#the fact that I had to spend four weeks watching people embarrass themselves online for This ship like it was bad

[karouvas]

with all the conversations about what is/isn’t cringey/corny dialogue in this show, I will say that Eddie’s “I’d choose you over anyone” to Camila is so cringey and lame.

[axoxtxhxh]

First Date with the Vets - Hange

Big shoutout to @chaotic-nick​ for making this lovely banner for me!

Overall Summary: I had this idea to do a first date with the vets and what it would be like. I am including Erwin, Levi, Miche, and Hange in this list. Each date will be different, but all of them will be set in modern au.

Check out Miche’s story here, Erwin’s story here, Levi’s story here

Pairing: Hange x Masc!Reader

Content: All fluff

Word Count: ~ 5,300

Summary: Reader is getting ready to close up his shop for the night and start his Friday night when just before it’s time to close, a familiar face walks in the shop. Will this change his plans for the night?

A/N: Here I am again, writing for a masculine reader. I hope I did okay :) I am also still trying to get better at writing Hange and because of that, I may make mistakes with they/them pronouns and other non-gender specific things. Please let me know how I can fix it if I’ve made a mistake. Thank you!

Also, I wasn’t planning to post this today, but you know what? I don’t care. Happy Pride Month! 🏳️‍🌈

The clock on the wall continued to tick as slowly as it had been the last hour, each time you checked it, you swore it slowed down even more. You nibbled on your thumb nail again, tapping your fingers on the counter as you looked out the front window. It was one of those nights that felt cold, rainy and wet. The ground was wet, but it wasn’t actually raining. There were no umbrellas necessary, but you could still feel that rainy day mood.

The weather meant most people were either inside or at a café, trying to pull as much of the cozy feeling that they could. Not the best night to be at a bookstore. Especially an old bookstore without a café. You definitely mentioned this to your boss, but no such luck. It would have been a nice addition.

Normally Friday nights were quite busy and normally you loved being there. This Friday was a bit different. For once you had plans to go out and these were plans you were actually looking forward to.

Your friend had called you up last week saying she had tickets to an art show just down the street from where you work. It’s not that you were a huge fan of art, but you really liked the idea of being able to be out without having to get looks from people because you were alone.

It was the whole reason you loved living in the city. There were so many things you were able to do by yourself, but still have people around you. The was basically a dream for you being an introvert. Plus, it’s not that there was an issue finding someone to hang out with, you just preferred doing things alone. At least, you had yet to find someone you were interested in spending time with.

You checked the clock again. Twenty minutes left. You sighed and brought your thumbnail to your mouth again. It looked like the rain was actually picking up. More umbrellas were popping open and you watched the droplets of water roll down the front window. The rain wasn’t going to slow you down though. If anything, it meant there might be less people interested in an art showing and you could have the place to yourself.

You continued watching the rain droplets rolling down the window, periodically checking the time, until you recognized a familiar Starry Night umbrella. The walk of the person holding the umbrella was even more familiar.

It was maybe four months ago that Hange Zoe first walked into the bookstore. You were working that day, standing in the exact same spot. They had never come in the bookstore before, you were very sure of that because had they come in, you would have remembered them. Still, the second they stepped foot inside, it was as if they knew the place, as if it were their bookstore and not your boss’s.

At the time, you didn’t realize that anytime Hange came in, they would be searching for the most random and hard-to-find book in existence, but after about a month of that happening, you quickly realized that when they walked in, you would be having to place an order for them. You were pretty sure that’s what brought them into your bookstore in the first place since you ran a specialty bookstore. Still, Hange found a way to get you searching for books you had never even heard of.

The first book they wanted was a very old and very specific ethics textbook. You had no idea what they needed that for, but you knew you didn’t carry it in the store. They waited by the spinning display of sunglasses while you filled out the form. Yes, your boss decided to sell cheap sunglasses in the front as well as those keychain nametags, but couldn’t find a reason to open a café.

Your eyes kept taking glances at Hange while they tried on the most ridiculous glasses meant for the children that came in. You laughed to yourself as you finished filling out the form and called your boss over to sign the order form.

“What is it?” He asked, carrying a stack of books that you knew he was going to have you stocking later on.

“She’s looking for this book.” You pointed to the order form.

“It’s actually ‘they’.” Hange spoke so nonchalantly that you weren’t actually sure if they were speaking to you or to themselves in the star sunglasses they’d put on.

“Pardon?”

“I use they/them pronouns.” Hange gave a wide grin, peaking around the spinning display.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” You had hoped your face wasn’t showing how uncomfortable you were feeling. You hated making mistakes like that. You hoped that they weren’t annoyed with you for that mistake. Based on the smile they had on their face, they weren’t bothered at all.

“No problem.” Hange was still smiling and there was something so contagious about the way they smiled. Something about the open-mouthed grin that made it seem like they were constantly half a step away from giggling that always got you to smile back.

“They are looking for this book.” You looked back down at the order form, still smiling. “I need your signature to order it.”

Your boss took the form and signed it, handing it back to you and you couldn’t help but stand there watching Hange trying on another ridiculous pair of sunglasses. This time, it was a Halloween themed pair with one square lens and one circle. It really was the stupidest addition to the bookstore, but that day was the first time you were happy that it was there. You laughed to yourself as you watched them try to realign the glasses in a spot they didn’t fit in.

“Mx. Zoe.” Hange looked up and skipped over to you.

“I will place the order today and for most books, they come in after a couple days, but since yours is quite specific, it may take a week or two.” You explained everything to them and gave them their receipt. “Please make sure you bring your receipt in when you come to pick it up.”

You watched their attention move from you to the receipt to the card on the table. They slowly reached up and picked up the card, reading the text and flipping it over.

“You guys repair old books?” Their eyes moved up to you and you nodded.

“It’s another one of our specialties.”

“I have a couple old books I’ve been scared to read because of how fragile they were when I bought them.” They put the card in their bag.

“There are some limits to what we’re able to fix, but if you bring them in, I can take a look.” You smiled widely, hoping to see them smile once more before they left.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then.” They flashed a wide smile and that time you actually did laugh. A laugh which you covered up with a cough and scratched your head, pretending to tend to something on your computer. You watched Hange walk out and realized you had something to look forward to.

The next day Hange came in with a crate of books. You smiled at the cuteness of the little huff they gave after setting the books on the counter in front of you. Your smile quickly dropped as you saw the books they had.

“Where did you get these?” Your eyes were wide. Most were books that you would never be able to get your hands on, order form or not.

“Lots of different places,” they explained as you reached your hands in to pull out the first book.

“Do you collect these?” You couldn’t take your eyes away from the books. They were in pretty bad shape, but the fact that they owned these was amazing.

“Some of them are books I’ve been wanting to read. Others I’ve read online and really wanted to own the original.” You could feel the smile on their face, but found it so hard to look away from the original binding.

“These are amazing.” You smiled, finally looking at them. They were just as excited as you and their smile widened even further.

“This one’s my favorite.” Hange reached in the crate and pulled out a severely crumbling textbook. “Vicki is in back shape.”

“You named your book Vicki?”

“It’s a Victorian era medical textbook detailing surgery of the time. What would you name it?” Hange explained.

“I wasn’t questioning the name choice, but the fact that you—never mind.” You chuckled to yourself. “Vicki is a great name.”

“Thanks, Fuzzy.”

“Fuzzy?” “Your beard. It looks like it’s coming in nicely.”

“Thanks.” You rubbed your two-day old stubble, a little embarrassed that someone noticed you forgot to shave and a lot embarrassed that Hange seemed to like it. Maybe embarrassed was the wrong word. Hange never lingered though and just after complimenting you, they moved on to the next thing that caught their attention. In this case it was the receipt you handed them and they started signing.

“I imagine this will take some time to get through.”

“For this amount, it will probably take at least two weeks,” you started, “We are closed on Mondays which is when we get the book repairs done.”

“Like a vets office.” Hange smiled and gave you the signed receipt. “Spaying and neutering on Wednesdays.”

“Like a vets office.” You nodded, laughing to yourself at the connections they always made.

“I’ll see you around, Fuzzy.” They waved good-bye and walked out.

From that day, you always looked forward to any exchange you were able to have with Hange. It was always a good day when they came into the shop and each time they came in, they would stay longer and longer chatting with you about new books that came into the store or new books that they acquired. You often wondered what their apartment looked like considering how many books they talked about.

Seeing their smile as they walked into the bookstore on that rainy Friday night made you really happy that there was still twenty minutes before closing. Hange stepped inside and shook the extra water off their umbrella before bringing it inside. They threw the hood of their raincoat back and smiled.

“Heya, Fuzzy.”

“Hey, Hange. You here to check the status of that book you ordered?” You leaned over the counter and smiled at them.

“That, I am.” They took off their raincoat and you watched them fail at hanging it up a couple times before finally getting it to stay on the coat rack. “Please tell me you have some good news for me.”

“I do have some good news.” You watched their face light up in a huge smile. “It’s not about your book though. Apparently, it’s not supposed to rain all weekend.”

“I see what you did there.” They pointed their first finger at you and narrowed their eyes, quickly breaking it with a laugh. “Good thing I don’t get disappointed easily.”

“One of my favorite things about you.” Hange’s excitement for books always seemed to remind you of your own.

“Got anything good coming in?” They hopped up to sit on the counter next to where you were leaning, something the boss hated them doing. Hange always did it anyway and you found it incredibly endearing.

“Not this week.” You stood up straight, turning yourself to lean against the counter. “Most if it is stuff you already have.”

“Aw shucks.” They took the inventory chart from you to take a look. Another thing the boss didn’t like, but you found adorable. You watched the way their glasses slipped down their nose as they scanned over the list. “Not bad. You guys are actually starting to become a specialty store.”

You laughed loudly at their comment. Since the beginning, Hange was always criticizing the lack of textbooks that were offered in the store. Your boss liked to focus on rare fiction, but Hange loved non-fiction more than anything. Textbooks on ethics, medicine, dinosaurs, you name it. It was always the first complaint out of their mouth when they checked the inventory.

“I don’t think anyone’s collection will come close to yours.” You watched as Hange smiled shyly. It didn’t take you long to realize that no matter how much you tried to compliment how they looked, they never noticed it as a compliment. That is until one day you commended their commitment to building a library in their spare bedroom and the blush that reached their cheeks that day was on your mind for weeks. You always tried to find ways to flatter them through their achievements after that.

“Such is the life of a crazy professor.” They lifted their hands, palms up, in an expressive display and you laughed. “Any plans tonight?”

“I have this art show I got invited to.” You shrugged it off, not sure if Hange liked art so you didn’t want to seem too interested. “I uh… I’ve never really been into art, but this one seemed good.”

“That sounds like fun.” You watched them kick their feet lightly forward and there was a small voice in your head that told you to invite them to the show. You didn’t want them to feel obligated, but this was a chance to bring your work friendship to possibly something more. For all Hange knew, you lived in this bookstore.

You both heard a noise outside and watched as a little kid tripped on the sidewalk. His mom picked him up and kept walking.

“I hope he’s okay,” Hange whispered. You were pretty sure your window to ask them to the art show closed. It would be weird if you asked them about it now. You sighed.

“What about your plans?”

“Just going home. Maybe watch a documentary.” They’re just going home. Dang it. It would have been perfect for you to ask them. You tried not to beat yourself up over it and instead enjoy the short time you got with them before you would have to leave.

You were both laughing and joking as you normally did when they walked into the shop that you completely forgot to keep track of the time. You caught a glimpse of their watch and saw that the bookstore should have closed thirty minutes ago.

“Oh!” You jumped up. “I have to close up.”

“Oh man, sorry.” Hange jumped off the counter. “Here I am, just talking away.”

You moved to the back counter and flicked off all the lights and shut down the computer systems. Hange moved up front and you met them by the door as they put their raincoat back on and opened their umbrella. You locked up and turned to them.

“Well, enjoy your art showing, Fuzzy.”

“Thanks.” You smiled, not feeling as excited to go now that you didn’t ask Hange to join. “Enjoy your documentary.”

They nodded and turned around and you watched them walk through the crowd of people. You were going to turn around and start walking to the showing, but you couldn’t get yourself to move. You should have asked them. What a wasted opportunity. You sighed again before your feet started moving forward, not in the direction of the showing, but in the direction of Hange. When you realized what you were doing, you started running.

“Hange!” You called after them and ran even faster to catch up. They turned around at their name and looked at you, confusion crossing their face. “Do you… maybe want to come with me? I’m pretty sure I can bring a guest.”

The realization that you just asked them to hang out with you outside of your bookstore hit you quickly and your cheeks started heating up, your hand instinctively moving to the back of your head and you laughed at yourself. A smile also grew on Hange’s lips.

“I think I’d like to.” They nodded, putting their arm out for you. You closed your umbrella and took their arm with one hand and held their umbrella with the other. You reached for your phone to message Fenmore quickly.

[Fen, is there any way you can add a plus one for me at the art show? I’m bringing someone :) ]

[You have a date!!!]

[It’s not really a date.]

[At least I don’t think it is.]

[I don’t know 😩]

[It seems like a date! You both are in]

[Good luck!]

You stuffed your phone back in your pocket and turned to Hange and started walking to the art gallery. It wasn’t far, just a couple blocks away from the bookstore, but you couldn’t stop thinking that this was possibly a date and it made you so nervous which made the couple blocks feel like miles. When you did finally get to the door, you breathed a sigh of relief and walked inside.

“I think there’s a couple artists at this showing,” you said, reaching for a pamphlet. “I don’t really know much about many of them.”

“Me neither.” They smiled at you. “I may love studying, but art wasn’t really on the top of my list.”

You started with the first art piece in the pamphlet, standing in front of it and waiting. You tried to look around and see what everyone else was doing. This plan of getting to spend more time with Hange was becoming a fail because you had no idea about art. You didn’t want to say anything weird if they were liking it, but you really didn’t think you could just silently look at all these pieces. Honestly, some of them were weird.

“This one’s nice.” You turned to them and smiled.

“Yes, very nice.” They smiled.

“What’s it called?” You leaned forward to look at the information card. “Abandoning All Hope… ah.”

“Lovely.” Hange nodded and you swallowed hard. This was bad. This was really bad. You both moved to the next one, the artwork looking a little happier.

“This one looks bright.” You turned back to Hange and they read the title card.

“It’s called Basking in Sadness.”

“Jesus.” You rubbed your temples and closed your eyes.

“According to the description,” They started, “the artist was sick as a child and often had to stay inside. So when he would see sunny days and be stuck inside, he felt sad.”

“I suppose that makes it a bit better.” You scratched your head. “Still sad.”

You both continued and hoped that the art would get better at making conversation naturally flow between you both. It was weird how well you conversed in the bookstore, but now you were really struggling with what to say. You walked up and the next piece looked like a murder scene.

“Gosh, I really have no idea what any of this means.” You finally admitted. “Sorry, I’m really not as big into this kind of art.”

“Oh good!” Hange laughed. “I’ve had no idea of anything since we walked in.”

You look quickly to them and smiled.

“I thought the bench out front was part of the exhibit until I saw someone sit on it.” You both laughed and a man walked up to you with a tray and glasses of champagne. You turned to Hange and they nodded, grabbing a glass.

“Well, to having no idea what we’re doing here.” You held up your glass and Hange clinked it and you both drank quickly.

After the first glass of champagne hit, you started feeling a lot more comfortable. The artwork still made no sense to either of you, but you were having fun. When the man came back around a short while later, you grabbed another glass and another glass and another glass. Before you knew it, you and Hange were five glasses in and finally the art was starting to make sense to you.

“Wait, wait, this one. Do this one.” Hange stood next to the artwork giggling and you rubbed your chin.

“Hmm, it’s definitely about a mother.” You had no right to be as confident as you were when Hange looked at the title card, turning back to you with a surprised look on their face.

“A Mother’s Touch. How did you do that?” They couldn’t believe it. You grabbed Hange’s arm and pulled them next to you, pointing at the picture.

“You see all those swirls look like arms. Like a hug.”

“I do not see that at all.” They laughed. “Do the next one!”

You stood in front of the painting and thought about it, but your eyes kept drifting over to Hange. They weren’t looking at you which only made it harder to focus on the painting. If they could see you, then you’d have a reason to look away, but their eyes were glued to the artwork and yours were glued to them.

“There’s no way you’re going to get this one.” They leaned back up from looking at the title card and faced you and you quickly looked back at the painting. “No way at all.”

“Something with a snake.”

“How!?” They put their palm on their forehead and smiled. “Snake’s Path. How did you know?”

“Come on.” You laughed. “Let’s go to the next one.

“Wait, I’m getting more champagne.” They started moving towards the bar. “The one they’re passing out now is cheap. I want the good stuff.”

“Make sure you bring me a glass.”

“I’m bringing the whole bottle, Fuzzy.” You laughed and went to look at the next artwork while you waited. It was a short wait and you felt a tap on your shoulder.

“Excuse me, sir?” You turned to see a man standing behind you.

“Yes?”

“Is that your date?” The man pointed to Hange and you looked over his shoulder to see them at the bar. You started thinking about them being your date and it made you smile this time, your nerves from earlier completely calmed with alcohol. Hange was still at the bar and you watched them debating with the bartender. It really reminded you of how great they are. Hange never got scared of confrontation like you did.

“Yep.” You smiled proudly. “That’s them.”

“I’d like to let you know that she is causing quite the—”

“They. Their pronoun is they.” You corrected.

“Well they are trying to steal alcohol from the bar. We’re going to have to ask you both to leave.”

It took everything you had no to burst out laughing on the spot, but you managed to hold it in enough to make it to Hange and you both walked outside. Once outside, you both started laughing hysterically, holding your belly as you tried to catch your breath. It was nice outside now. The rain had stopped and it left the air fresh and cool which felt great against your heated cheeks. You both stopped laughing and looked at each other.

“It’s a nice night.” Hange smiled.

“Yeah. Thanks for coming with me.” You smiled back, taking a deep breath.

“Anytime, Fuzzy.”

You didn’t want to say good night. You weren’t ready to leave yet. There really wasn’t anything else to do though. It was probably nearing eleven at that point and you weren’t sure if Hange had things to do in the morning. But you still didn’t want to say good night just yet.

“Do you want to go to the bookstore?” You asked without thinking. “We got a new shipment you might like.”

Hange smiled, a strange look in their eyes as they looked at you.

“You liar.”

“What?”

“I saw the shipment earlier,” they explained, “You showed it to me and told me I wouldn’t like any of it.”

“Oh, right.” You looked down, laughing at your ridiculous attempt to spend more time with them.

“But I would still like to go to the bookstore with you.” You looked at them quickly.

“You would?” You couldn’t hold back your surprised face at that.

“Lead the way, Fuzzy!” Hange linked arms with you and you both walked back the couple blocks to the bookstore. This time, the walk was a lot faster.

You unlocked the door and were about to step inside when you realized that Hange wasn’t with you anymore. It made no sense considering they linked their arm with yours. You leaned around the corner, looking for them, but they weren’t there. It was possible that they changed their mind, but they didn’t know how to tell you and just went home. That didn’t really seem like them though.

“Fuzzy!” You turned around and saw Hange running over to you with a bottle of convenience store wine and you both laughed.

“After you.” You gestured them inside and started looking for some cups. You only had a couple small dixie cups, but they worked well enough. Hange poured a glass for each of you and you tapped your cups together, spilling wine on the floor.

“So how many years before I get to walk into your bookstore?” They asked. At first you misunderstood, thinking they were talking about the bookstore you both were in.

“Ah.” You smiled. “I think it’s a while before that.”

Your dream of owning your own bookstore came up in conversation with Hange more often than you ever thought it would ever. They genuinely seemed interested in it and seemed to be your biggest cheerleader when it came to opening it. Normally when people would ask you about it, you felt rushed and like you were behind. Almost as if they were saying ‘you still haven’t opened it yet?’ but not with Hange. Never with Hange. They made it seem like you were right on track and your dream would be here sooner than you thought.

You looked over at them and smiled. It was amazing how pretty they were. You definitely noticed it the first time they walked into the bookstore last summer, but you wondered if you were the only one to see it. There’s no way. There was no way that someone as intelligent and funny and kind and so beautiful didn’t constantly get asked out. You must just be lucky enough to catch them on a free day.

“You know what Fuzzy?” You looked over at them as they spoke, their eyes still looking down at the empty cup of wine. “I’m glad you asked me to the art showing.”

They giggled a little to themselves, possibly remembering what a hot mess it was inside the gallery. Or perhaps building the courage to say what looked to be sitting on the edge of their mind.

“I don’t get asked to do much these days. Not since moving to the city.” Hange hiccupped and you tried to understand how that was possible. “But I’m having a lot of fun. Thank you.”

You weren’t really sure what to do. You really couldn’t believe it. You managed to smile when they looked up at you.

“It’s my pleasure.” You stared at them, maybe a bit too long, but you couldn’t look away. Hange’s eyes were lidded, tired from all the alcohol you both had. But seeing their drunken smile and hearing their small hiccups had your heart beating quickly. They reached forward and put their hand on yours and you looked down at it. “Oh! I wanted to show you something.”

You jumped up from the ground and helped pull Hange up with you. You walked towards the backroom and halfway there realized you were holding Hange’s hand as you pulled them behind you. It was so soft and so warm and you were thankful for the alcohol letting you do things that you normally would second guess at every moment.

“It’s up there.” You dropped their hand and did your best to reach the top shelf, barely touching the bottom of the books you wanted. “Maybe if you try.”

“We’re the same size.” They laughed.

“Oh right.” You were both laughing and they handed you a shoe and you grabbed it, trying to shimmy the books down. “Wait, whose shoe is this?”

When you turned to look at them they were smiling and you looked down at their feet and couldn’t hold back your laughter at their feet missing a shoe.

“Here, climb on my shoulders.”

“Great idea.” They hopped up and reached for the books. This time they were able to grab them and slowly pull them from the shelf.

Your balance was surprisingly good considering how intoxicated you were. You were looking up and focusing on making sure Hange got the right books. As soon as you saw them grab it, they handed them down to you, one-by-one, and you set them on the table next to you.

“Last one!” Hange placed the book in your hands and you set it down. They threw their hands up out of excitement and you finally lost your balance as they moved back and forth. “Oh!”

Hange started to fall backwards and you quickly bent forward, giving them a way to hop down as you grabbed them before they fell. You managed to catch your balance and Hange fell into your arms and you both fell backwards onto the floor, Hange on top of you.

Their face was so close to yours and you reached up to fix their glasses, smiling at them. You couldn’t help but notice how warm they were, how soft their body felt up against yours, how much prettier they were up close and how badly you wanted to kiss them.

“Hange.” You took a breath, not sure if you were going to be able to do it. “I’m going to kis—”

Before you could finish your sentence, Hange bent down quickly, pushing their lips against yours. At first your eyes widened from the sudden movement, but then when you realized what was happening, you slowly closed them, your arms moving around their back and up to their face.

You rotated your head a bit, trying to get a better angle so your noses weren’t smashed against each other and your tongue slipped out to brush against their lips. Hange opened their mouth and brought their hands to your hair, their long fingers delicately moving along your scalp and you sighed into their mouth. The butterflies in your stomach were going crazy and you couldn’t believe how good it felt.

Hange slipped their tongue into your mouth and you moved your hand to their hair. You had always noticed how silky and shiny their hair was, but feeling it in your hands was a whole different story. You rolled yourself over so you laid on top of them and Hange let out a gasp, pulling back so they could laugh at the sudden movement.

They really were so completely dazzling and you watched them, smiling yourself, until they stopped laughing and looked at you.

“You’re beautiful.” You brushed a hair out of their eye and smiled. “I suppose a stepladder would have been safer.”

“It wouldn’t have been as fun.” They wrapped their arms around you and pressed their lips against yours.

[dainesanddaffodils]

Compatibility - A Strange Magic Ballet AU ... sort of

This was @suzie-guru‘s christmas present, which I finished a few weeks ago - but being her present I didn’t want it online until she had read it. She now has, so now it’s my christmas gift to the fandom! 

Enjoy Bog and Marianne flirting in a dance studio and using ballet as a backdrop to talk about their individual mental health issues

Compatibility

Marianne knew she was staring, and she wasn't trying too hard to conceal it.

Because, to be frank, the man was worth staring at. Not to mention that she was more than allowed some curiosity when a stranger was cast as her co-lead in the upcoming spring production of Swan Lake. 

It wasn't that it never happened that her city's Arts and Theater Company took open auditions from the greater community, especially for bigger productions, but rarely did they land lead roles, when there was the whole issue of compatibility between leads. And rarely did they ever look like the photo of the man that she had been given when casting had been confirmed. 

The man in the photograph had looked like a lumberjack, or a construction worker. Or just homeless. He was in no less than four layers, and one of them was plaid. His beard looked too unkept to be hipster chic or whatever it was that her sister's boyfriend, Sunny, was. He looked about as far as you could get from the role of a ‘handsome prince’, if he looked like a dancer at all.

His name, according to the listing, was Bog King.

Presently, two weeks after the cast announcement, she watched him stow his bags and change his shoes. They had the studio to themselves; a personal practice time slotted out for the two leads, the way actors did compatibility reads. It was a chance to see how they played off each other, to see how and if this would work between them.

He looked like the man in the casting picture; even more out of place perhaps because now she could see his height in person (6'6" jesus christ). But in practice clothing and out of his four plus layers of flannel, jean, and leather he was, in fact, quite athletically toned. His broad shoulders tapered into a thin waist and she might have snuck a glance at his ass while he got his shoes out of his bag. That was absolutely a ballerina's ass. 

So yeah, she was absolutely staring. 

"Ye can ask, you know?" He spoke like they were coming out of a pause in an existing conversation and not like these were the first words he'd said to her. It took Marianne a second to even understand that he was addressing her.

"What?"

"I know what you're thinking about asking and you don't have to worry about offendin’ me- I get it often enough."

Again, Marianne was thrown off by the conversational tone (if not by the gruff and slightly accented voice), and it took her a few more seconds before she understood he was commenting on her staring. That he had, more than likely, taken it as an insult to his appearance. He understood the question that she did, in fact, have:

How the fuck does a man who looks like he just walked out of spending the past ten years living behind a truck stop come to be a ballet dancer? 

Which, to be fair, was a pretty insulting judgement to make on someone based on their appearance alone. And she had made it.

She felt her face warm, embarrassed and irritated at how accurately she had been read and called out by a total stranger. "You're real great at starting a conversation, has anyone ever told you that?"

His eyes widened, taken aback. As if he hadn't expected her to fire back (if this was really how he began conversations, she was surprised he wasn't used to people responding in kind). But then, he smiled. It was sarcastic and bitter - the kind of smile her father would chastise her for. She decided she rather liked it. "All the time."

"Charming."

"That's me."

Marianne was rearranging her feelings towards him so quickly was giving her a bit of whiplash. Rarely did anyone keep up with her sarcasm to this level. 

Still, she knew she couldn’t make small quips much longer without bringing up the already remarked upon elephant in the room. She picked at the sleeve of her black leotard and pushed forward. "So... how long have you been dancing?"

Bog King glanced up at her, eyes moving across her face for a moment until a corner of his mouth twitched. They both knew that she was asking what he expected, but also not asking how he had expected. He returned to tucking his laces in. "Five years." 

Marianne was glad he was looking away, because she didn't know how he'd react to her shock. "Five years?" She said at last, her tone as steady and mildly interested as she could make it.

He snorted, looking back at her again, his expression frustratingly unreadable. "I'm a quick study." She would have made a face or sarcastic comment to that but he didn't sound like Roland would have had he said the same thing. There was no pretension to it. It was just a fact. And despite his rough appearance, Marianne believed him.

“What got you started?” She asked, before she could stop herself. He raised his eyebrows and she quickly added. “It’s just- I’m used to people realizing pretty young that this is something they were into, you know?”

"And when did you start dancing?" Bog countered, a smirk pulling at his lips. "Two? Three years old?"

Marianne's own lips twitched in spite of herself. He truly did have a charm about him, though unlike anyone else she'd met. "Four," she said, lifting her chin a little. "And a half."

Bog laughed shaking his head. "Of course." 

“I stopped for a while, a couple years,” she blurted, unsure why she was, what, explaining herself to him? “Some shit happened and I said I was through. I didn’t think I was going to come back.”

Bog shifted on the bench, allowing her space to sit down, which she did. She had no idea why she was telling him this; even in the vaguest terms, talking about what went down with her and Roland was something she didn’t do. Ever.

“What changed?” He asked, as though her two sentence watered-down version of past trauma was worthy of his attention (and jesus, when was the last time Marianne had felt any part of her that wasn’t an on-stage persona was worthy of attention?).  

“I realized that I was still miserable,” she said, her shoulders rising and falling in more of a sigh than a shrug. “And I thought that was bullshit – like, why should I have to give up something I love because a few shitty memories. Screw that.”

Bog’s smile returned, and just like before, Marianne recognized that smile as one she’d given countless times. Bitter and full of a fierce ‘fuck it’ level of optimism that came after years of being hurt. She knew he got it. He didn’t even know a quarter of the full story but he got it. What did she do with that?

She tore her eyes away, looking back at her shoes, and realized she still needed to change into her pointe shoes. She hadn’t even begun stretching. This conversation had thoroughly distracted her from her usual pre-practice routines.  

She dug her pointe shoes out and began going through the motions of getting ready for practice, her mind wandering back to her earlier misgivings about potential compatibility with a stranger. It was looking like that might be the least of her problems.  

“Therapy,” Bog said suddenly. Marianne looked over and realized he had been watching as she got ready.

“What?”

“What got me started dancing,” he clarified. “It was therapy.”

“What?” She said again.

Thankfully that got a smile from him. “Some- how did ye put it? Some shit happened. I needed something to, I don’t know, distract myself? Keep myself functioning?” He laughed a little, though it wasn’t particularly happy. Dumbfounded, Marianne searched the lines of his face (he had to have at least five years on her, probably more), and bit her lip to keep from asking for details. He hadn’t.

“And this helps?” She asked at last, more incredulous than she had intended. It felt a bit like the equivalent of someone saying ‘have you tried yoga’ – she thought about the idea of someone suggesting that as therapy after Roland, and how negatively she might have reacted.

“Well, if ye haven’t noticed, it hasn’t exactly made me a ball of sunshine.” She snorted and he grinned. “But yes, it helps. It gets me out of my head, but doesn’t require… socializing. Does that make any sense?”

“Totally,” she said instantly, because it did. Some people found ballet a difficult form of theater but Marianne had always embraced a form of emoting that didn’t require words. “Well, I’m glad it worked. You’re obviously good at it.”

Bog waved off the compliment, though Marianne thought she could see his cheeks color. “Decent.”

“Decent doesn’t land you the lead in Swan Lake,” she told him firmly.

“I’m as surprised as anyone with that,” he retorted. “Certainly wasn’t what I was goin’ for. Not that I won’t take it,” he added quickly.

“Were you going for the wicked sorcerer?” She teased, looking at her tall, sharp-featured conversation partner. Earlier she would have worried that might have offended him but now she wasn’t surprised (though a bit pleased) to hear him laugh.

“Would be what I’m more familiar with.” At her inquisitive noise, he said, “I’ve been the Mouse King in the Nutcracker… twice now?” He counted on his fingers. “More suited to me than Prince Charming, I’d say.”  

Marianne had had that exact thought the second she saw him. She didn’t know if she agreed with it now.  

She busied herself with finishing her lacing. When she had Bog got to his feet. “Well, come on then- Marianne, was it?”

Dear god, had they not even properly introduced themselves yet? “Um, yeah.”

He offered a large hand, which Marianne wasn’t sure if she was supposed to take it like she was shaking it or like he was going to help her to her feet and awkwardly tried both. Bog laughed, and did indeed pull her up. For a second, she was thoroughly distracted by the first real impression of how much height different there was between them; she didn’t even reach his shoulder. The man could probably lift her with two fingers. She felt heat rush to her face and tried to very casually step away from him.

Seemingly unaware of her reaction, Bog released her hand and moved on, intent on the barre on the other side of the room. Grateful as she was to be moving on to actual business, she had one last thing to say on this topic, and if she didn’t now she knew she wouldn’t.  

“Hey, Bog?” He paused, turning to look at her. “Why’d you tell me all that? About your therapy and shit?”

His eyes narrowed, genuinely puzzled. “Ye asked.”

“Yeah but you said that everyone asks.”

“Not like you did,” he said. Before she could reply he added, “I didn’t tell ye any more than ye told me. Why did you?”

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. She was still confused about that. “I guess… I had a feeling you’d get it. Not a lot of people do.”

“I had a feelin you’d get it,” Bog echoed, offering her another crooked smile, like this was the simplest thing in the world. Like he wasn’t confused by how quickly they had bonded, like connecting through the course of a short somewhat cryptic conversation was perfectly normal.

And maybe it was. Maybe Marianne was overthinking things (Dawn would certainly say that she was). Maybe, for once, she could take her own advice and let herself have something nice.

She smiled back, shook her head, and joined Bog at the barre.

[iv-kplpt]

it feels like we’re pulling teeth [grandmaster au]

~21k words (yes i do realize). rated m.  charlie and oswald are two streamers. they don’t exactly like each other. they are both going pro. they are going pro on the same team. whoops?

some notes before we begin: - this was supposed to be short and silly. it’s not. apparently i can’t be casual about anything ever. - there will be a follow-up, because i got SO invested. - i have no idea about the inner workings of programing and i firmly refused to google anything. suspension of disbelief, man. *naruto voice* BELIEVE IT. - charlie’s problems were written from experience, so jot that down.

They started out as anything but friends, really.

The year was 2017 and they were both famous for embarrassing themselves online publicly - even though the proper term for that activity is streaming.

They were both famous for playing games, basically. Sure, Charlie also had a vlog channel and Oswald was a well known foodie - but it was their gaming related shenanigans that drew people to them. They were rivals of sorts - mostly because Overwatch matchmaking system somehow always put them in opposing teams.

Also, she mained Mercy, while Oswald mained… Literally every good counter to Mercy. Roadhog. Reaper. Doomfist.

(The truth is, every character is a good Mercy counter, as long as their player can aim - and Oswald’s aim was impeccable. He was accused of cheating many times; and every times the accusations were proven to be false.)

The problem was - she was a good Mercy. She knew when to switch between healing and damage boosting, seemed to always be one step ahead of her opponents and tracked the locations of airborne Pharah and safely nested Bastion with surgical precision, always ready to fly to safety, always ready to undo enemy team’s careful planning - all while being impossibly optimistic and nice, spamming hearts on match channel and always informing the enemy team they were worthy opponents.

(Lack of capitalizations and abundance of exclamation points were a good indicator of her messages being genuine, rather than generated by game’s anti-ggez bot.)

She was absolutely unbearable and insufferable with her rezes and optimism. Every time Oswald saw CherryPop on the enemy team - he knew he just lost. No matter how long he chased her - in the end she’d always escape his flanking attempts.

At first, he hated her guts.

The feeling was mutual - seeing birdmaskguy would cause a sudden surge of anxiety to travel down her spine, making her realize she’ll have to double her efforts. He was persistent. Relentless. Calculating.

And obnoxious as hell. His quirk - a thing making him stand out, making him different from a legion of other competitive-focused streamers - was being faceless. His nickname didn’t come out of nowhere - and good grief his mask was obnoxious. Shaped after a penguin skull and so completely, absolutely pointless. He never showed his face on stream - even though he introduced himself by name more than once. Finding out what he looks like was just a simple Google search away; he was the only heir to one of the wealthiest families in his hometown. His father was a well-known businessman, and Oswald as expected to take over the family money and name one day; so naturally his face was all over Gotham news.

Except Charlie wasn’t from Gotham, and Gotham news were never big enough to make it matter on a national scale. And she was never curious enough about her nemezis to actually spend her precious time Googling him; why would she? It was only a game.

They first met during placements for season four - and they were in the opposing teams. By that time, Oswald was already a relatively well-known streamer; Charlie was just taking her baby steps, and most important of all - didn’t know anyone in the scene. No one was her inspiration - she was simply being told she’s good by strangers.

NightKnight: mercy NightKnight: do u stream

CherryPop: nope, should i? mikey1111: yeah. you’re good. CherryPop: aww :P thanks!! free rezzes for everyone!!

They met in Hanamura, under the blossoming cherry trees. Her team started out on defense, his - on attack. They had a defense McCree; and he was very persistent. In fact, he and Mercy worked like a well-greased machinery, understanding each other without a word; she always knew where is he and he always knew when she’s in trouble.

birdmaskguy’s first interaction with CherryPop was hooking her away, with intention of killing her in one shot, as Roadhogs tend to do to fragile supports; but as soon as she was hooked that damn McCree flashbanged him, effectively saving her life.

Thank you! he heard the Mercy spam, as McCree reloaded and Mercy pulled out her gun.

She spilled his first blood that match, all while spamming the I’m not a miracle worker… line and jumping around like crazy.

On her first stream, CherryPop killed the birdmaskguy; and thousands of people were watching on his end.

A lot of people lost their shit at his pathetic failure; she killed him few more times with the assistance of the mysterious McCree who seemed to prefer the crouching position. He lost the match and was very close to typing out fuck you mercy in the match channel; but he didn’t. He was better than that-

CherryPop: hey hog CherryPop: OINK OINK

birdmaskguy: >.> birdmaskguy: get fucked, mercy. CherryPop: sheesh, at least buy me a dinner first! pork maybe? :P

They kept meeting like this, and she kept getting more and more popular - first as a Mercy who destroyed birdmaskguy, then as her own - rather skilled and enjoyable to watch - person.

PLAY OF THE MATCH: CherryPop as Mercy. [5 people rez, singlehandedly undoing his quad, accompanied by Hanzo quietly taking care of their Junkrat. Or: 3 people rez immediately followed by a double kill and three last second assists while boosting Hanzo just as he was launching his dragons of destructions. Or: accidentally getting nanoboosted and promptly becoming the legendary harmacist.]

They were bitter rivals all through seasons four and five, always in the opposing teams, always bickering on match chat, her always undoing all his efforts and him fruitlessly trying to hunt her down and corner her in a dead end on King’s Row or give her a choice between an environmental death or an execution in Dorado and so on and so on. They never watch each other’s streams; partially because they usually were doing them at the same time, and partially because they didn’t want to. It didn’t matter anyway; all until one day they ended up on the same team.

They crossed paths many times earlier this week; and Oswald was as persistent as always in tracking her down and distracting her from her team. He hooked her away, he gunned her down, he didn’t let her out of his sight every time they were on the same battlefield; he pissed her off more than once that week.

(Some people on his streams were watching them both at the same time, promptly informing them what does the other one have to say; she called him an insufferable prick more than once. And a dick. And a complete and utter asshole, good lord, fuck him and his obsession with ME and FRESH TOMATOES-)

They were both very high ranking in competitive; and in that tier cooperation relied mostly on precise, clear voice communication. Built-in lines were only helpful to a certain degree, and typing was taking away precious time; but he was still a bit surprised when he heard her voice for the first time.

“Well, well, well.” she said as they were picking their characters. “That’s a new.”

Her voice was sweet and melodious and Oswald tried to imagine her spurting out series of invectives fueled by his persistence.

“So unfortunate.” she continued, picking - of course - Mercy. “It’s such a shame there’s so much bad blood between us, right, Birdie?”

“Oh come on.” he muttered, picking Reaper. “You are going to heal me, right?”

“I don’t know.” she said nonchalantly. “I was thinking about pocketing our Rein. Hey, Rein, want a pocket Mercy?”

“JAAA!” their Rein replied, doing their best Reinhardt impression and she giggled and Oswald groaned.

“You heard the big guy!”

“Come on, don’t be like that.” he pleaded as she emoted; he decided the Devil skin she had equipped was very fitting. “I’m dps! I can’t distract them if I’m dead.”

“You are pain in the ass, Oswald.” she said and his name rolling out of her mouth sounded disturbingly right and he hated, he absolutely hated this fact. “A prick. You gotta ask nicely if you want something from me.”

“Seriously?” he asked with disbelief as commenters on his stream were starting to whip out memes. “You want me to beg for heals?”

“It does sound weird when you put it this way, but yeah!” she said cheerfully as the match was starting and their team was leaving the spawn. “Beg for mercy, you pretentious jerk.”

“Oh, fuck you!” he groaned and she only laughed, flying away to take care of Rein and Zarya as he was decimated by Torb’s turret.

Finally - eight deaths later - he cracked.

“Fine!” he said, Shadow Stepping away from the payload, as she was high above the streets of Dorado, flying the friendly skies with Pharah. “Please, Mercy.”

“What was that?” she asked innocently and he groaned. “I didn’t hear ya!”

“Please!” he said desperately. “Pretty please! With cherry on top!”

“Aw, you sound so cute when you beg.” she said mockingly, flying down to him. “Got you. Now go, fuck someone up. Preferably not their Zen. He’s trying his best.”

“Thanks, I guess.” he muttered, getting back into battle.

“Aaaa!” she squealed few minutes later, frantically spamming the group up! command. “Their Harambe is after me now!”

“Their WHAT?” their Rein asked.

“The monkey guy!”

“His name is Winston, you uncultured swine.” Oswald said, getting in her line of sight. “Come on.”

“Hey, don’t be an ass to me, I’m the one thing standing between you and death!” she said, flying to him; persistent monkey followed, promptly getting stuck in Junkrat’s trap.

“And I’m the one thing standing between you and death.” Oswald said firmly as she flew away. “So you too should stop being an ass.”

“Get a room, you two!” Junkrat yelled out, 1v1ing a very foolish Widowmaker. “We have a payload to escort and a match to win.”

“Shut up!” Oswald and CherryPop said at the same time and their entire team laughed.

They won, and he got play of the match; a perfect, sextuple kill, only ruined by her tag in the corner of the screen, as she was boosting him.

(He very begrudgingly voted for her and her astounding 30k points of healing, only slightly spoiled by “40% of team damage taken”. The last number could be lower, if he spent more time protecting her feathery ass and less time being snarky.)

“Well, that wasn’t too bad!” she said cheerfully. “Thanks for the saves!”

“You have my hammer!” Rein chimed in. “No, seriously, hit me up if you ever want to queue in a group. You’re an angel.”

She giggled and the match concluded and Oswald was returned to the main screen, left with a weird, burning feeling in his chest. Heartburn? He decided it probably was a heartburn, first in years.

(He was very careful about what he ate. Not like he avoided junk food; but he was generally careful with what he was putting inside him. And thus he managed to go years without heartburn and indigestion.)

An hour later, he ended the stream; it was early Thursday afternoon and he didn’t have any plans, so he just stretched and began to mindlessly browse the web.

Eventually he found himself on her channel and clicked a random video - and for the first time he saw her face and he sighed, not knowing what was he expecting. Her smile was as beautiful as her voice and when she laughed - and he still could hear the sound of her laughter ringing in his ears - she tilted her head and her red hair would brush her long, pale neck.

She was infuriating to play against and very nice to look at.

“Well, fuck.” he muttered, watching her wink. “Fuck me, I guess.”

*** Streaming was a pleasant distraction, and so was vlogging; and she needed all the distractions she could get, to get away from the overwhelming apathy and numbness that would creep in the second she wasn’t doing something. And playing that dumb game? It turned out to be surprisingly easy, very intuitive. It was an easy sense of accomplishment, seeing gold medals and votes and SR points roll in; and people seemed to enjoy watching how effortless this seemed when she was doing it, how easy. She was only partially paying attention to the game, and yet she was winning, and yet she was doing great; it felt nice, It felt… It felt.

And then there was that one fucking guy. That asshole. That tool.

No, not her ex boyfriend; when she thought of Harry she wasn’t angry. Sad? Probably. Ashamed? Maybe. But she wasn’t angry at him; if anything, she was angry at herself for trusting so easily, for not seeing right through him.

(To be fair, he did deceive everything, her parents included. So it’s not like she was a fool among the wise men; they were all blind idiots.)

That one person able to piss her off went by the name of birdmaskguy. The name was very telling - he wore a mask when streaming, and he often joked he’s doing it to not distract people with his very handsome face.

He played like an asshole. He sounded like an asshole on those short clips she watched on tumblr. He probably simply was an asshole; and they had a bone to pick. Her initial career online was built on her killing him; sure, with time she did get a reputation for her actual skills, rather than firing some bullets into a remarkably large target, but at first she was simply a Mercy who killed birdmaskguy; and his deaths from that match made their way into a lot of “Overwatch worst fails” compilations. For a week or so he was a laughing stock; and boy oh boy was he resentful.

And people liked hearing her call him names as she was running away from him. She called him many things - insufferable prick. Fucking asshole. Unholy offspring of the monster from It Follows and Michael Myers.

(Not in his face though. On match chats she was playful and mockingly friendly; but her viewers heard her. And enjoyed every second.)

People would never guess she’s severely depressed; she was good at hiding it. On her vlogs - about fashion and food and makeup - she was bubbly and cheerful; and messy flats and poor eating habits weren’t exactly a red flag, they made her seem quirky and relatable. No one knew about hours spent in complete silence, just staring at the ceiling. No one knew about her insomnia. And about how she simply couldn’t be bothered to cook, when throwing shit into microwave was so much easier. On the surface level, she appeared perfectly fine; and no one really felt the need to get any deeper.

And that guy - that Oswald Cobblepot from Gotham, that pretentious asshat in a ridiculous mask - was one of the very few people who were capable of making her feel something. Sure, that seething bloodlust wasn’t anything good - but it was a good start. Baby steps.

At some point, she started to come across him outside the game. She was embarrassingly active on shittyfoodporn subreddit; she felt some sort of ridiculous bond with those other losers, who mostly ate junk and microwaved shit and horrifying combinations of ingredients and half-burnt food. It was comforting, knowing her dietary habits are not, in fact, an isolated case.

He, on the other hand - was active on that part of reddit dedicated to good food. Normal food. Actually edible food. birdmaskguy was a well known foodie; he often talked about his meticulously composed diet - or so her viewers were telling her in the comments.

god, i switched to birdie for a second and he’s talking about garlic bread AGAIN.

“Again?” she asked, groaning when she spotted him materializing behind her team. “That sounds intriguing.”

he never shuts up about food!! he was talking about garlic bread yesterday as well. i think he’s obsessed. what a loser.

“Well, that one thing I have in common with that asshole.” she said casually, shooting him in the face. “I also love garlic bread. It’s delicious. And cheesy garlic bread? Heaven!”

yeah, but your whole personality doesn’t revolve around you liking to eat. :p

“More like one third.” she said jokingly. “I’ll take it as a compliment.”

She knew he’s a foodie - but she never saw him in her part of reddit, reserved for loosers very optimistic about their mediocrity and disgruntled people who paid for a chicken sandwich and got a very sad chicken sandwich.

He once commented on her post; it was obvious he’s trying to pick a fight with her. Spats between streamers and high-ranking players weren’t nothing new; just last month she saw another Mercy end her friendship with another player she often queued with. He was toxic; also streamers often talked shit about each other. A fight between CherryPop and birdmaskguy wouldn’t be anything shocking, hell, it’d be something a lot of people wanted.

(According to her meticulously curated tumblr dashboard - some people shipped them. There were fanarts. She only saw one piece of art, relatively mild, reblogged by her mutual, who only did it to yell at the artist for drawing real, actual people fucking. “THOSE ARE NOT FICTIONAL CHARACTERS, YOU FUCKING CREEP” they said and Charlie couldn’t be more grateful.)

Granted, what birdmaskguy said was a harmless joke; he said her dinner looks worse than his pride did after their struggle in Hanamura.

hey, it can’t look THAT bad. :P

Oh, it does. I can’t believe you put this into your body. How are you even alive?

through sheer willpower and the knowledge i have to live to annoy you!!

He never replied and she felt something akin to disappointment; she liked teasing him. It was a fine way of working through her weird urge to strangle him.

(That one time when she made him beg? She wasn’t really feeling great that day, and she was almost glad he initially refused to play along.)

And so they lived - bitter rivals, a depressed Mercy and her food-obsessed tormentor. She’d always make him say please if the ended up on the same team; and afterwards he’d be even more determined to hunt her down - and with each attempt to put her back in her place she’d take even greater pleasure in ruining the match for him.

When season six began they were both famous, and their creepy tag on tumblr was booming.

(She sometimes wondered what does he think of all those fanarts where he was ~getting his revenge~; personally she found them creepy, those random strangers drawing her genitals in great detail.)

Their little feud was still alive and well and her depression was getting worse with each passing day; World Cup was coming up and she kept distracting herself in any way possible.

Eventually… She made her way to the American team - effortlessly. Absentmindedly.

She kinda forgot she even tried when she got the email, informing her of her success.

*** When was the moment he realized he’s in deep, deep shit? Ah, it was during a deathmatch, about two months after he ended up on her YouTube channel and saw her face.

He was taking a short break from comp and wanted to have some dumb fun; so did she, apparently.

This time he heard her insults.

“That’s for making me beg in Dorado!” he hummed. “That’s for Nepal! That’s for Eichenwalde!”

“Hey!” she said as he killed her for the fifth time. “I never made you beg in Nepal, you said please all by yourself!”

“Yeah, well, ever heard of Ivan Pavlov and his dogs?”

“What, you automatically beg as you see me?” she giggled as he was skulking around Chateau Guillard, looking for her, completely ignoring everyone else… For now. “That’s kinda sad.”

“Your life is sad.” he muttered, as he spotted her, turned with her back to him, enjoying the view as Sombra.

“That too, but yours is still sadder.” she said in an upbeat tone as he took the shot. “Oh, you prick.”

“That’s me.” he said proudly. “Prick and an asshole.”

“God, I hate you.” she said, respawning. “Alright. You want war? You get war. It’s on.”

“Alright, doll, you asked for it.” he said. “I’m going to make you regret everything. Your ass? It’s mine now.”

“In your dreams, you fucking furry.”

They engaged in a heated fight in which other players unwillingly took the role of collateral damage and innocent bystanders; and Oswald realized he’s in deep shit when he - without thinking - yelled out “IS THIS A GAME TO YOU?!” to which she for a moment stopped running away and after a brief moment said “...yeah, actually. That’s what we’re doing. We’re playing a game. Did you forget?”

She then proceeded to call him a dumb loser and he sat there, completely mortified, very glad for his mask that was hiding his face and expressions, because in that moment he realized he actually has a massive fucking crush on Charlie aka CherryPop, his bitter rival, always one step behind his quintuple kills, always one step ahead his sextuple ones.

She had a beautiful voice and a beautiful face and her personality was driving him crazy, that way she mocked and taunted him, all while being bubbly and peppy. He had a massive crush on her; and that revelation left him so distraught he accidentally let her win.

“Blow me, you furry!” she said cheerfully, after scoring the last point. “Kiss my ass!”

“I’m twelve.” they suddenly heard a very serious voice, belonging to another player. “And you two are being very sexual. Stop that.”

“You’re not twelve, you’re six.” someone said in the background and Charlie laughed and his heart skipped a beat, because he could see her laughing, he could see her tilt her head as her hair brushed her neck.

(Her neck was beautiful, as if made for kisses and bitemarks.)

“In your dreams… That is, if your diet doesn’t kill you before I get to you.” he said playfully and she laughed again.

That’s when he realized he’s in deep shit; and then he was informed he’s now a part of the American team for the upcoming World Cup.

He wasn’t too shocked when he found out she’s been accepted as well. Of course - she was skilled and driven and it was high time she really let it shine. Their team was in a good hands.

Some website reporting the latest news from the gaming world reached out to him for a comment regarding the fact he’s now going to be on same team as CherryPop; he said he’s “very pleased” and that “he believes they’ll be able to put their differences aside to reach a bigger goal”.

He wondered what does she has to say about it.

*** “I’m not happy about it, but what’cha gonna do? He did well. He deserves the spot.”

Her comment on the situation sounded harsh, but she simply couldn’t be bothered to dress the thing up in pretty words. It didn’t matter; they hated each other anyway, even if she found herself looking forward to crossing paths and deaths with him. The bickering, the taunting, the mockery - it made her feel stings of something. And it sure as hell was better than nothing.

Being on the team required her to temporarily move from New York to Gotham; by pure coincidence she was the only member who didn’t live there. Practicing with actual people on hand made a lot more sense, than just yelling at each other on voice channel.

birdmaskguy reached out to her in that matter; actually he shot her an email, asking if they can talk on discord. His email didn’t mention her harsh comment; but it did sound stiff and official.

They talked later that day; his icon was an aggravated penguin, because of course.

(Hers was her own picture; she was blowing a balloon out of pink bubblegum. It was a bit trashy and definitely sugary; she liked it. It reminded her of being actually, genuinely happy.)

“Hey.” she said with a yawn. “What did you want to talk about? Are you going to, like, threaten me with a lawsuit?”

“...no?” he said hesitantly; that was the first time she heard his actual voice, not muffled by his mask. It was pleasant; melodious, just a tiny bit raspy, energetic. Nice to listen to. “Why would I do that?”

“Assholes always find a reason to sue someone, I guess.”

“Maybe not today.” he said carefully. “Look, Cherry… Can I call you that?”

“Well, better this than bitch or stupid cunt.”

“Hey, you know I never called you that.” he said almost angrily and she sighed; he was right. He never actually offended her, always sticking to things like you ass or I’m going to kill you, then I’ll resurrect you and THEN I’ll kill you again. That was what kinda made the dynamic entertaining; sure, they disliked each other, but they were never hurtful. Almost as if he respected her.

“Fine, you never called me a bitch, I’ll give you that. Still. What do you want, Birdie?”

“You have to move to Gotham temporarily, right?” he asked; she could hear the typical street sounds in the background. “So I have a proposition for you.”

“I’m all ears.” she muttered, absentmindedly rubbing a dried-out stain on her desk; most likely BBQ sauce or ketchup.

“Come live with me.” he said casually and she froze in place, staring at the stain. “Hey. You there?”

“Are you out of your mind?” she asked with disbelief. “Did your brain turn into lettuce?”

“...pardon?”

“I’m not going to live with you! We’re going to kill each other-”

“My family has a mansion.” he interrupted her. “Chateau Cobblepot.”

“...is that its actual name?”

“...I’m going to kill you myself if you as much as make a joke about it. I’ll poison you. Strangle you. Drop my father’s bust on your pretty little head.” he threatened her tiredly and she laughed at how utterly resigned he sounded, but quickly regained her composure.

“Alright, no jokes about the dumbest name I’ve ever heard. How big exactly is that place?”

“Big enough for us to never see each other face to face.” he said nonchalantly. “Google it. Trust me, it’s better than fucking around with hotels or rental. A token of good will from my side.”

“Where’s the catch?”

“...there’s no catch, Cherry.” he said patiently. “Well, maybe except for the fact you have to take care of transporting yourself and your stuff to Gotham, but other than that… Chateau Cobblepot awaits. Free of charge, just as long as you do your job.”

“Does it mean you’ll charge me if we lose? That’s an extreme version of blame the healer, you know.”

“...let’s worry about getting anywhere first, hm?”

“Ugh. Fine.” she muttered, rubbing her forehead; truth is, the thought of actually taking care of her Gotham stay was a bit overwhelming. That’s why she stayed in NYC for so long - because her parents were taking care of everything. “I’ll take your deal. Anything I should know about?”

“Not really, no.” he said; judging by the sounds, he was crossing a street. “Just email me date and time and someone will pick you up from the airport or train station. Also… Do you have any allergies?”

“Except for you?”

“...except that one, yes.” he said, sounding almost amused. “Well, I better stop taking your time, you have plane tickets to buy. See you soon?”

“You promised I won’t have to see you, you know.”

“It’s a figure of speech, Cherry. See you never. Better?”

“A whole lot better.”

*** It worked! He couldn’t believe it actually worked. He figured he might as well give it a shot, considering his parents were taking a break from Gotham and were leaving the mansion all to himself - but he never expected her to actually accept the proposal. Sure, she didn’t want to see him - which hurt more than he’d like to admit - but the perspective of simply having her around for an unspecified period of time… Was enough. “It worked!” he announced after entering the coffeeshop where his friend - and their fellow teammate - was waiting.

“...what worked?” she asked carefully, looking up from her coffee. “What did you do this time, Cobblepot?”

“I told Cherry she can come live with me during the duration of this thing.” he informed Vicki, sitting down in front of her with his back against the wall and his legs outstretched. “And it worked! Well, partially.”

“Well, which part didn’t work?”

“She sounds very adamant in not wanting to see me.” he said lightly, masking his budding despair with an optimistic smile. “I think she actually hates me.”

“Can’t imagine why.” Vicki muttered and he scoffed. “I can’t imagine why anyone would like you, Cobblepot.”

“You keep saying that, and yet you’re sticking around since forever. I think you like me.”

“I’m programmed to feel sorry for losers.” she said, taking a sip of her coffee. “And you are a loser.”

“I still love you. No hetero though.”

“God, you’re disgusting.” she said, wincing. “But anyway, What’s your plan?”

“I don’t have one, actually.” he said, getting up. “Well, maybe except for getting a caramel latte right now.”

He returned with his coffee and sat back down.

“I guess this is a lost cause.” he said cheerfully and Vicki sighed. “What?”

“I hope it’s not.” she confessed and he blinked. “No, don’t say anything, you get to hear me be nice to you once a month. Don’t ruin it. I hope it’s not a lost cause. Remember, I’m a dick to you as well, and yet here we are.”

“Are you implying… Tough love?” he asked, tilting his head.

Vicki sighed.

“Maybe. Or maybe she really doesn’t like you. You’re… An obnoxious ass. I’d say… Fifty fifty.”

“Those are pretty good odds. And you know what they say… A drowning man clutches at a straw.”

“So you really have a crush on her. Huh.” she said absentmindedly, taking a sip of her coffee. “I guess your taste is one of very few not crappy things about you. She’s cute. Kinda too sweet for me, but… Definitely cute. And funny. Watched her video on calling people by their full name?”

“You know I did.” he muttered, looking away; Vicki snickered.

“Right. I forgot you’re a creep.”

“Those are public, Vicki.”

“I know. Still - you’re pathetic. Need a wingwoman?”

“...are you offering your services?”

“Uh-uh.” she nodded, taking a sip. “You know I have no problem saying nice stuff about you behind your back. Just try to not directly contradict what I’m saying and we’re golden.”

“Well, what are you going to say?”

“Not a word about you being a hopeless sap, that’s for sure.” she said with a smirk and he scoffed, hiding his gratitude; he knew Vicki knows he’s grateful. They knew each other for years, and had each other’s back through thick and thin.

Rest of the day passed peacefully. Charlie sent him an email asking  if he can take care of transporting her stuff from the airport; sending it few days before her trip was cheaper.

Of course he’d do that.

Well, if you insist.

i’m not insisting, i can take care of it myself. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

That was a figure of speech. Just send me the dates.

It took her an hour to reply; the message simply said thanks.

They crossed paths in the game that evening; but they didn’t talk much, except for the usual please heal me I can drop down on my knees if you want me to banter. Surprisingly, she wasn’t doing great; she sounded distracted, reacting to everything with slight - but noticeable - delay.

“Are you sleep deprived, Pop?” their Mei asked; the deep baritone contrasted with the cutesy character.

“Just tired, that’s all.” she sighed. “I’m going to stay behind this time.”

She was slurring words and Oswald felt a sting of worry.

“S’alright. We will carry, you try to not die.” he said, switching to Reinhardt. “There. One personal shelter… Coming up.”

“Thank you.” she said slowly; she sounded surprised. “Want a free solo rez?”

“So when’s the wedding?” their Bastion asked, yawning. “Rein’s shield this, solo rez that… Where’s the venom? The spite? The-”

“We’re going to compete on the same team, you dummy.” Oswald interrupted them hastily; he knew that player fairly well. They had a reputation of being rather harsh, mostly thanks to their tendency to getting straight to the raw point. “We’re practicing this whole team spirit thing.”

“Uh-uh.” Bastion said; Oswald could hear the distinct sound of crunching. “Sure.”

She went offline immediately after the match, not even waiting for the votes; he considered sending her a message to ask if everything’s alright, but he decided against it.  Pushing wouldn’t do him any good; plus it would be suspicious.

*** She had a breakdown that day, between emails. She realized she hadn’t left her flat in weeks; she was relying on food delivery and online grocery shopping. The perspective of leaving and doing stuff and actually interacting with people was… Overwhelming.

But it’s alright. She had pills to take in case of sudden breakdowns; it instilled warm, pleasant fog in her brain and dried her tears up and fought off the anxious, crying-induced convulsions. She was calm again; even if her eyelids were heavy like lead and her vision and thoughts were slightly hazy and speaking clearly required a great deal of effort - but at least she was calm.

She googled birdmaskguy’s family home; it was huge. His family was one of the wealthiest families in that part of country, and it showed; she went for a virtual walk through the gardens, leaving taking a look at people living inside the building for another day.

He seemed to be completely unaffected by her - not really intentional - harshness; she realized she’s going to have to tone it down eventually, but as for now she didn’t have the energy to sugarcoat her words.

She made the mistake of trying to play that evening; but her thoughts were clouded with the pills-induced fog and she was doing bad. Luckily her team was understanding; even birdmaskguy offered his help, without complaining or snarky remarks. It was… Surprising; that small, meaningless gesture left her feeling disturbed. It didn’t fit. It was out of place. It was out of character.

She went to bed early, setting up a series of notifications in her phone - laundry. Packing. Shipping her stuff. Shower. Another shower, just in case. The trip.

She had a sleepless night; she simply lied in fetal position, tightly wrapped in blanket, staring into darkness of her littered, slightly airless bedroom.

She shipped her things to Gotham two days later; three boxes of clothes and personal items. Her precious, stickers-covered laptop would travel with her in her hand luggage, along with her favorite blanket, a teddy bear and her documents. Taking her of her stuff used up nearly all of her energy; she was so mentally exhausted she didn’t even reply when Cobblepot mailed her to inform her her things arrived safely and were waiting for her in his home, untouched.

(She sure hoped so. Depressed or not, she wouldn’t want anyone - especially not him - going through her underwear. She had a wide collection of lace and satin; pretty lingerie made her feel a bit better.)

Finally, day of the trip had came and she sighed, looking around her flat. She threw out things that could rot, and threw the majority of dirty dishes into the dishwasher; she didn’t have plants to water or pets to feed. Once again she checked her bag - everything was there. Her laptop, the accessories, her blanket, her meds, her teddy bear, her wallet. She was ready to go, and the cab to the GCT was waiting outside.

Even though the ride would be short, she booked first class; all she wanted was some peace and quiet. She wasn’t feeling chatty and she felt she’s not going to make it through if someone decides to chat her up.

On the station - alone and tired - she felt so out of place, surrounded by lively people who were talking to each other and laughing and feeling emotions and not feeling like their lives aren’t going anywhere at all. She avoided talking to others and looked at the ground, tightly gripping her bag; and everyone ignored her, as if she was transparent.

(She’d like things to stay this way forever, actually.)

Charlie spent the ride silently looking out of the window, wrapped in her blanket, thinking about how apathetic she is to the thought of living - even if only for some time - with someone…

It wasn’t hatred, that thing she felt. It definitely wasn’t hatred; he annoyed her, sure, but she never actually wished for anything to stop, for him to disappear. It wasn’t harassment; he valued his reputation too much to harass.

Or maybe he simply wasn’t into harassing people.

Finally the train stopped at Gotham Central Station; her ride was over. Breathing in and out, her legs shaking and her fingers trembling, she stepped out of the train, looking around.

Gotham felt… Different. Something was in the air, definitely; it was dripping from the gothic architecture, escaping people’s lungs, reflecting itself in glass surfaces.

“Admiring the architecture?” she heard a familiar voice, and when she looked left - there he was, birdmaskguy, Oswald Cobblepot.

He was tall and lean and handsome, which came as a surprise. Narrow lips and very sharp eyes and nice jawline and slightly messy har; he was wearing a well-tailored suit and looked at her expectantly with a polite smile.

So that was the face of her rival. He was very nice to look at, she decided begrudgingly; and he smelled nice. Someone obviously wasn’t a skinflint when it came to cologne.

“Hey.” she said nervously, brushing her hair away from her face; his gaze felt odd, he looked at her almost tenderly.

(Or maybe it was pity.)

“You’re short.” he said and she scoffed quietly; he snickered. “Watch out, you might get lost.”

“Ha-ha, very original.” she said, looking away. “I thought we established we’re not going to see each other.”

:”A necessary sacrifice.” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Want me to carry it for you?”

She handed him her bag without a word and he took it with a nod.

“Car’s parked outside.” he said, walking towards the exit and she followed, looking around. “How was your ride?”

“Uneventful.” she said, glancing at his sharp profile. “How’s… Your day?”

(It’s been a while since her last normal, face to face conversation. She felt like playing a half baked test build of a Telltale game, following an unedited script.)

“Quite eventful, actually.” he said, sounding amused by her awkwardness. “Cat got your tongue, Cherry?”

“What?”

“I’m waiting for some snark, you know.” he said as they left the building; even the air smelled different here, less like dead rats and hot dogs and more like gunpowder and herbs. “Needles and pins and harsh words.”

“Sorry to disappoint, you prick.” she muttered. “It’s easier to talk big online, you know. Face to face… It’s harder.”

“Hey.” he said softly and she blinked, not expecting such a gentle tone. “It’s alright. Take your time, get used to me. I’m distractingly handsome. I know.” he said with a smirk and she groaned and nudged him with her elbow.

(He was right - he was handsome. And nice.)

“You’re too self confident.” she said instead, looking around. “Put that mask on, before you scare some children.”

“Ouch.” he said playfully, fishing for car keys in his pocket; apparently he was driving a dark red Maserati, because of course. “Now that’s Cherry I know and… Tolerate.”

The pause before his last word felt weird, and he said it hastily, almost as if he bit his tongue to force his words to change direction at the last second.

They drove through the streets of Gotham, and she kept looking around curiously. The city definitely looked like it’s living up to its reputation of one of the most dangerous places in America; but it was still beautiful, in a dark way.

“That’s my family’s park.” Cobblepot said suddenly, pointing to a nearby place. “My parents funded it.”

The park seemed to be crowded; everywhere Charlie looked she saw people, enjoying the green grass, colorful flowers and sturdy benches.

“It looks nice.” she muttered. “Any ponds?”

The question escaped her before she stopped herself; she actually tried to drown herself in a bathtub once. She wondered if her brain is trying to suggest something.

He looked at her in silence, furrowing his brows.

“Yes.” he said finally. “Don’t get any funny ideas, Cherry.”

“Is that the Wayne Tower?” she asked a few minutes later, looking at an impossibly tall skyscraper.

“Uh-uh.” Cobblepot nodded. “What, wanna meet Bruce Wayne? I’m his friend. They’d let us in.”

“Maybe not today.” she said carefully, not commenting on his sudden eagerness. “Hey, Birdie.”

“Yeah?” “I changed my mind.” she said hesitantly, glancing at him. “About the… Not-seeing-you thing.”

(Gotham felt overwhelming; beautiful, but deadly. And she felt like loneliness might be unbearable this time.)

“Well.” he said after a short silence.

He glanced at her briefly and she looked away, ignoring the cheeky smile his lips were curled in.

“I knew you won’t be able to resist my charm.” he said finally and she scoffed.

“Your what?”

He chuckled as they drove through Crest Hill; a luxurious, suburban neighborhood outside which Chateau Cobblepot was located, not too far away from the legendary Wayne Manor.

“We’re here.” he finally announced, swiftly parking the car in front of the entrance, next to the fountain; Charlie quietly looked at the massive, gothic building that looked like a perfect setting for a Percy Shelley poem.

They got out of the car and he took her bag out from the trunk.

“Come on.” he said, walking towards the door, white gravel quietly clattering under his shoes. “Top floor of the west wing is for your disposal. I’ll show you the way.”

Top floor? She groaned quietly, thinking about climbing the stairs; due to her lifestyle her body wasn’t in the best shape.

“Something’s wrong?” he asked, as they came in; she looked around, slightly impressed with the interior design, relying on wood and marble and lots of light.

“I’m out of shape.” she said hesitantly. “Stairs are… Not my friend.”

“Well, shit.” he said, sounding concerned. “Should have guessed.”

“Oh, get fucked.” she muttered, knowing he’s referring to her abhorrent diet. “What now?”

“There is a free bedroom in my part of the building.” he said hesitantly, glancing at her. “I wanted to be hospitable and give you the entirety of our guest quarters, but since you can’t climb stairs…”

“One room will do.” she interrupted him. “Back home I don’t leave my bedroom anyway. Just as long as there are no stairs involved… I’ll be fine.”

“Well, okay then.” he said, turning right. “I inhabit the bottom floor of the east wing. I’ll show you the way, and then… I’ll take care of your boxes.”

“Don’t you have like… A butler to take care of this stuff?” she asked him, following him through the corridor; his part of the Chateau had its own small library, well-equipped gym, an office and a state of the art kitchen. The guest bedroom was at the very end of the corridor, tucked between his bedroom and the library; it was spacious, well lit, had a jacuzzi in the bathroom and the bed looked extremely comfortable.

“Our butler left with my parents.” he said, setting her bag down. “And we keep minimal staff. We do most of the things by ourselves. Keeps us grounded.”

“From the people, for the people?” she asked and he smiled.

He did carry her boxes; effortlessly, smoothly, as if they weighed nothing. He was stronger than he looked; and there was something disturbingly nice to the eyes in the way his shoulder muscles moved under the fabric of his shirt.

“There.” he said, setting down the last one. “Still sealed, as you can probably see.”

“I’d sue you if any of them were open.” she said, opening the nearest box and instantly closing it back again, as the first thing she saw was her underwear; and he did not need to see any of that.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it.” he said, walking towards the door. “Unpack, settle down, do whatever. Yell if you need something. Food, for example.”

Her stomach gurgled; she hadn’t eaten that day.

He heard it.

“...hungry?” he asked softly. “I can… Fix that. WIth actual food, instant noodles and frozen tendies have no place in my kitchen.”

“Fine.” she sighed.  “I guess I’m at your culinary mercy now. Do your magic, just… No asparagus.”

“Already setting your rules? Feisty.” he said with a smirk and left the room, leaving her sitting on the floor, feeling oddly at peace in this gigantic house.

She quickly threw her clothes into the closet and drawers and got down to business: setting a quick life update stream regarding the upcoming competition. She’s been pretty quiet about it for days; now was the time to tell the world how things were looking.

“Hey, world!” she said to the camera, sitting on her ridiculously fluffy bed. “You’ll never guess where am I.”

She was in the middle of a sentence when he entered the room, carrying a plate of what looked like pasta with tomato sauce; it smelled absolutely divine. It was obvious he used fresh herbs.

He set the plate down on her nightstand without a word and she kept on talking, only pausing once, to thank him.

“So, I’m at birdmaskguy’s home - hey, thanks! - and he just made me food. Shocking, right?”

“I don’t starve my guests, and especially not my teammates.” he said, crossing his arms on his chest. “Hey, Cherry’s viewers, you can’t see me, but you can hear me. Sorry for interrupting, I guess.”

“People on chat are saying hi.” she informed him. “One person is saying fuck you. Someone… Oh, crap.”

“What?”

“Someone warned me to not go into my tags on tumblr.” she muttered, looking at him, slightly flustered. “They say… I’m not gonna like it.”

Without a word he pulled out his phone and opened the app.

***

He never knew there’s porn of him and Cherry; he never thought someone might be fucked up enough to draw detailed depictions of two actual people having sex.

There were fanarts. There were fanfics. And he instantly spotted two most popular trends among those creepy fanworks - her dominating him and him “putting her in her place”.

(He’d lie if he said he never thought about her warm body and quiet gasps escaping her lips, but in his thoughts - it was consensual. He also kept those thoughts to himself, thoughts of her skin under his fingers.)

“Fucking hell.” he said finally, looking at her sitting on the bed in his home. “That’s… Creepy.”

“You heard him.” she said to her viewers. “That’s one thing we both can agree on. Well, okay, that and garlic bread being delicious.”

She shot him a faint smile and he smiled back, unable to take his eyes off her. In real life she seemed… More tired than on her vlogs; a bit awkward. She stuttered from time to time and had a problem with direct eye contact and made a lot of pauses, looking for words.

He thought about her freckles when he was in the kitchen, peeling and chopping tomatoes, and her soft lips and the way she scoffed at him. She seemed so lost in Gotham, so out of place; he felt as if this city might eat her alive.

In person, she seemed and sounded softer; and this softness cemented his massive crush on her, mixed up with concern for her bad shape and dark circles under her eyes and the fact she apparently forgot to eat.

“Fucking hell.” he muttered to himself after leaving her alone with her laptop; he headed to his gym, he had some steam to let out. “This is getting out of hand.”

He called Vicki and started his sit ups as she picked up.

“You’re on speaker, so behave yourself.” he said before she said anything. “Shit’s fucked, Vale.”

“Uh-uh.” she muttered; he could hear the crunching. “Why’s that?”

“A number of reasons.” he said tiredly. “Hey, is your offer still a thing?”

“Well, yeah. Why, did you fuck up so badly you need help?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.” he sighed. “Please, Vicki.”

“Fine, fine!” she said. “Remember about tonight.”

“...what’s tonight?”

“Oh my god, I’m not your secretary, you lazy bum. The icebreaker drinks at the Waterfront?”

“Right.” he said, remembering calling Fish Mooney. “Now I remember. Thanks, Vicki.”

“You’re welcome, jackass.” she said nonchalantly. “Dress up nicely. I got your back.”

She ended the call and he was left alone with his thoughts and the burning presence of Charlie on the same floor; through the door, he could hear her voice faintly. She was laughing, and it was a beautiful sound.

After the workout, on his way to take a shower he knocked at her door.

“Come in!” she called out and he entered the room and she looked up from her laptop and raised her eyebrows.

“What happened?” she asked, before he said anything. “You look… Sweaty.”

“I forgot to tell you, we’re going out tonight.” he said, wiping his face with a towel. “I made a reservation at the Waterfront. The team should get to know each other.”

“For a second it sounded really terrifying, you know. Like a date.” she said with a nervous chuckle. “Do I… Have to be there?”

“Oh, come on. It’ll be fun. The Waterfront’s a nice place. The owner is an old friend of mine.”

“Fine.” she said with a sigh. “I’ll come. When are we leaving?”

“In… Two hours, more or less. Sorry. Should have let you know sooner.”

“Yes, you should.” she said, closing her laptop, getting up and walking up to him. “Get out. I have some dolling up to do.”

She pushed him out of the room and her hand almost burned the skin on his chest, even though the fabric of his t-shirt.

He next saw her two hours later; and she wasn’t lying when she said she’s going to doll herself up. She curled her hair and put makeup on, hiding her freckles, much to his carefully hidden dismay. Her red lips were perfectly symmetrical and she was nervously playing with the cuff of her navy blue blouse.

“What?” she asked as he was staring at her “What?!”

“You look different.” he said finally and she rolled her eyes.

“That’s the point of dressing up, you know.” she said, crossing her arms and for a brief moment he saw a faint flash of her bra through the thin fabric of her blouse. “Good different or bad different?”

“Fishing for compliments, Cherry?” he asked, regaining his composure.

“Maybe so.” she said, putting her shoes on; simple, black pumps, that accentuated her legs nicely. “Anyway, I’m good to go.”

“Let’s go then. Ladies first.”

She walked past him and he smelled her perfume; fresh and fruity, with the most noticeable scent being strawberry.

He looked at her red hair and decided that of course she’s a strawberry kind of girl.

*** He was so infuriatingly nice and polite she wanted to strangle him. Almost nothing like his online persona; and his ridiculously handsome face wasn’t making anything easy. Hating him online, as he taunted and tried to kill her was easy; hating him in real life, as he made her pasta and carried her things was nearly impossible. Sure, he was still snarky; but it didn’t change the fact she felt oddly at peace in his home, in his presence, under his eyes.

(He looked almost impressed when he saw her dressed up and with makeup; that was first time in months she actually put some effort into looking nice. She was kind of glad she packed her heels and nice clothes and cosmetics; and kind of annoyed at the fact he didn’t look at her like that when she was bare faced and her hair were messy. Men.)

He looked very… Human when he knocked at her door and - sweaty, out of breath - informed her of the forgotten plan; and he looked at her apologetically and for a moment she found herself lost in his sharp, intelligent eyes.

Things were fuck, as the wise man once said. Things were fuck.

He held the door open for her, that fucking gentleman; and as they drove to the Waterfront - a well-hidden local, ran by his old friend - she was sure they looked like a picture perfect couple. His dark blue tie matched her blouse, as she absentmindedly noticed.

The club was crowded and she got anxious thinking about navigating between all those - drunk, high, chatty, happy - but he put his hand on her arm.

“We have a private room underground.” he told her, leading her towards the stairs. “You’re not the party type, I take it.”

“Not recently, no.” she muttered, wondering how it’d feel if he put his arm around her waist and quickly shaking this ridiculous thought off. “This place is… Something.”

“First of all, it’s safe.” he said, going downstairs and turning around. “Come on, I’ll catch you if you trip.”

“It’s not the first time I’m wearing heels, you know.” she muttered, slowly walking down as well and ignoring his hand he held out for her.

He only shrugged and put his hands in his pockets; finally they reached their private room and he let her in and she shuffled past him, briefly brushing his chest and inhaling his smokey cologne.

The others were already waiting for them, and Charlie recognized Theo - a pale, young man who went by the nickname XFilesTheome - and Louise, who went by RaptureFucker; she was after law school and was known for actually lecturing people about threats and offensive language; she had no idea who the other people are and if she played with them.

“Finally!” said a young woman, who was lounging on the nearby chair; her hair were tied in a ponytail and she was wearing a suit. “Took your sweet, sweet time, eh?”

“Yes, we did.” Oswald replied calmly, as Charlie awkwardly stood next to him. “There was some traffic. Sorry for not mastering bilocation, Vale.”

Vale! That must’ve been Vicki Vale - of victoriousvale - who often grouped up with Cobblepot. She was a journalist by day, and a formidable opponent by night; her Tracer was almost as relentless as Cobblepot’s Reaper.

“And you must be Charlie.” Vicki said, without getting up. “Pleased to meet you. Don’t just stand there, sit down!”

“...sure.” she said quietly as he pulled out a chair for her. “Hello.”

“Hey.” Louise muttered, not looking up from her phone. “Hold on a sec, I have to read this.”

“Fanmail?” Charlie asked and Louise shook her head.

“God, I wish. No, I’m helping a friend out with her problems.” she said, furiously typing. “You know Rocco?”

“I don’t think so, no,” she said hesitantly, looking at the last man; he was thin and had giant, dark, eyes and a soft, warm smile.

“PennyDumb.” he introduced himself and she gasped; he was one of her favorite Reinhardts and absolutely terrifying to play against. “Glad to finally meet you in person, Pop.”

“Likewise!” she said with enthusiasm. “God, we have so many hours together, I remember when we were both bronze!”

“Right?” he said with a smirk and she laughed. “Time flies as experience points come…”

“Time is but a social concept.” Theo said firmly, brushing his dark hair away from his eyes. “It doesn’t exist, but it serves.”

“...that’s a quote from children’s book.” Charlie said after a while. “About alchemy.”

“Well, now we’ve both exposed ourselves as nerds who read books for children.” Theo said with a shrug. “What can I say? It’s a nice read.”

“I’m going to order drinks.” Cobblepot said suddenly. “What do you want?”

She looked down as she remembered her pills don’t mix well with alcohol. Oswald went around, taking orders; some wine for Louise, scotch for him and Vicki, beer for Rocco and Theo-

“I don’t drink.” she said as he looked at her expectantly. “Sorry. And… Neither should you. You’re the driver.”

“One scotch won’t even get me slightly buzzed. Your pretty little head is safe with me.” he dismissed her and she scoffed; that was the second time he said pretty little head in relation to her. “I can get you freshly squeezed orange juice.”

“Alright.” she said, as Vicki was watching her attentively; she leaned in towards her as soon as Oswald left.

“How’s he treating you?” she asked and Louise rolled her eyes. “I know you’re staying with him, and I know you two are… Not on the best terms.”

“He’s decent, actually. I think he realizes people talk a lot of shit in the heat of the moment. He’s… A good host.” she said, sighing. “It’s complicated. You know how it is - you call someone a piece of shit, but it’s not like that, it’s never like that.”

“Oh, I get it.” Vicki assured her. “I call him pretentious dick all the time and he doesn’t mind.”

“I do, actually.” Oswald suddenly said, entering the room with a tray full of glasses. “I’m not pretentious. I’m eloquent.”

“Same difference, you prick.” Vicki said nonchalantly; Louise put her phone down and sighed. “Now give me my liquor. I’ve been good this week, I deserve a treat.”

“You don’t.” Louise said calmly. “You forgot to feed the cat… Again.”

“He’s a predator! He can feed himself. Besides, he’s fat anyway.”

“Keep your marital spats out of this room, please.” Oswald said, setting a wine glass in front of Louise. “I got you a whole bottle.”

“That’s one of ten bottles you owe me, big guy.”

“Give me time.” he said with a wink, turning to Charlie. “Your juice.”

He set her glass down and his hands were slightly sticky; did he squeeze the juice himself?

(It was perfect, tart and sweet at the same time, thick and delicious.)

The evening was pleasant, and with time Charlie loosened up a bit; after all, those were not complete strangers. Sure, they knew next to nothing about her as a person - but she was fine with people knowing her just on the surface level.

(No one would care about what’s underneath anyway.)

They were all nice; and she found herself glancing at Oswald from time to time, pondering the nature of her feelings for him. Outside the game, he was charming, polite, hospitable, always ready for some petty quarrel; and eventually she came to a simple conclusion - she liked that guy. Sure, it was a weird kind of sympathy, very aggressive and harsh at times; but she definitely liked him. She felt at ease around him - and she only actually knew him for a day.

Things only went downhill from there, from that moment when she briefly glanced at his relaxed, grinning profile and he saw her gaze and nodded lightly in her direction, before returning his attention to Vicki.

*** He couldn’t stop himself from glancing at her from time to time, as they were getting to know their team. At first she was tense and quiet; but after she loosened up a bit… Her natural charm came to surface and Vicki had to kick him under the table a few times to stop him from staring at Cherry.

Because good god he felt he could stare at her forever, at the way she covered her mouth when she laughed and the way she fluttered her lashes; he felt like this is the person who taunted him for months.

(Even though that anxious, quiet Cherry was also delightful. The truth was, he’d consider her a delight no matter the circumstances; he was in too deep.)

Vicki joined him when he was heading upstairs for another beer for Theo and more juice for Cherry; he glanced at her Cheshire Cat-like grin as they were walking up the stairs.

“What?” he asked and her smile grew even wider.

“She doesn’t hate you.” Vicki said finally and Oswald froze in place for a moment. “You heard me. She doesn’t hate you. I have no idea what does she feel for you, but it most definitely isn’t hatred.”

“Well, do you think I have a chance?”

“Who the hell knows?” she said with a shrug. “Maybe. Just because she doesn’t hate you doesn’t mean she’s into you.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” he sighed as they approached the bar; that night Fish herself was behind the counter. “Hey again, Fish.”

“Welcome back, boy. What will it be this time?”

“Just a beer and another juice.” he said, sliding behind the counter. “You still have those sweet oranges, right?”

“Last batch. Just for you… And that pretty little thing.” Fish added with a smirk and Oswald shot her a pale smile. “Sweet like her, eh?”

“That’s the general idea, yes.” he said cutting oranges in half as Vicki sat on a nearby barstool. “Hey Vale, want another scotch?”

“You know I do.”

“Coming up.”

“Oh, I wish I could have you here every night.” Fish sighed, watching his hands. “Why won’t you run away from home and come work for me, boy?”

“Maybe some other day.” he said, setting the glasses down on a tray. “Family business comes first. You know how it is.”

“I do, unfortunately. Anyway. Give that pretty little thing my regards, Oswald. What’s her name again?”

“Cherry.” he replied automatically and Vicki snickered.

“No, it’s Charlie. We call her Pop. You’re the only person to call her Cherry.” she said mockingly as he looked at her heavily. “Come on, Cobblepot. Say her name.”

“Charlie.” he said - softly, tenderly, lovingly. “Her name is Charlie.”

“Pretty name for a pretty little thing.” Fish said with a playful smile. “Good luck, Oswald.”

“Thanks.” he said, lifting the tray. “I’ll need it.”

“Wish I could record it.” Vicki said mockingly, walking next to him. “I bet people on twitch would pay me good money for this one.”

“Oh, fuck off, you sound the same when you’re talking about Lou!” he scoffed, but she only laughed in response.

“Yeah, she’s my girlfriend. Not an unrequited crush.”

“Well, want me to remind you how you were when you didn’t know it’s mutual?”

“You don’t have to, my facebook memories do it on a daily basis.” Vicki said grimly as they were walking down the stairs. “The point is, people in love act and sound pathetic. And as your best friend and wingwoman… I think I have the right to making fun of you.”

“Of course you do.” he sighed as she opened the door for him. “You can do whatever you want, Vale.”

“Ah! Can’t wait to use that one against you.” she laughed out as he was setting Cherry-

Charlie’s juice in front of her. She glanced at him and smiled, rubbing the back of her neck; and he instinctively winked at her, accidentally brushing the back of her other hand with his fingertips.

Finally they had to part ways; their first practice was tomorrow afternoon and they had to get some rest, and in case of Rocco and Theo - sober up a bit.

Oswald didn’t feel tired; and neither did Charlie.

“My family’s park is nearby.” he suggested as they were standing on the sidewalk outside. “We can go for a walk. Some fresh air won’t hurt.”

“Alright.” she said hesitantly, rubbing her arms with her palms and looking away; once they were alone, she got all awkward and tense again. “It’s… Kinda cold though.”

“Ah yes, nights in Gotham can get chilly.” he said, glancing at her. “Want my jacket?” “But what about you?”

“I’ll manage.” he said, already taking it off. “I kinda like cold, to be honest.”

(He lied; he hated cold - but the grateful look in her eyes when she took his jacket was worth it. And so was the sight of her briefly closing her eyes as she covered her shoulders with it.)

That time of day, the park was nearly empty; but it was still clean and well lit.

“It’s nice, I have to give your family that.” she said with a sigh, as they were nearing a pond. “Whoever designed it knew their craft.”

“That’d be my dad.” he said, picking up a perfectly flat pebble. “Hey. Want to play a game?”

“...sure.”

“I’m great at many things, including skipping stones.”  he said, glancing at her. “Make a wish. If the stone skips five times… It’ll come true.”

“And if it sinks?”

“Then we’ll try again.” he said nonchalantly and she giggled. “Come on. Make a wish.”

“Alright.” she said eventually. “I made my wish. Do your magic.”

He squinted slightly, bent his wrist and threw the stone. Plop, plop, plop-

It skipped six times before finally sinking. He turned to her, grinning.

“See?” he said proudly. “What did you wish for?”

“Victory.” she said after a short silence, looking him in the eye. “Not very surprising, huh?”

“Wishes don’t have to be surprising.” he said slowly, hearing the faintest note of hesitance in her voice. “But looks like I just cemented our success.”

“Here’s to hoping.” she sighed and suddenly yawned and he turned his head away to hide the fact his lips were curling in a tender smile. “I think now might be a good time to go home.”

“Already feeling at home in Chateau, Cherry?” he asked as they were slowly walking towards the exit.

“I’m trying to.” she said. “But basically, home is where my heart is… And I think I didn’t forget any internal organs.”

“Not even your brain?” he said playfully and she rolled her eyes, but didn’t say anything.

He bumped into her in the kitchen later that night; they were both heading to bed and he walked in as she was pouring herself a glass of water; she was only wearing a washed out tee and a pair of boyshorts and he groaned quietly, looking at her pale legs and ridiculously shapely buttocks - and when she turned around he could see the faint outline of her perky breasts through the fabric.

She nodded in his direction, seemingly unaware of the effect she had on him, briefly glancing at his chest.

“A knife fight?” she asked, looking at a scar running across his ribs.

“Yep.” he said, shuffling past her to get his own glass of water. “You should see the other guy though.”

“Mmm.” she muttered, taking a sip. “Handy with a knife?”

“You could say that. Though I prefer to limit my skills to chopping onions, rather than stabbing people.” he said, briefly glancing at her freckles; she stood in place, staring at him silently. Finally she shook her head.

“I’m going to bed.” she informed him, shuffling past; her hair brushed his skin. “Goodnight.”

“Sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite…” he hummed and she snickered.

“You know, warning me of bedbugs doesn’t show your family in the best light.”

And just like that she disappeared in her bedroom and he was left with an overwhelming need for a very cold shower.

***

That night she did that one thing she never expected to ever do, under any circumstances - she got off to the thought of birdmaskguy.

He bumped into her in the kitchen, as she was trying to decide between water and apple juice; and he looked scandalously hot, with his messy hair and intriguing scars scattered across his body.

(Good boy from a good family. Where did he even get those?)

And he looked at her like he saw her for the first time; it was an awkward, tense moment, with her body slowly betraying her mind, and him slowly coming to terms with the fact she had a physical form.

They went for a walk earlier that night, through the park; it was beautiful and quiet and she felt unreasonably at peace next to him, even though they threatened to kill each other multiple times. He showed off his skill at skipping stones, and she played along.

She wished for happiness. That was her wish - to actually feel happy again. It felt ridiculous, making that wish as he stared at her expectantly, dim light of a nearby lantern illuminating his face.

As he turned around looking at her triumphantly she suddenly felt the urge to kiss him; but she fought it off. It was ridiculous and out of place and would technically count as an assault. She didn’t kiss him, instead limiting herself to simply staring at him, same way she did many times earlier that night.

And there she was, in her bedroom in his family home, the image of him imprinted in her brain, dishevelled, casual, offensively alluring, and the way he looked at her, as if he forgot she has a body.

(He looked at her same way when he first saw her in makeup and nice clothes. It was weird and complicated and she wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.)

He looked beautiful that night; he looked beautiful in a suit and he looked beautiful in his sweatpants and with bare skin of his torso and her body betrayed her with a wave of heat washing over her, finally centering between her bare thighs.

She got off to her imagination, her thoughts wandering freely, trying to figure out what would his scruffy chin feel like against her skin.

He woke her up the next morning, with very persistent knocking at her door.

“What?” she groaned, her eyes still closed, her body still curled up under the blanket. “It’s early, go away!”

“It’s nine.” he said, still knocking. “Can I come in?”

“Sure.” she muttered, grabbing a pillow. “Your house, your rules.”

She threw a pillow at him as soon as he entered and he threw it back.

“You should eat something.” he informed her, crossing his arms. “What do you eat for breakfast?”

“I don’t eat breakfast, so piss off.” she muttered, returning to her previous, fetal position and closing her eyes; but he wasn’t going anywhere. Instead he cleared his throat a few times, until she opened her eyes again and looked at him.

“What?” she asked tearfully and he snickered. “What do you want?!”

“Breakfast is important.” he said, still staring at her. “Come on. Get up.”

“But I don’t want to!”

“But I don’t care!” he replied, mimicking her; he walked up to the bed. “Come on. I’ll count to three. Get up, or… I’ll get you up.”

“Mmm. Good luck with that.” she muttered, closing her eyes and putting her head on a pillow.

He did drag her out of bed; he grabbed her ankle and pulled, forcing her to sit up. Then he grabbed her wrists and forced her to stand up.

“Come on.” he said firmly. “My house, my rules, and my rule for today is you shall eat your breakfast. Cereal? Oatmeal? Eggs? Toast? Pancakes? Fruit salad?”

“Waffles.” she muttered quietly and he snickered, opening the fridge. Of course he’d make his own batter. What an obnoxious ass.

“You should work on your sleep schedule, you know.” he said, setting a plate full of perfect, golden, crispy waffles in front of her. “Did you stay up late?”

“No, I just sleep a lot.” she muttered; she was tired a lot, no matter how much sleep she got. Sometimes she’d sleep for sixteen hours, only getting up to go to the toilet. “Old habits die hard, I guess.”

“Well, some of your habits should die quickly. You have to be in tip top shape.” he said lightly. “What do you drink?”

“I assume you don’t have any cheap energy drinks, do you?”

“No, but I have citrus black tea.” he said, boiling some water. “I have an intrusive question. May I?”

“Your existence is intrusive.” she said and he only smiled and shook his head.

“Are you depressed, Cherry?” he asked, making her tea.

It was a sunny morning in Gotham and she was eating perfect waffles birdmaskguy made her and he was making her tea and they were both in their pajamas, their hair messy and their bodies still warm from the memories of sleep; and he just asked her if she’s depressed.

Weird situation.

“Yeah.” she said, putting her fork down. “I am.”

“We have a very good psychiatrist in Gotham, you know.” he said, adding some honey to her tea. “One of the best. I can get you two in touch if you run out of medication.”

He glanced at her and she sighed, thinking about last night. Did he figure it out when she said she doesn’t drink? Who knows.

“Thanks.” she said, as he set the cup down. “But… Why do you care?”

“Because…” he said after a long silence. “I don’t want your bad mental state to get in a way of our victory. Which means… Me taking care of your sleep schedule and eating habits. Do you exercise?”

“Oh, don’t you dare-” she started, but he interrupted her.

“I’m not going to force you to exercise. What I’m saying is… Some physical activity would probably help.”

He paused for a moment and sent her a provocative grin.

“You wouldn’t keep up with me anyway.”

It worked. It was such a bullshit, obvious bait - but it worked.

“Hey, fuck you.” she said, taking a sip of her tea. “I refuse to believe you can do more than ten pushups. You sit on your ass playing games as well, how fit can you be?!”

Turned out, he is in perfect shape; she gave up after fifteen minutes. He kept on going for over an hour, talking effortlessly, and she sat on the floor of his private gym, trying to not stare at him too much, trying to not dwell on what happened last night too much.

(She was sure it was just a one time thing.)

***

It wasn’t just a one time thing.

As days passed, and he looked after her she found herself thinking about him more and more often. After a week she couldn’t remember what it felt to be angry at him; he was genuinely nice and didn’t seem to mind her occasional meanness; and she didn’t seem to be able to ignore the fact he was attractive. Depressed or not, her body still had its needs - and she had so few actual distractions from her apathy and numbness she didn’t even feel guilty when she’d slip her hand between her legs, thinking about the way his muscles moved under his skin as he was doing pushups.

And as much as she hated to admit it - his efforts in making her feel a bit better by making her sleep at regular hours and feeding her normal food weren’t entirely fruitless. She had more energy, and only had one breakdown; she knew he’d probably stop his efforts if she was firm enough in saying no, but… She didn’t want to. She knew as soon as she returns to New York she’s going to resume her previous, miserable, almost destructive lifestyle; but this thing was nice while it lasted. Kept her grounded.

She kept her thoughts to herself, even though even her viewers - because she sometimes streamed from the comfort of her bedroom in Chateau Cobblepot - noticed there’s something different about her. Her laughter apparently sounded more genuine, and her voice sounded more relaxed; some people made - rather not amusing - jokes about birdmaskguy’s magical dick.

“Ha-ha, very funny.” she said, glancing at the comment. “It’s not like that, you know. Two adult people can spend time together and not fuck.”

tbqph sex is a fun activity, so i don’t think anyone would judge you if you fucked him.

“Yeah, well, I would judge myself.” she said lightly. “He’s not my cup of tea.”

but he sure as hell is MY cup of tea. he’s hot and he cooks!

“He also spends a lot of time on reddit.”

yeah, well, no one’s perfect. okay, except for idris elba. he’s perfect.

“Hm.” Charlie pondered, cheerfully teabagging the floor with the enemy Tracer. “Yeah. That’s true.”

She wondered what’s going on on the other side, during his steams; their audiences overlapped a bit, but his was more… Typical.

She winced, thinking about what kind of jokes probably happen in his comment section.

*** “I’m going to ban you.” Oswald said tiredly, seeing another rape joke. “You know my zero tolerance policy for this stuff.”

People’s reactions to Charlie temporarily living under his roof were… Distasteful. Sure, many people took it well,  some people made mildly funny jokes about the grand finale to apparent sexual tension between a Reaper who just scored quintuple kill and a Mercy who scored a quintuple rez, and some people - who didn’t like Charlie for being annoying and squeaky - wished him luck; but some people reacted in… A truly abhorrent way.

“Stop that.” he said firmly, as another person expressed their wish of seeing him put her in her place, whatever it meant. “We’re on the same team. Sure, we have our differences, but it’s normal.”

did she suck your dick at least lol

“I’d say I feel sorry for your partner, but I don’t think you’re going to get one in foreseeable future.” he said with a yawn. “What is with you people and being obsessed with us?”

people are expecting a hatefuck.

“Well, sorry to disappoint.” he said dryly; he was never a fan of what he called antagonistically aggressive sex. It always rubbed him as borderline non-consensual, hurtful; a little bit of pain was a nice addition, but only as long as it was a path to mutual pleasure, not objectification. “But my sex life is still my own.”

are you implying you don’t think she’s hot? are you blind?

“Alright, this is enough.” he said, once again grateful for his mask. “That’s none of your business anyway.”

come on, you told us about your pierced dick! why are you suddenly so coy? hiding something?

“I was drunk!” he said angrily. “Just drop it, ok?”

A knock at the door; as he looked up, she was standing there, in a t-shirt and underwear and she looked sleepy and soft.

“You’re yelling.” she said. “I’m trying to sleep.”

“Sorry.” he said, staring at her from behind the mask. “I’ll be quiet now.”

“Are you streaming?” she asked with a yawn; she walked up to him, and - putting a warm hand that almost burned his skin on his shoulder - looked at the screen; her face was in frame.

“Hello!” she said, watching him die. “Awh. You’re terrible.”

“You’re distracting.” he muttered; he wasn’t lying. The warmth of her body was distracting.

She giggled and he groaned quietly, wondering if she’s doing it on purpose.

“Well, I’m going back to bed.” she said eventually and left and he died again, too busy staring at her ass.

wow, what a bitch.

“I woke her up. She has every right to not be nice.” he said, locking another person out of his channel. “Anyway.”

*** They hooked up between the matches, between USA vs Germany and USA vs New Zealand.

At that point, she already came to terms with a shocking revelation she actually likes him. Sure, she never told him - not after he explicitly stated he only cares about her depression because it’s a potential obstacle - but he was still a pleasant company.

He called her a tease during the match, as she was frantically flying between the teammates, trying to keep everyone alive, especially Rocco, whose shield was the one thing standing between them and certain death.

“Come on, you tease!” he called out. “I’m dying here!”

“I can’t be everywhere at once, you prick!” she yelled in response, as their teammates briefly glanced at each other with a mix of uncertainty and amusement.

But ultimately they won and he decided it calls for a celebration in form of a feast at Chateau, with champagne and everything they liked to eat.

“And you are going to help.” he said and she groaned. “What? I feed you! It’s only fair.”

“So I’m a slave.” she said and he winced.

“No.” he said firmly. “Let’s keep slavery out of this discussion, please.”

She helped him with groceries, which included a long trip to farmer’s market and a huge order at his favorite, expensive-as-fuck deli. Finally, she helped him in the kitchen - but not without loudly voicing her unhappiness.

“Oh, shut up.” he said carelessly, throwing a small onion at her. “If you really don’t want to help, you can go. But I’ll complain about it a lot.”

“I know.” she said, taking a knife and cutting the vegetable up. “Which is why this heroic sacrifice is taking place.”

“Attagirl.” he said, also chopping something; and she briefly paused her own action to shamelessly stare at the way he used the kitchen blade.

(She wondered if he’s as handy with a butterfly knife.)

Finally everything was prepared and was sure she has cumin and nutmeg stuck in her nose; her hands smelled like a variety of herbs and she had lettuce in her hair.

“Take a shower.” he said, wiping his hands in a kitchen towel; he had some yellow curry paste on the bridge of his nose, surely a result of not using a hand blender carefully enough. “And dress up nicely.”

“Yes, sir.” she said sarcastically and he rolled his eyes. “Anything else you need, master?”

She left the kitchen before he said anything, very pleased with how dumbfounded he looked, even though her cheeks were red.

She took a  - cold - shower, and put on a knee-length, black pencil dress with sheer neckline and black ankle-strap platforms; Oswald knocked at her door as she was doing her makeup, painting her lips red.

“Mmmm?” she muttered, looking at his reflection in the mirror. “What do you want?”

“Red or blue?” he asked, holding two ties and looking exasperated.

“It doesn’t matter.” she said, reaching for her eyeliner. “Blue, I guess.”

He kept staring at her without a word, so she sighed, put the eyeliner down and turned around, still not getting up from her stool.

“What?” she asked, and he blinked a few times.

“Nothing! Nothing.” he said quickly and left, leaving her puzzled.

The dinner was pleasant; everyone was optimistic and chatty and joked about how the Germans are probably crying themself to sleep or maybe cheering themselves up with Goethe or Schopenhauer.

Vicki told her something surprising as they bumped into each other just outside the toilet. She was slightly buzzed; maybe that’s why she spilled the beans.

“I promised him I’ll be his wingwoman, but sometimes honesty just does the trick, you know.” she said in hushed voice, as Charlie stared at her silently. “He’s an obnoxious ass, isn’t he?”

“He has his moments.” Charlie said carefully. “But he was raised well, I think.”

“Yes, he’s a gentleman.” Vicki giggled. “Which is why he’d never tell you half the stuff he told me.”

“Oh yeah?” Charlie said lightly, crossing her arms. “What did he tell you?”

“That you’re a tease.” Vicki giggled. “And very distracting one. He told me he couldn’t sleep the first time he saw you in your pajamas. He never got into details though.” she added, staring at her. “But honestly, I kinda feel him. You’re a pretty girl. You’re not my type, but… I definitely see the appeal.”

“Thanks.” she said uncertainly, slowly processing what she just heard. “You like… Tall girls, right?”

“Tall and dark haired and sarcastic.” she hummed and Charlie smiled palely; it was admirable how faithfully in love Vicki and Louise were. “Do you like him?”

“Are you going to run straight to him and tell him my answer?”

“You bet!”

“Then I’ll keep the answer to myself.” Charlie said, shuffling past Vicki and disappearing in the toilet.

Inside, she looked at her reflection; she looked nice. She wondered if he complained about it to anyone, if she was a distraction.

*** She was infuriating that day and he couldn’t help but stare at her helplessly, taking all her snark and theatrical complaining. He called her a tease completely mindlessly, but seemingly no one noticed; when they won she looked at him proudly and he wanted to do the most cliche things possible - raise her up and kiss her in front of everyone.

But he didn’t, instead he only winked at her; and he barely looked at her when they were cooking, instead grounding himself by focusing on chopping and measuring and stirring, painfully aware of her warm presence.

He - perhaps foolishly - decided to ask for her opinion on which tie he should wear; and her sight left him dumbfounded. That was the second time he saw her like that, and the sight wasn’t any less breathtaking - the conclusion being she looked beautiful in pajamas and elegant clothes and sweatpants, with and without makeup, with her hair messy and neatly styled.

She looked annoyed by his presence, so he promptly left, tightly grasping at the tie she picked.

She drank some champagne that night - a small,symbolic amount, because she firmly refused to let him buy a bottle of non-alcoholic one for her - and she looked at him sipping it. In fact, from certain point she looked at him a lot - did he have something on his face?

(Vicki avoided his eyes that night and he wondered how badly did she fuck up.)

Finally the people had left, and she helped him clean up, glancing at him from time to time.

“Did I do something?” he asked, taking a mountain of plates from her. “You keep staring.”

“Do I?” she replied, quickly walking away, leaving him puzzled.

(He posted a picture of their team on his social media accounts; tonight we are victorious, champagne pouring over us - one match won, plenty more to go! good job. It gathered quite a lot of attention; people were congratulating them and complimenting their bold strategy. Even busy Bruce Wayne found a moment to write an upbeat comment, congratulating Oswald on his victory and asking when is he going to bring his friend over for dinner.)

He was in the middle of a stream when he heard a knock at the door and a quiet can I come in?

“What is it, Cherry?” he asked, not looking up from his screen. “Am I being too loud again?”

“I just could use some company, that’s all.” she said hesitantly and he looked up; she was wearing the same washed out tee and boyshorts she was wearing the first night, and something about her felt… Different.

“Alright.” he said, returning his attention to the game, as she slowly walked up to him and sat on the surface of his desk, next to his monitor.

“How’s it going?” she asked, crossing her legs and folding her hands and staring at him.

“I’m mostly just fucking around tonight.” he said carefully, ignoring the rapidly popping out comments. “I’ll be wrapping it up soon anyway. It’s late.”

“Mmmm.” she muttered, still staring at him.

Finally he said goodnight to the viewers and turned everything off; she kissed him as soon as he took his mask off.

He dropped it onto the floor as she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer; and initially, he gave in, only pushing her away when she pulled his hair,

“Are you drunk?” he asked, even though there was no trace of alcohol in her breath.

“I don’t drink.” she reminded him quietly, looking at him attentively; her cheeks were flushed.

“Then what’s going on?”

“Vicki told me.” she said quietly, nervously playing with her hair. “That you… Are into me.”

“Fuck.” he muttered, running his fingers through his hair.

“That’s my intention, yes.” she said with a smirk, brushing his chest with her fingertips. “What, not in the mood?”

“I’m just… Surprised, that’s all.” he said, trying to not get distracted by her touch. “I didn’t think it’s mutual.”

“Well, it is.” she said, gently nudging his knee with her foot. “So what are you waiting for?”

He kissed her without a word, getting up from his chair and picking her up effortlessly; he carried her to bed and she giggled as he slid one hand under her shirt, reaching between her legs with the other one.

“I guess…” he whispered, gently brushing her neck with his lips, squeezing her breast lightly; her skin was smooth and warm and exactly as he imagined it to be. “I’m waiting for you to say please.”

“Then you’re going to wait for a while.” she panted out as he teased her through the fabric. “I’m a patient gal.”

“Yes, but I’m an insufferable prick.” he said with a smirk and kissed her again.

She was so soft under his touch, so sensitive; she scratched his back and her moans and whimpers were like music to his ears as he kissed her neck and held her hips to keep her from moving and laughed in her face as she called him names, while pulling him closer, closer, closer.

*** She snuck out of his bedroom after he fell asleep; her heart was racing and she felt more alive than she ever did during the past year. He was so gentle; and his fingers on her skin felt right. He looked so peaceful when he was asleep; so peaceful and beautiful.

She wasn’t sure he’d play along when she entered the room; but he did. He gave her what she wanted, and more - and yet when she closed the door to her bedroom behind her she felt… Empty. It was a different kind of empty than the one she felt for months; it was painful and grey, not dull and black.

She cried herself to sleep that night, firmly refusing to take her pills, even though the bottle was there, on her nightstand, within her reach.

The next morning he didn’t wake her up at all; when she opened her eyes and checked the time it was noon. He left her shirt and undies on a chair just outside her door; and when she ventured into kitchen she found some oatmeal on the stove, and tea in thermos; still hot, sweetened with honey, like always.

(She didn’t even like oatmeal; but his was thick and sweet and rich, with freshly grated cinnamon and sauteed apples and brown sugar.)

She sighed quietly, putting some bread in the toaster. She wondered where did he go; without him the house felt cold and impersonal. Suddenly she realized she has no idea how do other parts of the building look; for a moment she considered going through other rooms, but quickly abandoned the idea of violating his family’s privacy like that.

She took a shower and got dressed, washing off the sensation his kisses left on her skin; and as she was drying her hair, she heard a doorbell.

“Shit.” she muttered, torn between pretending no one’s home and acting like a normal person. “Alright. I’m coming!” she called out, hurrying towards the front door.

Outside she bumped into Bruce Wayne himself, who was admiring the view with his hands in his pockets and his back turned to her.

He turned around and raised his eyebrows.

“Well.” he said hesitantly. “You’re not Oz.”

“He’s… Out.” she said, brushing her moist hair away from her face. “And I have no idea when is he going to be back.”

“Alright.” Wayne said carefully, looking at her. “Can I come in and wait for him, or-”

“Oh, sure!” she said quickly, moving aside to let him in. “He didn’t tell me he’s expecting someone today.”

“Probably because it’s a surprise visit.” he said, going inside and glancing at her. “You’re on his team, right?”

“I’m the healer, yes.” she said, following him. “And I’m the parasite who’s living with him.”

“That’s harsh.” Bruce said hesitantly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name-”

“Charlie.” she interrupted him. “I’m Charlie. People online call me Pop. Oswald calls me Cherry.”

“Yes, he always has nicknames for people close to him.” Bruce said and her heart skipped a beat. “He used to call me Zorro… Though he stopped at some point. Now it’s just-”

“Brucie!” she heard Oswald’s voice coming from behind them; when they turned around he was standing in the doorway with a wide smile on his face. “It’s been ages!”

“Work.” Bruce said with a smile, and the two friends embraced; Oswald briefly glanced at Charlie over Bruce’s shoulder and his smile disappeared for a moment. “But I have a free afternoon, so I thought it might a good idea to pay you a visit. Catch up a bit. Check if everything’s alright.”

“Oh, everything’s dandy.” Oswald assured him and Charlie stood there awkwardly, wondering if he regrets last night ever happening. “I see you’ve met my temporary cohabitant”

“I’ll leave you two to it.” Charlie said quickly as Bruce turned his attention to her. “It was… Nice to meet you, mister Wayne.”

“It’s Bruce.” he corrected her with a smile. “And likewise.”

She hastily disappeared in her bedroom and opened up her laptop to catch up with the latest drama on tumblr.

Oswald knocked at her door some time later.

“You should eat something.” he said calmly as she looked up from her screen. “I threw some pork into a slow cooker before leaving. Interested?”

“I’m not hungry.” she said, despite actually being hungry. “But I think we should talk.”

“Alright.” he said indifferently, playing with his wristwatch; and his indifference hurt. “Let’s talk.”

“What happened last night…” she said carefully. “I’m… Sorry. I’m not sure what had gotten into me.”

“So it was a one time mistake.” he said, after brief silence. “Right?”

“Right.” she said slowly, trying to look beneath the surface of his calm, trying to find the man who kissed her back.

“Everyone makes mistakes, Cherry.” he said and she felt like she’s suffocating. “It was fun, but it’s not going to happen again. Curiosity sated, and so on.”

“Right.” she muttered. “Well… Well said.”

“You really should eat something.” he said before leaving, looking at her over his shoulder. “I worked hard on your new dietary habits. I’d hate to see my efforts go to waste.”

She flipped him off and he laughed and for a moment it felt like nothing had happened between them, like last night was just a figment of her imagination.

***

When he woke up, she weren’t there; only her clothes on the floor signalized last night really happened, that she really came into his room, that they really… They really…

He lied in bed for a while, trying to process what happened. The warmth of her skin, and the way she reacted to his kisses, and the way she looked at her with her eyes half closed; it was magical.

But - she wasn’t there when he woke up, she snuck out when he was asleep; maybe she regretted it. Maybe she was ashamed.

He got dressed, made breakfast and left the home, without waking her up. He went to Vicki’s place; it was eight in the morning when he knocked at her door.

“Do you know what time it is?!” she asked angrily after unlocking the door, but softened after noticing how miserable he looked. “...what happened?”

“Can I come in?” he asked quietly and she let him in; luckily she was alone that morning.

“Coffee?” she asked, yawning and locking the door behind him; he shook his head, knowing she’s drinking cheap, instant coffee that had nothing on what he had back home.

“You look like a kicked puppy.” she said, making herself a cup of that cheap monstrosity. “What happened?”

“I fucked Cherry.” he said as she was pouring some milk into her cup; she sighed and set the jug down, but didn’t turn around to face him.

She knew.

“She came to my room last night…” he continued, staring at the back of Vicki’s neck. “...and told me you told her I have hots for her.”

“I didn’t think she’d do anything about it!” Vicki said, finally turning around. “What’s the deal anyway? That’s what you wanted, right?”

“You know it’s not!” he blurted out. “You know damn well it was not about getting her to spread her legs for me.”

“...you’re right.” she said after brief silence, avoiding his eyes; he looked at her coldly, remembering the time when he helped her with Louise. He thought he can count on her to repay the favor. “I messed up.”

‘We both messed up.” he said softly, his anger gone. “In fact… I think all three of us messed up.”

“Maybe it’ll clear some air between you.” she said; she was clearly forcing herself to sound optimistic. “How about it?”

“Maybe.” he said, deciding to let it go; there was no point in blaming Vicki for his own actions. “Sorry for waking you up, Vale.”

“You can redeem yourself by going out and getting me bagels.” she yawned. “You know what I like.”

When he returned home some time later, Bruce was there, talking to Charlie; he looked at her as he was hugging his old friend. She looked surprisingly miserable, and excused herself as soon as it was possible; he followed her with his eyes, before returning his attention to Bruce.

“You look good!” he said. “Alfred’s taking good care of you, I presume?”

“Alfred is doing his best.” Bruce said with a smile. “How are your parents?”

“Oh, they’re doing great. Their anniversary is coming up, so they went to Bahamas for two months.” he said with a smile.

“So.” Bruce said after a brief pause. “That girl… Are you two…”

“It’s not like that.” Oswald interrupted him hastily. “She’s a teammate. Just a teammate.”

“A live-in teammate.” Bruce pointed out with a playful grin and Oswald rolled his eyes theatrically.

“Yeah, well, we’re both responsible adults. Tea?”

“Always.”

After Bruce left, he went to her room to talk; in the meantime he made a decision. She snuck out; maybe she wasn’t interested in anything bigger. So be it. He decided to give her all the space she needs; she herself said she has no idea what gotten into her.

When she flipped him off his heart skipped a beat, because it was as if they erased the previous night altogether. Nothing ever happened between them; and nothing would happen ever again.

***

They kept on winning; their team was like an unstoppable force of nature. They knew all of each other’s tricks, after hours spent on playing against each other; they knew all the tricks - and were quick to find ways to assist each other with them. They thought on their feet, abusing slight glitches and the physics engine, and worked like a well-oiled machinery; they won with New Zealand, Australia, Sweden, Japan, Poland.

(Though the last one wasn’t too difficult; a short clip of CherryPop’s Mercy hustling among the corpses of the enemy team with Another One Bites The Dust by Queen playing in the background quickly became a hit.)

And what happened that one night - didn’t happen again. She was sure Vicki knows; Vale looked at her oddly and anxiously. It didn’t seem like the others found out; good. There was no reason for them to know.

(Even though she was sure there’s something going on between Theo and Rocco; but it was none of her business.)

She still got off to her imagination from time to time; but it just didn’t feel good anymore. What she felt during that one time - it was more than just pleasure. She felt at peace, almost like happiness was within reach; almost as if he genuinely cared about her as a person, and not just a teammate. He was so tender, so gentle; a real fucking gentleman.

But it was just a one time thing; even though… Even though she wouldn’t mind it happening again. And again, and again, and again. It was a scary thought; it was not all what she wanted to feel, and she despised herself for it - but the heart wants what it wants and it cannot be reasoned with.

And the internet was buzzing - the word had spread that CherryPop visited birdmaskguy one night and sounded… Weird. The fact some people were bored enough to gossip about streamers was odd and a bit sad; but they did. And she let it slide, not debunking or confirming anything. There was no point in doing so; it simply didn’t matter.

He resumed taking care of her diet and sleeping schedule, and she resumed being unhappy about it; but it felt fake. She was conflicted, more conflicted than ever; lost and confused and yearning for more - but she couldn’t bring herself to talk about it - and nobody knew. Not their teammates, not her parents; and so she had nobody to complain to, nobody to consult.

(Her parents were convinced she’s doing fine, way better than in New York; new diet and regular sleeping hours were actually making wonders. So did the occasional exercise - but she started being sneaky about it, using the gym when he wasn’t around; she simply couldn’t bear looking at him like that.)

She developed a crush on him, on Oswald, on the way he treated her and the way he always rebuked her offenses and the way he once refused to hand her a jar of Maraschino cherries and held it above her head until she promised to pocket him the next match. She developed a crush on him, a crush she most definitely didn’t expect when she first met him on Hanamura, under the cherry blossoms between the objectives. She developed a crush on who he turned out to be under the mask, under his obnoxious quirk; and she wished she could turn back time and refuse his offer. Sure, she could simply pack up and move to one of Gotham’s many hotels - but he’d ask why.

And she wasn’t so sure she has the strength to lie.

***

It was painful, having her so close and not being able to treat her the way he wanted to - with love. When she asked him why he cares about her depression he lied through his teeth, and she accepted his answer; when he gently gave her a way out their bedroom mess - she took it. She wasn’t giving him a chance, she wasn’t giving him false hopes; he held his head high and kept on telling himself it’ll be over soon. Soon she’d be gone, out of his home, out of his sight; and he was sure with time she’d be out of his heart as well. What the eye does not see the heart does not grieve over, and so on.

So he kept on his facade; until everything went crashing down, thanks to his own obtuseness and the Russians.

(The Russians. Of course. In Gotham it’s always either Russians or Italians; almost as if those two nations personally cursed the city. Fuck you, Putin and Berlusconi.)

At first, everything was going well on their part; they were in good moods and well-rested and Charlie was begrudgingly munching on celery sticks he suggested her in place of tortilla chips.

(“...you do have lettuce instead of brain.”

“Ah, but what fresh ideas I have thanks to it! Come on, open up. Eat your veggies… Or else.

“Corn’s a vegetable though. So technically, tortilla chips…”

“...eat your celery or I’ll strangle you in your sleep.”)

The Russians were playing dirty and had no honor - he expected that much. He knew part of their team, he crossed paths with them a few times; and unfortunately - they weren’t exactly on speaking terms.

(He reported some of them for… Distasteful threats.)

Their Mei was constantly on Charlie’s ass, so their attention was divided between making sure she’s making it out alive, and taking care of their Slavic opponents; not an ideal scenario, but they could work with that.

Eventually though, their Mei managed to sneak behind them.

“Fuck! Someone help!” Charlie called out, frantically jumping around, trying to stall the enemy for as long as possible.

“Coming!” he said; he was on his way back to spawn anyway. He had to switch; they had to try something else if they wanted to have any chance at all at winning.

He hooked the Mei away at the last second and killed her in one shot, as Mercy ran to the nearest health pack.

“Thanks!” she said, for a moment looking away from her screen to shoot him a grateful smile; he blew her a kiss in response.

Her face turned pale and she looked away from him, staring at her screen again, even though her eyes seemed… Unfocused.

‘The fuck are you doing?” Vicki muttered to him, gunning down the enemy Zenyatta. “Again?”

“Shut up.” he muttered equally quietly in response, carefully glancing at Charlie; her lips were pursed and her eyes were squinted and she seemed angry.

They managed to score one point. No big deal; they simply had to stop their opponents from scoring any point at all to win. Or they could always get a draw; that’d call for a sudden death. That was a valid option as well.

Charlie disappeared somewhere during the short break between the rounds; and when she came back she was slurring and seemed lubberly. She seemed relaxed - too relaxed.

“Shit.” Oswald muttered as she walked up to him. “Are you alright? Cherry?”

“I had to take my anxiolytic pills…” she muttered, looking him in the eye; she cried. Her eyes were red and puffy and there were traces of tears on her cheeks. “I’m sorry…”

“What’s the problem?” Louise asked, walking up to them; rest of the team followed.

“We have to go on without her for a while.” he said calmly; she shrugged and looked away. “Carry until she wakes up, basically.”

“Maybe an energy drink?” Rocco suggested hesitantly. “I have some Red Bulls in my bag.”

Charlie nodded; but Oswald shook his head.

“Out of question.” he said firmly. “Mixing medicine with whatever’s in that shit… It’s not going to do her any good. I’ll get her some cold water, but that’s it.”

“You’re throwing a match, Cobblepot.” Charlie said calmly, looking at him; her eyes were hazy and she was shaking slightly.

Was she out of her mind? Her health was at stake - and all she could think about was a game?

“We still have a chance.” he said, keeping his concerns to himself; they could wait for another time. “I’m going to get that water. You try to keep her awake.” he said to rest of the team and walked away.

Round two was effectively a 5v6, due to Cherry’s state; they held the Russians off for as long as they could - but they didn’t stop them from getting the first point.

In the meantime, Charlie got better and left her hideout; but it was too late. The Russians got bold; they dealt tons of damage and hurled their abilities carelessly.

It was all over before they knew it; they lost 2:1, Mercy’s rez at 80% as their screens went black.

They lost; they were out.

***

She was doing fine; all until the moment he blew her a kiss in front of everyone, as if that was a normal gesture for them, as if he’d kiss her if he could, as if she wasn’t the one who kissed him first during that night that never happened.

What was he trying to accomplish? She had no idea; probably nothing, she told herself - but it was too late. Seed of a breakdown had already been planted; she excused herself during the break and cried in a bathroom stall, and - without thinking - swallowed a pill, first one in a long time.

It worked… Quickly and powerfully - maybe her organism grew disaccustomed. Maybe her brain was simply too tired to fight it off.

“You’re throwing a match.” she told him, desperately hoping to hear something like you’re more important than any match; but instead she only heard they still have a chance.

(Of course. She wasn’t important as a person, but as a teammate. The surface level was important; no one cared about what’s underneath.)

“Give me that Red Bull.” she muttered to Rocco after Oswald left; but he shook his head.

“He’s right, you know. It’s not wise.” he said and Charlie groaned. Vicki looked at her hesitantly, looking as if she wants to say something; but she didn’t.

(Maybe for the best.)

The ice cold water did wake her up a bit; but it wasn’t enough and it happened too late and they lost and it was all her fault; she knew it, she felt it in her bones.

“We did good.” Theo said optimistically. “We got far. Also, you guys are cool.”

“Right?” Louise said with a sigh. “Shame we mucked it up, but hey, we didn’t go down without a fight. It could be way worse. We could go down same way Poland did.”

Everyone laughed; except for her. Even despite the medication she wanted to cry; and when they weren’t looking - she simply sneaked out, got into a cab and drove to the train station, where she bought a return ticket.

Oswald could take care of sending her stuff back to New York. She was sure he’ll do it gladly, after all that mess that transpired between them.

Few hours later she was back in her stuffy, messy flat; she didn’t even bother to call or text her parents before curling up on the bed and bursting in tears again.

***

“Hey, where’s Pop?”

Theo asked the question - and Oswald realized he doesn’t know the answer. She vanished, plain and simple; and in her state it couldn’t possibly mean anything good.

“Maybe she went home?” Rocco suggested hesitantly. “Your home, I mean.”

“Maybe.” Oswald said, forcing himself to be calm. “I’ll check there. Then I’ll check the train station. Then… I guess I’ll panic. Just a bit.”

On his way home, he checked the Gotham-New York timetable; previous train left fifteen minutes earlier. The next one would leave in thirty minutes.

She wasn’t anywhere in the Chateau; and he checked every single room, even the locked ones. Everything was the way she left it; she didn’t even bother to come back for her laptop.

She wasn’t on the train station either; but when he asked, a woman working at the ticket office - a kind, old woman - told him that yes, indeed, a young woman with hair so red it almost looked fake bought a ticket to New York. The train departed shortly before he got there.

So she went home - and he didn’t have an address. There were many ways of solving this problem - but he decided to settle on the… Most Gotham one.

He called Vicki on his way to the police station.

“She went back to New York.”

“Well, fuck.” Vicki said; he could hear Louise in the background, talking about how McDonald’s french fries are so much better than Burger King ones. “What now?”

“I have to talk to her.” he said. “And Jim Gordon owes my family a favor.”

“I’m not turning the Bat-Signal for you.” the tired commissioner told him. “It’s out of question.”

“Please.” Oswald pleaded, feeling helpless. “It’s a matter of life and death!”

“No, it’s not.” Gordon said impatiently. “Look, kid, I’m sorry, but I can’t help-”

“But I can.” they both heard Bat’s one of a kind, gravely voice; Gotham’s protector stepped out from the shadows in the corner of Gordon’s cluttered office.

“Batsy!” Oswald said with joy, looking at the grim vigilante. “A sight for sore eyes, truly.”

“I heard it’s a matter of life and death, Cobblepot.” Batman said, staring him down. “Stop wasting my time. Cut to the chase.”

“You seem to know everything about everyone, somehow.” Oswald said hastily. “I know you hacked at least four federal databases. I need an address… Of someone not from Gotham.”

“The girl.” Batman said grimly, doing something on the computer built into his gauntlet. “Is she in danger?”

“I don’t know.” Oswald said quietly, as his phone buzzed; the Bat sent him Charlie’s address. “Wow. That was quick.”

“Don’t blow me any kisses.” Batman said as he was leaving. “It never leads to anything good, it seems.”

He didn’t have time to wonder how the hell does Batman know what exactly happened; he had a trip to New York to make.

He only stopped once, to get some gas; he reached her address just before the dawn. She lived in a modern, expensive building; and the receptionist who also doubled as security wasn’t too eager to let him in.

“She said she doesn’t want guests, except for food delivery.” he repeated tiredly. “I can’t let you in.”

“Yes, you can.” Oswald said firmly. “I’ll pay you, alright? It’s a matter of life and death.”

They argued for some time; but then one of the other tenants came home and the receptionist opened the elevator for him and Oswald hopped in, right before the door closed again, leaving the tired man behind.

He rang the doorbell and knocked, over and over again; it took him about fifteen minutes to get a reaction out of her.

“I don’t want to see anyone.” she said faintly and his heart broke a bit; she sounded so tired, so resigned. “Please, go away.”

“Cherry, it’s me.” he said; silence. “I’ve been worried.”

“Why are you here?” she asked tiredly, as if he hadn’t just told her. “We lost. It’s over.”

“I’ve been worried!” he repeated, frustrated. “You disappeared!”

“I went home, because my role was over.” she said. “I fucked up. So I left.”

“Yes, without a word.” he said, resting his forehead against the wooden surface of her door. “So I looked for you.”

“But why?” she asked again and he blinked; he told her already. Was she even listening?

“Because…” he repeated slowly “I’ve been worried. I’m having a deja vu.”

He took a step back as he heard her unlocking the door. Finally she let him in; and he sighed deeply seeing the state she was in. Well, she and her flat.

She was wearing the same exact clothes she wore when he last saw her, and her eyes were red and puffy and the floor was covered in garbage; candy wrappers, empty chips packets, soda cans.

“Good lord.” he muttered to himself, stepping over a small pile of Twix wrappings. “What happened here?”

“Depression.” she replied, wrapping herself in a blanket. “Well, now that you know I’m alive… So you can leave me alone.”

“Fine.” he said after a brief silence. “But only if you look me in the eye and tell me you really want me to leave.”

She raised her head a bit. She looked him in the eye.

“Please don’t go.” she said tearfully. “Leave. Stay? Fuck.” she muttered. “I have no idea what I want.”

“Which is a good reason for me to not leave you alone.” he said softly, carefully sitting down next to her. “I can take you back to Gotham. The others are worried as well.”

“I fucked up.” she muttered. “Big time. I fucked up… Everything. We lost… Because of me.”

“It doesn’t matter.” he said firmly. “Cherry, I lost plenty of times because of you. Doesn’t matter. None of it does. It’s just a fucking game, after all.”

“But-”

“No buts.” he interrupted her. “It’s a game. Period. We can try again next year.”

“Alright.” she said hesitantly. “Take me… Take me back. I won’t run away again.”

“You can run away as much as you want, just let me know beforehand.” he sighed, getting up. “Come on, Cherry.”

“Can you help me up?”

“If you want me to carry you, just say the word.” he said and she smiled faintly.

“I’ll consider it.” she said and he helped her get up and took her outside, to his car.

They were back in Gotham just when the city was starting to wake up.

*** He came; but why?

She couldn’t comprehend why he’d came - which was a bit sad, considering it was one thing she so desperately wanted. Even as she fucked everything up for everyone, even as her role was over - he came. She couldn’t believe her ears when she heard his voice outside; but there he was, looking more determined than ever.

He took her home; his home started to feel a lot like her place, like she belonged there, like she was meant to be there. She felt more at home there than she did in her own flat in New York; especially when she took a shower and put on some clean clothes and went to the kitchen, where he was making pancakes.

“How are you feeling?” he asked as she sat down.

“Weak, but I’ll live.” she said, playing with her hair. “I… Cried a lot.”

“Well, in that case it might be a good idea to take a nap.” he said, setting a plate down in front of her and sitting down with a cup of coffee for himself. “But first you have to eat.”

“Thanks.” she said quietly, picking up a fork. “Maple syrup?”

“Oh, good idea.” he said, getting up and opening a cabinet. “Some sugar might help.”

He handed her a bottle and she gently brushed the back of his hand with her fingertips and he froze in place, staring at her.

“Sorry.” she said, looking away. “I… I’m not trying anything, I swear.”

“No?” he asked, as she was pouring syrup all over her pancakes.

“No.”

He nodded quietly as she finished eating.

“Go to bed.” he said, not moving from his spot. “Get some sleep.”

“And what about you?”

“I just drank a pitch black coffee.” he said, looking up. “I’ll manage.”

“It’s not healthy.” she said and he snickered, shaking his head; and when he looked at her - softly, tenderly - her heart skipped a beat.

“Get some sleep.” he repeated. “You know where to find me if you need anything.”

She fell asleep almost instantly; last thing she heard before drifting off were his footsteps outside.

***

She let him take her home; that was good. She apparently wasn’t able to figure out he had been worried sick; that was… Less good.

His phone was buzzing; others were worried as well.

Got her.

is she alright????? She’s asleep now, but she’s alive.

[praying emoji]

He wondered what’s next; it was obvious she shouldn’t be left to her own devices. It was also obvious he’s still hopelessly infatuated with her; even after a night of crying she looked beautiful, with those red rings around her eyes and matted eyelashes. There was a lot of beauty in her sadness - but it was also painful; both to look at and to bear.

She woke up in the late afternoon, as he was napping in his bedroom; a hesistant knock at the door woke him up.

“Come in, come in…” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. “Hungry?”

“A bit.” she said, shuffling inside. “Oh… Did I wake up?”

“S’alright.” he said, yawning. “I’m a big boy.”

“What now?” she asked, standing in the doorway. “I mean… With us.”

That question awakened him faster than any cold shower ever would.

“What do you mean?” he asked, staring at her. She sighed, crossing her arms.

“Can I be honest?” she asked and he nodded, preparing himself for a figurative kick in the ass-

“I like you.” she said arduously, avoiding his eyes. “I’ve been trying to not, but… I do. I like you. A lot. And I… Know it’s not mutual.”

Had it not been for him being in a state of deep shock - he’d probably throw something at her.

“Wow.” he said eventually. “You are… Not the world’s greatest detective, huh?”

“...what?” she asked faintly, as he started to count on his fingers.

“I offered you a stay here. I took care of your abhorrent habits, I whined to Vicki enough times to finally make her crack, I went to New York just to check if you’re alive, I brought you back to Gotham because I was worried-” he recited, not taking his eyes off her. “And you think it’s one-sided?!”

“But I thought-” she said faintly, but he interrupted her.

“Thought?! Please!” he scoffed, waving his hands angrily. “If anyone here had a reason to think it’s one sided - it’s me!”

“Oh, woe is you!” she replied angrily. “You called that night a mistake!”

“Yes, because you snuck out and locked yourself in your room!”

“I was confused!”

“Newsflash, you asshole!” he shrieked. “I’ve been confused for weeks!”

She laughed, and she laughed so hard she actually snorted - and it was the most endearing sound he had heard in a long time.

“Oh, my god.” she said finally, wiping her tears. “This is incredible. If only we talked like normal people-”

“Drama is more important.” he interrupted her. “Come here. I want to kiss you.”

“And I want to eat something.”

“Ah, alright.” he sighed, getting up. “It’s… Late afternoon. Breakfast food is-”

She threw her arms around his neck as he was walking past, and pulled him in and kissed him; and he gave in, until he heard the sounds her stomach was making.

“Good god.” he muttered. “Do you have a Reaper inside you?”

“Maybe.” she said with a shrug. “Come on. Feed me.”

The Aftermath

Things were going decent, for both of them; even though it took the world some time to get used to the fact they got together. Many claimed it’s just a publicity stunt; some were disgusted and disappointed, some were saying it’s probably going to fall apart in two months.

Charlie decided to actually move to Gotham; she made friends there, and had someone who seemed very determined to keep an eye on her. Not all the time, naturally - just during bad times. Someone to force her out of bed and to take a shower. Someone to keep instant noodles as far away from her as possible.

(Suddenly everything made sense. Suddenly the way he looked at her made sense.)

But first - she had to come back to New York to pack up her stuff. Her parents offered their help; but Oswald was ridiculously disconsolate.

“I’ll be fine!” she said, and he only muttered and kept hugging her, resting his chin atop of her head. “You know you can’t watch over me all the time. I don’t need a nanny.”

“No, I just grew very used to your presence.” he mutered. “I’ll miss you.”

“It’s just a month, Oswald.” she said softly. “Say hi to your parents from me. You sure they don’t mind?”

“The house is huge, you saw it yourself.” he sighed, finally letting her go. “The more the merrier.”

She kissed him one last time and entered the train; she had butterflies in her stomach, the good kind. The kind that came from gestures of tenderness from someone she loved.

*** Without her, his home felt so empty; his family was back, so the rooms were filled with familiar warmth - but he missed her. And it’s only been a few hours.

“Oh, you fucking sap.” Vicki muttered to him over the phone. “Chill out, have some faith, she’s gonna be fine!”

“Yeah.” he sighed, standing in front of her bedroom. “I hope so. Otherwise…”

“There will be no otherwise though. She’s gonna be fine. She spent the majority of her life without you.”

“Yeah, and she developed depression and anxiety.”

“And you are not a cure to her problems.” Vicki said firmly. “Look, Oz, love is a wonderful thing, but it’s not a miracle cure for anything. Her problems are not your fault, neither they are yours to solve. It’s admirable you want to help, but… You gotta let her live.”

“Jesus, Vale, chill out with the preaching.” he muttered. “Would ya?”

“I’ll consider it.”

He saw her online that evening; she posted something on r/shittyfoodporn, for the first time in many weeks.

McDonald’s for dinner. Of course.

Oh come on. he commented.

kfjgjskfjgjdkfgjgjf let me live!!

I’m just joking.

<3

you two are absolutely fucking disgusting. by all means, keep doing whatever you’re doing, but you’re disgusting. keep that relationship shit away from us pathetic lowlifes. ps - fuck, i want a cheeseburger.

Three weeks flew by; she seemed to be doing well - he watched one of her streams and she was bubbly and chatty and a delight to look at.

(She got adorably distracted when a comment from him popped up, and blew him a kiss.)

People seemed to not remember what happened during their last match; or maybe they remembered, but simply didn’t care. There were more important things in the world; life went on, after all.

They crossed paths in game one evening; they ended up on the opposite teams, because of course.

birdmaskguy: hey, mercy.

birdmaskguy: i have a deal.

CherryPop: ?????

birdmaskguy: let my team win, so i’ll be nice when i come over next week.

strawpuff: DUDE, HAVE SOME DIGNITY.

CherryPop: that’s precisely why i won’t let you win. :P i like it when you’re not nice!!

strawpuff: …

Bolero: ……………………….ew

dijkstra: :D omg

(She liked it when he was acting like an asshole; she liked when he was taking advantage of being taller and when he was taking his sweet time with her body. Gave her a reason to call him names; for her it came easier than an I love you - and he understood, after years of being close with Vicki. She’d call him a prick - but then she’d run her fingers through his hair, all while complaining about how infuriating he was.)

*** She missed him more than she thought she would; and eventually she literally provoked him into coming over earlier than planned. It involved internet connection, some boiled - and unsalted - pasta, a jar of Nutella and her phone’s camera.

She posted the photo of noodles mixed with chocolate-hazelnut spread online, implying she’s going to eat it; he texted her few minutes later.

That’s it. I’m coming.

nooooo, she texted back with one hand, pulling out a spare blanket for him with the other one. i was just joking!!

Mm-hm. I don’t believe you. I’ll be there today.

nooooo!!!

:(

hey, i was just joking. come over. i miss you.

<3 <3 <3 <3

He brought a few things with him - clothes, his favorite spatula, a bag of fresh vegetables and a giant jar of tomato sauce he made at home.

“You can’t be serious.” she said, looking at it. “What am I supposed to do with it?”

“Eat it.” he said, setting it down on the kitchen counter. “Better safe than sorry, that photo… Almost gave me a heart attack.”

“Fine.” she said with a theatrical sigh. “But tonight I want pizza.”

“Just as long as it won’t turn out you only ate pizza few days in a row. That didn’t happen, right?”

“And what if it did? You’ll punish me?” she asked playfully.

“No, I’ll look at you sadly.” he said. “Come on. Order up, I’m hungry. Just pick a good place.”

“I know, I know, only highest quality ingredients find their way into your body. The usual spiel. Got it memorized.”

“Mmm, I’m letting it slide tonight. After all, I haven’t seen you in weeks…”

“...are you implying what I think you’re implying?”

“...the inner machinations of your mind are an enigma, but probably yes. Could have worded it better.”

“Asshole.” she muttered as he pulled her closer. “Insufferable prick. Douchebag.”

“I know. I love you too, Charlie.”

“Ndjhfhsjhgjd.” she muttered, as she always did when he called her by her name and he smiled, thinking back to that time he kinda wanted her dead, but not really, because who the fuck would take a game this seriously?

[yeehawbisexualold]

You’re Like Captain Hook

CS Modern AU. A while ago, I saw the prompt “your voice sounds just like my phone sex operator's voice” and simply couldn’t ignore it.

for @sailorkillian as a little pick-me-up

5.1k words. Rated M for My Man, this is a phone sex AU what do you expect? ~ also on ao3

Emma wouldn't say that she's lonely. She's actually the least lonely she's ever been. She has close friends and even co-workers that she likes. She prefers being single—too many past hurts and the distinct lack of need for a significant other, especially one of the male variety, keeping her content.

But she has been a little... hard up, lately.

It's not difficult for her to convince someone to take her to bed. It's pretty damn easy actually; all it takes is something short and a come-hither smile. What is hard is finding someone that doesn't repulse her and, even harder, finding the desire to go out in search of someone.

She's been working hard lately—bills don't pay themselves and all that. What started off as a desperate need to keep herself afloat became a steady job. So, while she's stable enough to not need to work herself to death, she still feels the need to prove herself worthy and maintain her position. And the harder she works, the more responsibility her boss gives her, leading to her total exhaustion. The only free time she has she tends to spend watching Netflix or going out for the occasional drink with friends, not looking for someone to hook up with.

She sees the ad when she's looking into a new skip online. It's off to the side of her screen and an ad of this variety wouldn't pique her interest if it weren't for the fact that it was marketed towards females. She's only ever seen phone sex commercials clearly aimed towards men, with busty women saying some flirty shit. This ad though is of a man who bares a remarkable resemblance to Chris Evans (honestly she wouldn't be surprised if it was a photoshopped image of him) sitting on a couch with a phone to his ear and a flirty grin, "Ladies, you don't have to be lonely," written across the bottom.

If done properly (it rarely is,) she thoroughly enjoys a man talking to her in bed. It's hard to find porn with decent enough dialogue to put on while she takes care of herself, so dirty talk is usually something she goes without.

She writes down the number on the ad and decides that if she's in the mood when she's finished her research for the night, she'll give it a shot. Worst case scenario, she wastes ten dollars. Best case scenario, she has a satisfying orgasm.

At exactly 11:41, she finishes her research for the night. Although she's not feeling particularly horny—finding out how scummy men can truly be tends to do the opposite of arousing her—she's still very worked up. So she dials the number.

She is greeted by an operated voice system that prompts her to press numbers in correspondence to what kind of service she would like. She starts with the basic five-minute block that she is told can be extended per minute or per block for an additional charge—$10 down payment and a $1.99 per extra minute or $15 for an additional ten-minute block.

The voice she hears after the dial tone takes her by surprise. She knows it shouldn't. This is a phone sex operation service; the person is being paid to sound sexy. But take her by surprise, it does.

"Hello, love," the man says in a rich, British-accented voice.

"Uhm, hi."

She's actually nervous. Why is she nervous? It's some random dude over the phone whom she will never meet in person.

"Let's start off with the basics. How would you like me to address you? Your name? A particular pet name?" He drills off the questions and she's taken off guard because she hadn't even thought of that. Of course, he would ask her what she wanted to be called.

"I—I don't know..." she trails off unsure. She really didn't think this through.

"Relax, love. We're not going to do anything here that you don't want to do," he soothes and she knows one thing’s for sure, the man, with his voice, was born for this. "If you don't want to give me your name, that's fine. You're under no obligation to reveal any information about yourself. Although, if this ends up being something you enjoy and would like to do again, some would be nice. This doesn't have to be anything sexual either. We can simply talk if you'd like. This is all entirely up to you."

"I don't really know what I'm doing here so having to decide how this plays out doesn't calm my nerves."

"Ok, let's get the big question out of the way. Are you looking for something sexual or just someone to talk to?"

"I'm here for sexual," she blurts out and thank God he can't see her because she's burning a bright red that's worked its way down to her chest.

"Alright," he chuckles lowly and there's a slight shift to the tone of his voice that sends a shiver down her spine. "I can do sexual, love. Is that what you'd like me to call you? Love?"

She's never been fond of pet names. Neal used to call her baby which squicked her out and Walsh only ever called her anything other than her name when he wanted something or when he was apologizing. But the way he says love makes her stomach feel all tingly inside, an intensity level one step above butterflies, and it doesn't feel cheap or condescending, so she finds she doesn't mind it at all.

"That works for me. What do I call you?"

"Hook. Captain Hook to be precise."

Do they background check these people before hiring them? She's gone from being slightly reassured to feeling like this man hasn't entirely got a grasp on reality.

"Hook?" she asks astonished.

"That's it. The first ever caller I got had a thing for pirates and she seemed to like it enough and the next thing I knew, it became my signature. So, Hook it is," he explains and she's back to being reassured.

"Pirates? Oh my god. What does that entail?"

"Honestly, a lot of nautical puns," he confesses.

"Ok, I'm definitely going to need to hear one of those." "When I jab you with my sword, you will feel it," he growls, and holy shit. She never would have thought that would have been her cup of tea but damn did it do something for her if the slight jolt to her center counts for anything.

Her gasp must have been audible because he then asks, "Liked that one, did you, lass?"

She nods but then realizes he can't hear that.

"Maybe."

"Is that the route we’re going tonight?"

"Another time." It's actually been a pretty enjoyable experience, entertaining at least, so far and she can picture herself calling back again. "Let's get to it."

"As you wish then, milady. Take off your pants," he demands.

She puts him on speaker and does just that.

"Are they off?"

"Uh-huh."

"Now, your shirt."

She rips her shirt over her head and he says, "Ok, love, now I want you to lie back and get comfortable."

After propping up a stack of pillows and leaning back against them she asks, "Now what?"

"Now, I want you to take your hand and as lightly as possible, run it up your thigh, slowly. Can you do that for me?"

It amazes her what just a voice can do to a person, her skin itching and her blood starting to pulse in her ears.

"Mhmm."

"Now do it again, up the inside of your thigh," he breathes, the combination of her teasing touch and his voice sending a shiver up her spine. "I don't want you to touch yourself yet though."

"Isn't that what I'm doing?" she inquires. "Touching myself?"

"Oh, you're a smart one, huh?" he chuckles and she hopes he does it again before their time is over. "I want you to take your nails and gently scratch right where the inside of your thigh meets your center. Imagine it's the stubble of my cheek rubbing against you."

He continues on like that for an indiscernible amount of time—but really no longer than a total of 25 minutes because she went ahead and paid the extra $30 for 20 more minutes—telling her what to do and when, whispering completely filthy things in her ear, and coaxing her to not one but two earth-shattering orgasms.

He tells her she's been utterly brilliant and she asks him if it's possible for her to get him if she calls again. He gives her the information to contact him again and she tucks it away for future use, noting that they share an area code.

—

It's been just longer than a month and she's called Hook a total of four times now. She'd probably be a little ashamed at having become slightly dependent on a stranger over the phone to bring her sexual release if the orgasms weren't so good.

They usually start off by chatting a little; he's unbelievably easy to talk to. She knows it's his job to make her feel comfortable and wanted, but it never feels forced. It doesn't take long for them to get down to business though and he gets her worked up and over the edge in an embarrassing amount of time.

Although she doesn't feel like she's doing anything wrong, she hasn't told anyone. How do you tell your friends you've been calling a phone sex operator once a week?

She's meeting David and Mary Margaret at a nearby Italian restaurant because David wants her to meet his new friend, whom he met in a coffee shop of all places, over a month ago. Which isn't something new for her. David is the most annoyingly charming person she's ever known, the only person coming anywhere near being his wife. Between the two of them, she's constantly meeting "new friends."

She waves off the hostess when she walks in, having already spotted her friends sitting at a high top table. David stands to give her a hug and she gives a very pregnant Mary Margaret a stern look so that she doesn't do the same.

"Isn't that thing almost out yet?" she asks taking off her leather jacket, leaving her in a simple but nice, black dress.

"God, I hope so," her friend sighs.

"Where's your friend?"

David simply points behind her and she turns to see an incredibly attractive man walking up to their table.

"Hello, lass. Killian Jones," he says and dear lord, he's British. Upon seeing her outstretched hand, he shifts his jacket from his right hand to his left or, she should say, to his hook. "Apologies, love. I normally wear a wooden hand when meeting new people but the hook is easier to drive with and I forgot my other attachment at home."

"Don't apologize. I like it. You're like Captain Hook," she blurts out without thinking and before she can apologize for being so ignorant he bursts into laughter, tossing his head back and clutching at his waist. It's a wonderful sound. "Get that one often?"

"Please don't," David implores, leaving her more confused.

"Yes, but not for reasons your thinking. You see I'm a writer but I'm only just now getting somewhere with that so for the past couple of years I've been doing something else part time to keep stable," he explains, jovially.

"Doing what? Being a pirate at kids birthday parties?"

"No, although, that's actually a decent idea. I'm a phone sex operator."

Her heart drops into her stomach. How many British phone sex operators can there be that live in the area and respond to Captain Hook? She tries to keep her expression neutral, to keep from alerting her friends to her distress and to not offend him with her horrified face.

"What does that entail?" she asks and an odd look crosses his face. "Phone sex, that is?"

"Well, my specialty is being a pirate. I'm actually fairly highly rated due to it. What I do is mostly a lot of roleplaying. You wouldn't believe some of the things that the women that call are into." "Is it all like that?" she inquires, trying to act as if she has no knowledge on the subject when in fact she has a great deal.

"Mostly. I get the occasional woman who's just lonely and wanting someone to talk to but a majority of my clients want things sexual in nature, typically things they are ashamed of getting elsewhere."

They're momentarily interrupted by the waiter asking for their drink orders. Mary Margaret gets a water and out of solidarity, so does David. She orders a red wine and Killian does as well.

"Wine?"

"I'm typically a rum man but it sounded refreshing," he shrugs, with a grin.

"Because of the whole pirate thing?"

"That's not the sole reason but it does go well with my image, doesn't it?"

Damn, he's even more charming in person. What with his glittering eyes, cocky grin, and restless eyebrows, she's not sure she'll be able to make it through the meal without sweeping everything off the table and demanding he take her right there, in full view of the diners. She'd like to find out how the naughty things he describes to her over the phone work out in person.

Ignoring her growing interest in the point of his ears, they chat amicably—about "anything other than this baby" as per Mary Margaret's orders—until the food comes. Once the meal is nearly finished, Mary Margaret gets a nose bleed.

"I'm fine. I'm fine," she waves Emma off, holding a maroon cloth napkin to her face. "This happens. We talked to my doctor about it and he said it's a common side effect. Something about the blood vessels expanding and blood pressure. It's just been a long day for me."

"I'm sorry. If you weren't feeling well we should have postponed," Emma chides her friend.

"No, I wasn't feeling bad. It just snuck up on me," she assures her. "We hardly get together anymore and David wanted a chance for you and Killian to meet."

"But we should be getting you home now," David interjects grabbing Mary Margaret's jacket and dropping cash on the table. Emma moves to do the same, having finished her food, but he waves her off. "Stay. Enjoy your night off. Make a new friend."

After the couple walks out the doors of the restaurant, she turns back to Killian.

"I almost think she did that one purpose."

"Aye, I'm inclined to agree."

"Have you been on the receiving end of one of their set ups before?"

"Once, a couple weeks after we met. I was invited out to a bar to meet up with them and a lass named Regina," he explains but then a rueful grin overtakes his face. "Another fellow by the name of Robin was there, playing darts with mates though, and she spent more time making snippy comments in his direction than listening to anything Mary Margaret or I had to say."

"Yeah, that might have been more of an effort to spur something into action between them than between you and her."

Despite Mary Margaret's obvious displeasure, Regina and Robin have been flirting around the edge of something for nearly a year. Regina hurls insults at the guy with venom that would fell the strongest of men but Robin just responds with a haughty 'your majesty.' One would think that would make for the opposite of a good match, but that one wouldn't know Regina Mills and the way that her belittling is a clear mask for her attraction and worse, her feelings.

"I gathered as much when Mary Margaret called the man over to tell him about how I was a new friend of David's and how sure she was that Regina and I would hit it off."

"Did you?"

"Hit it off? I suppose," he ponders rubbing his chin and she doesn't think of what his stubble would feel like beneath her own fingers. "She made a rather tactless comment about my hand but other than that, the banter was enjoyable."

"She, uh, yeah, she does that."

"But enough talk about her. I have a question for you."

"Alright," she says hesitantly, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms under her chest.

"Please, don't take off running right away."

All she gives in response is a nod.

"I've recently acquired a new... client. Lovely lass. Good humored, hesitant but acceptant to new things, alluring voice, pays for a nice chunk of time. I've only had a handful of conversations with her but, and not to offend you, you sound an uncanny amount like her."

At least three, possibly four, large and heavy rocks have settled in her stomach. She knew where his train of thought was going before he finished but, god, she hoped it would take a turn. Tempted to ignore his wishes and run out of the restaurant as fast as possible, she eyes her exit options warily but decides against it. If she were to bolt now he would likely mention it to David. Staying and discussing it with him was her only option.

"That's not a question," she finally says.

"Are you her?"

Renounce the idea or beg him to keep his mouth shut? Deny or plead?

She decides to be brave and answer truthfully. She'll never be able to call him again and surely he'll know she lied if she suddenly stops needing his services.

"I am." Lord help her.

"Then you're even lovelier than I imagined," he discloses, slanting himself forward and propping his elbows on the table. If the hue of his eyes was overwhelming before, they're crushing now with the added sparkle.

She blinks, startled by the admission. "You imagined?"

It shouldn't be a revelation. She's spent enough time, laying in bed after they've hung up, breathing heavily, and wondering just what he would look like. She'd basically just settled on him having long curly hair and a mustache, though.

"Well, yeah, from time to time."

"Time to time?" she asks, dazed.

"All of the time." His eyes aren't so shimmering anymore; they've darkened, become more intense. "It's impossible not to imagine the face that goes with the voice."

"So you imagine all of your customers?" She leans forward herself, bringing her face closer to his. They've entered flirty territory now.

"Some, not all," he corrects, tilting his head slightly. "It's hard not to wonder but it's easy to picture celebrities and such to ease the curiosity. I'm not often actually aroused when working. Things are typically more clinical on my end. A few, I ponder in more detail than others. But you, I've spent the most time envisioning."

"Oh?" she breathes

"I was correct in guessing your hair color, length even. I imagined running my hand through it—"

"Your rings would get tangled," she interrupts.

"That's likely but it can be worked around. Now, your eyes, I imagined brown. You couldn't imagine how pleasantly surprised I was to discover such an alluring shade of green. And you're bone structure, bloody hell, it's splendid."

She doesn't answer. She can't answer. She just sits there flustered, flattered, and flummoxed.

"Too forward?" he asks, easing backward off the table giving her much needed space to think.

"I've put men in handcuffs for less," she finally settles on, not wanting this man, no matter how attractive he may be, to get the best of her.

"You're a cop?"

"Bail bondsperson."

He tilts further back in his seat, astonished.

"That's unbelievably attractive."

She's feeling awkward now. It's not unusual for men to be interested in her line of work but this—the way he's been looking at her since he arrived and his frank compliments—just feels too... genuine. She doesn't do well with sincerity; she never has. It's probably a result of going so long without anything of the heartfelt variety.

While his sincerity does unsettle her, it doesn't make her tense up quite as bad as it usually does. And, fucking hell, he's insanely hot. She knows he can get her over the edge with just his voice so she decides to do something she might regret later.

"Can I trust you to keep all of this to yourself?"

"If that's what you wish, love, you have my utter discretion," he says solemnly.

That decides it for her. "How'd you get here?" she asks grabbing her jacket and purse.

"I walked," he answers, practically stumbling out of his chair. "I don't live far from here."

"Alright, buddy. Follow me to my car."

The ride to his apartment really is short but still too long for her liking. By the time he shuts his front door behind her, she's about ready to burst and releases a tension she didn't know she was holding when he pounces on her with his mouth.

Nine times out of ten, she'd be annoyed by the forwardness. Thankfully for him, this is time number one. It was perfectly clear where this was headed and she's actually relieved he made the first move.

After a few minutes of swirling tongues and wandering hands, he begins pushing his hips into hers. She takes the hint when she feels his hands moving down her legs, and raises one of them up his hip, helping him lift her into his arms.

When he drops her on the end of his bed, he immediately steps back to remove his clothes.

"God, you wear a lot of layers," she notes after he's peeled off his jacket and begun working on the buttons of his vest.

"Aye," he chuckles and she's slightly amazed—definitely aroused—by the dexterity displayed with the speed of unbuttoning the damn thing.

"One thing’s for sure, you're good with you hand."

"Oh, love, you haven't seen good yet," he growls and she's embarrassingly wet.

She slips her dress over her head as he begins working on his pants and then they're left in nothing but their underwear. He advances on her and she crawls backward up to the top of the bed. They both still when she's backed up against the headboard and he's hovering over her.

"Bloody hell. I don't even know where to begin with you," he groans but then, "Actually, I do."

He latches his lips onto the pulse point of her neck and begins sucking with just the right pressure. Before she can smack him away, warning against hickeys, he licks a hot stripe up the skin and stops behind her ear. He flattens his tongue against the back of her earlobe and then sucks the whole thing into her mouth, nibbling the soft skin between his teeth.

He then kisses along the edge of her jaw and brings his lips back to hers. As he dizzies her with his tongue, he unlatches her bra, nimbler than she herself can do with two hands. He pulls back to look at was he's uncovered and groans deeply.

His eyes flit back and forth as if unable to decide which one to start with. In the end, he chooses the right, wrapping his lips around the bud of her nipple and lavishing it. He switches between light swirling motions and fast flicks of his tongue. When she feels the cool metal of the curve of his hook against the other, her brain short circuits.

Just as she's about to scream that she can't take it anymore, he lifts his head. She nearly sobs in relief but is equally pleased and dismayed when he promptly turns his attention to the other breast, moving his hand, agonizingly slowly down her stomach.

"Hmmm," he hums when he reaches the edge of her waistband, curling his fingers and rubbing his knuckles gently up and down exactly where she needs him.

"Fucking, fuck," she gasps when he presses the ring of one of his fingers into her clit, rubbing the gem in a luxurious motion.

He releases her nipple with a wet plopping sound and grins up at her. "Yeah?"

Mouth slack, she nods. He tucks the tip of his hook into her underwear and starts sliding down her body with the movement of her underwear. When she realizes his intent, his breath ghosting hotly over her center, she shakes her head.

"No," she demands in what's barely more than a whisper. "Take those off and get back up here"

"Aren't you curious about what I can do with my mouth?" he asks with a smirk. She shakes her head. "How about just a taste then?"

Before she can answer, her head falls back as he licks up her center. She grabs weakly at his hair and yanks his head away.

"Ok, ok," he sighs, leaning back and pulling off his boxer briefs. And just of fucking course, the man has a pretty dick. It wouldn't be enough for him to simply have great looks, a sexy voice, and talented fingers. No, he needed a great dick too.

He moves between her hips and she spreads her legs wider, allowing him to settle between them.

"I'd ask you if you're ready but I gathered as much when I was down—" He cuts off with a moan when she wraps her fingers around him and guides him to her.

"Anything else to say?"

"Not much."

Then he's pushing all the way in, filling her in the most wonderful way. It's all she can do at first, to lay back and let him thrust. But eventually, she spurs herself into action, curling one of her legs to wrap around him and clutching tightly at his shoulders. She moves one of her hands into the hair at the nape of his neck and the other down his back to grab a handful of his ass. It's a great ass and she tells him as much.

"Believe me, lass, when I tell you the same," he laughs breathlessly into the skin of her neck.

His thrusts get faster and he drags against her clit in just the right way and before she knows it, he's sending her tumbling over the edge with gasping, sobbing breaths and fucking stars behind her clenched eyelids.

She lays there, breathing heavily, a loose-limbed puddle on the mattress as he follows her into release. She can't be bothered to do much of anything after he rolls off of her, in the long span of time it takes them to regain their senses.

"That was..." he murmurs once his breathing has evened some. He sounds far too enamored for her comfort and this is where the regret sets in.

"A one-time thing," she states getting out of the bed to redress.

"What no post-coital cuddle?" he inquires and it doesn't sound harsh, just slightly pained.

She fixes him with a hard look.

"You're not going to tell David right?"

"I gave you my word," he says with furrowed brows and flops back heavily against his pillows.

"Thank you," she mutters, slipping her shoes back on. She heads out of the room and almost doesn't hear his soft request for her to get home safe.

—

She doesn't call him again after that. Oh, she's tempted more times than she would like when she crawls into bed frustrated, remembering just how lust-inducing the sound of his voice is. But she just can't bring herself to do it.

David and Mary Margaret ask her out a few times but she turns them down with lame excuses of not feeling well or having too much work to do. She's sure they sense something amiss but they don't push her. She's grateful for that.

It's around nine in the evening, a few weeks after she left Hook—Killian—alone in his apartment to post-coital cuddle himself when she gets a call from an unknown number. She almost ignores it but it could be someone with information on her latest skip so she answers it. When she hears the voice on the other end of the line, she wishes she'd ignored it.

"Hello, love."

"This isn't your number," she states.

"Not the one you call, no," he replies sounding nervous, something she hasn't heard from him before. "I have a separate phone for work."

"Oh," she says feeling silly.

"Yeah."

There's a brief, awkward silence.

"David suspects something happened between us," he blurts out. Before she can berate him, "I didn't tell him anything but he won't let it go."

"Well, I have been kind of ignoring them," she sighs heavily, relaxing back into her pillows.

"Emma—" he begins but stops himself. She waits for him to continue. "I... I normally don't draw any attachments to my clients. If someone suddenly stops calling the only disappointment I feel is for the loss of money. But with you, well, I became attached."

"My vagina probably had something to do with that," she says dryly.

"No. Well, yes. But I had already developed feelings for you before we even met. I enjoyed our conversations immensely and that just doesn't happen for me. And while the other night was delightful, what I would like to continue the most is our communication." "Look, Hook," she says, ignoring the rhyme, "I've been described by multiple people as prickly so excuse me if I find it hard to believe that what you miss is talking to me."

"But that's just it! I quite fancy you for your prickliness."

She's stunned into silence.

"I'm not asking for anything serious right now," he pleads. "I just want the chance to get to know you better, to see if this can become something. And I really feel like this will become something wonderful."

She almost wants to hang up. Emotional confessions and requests for more are not things she's used to. But he sounds so earnest and she really enjoys the orgasms she has when he's involved.

So, she doesn't hang up. Instead, she says, "Ok."

"Ok?"

She's slightly annoyed at his tone of surprise, but she doesn't blame the guy. She did walk out on him immediately after sex and proceed not to call him for weeks.

"We need to start slow, though."

"Perfectly acceptable."

"And no telling David and Mary Margaret until I say so."

"Mum's the words, my dear."

"And keep the dirty, pirate puns to a minimum."

"I'll try my best."

They meet for coffee a couple days later, before one of her stakeouts. He's just as charming and handsome as she remembered—she kind of hoped he wouldn't be. So when he asks if she'll be willing to meet again, "Say, tomorrow evening for wine and a movie?" she says yes.

They don't make it halfway through the film before he shows her just what she'd missed out on with his mouth before.

[themildestofwriters]

Because Tumblr’s going down the shitter tomorrow, I’m going to post a chapter of the up-coming novel “short”-story I’m writing, ‘The Weird and Wonderful Sexual Awakening of Babette Melwyn’. This is chapter four, six seven and follows Babette after having her sexual reawakening and deciding to experiment a bit more. Does it spoil what happens? Well, it was already a foregone conclusion anyway and this is only one part of the story which has quite a bit more then just the smut.Quite a bit more.

Anyway, on to the story!

Babette Visits Pandora’s Box

Breath—in, out. In, out.

My skin prickled uncomfortably, suffocating heat washing all over me. Like the pounding of war drums, my heart was hammering in my chest. I knew that, if anyone saw me, they would see bright-red blush across my countenance.

I didn’t want to here.

I really didn’t want to be here.

Of course, the option to leave was there. It would be so simple. Just turn around and walk away, but I couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Indignant pride—along with incessant curiosity—kept me rooted in place. I survived hell and beyond, led armies, ruled an Empire and fought against everything from the Third Reich to the very gods themselves.

Yet… here I was, terrified. Petrified!

It infuriated me, how I felt, and it was all Josephine’s fault—or mother’s fault. It fluctuated now and then.

Weeks had passed since mother asked the question that changed everything, and it had been quite the journey. Now, here I was, standing before a building that was in no way discreet. It was only one story tall, sitting at a corner beside a few other stores—a mechanic and hardware retailer. Cement walls were painted black with a long and thick purple strip running through it, merging with a great eight-ball painted on its side; however, instead of there being an eight in the centre, there was an eighteen-plus. To finish it off, atop the flattened roof was a broad sign that read: Pandora’s Box Adult Store.

It was quite a distance from home, at least another suburb over. As sure as I was that it was far enough from school and home that I wouldn’t meet anyone I knew, the fear still lingered like a miasma. If I locked eyes with someone from school, a friend, a family member or, worse, Josephine herself, I knew I’d die from utter humiliation. That, or I’d bury myself somewhere on Pluto for the next century or two, at least until everyone who knew me was dead.

With that in mind, I took precautions. So, nobody would recognise me and hadn’t arrived as myself, per se.

Nobody walking by would see little Babette Melwyn visiting an adult store, no siree. Instead, they would see a man right out of a modern interpretation of Lord of the Rings. To put it simply, he looked like an elf—if a particularly strange elf—with a very thin and lanky frame, a strong aquiline nose that sat flush with his brow, and bright crimson eyes. His clothes were simple, a pair of plain black pants, a forest green shirt and a satchel that hung across his body. Finally, there was the black beanie that sat on his head, hiding a pair of long elfin ears.

I couldn’t remember the last time I used this form. In recent millennia, I hadn’t much use for it: No need to go undercover; no need to hide from the authorities; no songs to sing that simply sounded better with a masculine voice. I would have preferred a slightly different form from this—mostly because changing sex was a rather odd experience—but it was the only one I had that looked human enough and didn’t look a thing like me.

Taking a deep breath to calm my nerves, I adjusted my new clothes and began crossing the car park.

The streets were relatively empty, and I couldn’t see anyone out and about on a walk nearby, so my fears eased. Despite this, I still flung the entry door as open as I could and stepped inside as quick as I could. Unfortunately, in my haste, I almost slammed my face into another door a few feet away.  Jerking back to save myself, I quickly noticed the large poster plastered on it—big bold letters declared a warning to minors, stating that this wasn’t the place for them.

Well, I’m certainly no minor, at least chronologically, though mentally? I mused. Completely different story.

I gave the poster a further few seconds of consideration before passing through.

The first thing I noticed was the front desk. A few advertisements and products decorated it here and there—lubricants and condoms mainly—but it wasn’t that which interested me, rather it was the human manning the desk who caught my eye.

I didn’t really know what I was expecting when I entered Pandora’s Box: A leering man with questionable stains on a rumbled spotted shirt; an Amazonian sex goddess with thighs that could crush skulls; or maybe the extravagantly dressed Madame who secretly owned a trafficking ring out back. There were many ideas and expectations I had when I first planned this trip. What I got instead was an old lady with greying hair who looked to be in her sixties or seventies. She wore modest clothes, a pale pink blouse with a short red cardigan over top.

It was… odd.

Nevertheless, what she looked like didn’t matter much at all to me. The fact that she was here, staring at me, however, was something else entirely.

She smiled, warm and welcomingly.

“Good morning,” she said, her voice as sweet as any grandmothers should.

“Hey,” I mumbled back, nerves and social ineptitude making it difficult to say much else.

I turned away quickly, wanting to forget she was even there, only to recoil in shock as the rest of the store revealed itself to me.

Just what in the Abyss had I gotten myself into?

Along the walls, hanging from hooks and on display in little island tables was an ungodly supply of dildos—some small, some so large I wondered how they’d even fit! There was more as well: lingerie, butt plugs, handcuffs, vibrators and so much more. Some of these things I couldn’t even name let alone determine their purpose.

Cheeks flared red and, much to my further embarrassment and dismay, I could feel my pants tighten. My eyes grew wide and for the next couple of seconds, all that went through my head was a steady stream of unholy screams and curses.

I had forgotten about that little fact.

I was biologically male and so I had to deal with all the aspects of being a male.

I took a deep breath and accepted that this was going to be my life for the next hour or so. Reluctantly, I began browsing, all the while attempting to reposition my newest appendage as subtly as I could. By Anu, it was uncomfortable.

As for what I was looking for, I didn’t want anything too fancy nor anything too big—just something to satisfy my curiosity—but it soon became apparent that I had absolutely no idea what I was looking for. Silicone versus rubber; double ended verses suction cup; veiny verses smooth; strap-on compatible verses that one weird dildo that looked more like featureless snowman: there were so many options to choose from that tackling size alone was its own chore, and I had no idea what any of it meant!

Oh, sure, I did spend a few weeks online researching the subject. I read a few articles about sex and masturbation, I learned that what I felt when with Josephine was “being horny” or “aroused”, and I’d seen many videos of people having sex. Yet nothing mentioned anything about the specifications of different dildos and what they meant. I didn’t even think this was going to be an issue! I just thought most of the different designs I’d seen were purely aesthetic based!

Unfortunately, it appeared my ignorance must have shown in some way as, after roughly ten minutes of staring at the shelves with confused horror etched on my face, a voice spoke.

“Would you like some help, dearie?” the old lady asked, her sweet voice unnervingly at odds with everything around her. In fact, the entire store felt off. It was quiet, casual. It was like I just walked into a convenience store but instead of lollies and Stanley knives, it sold riding crops and ball-gags.

I turned to the woman, trying my best to keep composure, and paused—at a complete loss for words. Should I ask for help? I had no idea. I didn’t want to look like some idiot, but I also didn’t want to be here any longer than necessary.

Once again, I cursed my stupidity. Of course there would be different types of dildos, each with their own pros and cons, yet all I did was get off to watching those wretched videos.

After much deliberation, I decided “to hell with it” and accepted her aid.

“Yes, please,” I replied meekly.

She smiled tenderly and left the counter, soon joining my side. It was then I realised that I was an entire head taller than her, a completely useless fact that left me feeling uncomfortable for some inexplicable reason. “Do you know what you’re looking for exactly?”

“I—ah…” I wasn’t really sure how to reply to that. Should I just out and say it? Would that be socially accepted? Or would a euphemism be in order? I had no bloody idea. “I’m looking for… I’m looking for a dildo.”

“Is this your first time?” she asked, this time with a knowing.

First time? I blushed. “Is it really that obvious?”

“Don’t worry, dearie,” she said. “I’ll help you out.”

One misunderstanding and many uncomfortable questions later, I had my vibrator in hand. While I would have much preferred a normal dildo, it at least looked far less complicated than the other toys recommended. The entire vibrator verses dildo dichotomy confused me, but not being an expert left me little room to complain. Of course, getting to that point wasn’t easy nor fun. Not only did I realise how deep the well of my stupidity goes but I think I somehow convinced the old lady that I was trans. After all, how else are you supposed to explain away a man looking for a dildo to use on his vagina?

Soon after paying, I hid the vibrator away in my satchel and left the store as discreetly as possible.

Once out, I wandered around for a bit, eventually arriving at a wooded park nearby. Hiding among the trees, I made sure none were nearby before returning to my old skin.

Shapeshifting was a queer affair. Disorientation was always something to worry about if one was unaccustomed with the art or shifting into an unfamiliar body with different proportions. However, that was only a minor inconvenience for me as it was the shift itself that was more unusual. It was by no means painful or anything, it simply felt weird. It was as if my skin and bones were melting and reshaping again and again until my body fit what form I desired. The first to change was my height, becoming noticeably shorter; my shoulders narrowed; my hips widened; my chest expanded; features became less elvish and more feminine; and then finally, my eyes shifted from a red to vivid gold.

It only took a second at the most, but I was grateful that my body was mine once again. What’s more, the annoying erection was no more, yet I still felt the tingling of anticipation twisting in my gut below, aching for release.

I fought down a shiver and took a deep breath. Every thought I had went straight beck to the vibrator in my bag: what I would do with it; what it would do to me. I was eager, ready, but I couldn’t just fly home right now—I needed batteries.

After once again checking to see if the coast was clear, four great black wings burst from my back, tearing through my shirt. A few seconds, I launched into the sky, vanishing from sight moments later.

A short stop to buy an eight-pack of batteries later and I was on my way home.

I had the house all to myself, what with my family being out for the next few hours, so I had time to satiate my curiosity. There was a reason I chose today to go out to the store.

Locking the front door behind me, I silently set the alarm spell just in case anyone attempted to break in. I then retired to my room, closing and once again locking the door before flopping onto my bed.

I was home, all alone.

The strange aching sensation had tapered off during the flight, but now that I was back, all I could think about was the vibrator and what would come next.

Sitting up, I opened my satchel and removed my newly bought toy, still sitting inside the box it was sold in.

I removed the packaging and examined the purple disembodied member. It was roughly seven inches long, curved slightly, with a realistic mould of the male genitalia. Apparently, it was a high-quality product, not only being waterproof and made of silicone but also with seven different intensities to choose from. Let’s just hope it was worth every cent I spent.

I bit my lip, my legs squirming together as the tingling warmth began spreading throughout my body. I was eager—more than eager—to find out how it would feel. Fingers were one thing, but these were supposed to be ten times better.

I smirked despite myself. Everyone said masturbation was a healthy and natural thing, even my therapist, but their words still didn’t change how I felt. Masturbation was a dirty thing, so depraved and selfish in my mind; a taboo I had never considered, yet a taboo all the same. However, these thoughts only seemed to make the action all the more exciting as if to spite it all. It was a forbidden fruit, something I shamefully tasted once and was left only wanting more.

Quickly, I summoned a Shroud of Silence around my bedroom and got ready.

With the batteries placed inside, I quickly discarded my clothes—my beanie, hair tie, shoes and socks—and threw them onto the floor with everything else that wasn’t necessary.

Next came the tattered shirt. I didn’t really need it anymore and considering the fact that it was already ruined, I tore it off and threw the remains to the floor. Without a bra, I was left bare-chested, everything from my pale lavender-grey skin to my scars—some faint, some not—and my small breasts.

I looked down, I inspected myself—the dark room, a bright monochrome to my eyes. My body felt all warm and sensitive, hyper-aware of the tingling pressure below my navel begging to be attended to. My hands roved, tempted to simply forgoing the vibrator and take matters into my own hands. The slightest touch was like sparks of electricity to my skin, enticing.

I forced myself to stop, to think clearly. I crawled onto my bed. With pillows to act as a buffer, I leaned against the headboard and spread my legs. Absently, I summoned the vibrator to hand and… stopped.

This was the first time I had ever used anything aside from my fingers and pillow, and I had no idea what I was going to expect. Of course, I had seen videos of people using them but seeing and experiencing were two completely different things.

I pressed the button sitting flush with the black base of the vibrator and instantly the room was filled with a low hum.

I squirmed at the noise, the vibrations stimulating my imagination. My legs clamped shut and I could feel my body ache to feel the massaging touch of my new toy. Like tunnel vision, the vibrator was the only thing on my mind at the moment—the desire to feel it against me, inside me; the carnal pleasures it would bring. But before I began, curiosity pushed me further. I pressed the button a few more times, each rewarding me with a new and enticing setting that picked up in intensity until it was buzzing madly in hand.

My breath hitched and quickly I switched the thing off with a final press of the button.

By Anu, I would certainly not be using that setting tonight. That was far too… too potent. I smiled nevertheless, excited to see what this night would bring.

Relaxing against the headboard, I spread my legs once again.

Slowly, the fingers of my left hand ran down my body, past the tuft of silky black pubic hair before gliding over my warm mound. I wanted to ease myself in, not be overly hasty.

First, I started with my middle digit, circling my clitoris—each movement of my finger sending sparks of pleasure, some more often than not, flowing through my body. I varied myself, trying to find that right touch, that right rhythm to get the best effect. Sometimes I would slide my finger between slippery lips, delving deep into my warmth; at other times, I would use two or more fingers, playing with myself until my head became hazy.

The only constant was how deep my breathing became and how slick my fingers got. I felt as if I could go on and on, slowly building myself up and up until that bright flash of absolute paradise. It would be easy to give into temptation, but I stopped myself, huffing a deep breath as I did.

Bringing my fingers up for inspection, I saw they were glistening, lines of wetness connecting finger to finger like a spider’s web.

I blushed. I had never been so wet before.

I knew I was enthusiastic—shamefully so—but I didn’t expect this!

I stared, almost mesmerised by the lines of fluid that coated my fingers. I had seen video after video of men and women using their mouths and tongues, tasting the viscous juices of others. I wondered how it tasted—the girls surely looked like they were enjoying themselves from what I remember.

I tilted my head and, in a fit of impulse, brought my fingers to my lips, dragging my middle finger down my tongue.

The taste… it tasted kind of… I wasn’t sure.

There wasn’t much of a taste to be honest, perhaps a bit sweet? It was underwhelming, to be honest. It wasn’t ambrosia and I certainly wouldn’t drink a glass full. But, somehow… the thought that this was what a woman tasted like?

I wondered if this is what every woman tasted like or if it was different. Did Josephine taste this way? I didn’t know but I wanted to find out—to feel my tongue running along her slick lips, tasting every inch of her. I could almost see it when I closed my eyes, her body writhing beneath me; my tongue explored every inch of her.

I brought my fingers back to my mouth, slowly lapping up the remaining nectar from each digit. This was the closest I could ever get to Josephine and I savoured every last bit, moaning as I did. My tongue grew and reformed, becoming longer and pointed, wrapping around my fingers and tasting every last drop.

Only when I was done and there was none left did I sigh, deep and content. The taste wasn’t anything special but the thought of my tongue exploring Josephine’s depths just made it so… so… delectable. My body was already hot and bothered before, but now I could barely think straight.

I turned my attention back towards my vibrator and then down towards my vagina—aching heat calling desperately to be tended to.

Readjusting my grip, I turned it on to the lowest setting and brought it down slowly. The second it brushed against me, I jerked up, stifling a small cry—a powerful jolt of pleasure, intense and sudden, shooting through me.

It… um. I— I didn’t expect that…

Suppressing a grin, I repositioned myself and pressed against me again. Just like before, pleasure shot through me, but it was more than that—a near constant assault as I pressed it between my lips. The vibrator changed pitch, and I groaned and squirmed.

I tried to be quiet, but I couldn’t help but mutter under my breath.

“Fuck…” I groaned, beginning to move the head, watching it roam around my vulva. I never let it overstay its welcome, exploring around and between soaking lips to my sensitive clitoris and everywhere else. As I did, more jolts of pleasure racked through me, soliciting moan after moan, threatening to overwhelm me.

My head lulled back, eyes closed, as my free hand moved slid up my waist and ribs, tickling my side before cupping my breast. With thumb and finger, I teased myself, pinching my hardened nipple as fresh waves drowned me in carnal delight.

My groans became louder, hungrier. I could feel that presence below my navel growing and growing as time ticked by—tense, like a spring, as if it were ready to release at any moment.

I didn’t just want more, I needed more.

I pressed the button on the base and—

“By Anu!” I cried. My body arched suddenly, an entirely new world of ecstasy taking root. I pressed the button again and again, lost in my insatiable craving for more. “Oh, fuck!”

My mind blanked, the world around me darkening as I focused purely on myself and nothing else. I felt as if I couldn’t stop, even if I wanted to. All I could think about was feeding my blind hedonism until I was left a drooling mess.

Pinching and teasing turned to rough kneading—my hand massaging and squeezing my small supple breast.

Soon, fantasies began filling my mind to tempt and stimulate. I remembered back to that particular video I watched—the one of the two women sharing in each other’s company. They would kiss deeply, their hands ever wandering, caressing, teasing. Soon, one girl began to kiss lower, down the other’s neck, past her breast and between her legs.

I couldn’t help but put myself in the other’s position, completely at the mercy to another’s masterful tongue.

But then the girl changed. No longer was she a blonde white woman taking deep pleasure in lapping up every inch of me. Instead, her skin turned a dark caramel, her hair curlier and now a deep chocolate brown. She looked at me, parting hair that obscured her face and—

My heart skipped a beat.

Josephine…

I could see her plain as day in my mind.

She crawled to me, slowly and seductively, her delicious arse swaying so tantalisingly as she did—her enthralling green eyes never wavering from mine. There was a look in those eyes, some unrestrained hunger that scared me, excited me and awoke something deep within me.

Pure bliss flooded every part of my body. I moaned her name, feeling shameful desire swirl at my desperation. That presence below my navel called out, demanding to be filled, and I obeyed.

My lips parted as I eased the vibrator in. First the head then, slowly, the rest of it began to fill me. It was unlike anything I had ever felt before. Instantly, I was intoxicated, drunk on unabashed lust. I groaned loud—loud enough that, had anyone been home, they surely would have heard.

In and out, I pumped the vibrator, building speed as I yearned to feel more. My free hand soon joined it, massaging my clitoris as the vibrator continued to send wave after wave of crushing pleasure through me again and again and again.

My fantasy continued, Josephine’s splendour still in my mind.

I soaked up every last bit of her I could remember—her eyes, her skin, those lips. Oh, how I longed to feel those luscious lips upon my own, on my neck, on my breast, teasing me with teeth and tongue.

Down, down, down, down.

How I longed for those beautiful soft lips to mark me all the way down to between my legs—to feel her tongue dance a most wicked dance around and inside me, exploring my warm depths.

Oh, how I wanted her here.

I wanted her, I so desperately wanted her here it was frustrating. I wanted her here to make me her plaything. I wanted her here to ravage me so completely that I couldn’t think straight. I wanted her here to fuck me hard and rough until I was nothing more than an incoherent babbling mess in the palm of her hands.

I gasped.

My entire body seized up, legs slamming shut onto my hands. I clenched down hard onto my vibrator. My entire body rocked. Hips bucking wildly as absolute euphoria flooded my entire body.

I felt as if I was being shattered deep into my very core—a feeling so strong and intense it almost hurt.

Muffled whine turned whimpers tried desperately to be heard as white hot bliss shot through me again and again and again and again.

Jolt after jolt of agonising pleasure ruined me, never-ending and omnipresent. I could feel it building me up and up, just as before. Every inch of me felt so sensitive, like the slightest touch could send me spiralling down all over again.

I cried out, every last moan loudly declaring my depraved deeds to the world.

I couldn’t handle it. It was just too overwhelming.

I removed the vibrator as quickly as I could, fearing that I would break. The second its ravenous touch left, I surrendered to fatigue.

My heart raced. Blood thumped loudly in my ears. My breaths, long and laboured. I was utterly exhausted.

I laid there for a moment, trying to recover my lost strength. The buzzing of the vibrator continued but a quick spell later and all that could be heard was my heavy breaths.

That was unlike anything I had ever experienced.

It was just so… so… pure. So utterly all-consuming. I could barely describe it.

Slowly, my faculties returned. My mind became clearer and my breathing soon became more measured. When my body relinquished control back to me, I summoned the silenced vibrator to hand. I could still it vibrate against my hand and so I quickly cycled through the various settings and turned it off, placing it on my bedside.

I continued laying for a time, staring up at the cream ceiling as my muscles began to relax.

After a minute or so, I pulled myself up to a sitting position and quickly looked down, noticing a sudden wetness against my leg.

I frowned, cheeks flaring hot as I realised just how soaked I, and the bed, was. Not only were my thighs glossy with the clear coating of my release, but there was a large dark stain on my sheets, intermingling with the marks of sweat.

I sighed and reclined on my bed. It’d be a pain to clean up. Next time, definitely bring a towel.

Next time.

I smiled wistfully and turned to the veiny member sitting innocently on my bedside. There was no doubt that I wouldn’t be using it again.

But now? I need to clean up and probably have a bath. A nice warm bath.

[mittel-schmerz-blog]

ava and olivia

I’m looking at the impossible amount of dust motes and hairs that have worked themselves into minute tumbleweeds in the space between the toilet and the wall. My cheek is pressed against the cold tile and I’m wondering how long I’ll stay down here. I was planning on just using the bathroom as usual... but then I felt a jolt.

It was Ava letting me know that she’s finished with work and will be here in an hour to pick me up.

When I first got my iBrow done it was radical; now I just think it’s fucking annoying. Eight months ago, I spent $2,500.00 on what was being hailed as ‘the only dermal piercing with a purpose’, but now I’m seriously considering getting it removed.

Honestly, the fact that notifications pop into my line of vision when I’m doing things like driving is just much more unsettling than I had anticipated. Once, I set up a Google Alert for Saint West. Then, that Thursday, as I was driving to work, I felt a shock and he was suddenly sitting right there on my dash, telling me about his latest endeavors.

Maddie sold me on getting this thing implanted in my face even though I was content with my Apple Watch. She told me how totally psychotic I looked talking into my hand in public, that this new low-touch technology would be perfect for my lifestyle. She, of course, kept her Apple Watch because she maintains that she can utilize the technology in an acceptable, ladylike manner and besides, she would look stupid with an eyebrow ring.

“God, Olivia, I don’t see why you’re content to collapse all the time,” Maddie says, exasperated. Right now she’s sitting on my bed, boring holes into my bottom half which is sticking out the door of my bathroom.

Now, sometimes, when I get a text message, I get so startled that I trip and fall. The alert is a low frequency hum, so you feel it more than you hear it. No one else on earth seems to have this problem, however. I asked the technician about it as she was putting the piercing gun to my face but all she said was, “Don’t worry, the mechanism is self explanatory” and pulled the trigger. So now I’m too embarrassed to admit to anyone that I still can’t figure it out. Even after going through all the training modules, I only ever seem to turn it off by accident.

The only thing I can do reliably is turn the whole thing off -- which seems counterproductive -- so I’m just trying to learn to live with it.

“I’m fine,” I say, but it comes out muffled because my face is glued to this floor.

Maddie can make out what I’m saying from this position even though my voice has to travel around the toilet, off the tub, and out the door to reach her. We have been here before.

“Bullshit,” she sniffs. “You’re always falling into things and then I have to scrape you off of disgusting public floors!”

“Well at least this time I fell in my own bedroom.”

“Ha.” But she’s not laughing. “You know, if you would just talk to Dr. Elano, I’m sure she would prescribe you something to prevent these spells, since you refuse to just, you know...” She Frankenstein-shudders like she’s being electrocuted.

She adds, quietly, “I know you’re down on it, but I really think a little ECT could be just the ticket.”

Electroconvulsive Therapy is the new ‘it’ thing again among celebrities and popular psychiatrists.

As far as Maddie knows, I’ve just had another fainting spell. The first time I fell in front of her, she called me a klutz. But then I got really somber and told her that, I had never told her before, but I suffer from Acute Early-Onset Clinical Ennui and that one of the symptoms was fainting in times of anxiety, and she believed me.

She doesn’t know shit about mental illness, but she reads Us Weekly enough to know words like ‘clinical’ and ‘anxiety’, and she understands them, if only in a very LA kind of way. I should just correct her, but I get a little thrill from the irony of her suggestion that I seek out convulsive therapy for my falling issue, so I let her keep suggesting it. I stifle a laugh.

“You have to admit,” I say, “The episodes are getting less and less frequent. I’m doing better!”

After the latest update, the vibrations are milder and even moderately refreshing. They still catch me off guard sometimes though and then, bam, I’m back on the floor.

“Olivia! You’re on the fucking floor! For Christ’s sake--”

To pre-empt a lecture on how I should 1) get up and 2) stop furrowing my brow she’s just trying to help I say, “Damnit, Madison, don’t start. I’m fine, okay? Just let me live.”

“I would hardly consider this living.” She pauses, pouting. “You could at least clean your bathroom regularly if you’re going to be spending extended periods of time on the floor in there. You’ve been down there for five whole minutes.”

“Nah,” I say, haltingly returning to my feet.

“Well at least take a shower. You haven’t showered in four days. Didn’t Ava say she’d be here at 7?”

“What does it matter? She’s gonna take one look at the hump on my back and leave.”

“It’s not as big as you think it is.”

“Oh really?”

“Listen, ‘Modo,” she croons, “You’re a total catch! Don’t worry about it.”

She thinks that calling me Quasimodo is funny. It’s not an actual hump but it might as well be.

I groan and pretend to shoot myself in the head and stumble into the shower.

Then, as much as I wish I didn’t, I worry about it. I worry about the superfine lines that criss-cross my body. Everyone who got an iBrow before it was debugged in June has the same all-over lightning flowers. Mine are fainter than some others’, only visible in direct lighting, but still noticeable.

The company was apparently made aware in February last year that the the radio waves emanating from the iBrow piercing caused scattered collagen inelasticity, but they didn’t go public with it until November. In the interim, the technicians made a cut on every sample of hydrating serum they could send you home with, plus they made commission on referrals to area plastic surgeons.

A class action lawsuit made it so that anyone who underwent the procedure before the system-wide upgrade is eligible for free monthly Restylane injections to counteract any premature wrinkle development caused by the technology. Getting people hooked on collagen fillers doesn’t exactly seem like justice though.

I’ve seen some of the women in my office when they’ve had to skip their standing appointments with their dermatologists, their skin sagging sadly, their faces looking like tufted couches. It’s tragic, really-- I committed too early. The current technology was so obviously on the horizon.

Another buzz. Ava says she can’t wait to meet me in person finally.

“Olivia! Don’t forget to moisturize!”

I do like she says. After I’ve toweled off and put on my bra and underwear and struggled into a dress with a too-long zipper, I spread melting coconut oil onto my ankles, knees, and elbows and then dab on a light facial sunscreen.

Once it’s had time to sink in, Maddie sits me down, her hands firm on my shoulders.

I must look nervous because she says, “Stop freaking out-- you’re gonna be fine. You like this girl, remember?”

But as much as you think you can know someone, you can never know them until you meet them in person.

Maddie expertly pulls my hair out of my face and positions it over my shoulders. She sweeps light and shadows across my face, adding to me a dimension and depth that I generally lack. She stands behind me smiling as I look at myself in the mirror. Somehow, the lightning blooming across the bridge of my nose looks charming.

Getting here, to tonight, took work. I’ve always felt uneasy about online dating, but having the profiles pop up spontaneously has taken all the pleasure out of it. Each woman seems more conventionally beautiful than the one before her. It also doesn’t help that their profile pictures appear at a 1:1 scale in front of me, which adds a disquieting sense of deja vu to every first meeting. Being single is impossible now.

The InYourFace InterfaceTM is seamless, but now it’s much more difficult to pretend I’m not just ignoring people when I don’t respond right away. It’s overwhelming to be so available all the time. Since January, I’ve steadfastly turned the iBrow off from 9:00 PM to 9:00 AM to preserve my own sanity and a healthy sleeping pattern.

Tens of women have been off-put by my mixed messages: I show only intermittent enthusiasm, according to my stats. But I’ve really, really been trying with Ava. We average 1 message exchange per 20 minutes which makes her my “Soul Mate” according to the app, up from “Sweetheart” last week. It’s the only time I’ve considered someone promising in the last four years, so I’m working my ass off.

I turn to thank Maddie but I don’t have a chance to say anything because as soon as I open my mouth, the doorbell rings. I lope over to the door as slowly as possible, trying to be cool. But I’m too excited and I can’t help but to fling the door open. When it opens, Ava is standing amid the green glare of my porch light.

In this sickening glow, she looks devastating. Her eyes are shimmering and she has these lovely, fluttering eyelashes. Light pools in the waves of her hair, making her tresses more than a little bit mesmerizing. I’m standing there thinking how thrilled I am to see her, this woman who looks so ethereal. Even though we’ve only been talking for two weeks, it feels so full and perfect.

“Hi, Olivia?”

“Ava!”

She takes the two steps between us and hugs me, taking me a bit by surprise. She laughs.

She tells me how great it is to meet me and asks if I want to check out this dive bar over on 4th that serves the most excellent fried artichoke hearts, and also, do I like fried artichoke hearts? Because she loves them.

I can barely move my mouth to respond because I am overcome by the sight of her standing here in front of me, but I manage to eke out, “Yeah! Let’s go!”

I turn around to Maddie behind me who has a grin and two thumbs up. I suppress a laugh and close the door behind me. After locking it, I turn back around and follow Ava down the stairs and onto the sidewalk.

We walk the six blocks to the bar and the conversation is light and funny. We bump forearms and exchange sideways glances, and I feel like I’m standing on the edge of something.

Over nervous beers, we talk about our weeks. I tell her that I’m dying because work is killing me. Some people have two iBrows, one work and one personal, but not me. My face has been numb all week. I tell her about my business-and-pleasure iBrow piercing, and how much I hate it, that I’m scheduling the removal for this week; I just can’t stand being this plugged in, you know? She nods along.

Sizzling golden artichoke hearts appear in front of us before she can respond. I pop one into my mouth, rhapsodic, and she coughs.

“So let me get this straight,” she says, “You hate talking to people.”

“I don’t hate talking... I just don’t like talking all the time… Is that weird?”

I push up my glasses and absently finger the lightning strike on my nose, feeling my face heat up.

“Well,” she clears her throat and shifts in her seat. “It just makes me feel like this whole thing would be kind of an imposition on you.”

“How do you mean?”

“Here’s my perspective, right?”

“Okay…” I lean in.

“I meet this girl. And I’m talking to this girl for two weeks and she seems really cool. I get to her place and I’m so excited to see her in person. We’re on a date and as she’s sitting across from me, all big eyes and dazzling wit, and she tells me that this thing that I’ve really been enjoying and wanting to expand on has been a huge chore.”

“It’s not that way at all! It’s--”

“Oh come on, you just said as much. I mean, you hardly text back-- it’s like, what are you even doing? You always have your phone on you.”

I rear back, shocked.

“For the last two weeks I’ve talked to you more than I’ve talked to anyone else, I have done nothing but swoon since you showed up on my stoop. I’m really tryin’ hard here!”

“It shouldn’t feel like work-- it should just be easy.”

She futzes with her purse like she’s getting ready to walk out of this bar.

“Wait, are you leaving? You’re writing me off after two weeks and one hour?”

“Look, Olivia, you’re entitled to talk to people on your own schedule, but I want to be with someone that wants a partner. It doesn’t sound to me like that’s something you’re interested in.”

I look at her for two long seconds, mouth open.

Slowly, I say, “I don’t know why you’re assuming that… but what you’re talking about… I guess I’m just not wired for that.”

“First of all,” she says hotly, “You are literally wired for it.”

[themildestofwriters]

Because Tumblr’s going down the shitter tomorrow, I’m going to post a chapter of the up-coming novel “short”-story I’m writing, ‘The Weird and Wonderful Sexual Awakening of Babette Melwyn’. This is chapter four, six seven and follows Babette after having her sexual reawakening and deciding to experiment a bit more. Does it spoil what happens? Well, it was already a foregone conclusion anyway and this is only one part of the story which has quite a bit more then just the smut.Quite a bit more.

Briefer:

For backstory: This is the fourth chapter of a longer series, “The Weird and Wonderful Sexual Awakening of Babette Melwyn,” there is more that isn’t much explained in this because it has been explained in previous chapters. However, all you need to know is that Babette  is a immortal goddess ingénue who’s a bit socially awkward and still adjusting to an Earth she has just returned to after aeons of being absent. Her girlfriend is Josephine Williams.

Anyway, on to the story!

Babette Visits Pandora’s Box

Breath—in, out. In, out.

My skin prickled uncomfortably, suffocating heat washing all over me. Like the pounding of war drums, my heart was hammering in my chest. I knew that, if anyone saw me, they would see bright-red blush across my countenance.

I didn’t want to here.

I really didn’t want to be here.

Of course, the option to leave was there. It would be so simple. Just turn around and walk away, but I couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Indignant pride—along with incessant curiosity—kept me rooted in place. I survived hell and beyond, led armies, ruled an Empire and fought against everything from the Third Reich to the very gods themselves.

Yet… here I was, terrified. Petrified!

It infuriated me, how I felt, and it was all Josephine’s fault—or mother’s fault. It fluctuated now and then.

Weeks had passed since mother asked the question that changed everything, and it had been quite the journey. Now, here I was, standing before a building that was in no way discreet. It was only one story tall, sitting at a corner beside a few other stores—a mechanic and hardware retailer. Cement walls were painted black with a long and thick purple strip running through it, merging with a great eight-ball painted on its side; however, instead of there being an eight in the centre, there was an eighteen-plus. To finish it off, atop the flattened roof was a broad sign that read: Pandora’s Box Adult Store.

It was quite a distance from home, at least another suburb over. As sure as I was that it was far enough from school and home that I wouldn’t meet anyone I knew, the fear still lingered like a miasma. If I locked eyes with someone from school, a friend, a family member or, worse, Josephine herself, I knew I’d die from utter humiliation. That, or I’d bury myself somewhere on Pluto for the next century or two, at least until everyone who knew me was dead.

With that in mind, I took precautions. So, nobody would recognise me and hadn’t arrived as myself, per se.

Nobody walking by would see little Babette Melwyn visiting an adult store, no siree. Instead, they would see a man right out of a modern interpretation of Lord of the Rings. To put it simply, he looked like an elf—if a particularly strange elf—with a very thin and lanky frame, a strong aquiline nose that sat flush with his brow, and bright crimson eyes. His clothes were simple, a pair of plain black pants, a forest green shirt and a satchel that hung across his body. Finally, there was the black beanie that sat on his head, hiding a pair of long elfin ears.

I couldn’t remember the last time I used this form. In recent millennia, I hadn’t much use for it: No need to go undercover; no need to hide from the authorities; no songs to sing that simply sounded better with a masculine voice. I would have preferred a slightly different form from this—mostly because changing sex was a rather odd experience—but it was the only one I had that looked human enough and didn’t look a thing like me.

Taking a deep breath to calm my nerves, I adjusted my new clothes and began crossing the car park.

The streets were relatively empty, and I couldn’t see anyone out and about on a walk nearby, so my fears eased. Despite this, I still flung the entry door as open as I could and stepped inside as quick as I could. Unfortunately, in my haste, I almost slammed my face into another door a few feet away.  Jerking back to save myself, I quickly noticed the large poster plastered on it—big bold letters declared a warning to minors, stating that this wasn’t the place for them.

Well, I’m certainly no minor, at least chronologically, though mentally? I mused. Completely different story.

I gave the poster a further few seconds of consideration before passing through.

The first thing I noticed was the front desk. A few advertisements and products decorated it here and there—lubricants and condoms mainly—but it wasn’t that which interested me, rather it was the human manning the desk who caught my eye.

I didn’t really know what I was expecting when I entered Pandora’s Box: A leering man with questionable stains on a rumbled spotted shirt; an Amazonian sex goddess with thighs that could crush skulls; or maybe the extravagantly dressed Madame who secretly owned a trafficking ring out back. There were many ideas and expectations I had when I first planned this trip. What I got instead was an old lady with greying hair who looked to be in her sixties or seventies. She wore modest clothes, a pale pink blouse with a short red cardigan over top.

It was… odd.

Nevertheless, what she looked like didn’t matter much at all to me. The fact that she was here, staring at me, however, was something else entirely.

She smiled, warm and welcomingly.

“Good morning,” she said, her voice as sweet as any grandmothers should.

“Hey,” I mumbled back, nerves and social ineptitude making it difficult to say much else.

I turned away quickly, wanting to forget she was even there, only to recoil in shock as the rest of the store revealed itself to me.

Just what in the Abyss had I gotten myself into?

Along the walls, hanging from hooks and on display in little island tables was an ungodly supply of dildos—some small, some so large I wondered how they’d even fit! There was more as well: lingerie, butt plugs, handcuffs, vibrators and so much more. Some of these things I couldn’t even name let alone determine their purpose.

Cheeks flared red and, much to my further embarrassment and dismay, I could feel my pants tighten. My eyes grew wide and for the next couple of seconds, all that went through my head was a steady stream of unholy screams and curses.

I had forgotten about that little fact.

I was biologically male and so I had to deal with all the aspects of being a male.

I took a deep breath and accepted that this was going to be my life for the next hour or so. Reluctantly, I began browsing, all the while attempting to reposition my newest appendage as subtly as I could. By Anu, it was uncomfortable.

As for what I was looking for, I didn’t want anything too fancy nor anything too big—just something to satisfy my curiosity—but it soon became apparent that I had absolutely no idea what I was looking for. Silicone versus rubber; double ended verses suction cup; veiny verses smooth; strap-on compatible verses that one weird dildo that looked more like featureless snowman: there were so many options to choose from that tackling size alone was its own chore, and I had no idea what any of it meant!

Oh, sure, I did spend a few weeks online researching the subject. I read a few articles about sex and masturbation, I learned that what I felt when with Josephine was “being horny” or “aroused”, and I’d seen many videos of people having sex. Yet nothing mentioned anything about the specifications of different dildos and what they meant. I didn’t even think this was going to be an issue! I just thought most of the different designs I’d seen were purely aesthetic based!

Unfortunately, it appeared my ignorance must have shown in some way as, after roughly ten minutes of staring at the shelves with confused horror etched on my face, a voice spoke.

“Would you like some help, dearie?” the old lady asked, her sweet voice unnervingly at odds with everything around her. In fact, the entire store felt off. It was quiet, casual. It was like I just walked into a convenience store but instead of lollies and Stanley knives, it sold riding crops and ball-gags.

I turned to the woman, trying my best to keep composure, and paused—at a complete loss for words. Should I ask for help? I had no idea. I didn’t want to look like some idiot, but I also didn’t want to be here any longer than necessary.

Once again, I cursed my stupidity. Of course there would be different types of dildos, each with their own pros and cons, yet all I did was get off to watching those wretched videos.

After much deliberation, I decided “to hell with it” and accepted her aid.

“Yes, please,” I replied meekly.

She smiled tenderly and left the counter, soon joining my side. It was then I realised that I was an entire head taller than her, a completely useless fact that left me feeling uncomfortable for some inexplicable reason. “Do you know what you’re looking for exactly?”

“I—ah…” I wasn’t really sure how to reply to that. Should I just out and say it? Would that be socially accepted? Or would a euphemism be in order? I had no bloody idea. “I’m looking for… I’m looking for a dildo.”

“Is this your first time?” she asked, this time with a knowing.

First time? I blushed. “Is it really that obvious?”

“Don’t worry, dearie,” she said. “I’ll help you out.”

One misunderstanding and many uncomfortable questions later, I had my vibrator in hand. While I would have much preferred a normal dildo, it at least looked far less complicated than the other toys recommended. The entire vibrator verses dildo dichotomy confused me, but not being an expert left me little room to complain. Of course, getting to that point wasn’t easy nor fun. Not only did I realise how deep the well of my stupidity goes but I think I somehow convinced the old lady that I was trans. After all, how else are you supposed to explain away a man looking for a dildo to use on his vagina?

Soon after paying, I hid the vibrator away in my satchel and left the store as discreetly as possible.

Once out, I wandered around for a bit, eventually arriving at a wooded park nearby. Hiding among the trees, I made sure none were nearby before returning to my old skin.

Shapeshifting was a queer affair. Disorientation was always something to worry about if one was unaccustomed with the art or shifting into an unfamiliar body with different proportions. However, that was only a minor inconvenience for me as it was the shift itself that was more unusual. It was by no means painful or anything, it simply felt weird. It was as if my skin and bones were melting and reshaping again and again until my body fit what form I desired. The first to change was my height, becoming noticeably shorter; my shoulders narrowed; my hips widened; my chest expanded; features became less elvish and more feminine; and then finally, my eyes shifted from a red to vivid gold.

It only took a second at the most, but I was grateful that my body was mine once again. What’s more, the annoying erection was no more, yet I still felt the tingling of anticipation twisting in my gut below, aching for release.

I fought down a shiver and took a deep breath. Every thought I had went straight beck to the vibrator in my bag: what I would do with it; what it would do to me. I was eager, ready, but I couldn’t just fly home right now—I needed batteries.

After once again checking to see if the coast was clear, four great black wings burst from my back, tearing through my shirt. A few seconds, I launched into the sky, vanishing from sight moments later.

A short stop to buy an eight-pack of batteries later and I was on my way home.

I had the house all to myself, what with my family being out for the next few hours, so I had time to satiate my curiosity. There was a reason I chose today to go out to the store.

Locking the front door behind me, I silently set the alarm spell just in case anyone attempted to break in. I then retired to my room, closing and once again locking the door before flopping onto my bed.

I was home, all alone.

The strange aching sensation had tapered off during the flight, but now that I was back, all I could think about was the vibrator and what would come next.

Sitting up, I opened my satchel and removed my newly bought toy, still sitting inside the box it was sold in.

I removed the packaging and examined the purple disembodied member. It was roughly seven inches long, curved slightly, with a realistic mould of the male genitalia. Apparently, it was a high-quality product, not only being waterproof and made of silicone but also with seven different intensities to choose from. Let’s just hope it was worth every cent I spent.

I bit my lip, my legs squirming together as the tingling warmth began spreading throughout my body. I was eager—more than eager—to find out how it would feel. Fingers were one thing, but these were supposed to be ten times better.

I smirked despite myself. Everyone said masturbation was a healthy and natural thing, even my therapist, but their words still didn’t change how I felt. Masturbation was a dirty thing, so depraved and selfish in my mind; a taboo I had never considered, yet a taboo all the same. However, these thoughts only seemed to make the action all the more exciting as if to spite it all. It was a forbidden fruit, something I shamefully tasted once and was left only wanting more.

Quickly, I summoned a Shroud of Silence around my bedroom and got ready.

With the batteries placed inside, I quickly discarded my clothes—my beanie, hair tie, shoes and socks—and threw them onto the floor with everything else that wasn’t necessary.

Next came the tattered shirt. I didn’t really need it anymore and considering the fact that it was already ruined, I tore it off and threw the remains to the floor. Without a bra, I was left bare-chested, everything from my pale lavender-grey skin to my scars—some faint, some not—and my small breasts.

I looked down, I inspected myself—the dark room, a bright monochrome to my eyes. My body felt all warm and sensitive, hyper-aware of the tingling pressure below my navel begging to be attended to. My hands roved, tempted to simply forgoing the vibrator and take matters into my own hands. The slightest touch was like sparks of electricity to my skin, enticing.

I forced myself to stop, to think clearly. I crawled onto my bed. With pillows to act as a buffer, I leaned against the headboard and spread my legs. Absently, I summoned the vibrator to hand and… stopped.

This was the first time I had ever used anything aside from my fingers and pillow, and I had no idea what I was going to expect. Of course, I had seen videos of people using them but seeing and experiencing were two completely different things.

I pressed the button sitting flush with the black base of the vibrator and instantly the room was filled with a low hum.

I squirmed at the noise, the vibrations stimulating my imagination. My legs clamped shut and I could feel my body ache to feel the massaging touch of my new toy. Like tunnel vision, the vibrator was the only thing on my mind at the moment—the desire to feel it against me, inside me; the carnal pleasures it would bring. But before I began, curiosity pushed me further. I pressed the button a few more times, each rewarding me with a new and enticing setting that picked up in intensity until it was buzzing madly in hand.

My breath hitched and quickly I switched the thing off with a final press of the button.

By Anu, I would certainly not be using that setting tonight. That was far too… too potent. I smiled nevertheless, excited to see what this night would bring.

Relaxing against the headboard, I spread my legs once again.

Slowly, the fingers of my left hand ran down my body, past the tuft of silky black pubic hair before gliding over my warm mound. I wanted to ease myself in, not be overly hasty.

First, I started with my middle digit, circling my clitoris—each movement of my finger sending sparks of pleasure, some more often than not, flowing through my body. I varied myself, trying to find that right touch, that right rhythm to get the best effect. Sometimes I would slide my finger between slippery lips, delving deep into my warmth; at other times, I would use two or more fingers, playing with myself until my head became hazy.

The only constant was how deep my breathing became and how slick my fingers got. I felt as if I could go on and on, slowly building myself up and up until that bright flash of absolute paradise. It would be easy to give into temptation, but I stopped myself, huffing a deep breath as I did.

Bringing my fingers up for inspection, I saw they were glistening, lines of wetness connecting finger to finger like a spider’s web.

I blushed. I had never been so wet before.

I knew I was enthusiastic—shamefully so—but I didn’t expect this!

I stared, almost mesmerised by the lines of fluid that coated my fingers. I had seen video after video of men and women using their mouths and tongues, tasting the viscous juices of others. I wondered how it tasted—the girls surely looked like they were enjoying themselves from what I remember.

I tilted my head and, in a fit of impulse, brought my fingers to my lips, dragging my middle finger down my tongue.

The taste… it tasted kind of… I wasn’t sure.

There wasn’t much of a taste to be honest, perhaps a bit sweet? It was underwhelming, to be honest. It wasn’t ambrosia and I certainly wouldn’t drink a glass full. But, somehow… the thought that this was what a woman tasted like?

I wondered if this is what every woman tasted like or if it was different. Did Josephine taste this way? I didn’t know but I wanted to find out—to feel my tongue running along her slick lips, tasting every inch of her. I could almost see it when I closed my eyes, her body writhing beneath me; my tongue explored every inch of her.

I brought my fingers back to my mouth, slowly lapping up the remaining nectar from each digit. This was the closest I could ever get to Josephine and I savoured every last bit, moaning as I did. My tongue grew and reformed, becoming longer and pointed, wrapping around my fingers and tasting every last drop.

Only when I was done and there was none left did I sigh, deep and content. The taste wasn’t anything special but the thought of my tongue exploring Josephine’s depths just made it so… so… delectable. My body was already hot and bothered before, but now I could barely think straight.

I turned my attention back towards my vibrator and then down towards my vagina—aching heat calling desperately to be tended to.

Readjusting my grip, I turned it on to the lowest setting and brought it down slowly. The second it brushed against me, I jerked up, stifling a small cry—a powerful jolt of pleasure, intense and sudden, shooting through me.

It… um. I— I didn’t expect that…

Suppressing a grin, I repositioned myself and pressed against me again. Just like before, pleasure shot through me, but it was more than that—a near constant assault as I pressed it between my lips. The vibrator changed pitch, and I groaned and squirmed.

I tried to be quiet, but I couldn’t help but mutter under my breath.

“Fuck…” I groaned, beginning to move the head, watching it roam around my vulva. I never let it overstay its welcome, exploring around and between soaking lips to my sensitive clitoris and everywhere else. As I did, more jolts of pleasure racked through me, soliciting moan after moan, threatening to overwhelm me.

My head lulled back, eyes closed, as my free hand moved slid up my waist and ribs, tickling my side before cupping my breast. With thumb and finger, I teased myself, pinching my hardened nipple as fresh waves drowned me in carnal delight.

My groans became louder, hungrier. I could feel that presence below my navel growing and growing as time ticked by—tense, like a spring, as if it were ready to release at any moment.

I didn’t just want more, I needed more.

I pressed the button on the base and—

“By Anu!” I cried. My body arched suddenly, an entirely new world of ecstasy taking root. I pressed the button again and again, lost in my insatiable craving for more. “Oh, fuck!”

My mind blanked, the world around me darkening as I focused purely on myself and nothing else. I felt as if I couldn’t stop, even if I wanted to. All I could think about was feeding my blind hedonism until I was left a drooling mess.

Pinching and teasing turned to rough kneading—my hand massaging and squeezing my small supple breast.

Soon, fantasies began filling my mind to tempt and stimulate. I remembered back to that particular video I watched—the one of the two women sharing in each other’s company. They would kiss deeply, their hands ever wandering, caressing, teasing. Soon, one girl began to kiss lower, down the other’s neck, past her breast and between her legs.

I couldn’t help but put myself in the other’s position, completely at the mercy to another’s masterful tongue.

But then the girl changed. No longer was she a blonde white woman taking deep pleasure in lapping up every inch of me. Instead, her skin turned a dark caramel, her hair curlier and now a deep chocolate brown. She looked at me, parting hair that obscured her face and—

My heart skipped a beat.

Josephine…

I could see her plain as day in my mind.

She crawled to me, slowly and seductively, her delicious arse swaying so tantalisingly as she did—her enthralling green eyes never wavering from mine. There was a look in those eyes, some unrestrained hunger that scared me, excited me and awoke something deep within me.

Pure bliss flooded every part of my body. I moaned her name, feeling shameful desire swirl at my desperation. That presence below my navel called out, demanding to be filled, and I obeyed.

My lips parted as I eased the vibrator in. First the head then, slowly, the rest of it began to fill me. It was unlike anything I had ever felt before. Instantly, I was intoxicated, drunk on unabashed lust. I groaned loud—loud enough that, had anyone been home, they surely would have heard.

In and out, I pumped the vibrator, building speed as I yearned to feel more. My free hand soon joined it, massaging my clitoris as the vibrator continued to send wave after wave of crushing pleasure through me again and again and again.

My fantasy continued, Josephine’s splendour still in my mind.

I soaked up every last bit of her I could remember—her eyes, her skin, those lips. Oh, how I longed to feel those luscious lips upon my own, on my neck, on my breast, teasing me with teeth and tongue.

Down, down, down, down.

How I longed for those beautiful soft lips to mark me all the way down to between my legs—to feel her tongue dance a most wicked dance around and inside me, exploring my warm depths.

Oh, how I wanted her here.

I wanted her, I so desperately wanted her here it was frustrating. I wanted her here to make me her plaything. I wanted her here to ravage me so completely that I couldn’t think straight. I wanted her here to fuck me hard and rough until I was nothing more than an incoherent babbling mess in the palm of her hands.

I gasped.

My entire body seized up, legs slamming shut onto my hands. I clenched down hard onto my vibrator. My entire body rocked. Hips bucking wildly as absolute euphoria flooded my entire body.

I felt as if I was being shattered deep into my very core—a feeling so strong and intense it almost hurt.

Muffled whine turned whimpers tried desperately to be heard as white hot bliss shot through me again and again and again and again.

Jolt after jolt of agonising pleasure ruined me, never-ending and omnipresent. I could feel it building me up and up, just as before. Every inch of me felt so sensitive, like the slightest touch could send me spiralling down all over again.

I cried out, every last moan loudly declaring my depraved deeds to the world.

I couldn’t handle it. It was just too overwhelming.

I removed the vibrator as quickly as I could, fearing that I would break. The second its ravenous touch left, I surrendered to fatigue.

My heart raced. Blood thumped loudly in my ears. My breaths, long and laboured. I was utterly exhausted.

I laid there for a moment, trying to recover my lost strength. The buzzing of the vibrator continued but a quick spell later and all that could be heard was my heavy breaths.

That was unlike anything I had ever experienced.

It was just so… so… pure. So utterly all-consuming. I could barely describe it.

Slowly, my faculties returned. My mind became clearer and my breathing soon became more measured. When my body relinquished control back to me, I summoned the silenced vibrator to hand. I could still it vibrate against my hand and so I quickly cycled through the various settings and turned it off, placing it on my bedside.

I continued laying for a time, staring up at the cream ceiling as my muscles began to relax.

After a minute or so, I pulled myself up to a sitting position and quickly looked down, noticing a sudden wetness against my leg.

I frowned, cheeks flaring hot as I realised just how soaked I, and the bed, was. Not only were my thighs glossy with the clear coating of my release, but there was a large dark stain on my sheets, intermingling with the marks of sweat.

I sighed and reclined on my bed. It’d be a pain to clean up. Next time, definitely bring a towel.

Next time.

I smiled wistfully and turned to the veiny member sitting innocently on my bedside. There was no doubt that I wouldn’t be using it again.

But now? I need to clean up and probably have a bath. A nice warm bath.