cock, thrusting up to meet him, riding through the waves.

  Your body had a long time for recovery, and Nathan helped you with the aftershocks, kissing your neck, and meeting your eyes with his own. When you were ready, he pulled out, and went to go get the two of you cleaned up. You were still sensitive, as was Nathan, after your little adventures throughout the day, and he cuddled up against you on your bed, making himself the big spoon, even though he longed to be the little one.

“You okay, Nathan?” you ask him, brushing a spare curl from his forehead.

  He nods against your flesh, sighing against it, and grabbing your hand from underneath the covers. He smiled into your neck, and you turned into his chest, nuzzling up close. He fell asleep quite quickly, snoring quietly above you. Your face took its place on Nathan’s shoulder, and you hitched a leg over his hip, content for the time being.

Masterlist

[imagine-loki]

Blushing in His Colours, Chapter 8

TITLE: Blushing in His Colours CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: Chapter 8 AUTHOR: fanficshiddles ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine Loki being a Daddy Dom, his adores and loves his little, worships the ground she walks on. She has vaginismus, but he couldn’t be more supportive with her. RATING: M

Mia woke up the following morning, but she thought she was dreaming.

Loki had his arms wrapped around her from behind, holding her close. She felt so safe and secure in his embrace, she never wanted to leave.

Images from last night flooded her mind, making her blush. She knew this was just the start too, she didn’t doubt that Loki had many wicked and fun ideas in that brain of his. That he would be starting off gently and slowly with her, because that’s the kind of person he was, she had discovered. With people he liked, anyway. And he certainly seemed to like her.

‘What are you thinking about?’ Loki hummed, nuzzling into her hair and making her giggle as he lightly strummed his fingers over her stomach, making her squirm.

‘Just… about last night.’ She said shyly.

Loki turned her around and cupped her cheek, smiling at her softly. ‘All good I hope.’

‘Definitely!’ She said quickly.

He leaned in to kiss her gently on the lips. ‘I haven’t scared you away then with my little accident last night.’ He chuckled.

Mia giggled again and shook her head. ‘Of course not. I uhh, don’t think a guy has ever cum that quickly for me before.’

Loki smiled and cupped the back of her head as he hugged her. He found he didn’t want to let her go, he had never felt so content before… A swelling in his heart whenever he looked at her.

‘I almost did just from undressing you.’ He purred.

Mia smiled as she hid her face in against him. She started getting aroused though when he slid a hand right down her back, to her bum where he gently patted her.

‘I will need to take you over my knee soon, give you a spanking to test where your pain limit is, so I know where the line is between punishment and fun.’ He hummed, he stopped patting her and just held her bum in his large hand.

Her eyes widened, but she kept her face hidden as she shifted very slightly.

‘Does a spanking for fun sound appealing to you, little one?’ He asked knowingly.

‘Uhm…’ She didn’t respond, feeling shy again.

Loki smirked as he rolled her over enough onto her back, he leaned up and half over her as he slid his hand down her front. ‘Well, I will need to find out for myself.’

She whimpered when his hand sneaked between her thighs, but she let them fall open for him naturally.

‘Good girl, Mia.’ He nuzzled her nose with his own as he slid his fingers through her folds, making her moan. ‘Mmm, it does seem all this talk of spanking has turned you on.’ He grinned, kissing her lips as he sought out her clit and started circling it slowly.

He concentrated solely on her clit, an even pace and steady pressure that soon had her body writhing and moans coming from her lips. Loki felt like he was in a trance as he watched her beneath him, knowing it was his doing she was losing control like that and experiencing so much pleasure.

‘Cum for me, my little sweetling. Let me see you lose control again.’ He growled softly.

She came undone for him like she had been waiting for his permission. Her eyes closed and she threw her head back, her mouth opened in a silent scream as she arched up towards him. Her legs started shaking and she grabbed hold of his arm tightly for something to hold on to.

Mia slowly came down from her high, Loki continued stroking her very softly, letting her down gently until he brought his fingers up to his lips to taste her. ‘Mmmm. I will most definitely never tire of making you cum. Such a delightful feast for my eyes.’

She blushed furiously under his comments and still from her orgasm. She giggled shyly and turned her head into him again.

‘How about we go shower together before heading down for breakfast?’ Loki suggested, stroking her hair.

‘Yes please, Daddy.’ She nodded eagerly. Loki almost faltered at hearing her call him that for the first time, his heart exploding happily. More so because of how naturally she said it.  

He scooped her up before she could even sit up, and carried her through to his bathroom. Kissing her on the way, making her continue to giggle.

Loki couldn’t keep his hands off of her in the shower. He washed her hair for her and her body too. She wanted to return the favour, so he had to crouch down so she could reach his hair. He couldn’t resist slipping one of her nipples into his mouth when she was reaching up to rub the shampoo in his hair, making her gasp and almost collapse as her knees turned to jelly.

But he just hadn’t been able to resist, since it had been right there on front of him. At the perfect height.

When Mia was rubbing body wash on his chest, she couldn’t help but notice his hard cock. Loki hadn’t been expecting her to do anything for him, but he would be lying if he said he wasn’t utterly delighted when she sank down to her knees and started licking at his tip.

‘Oh god.’ Loki moaned, closing his eyes. He was going to try and last longer this time if possible.

She put her hands on his thighs to anchor herself as she took him into her mouth. She started sucking him and had barely taken him down far at all when she felt him starting to throb hotly against her tongue, right before he came again. She swallowed some of his cum, but some dribbled down her chin and was washed away down the drain.

When she looked up with a giggle, Loki was dragging his hand down his face and it was his turn to be blushing slightly.

‘I think I have a problem, pet.’ He said sheepishly, making her giggle again.

He’d never had this kind of issue before. Normally women could go down on him for a long time before he came, his stamina and control usually spot on. But Mia was going against everything for him, never had he been so attracted and turned on by a woman.

But this mortal was something spectacular, that he was sure of.

And she was his.

-

Mia hadn’t been sure what to expect when she and Loki had first started dating. He hadn’t seemed to be an overly affectionate kind of guy, especially in public. But she was pleased to discover that he didn’t mind showing affection with her, even on front of the others. And he was highly possessive, something she secretly loved.

That morning at breakfast, he couldn’t keep his hands off of her. Even hauling her onto his lap while they ate at the table instead of letting her sit next to him.

‘Great, is this going to be a regular thing?’ Tony asked, grimacing teasingly as he sat down at the table with Nat, Steve and Thor. Having walked in on Loki stealing a kiss from Mia.

Mia just shyly looked down at her breakfast, while Loki grinned like the Cheshire cat.

‘Yes, it most certainly is. Mia is mine now and the entire realm will know about it.’ He said possessively, tightening his arm around her.

‘Oh pass me a bucket.’ Tony said as he pulled a face.

‘I think it’s sweet.’ Nat smiled over at the couple.

‘I just hope you can keep him under control, Mia.’ Thor laughed. ‘My brother, as I am sure you know already, is a mischievous one. Don’t let him get away with any tricks.’

Mia laughed and nodded at Thor. ‘I’m sure I can manage to keep him from getting into too much trouble.’ She grinned.

Loki smirked and slid his hand under her top, giving her side a good squeeze. Making her laugh.

-

Mia was watching Loki, Thor, Clint, Wanda and Tony practicing in the training hall a few days later. She was watching from the side-lines and taking some pictures for social media. Even did a live stream for five minutes that fans went crazy over.

Thor wandered over to see her when he needed a break.

‘I just wanted to say, I have never seen Loki so happy as he has been these last few weeks.’ Thor beamed happily.

Mia smiled. ‘I don’t think I’ve been this happy either, to be honest.’

‘It is nice that he is settling down with someone. I had been worried that he wouldn’t find someone that makes him happy and vice versa.’ Thor put his hand on her shoulder and gave her a gentle squeeze.

Loki came storming over when he saw Thor touching her. He narrowed his eyes at Thor and stood right by Mia.

‘Is this oaf bothering you?’ Loki asked.

Thor chuckled. ‘I was trying to steal your mortal from you.’ Thor said jokingly.

Loki glared at him and grabbed Mia, pulling her into him in a crushing hug with her face smushed against him. ‘She’s my mortal!’ Loki growled.

Mia laughed against him and Thor laughed too.

‘I know, brother. Anyone trying to even just flirt with Mia will feel your wrath.’ Thor patted Loki on the shoulder before heading back to fight.

Loki shook his head and rolled his eyes. He looked down at Mia when she tried saying something, but was muffled against his armour.

‘What was that, sweetling?’ He chuckled and released her so she could look up at him.

‘I said, and likewise, anyone trying to steal my God from me, will feel my wrath.’ She grinned.

Loki chuckled again and brushed his thumb against her lower lip. ‘I imagine you could have quite the wrath on you too if you wanted.’ He grinned.

[musette22]

So frat boy Chris, having sex with a Romanian prince on his Steve Rogers’ Camaro

Okay so nonnie, you’re kind of a mind reader. When you sent this in yesterday I was literally in the middle of writing this. I got a prompt just like this from another lovely anon a while ago and only just got around to writing it, so yeah, your timing is impeccable! I hope you enjoy this little car sex fic 😘

Baby, you can drive my car

Pairing: Chris Evans x Sebastian Stan (Evanstan)

Word count: 3k

Rating: Explicit, so 18+ only please!

Read on AO3

Gif credit to @stevenrogered

***

“Chris?”

Sebastian’s voice emerges, a little muffled, from where his face is smushed in between Chris’s pectorals.

Chris hums in reply, not taking his eyes off the book he’s reading. “What’s up, baby?”

“I’m bored.”

Huffing out a laugh, Chris tears his gaze away from the page to peer down at Sebastian. “You could grab a book too, you know. What happened to that weird Gothic novel you were reading earlier? The Finnish one?”

Sebastian lifts his head to pout at him, pink bottom lip pushed out enticingly. “We’ve been reading all morning. I wanna go do something.”

“Like what?” Chris leans in to kiss the top of Sebastian’s head.

“Like…” Sebastian’s scrunches up his nose in thought. “Oh, let’s go for a drive?”

“Where to?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Sebastian shrugs, leaning his chin on Chris’s sternum. “Just don’t want to sit inside on a day like this.”

“Okay,” Chris agrees, stroking Sebastian’s hair back off his forehead. “We could take the Lexus and drive up to the mountains?”

“Yeah. Or, hey, can we take the Camaro?”

Chris blinks. “Really?”

“You’ve barely taken her out since you got her.” Sebastian playfully narrows his eyes. “Wouldn’t want your sugar daddy to think you didn’t appreciate his present, right?” 

Chris rolls his eyes at Sebastian’s gentle ribbing. “Okay, yeah. You’re right, it’s time I took her for a spin.”

He sits up, pushing Sebastian off of him in the process, who just rolls onto his side on the couch. He holds out a hand for Sebastian to grab onto, groaning as he pulls him up to his feet.

“Go put on some pants, I’ll go check the oil. Rendezvous in the garage in ten.”

Sebastian was right – it’s a lovely day. The sun is out and it’s unseasonably warm, so Chris shrugs off his cardigan twenty minutes in, leaving him in a short-sleeved, white t-shirt. He has his sunglasses on and his ball cap backwards on his head, the window rolled down, and his baby next to him in the passenger seat. So yeah, he has nothing to complain about.

Sebastian, wearing baggy basketball shorts, a black t-shirt and some Ray Bans, is loudly singing along to Journey. It’s a little off-key, but Chris thinks it’s all the more endearing for it. They drive up into the mountains for a little over an hour – not counting one stop at a gas station – before Sebastian tells him to pull over.

“We just had a pee break,” Chris protests mildly, “literally like fifteen minutes ago. Took ages, too.”  

Instead of explaining, Sebastian laughs. “Just pull over, dork.”

Chris sighs, already doing as he’s told. He came to terms with the fact that he’s whipped a long time ago. “What is it?” he asks once he’s shut off the engine, turning towards Sebastian.

Sebastian just looks at him silently for a moment, then says, “Get out of the car.”

“What? Why?”

“I need you to switch places with me.”

“Why?” Chris repeats, puzzled. “If you wanna drive for a bit, you can just ask me that, you know.”

Sebastian just flashes him a grin and opens the passenger door, climbing out of the car. Chris shrugs, following suit and walking over to the other side.

“Get in,” Sebastian orders, though he’s making no move to take place behind the wheel.

Still confused, Chris eases himself into the passenger seat and looks up at Sebastian expectantly. “Now what?”

“Now,” Sebastian says, stepping closer, “I do this.”

Next thing Chris knows, he has a lap full of Sebastian. “What are you- oh.”

“Yes, oh,” Sebastian mimics, taking off his sunglasses and tossing them carelessly onto the unoccupied driver’s seat. His grey-blue eyes sparkle mischievously and Chris’s heartbeat speeds up; a Pavlovian response.

“Here?” he asks incredulously.

“Uh huh.” Sebastian removes Chris’s sunglasses too and leans in, lips only half an inch from his own when he asks, “That okay with you?”

“What if someone sees?”

“Chris. This is literally the most remote road I could find on the map and we’re half hidden by those trees anyway. We’re fine.”

“Oh, I see,” Chris drawls, pressing his lips to Sebastian’s briefly because they’re right there. “So you planned this, huh, you little minx.”

“Maybe,” Sebastian says, tilting his head coquettishly. He reaches back behind him to open the glove compartment, rummaging around for a moment before producing a bottle of lube that he must’ve put there while Chris was busy checking the tire pressure. “And I may or may not be going commando under these shorts.”

Chris groans, closing his eyes as he lets his head thunk back against the headrest. “Sebastian, baby… One of these days you’re gonna kill me, I swear to god.”

Sebastian takes off Chris’s cap and affectionately ruffles his hair. “Only if you haven’t killed me first. Y’know, with your dick.” Sebastian grins goofily at his own, horrendously bad joke and Chris’s heart flip flops in his chest with all kinds of emotions that are far too sappy for the situation they’re in.

“Please do us both a favor and shut up, sweetheart,” Chris says, knowing that Sebastian will be able to see right through the snark, to the love underneath.

Sebastian raises an eyebrow, licking his lips. “Make me.”

“Hmmm, love a challenge.”

Winding one arm around Sebastian’s waist and grabbing his neck with the other, Chris pulls Sebastian in for a hard, filthy kiss. He doesn’t waste any time slipping him some tongue, tracing the tip of it along Sebastian’s perfectly straight, Hollywood teeth, which Chris loved even back when they were still endearingly crooked.

Sebastian moans, catching Chris’s bottom lip between his teeth and sucking on it, the way he knows makes Chris’s knees weak. Chris retaliates by kneading Sebastian’s pert little ass, pulling him closer, pleased to find that Sebastian is already half hard. That makes two of them, then.

“Wait,” Sebastian says after a minute or two of making out like a couple of horny teenagers. “Tilt back your seat.”

“Ooh, smart. Knew you were more than just a pretty face.” Chris slides back the seat as far as it’ll go, but even then there’s not a lot of space for them to move. “You’re gonna have to ride me, though. I can’t move much in this position.”

Sebastian smiles wolfishly. “Not a problem. Have you seen these thighs?” He squeezes Chris’s waist with said thighs to emphasize his point, and Chris let out a deep groan, hips already jerking upwards.

“Uh huh,” he says, through gritted teeth. “I’ve seen ‘em alright. They’re good thighs. Real nice.”

Despite being all bold and flirty up until this point, the simple compliment is enough to make Sebastian blush, his cheeks tinged with pink.

Jesus, he’s sweet. Chris has no choice but to kiss him again. While he’s at it, he slides his right hand into the back of Sebastian’s shorts, squeezing the firm flesh and dipping his fingers between his cheeks. When he rubs a fingertip over Sebastian’s entrance, he looks up in surprise.

“Did you –”

“In the bathroom,” Sebastian smirks.

“That’s why it took so long.”

Sebastian rolls his eyes. “Are you gonna complain about that some more or are you gonna fuck me?”

The words send a jolt of lust through Chris, his mind going blank as his cock eagerly fills up that final bit inside his jeans. “You want me to fuck you, baby?” he rumbles, tightening his grip on Sebastian’s ass.

Sebastian nods, heavy-lidded eyes trained on Chris’s. “Yeah, I want you to fuck me. Been wanting to feel you inside me all day, but you were too busy reading.”

Chris snorts. “I guess I’d better make up for it now, then.”

“Guess you’d better,” Sebastian nods, leaning down to kiss him again while starting to open Chris’s fly.

Chris lifts up his hips to help Sebastian shimmy down his jeans and boxers just far enough to take out his cock. The way Sebastian licks his lips at the sight tells him that he’s dying to suck him off – that pretty mouth is always ready – but that will have to wait until some other time.

“Wish I could get on my knees for you, but there’s no room in this fucking car,” Sebastian laments, echoing Chris’s thoughts.

“It was your idea to take the Camaro.”

Sebastian narrows his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Less talking, more fucking, thanks.” He wraps his hand around Chris’s length, tightening his grip and stroking him slowly, making Chris’s breath stutter in his throat.

“Oh, that’s it, baby,” he breathes. “God, that feels good.”

“Yeah?” Sebastian tips Chris head back with his free hand and places small, biting kisses to his throat, just below the line of his beard. “That’s all I want, Chris, to make you feel good.”

For that alone, Chris has to kiss him again. He tugs Sebastian’s head up by his hair.

“Unghh,” Sebastian says, delightfully responsive as always when Chris pulls on his hair a bit. Chris dives in and swallows his moans, jerking his hips into the tight circle of Sebastian’s fist.

“Chris, get in me,” Sebastian mutters impatiently.

“Yeah, okay,” Chris pants. “You need some fingers first?”

“No.” Sebastian’s pupils are blown, his mouth slick and red. “Yeah. I don’t know.”

“That’s a yes, then.” Chris replies, unwilling to take any risks with something like this. Sebastian whines in response, but Chris ignores him and grabs the lube, quickly coating his fingers in the stuff before shoving his hand down the back of Sebastian’s shorts again. Carefully, he pushes his forefinger inside, sliding in a second one as soon as he’s satisfied that Sebastian can take it.

“More,” Sebastian whispers already, pressing his forehead to Chris’s. Chris obliges, adding a third finger slowly before spreading them a little, opening Sebastian up bit by bit. He can’t really thrust much in this position, can’t really hit the spot, but he’ll make sure to make up for that later.

“You wanna take these off?” Chris asks when he thinks Sebastian is prepped enough, pulling the waistband of the basketball shorts.

Sebastian shakes his head quickly, all worked up and flushed now. “Nuh uh, just – pull ‘em aside.” He lifts his hips a little, scrunching up the fabric and pulling it aside, creating a wide gap.

“Huh,” Chris says, impressed, “you really did think about this.”

“Yup.” Sebastian peckshim on the lips quickly and adds, “Now shut up and put your dick in me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sebastian pushes himself up on his knees, hovering over Chris, while Chris holds his dick steady with his right hand and guides it to Sebastian’s opening. Both of them hold their breath as Chris presses against the slight resistance, pushing past Sebastian’s rim until he can slowly, steadily slide inside. It’s so warm in here, so tight and hot and perfect, and Chris has been with many people in his life, but none of them ever felt as good as his baby does.

“Oh, god,” Sebastian moans, “oh fuck, that feels – you feel so…”

“Feels good?” Chris manages to ask, making a concerted effort to drag his foggy mind back into consciousness so he can check if Sebastian’s doing okay.

“So good. So big, holy shit.” Sebastian shudders as he sinks down the final bit, settling in Chris’s lap with Chris now fully seated inside of him. “Why do I never get used to how you feel?” he marvels, burying his face in Chris’s neck. Chris runs his hands up and down Sebastian’s back, soothing him while he gets used to the feeling.

“Too much?”

“Fuck, no. Never toomuch of you, baby.”

For a moment, Chris has to close his eyes to stem the swell of emotions rising up inside his chest. He tightens his arms around Sebastian and squeezes, wishing not for the first time that they could just meld into one.

“Love you so much, baby,” he murmurs into Sebastian’s hair, pressing a kiss there for good measure.

“Love you, too,” Sebastian says quietly, before drawing in a deep breath. He lifts his head and locks his gaze with Chris’s, and for a long moment Chris gets lost in the depths of those steel-blue eyes.

Then, without warning, Sebastian suddenly lifts himself up a couple of inches before pushing back down, causing Chris’s eyes to roll back inside his skull at the sudden stab of sensation.

“Ooohh my fucking god,” Chris groans, hands sliding down Sebastian’s back, grabbing his ass. “Do that again.”

“Do this again?” Sebastian asks, lifting off and sinking down on Chris’s cock again, taking him all the way to the root. Chris growls out something obscene into Sebastian’s collarbone when Sebastian stays seated for a moment and rolls his hip, grinding himself down on Chris’s dick.

“Jesus, you’re so deep.” Sebastian’s eyes are wide, his voice high and breathy, almost like a whine.

“Think I could get deeper?” Chris asks, when Sebastian comes up for air.

Sebastian shrugs, but the way he’s trembling belies the casual gesture. “Worth a try, huh?”

Sebastian starts to ride him then, rising up and sinking down again, taking him to the hilt over and over. They don’t talk for a little while, at least not beyond some bitten off curses and moans, too focused on the way they’re making each other feel to speak. Sebastian’s breaths are coming shorter now, his t-shirt already sticking to his back from the effort it takes working himself on Chris’s cock in the unexpected heat of the day.

“You’re doing so well,” Chris whispers in Sebastian’s ear, knowing how the praise will affect him. “You look so damn good bouncing on my dick like this, sweetheart.”

Sebastian whimpers, trying his best to speed up even further while he tightens involuntarily around Chris’s length. It’s not easy, though, in this position, so Chris helps him out a little by letting his hips snap up, fucking up into him as hard as he’s able.

“Aahh,” Sebastian moans, jerking upright. “Right there, I’m – oh.”

Chris does it again, pushing in deep while Sebastian grinds down, mindlessly chasing his pleasure.

He’s beautiful like this. He’s beautiful always, but especially like this. Lost in pleasure, eyes dark and heavy-lidded and a flush on his cheeks, his red mouth open, looking almost surprised at how good he’s feeling. And that’s all Chris ever wants, too, to make Sebastian feel good. To make him feel better than anyone has made him feel before; to make him feel whole, and owned, and adored. All those things Sebastian craves but isn’t always able to ask for. So Chris doesn’t wait until he asks, he makes it his mission to give it to him whenever he can, anything he needs, whenever he needs it.

Because that’s the wayhe loves Sebastian: always, anything, completely.

A sharp sting brings him back to the present – Sebastian sinking his teeth into the meat of his shoulder. He gets bitey sometimes, when he’s close; a way to give expression to the building tension inside of him. Chris slides a hand up Sebastian’s back, tightly gripping the back of his neck. The hair at his nape is damp with sweat. Chris threads his fingers through it, tightening into a fist while he keeps pumping his hips, burying himself inside of Sebastian over and over.

“You getting close, sweetheart?”

It’s a sound Sebastian makes in reply, not a word, but Chris has learned to interpret all of Sebastian’s sounds by now, and he knows what this one means.

“Chris,” Sebastian breathes, voice barely audible, “Chris, Chris, ahh.”

“I’ve got you, Sebastian. I’ve got you.” He pulls Sebastian’s head back again, firmly but not roughly, and fits their mouths together. Sebastian kisses him deeply, desperately, hands coming up to grab his face as he squirms in his lap. His breath is coming fast, panting into Chris’s mouth, and when Chris reaches down into the front of Sebastian’s shorts and curls his fingers around his length, pulling him out, Sebastian makes a high, keening sound, his ass gripping impossibly tight around Chris’s cock.

“Oh, fuck,” Chris pants, “oh baby, you feel so good, so perfect – Jesus, you’re tight, sweetheart.”

“Come in me,”Sebastian says suddenly, giving Chris a wild, pleading look. “Come in me – please, Chris.”  

Chris growls. “Youwant me to fill you up? That what you want? Fill you up with my come?”

“Yes, oh my god, p-please,” Sebastian stutters, “c’mon, do it. Now.”

Not used to being the one to receive orders when they’re like this, the words hit Chris hard, filling him with renewed urgency. He gabs hold of Sebastian’s waist, holding him in place as he jackhammers into him, knowing he’s nailing his prostate with every stroke from the way Sebastian jolts in his arms. Sebastian’s fingers dig into Chris’s biceps as he holds on and takes it, takes it so good – until Chris can’t take anymore and tips over the edge.

His rhythm inevitably falters as he comes, spilling inside the intoxicating heat of Sebastian’s body, giving him everything he’s got. Even as his climax rages through him, somehow Chris remembers to wrap a hand around Sebastian’s cock, jerking him fast and sloppily until Sebastian keens, the breath being punched out of him by his orgasm. Chris feels him spill, warm and sticky, over his hand, staining his abdomen and shorts.

Finally, they’re both spent, Sebastian slumping against Chris’s chest. He breathing hard, still, but it’s slowing now, and Chris tries to match his own breaths to Sebastian’s.

“Hmmm,” Sebastian hums finally, turning his head to press a wet, sloppy kiss to Chris’s throat. “Chris?”

“Yeah, honey?”

“Love you.”

Sebastian’s always so pliant and sweet after sex, warm and cuddly and affectionate, and Chris cherishes those moments, soaking it all up to keep for later, when they’re apart.

“Love you too, sweetheart,” he whispers, runninga hand up and down Sebastian’s sweaty back in long, soothing strokes. “Youhappy now?”

“Very,” Sebastian says contentedly, and Chris can feel him smile against his neck.

“Good.” He presses a lingering kiss to the side of Sebastian’s face. “Thanks for helping me christen the Camaro.”

Sebastian snorts. “Anytime. And I mean that.”

[kth1]

Dream [KTH]

Dream [Taehyung x Reader] ⟶ Credits: @kimtaehyunq​ ⟶ Genre: Soft Smut | 21+ | Boyfriend AU | First-person Oneshot ⟶ Warnings: use of vulgar language, adult content, foreplay, creampie, fingering, soft, strong/mature theme, unprotected sex, bed sex, etc ⟶ WC: 3.3k+ ⟶ Summary: Your subconscious was messing with you a little too much, leaving you restless, nervous, and weary. Taehyung is here to reassure you though. ⟶ Teaser: My mouth parted once he put strong pressure against my spot, holding it there while intensely focusing on rolling my bud around his fingers. My toes curled up the same time my back arched, gasping “D-Don’t stop!” ⟶ Author’s note: One morning I woke up really early and got pretty upset by a dream of mine, causing me to not be able to fall back asleep. Since I couldn’t sleep, I decided that in the hours of the wee morning; I jotted down some drabbles/wips and somehow… I made a really soft oneshot. Ta-da! These stories are just pure imagination, nothing to do with actual life of whom it may concern. Hope you like it! 😊

I was tossing and turning in bed all night, not being able to comfortably fall asleep. My boyfriend, Taehyung, knocked out relatively fast after watching a movie with me. I just couldn’t get tired, I was restless. I was going back and forth with shutting my eyes closed for what seemed to be hours, only to find out it’s been a few minutes. Checking my phone out of boredom multiple times and placing it back on the bedside table.

It had to of been after 3 AM when I finally had some shut eye. But it didn’t last long.

I woke up overheated, panicked. My dream woke me up and gave my body full adrenaline, heart racing and everything. A dream that upset me and I was glad I woke up before I encountered anymore saddening thoughts.

Lazily, I threw some of the covers off my legs to expose my skin to the cool air outside of the comforter. Sweat accumulated behind my neck causing my hair to damp up and making me toss to the side with a huff. What was causing my sleeplessness? I checked my phone once more and noticed the time, 5:30 AM on the dot.

I rolled my eyes and sighed. “Why?” I said in a low whisper.

It was mid-November and it was way too early for a sunrise at this hour. I stared blankly at the curtains hanging in front of the window, trying to peer through the sheer fabric of it and watch the tree’s leaves move with the wind. I can hear the light drizzling of rain hitting the clear glass.

A weight shifted on the bed, indicating that Taehyung was moving around in his sleep. I turned my head to face my handsome boyfriend who was clutching to a pillow and laying on his stomach, face turned towards me with his lips parted. His eyes closed shut; I listened to his light breathing.

He looked so peaceful and calm. His facial features were relaxed and looked soft to the touch. I smiled to myself, thinking that I was so lucky to have someone like him in my life. So happy I can see him in this state.

My hand slowly made its way to gently cup his cheek. Taking my thumb and caressing his soft tanned skin as I continued to gaze at his features. My touch caused him to grumble in his sleep, wincing a little bit and moving his mouth around to re-comfort himself. My lips curved into a smirk, because he looked so cute. So soft.

It was when I pulled my hand away from his face where I unexpectedly heard, “Why’d you stop?” In a deep raspy tone.

Eyebrows raised in surprise and feeling a little guilty, “I didn’t mean to wake you,” I said.

His eyes remained closed as he communicated back to me. Exhaling deeply as he was slowly waking up out of his sleep. “You ok?” He reached out slothful-like to find my arm and rub up it in a comforting way.

I hummed, assuring him I was content. “I just couldn’t really sleep,” I mumbled.

Heavy-eyed Tae swiftly move the pillow that was under him away and latched onto me, moving my body facing away and spooning me from the back. He dug his face into the back of my head and softly placed a few sluggish kisses.

Tae’s body radiated with heat, causing me to shift the covers down a bit more. He smelt so nice though. His groggy behavior was super adorable, and he was definitely making me feel more at ease with his arms around me.

“Did you have a bad dream, Jagi?”

How did he know? I closed my eyes after nodding my head yes, trying to stop any type of tears from forming. I didn’t particularly want to talk about my dream at this very moment because it still seemed so fresh. I sighed heavily and pulled Tae’s hand up to my face to give a peck to the back of his mitt.

“Tell me about it.” His breath hit the back of my neck as his chest vibrated along with his baritone voice. He nuzzled his nose into my shoulder, I could feel the air exit his nostrils on my skin.

I felt my body get heavy all of a sudden, a weight I wasn’t aware of but now it made its visit and I had to deal with it before I bottle it up. “I-I lost you,” I hesitantly spoke, nearly choking back on my tongue as the words left my mouth.

A few moments of silence enveloped the room, allowing the trickling of the raindrops against that damn window becoming boomingly loud. I could feel my own heartbeat quicken at the anticipation and stillness.

“What do you mean?”

“You left me.” My stomach churned as a reviled the plot of my nightmare. My grip tightened around Tae’s palm, not wanting to let him go.

Peppered kisses contacted my shoulder briskly as Tae let out a displeased grunt. “No. No.” He spoke in between. “Don’t dream about things like that. I’m here, I don’t want to leave.”

That’s what got me. That last sentence got me to break. My emotions got the best of me and trails of tears escaped my ducts and flowed down my face. It would have been fine because I had my back towards Tae and he couldn’t see my face, but it’s my sniffling that blew my cover.

I knew Tae was on full alert now, probably with eyes wide open and trying to calm down his sobbing girlfriend. I just buried my face into the pillow and reassured him I was ok, before he could even ask again.

“I’m sorry. I swear I’m okay, Tae.”

“Don’t apologize. There’s nothing to be sorry for. You’re allowed to feel the way you’re feeling.” His soothing voice caused my heart to ache even more. This man was so kind, so nurturing, empathetic and it made me vulnerable against him. He knew exactly how to handle me, how to make me feel good about myself. I really couldn’t have asked for a better partner.

“I just really, really, really love you, Tae.”

“I love you too, Jagi. You make me so happy; you have no idea.”

Taehyung squeezed me against his chest, smushing us together in the act of being cute and trying to lighten up the mood. I heard of soft chuckle behind my back, causing me to smile at him.

“Let me show you how much I love you.” He whispered into my ear.

“Tae—”

His actions interrupted my sentence when he leaned up and kissed in the crook of my neck. His contact was abrupt but soft. Scattering his lips along the column of my neck. His hand that I had clutched released from my grasp and made its way down my side and onto my hip, stroking the area slowly.

I inhaled sharply when Tae found my sweet spot under my ear. He began sucking on the skin and grazing his teeth, making me heat up more under his touches.

My hand instinctively made its way in his hair as I lightly pet him, slightly tugging at some strands that got intertwined between my fingers. He was making me feel in bliss. My negative mind was being transported over the moon with his arousing behavior.

The hand that laid on my hip slowly dipped into the elastic of my shorts, slithering through my undies and making contact with my folds. I could feel my face blush the second he started humming into my ear and nipping at my lobe.

My slickness was present, there was no denying that. I felt completely comfortable with Tae, I was willing to be as defenseless as possible with the man I fell in love with. His finger pushed into my slit, collecting my self-lubricated sap and slipping his finger up and down my wetness.

I jutted my butt back into him out of pure reaction due to the flick over my sensitive bud he did with the pad of his finger. My breathing hitched, while Tae’s was still steady and in control. When my ass pushed back into his hips, I could feel the slight erection he had going on under his briefs. He used his positioning to his advantage and put pressure back against me, while he toyed around with my clit.

Tae’s fingers expertly fiddled around my core, making my eyes flutter shut and my head rest back against him as he inserted a digit into my center. My teeth took in my bottom lip. Slowly fingering up into me, he added another finger. My hand reached down to his wrist and gripped onto it, not trying to stop the sensual pleasure, but to help guide him in the way I wanted to feel it. “Tae—” I breathlessly spoke out to him.

In a low husky voice Tae responds to me, “Yes, Jagi? Do you like this?”

My face flushed quickly, making me feel embarrassed that I was so engulfed by this sensation. But I didn’t feel shy at letting him know, “Yes.”

He removed his fingers from me, allowing me to take a breath that I didn’t realize I needed. Tae’s hands made their way to the band of my shorts and started tugging them down pass my knees along with my panties. He slightly pushed my lower back, giving me the hint to arch my tailbone towards him. He shuffled around, lowering his briefs to set free his member.

His dick made contact between my thighs, making me grin with excitement. He teasingly trailed his hard-on up and down my legs, tapping at my folds and then removing it just to repeat the process. Eagerly I tried pushing myself back onto him when he contacted me at my core again, causing the head dip in my slit and instantly getting polished with my juices.

Tae smirked as he leaned back to my neck with his dick positioned at my entrance. With his hand he drew circles with his stick, guiding it up, down, and all around.

“You’re so beautiful, Y/n.” He slowly entered me from behind.

Inch by inch Tae took his time easing into my walls. Allowing me to feel everything and adjust to him at a comfortable pace. Pulling back just to shove a bit more forward, until he finally sank his girthy dick all the way inside me. His lips made contact with my neck once again as I let out small moans.

Like music to his ears, my moans encouraged Tae to continue his work. He pumped into me at a slow pace, filling me up and pulling away. Making my body ache for him just to fill me up again. Small grunts escaped his throat, notifying me that this also feels good for him.

His fingers found my exposed bud again, this time without fabric constricting him. The double sensation shot a surge of pleasure up my body and my face glowed red. He was taking his time, loving me slowly and fully, showing me what it feels like to be together.

The tip of his member constantly skimmed against my g-shot, my pressure point. Not only his fingers were flicking around my swollen bean, but his dick was squishing up into my wall causing me to feel a strong coil build up deep within me.

My mouth parted once he put strong pressure against my spot, holding it there while intensely focusing on rolling my bud around his fingers. My toes curled up the same time my back arched, gasping “D-Don’t stop!”

The power was so much that a wave of electrifying sensations rippled through my lower abdomen and my body started twitching around Tae’s sunken cock. He kept a firm hold on me, making sure my hips didn’t pull away from him as I rode my orgasm.

Tae continued sliding his dick deep inside of me, pushing as deep as possible and holding me there. “I love you,” he repeated.

Coming down from my quick high, I tried twisting my body to meet his face. Locking our lips together straight away. “I want to look at you,” I stated sheepishly.

I felt his gaze on me, an endearing look. I looked back into his dark eyes that had a tint of seriousness to them, “You can always look at me,” he said smiling. I was completely captivated by him.

Tae pulled out without hurry, pulling my body to lay on my back and pushed my legs aside so he can fit back in place. Now I was able to see my boyfriend, watch him just like how I was when he was asleep. This time I get to see his features, his mannerisms, everything. Tae reached at the hem of my shirt and gently pulled it up and over my head, uncovering my bare torso to him. He leaned down to meet my face with a smile, giving me a warm kiss.

Both of my hands had made it into his hair, keeping him there to deepen the kiss. I moved my legs alongside his body, giving him friction against our skins. When we disconnected, we both stared back into another’s eyes, getting lost into our own world. We were both sleepy, tired, but still very much in love.

“God, I love you so much.” I blurted out.

He chuckled lightly, biting on his bottom lip. Placing one more peck on my mouth, and proceeded to my cheek, my jawline, down my neck, to my clavicles. His hands massaged at my breasts when his lips continued making light purple marks across my surface.

When he finally reached down to my boobs, his mouth hovered my right puffy nipple. Poking it with his wet tongue, forcing the area to harden. My hands ran up and down his arms, tracing his biceps and deltoids as I hummed in response.

I lifted my legs up and over his waist, wanting him closer to me. Leaning back down, he slid his dick back in, with my wetness giving him an easier time to enter. My hands gripped his arms for more support, while he thrusted deep into my cunt. Using his lower back, he bucked his hips up into me, forcing me back into another haze of what felt like heaven. He didn’t go slow this time, but he also wasn’t going fast. It was an immersed speed that made the both of us satisfied, enough to show how much he cares to make love to me.

Our moans together were a symphony. Trying to make this session last as long as possible, but also trying to make another feel as pleased as possible. We were determined for both.

“Ah Jagi, I’m close!” Tae panted. I can see a bead of sweat drip down the side of his forehead. I was in shock with how well he was holding himself back. How calm he was. But his orgasm was creeping up on him, and it looked like he really wanted to show me everything he’s got.

“Babe,” I whispered. I pulled him close by the back of his neck, linking my arms behind him and secured our lips together in a very passionate, sloppy kiss. I tightened my legs around him, limiting his space from pulling out all the way.

I believe Tae realized what I was doing, he caught on pretty quick to most things anyways. He furrowed his eyebrows in concentration, trying to last as long as possible. But I knew he was caving in to the feeling of his dick being hugged by my warm, damp walls.

“Show me how much.” I whispered into his ear, letting out a whimper once he fastened his pace into quick sporadic strokes. Forcing himself deep inside me before releasing his warm load, letting out an exhausting throat grunt. Holding me close to him.

We both were panting, catching air as quick as it left our bodies. Tae laid on top of me, dick still submerged into my cunt. I could feel his member twitching ever so slightly, probably rocking down from his climax.

We held another during this time, until Tae was ready to roll off. He leaned up with a grin and glossy eyes. About to detach from me, I quickly gripped onto him and rolled the both of us over, so I was straddling his crotch as his member was practically glued in me.

“Y/n…” his croaky voice sent a heart welching feeling to me.

I kissed at the tears that broke free from the brims of his eyes. Wiping them clean from his now rosy cheeks. “Please don’t cry!” I said worriedly. Making him lightly laugh.

“It’s ok, Y/n.” He smiled with his eyes as his teeth beamed at me. “They’re happy tears.”

Even though these were tears of joy, it still hurt my heart. Not in a negative way, in a warming sensitive way. It ached; my heart was swelling up for Taehyung. And I would not have it any other way.

All my passion amped up in the spur of the moment and I leaned down kissing all over Tae’s face, leaving no section un-kissed. His hands made their way to my waist with his thumbs rubbing circles into my skin. He made an attempt to lift me up off of his sensitive member, but I refused. Instead I forced myself locked down on him, rolling my hips in circles. Using his shaft for my personal pleasure and his pelvis as an optimal place to stimulate my clit.

Tae’s head cocked to the side as his face skewed with hypersensitivity running through his strong figure, parting his lips and knitting his brows together. Both of our breathes picked up fast, our chests heaving as I helped get us to our next high, together.

We were more vocal now as we chased our climaxes, “Ah-ah Jagi! Fuc-,“ Tae moaned out loud. He groaned out in awe, watching me rocking around on top of him, riding him. The puddle of mixed liquids pooled between us, seaming through the connection we had and drenching everything in its path.  

I rapidly grabbed Tae’s hands in mine, lacing our fingers together as my body got shot with a rapture of pleasure, tightening my walls around Tae’s swollen dick. He choked back on his moan; the feeling so intense to him causing an orgasm to pop up out of nowhere. We both let out a high-pitched moan as we hit our peaks; him shooting more seeds up into me as I leaked all over his thighs.

This orgasm felt like I was swept from my feet, goosebumps all over my body, my body on an all-time high and trembling on him. Causing me to lose balance on top of Tae. He was quick to catch hold on me and lay me on my side by him.

We laid there, in our mess. A messy pile full of love. We embraced another, caressing whatever body part that was available to us.

“I hope you don’t have any more dreams or worries about losing me,” he placed a sweet and tender kiss to my forehead. “I love you too much to leave.”

I wrapped my arms tighter around Tae’s torso, cuddling up close into his chest. Shaking my head, “I won’t. I want to stay like this.”

“We need to clean ourselves and the bed up though.” Tae admitted, giggling.

“Another 5 minutes then?”

He smirked, reaching over to my phone on the bedside table and checking the time. “Ah, it’s 6:13 AM.”

I looked up at him, feeling a bit guilty on how early it was. Knowing we will probably have a very lazy day ahead of us. But I smiled when he spoke up.

“I’ll set a timer. 5 minutes. Then we’ll shower, grab some food and hot cocoa, throw these sheets in the washer, and watch the sun rise through this rainy weather. Deal?”

“Deal.”

© All rights reserved under @kimtaehyunq​ - do not copy, repost, modify, edit, or translate any of my work without my direct consent. This tumblr is the ONLY place my fics are posted.

[fordarkisthesuede]

The Tolls of Justice - Chapter 9

Whoooooooooo boy, are you ready for a long, long chapter??? So long it took me over 150 days to write it??? I hope so!!!

If you are sensitive to talk about mental illness (specifically disassociation and mental breakdowns/crying), mentions of medications, and mentions of past deaths [within this story], please read the spoiler tags carefully.

Please enjoy this chapter at your own pace, and know that I love you. ♡

IMPORTANT SPOILER TAGS: sexually suggestive situations; discussion of mental illness[es]; paranoia; discussion of dissociation/depersonalization; hero-complex mention; mental breakdown/crying; car crash mention; thisisfine.jpg meme mention; p*lice mention; emt mention; past-death mention; r*talin mention; r*hypn*l mention; injury/bruise mention; gun/gun violence mention; food mention

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[Chapter 9 - Strength in Numbers]

John could feel a warm weight on his collarbone as everything in him seemed to echo with his pulse. 

Things ached where they normally didn’t. Tenderness sat in one of his kidneys and just over his heart, radiating with each breath. A slightly familiar soreness sat in his hips.

He was practically melted into the mattress under his back, feeling like a pile of warm jelly stuck to a plate by the summer heat, yet he could still tell he had bones and flesh intact.

I’m definitely not in Arkham anymore.

He didn’t need to open his eyes to see Bruce lying next to him, his arm draped around John’s collar and his face buried into the pillow, but it certainly was a sight to behold. Especially when he stirred and moved to kiss John’s cheek like he’d been waiting for the opportunity.

“Good morning,” Bruce said in his ear, not sounding as awake as he seemed. Black hair mussed, eyes darkened like the ocean depths, a real smile floating on his lips - there was nothing about the whole look that didn’t make John’s heart give that funny little shake that only seemed to come with certain experiences with Bruce.

“I’ll say.” He snatched a kiss for himself, taking the opportunity to trail his fingertips up and over the arm over his chest. The curves of hard muscle were practically begging to be pet. “That dance… You really know how to show a guy a good time. Kinda makes the emotional turmoil worth it.”

Bruce turned on his side, his cute sleepily-contented expression moving to something more contemplative as the sheets moved with him, exposing the little black chest hairs and very lickable pectorals of his torso. He was bruised in places, and John eyed the marks his boot heel had made.

“Reeeally worth it,” he purred, rolling to face him and run his fingers over the marks. Bruce grunted when he pressed in, sending a lovely pang of heat to John’s groin. “Did that hurt?”

“You know it did,” Bruce frowned slightly. No, wait, it looked more like a pout... How cute! So cute it made him want to tease him.

“Want me to kiss it better?” He traced over the bruise gently, playing over the little hairs brushing his fingertips. Everything felt so real. Everything was real. Bruce was aaallll his - his to touch, his to love, as real as John himself. “I can soothe all your aches and pains, if you’d like. You just have to tell me where it hurts.”

“What about you?” Bruce asked, making John’s heart shiver as he stroked his thumb over John’s arm. “We got kind of rough last night.”

Why would Bruce want to take that away? John needed this. “I don’t know if you noticed, but I was very into that,” John answered, “You don’t know how amazing these aftereffects are. I feel like I’m floating and sinking into this bed - everything is so...solid.”

Bruce didn’t seem to really like that. He seemed like he was rolling the words around in his head, not touching in a way that was deliberately comforting anymore. He was clearly choosing his next words, because John had inevitably said the wrong thing, again, and now he ruined their morning just as it was starting; Bruce was going to corner him into something unpleasant, and John could feel something in him shrink and bristle.

“John,” Bruce started in that I’m-just-concerned-about-you tone John had long grown accustomed to from everyone else, “why didn’t you tell me you were still struggling with your perception?”

John didn’t have any other option but to answer. “Ha, I can see you just fine,” he dodged, hoping Bruce would drop it and forget he ever asked, “You’re a solid ten-outta-ten in my twenty-twenty, Brucie.” 

Bruce’s brow furrowed. John knew that look in his eye - he wasn’t in the mood for messing around. “You know that’s not what I meant. You told me you were having vivid nightmares. Last night, you said you were having problems making sure things were real; that you’d wake up thinking of Ace Chemicals-”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” John said a little too loudly as he rolled over, turning away from the image of barely-covered Bruce trying to push John’s demons front-and-center for him to see.

“You already talked about it,” Bruce admonished in a huff.

“Then I don’t need to say it again!” John shot back.

Silence. 

Silence and the vision of an unpowered digital clock on a bare nightstand and a boringly-painted wall with stripes of sun that said it was probably past noon. John could hear breathing, but barely, hearing his own pulse and the quiet guilt piling in his chest more than anything.

Movement next to him, the shuffle of sheets, something thick in John’s chest threatening to choke him inside-out - he took hold of his neck, feeling all the words he’d been holding in there, half-wishing the hallucination of everything would break, and felt the ache of reality as they began to spill out in a strangled voice:  “I-I just -” the hand on his shoulder was very real, so heavy and hot – “don’t LOOK at me!” John curled a little more into himself. Warmth lingered as weight left, all real real real. Bruce’s weight settled behind him in a swish of fabric and shift in balance.

“There,” Bruce said, sounding like he was talking to the opposing wall, “I can’t see you.” 

He couldn’t bear to look at him directly. Eyes were the windows into the soul, after all. The wall was boring, but it was like talking to some of the Arkham therapists. Less like he was spilling the darkest parts of his guts to the one person who always saw him.

“I…keep thinking I’m still in Arkham,” he said, curling his fingers in the sheets by the pillow, “That I’m... I’m just waiting to wake up there like nothing’s changed, that…all of this has been some whacked-up ha-hallucination. Ha ha ha - that I’ve just been imagining these things! I mean, it’s so unreal, how you and I are working it out, having friends, having this...weird pseudo-family thing. Being…being happy.” His eyes hurt. He wanted to close them, but he’d lose focus, or worse, lose the grip on his shaky feelings. “I admired you for so long, just being with you is like a dream. I could only ever imagine I’d get this far, or that you’d stick with me, or…anything. I can feel everything, remember everything, but it’s like it’s not enough - and the worst part is that I can’t tell anyone this, or… I’ll just get tossed back!”

“You wouldn’t get put back in Arkham, John,” Bruce said softly.

“Ye-ha-ah I would! You think any of the white coats won’t use any excuse to lock me away? Any at all?” John spat, hugging himself a little too hard, aware of how much pressure he was putting on his sides but not caring. “They’d slam me in the hole if I so much as hinted at a relapse!”

“They’re your doctors.” So what? “St. Dymphna’s New Life Home isn’t Arkham -” Same stupid uncaring people, anybody can be bought - “it’s rehabilitation, John, not imprisonment. They know you’re still recovering.” That’s what they all say, at first. “Do you really think I’d let the court send you there without researching them first?”

John’s train of thought broke. He turned to look at Bruce, at the smushed black hairs on the back of his head that had been finger-combed into an angled mess, and wanted to see his face instead.

“I did extensive background checks on the facility, its patient care, its staff – I wasn’t about to let someone send you to another Dr. Quinnzel or Dr. Crane.”

John felt his heart squeeze. He never thought about that. Bruce had reassured him the days leading up to his move, but he’d just taken it as a loving-boyfriend-thing. “Why… Why aren’t you mad at me? I’ve – I’ve been holding out on therapy – practically cheating!” Bruce still just laid there, all quiet and calm. “Come on, just say it! You’re disappointed in me, right?!”

“No,” he answered, “I just wish you told me earlier. You shouldn’t have to hold all that in. Not with me.” He paused, stiffening like he was stopping himself from something. “Can I look at you?”

John took a deep breath, smelling stale sweat and cum and faded laundry-safe bleach. He clenched the cotton sheets under his hands, feeling the fabric and the bittersweet ache in his chest. He was real, Bruce was real, the feelings laid bare last night were real - could he live with Bruce seeing him like this, heart out in the open and primed for stabbing? 

Hadn’t he seen the worst of him? John spattered with blood and begging him to believe him like no one else ever had? John at his worst, uncaring and hostile and full of rage and vengeance, covered in blood he’d spilt before Bruce’s very eyes? 

He’d sat across from him then, battered and bruised, and told him they were friends, despite just shoving a Batarang into his hand to stop him from doing any more harm. He’d seen John in Arkham, his no-name existence shoved into a single cell on display with his sickness, and he came back. He’d rushed to rescue him from Dr. Crane’s experiments and the temptation to step backwards and take revenge. He kept coming back, over and over and over, chasing after John to save him from himself.

John stared at his back, at the scars on his shoulders he wanted to kiss better, and knew. “Yeah.”

Bruce turned back around, the covers slipping with him, and faced him with all his wounds on display. “I know I kept things from you that I shouldn’t have,” he said as unthreatening and unmalicious as John had no right to expect, “and that I keep doing it. I should’ve told you about me and the Agency, about Tiffany working for me, about keeping us a secret - every time I didn’t, it was because I thought it was for the better.” 

John didn’t want him to look at him like that. He didn’t stop holding the sheets, knowing if he let go that slapping his hand over Bruce’s eyes to cover the honesty that was too much like that night wouldn’t go over well.

“You keep proving me wrong,” he said, looking hurt - by himself or John, it was difficult to tell. “I keep hurting you, and I keep making things worse. I know there are things you haven’t told me, and things that you feel you have to keep from me. And I know I don’t deserve to hear any honest answers with the way I’ve treated you, but… I’m not going to run away from you.”

Bruce held out his hand, laying it in the space between their pillows. 

He wasn’t running, or judging, or looking confused. He wasn’t angry or disappointed in John for failing in the one thing he was supposed to be doing right. He was just there, with him.

“I just… I want to be near you,” John admitted, barely feeling the words leave his throat as he wound his thin fingers between Bruce’s, feeling imperfect rough parts where nicks and cuts left lasting marks, “so badly… Not just to be with you. You know how I’ve always admired you.” He still did, and Bruce had to have known that. “You’re always...respected -  even if they don’t like you, they listen to you,” he explained, seeing the slight confusion on Bruce’s face at the word respect, “You’re someone people want to be,” he continued slowly, “People talk about you, talk to you, look at you... People don’t...forget you.”

Bruce seemed to understand the unspoken words that used to eat at John’s brain, because he squeezed John’s hand back.

“It’s like… I’m drifting in the ocean, and I keep trying to swim towards the lighthouse - and just when I get close enough, the current pulls me away into the rocks. And I just...want to reach you. Hah, isn’t that stupid?”

“No,” Bruce answered, not looking away for a moment, “But...I don’t think you realize how much closer you are to me,” he said with a little tilted smile and a very low hmph, “If I’m not knee-deep in the water already, I’ve definitely run out to help you.”

“Ha ha - that’s so typical, steering my insane metaphor to suit your hero-complex,” John shot back with the smile he felt tugging at his lips at the mental image.

“I don’t have a-”

“Yes you do,” John interrupted, pulling Bruce’s hand up to give him a peck on the knuckles, “And I love you for it.” Bruce’s mouth was still scrunched a little; he seemed to dislike the idea he had a complex at all. “So – since we’re spilling secrets,” he started, settling their hands between the pillow as he thought of the best way to phrase it, “what’s the other reason you didn’t tell anyone about us?”

“There’s isn’t any other,” Bruce stressed, “I just wanted them to see you as you. If I came home with you and reintroduced you as ‘my boyfriend John’, that would be the only thing they’d think of.” He paused for a second, seeming to rethink. “Well, after Joker,” he added with a slight nod to the side.

“You don’t think they’d have given me a second chance right off the bat, huh?” John puzzled, “Even after what happened with Dr. Crane?”

“That...was a bit of a mess,” he said, looking somewhat embarrassed, “It was an emergency. I don’t think they really saw the best of you.” Bruce held his gaze. “I’ve gotten to see the best parts of you every day. I just want them to experience that.”

John was tempted to make a joke out of that, but a nagging question leapt out of his mouth:  “And what if they still rejected me?”

Bruce’s emotions were subtle, but John could tell he’d made him uncomfortable. He didn’t want to answer that. He didn’t like the answer.

Well, it was honesty-hour, and John bared his heart for him, so Bruce could do the same. “Would you still run after me?”

“Yes.” 

There was no doubt, no dishonestly, no lingering maybe. He would, as sure as Batman’s armor was black and John’s hair was green and Bruce was a sturdy pillar of reality.

“But what would you do about them?”

Bruce breathed, not really looking at him, hard and stony like he wanted to turn tail with a swish of his bat-cape. John slowly ran this thumb over Bruce’s knuckle, softening him into something John would almost call vulnerable. “I don’t know,” he admitted like it was some shameful secret.

John had never known Bruce to not have a plan. He always had a backup for his backups. It didn’t make sense, it was almost like… “You’re scared of that, aren’t you?” He asked, realizing the answer without ever hearing it, “That’s why you planned everything out.” (It wasn’t excusing it, he reminded himself. Bruce hurt him and he should know it... But he couldn’t watch him suffer forever, and he shouldn’t want to.) “Oh, Bruce. Honey. No one can know everything; not even you. I mean, look at how my life turned out - I don’t think anyone could’ve known how I’d end up. Or even that I’d live this long.” Bruce seemed to be absorbing that, which was good; he wasn’t running away from his own truth. That was progress. A different Bruce in a different time would’ve denied being scared of the unknown at all. “Besides, did you really think they wouldn’t figure it out eventually, with my shameless wolf-whistling?”

There it was:  the tiny spark of humor that pushed away the clouds. He didn’t have to smile for John to see it; he could tell. The little change of light, the tiny bits of relaxation in his brow and mouth. “I sort of had the idea we’d make it gradually more obvious.”

“Gradual - me? Do you even know me?” he teased, “I’d take two miles with any inch you’d give me. Especially with those eight you’re packing...”

Good gracious, Bruce was cute when he smiled. Cuter when his little snort developed into a chuckle into his pillow. “Honestly, that was really the most appealing part,” he continued, voice lighter than before but still a little guilty, “I like how you talk. The tension would’ve made it easier to explain why I pulled you away to make out with you somewhere.”

John tittered at the image of a flustered, frustrated Bruce giving in and showing him what-for in some undisturbed part of the manor. “Oh, buddy, I can only imagine what that kind of tension could do for us. I had some good fantasies about us sneaking in those little hideyholes at Arkham, and if they’re anything to go by... Ooh, do you have any secret passages in the manor we could use? Arkham had a few; not counting the air vents and sewers, of course, I mean the real hidden passage kind.”

John watched as Bruce’s eyes widened with the look of just remembering something important as he practically leaped out of bed to search his pants on the floor, clad in nothing but boxer-briefs, his demi-godlike body on display for John to stare at as blood tried to rush inconveniently to his groin. (Oof, he’d put his weight behind him last night, all those heavy moves and hits controlled until the very end, and just thinking about the power locked away under the same strict moral code that Bruce unleashed on the unsuspecting dirt in Gotham made John feel like he was going to melt. Batman was truly a wonder, even out of the suit… And boy, he fucked like it.)

“Bruce,” John managed, sitting up and trying not to drool too obviously, “I never thought I’d say this, but please put on a shirt on.”

Bruce tossed an almost-pocket-sized hardback at John’s lap. “Check the map page.”

And he was being bossy. “You could’ve said please,” John grumbled for Bruce to hear, not disliking how the commanding voice still did things for him. “What are you looking for?”

“I want to know if there are any Owl markings near downtown Gotham,” Bruce answered, dutifully throwing his shirt back on as he checked his phone, “Specifically nests. Please.”

The map page was fairly simple. The illustrator had gone out of their way to make a nice key to detail the “important” areas of worship or decision-making “parliaments” or leader’s houses, versus the hideaways that were “nests” and burial sites of nameless victims. John spied the owl-face stamp on Arkham Island and forced himself to ignore it. He knew - roughly - where most sections of the city were cut.

“Well there’s nothing specific in Downtown - you have to go up and over to see the nearest nest. Which according to our author was one of the last added before the birds went completely coo-coo.”

Bruce did a tame belly-flop next to John - still sans pants - and pulled up his own map of Gotham, looking like it was pulled straight from the Batcave’s supercomputer. John could see the little red pins Bruce had marked on what looked like deaths. “Here’s The Lot, and if the nearest nest is here… Look,” he tilted the phone towards John, showing off the yellow flag he’d made to mark the nest and the newly-added blue lines highlighting pipes, “it’s a bit far, but I was thinking last night about how the woman disappeared from The Lot so fast, and I thought about how the old sewers still connect with the newer parts of the city as it expanded-”

“Wait, last night? When did you have the time?”

“It was after you fell asleep,” Bruce answered simply, “But I realized the sewers still connected everywhere, so they probably used that for a quick escape. It’s not too difficult to get from one section of the city to another underneath it, if you know where you’re going - I had to do it myself a few years ago, back when I was looking to make some smaller hideouts. I didn’t think about it until you mentioned the Court of Owls. I figured they might have had a car waiting on another street, but it could be that they took only a few streets away to get into a getaway vehicle. I checked the saved camera footage last night, and I think it’s a good possibility, considering a couple of promising possible cars parked in the street for short periods of time, but since this nest is just outside of the Downtown area, it wouldn’t be an overreach to say someone took the sewer the whole way.”

John blinked. “Just how long were you up?”

“About fifteen, twenty minutes. I was originally going to tell you when you woke up.”

From zero to all the ideas in fifteen minutes while in a haze of afterglow… He really was amazing. And breathtaking. And completely ludicrous. “Hah ha! So if fist-fighting and hard sex after a long day aren’t enough to stop you - geez, what even are you?”

“I’m Batman,” Bruce answered with a smirk, “I think it’s worth looking at the building itself - that area’s been closed for construction for a while, the city’s put a halt on tearing the structure down due to historical value.”

“Pfft, historical value, sure…” John peeked at the picture Bruce had pulled up:  a rather small, plain-bricked theater with a very yellowing sign.

“It was one of the first theaters in Gotham,” Bruce explained, “A historical preservation group is trying to save it. Someone on it could be an Owl. I don’t like to think it’s a coincidence.” He frowned a little at the device as he put it aside, seeming to decide something, and when he looked back at John it was with the same determination as before. “When Jackie brought you here, did you two discuss anything?”

“Only the very basics of what happened with you. She’s been on sessions with me before, she’s used to seeing me angry.” He’d only be asking after the topic of owls for one reason. “You think she’s one of them, huh?”

“She knew I cared about you enough to use me against Dr. Crane, she could’ve figured I would have kept you in the house and used the Gala as an excuse.” 

He...supposed. She did crash it, and she wasn’t alone, and it was true how she had a list of dead friends as long as her arm and how some of them had been the result of murder and manslaughter, but... “She didn’t really look like she wanted to be there, though,” John said thoughtfully, “She’d said helping her boyfriend research at the gala was better than -” Research? - “ohh, I see what you mean! Could be, could be…”

“How was she last night?”

“Well, uh, I was kiiinda paying more attention to me, Bruce. Specifically the dark swirling thoughts of how I’ll never be truly accepted and how much of an idiot I was to think I would be. And how much I hated feeling everything around me. But that’s a hole we can spelunk into another time - how about we just go pay her a visit?”

As if on queue, like they were in some ridiculous play themselves, Bruce’s phone began to buzz by his hand, and Tiffany’s face took over half the screen, looking happier than John had ever seen her.

Bruce took a breath, nothing in his expression but the cool, collective sense of duty, and answered, bringing it to his ear so John couldn’t listen in. “Yes?”

John could hear something that sounded like ‘why didn’t you tell me you were okay’, but he could barely hear it over the tinny electronic whistling tune emitting from his own phone, telling him the person on the other end was a mystery.

Unknown contact, but a Gotham area code.

“Clown Funeral Services, where your last ride fits twenty,” John answered cheerfully, “Who’s the lucky bozo?”

“…John, do you answer all your calls like that?”          

“Mickey! I didn’t know you had a contraband phone, you rascal! You should’ve told me, I would’ve thought of a better greeting for you.”

“I’m using the hotel’s landline,” the gruff voice of Mickey Williamson answered with a tone of mild bewilderment, “I’m calling because… You know how you were asking about that Ian guy the other day? The one who left after a month?”

“Yeeeah?”

“I saw him leave just a few minutes ago.”           

“Ian just left The Lucky Hotel?” Ian Coggs, who Tiffany had been trying to track, who was the only known lead to finding Roman Sionis’ hideaway, was staying here? Was this some kind of whacked-up dream of a coincidence, or was it fate itself following them from the shadows? Either way, Bruce was paying attention, now. “Mickey, if I weren’t in a committed relationship with the love of my life, I’d come out there and kiss you right now.”

Bruce glanced over at him with a jealous squint and raised brow. John just nudged him with his foot in return.

“Um…thanks,” he answered, not sounding like he was really that appreciative of the idea.

John had several questions - What room did he come out of? What was he wearing? Did you see his car? – but figured he’d boil it down to the most obvious one:  “Please tell me you overheard detailed plans of where he was going.”

“No, but, uh, I got the license plate of the car he hopped in. Does that help?”

John felt a laugh bubble in his throat, and he didn’t bother to stop it. “Does it-?! Yes, you big galloot! Ha ha ha! Oh, man, hang on a sec’,” he paused and snatched the hotel pen from the floor, where it had rolled with the broken lamp, and put him on speaker so Bruce could hear. “Okay, lay it on me, Mick’!”

“C-P-5-K-1-N-G.”

Bruce was suddenly paying attention, phone partway away from his ear, blinking at the phone in John’s hand as John scribbled the letters and numbers in ink on his palm. John couldn’t hear what Tiffany was saying on the other end, but it was quieter than before.

“Mick’, you’re truly my number two guy,” John praised, “Remind me to buy you lunch one of these days.”

“Thanks. I’ll…remember that.”

The call ended without a goodbye, but John beamed proudly at Bruce, who was ‘uh-huh’-ing seriously into his phone. “Right. Twenty minutes.” A pause, during which John could hear Tiffany’s tone all soft despite the muffled words, and Bruce gave a sigh through his nostrils. “I’ll check.” He put the phone down, muting it and staring ahead with a somewhat tired expression, and then looked back to John. “Tiffany wants to talk to you.”

John definitely did not want to talk to her. Not when he was in such a good mood; not when he’d finally ironed out a bit more of the grievances between him and Bruce. He wasn’t ready to take on more emotional pain. Not now, not later today…he’d prefer not to for the rest of his life.

“Don’t make that face,” Bruce admonished lightly, “she wants to apologize.”

“Don’t tell me how to feel,” John snapped lightly, “I don’t have to talk to anyone if I don’t want to. Especially not someone who was rude to me.” (He knew how that sounded. Like the old John. But it was how he felt, and wasn’t he still John? Weren’t his hands still that John’s? Wasn’t the scar on his hand a sign of the past and present and future blended together?) “Just…not right now,” he added, staring at the faded white line as it covered Bruce’s hand still lying on the sheets. Bruce’s skin always seemed warmer than his own. “Please.”

Depths of blue and black had never looked so non-judgmental as they did today. It must’ve been love. (No, it was. It always was. He’d always known it was, the fascination, the curiosity, the concern, the sympathy and understanding and passion of all kinds no matter how subtle – all Bruce’s love, on full display with a glance.) “You’ll have to talk to him later. Yeah. Bye.” The phone was black when he put it back down. “Tiffany’s informant here said the same thing:  Ian Coggs left here five minutes ago, riding in a black sedan with the same plate. Tiffany’s following it – it’s heading west.”

“You’re following after them, aren’t you?”

“I have to.”

No you don’t, John wanted to say, but it wasn’t the truth. Bruce always had to follow through. Had to make that catch. “I know.”

“I’m heading right there, so Iman’s coming to pick you up,” he said, typing away a message in rapid swipes, “I want you two to check out the Nest on the Aylin Street theater. I’m telling her to bring some of my gear for you to use; I think the Nest is just used as an intermittent safe house, but take precautions.”

John was going on an investigation. He was getting responsibility – trust – directly from Batman, while his body ached and tingled with constant reminders of what happened between them last night. He couldn’t have felt more wonderful than if Bruce was jacking him off and letting John film the whole thing. “I won’t let you down!” (Did that come out too enthusiastic? Aw, hell, what did he care?!) “I’ll tell you what – I’ll interrogate Jackie while I’m waiting, too! She shouldn’t be too tough an egg to crack – not when we’ve split it open once already.”

He looked like he was going to protest about the idea, but he softened with a slight sigh and one look over at John. “You’d do it even if I told you not to, wouldn’t you?”

“Just as sure as you would,” John needled with a grin.

“Just…be careful,” Bruce seemed to land on as he slid away and started to put on pants, keeping eye contact for most of it, “I don’t want to catch Roman and then find out you’d been kidnapped because Jackie has a Talon on speed-dial.”

“Ha, that’s cute, you think kids still use speed-dial.”

“John, she’s almost three years older than Tiffany, she’s not a kid.” (“It was only a joke,” John muttered to himself as he made a mental note of Tiffany being twenty-three.) “Besides, my point still stands. Keep your eyes and ears open, and call me or Iman if you think something’s wrong.”

Bruce was edging on babying him again. A twitch of anger came, but John breathed slowly, staring at Bruce’s hard shoulders as he let it pass. There was more than one way to make him understand that he didn’t need that. “The same goes for you, Bruce,” John purred, throwing covers and any minute sense of so-called decency he had away to stroll up to Bruce, feeling proud at how Bruce’s face turned a nice shade of red as he seemed to struggle not to look everywhere he clearly wanted. It was funnier to see it burning in his eyes as John gently straightened his shirt by its ends. He could practically feel the rope on Bruce’s self-restraint. “Dancing wouldn’t be the same without my partner,” he teased slowly, trailing his fingers to the curve of Bruce’s rear, “You know I’ve always got your back,” he emphasized with a gentle squeeze. “You call, and I’ll come after you.”

Poor Bruce was trying so hard to keep himself together. It was so cute. John had to pretend not to see his Adam’s apple bob in his peripheral vision. “I’ll be fine.”

“I know you will, Batman,” John hummed, pecking him and feeling the brief warmth burst new life in his grin as he slipped out of Bruce’s arms and turned to clean himself up properly, “because I will be, too.”

                                                      † † † † †

The time it took for John to redress and down a very sugary cup of the terrible brown liquid that the hotel passed for coffee was small and unmemorable and annoying. The time it took for Bruce to snatch his arm in the hallway, kiss him deep, and wish him luck in a whispered voice coupled with adoration and determination in his eyes was only a handful of a seconds, and yet John felt like he was holding onto them and stretching them into something of an hour as he licked his lips, watching Bruce’s back disappear around the elevator doors with his own call of good luck still echoing in his mouth.

Jackie’s room was right across the hall from his. One heck of a coincidence, in John’s mind, after he ruled out the ridiculous idea of Mickey somehow being in on the whole thing. It was mere luck, and something even Jackie was surprised at when she walked him there last night.

He knocked, deciding on a fun pattern of ‘da, dada-da-da, da-da’, and heard shuffling. Then a pause, and he had the feeling he was being watched.

“Are you alone out there?”

“Aren’t we all?” John joked, rocking on his heels.

Jackie appeared in an instant, familiar dark circles under her brown eyes and her little spackle of freckles in full view. Her eyebrows were lighter than yesterday, her eyelashes weren’t as long, and she didn’t seem to care that she was only wearing men’s boxers and an oversized shirt with an oozing orange skull front-and-center. She looked at his neck, and then his arms, where Bruce’s hands had pressed sweet reality into John the night before. “Where did you get those?”

“It’s not important,” he waved off, not wanting to spill any details of last night, “You’ve got makeup, right? Think I could borrow some of your clown-whitest? I, uh, don’t want to be seen like this.” It was a complete lie, and she might know it – John wanted nothing more than to show off the yellow-purple mark left from Bruce’s hand. “Not by my therapists, anyway,” he added.

Jackie stepped aside. “I should have something. Come on in.”

Jackie’s room was identical to the one he slept in, sans the broken lamp and teeming with the contents of her luggage. She clearly didn’t care about her shoes, as they were thrown in the corner, but her dress was hanging in the open closet next to a neatly-kept tuxedo in a thin plastic sheet. He recognized the stuffed black cat lying sideways on the sheets, being the same one that had sat on her desk in her old apartment. Both pillows were dented and the bed was unmade.

“Sooo,” John stretched, noticing the desk-vanity had a variety of dirty makeup brushes left on it, “Your boyfriend around?”

“He had work this morning; some indie film, he’s been doing it most of the week. Take a seat – do you want coffee?”

John wrinkled his nose. “I’ve had enough hotel garbage water, thanks.”

“I brought my own grounds,” Jackie added, swinging a half-empty bag of hazelnut roast she’d picked up from the corner of the dresser. “And I’ve got good creamer.”

“Is it pumpkin spice flavored?”

“Caramel,” she answered, already heading to the bathroom. John leaned just enough to see and make sure she was doing what she said she was. Coffee was being put in the strainer and sure enough, there were little cartons of caramel creamer on the countertop, along with various sugar packets and jams he was sure she swiped from restaurant tables. “I’ve also got mini-muffins.”

Actual sugar? Owls, schmowls, he wasn’t going to pass up free breakfast along the way. “In that case, Jackie, have I told you you’re an absolute angel?”

“No, but please, feel free to tell me I’m a multi-eyed messenger of God whose physical form is incomprehensible to men,” she answered with a definite note of humor, “It sounds much better than ‘sweetie-pie’ or ‘doll-face’. Though… It is nice just hearing my own name again.”

John wondered how that felt. He’d been called ‘John Doe’ for so long he couldn’t imagine responding to any he might have had before. But he shook the thought away, a new question forming in his head as he scooted towards the makeshift makeup table. The little box on the corner looked like it was chock-full of goodies. “Your boyfriend doesn’t call you Jackie?” He asked, checking the labels - almost all of them had Janus stamped on them in elegant print. Powders and liquids and creams, oh my. It was probably worth taking a quick snap of anything that might help, so he pulled out his phone to whip open the camera app - snap!

“He doesn’t know me as Jackie,” she answered, something too flat about her tone of voice to be what John knew as dismissal, “I’m only Jaqueline to him. And the rest of the world.”

That must’ve been a weird adjustment… What did people say to things like this? He couldn’t just blurt out wow just how little do you trust the guy you like. He supposed joking about all the world being a stage would help, maybe with a French accent, but… Something didn’t feel right. If it were Bruce… “Um… I’m sorry to hear that,” he tried, “Even if you did sort of do it to yourself.”

“...do you think Batman would say that, too?” She sounded slightly...what, mournful? Maybe?

Well, why lie? Why not say what he thought and knew in his heart of hearts? “Probably. If he thought you were bad enough, anyway,” he chose, taking a peek into the trashcan nearby - a hand-sized piece of rubber or thin beige plastic was ripped and thrown in there along with some makeup wipes. Hmm. Picture-worthy, for sure. “You did try to kill a guy - and even if he does deserve to rot, pinning the blame on someone else falls a little high on the bad scale. But he did let you go, so it’s not like he’d think you’re complete scum or something.”

It was quiet, and John, despite knowing he could easily take Jackie down by herself, wondered if he’d said too much. The bathroom alcove was still.

“I’m glad you can say stuff like that,” Jackie answered solemnly, making John slowly move for the butterfly knife in his pocket and waiting for the ‘because it’s the last thing you’ll ever say’. “No one else is that honest.”

John hovered his hand over the knife handle. 

“It’s weird how you’re one of the few people who’ve seen the real me,” she continued, not sounding like she was going to come out with a gun in her hand, “Everyone else treats me like some tragic heroine - I just tell people I used to live here and they pretend to be sympathetic.”

She seemed to be spilling out grievances rather than vengeance. John took the opportunity to peek into the dresser drawer. It was like three different men crammed their best outfits in one drawer, minus the shoes. Not exactly the artsy or fashionably-trendy wardrobe he expected from a handsome actor.

He should probably say something to continue the conversation as he poked around, though, to avert any suspicion. Time to see if she could crack. “What, do they think Gotham’s some crime-infested city where bat-people roam the streets and not having mace is practically illegal?”

There came the distinct noise of a choked laugh, and John knew he’d won a point or two in his favor. He pushed some of the material aside, but nothing was hidden in-between them but a few crumpled receipts that had definitely been shoved aside for later. (Bad Italian place, 13th Street gondola, All Stitched Up, good Italian place... Wow, The Two Gilded Cups was pricey - 223 bucks for two people?! And that was discounted, yeesh! Snap, snap, snap - he captured the whole drawer.)

“You know a lot of people thought it was really weird that I carried brass knuckles around?” Jackie asked bemusedly.

“So do I, a knife is way easier to hide on yourself, Jackie.” The second drawer had some of her trademark blend of dark and fall colors - even in underwear - as well as a lumpy plastic bag of used things he was not going to touch. It didn’t feel the same as when he poked through Bruce’s closet. It didn’t have that rush of being somewhere he shouldn’t… Maybe because he was nervous. Bruce wasn’t liable to whip out a Taser or whatever else Jackie might have on hand because he was snooping through delicate places; Bruce would just bottle it up a bit and pout.

“Heh… No, it was more that I was carrying around anything. I think only some of the girls I worked with carried mace. And I was always like, ‘what, you only carry mace? I’ve got three things on me at all times!’”

He could hear actual humor in her tone. See, she’s not going to run out with something in her hand. She’s fine. Just keep it up. “Ooh, what’s number three?” he teased, pushing aside some t-shirts. (She seemed to have dumped her professional-psychologist wardrobe in favor of comfier clothing. At least for her stay here…)

“A derringer.”

John stared at the tiny gun in its tiny Kevlar holster, hidden between a pumpkin-orange shirt and a thin yellow-plaid hoodie. How did these things keep lining up in perfect time for him?

“Oh, don’t worry, I don’t have it on me right now,” she waved off, “It’s tucked away. I won’t… I mean, you’re not - I don’t have any reason to use it.”

“I hope not,” he muttered to himself, carefully placing the fabric back around it closing the drawer quietly. There was a little buzz from the coffee maker, and John hurried to make himself look like he’d been sitting at the desk the whole time. He was glad she wasn’t there to see him wince and wiggle on the seat as aches from last night’s spanking-session sent a wonderful flare to his brain; that would’ve been very awkward to explain away. He distracted himself by poking around a bit more.

The makeup case was interesting. A lot of neutrals were used recently. And often, apparently, if their large portions of missing product were any indication. There were also little hard scraps of paper and a damp washcloth thrown on it. He took one last picture and shoved his phone in his pocket.

The foundation, brow, crease, and blush brushes had been used. John could see the clumps of powder and wet paste. He couldn’t resist the urge to touch the foundation one - smooth goop smeared on his fingers. Decent quality. “Must be a cheap set if your boyfriend has to apply his own makeup before he leaves, huh?”

“That’s the indie-film life,” Jackie shrugged, setting the foam cups and a plastic case of miniature blueberry muffins on the table, “Guy’s got to supply the costume, too. But he wears makeup everyday anyway, so I don’t think it’s that big a deal. Let me get my case, I should have Cadaver Paint  to blend with some pale skin tones.”

Everyday really explained the missing chunks of neutral colors in the tubes. But something bugged him. A lot. “What kind of film is it?” he asked, popping a muffin in his mouth and peeking at a sealed Janus-brand tub of something called Moddy; it looked like a face mask clay. 

“Some action thing. He always says he’s too good to play a small part, but he tends to take them if it’s something he hasn’t done before.”

The Moddy tub was almost empty. John spied another underneath its spot in the case. He pinched a bit of the stuff between his fingers from the open tub - it was almost like Play-Doh, only it made a funny tingling sensation on his skin, like he was dipping his finger in something warm and heavily carbonated. “What is this stuff?” he asked, wiping it off on the wet washcloth.

Jackie brought over a little plastic cutting board that had been stained with almost a rainbow of colors in one hand and tubes of cream makeup and a tiny spatula in the other. “Modification putty. It’s like sculpting clay for your face - you can use it to fill in gaps, add pieces to faces to make them bigger; pretty much anything. It’s good for temporary stuff if you don’t have the money to buy prosthetics. Or hate spirit gum,” she explained, squeezing white face paint onto the board and putting in tiny dabs of pink to blend. He could see Cadaver Paint in old-timey cursive on the white tube – definitely not a Janus brand. “I’m gonna test some spots on you first. You’re gonna be a fun challenge,” she added with a tiny smile. “Hold out your hand.”

John let her test colors, his mind churning like an ice-cream machine. Janus makeup wasn’t cheap. Matt-the-actor did his own makeup. Three different men practically sat in the dresser drawer. The thing in the trash had to have been a bald cap. Moddy could easily be used to cover and expand areas. It wasn’t a stretch to think Matt Chaney was the mysterious man-of-two-criminal-faces. In fact, it was a completely logical conclusion to come to, given everything in the room…

“Matt seems to go through a tub of that stuff every month,” Jackie commented, sponging a second test on his hand as he half-listened. “He has some serious facial scarring from a bad car accident in college. But you didn’t hear it from me,” she said with a sly smile at him. “I only found out because I caught him reapplying it in the dressing room when I was playing Antigone on a shoestring budget.”

John could practically feel his thoughts halt in their tracks as a pun bubbled in front of them. “Ha ha ha ha ha! Oh, you must’ve been a shoe-in for that role!”

Her mood had improved drastically, pride and joy lighting up her face. “Well, I did pop some of a prospects’ tires just in case, but yeah, I was. It wasn’t a good production, though. We did a fun 1930’s version of Romeo and Juliet that was way better; that one lasted a full month. You would’ve liked it, actually, it had gangsters versus cops instead of royal families.”

“So they didn’t take the two houses alike in dignity line seriously, then?” he grinned, seeing the punchline land successfully with her open laugh. “Romeo, Romeo - come out wit’ your hands up, Romeo,” he mocked, earning a sturdier giggle. 

“What’s funnier is that was actually a line!”

Compliments, the way to anyone’s confidence, he told himself. “I bet you killed it,” he chose and regretted the second they left his mouth. But there was no fear, no pause, no shift of any kind to indicate she was thinking about her near-brush with being a murderer. Just a normal, non-malicious smile. The nice, honest sort he’d seen on Bruce, like it was a reflex they couldn’t help.

“I did. I even got reviews to prove it – my performance ‘turned a predictable script into a rollercoaster of dark comedy’.  Didn’t have to pop anyone’s tires to get the lead, either.” She tilted his hand in the light, inspecting her work. “I think this matches, don’t you?”

It was hard to believe she was involved. He didn’t want to force her into a corner when she could be a bystander; it was better to build her up. “It’s like you skinned me and put me in a tube,” he praised, watching her nose scrunch in mock-disgust even as her smile stayed put. 

“So… Did Bruce end up calling you or something?” she asked, sponging some of the foundation on his neck. John could see the bruises begin to disappear in the mirror as he popped another muffin in his mouth. “You seem a lot better than how I left you.”

He was so tempted to be honest. Mostly. He’d kept all the relationship stuff secret for so long. But it would be dumb to say anything when she could, potentially, pass information along. “Something like that,” he answered vaguely.

“Booooo. Come on, John, it’s just me; what am I gonna do, post it on Friendbook? Vlog about it? Run to the Moonrise? I’m practically the only person you can tell.”

Cheerful bonding followed by an I’m-the-only-one-you-can-trust speech? He wasn’t going to fall for that Harley-league talk. No siree, Bob - not this time. Two could play that game of manipulation. “Hmm, I suppose we do look like virtual strangers to each other,” he started smoothly, “Jaqueline Latern doesn’t know anybody real in Gotham… And Jackie Lant doesn’t have any friends left to tell...” That clearly struck a soft spot. “The only ones who know who and where we are are each other… Well, and I guess Matt has half an idea.”

“He doesn’t know you’re here,” she answered, dabbing slower with the less-pleased look of honesty, “He stayed behind to schmooze with some director. I didn’t think he’d take me driving another guy back here very well.”

“Ha! Don’t tell me he’d be jealous of someone like me.”

“Why not?” she put the paint aside and started to mix flakes of white foundation-powder with a pale neutral on a clean section of the plastic. “I lied to him about how I knew a good-looking guy - he’s already fragile with me knowing what he actually looks like. Not that he should be; I like him, you know?” She returned to powdering over the makeshift-foundation with a fluffy brush.

“Just ‘like’, huh?” he teased.

“It’s…more than ‘like’, I think. But I’m not sure how to put it.” Her brown eyes turned soft and contemplative. “It’s inspiring to see him on stage. He has this...presence, and it’s so immersive, it’s real. Some days I’m not sure if I want to just watch him and…I dunno, absorb it all, or if I want to be with him.”

That wasn’t good: John could feel a connecting sort of something in him. Like before, in her apartment, watching her pour her feelings out on camera. He was dangerously close to feeling sympathy for someone who might not be deserving of it. And this time it wasn’t as ironically funny.

“I mean, he’s also full of himself,” she added with a little tilt to her lip, “but he’s still thoughtful. Doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t seem to judge… Well, much.”

He didn’t know what he wanted to do. She hadn’t been a good would-be-doctor, but she might be trying to butter him up by pretending to feel the exact same way he did about Bruce. She might have heard him in those rare moments he talked about him, she might’ve remembered things, she might be throwing him off by making him sympathize with her and thus throw the whole idea of her being involved with Owls away. She might’ve planned this whole damn thing, there was no such thing as coincidence anymore and look where he was, right on the x on the antagonist's set with their guilty evidence in plain view like he couldn’t connect dots together and see the gun in her hand...

But the deepest part of him - the one that said Bruce loved him, that said he should take his meds, that told him he was here when sensory input was in focus - said she was being honest. He almost hated that.

She was putting the makeshift foundation on his wrist, seeming to think about who-knew-what. He snatched her hand, not caring if he got messy, the urge to squeeze hard sitting in his fingertips.

The proverbial cogs turned behind her darting eyes as fight or flight lit up her brain; John’s window to ask the questions that had been on the table since he walked in was shrinking.

“Sorry,” he said, half-meaning it as he let go, “It’s just…” People appreciated kindness, and honesty was usually a part of it - he had to lead with something he was sure she already knew and make it seem like a big deal, and let her talk. “Uncanny - how we feel about our prospective muses. They feel like they’re something otherworldly, but just seeing them makes you feel so real, doesn’t it?” 

Jackie’s primitive urges died as understanding kinship seemed to take over.

“Of course, you’ve probably spent more time here alone with yours than I ever have,” he trailed with a shrug and a pout. “Though if I add every hour I’ve spent with Bruce up…” He pretended to count on his fingers. “Do you guys get a full eight hours’ sleep together, or…?”

“John,” she snorted into a smile, “even if he didn’t have a film to shoot, he still scouts jobs and visits his agent. I’m not around for all that. Trust me, you and Bruce have way more time together under your belt than the…” Jackie whipped out her phone and tapped around. “One-hundred and forty-four we’d potentially spend.”

One-hundred and forty-four divided by twenty-four… “You’ve been here six days already?”

“Mm-hmm.” Jackie sipped her coffee. “Matt started shooting on Monday night. I was pretty pissed about that - thank God for those corner gondolas.”

He left her here? That sounded like something Harley would’ve done. “Doesn’t he know how much you hate Gotham?”

Jackie scowled slightly into her cup and took another sip. “He knows I have issues here.” She picked up the powder brush and dabbed it over John’s arm, covering the last of the foundation. It was like John had never been bruised at all. It made the small pink cuts on his arm from where he’s torn the bandage off last night stand out a lot, but he didn’t mind walking around with those. “I mean, what am I supposed to do, tell him how I’m permanently mourning a lifetime of dead friends and my own name? Or how I almost killed a guy just to get out of the debt I sank myself in for a career I didn’t want? People already get weird around me when I get all moody,” she grunted, “He shouldn’t have to deal with all that.”

Aha ha ha hee hee! Now their kinship was ironically funny! “J-Jackie, you - you really do make a terrible psychologist,” he managed, his ribs aching with the rapid movement, “Mine have all been telling me to be open about these things with people, and until recently, I just ignored them! I mean, what do they know? Rejection for us in our cases means spiraling into another nasty bout of bad symptoms.”

He could tell she understood. He could see the dark sense of understanding there. They might have very different illnesses, but they were both a product of Gotham, with him born on the wrong side of its blanket and her forcibly rolled over to it. It was something she and Bruce shared - he couldn’t help but see it, and he felt the urge to both poke it and push it away to see what she’d do.

“But you know, it turns out they’re kind of right,” he continued, deciding to soften her up a little more with the truth, “I’d been hiding my symptoms from Bruce because I didn’t trust him not to be disappointed in me, and it only hurt us. Turns out telling him just opened both of us right up,” he emphasized with a spread of his hands. “I get not telling Matt about the whole attempted-murder thing, but to me, it feels like you don’t trust Matt enough with your feelings, and you excuse it by putting his before yours.”

She definitely seemed softened, if surprise counted as such. “I hate it when you do this,” she said, frowning into her cup and taking a not-very-angry sip. “Though I guess it’s easier to work through others’ problems than your own, huh?” she jabbed, taking a seat on the edge of the large bed.

“Now you’re just deflecting,” he teased, crossing his legs and taking a long sip from his own cup.

“Maybe,” she grunted, “It’s just… Matt and I have known each other a few months, but I’ve spent six days back in this shithole city, and it’s like I hardly see him. Monday was ‘surprise, honey, I have a shoot tonight’; Tuesday was ‘oh I have to shoot until after dark, my bad’! Just constant ins and outs and ‘my agent’s calling me,’ or ‘they need me back on set’ bullshit. I don’t even have the opportunity to open up to him.” She took a long sip as John nodded along. 

“Matt’s the reason you’re in town, though, right? Since I saw you Saturday, there must’ve been some good days,” he said as innocently as he could, mentally ticking off the box for Muddy Nye’s and Ian Coggs’ doppelgangers.

“Saturday was supposed to be good,” she grumbled, “That went fucking bust. The best day was...probably Wednesday. We spent most of the day together… I got to see him eat a Peralta’s cruller first-hand,” she answered with a wistful little smile. “He makes a cute mmm-face... And he had this great idea - dress up as the producers he’d met on set, go to a fancy-ass restaurant, and reap in their frequenter-discount while they were stuck shooting a night scene. That was worth it.”

The Two Gilded Cups. Hmm, hmm, hmm. “Well, now I’m curious! How’d you look?”

“You tell me,” she smirked, handing him her phone.

Sonja Townsend, in an ironed pant-suit that Jackie definitely did not and would not have in her wardrobe, beamed at him from the selfie-style picture. Vindication burst in his head like a bottle of champagne - his prime suspect for The Wednesday Nighters’ murders was at dinner that night (according to Tiffany), and if Jackie was the one at the dinner, then it only reasoned the real Sonja was at The Lot.

“Pretty good, huh? I worked off a picture he took; no one suspected a thing,” she chirped, “We had to drop the costumes off at his costar’s place afterwards, but it was fun. We got prime seats, a special discount - even got a free bottle of wine out of it.”

But she had no idea. She had no inkling of what had happened this week. His joy at finally being completely right at something was quickly souring. Jackie was an innocent pawn. Disgust was twisting in his throat and palatable on his tongue. He couldn’t find it in himself to walk away and leave her there while he tracked her lying pig of a boyfriend down and gave him some scars he wouldn’t be able to hide… After all, it was much more cathartic for her to get some hits in.

“Uh, are you okay?”

Of course he wasn’t. He felt angry, and guilty, and really annoyed at how he couldn’t be happy about being right. “You really don’t know who this is, do you?” (He never could understand how Bruce kept so much anger out of his voice. How did he not feel it bubbling under his skin and radiating from his tongue?)

“A Mrs. Sonja Townsend - she and her husband are small-time producers.” She stared him down, searching and annoyingly stony. “Why?”

“She works for Wayne Enterprises.” John forwarded the picture to his phone and tossed hers next to her lap, scrolling through his own gallery. Eenie, meenie, miney, moe -  the very-much-alive picture of Muddy Nye pulled from the BatComputer was the lucky first choice in the presentation he was about to throw her. “Have you seen this guy before?”

She glanced at it, recognition flashing in her eyes. “Where did you get that?”

“So that’s a definite yes. I’m guessing you don’t know who he really is, either? This,” he emphasized with a grand gesture of his hand at the picture, “is Muddy Nye, a once-budding member of the False Face Society turned-traitor and presumably-lone-survivor of the East Dock murders on Monday night. He was found chucked in a dumpster on Wednesday.”

He didn’t mind how she pulled the phone towards her to look. She was staring down at it, seeming to take in every detail, with a look John could practically feel. It was almost as if he was seeing her in his place, standing on the railings above vats of steaming chemical soups.

Treat people the way you want to be treated, he remembered. But you didn’t get a co-conspirator - innocent or not - to talk by being gentle, and he needed her to see the same reality that he could feel in the chair, in his pulse, and in the aches of his breath. “You said yourself that Matt’s shoot started-”

“This is a coincidence,” she said, staring back at him with clear denial as she tossed the phone back, “Matt always uses real-life references. What does this have to do with that woman I played?”

He fought back the urge to snap at her to just listen by squeezing his hands and remembering that her excuses were natural in the given circumstances. It was a very Bruce thing to say, really. “You haven’t read the news lately, have you?”

She sucked her teeth with a light sneer. “I stopped reading Gotham news a month after I left.”

Of course she had. Matt probably knew that. Or maybe he didn’t, and he didn’t care. “Well, that woman you played killed seven people in a casino on Wednesday night. Her only alibi is that she was at dinner with her husband.”

The surprise on her face shifted, and if looks could wound, he was sure he’d have a hole in his arm right now. “And you think we had something to do with it?” 

No, I think your boyfriend did, he thought. Any hostility would result in a bad time. He had to be careful. “If I did, Jackie, I wouldn’t be talking to you - you’d have a knife lodged in your shoulder to match ol’ Scarecrow’s scar.” She sank a little. Funny how that seemed to be an okay thing with her. “I just need to be sure. When Matt left today, what did he look like?”

“Why?”

“Because someone visited All Stitched Up Alterations, threatened my very nice boss into filling a vest with plastic explosives, and handed it off to Black Mask to try and kill the only good Wayne at his own party - and I’m positive that someone isn’t who they say they are.”

Jackie was still for a moment, staring him down like she used to do at her notepad in the sessions she was ghosting on. Back then, she seemed to be a mile away or more, likely trying to plot her escape to try and distract herself from the way Arkham’s walls practically bled with the compounded toxicity of Gotham. The Jackie right now didn’t seem so different, only that she was doing it in her makeshift pajamas.

She stood, handing him her foam cup with a “hold this” in an oddly steady voice, and John watched as she dug around in what must’ve been Matt’s luggage, sorting through boring men’s shoes, short black umbrellas, and a curling iron to retrieve a rather expensive-looking digital camera. He heard a lot of beeps as she cycled through the pictures. “He doesn’t upload everything,” Jackie managed to say, only slightly shaky on the last word, “but he’s always proud of his work.” 

In other words, he was narcissistic enough to leave some evidence behind. John hoped he didn’t like to throw away perfectly reusable costumes, too.

Jackie just stood there, gripping the camera too hard, looking caught between the budding reality that the person she admired the most was as rotten as the residents of Gotham Cemetery and the mind’s emergency exit.

“How about we trade?” he offered, wiggling his phone at her. “So we know for sure what the other saw.”

She blinked. “Alright.” There were a few beeps from the camera, and in turn he pulled up the picture of Ian Coggs. “Just don’t cycle back too far.”

“Ha! Ditto. On three,” he said, holding his phone sideways as she extended the bulky end of the camera at arm’s length, “One…” She didn’t look ready, but then again, who would be? “Two...” There was no time to think about what he would do if she went off the deep end. “Three!”

His phone was snatched out of his hand as he yanked the camera from hers.

Sure enough, there was Ian ‘Nito’ Coggs, tilting his head and trying to scowl in much better lighting than the hotel room actually had, in the same jacket and jeans that John had seen on Wednesday, piercings and tattoos in full view. He’d taken multiple shots, showing off the makeshift tattoos on his hands and neck (the sock and buskin masks still peeking out over the top of his shirt), doing multiple expressions and close-ups, and going back further were similar pictures of Muddy Nye in what looked like a studio apartment.

He’d hit the jackpot, but the same ugly disturbance sat in his mouth even as sparklers lit up in his brain.

He looked up at Jackie, half mad at her for ruining what should’ve been a good moment of catharsis by making him feel sympathy, and wondered if that was how he looked back at Ace Chemicals when the gray-hued truth had smashed the black and white lines his mind had drawn in the shape of a bat. 

At last, it was like he could see the yolk for a second time, but it was in danger of bursting and slipping out of the shell and into the bubbling vats. She looked like she might somehow break the phone in her hand like a peanut.

So John did what he thought was best - he gently put the camera down, stood in front of her, and carefully put his hands on her shoulders to bring her back to Earth and away from the chemical fumes.

Jackie looked up at him, a step away from the big red exit sign with its tempting whisper of antagonistic nihilism, and pulled him into a crushing hug.

He didn’t know what to do. He was standing on the floor of the mediocre hotel room, letting her fingers dig painfully into his ribs as she squeezed him, hearing her scream into his shirt. And then choke into a sob and wail-scream like Cannibal Carl when he was desperate for his sense of taste to return at one in the morning.

Despite how this was really real and definitely happening what with all the different sensations he was experiencing, he had even less of an idea of what he should be doing. Still, life was short and fairly pointless and not knowing something hadn’t stopped him from experimenting before, so he reached around to return the impromptu hug and gave a pat for good measure. “It’s okay,” he tried, remembering how comfortable and reassuring Bruce’s hugs were, “Iiit’s okay.” He kept still, feeling a little less awkward as her grip loosened a little amongst another scream. “Cry it out, pumpkin-head, Joker’s right here.” There was a lower wail in response. “Do you want me to scream with you, so you don’t feel left out?”

Her sob choked into a laugh, shoulders shaking like there was no difference at all, and her grip on him loosened substantially. The laugh still came in little bursts as she pulled away, tears still streaking down her reddened face. “No - no, you don’t have to.”

“But I could if I wanted? Because it is really fun, especially when everyone’s asleep...”

She gave another few ha’s and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. “It’s past noon.”

“So? We both know place doesn’t have a lot of early-risers.”

She sank back onto the bed with another amused ha-hmm. “When did you take that picture?” she sniffed as John picked the fallen phone off the bleached carpet.

“Wednesday morning, at the alterations place up the road.”

She was getting that bent-over-her-notepad look. “He walked me over there on Monday to drop off my dress.”

Scouting the premises, most likely.

“He chose this place, too,” she commented, wiping her face with downcast sort of sneer, “Said it was convenient.”

“It kinda is,” John noted aloud, taking his seat back in the desk-chair and scooting it closer to her, “Muddy Nye was found in the alley behind All Stitched Up’s fence. Closer to the docks.” He waited a beat as he let it sink in. He knew she didn’t like too much sympathy – it was best to get her mind jogging. “What did Matt do with his outfit on Monday night?”

“I never saw that one,” she shrugged, “only the test shots he’d taken. He said was getting changed on set that day.”

John pulled up his map application and zoomed in on 13th Street until he found the Lucky Hotel. “Do you remember where you went on Wednesday night, to drop the ‘costumes’ off?” he asked, doing his best to think like Bruce.

“Yeah,” she muttered, scrolling right and down and left, and swiping with an occasional pause – he noticed she had scrolled all the way to the Two Gilded Cups, and now was taking turns down streets like she was trying to remember the driving route. Apparently, they took some detours. “Here,” she said, pointing to the corner with the fishmonger and Muddy’s makeshift coffin of rotting fish, “We changed clothes in the car. His costar offered to let him drop them off.” Her face twisted into a teary scowl. “I’m so fucking stupid. I should’ve known something was off when I didn’t see any lights on upstairs. But nooo, I trusted him…”

John remembered the empty rooms above the fish place. That had been Tuesday, but what if… “What’d you guys put the clothes in?”

“A duffle bag. I thought it was something he’d borrowed from the set.”

“Ooh, that’s devious,” he chuckled to himself, “These guys have got balls, I’ll give ‘em that.” She looked confused. “See, Muddy was found here,” he accentuated with a point at the alleyway, “There’s spaces above the fish place. I bet they had that bag waiting in one of those rooms. Wednesday, Matt goes to pick it up, brings it here, you guys play dress up - and once it’s over, he throws it back right where he found it, and someone probably came to pick it up the next day. Probably Sonja herself; she or some P.A. she’s got on a leash came around before I got to work on Tuesday – looong story there - and as far as I know came back after Wednesday.”

“Uh…what?”

“Look, I said it’s a long story. The short, short version is someone close to Sonja dropped off an item at work and it was still there when I left Wednesday.” He sat back on his hands, tapping his feet to help him think. It might be safe for her to check out that place. She wouldn’t be as obvious, and she could probably think up a good excuse to go in the first place. Hmm…

“Well… At least everything else suddenly makes stupid sense,” Jackie muttered, “Earlier, I kept thinking ‘He wouldn’t have brought me with him if he knew Black Mask would crash, right?’ But why else didn’t he want me seeing him on set? Why didn’t he want me meeting anyone he worked with? Why was it sheer luck that he pulled me out of the party to go bone in the bathroom minutes before it all went to hell?”

“So that’s where you went!” John exclaimed, “I thought I didn’t see you during the raid! I thought you just hid under a table or something…”

Jackie seemed surprised at that. “Wait, you went back – did you and Batman team up?” she asked, leaning in with an almost awed sort of look, “Everyone was saying he crashed! How? Did he follow those masked guys there? Did he follow you there?”

It had certainly changed her mood, but he wasn’t about to suggest that… Well, actually, maybe. Hah - why not?! “He came there to see me,” he boasted, “Bruce took me out of my home-away-from-home after the little attempted-murder-by-sniper incident the other day, and Bats was hounding me for clues.”

“You were shot at?!”

“Oh, yeah, that’s another story. Stuff just keeps piling up, really,” John added, tapping his feet together, “Though that does bring up something - you remember the Court of Owls, right?”

“Uh… Yeah, Dr. Crane was interested in them.” She squinted at him, seeming to put the pieces together. “You’re not saying they’re behind the attack on you?”

“Bingo. The mass murders of Black Mask’s crew on the boat and the docks, Muddy Nye and Hubbard Jr.’s murders, the casino slaughter of The Wednesday Nighters – all of it was orchestrated by them, using Black Mask’s inside info. Which is where Matt came in. Oh, and me and Catwoman got targeted, too, but…here I am!”

She seemed… Well, the best thing he could think of was the sort of bewilderment that might come with finding out aliens were real, but also ate planets whole. “O-kay… That’s a lot.”

“Ha ha! Yeah, it’s been one hell of a ride!” he chuckled to himself.

Jackie breathed deep. The tears had long stopped trying to flow, but the tracks could still be seen on her flushed face. “Okay… Ignoring my constant internal screams and urges to bite anything in range, you and Batman are working together on this, right?” She looked at him with a sort of wild, determined hope that made him think she was going to start muttering to herself that everything would be okay.

“Um, yeah?”

“Thank fuck. I know this is all evidence, but you have no idea – that is the only thing stopping me from destroying everything in here right now.”

“Ha ha ha hee he! I have plenty of ideas, actually - you’re feeling like everything you knew is breaking apart, right? It’s like -” he made a fist and slammed it into his open palm - “BAM! There goes your hopes and dreams!” He kicked the air in front of him. “SMASH! Your trust in anything is gone! WHAM!” - he flung himself backward in the chair, exaggerating falling - “Nothing matters anymore! Aha ha ha ha ha haa! It hurts reeeeal bad!” he added, sitting back upright and giving her a light smack on the shoulder, “Trust me, Jackie, I’m literally the only person in Gotham who knows exactly what this feels like.” Did that sound like too much? He wanted her help, but getting it was going to take more than repeating things… Though it was also the truth. “It’s gonna hurt like hell for a while, but I know you’ll pull through!”

She looked at his thumbs up and offered a little chuff noise and tiny smile in return. “I don’t know how you’re so optimistic about it. Then again, I don’t have a Batman here to beat some sense into me,” she joked. It faded after a moment. “Thank you for telling me all this, John. And...being here. I don’t think I’d be able to restrain myself if I discovered any of this on my own.”

“Hey, what are friends for?” John nudged, the Speaking of which on the tip of his tongue dying as she scrunched her brow in the confused manner that couldn’t be good…

“We’re friends?”

At least it wasn’t derisive sounding. Or sarcastic. Or anything that made it a clear rejection, actually, but it was best to cover himself... “Well, yeah, we both went through the whole Scarecrow fiasco together – sorta – and you helped me out last night without asking for anything in return. And now that you know what it feels like to have your muse break your perception of reality, I’d say we have a proper enemies-to-friends buildup here,” he finished with a general wave to the empathy-fueled-vibes between them.

“I’d say ‘knowing my track record, this won’t end well’… But you are weirdly lucky. And annoyingly right about some things.” She pursed her lips and blew air up at a stray lock of her very curly hair, slapped her knees, and stood as tall as her legs would let her. “Okay. Let me help you guys. I know Matt, I can find any evidence you might need and tell you anything you need to know – passwords, phone numbers, whatever. He’s too proud to just throw his tools away; I’d bet anything he stashed his costume someplace, probably with his other one for the dead guy. I can find them and either put them here or in my car, whichever’s safer.”

Yahtzee!  “And you promise you won’t run off with any of it?”

“Because as much as I’d love to burn everything he ever had to the ground right now,” she scowled, poison practically dripping from her mouth, “I’ve been through enough breakups and psych classes to know that won’t fix anything. The only way I’ll get any kind of catharsis is to see him break – and I guarantee he’ll do that before a judge.” She picked her phone up and tapped around. “Besides, we’re friends, I’ve got nothing to lose, and if I can help out some of the only people worth a shit in this hellhole, I’ll do it. Here, add your number.”

John dolefully typed in his personal number, adding the little joker-card emoticon on either side of his name, and sent himself a text. “Think you can copy what’s on that camera for me?”

“Sure.” She took her phone back. “I’ll send you his MuSec and InstaPic logins, too,” she added as John’s phone gave another short buzz. “Might be worth a look.”

The text was from Iman:  I’m out front.

“Looks like I’ve got the red light, kiddo.” John dusted himself off a bit, failing to brush off the empathy that seemed to stick there. He guessed he had to learn to live with this, too, like he didn’t have enough guilt and woe and bouts of sympathy to deal with. “I’ll give Matt a little stab in the kidney for you if I see him,” he joked, taking the edge off himself.

“Your prince is waiting to take you away in his chariot, huh?” Jackie picked up her coffee cup, drained the last of it, and crushed it in her fist, not seeming to care about the drops on the carpet or her hand. “That’s okay. I’ll text you if I feel like I’m going to high-dive off a building or something.”

John snorted into a laugh. “Aw, Jackie, we both -” John emphasized with a light boop to her nose - “know you’re more a danger to others right now. You should really just call me if you feel like you’re going to go off the deep end, anyway, a real voice helps more. And that includes if you get gun-happy.”

Jackie had gotten a little pink in the face, but she looked better, even mumbling a sincere ‘okay’ as she followed him to the door.

“Text me anything you find and I’ll make sure you get a few brownie points from Bats, too.”

“If these come in the form of an autographed photo, I’ll take ‘em,” Jackie seemed to joke, “Oh, and you can do me a favor, since I keep helping you out - tell Bruce to stop and say ‘hi’ before he leaves next time.” He must’ve had the ‘but how did you know?!’ written on his back, or else he froze in the doorway a second too long, because she snorted before he even turned to look over his shoulder. “You make it too obvious. Besides, I know a hickey when I see one, Joke-man,” she elaborated with a smirk. “Stay safe out there.”

With a little wave his way, John was again alone in the hotel hall at a loss for meaningful words, feeling like he was in some weird space where time didn’t mean anything. “Uh, thanks,” he said to the door, unsure if it was the right thing to say.

He breathed in, focusing on the plot of his feet on the out-of-date carpet and the smell of diluted off-brand cleaning solution that seemed to stick everywhere. It might have felt like a strange place, but this was a strange week and he was able to cross multiple goals off his list barely an hour after waking up. He was so damn right about so many things! And he had evidence to prove it! He could take this all back to the rest of them and shove it under their noses and go HA! 

“That went well!” he affirmed to himself as he strut into the same elevator Bruce had taken down, “Bruce’ll be so proud!”

                                                      † † † † †

True to her word, Iman had been parked and waiting right outside the hotel in a very sleek silver sedan, the tinted window rolled down so John could see her face. Upon closer inspection, the car had no identifying hood ornament. Or really, anything extraneous at all.

People had always joked about how you could always tell an Agent by their shoes, but surely an unmarked car was another dead giveaway.

“Gooood morning, Iman,” John greeted, sliding into the passenger seat, “You ready to do a B-’n’-E?”

“I like to think of it as more of a surprise covert inspection.”

That would explain the dark jumpsuit and the messy bun she’d put her hair in. “What’s the ‘G’ for?” he asked, pointing to the patch over the breast pocket.

“Gotham Construction. Bruce thankfully has a closet full of things like this. Though I don’t know why the ‘G’ on some of them are shaped like this

gear… But it was the only one that fit me. Yours is behind the seat. I also picked you up-”

John was already popping open the grease-spotted paper bag next to the matching jumpsuit, the unmistakable smell of grease and fried meat hitting him like a slap in the face. “A pancake burger?!”

“Egg-sausage-muffin. I’m guessing a pancake burger is exactly what it sounds like?”

“Yup! I’m about ninety-percent sure I didn’t dream that food-truck,” John said, biting into the woefully-unsyruped sandwich. At least it had cheese. “T’ey’re ‘mazin’.” Realizing he was being rude, he swallowed to speak. “But this is good, too!”

“I’ll have to find that truck for next time,” Iman smiled as she merged into traffic. “I’m guessing things went well last night?”

“Mm-hmm!” John flashed a thumb’s up her way while he swallowed another bite. “I’m glad you’re not weirded out about it. I take it this is your way of apology for not telling the others? I mean, you did figure it out before last night, right?”

Iman shot him a look he couldn’t decipher. “I’m not apologizing for anything; I just figured you’d be hungry by now. And just because I figured it out on my own months ago doesn’t mean it’s my responsibility to act as Bruce’s psychiatrist and tell him what to do, let alone tell his secrets for him.”

He didn’t want to tell her she should’ve said it anyways for his sake. “I bet you still hint at him,” he said instead, hoping that was true, “You’re good at subtlety.”

“Only when I think he’s going to do something...” she trailed off, seeming to search for the word she wanted.

“Stupid?” John offered, “Asinine? It’s okay, you can say it - for all his smarts, he has his dumb moments.”

“I was going to say ‘detrimental to the cause’,” Iman finished, not looking at him. “I joined the Agency because I wanted to help save lives. But I’ve always admired Batman’s commitment to pursuing justice outside of the legal limits that don’t always work in our favor - it’s why I came to Gotham on the Riddler case.”

He felt like he was back at the visiting table in Arkham, examining her little movements and steady gaze with as much scrutiny as he could allow. She was holding herself up, all pride and seriousness, reminding him very much of Bruce some days. “I…kinda knew that.”

“Batman’s whole purpose is to clean up the parts of the city where regular law enforcement don’t. I’m proud to be a part of that, even if I’m not in the field,” she noted with a twinge of regret, “But Bruce is Batman, and he’s human - consequently more people know about Batman. If I thought someone, or something Bruce has done was going to interfere with Batman’s work in some way, I’d tell him.”

They stopped at a light - she looked back at him, serious but not reprimanding or upset. It did not calm him at all. He could feel stress blooming in his brain at the implication she was making. He couldn’t bring himself to speak, let alone think – he might as well not be in the car or the city at all, but on Dr. Leland’s bench.

“I know you won’t betray Bruce, John,” she said with all the honesty of the top brass of St. Dymphna, “and I know that he trusts you, but I need to know you can work with us on the same level.”

Relief unraveled the knot in his stomach with one simple tug and let the air out of his lungs in a joyous burst. “Ha ha ha ha ha! That’s all? Whelp, good news – I’m way ahead of you!” John whipped out his phone to pull up the gallery, finding a text from Jackie with app links attached:

MuSec has play scenes with lofi and some sos of Bludhaven. :/ So good luck with that. InstaPic has got a million selfies of his usual looks + stage work at least, maybe prototypes.

“I’ve got all the dirt on our two-timing man on the inside.”

Sos??? he typed back.

Shot on shitteos. Grainy vhs filter + dark filter + indie = ~tortured artist~ lol

Login w MasterOfClayFace / #IdW3arThat

“Such as?” Iman asked, clearly waiting for more. John supposed it wasn’t a great start to their team-up to get distracted.

“Name, real face, evidence a-plenty! Guy by the name of Matt Chaney – a real master of makeup with image issues. He crashed the Gala last night with our little pumpkin-headed former-antagonist.” He pulled up InstaPic and logged in, finding rows of Matt’s face in various outfits, makeup tweaked just enough to make him look like whatever character he was playing while maintaining his Hollywood-handsome face. Jackie was next to him here and there, along with other co-stars. “Not that she’s been part of it. Knowingly, anyway.”

“You’ve…lost me.”

“Oh, you never met Jackie, did you… Bruce has her pumpkin mask in the case by Scarecrow’s.”

“Jackie Lant.” Iman scrunched her face thoughtfully. “You don’t think she’s had a hand in with either the Owls or the False Face Society?”

“Nope! Because I was right - Sonja Townsend is our Lot killer. Matt coerced Jackie into dressing up as Sonja, and they made sure Mr.-and-Mrs. Townsend were seen on Wednesday night.”

“And you have proof of that?”

Something about her tone rubbed him the wrong way. The way that started to brew that old familiar feeling in his head that normally lead to…outbursts. “Sonja actually being there is…complicated,” he shrugged, trying and failing not to sneer, “You guys never said you found anything at the scene, so I only have her signature on that alterations receipt. And the relation to the card-carrier. But I know I’m right!” He knew it wasn’t what a lawyer might call concrete, especially since you weren’t supposed to show yourself riled up in court, but that was what brass-knuckle confessions were for. “Here’s Jackie as Wednesday-Sonja,” he emphasized, pushing the picture he’d gotten into her field of view. “And I have the receipt from their little excursion – the time on it puts her squarely there! And I’ve got a gallery of proof that Matt’s Ian Coggs!”

Iman glanced over, seeming to take it in, and returned to driving as usual. “I meant of Matt coercing Jackie. I can stretch my sense of disbelief to include Sonja Townsend masquerading as a younger woman and using her son-in-law’s card to register the room. But it’s hard to believe a young woman who had once planned a murder and eventual cover-up by pretending to be someone just swept up in a psych-experiment-gone-wrong could be coerced into anything. I watched the tape of her shooting Dr. Crane,” she added with an air of one of the Arkham doctors walking him through the concept of ‘consequences for his actions’, “It was cold and calculated; she’s the type to plan far in advance. Neither you nor Bruce had suspected her of tampering with your visiting rights at the time. And if ‘Matt Chaney’ is the one who’s disguising himself as Muddy Nye and Ian Coggs, then there’s no one to say Jackie Lant isn’t doing something similar.”

“I can say it,” John grumbled. Iman didn’t see her try to desperately cover for Matt before scream-crying on him.

“But I only have your word.” The car stopped again. “I want to trust you on this, John, but I can’t trust your interpretation without any proof.”

“You’d trust Bruce’s,” he scoffed quietly, spitefully taking a larger bite.

“You know Bruce would say the same thing,” Iman added gently. “Send what you have to the BatComputer and we’ll look over it together.”

John could easily imagine Bruce asking for evidence, but that didn’t stop irritation from growing and sitting in his jaw. He didn’t know how else to prove that Jackie was exactly as innocent as she seemed without any physical proof, and she was currently trying to gather further proof that Matt had been Muddy Nye.

Hey, send me your InstaPic too, he typed, hoping she had something that concretely put her far and away from any of Matt’s fishy business.

What you can’t see my face on Matt’s page? 9_9

xXPumpkinPrincessXx

Sure enough, Matt’s InstaPic account had Jackie’s face near the top of his friends-list. John decided to check that last.

Matt had a lot of stuff in his direct messages from people trying to impress him with reactions, flirty messages, and boasts about buying tickets to various projects he must have had a role in. John couldn’t really see the appeal of him, outside of his mildly-handsome face and lightweight build – sure, the costumes were nice when he wore them, but Matt had far too many public-facing selfies, the majority of which was just Matt doing normal things. A simple picture of him drinking a smoothie in a tank top got him fifteen-thousand likes, and the ones that featured Jackie or other people he guessed worked in Bludhaven’s theater troupes (an awful lot of women, John noticed) got maybe six-thousand at most. There were some flagged-for-review selfies that definitely edged the line between appropriate and softcore porn that had gotten a few thousand before they were pulled from the public. Ones of him in costumes seemed to get ten-thousand on the regular, with the most-liked in the bunch being a silent time-lapse video of Matt transforming into a near mirror-image of Vincent Price two months ago – even John had to admit that the head-explosion emoticons people had commented with were appropriate…

John blinked, looking at the grid of pictures, and realized that something was missing from the looping .gif of Matt in the makeup chair. Something obvious. Something he’d seen in plain daylight for himself.

“Now that’s interesting…”

“What is?” Iman asked from the driver’s seat. John didn’t look up to see where they were, but they were still moving.

“Matt Chaney didn’t have his tattoo two months ago. The one with the theater masks.” John scrolled down – there were some entries that had been removed for violating the site’s policy, but the last shirtless picture Matt had taken was three months ago. John circled back to the top, looking at the picture of Matt sucking just a little suggestively on the smoothie straw four weeks ago in his plain white tank, and noticed the inked mask of comedy sitting above the fabric line. “But he had it last month.”

“Quite a few of the False Faces had mask tattoos,” Iman commented thoughtfully, “Including the theater one.”

“Oh yeeeah,” John mumbled, “Roman split the gang up into sections, didn’t he? What was that Melpomene-Thalia group assigned to?”

Iman’s mouth curled into a disgusted frown; that was a first for her. Her eyes crinkled and narrowed, like the car in front of her had a racist bumper-sticker. “I don’t believe those are as cut and dry as some of the others.” Her clean polished fingers clenched the steering wheel a little. “One of the masks we captured last night was on the Agency’s watch-list for threatening public officials, suspected blackmail, and grand arson. Another had a previous charge for assault, vandalism, and stalking. What does that say to you?”

Ooh, test time! Threats, destruction, stalking abilities… Put together right it could be a little terrorist group. But unlike Harvey Dent and his little militia, Roman didn’t seem to have an interest in taking a government position or two and using it for personal vendettas; he liked keeping things underground. “Sounds like the right-hand messengers – dish out destruction as your last warning before the boss order’s your death.”

“Exactly. They’re some of the top brass, so to speak. So why leave ‘Ian’ out of the Gala… Just because he was newer?” She tapped the wheel as they came to a stop. “Matt might have done the initiation and gotten the tattoo in Ian’s place, assuming Ian was dead before that. But how long had he pretended to be him? How did Ian get pulled into the gang in the first place…?”

“Probably knew a guy who knew a guy,” John shrugged, thinking of the cronies that had been brought into the Pact. “Word gets around in all kinds of circles. I bet Matt was doing ‘research’ and overheard some of Black Mask’s goons looking to hire. I’d be surprised if he didn’t stalk Ian for a while beforehand.” He drummed his fingers on his phone. “Besides, Ian’s real-life-rap-sheet wasn’t up to their level, so I bet he got put on retainer in case the Bat hit the fan. That, or they drew straws.”

She blinked, arching a brow at him. “Straws? Really?”

“Sure, the guys did it all the time in the Pact! Only hand-picked ones got to have the special jobs, y’know. The light’s green,” he added with a point.

Iman didn’t say anything, but the ‘why didn’t I think of that’ look said enough as she took off again. “I’m guessing Matt wasn’t in the ballroom when Roman showed up,” she said stiffly.

“Nope. Took Jackie to bone in the bathroom. Her words,” he explained at the look thrown his way, “Guy really plays both sides of the field – he could’ve high-tailed it before the masks arrived, but he went and stayed behind to see who survived.”

“He wasn’t there to see the end results, John – he was there to spy on Bruce.”

The thought hadn’t occurred to John before, but it seemed like made sense. “You think?”

“Bruce is a billionaire with some serious social connections and an infamy for throwing money around various charitable causes. I’d be surprised if the Court of Owls wasn’t trying to circle his heels – on paper, he’s a potentially ideal pigeon.”

John’s grin practically split his face in two as he cackled, slapping the door’s armrest before remembering he shouldn’t break things that belonged to friends. “Ahee ha ha HA – a-a STOOLIE thinks Bruce is a PIGEON !”

John could’ve sworn he’d heard something that sounded like a chuckle not coming from him, but Iman definitively cleared her throat as his last laugh petered out.

“Ha ha, sorry – I couldn’t resist. You really think they’re after him for his money?”

“If not, it’s probably to get close enough to kill him,” she continued as if she wasn’t also feeling like icy water had slipped down to her stomach, “He might have had a hand in dismantling the Pact, but even if they don’t put his own criminal behavior during that period or his family name against him, everyone knows he’s close to you – they might want to kill him on principal.”

That was an interesting thought. The kind that jabbed him in the ribs but sent that helpless spark of intrigue into his brain. “I know I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am,” he ribbed lightly, “Guess I should’ve taken that book’s quote about the slightest hand being guided by the Devil a little more seriously…”

“Well, I didn’t think about it until this morning, either.”

There was a pause, and John drummed his fingers against his thigh, unsure of what to say. If Iman was right – and there was a pretty darn high chance she was – that meant Bruce wasn’t safe in or out of the Batsuit. And he was already halfway into the suit, following an Owl wearing a literal False Face right into Black Mask’s hiding spot. That…might not end well, if Matt was able to get a message out to the Owls before Bruce or Tiffany body-slammed him.

It was probably a good idea to tell Bruce that. Just in case something over-the-top levels of weird happened. Be careful buddy!!, he started, Jackie’s boytoy from the party is our mysterious double-agent – aka that guy Matt Chaney ur chasing rn. And yeeees I’m uploading everything so just concentrate on plucking his feathers and punching Skullface so I still have a Bat to smooch later. ;p

Iman seemed to be thinking. That, or she was concentrating on the road – they had come to a weirder part of town, where street names were confusingly labeled with similar (if not exact) names one after another. They passed a Rodney St only to see Rodey St right after it.

John decided to scroll through Matt’s MuSec page, which automatically sorted by most popular and didn’t change when the filter was set to sort by date. A lot of it looked like duplicate videos from InstaPic, but the ones of Bludhaven stood out like the Batsignal against a cloudy night sky, most of them looking just as Jackie had described. He ignored the bulk of them, eying date stamps instead, thinking back to the original Ian Coggs’ last day in Bludhaven’s mental care facility.

Nothing, nothing, and more nothing. He guessed it was too much to hope for something obviously linking him to Ian ‘Nito’. The only thing he could discern was that Matt never seemed to take videos with other people unless he was on stage with them. No hangouts with friends, no secret recordings of strangers – just Matt, his career, and his home. Just him, him, him.

It didn’t feel familiar to John at all. He pulled up InstaPic again, scrolling through the group-shots - it was just the same kind of smile on Matt’s face plastered on each one, barely varying between fans and costars, the angle always being a tilted selfie from Matt’s hand. It was almost like the attempt at Bruce’s charming photo-ready smile John had seen back at the Gala. But of course anyone who knew Bruce beyond the surface knew that those smiles were -

…ah.

As fake as Bruce’s past “romances” – maybe some had substance, somewhere, but ultimately they meant nothing.

The MuSec page might have held no criminal evidence, but it sure helped prove that Matt Chaney was a selfish prick.

Now Jackie Lant, on the other hand… One glance told him her MuSec was the opposite of Matt’s. The thumbnails showed clear collaborations and only a couple of standalone videos of her on stage or in her makeup chair. Her InstaPic showed a lot of the same things, but with a UBox link at the top and Matt’s face on every row of images with some different and seemingly-genuine expressions. She had less

followers – 3055 - to Matt’s ridiculous 8055  – but she had likes and reblogs a-plenty on both pages, and where Matt had three uploads all week, Jackie had three or more every day. Particularly of various takeaway outings, the last of which showed a Citizens Against Bats  flyer in the window – the bat symbol crossed out in red, of course, and a group meeting advertised for next week with a burner number – and the caption “signs that your restaurant is a front for something shady #OnlyInGotham  #atleasttheirpizzasmellsgood”.

The upload times were erratic, but Wednesday highlighted her story of being out with Matt there – any opportunity for a picture of or with him was there for everyone to see. Nothing concrete from a hah-they-weren’t-doing-crimes-together perspective, but from a character one…there was only one conclusion he could draw.

“What’s so funny?” Iman asked from the driver’s seat.

He’d didn’t think his giggling was that obvious. That, or her peripheral vision was really good, even when driving. “I was in a really dark place last night. The itching to hurt myself and anything around me kind of place. And when I saw a car pull around at an opportune time, I didn’t care who was in it – and for someone who couldn’t sympathize enough with the horrible thoughts us patients spilled on the couch, Jackie had no problem putting up with me. Even today! She just welcomed me in helped me out like we were pals. And I didn’t really think about it before, but picture after picture here proves what I could guess - she did it because she was lonely! Ha ha ha - imagine being so desperate for company you’d let me, the mental patient your boss wouldn’t let you talk to without supervision, in your car! Aha ha ha ha ha haa!” The laugh made his lungs ache with pressure, but he didn’t care. “What’s funnier is… I get it! It’s like getting a visitor after being in the Hole:  you don’t care who it is; anything’s better than being by yourself.”

“I don’t see how that’s funny,” Iman said coolly, “She didn’t have many friends living in Gotham by the time she left. I imagine she’s had a hard time really bonding with other people due to losing so many in traumatic fashions – and after a traumatic event like last night’s hostage situation, it’s reasonable that she wanted to help you, especially since she knows you already. It would be both grounding and give her a sense of accomplishment and heroism that she couldn’t have fulfilled at the manor.”

Man, Iman sure had a way with words. “Yeah, but you missed the point – it’s me. That’s what makes it funny. If it were almost anyone else…ehh,” he added with a shrug. “I mean, if we only mildly knew one another – like we parted ways after my whole stunt trying to kill Waller – and you saw me stop your car and just hop in it, gnashing my teeth and barely holding myself together, would you just go along with it?”

“Yes, I would,” Iman answered, not a dishonest syllable to be heard, “Though I’d make sure we’d talk to your doctor right away and get you to a safer place than that hotel.”

John hadn’t really expected that answer. He knew Bruce would say yes, but he didn’t like leaving hurt people alone to begin with, and Bruce was less likely to call a doctor and far more likely take care of things himself. John had expected Iman to think carefully before answering with a noncommittal variation of ‘yes’. What a caring gal. “Man, you were wasted on the Agency,” he answered warmly, “You’re way too good for them.”

Iman gave a soft smile in return, which John took as a wordless ‘thanks’. “Is everything sent to the BatComputer?”

He’d forgotten to start the transfer. “Iiit’s still working on it,” John fumbled as he pulled up the share function of his phone’s gallery. Sure enough, the crummy tower signal he was getting told him it would take a while to upload anyway. Sharing the texts was much faster, at least. “Still no response from Bruce, though…”

“Just because he can text on his gauntlet doesn’t mean he should,” Iman teased, “He’ll be fine. He and Tiffany are looking after one another.”

John hummed, wanting to believe that despite the sting at the mention of Tiffany. Bruce usually texted back fast, even as Batman…

The Herold Rite’s Theatre appeared around the corner, tearing John away from his thoughts. Its old playbill sign was yellowed and empty, but the lights surrounding it weren’t broken and the theater’s name was still perfectly legible. It just looked…dreary. Sunburnt paper covered the inside of the ticket booth’s glass behind the thin metal storm shutters. Laminated notices on each of the doors’ shutters showcased the place as under construction, do not enter, yadda yadda yadda, but the fractured plastic and faded ink reminded passerby’s it had been out-of-commission for some time.

“I’m guessing we’re not taking the front door,” John joked.

“There’s a staff exit we can break into around the back.” Iman pulled the car into the shady alleyway nearby. “I’ve already checked for city footage, this place is almost invisible. City inspections haven’t been officially done in a month, and it’s been closed for a couple of years now.”

“So we should expect lots of graffiti and garbage inside, huh?”

“Most likely. I’d be surprised if someone hadn’t tried living in it before now. If anything, we at least have to watch out for rats.”

“I thought owls ate those,” John nudged, getting a chuckle in response.

“I don’t think they’ve gone that native.” She parked just in front of the dumpster. “Get changed, I’ll wait where you can see me.”

The jumpsuit was loose enough to cover John’s clothes; he didn’t like the idea of taking anything off in Iman’s car (even if the windows were tinted and she was waiting with her back to him by the driver-side door) so he simply zipped it over everything else, tossing his St. Dymphna phone in the center armrest for safekeeping. The coveralls were annoyingly baggy to the point where he found himself pulling at the bunches of fabric around his waist and trying to figure out if he could tuck them in as he trailed behind Iman’s flat thuds of proper work-boots.

The sun was clearly already in early-summer mode, beating down on his shoulders the second he’d stepped out of the car – it didn’t matter that the sun wasn’t actually shining in their dark little corner, of course. It was omnipresent and tearing through layers of brick to hit him, specifically, like a punishment for looking where he shouldn’t. At least it felt like it.

John rubbed the back of his neck, the heat of his palm not helping. He didn’t know why he felt...paranoid. He was here, right now, growing steadily sweaty with stupid layers and summer heat, and he had a right to poke into business if it was his. Which this definitely was. He looked over his shoulder, not seeing so much as a camera, and looked around the roof edges for any sign of life.

Of course there was nothing there, because for all the strides he’d taken, his brain still liked to trick him.

Iman bent before the door with a very used-looking toolkit. John wondered at what to say.

He pushed the ideas of ‘Should we really be here’ and ‘Do you think they roost on rooftops’ away. “Didn’t you normally just kick the door down?” he joked lightly.

“I thought it would be best to be stealthy about this.” The lock clicked. “Besides, it’d be a waste if I didn’t get to actually use this after all the practicing I’ve done,” she boasted, tucking the kit away in one of her very deep pockets.

“You’re not gonna start wearing leather and cat ears on the job, are you?”

Iman pulled a face somewhere between amused and disturbed. “No. At least I hope not.”

The theater was even drearier inside. It reminded John of the Old Five Points, minus the working lights and water, and plus the smell of buttered popcorn practically soaked into what was left of the carpet. It felt as damp and dark as it looked, mold and mildew creeping in his nose to mingle with popcorn only a few steps in.

Iman passed him a small clip-on flashlight, having her own clinging to the pocket with the gear-shaped ‘G’. John clipped it to his jumpsuit’s collar, remembering how Bruce had a similar one on his cape when they had explored the mausoleum last year. Only now they were dependent on only the flashlights and not on loud EDM and glow-stick-filled pumpkins to guide them.

“There don’t appear to be any heat signatures in any of these…” Iman turned her head slowly, seeming to scan the hallway of supply rooms like a robot.

“Ooh, did you steal Bruce’s special contacts?”

“I borrowed them – with permission. Same goes for these,” Iman emphasized with a smile, handing John a few Bat-decorated goodies. A small can of tear gas, two Batarangs, and a palm-sized remote taser . John ran this thumb just over the edge of the thin blade, excitement prickling at his temples. “Hopefully, we won’t have to use them. These are strictly loaner pieces.”

John tucked them all away, no longer hating the roomy coveralls. “Oh, no worries, I get ’cha.”

“You can’t keep them,” she added pointedly.

“I wouldn’t dream of it! And I’m sure you wouldn’t keep them in your car for a rainy day and write the loss off as a misadventure,” he needled, “Not that I’d say anything if you did.”

Iman looked like she was definitely noting that to herself. “Let’s start checking rooms. I’ll take the right side.”

“You got it.”

Graffiti of all kinds was plastered on the walls, mostly tags covering parts of worn-out posters or stickers. Which would’ve been fine, if it hadn’t been clear that someone had gone to the trouble of drawing thick black lines over the middle of them all, regardless of size. It reminded John of censor marks over people’s eyes in photos. Some were darker than others, showing the paint can was running out but still usable, and it brought to mind the tics made on the asylum walls, counting days like they mattered.

A couple of Bat-symbols not unlike the one shown from the G.C.P.D. roof were scattered around, all but one in bright yellow crossed out. The paint had dripped from the wing and tail end before it dried. John took a picture of it, feeling like he’d seen the beacon itself, and then opened the supply room it was next to, finding replacement seats stained with something dark he didn’t want to think about and two very broken popcorn makers shoved inside.

A prop room was next, so cluttered he didn’t think he could walk three feet into without getting impaled on a plastic spear. He spied a copy of his clown smiley-face tucked away by a familiar red-pyramid-and-floating-eyeball that had been crossed out with a large ‘x’, but decided against taking a picture of it. He wasn’t sure if he liked his logo there, sitting among the scrawled-out bats…

“Nothing here.” Iman had seemingly found a cleaning closet with a crudely-drawn pentagram and ‘hail satin’ still legible by the door.

“Ha, talk about your false idols,” John cracked as Iman followed his line of sight, “Now, velvet - there’s a fabric I could worship!”

“Personally I don’t think there’s anything better than a cashmere sweater, but I don’t think I’d hail it,” Iman shot back with a chuckle.

John peeked in a blank dressing room, seeing nothing but a costume rack with two moth-eaten dresses, a dressing table with half its bulbs missing or broken on the floor, and a lot of molding cardboard boxes, most of which had been upturned and whatever contents inside torn apart or left on the floor. John spied a broken beer bottle and a suspiciously familiar sort of stain on the wall. “Nooothing here.”

“John, come look at this.”          

John went over to her side, passing two doors that clearly didn’t open, and peeked over her shoulder at what looked like a dressing room. This one had more dust-covered boxes and a foggy vinyl sheet hanging over a long rack of costumes shoved in the back, with just enough room to walk. It looked like just another haven for moths and dust. “It sure is a room of gross moldy boxes,” he commented.

“No, look – that costume rack is half-full.”

“So?”

“So there’s a pathway back there and the people who trashed this place didn’t think to take a look?”

“Ah-haa.”

Iman went straight for the rack, carefully stepping around boxes as John examined the ones that seemed open, finding old promotional trading cards for an old sci-fi film with big-brained aliens  sitting on some boring looking documents in one. Another had costume pieces, which he almost didn’t bother with until he saw a flash of purple, and then the instinct to rifle through things fell in his hands. He tossed things out and shoved everything aside in a flurry of colored fabric and plastic and pulled out what he could only think of as the best hat he’d ever seen.

A violet-colored and practically pristine wide-brimmed fedora. John couldn’t help but let out an ooh and turn it over in his hands. It was almost, if not exactly the color of his long coat back at the cave. It was like it was made for him. Even the dark fabric band on it was more deep green than black.

“John - don’t. You don’t know where that’s been.”

“Aw, come on, it’s clean! And look, it has a real label inside!” He flipped it to show her the faded gold print, hoping to turn her concerned frown upside-down. It did not, and he could practically hear what she was going to say next. “Fiiine, I’ll keep looking for evidence,” he groaned, putting the perfect hat gently back in the box. “I’ll come back for you later,” he muttered to himself.

His phone buzzed in his pocket – another text from Jackie:

Camera pics uploaded to my share drive:  https://bit.gt.gd/S3272019F?=RO

Sorry it took so long. Kinda forcing myself to feel like this rn lol

She tacked on a picture of a dog calmly sitting at a table surrounding by a raging fire, staring at their coffee mug like nothing was wrong. John snickered to himself.

Ha ha ha ha!!! You’ve done it!! You’ve boiled this whole week down into a single classic meme!!! He texted back, Thanks pumpkinhead, I’ll pass these on to Bats!! ;D

“Was that Bruce?” Iman asked as John forwarded the link to the BatComputer’s catch-all.

“Nope. The other photographic evidence finally came in,” he answered, resuming his search.

The last visible open box held a lot of plastic badge holders – the kind that he’d seen the Arkham and St. Dymphna staff use to display their ID’s. But behind the boxes, not covered in a speck of dust… “Now what do you suppose a perfectly good printer is doing in a place like this?” John asked rhetorically.

“Probably making ID’s to match these.”

John peered over at the costume rack –polo shirts, dress pants, and bullet-proof vests hung there with an array of logos.

“Gotham Construction, Janus Industries, G.C.P.D., Gotham E.M.T. – Wayne Enterprises…” Iman grumbled, her thoughts seeming to swirl behind her brow. “Is there a laptop or tower connected to that printer?”

“Nope. There’s only…that thing near it.”

She peered over his shoulder. “That’s a signal repeater. It’s an older model.” She looked at her phone for a moment, poking around. “We can probably trace the router signal; the network its broadcasting isn’t from the surrounding buildings.”

John snapped a picture of the setup. “What, you think they have an Owl-themed computer set up somewhere?”

“That’s possible, but I was thinking more like a tablet or laptop that’s making the IDs. They’re portable, easily hidden or disposed of, and can easily support the software. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were trying to take down security systems or using social media to recruit, too – but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

He snapped a picture of the rack of clothing, too. “You really think they’ll leave that laying around in here?”

“I’m more hoping they have. But I bet we’ll find the nest if we find the router this signal is coming from.”

The room next to it was wide open and all but beckoning them inside, a spray-painted black bat flying above the door. It was another dressing room, but it looked cleaned out – the makeup table was dust-free and had all its bulbs, and there was a minimal amount of boxes in there.

Iman walked in, heading straight to the lone garbage can and squatting to take a better look. “At least we know someone used this one for more than making fake IDs.”

John took a look at the table. A smear of a peach-toned neutral was left on the surface otherwise wiped off with what smelled like cheap makeup remover. “And they left a mess.”

“That’s good news for us,” Iman chuffed, “Looks like they tossed their contact in the wrong place. It doesn’t look tinted – probably corrective.”

John watched as Iman pulled tweezers out of her pocket and prepared to tuck the evidence away into a small plastic bag. “Someone came prepared,” he muttered enviously, looking around for anything that could be considered useful.

The streak was likely residue from Sonja’s makeup, since Bruce thought it was connected to The Lot. She might have changed in there, too, both heading in and out… If Bruce were here, he could likely use his amped-up forensic skills and handy-dandy gear to analyze the chair, but unless Iman had a pocket-sized version hidden on her, that was a moot option. What he did have was an imagination and a penchant for peeking in places he normally shouldn’t.

The only working drawer had a mish-mash of makeup in a rainbow of powders, pencils, and various flesh-toned pastes sitting next to a tub of Moddy and an empty bottle of Janus Clear-Away Makeup Remover. The tiny brushes and sponges besides them were all, unfortunately, clean as bristly whistles.

John eyed the streak on the tabletop, picturing someone sitting there and wiping foundation away…

Actually, the smear on the surface went all the way around to the edge, like someone had spilled or squirted too much from the bottle. And there was one broken bulb at the corner of the lined mirror, like something had knocked into it…

“Hey, Iman – the Lot shooter, were they left handed or right handed?”

“Left handed.” Iman stood next to him, examining the table. “She carried her purse on her right shoulder and opened the room door with her left hand.”

“And Jackie’s right handed, further proving my side,” he rubbed in, “So if I dropped it here,” he tried, miming dropping a bag on the table and sliding his hand on the left to crash the bottle of foundation into the bulb, “it might’ve fallen over.”

“There’s scuff marks by the chair,” Iman pointed out, “She was wearing heels, I wouldn’t be surprised if she slipped after wearing them for so long. Especially if she’s not used to them.”

“So, like-” John popped into position, miming a fall while keeping his balance on one leg – “whoooops!” He spread both hands, as if knocking things over while trying to catch himself on the table. “Crash!”

Iman kneeled to the right of his leg. “There’s a tube of foundation under here. And it looks like...” She reappeared a moment later with a poker chip held in her tweezers. “Good thinking, John.”

John straightened, pride inflating with a self-esteem boost.

“Looks like a promotional chip – they leave them in the rooms for guests.” She turned it over, exposing the logo – it looked a series of sticks in a fist. “It’s definitely from The Lot.”

John took a picture of it. “Five bucks? Cheapskates.”

Iman tucked the new piece of evidence back where she had picked it up from. “I’ll just make a note of this one.”

That was…unusual, to say the least. “Uh, why?”

“Because the Lot killer wore gloves; this just proves that they stopped here. If the G.C.P.D. does a raid later, they can point to it as evidence. Even though it’ll be labeled as circumstantial, it’s something noteworthy.”

“Buuut you’re taking the contact lens…?”

“So I can run a DNA match, if there’s anything on it. I’ll just put it back later.”

“Iman, that’s cheating,” John said with a titter, “I knew I liked you.”

There didn’t seem to be anything left in the room for them to search, so they moved on, turning the corner and finding locked or obstructed doors or rooms stuffed full of garbage from squatters one after another the closer they got to the stage entrance; the graffiti continued with them, countless symbols of anarchy censored out, the bat symbols disappearing altogether as the wireless signal Iman was tracing got stronger.

Iman pushed open the stage door, a dreadful squeal ripping through the air. John expected a pigeon or two to fly from the holes in the curtains up to the burnt, partially-dilapidated ceiling barely illuminated by a few leftover construction lights running on power-saving mode. The projector screen that had clearly been added after the initial build was still hanging stubbornly from the shoddy catwalk. The whole place smelled strange, must and mold mingling with a smell like cigarette burns on sheets.

“There should be a trapdoor under the stage for performers,” Iman commented as she led the way, “I’ll bet that’s where our nest is.”

John followed her, glancing out over the open stage and feeling something hitch in his stomach at the sight of the rows and rows of empty seats. They stood sturdy against the test of time despite the occasional moth-eaten holes, all silent and dark, not a flutter of movement among a single seat all the way up to the rafters. He could see the black, shadowy area in the back where the fire had seemed to start and trail away up to the ceiling. “Why is this place so creepy?”

“Because you’re expecting an audience when you go on a stage, and there isn’t one,” Iman said, prying at a section of the floor with a small crowbar she had pulled out from her jumpsuit. She grunted, prying hard at the section of floor that was suspiciously less dusty than the rest. “Can you give me a hand?”

He couldn’t resist. The joke was right there. “Sure!” He clapped his hands together. “Good hustle, kid! I like your realism!”

“Very funny,” she grumbled, prying again.

“Ha ha, sorry – but you walked right into it!” John moved to the opposite side of the trapdoor, stomping hard on the end he was sure was meant to go down. One foot wasn’t enough, but he felt a shift, so he stomped harder as Iman pried. “Ugh, come on, move!” He jumped on the end with both feet, realizing too late it was a bad idea as the floor gave away.

He landed with a hard thud on the balls of his feet, automatically bending at his knees and finding himself still stumbling to his side and knocking over something tall with a fwump and clatter of wood. “I’m okay!” he called up, rubbing his newly-bruised elbow, “But I definitely didn��t stick the landing!”

Iman landed next to him with a soft plat of boots, hands already steadying him as he rose back up. “Are you sure? Can you rotate your ankles?”

“Ha, it’ll take more than a poorly-placed coatrack to take me down.” He squinted at the little green light in the corner of the room over her shoulder. “At least we found your mystery-router.”

The wireless router was plugged into an outlet that looked like it had hastily been rewired, sitting by an open door that was obviously made to blend into the wall. There didn’t seem to be any lights strung up anywhere for easier viewing.

“Hopefully we’ll find what they were connecting to it, too.”

Their clip-on lights illuminated some of the room, showing another costume rack with several empty hangers and not a piece of clothing in sight. An old map of Gotham could be seen among a throng of paper tacked on the walls. A few plastic grocery bags holding emptied, bug-attracting food containers and the squashed couch shoved in the corner with a cheap blanket made it feel like it was a squatter’s den; the difference was the large picture of an owl that had been carved on the wall over a century ago, it’s clawed feet bared viciously at them.

“Seems like more of a burrow than a nest,” John commented, spying a cockroach scurrying to hide beneath one of the makeshift garbage bags, “‘No amenities; makes Arkham feel welcoming. Zero stars.’”

At least that made Iman laugh a little, which toned down the creepy vibe and widened the smile on John’s face.

Iman seemed to gravitate towards the wall of paper, so John followed suite. Mug-shots and stolen police forms were front-and-center, faces crossed out with a black ‘x’.

“Ugh, and someone’s crossing people off their little list,” John grunted in disgust, looking over the crossed-out faces. “Hey, that’s the guy who got stabbed in the eye on the Chandis!”

“That’s not surprising, Randolf Barron is over here. And Jack Whendleham, Kirby Noltz… It looks like everyone found on board the ship is here.”

“Plus a few gals from Poison Ivy’s gang… I know that guy’s in with the 8-Bits… Little Nel from the Rossi family? I thought he left Gotham seven years ago.”

“He did,” Iman grunted, “He was released from prison on good behavior; the Rossi’s blew up his car when he decided to leave the mob. He changed his name and moved to somewhere on the East coast. I think we can officially cross off any personal grudges,” she continued, shining her light elsewhere, “since Selina Kyle’s picture is also over here.”

Hers was the only one unmarked, and one of three on the whole wall that weren’t official police photos. John (thankfully) did not see his own face up there.

Iman turned to face the old wooden office desk behind them, so John followed along.

A knife was sitting on a pedestal there, clearly some kind of ceremonial dagger with the image of an owl bearing its claws and spreading its wings up the handle. The filing drawer was ajar and the surface was partially littered with highlighted and circled article pieces about Batman, even the Gotham Moonrise picture of Batman, Joker, and a somewhat-concealed Jim Gordon standing at the back of an ambulance.

Only where Joker was supposed to be, there was nothing but crooked edges– John had been cut out of the picture entirely. “Looks like our Owl’s a jealous rival Bat-fan, too.”

Iman flipped through the other half of the papers. “Looks like they stalked Selina for a while,” she mumbled, “They found her rental contract for her gallery and got a copy of the blueprint.”

John peered over at it – exits were marked and security shifts were scribbled on the printed map. Pictures were called for; he made sure to get the whole wall of photos.

Iman pulled open the top drawer slowly, revealing several charging cables in varying degrees of broken and two bottles of medication with the labels torn off. She shook the bottle to take a closer look at them without opening it. “White powder, pullapart capsule type… NVR R20. And I don’t have a signal down here. I wish I knew a pharmacist.”

John perked up. “Ooh, wait! I know that one…” he trailed, mentally sorting through the list of all the drugs he’d ever used, traded, or stolen, “Ritalin!”

She hummed thoughtfully, putting the bottle back and taking out the other, with little dull-green capsules rattling around. “And what I’m fairly sure is R-2 - Rohypnol.”

“I don’t remember seeing anyone up there being drugged before they died. That we know of, anyway…”

“They could be using it as a counteractive to the Ritalin, if they take a high enough dose. Some cocaine users take Rohypnol to come down easier. Anything in your side of the desk?”

John pulled open the first drawer. A few more paper copies of police reports and photos, with Harvey Dent’s picture on the top of the pile. His police report and a messy copy of his Arkham admittance sat underneath. “Looks like our next set of fresh victims include some more notorious Gothamites; ‘Big Bad Harvey’ is in here.” He flipped more, spying ‘Cannibal’ Carl Whistley and Victor Zsasz. “And some of the guys from my floor…”

“I’m not surprised, at this point,” Iman commented, wedging open the stuck filing drawer.

John flipped further, and felt his heart jolt horribly. “And Bruce.” He was sure he wasn’t imagining the photo in his hands of Bruce Wayne at the podium during his publicity stunt almost two years ago, where he announced devoting his money to fixing Arkham before he was almost run over. Everything felt too real. “I can’t believe they’re using this photo.”

John had found the whole segment amusing at the time, mulling over how handsome he seemed, all clean-shaven and acting all daring by getting out of the way just in time like he’d done it before, wondering to himself just how much danger Bruce could actually handle, how much they could both put themselves in on the outside together…

John scoffed at himself. “I really should’ve put Bruce and Batman together when I saw him dodge that van like it was no problem. But I thought ‘nah, Batman’s a completely different person!’ But I also thought Bruce would fit in with Harley’s ideas about stealing a potential cure for our little problems – shows how much I knew.” He flipped the picture over, spying the very shoddy record of Bruce’s time with the Pact laid out in a photocopied police form. “Looks like you were right about Bruce’s Pact past coming back to bite him; his form’s in here.”

“At least we know he’s not a current target,” Iman said, not comforting John very much, “This person seems like they want to finish what they started before moving onto something new. And if they were after Bruce now, they would’ve followed him straight to you a dozen times by now. We know that’s not the case,” Iman soothed with a light hand on his shoulder. She took it away a moment later. “And there is some good news – we have their tablet,” Iman added, holding up a tablet computer that was far too thick to be new. “Which means we can get out of here and reconnect with Batman and Robin.”

“I don’t know about the Robin part right now,” John pouted, walking out alongside her, “but I’m all for leaving the Gallery-o’-Death.”

Iman tucked the tablet into the fabric belt around her waist and dug her foot into the makeshift foothold nailed to the wall who-knew-how-many years ago. John looked away, not wanting to be weird and watch her as she hoisted herself up to the edge of the opening, but didn’t want to turn around entirely in case she slipped or needed a boost.

Just as he folded his arms and tapped his fingers against the healing cuts on his forearm, he heard an odd hiss.

He looked up too late – Iman slipped back down, coughing as she landed on top of him, sending them both to the ground in a bruising heap.

John grunted, trying to sit them both up and ending up sliding backwards instead as Iman struggled to not collapse back on top of him, coughing into her hand and trying to wipe away something from her face. “Hey – are you okay?!”

She didn’t look like she was. She was blinking hard, taking in sucking breaths, and doing a bad job of trying to point upward. John followed her finger towards the only exit.

The light was blocked out and there came a soft thump as a tall dark figure with broad shoulders and the painted wooden face of an owl with short horns protruding from the top of their head faced him, the eyes glowing white in the light.

The Owl-man tilted his head, as if regarding John like a curious animal, and light blue mist puffed out of the thick metal tube wrapped around his outstretched arm before John could move away.

John coughed and sputtered, tasting salt, and saw the world around him tilt on its axis as he tried to move backward, Iman’s weight collapsing onto his legs with a sighing breath.

There was little room to move and Iman was suddenly heavier than normal, but John still fumbled for the Bat-stamped taser in his pocket, hoping he could throw it or shock the Batman-knockoff when he came close enough.

He thought he might throw up from the sudden blurry movement of everything. His fingers wouldn’t move the way he wanted them to. Everything felt like it was teetering nonstop.

He felt the taser in his hand. Heard boots on the floor as he blinked away the awful seesawing layout.

He could feel the button trigger under his thumb, he just had to get his arm to move...

John blinked hard, feeling a familiar tug of his conscious towards the void at the back of his brain as he tried to focus on the closest thing he could, the bare coatrack lying on the floor.

“You shouldn’t be here,” a low, hoarse voice whispered to him in the dark, as it had done a hundred times before...

                                                   † † † † †

Notes:  John's path to a better life outside of Arkham is a rocky one filled with the kind of problems he's very tired of dealing with. But unlike Bruce, who channels his issues into his drive to keep Gotham and his loved ones safe via detective work and kicking criminal butt, John finds it difficult to sort through his problems because he mainly needs emotional support. He and Bruce both have to face harsh things in this story, but John's journey is always the driving force behind it's very creation. It's interesting to really look at the parallel between Bruce and John right now: John has few people who's supportive of him (and would have less if "the player" made bad decisions regarding his new friends) and desperately needs it, and Bruce has a very steady group behind him 24/7 but still struggles with wanting to be alone; John struggles to hold onto reality and needs to remind himself that Bruce is always there for him, and Bruce just wants the escape from the world that John brings but can never seem to have him around long enough; Bruce is almost overly-protective over the people he works with and John is a little over-confident in people's abilities to take care of themselves. (Though both have problems taking care of themselves, ha ha!)

Have some fun facts!: 1) In this storyline, if Iman wasn't around, John would've gotten a Ryde; in the Villain route, John's clown-posse would've picked him up…or maybe he drives his own clown car? 2) If Jackie wasn't around, John bumps into Matt directly at the Gala, steals a car to go to the Hotel/the Theater, and searches the hotel room by himself. Jackie's part of Sonja is instead played by an innocent nobody Matt is dating and John doesn't get as upset. 3) I debated the "destined hat" John finds for, like, an hour. I think BtAS had Joker in a bolero, and I am a sucker for that style and making loving homages. I ended up with a fedora because it leans more with John's budding mockery of a classic detective. 4) You know, I mentioned the villain route…yes, Bruce has the option to fuck Joker (/cheat on Selina, if applicable) last chapter in that route, too, because who am I to stop you? ;) He and John do still have their little heart-to-heart here, but since the story plays out a little differently, it's missing the heart-wrenching confession John gives and the acceptance he gets, and is instead a convo/argument centered around John's and Bruce's possessiveness over one another. 5) If there's no Robin or Iman, Alfred is actually who alerts Bruce to BM's hideout, even if their relationship is rocky and regardless of which John you have. 6) If by some miracle Jackie is here, but your John's a villain, their interaction is a lot more tense and there's no real friendship forged. 7) The camera feature John has wouldn't be allowed all the time - like you couldn't take pictures of Bruce's butt, or the inside of Iman's swanky ride, for example - but I think there would be spots, like the Theater or Hotel Room, where you'd have free range. If I were making this a real game, I'd probably sneak in a bunch more Easter eggs: references to Condiment King, Bat-Cow, fandom members' usernames… What would you guys add?

If I had to pick a favorite thing to write this time around, the first is John's conversation with Bruce because I've been building to it, and the second is Jackie Lant! My Halloween baby, my pumpkin-pie, my darling depressed mess! I was planning her breakdown with John ever since the start of the story, but it was nice to craft her and John's bonding points over time.

Next chapter (which hopefully will be less than 3 months from now) we join back with Batman and Robin. Considering the timing of everything I've planned, it might be the first chapter that has both Bruce and John's "perspectives" in it… That, or I'll have to split it into two chapters. In the meantime, wear your mask, wash your hands, donate to BLM any way you can, and take care of yourself. (⌯˘̤ ॢᵌ ू˘̤)യ♡

[namelessthirst]

could you write something for slow and suuuuuuper loving sex with bakugou i haven’t really seen anyone writing this before it’s always rough fucking with this exploit boy idk i wanna see his soft side more yknow🥺🥺

God yes??? We all love hot and heavy Baku but what about slow and sensual baku?? Both? both. Both is good.

I would say this came out fluffier than i expected, but nah it’s pretty well set.

this is like legit borderline ripped straight from my personal internal fanfic but with like Added Details 👀💦

Again

[Bakugo Katsuki x Reader

Ao3

1k and some change

Sleepy sex, fluffy sex, slow sex, Bakugo having feelings and all of the mare mushy.]

It was late. The angle of moonlight shifting between Katsuki’s curtains surely was evidence enough. He wouldn’t even have to peer at his too-bright phone to know it was well after midnight. 

He should be exhausted. 

It was only earlier today that you and he’d had sex for the first time. 

It hadn’t gone as he’d expected. Not that he’d really planned it out to begin with. 

It was only spurred on by a sudden flare of want. Just because some kid saw you two kiss, and promptly mistook the shape of your belly for one of pregnancy, rather than merely extra weight. 

You’d corrected the kid, of course, with grace. More so than he’d have done it with, even if the assumption was made without malice. 

Still, the idea that anyone looked at you and assumed you were carrying a baby he put there… Well, it lit something up he didn’t expect to find. 

It wasn’t as though it was something that was going to happen. At least not any time soon. You’d laughed with him after the fact, noting that he needn’t worry about truly getting you pregnant, that you’d been on birth-control for some time now. 

Still, you never said never. 

Though the charge of the moment had him aching to knock you up, he knew it was far too early for either of you to be having kids. The loom of starting pro-hero work heavy against the wish of domesticity. 

Still. 

He tossed and turned, it’s not as if he disliked his first time with you. But something in him just…couldn’t settle. 

With a huff he tore his blankets off, bringing his feet over to the cold hardwood floor. After a moment of sleep-deprived irritation, he pushed himself up off his bed and started the walk toward your room.

The jingle of keys outside your door made you stir just a bit, but only enough to make you turn over in your blankets. 

His steps were quiet, slipping the door shut as softly as he could. 

He didn’t really know what he wanted right now. But he did know you looked beautiful, tucked up warm with your cheek squished so soft against your pillow.��

He sat back squat on his feet on your level, brushing his thumb over your cheek, fingers dusting over your ear into your hair. 

You shifted again, the touch pulling you from your slumber. It only took one breath in to know who it was, the smell of sugar and spice, and everything occasionally nice. 

You turned your face into his hand, eyes still closed even as you spoke with a sleep-drunk voice, “Mm, Suki? ’S late…" 

He let his thumb carry over to stroke down the bridge of your nose, knowing quite well it was late. 

When you didn’t get a response, you opened your eyes with effort, "Jus’ can’t sleep?" 

Before he could answer, you wiggled back toward the wall and lifted the blanket around you, "In?" 

It took him a moment, and an impatient flapping of the blanket, before he climbed with you. 

He was lucky you were such a bedding hoarder, pillows stacked a-plenty around you with blankets to balance. So no awkward sharing beyond the comforter draped over you both needed to happen. 

Not that he minded at all, getting to slip his arm over your warm middle while the other stuffed itself cozily under the pillows. 

"Mm, better?” You asked as you got comfy against him, reaching around him to pull the blanket tight to his back. It wasn’t as though either of you would get cold like this, but being tucked in was just…nice. 

“Yeah." 

You smiled at the first real word he’d said to you since he came in, running your hand up under his shirt to feel his back as you pecked his lips. Once, twice, noses smushing but neither of you minded. 

Your hand trailed along his spine, pressing into his muscles as you let your eyes close again. He was always so tense. It wasn’t as if he didn’t take care of himself, he was always careful to stretch before and after training. Yet still, you could feel the stress in every inch you explored. 

You knew he didn’t mind this, your touch, not his hidden stress. He still held fast in his refusal to be so clear about things like that. Luckily, he didn’t need to. It wasn’t as if you two never got snug like this, though it was slow-going. Your relationship was still in its early stages, you knew. But you were more than ready for moments like these, worrying to him and others before about pushing them to happen too soon. 

He scolded you, not unlike how he did most, but specially for you with a quieter voice and a warm hand strung through your hair to pull your dumb worried head to him.You knew damn well how to tell when he was truly uncomfortable. For all his grumbling and your teasing when you got handsy in public, he didn’t mind. 

You weren’t wrong, when you said it was a good excuse. To please what was his, of course. Just satisfying your needy affection, definitely none of it anything he craved or initiated. To show off just how well he had you attached, how wanted he was. Appealing to his pride was generally a good idea. 

So on you went, and on he ‘allowed’. 

Taking a seat on his well-built lap even when there was space open on the sofa. Finding new ways to mess his hair as your hand fidgeted idly at lunch, at the breaks in class, at the start of training when instructions were given. Stealing kisses just because, because you were going somewhere, because you were tired, because you could, because you just wanted to. 

Still, what he could have in private was his favorite, willing himself to relax into the ticklish dusting of your nails along his lower back, letting his breath even out with yours. 

Dozing came easily, his wandering hands to match your own, more so. 

Neither of you minded the shifting, how your breath would brush over each other, gentle pressure freckled between rounds of light sleep. Time didn’t feel so solid as you hung in the late-night embrace, letting you both take your time and your fill. 

When passing kisses grew warmer, and hands gripped a little tighter on softened flesh, neither of you deigned to open sleepy lids. 

He didn’t ask, when you tugged him over you, needing little coaxing before you could feel the weight of him on you, feel his cool nose nestle into your neck while you brought your knees up around his hips. 

"Again?” You asked. 

“Again." 

You sighed like you were sinking into a warm bath when you felt him press his need against you, limbs lazy and heavy as you pushed his sweatpants away till you could hook your toes in them and take them further. 

He squeezed your hip and you lifted them for him, brushing your mound against him in the wake and you shivered as he kept his lips against your neck, trailing right up to the spot just behind your ear where he knew you loved. 

He left his hand under your hips once your underwear was sent the way of his sweats, and you pulled the blanket over you both tighter, caging the heat as you tangled up with him. 

Slow grinding was the next step while you held each other. His higher arm tucked under your head and pillow, while yours found purchase in the hair on his neck, the other wrapped around his side to rest your fingers at his tailbone. 

He moaned into your mouth when he felt your arousal paint hot across his, giving a nudge to check before he came in. You brought your knees a little higher, spread yourself a little more, giving him the go as you caught his lip between yours. 

The drag of him inside had your breath warming his ear as he bottomed in you, cheek pressed to yours as he kept his insistent hips paced to match how your fingertips scraped along his neck. 

He wanted this to last, finding it easier to press flush and then some, letting his tip kiss your cervix wet with his pre while you whispered praise and sugar to him, than to properly roll his hips. Even so, he did now and then, letting the slick he pulled with him dribble onto the bed. 

So, like this you stayed. Entwined, warm, wanting without urgency. The barest shift in light might have warned of dawn, yet neither of you wanted to move. If the day had to be sleepy, so be it. 

It was only when his newest thrust had you break the kiss in a whine, tongue teetering on the edge of his lip and your nails digging in just above his ass, when he figured it was about time. 

His own need was throbbing by now, relief sought in a climb. He was quite skilled at jumping from zero to a hundred in a blink, but he didn’t need to. 

Freshly sweaty foreheads pressed while he took you properly, hips stuttering as he worked to fend off his own orgasm until he could lure yours. You didn’t make it easy on him, hot walls gripping tight with each retreat and fluttering with each dip home. 

He knew you’d come, not with a cry or a call, but with how your fingers pulled at his hair, how your thighs hugged his hips so suddenly, and the heat he felt soak his groin. 

He pressed his face to your cheek as he chased his end, steamed breath on your skin as he drew out your aftershocks. You could feel him fisting the pillow under your head as his final thrust lifted your hips off the bed, just a bit, flooding you at last. 

His hips twitched against you as he made sure he’d emptied entirely before easing you back down, feeling the pull of sleep take hold. 

With another few kisses, tired and messy, you both readjusted. His chest hot against your back, palms just as so where they settled across your side, warmed from the excitement of you that his quirk fed from. 

He sighed into your hair, already hearing you drift off, and was glad to find every tug of restlessness gone from his body. 

The morning came too quick, but the night was well worth it.

[let-me-write-shit]

Somebody To You: 10

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Word Count: 3,852

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CHAPTER TEN:

“Harry. Wake up.”

The whispers and gentle shaking stirred Harry awake and his eyes fluttered open to see Nancy and Rory hovering over him from his spot on the couch. By the time Harry and Zoey were done talking last night, Rory and Nancy had already gone to bed. He was too tired to drive home so he crashed on the couch, figuring he could just go to his house in the morning to grab a change of clothes before he and Zoey left for the beach. At least that way he could get a shower in. His house wasn’t too far. 

He yawned, stretching before sitting up, “Morning,” he mumbled.

Rory smiled down at him and he noticed that she was fully dressed and ready for the day. Nancy looked like she had just woken up, too. 

“How’s she doing?” Nancy asked, referring to their other roommate.

He shrugged, rubbing his eyes and yawning once more, “She’s getting there.”

“What’s wrong, anyway? She’s not mad at us, right? Why won’t she talk to us about it, but she’ll talk to you?”

Harry frowned, not prepared to be having this conversation after just being woken up, “No, she’s not mad at you. She just wasn’t ready to talk to anyone about it. I don’t even think she wanted to talk to me about it, either, but I’ve been through a similar situation. She’ll open up eventually, just give her time. I promise she’ll be fine.”

Aurora nodded understandably and Nancy spoke up again, “Well Rory has an interview with a magazine today, but I’m free if you two wanted to hang out.”

Harry winced, scratching his head, “I kind of told Zoey that I’d take her to the beach today, just the two of us. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, it’s okay. No worries,” Nancy shook her head, “I’m sure I can find other plans.”

“But maybe tonight we can all do something?” Harry suggested, “I leave tomorrow morning.”

They both agreed but Harry saw the confusion in Rory’s eyes and he felt bad. He hardly saw her during this visit and he doubted he’d be back before the end of the tour. Hopefully, he can make it up to her somehow. 

Nancy made herself and Harry some coffee while Rory left for her meeting and they chatted as Zoey slept. Nancy was interesting to talk to because she never ran out of things to say and her tangents always made him laugh. 

Binx had jumped up onto Harry’s lap and kept bumping his head into Harry’s arm as he tried to pet him when they heard a door crack open from down the hall. Binx leaped off of his lap to trot along Zoey’s side. Her bun was loose and messy with strands of hair falling out of the back, and she padded into view wearing a pair of black biker shorts and an oversized yellow graphic t-shirt.

“Morning,” she smiled, plopping down next to Nancy and resting her head on her friend's shoulder.

Nancy grinned, happy to see Zoey more lively, “Good morning, lovely,” she sang, looping her arm in her friends, “Sleep well?”

“I actually did, thanks. It’s been a while,” Zoey intertwined her fingers with Nancy’s. “How about you, H? Was the couch alright?”

“Better than a tour bus bunk,” Harry’s puffy eyes creased as he smiled, taking another sip of coffee before he noticed the time on his phone. 9:30 AM, “I need to run home for a shower and a change of clothes, but I’ll be back before noon, okay?”

The girls nodded and Harry quickly finished his coffee before heading out. Once the door closed behind him, Nancy warily started a conversation to test the waters and get a feel on what Zoey’s mood was like. She wasn’t afraid of Zoey being in a bad mood, but she knew something had caused her friend to be sad the last week or so and she didn’t want to put too much pressure on her and make her shut herself out again. But from the conversation, it was clear that Zoey was doing better. Whatever Harry had managed to say or do last night seemed to help, thankful that Zoey had someone to talk to, at least. 

“How do you feel about a game night since it’s Harry’s last night here?” Nancy inquired.

Zoey nodded, pursing her lips, “Yeah, sounds fun.”

“Should I text Brett? You up for him to come?”

“Yeah, that’s fine. Why not?” 

She hadn’t seen Brett outside of work in nearly a week and had to admit that she sort of missed him. He was always so much fun and seeing him and Nancy joke around together always had her crying with laughter. Eventually, Nancy wandered to her room to make a few phone calls and Zoey took a cup of coffee to the balcony. She hadn’t realized how long she was out there until Nancy slid the door open and stepped out dressed in a basic light brown t-shirt with the sleeves rolled, a black jean skirt, white tennis shoes, a pair of sunglasses, and her hair in neat, tight curls. 

“You look cute,” Zoey noted.

Nancy smiled, “Thank you. I’m going out to meet with a few friends, but my car is being a piece of shit. I called to have it taken to the shop, but now I don’t have a car. Can I borrow yours? I would uber, but it’s a little far.”

“That sucks! Yeah, my keys are by the door.”

“Thank you so much!” Nancy beamed, hugging her friend before bouncing her way back inside.

Zoey squinted at the cars below, wondering what was going on in their lives or where they were headed. She made up fake scenarios in her mind of a husband and a wife singing along to some music, a family on their way to Disneyland with their excited kids in the backseat, or a group of friends heading into town when she heard the sliding glass doors open again. Except for this time, it was Harry who stepped out, holding two chunks of something wrapped in wax paper. 

“You’re not dressed,” he noticed.

“Oh, shit. Sorry. Lost track of time!” Zoey abruptly stood up, pushing past him and heading to her room. 

Binx followed her in, shutting the door behind her and pulling out her swimsuit and pulling on a short, red wrap dress with white flowers on them, sliding into her white flip flops. She quickly brushed out her knotty hair and threw it up into another bun, wrapping a floral mustard color headband around her head and grabbing a pair of sunglasses on her makeup table before meeting Harry in the living room.

“That was fast,” He said, standing up from the couch.

She finally took in what he was wearing and her eyebrows furrowed, “And you don’t think people will notice it’s you with a clip in your hair, wearing short yellow swim trunks and an unbuttoned blue Hawaiian shirt?” she pointed out, “You couldn’t have picked a more Harry Styles-Esque outfit!”

Harry laughed, grabbing his beach towel, “It’ll be fine. I picked up a couple of sandwiches for us to eat while we’re there. Let’s go.”

Zoey rolled her eyes, grabbing her beach towel, suntan lotion, and a book and tossing it into her beach bag. Harry shoved his towel in as well as the sandwiches, grabbing a couple of waters from the fridge before heading to the door. But just as she was about to reach for her keys, she stopped, realizing they weren’t there.

“Shit,” she muttered.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nancy has my car,” she turned to look at Harry, “should we just get an uber?”

Harry shook his head, “No, we can’t risk waiting for an uber in case we have to leave quickly. I can take us, but I can’t promise you’ll like it.”

Zoey stared up at him, “Why wouldn’t I like it?”

“You’ll see,” he smirked, opening the door and heading towards the elevator.

Zoey cautiously followed him to the car park and froze when they stopped in front of a small motorcycle. He unfastened the helmet from the back and handed it to her.

“You’re kidding.” 

“I’ll drive carefully, I promise.”

“Where do we even put the beach bag?”

“On the back. I have a sack holder,” Harry took the bag from her and strapped it in tightly to the back of his motorcycle before rounding to the side.

“Harry, maybe we should just stay here.”

“Come on, whatever happened to you wanting to be more adventurous?” He raised an eyebrow, smirking. After a moment of pause, she groaned and walked beside him, pulling on the white helmet. Her bun got smushed underneath as Harry tightened the strap under her chin, crinkling his eyebrows as he tried to get a better look and tapping the top of the helmet when he finished, throwing a leg over the side. “Come on, then,” he looked back, patting the small seat behind him.

Zoey frowned behind the screen of the helmet, the heat already beginning to get trapped inside. The sound of her breathing echoed. She grabbed onto Harry’s shoulder, carefully flung a leg over the bike, and straddled the seat, feeling very exposed.

“Just hold onto my waist and follow the turns. Don’t fight against it, okay?”

Zoey took a breath and wrapped her arms around Harry’s stomach, resting the side of her helmet onto his back and locking her clammy hands together. Her heart skipped a beat and began to race when he started the bike up and the roar of the engine came to life. It was loud. 

Slowly, he backed up out of the parking space and lightly jolted as he began to go forward towards the exit of the parking garage. She could see the cars passing by them on the main road as Harry waited for an opportunity to leave and squeezed her eyes tightly shut when he found it, too afraid to look. She felt the bike lightly swaying as they continued down the road and felt Harry’s stomach muscles tense and ease up each time they turned or veered. 

As Zoey got more comfortable on the back of the motorcycle, she began to open her eyes, watching the pavement pass below them and eventually getting the courage to look up at the cars surrounding them, noticing a couple of people glancing over at them from the passenger and back seat of their cars before turning their attention back to whatever it was they were doing. 

“You better hope no one notices it’s you and takes a picture. Might not look good.” Zoey called.

Harry laughed, mocking the made-up headlines, “Mystery girl on the back of Harry’s bike. Who is she?”

“Just an absolute mess of a human being,” Zoey joked back, making him laugh more.

They continued on, finding an indoor parking garage a block from the beach. Harry unhooked the beach bag and flung it over his shoulder, strapped his helmet back in, and led the way out and towards the beach. It wasn’t too busy there when she compared it to the East Coast beaches, surprisingly. There were definitely a couple of crowds on the sand, but most people who came to Santa Monica either went to the pier or walked up and down the strip, so they were able to keep a good distance from other groups of people. It probably helped that it was a Wednesday, too.

The wind whipped at her dress as they laid out their towels, using the bag as a weight in between the two. Harry plopped down on his towel and kicked off his shoes, letting the breeze cool him down from the beaming sun while he watched Zoey rummaging through the bag for her suntan lotion. Once she found it, she lifted off her red dress and tossed it over the bag, exposing her simple baby blue low back one-piece swimsuit and started spraying her exposed skin with SPF, making sure to pay extra attention to her more sensitive, burn-prone areas like her shoulders and chest. 

“Jeez, do you use a whole bottle per day?” Harry squinted, lifting his sunglasses.

“And it still won’t help,” Zoey stuck out her tongue, “I burn like crazy.”

“You look pretty tan to me,” he noted.

“Yeah, once the burn goes away,” she tossed him the bottle.

Harry unbuttoned his shirt, throwing it on top of her dress, and haphazardly sprayed himself down before standing up, “Want to go in the water?”

“Race ya,” she kicked sand back as she darted for the water.

Harry laughed, shouting after her, as he barrelled towards the ocean. Zoey’s shoulders hiked up as the water reached her thighs, cold waves knocking against her. He quickly caught up, lightly splashing water on her arms and dove underneath a wave. When he resurfaced he wiped his eyes and shook his hair free from the salty water searching around for Zoey who snuck up behind him and pushed him right back under. They had gone far enough out that the water reached their chest and the waves were now just ripples that they were able to float on.

“You know, when I was a kid my sister and I would go to the beach and pretend that the waves were dolphins,” Zoey said, kicking her feet in the water, “We’d name each one and pretend that we were mermaids and that the dolphin waves were our friends.”

Harry chuckled, spinning around in the water, “I feel like that’s a right of passage when you’re a kid. Pretending you’re a mermaid or merman. What kid doesn’t do that?”

They laughed, splashing, and joking around more before they decided they were hungry and wanted to eat their sandwiches. The two made their way back to their setup, grabbing their food and eating.

“I’m honestly surprised no one’s noticed you yet.”

Harry swallowed his bite and nodded, “I told you. In large crowds sometimes I can get away with it. For a little while, at least. Then things start to get crazy the longer I’m out. I bet a few people noticed, but they’re too shy to say anything.”

“What do we do if it starts getting crazy?”

“Leave. I can’t imagine us being swarmed or anything, but if it ever gets too crazy, don’t wait up for me. I’ll catch up to you somehow.”

Zoey nodded understandingly before saying, “Nancy mentioned having a game night tonight if you want. I think she was going to ask Brett to come, too.”

Harry eyed her, “Yeah? That’d be fun. What’s going on with him, anyway? Last night you said he was ' a whole different story’. What does that even mean?”

Zoey narrowed her eyes at him, retorting, “What’s going on with you and Rory? It’s been almost two weeks and you still haven’t made up your mind?”

“Alright, alright!” Harry threw his hands up, calling a truce.

She laughed, “No, but seriously, what is going on? I mean I know you and Rory still have a thing...whatever you want to call it. But you’re touring. Do you see anyone while you’re on the road?”

“Are you asking me if I have one night stands?” Harry raised his eyebrows, amused.

Zoey rolled her eyes, “I mean, not exactly the phrase I was looking for. But sure.”

“No, I haven’t slept with anyone other than Rory while I was on tour. I don’t even have the time to, honestly. I’m too busy.”

“Oh, you don’t have ten minutes to spare to fuck, but you have time to fly across the country four times just to hang out?” She smirked.

Harry laughed, throwing his wrapper at her, “I’m tired of you.”

When they finished eating, Harry laid on his back and let the warm sun dry him off, resting his eyes. He wasn’t sure how much had passed when he was awoken by children laughing in delight a few yards away and he sat up slightly, holding himself up with his elbows. Harry took in the scene as a few teenagers passed a football at each other in the distance, children to his right played in the sand, attempting to build sandcastles, and Zoey laid on her towel to his left, on her stomach, kicking her legs as she turned a page in her book, so deeply focused that she hadn’t noticed him wake up. He grinned as she bit her lip, something he did when he was deep in thought, too.

He had to do it. He couldn’t help himself. “AH!” he screamed, jabbing at her sides. Zoey shrieked, pushing herself away and instinctively throwing her book at him. He groaned, rubbing his nose where her book collided, wincing.

“I’m not even going to apologize for that,” she huffed, collecting her book, “You deserved it.”

“You’re too easy to scare,” he smiled, sitting upright. “Are you ready to go?” The sun was starting to cast a golden light onto the beach which could only mean it was close to dinner time. Nancy would be expecting them back soon for game night.

“Yeah, I can feel myself starting to burn.”

Harry snorted and they shook the sand off of their towels, throwing it back into the bag and pulling their clothes back on before making their way back towards the parking garage when they were stopped by a few girls who recognized him. Harry was kind and talked to them, asking how their day was and what they were up to.

“Is this your girlfriend?” one of them boldly asked.

Harry let out a huff of a laugh as Zoey chuckled, “Absolutely not. I’m basically a therapist.”

“She’s just a friend,” Harry informed the girl, changing the subject, “Did you want a photo?”

“Yes, please!” The girls giggled, pulling out their phones.

“I can take it if you’d like?” Zoey offered, “I’m pretty good at getting people’s good sides.”

The girls laughed, handing her each of their phones and they all got together, smiling. Zoey took a few pictures on each of the phones to be on the safe side and Harry gave them all friendly hugs before him and Zoey continued up to the parking garage.

“I think it just hit me who you are,” Zoey admitted, walking in stride beside him.

Harry laughed, “Took you long enough.”

When they reached his bike he again helped her with the helmet and they climbed on, Zoey wrapping her arms around Harry’s stomach as he drove back to her condo, his loose shirt flapping in the wind. The ride back felt different. She was more comfortable on the bike now, of course. But it was something else. Maybe the sudden realization of where she was and who she was with had something to do with it. She could feel the warmth of Harry’s back on her chest and could feel the vibrations of the bike’s engine on his stomach. She could even smell him, sweet yet salty from the ocean air. She wasn’t expecting this wave of temptation, and quickly shook it out of her head. Harry was out of bounds. Besides, even if he wasn’t seeing her roommate, she knew too much about him, now, to go there. She chuckled at the thought and continued watching the palm trees that passed.

 Nancy and Rory were home by the time they had gotten back and Harry helped the girls make dinner while Zoey took a quick shower, rinsing all of the sand from her hair. When she finished, she put her wet hair in two french braids, threw on a plain white tee and striped black shorts, and joined the rest of them to see what she could help with. As she was plating all of the food, Brett had arrived, earning hugs from the girls and a friendly handshake back slap from Harry. 

“Hey, Zoey, how’s it going?” Brett winked from across the kitchen.

She smirked, lightly brushing his arm as she passed him carrying the plates towards the dining table. She knew he was staring at her ass. She could feel his eyes burn holes onto them as she set the plates down, and she had to admit, she loved it. Having someone want you can sometimes be a good feeling. Not always, but sometimes. And in this circumstance, particularly when she felt a bit cheeky, it was nice.

The group quickly ate and chatted before pulling out the games which ranged from standard card games to Pictionary and eventually playing charades. They decided to play girls against guys first, which the girls annihilated before eventually having Zoey on the guys’ team since Rory and Nancy had the advantage of knowing each other for the longest period of time. However, Zoey and Harry seemed to be on a roll, shouting out the right guesses in seconds. Brett got a few answers in there, too, but groaned when he couldn’t get it quick enough.

“Jesus Christ, what are you two? Mind readers? Are you cheating?” Nancy exclaimed as Harry jumped up and celebrated their victory with Zoey. 

He laughed, “Don’t be a sore loser.”

After a while, they decided to settle down and watch a movie. They sat on the couch with Nancy on one end next to Brett, Zoey sat in between him and Harry who sat in the corner next to Rory at the other end. Zoey noticed as the movie progressed that Harry and Rory had gotten closer and closer to each other until Rory’s head was resting on his chest and they were completely ignoring the movie and whispering to each other instead. 

Eventually, the two of them stood up and when everyone looked their way, Aurora announced, “We’re just going to go out for a bit.”

Zoey shot Harry a smug look which he winked at before they were out of view. And then she pictured Harry clasping the helmet on Rory’s perfect, long brown hair and taking her back to his place on the back of his motorcycle with her arms around his stomach and she felt overwhelmed and tired. She had surely got way too much sun today and maybe one too many glasses of wine at dinner.

“Hey, I’m going to head to bed,” Zoey turned to Brett and Nancy, pushing herself up from the couch, “Night, guys.”

She slinked off towards her room, closing her blinds and climbing under the covers. It seemed like ages before she finally got to sleep. Until she was awoken by the sudden rush of air that hit her skin as her sheets were lifted behind her.

“Hey. You awake?” a hushed Aussie accent whispered in her ear.

She turned to see Brett slip into her bed and smirked, wrapping her arm around his neck, “I can be.”

He pulled her body closer to hers and pushed his wet lips hard against hers so hard that she felt the pressure on her teeth. Still need to work on that kissing.

KEEP READING

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taglist:

@thurhomish​

[izaswritings]

Title: Faults of the Mind

Synopsis:  Having escaped the perils of the Dark Kingdom, Rapunzel finally returns home—but all is not well in the Kingdom of Corona, and the black rocks are quickly becoming the least of her troubles. Meanwhile, over a thousand miles away, Varian struggles with new powers and his own conscience.

The labyrinth has fallen into rubble. A great evil stirs in the world beyond. The Dark Kingdom may be behind them, but the true journey is just beginning—and neither Rapunzel nor Varian can survive it on their own.

Warnings for: some cursing (for once, actually, not from Varian), internal self-loathing/self-hatred (not constant, but occasionally vicious), references to past child abuse, references to past character death, past character injuries, detailed description of scars, PTSD symptoms and the lingering effects of trauma. If there’s anything you think I missed, please let me know and I’ll add it on here!

-

AO3 version is here.

Arc I: Labyrinths of the Heart can be found here!

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Chapter II: The Stranger

.

One day, as the Sun slipped below the hills to rest, she saw a beautiful woman dancing on the seas.

Dark like a shadow, and eyes glowing bright, the woman danced alone to the raging waves. Entranced by the sight, the Sun drew closer, unable to look away. But it was more than beauty, more than curiosity that caught her so. For the woman on the seas was lovely, yes, but she danced to no music. Here, even the wind was silent, and it struck the Sun as unbearably lonely. She watched the woman twirl to nothing, and was reminded of herself.

And as the stranger danced to silence, the Sun opened her mouth and began to sing…

.

Rapunzel can’t sleep.

It is three hours after her disastrous homecoming, and Rapunzel is finally ready to admit defeat. She just—can’t. She can’t sleep. She’s been lying here for hours, she’s been trying with all her might, because she’ll never convince Cassandra and Eugene things are fine if she looks like the living dead—but despite the exhaustion weighing at her body, despite how heavy her eyes, Rapunzel is wide awake.

She turns her face into her pillow, smushing her nose, breathing deep to stave off another wave of tears. Oh, she hatesthis—being sad and being tired all at once. It just clings, the tangle of emotion dragging her down despite her best attempts to ignore it, to stay positive.

It’s not that Rapunzel hasn’t been let down before, hasn’t been hurt, hasn’t been betrayed. She has. Gothel, Varian, her father… No. It’s not the first time, as much as she hates to think that. But she knows how to laugh despite it—to force a smile, and laugh, and turn her back to the things that seek to cut her open. She knows, but something about this—something about being right, about having expected it, about it hurting anyway—digs in deeper than usual.

After that disastrous conversation with her parents, Rapunzel had fled. She had locked herself in her room and gone through the motions of preparing for sleep in a furious, half-distraught daze. Changed into her nightgown with a solemn grit to her teeth, even as her cheeks burned hot with fresh tears. Brushed her hair with stiff hands and got barely a quarter done before she had to stop. For those first few hours, Rapunzel had breathed and she had cried and she had paced, restless and alone. She had let herself feel, then. She was alone here, in this room, and that meant it was okay to cry.

It’s not that Eugene and Cassandra didn’t try to stay with her, of course. They did. They chased after her down the hall, and knocked quietly on the door when she locked it behind her. But in the end, they had listened when Rapunzel waved them away. They had left. Even Pascal, though still with her, is quiet in his support, nudging at her cheek and staying curled on her shoulder, but leaving her otherwise alone. In this moment, the distance is needed. Rapunzel doesn’t want to talk right now. She doesn’t want comfort. She wants to throw a tantrum behind closed doors, without worry of what others will think of her for it. She wants to be angry, she wants to scream, and she doesn’t want to be talked down from it—not yet. Soon, maybe… but not yet.

Even now, hours later—the very idea of soft words and useless placations makes her want to break something. Her face is hot from her crying fit, a headache pulsing behind her eyes from the pressure, but her tears have finally run dry. It is practically morning already, but Rapunzel still cannot sleep.

Lying piled under her bedcovers, Rapunzel turns her head into her pillow and sighs. The covers are heavy, pressing down like bricks, fabric tangled in her fingers and twisted around her legs like a web. When she moves, she can feel every weave, every knot, every thread, the silk rough and itchy against her skin. There’s a blood rush to her head, or maybe just heat, a pressure like she’s been holding her breath until she’s fit to burst, a painful ache building behind her gummy eyes, burning like a fever. It’s both too quiet, and too much all at once—Pascal, silent in rest, even the birds asleep; the wind, beating at her balcony windows, her own heartbeat roaring in her ears and rushing through her head.

She can’t stop thinking about it, is the thing. She’s so stupid. She knew it couldn’t end well. She knew it was coming, and it still hurts. She knew, and yet—she feels like she can’t breathe right, like the air has gone thin and Rapunzel is still adjusting, like her gut has been hollowed out and her heart’s been twisted in her chest, wrung dry, strangled quiet. The press of her thoughts, the weight of everything, leans unyielding on her shoulders. If she thinks about it for too long, or too closely, she can feel her breath catch, her eyes prickling with tears, less from pain and more from stress. God, it’s so much. It’s just so much. She doesn’t—she doesn’t want—

She is aware, distantly, of her breathing beginning to pick up speed, wheezing in her chest; when she opens her eyes, the world blurs, dark and shadowy and too close, labyrinthine, her tower all over again, the roof caving in on her.

Her panic sharpens to a needle point. She throws off her covers, a scream stifled in her throat, and hunches over her middle with a choked gasp. Her eyes are hot and swollen, and it hurts to cry. Her hair hangs heavy around her like a shroud, sticky with sweat. Her hands are screaming stiff, pins and needles stabbing into wooden fingers.

The roar of wind outside her window is like thunder. Everything roars, her ears blocked, her pulse hammering through her skull. She feels sick and dizzy, and the longer she stays under the covers the more she feels like she’s being swallowed up. Rapunzel squeezes her eyes shut against the prick of tears, and opens them with a sigh, hissed through her teeth.

...She can’t do this.

She rolls out of bed, slow and careful, pulling on a shawl. Every movement, every sound, every brush of her hand against the covers… it’s all too loud, too much. Getting out of bed feels like walking through the tide. Standing takes time and effort.

She finds her feet, and the world spirals. She makes her way for the balcony, and the fact she doesn’t fall over is something of a miracle. Her footsteps pound, and the balcony door squeals when it opens, the glass burning cold to the touch. As she pushes open the door, the wind picks up and nearly slams it closed again, whistling fit for a storm.

She steps out into the freezing air, and the stone is frigid against her bare toes. By this point, it must almost be the cusp of dawn: the sun still hangs low below the horizon, but the sky is slowly staining a mystical kind of blue, the clouds above gray and soft.

Rapunzel takes a moment to look at it, to breathe it in—tilts up her face to the cold air, her cheeks sticky from tears, her eyes sore—and lets it calm her. After the sleepless night she just had, hot from tears and restless turning, the winter touch is almost soothing.

Rapunzel steps up to the balcony, reaching out to brace herself against the metal railing. Even through the gloves, the chill strikes through.

Below her, all of Corona sprawls at her feet. She’s so high up she can see the whole city, all the way to the distant mountains and the shining sea, and while normally this sight would comfort her, tonight it makes something small and nasty curdle in her chest. Rapunzel, alone in her room. But who is she fooling? It’s gentler, perhaps, but it’s still the same: Rapunzel, alone in her tower.

...She’s not being fair, she thinks, finally. It’s different. She knows it is! She can leave, after all. She can leave whenever she wants, but in this moment, Rapunzel finds herself struggling to remember the differences. It’s still a tower. It’s still a cage, in its own way, and she’s already learned from painful experience that prison bars can be put on these windows too.

She stares blankly down at the city, her hair dragging like a train behind her, and her fingers flex on the metal in sudden thought. If she wanted to. If she really wanted to—she could leave, right now. Loop her hair around the balcony and slip down to the ground. She could. Who would know? Who could stop her?

For a moment Rapunzel stands there and really, truly considers it—and then steps away, releasing hold of the balcony and her breath. She backs up to the wall, away from the ledge. Her will falters and then firms. No. No, she’ll stay. Leaving now, after that conversation, after just returning, with the situation as it is… it would only make things worse, add a new layer of drama to the whole mess.

No. She’ll stay.

She’s staying.

Still—the possibility, the open chance, the fact she could—just this eases some of the tension building up in her chest. Rapunzel closes her eyes and slides down to sit against the balcony doors, tilting back her head to rest on the cold glass, her face turned up to the cloudy skies.

She breathes. One breath. Two breaths. Slowly, her claustrophobia fades, eased away by the soothing cold. Rapunzel wipes her cheeks dry and rubs at sore eyes, the silk gloves itchy against her skin. She makes a face at the feeling and pulls it away, holding out her hand to see it properly in the moonlight.

Her hands are gloved, now, and even after all this time, Rapunzel is still not quite used to it. The gloves are pretty and embroidered, white silk stitched with delicate flowers and lovely detail—Cassandra’s idea, Cassandra’s gift. She’d bought them so Rapunzel could hide, so that her healing hands wouldn’t be left bare and aching in the chill. And the gloves, they are beautiful, they are lovely… but in this moment, all Rapunzel can do is frown at them.

She tugs them off on impulse—just one, just her right hand. Her exposed skin aches in the searing cold, her fingers curling in away from the icy air, looking almost like claws.

Even in the dim morning light, the scars are unmistakable, pink and shiny and pitted on her skin.

Rapunzel stares are them for a long time, turning her hand to and fro. The scar cuts up her inner wrist, slicing neat across her palm and into the curl of her inner fingers. The cut is straight, precise—but the edges of the scars pucker and tear at her palm, little lightning lines across her hands. The consequences, the result, of Rapunzel using the hand too soon, stressing the injury before it even had the chance to heal. She curls her fingers into a fist—easier than straightening them, most days—and remembers the golem’s gruesome blade.

“I’ve survived worse,” Rapunzel reminds herself, looking at the scars. She tries to keep her voice bright, positive; in the cold, it shakes. “I— I made it! I made it through.” Her fingers flex and close again, grasping on the air. “And I can make it through this, too.”

The wind whistles in answer. Rapunzel looks to the clouded sky, and finally pushes herself back up to her feet. There is an itch in her fingertips, a restless sort of pacing in her soul. Not from injuries, or claustrophobia—no, this feeling is one she knows. This is inspiration.

She heads back inside, pulling off the other glove as she walks, and throws the silk to a side table as she makes for her desk. She gathers up an armful of her paints and brushes, the tools untouched for over half a year, and curls her fingers tight around the slick wood handle of her favorite paintbrush. Her hands are scarred, and shaky, and aching… but they are hers. Her hands. They may be a little less secure, but she can still work with this, and she can still make something beautiful.

She takes up her supplies, goes back to the balcony, and kneels down to paint anew. The icy stone presses hard against her knees; the moonlight is faint, but bright enough to work by. She settles the jars of paint by her side, and splashes color across the rocks.

She paints like a man possessed, her mind soothed and consumed by the idea. Colors and shapes take form for each worry on her mind. She thinks of the scars and how she got them, and splashes red across the stone. Remembers the labyrinth and paints swaths of darkened blue. Thinks of the Moon, of Varian and the Dark Kingdom, and black fills the corners of her makeshift canvas. Her parents—a bright spiral of amber-orange, murky and dim. The changes in Corona become tall silhouettes of buildings and gray paint dragging down her balcony floor. The memory of Cassandra, of Eugene, of Pascal—gold flecks of light, dancing across her stone canvas.

By the time the painting’s complete, her hands are screaming and her back is sore from the time spent bent over the balcony. Rapunzel sits up, and though she still can’t bring herself to smile, she no longer feels like she’s drowning. Something has settled, heavy but secure, in the hollow of her chest. Her breathing is soft and steady. There is paint in her hair, the rainbow flecking from her fingers—and finally, clarity.

Across the whole length of the balcony, a new artwork sprawls across the white-washed marble stone. She’s painted a dark silhouette of the Corona capital, turned shadowy and indistinct from the vivid red-orange sky burning behind it. High above, an eclipsed sun sits over the city, red light trailing down like faded ribbons to shatter the city into segments. At the edges of the piece, great shadows swirl and surround the city like a makeshift border, and the blank white space of unpainted stone looks like reaching hands, thin and sinister.

It is a gloomy, twisted piece—as complicated as her feelings. Yet… there is light, too, even in this darker artwork. Golden streams coiling up the roadways, dancing in the streets. Small little lanterns shining bright and strong in the shadow city, burning bold against the emptiness.

Rapunzel twirls her paintbrush one last time. Her hands ache. Her hair shrouds around her face like a veil. The sun is starting to rise, now, distant light turning the world blue and dreamlike, and in this new dawn the world seems a little bit brighter. Easier to breathe. Easier to face.

Rapunzel closes her eyes, and leans heavy against the balcony doors. And at long last—for the first time since that disastrous homecoming conversation—she finally manages a smile.

.

True to Adira’s word, they leave the merchant camp behind by sunset.

They leave it, also, in awkward silence. Varian packs his bags, and Adira leads the way—both of them seething, and neither willing to speak first. Adira is frowning slightly as they leave the camp behind them. Varian follows in her wake, glaring at the ground, and pets Ruddiger with more rigor than usual in an attempt for calm. He gets only an annoyed fwap to the face for his troubles, and Ruddiger’s usual scolding chitters.

Varian still doesn’t know where they're going—but after that fight, well, he’s no longer in the mood to ask.

So he doesn’t question it, when Adira leads them back through the city, past the main gate and through the streets once again, heading inland. He doesn’t question it, but he does wonder,for lack of anything better to think about. (He missesalchemy. The lack of distraction makes his fingers itch.)

It’s his second time walking through these streets, but in this later hour, Port Caul is like another place entirely. The crowds have thinned to barely a trickle, the doors latched shut, the streetlamps just beginning to burn. The docks of the port city are still bustling, but with the earlier conversation of the merchants in mind Varian keeps a sharper eye out. This time, he sees the empty ports where ships should be, the closed stalls and stiff smiles of the dock workers, their frequent glances to the water.

It’s… subtle. Hard to see on his own. But there’s something in the air, something he can finally identify. Something that reminds him, uncomfortably, of Old Corona. It’s the same feeling—a tension, almost, a building pressure, that feeling he got when the rocks first began growing in the village, closer and closer each day.

The comparison unsettles him, and he slows, eyes darting around for more clues. The shops, the amount of guards walking about… those lights in the distant ocean, more merchant ships or a patrol? “Something’s off,” he murmurs, to himself, half under his breath. Thinking aloud. He curls his hand into Ruddiger’s fur to keep grounded, his mind spinning circles.  “It’s all… wrong, but why…?”

“Finally noticed, have you?”

He almost trips, and it’s only Adira’s quick reflexes that save him from face-planting the road. She hauls him back to his feet, dangling him by his collar like a cat. He yelps, and she drops him. “The merchant groups have been talking about it for nearly a month,” she continues. Her tone is mild and blank. “It’s been a daily concern. Trade is, after all, the livelihood.”

He hefts the wrapped package up against his chest like a shield and backpedals out of her reach, staring hard at the ground. His face is hot, his cheeks red. He hadn’t known she’d been listening. He hadn’t known this was something he should have noticed sooner, and he’s not sure whether to feel ashamed he missed it or irritated that she had these stupid expectations in the first place. He’s an alchemist—or at least he used to be—not a spy. “Is thatwhy we came here?”

Adira eyes him, looking annoyed again, but shrugs and turns away without further comment, continuing on through the darkening streets. Varian has to scramble to keep up. “No,” she says, over her shoulder. “More of a bonus, really. But we did well to come here when we did. Any longer…”

She shakes her head, and doesn’t elaborate. Varian’s mood darkens further. Typical. That stupid fight, all for nothing—she’s still keeping secrets. Still saying nothing. He looks down at his feet, and by his side, his hands clench into white-knuckled fists.

A small paw bats his ear, and his focus shatters, his thoughts derailed. He turns, and Ruddiger baps at his face, cold nose nudging at his cheek. A bushy tail brushes by his other ear, restless sweeping. He looks at Ruddiger and sees worry in the raccoon’s eyes, and his heart drops to his knees.

He swallows hard, and slowly unclenches his fists again. Stares down, silent, at the streets, and this time follows Adira without complaint. Ruddiger croons in his ear, soft and forgiving, but the knot of tension remains.

By the time they leave the city behind, the sun is far below the horizon and the sky is darkening from red to a rich purple-black. Beyond the port town, the roads trail off from cobblestone to dirt, and long lush fields of green stretch on for miles. The flatlands are dotted with fence lines and lantern-lights, distant houses built low and wide, near invisible in the long grass. Faint specks of light float up from the waves of greenery, winter-light fireflies native to this region. In the distance, a great fog broils over the fading silhouette of Port Caul—a low, heavy sort of fog, as dense as a cloud, slowly but surely creeping in over the farmlands. It’s as lovely as it is freezing—an endless field, summer greenery in the winter cold, like a fairytale.

It’s beautiful, and unlike anything Varian has ever seen. Corona is all hills and forests, and any farms are village-bound and limited, the town reliant on outside trade from the capital city. He’s never seen farms like this: large-scale and endless, rolling fields of flatland tilled and maintained by human hands, enough food to feed a whole city. He can see for miles, all the way to the ocean, and the sheer stretch of distance dizzies him.

Still, despite the beauty, despite the shadowed land and ruby red skies like something from a picture book, Varian can’t help but feel uneasy. It goes on for miles, and miles, and miles. No walls, no hills, no natural landmarks—he could wander for days and remain utterly lost.

And it’s getting dark, now; evening trekking on into nighttime, and—and he can’t seeanything, can’t see where the road leads, where it ends. They’re heading out far, the city distant and dim behind them, and the houses here are few and far between. He sneaks a glimpse at Adira and worries at his lip. Are they going to be traveling all night?

He doesn’t feel comfortable asking her. She’ll just mock him, probably, and won’t give a straight answer anyway, and he’s too tired for that—so he focuses on his feet and on keeping steady. His oversized boots sink in the soft earth, the grass brushing at his knees. His breaths puff out in front of his face like a little fog cloud of his own. Ruddiger, sitting prim on his shoulder, leans up to bat at a few fireflies; he nearly falls off in the attempt, and Varian watches him play with a faint smile.

They keep going. The road gets harder and harder to see, and when Adira takes them off the main path, down a little side-trail that’s more footprints than actual paved walkway, it becomes near-impossible. He keeps his eyes on her retreating back, afraid to lose her. If he stops, if he stumbles and she doesn’t notice, could he be left behind in these fields, wandering lost until dawn?

Another hour passes. It’s pitch dark, now, the fields black with shadow and the only light coming from the moon high above. Varian tries his best not to look at it. His skin crawls under the blue glow, shivers wracking his frame. Every brush of the wind feels like icy fingers around his neck. For a moment, he swears he can almost hear a voice—soft laughter on the wind, vengeful whispers in his ears. Lost again, little boy?

He’s so distracted by this sensation, he doesn’t notice Adira has stopped until he runs right into her. He smacks into her back and reels back with a yelp, sitting hard in the dirt.

Adira looks down at him. Even in the darkness, he can see that raised eyebrow.

“Why—why did you—”

“We’re here.”

“—what?” He pushes back to his feet. “What do you…” The words trail off. The clouds move past the moon, and in the growing brightness, he realizes the wall of shadow in front of them is not the same dark fields but a house.A tiny cottage, nestled between countryside and pasture; a small, modest thing, barely two floors, with a heavy wooden door and a small porch. Even now, he can barely see it—the house is built low to the ground, dark and seamless with the black horizon, near invisible in the great expanse of the landscape.

His throat locks. Varian shrinks away, clutching the package to his chest. Ruddiger curls around his neck like a shield. The windows of the house are dark, the porch empty. There’s nothing here to be afraid of, but he’s unsettled by how hard it was to find.

Adira holds no such reservations—she seems amused by his fear, a ghost of a smile on her face as she steps up to the door. The cottage is too small for her; her head would brush the doorframe if she wasn’t careful. This quiet, muted place, hidden by the dark—it is strange to see her there, standing on the steps like she belongs. She doesn’t. She is too big, too noticeable, out of place with the picture, and it makes Varian shuffle on his feet, abruptly uncomfortable in a way he cannot name. Like the house itself, in its own way, rejects them for being here.

It is not the first time he has felt this—like the world itself is aware of him, and disproves of where he steps. He doesn’t look at the sky, but the moonlight burns against his neck regardless.

Adira knocks on the door, and the sound rings low and heavy, shattering the quiet night. For a long moment, nothing happens. The windows remain dark, the house silent, seemingly empty.

And then, behind the door—the soft thud of footsteps. A pale glow flickers through the window. An eyeglass on the door glints with a brief candlelight—and then the door swings open, flung gaping wide.

“Adira. I thought you were dead.”

Backlit by dim candlelight, the shadowy silhouette of a woman leans against the open doorway. She is older, at least Adira’s age, with dark skin, dark eyes, and dark hair streaked with gray. Her small mouth is pinched in a frown; her eyes, lined with crow’s feet, peer out into the night. Her short hair, cut to her nape, curls and coils about her head. Varian leans in for a better look—and freezes, caught, when the woman’s narrow gaze pins on him with startling intensity.

The stranger stares at him, and her eyes go wide. Her lip curls, face drawing tight with fury. “What,” she says, sudden danger in her voice, “is this?”

Varian’s heart drops. The woman, now illuminated by the candlelight, finally clicks into place. He almost drops the package right on his foot. Her face—her voice—the slight accent— Oh.

Oh,Varian thinks. Oh no.

“You!” he yelps.

“You,”says the woman.

“Who?” says Adira, and looks between them rapidly with a scowl.

“Rude boy from the docks!” says the woman—the woman, the woman from earlier today, the one who woke him on the docks and urged him to get moving before he got arrested for sleeping there. Her eyes are bright with recognition, and she glances between him and Adira with a swiftly darkening frown. “What is this!?”

Adira is frowning too, now, looking displeased. “You two… have met?”

“That is myquestion,” snaps the woman, irritably. She runs a hand through her hair, fingers bunching in the short curls. Her expression is frazzled, her foot beginning to tap. “Do not ask a question that I should be asking you, that is very rude, do not. I have—you—the amount of questions I have, goddamn you! It’s near midnight, you absolute… Who are you to come barging in here!? Why now, even, what are you doing here—”

“I’m not allowed to visit?” Adira asks.

The woman stomps her foot and crosses her arms, looking serenely unimpressed. “No,” she says. “No, you are not. Five months, damn you! No letters, no word, not even a whisper, and now you think you can come to my city and knock on my door and pretend you are visiting?” She glances between them again, her eyes lingering on Varian, and her scowl darkens into a glower. “No. Get out!”

“I brought a gift,” Adira counters, recovering, mild at the rejection. She pushes Varian forward, into the light. He stares at her, and at her pointed glance to the package, startles bolt upright and sticks out his arms, holding the package aloft. Right! Right. The book.

He keeps his mouth shut, though, even as he offers it to the stranger. Something about the situation unsettles him—and not just that the woman has recognized him. Thisis the friend Adira was talking about? And yet, this whole conversation… the tense line to Adira’s shoulders, the way they are talking—there is something off here, something he’s missing. It unnerves him.

The unease only deepens when the woman stares back at him. She eyes the book briefly and then glares right at Varian, her jaw tightening. She eyes him for so long he almost thinks she won’t take it—but then her hand snaps out and snatches it from his grip, so quick he almost misses it.

The woman has set the candle off to the side; she tears into the package with both hands, ripping off the wrapping paper with one sharp tug. In her hands, she hefts a large tome, almost as long as her entire forearm. The furrow between her brow deepens. She flips through the pages with quick and precise movement.

“A book,” she says, finally, sourly, snapping the tome shut. “A book? You think a book will buy you my favor? You have been gone so long your brains have addled, Adira, if you truly think—”

“You’re welcome,” Adira says, and the woman gives a truly impressive scowl.

“It is a very nice book,” she says, after a long moment of wrestling with herself, the words stiff. “But frankly? I do not care. Get out. I will not ask again.”

There’s a long pause. Adira’s amused expression fades, her smile near a grimace. She seems to come to some sort of decision, because her stance shifts, her head lowering. “…I need your help,” she says, finally, and the words are strained.

The woman barely bats an eye. “Hah! Tough.”

“I wouldn’t come if it weren’t serious.”

“So you visit me only when it suits you, is that it? No hellos, only business and bribes?” She crosses her arms. “And here I thought us friends. Well, no matter—I shall not do business with you. Too bad, so sad. Go away.”

Another pause. From the corner of his eye, Varian watches Adira take a deep breath. Her smile is gone entirely now. By her side, her hands clench into fists. Her expression, twisted with something almost like pain.

“Please,” Adira says.

Varian nearly jumps from the shock. He stares outright at her. He has never once heard Adira say that before. He can hardly wrap his mind around it. It must be just as surprising to the woman, because she goes quiet at this, pensive. She watches Adira like a hawk, and her lips press in a thin line. She says nothing.

The silence stretches. Adira exhales, shaky, and adds, “There’s something I need to tell you. You and Ella both.” Her mouth works. For a moment Varian almost think she will say—that word—again, but once is apparently all Adira can take, because she shakes her head and leaves it at that.

The woman’s face is blank. Her eyes, unreadable. Her lips press tight and thin, her brow furrowed, and then she turns and looks at Varian. He stills. Her face is blank, and yet—for a moment he feels pinned, judged, his worth weighed and discarded in a single moment. (The moon, high above them—his skin crawls.)  

“…Adira,” she says, at last. Her eyes stay fixed on Varian, cold and piercing. “Do you understand what you’ve done?”

Adira is looking at Varian too, now. Her voice is quiet. “Yes.”

“…I see.” The woman’s jaw clenches, and she closes her eyes. When she opens them again, her expression is resolved. “We will discuss this further inside. You will owe me.”

“We won’t be here long,” Adira promises. “Five days at most.”

“I am still debating on if I want you here tonight,” counters the woman, cold. “We will discuss it later. If you are lucky I won’t kick you out by dawn.” She doesn’t seem best pleased with the situation, but she steps back and gestures them inside regardless. A long hallway stretches behind her, shadowy and featureless, leading into the dark.

“Well, then,” the woman says, shortly, giving Varian the evil eye. “Come inside, unwanted guests. I am Yasmin. Please, do not bother to make yourselves at home—I, for one, cannot wait until you leave.”

.

For a moment, Varian is still. Frozen in place, staring up at the woman with wide eyes, thrown off-balance by her scowl and rude invitation. He doesn’t know her. He doesn’t likeher. The open door of her home feels like walking into a lion’s den.

But when the woman—Yasmin—steps back to welcome them into her house, however reluctantly, Adira smiles and walks in without faltering. Varian follows with much more hesitation. He steps over the threshold and looks into the darkness with a heavy feeling in his gut. Yasmin’s unfriendly expression, the house’s lonely placement, the memory of the merchants and the city’s unease—it feels like danger. It feels like a secret, waiting to break open into the world.

“Hurry up, would you, the cold air’s blowing right in,” Yasmin says, and Varian jumps in his skin and nearly trips in his haste to get inside.

The door closes heavy behind him. Yasmin picks up her candle and sweeps past him before he can even think to react, heading off down the hall. Varian scrambles to catch up, Ruddiger swinging heavy on his shoulders.

“You’re the one from the docks,” he says again, trying to place her mood. He slows at a trot by her heels, watching her carefully; Yasmin makes a face at the air when he speaks.

“And you are that stupid boy I kicked awake, yes, I recognize you.” She turns to scowl at him, and then her eyes fall on Ruddiger, still curled like a scarf around his neck. “What isthat?”

Ruddiger clamors into his arms, and Varian clutches him protectively to his chest. “He’s Ruddiger.”

“…That is a raccoon.”

“He’s Ruddiger,” says Varian, for lack of anything better, and Yasmin closes her eyes and pinches at her nose, turning away.

“Raccoons,” she mutters darkly, striding off. “Raccoons and liars, all in my house, should have moved to the artic, see if anyone can find me there…”

There’s a creak on the floorboards, somewhere behind him, and Varian turns. It’s probably Adira, he thinks—she’s vanished somewhere in the house—but when he looks behind him, it’s to find himself face-to-face with a stranger.

Another woman blinks down at him, standing high above on a dark stairwell. Like Yasmin, she seems Adira’s age: near ageless in appearance, but clearly older, laugh lines carved deep into her black skin. She’s dressed in a pale-yellow nightgown, a heavy shawl pulled up around her shoulders, dark hair dreaded down her back. An opal clasp necklace hangs low around her neck.

She stares down at Varian, her expression blank, and eyes slowly widening. “Oh,” the new woman says. “Oh! I—oh dear, Yasmin, do we have guests?”

Yasmin steps up behind him. “No,” she says, annoyance heavy in her voice. “It is nothing to worry about, Ella, go back to bed. I’ll be up soon enough.”

The second woman—Ella? —blinks again at this, pulling her gaze away from Varian. “I… Are you sure? I could hear voices from upstairs; you sounded upset. Has someone—” She cuts herself off, suddenly. She stares out over their shoulders, and exhales a shocked breath. Her hand rises to her mouth. “My god. Adira?”

“Damn it all,” Yasmin mutters.

Sure enough: Adira stands at the end of the hallway, exiting from the other room. She meets the new woman’s gaze and smiles. “What, no hello?”

The woman seems stunned silent. “Adira,” she repeats, disbelieving. “My god. Is that really you?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Yasmin announces, sounding sour. “But she won’t be staying long. Ella, please, just ignore her, probably better to forget she came by at all—”

But it is quickly apparent that the newcomer, Ella, is no longer listening. She is already sweeping past Yasmin and Varian both, one hand over her mouth. “Adira!” Unlike Yasmin, she sounds delighted rather than upset. She stops, hands outstretched, like she wants to hug Adira but knows better than to try. “It’s been so long, we almost thought you were dead! How are you? How have you been?”

“Ella—” Yasmin starts, aggrieved.

“I’ve been fine,” Adira says, with a vague smile. “It’s good to see you again, Daffodil.”

“Must we go through this every time? Just call me Ella, please, you’ve known me long enough.” She is laughing, though, smiling ear to ear, and is still grinning when she turns back to Varian. “Ah, I understand the situation now. You’ve brought another with you—how unusual! And who is this?”

“This is Varian,” Adira says, before he can answer. Varian awkwardly returns her smile—and then freezes. Behind Ella, leaning against the wall, Yasmin stares right at him, expression unreadable. Her eyes are cold.

Varian’s breath catches in his throat, his smile stuttering. This is Varian, Adira had said, and that—that’s his name. His realname.

This morning, when he’d run into Yasmin for the first time, he’d told her his name was Vell.

It’s—it’s stupid, he’s being silly; who remembers the name of some random stranger they encountered on the street? And yet—he feels sick, his heart dropped to his knees. Doubt creeps in on him. The darkness in her eyes, the ice of her expression—there’s something frightening about the look on Yasmin’s face, and Varian shrinks back, even as his gut goes hot with anger. He… he hasn’t even doneanything. He hasn’t met her before today, so why, whyis she—

A hand sticks in front of his face, and the thought snaps off into nothing, broken apart by surprise. Varian jolts back to the present. The other woman, Ella, is standing before him now, smiling so warmly he finds himself wrong-footed. She leans down to his level, and the quiet warmth of her smile blocks out Yasmin’s distant glower. “Hello, Varian,” she says. “My name is Elmira.”

Her hand stretches out closer, and Varian finally remembers to take it. Her grip is dry and firm; her hands are soft. Her smile is small but bright, and something about her—something about the gentle way she speaks—

“Everyone calls me Ella, though,” she adds, sounding sly, and the whispers of Rapunzel fade away. Ella gives a sideways glare to Adira. “Mostdo, anyway.”

Adira shrugs, and Ella sighs, shaking her head. Her eyes turn back to him. “Well, regardless. It’s wonderful to meet you!”

“Nice… nice to meet you too,” Varian stutters out, and steps away as subtly as he can manage. Her smile makes old guilt stick in his throat. “Um, I—thanks for having us…?”

“Oh! Are you staying the night?” Ella turns. “Yasmin, you didn’t tell me were having guests.”

Yasmin shrugs, unmoving. Ella’s smile never wavers—she laughs, brightly, as if the other had told a joke instead, and puts a hand on Varian’s shoulder, turning him away, pushing them all down the hall. “Come along, then,” she says, guiding them forward. “You must have had a long journey—have some tea before you sleep. Adira, have you already put the kettle on? Ah, you read my mind. Please don’t tell me I’m thatpredictable, old friend…”

Varian lets himself be dragged, the soft conversation washing over him. The warm kitchen, the quiet candlelight—with Ella’s entrance the fear has broken, uncertainty chased away by the scented tea and the heat of the ceramic cups. Even Adira is as close as she gets to friendly, speaking in length of odd stories and happenings, indulging Ella’s every question.

And it’s almost enough—almost, almost, almost enough—for him to overlook the way Yasmin slips out of the room, the way Adira smiles and doesn’t drink the tea, and the way Ella very carefully doesn’t ask why theyare here, either.

Varian sips his tea, and he wonders.

.

It is four hours into his first day back in Corona, and Eugene is already sick of it.

It’s—the little things, maybe, the everything. All the dread that came with coming back, and then having all those worst fears proven true when he saw Rapunzel walk, shaking, out of that talk with her parents. Cassandra’s reassignment—god, the thought makes his blood boil. The stilted nature of the castle, the weird way people talk, whispering, as if afraid to be heard…

Eugene isn’t one to judge, really. In fact, for all his faults he likes to think he’s rather good at the whole “no-judging” thing. Going with the flow has always been more his style. But recently, his good opinion towards Corona has soured. It’s a lovely place, but it’s not home—home, to Eugene, is a little orphanage off in a different country, a place he’ll never see again. There’s no loyalty here, not to this kingdom, not to this castle. And with recent events, seeing how they’ve hurt Rapunzel, again, and now Cassandra, too…

Eugene’s starting to think it warrants a little bit of judgement, here. And, well, hey. He knowshe’s not exactly the brightest bulb in the box, especially when it comes to all these silly political debacles, but it’s not like he’s blind, either. This thing? This weird thing happening with Corona? He knows, if nothing else, that it’s not normal.

Sure, he doesn’t know what it means, to see the servants and maids whispering amongst themselves, only to stop when they hear footsteps. He doesn’t know how to interpret the way royal advisor Nigel looks pale and stressed, and treats every letter like its either precious gold or a live explosive. He doesn’t know what to think about the way he’s summoned to an audience with the King and Queen the very morning after their re-entry to Corona, except that maybe their voices are a little colder than they used to be, their tone a little cooler.

He doesn’t know what to make of it—but Eugene still notices.

It’s the dawn of his first morning back inside Corona’s walls, and as he strolls up the north tower staircase to Rapunzel’s room, Eugene keeps his ears open and his eyes peeled. It’s a beautiful day, all things considered. Sunlight streams bright and golden through the wide windows, the carpet soft and giving under his cleaned boots. The air is crisp and cool, the halls almost empty. The morning light brightens up even the dreariest of rooms.

It’s a beautiful day, and Eugene hates it almost on instinct. It’s all he can do to force a smile and hello to the castle staff as he goes, his spirits so low every grin feels like a grimace. He’s finally gotten a semi-decent bath after eight months of river water, but a headache pulses at the edge of his thoughts, the late night and his constant worry leaving dark circles under his eyes. He feels awful, and the day is sostupidly chipper. Didn’t anyone tell the world to knock it off?

But still—even with the headache, even in the midst of his annoyance—Eugene watches. Those off-duty guards, ducking into a side hall, their voices cut short by his approach…just frisking, or perhaps discontent? The kitchen potato peeler, normally upbeat and now silent and paranoid about every loud sound…just a bad week, or perhaps something more?

There’s something here, he thinks. There’s an answer for all their questions, if only he knew where to look.

It’s the reason he watches the shadows, and the reason he’s still smiling as he approaches Rapunzel’s door. The answer is here, somewhere. Maybe in the shadows, maybe in the halls. Maybe it’s in the whispers he doesn’t hear. Or maybe it’s here—in the weak greeting from Stan and Pete, standing guard by Rapunzel’s door… and beside them, standing small: another guard. A young, weedy boy with dark skin and a shaky smile, amber eyes wide behind his shiny helmet.

Elias, newly instated—Cassandra’s replacement and Rapunzel’s new permanent escort.

But there’s no hard feelings here! None at all, nope, and even if there were, Eugene isn’t petty enough to blame the boy for the king’s decisions. So he keeps smiling, keeps on grinning, wondering about secrets and plots even as the kid jolts at his arrival, grabbing at his halberd when Stan and Pete move to open the door.

“W-wait,” Elias says, eyes wide, darting back and forth between Eugene and the others. “Why are you—w-who is—” The halberd swings down to point at Eugene’s chest. “State your—your—your business with the Princess of Corona!”

Eugene backpedals out of range, throwing up in his hands in the universal symbol for please no stabbing. Stan and Pete have already lunged forward, dragging Elias back. “Woah, Eli!” Stan says, and his laugh is high and awkward. “It’s fine, it’s fine! He has a pass, he’s—”

“Eugene Fitzherbert,” Eugene supplies, flashing what he hopes is a charming grin. This situation is bringing back all sorts of bad memories. He keeps his eyes on the halberd. “I’m Rapunzel’s—”

“—intended!” says Pete. “Future intended!”

Way fancier term for it than what Eugene would have chosen—talk about aggressively committed and political, yikes—but who is he to complain? “Yes! Yes, sure, that, exactly.”

“O-oh.” The halberd drops, Elias’s cheeks flushing dark with mortification. “Oh, I—I—I—sorry, I didn’t—I’m—”

“It’s fine!”

“I’m new,” Elias says finally, miserably, and his eyes drop to the ground. Behind the boy, Stan and Pete wince.

Eugene lowers his hands, feeling a little more secure now that the threat of bodily injury has passed, and has to hold back a grimace himself. The look on the kid’s face is painful to witness. New to the job, stationed to guard the princess to his kingdom, and replacing Cassandra—the Captain’s daughter and an unparalleled fighter. It’s an absolute joke of a situation, and something about Elias’s expression tells Eugene that the kid knows it as well as he does.

Eugene softens a little at the sight, and he gives the poor kid an easy smile. “It’s fine,” he repeats, and this time almost means it. No hard feelings, he reminds himself, and it’s easier to remember when seeing Elias right there in front of him. “Nice, uh… guarding!”

If Elias had looked downtrodden before, now he looks near-despondent. He gives a very tiny nod, and his helmet makes a sad little creakas he moves.

Well, hell. “Great!” Eugene announces, bright and desperate, and escapes through the doors before he can dig himself into a deeper hole. Gods, it’s like with Varian all over again; he never says the right thing. Someone please save him from all these mopey teenagers.

(And if the thought of Varian pangs a bit—well. Eugene shakes it away with all the determination of a man with six months of practice.)

The door shut behind him, the terrible conversation escaped, he turns into the room. It’s clean in a way that seems anathema to Rapunzel—eight months of being kept neat by castle maids—and he’s not surprised to find her outside, sitting on the balcony.

Eugene heads out to join her, pausing briefly in the doorway. A new painting lies sprawled across the balcony floor, the image taking up almost the entire space, a mess of dark blues and grays. He tilts his head, seeing an image of Corona in the drooping gray buildings, a solar eclipse hanging over the city like a guillotine blade. The painting is violent, and twisted, but not without light—tiny specks of gold float around the dark space, turning a depressing image into something a little more complex.

Well, then.

“Nice new addition,” he remarks, careful to skirt around the edges of her artwork, keeping clear of the drying paint. He joins her on the balcony, leaning next to her against the railing. She doesn’t answer, and Eugene doesn’t press; looks away, instead, giving her time to compose herself.

He looks out over the railing, trailing his eyes across the kingdom. In the midday sun, Corona is awash with pale winter brightness. Snow piles haphazardly on the distant rooftops, the hills a mix of dark green pine and slushy white. The sea seems to glow in the sunlight.

“You know, of all the places I’ve been, Corona is one of the most portrait-worthy. I ever tell you that? I mean, look at this. What man could see this kind of view and not immediately want to buy an island? God damn.”

A quiet huff of laughter, a giggle bit back by a quickfire smile. Eugene grins broadly at the sky and checks her with his shoulder. “No?”

Rapunzel looks at him from the corner of her eye, still red-eyed but playing along. “I can’t say I’ve ever wanted an island,” she says, finally. The ghost of a smile lingers at her lips. “What would you do all day?”

“Well—” He stops, considering. “Swim, I guess?”

“…All day? Every day?” Ah, such a doubtful tone. She tries so hard not to judge, but he can almost see the raised eyebrow, even without looking.

Eugene closes his eyes to the sun and feels his smile broaden, laughter shaking in his chest. “Blondie, no one ever said it had to be a well-planned dream.”

She flounders, at that. “Well, no, but…”

He shrugs, snickering, and laughs aloud when she elbows him, coughing hard in his elbow to keep under control. They fall together in a comfortable silence. Eugene’s smile gentles into something a little softer, a little quieter; he tucks his hands under his armpits to keep warm, and finally looks over at her, bracing himself against the chill.

It’s better than he feared: Rapunzel looks worn, but instead of despairing she just seems tired. Her expression is distant and near-empty, but the calm seems hard-won: her eyes are troubled, and there are deep shadows lining her face, a hint of redness around the eyes, a flush to her cheeks. She’s been crying, and crying hard.

Eugene thins his lips. “…Any better?”

Rapunzel’s eyes flicker to him and then away. She leans against the railing with a gusty sigh, and the sound sinks her whole body, like a weight pressing on her shoulders. “Not really.”

He works his jaw. He knows, now, about the labyrinth, and what happened there—some of it, at any rate, the story pieced together in fits and bursts over the last few months. For Rapunzel, telling the story is like pulling teeth: something painful and unfortunately necessary, that aches even hours after the deed is done.

“You were supposed to have breakfast with them today, right?” he tries. “They take it okay?” She’s silent for a little bit too long, and Eugene winces at the look on her face. “…Ah.”

Rapunzel looks away again, rubs at her eyes. “I—I just, I couldn’t. Not today, not after… you know. And last night, they… they tried to make it easy on me, but—”

“Yeah.”

“And I—I mean, I can’t—obviously I left things out. I mean.”

The Problem of Varian. No, yeah, Eugene can already see how that went down. It’s all around terrible, because even without the secrecy, he’s not sure the King and Queen would react any better. It’d been a huge source of debate between the three of them during their journey home, and while silence on Varian’s fate is perhaps the better option… well. It doesn’t make it any easier.

Rapunzel freeing Varian was… Eugene isn’t sure what to think of it, and frankly, he doesn’t think he has the right to judge. But still. Even he can tell that those were not the actions of a princess, but rather the actions of Rapunzel herself. Justice not in the way of Kings and Queens, but rather, justice for the girl in the tower—for the person who knows, intimately and painfully, what it’s like to live behind bars.

A bitter pill for some to swallow? Yeah, sure, but they’ll have to accept it sooner or later. But for the King and Queen, who got their daughter back and thought she would be a princess in due time, as if one year of instruction could override eighteen years as a normal girl locked away…

Yeah, no. There’s no good way to say it, and there’s no way it ends well. Eugene doesn’t blame her one bit for trying to avoid the situation entirely. If it had been him… well. He’d be running for another country, flat out.

“It’ll die down,” Eugene says, for lack of anything better, and shrugs. “I mean—speaking as a former, ah, rogue here—outrage always does. The sooner you stick it out, the more they’ll just… uh… get used to it, I guess?” He hopes, anyway.

“You’re probably right.” Rapunzel rubs at her face. “I just… I hate this. I feel so—useless.”

The words hit harder than she probably intends, and Eugene has to struggle to keep his face blank. Bitterness is a lump in his throat. Useless. He knows what she means too well, now. Their journey to the Dark Kingdom had it put in perspective, in that way. Painful, ugly perspective. Rapunzel’s destiny is unavoidable, but just because it’s destiny doesn’t make it kind. He could lose her. He could lose them all. He could lose everything, and there would be nothing Eugene could do to fight that.

Useless is right, he thinks, and looks away before she can see his face twist. “…Yeah.” He clears his throat, voice rough. “Yeah. I know the feeling.” He reaches out, taking her hand in his. Her hands are bare, the gloves gone; he squeezes her palm very softly. “But… you’re not, okay? I know it feels that way, but Blondie—if there’s anyone that can change things around here, it’d be you.”

Her smile is dim and faint. “Because I’m the princess?”

He snorts. “Because you’re you, obviously.” Pauses. “Though, I suppose political leverage never hurt either.”

This time, when she smiles at him, the expression is real.

Eugene grins back. “Still, though.” His smile fades, and he casts a sour look back at the door. “I’ll admit, they trapped you pretty well this time, didn’t they?” He scowls at the memory. “And here I was, thinking your old man had finally learned his lesson, go figure—”

But Rapunzel is already shaking her head. “No, that’s… he has, I think?”

Eugene stops mid-complaint, frowning down at her. “Hm?”

“About keeping me safe. I mean—Elias—”

“Nervous kid.”

“—yes,” Rapunzel agrees. She rubs her hands together, lacing stiff fingers like a knot. “And—and I’m sure he’s great! I’m sure he’s very good, but I mean… if my dad really didn’t want me to go out…  there’s not a shortage of guards, y’know? He could have gotten anyone.”

Eugene searches her face. “Wait, wait. You think he chose Elias for a reason?”

“Maybe?” Rapunzel bites her lip. “I think… Elias is new. Young. Closer to my age, kind of—five years off, but compared to the other guards…” She shrugs. “And he’s nice. I’d feel bad about getting him into trouble, so I’m probably less likely to leave him behind, I think? So he’s an escort rather than a guard. And—” She cuts herself off, rubs at her hands. “I think—I can’t remember well, but Elias… probably hates Varian.”

Eugene straightens up at that. “What, really?” He has to admit, he finds it hard to imagine that fearful kid hating anyone.

“I can’t—I mean, I can’t be sure. But that’s the crucial issue, right? Varian’s escaped, and we aren’t talking. So…on the off-chance Varian comes back, if there’s anyone who will stop me, who can’t be convinced to listen…”

The logic tracks. “…It’ll be someone who already has a grudge.”

“Yeah.” She sighs, dropping her head down into her arms. “Oh, maybe I’m just paranoid. I don’t know.”

“No, no, I think…” Eugene hesitates. “No, that feels right. I mean…” He stops again, considering her. She’s been through so much, and he doesn’t want to put more on her shoulders. That’s the last thing he wants to do. But secrets and lies have never brought them anything but pain.

“Look,” Eugene says, starting slowly, deciding to chance it. “I… your parents are great, Blondie, okay? No complaints here! But listen—they’re royalty. And my experiences with royals have been…”

He trails off, unsure of how to word it nicely, and pulls a face. He lifts one hand and wavers it in the air in a see-saw motion, and leaves it at that. He’s “forgiven” the hanging incident, if only because holding a grudge seemed like useless and needless drama at the time, especially since all the charges against him had been cleared. But he still remembers, clear as day, the sight of that noose. He still remembers, always, in the back of his mind—the stories of King Frederick, kind and fair right up until you slipped.

The royal family of Corona had always hated thieves the most.

“People are on edge here,” Eugene says, finally, bluntly. “There’s so many plots going on I can’t go one step without stumbling into something sticky. Whispers, jumping at shadows… hell, you know that kitchen girl, Adeline?”

“Addy?”

“Yeah, her, the spunky one. Saw her as I was walking up, and she looked scared of her own damn shadow. There’s something—off. More than just rumors, or the problems with Varian, or the King’s temper. There’s something wrong.”

Rapunzel stares at him. Her eyes turn back to the railing. “They’re afraid,” she murmurs. She sounds—muted, maybe, and Eugene winces in understanding. What they’ve heard from Corona… it hadn’t been good, no, but it hadn’t been thisbad. Closing trade routes, more sea-faring attacks; harsher laws and punishments enacted, yes, maybe. In-fighting in the castle… mild, but enough to make note of. But if the people of the castle are afraid, if all of Corona is worried—

“I can’t tell you what it means,” Eugene says, at last. “But—while we were gone—we missed something. Okay? We missed something. Bigger than just the King’s… temper. And that something? It’s still there. It’s still happening.”

Rapunzel closes her eyes. “It’s still happening,” she echoes. Her lips twist, an expression almost pained. “And… and my parents aren’t going to tell me what it is, are they?”

It’s not really much of a question, not when they both already know the answer. They’ve gone through this song and dance before, after all. The King and Queen won’t share a thing with Rapunzel—not if they want her to stay here, not if they are angry with her… not if the King is worried once again that his daughter might disobey orders, might risk her life for the kingdom. They’ll try to keep her in the dark as long as possible.

Eugene’s heart pangs at the thought. He puts at arm around her shoulder and tries to rub some warmth back into her arms. She deserves better. She’s always deserved better, and it never fails to make him angry, the way the world always tries to throw her off her feet.

“It’s not all hopeless, Blondie. I mean, think of it this way! If there’s something wrong, still goingwrong, then that means there’s a chance to change it.” He hesitates, watching her, and carefully squeezes her against his side. “…Which, uh. I—I wanted to talk to you about something.”

She turns to him, immediate, and he almost smiles. “What is it?”

He takes a breath. “I… I’ve been thinking.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “…Okay.”

“Cassandra’s been sent to the dungeons, yeah?”

“Guard the dungeons,” Rapunzel corrects. Her smile falters. “But, um, yes…?”

“And you’re here.”

“Mm-hmm…” She’s watching him closely, now. “Eugene, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“It’s… ah…” It’s no use. All his stupid pick-up lines and charming grasp of language, and he’s fumbling tongue-tied like a teenager again. Best to just get it over with. “I think I need to go.”

There’s a long silence. Rapunzel’s face has gone blank.

“Not—notgo, go, I mean… not far. I’ll stick to the main city, stay in Corona if I can, and… damn it.” He rubs at his neck. “I’m saying this all wrong. It’s just—Rapunzel, I can’t do anything here.”

“You’re leaving?” Her voice is very quiet.

“I’m never far.” He takes her hand. “But I need to do this. Like you said—about being useless—I can’t help here.” He squeezes her hand. “But I can help elsewhere.” 

He doesn’t know how else to say it; how else he can explain. Because the Dark Kingdom had done what nothing else could: it had showed Eugene where he stood. It had showed him how, in this game of destiny and plots, Eugene was little more than a side thought. Pushed aside. Made helpless. Made to watch.

He almost lost her, there, in that labyrinth. He has never forgotten that. If Eugene keeps playing by the rules, he’s going to lose her again.

So he won’t play by the rules. He won’t play with destiny, or kingdoms, or powers he doesn’t understand. Doing this—going away, and playing to his strengths—this is Eugene’s answer. This is his stand. He needs to go. He needs to find Lance, and find the people that only Eugene Fitzherbert, former thief, can find.

This, he can do. Eugene may not know politics, but he knows people—knows the shadows, knows the lies, knows what hides beneath the pretty, polished surfaces. He can’t find answers in the castle… but perhaps he can find them somewhere else.

So he takes her hands in his, and kisses her cheek, soft in the way that has always come easy when it’s with her. “You can do this,” he whispers, in her ear. Soft, sure. “Sunshine, you can do absolutely anything. And if you ever need me—I’ll be there. Always.” He pulls back. “But please. I need—I needto do this. Trust me?”

She stares at him. Slowly, she clutches his hands back. “All right,” she says. Just as hushed. “Okay.” A careful squeeze at his fingers. “I trust you, Eugene. If you say you need to do this… then do it.” She takes a deep breath. “I’ll be okay. I willbe okay.”

He smiles at her, helplessly warm. The relief he feels is almost dizzying. “I know,” he says, and squeezes her hand one last time before pulling away. “And it’s not—for long, I promise, I’ll visit whenever I can. You won’t even know I’m gone!”

“I don’t know about that,” Rapunzel says, but she’s smiling now, and even if it’s a little pale, it’s still a smile. She shakes her head. “…Where are you going?”

“Snuggly Duckling, to start.” He grins a little, excitement building in his chest. “I mean, if Lance is still working there…”

“Oh, Lance!” Rapunzel brightens immediately, her face glowing. “That’s a wonderful idea. That way you won’t be working alone, either.”

“He’s the best,” Eugene agrees. He’s missed Lance like a missing limb these past eight months, and even in this whole rotten scenario, getting to see his brother again is like a balm. “I’ll bring him by too, make sure he says hello.”

Rapunzel smiles. “Please! Oh, it’ll be so nice to see everyone again…Tell him I say hello! And that I miss him.”

Eugene winks. “Of course.”

Rapunzel nods to herself. “And—when you go… do you mind giving Cass a message from me?”

He settles against the balcony railing to listen, noting her words to memory. It is only a day after their return—the shadows still cling heavy to their eyes, the exhaustion weighing on their shoulders. Cassandra’s been demoted and Eugene himself is on thin ice. Leaving Rapunzel alone here, in this situation—it should sit ill in his gut. But it is a new day, a bright day, a beautiful day… and as he looks over Rapunzel’s face, the determined tilt to her head and the steel in her spine, he knows she’ll be okay. She’s not alone, either.

It has been a long, tiring eight months. But they are back, now, and he knows: they are tired, but not beaten. Not Cassandra, who took the news with a tense jaw and a determined look. Not Rapunzel, who smiles and laughs despite her awful homecoming. And Eugene?

He’s going to fight too. The only way he can. The only way he knows. No more watching the bad things happen. No more waiting on the sidelines.

This time, when the fallout comes, Eugene is going to hit back.

.

Varian wakes up screaming.

There is ice in his veins, in his heart, in his lungs. Whispers clouding at his mind like cobwebs. His limbs locked stiff like the black stone, unmoving. He tries to move and can’t, tries to scream but his breath won’t respond—there’s a hand in his chest, in his heart, and a voice that hums cruel insults in his ears, rising, rising, rising.

Tick tock, child. Weren’t you going to prove me wrong?

His eyes fly open, breath seizing in his chest. His heart is pounding, drumbeat staccato in his bloodstream. The scream locks in his throat, cut off to a strangled gasp. He doesn’t know where he is. Behind his eyelids: black. The world around him: dark. He can’t see. He can’t see anything. He is—

His eyes catch on a faint sliver of light, a pale glow pooling through the open window. Moonlight. Light.

He’s not in the labyrinth. He’s not—

Varian holds himself still, breathing hard, trying to remember where he is. He is—inside, in a cot, blankets tight around his shoulder—Ruddiger by his side—a roof?

Memory returns to him in fragments. The house hidden in the countryside. The woman, Yasmin, and her wife. Drinking bitter tea at a warm kitchen table. Falling into his borrowed bed, even with all his paranoia, because something may be off here but he was so tired…

His breathing calms, his hammering heart slowly settling. He grits his teeth, squeezing shut fever-hot eyes. Exhaustion feels like a lead weight within him, dragging him down to the floorboards. He’s not angry. He’s not even upset. He’s just woken up, but even now, Varian feels so, so tired.

It’s still dark out: the sky black, the world silent, the only glow coming from the moon shining high up in the sky. He can see the room in vague black-and-white detail—the distant dark corners, Adira’s empty cot, the slim desk and dresser shoved off to the side. Books, their covers and colors obscured in the dark, pile high on shelves and create leaning towers against the walls. A study turned to temporary guest bedroom.

He stares up at the ceiling and tries to breathe, blinking fast so he doesn’t have to close his eyes. He feels hot in his skin, feverish and ill, his bones aching and his lungs small. His chest slowly compacting, like a weight on his ribs pressing down and in, smothering his every breath. He is hyperaware of every part of him—his eyes hot and achy, his fingers and toes tingling pins and needles. His breathing finally calms… but Varian still feels wide awake.

He won’t be getting any more sleep tonight.

After a moment of thought, Varian sits up, slowly levering himself out of bed. He sits off the side of his cot and tugs on his coat as quiet as he can. Straightens his socks on his feet. He sees Ruddiger snuffle, little eyes squinting open, and pets him gently until the raccoon’s eyes slide shut again.

He pads his way carefully across the room, almost shuffling. He pushes open the door gingerly, already making a face, hoping against hope the sound won’t rouse Ruddiger—but for once, he’s lucky. The door doesn’t squeak at all, the hinges silent as the grave. It opens with nary a sound. Home free.

Varian straightens his coat and casts one last look at the illuminated window, the moonlight pooling on the floor. He flips the distant moon the middle finger, flicking the rude gesture with all the feeling he can muster.

His chest feels cold, his veins tight like a chokehold. He rubs hard at his heart, chest and hand stinging alight with fresh pain as he slips out the door and softly makes his way downstairs. It’s nothing, Varian tells himself. Nothing at all. Just echoes, maybe, of the death that didn’t stick.

Still—he nearly flees from that room. The moonlight makes him feel ill.

He doesn’t really have a plan beyond get out get out get out, hopes for a break from this claustrophobic pressure of the house walls boring down on him. He slips down the stairs, hoping they’ve left the front door unlatched, and he is almost at the bottom step when he finally sees it.

There’s a light pooling beneath the closed kitchen door.

Varian pauses on the stair. He watches the light for a long moment. Its dim, small and contained, candlelight at best. The glow it casts under the door is very faint. He listens, carefully, and this time he catches it—the murmur of low voices just behind the door.

Varian stills on the steps. The room upstairs, set aside for both him and Adira. Adira’s empty cot. Stupid, stupid. He hadn’t even thought twice about it. She’s awake.

Later, Yasmin had said, when she’d let them in. To Adira: we will talk about this later. How had he forgotten?

Varian makes his way to the kitchen door, taking extra care to step softly. He keeps one hand on the wall for balance, inching his way closer, sliding his feet so the floorboards won’t creak. He’s learned something of stealth these past few months, and feels almost smug as he sits down against the wall, undetected. He’s right by the door, his ear pressed to the crack.

Even this close, though, it’s hard to hear them. They are quiet, and the walls mute them further. Varian can just barely hear the murmur of their voices above the silence. Adira’s voice, muffled and low, and another, responding. Sharper, tinged by a stranger accent… the scowling woman, he thinks. Yasmin.

“…kingdom died over twenty years ago, for Ella and I both,” Yasmin is saying, now. “Though it is clear to me that for you, the death is recent. For that I am sorry.”

“You talk like it doesn’t bother you.”

“Just because I helped you in your efforts doesn’t mean I believed in the same delusions, Adira. The Dark Kingdom…”

Their voices dip low again, out of his hearing. He closes his eyes and tries to focus.

“Do not play coy with me,” a voice snaps, suddenly, the loudest they have been thus far. Yasmin, again. “You said you had news, I have heard it, it was nothing I didn’t already know. I am in no mood for your games.”

“I’m not playing games.”

“Fuck you. Do you take me for an idiot? To bring that—him—here—”

“I hardly think an underfed teenager is any threat to you,” Adira retorts, talking over her. “You’re over-reacting. I get that you’re upset…”

Varian freezes, his breath catching as their voices trail off once more. Wait a moment. Are they—are they talking about him?

He’d thought it was odd, sure, that Yasmin had hated him so immediately—that she had looked at him all throughout that conversation, as if trying to banish him with glares alone. But for the first time it occurs to Varian that maybe the reason Yasmin was so upset—the reason she was so angry… the reason she nearly shut the door in their faces—

Had it been because hewas there?

But that doesn’t make sense, Varian thinks. He doesn’t even knowher. He’s never even been to Port Caul before today! And while maybe his first run-in with her wasn’t the best, it hadn’t been terrible, either. She’d been brusque; he’d been moody. But he’d left feeling unsettled, not like he’d made an enemy.

Yasmin’s voice rises again. Varian presses back against the door, eyes narrowing in the dark. Maybe, maybe if he can hear a little more, just get a clue of what’s going on here…

This time he barely has to strain his ears. Yasmin is no longer trying to be quiet. Her voice rings out clear and cold. “If you so insist on playing the fool, then I will treat you as one. Let me make this clear to you.”

“I understand perfectly—”

“In these last twenty years,” Yasmin snaps, cutting Adira off, “I have helped you. I have given you information, items, knowledge, secrets. I have guided you and I have tolerated you, despite your secrecy, your irritating arrogance, and your frankly insulting delusions of the Dark Kingdom being rebuilt.”

There is a sudden, icy silence. Yasmin snorts. “Didn’t like that, did you?” There is bite to her voice, her words unkind. “Well. Too bad. I am talking now, so listen. All this I have done for you, and I asked little else in return. But now. Now, after everything, you bring into my house—into my city—a threat?”

Another long silence. Varian lifts his hand and presses it flat against his mouth, trying to stifle his breathing. His heart is pounding in his chest. He feels cold, frozen still with budding anger. Who does she think she is? This stranger, this nobody, calling Varian—talking about him like he’s 

“Silence is no better than your jokes,” Yasmin is saying now, practically glacial. “Let me spell it out to you, Adira, what you have done this day. You have brought—to me! —a criminal wanted by one of the most powerful trade kingdoms in this continent. A criminal with five charges of attempted murder, assault, treason, regicide. You have brought this boy into my home, walked him undisguised through the town, led him right to me—and still, you ask me why I am angry? Anyone after him with be led straight to me!”

Varian is frozen. Locked in place, his fingers turned numb with pins and needles. The icy understanding flooding through him, because somehow—somehow, despite all the miles between him and Corona, despite all this time—

He remembers the way she looked at him, fury and disgust and icy rage, and his mouth goes dry.

She knows. Yasmin knows him. She knows who he is.

She knows what he’s done.

Adira’s voice has gone cold and flat. Dangerous. So low that Varian can barely hear her through the door. “What are you trying to say?”

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t throw you both to the wolves.”

“You—!”

The walls are closing in on him, the memory of the city pressing down on his head. This woman, this stranger—she knows him. She knows him, and he remembers walking through the city with a rising lump in his throat. All those people. All those eyes—

The midnight darkness seems oppressive, suddenly; the low ceiling and narrow walls of the hallway too small, too tight, too little. His breaths feel cut short, thin and useless. His skin crawls, icy fingers down his spine, and all he can think of is running, running, running through the labyrinth, the Moon’s golem at his heels and the Moon herself watching through every wall, every mirror, every dream—

He thinks: I didn’t even want to come here.

There’s no point in listening further, even if he could focus beyond the roaring in his ears. He stands and stumbles for the door, no longer trying to be quiet—hears the voices stop, the conversation cut short as his bare feet thud on the floor.

He doesn’t care. He refusesto care. He makes for the front door and throws the door open hard enough for it to bounce. Who gives a damn? He’s going to get thrown out anyway, so why bother being nice?

The air is—fresh, cool, a relief. He sucks in a deep breath, and feels like he can breathe again. The wind blows cold and crisp against his skin, a swift breeze drifting out over the empty plains of flat farmland. Beyond the house’s tiny garden and little porch, miles and miles of grassy lowland roll out to the distance, from his feet all the way to the distant horizon, far off in the sea.

It is still pitch dark out, but now Varian can see the edges of light beginning to build—the night sky blushing the pale blue of early dawn, gold gathering at the edges of the horizon, the small trees and houses turned to black silhouettes against the budding glow.

Still, though—high above, through the dark clouds, the moon shines bright and mocking. A waxing gibbous like a sideways smile.

His fingers curl into the wood of the doorway, and he slams the door hard behind him. The sound slams, echoes, dies off. Nothing follows it.

He breathes hard, and almost thinks to open the door just so he can slam it again—and realizes, abruptly, how silly that sounds. The anger withers in his chest. His mouth feels dry. He stares out and the empty landscape, and doesn’t recognize a single inch of it.

The sudden surge of emotion turns dead and leaden in his chest. Varian sits, defeated, on the porch, hiding his head in his hands. This was stupid. What was he going to do, run away?He doesn’t know this place. He doesn’t know this country. He doesn’t even know the currencyyet, if they even use the same coin as Corona. Adira might have told him when they crossed the border, but if so, he’d shut her out. He’s starting to regret that now.

“Good going,” he whispers to himself. “Great going, Varian, you absolute genius, make the already angry lady have more reason to think bad of you…”

He swallows hard, and presses his palm against the hollow of his eyes, breathing deeply. “Bet Dad’s real proud of me now. Bet he’s looking down and thinking, ah, that right there, there’s my stupid murderous s-son—”

He can’t finish the thought, feels gutted as soon as he starts it. His dad wouldn’t say that. He’d always been better than Varian in that way; he never said a mean thing about anyone, even if he thought it sometimes. Varian, in contrast, feels as if he never learned how to keep his mouth shut. He grits his teeth and lifts his head, and the moonlight glow is so soft and blue he wants to cry.

“This is yourfault,” Varian tells the moon, and his voice cracks, and he hates it. Nothing happens. The world is still silent. The house dark and empty. The air, cold and crisp. “This is—this is—”

It’s my fault.

His fault his dad is gone, dead to the amber. His fault he’s alone.

His throat feels very tight, suddenly. Varian squeezes his eyes shut against a sudden swell of tears. He’s—he’s—he’s so stupid, he’s so stupid. Missing Rapunzel and the others now, after all this time. Didn’t he choose to leave? Didn’t he choose to walk away?

And yet. He misses them, suddenly and fiercely. At least he knew them. At least he knew why they hated him, at least he could understand that. And even then… Rapunzel’s smile, Eugene’s constant posturing, Cassandra’s dry wit… he misses it. All the things he thought he hated about them, now the things he misses most of all.

He wonders if Adira is still angry at him. He wonders if he should be bothered by the thought she might be. Shouldn’t he care more? He’s traveled with her for—for a while, right? So why does it feel like he knows her less than he’s ever known anyone?

“You and your stupid tests,” he says, to the ground. His fingers tighten in his sleeves. “Stupid secrets, stupid lies, not giving any straight answers…”

He’s not sure if he’s talking about Adira or the Moon, now, or maybe even his dad, and goes quiet. Hides his head in his arms. Sits there. The moonlight burns against his skin; his right hand aches, bone-deep. His heart feels cold and empty.

And slowly, surely, under the light of the moon, Varian finally slips back to sleep.

.

His dreams are blurry and thin, vague and distant like a fog. The same old whispers, the same lost feeling, wandering an empty plain without direction. Varian walks and he walks and he walks, getting nowhere, and when he opens his eyes, he feels as if he hasn’t slept at all.

Sunlight glares into his eyes—he winces, rubbing hard at a crick in his neck. His shoulder feels sore and stretched from leaning against the porch frame, his back all twisted up in knots. It’s morning—latemorning, even. He wonders how he managed to keep snoozing even through the sunrise.  

“Finally awake now, are you? Tell me, boy, do you make a habit of sleeping in odd places?”

The voice is so sudden, Varian just about jumps out of his skin. He shoots bolt upright from his slouch, lurching forward in his fright—and smacks his head right into the porch pole.

“Ow!” He grips his head, reeling back—and then jolts, again, nearly screaming when he turns to see Yasmin standing right next to him. “Holy—!”

Yasmin doesn’t even blink. She’s standing above him on the porch, leaning against the open door; her arms cross over her chest, her eyebrows lifted up by her hairline. “You have a bed,” she remarks, tone unreadable. “A lovely cot that I set up for you and everything.”

Varian’s hand freezes in his hair, last night’s events rushing back to him. He looks away. He… he doesn’t know how to talk to her, now. He doesn’t know her, but she knows him—and if her words were any judge, her opinion is sour. And some part of him wants to fight that, still, wants to argue—if she knew whyhe did it, maybe if she knew his reasons…

But that’s a silly thought too. Should he fight it? Why should he explain himself to her, anyway? (And, secretly, in the back of his mind—does he even deserve to argue? Do his reasons matter, when his actions hurt others either way? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t…)

“I… I thought you didn’t want me here,” he says, at last, and leaves it at that.

Her eyes narrow further. “I do not,” Yasmin confirms, crisp and cold. “But luckily for you, Adira has a decent argument and a long-standing friendship. You are in my care, now. Three days.” Her chin lifts. “Which you would know if you had eavesdropped on the whole conversation, silly child. Nothing good comes from leaving in the middle of something.”

Varian’s train of thought smacks into his skull and goes flat. For a moment he is speechless. “Are—are you tellingme to eavesdrop on you?”

Yasmin gives him a disproving look. “I am telling you to eavesdrop better.”

Varian stares at her, blankly, waiting for the punchline. She doesn’t move. Her eyebrow raises. She gestures, once, as if to say: Well?

He doesn’t gether, he thinks, and instead of angry he just feels young, threadbare, worn to a string. He hides his head in his arms so he doesn’t have to look at her and so she won’t see his face twist.

“I don’t understand,” he says miserably, and hunches his shoulders, bracing himself against the tremor he can feel starting in his arms, shaking through his voice. “I—I don’t even know you, and you just…”

There is another pause, another silence. “Adira did not mention me?”

He almost laughs, and has to stifle the giggle in his elbow before he gets hit with the stupid urge to cry. “Are you kidding? Adira doesn’t tell me anything.”

“…Do you know why you’re here, boy?”

His fingers fist in his coat sleeve. He curls into himself, and even to his own ears, his voice sounds small. “No.”

Another silence.

Yasmin heaves a gusty sigh. There’s a thud as she throws herself down to sit beside him, sitting side-by-side on the porch steps. Varian jumps, reeling back in surprise, and beside him Yasmin laughs. Her smile is all edges, a bladed sort of amusement. “You are like a scalded cat,” she observes, and sounds weirdly delighted with the find.

“What—why—”

“You truly do not know?”

The whiplash from humor to solemnity makes his head spin. “What—I, I mean, no? She just said we were seeing an old friend of hers, I didn’t…”

Yasmin is frowning, now, but for the first time Varian gets the feeling it’s not directed at him. She turns her head towards the sunrise, and in the growing light her expression is cast in shadow. “…Interesting.”

Varian has no idea what to say to that. He’s never met an adult like this one—Yasmin is weird, serious and moody in equal measure. Not quite like his dad… but not as eccentric as Adira, either. There is something strangely ageless about her, and at the same time something strangely old.

Yasmin is still thinking; she tilts her head back, eyes moving to the dawn. “Hmph,” she says, muttering. “I get the feeling that I have been asking the right question to the wrong person this entire time. How utterly vexing. Well, never mind it.” She sighs, again, and turns back to him. “Well, here we are. I will yell at Adira for you, boy; I have more leverage and this whole situation strikes me as rather stupid, so this will be a free favor for you. No need to thank me. But in return, answer me this.”

Varian squints, suspicious. “…Answer you what?”

“Why are you here?”

He stares at her.

“It is a simple question,” Yasmin remarks, and it’d almost be casual if not for the weight of her gaze. “Why did you come here? Why did you follow Adira all this way? What are you looking for? What do you want?” She taps her finger against her knee with each question, counting them off one by one. “Why are youhere?”

Varian gapes at her. His mouth feels dry. His throat is painfully tight. He swallows hard and bites at the inside of his cheek, his mind spinning circles in his head. “I… um, I…”

The words trail off. Varian can’t finish. His throat has closed up, and he is struck with the sudden realization that—that he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t know where to go. He doesn’t know.

He snaps his mouth shut, his teeth clicking. Heat crawls up the back of his neck, humiliation hot in his gut. He—he can’t say it. He can’t.It feels shameful, almost, to have nothing. To have no answer, not even a reason. To have come all this way for nothing at all.

Varian looks away. His eyes prickle, and he hides his head in his arms, curling up tight on the steps. Maybe if he’s lucky, she’ll think he’s throwing a tantrum. Maybe this stranger will finally leave him alone.

There’s a long stretch of silence. In the distance, birdsong breaks through the morning air. Yasmin mutters a curse under her breath.

“I meant what I said earlier,” Yasmin says, at last, sounding a little awkward. Her voice isn’t kinder but it is, in some way, a little less hostile than before. “Sleeping in odd places. Is this a habit of yours?”

He doesn’t answer. Yasmin sighs again, much louder this time. “Fine, I will guess. Are you not sleeping well?”

He doesn’t move. He feels tired. “Maybe,” Varian mumbles, at last. “So what? There’s not much I can do about it.”

“Very defeatist talk, for a supposed alchemist.” She stands up, brushing the dust from her pants. Her footsteps thud dully on the porch, moving away. Varian looks up, caught off guard by the almost-insult. What—is that it? A snappy comment, and now she’s just leaving?

“What—why are you—” He doesn’t get her at all. “Did you come out here just to yell at me?”

“Of course not,” Yasmin scoffs. “I did not come out here justfor that, anyway.” She’s leaning in the front door, now, rustling around the entryway; she snatches something off a hook and throws it his way. Varian throws up his arms in meager defense, and a bag smacks him right in the face before falling with a thud in his open arms.

He nearly drops it anyway, he’s so surprised. “W-what—?”

“Carry that for me, would you?” Yasmin calls back, moving back to the door again. She leans inside and then leans back with his boots in one hand, shutting the front door behind her. She tosses him the boots, and this time, Varian lunges to catch them. He fumbles, nearly dropping them on his own feet before he gets a grip. He clutches the shoes and bag close to his chest, blinking rapid in shock.

“This is why it is best to eavesdrop on an entire conversation,” Yasmin is saying, donning her own winter coat. “Because then you would know what I am doing, yes? For these three days, I have agreed to help you; your wellbeing is now my responsibility, at least so long as you remain here.”

She locks the door behind her, testing the handle once before she goes. She thuds down the steps, starting on the road, long strides and brisk walk—stops, a few feet away, and frowns at Varian from over her shoulder.

“What are you just standing there for?” Yasmin asks, sounding genuinely curious, and gestures him forward. “Get your shoes on, boy. Did I not mention? You and I, we are going to the market.”

.

.

.

.

.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Her fingers drum on the wooden table in an uneven rhythm, and with every click of her nails the men wince. The walls rock with the swell of the sea, her ship pitching through darkened waters. The unsteady lurch, however, leaves her untouched—her feet settle firm on the floor, one hand braced against the table and the other tapping at the map: again, and again, and again.

“You’d better have a reason for coming back empty-handed.” Tap. Tap. Tap. “Or is this map all you have to offer?”

She pinches the weathered parchment between two fine, filed nails, and smiles with all her teeth. Before her, one of her men stands tall and uncertain, his eyes flickering to and fro. Her fingers thud on the desk. He flinches.

“I… the port towns, they, they’ve gotten wary. Less ships coming and going—we couldn’t—”

Tap.

“We… I… we ran. I’m sorry. But I—the map, I swear, it’s not just—look, look, see? It has the routes for the patrol ships, we can slip around, resupply…”

His voice withers, goes small. Her hand stills on the desk. The rest of her crew, clustered around the walls, watch the proceedings with wary eyes and mouths tightly shut, hardly daring to breathe.

She reaches out. She takes the map in her hands, and unfurls it in-full across the desk—traces the plotted patrol lines with her finger, the crisscross guard lines that have kept them barred to sea. She considers. The crew hold their breath.

“What did you say it was called, again?”

“P-Port Caul,” her man stutters, and clears his throat. “Nice little trading town. Lots of lazy guards.” His chin juts up, confidence slowly regaining ground. “Full of overconfident little townspeople, sleeping certain in their beds.”

Her smile grows, the edges curling, her teeth bared. This time, the men match her smile, nervous but hopeful. “No attacks at all? My, my. Like sitting ducks.” She smooths out the map with both hands, and circles the point of her nail around the icon of the town in question. “Well. Perhaps not so empty-handed after all.”

She hears the near muted sigh of relief, sees her crew relax. Her smile warps and grows, all teeth. She leans back from the table and pulls free her knife, and flips the blade deftly in the air, unimpeded by the rocking of the waves.

“Contact our ally in Vardaros, would you?” She flips the blade, catches it one-handed. “An opening just might be coming that way.” She throws the blade once more, and this time, catches it mid-flip to slam down on the table, pinning the map flat, Port Caul speared through by her sword.

“What do you say, boys?”

The knife glints in the wavering lanternlight. Her smile stretches gruesome like the gallows. In her eyes, there is the promise of gold—and in the back of her mind, a whisper, a voice that croons of possibility and power to come.

Lady Caine lifts her head.

“Let’s give that little town something to talk about.”

[etherealwaifgoddess]

More Time - Chpt.18

Summary: Emma moves in with Steve and Bucky and moving day brings a more serious discussion on their future together. The apartment is a tighter fit for the three of them than they expected prompting the trio to contemplate the next step in their lives.   Master list can be found HERE.

Warnings / Content: Discussion of fertility and potential issues. Steve has a mild episode associated with his arrhythmia. 

Word Count: 2.3k

Author’s Note: Hello lovelies! Can you believe we’re on the final chapter at last? I cannot believe what a whirlwind this has been, sharing this fic with all of you. Thank you to every one who took time to read this fic. Stay tuned because the epilogue is going up in a few minutes! XOXO - Ash

Chapter Eighteen

“Do you think we need more space?” Steve asked, hands on his hips, brows furrowed in concern. 

The mountain of boxes in Emma’s living room continued to grow as they packed up everything in her small apartment into cardboard boxes. Bucky had been relegated to sitting on a stool and bubble wrapping breakables while Emma and Steve ran around filling and moving boxes. The moving company would handle getting everything to the guys apartment but Emma had insisted on packing her own things.

“I asked you guys if we should just leave some of this!” Emma reminded him from down the hall. 

Bucky rolled his eyes at Steve, making his opinion known, “We’ll be fine.” 

“I still think we’re gonna need more space for the three of us.” Steve shook his head, “We should at least call an agent and start getting an idea of what’s out there.” 

“Emma!” Bucky groaned, calling her in for back up, “Can you please remind Steve that we need to get all three of us under one roof for a bit before we start looking for an actual house?”

Emma joined them in the living room, wrapping her arms around a still worried looking Steve, “Why do you want a house?” she asked.

Steve shrugged the best he could while still wrapped up in a hug, “I don’t know. It might be nice to have a place that all of us decide on together. Plus, isn’t that what you do when you settle down? Buy a house, maybe get a dog, put up a white picket fence.” 

“You sweet little old fashioned grampa.” Emma teased affectionately. 

“Shut up.” Steve grumbled but didn’t try to escape. 

“Yeah,” Bucky chimed in, “Next thing we know you’ll be planning for 2.5 kids and a minivan.” 

Steve flushed from the top his ears down his neck and Emma knew from experience it spread all across his chest too. Bucky had hit a nerve. “Oh.” she said, realizing that the three of them hadn’t even discussed kids before. It was too soon but typically a distant hypothetical would have come up at some point. “Steve, baby, do you want kids?” 

Steve was still for a moment, not even breathing, until on a long exhale he finally found his words. “I don’t know if I even can. Or if I should.” he admitted quietly. 

“Me neither, pal.” Bucky told him as he got up from his seat to join their hug. He curled himself around Steve’s back, smushing him between their bodies. 

“The serum?” Emma chanced a guess.

Steve shook his head, “Not entirely. No part of me has ever worked the way it was supposed to. I’m not sure if I was able to before the serum, and after it, I’m still not sure.” 

“We still don’t know what effects the serum would have on… that. It’s almost always been the two of us so it was never something we could consider before.” Bucky explained. 

“It’s okay. I never expected to have kids, especially at this point in my life. I’d be fine either way.” Emma assured them.

Steve gave her a lopsided smile. So in love but still just a tinge sad. “We should probably find out if it’s even possible before we think too much on it.” 

“I’ll ask Bruce next time I see him.” Bucky offered.

Emma nodded and squeezed Steve just a little bit tighter before letting him go. “Come on you two. We have another hour’s worth of work and then we can go home.”

Bucky begrudgingly pulled away to hobble his way over to his stool, carrying on with wrapping jar candles in bubble wrap. Steve grabbed a roll of packing tape, ready to seal up his latest box, while Emma headed back down the hall. The apartment was just a little quieter as they all resumed their tasks, the conversation over for the time being but not forgotten in any of their minds.

The movers had everything loaded into the guy’s apartment by the time they were calling in a dinner order from their favorite pizza place. Emma was able to drop off her keys at the main office and updated all of her bills and contact info to her new address. She knew it was going to be a long few days of unpacking and trying to fit her things into their lives but it would be worth it once she was settled in. The guys had been extremely accommodating helping to make space but she was starting to see their point that it was a little small for three people. There was something cozy about it though, being so close with the guys. 

Bucky had worried he’d be worn out after the move. He had been slowly increasing his activity but a long day of moving was bound to take its toll. After being relegated to bubble wrap duty though, he was probably the least exhausted out of the three of them. Emma was yawning as she milled around the kitchen, pouring them drinks to sip on while they waited for pizza. She had moved at a breakneck pace all day; packing up the contents of her entire life in the span of a few hours. Steve was slumped on the far end of the sofa looking worn out and pale. Very pale. Bucky sat up a bit straighter to get a good look at him, something wasn’t quite right. Steve was staring off into space, his body supported more by the sofa than himself. “Stevie.” Bucky called out to him. His tone was even but wary enough that Emma’s attention snapped over to the pair of them. 

Steve didn’t answer right away so Bucky tried again, “Hey pal, what’s going on over there?” 

Steve took a shallow breath before closing his eyes, “It’ll pass.” he said quietly. 

“Too low?” 

Steve nodded, eyes still closed. 

“Emma, there’s a small white bottle of pills in the junk drawer on your left. Get them. Now.” fear and command laced his deceptively steady voice, spurring Emma to move quickly and without question. Bucky shifted over so he was next to Steve and Emma handed him the pill bottle before kneeling in front of Steve. Bucky shook out a tiny white pill and pressed it between Steve’s lips until he parted them for Bucky to pop it in his mouth. Bucky sat back and tried to give Emma a comforting look, “It’ll take a few minutes, he’ll be okay.” 

Emma leaned forward to wrap herself around Steve’s lap, wanting to be close while he rode out whatever was wrong. She murmured quiet nonsense things about new dressers and what color shutters might look best with a white picket fence. Bucky waited quietly, seldom interjecting himself into Emma’s rambling. It took an agonizing number of minutes but eventually Steve’s eyes opened, clear and focused, and he gave his partners a weak smile. 

“Hey.” Bucky said softly, running his hand up and down Steve’s arm.

“Sorry.” Steve murmured, his weak smile faltering. 

“Nothin’ to be sorry for. It was a busy day and you worked hard.” 

“I think finally sitting down and stopping made everything drop. I’m starving too and that never helps.”

Emma took the opportunity to speak up, “What was that?” She knew Steve had health issues, she watched him take his pills and do his breathing treatments every day. She had seen him get shaky if he waited too long to take his morning pills and had seen him have a full fledged asthma attack too, but whatever had happened was new and worrisome. 

“So you know about the arrhythmia and the high blood pressure.” Steve started with a sigh, “Well, sometimes my meds and my body do too good a job and my blood pressure drops too low and my pulse gets too slow and it’s just a shit show. I get dizzy, nauseous, sometimes my breathing gets a little wonky. I have medicine for when it happens, there’s always a bottle in the junk drawer, my nightstand, and two in a little plastic bag in my wallet. I just need one but when it happens it’s hard to function so you or Bucky will probably be the ones getting it.” 

“Okay, good to know. Bucky, how did you know that’s what was going on?” 

Bucky shrugged, “You’ll learn, unfortunately. I guess you’ll notice he gets quiet first. He gets pale too, paler than usual. He’ll stare into space or close his eyes, sometimes he just kinda slumps in on himself too.” 

“He’s sitting right here.” Steve groused. 

“She needs to know.” Bucky retorted calmly. 

Emma wished she had known what to look for before it had happened and worried about what other things could go wrong. “So now I know about that, and I already knew about your asthma. What else do I need to know? What else can go wrong and what do I do?” 

“Please don’t worry about me, doll.” Steve pleaded, pulling her hand in his. “I know my body isn’t the best but…”

“Stop.” she cut him off quickly, “Your body is perfect. I love it and there is not a single thing I would change about you.” 

“Did you see pictures of me after the serum?” Steve questioned wryly.

Emma rolled her eyes at him but continued, “Not a single thing, baby. I’m allowed to worry about you though. And I need to know what to look out for if I’m going to be living here. Bucky won’t always be around and if you need help, I need to know how to give it.” 

“The only other thing would be if the meds don’t work well enough and then the opposite of this happens. I’ll get too overheated, flushed, my pulse will race, I’ll get dizzy but not spacey, my breathing gets a little out of whack with that too. There’s pills for that too, same places as the other ones but in orange bottles and pills are light blue. You know what to do for an asthma attack. That’s about it.” 

Bucky snorted, “Don’t forget that if you get distracted and forget to eat all day you’ll turn as green as an olive and keel over. It’s actually pretty funny unless he hurts himself going down. There were so many times he’d get fixated in a painting or somethin’ and he’d go all day without eating a thing. He’d get about two seconds warning to say ‘oops’ and then pass right out.” 

“Remind me to keep a stash of candy in my purse just in case.” Emma said with a warmer smile. There might be enough to worry about but clearly it was all manageable and now that she knew how to react Emma felt a lot better about things. 

xxXxx

It took two days until Emma was moved in completely. There was still a stack of boxes in the closet of Steve’s art room but they were filled with things that could easily remain in storage. Steve had worried it wasn’t fair to Emma to leave things in storage but she insisted it was fine. He also had started dropping little hints about moving. They were spending their last lazy Sunday in bed before Emma started her new job, not willing to do a damn thing but enjoy the day together. Bucky was doing better on his own but Steve was staying part time for a little while longer while Emma adjusted to her new work schedule. She was nervous but excited, and wanted to revel in the last day of freedom she had with her guys. Emma was thankful she would be coming home to them every night after a weeks of being home with one or both of them while Bucky recovered. 

“I never want to move from this bed.” Emma said with a long yawn. 

Steve snuggled closer, pulling her tightly to him. “You and me both. In our house, I want to make sure we get east facing windows like we have here. I love how the sun comes in in the mornings.” 

“We’ll have to see.” Emma replied diplomatically while Bucky chuckled. 

“You’re not gonna give up on wanting a new place, are you?” Bucky asked him from the other side of Emma.

Steve looked over with a remorseless expression. “Nope. I want a place that’s all of ours, somewhere we have enough space and can stay forever.” 

“Call the agent tomorrow then. We can list this place and start looking. Emma love, you’re on board, right?”

Emma nodded, “Of course. I’ll go where you go. You know that.” 

Steve was grinning from ear to ear, “We should make a list then. Of things we need and want. We want to stay in Brooklyn, right?”

Emma laughed, “No, I want to rip both of you out of your hometown and move to Jersey.” 

Bucky nipped at her bare shoulder gently, “Don’t even joke.” 

“So staying in Brooklyn.” Steve continued, “An old brownstone, maybe?”

“Definitely.” Bucky agreed, “I don’t want one of these cookie cutter new builds. I want an older place with some charm.” 

“Sounds familiar.” Emma teased kissing Steve playfully. “We should try to get a nice bathroom like you guys have here. And a big kitchen too.” 

“We might have to renovate a place to get it just the way we want it.” Bucky warned them.

“That might actually be more fun. You guys know I’m low maintenance, I don’t mind living in a construction zone for a few months if it means we get everything on our wish list.” 

Steve shrugged, “We could always hold off moving in ‘til construction is done too.” 

Bucky nodded in agreement, “Yeah, there’s no rush. We have time now.” 

Steve looked over at Bucky, a soft expression on his face, “We really do. We finally have time.” 

Emma ducked a little so Bucky could lean over her to capture Steve’s lips with his own, “We have all the time in the world.” 

~The End~

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