#skyscraper scamper

[spoonicksmaximus]

Let’s go, S-Rank on Skyscraper Scamper

[egg-emperor]

always love replaying all the Empire City acts and hanging out at the hub and being like hehe Casino AU Eggman 🥰 because this is his home (in his alternate universe but it's identical so) just daydreaming about him all the while 💜

[naggingatlas]

sonic unleashed ost :]

[illuminatedquill]

Worship Me

A Sabine Wren & Ezra Bridger story

Story Summary: Tucked away inside their watchtower during a snowy night on Lothal, Sabine Wren and Ezra Bridger ponder the future and their relationship.

The beverage dispenser whirred and deposited the last of its contents - sweet, sweet hot chocolate - into the mug; Ezra watched the steam waft up from the dark brown ambrosia, bringing with it the tantalizingly sweet aroma that made his mouth water.

Even with the heating unit at max, the watchtower's interior was still chilly. Outside the temperatures were approaching near freezing and bringing with it fresh concerns of an early, bitter winter with its sleet and snow. But, for now, the snow was harmless and provided an endless frosty wonderland for all the children - and not an insignificant number of adults - to enjoy. Ezra took the fresh mug of hot chocolate in one hand and grabbed another less recently filled one in his other and moved to the watchtower's balcony.

His partner, Sabine Wren, was standing there. Wrapped in a comfy gray shawl - a gift from her departed master, Ahsoka Tano - she leaned against the railing, watching the snow drift lazily down. Just beyond, lit brightly against the snowfall, was Lothal's Capital City with its gorgeous array of spires and skyscrapers. Ezra smiled wistfully, thinking of all the families living in those towers, their children's faces pressed against the glass to watch the snow come down.

He remembered with a pang of melancholy of doing just that with his own parents, Ephraim and Mira, many years ago. Waking up to see the snow, riding a sled down the hills of Lothal's fields, scampering after the loth cats to find their hidden burrows . . .

"Enjoying the view?" Sabine called to him, jolting him out of his reminiscing. He blinked, re-focusing on her.

Even after all these years, she still took his breath away with her beauty. Sabine's hair had grown a little longer, the dyed orange tips just brushing the top of her shoulders now. He knew she wouldn't grow it any longer, purely for practical reasons, but oh how he yearned to see Sabine with longer hair. Underneath the shawl, she wore casual clothes: a bright orange tunic, yellow combat pants, and maroon boots. Once upon a time, he had teased that her outfit was similar in style to the one he wore during the Rebellion and had received a sharp poke in the side for his observation (but he had noted slyly that Sabine was blushing as she did so).

Playing it cool (ha ha), he replied, "Yup."

Smooth, he thought dourly. Very cool, Ezra.

Sabine snorted and took one of the mugs to sip at. "Charming as always, Ezra."

He batted his eyes at her in, hopefully, a smoldering fashion. "Hey, it's a part of the package. Prince Charming, that's me."

She choked on the hot chocolate.

Using his sleeve to dab at her mouth, he said, "That wasn't meant to be a joke."

In between gasps of air, Sabine choked out, "You're going to kill me with any more of whatever this is you're trying to do."

Ezra sighed and took her gently by the arm. "Let's just head inside."

Once Sabine had settled down, they settled onto the couch and wrapped a large quilt - a gift from Zeb and Kallus (with an apology note from Kallus about the quilt's clumsy construction but Zeb tried really hard, and he hadn't the heart to tell him otherwise) - around themselves. Sabine was sipping at Ezra's mug of hot chocolate, since he was the reason why hers had been spilled. Normally he would have protested, especially since it was his favorite beverage, but Ezra had learned long ago that certain arguments were futile with Sabine, so he gladly acquiesced.

They sat there in silence, just listening to the watchtower's gentle mechanical hum and the occasional mewling from Murley, who had taken up the usual perch at his favorite window.

Ezra closed his eyes and took in the ambience, enjoying the simple feeling of being at home and beside the person he loved the most in this galaxy.

. . . And trying to ignore the fact his hands were shaking ever so slightly.

Sabine set down her mug on the table in front of them. He felt her turn towards him, leaning in close, her warm breath tickling his ear . . .

"Your hands are shaking, cyar'ika," she said quietly.

Ezra's eyes opened as he grimaced. "You caught that," he said glumly.

Sabine arched an eyebrow at him. "You can't hide anything from me, Ezra," she replied. "We're partners."

Ezra shrugged off his side of the quilt, glaring at his traitorous hands. "I don't know why they're doing that," he confessed. "It's been happening more and more lately."

She cocked her head at him, thinking. "Not during our missions," she said. "Only when we're home."

"Yeah," he said. "You think they'd be acting up while we're fighting off pirates or negotiating trade disputes or any number of stressful situations we've been in . . . but no. Just whenever we're home."

Sabine gently grasped his shaking hands. They stilled in her touch. "It's fear, I think," she surmised, studying his face. "And something more."

Ezra frowned at her. "What am I scared of when we're home, safe and sound, alone together?"

"Talk it out. Let your thoughts flow along with your feelings, cyar'ika."

Ezra sighed. "Okay," he replied. Closing his eyes, he reached out to the Force for calm and just . . . listened to himself, breathing in and out. He felt Sabine's presence beside him - a constant fierce light, radiating love and belief and support -

The quiet.

He opened his eyes, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck raise unsettlingly. "That's it," he murmured. "That's what it is."

Sabine looked at him, frowning. "What is it?"

"It's the quiet," Ezra said. "It's the peace. I'm not used to it."

He leaned back into the couch, processing this revelation. After a few moments he said, "Sabine, do you realize we've been fighting for most of our lives?"

Her grip on his hands tightened. Ezra looked and saw the discomfort appear on her face. "It's not something I like to dwell on," she said. "But, yeah. I know."

"I think it's come to the point where I feel more at home in a battlefield than I do at our actual home. The peace, the quiet . . . Sabine, it scares me. I'm scared it could be disrupted at a moment's notice, that it could be taken away."

Ezra stared at her, his vision going blurry. "I'm scared you could be taken away. Or me, taken from you. It all feels false, somehow. I can't truly enjoy it."

Sabine reached out and cradled his face to her chest. He heard the gentle, re-affirming beat of her heart. It calmed him a little.

"The galaxy's a scary place, Ezra. We've already lost each other once. I wish I could guarantee that it will never happen again . . . "

Ezra said bitterly, "You can't. No one can."

She turned his face upwards towards hers. "I love you, Ezra. That's all I can promise you. I'll love you until the stars go cold."

"Is it enough, Sabine? Love doesn't promise anything. It wasn't enough for Kanan and Hera. It didn't save Kanan. It killed him." The mention of his former master, Kanan Jarrus, brought a bitter taste to his mouth. He felt awful for saying it, but it held true. Kanan had loved Hera deeply - enough to give his life to ensure hers and everyone else's future on Lothal.

But he had still died. And he knew Hera still felt that loss keenly everyday.

Yes, the love had been there. But it hadn't changed anything.

Kanan still died. Hera had told him of the regrets she felt; things that should have been said but were put aside in the foolish hope that there would be another time to say them.

"You don't mean that, Ezra," said Sabine sharply. "I know you don't."

Ezra turned his face away, hiding his shame. He shrugged in response.

Sabine grabbed his face and wrenched it back towards her. Her brown eyes, normally bright and compassionate, burned with a fierce anger. "Listen to me," she said. "Do not let this fear turn you into something you're not, Ezra. You're better than this. I know you are."

Ezra let out a frustrated breath, bowing his head. "I know. I just . . . I don't know, Sabine. Will this be enough for us? With the lives we lead? I don't want there to be any regrets between us."

"You mean like Hera and Kanan?" asked Sabine. "I get what you mean."

He looked at her, feeling lost. "So what do we do?"

Sabine looked back at him. Then, with a soft touch, she placed a finger under his chin and titled his face up ever so slightly.

"If the love is not enough," she said softly, "then I will ask you for more."

Ezra stared at her, entranced. "What do you mean?"

Sabine leaned in close; the scent of her, a lilac fragrance, filling his nose, intoxicating his mind . . .

"Adore me, Ezra Bridger," she whispered. "Worship me."

His mind went blank. "I . . . how?" he heard himself ask.

With her other hand, Sabine reached behind his head, running her fingers through his hair. Silvery sensations erupted from his scalp; Ezra could hear his heart pulsing loudly within his ears. The fingers clenched, and she pulled him into a deep, searing kiss.

After what felt like an eternity, she let him up for air. Breathing heavily, she placed a hand on his chest.

"I will worship you too," she said huskily. "All of you."

She leaned forward and kissed his chest. "I worship your heart."

His forehead. "I worship your mind."

Sabine reached for his hands, still shaking but for different reasons now. She brushed her lips lightly against each of his fingers. "I worship your hands."

Ezra shivered at her touch. When she was finished, she gazed deeply into his eyes. "Your turn now," she said with an impish grin.

"Are you sure about this?" Ezra asked. "I haven't . . . I mean, this is my first time."

"Mine too," Sabine admitted.

Ezra's eyes widened. He smiled, feeling surprised - and a little gratified. "You waited for me?"

Blushing, Sabine punched him gently on the arm. "Obviously, goober."

He grinned at her. "So, who will take the lead then?"

"Me," she said bluntly. "Unless the Noti gave you directions."

Ezra laughed, feeling some of the tension slide out of him.

Sabine poked him in the chest. "Hey. Focus. Back to worshipping."

He reached out through the Force and dimmed the watchtower's lights. Sabine quirked an eyebrow at him. "Trying to set the mood?" she asked.

Ezra glanced at his hands - they were steady as a rock.

He slid his hands underneath the quilt, searching . . .

Sabine frowned at him. "What are you - oh."

Ezra gently pressed himself against her and returned her kiss with a fervent ardor that left them both breathless. Blinking at him, stunned, Sabine asked, "Where did you learn to do that?"

"Maybe the Noti did teach me some things," he teased. "Oh, I've got tricks that will blow your mind, Sabine Wren."

A sly smile grew slowly on her beautiful face. "Yeah?" she challenged. "Are you willing to show me some more of these tricks?"

"Certainly," said Ezra. "If you're not busy this evening."

She rolled her eyes. "I've got some free time, sure," she replied dryly.

"Excellent," said Ezra. And he promptly got to work, worshipping her, adoring her.

*Author's Note: One of the craziest lines I've ever heard in romantic fiction is a woman saying to her lover, "Worship me." I immediately knew it was something Sabine would say to Ezra and, well, here we are.

[afreakingdork]

Weak Spot - Chapter 2

RotTMNT Donatello x Reader

Warnings: Aged-up Turtles, Romance, Meet Cute, Villain Donatello, Cussing, Crushes

Synopsis:  When falling in love is the easy part where does the difficulty lie? In a society where we're defined by our job, it's those little details as a relationship goes on that ends up setting a course for whether or not a couple can make it in the long run.

Also available on Ao3

First

You stare up at the imposing structure of a skyscraper much like the one you work at. If you hadn’t just walked to this one you might have even thought you’d never left work at all. This had been your first perplexing halt. The second came as the building  appeared to have no storefronts around its base. There was just the shiny gleam of a half dozen glass doors and the stark interior of yet another standard lobby. Frowning, you dug through your bag for your device.

You: Hey, it’s Y/N. I’m going to assume you didn’t give multiple people your number and that you do in fact want my name.

It was the text you had sent him after work the day prior. Instead of responding, Donatello had simply applied a check mark emoji to your message and then sent the address for the next shop. Opening the follow through link to a map app, it indeed read that you were in the right place and just needed to scale a multitude of floors to complete your journey.

The only thing was, that simply didn’t make sense.

With the amount of suits funneling through the doors it seemed unlikely that this was a mixed used property. Tapping your phone screen several times, you brought up the shop’s information panel. There wasn’t even a single image or review uploaded along with the notation. Frowning, you wondered how Donatello would handle it if you questioned his accuracy. He seemed like the kind to take particular care in being right. Hovering a thumb over the shop’s entry, you debated.

“Odd, isn’t it?”

You jolted as the voice came directly by your left ear. Swinging with your device as a mock weapon, you watched as Donatello straightened up.

“Yeah, that’s one word for it!” Finding him not to be a threat, you rubbed the side of your head in an attempt to shake off the tingles.  

Instead of evaluating you, he turned and sized up the building. “Their SEO is atrocious.”

“That’s not-!” You started and then stopped along with lowering your limb. He surely knew what you meant and cooing into your ear was probably his odd way of flirting.

Your mind ground to a halt at the thought.

Was that what he was doing?

“Pathetic to be satisfied with nothing more than a trapped clientele.”

You gave him a curious look. It wasn’t the first time he’d said something that was worded a little strange, but you also barely knew him. Since you had been granted an extension on your budding affection, you’d decided to make the most of it. Resisting the urge to text him had been tough enough, but at least the time between stints had been short. “There’s really a restaurant here?”

That wasn’t exactly questioning his authority.

“Word of mouth.” He responded simply and started his trek. You chased after his coat’s swinging edge and admired today’s outfit from the back. It was similar to the previous one in shade, but he now donned a mock necked zipper henley beneath what had to be different piece of luxe outwear. His sleek boots made little noise amongst the rummaging throng of lunchtime workers. 

“That didn’t answer my question!” You called, making a few longer strides to catch up to his side.

He passed you a glance as you both reached the door. With a longer reach, he caught the handle and you watched with wide eyes as he opened it for you. Maybe yesterday you just hadn’t given him a chance to be chivalrous. Passing him an appreciative bob, you slipped inside. The quiet contrast of the lobby sank in. His boots now clicked with purpose and you rolled your eyes as you again had to scamper after him. You couldn’t help but catch the look the receptionist gave you as you passed. The concept had already been strange enough that you hadn’t taken the time to consider that you might not have access to this mysterious place.

“Uh-, Don-”

“At my 9th study, I heard two patrons discuss this location.”

You almost ran into him as he came to an abrupt stop at the elevators. Adjusting yourself, you got caught between smiling at his languid response time and mild embarrassment at your fumble. He seemed disinterested in the latter so you looked ahead to see if he had pressed the button. It was already lit so you craned your neck to see beyond your companion and found an annoyed businessman tapping his toe in wait. The man’s expression was already sour, but something about the way he glared at you for looking his way reminded you of the receptionist. “Are we supposed to be here?”

“What do you mean?” Donatello’s eyes were fixed squarely on the elevator’s display panel which read over 10 floors away.

“I mean…” You tucked yourself closer to Donatello’s side in an attempt to both shield yourself the other man’s annoyed aura and to keep the conversation for interested party’s ears only. “This isn’t like an exclusive dining room, right?”

Catching your little shuffle and hushed tone, Donatello swooped his gaze over you and then to the other man. With his head swiveled away you couldn’t see his expression, but you did watch as the other man suddenly snapped to attention and turned away with a cough. Your lids came down in slight curiosity as Donatello’s attention returned to the elevator panel. You studied his side profile until you saw the exact moment the muscle in his jaw tightened as he was about to speak.

“No security at the door, no keypad access to the elevators, and no check-in with the receptionist.”

You glanced to the front of the building. Everything he said was undeniably true, but something still felt off.

“It’s also publicly listed regardless of how terrible their online presence is.”

You slowly brought your gaze back and thought it over. The elevator arrived before you could come to a conclusion. You started to step forward when you realized Donatello hadn’t moved. You paused your foot’s journey and watched as the door opened. Several people got off and as soon as they were clear, Donatello moved to board. You followed, but just before breaching the threshold you caught a glimpse of the businessman from earlier who this time paled as you caught eyes.

“I-I’ll take the n-next one.” He stuttered out and glued his eyes to the floor.

What had Donatello done to the man?

You immediately swiveled your head to the mutant to find him punching in the number 27 on the panel. He then moved to stand with his hands tucked behind his back in the center of the elevator. You were about to ask when you noticed one of the corners of his mouth upturned slightly. It was the closest thing to happiness you’d seen him display, but your heart was caught in its excitement by what seemed to be the knowledge of its source.

What a menace he was.

The elevator doors closed and you leaned against the wall beside the panel.

You weren’t exactly sure what to think of his oddities, though you were still undoubtedly interested.

“Do you think I’d steer you wrong?”

You didn’t move, but his sudden question jarred you. You hadn’t expected him to lob you one, so you bided your time checking the floor counter before turning your attention to him.

“Well I would hope you wouldn’t kill me in a place this public.”

Though he also didn’t move, there was something in the way he brought his eye to you that felt like you’d surprised him. His mouth had flattened out, but it opened with intrigue.

“Was that a concern?”

You blew out so hard that a minor raspberry rumbled on your lips. “In this city? Heck! In this world? You always have to play that game with new people to make sure they aren’t serial killers!”   

“I’ll keep a better eye on you then.”

You laughed and the elevator chimed its arrival. Before the doors could open, you pushed off the wall and leapt forward. You watched one of Donnie’s brows raise in incremental curiosity as you planted yourself firmly facing him and away from the grand reveal. “For the record…” You trailed off and listened as the metal split behind you. “I don’t think you’d steer me wrong, but that doesn’t mean I won’t still worry!”

With your point made, you did a little hop to see what the 27th floor looked like. There was a small landing and the walls continued the same sterile motif from the lobby. Beyond that there were a set of two clear glass doors that revealed a dining room that disappeared out of sight on the right and an odd test kitchen sort of set-up to the left.

“Woah…”

You felt a hand press against your mid back just as the elevator doors began to close due to inactivity. You stepped forward and mourned the loss of touch as you made it onto the landing.

Donatello clicked his tongue and for a moment you thought he could read your thoughts. A defense was on your lips about your fleeting feelings when he spoke something else more to himself. “Asinine waste to not market this.”

You wanted to laugh again, but you bit your bottom lip and scrunched up your face to keep it in. He was really hung up on their e-commerce.

“Is that what you do?”

Since you were a step ahead, you caught a door handle and held it for him.

He eyed you as he passed. “No.”

You gave an interested hum as he evaluated the space. You ignored the actual counter in favor of gawking at the dining room. From the sliver you had seen before, it stretched even further out of sight and presumably all the way around the floor. Various tables, chairs, pergolas, and plants filled out the space, but left the grand view of the blue sky outside stretched unobstructed. For each wooden structure, there was a fan turning on a lazy setting to keep what could have been a greenhouse effect at bay.

With your head coming back from reviewing the display, you found Donatello watching you with his head tipped ever so slightly to the side. You could feel the fondness in your expression grow as you wondered if he had been watching your excitement. He was as nonplussed as ever, but knelt down incrementally and you leaned is as he seemed to want to discuss something.

“There’s a cashier at the far end.” He pointed and you finally took in the kitchen portion of the restaurant. A long stretch of various foods were laid out buffet style with a divider thrown up to separate the open kitchen. There was a single break between the glass panes that seemed to be a place where you could order something that wasn’t readily available on a hot or cold bar presentation. “You get a tray and we’ll meet there.”

From the looks of it, there only seemed to be cold slider style sandwiches laid out in a pallet. “Think we can order our clubs from the window?”

His head turned to you a little bit more and his chin was tipped up. Though you had only seen it once before, you had a feeling it had something to do with appreciation. “If not, we’re wasting our time.”

“This was definitely not a waste.” You threw an arm out to the room in demonstration, but found you couldn’t tear your gaze away from his.

A slow blink passed between you both before he finally moved away. Your racing heart beat only became apparent when he parted though you had a feeling it had started up long ago.

“I’ll see to the order and you scout the other offerings.”

“Sounds good.” You gave a nod and he moved straight for the kitchen window. You glanced over the cashier who was absorbed into a novel she had propped against the register. Gathering a tray, you used it as a sort of partition as you slowly looked over the bars. It had a standard fair of salad building blocks, fresh cut fruit, and grab-and-go lunches. On either side of Donatello sat a few heat lamps with side dishes and a variety of beverages. Suddenly hyper aware that you had no idea what your companion liked, you reminisced on the feeling from the day prior. There was so much to learn. It felt as daunting as the choices laid out.

Sneaking a peek at Donatello, you watched as he conversed with someone on the other side. The tone sounded genial and a satisfied smile graced your lips. You were glad he could continue his conquest, but that didn’t help your task at hand. Shooing the happiness away, you furrowed your brow. Going off what little you knew about the staunch man, you bypassed the fruit as no matter how bright it looked, it was all definitely out of season. Salad seemed like a pass as it felt more like a counterpart as opposed to a companion to sandwiches. Something about that thought sparked something another, thankfully.

Turning, you moved to where some whole fruit and prepackaged snacks that required only ambient temperature were stacked. You stared at a menagerie of chips and felt flicker of pride in your chest. You had a feeling that this was some kind of test. It didn’t feel malicious, but it fell in line with his methodical sandwich choices. It all lie in if you had correctly identified that chin move as appreciation. If that were the case then him allowing you to chose an accompaniment meant he had some sort of value in your culinary decisions.

You were definitely over thinking this.   

Still, it was a fun game. Ignoring the typical name brands, you perused a set of locally made kettle chips. Anything too potent would skew the sandwich evaluation so you knocked those competitors out of the ring. It left only variations of salt which at first glance seemed like the safe choice. Chuckling to yourself you tried to imagine how his computer would process the data. He probably went through whatever you were going through but charged up to some astronomical degree. There was no way a man who was trying his 13th sandwich shop would do any less. Pinching two bags together by their top corners, you hoisted them onto a tray and went to join Donatello.

He was standing off to the side waiting with a slip of paper clutched prominently in one hand. The way his eyes went right to your tray said all you needed to know about how he’d considered the endeavor.

“Sea salt and cracked pepper.”

You waited for his eyes to flick up to yours. You gleaned nothing else until that moment finally happened. When it did you were ready, you said your prepared line. “A little extra seasoning, so to speak.”

He made a clear sound of acceptance before his chin tipped up and then down into a nod.

He then turned into the motion and headed towards the cashier. You were able to keep a lid on your delight until his back was to you and you nearly skipped after his form. It wasn’t conclusive, but whatever it was still sent your heart aflutter. He paid and when you stepped up to the cashier next you watched the woman go back to her novel. Waiting further, you blinked as Donatello headed towards the dining room. The woman didn’t part you a glance.

“He got you.”

“He what?” You wondered aloud and she must have heard the rhetorical note to it because she simply turned the page in response. You frowned and tightened your grip on the tray. “Hey!”

From several lengths away, Donatello was evaluating which table would be best.

Cheeks taunt with irritation, you brushed passed him and plopped down at a table perfectly shaded by a monstrous plant and just outside of the gusty radius of a nearby fan.

“You paid for me.” You ground out as he sat across from you.

“I did.” He responded simply and picked up a bag of chips. “You forgot napkins.” He added before plopping down a few onto the tray in demonstration.

You pouted at them and watched as he turned the package over to read the back. It was clear he’d dropped the conversation and you could have just enjoyed his contribution, but you were seized with obligation. “I’ll get the next one.”

“If you want.” He set the bag down. “They’ll bring out the food when it’s ready.”

You gave a curt nod.

“What flavor do you actually get?”

“What?” You momentarily surfaced from your sulk.

Instead of repeating himself, he gave a single finger tap to the chips.

You stared at the bag with growing wonder before turning an accusatory glare on him.

He cocked his head the slightest degree.

“How’d you know?”

“I didn’t.”

“But you asked.”

“I did.”

You frowned and the corner of his mouth upturned in a tempered version of when he scared the man outside the elevator. Your jerk senses were tingling, but there was an infuriating beguiling quality to it. Probably because he was right; this wasn’t what you would normally choose in normal circumstances.

He certainly was far from average.

“It depends on my mood, but if the sandwich is gonna be more on the plain side then I get a more potent chip.”

He gave a single nod.

“How was my choice?” You absolutely wanted to know.

He opened his mouth, but another voice came out.

“Here we are!”

You startled at the sudden approach of an aproned man, but Donatello simply straightened. The man set down a tray with two sandwiches and Donatello parted the man a thank you as he left. You made room on your tray as your companion placed a plate onto it before setting up his own arrangement. You watched him take the same care as to where to pick his club up from. Shaking your head at his absurdity, you grabbed your sandwich and bit right in. They had added an herbed blend or perfumed their oil. You thought it over in way you might not have if it weren’t for your opposite.

You continued to eat, popping your chip bag open about halfway through and considered the flavors. The calm of the moment swallowed you up until Donatello finally spoke.

“Not bad.”

You looked up to find his finger still pinched from where there was presumably a chip.

“You’re just saying that.”

He gave you a look you couldn’t quite read, but there was an air of disdain to his slightly arched brow.

You suppose he hadn’t minced words before this point.

“The pepper offsets the aromatic quality.” He lifted the bread off the uneaten half of his sandwich in examination

“I couldn’t have known about that…” You responded with a heavier quality to your voice than you hoped. You weren’t actually upset about something as silly as potato chip choices, but you had been betting on a solid win which felt stripped from you.

“Don’t point out a flaw the other party hasn’t caught on to. It shows your hand.”

You brought a questioning gaze to him and found him staring back flatly.

“You think I knew…?”

“No, but you could have made an educated guess.”

You broke eye contact to glance at your surroundings. Though it were smack dab in the middle of a trade building, the ambience had an upscale quality. You almost wished you knew how much the meal cost though you wouldn’t have been able to take it into account as you’d already made your choice by then. Something about the whole thing seemed planned all along. 

“What do you do?” You adjusted how you sat in your chair.

“Freelance.” There wasn’t a single moment of hesitation.

That was unusual.

You gave him another incredulous look that he pointed ignored by popping another chip in his mouth.

“Broad and vague.” You noted, doing the same.

You swore you heard another of those plausive hums, but between chews you couldn’t be sure.

“So serial killer is still on the table.” You crunched down on another chip and heard what you thought was a snort. Your eyes flew to him instantly, but found only composed stoicism there. “Did I just get you?”

He gave you that look again.

He was never going to tell.

Unfortunately for him, that in and of itself was quite telling.

You let out a little bit of laughter and shook your head. “You’re something, you know that?”

“’Broad and vague.’” He quoted with an almost amused air.

Something you’d said so candidly got a positive response. Internally you rode the high, but externally you only showed how pleased you were with a grin. “Actually, it’s a turn a phrase.”

“The intent of which changes upon inflection.”

“How did mine sound?” You put your elbows to the table and placed your chin upon your hands in a show of awaiting his response.

He looked back to his meal and lifted the last bit of his sandwich. “You’re so busy pining that it’s hard to see past that.”

You had the urge to duck against that return shot. He had a certain command for conversation even if he seemed to be in a perpetual state of not wanting to be in one.

“That obvious?” You gave a little wince.

You received that patented look for the third time.

It was unmistakable now.

The epitome crossroads between ‘you already know the answer’ and ‘I’m not going to dignify that with a response.’

At least he was aware of your intentions.

That thought had you faltering in your posing. Head now below your hands you were slow to raise back up.

What were those exactly?

Hadn’t this been a fun little crush accommodation?

Your face felt hot, but you weren’t sure it read blush.

Finally heaving your chin onto your hands, you watched as Donatello tidied up his mess. He’d already finished his meal and you weren’t sure what this whole meeting had really gotten you.

“Did you pacify your boss?”

You were thankful for the perch that allowed you to loll your head. “No way, I just don’t care today.”

“You must not be since you’re already later than yesterday.”

“Am I?” There still was a quality of fear to your voice that couldn’t been quelled. When it hit your ears you gave a synthetic laugh in a pathetic attempt to dispel it.

He opened his mouth to respond, but you cut him off for a fear you couldn’t quite place.

“Do you like eggs?”

His mouth closed and he just openly stared.

You did so back with what you assumed was the same amount of tempered confusion.

The old saying of every step being one in the right direction sure didn’t account for your mouth.

“It depends.” He responded after what seemed like an eternity passed.

At least you’d had time to fill your treacherous mouth enough to finish your meal.

“On what?” You mumbled through a napkin.

“Time of day and mood, I suppose. I’ve never thought about it in exact terms.”

“Are there any egg dishes you like?”

He leaned back in his chair.

With all your trash squared away on a tray, you gave him a sympathetic smile. “It seems odd.”

He gave a single knowing nod of agreement.

“You were so upset by the thought of them being in a club the other day I thought I’d ask.”

His shoulders seized in the smallest way. It was a telltale sign of his displeasure with the matter. “They aren’t a component.”

His tone was so dark you’d think he was talking about something pure evil.

You couldn’t help but laugh.

His displeasure must have continued because he stood to take his tray.

“W-wait, wait!” You got out between chuckles.

He waited beside his seat and looked down his snout at you.

“We can table the egg thing, how was the sandwich?” You hustled to grab your belongings.

 “A solid choice, but not what I’m looking for.”

“It was like real shaved turkey, but the add-ons made it too deluxe!”

He waited until you joined him to move to the designated dump area. “I appreciate how it showcased the ingredients, but they also can speak for themselves.”

“You’re looking for a mom and pop shop kinda meal…” You nodded to yourself as you dumped your trash.

He seemed to be looking elsewhere. You watched him curiously as he was trapped within his thoughts. You reached out unconsciously to rouse him and he flinched away when you got within centimeters of his coat. With your hand still outstretched you gave an apologetic frown. His eyes flicked from your appendage to your face before he moved to the door.

He held it for you, but the atmosphere had changed in a way that words didn’t feel could penetrate. Hearing the door close as he followed you into the lobby, you moved to press the down button. You both stood, staring at the elevator screen as one unit moved down and the other up.

“If inclined I enjoy a plain omelet on occasion.” 

You brought your head up a little higher before turning it on him.

“It’s something I make myself to ensure it’s cooked to my specifications.”

“Are…” You tapered off and watched him to see if a follow-up question were appropriate. Instead of his usual parted gaze, he brought it to you and seemed to wait. Something about the act made your chest tighten. “Are you a good cook?”

“To an extent.” His eyes shot to the corner as he presumably considered his catalog. “I make what I like.”

“I get that.” You stuffed your hands into your coat as an elevator arrived.

“What about you?” He asked only in passing as soon as the doors opened. 

“Am I a good cook or do I like eggs?” You snickered and joined him.

You pressed the ground floor button as he hadn’t yet and when your attention returned to him, your heart nearly stopped. Though it were still tucked under that same stoicism, there was the ajar door quality to the curiosity on his face. You were beyond elated with a torn undercurrent. If he really were letting his real emotions slip through then this was a show you’d be stuck examining for the foreseeable future. It could be anything from interest to goodwill for whatever had happened when you’d gone to touch him. There was also the chance that it was all just a put on. Though if that were the case, you weren’t sure why he’d suddenly try to trick you when he seemed to staunchly only do what he wanted. Paralyzed by the many scenarios, you short circuited as the doors closed.

You could feel his eyes on you, but no matter how hard you tried your body and even your mouth refused to cooperate.

The floors ticked by as silence filed in.

Your heart sank in time with the elevator’s descent.

“I suppose I can handle the suspense until tomorrow.”

“You still want to see me again?” The question jumped off your lips so quickly, your eyes widened.

Why after all that time was that what was easy to say?

“Your phrasing could use work, but I believe our agreement was for this area. We have two more locations to cover.”

The elevator chimed and the air felt too thick to turn to him.

That made sense.

He was meticulous if nothing else. 

You gave an odd laugh. “And here I thought you might have liked me or something!”

The doors opened and it was only when he also didn’t move that you felt some semblance of control.

You clutched the bottom of your coat to ease your nerves.

A flash of movement caught your eye and in your distraction you watched Donatello’s arm shoot out to keep the doors from closing automatically.

Otherwise, he still hadn’t moved.

The doors sensed his presence and opened back up.

Swallowing desperately, you felt the pull of his gaze. Tracing back to him via his still outstretched arm, your muscles tensed as you finally glimpsed his face.

Painted on it for the fourth time was what you now considered his trademarked look.

You knew what it meant.

There was no way.

He let you drink it in for enough for the doors to attempt a second close before he finally moved.

“Donatello?” Your voice sounded so small because you still couldn’t believe what you’d seen.

He, however, was long gone. You scrambled out just as the elevator doors made their third annoyed attempt to close. They bumped your shoulders and caught you. Breaking free, you sprinting out only to find him already reaching for a door handle across the lobby.

“Donatello!” He didn’t stop his trek as he exited the building.

NEXT

[wackyw0rkbench]

Skyscraper Scamper

[a-ladyman-in-waiting]

Randos on the street

A little prompt.

In a time that Madeline’s image has started to circulate around the web, people started looking for answers.

Although, the Dragonkin to be is certainly unhappy with the amount of eyes prying outside their windows and on top of rooftops.

Especially after the ruckus two days ago…

—

Brendon (daytime form) was in a rush to catch the train to get home quickly for personal reasons.

Running through the crowds, he accidentally bumped into a woman carrying groceries.

“Sorry!” He exclaimed while looking back, doing his best to avoid anyone else.

As he ran up the stairs, he overheard curse words and perhaps a slur in his direction. As much as it frightened him, he continued to run through the turn-tables with the swift train card access.

And then he scampered to the platform, ready to board the train.

But it didn’t arrive yet.

In fact, he walked around the platform to look for the next scheduled train, only to find that it would be 5 more minutes.

He looked around again, anxious to see if anyone had followed him.

Just then, he caught the glimpse of the same woman that he bumped into earlier, accompanied by a large man.

Thanks to his enhanced vision, he could see the scowl on his face.

Brendon began to hide behind the stairs.

Fearing the worst, he used an ability to pinpoint the soul of the angry man to avoid a confrontation.

But as he thought the worst, he accidentally bumped into another person.

As he turned to apologize, they immediately shouted, “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?”

“FUCKING [BEEP] ALWAYS FUCKING BUMPING INTO ME.”

An angry woman started berating Brendon, terrifying him inside.

All that Brendon wanted to do is just slowly back away, so they took slow subtle steps as the woman continued berating him.

Suddenly, Brendon felt the aura of the angry man.

He was close behind him.

With only a few seconds to react, he did what he could only do:

He made an illusion of himself while disappearing simultaneously.

He quickly sneaked around the staircase using his quiet footwork.

He went up the stairs to ran across the station the other staircase, where he entered the train from there.

After that, he tried listening to music to calm himself down, all the while shaking.

—

Brendon, now as Madeline, was still shaken up from the whole thing.

So they stayed in their room for an hour before deciding to fly out for the night.

Once the clock struck 1 AM, they leapt out of the window and flew around the city to joyride around the skyscrapers.

Madeline took a long dive to gain speed, where they loop-de-looped, they barrel rolled, and they flew upside down for a brief moment.

Until it was time to take a small cruise towards a rooftop to have lunch, they packed a sandwich, a bag of chips and a bottle of soda in a pocket dimension earlier.

After some time had passed, they slowed down and perched on a ledge, placing Light Discs under their feet once they sat down.

Now it was time to prepare their lunch experience;

They pulled their meal from the pocket dimension, gave their prayers, then dug in to the California Chicken sandwich. Then they took a swig of their soda and opened their small bag of Dorito chips, just before they begin enjoying the view.

It didn’t take long for Madeline to disassociate from her surroundings, their legs bouncing around, their tail wagging around, and her mind drifting around the clouds.

It was a good time.

—

Several minutes had gone by when they started eating and they were in the middle of an imaginary scenario.

However, a familiar looking figure had begun to walk up the staircase, angrily muttering to themselves.

“Dumbass internet, breaking every goddamn time.”

Then as they stormed to the top of the staircase and opened the door, she spotted Madeline, who jolted and looked back.

Madeline’s heart sank, it was the woman from 2 days ago. The angry one that she bumped into, when she locked eyes with him.

They both locked eyes again, the terrible habit that often got Brendon into a trouble.

“Oh my god, there’s a crazy ass bitch sitting on the rooftop. They have a fuckin costume and everything.”

Madeline began to shove the sandwich into her mouth, placing the trash into the plastic bag with the bag of chips and the soda.

“Hey, HEY! Who said you could leave?”

The woman pulled out her smartphone to record Madeline and started running.

Madeline shoved the bag into the pocked dimension and prepared to jump.

”Oh no you don’t!!”

The woman had ran halfway into the rooftop when Madeline leapt from the ledge and spread her wings.

She managed to capture Madeline gliding around the streets before flying back up a few stories.

“Holy fuck, I just found the crazy ass girl flying around the city.”

She stopped recording and went to fix their internet.

—

Madeline, shaken up even more, took solace in the Lake of Tears, where they cried.

to be continued.

[bcbdrums]

Trick or Treat

I meant to get to this long before now, but oops. (When all your real asks get buried by spam from the underwear guy you miss things. Also Adulting and life get in the way. Anywho....)

Wrote this just for you Princess, hope you like it!

-------------

Kim adjusted the single strap of the backpack on her shoulder as she looked up at the towering facade of the building, shining in the afternoon light as the sun reflected off the glass of the skyscraper's many windows. The place itself was intimidating, but not more than the job she had accepted.

"Well, here we are KP!" Ron said, his typical cheerfulness intact as he stood at her right shoulder and gazed up at the building. Rufus sat perched atop his head, eating a chip. Crumbs fell into Ron's hair as the rodent munched carelessly.

"Here we are..." she echoed, shifting her eyes to the huge block letters above the double doors.

"You know what KP?" Ron continued, turning toward her with a thoughtful smile. "I was nervous about this job at first. But now I don't think I am anymore."

Kim swallowed and turned large eyes to his face. "Why is that?"

"Because no matter what happens, I won't be going it alone. I've got you, and we've still got Wade. In almost everything in my life I worried I would fail... But through everything I've always got you. No matter what happens...we'll always be there for each other. If high school taught me anything, it was that."

Kim blinked, stared into the confident depths of his brown eyes.

"And you know, nobody's a failure who has friends!"

Kim felt the anxiety in her chest diminish. She reached up and brushed the chip crumbs out of Ron's hair, Rufus hopping down to scamper along her arm and then onto her backpack, looking for more snacks.

Ron was right. She may be stepping into the greatest unknown of her life, but she wasn't doing it by herself. And she would never have to. The man at her side had proved it more times than she could have ever asked.

"You're right, Ron. Okay then... You ready?"

"When you are, KP!"

She looped her arm through his, and together they walked forward through the doors of Global Justice and their future.

[summercourtship]

stay to burn (only to drown instead): chapter eight: poor, sweet, innocent [part II]

masterpost | ao3 link

jonathan crane x reader; bruce wayne x reader; edward nashton x reader | warnings: canon typical violence, sexual content | word count: 4930 words

DISCLAIMER: these chapters are not meant to be read alone. not every chapter has content for one of the three pairings listed. this is an ongoing fanfiction that I am cross-posting here on tumblr, not a series of one-shots.

chapter one |previous part

The shipyard was dark, large shipping containers piled high on top of one another. Gotham’s harbor was ink under the moonless sky, only the distant lights of skyscrapers reflected on its water.

The black clothes you’d donned for your evening allowed you to scamper from shadow to shadow unseen, though you were unsure of who would be watching. You knew that the night guard of the shipyard was stationed on the opposite end of the lot, and was unlikely to spot you (or even care if he did catch sight of you, he didn’t get paid enough to care). You hoped that you wouldn’t get close enough to the Scarecrow for him to notice you, even though a slight thrill ran through your body at the thought.

You had known, deep down, the moment you saw that dopamine shipment coming in that you would travel down to the lot of shipping containers to see if you could spot something, learn something that no one else had. Having a car yourself just made acting on the impulse easier. You’d parked your car a few blocks away, just another nondescript beater that no one would second guess (or try to steal).

All of this sneaking around almost made you want to change your major to Journalism. But it was a bit late in your college career to do that, so you made do with playing pretend.

Gravel crunched under your feet as you moved down the rows, though you weren’t sure of where you were going. You had no idea where the shipment would be docked and weren’t fond of the idea of becoming lost in a labyrinth of shipping containers. So when you came across a tall ladder leading to a metal platform that overlooked a portion of the yard, you decided to scale it and see what you could find with its view.

One foot over the other, you climbed up the ladder and onto the platform. Walking on the balls of your feet to limit the amount of noise you made, you slowly approached the edge before lowering yourself to laying down. Propping yourself up on your elbows, you reached into your fanny pack- also black- and pulled out a pair of small binoculars that you’d had laying around since you were a child.

But before you could look through them, a hand wrapped around your mouth, silencing the surprised shriek that erupted from your throat. Slowly, you maneuvered your head to look up (a move that you were able to accomplish only because the person holding you let you).

The Batman was looking down at you, his jaw set in a hard line. He had approached and kneeled beside you so quietly it was like he appeared out of thin air. Shame at being caught crept over your skin, leaving it hot and flushed.

“What are you doing here?” He didn’t let you respond, his question a terse accusation as he slowly removed his hand from your mouth. “I thought I told you to stop investigating this.”

“And I said no.” You shrugged, keeping your voice at a low whisper.

“What happened to thinking things through?”

“I did. I decided that this was a good decision.”

From your few encounters with him, you’d never realized how expressive his mask could be until now. Because at that moment he looked like he wanted to strangle you, infuriated exasperation clear in the set of his jaw.

“I’m being safe.” Your voice was weak, your disbelief in your own safety suddenly clear.

“Not if you’re here.”

One of the large floodlights a few rows down switched on, bathing a portion of the shipyard in its harsh light. Both you and Batman's gaze snapped away from the other and towards the light, moths to its flame. Luckily, the light didn’t quite reach your platform, leaving you and Batman relatively covered by darkness.

The light illuminated the far edge of the shipyard, the ring of light reaching the harbor. You didn’t see anyone moving around, but the Batman clearly did, his eyes scanning the scene rapidly.

“Keep yourself down and don’t talk.” You almost gave a sarcastic retort but then he lowered himself beside you, almost laying on top of you he was so close and your voice died in your throat. None of the warmth from his body was emanating from his suit. Even so, you imagined you could feel it, radiating from him and covering you like a blanket.

Your binoculars were pinned beneath you, useless.

You laid like that for a minute, silent and observing. Sudden;y, he started to move. He must have something to help him see farther, because he clearly saw something you didn’t.

“Stay.” He was getting up, not looking at you as he prepared to leave you.

“I’m not a dog!” You hissed, but it was too late. He had already made the jump from your platform to the next shipping container, steadily approaching the lit area.

Despite his order, you almost immediately shimmied backwards on the platform until you arrived back at the ladder. After you practically slide down the metal rungs, you gently walk through the maze of containers, following the beams of light escaping through the cracks.

You knew you were close when you could hear talking, muffled but deliberate and coming from the platform above you. You couldn’t make out the actual words being said, only the cadence and tone. Another platform rose above the yard, the ladder rusted with chips of paint falling off. You began to climb, delicately placing your boots on the rungs and moving up as slowly and quietly as possible while still being effective.

You could finally make out what the voice was saying, though none of it made sense. But what you did care about was who was speaking.

“...the formula from before wasn’t quite what I wanted. I think you’ll find this new one to be… much better.”

It’s him. The Scarecrow. Gotham’s newest but most elusive criminal was on the platform, and you couldn’t help but peek over the edge when you got to the surface.

The Batman was standing on the opposite end of the platform, close to the edge but not so close to be dangerous. He was facing you, and you weren’t sure if he noticed the top of your head over the side.

The Scarecrow was standing, hands in his pants pockets- a nice pair of pants, you noted absently- his stance casual as he talked- making a comment about not even wanting to come here tonight but something changed his mind. There wasn’t much else you could tell, his body facing away from you.

Then the Batman’s eyes flicked to you, pausing. His gaze must have lingered for a moment too long, a minuscule second but it was long enough because then the Scarecrow looked back at you, also stopping and staring at the top of your head. Slowly, his head turned to the side, casually observing you through his mask. He didn’t make any movement towards you, which you were grateful for because your grip on the ladder had become worryingly slack. Any sudden movements on his part and you’d fall backwards onto the concrete below.

Go down, you told yourself, but you were frozen in fear watching the Scarecrow take in your presence. You wished you could see what he was feeling, if he was surprised at the sudden arrival of a random girl or just annoyed that yet another person was interrupting his plans for the night.

You wondered if he remembered you from that night, so many months ago, where you’d spotted him in an alley on your way home.

The Scarecrow had no voice modulator, nothing to hide his voice but the expected muffling from the fabric over his mouth. He said something then, but when you looked back on the memory you couldn’t remember exactly what it was. Just that it was a beckoning call, a gesture for you to join the two men on the platform. Almost like you’d been hypnotized, your feet began to move before you realized it, scrambling up the rest of the ladder and onto the platform.

With a quick movement of his hand, the Scarecrow motions for you to come closer. Like an idiot pulled by a string, you obeyed until you stood only a few feet away from him. Though he wasn’t too tall, his presence was overwhelming, making him seem larger than life.

He fixed his eyes on you and you had no choice but to look into them. They were shrouded in shadows and you couldn’t imagine a face being beneath the mask, only a black expanse of nothingness.

“What is someone like you doing here?”

You answer quickly, unable to think of an efficient lie quickly. Besides, the truth was unremarkable.

“Investigating.” Your voice is meek and you hate how it sounds in the night air, like a child who's been caught snooping by her parents. The Scarecrow’s head tipped back and he let out a singular laugh.

“And how long have you been investigating?”

“Since…” You tried to remember that first time you saw him, when you’d called Jonathan to your apartment. But truly, your interest in the man had started that night of the gala when you’d seen grainy footage of him on the news. How would he know if you stretched the truth a little? “Since February.”

“February?” He repeated quietly, thoughtfully.

Then he looked back at the Batman, tilting his head.

“Is she yours?”

“No.” The Batman response was quick. You stared at him, but he wasn’t looking at you anymore.

“Then you won’t mind if I-”

“I do.” The Batman cut him off. To an outsider, the conversation probably wouldn’t even look like a confrontation between a criminal, vigilante, and nosy citizen. It resembles a casual meeting of acquaintances, people who knew of each other but weren’t too familiar.

“Too bad.”

One of his hands shot out towards you, grabbing your arm and pulling your body to him. Quick, before you could even process it, you were hit with something. Like a mist, or a smoke, the Scarecrow had sprayed something on your face.

You gasped, inadvertently inhaling the gas- because that’s what it was, you realized too late. Distantly, you recognize that the Batman had shouted out as well. But with you still held on

Like a shot of adrenaline, your veins were on fire, nerves awake and urging you to run, run, run. You barely caught your breath before you had to take another, shallow attempts at filling your lungs and calming your suddenly frantic heartbeat. With shaking legs you stepped backwards away from the Scarecrow- he’d released you once you’d been dosed and your limbs had started thrashing against him- and looked around for the easiest escape route.

Goosebumps erupted over your flesh, your mind alert as you searched the platform and ignored the shapes in the shadows. You had no idea what they could be- the Batman was trying to subdue the Scarecrow without getting sprayed himself, a feat that was seemingly proving to be impossible. Even in your haze, you could tell that the Batman was trying to keep an eye on you without letting the Scarecrow get away. If you were of sound mind you’d tell him to forget about you, but as it was you weren’t exactly in the right headspace to be self-sacrificing.

Focusing on trying to escape, you shifted your gaze quickly. You stared at the edge of the platform, deciding that you would risk a painful but non-fatal impact on the pavement to be away from the masked man. You rushed towards it, ready to jump until you looked over the edge.

Water was rushing over the pavement eight feet below, a flood that had no warning. he harbor must have risen. The sound of it filled your ears, deafening in the once-quiet night. Shrieking, you spun around, trying to figure out how the hell to get away from the Scarecrow now when a figure moved in the corner of your eye. You whipped your head in its direction, only to see nothing but another shadow in your periphery.

Was it the Batman? The Scarecrow? Someone else?

Then, hands were gripping your arms again, wrenching your attention away from the dark shadows darting through the corners of your vision and back to the man who’d somehow caused all of this.

His hands were cold, but his grip on you was tight this time, clawing into your skin, drawing blood to the surface where it began to spill freely. You gasped, looking up in the Scarecrow’s mask.

His eyes were familiar, almost too familiar, peering into your own like a curious child. Your mind scrambled to place where you’d seen these particular eyes before but then you blinked and they warped, turning from clear and blue to black and vicious. Predatory. Hungry. You leaned your body backwards from him, struggling against his hold even though you were distantly aware that you were standing at the edge of a platform.

“Curious.” His voice was deep and garbled, like you were listening to him speak with your head underwater. (You wondered if he was the one holding it there).

It couldn’t have been more than thirty seconds since you’d been dosed, though it felt like an eternity as your mind struggled to keep up with the barrage of horrors surrounding you. Somewhere, in the back of your thoughts, you knew that none of the things you were seeing were real. But it didn’t make the sight of them any less terrifying.

And you knew that the Scarecrow was actually holding you, there was no debating that, and it was the most terrifying part of your night so far.

He shifted, spinning you around so you faced away from him like you had when he first dosed you. His hand wrapped around your neck, applying just enough pressure to be a threat. You knew that he could feel your rapid pulse, the tiny gasps you took to try and breathe under his grip.

“Be a good girl for me and don’t move.” He whispered through his mask into your ear, his breath captured by the rough fabric. You stilled, partially from fear and partially because you were unfortunately aware and unsettled by the warmth that spread along your skin at his request.

You wondered what exactly that meant.

Like a blink, the Batman was there, in front of you. You didn’t know if he had always been there and your mind had simply erased him or if he had gone someplace else while your mind struggled against the effects of the gas and the Scarecrow had pulled himself into your personal bubble.

“Let her go.” The Batman stood at a safe distance, watching the Scarecrow’s hand flex harder against your neck. In the back of your mind- the still sane part of your mind- you realized that the angle his hand was at meant the contraption he had that sprayed the gas was aimed directly at your face. The threat of another dose hung heavy in the air between the three of you.

“I will. If you let me leave.” The Scarecrow’s chest vibrated against your back as he spoke, a hundred bats fluttering against your body. The shadows watched the exchange, silent from the corners of your eyes.

The Batman must have nodded because you were being flung forward onto the ground, your own legs weak, the sound of scampering feet moving away from you deafening as your ear pressed against the metal grating. Then two arms scooped you off the floor, pulling you close to a hard, armored chest.

As the Batman moved you back through the yard, the shadows returned, following his footsteps. The flood had receded, or perhaps it had never been there because the pavement was dry, a rare occurrence in Gotham.

You squeezed your eyes shut, breathing slowly through your nose. Invisible fingers pressed at your skin, swirling the sticky blood the Scarecrow had left on your arms into nonsensical patterns.

“Make it stop.” You didn’t realize you spoke it out loud until a low voice above you responds.

“I will.”

Then you’re strapped into the seat of a car, a harness pulled over your head. All you can think is that it feels like you’re about to go on the world’s worst roller coaster.

As the Batman drove you through the city, your stomach flipped with every sharp turn his vehicle made and with the memories, disjointed and foggy, that flashed through your mind.

The night of the sponsorship gala, when you’d been getting ready and caught a glimpse of the newscast about the Scarecrow.

The car turned, your head flopping sideways with the movement. While the visions were subsiding, your mind was clouded with dust.

The random girl mentioning biological warfare.

You stopped at a nondescript building, and in the darkness you couldn’t tell if it was abandoned or not.

Seeing the Scarecrow only a few blocks from your apartment, while he seemingly had no purpose for being in your area.

You were in the Batman’s arms again, breathing deeply as he held you close to his chest and stepping into an elevator. An elevator that took you up and up…

The Batman showing up at your apartment because you’d been close and telling you he had been attacked with gas.

The elevator screeched to a stop, and he began moving again. The rain falling from the sky was drowning you, filling your mouth faster than you could spit it out, overwhelming your lungs-

Telling Jonathan you wouldn’t look into the Scarecrow (how disappointed he would be if he saw you now).

The hands holding you placed you onto a flat concrete expanse, propping you up into a sitting position, which allowed you to force the water from your mouth and cough up the rest. Spitting onto the ground beneath you, you began to realize that you weren’t actually on the ground at all. You were on top of a building. Towards the end of the roof, a large unlit searchlight was positioned toward the sky.

Upon seeing it, all you could think was so that’s where the Bat Signal is.

His hands gripped your chin, pulling your face to look at him. In his hand he was holding a syringe with a needle. You stared at it before looking back into his face.

“I need to take a blood sample before I administer an antidote.”

You nodded, not in the mood to question him, turning your face away from the needle, though you still hissed as it pricked your skin.

Lowering yourself into a crouching position, you leaned against a concrete block. Your eyes were heavy, the exhaustion from the excitement of the night finally getting to you.

The only other sound besides the constant pattering of rain was the Batman’s fingers on the keys of his portable computer. Inexplicably, you thought of Jonathan, how focused he was when he worked. You thought about his fingers on your skin, how not even sixteen hours ago you’d been in his bed.

He’d probably be disappointed if he knew what you’d been up to tonight.

Slowly, the Batman looked up from the small screen to you. You couldn’t read the expression on his half-covered face, guarded and hidden as it was. There was no indication if what his computer had told him was good or bad. All you could do was wait for him to tell you what he had discovered.

He opened his mouth before shutting it, looking back at the screen. You’ve never seen him double-check himself.

“Your tolerance to the Scarecrow’s toxin is unusually high.” Of all the things he could have said, that was something you wouldn’t have expected.

“What does that mean?”

“That dosage should have left you catatonic and yet…”

“Here I am.” You were, for all intents and purposes, fine. While you still felt weak from the attack and had a horrible headache coming on, you’d stopped seeing things in the corner of your vision almost a half hour ago. Really, you just felt like you were becoming sober after a few too many (bad) drinks.

You looked down at your arms, only then noticing numbly that there were no claw marks, not even thin scratches. Just how much of your encounter with the Scarecrow after he had gassed you had been real?

You returned your gaze to the Batman, frowning.

“But what does that mean?”

“I don’t know.”

But you could see the gears of his brain working, processing this new piece of information into what he knew already. And you knew that he would never share his realizations or theories with you. You had the urge to challenge him, to tell him that since it was your mind and your body, you deserved to know what he thought. But you held your tongue, unwilling to get into an argument with the man who just saved you.

Again.

(You should really get a punch card.)

Even so, your mind was working just as hard. How would you have built a tolerance to the fear toxin, unless you were just naturally resistant? But that wouldn’t make sense, it wasn’t a naturally occurring chemical, it had to be mixed and created carefully under a watchful eye.

The antidote stings as it's injected into your bloodstream, a cotton ball pressed to the wound as you sit silently, looking over the city. Your mind finishes clearing itself of the fog as you watch the unmoving skyline. Red and blue lights flicker on here and there, the beams of their light streaming into the sky and reflecting off the buildings. Their sirens are drowned out from the rain and the distance, but if you strain your ears you can pretend to hear them.

It’s windy on top of the building, but that doesn’t keep you from hearing what he says next.

“I knew you were going to be there tonight.” He breaks the silence for once. You don’t look at him as you respond, your gaze locked on a random spot on the horizon.

“How?”

“You wrote the date on your wall.”

Oh. Right. You did do that, and he had seen it when he’d visited you in the middle of the night a few weeks ago.

“I didn’t even know I was going to actually go until a few days ago.” You left the rest unspoken- how easy were you to read, how much did he know about you already?

He didn’t answer. But perhaps it was easier to predict someone else’s movements than it was to analyze one's own desires and motivations.

Like chess, you thought humorlessly.

“Why did you bring me up here?”

“I know where to find you.” You glance at him from the corner of your eye but he wasn’t looking at you, instead focused on his computer. “Now you know where to find me.”

“Thank y-”

“Just try to stay out of trouble.” He was looking at you now and you almost wished he hadn’t. There was a quiet note of pleading in his voice now, a desperation you’d never heard before. You were struck by how human he looked, almost begging for you to be smart and keep yourself safe.

“I will.”

You could say confidently that you meant it this time.

The next day, you called out of work.

Thankfully, Jonathan didn’t ask any questions, which was good because you had no idea what you would have told him.

Hi, I accidentally got myself drugged last night and had to be saved (for the hundredth time) by Batman? I’m not sure if my car has been returned from Gotham’s harbor? My head hurts like all hell because I did something really stupid and also met the Scarecrow?

You’d texted him from your bed, your duvet still pulled over your head, which was pounding like you’d been out drinking all night. Even the muffled light coming in through the blinds on your bedroom windows was enough to send a fresh wave of pain through your skull.

After you’d hit send, you tried to go back to sleep but it just wasn’t coming and you decided that, fine, you could get out of bed now. When you stood up from your bed, your head pounded even harder than before, black dots swimming over your vision, your hearing fading out for a second before it came back like nothing had happened.

You didn’t bother making your bed or changing out of your giant T-shirt, heading straight into the bathroom from your bedroom.

Opening your mirrored medicine cabinet, you grabbed the pain relief medication before shutting the door and staring into your own bloodshot eyes. Then they traveled downwards to your neck, where bruises had formed where the Scarecrow had gripped your flesh.

So that had been real, then. His touch, the closeness of his body. If you didn’t know better, you’d think it was familiar- You shook your head, trying to physically push that thought away from you.

A shower. That’s what you needed.

You pointedly looked away from your reflection as you got yourself ready, unwilling to face your reflection again.

When you climbed into the shower, the water was hot on your back, burning against your skin in a way that made you feel alive. Though your mind was certainly reeling from the attack last night, you at least got away with little to no physical injuries.

Aside from the very real bruises on your neck.

You ran your fingers over them, pressing lightly on the tender skin and then hissing when the dull pain finally registered in your sluggish mind. You looked down at your hips where you still had a few bruises from your night with Jonathan two days before.

No, you told yourself, forcing your gaze up and away from your body. If it was who it seemed to be (and it’s not), he wouldn’t hurt me like that.

More aggressively than necessary, you yanked your body wash off the lip of the bathtub. You scrubbed your skin until it felt raw, tingling in the hot spray. You still felt unclean, but at least you knew your top layer of skin was gone. The dirtiness went down to the bone.

As you got out of the shower and wrapped yourself in a towel that should probably be washed, you finally asked yourself the question that had been hanging on the edge of your thoughts since you got home. Why did you keep putting yourself in situations where you were likely to be traumatized?

It’s the same reason the criminal world was slowly being overrun by masked criminals with catchy nicknames, the same reason everyone wanted to have a chance encounter with the Batman. You put yourself in these situations to feel like you were important, to hopefully leave some sort of mark on Gotham before it could leave a permanent one on you.

You glanced at yourself in the mirror, unable to not think that you didn’t look like a wet rat and grimacing because it seemed that Gotham had already left an ugly mark on you.

Worse than that awful introspection was that you hadn’t just gotten more than you bargained for. You’d also inadvertently put yourself in the Scarecrow’s radar. And while he didn’t seem to be the type to care that a random girl knew he was stealing from the cargo ships in Gotham’s harbor, you couldn’t get the feeling of your body pressed against his out of your head.

A pang of guilt passed through you. It wasn’t right to feel aroused at another man’s touch when you had a perfectly good one already. And it certainly wasn’t ethical for that other man to be a criminal.

You rolled your eyes at yourself. Sure, now was the time to chastise yourself over your morals.

You dressed slowly, pulling on the most comfortable clothing you could find that was clean. After, you padded back into the kitchen, grabbing a mug and filling your kettle with water. Even though it wasn’t nighttime, you pulled the familiar box of sleepy time tea out. Your nerves were frayed and you needed the relaxation the tea would bring.

You watched the kettle idly, waiting for it to whistle, an odd parallel to the first night the Batman saved you. But you didn’t think he’d be on your fire escape now, not in broad daylight. You’re sure he did

From the corner of the room, the wall you’d created of Scarecrow research mocked you. Slowly, you moved from the counter to the wall, eyes roving over the paper scraps and notes you had accumulated over the last three months. Grabbing your notepad, you flipped to an empty page, jotting down disjointed observations from your experience last night.

-Gas-- used to induce panic? Wrist device to administer. -More than one vers. of the toxin developed- why? What is S.C.’s end goal? -According to B.M. I have a high tolerance for the toxin- how?

Your pen lingered for a moment, wondering if you should write about his eyes or his hands, the way he carried himself. The way his body felt against you, how you hadn’t hated his skin on yours even when it was laced with malice.

But you decided against it, snapping the notebook shut and returning to your teapot.

next part.

[adaratrixie]

Poetry & Blood Chapter 1: The Initiate

By Trixie Adara 

Laura held the advertisement in her shaking hand. 

“You have to be kidding me.” 

This was the address the secretary had sent her to. It was a massive estate, at least four stories tall and almost as large as a city block. In the middle of downtown Memphis? That didn’t make any freaking sense. 

Laura checked the ad again:

WANTED: English major. Experience with editing and copy editing. Female. Experience with romantic fiction, reading or writing. Must be able to read poetry with emphasis, clarity, skill, and accuracy. 

She found it on her old college campus on a bulletin board. It was dark purple with a picture of “The Purpose and the Passion,” by Camille K, a successful romance writer. She wrote mostly fluff, stories of overly buff and wealthy men pursuing strong and independent women. It made money, but it wasn’t the Next Great American Novel. 

Laura had assumed she’d be working for Camille, though the ad wasn’t clear. What she hadn’t assumed was that Camille K lived in a giant estate in the middle of downtown. It looked like a library or a cathedral. It was oddly Victorian, standing out against the modern and concrete aesthetic around. Not many buildings from that time period were downtown, and even fewer had survived a giant fire from the early 1900’s. 

Laura shivered. The building wasn’t just impressive. Impressive was a word you used for skyscrapers and giant arches. This was intimidating. Camille K, her new boss, had somehow managed not only to live here, but to afford living here all while writing dressed-up smut. It was entirely possible Laura was way, way over her head. 

Laura approached the door and looked for a doorbell. It didn’t have one. All it had was a giant knocker attached to a lion’s face like a nose ring through the lion’s nostril. It was heavy, dark black iron. The circle itself must have weighed ten pounds. Laura pounded away with it and waited. 

Eventually, a tiny blonde woman, she looked to be no more than thirty, with a cute pixie haircut appeared. She wasn’t in a maid’s uniform, though Laura must admit she expected a maid from the 1800’s to appear. The woman was in a simple sleeveless white blouse and a black pencil skirt. There was nothing eye-catching or extraordinary about her, really. 

“Can I help you?” she asked. 

“Uh, hi. My name is Laura Delazier. I got hired for the copy editing job?” 

Laura had assumed it was a copy editing job. She’d be plundering Camille K’s predictable plots and painful dialogue for typos. But she needed a job. The world wasn’t desperate for English majors unless you wanted to be a teacher. Laura wanted to be a writer, but first she needed to find a story worth telling. She was still looking for it. 

Unfortunately, her landlord wouldn’t take that reason for rent. Neither would her grocery store, her student loans, her phone bill, her insurance, nor gas for her car. No one wanted aspirational stories. They wanted money. Camille K had enough money for a mansion, and apparently, enough money to help out lowly English majors only a few months out of school. 

“Copy editing job?” asked the woman. 

Laura held up the ad. The woman scrunched her nose to try and read the ad, then took it from Laura. As she read, her face relaxed. 

“Ooooo, the assistant job.” 

“Assistant?” 

“Oh, yes. Come right this way Miss Delazier.” The woman disappeared into the estate, and Laura followed. She turned around to make sure the door was closed behind them, then scampered after the short blonde.

As soon as she stepped inside, she wanted to pause and gawk. There was a grand staircase that wound all the way up to the fourth floor, and maybe even the roof. There were three different hallways to choose from. The building was rich with dark wood and pale marble that made Laura feel dirty, clumsy, and poor all at once. 

But Laura didn’t have time to investigate closely. The blonde was fast, and Laura had no idea where she was taking her. She lost track of all the turns they take. They seemed to go up a side flight of stairs, and then down another flight of stairs. One floor had a garden in the middle of it, and another floor had a grand dining room. 

“Am I getting the tour?” asked Laura. 

“Sort of,” said the blonde without turning around. “Miss K is in a meeting. It’s a moving meeting, and I’m to make sure they don’t see you or me. Hence, the roundabout course. 

“I’m not going to Miss K?” 

“You’ll meet with her shortly. For now, I’m taking you to her primary assistant.” 

“She has multiple assistants?” 

The blonde stopped abruptly, and Laura almost slammed into her. She turned and gave Laura a look of disappointment and amusement. “Miss K employs a research assistant, a personal assistant, a primary assistant, and now you, an editing assistant. Not to mention: me, two other housekeepers, a personal cook, several lawyers, an accountant, and a personal trainer. Her primary assistant oversees all of us.” 

“And she’s the one who  -” 

“Hired you. Will pay you. And will direct you. You’ll spend most of your time with her.” 

The blonde turned back around and led on. They went up to the fourth floor - Laura’s calves were killing her - and came to a glass door. Behind that glass door was a beautiful office that had giant windows overlooking the waterfront of the Mississippi River. 

Sitting at the desk, was an elegant Asian woman. She wore a flowing pantsuit that looked like it came off the runway in Paris. The legs flared a little below the knee, but were tight at the thigh. The neckline of the jacket was plunging, but the woman wore a simple white blouse underneath. She had long and straight black hair, going to her lower back. She looked to be only a little older than the blonde, in her mid or late thirties. She stood as she saw them round the corner and opened the door for them. 

“Hello,” she said. “You must be Miss Delazier.” 

“Please, call me Laura.” Laura extended her hand and shook Miss Lancaster’s. 

“I’m Lucy Lancaster, I’m Miss K’s primary assistant. We spoke on the phone.” 

“Yes,” said Laura. 

Everyone stood awkwardly outside Miss Lancaster’s office. Miss Lancaster and the blonde had some type of conversation with their eyes, and Laura tried to avoid eye-contact entirely. 

“Is Miss K still with the -” 

“Yes,” said the blonde quickly. 

“Good.” Miss Lancaster turned to Laura. “Come on in, Laura. Let me tell you more about the position.” Miss Lancaster turned to enter her office, but Laura turned to the blonde. 

“What was your name? I’m sorry, but I never got it.” 

The blonde blushed and smiled. “I’m Angelica.” 

“Thank you for showing me around, Angelica. I appreciate it.” Laura held out her hand to shake the blonde’s, but Angelic curtsied instead, and walked away. Laura turned and entered Miss Lancaster’s office. 

Miss Lancaster was in the wrong job. The woman belonged on Wall Street or in Washington. Her talent, intelligence, and composure were wasted working as the staff manager for a romance writer. Laura respected her immediately, but was too intimidated to like her. She wanted to like her. Laura wanted to like everyone. But Miss Lancaster made her feel stupid and foolish for being an English major. She disapproved of Laura’s tiny writing credentials. She kept saying “we can make that work,” and everytime she said it, Laura died a little inside. 

Laura’s job was to be feedback and copy editing for Miss K. Apparently, Miss K often gets stuck on story ideas. She needs help finding inspiration. She needs someone to bounce ideas off of. And yes, Laura will need to go over Miss K’s writing at the end of each day, line by line, to check for grammar, spelling, and inconsistencies in the text. 

“What about the poetry reading part?” asked Laura. 

“Miss K likes to have poetry read to her. It moves and inspires her.” 

“Sure,” shrugged Laura. Whatever Miss K wanted, Miss K was going to get. 

Miss Lancaster sighed and pushed back her chair. “Now comes the unpleasantness of this meeting.” She opened a drawer a pulled out a one-inch-thick stack of paper. She dropped it onto the table in front of Laura. 

“Unpleasantness?” squeaked Laura. 

“Unfortunately.” 

“What’s this?” asked Laura. 

“This is a Non-Disclosure Agreement, or NDA. It is a legal document binding you to privacy, secrecy, and confidentiality while under the employ of Miss Camille Kontalban.” 

“Kontalban?” 

“Doesn’t roll off the tongue, does it?” said Miss Lancaster with a smile. 

“Not quite.” 

“Hence, Miss K.” 

“Right.” 

Miss Lancaster flipped through the pages and explained them as best she could to Laura. Laura couldn’t tell people things that were happening in Miss K’s books. She couldn’t talk about Miss K’s process or methods. She couldn’t reveal Miss K’s creative or inspirational process. She couldn’t reveal Miss K’s lifestyle or homelife. In short, she couldn’t talk about Miss K in anyway to anybody outside Miss K’s employ unless she wanted an avalanche of legal troubles.

“Should I have a lawyer read over this?” asked Laura when Miss Lancaster was finished. 

“You can if you want to. It’s pretty straightforward, though.” 

“It’s a lot. And it’s … scary.” 

“We’re not trying to scare you. We’re trying to protect Miss K.” 

Laura sighed. “Where do I sign?” 

“That-a-girl.” Miss Lancaster flipped to several spots, and Laura signed at each of them. 

“One last thing,” said Miss Lancaster when they were finished. “And unfortunately, this was not in the add.” Laura went cold. “We insist that while you are in Miss K’s employ, since you will be working so intimately with her, that you should live in the manor.” 

Laura’s mouth dropped. “In the manor?” 

“Yes,” said Miss Lancaster. She chewed on her pen, nervously. “Is that alright?” 

“You mean, I have to move out of my crappy apartment to live in a mansion with a greenhouse, a ballroom, a grand staircase, and and and …” 

“A swimming pool?” suggest Miss Lancaster. 

“This place has a pool?!” squealed Laura. 

Miss Lancaster grinned and nodded. “And a gym. And a hot tub. And a spa.” 

“Holy shit,” whispered Laura. Then she gasped and covered her mouth. She blushed with embarrassment. 

Miss Lancaster laughed. “Holy shit, indeed.” She seemed to relax and sat back down at her desk across from Laura. “I take it you’re not upset by this?” 

“Am I allowed to leave when I want?” asked Laura. 

“Of course. It’s just easier for everyone if you’re nearby in case Miss K writes in a fevered passion at five in the morning.” 

Laura shrugged. “Fair enough.” It certainly beat paying rent. She’d also get to cancel her membership to the gym? What might have been the sketchiest ad for an English major in history, may have turned out to be her luckiest break. 

“I’ll have a full write up on the routines for the house: when meals are served, laundry, guests, etc.” 

“Great,” said Laura. 

Miss Lancaster stood and extended her hand. Laura stood and shook it. “Graumann will show you to your room.” Miss Lancaster pointed behind Laura. There, on the other side of the glass door, was a man in a white button-down shirt, a black tie, and black pants. 

“Um …” started Laura. 

“Yes?” 

“When will I meet Miss K?” 

“Ah, yes,” said Miss Lancaster. “Each night, Miss K has what she calls a Muse Session. You will meet her there tonight to start. It will be after dinner.” 

“Not until then?” 

“No. And let me make this clear,” Miss Lancaster’s smile faded, “you are not to harass or bother Miss K. You should not go near her office, her study, or her quarters. She will ask for you when she wants you. Is that understood?” 

“Yes, Ma’am,” said Laura. 

“Good,” said Miss Lancaster. “Grauman?” she asked to the man behind Laura. He opened the door for Laura and gestured for her to exit. She followed him. 

“What kind of name is Grauman?” asked Laura as they climbed down the stairs to the second floor, the one floor Angelica had made her skip. 

“My name,” he said in a thick European accent. German maybe? 

“Right, but where is it from?” 

“My mother gave it to me.” 

Right, thought Laura. Angelica nice. Lancaster scary. Grauman might be crazy or stupid. Got it. 

Grauman was surprisingly young for a butler, or whatever the hell he was. He seemed to be in his late twenties, the closest to Laura’s age of anyone she’s seen so far. He had thick hair that was parted to one side and slicked with something. It was a dark brown to match his dark eyes. Laura didn’t ask him anymore questions. 

When they arrived at her room, Grauman held out his hand. Laura stared at it.

“Oh, um,” she reached into her pocket. “Am I supposed to give you a tip?” 

“No,” snorted Grauman. “Your key.” 

“My key?” asked Laura. 

“To go and get your things. Yes, your key.” 

“Oooo,” said Laura. “The key to my apartment. Right. Sure. Here.” She took the key off the keyring and handed it to him. In turn, he handed her a key. 

“This will open your room, your bathroom, and the front door of the house. After midnight, the house has an alarm. You do not get to know the code.” 

“Okay, but -” 

Grauman turned around and stomped off. 

“Guess I’ll figure that out later,” muttered Laura. She turned around to inspect her room. 

It was gorgeous. And spacious. Room isn’t the right word. It was a suite. Laura had a small kitchen, a seating area for guests, and large four-poster bed. She’d seen rooms like this in movies or on television, but she never thought she’d get to sleep in one, let alone live in one. 

She squealed when she found her bathroom. It was huge. It had two full length mirrors, a shower, and a bathtub large enough for her to lay down, sprawl out, and share. 

Not that she’d shared a bath with anyone ever, but she now she could if she wanted to. Well, she wanted to, but if someone else wanted to, now they could. 

After completely freaking out about how incredible her amenities were, Laura went to explore the house. No one had told her she couldn’t, but she felt nervous that she might accidentally bump into Miss K or go into some forbidden section of the house. 

Luckily, she wasn’t ten feet out of her room before Angelica found her. 

“Lost?’ chirped the blonde from behind her. 

Laura turned around and smiled. “Unfortunately.” 

“It takes time to get used to.” 

“I mostly don’t want to accidentally bump into Miss K. Miss Lancaster made it sound like she’d bite my head off.” 

Angelica giggled. “Oh, I certainly don’t think she’d do that. Miss Lancaster is overprotective of Miss K. She wants to make sure nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing, interferes with Miss K’s creative process. None of us get paid if Miss K can’t write.” 

“Makes sense,” said Laura. 

“Anyways, I can explain the house to you like this: fourth quarter is entirely business related. There are offices, like Miss Lancasters’, meeting rooms, etc. Your office will be up there.” 

Laura nodded, but inwardly she jumped up and down, screamed, fist pumped, and danced. Her own office? She had her own office and her own apartment and a swimming pool and a gym and a personal chef and …. Her own office?! She needed to get into romance novels ASAP. Apparently the pay is to die for. 

“The third floor is for used for a variety of things. I showed you the gardens. That’s also where you can find the gym. There’s also the movie theater. It’s recreational, I guess.” 

A movie theater?! 

“The first floor is for entertainment. That is where the primary dining rooms, ballrooms, and guest rooms are. If we host as a party, which we don’t do too much anymore, it will stay on the first floor. The second floor is the residence. The east wing is for staff, like us, and the west wing is entirely for Miss K. Her office and suite all occupy that space. Once you come to the double burgundy doors, you’re entering into her space. Stay away from the doors, and Miss K will be left in peace. If she finds you in the garden, you’ll have nothing to fear from her.” 

Laura nodded. Double Burgundy Doors are the point of no return. Got it. 

“I’ll go through those doors tonight, though, right?” 

“Hmmm?” asked Angelica, turning around. “Oh, yes. For the Muse Session. Yes, those will happen in her suite tonight. Yes.” 

“Where are we heading now?” 

“I want to make sure you meet all the staff.” 

Angelica took Laura all around the house (there were so many stairs! Her thighs burned!). She met the personal chef, a man named Jacques. Angelica said he only spoke French. The other housekeeper was a curvy redhead named Nikki. She had an adorable Southern accent. Miss K’s personal assistant was a mousy girl with thick and large glasses named Erika. She wore a thick sweater and scarf even in the depth of a Memphis summer. Those were the only staff that lived in the house. Miss K kept the “non-essential” assistants worked “off site,” normally from their homes. 

Laura had dinner with Erika. Nikki waited on them. Erika said nothing, but Nikki talked her ear off. Apparently, she had only been working here a week or two. Miss K felt things were being missed and wanted an additional maid at all times to help out Angelica. 

Nikki was sweet. She reminded Laura of her roommate, Claire. Both girls were extremely extroverted and had no issues sharing any bit of personal information. Laura learned that Nikki didn’t have a boyfriend, but she went out several times a week to find “a nice gentleman to ride.” 

Laura blushed like she used to do with Claire. Where Laura grew up, people didn’t talk that way. They pretended they never had sex at all. Sex was what whores and prostitutes had. Respectable people made love, at best. 

But Claire helped Laura mellow out. Claire liked to tell Laura who she had recently hooked up with and gave her explicit details about it. Laura learned that Claire went to clubs to explore her kinks and fetishes. Laura followed Claire two or three times on these expeditions, out of curiosity. The clubs were strange and hot. People were pushy or needy. It was too intense for her. It was no different than going to a wild pride parade. Yes, people were celebrating their sexuality. No, Laura didn’t want to participate. Yes, she could be around them and not freak out. 

That was precisely what was on Laura’s mind as she pushed through the Double Burgundy Doors to Miss K’s side of the second floor. Laura noticed immediately that the air was staler here, stuffier, almost thicker. It felt like Angelica and Nikki had not dusted here in years. Which is strange considering the fact that if Laura was a housekeeper, she’d make sure the area around her boss’ room was the cleanest of all. 

Nevertheless, Laura wandered through the hallways, looking for Miss K’s suite. Luckily, Miss Lancaster found her and led her to the right door. Laura hesitated before entering. She’d barely heard of Camille Kontalban a day ago. She hadn’t read a single book by the woman, nor would she read her books if they were given to her. But now she’d seen the house and the staff. The woman must be made of money. And ambition. What kind of woman was she? 

Miss Lancaster pushed open the door and revealed an empty suite. “She’ll be in her bedroom,” said the tall asian woman as she stepped past Laura. 

“Her bedroom?” asked Laura. 

“Yes.” 

“What are we going to do in her bedroom?” Laura raised an eyebrow at Miss Lancaster. The woman smiled and waved off Laura. 

“I’ll admit, this will be the strange part. But she writes in a highly sexualized genre for women who want steamy sex scenes with gorgeous men.” 

Laura blushed and looked down at her shoes.

“But you won’t be doing anything sexual,” said Miss Lancaster, raising her voice as she caught how her words sounded. “I promise.” 

Laura looked up. “Oh,” she whispered. 

“I promise. We’d have mentioned that in the ad or in a contract or something. There may be sexual things going on around you, but you will not be asked to do anything you’re uncomfortable with and nothing sexual.” 

“What kind of sexual things?” asked Laura. Were they going to watch porn together? 

“That’s hard to explain,” said Miss Lancaster. “It will be easier to show you.” 

Miss Lancaster reached for Laura’s hand, but Laura pulled back. “Wait. Before we go in there, tell me what I’ll be doing. Exactly.” 

Miss Lancaster sighed and looked at her watch. “You will be asked to read a poem for Miss Lancaster while she is … serviced.” 

“Serviced?” asked Laura. 

“Yes.” 

“And by serviced you mean …” led Laura. 

“Yes,” nodded Miss Lancaster. “Exactly what you think I’m hinting at.” 

“She wants me to read poetry while this happens?” 

“Exactly.” 

“That’s why the ad wanted me to be able to read poetry well?” 

“Exactly,” sighed Miss Lancaster. She looked at her watch again. “Are you ready? We really can’t be late.” 

“Wait,” said Laura, lifting her hand to Miss Lancaster. “I’m trying to figure out how I feel about this.” 

Miss Lancaster stepped forward. Laura almost jumped back, but held her own. “Miss Delazier,” she said with iron in her voice. “You will be paid handsomely. You will edit her work, while having little editing experience yourself. You will copy edit her work while having literally no experience doing copy editing. You will give her feedback on a genre you know little of. You will have access to this home and all its amenities. And you get all this, despite your low qualifications, precisely because Miss K likes the way you read poetry. It is for that you were hired. If you won’t do this, we will be forced to dismiss you. Is that clear?” 

Laura thought about all the magical perks of this job. This is the catch. Of course, there’s a catch. It was too good to be true. In order to keep the job, she’d have to participate in Miss K’s bizarre inspirational sex acts. 

Well, not really participate. It was just reading poetry, right? She’d recorded poems and read them publicly hundreds of times. Sure, it was weird. But it was just reading. What bad could come from reading a poem?

Laura nodded. “That’s clear.” 

“You’ll do as your told?” snapped Miss Lancaster. 

“I’ll read the poem,” said Laura. “But that’s all I’ll do.” 

“Good.” Miss Lancaster gave a sigh of relief. “Thank you.” She smiled at Laura, and Laura smiled back, though she didn’t know why. But Miss Lancaster didn’t linger. She stepped ahead of Laura and opened the door to Miss K’s bedroom. 

Inside, candles were lit all around. There was no lamp of any kind. In fact, Laura didn’t think she saw a single electronic thing. No alarm clock. No television. No stereo. No phone charger. Nothing. There weren’t even outlets for electricity to get into the room. There were no windows, but there were two doors to the far corner. One was to a bathroom, where Laura could see shadows moving inside. The other was closed. 

In the room were Grauman and Jacques. They both had unbuttoned their shirts considerable and taken off their ties. Laura admired their physique. Before, they looked like simple servants or businessmen. Now, she could see that their muscles were taut. Their shirts were constricting. They were strong and young. Laura could imagine their abs beneath their shirts. She wondered if they ever modelled for the covers of Miss K’s books. She felt herself flush with desire or embarrassment, she wasn’t sure which. 

Neither Grauman or Jacques said anything to her. They barely noticed her. It gave Laura the chance to balance herself and adjust to her surroundings. The room was filled with the scent of candle smoke. Things felt surreal and thick. Laura wandered forward and caught herself on a stool near the door. On it, was a book. It was titled Poems by Marcilla. The book had a brown cover. It was old. The pages were thick and yellowing. Laura opened it and flipped through it. It looked as though the words were transcribed by hand in old ink. The script was flowing in beautiful calligraphy. How old was it? Laura felt she was holding a piece of history, but she’d never heard of Marcilla. 

Laura looked up when she heard ruffling in the bathroom. A woman Laura had never seen, in similar clothes to Nikki and Angelica, scampered out of the bathroom and past Laura, almost knocking her over. Laura looked behind her to watch the woman go, but there was a sound from the bathroom. Laura turned to see the light come off and a woman who could be none other than Miss K stepped out. 

Laura didn’t know what she imagined Miss K would look like. Perhaps she imagined some mousy bookworm that spent all day writing fantasies with men she would never have. Perhaps Miss K was an elderly woman: wiry, twiggy, and fragile. Silvered and ancient. But Laura never expected Miss K to look younger than her. It couldn’t be possible. Miss K had been publishing for ten years or so, but the woman that stepped out of the bathroom looked like she stepped off of a college campus. 

Miss K was pale. Paler than pale. Pale women were cream. Miss K was snow. Her skin almost glowed in the dark room. Her hair was dark and curly, falling over her shoulders in waves. She was neither tall nor short. She wore a thin gold robe parted down the middle. Laura’s eyes were drawn to Miss K’s plump breasts and her ghostly nipples beneath. Laura’s eyes went to the floor, following the length of Miss K’s body. Miss K’s bush was absent, and two smooth and bare lips teased and embarrassed Laura. 

But despite her impressive body, it was Miss K’s stride that struck Laura. She took small steps, carefully swinging each foot in front of the other before lifting a leg. Her hips swayed from the effort, but her feet moved in a perfect line. One foot swung out in front of another. There was a breath. Then the other foot swung out in front of the first. And decorating Miss K’s feet were a pair of bright blue heels. At the sound of their click on the wooden floor, Grauman and Jacques stood at attention for Miss K. Laura forgot about the missing maid, the ancient book, the hairless pussy, and everything else. 

Miss K commanded the room. 

“Laura,” she said with a smile. She reached out both hands for Laura to take, as though they were old friends about to embrace. Laura hesitated, but stepped forward and took both of Miss K’s hands in each of hers. 

“I’m so happy you could join us here,” said Miss K. Her voice was heavy and thick, as though it were coming from underground, or through a veil. But it was pleasant and inviting. Laura liked her instantly and smiled despite the situation. 

“I’m honored to be here, Miss K.” 

Miss K laughed and threw her arms wide, releasing Laura’s hands. Her robe billowed and Laura saw more of her naked body, her glowing skin, her rolling flesh. 

“Please,” she laughed. “You’ve seen me naked. The least you can do is call me Camille.” 

Laura smiled. “Of course, Camille. Thank you for inviting me into your … process.” Laura tried not to sound judgemental with the last word, but she knew Grauman and Jacques weren’t here for moral support. 

“It is a strange one,” admitted Camille with a shrug. “But it’s worked so far,” she spread her arms again and gestured to the entire estate, her entire writing career. “After this, my mind will be brimming with stories and words and sensations to put into my characters.” She stepped towards Laura and whispered, “and thus my readers.” She winked, and Laura found herself smiling again. 

“But, let’s get to it.” Camille stepped away and clapped her hands. “Laura, darling, all you have to do is sit on that stool and read those poems. The words and the boys will do the rest.” Camille gestured to the poems Laura had found already. “Start at the beginning. There is a bit of a narrative to it all.” 

Laura was about to ask about the author and the book, but Camille shrugged out of her robe. Grauman picked it up and carried it into the bathroom. Camille sat on the edge of the bed, turned, and faced Laura. Jacques went around the bed and sat next to Camille, facing away from Laura. He held a silver bowl, and in it was a flash of black and red. He extended his hand, and Laura saw a chocolate-covered strawberry. He lowered it, and Camille bit into it. Rivulets of red juice dribbled down her lips and her neck. Laura blushed and looked away. 

Grauman came back from the bathroom without the robe. He stood in front of the bed, between Laura and Camille, and sank to his knees. Laura finally figured out that he was going to eat out Camille while Jacques fed her strawberries. 

All while Laura read her poetry. 

Grauman lowered himself to Camille’s flawless pussy. He began with long licks. Camille shivered, but she didn’t pay him any more attention than that. Instead, she caught the dripping strawberry juice as it slipped between her breasts. She licked her fingers and motioned for Jacques to feed her another bite. 

She went back to college, back to Claire and the orgies and the kink clubs. She’d seen someone eaten out before. It was strange, asking her to participate with poetry, but no stranger than people dressing up like animals to have sex. 

All she had to do was focus on the poems, the words. 

She could do that. She could do words for days. 

She opened the book. There was no table of contents. No publishing or copyright information. The first page began with a poem, like someone’s personal journal. Laura read: 

The Yawn

Across the hall gather the women,

Each watching their husband, 

Each daring him to dance with

Each strategic tittle of breast. 

But Miss Laura Karnstein

Turns her head and yawns. 

Her unadorned neck grows tight, 

Then sags with parted lips, 

Her mouth wide with boredom. 

Laura looked up at Camille. Her mind ran over the name. Laura? The poem is about a Laura? Coincidence? It must be a coincidence. Laura is a popular enough name. But odder than that was the poem itself. This is what she wanted to read? And a poem about a yawn? Again, Laura wondered at the age of the text. Tittle? That’s an old word. This is what Miss K wanted to listen to while she was serviced by her two strapping employees? Laura watched Grauman as he went deeper into Camille’s pussy. His tongue gave long and deep strokes. Camille’s lips were bright red from strawberries. Her chin, neck, and the top of her breasts were also faintly pink. 

Laura shrugged and continued: 

But her porcelain skin catches me. 

The length of her thin neck, 

The pale skin masking 

So much red life, so much 

Thrumming potential, 

But she passes it on 

As yet another yawn. 

I look for Mr. Karnstein, 

But he is neither in Miss Karnstein’s eye

Nor among the men. 

He must be a yawn, 

Missing the twitch in her 

Pulsing throat, 

The brazen sign of desire 

For more than this,

Camille moaned. Laura looked up again. Camille’s eyes were open. She was staring at Laura. Jacques offered her another strawberry, but she shook her head. She ran her hand through Grauman’s hair. Camille kept her eyes locked on Laura and moaned again, tilting her head back, but never looking away. Laura blushed and kept reading: 

More than traditional dances. 

She pulls away, and I follow. 

I see the vein of her neck shiver, 

And I join it. The first twitch 

Of game before it runs; she rises 

To excuse herself, 

As though it possible, 

As though a resting note, 

A caesura, 

May be 

pardoned 

or ignored. 

Laura paused again. A line break like that wasn’t conventional for the time period. That’s a visual element of a poem, saved mostly for the early 1900s. She felt tempted to skim through the book, to find more evidence of who Marcilla was and when this poem was written. 

Camille moaned again. Laura felt heat rush to her thighs. She blushed at being turned on and the impossibility of the scenario. Heat spread through her cheeks and down her neck. 

Her neck. Laura’s neck. 

She saw it clearly, Laura Karnstein bored at a party. Laura Karnstein’s neck stretching and yawning. Her neck taught. Her neck bare. Her neck pulsing. Laura’s hand brushes her neck, self-consciously trying to hide it from Camille’s gaze. She dare not look up, dare not see Camille staring into her, moaning at her. She read the last couplet: 

But I rise and follow. 

She retreats, and I give chase. 

Camille let out a shrill moan. Laura looked up and sees Camille’s back arch, her head flung back, as she humped Grauman’s face. Jacques abandoned feeding her strawberries, and licked one of Camille’s nipples. Camille spasmed and let out another moan. 

Laura found herself hoping Camille would cum and be satiated. She didn’t want to endure another poem. She wanted to take the book away and pour through it. She wanted to find out how it was made and who wrote it. Who was Marcilla? Was this autobiographical? Was Laura Karnstein real? Her warm, throbbing neck? 

But Camille’s moans rolled on. She almost fucked Grauman’s face with her fevered thrusting. Jacques used a free hand to administer to Camille’s other breast, but she stopped him. She paused, hesitating. She went rigid, and then sighed. 

Laura couldn’t help but notice Camille’s thighs quiver as Grauman moved away. 

Both men went the bathroom. Laura heard the sink turn on, and then both men walked past her and left the room. Could Laura join them? Did she need permission to go? Would Camille dismiss her? Or would she read more? Would she give chase to Laura Karnstein as Marcilla did? 

Camille lay on the bed for a minute. Her chest heaved as she caught her breath. Another finger absentmindedly swirled over her clit. Laura’s thighs were warm from watching such a beautiful woman glow in the dark and openly touch herself without shame. What a power, to be so shameless. 

No. Shameless implies she ought to be ashamed. Camille was free of shame, and that stirred Laura again. 

Camille sat up and smiled at Laura. “Thank you, Laura. That was a beautiful reading.” 

“Really?” asked Laura, flustered from the compliment. 

“Yes.” Camille came to sit at the edge of the bed, but one hand never left her smooth mound, keeping soft circles rolling over Camille’s clit. “You have a beautiful voice. It fills the room, like your words roll over my body.” 

Laura blushed and hid her face. 

“But don’t pause next time. Read it all in one rush of emotion. Poetry is a storm, not a story. Okay?” 

Laura nodded, embarrassed at the gentle reprimand.

“May I go?” asked Laura. 

“Soon, darling.” Camille fell back into the bed and kept touching herself. Laura looked away, wanting to give Camille privacy, though Camille clearly didn’t need it. She flipped through the pages of the strange tome in her hand. She turned to the next poem, something about a peach. She tried to read, but the light was dimming in the room. Laura looked up to see the candles low, and Camille sitting up, her robe back on. Her lips were still bright red. They glowed on her pale skin in the fading light. 

Then everything went dark. 

** If you want to follow me, get more of my writing, or support me, check me out on Patreon at https://www.patreon.com/trixieadara **

[after-witch]

Bright Lights (Small Spaces Quartet Sequel) (Chapter 2)

Title: Bright Lights (Chapter 2) A03 LINK

Synopsis: Sam tells her friends about her mom's refusal to sign the permission slip for the circus, and they have a plan.

Word count: appx 1700

“You’ve never been to a circus? Like, never never?”

Owen Sannerson’s eyebrows raised in scrupulous disbelief. He had moved to Evansburg two years ago, and while Sam and Elisa considered him a best friend by now, he still had a hard time accepting that Samantha Adler simply didn’t do what most teens her age did.

Sam shrugged. She wanted to change the subject. She also wanted to finish her sandwich before the cheese got all cold and gloppy, and maybe work on her poems one more time before English class. Anything to forget about the permission slip and poster handout that Elisa had slapped in the center of the table at the start of lunch period, eager to find out exactly what had happened with Sam’s mom.

“Nope. Too much like a carnival, I guess, and my mom hates those.” Sam made a sour face. She didn’t really like talking all the things she couldn’t do, especially after this morning’s latest rejection. If she piled all the cool field trips or friend hang-outs she had to stay back from on top of one another, it might just reach the top of a skyscraper.

“She hates farms, too,” Elisa chimed in, popping a lukewarm fry into her mouth. “And ski lodges, unless it’s the Battersby’s place.”

Sam sighed and took another bite of her sandwich. Blech. Too late. The cheese was gloppy. Yet another reason to ask grandpa to teach her his recipes, so she didn’t have to put up with school lunch.

Elisa curled a bit of her shoulder-length dark hair around a finger. She was wearing her in-school hockey jersey and cozy sweatpants. The team had a game next week and Elisa never missed a chance to get hyped, especially now that she was taking lessons from Sam’s uncle Brian. He ran a sports camp in the next town over and offered lessons in just about any sport imaginable; even games like chess, although those classes were taught by his wife Coco.

Elisa tapped the unsigned permission slip with her short fingernail.

“Do you remember when she flipped out when we were supposed to go to the re-opening day of Misty Valley Farm, or whatever they renamed it?”

Sam wished she could forget. That was back in 6th grade. Sam wasn’t allowed to go to the farm with the rest of her class, but she’d cried so pitifully to her teacher Mrs. Norris that the sweet lady had called Sam’s mom on the spot to ask permission as the buses were being loaded.

That had ended with Olivia Adler peeling up to the school in her car about 15 minutes later and taking Sam home for the day while a bewildered Mrs. Norris and snickering classmates had watched.

The car ride home had been quiet, save for Sam’s occasional sniffles. At a stoplight, her mom had turned to her, and opened her mouth as if she wanted to explain something… but she only closed it again and drove them home without another word.

It was always like that, like there was something her mom really wanted to tell her that would explain away everything; but she just couldn’t bring herself to do it. It made Sam mad. More than that, it was frustrating. Couldn’t her mom see that she was old enough to take care of herself? Couldn’t her mom see that she didn’t need to be coddled all the time?

Although a small part of her wanted to defend her mom. There was clearly something going on that made her act this way, when she was otherwise pretty rational, as far as parents went. The divorce probably didn’t help things. And grandpa being sick didn’t help things. That’s why they had to move back to the Egg in the first place.

Sam sighed and shoved her lunch tray to the side, suddenly not feeling very hungry. “It’s shitty. But what can I do? I guess I’ll be 18 before I see a circus or go to a farm.” She snorted through her nose at the thought of scampering up to farm animals or picking pumpkins for the first time after graduating high school.

Elisa was uncharacteristically quiet. This usually meant that she was coming up with a plan or a scheme--with Elisa, plans and schemes tended to amount to the same thing.

“Elisa,” she said slowly, carefully.

Elisa looked at Owen, who held her gaze before suddenly becoming very interested in his lap.

“What?” said Sam, half-worried, half-excited. 

Elisa’s chair screeched as she scooted closer to Sam, before gesturing for Owen to do the same. He tucked a stray piece of his chin length blonde hair behind his ear and copied Elisa, until the three of them were close enough to whisper.

“So, me and Owen have been talking,” Elisa began, pulling the permission slip from the center of the table until it was right in front of Sam. “And here’s the plan. You forge your mom’s signature. Go on the trip. Have some fun for once in your life.” She tapped the paper decisively. “Your mom never has to find out. Perfect plan, right?”

Was it possible for your stomach to drop out from underneath you? Sam thought it might be possible, because that’s what her stomach was currently doing, gloppy cheese and all.

“I can’t.” Her words were stiff. “My mom would know. Or she’d find out. I’d be in trouble.” A half-laugh forced its way out of Sam’s throat. “No, I’d be grounded for the rest of my life and even after that. She’d ground my ghost.”

Elisa began to twirl the paper on the table with her finger. “Not if you pretend to be super upset about not going before and after the trip and she never finds out you went…”

“I’m not that good an actor,” Sam mumbled.

“I can give you tips!” Owen said suddenly, sitting up a little straighter. “I’ve only done tech here but I’m really into acting.”

Sam sighed. Then put both hands on her cheeks and shut her eyes and groaned. The idea was tempting. It wasn’t like she hadn’t considered it before. But the fear of her mom finding out always outweighed the desire to go through with it.

“C’mon, Sam.” Elisa picked up the circus poster handout that their teacher Mr. Wheeling had given them two weeks ago. “There hasn’t been a circus here since… I can’t even remember one coming to Evansburg.  You have to go.”

The poster was crinkled a little from being in Sam’s backpack, but at least it wasn’t torn. It was designed to look old-fashioned, which Sam supposed was “in” nowadays. There was an illustration featuring a cluster of tents, and a banner across the top that said: “MR. ELIM’S CIRCUS. ALL AGES WELCOME.”

At the bottom of the poster, there was a close-up illustration of a man in a ringmaster’s uniform gazing up at the tent and grinning. Something about him was a little unnerving, like his grin was too big or something. Sam wondered if her friends felt the same; but probably not, especially Elisa, who didn’t even flinch when they’d watched IT Chapter One and Two in Owen’s basement last Halloween. Sam, by contrast, had slept with her desk lamp on for a week.

Next to the ringmaster were a series of faded blue banners that described circus acts.

“FEROCIOUS BEASTS! SEE TIGERS TAMED!

FLYING TRAPEZE! DEATH-DEFYING HEIGHTS!

REAL LIVE FIRE BREATHERS! HOTTER THAN HADES!

ENDLESS SIGHTS THAT WILL ASTOUND AND AMAZE!

PERFORMANCES YOU WILL NEVER FORGET!”

They did sound amazing and astounding and wonderful.

And her mom would never, ever let her see them.

And even if Sam did try to forge her mom’s signature and go on the trip, who’s to say she wouldn’t find out somehow, anyway? Sam might pop in the background of someone’s video online or Mr. Wheeling would call Olivia to say how glad he was that Sam was going on a field trip for once.

Besides, Sam was too scared to forge her mom’s signature. Especially on something as serious--well, in the Adler household, it was serious--as this.

Sam felt a familiar tightness in her chest begin to grow and pushed back from her chair. Before Owen or Elisa could say anything, she grabbed both papers and shoved them deep into her backpack.

“Sam,” Owen said, and reached out to touch her on the arm. Owen was good at one-on-one talks like this, sort of like her grandpa. But she didn’t feel like being reassured right now. She just wanted to be mad at the unfairness of her life.

“My mom would find out,” Sam said shortly, hoisting her backpack over her shoulder. “Or I’d mess it up somehow and blab or copy her signature wrong or…” She sighed. “Sorry.”

Owen did touch Sam’s arm, then, and looked incredibly thoughtful.

“Why don’t you ask your mom again tonight? Like, sit her down and have a full-on discussion about it? Maybe you can find the website for this circus or whatever and show her that it’s not a big deal. It did say all ages, so it’s got to be mild enough for little kids.”

Sam shook her head, but didn’t outright say she wouldn’t do it. Owen was just giving her advice. She couldn’t be mad at him for that, even if it was something she’d tried to do on her own countless times over the years.

And maybe… maybe her mom would listen, if she took the time to explain. Her mom had been in a rush that morning, what with Sam running late. Her mom was always stressed in the morning, especially if her grandpa needed help during the night.

Was it worth a shot?

Sam nodded at Owen and tried to smile, but it wasn’t anything to write home about. “Maybe. Text me after school, guys. Or during 6th period, I’ll have my sound off. I gotta go to the bathroom before lunch ends.”

With that, Sam Adler walked away from her friends with thoughts of permission slips and serious discussions weaving heavily on her mind.

“Tell your mom, it’s just a circus!” Elisa called out after Sam, all 15 years of her life experience weighing behind each word. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

[sonic06silver]

[simizzy-writes]

"i dare anything."

Pairing: Tianyou Zhao x Reader Warnings: none. A/N: playing around with the idea of making this a three-part fic. we'll see. also, i love this man.

It had been your well kept secret for a while, this space behind the batting center of all places. But only in twilight, you see, because that’s when things were as quiet as they could ever be in Ijincho. The cusp between settling daytime travelers and the rising of nighttime prowlers. A pocket of time held still for you to either use it or lose it. 

Yes, you thought that it was a secret indeed. You kept returning to that spot, that special corner of railing along the waters. To the west was a neon horizon, a rainbow wheel of changing lights and the white square glow of high-rise offices. Skyscrapers lifted up to touch pastel clouds, but never quite in reach of their fluff. Below, the cool waters lapped against concrete, shimmering an enticing amount of gold as the sun set. When the gold turned to silver, that’s when you would leave. There was something special in the twilight hours that let you think a bit more clearly, but if that was magic or coincidence, you didn’t know. Nor did you care. 

So, as with any secret becoming not-so-secret, it disappointed you one evening to find someone else in your special place. At first, it was nothing more than a disappointment. When you rounded the corner and saw a man dressed in black, it surprised you, and you turned around to leave. You handled it with the same air of embarrassment as you would stumbling in on someone changing their clothes. Sorry, my mistake, you would say to them and shuffle away. At the time, you didn’t spare the man any words and simply left. Truthfully, it was a public place. You shouldn’t have been surprised to find someone there enjoying the same view as you had over the many, many weeks you would visit. You carried on, and paid it no mind. 

Within the same month, however, you came to realize that if you had a single yen for every time you revisited that special place to find the same man there, you would have ten yen. Granted, it wasn’t a lot, but  the point was that it was odd that it happened as “often” as it did. On one particular evening, much to your chagrin, he was there yet again, but this time he was facing towards you instead of the water. The smell of ash and smoke wafted towards you, but it wasn’t unpleasant. The embers from his cigarette glowed as he took a long drag of it. 

“You don’t need to scamper away, you know,” he said. His voice was airy and effortless. The inflection of his tone was deep and lilted, each syllable meant to be mysterious and hushed. Slow, methodical, deliberate. When he spoke, others listened. “There’s space for both of us.”

Scamper? You didn’t scamper…

There was an ease to his smile, you realized. Boyish, charming and like he knew a joke that you didn’t. He was teasing you, but it didn’t make you feel affronted. In fact, you dared to say that it made you feel welcome. 

Carefully, you approached the railings you were so familiar with - a healthy amount of space between the two of you. You eyed him skeptically, noting his slicked back hair, the round glasses and flashy edge to his clothing. Little hoops of gold twinkled from each ear. His smile widened a bit more, fingertips bringing that lit cigarette to his lips once more. Nails lacquered in black, rings on each finger. Each a statement piece in its own way. You didn’t doubt for a moment that wherever he went he broke some necks. Handsome and stylish - a wicked combination.

He eyed you in turn, amused at your staring. Perhaps as a taunt, he blew a smoke ring at you. Under normal circumstances you would have felt offended, as you never took to smoking yourself. But something about him made you believe that he could do just about anything and come out of it as sweet as pie. 

The staring contest came to an end as he turned his focus back onto the neon horizon. No further effort was made to converse, and you liked that. You came here to think, after all. Soon, you found yourself relaxing into your usual meditative trance as you sorted your thoughts out. Eventually, his presence was all but lost on you. Sweet serenity found its way to your most intimate thoughts, a soothing hand caressing each stress and worry until they lost their bite. They laid at your feet, waiting patiently for you to decide when it was time to go home. 

The water was calm that night, rolling gently in the dying light. The setting sun gave you a final wink, and then all was bathed in silver. The perfect time to make the journey home. 

It was then that you noticed that the man had left. The exact time of his departure you couldn’t say for sure. The only lingering proof that he had been there was a discarded cigarette butt. You stared at it for a moment longer, wondering if he would be here again tomorrow, or the next day. Or any other time when you needed to unravel your tangled thoughts. It wasn’t unpleasant to think about, and maybe the smallest part of you even hoped for it. 

So, in some way or another, it delighted you to see him there a few times more.

He told you that his name was Zhao, and when you repeated it back to him, he smiled. “I like the way you say it,” he said. From his lips came smoke and it danced in the air for you. You wondered if he made everything look cool on purpose.

He raised his brows, outstretching a palm towards you in a sweeping motion. “This is usually where you introduce yourself back, you know.”

You gave him your name, and just as you did to him not a minute earlier, he repeated your name back to you. You smiled. “I like the way you say it,” you copied.

Zhao’s smile grew a bit wider, eyes twinkling behind those shades of his. Carefully, deliberately, he licked his lips. The motion of it was languid and drew you in. A gentle coaxing, a soft encouragement. He caught you staring, of course.

“So, [Name],” he breathed. The rise and fall of his voice was delicious. “You come here often?”

You laughed at his cliche joke, and told him that as a matter of fact you did. Fancy meeting him here. “I’m guessing that you come here to think, too?”

Zhao nodded, turning his attention out towards the water. “Never quite found a better place to think, honestly. Aside from the stray baseballs that come flying this way every now and then, it’s pretty peaceful. As you already know, I mean. No one really comes around either. ‘Cept for you.”

You kept your eyes on him, positively enraptured by the way he commanded the air with his words. It was a simple conversation, but his voice was measured and coy, like he knew a secret and was dying to tell it. He made everything sound like a melody. He could charm snakes and tame tigers. How great a power it was to have such a beautiful voice as his. 

“What do you usually think about?” you wondered aloud. The water below licked at the concrete as if it, too, was curious to know the inner thoughts of this man. The sun was setting and could not be bothered, however.

His smile left his lips, eyes casting their gaze down into the water. To you, it seemed that he was cycling through a picture show of memories, trying to sort out which ones to share and which to keep close to the chest. Truthfully, it didn’t seem like you were supposed to see this crack in his aloof and sly demeanor, because who seeks solitude to sort out their thoughts if they were meant to be shared? You didn’t know Zhao, but you felt a small measure of kinship with him - if for nothing else than the idea that both of you needed peace and quiet every now and again to settle the storm of thoughts within you. 

“What do you think about?” he countered. 

“It’s not fair to answer a question with a question,” you scoffed.

That smile again. He found delight in teasing you, and he simply pulled another drag of his cigarette. He waited for you to answer. Some time ago , he claimed to not be a very patient man, but the truth was that Zhao was absolutely patient. Not as patient as a saint, perhaps, but he could always win at the ‘waiting game’ if he felt like it.

You held his gaze. “My life is pretty boring, you know. My thoughts would hardly interest you.”

“I don’t know about that,” he said. “I have a feeling that you’re pretty interesting.”

You were softening like warm wax. Surely, he realized this. Who was this man? God, what on earth was the matter with you? You were never the type to believe in love at first sight, but damned if the way he didn’t smile, tongue wetting his lips once more, didn’t make you believe in lust at first sight.

As the sun finally settled behind the horizon, a gentle breeze carried over the faintest scent of him. Ginger and citrus, distinctly bright. You weren’t expecting such a redolence from him, yet it seemed to fit Zhao just fine. Perhaps more than fine. 

Hot ash was near his fingertips, and as he flicked the last of his cigarette away, he asked if you were hungry. 

“I know a great Chinese restaurant if you don’t mind taking a walk with me,” Zhao explained. “Then you can tell me every interesting detail about yourself over dinner, yeah?” The last bit of golden twilight had left with the setting sun, but Zhao had replaced such gold with his flare and smile.

Perhaps you were reckless, too headlong to question if he was a knife and not a rose. Maybe he was both, as roses do have their thorns. Did it fall on you, then, to pick up any pieces that he may break? Alas, you were thinking too far ahead. 

The only truth was that the world was made up of one mystery after another, and Zhao was a riddle among countless others. Yet, he seemed to be the only one that mattered.

“Do you normally dare to ask strangers out on dates?” you questioned. 

Pleasure hummed in his chest and his smile proved more devilish than boyish now. 

“I dare anything.”

[blazehedgehog]

Why do you think the 3D boost games seem to always have a second non-boost gameplay style or gimmick?

The original excuse was that making those levels was very expensive. As the story goes, Sonic Unleashed was originally just the daytime levels, and the producer suggested making up a slower alternate gameplay style to make better use of their budget and so "players can appreciate all of the detail better."

Because, specifically with Sonic Unleashed, there's tons of little details you never see unless you slow down and crawl through stages. I did a whole thread on twitter about the signs in Arid Sands, and I know there's cafes and stuff in Windmill Isle where you can actually stop and read their menus.

This is Unleashed Project, but it's still an asset from Unleashed itself in Skyscraper Scamper:

(Freecam/Photo Mode Thread 1, Thread 2)

The thing is I don't buy the "it's prohibitively expensive" excuse much anymore these days. Sure, it was back in 2008, but that was going on 16 years ago. A lot has changed and tools should have gotten a lot better. Go look at something like Fast Racing Neo/Fast RMX and how huge and detailed those tracks are, and most of that detail is done automatically using terrain generator algorithm tools.

Most of the work there is done on building the actual track part you drive on. Everything around it (buildings, trees, rocks) is handled by the tools and things like photogrammetry.

I'm sure Sonic games still aren't cheap, but at a certain point, games like Sonic Forces and Sonic Frontiers felt VERY budget and conservative in their resources.

But even then. Depending on how its done, adding an alternate character can be an easy way to reuse level geometry. There has to be a balance. If you're doing a game with a single character, you can focus on making everything for that one character play absolutely perfectly. If you start adding more characters to the mix, it can detract from resources used to make that one character perfect, but it can be an easy way to reuse other content and add more gameplay time.

So for Sonic Forces, they had one set of Green Hill assets but they got to make Green Hill levels for Modern Sonic, the Avatar, and Classic Sonic. No need to pay an art team to make a new set of assets there, you just have the level designers use what they already have.

(Which is what's so messed up about Frontiers, because that was made to focus only on Sonic, and yet it is maybe the heaviest on asset reuse out of maybe any Sonic game ever made. They even bought pre-made asset packs off of the Unreal Store!)

[latin-dr-robotnik]

🎸, 🎤, 🎧, 😘 :)

🎸 Favorite Stage Theme?

Carnival Night Act 2, next question. lol no

In all seriousness, this person right here is extremely partial to Hard Times Act 1, what can I say, I'm a simple guy :P

Though, to be honest, something about the Buxer tracks is so... well constructed, even in comparison to the rest of S3K's already top tier OST. Of course the song itself is from the 80's, but the way it was translated to Genesis, the choices in instruments, those crunchy samples taking over the least amount of cartridge space possible in the game's already gargantuan size. Flying Battery and Death Egg are beautiful tracks, but something about the way they got IceCap working still amazes.

As for 3D Sonic, lately I've been feeling Skyscraper Scamper Night a lot. It's the kind of song I think of when I'm about to stream and I have to pick a Sonic song to play from my almost 500 track playlist. I fucking hate Skyscraper Scamper Act 1 with a burning passion, but you can never be mad at Kumatani's music :P

🎤 Favorite Vocal Track?

Every Sonic Frontiers boss, oh, and One Way Dream.

I cannot possibly understate just how much this OST changed my life. This wasn't my first rodeo, I've been here for years and I've spent a lot of my time listening to Sonic OSTs both new and old. When Forces came out, I celebrated the fact vocal songs were back, and I wanted more. I love Sonic vocal songs, and for a long time With Me was my go-to vocal song. But holy fuck these tracks blew me away.

My expectations were surpassed. Final boss-tier songs playing every four hours or so, and probably my favorite credits theme ever in this franchise. It felt like playing through the final battles of Sonic Adventure 2, Heroes and Black Knight over and over again, all in one game. The bar was set very high before this game, and now it's even higher.

And, of course, I picked Find Your Flame as my absolute favorite. I think it perfectly represents Sonic as a whole. Confident, fighting to the very end for his mission, sticking by his friends, very high energy, very powerful and, in the end, a moment to calm down and reflect on the best things in life, that flame that keeps him going.

🎧 Favorite overall soundtrack?

Sonic Unleashed. It and CD are still at the top, but Sonic Frontiers came very close to stealing that, too. The thing I still love about Unleashed's OST is the overall variety, it's so well-rounded and high quality, aged just as beatifully as the game itself. Also, I live for jazzy Sonic tunes, they always hit different.

😘 Favorite ship?

I see you mentioning KnuxAmy here and there, and I'm a bit guilty of not talking about that underrated ship more. Low-key it's still one of my favorites :P (One day I'll finish that Angel Island fic, maybe)

I'm sorry, I was very busy enjoying the absolutely wonderful state of SonAmy in 2023 :P

And tbh I'm not as active in the shipping side of the fandom as I used to