#the wildest part of all? this man is himself disabled

[transwolvie]

Fascinating interaction I just had with a co-worker, who I think was expecting me to agree with him:

He was complaining about a new text to speech system, because he's convinced students are "just using it so that they can listen to our comments, not because they're visually impaired" and like......ooookay?

If they want to listen to an audio version of the comments to understand them better, I really don't care if they do that cuz their eyes literally can't read the comments or just because they're a better audio learner, or because they're ESL and, let's be real, English is much easier to understand when spoken (esp since tutors obvs have to write clearly and with correct grammar, no slang, etc) since some of the things that consistently trips up ESL learners are spelling and conjugating verbs themselves.

He literally said we should have stricter requirements for a student to show if they're actually visually impaired to use the service and like.....nnno? No we shouldn't?

[mypoisonedvine]

𝓹𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓮 | laszlo kreizler x reader

𝓼𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓪𝓻𝔂 | being a traditional, well-behaved woman, you saved yourself for marriage. but the things your new husband has planned for you are... less than traditional, and might just show how poorly behaved you can be.

𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓭 𝓬𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓽 | over 9k

𝔀𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼 | SMUT (18+ only!!), virginity loss, age gap (unspecific; laszlo is in his 40s, reader is probably 20-25), multiple orgasms/overstimulation, fingering, oral f receiving, squirting, shy/innocent reader, religious reader (but nothing tooo shame-y or anything), some innocence kink, a hint of medical kink?, slightly pervy laszlo?!?! (moreso he's just a wee bit of a weirdo and says some cringe stuff but like. that's just his vibe sorry)

Laszlo was such an impossible paradox of a man.  Especially compared to the sort of man you always thought you’d marry— what you’d been raised for, even.

An accomplished doctor, a successful and wealthy man of high social standing— a kind, sensitive, intelligent, and patient partner who made you feel beautiful and special and, for lack of a better word, fancy.  That part was exactly as you’d always imagined for yourself, though you had never really believed you could find someone so wonderful.

And then there was the other half of him, the pieces that even in your wildest dreams you would’ve never thought would make up your future husband.  First of all, he was quite a bit older than you.  Even your parents, who had always preferred for you to marry someone already established (as they put it) rather than your own age, were a little concerned that he was in his mid-forties, and only a year younger than your father.  Of course, that was nothing compared to their offense at his profession, and the subsequent open-mindedness he had towards people your parents would rather pretend didn’t exist.  Then again, Laszlo himself having his disability made him the sort of person they would rather pretend didn’t exist, though he’d managed to hide it relatively well.

Maybe they could’ve forgiven any of that.  It was the atheism that put the final nail in the coffin, unfortunately… and someone as brash and unapologetic as Laszlo had no interest in hiding his beliefs to appease your parents.  He hadn’t brought it up, of course, or protested to the crucifixes and cross-stitched scriptures on the walls; but when they’d asked if he was Catholic or Protestant, he told them directly that he was a man of science and didn’t entertain any metaphysical notions or, as he’d so thoughtfully put it, fantasies.

They instantly forbade the courtship and warned you never to see him again.  And maybe that was when he surprised you most— he was so romantic, so… dashing.  He took a carriage to your home and literally threw pebbles at your window, daring you to climb down the lattice and join him for a midnight adventure.  It was then he suggested that you marry him anyways— he had more than enough to take care of you after a disownment from your parents.  He promised to give you anything you wanted, to treat you perfectly, to spend every day trying to keep you as happy as you made him without even trying.

There it was again, the contradictory enigma of Laszlo Kreizler.  A serious, even stern man, proposing to you like a lovestruck teenager.  He had eschewed fantasies a few evenings ago only to turn around and ask you to jump headfirst into a fairytale.

You said yes, though.  You really didn’t think twice about it— you knew he would be good to you.  And you knew you’d never loved someone like you’d loved him before.

You wanted to run away right then and there, but he told you to go home for a few more days, to gather your things— he would send for them while your parents were out, and you could move in with him as soon as you were ready.

When you did move in, though, he seemed a little surprised that you asked for your things to be moved to a spare bedroom.

“Is everything alright?” he asked you softly, stepping closer to you as you crossed your arms over yourself nervously; you waited until you were sure Cyrus was out of earshot, carrying your bags away, before you answered.

“Yes,” you replied quietly, “everything’s fine.”

“It’s understandable if you’re feeling conflicted now,” Laszlo assured.  “Having just left your parents, and not knowing if you’ll see them again—”

“It’s not that,” you promised.  “Well— of course, I feel something about that, but I’m happy to be here with you.  That’s not my issue at all.”

“Then what is?” he pressed.  “I hope you feel that you can tell me.”

You sighed as he reached up to brush your cheek; his touch always soothed you, though it felt a bit different here, in his home.  Your new home.  “I just… wouldn’t feel right about being in your room, until we’re married.”

He nodded.  “Of course.  I shouldn’t have presumed.”

You smiled a little, though it was more out of nervousness than anything.  “I… I wondered if you thought my parents were the only reason that we never— that nothing had—”

“Shh,” he soothed, pushing your hair back from your face until you looked up at him.  “I don’t expect anything from you now.  Well, only that you do whatever you like to make yourself feel at home here.”

“And what… what will you expect from me once I am your wife, Dr. Kreizler?” 

Though you were a little afraid to, you met his gaze; his brown eyes seemed deeper than ever, and you were powerless to look away from them.  “What do you think is right to give me, when you are my wife?”

You sighed a little, feeling his hand on your cheek move carefully down to your neck, his gentle fingers brushing along the smallest part of your collarbone exposed by your dress.  Words escaped you; you wanted him to know that just because you wanted to wait for him didn’t mean you didn’t want him.  Even before, even when you first met him, your mind had supplied you with thoughts that sent you straight to the confession booth.

You wanted to be one with him in every way you could think of… you just needed some to come before others, to feel right with your own beliefs.  Even if you loved an atheist, and felt surprisingly little guilt for it, you were still religious yourself and wanted to honor God’s intention for marriage.  

Didn’t mean you couldn’t yearn for your soon-to-be husband, right?  It certainly didn’t mean you couldn’t enjoy the full benefits of physical intimacy when the time came.

But obviously, you were far from brave enough to say all that.  Instead, you found your hands wandering to his chest, following the pattern of his suit coat up to his shoulders, biting your lip without even realizing it.  He simply continued to watch you, and you got the feeling that he understood you better than you could explain it yourself.  One of the bonuses of being loved by an expert on the human mind, perhaps.

You were almost in a trance, not noticing how long you were spending just gently touching and holding him in this simple way— until you looked up and met his gaze again, and felt a little weak.  “Can we marry soon?” you asked softly, almost under your breath.  You hoped he wouldn’t tease you, you weren’t secure enough for him to mock your obvious eagerness, to call attention to your desire for him.  Thankfully, he stayed perfectly serious, because he was just as affected as you were.

“As soon as you like,” he replied earnestly.

It was probably for the best that Cyrus walked in to the parlor at that moment, and you instinctively pulled back from Laszlo, crossing your arms again.  “Your bags are in the downstairs bedroom, madam,” he informed you, “down the hallway under the stairs.”

You nodded at him as Laszlo responded, “Thank you, Cyrus.  That will be all.”

He left, and you looked at your fiance again, feeling a bit silly for what he’d seen in you a moment before.  But he smiled at you, and you figured he’d be the last person to judge you for any of that.  “I’ll give you a little time to unpack and freshen up, if you like,” he offered.  “I hope you’ll join me for dinner at seven this evening.  I believe we’ll be having quail.”

“Of course— thank you,” you smiled, watching him begin to turn to depart.  But for a second, he hesitated— like he didn’t want to leave you— and you prayed he wouldn’t kiss you.  It’s not that you didn’t want him to… you wanted him to more than anything.  He’d only kissed you once before, at the end of a particularly exhilarating night out together, and you hadn’t stopped thinking about it for a moment since.

So no, it wasn’t that you didn’t want him to kiss you.  It was only that, if he did, you knew you’d have trouble letting it be just a kiss.

Therefore, you were just as relieved as you were disappointed when he departed without incident.

///

A few days later, you eloped.  You hadn’t felt much urge to have a ‘proper’ wedding when no one you knew approved of the marriage anyway— they were all too deep in your parents’ pocket, unfortunately.  And even if anyone cared enough to come, Laszlo refused to be wed in a church (you thought maybe he would bend on it if you really begged, he was overall quite accommodating to you, but it wasn’t worth your trouble) and so it would’ve just been another scandal.  

Truly, you were just as happy this way— it was the happiest day of your life, really.  You left the courthouse as Mrs. Kreizler, wearing a stunning silver band he’d had engraved with your new initials and flowering vines all around in a swirling, whimsical pattern.  His band was simpler, but you loved it even more— just because it was his, and seeing him wearing it made your heart skip all day.

Anticipation for your wedding night only grew with every passing moment.  Laszlo himself was in the bathroom with the door shut— you heard the sink running, the various sounds of him preparing for bed.  You were just trying to get your heart to slow down, trying not to have any specific goals or expectations for the evening.  Today had already been perfect.

But, of course, it was hard not to imagine what was next for the two of you— your things had already been moved into his room.  A vanity had been placed in it as well, a wedding gift from Sara Howard (a friend of Laszlo’s you had become acquainted with during this whirlwind romance), and you were using it now as you prepared yourself for bed.  You were already in your nightgown, having changed after Laszlo left the room (not that you had to, but it felt more natural that way), and you were carefully unpinning your hair from its meticulous style.

As you concluded the final steps of your evening routine, you saw the bathroom door open behind you in your reflection; your husband emerged, wearing an embroidered silk robe that offered a view of a sliver of his chest— not very much, but more than you’d ever seen.  You didn’t notice the way your thighs pressed against each other more tightly; he approached you slowly, and you eventually turned to look at him directly.  With you still sitting on the vanity’s padded stool, he towered over you when he stood close… and as you lifted your head to look up at him, his hand brushed softly along your jaw.  You tilted into his touch just a bit, smiling at him while your heart fluttered.

“You’re so beautiful, mein Schatz,” he whispered, and you felt a little giddy when he talked like that— he’d only ever indulged you in his German after having a few drinks, so this instance caught you off-guard in the best way.  Not to mention he’d called you Schatz before— treasure, apparently, and a common term of endearment— but he’d never tagged it with mein before.  And you were his, truly.  You were glad he’d waited to say it until it was actually true (even if, in a certain sense, it was already true before).

He motioned, rather subtly, for you to stand up.  It seemed simple enough, but you felt a little shaky as you did it— a nervous excitement, like the kind you would feel before a piano recital or debutante ball.  Except those were all public engagements, and this was as private as anything could be.

Touching your face again, he wove his fingers back around your neck, his thumb cradling your jaw right in front of your ear.  And he kissed you— just like that, quick at first but then slowing down as you both sighed a bit.

You admired how easily he’d done it, and thank god for it, because you would’ve spent quite a while working up the courage.  This was different from the night you’d kissed him after a few weeks of seeing each other— it was very different from the kiss you’d shared at the courthouse earlier that day.  It would’ve made sense if there was a sense of neediness to it, as if he were making up for lost time or relieving all the anticipation for this night.  But really, it was all rather relaxed, at least on his part.  Like he had all the time in the world: which, you know, he did.

You, on the other hand… you were feeling a bit more out of your element.  Not that you weren’t enjoying this new one so far, it was just a little unfamiliar.

His hand floated lower and traced down your back— delicately, with the tips of his fingers brushing your skin through the thin fabric until chills started to run over you.  You gasped a little into the kiss, and put your hands on the patterned lapels of his robe; you didn’t actually push him away, but he pulled back as if you had, examining your face carefully for a moment.

You hadn’t needed him to stop, but you were a little glad he did: just a moment’s break from it all before it became overwhelming.  His fingers still traced gentle shapes on your lower back through the nightgown, and you found your gaze drifting to his chest, to your hands resting on it— and your own fingertips ventured into the exposed piece of his chest.  His skin was paler here, with a reddish-blondish patch of hair just starting to be visible.  You touched it, taking a quick and shaky breath, and wondered why something inside you tightened as you pet him here.  He was so… masculine.  His looks weren’t sweet and boyish, no: he was broad and strong (he would deny that one if you said it, but to you he was) and sharp around the edges, and it was something you never expected to excite you so much.

But you loved that you could still feel a bit of friction from his beard after he’d kissed you.  You loved the subtle scent of his cologne, how sturdy he felt under your touch.

Your hands drifted up to his face, fingers brushing through his hair slowly, and he smiled at you.  His hair was just a bit long for what was typical of men these days, and you enjoyed combing through the dark brown locks and noticing the little golden highlights in the dimmed light of the room.

The hand on your hip pulled you closer, pressing your body against his, and you tried your best to relax into the warm strength of his form while your heart kept racing.

When he kissed you again, he moved in slowly, watching your face before his own eventually met with it, and you fluttered your eyes shut as his lips gently pressed to yours.  This time, you found yourself leaning in for more, kissing him back with more passion; you let out a little dampened moan when his tongue brushed against your bottom lip, taking the next opportunity to gently move further into your mouth.  

He broke away all too soon, embracing you even tighter, pressing his cheek to yours.  And when you, in turn, wrapped your arms around him and pressed yourself against him everywhere you could… you felt it.

Even if you had very little knowledge about this sort of thing, you understood what that hard, curved shape was, pressed just above where your hip met your stomach.  You knew what it was, and your body did too— heat pooled at your core, every touch awakening you even more.

“Oh,” you sighed shakily, holding tighter onto him to just have something to hold onto.

“It's alright,” he whispered, soft words floating on his breath which tickled under your ear.  “It's alright, my darling, I won't hurt you.”

You hummed softly in return, nodding as his lips brushed over your cheek, then moved to your neck.  “I know,” you replied.  “I trust you, Laszlo.”

But you couldn't help but gasp when his tongue teased your pulse, his teeth gently grazing the most delicate places they could find.  His grip at your waist tightened when you whimpered.  “Is this pleasurable to you?” he asked softly; even such a formal statement made you shudder when he said it in that low, buttery voice…

You nodded, your back arching slightly to press yourself against him, but you felt him smile against you suddenly.

“I'd like for you to say it,” he explained, an unfamiliar darkness to his voice.

“It's… pleasurable,” you panted.  “When you kiss me there… it's like I feel every touch s-somewhere else—”

“Where, my love?”

“Here,” you sighed, grabbing his hand from your back and moving it between your legs.  He instantly cupped and rubbed your mound, and your knees nearly buckled from the pleasure.

“Mein Gott, you're so sensitive,” he observed, his own voice sounding a little strained, “I've hardly touched you.”

“L-Laszlo, just touch me more,” you pleaded.

Though he’d been so careful until that moment, he suddenly started to pull up the skirt of your nightgown rather hastily, nostrils flaring as he bent down slightly and worked to hoist the fabric up.  Finally, he got under it, but teased you by rubbing and groping at your thighs instead; under his breath, you just barely heard a growl before he began to kiss your neck again.

“Even if both my hands were strong, I'd wish for more to touch you with,” he mumbled against your skin.  “I'd still want to cover you entirely, reach every part of you at once.”

Well, you liked the sound of that, but one hand was doing you plenty of good already— especially when it slid back up to cup you again, making you sigh and moan as his fingers slipped through your folds, spreading your abundant wetness all around.

Desperate to return even a portion of the sensation he was giving to you, you placed your hand against the bulge in his trousers.  Though the shape and firmness of him made you gasp excitedly, he only let you rub it for a few moments before sighing and moving your hand away.  “Not yet, my darling,” he instructed.  “It's best if we take this one step at a time, for now.”

You felt a little silly, having to be held back like that, but you nodded.  He obviously knew better than you about all this.

It was almost too much, the way he was touching you: you had your arms wrapped tight around his shoulders to try to keep yourself upright, frankly.  And yet, for how overwhelming it was, you heard yourself saying—

“More, please,” you begged, “I-I need you, just give me more, please—”

“I will,” he promised roughly, “but not here.  I think it’s only right that I take you to bed, hm?”

If you weren’t all worked up, you might’ve made some witty comment about how at least the bed’s not too far or whatever— but no, you just let him guide you the few steps to the mattress, and you sat on it as you simply awaited further orders.  So little that he’d done to you, and you’d already do whatever he asked in exchange for continued attention.

You watched him roll up his sleeve— it took him a little while with the weaker hand, but you didn’t mind letting this moment last— and didn’t even notice the way your mouth had gone slack, you were nearly salivating.  “Lay back, darling,” he instructed simply, still looking at his sleeve as he finally folded it up to his elbow, “and open your legs.”

You obeyed, of course, and bit absent-mindedly on your lip as you slowly lifted your knees and parted your thighs.  There was no point being shy now, of course— and you were more than eager for him to get back to doing what he had been before— but you still felt a nervous hesitance that made your hands (and heart) shake slightly.  Something about stopping to get in the bed had brought a bit of sobriety to the moment, and you realized in retrospect how desperate you must have looked.  Surely he wouldn’t hold that against you…

He lifted your skirt again, up to your hips, and hummed lowly at the sight of your sex.  Your face burned hotter; you liked the way he touched it, but you didn’t feel entirely comfortable with him… staring at it.

Still, it was the sort of slight discomfort that felt oddly… good?  Yes, you were a bit embarrassed and exposed at the moment, but it felt wrong in that fun, naughty sort of way; it made your hips shift a little, presumably in hopes of some friction.  Thankfully, their wish was answered: his hand was on you again, pulling your lips apart, slowly exploring you until your eyes fluttered shut.

“May I touch you inside as well?” he asked— as if there was any risk of you turning that offer down.

“Y-yes, Laszlo, please,” you whispered, whimpering as you felt the tip of his pointer finger— suddenly it seemed a little thicker than you remembered— press up to your entrance and ever so gently slide inside.

“Just one to start,” he narrated softly as that one finger made your toes curl, only one finger making your hips twist and your back arch.  How could he do that to you so easily?  “And my thumb can help with this lovely little organ you have…”

His thumb circled your bud, and you shuddered all over— even inside— and instantly struggled to catch your breath.  “Laszlo, what… what is that…” you breathed, whimpering when he rubbed it again.

“Your clitoris, my love— you’ve never touched here before?”

He should’ve known you hadn’t— even if you had… explored yourself out of childish curiosity probably a decade ago, you would’ve remembered if it felt like this.  Shaking your head, you were surprised by his little growl.

“Your poor girl,” he cooed, something a little attractive about the slight condescension of it.  “You have so much to learn.  I can’t even imagine the things you’ve never felt before…”

He slowly moved the pad of his thumb up and down over the flesh, which only grew firmer as he continued.  “Oh!” you whimpered, hips rocking back against his touch— it was so wild of you, you thought, but you couldn’t really stop yourself.  He pressed harder and your whole body jumped.  “Fuck!”

He laughed a little, and your face got warmer.  “I’ve never heard you use language like that, Schatz, but it sounds impossibly adorable when you say it.”

“I-I’m sorry,” you began, “I couldn’t help it—”

“No, don’t apologize,” he insisted, “I’d rather you said it again.  Whenever you can’t help it, of course.”

You knew that Laszlo knew more than you about many topics, being a highly-educated man of great intellect, but you hadn’t expected him to introduce you to an entirely new body part that you’d been carrying with you this whole time.  If you’d figured out how to do anything like this to yourself, you might have spent your entire adolescence trapped in your room, so maybe it was for the best that you never put it together.

You weren't sure how any woman was meant to learn these things— you figured she wasn't meant to, unfortunately— but if she had a choice, you'd certainly recommend this method, provided she could find her own husband to try it with rather than borrowing yours.  What a visceral and beautiful way to learn how much that little organ could really do: Laszlo rubbing it with his thumb, with just the right amount of pressure to make a loud moan crawl out of you.

“The noises you make are just delightful, my darling,” he praised.  “Keep going, so I know what I should do.”

“Just do that,” you begged, “just keep doing that.”

“Only this?” he pressed.  “I shouldn't even add another finger?”

Of course, that was when he did— gently pressing his middle finger to your opening until it accommodated it, and you heard your own high-pitched whine in disbelief that you'd made the sound.  “F-fuck, that feels… Laszlo, you're so—”

But you interrupted yourself, because he did something so diabolical with his fingers just then.  He'd only twisted and scissored them inside you for a moment before curling them up, rubbing the most delicate place you never knew you had— just as he pushed down harder on your poor clit.  You felt ravenous all of a sudden, terribly overwhelmed but greedy for more.

“Please, oh god, please—” you started to beg before you even knew what you wanted.  He knew what you wanted, and he gave it to you: more.  It wasn't even very significant of a movement, and yet it turned your whole body into his plaything as you started to shake all over.

“You react more than I ever expected, my darling,” he cooed.  “I never dreamed how well you would respond to my touch.  I've only just begun and I think you're already nearly there.”

Before you could wonder where he was talking about, he pulled his fingers out of you carefully.  You heard yourself whimper a little, opening your eyes and looking at him worriedly.  He smiled, seeming to enjoy how much his interruption seemed to bother you; “Take off your nightgown, my love,” he requested plainly.  “I think I’d like to get a good look at you before I go on.”

Sitting up (and finding your head a bit more dizzy than you expected), you started by unbuttoning from your neck halfway down to your chest, before lifting the thin garment up over your head slowly.  You felt so strange doing this— undressing in front of a man— but your heart pounded with hope that he would enjoy what he saw.  Tossing the dress aside, you sheepishly bit your lip and waited for his assessment as his dark brown eyes grazed over your nude form.

He moved a little closer, his hand running up your leg and then around your side, reaching up to carefully cup one of your breasts.  You breathed deeply but unevenly, your chest rising and falling against his touch.  You were almost nervous that he hadn’t said anything yet, but the look in his eyes just became more and more clear; you whimpered under your breath when his fingers brushed over your hardened nipple, ever-so-delicately pinching it until your hips shifted a bit in response.  “How beautiful you are, my love,” he whispered, making you squirm again with just his words.  “Is it true you’re really my wife?  This lovely, delicate body that only I can touch and caress, laying next to me every night… I don’t know when I’ll really believe it.”

You had to shut your eyes for a second— you might be too brash if he kept on like that, praising you so tenderly.  “You could’ve been a poet,” you told him with a little smirk, blinking open your eyes again as he guided you to lay back once more, “if medicine didn’t suit you.”

“Oh, I’m no poet, Schatz,” he smiled in return, taking one more careful squeeze of your other breast before moving down to pet inside your legs again.  “All I am is painfully honest.”

His fingers slid inside you again, and you could’ve sworn he was rubbing inside you a bit more firmly than he had been before— thrusting a little faster, pushing a little deeper.  And all the while he was staring down at you, back and forth between your face and your hole, with a delicious darkness in his eyes.

It was still a patient endeavor, so much so that you never really noticed that he was getting a little quicker and rougher with it.  You really didn’t figure it out until you heard yourself choking out his name, groaning and gasping louder than you meant to— but you couldn’t suppress it very well, either.

You soon began to realize what he meant before with that nearly there comment, without even having any prior knowledge of what it could be… there was something instinctive about it, something totally natural.  You didn’t know what was coming, but you understood it; you knew you were on the edge of something and that if you could just get there it would be perfect.

Still, you couldn’t have known how much you would enjoy it.

You couldn’t stop moaning— it was this all-surrounding, ecstatic feeling, like… sinking into something.  Relaxing into something… something warm and soft and good.  Even a lifetime of religious repression couldn’t convince you this was anything but perfect.  Actually, nothing had ever felt right quite the way this did.

Your back arched rather dramatically, until you had a good view of the headboard upside-down; and he gave you few more fast, rough pumps of his fingers into your shaking body before slowing down to a stop and letting you rest.

Suddenly drained, you melted back down onto the bed with a long whine.  “How did that feel?” he asked, sounding a little formal about it, and you only could muster a little, exhausted laugh because what did he think you were going to say?  ‘It was alright, tickled a little bit, but I didn’t mind it.’

“That was… you… you’re so—” you began a few times, giving up to open your eyes wide when his fingers pet up and down over the seam of your lips, gently exploring you, making you quiver from how sensitive you’d become.  You weren’t even done recovering from the stimulation and he was giving you more; he seemed sort of absent-minded about it, the way he gently and repetitively slid up and down and up and down through your slick and swollen folds… but it was deliberate, you knew it was, because he smiled when you moaned weakly.

One finger pressed inside you again, and he watched your face closely and you shuddered.  You were just the slightest bit sore, and it felt like that one finger was more of a stretch than before… which seemed impossible, but with the erratic pulsing of your walls, it was a little hard to keep track.

You gasped sharply when he put the second finger in you once more, almost snarling a bit as he watched you react so strongly.  “Laszlo, I— I don't think I can do that again—”

“You can, I'm sure of it,” he encouraged, curling his fingers inside of you, which required a bit more force with your channel bearing down against him in response.  “It might even come faster this time, that little spot is all swollen now—”

Before he could finish that sentence, he proved it by circling the place, making your hips jump up as another whine eked out of you.  “O-oh, I— fuck…”

He smirked a bit, a delicious smugness to his expression, and the emotion looked much too good on him.  “See?  Just let me take control, my love.  I think you'll like what I do, if you simply let me do what I like with you.”

Fuck, that had to be the most beautiful thing you'd ever heard.  You were biting your lip to try to keep back the flood of terribly embarrassing things your pleasure wanted to say for you: you can do whatever you like with me; I'm yours; I'd do anything for you; don't ever stop, but also if you don't fuck me soon I might lose my mind, you know, things of that nature.  Instead you let out a muffled moan, and nodded to make sure he knew that he had your permission for whatever he thought was best.

And, of course, he’d been right about you: that you’d be even more sensitive after coming, and would be able to go through it all over again.  It only took probably a minute or two of dedicated, precise stimulation for the feeling to grow again… except it felt a little stronger this time, like it was building past the point that it had broken at before.  Maybe your tolerance was higher, or something?  You really weren’t qualified to say— all you could think about was this sensation, this tension, and the way he looked at you as you started to shake all over.

Your eyes fell shut instinctively, your shaking hands clutching at the bed under you; you felt sort of numb all over, except instead of everything being dulled and distant, it was only heightened.

“O-oh, oh, Laszlo, I—” you tried to warn him, words escaping you as the heavy, almost sharp feeling gathered tighter and tighter…

“Give into it,” he insisted, “it’s alright— I want to see it.  I want to hear you, I want to feel you when you come—”

His voice was getting darker, rougher, more demanding as he went on; and in the same way, his fingers’ thrusts into you became more aggressive.  “Fuck, I— I think I’ll— oh god!” you yelped.

“Yes,” he encouraged, “let go, darling!”

Your arms flailed around for a second before finding a lump in the sheets to grab onto tightly, your hips rocking against his hand, your head falling back in a scream; it was so intense, and so sudden, and you felt like the pressure that had been building broke so violently that it would’ve been painful without all the ecstasy running through your veins, numbing you inside and out.

You could tell that this one was different— hotter, warmer, wetter— but you had no idea what you’d done until the high had started to fade just a bit.

His hand slowed down to a stop, you heard him quietly catching his breath, and you blinked your eyes open… that’s when you noticed small wet stains on his rolled-up sleeve, and shiny fluid along his forearm— and a very proud grin on his face.

You felt your eyes go wide and your cheeks start baking.  He spoke up before you could even try to process what to say: “That was excellent, my love— I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so magnificent,” he praised.  “You’re incredible.”

You wanted to believe him, but it didn’t really offer much explanation.  “Laszlo, I… did I—?”

“No, darling, don’t worry,” he cooed, scooting a little closer on the bed as he pet the inside of your thigh.  “It’s natural— one of the… rarer ways that a woman’s body can respond to stimulation.  I’ve always found the concept fascinating, but until now, my knowledge was… purely theoretical.  Actually, I’d love to gather your perspective on the experience, possibly for a future research paper on the topic— but that’s an issue for another time.  There’s a more pressing matter I need to discuss with you.”

You raised an eyebrow, curious what matter could be discussed in a time like this.

“I… I'd like to try something else,” he announced, and you dropped your head back on the bed in a sort of defeat.

“Something else?!” you whimpered, still catching your breath from the last thing he had “tried”.  “What else could there be but making love?”

“That will be soon, I promise, I just… I can't resist such an opportunity,” he explained.  “Your scent is so erotic, and it's only grown stronger now that you’ve so generously covered my arm in your ecstasy.  And with anything that smells so delectable, one can't help but crave to taste it.”

You'd only heard about this before— sort of a dirty schoolyard secret, almost an urban legend.  The whole thing had always sounded odd to you, if maybe not as icky as you thought it was when you first had the concept whispered to you as a child.  You didn't realize it was actually something you might experience someday, assuming it was a practice reserved to the especially perverted.  Now that he was offering it, you found yourself biting your lip as you tried to imagine what it would be like.

“I'd like to pleasure you with my mouth,” he concluded, really spelling it out for you.  “Would that be alright?”

You weren't sure what to think of that, and yet you were already nodding yes.  This was your husband, after all— who else could you trust to do something like this?  Most of all, you did it because you wanted to please him.  Because he'd asked you for it.

He smiled a little when you agreed, and began to lean down between your legs.  Those deep brown eyes seemed to sparkle more than ever when he looked up at you, but his gaze couldn't stay with yours for long before he had to give a closer look to your cunt.  He carefully spread the lips with his fingers, humming at the sight.  “I wonder if it's even possible for you to be as delicious as you look,” he spoke quietly, and a needy whine caught in your throat.

It was just a gentle kiss to your clit first… then another, with his lips parted.  Then he started to ever-so-gently suckle at it, tongue softly petting it; he wasn't doing too much, physically, but you never could catch your breath while he was doing it.

You whined a bit when he broke away, looking down at him in search of an explanation but finding instead him looking back up at you with an indescribable look in his eye.

“How does that feel?” he asked, his voice rougher and darker than you'd ever heard it before, making you shiver gleefully.

“Wet,” you blurted out, making him smile a little, a small laugh on an exhale through his nose that made you feel a bit foolish in an unexpectedly pleasurable way.  “A-and warm… please don't stop, Laszlo, it felt so nice…”

He got back to it, a little more intensely than before, and your eyes rolled back when he really started to lap at you with his tongue— harder and wider each time, making you writhe from the intensity of it.

You couldn't even describe the sound you made when he pushed his tongue inside you.  He moaned against you in response to it, though, and thank God, he kept going.

He kept petting your thighs, even encouraging you when your legs clamped down around his head unintentionally; presumably that was his way of saying it wasn’t giving him any pain, which you were a bit concerned about, even if you couldn’t really stop yourself.  Sometimes you had the strength to meet his gaze, but most of the time you felt like you’d melt if you looked back at him— the way he was staring up at you was just too fiery, too intense, too beautiful.  

Just when you thought you were getting used to the pattern of his tongue’s movements on your clit, he gently pushed his two fingers back into your pulsing channel.  You were all tingly and sore inside, but a long, deep moan fell from your mouth as your back arched.

“Beautiful,” he praised, the word muffled by what he was doing— which he got back to more urgently than ever, twisting and thrusting his fingers inside you carefully at first.

“J-just like that,” you pleaded.  “Oh, Laszlo, I— I didn't know anything could… feel like this…”

You could feel the smallest smirk on his lips as he continued; even just being able to feel his smug smile there was such a lovely, erotic, totally novel concept to you.  

When he really buried his face in your legs, you could feel the roughness of his beard against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs and buttocks, and god was it the most beautifully filthy feeling.  It was really an excellent metaphor for the whole thing: the symbol of his maturity, the well-kempt facial hair itself a balance between his wildness and his meticulous self-control, rubbing raw your delicate and untouched skin in such an intimate place.  If you weren’t too busy shaking and crying and seeing stars on this bed, you might have appreciated the beauty in those parallels, but clearly you weren’t capable of thinking about it to that level of depth.

The stream of helpless praises you'd been trying to hold back earlier?  There was absolutely nothing stopping it from spilling forward now.  “You're incredible,” you blurted out, your hand holding tighter to the sheets beneath you.  “Laszlo— my husband— you… you must be the devil, o-or an angel or prophet— or something. You make me feel things, such incredible things, that I didn't even know—”

He opened his mouth wide around you, breaking the seal of his lips so he could speak against your skin.  “I'm just a man,” he promised, “I'm just a husband becoming addicted to his new wife's pleasure, that's all, my dear.”

As he started to do it again so suddenly, you reacted suddenly as well: your hand found his hair and grabbed it, and your mind was too far gone to worry about it being too aggressive.  Not that he gave any signs of annoyance— if anything it was the opposite, as he lapped at you harder in response.  

This, of course made your hips jump up— until his hand slipped out of you, grabbing them and pulling them down, keeping you still as he continued.  The simple show of dominance affected you greatly, another heavy pulse of pleasure hitting you suddenly.

“I-I'm close,” you whispered.  “Laszlo, I'm so close— and it feels so different than before— I swear, nothing's ever felt so— fuck!”

He hummed encouragingly, and your whole body rocked in time with the growing pressure.  His fingers sliding back inside you, seeming to curl even more than before, certainly added to the sensation.

Just as you were teetering on the edge, his teeth grazed impossibly-carefully over you, a sharp and raw sort of pleasure jolting your entire body.  Of course, you couldn't fight against that, and the feeling inside you snapped as yet another flood of pleasure ripped through your body.  Your ears were ringing but you still heard how loud you must have been, how totally wrecked and helpless your moans had become.  

It wasn’t as… aggressive of a feeling as the one that had made you… you know… but it was probably the most powerful in its own way.  The highest, the heaviest, the most whole.  You couldn't hear him moaning against you through all that, but you could feel it: a deep and bassy vibration that only heightened the feeling even more.  Your moans turned to cries and then sobs; it was too much, the feeling was spilling over inside you— you weren't sure how much longer you could take it all before you broke.

It seemed, however, that he broke first; he pulled away and sat up, leaving you both panting, sweaty messes.  

“God, you're so beautiful,” he sighed, grabbing you by the neck to pull you up into a filthy, heated kiss.  You surrendered instantly, grabbing into his shoulders with hands that were still pricked with pins and needles as your high dissipated slowly.  “I can't wait anymore,” he mumbled against your lips, “I need to be inside you.”

“Please,” you gasped softly— you'd been waiting for this all night, at least.  You'd never imagined yourself so eager, so desperate for it, though…

He made quick work untying his robe, leaning over you as he held tightly onto his cock and guided the swollen, leaking head between your lips.  Yes, even with desire coursing through your veins, a touch of anxiety was still present.  You just couldn’t imagine what this was going to be like, you could still hardly believe it was happening to you— and, though it was a bit crass to think, you were a bit surprised by the brief glance of his cock that you’d gotten.  You wouldn’t really know what was big or small or normal or abnormal when it came to that… you had nothing to compare it to.  What you did know was that it seemed much… thicker, than seemed appropriate to go inside you.  Of course you knew that a young woman’s first experience could be painful, you’d heard that bleeding was normal (if not expected, but that seemed a bit barbaric and certainly not what a progressive man like Laszlo was after) — yet, you still weren’t properly scared.  It was just the sort of anticipation that made you shiver and let out a long breath to compose yourself.

He groaned a little as he continued to rub against you, and you noticed the arm that held him up over you was shaking.  You could only imagine how frustrating it must have been to be giving you all that attention and not getting any in return for so long, and you could only hope he might take a little of that frustration out on you…

“Please,” you said again, quieter, as you looked up at him.  Thankfully, that was enough to make him press forward and slide into you all at once.

While his fingers had stretched you in such strange, sometimes overwhelming ways, his cock… it just fit.  It filled you exactly the way you needed— not too wide or too deep… though you suspected it would've been had he not prepared you so incredibly thoroughly.  And while his tongue has made you feel such unimaginable things, though his lips had effortlessly sucked ecstasy from your shaking body, having him inside you felt so simple and natural and easy.  

He hissed in his breaths as he moved— slow at first, but each one just a bit faster than the last.  Every movement stimulated all the places he'd already awoken inside you, and your legs moved on their own to latch around his hips while your head fell back with a satisfied sigh.

“My angel,” he groaned, staring down at you as each of his thrusts rocked you under him.  “I knew I— fuck, darling— I knew I'd have trouble keeping myself together when I was finally inside you.  Yet you're… you're even more perfect than I imagined.”

You smiled proudly, reaching up to hold his shoulders; he seemed encouraged by that, becoming just a bit rougher in his movements until your nails accidentally dug into his skin just a bit.

“I won't be able to last much longer,” he grunted, “but I-I can't stop.  I can't even slow down, I never… I've never lost control like this before.”

A shiver ran up your whole body, even seeming to make you clench inside— and he moaned in return, a beautifully pitiful sound.  

“I'm sorry,” he offered between panting breaths, and you barely mustered the energy to laugh. 

“Beloved, what do you have to apologize for?” you teased through a grin.  “Surely you're not worried that I will be left unsatisfied.”

“I would rather bring you to orgasm again,” he explained, “but I'm so desperate for you, I'm afraid I lack the patience for it.”

“I would rather pleasure my husband, for once,” you replied, “but you couldn't possibly feel what I felt, I don't think I'll ever be able to really return the favor—”

“It's no favor,” he insisted.  “Your pleasure is what I desire.  And a good wife gives her husband what he desires, no?”

You whimpered desperately, pathetically even.  “I'll be good for you, Laszlo,” you promised weakly, “I want to be a good wife to you…”

“You're a very good wife, my dear,” he assured.  “Look how much pleasure you've let me take from you, look how you've soaked our bed with your lovely nectar…”

You weren't sure which part of that aroused you the most… but our bed was a serious contender.

“And you taste absolutely divine,” he added, before kissing you again to let you taste it, too.  It was a sloppy and needy kiss, not precise and careful like basically everything else he'd done to you so far, but you loved it.  You loved any sign that he might be just as desperate as you.

Once again his speed and intensity picked up, until you could hear his skin hitting against yours loudly, and your back arched a bit at how perfectly dirty it felt.  His cock hit a spot deep inside you, and you sucked in a sharp breath.  “Laszlo,” you blurted out, and he groaned as he moved his kiss to your neck.  

“Keep saying my name,” he demanded.  “Tell me who your husband is— who makes you feel this way you've never felt before.”

“Laszlo,” you said again, “I'm yours.  Anything you want from me, it's yours.”

“Yes,” he agreed with a heavy sigh.

“Your wife, always,” you continued, and it made your own heart swell along with encouraging him: he moved faster, rocked deeper into you, and breathed heavy against your ear as your back arched from the erotic perfection of the moment.

“My wife,” he repeated, making you whine and nod and bear down on him with your walls.

“Yes,” you gasped, “yes— yours, I’m yours—”

“I-I can't hold back anymore,” he moaned, “I don't… I don't even know if I can bring myself to pull out before—”

“Don't,” you begged.  “I want it inside, Laszlo.  I want all of you inside me.”

“Oh, darling, mein Schatz, I—” he choked, but he never finished his sentence.  He just moaned louder and louder and fucked you faster and faster— until you were nearly screaming from how hard he hammered into you.

It stopped all at once; he pressed himself as deep inside you as he could, so deep you felt like you were struggling to breathe, and hid his face in the curve of your neck as he came inside you.

And for a long, beautiful moment, you just laid together; you were sort of halfway between awake and asleep, your whole body thrummed with emotions and sensations you never thought you could fit within yourself.  Time passed, surely, but you wouldn’t have known the difference.  His weight on top of you wasn’t too heavy, though it did keep you pressed into the mattress and sheets— not that you were going anywhere anyways.

You only really came back to reality when you felt small kisses trailing your neck; you hummed and squirmed a little beneath him, making you both groan as it stirred where you were connected.  He must have been a bit sore, too, though you felt like you’d been through quite a lot more and had a better excuse.

He moved again, just barely, and you winced as you held onto his back.  “Don’t go,” you whispered, afraid of the pain if he didn’t just stay still inside you.

“I have to, sometime,” he breathed in return.

“But—”

“I know, my love,” he cooed, “I’d stay inside you forever if I could.  But I’ll hurt you more if I don’t give you time to rest.”

Resigning yourself with a sigh, you nodded a little and scrunched up your face as he pulled his hips back.  It did sting, but it faded quickly once he was out— and the feeling was replaced with a warm, wet feeling that you realized must have been his seed leaking out of you.  It made you feel a bit dirty, but wonderful, too.

He laid beside you with a deep breath, his hand coming up to your face and turning it so you would look back at him.  You had to blink a few times to really see clearly, and even still, everything seemed a bit blurry around the edges.  The whole world seemed a bit softer, really.  “I love you, darling wife,” he told you simply, his voice soft but no longer a whisper, and he pet your cheek as he leaned in to kiss the bridge of your nose.

“I love you too, husband,” you cooed in reply.  “You’re so wonderful— a-and you’re nothing like I imagined, sometimes.”

“Perhaps I should have been more careful,” he offered nervously.

“No— that was perfect,” you promised.

“I meant the very end, there,” he clarified, his hand running down over your body and resting on your stomach.  “You might have wanted to wait longer… if you had a child so soon, you might wish we had more time just the two of us.”

Your heart skipped a beat as you realized what he meant.  “Oh, that…” you mumbled, smiling a bit to yourself.

“I fully intended to have my finish elsewhere, to lower the chances— I didn’t think I would become so… impulsive,” he sighed.  “I hoped to still control myself, but I’m afraid I wasn’t quite able to, once I was within you.  But I couldn’t help it, with the way you feel…”

“It’s alright,” you laughed weakly, “it’s not as if I were acting rationally.  I never… I didn’t think I could be so… so—”

A thousand words came to mind.  Unladylike.  Animalistic.  Desperate.  Insatiable.

“I didn’t think I’d ever act like that,” you said instead, voice getting a little softer as you felt a bit shy again.

“I knew you would,” he responded, making you look at him with wide eyes and warming cheeks.

“You— but I— I was always—!”

“Yes, you behaved very well each time I met you” he recalled with a proud smile, “always so sweet and well-mannered.  But I knew you had so much need within you, so much hunger… a being of pure instinct just waiting to take over when the time was right.”

Your heart skipped a beat— you felt a bit… accused by that statement, yet you couldn’t really deny it.  Even if you hadn’t known it before, it was clearly true now.  “How… how could you have sensed that?” you wondered.

He raised an eyebrow as he looked at you again; you loved the way he looked in that moment.  His expression was familiar, but the total lack of composure— flushed cheeks, sweat on his brow, messed hair— was totally new and quite pleasant.  “If you didn’t have any desire to misbehave, my darling, you wouldn’t have been going out with me.”

[izzyeffinhands]

The only Facebook group I feel safe in as an Izzy Hands stan is Our Flag Means Daddy.

Even though I am apart of the two main groups as well, i.e. Our Flag Means Deathposting, Our Flag Means Fans, I do NOT feel SAFE. I see the wildest and hottest fucking takes in these groups and they piss me off. Are you even watching the same show? I’m also sick and tired of people calling Izzy a villain when he clearly is not. Also there are many that don’t recognize he’s gay, even after season 2. If you voice you’re upset and betrayed? You get attacked. I was again last night.

I guess I’m a proud Izzy “apologist”, but it fucking baffles me how fans just give Ed a pass on all the brutal things he did. Oh but the love story—- NO. Recognize you’re an Ed apologist as well. I like both Ed and Izzy, but I recognize the horrifying things Ed did.

The day of the finale, I posted my thoughts on various social media. I got attacked. I got messages even on tumblr from anon cowards who I imagine followed through Twatter. I was called the t slur. That I was stupid, fat, all sorts of things.

It’s because I said I’ll never trust David Jenkins again. Now, do I have my own thoughts as to whether parts of the finale are a dream state/gravy basket that Stede himself is in? Absolutely. But let’s dive into why I was especially hurt.

First off. I am disabled. For those who know me, I’ve also had two leg surgeries and my injury has ruined my life. So seeing Izzy with a false leg, as a disabled character, still being badass? It felt good. It boosted my confidence for me to keep going. I had so much metal in my leg it caused pain that left me bedridden and using a wheelchair and cane. Many a time I wish they’d chopped my leg off.

I see a lot of myself in Izzy. I swear, he has the traits of an Aries with his anger and intense emotions. This man feels deeply for those who cares for, even though at first this seemed to just be Edward. Despite the hardened shell, he’s a romantic at heart. I’m very much the same.

That hardened shell is also a form of masking to me. In my opinion, and in my own headcanon for this roleplaying blog, Israel is neurodivergent and suffered sexual assault on ships when he was young. It’s part of the reason he has bowel issues. He had to force himself to put on that rough motherfucker mask in order to protect himself. I was bullied mercilessly in school. When I started middle school, I decided to align myself with the “bad kids” as a form of protection. Guess what? Part of myself was masking I was a bad ass, part of myself became the badass I was masking to be after years of torture.

Also. I am transmasculine. I’m pre-HRT. But to me, Izzy is very transmasc coded. This was even confirmed by Con himself when a transmasc fan at Supercon brought the conversation up. I’d just like to say again how much I adore him for supporting the trans community, particularly transmascs who often are glanced over.

Then David Jenkins, a straight man, that swore he wouldn’t fall into the kill your gays trope did exactly that. So let’s exclude here the thought that this is possibly a dream state, or even that he might be resurrected by Buttons as a zombie or ghost which I fucking hope not. We’re talking about my initial feelings. Now it felt like they were setting him up to be killed but I said oh no Jenkins wouldn’t do that to us. He promised he wouldn’t.

Guess what?! He fucking did. Not only that, he murdered off the disabled, gay, transmasc coded character after giving him the most beautiful character arc of any character on the show. You can have a gay pirate rom com, you can understand some characters can get hurt, but killing someone as a means to advance plot? Fuck you. Also, the fact that Izzy apologized to his ABUSER?! As if the victim blaming and shaming wasn’t enough for Izzy Hands, which I see plenty of still, that’s fucked up on so many levels.

So to me I watched a version of myself be murdered. It hit me in the hardest way imaginable. I cried for days. I’ve never been so attached to a character in my 38 years of existence. I’m sick and tired of people saying they like his redemption arc. Izzy never needed redemption. He just needed one, single, person to tell him that he was loved and cared about.

So voicing that I felt betrayed and that I no longer trust Jenkins got me nothing but vitriol. Then toward the end of the day, he made a tweet about how there’s no version of the show without Izzy and had the comments turned off. He knows what he did. And then in the FB groups, if you dared say you were upset that day, requoted Jenkins, you’re a horrible person? Right. I didn’t start attacking the writers. I just said I’m betrayed and I can’t trust what I thought was my comfort show. Because of that, I got hate.

As much as I’d like to believe Izzy will return, the interviews David has done post season 2 talking about his character give me little hope. It’s like he just stabbed every fan in the back. Id like to think the rushed finale is really a dream sequence or gravy basket deal. Id like to think that Izzy will come back thanks to Buttons. But now I just don’t trust David Jenkins.

And if you dare voice this opinion anywhere but Our Flag Means Daddy and Twatter, you get attacked. So here goes. Thanks for my TED talk.

[asset35-maya]

Confession prompt from this list

“Just listen, real closely, alright. And stop laughing.”

It’s late.

It’s a fancy neighbourhood. And Gavin doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing there.

The building is taller than any he’s ever visited, let alone lived in. There’s exotic plants in the lobby and jazz music playing in the elevator.

Trust the plastic prick to manage his finances this well.

Gavin gets to the top floor. He pauses to take in the abstract art on the walls.

They can afford to put Manfred paintings in the hallway? Holy shit. I should turn around and go home right now.

He comes to a stop in front of a double-door. The only one on the floor.

Penthouse? Damn, Tincan…

He starts to reach for the door bell, but then pulls back.

This is crazy. What am I doing?

He spends a few minutes floundering and is just about to walk shamefully back to the elevator when a crashing sound resounds from within the apartment.

“Goddamnit!”

Gavin smiles to himself. His clumsiness and colourful language have fully rubbed off on his partner. Cyberlife’s deep learning algorithms were no match for the company of Gavin Reed.

“Janice, you come back here right now!”

Gavin frowns. He’s heard plenty about the feisty cat but never understood why she had a name befitting an old office secretary. He didn’t understand a lot of things about his partner… but he supposed that was part of the appeal.

Another crash. A loud feline yowl. An exasperated groan.

Is he trying to bathe or skin his cat?

Gavin waits it out as the meows and grunts and crashes continue.

He feels a bit like a creep, eavesdropping on his partner through the door, but he honestly doesn’t know what to do next. He’d worked himself up after a few whisky shots with Hank… the old man convinced him to finally go do the deed… and then all his confidence drained as soon as the autonomous taxi rolled up outside the glittering residential complex. His old insecurities came back in full force.

People like me don’t belong within a mile of this postcode…

What was I thinking?

People like me don’t belong within a mile of people like Nines.

The door suddenly swings open violently.

“Jenson, if it’s about the fucking noise again, I swear to RA9! You are two floors down! How the fuck can you-”

Nines breaks off as he registers the identity of the man lurking outside his door. His blue eyes widen in surprise. Gavin stares back in equal surprise.

The android standing slack-jawed in his doorway looks nothing like the stoic, snooty RK900 that Gavin has come to know and love.

His dark hair hangs loose around his face… he’s bare-legged, actually in his boxers… and there’s a long slit ripped into his thin white t-shirt. Gavin is also a cat-owner. He knows the look. But never in his wildest dreams would he have imagined it on Nines.

“Um… hi …”

“Gavin! What are you doing here?”

“I… was in the neighbourhood.”

Nines nods slowly and Gavin kicks himself mentally.

“Just wanted to say hi. And now I have. Bye.”

Cheeks burning, he’s halfway through turning on his heel, when Nines reaches for his arm.

“Hey wait!”

And before either can say anything else, there’s a flash of black fur shooting though the crack in the door.

“Fuck, Janice!”

Gavin drops to his knees instinctively and deftly traps the rambunctious little animal. He stands up with a grimace.

“You sure she’s a cat? Acts and smells like a dog.”

Nines rolls his eyes and takes his pet back.

“She got stuck on top of my kitchen cabinet and fell in the compost box when I tried to get her down.”

“Man, I keep telling you to buy her a treehouse. She likes exploring.”

“It’ll ruin my whole aesthetic.”

“Can’t be worse than the respect Janice shows your decor today. Get one. I’m telling you. Asshole stopped shredding my curtains immediately when he got his.”

Nines shrugs noncommittally but his LED cycles yellow in a manner that tells Gavin he’s ordering a kitty treehouse immediately.

Janice struggles in Nines’ grasp, clawing at his ruined shirt. He glances down and tosses her back into the apartment, shutting the door firmly behind him. He looks back at Gavin, arms folded over his chest.

“As much as I need it, I’m guessing you didn’t come here to give me pet advice in the middle of the night.”

“No…”

“Then what’s up, Gavin?”

He stares at his feet. The alcohol haze that brought him to Nines’ doorstep is clearing. Under the glow of the crystal chandelier hanging above them, Gavin feels very stupid.

“I… it’s nothing. I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”

“Gavin, my scans are telling me all kinds of things right now… but I’d rather you tell me yourself.”

“What?”

“Yeah sorry, I forgot to disable my facial analysis… emotion recognition… and um… pheromone detectors…”

There’s a knowing look on Nines’ face and Gavin feels so damn small.

Guess I shouldn’t bother taking the elevator down. I’ll just jump.

“Tell me, Gavin. Before Janice chews through all the cushions on my couch.”

“I… Nines...”

“Gavin.”

There’s silence, even from within the apartment. Nines’ eyes briefly dart to the door, scanning right through it to check on Janice no doubt, and flit back to Gavin. A teasing smile is playing on the corner of his lips.

The whole game is up. He already knows. Just tell him.

Gavin closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

“Should I go wash the compost off my cat first… or are you planning on telling me sometime tonight?”

His eyes fly open to see Nines stifle a giggle.

What a cocky prick!

Several moments pass with Nines’ mirth steadily increasing and Gavin’s shyness transforming into annoyance.

“Aren’t you gonna invite me in?”

“Why?”

“Goddamnit Nines.”

“You’ve never visited me before. I have no idea why you’re here. The least you could do is give me an explanation for showing up unannounced and interrupting my night.”

“Alright, you prick. Just listen, okay. Just listen, real closely, alright. And stop laughing.”

Nines’ hand actually comes up to cup his mouth as his frame shakes with silent laughter.

“You got a lot of attitude for someone getting their ass kicked by a tiny kitten.”

Nines doubles over and holds up a finger, actual tears streaming down his face.

“Oh my god. You’re such an idiot. I can’t believe I was worried about coming here. Shut up for a second. Shut up.”

Nines props himself up against his door. His chest is heaving and he looks ready to burst into another fit of giggles, but he manages to hold it in valiantly.

Gavin clears his throat. He’s come all the way and he’s going to say his piece, fears and insecurities and everything else be damned.

Just as he opens his mouth… Nines pushes himself off the door and reaches for his face. Then suddenly, somehow, he’s being kissed.

Plush lips cover his own, and his eyelids flutter shut as Nines pulls him in. By the time they part for air, both are panting and intertwined in the entranceway.

Nines bumps his nose against Gavin’s.

“So did I guess right? Is that what you wanted to tell me?”

“Yeah pretty much.”

Their eyes lock for a moment and laughter threatens to bubble up once more. Lips trembling, they both manage to quell it. Foreheads touch and each man’s gaze dips back down to the other’s mouth.

They start to lean back in… and then there’s a spectacular shatter of glass from the other side of the door… an accompanying screech… and absolutely no chance of escaping the hilarity that bursts forth once more. 

[gra-sonas]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019) Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes Characters: Alex Manes, Michael Guerin, Isobel Evans Additional Tags: Minor Isabel Evans/Gregory Manes, Canon Disabled Character, Soulmates, Handprint Summary:

"Listen, darlin’. I don’t think because I say darlin’ that’s gonna bring you your soulmate. But, maybe I’m wrong, maybe I don’t fully understand and they’re gonna find you, darlin’." - recorded by Cowboy for Airmanes

Michael used to work for an anonymous, queer-friendly sex hotline (going by the nickname Cowboy) while he was in college, and Alex commissioned him to record a message for him while he was deployed. One day, their paths cross.

Alriiiiight, happy Malex Monday! I meant to write a short ficlet, inspired by Vlamis recording a message for a fan, saying darlin’ three times. For reasons unknown, this turned into a 5.5K fic I wrote this afternoon/evening. 

This is a soulmate AU, and there’s some handprint stuff going on. And while this is mostly fluff, the fic is rated Mature (I know, *gasp*). Uhm, enjoy?

~*~

"Listen, darlin’. I don’t think because I say darlin’ that’s gonna bring you your soulmate. But, maybe I’m wrong, maybe I don’t fully understand and they’re gonna find you, darlin’." - recorded by Cowboy for Airmanes

When Alex listens to the message Cowboy has recorded for him, he has a hard time (pun intended) keeping quiet and not scream into his pillow. It's a close call. Even though the need to get off is overwhelming, he's careful to move his body into a more comfortable position without jostling the bunk bed too much. He hears Ogden in the bottom bed grumble in his sleep once, but he doesn't wake up. Small mercies.

Alex feels like an hour passes before he can finally wrap his hand around his hard cock and take care of his needs with the tiniest movements. He keeps listening to Cowboys recording over and over again, and he manages to time his orgasm with the final darlin' of the message.

Wow, Alex doesn't want to exaggerate, but he thinks he's never come harder in his life. Cowboy's voice's just doing it for Alex, always, has. But the darlin'? Surefire way to get him off in no time. It's the first night in a long time that Alex sleeps so deep, that not a single nightmare haunts his dreams.

The recording continues to bring Alex comfort and orgasms in the middle of an ongoing war, and he can't help but dream up scenarios where he meets Cowboy one day, and they realize that they are indeed soulmates. A soldier can dream, right?

Months go by and after one fateful and utterly horrible day, the war is over for Alex. He returns home to Roswell via a short stint in Landshut, Germany. Half of his right leg is missing, but they give him a purple heart as a consolation price and a thank you for his service. Not that anyone actually thanks him.

It takes Alex another couple of months until he can walk again without the help of a crutch. He celebrates this newfound mobility freedom at a local bar, the Wild Pony. He's sitting at one of the tables, nursing a beer, when two people occupy the table next to his. A tall blonde woman, and a handsome man with curly hair that spills out under the brim of a black cowboy hat. A cowboy hat. Alex tries not to be too obvious, but he keeps looking at the man every now and then.

He can't hear what they're talking about, their voices a soft murmur, but then someone feeds the jukebox with a dollar, and suddenly the couple has to raise their voices.

"Come on, Michael. Don't be such a sourpuss. I want to celebrate that you're back home. It's been a dull year without you. I've talked to Max, he's promised to be on his best behavior," the woman says.

Michael. "Nice name," Alex thinks. He's just reaching for his bottle to take another sip when Michael answers.

"Ugh, Iz, do I have to come? I'd love to spend an evening with just you, but you know Max, he won't stop nagging me." 

Alex freezes. He knows that voice. Intimately (well, in a way). But the man can't be Cowboy, can he? In Roswell of all places? Alex tries to be subtle by moving his chair a fraction of an inch to get a better view at the neighboring table.

He keeps staring and  almost jumps up when the woman (Iz)'s phone starts buzzing. She checks the display. "That's Greg, I have to take this call outside. Please don't leave, I'll be back in a minute."

Michael demonstratively takes his hat off and puts it on the chair next to him. He smiles at her. "No worries, I'll still be here. Say hi to your beau and tell him I hope to meet him soon." She grins. "Not sure I should introduce him to you. He's your type, brother dearest."

Alex can't see Michael's face properly, but his voice sounds annoyed. His voice, that Alex is fairly certain, is that of Cowboy, the man of his (sex) dreams. "As if I'd ever make a move at someone who's involved with someone else, let alone someone who's dating my sister, who also happens to be my best friend."

Iz laughs. "Good boy. Now give me a minute, I have to talk to my boyfriend." She leaves. 

Alex's hands are sweaty because now would be a good moment to approach the man, but what would he even say. "Hi, you're that guy from the queer-friendly sex hotline, and months ago you recorded a message for me I like to get off to. Nice to finally meet you in person."

Not awkward at all. But he also needs to know what the man looks like. So far, he's only seen part of his face (there seems to be stubble, which Alex approves of) and lots and lots of unruly honey-golden curls. In an unplanned move, he accidentally knocks his beer bottle over and the remaining beer spills all over his table.

"Damn," he mumbles under his breath, patting down the pockets of his jacket in search of tissues to mop up the mess.

Suddenly, there's movement at the table next to him and Michael turns around, a squarely folded piece of cloth (a bandana?) in his hand. "Here, take this."

Alex feels dizzy looking at the man. Not in his wildest dreams did he imagine that Cowboy would look like that, but now? Even if this man turns out to be not Cowboy, Alex will forever have this visual when he plays the darlin' message.

Not the moment to think about that, though. He collects himself enough to say something. "Uhm, are you sure? That looks very nice and clean, I'm sure they have paper towels at the bar."

Michael's smile is almost blinding. "Don't worry about it, it's one of my oldest bandanas, it deserves to die in the most heroic way – drowning in alcohol."

Alex snorts. "Okay, thank you." He reaches for the bandana, and for a second, their fingertips touch. Alex's vision goes blurry and he tries his best to inhale, but there doesn't seem to be enough air to fill his lungs. He gasps.

When he feels a strong, warm hand clapping down on his shoulder, he can suddenly see clear again, his lungs expand without pain, and warmth is flooding his body.

He goes almost pliant under Michael's touch (because of course it's his hand).

"Wow," Michael says, and if that isn't the perfect word to describe the situation.

Alex tries to remember how words are formed. "Do you feel it, too?" Michael just nods. "In Roswell of all places," Alex says dryly.

Michael snorts. "You wouldn't believe how apt that actually is. All things considered."

"I don't know what that means, but I'm sure I'll find out eventually. I mean, I don't want to assume, but I will find out eventually, right?"

"Yes, beautiful stranger, you will. I never expected this to happen to me, but now that it did happen, I want to know everything about you. What's your name, handsome?"

Alex can't believe that this beautiful man is his soulmate, let alone that he found him in this godforsaken town he'd never expected to return to before he lost his leg.

"Well, handsome does have a name. It's Alex. And you are—."

Alex takes a calculated breath before he says "Cowboy," at the same time Michael says "Michael."

They stare at each other. Michael's eyes are wide. "How do you—?"

Alex blushes, and he considers not answering the question for a second, but this is his soulmate asking. "I'm—I'm not just Alex, I'm also darlin'."

Michael's eyes grow impossibly wider, then he bursts out laughing. "Oh my god, that was you? I couldn't stop listening to your message either. It's been very – how can I put this – inspiring?"

"Well, in true Pavlovian fashion, I can promise you that calling me darlin' will get me hard and off in no time," Alex says, keeping his voice low. He should be beet-read, but he's beyond feeling ashamed. In fact, he feels emboldened, and if the glint in Michael's eyes is anything to go by, he's certain there's one hell of an orgasm in his near future.

Before he can put more thought into that possible scenario, Iz returns to the table. She looks at both men and raises an eyebrow.

"Michael, why are you holding hands with this man?"

Michael looks down at their clasped hands, apparently, he doesn't know either when they started holding hands. For a moment, Alex considers letting go of Michael to greet Michael's sister properly, but he can't bear the thought of losing the physical contact right now.

Michael kisses the back of Alex's hand, then he looks up at Iz. "Isobel, this is my soulmate. His name's Alex."

"He's your—Michael! I leave the table for five minutes, and I come back to you having found your soulmate? I didn't even know that we could until recently." She seems exasperated, but then her smile goes soft. 

She sits down across from them and looks at Alex. "I'm sorry, Alex, I didn't mean to be rude. This is just a lot to take in. Uhm, I've met with Michael tonight to convince him to come and visit me, and spend time with our brother Max tomorrow. And I haven't been quite honest with Michael."

She squeezes her eyes shut and takes a deep breath. "Michael, Max and I were going to tell you, that we met our soulmates this week. Max bumped into Liz who's in town to visit her dad, and I happened to meet Greg at an event I organized for his school."

Alex perks up. "Greg isn't Gregory Manes, though, right? Teacher at the elementary school up at the reservation?"

Isobel blinks. "How do you even know about him? Oh my god, you're his brother! You're Alex Manes!" Alex nods. Isobel looks at him more closely. "Now that I know, it's obvious, you look so much alike. This is wild. I think I need a drink. You in? Shots are on me."

Alex and Michael look at each other and nod. There are only so many earth- and life-shattering revelations one can handle without being at least a little bit drunk.

Isobel stands up and walks over to the bar to order. The bartender reaches for one of the top-shelf bottles. Well, they have something huge to celebrate, this definitely calls for the good tequila.

Michael nudges him. "So, I know this has already been a lot, but there's something else you need to know about me, but I'd rather tell you about it when it's just the two of us. It's nothing bad, don't worry, I'd just prefer to tell – and show – you in private."

Alex smiles. "Whatever it is, I can handle it. Just real quick before your sister comes back. Does she know about the hotline job?"

Michael shakes his head. "No, she doesn't, actually. I got my engineering degree at UNM, and I picked up the job to make a little extra money for all the things my scholarship didn't pay for, and those requested messages were paid really well. It's been a great job, I was actually quite good at it, too, but now that I have my degree, it's a thing of the past. I don't really mind anyone knowing, but I'd rather this stays our naughty little secret."

"Oh, believe me, I'm not overly eager to tell anyone that your voice has provided me with some of the best orgasms. No need to look so smug, Michael," Alex grouses, but he smiles.

Michael turns his head, his face is very close all of a sudden, and his lips look plush and moist and oh-so-kissable. They look at each other.

"Alex," Michael whispers.

Alex closes the distance between them and then they kiss. Stars align, the universe expands, and Alex knows he's finally home. Not in Roswell, they could be anywhere right now, on this planet, or in another galaxy. No, home is in Michael's arms, in the sweetness of his breath, the sound of his low moans, and the soft touch of his fingers caressing the hair at the nape of Alex's neck.

"Ah, first soulmate kiss. I remember. So intense," Isobel says, and places three shot glasses and a bottle of tequila on the table.

They don't want to stop kissing, but they do. It's the polite thing to do. But it's hard. Alex would rather be alone with Michael. As if he's been reading his mind, Michael leans closer and whispers "One shot, then we leave. She'll understand. But I need to be alone with you."

Alex closes his eyes and inhales deeply in an attempt to calm his nerves. Michael's scent is intoxicating, he smells like leather and rain. Alex wants to drown in the smell. When a cold shot glass is shoved into his hand, he blinks his eyes open again.

"Earth to Alex, are you back with us?" Isobel smirks, but her eyes are kind and understanding.

"Yeah, sorry, it's just a lot to take in, and Michael smells so good. I'm sorry, but can we get this over with? I really need to be alone with him."

Isobel nods. "You know what, why don't you take the bottle home with you, and some time this week, we all meet and celebrate."

Michael nods and picks his hat up from the chair. "Excellent idea. I knew you'd understand." He kisses Isobel on the cheek. "You told Greg though, right?"

Isobel nods. "Yes, he knows. Liz, too. And—," she whispers something into Michael's ear.

Alex thinks he hears Isobel mention a "handprint" (whatever that means) but he assumes they're referring to the thing Michael will tell him when they are alone, so he doesn't ask what they're talking about. It's comforting to know that his favorite brother knows, though. It'll be good to have someone to talk to he trusts implicitly.

They hug Isobel (who also smells like rain, Alex notices), then they head out to the parking lot. Since Michael's currently living at a motel, the decision's easy where to go. They leave Michael's old truck ("don't ask, we've been through a lot together, and I'd never give up on her") at the Pony, and take Alex's SUV instead.

He doesn't live too far from the bar, and they enter his house not ten minutes later.

There's just enough time for Alex to put down the tequila bottle on the dining table before Michael pulls him into his arms. They're still wearing their jackets, and Michael his hat. Before Michael gets close enough to kiss him, Alex nods in the direction of his bedroom.

"There's a very comfortable and very big bed behind that door. We both know where we're headed anyway, and I'd like to take the prothesis off," he says, holding his breath after the revelation. He knows that his soulmate won't reject him because of it, but it's still a very personal thing to disclose.

Michael doesn't even blink, he just smiles and leads Alex to the bedroom. He makes Alex sit on the edge of the bed and kneels down in front of him. Alex's breath catches. Michael takes off his hat and jacket and drops them on the floor to his left, then he turns back to Alex and unlaces Alex's boots. 

Alex opens the button and zipper of his jeans, and cants his hips to wriggle them down without having to stand up. He doesn't quite succeed. "Damn, I'm stuck, sorry. I have to stand up again."

Michael shakes his head. "No, you don't. Do you trust me?"

Alex stops and thinks about it for a moment. Does he trust Michael? The simple answer is, yes. He just knows that he can trust Michael. He nods. "I do."

Michael looks at him and holds his gaze, when Alex's butt slowly lifts off the mattress. He gasps, but he keeps looking at Michael. Michael smiles softly. Then he reaches for Alex's jeans and pulls them down, while Alex is floating a few inches above his bed.

Alex's thoughts are racing. He should be scared, his soldier instincts should kick in, and maybe he should fight, but he does none of that. Because he doesn't feel threatened. He feels safe. Michael won't hurt him, that he knows with absolute certainty.

As if by magic, he slowly descends, until he sits on the edge of the bed again. Michael kisses Alex's left knee, then he turns his attention to the prosthetic on his right leg. Alex is about to tell him what to do, when he feels the prosthetic coming off. He groans in relief. He'll have to pace himself and not go entire days without the crutch too often for a couple more weeks.

Michael removes the leg and pulls the liner down to reveal Alex's stump. Alex scrunches his face. Not in disgust of how the stump looks, but he knows how it probably smells. But Michael is unfazed, though. He leans forward and kisses the tender skin of Alex's stump. Alex is close to bursting into tears because of the tenderness of the gesture.

His voice sounds a little wet when he speaks. "I need to take some meds. Would you mind getting them for me from the bathroom cabinet? They are labeled 'evening'."

Michael nods and gets up from the floor. Before he leaves, he presses a soft kiss to Alex's lips. "Thanks for trusting me."

Alex wants to reach for him and tumble backwards with Michael in his arms, but he knows he'll regret not taking his medication, so he doesn't. Thankfully, Michael's back with the pill bottles in a heartbeat, and Alex uncaps the bottle of water on his nightstand and takes his pills. 

Meanwhile, Michael toes off his boots, pulls his shirt over his head, takes off his socks, and drops his pants in a heap on the floor. When he looks around the room wearing nothing more than his briefs, Alex pats the free space next to him. "Come here, sit down. I'm ready to listen to whatever you're going to tell me in a minute, I just need you close for a moment."

Michael almost trips over his jeans in his haste to sit down next to Alex. Alex immediately realizes how anxious he is, and somehow that soothes his own nerves. He reaches for Michael's hand and laces their fingers together. Michael's hand trembles, and Alex squeezes it.

"You don't have to worry, Michael. I know you're going to tell me something extraordinary, but I can handle it. I won't reject you. Relax."

Michael snickers. "Well, you could say extraordinary, extraterrestrial would be more accurate, though."

Alex swallows hard, but deep down he knows that Michael's not joking. He squeezes Michael's hand again. "The 1947 crash was real?" Michael can't do much more than nod.

"So, you're a descendent of a group of people not from this earth who crashed here some 70 odd years ago?"

Michael looks at him. "I guess you could say that, although I have to add that I was actually on board of the spaceship." 

Alex can't believe what he just heard. "Uhm, okay. You don't look like someone who's well over 70 years old, though. Does your species age at a slower rate? I this a Superman thing? Are you from Krypton? How old are you really?"

Michael laughs. "You're taking this surprisingly well. Uhm, so, depending on how you look at it, I'm either 30 years old, or I'm about 80. I don't think we're aging slower than humans, though. We were actually in stasis in our pods for half a century, and only hatched in 1997."

"You did what now?"

"Oh, sorry, uhm, our stasis pods look like glowing eggs, and we always joked that we hatched. I don't think that's how our people actually procreate, though," Michael explains.

Alex is trying his best to take it all in, but it's a lot. He takes a deep breath. "So, by 'us', you're referring to yourself, Isobel, and your other brother, Max, right? Don't you have parents? What happened to them?"

Michael's face falls, and Alex feels awful for being responsible for it. "We don't know, actually. We don't even know whether we're actual siblings. We were found together after we hatched, mute, wandering the desert. Max and Iz got lucky, they were adopted by a local family. I wasn't quite so lucky. I grew up in the system. But I've always been a bright student, so I was able to get a good education. I had to postpone my plans to go to college after high school because of Isobel for a few years, that's why I only graduated recently. But I have a good job lined up, I'll start next month. So, I'm not a complete failure."

Alex wraps an arm around Michael's shoulder and pulls him into a hug. "You could never be a failure. I don't know much about you, but you're not a failure. You hear me?" He feels Michael nod against his chest.

"Good. Now that the big secret is revealed. What did Isobel mean when she talked about a handprint earlier?"

Michael pulls back and looks at Alex. "You heard that? Well, as I demonstrated earlier, my power is telekinesis. Isobel can influence people with her brain, and Max can heal. What the three of us have in common, is that we can share memories with someone else by putting our hands on them. Skin on skin. It opens some kind of mental connection, don't ask me how it works exactly, but it leaves an iridescent glowing handprint on the other person's skin. It fades after a few days, and the connection shared during the handprint also breaks."

Alex squeezes Michael's hand. "So, you can share memories and emotions, but you won't mind-whammy me?"

"God, no, I won't. I swear. I wouldn't even know how to," Michael says.

Alex turns to Michael and they look at each other. "Okay. I'll sit down on the bed against the headboard. I don't have any medical exams scheduled in the next couple of days. Does the handprint have to be placed somewhere specific?"

Michael looks at Alex with wonder in his eyes. "How are you so fucking calm and cool about this? My entire life – well, since we hatched – I've been worried sick about revealing this secret to anyone and sicking military special forces on us. You are the first person I've ever told, and you're taking it like I told you I have a mole on my left butt cheek."

Alex raises an eyebrow. "You have a mole on your left butt cheek?"

Michael giggles. "Oh my god, I know it's probably too soon to say it not even two hours after we've met, but I love you. You're ridiculous, and hilarious, and brilliant. And I love you." He wipes at his eyes. "And no, I don't have a mole on my left butt cheek. Wanna find out where I have one?" He waggles his eyebrows at Alex. 

"You casually mention that you love me, and I'm supposed to play 'search the mole' with you? You are unbelievable. For the record, I love you, too. And I don't care that we only met two hours ago. You're about to put a spooky handprint on me that will tell me everything I need to know."

Alex lets go of Michael's hand and scrambles back on the bed until he sits comfortably, propped up by at least three cushions. He looks down at himself and pulls his shirt over his head and flings it in the general direction of the hamper. He winks at Michael. "Come here, alien boy, tell me your story."

Michael laughs and crawls across the bed until he's next to Alex. He likes what he sees. A smattering of dark chest hair, strong arms, a sculpted torso. Alex is gorgeous, head to toe.

"Is it okay when I put my hand on your chest? Low enough that the handprint won't be visible even if you open the top two buttons?"

Alex nods. "That sounds reasonable. Go ahead."

Michael places his right hand on Alex's chest. Michael takes a deep breath, and suddenly his hand starts glowing red. The palm of his hand is heating up against Alex's skin, but the heat doesn't hurt. They look at each other, and suddenly it's like a gate to another dimension opens.

Alex looks at everything Michael sends his way, he laughs, he sheds tears, he looks in horror at what some of the foster parents did to Michael. He sees Isobel, and another man, Max, most likely, he sees an old man with an eyepatch at a place that looks like a junkyard.

It's not just images Michael shares, though. There are also emotions. Alex can barely handle the loneliness radiating through the connection, the fear of someone finding out, Michael worrying about Isobel, and a million other things.

When they later look at the alarm clock on Alex's night stand, they realize the whole thing didn't take longer than maybe ten minutes, and yet Alex feels like he knows everything about Michael. Not every detail or secret, but he knows Michael now. 

It's overwhelming, and terrifyingly wonderful. Alex doesn't know how else to describe it. They lie down next to each other, knees knocking, hands exploring, their mouths almost touching.

"Wow," Alex breathes out.

Michael kisses him. "Yeah," he whispers.

Alex does what he's been dying to do since he met Michael. He runs his fingers through Michael's hair and enjoys how soft the curls feel. Like the finest silk.

"You are incredible, Michael. Thank you for sharing this with me. I'll have a million questions for you in the coming days, and I'm sure you'll also want know more about me, but I need to not talk for a while. Can we do that?"

Michael nods. Alex barely blinks an eye, when they both float up, comforter and duvet getting pulled out from under them, and soon they sink back down into the soft mattress again. "This ability of yours sure comes in handy," Alex praises.

Michael pulls the duvet over them, and Alex is grateful for the heat inside of their little cocoon. "It does. You have no idea what it means to me to being able to use it in front of you."

Alex notices the emotion in Michael's voice and sees tears glistening in his eyes. He wraps his arms around Michael as good as he can and pulls him close. Michael hugs back, and then they just hold each other for a long time. Breathing each other in and trading lazy kisses.

Once their bodies and minds relax, their kisses get heated. They are both hard, their cocks brushing against each other through the thin fabric of their underwear. Alex wriggles his hand between them to wrap it around the tips of their cocks peeking out. There's no time (or room) for finesse. Heat and friction are doing the job for them. Their kisses get more and more wet and sloppy, they pant into each other's mouths, and just moments before Alex is ready to come, Michael looks at him, his pupils blown wide. He presses his hand on the glowing mark in the middle of Alex's chest.

"I love you," he says. A short break, then he adds, "Darlin'."

Alex lets out a guttural sound, something between a scream and a moan, and he comes in hot and almost painful pulses between them. Michael follows only moments later, adding to the mess. But they don't care. 

The connection between them is blown wide open, and Michael gasps, when he's receiving memories and emotions from Alex suddenly. An abusive home, his mom leaving, loneliness, gruesome years in the military, the immeasurable pain of losing a limb, Michael feels like he's about to pass out from it, but he holds steady.

Alex took in everything he shared with him earlier, now he wants to take in everything Alex is sharing. It's a lot, though, and when the flood of impressions subsides to a mere trickle, he realizes he's panting and sweating like he just ran a marathon.

Their foreheads are touching, and they cling to each other like they're afraid to let go of the other.

Later, they won't recall exactly for how long they stay like that. At some point, Alex musters enough energy to tell Michael where he keeps a bottle of nail polish remover in his bathroom.

"How do you—,?" Michael starts, and Alex just places his hand on Michael's chest. Michael blinks. "Wow, I think this experience has fried some of my brain cells, of course you know."

Michael closes his eyes and concentrates, but he's not strong enough to make the bottle come to him with his telekinesis. Reluctantly, he lets go of Alex, who grumbles and makes grabby hands at Michael.

"Just a second, sweetheart, I'll be back in no time. Don't go anywhere."

"Har, har," Alex makes. He's slowly feeling like he's fully conscious again. He's about to call for Michael's attention, when the man in question returns from his quest in the bathroom. He's sipping from a plastic bottle he's holding with one hand, and there's a wet towel in his other hand. Bless him.

He hands the towel to Alex (who notices that Michael soaked it in warm water, bless him more!), and he quickly wipes himself down. When he's finished, Michael takes the towel and returns to the bathroom.

When he comes back, he smiles at Alex. "Pajamas, or shirts and sweatpants?" he asks, pointing at the walk-in closet.

"Door on the far left, there's both, pajamas and other comfy clothes. I'll take what you take." He only feels silly for saying something so sappy for a second, because Michael beams like the sun. "Partner look, I like it."

Michael vanishes for half a minute and returns with two pairs of blue sweat pants and plain white shirts. He dresses himself first, while Alex puts on the shirt, then Michael's there to help him put on the sweats. Without being prompted, Michael asks "Your crutches, where are they?"

Alex smiles at him softly. "In the living room, leaning against the wall next to the dining table."

Michael goes to fetch the crutches and leans them against the wall next to Alex's side of the bed when he returns. "Anything else I can get you before we sleep?"

Alex shakes his head. "Nothing I can think of right now. Come to bed, Michael."

Michael smiles, his grin almost devilish. "It'll be my pleasure, darlin'."

Alex is tempted to throw a pillow at Michael. "You're not playing fair, Michael. I'm exhausted, and you know what you saying it does to me. I don't think all the darlin's in the world will be able to make me hard again right now, though."

Michael crawls into bed and under the covers. He pulls Alex close and kisses the tip of his nose. "Don't be sad, sweetheart, there's more than enough time for that in the morning. Unless you have to be somewhere tomorrow?"

Alex shakes his head. "No, there's nothing on my schedule tomorrow. Plenty of time for us to get to know each other with more words. Don't get me wrong, what happened tonight has been the most incredible experience of my life, and I'm grateful that we already know so many things about each other, especially the bad things that are much harder to talk about. But I still want to talk to you."

Michael nods. "We'll do that. Tomorrow. But now, let's sleep. The acetone helped, but I still feel a bit like I was hit by a truck. Big spoon or little spoon?"

Alex thinks about it for a moment. "If you don't mind, little spoon. You're just so warm, and I'm freezing. I'm always up for big spoon duty, though. I want to hold you, too, you know."

Michael's smile is the sweetest, and Alex's heart almost bursts with how much he loves him. "I know," Michael says. "And now, turn around and get comfy."

Alex does, and as soon as Michael's inhuman warmth engulfs him, his eyes start to droop. A moment later the room goes dark, and Alex feels Michael's lips peppering the his neck with little kisses. He pulls Michael's arm closer around himself.

"I love you," he whispers into the dark.

"And I love you. So much, Alex. So, so much. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Michael."

And then, they sleep.

[fairymadnessyeah]

The Day Shouto discovered his sister is a Girl

Notes: Fuyumi needs more love. That’s all

Fandom: Boku no Hero Academia

Genre: Fluff

Pairings: Fuyusei (FuyumixTense) Huwumi (FuyumixHawks)

Summary: Or the four times Shouto Todoroki saw someone flirting with Fuyumi and the one time he did something about it.

WARNING: Mineta being Mineta

The first time it happened it took him by surprise and it left as soon as it came. He was also not prepared.

The whole class had just came back from winter break and were all sharing stories from their time apart in the common room. Mina had gone ice-skating, Jirou, Kaminari and Momo went to a concert together, Koda had gone to a rally in the park, Hagakure and Ojiro were now officially dating.

“What about you guys?” Asui asked, looking at him, Midoriya and Bakugou. “Did you do anything apart from the internship kero?”

“Well, I spent a lot of time with my mom. And my dad came back for two weeks, so I also spent a lot of time with him.” Midoriya said as his cheeks turned pinkish for being in the spotlight. “Oh, and I had dinner with Kacchans family.”

Bakugou growled at that as everybody chuckled at the image. They sometimes forgot how close the two actually were. Then all eyes turned to him. Guess it was his turn to talk.

“I…. I learnt how to make snow cones with my sister…”

“WAIT,” Kaminari interrupted him. “You have a sister?”

“Yeah, her name is Fuyumi. She’s a teacher…” He said, taking out his phone and displaying a photo of her on the screen (a selfie Natsuo took with him and Fuyumi squished to his side) and passed the phone for his classmates to see.

Their reaction were… wierd. At least for him. Fuyumi was like a second mom to him. She cooked for him, cleaned, took care of him, she even helped him in some subjects to enter U.A. So other people calling her thing like, cute, nice, or other was not what he was accustom to.

“Man, I sure wish your sister gave private classes….” Mineta slured with drool dripping out of his mouth. He was stopped by Jirou and one of her earjacks.

“What….”

“So, IIDA,” Shouto got interrupted again but this time by Sero “What did you do on winter break?”

.

The second time lasted longer. And Fuyumi was there. Sort of. He wasn’t prepared this time either.

They had just left the hospital after an evening with Mom and were going to their now usual hangout, a small french cafe. They had come so many times that the staff already knew their orders by heart.

He went to the register as Fuyumi picked a table for them. But as he was waiting in line to order, he couldn’t help but listen part of the conversation between two men in front of him.

“You saw the hottie that just entered… the one sitting alone in the back,?”

"Yeah, what do you think her bra size is?”

He stoped listening after that. He was not going to pay attencion to two pigs without manners. Soon they left with their order and Shoto received his minutes later. When he turned to find his sister, he saw the two pigs were next to her table while she was looking at her phone, completly ignoring them.

He didn’t understood it. Why would they do that? And with Fuyumi no less.

Yes he knew his sister was pretty and polite, but that didn’t mean that guys should go after her. Yes, she was in a dateable age, but… but… Fuyumi didn’t date and that was it.

He was marching there with every intencion of roasting the two pigs, when they left on their own. But not before giving her a flimsy piece of paper and throwing her a kiss.

When he sat on the table, he asked her what happend to which Fuyumi responded: “Nothing I couldn’t handle, don’t worry. Besides, it happens all the time.”

Oh, okay. His sister could handle it…..

Wait, what does she mean by all the time?

.

The third and fourth time happened so close to each other that he was not able to react to neither of them. Even though he was prepared.

It was during an open class day. Kind of like a culture festival, but only two people per student. Natsuo wasn’t able to come due to a tournament, so Fuyumi came alone.

The day started as a normal school day, except when the heroics class came, the students guest’s were able to watch and or participate. During his hero class, he saw Fuyumi chatting animatedly with a guy on a wheelchair. Most likely Iida’s brother.

That was okay.

He was okay with that.

Iida Tensei was respectable, polite and hard working…. and if anything did went wrong, he was in a wheelchair…. a little push and it was over….. so, yes…. he was okay with it….. he was…

Okay, he wasn’t. Why wasn’t he?

And apparently he was starring too. Because Midoriya asked him what was wrong. “Nothing, I just…. nothing” He responded turning his back to his sister and watching her laught with the ex pro-hero.

"Todoroki, why are you glaring at Iidas brother?" Asui asked him bluntly as always. He could feel how everybody was waiting for his explanations to why he was rudely starring at a disabled man.

"Hey, pay attention half and half bastard!" To be honest, he has never been more grateful for Bakugou's crude language.

When the exercise was over and class A and B joined their guest, the first thing he noticed was another guy talking to his sister.

This one was blonde and his laught was just like Monomas. He looked like an asshole.

"Why is everybody flirting with my sister?" He asked himself with a sigh quietly.

But apparently not quiet enough, since Mineta decided to answer him.

"She does have a great size of knockers"

Judging by how fast Minetas face had turned white, he must of not have reacted well to that.

.

The fifth time he saw it happened he did something. He was prepared. Or so he thought.

He was just arriving home for the weekend when he heard it. Laughter. From his sister and somebody else. He pressed himself against the tatami wall to hear better.

"... and somehow we ended up in the roof of the Empire State"

"You have the wildest night out, Takami"

Who the hell was Takami?

"Well, we are always looking for another partner in crime. We loved if you come"

Once he heard that, he automatically slided the door open. And in the couch, way too close to Fuyumi, holding a cup was the number 2 hero, Hawks. The door opening made both adults look up and, thankfully, separate a little.

"Hi Shouto" Fuyumi welcomed him with a smile "How are you? How was school?"

"Fine" He responded as he sat in between them. "My scar itches though, do we have something for it?" He turned his back to Hawks to ask his sister.

"I think we still do. Wait here" With that she left the room.

"Your eye okay, Shouto?" And now to deal with the bird infestations.

"No. You should leave" He told him looking at him dead in the eyes. He only got a confused stare as a response.

Time to bring out the big gun. "Does Endevor know you are here flirting with his only daughter?"

He doubted his old man would care. But from his reaction, he didn't know that. Perfect.

"I have the cream for your scar Shouto." And just in time for his sister to come back into the room.

She handed it to him and asked if he needed help applying it. "No, I'm fine. Thank you, sis". He smiled at her and then returned to stare at Hawks.

She smiled in return and turned to Hawks, who jumped back to his feet when he felt her gaze. "Is everything okay, Takami?"

Suddenly, Hawks grinned at him but changed it to a smile when he turned to Fuyumi.

"Yeah, I just didn't realise what time it was. But..." He took out a napkin and a pen from the pockets of his hero costume and scribbled something down. He then gave the napkin to Fuyumi. "If you want a wild night out, call me."

His sister turned red like a tomato while he saw red. He chased Hawks out of the house and once he left, he went back to Fuyumi to see her staring confused at the napkin with Hawks number.

The end.

[epilogue-and-prologue]

To Protect and To Serve - Part 1 : The Meeting

Plot: Reader is working with therapy dogs for veterans. She meets James Barnes through her job. Sort of. 

Note/Warnings: Fluff. Dogs. Shelter. Disability in dogs. (1757 Words)

Disclaimers: Nothing belongs to me.

“Buck, you’re ready?”

It was a first. Never, ever, before any veteran specifically went to you for help. Usually there was a whole protocol in place. You could not decide which dog you were going to assign to whom nor who the new trainee would be with. This was highly unprofessional if not dangerous.

In any other situation you would have said no. But, in any other situation Captain America does not show up on your door trying to buy his way in with a sugar-coated smile and cookies.

In any other situation you would not even meet the person your trainee was affected to. You had met Steve by accident and your mouth slipped. You should have known better. But July, the German Shepard he was assigned with was not signaled as a therapy dog. Steve felt as it was not fair for him to have been treated so fast when others were still waiting so he tried to cover up in any way he could. Although, it was entirely his fault if your tea went flying when he bumped into you. Well, a little bit of yours for not looking up from your phone too.

Captain America being Steve Rogers he apologized profusely buying you another drink and not settling before you accepted it. Words leading to sentences and sentences leading to “I work with therapy dogs for veterans for a job” the math was not so hard to do. And now, here you were, in a shelter of all places, with two of the most recognizable men on the planet hidden behind hats and sunglasses.

They still managed—to your surprise—to pull it off.

The volunteer came and took you three to the dog shelter in the back. The dogs were in all shape and sizes, mostly bad shapes but most of them were in recovery from bad treatments so no surprise there.

You did not know how to address him. Steve had told you Bucky. He himself had told you that James or Barnes was enough, Bucky being much more intimate. You still had no idea how it would go if his name ever slipped off your tongue.

“(Y/N)? How do you think this is going so far?”

Steve’s anxiety dripped in his voice and soon enough July was by his side.

The young man working at the shelter had left you alone for the moment. He was talking a few feet away with an older woman.

“I don’t know. But he will. He probably won’t choose until he meets a dog with which it clicks. And it can—probably will—take time.

 —You’re talking about that dog as if it was a dame to court.”

Steve smirked. You raised an eyebrow.

“Well, it is a strong relationship so yeah... The parallel is not so overreached.

—So! Have you decided yet?”

The volunteer had come back. James looked at Steve and he answered a “No” rubbing the back of his head. The young man smiled and continued:

“No pressure. If you need to take your time, it’s alright. Taking a pet into your home is a new addition to your life. It’s normal to be wary of it at first. I’ll leave you to it for now.

 —Thanks!

 —Thank you, young man.

 —Steve...

 —What?!

 —You did it again.

 —No, I did not.

 —Yes. You did.

 —No. (Y/N) tell him that I did not use a patronizing tone with the employee!

 —Well...

 —No, not a patronizing tone. Your Captain America tone.”

You chuckled.

“And what in the name of anything holy is that Barnes?”

Well, the words had slipped off your tongue alright. His eyes twitched a little mischievously.

“His Captain America tone. And vocabulary, like kids or young man. He could give lessons with that tone but I’m not sure people would listen though...”

Without thinking about it you laughed at the comment. The blonde man beside you looked at you a bit disappointed if it was not for his goofy smile.

“Buck... You cannot tell this kind of thing aloud. It will get your ass in trouble.

 —Oh my... Steve, did you just swear? Are you sure we’re allowed to do that?”

If his face was getting any redder, he might have turned into a walking tomato. You could not help the laugh escaping you.

A bark resonated behind you, through the small cage.

It was large enough for a puppy to be running around, still this one had not. He only barked profusely when you put your hand on the wiring. He walked to you still barking and that is when you noticed it. His right first foot was missing a white bandage covering the stump.

Immediately stopping to laugh, the old friends shared a look before James crouched in front of the small Labrador’s place.

“Hey big guy... What are you up to huh?”

The animal kept barking as he put his gloved hand first, not trusting the animal entirely.

The pup barked and barked and barked, showing his teeth to Barnes’s metal fingers until they reached his head. Slowly scratching there, the small thing seemed to calm themselves down before settling down and letting the soldier pet them.

When the young volunteer came back, and before he could say anything, both men stood in front of him.

James talked this time around.

“We’ll take this big guy over there.”

--------

After a few discussions about the treatment for the dog’s leg and some papers, James left the shelter the next day with a very anxious black Labrador. Turned out, the dog was a girl, a very frightened and scared girl pup. So, she was not suitable for any training right now considering her heavy trauma. You had told that to James and Steve but apparently none of them listened and came to see you—at your house not your work: you did not want to get fired—the following week with the small Labrador in James’s arms.

“You know if you don’t let her go she will never leave the house. You’ll have her even when she’s in college. No more sex life and all that stuff.”

You smirked at that. The Captain was right though.

“Listen James...

 —You should call me Bucky... Everybody does nowadays.”

His sentence startled you, your eyes widening a little.

“What do you mean? Would you like me to call you that or is it because someone” you glared Steve’s way as he raised his hands in an innocence plea “made you do it?”

“Steve wouldn’t force a frog to have a bath if his life depended on it.

 —Hey! You know that’s not true!

—Yeah, but still fun to get a rise out of you.”

He absentmindedly stroke the dog’s head.  

“No (Y/N) it’s because I want you to. Plus, James makes me feel odd and Barnes ... well. I’m not a soldier anymore. Just call me Bucky it’ll be fine.”

Still cradling the dog in his arms, you softly smiled at him and he returned it a thousandfold. Damn that smile. You swallowed hard.

“Alright… Bucky”

Damn if saying his name did not give you sinful thoughts. Rubbing your hands down your thighs in a very nervous gesture, you coughed slightly and asked what you were curious about.

“So, now that I know how to call you properly, what’s that little pumpkin’s name?”

Steve huffed before going to the kitchen. You yelled to him where everything was before settling back into the arm chair.

“She has no name yet.”

Taken aback you tried not to show the surprise on your face.

“Do you need help with it?”

The man in front of you released a slow breath and let the puppy down from his arms.

“Maybe? I don’t know actually...

 —No pressure. Just take your time OK?”

He nodded, appreciating the gesture. Steve came back with a small tray of cookies and warm beverages.

You looked at it suspiciously.

“I don’t remember buying homemade cookies last time I went to the grocery store...”

The captain simply shrugged.

“Nat loves to bake and she always makes too much. And you said cookies were your favorite way of—and I quote—’eating your problems away””.

You heard Bucky chuckle before you saw it, making your heart jump. But before you had time to react to that you felt the Labrador’s paw on your leg. You lifted her and settled her on your lap. She was a needy one though and started putting her truffle up licking your chin and cheeks until you took her back into your arms.

You raised an eyebrow at Bucky.

“See what you’ve done with her? She can’t get into anyone’s arm without asking for attention now... But she’s cute so I’ll give her that.

 —Hey, you’re lucky this ‘pumpkin’ ripped one of my shirt open when I tried picking her up last night!

 —I’m sure they were people who enjoyed the view Cap, no need to complain about it.”

You winked as emphasis and he blushed again making you and Bucky laugh in unison.

“You three are going to be the death of me one day.

 —I was your friend when you were sick and skinny you don’t get to complain about that friendship now.

 —Yeah and I... Well, I have no good excuse for that but it’s just so funny to see you turn into a giant Dorito tomato flavored whenever we mention something related to sex.”

The black dog in your arms barked wiggling his tail as if to agree with and it only made the three of you laugh. You handed her back to Bucky ever so carefully.

“Yeah ... you know that he is a big Dorito—whatever the hell that is.”

Surprising everyone the small dog seemed to agree with his owner. An idea came to you making you grin and making Steve suddenly worried.

“Hey! Dorito! That’s a name for a dog isn’t it?”

The blonde man looked at you with big eyes and put his hand to his forehead in anticipation for his best friend’s answer.

"...I don’t know... What do you think Dorito?

 —You can’t call your dog that!

 —She seems to like it!”

Indeed, the pup almost jumped from Bucky’s arms, licking his face as she heard the name.

“Well, Dorito it is.

 —Yes!

 —You’re not going to let me live it down, will you?

 —Nope.

 —Not even in your wildest dreams Dorito man.”

You shared a heartfelt laugh with the two men once again.

It felt foreign and good. It was perfect.

[elfnerdherder]

Where the Wicked Walk: Ch. 21

[Support My Writing] [Read on Ao3]

Chapter 21: Annabel Lee

           Will woke with an urgency that belied the dragging weight of his muscles. There was a disorienting lack of knowing just where he was and how he’d gotten there; it took far too long for him to realize that it was Lecter’s office and that he’d fallen asleep in the armchair. His neck ached, and his back cringed from the awkward angle. The fire had gone out hours before, ashes cooling against the stone. He stared at them, then found himself rising to his feet, needing something.

           Down the darkened halls he ventured, a weird sort of urgency that pushed, pushed. He paused at a corridor, unsure, then turned to the right, the very blood in his veins urging him forward, whispering that if he just walked faster then it’d be alright –run, if he could. His side burned; he couldn’t. He couldn’t run, but he could hurry, hurry fast.

           Will stopped just before a door that he found to be locked after a brief test of jiggling the handle. His hands passed over the frame, glided along the heavy, sturdy wood that remained as a barrier to him –a barrier to what? He pressed his fingers to the whorls of the wood, like he could ingrain his fingerprints to it if he pressed hard enough. He was becoming part of this place, he thought dazedly. He was bleeding into the walls, the paint, the hunger. He wondered if Molly would tell Wally to trust him now.

           Go, go, something urged, and he pushed harder. The smoke of dreams still curled through his mind, foggy and hot in the lungs, and he leaned against the door, pressing his cheek to it. Go, go.

           He gave a start when the sharp sound of a lock turning cracked through the otherwise silence of the hall.

           The door opened, and Will stepped back to give them space. He shifted impatiently from foot to foot, a tremor working its way through, him; when the door opened just enough to admit him, he pushed it the rest of the way, a hiss of aggravated air rushing past his lips. He had to go; he had to go.

           “Will-” they said, but Will wasn’t listening. He was pressed against him before he could truly think, before he could fight against the rush of endorphins that flooded him as his skin met skin, as his heartbeat thudded once, twice. It was dizzying, the sense of utmost relief as he pressed his face into the hollow of his neck, needing something –contact, exposure, relief.

           It was a drug, and it washed over the walls of his mind, leaving him drunk off of the sensation of just what it was to feel sweet, sweet peace. Arms wrapped around him, and god, could it feel any better? Could he feel any more at ease? This thing that lay draped around him, this chemical reaction that made his muscles loosen their tension, made his bones stop grinding against his sinew; he blinked starlight from his eyes, imprints leaving bright lights in his vision.

           It was that thought that prompted him to look up, to blink past the haze that reassured him that everything was going to be alright if he just touched. Shock was a dousing of cold water across his skin, a sharp plummet in his stomach that sent him stumbling back from him, falling over himself where he landed on the floor of the hall, hard.

           “No, no,” he whispered, horrified. No, this wasn’t true; no, this hadn’t happened. In all of his nightmares, in all of his wildest thoughts that ran rampant throughout an imagination that more often than not sought his destruction, he hadn’t thought to consider such a thing, such a fucking thing that had less than a one percent chance of occurring:

           A staggered connection.

           Hannibal Lecter was his soulmate.

-

           “Dr. Chilton, thank you for taking the time to speak to me.”

           “No trouble at all; this is a messy business, as I’m sure you know,” Frederick replied. He didn’t often like to play the martyr; it stemmed from an issue that he had with pride, according to the psychiatric evaluation he’d done on himself years before. “I have agents swarming my establishment, investigations on all of my employees, bad press…I found a reporter in one of my laundry bins, trying to hide from security.”

           “Well, with three people of your employ aiding Hannibal Lecter in his current killing sprees, we have to take precautions,” Jack replied.

           “Three?” Frederick sniffed.

           “Three,” Jack affirmed. Frederick often equivalated him to that of a bull dog because of his mannerisms. He could almost hear him setting his jaw as he continued, “Further information has revealed that a Matthew Brown of your establishment is working with Dr. Lecter.”

           “Matthew Brown?” Frederick said, scalded. “No, no, I haven’t employed him for at least three years, Agent Crawford. You can’t blame me for him.”

           “No one is blaming you for anything,” Jack replied calmly. “What can you tell me about him?”

           Frederick found himself pacing, a certain sort of unease at a question like that. Despite sitting before many a certifiably insane person with a magnifying glass, he didn’t take well to being in what he’d heard his employees call ‘the hot seat’.

           “Dr. Chilton?”

           “Yes, yes,” he said, irritated. “It takes a moment to try and remember someone you fired years ago.”

“Fired?”

“Matthew Brown, yes…yes, I fired him.” He nodded, the memories slowly surfacing. “He had a habit of speaking to the patients. It wasn’t anything altogether horrible, but it is a rule here. I don’t like the orderlies getting too friendly with the patients; it breeds the idea that they could potentially get them a lighter sentencing if they were to become friends, or it could ruin the integrity of the screening procedures for letters and potential gifts that come into my establishment.”

“Do you know what sort of things he’d say?”

           “Well, that was the problem of it,” Chilton replied, pacing. He hadn’t done anything wrong, but Crawford often made him feel like he had. “He would disable my microphones so that when I played it back, I couldn’t hear anything. Fired him right in front of everyone to set a better tone in my workplace.”

           “Did he speak often with Dr. Lecter?”

           “As often as he did any other.”

           “And there’s no way you could find out the sort of things they discussed?”

           “What is this, years ago he planned some sort of…of heist in order to free Dr. Lecter?” Frederick demanded. “All because I fired him?”

           The silence was long, the sort of silence Frederick liked to do when questioning people that came to his office. He could recognize it as a sort of power play, to see how long the other could hold out before speaking. Seeing his own tactics turned against him was in poor taste, in his opinion. He paused by a window and stared down at another set of agents that made their way up the steps of the hospital, suited and serious.

           “I understand that this is a frustrating thing for you,” Jack said after he supposed an appropriate amount of time had passed. “I’m just trying to do what you’re trying to do.”

           “Oh, are you?”

           “Help people as best as I can. Hell, we get Lecter fast enough, I may be able to persuade the courts that he’s still best suited locked up behind your bars rather than someone else’s.”

           “He is best locked up behind my bars, Agent Crawford! If it hadn’t been for-”

           “Thank you for the information regarding Mr. Brown. I’ll call you if I have anything else.”

           “Now wait just a moment! You’re saying that-”

           He wouldn’t be able to confirm what Crawford was saying, though. The call disconnected, and he hung up the phone, grinding his teeth. It was a bad habit, and sooner or later he’d have to do something about it, but there they were. There they were, and his hospital was under enough suspicion that he’d be lucky to get a borderline personality disorder sent to his doors, let alone anyone as rare as Lecter after this was through.

           A troubling state of affairs, indeed.

           He was musing and scowling out of his window at nothing in particular when there was a knock at his door.

           “Come in,” he said dismally.

           He turned around, and a man and woman entered the room, steps in sync. Her fair hair and pale eyes were a stark contrast to the man’s short, buzzed hair and darker skin tone, but from head to toe they were dressed the exact same. Chilton couldn’t have said if it was the eerie, blank expressions, or if it was the knowing look they gave one another, but it set his teeth on edge. He found himself grinding his teeth again despite the ache in his jaw, and it took far too long for him to relax, shoulders rolling forward then back. He thought their pattern and distinction odd, but no comment was made. If he wanted Lecter back in his cell, he’d have to play nice with the FBI.

           “I just got off of the phone with your boss,” he said by way of greeting.

           The man tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes fixated on Chilton with the sort of intensity that made Chilton nervous. His lip curled in retaliation, and his spine stiffened.

           “I don’t think you have,” the man said. He had a smooth sort of speech, the hint of a musician’s tremor to the words.

           “Haven’t I? Has the FBI sent another department? How many people are you going to have crawling through my work space?” Chilton demanded. The woman closed the door behind her, her head tilted as she surveyed Chilton from head to toe.

           “Is he what you thought?” she asked the man.

           “Oh, yes,” the man said lightly. “Exactly as he was described.”

           “Now see here, I want to speak with your boss! The FBI can’t send people left and right as they like, coming here and interrupting what-”

           “Do you want to speak with him?” the man asked.

           “Wh-what?” His interruption ruined Frederick’s tirade, muddled the whole thing. He’d had a couple of clever quips to toss in, just to really dig it to him.

           “Do you want to speak with him?” the man repeated, just as calm as before.

           “…Yes, in fact, I do.”

           The man produced a satellite phone, which was odd enough in Frederick’s humble opinion, but he made no comment on it.

           “It’s dialing,” the man assured him.

           “After I’m off the phone, I want to see your credentials,” Frederick muttered, and he put the phone to his ear.

           “Good afternoon, Dr. Chilton,” their boss said.

           His voice after all this time was chilling, sent an icy pain down his spine that froze him in place. It wasn’t so much that it had been a long time since hearing it, but rather what the ramifications were of his hearing. His eyes, wide with shock –and dare he admit a little bit of fear? –bounced from the woman to the man, and he managed to shuffle away from them, shaking his head.

           “No…” he managed, which wasn’t at all what he wanted to say. ‘Help’ would have been nice; perhaps a ‘someone call the police’ could have also sufficed, if he could have yelled. They were blocking the door, though, and he wasn’t the sort to leap from a three-story window just to try and save himself.

           “Oh, yes,” Hannibal Lecter said pleasantly. “Before you, you see two of my associates, I’m sure.”

           “…Yes,” Chilton said faintly. He broke out into a sweat, gaze bouncing between the two of them.

           “That is Tobias Budge, a lovely musician from the Baltimore Symphony, as well as Maggie Kester.” There was a pause, and one thing that Frederick hated most of all was Dr. Lecter’s ability to wield pauses far better than Frederick himself could. “You remember Mr. Kester, don’t you? Rick Kester?”

           Chilton’s knees buckled.

           He caught himself, though, and he leaned back against the wall as he stared at the woman and the man, side-by-side and perfectly calm. “Yes…” he managed, a break in his voice. “Y-yes,” he said, a bit stronger. “I remember.”

           “I found Tobias after he shoved the neck of a cello down a man’s throat to try and play his vocal chords,” Hannibal said. “And Maggie all but tracked me down through Francis Dolarhyde. She’s resourceful. The agent that brought her husband to you –you remember that agent, yes? –she killed by placing a magnet on his pacemaker. He had a bad heart.”

           “I don’t know where you are, Hannibal,” Frederick said, swallowing down the terror clawing its way up his throat. “I don’t know where you are, I couldn’t possibly…”

           “A long time ago, Dr. Chilton, I informed you that if I should ever manage to be released from your institution, I’d never forget you. You laughed and informed me that there was no such likelihood, seeing as how you held the key to my future.” There was a pause that oozed bitter delight. “Do you recall?”

           Frederick certainly recalled. He didn’t feel quite up to acknowledging it, though.

           “I’d hate to not keep my promises though, even after my release. I think it’d be quite discourteous of me. As I’m unable to personally sit down and catch up, seeing as how I’m currently busy, Mr. Budge and Ms. Kester were more than happy to come by.”

           “Dr. Lecter, really, you don’t have to-”

           “Oh, but I do, Dr. Chilton. I keep my promises, however I may.”

           The line went dead. There was a prolonged pause; Chilton was quite familiar with pauses and just how varied they could be. He used them far too much in his work, or so the critics said. There were some pauses used to illicit guilt. There were some pauses used to test people, to wait out their impatience until they couldn’t keep quiet any longer. Some pauses were used to deliver a particularly good jab against colleagues that didn’t understand his genius. There were some pauses when Chilton struggled to come up with something that fit the narrative of what his diagnosis was on an inmate –those pauses were especially troublesome for him and kept him awake late at night. Dr. Bloom informed him that he had those sorts of pauses all wrong, although he humbly thought otherwise.

This was a pause of resignation, though. It was a stalling sort of pause, the kind when one realizes just the sort of situation they’re in right before everything falls to pieces. He could see this pause in all of its wretched glory, see it for what it was and what it meant for him. Chilton numbly hung up and passed the phone back to Tobias Budge’s patient and waiting hand.

           “It’s so nice to finally meet you in person. When you testified to have my husband killed by lethal injection, I thought a meeting was long overdue,” Maggie gushed. She had matching brown eyes, flat and soulless despite her eager tone. “Let’s sit down and chat.”

-

           Freddie Lounds’ foot sunk into a particularly soft spot in the ground, and she cursed.

           She was only a mile or two into the woods, but it felt like an eternity. Her car was parked as discreetly as she could get it on a turnabout, and there was a moment of hesitation where she’d debated the honest pros and cons of just going back to it and calling the cops. She wasn’t cut out for hiking through the woods towards the potential hiding place of a den of serial killers. She was a writer, for God’s sake, not some woodsy folk.

Investigative journalism and all. If Jack Crawford wasn’t going to play nice, Freddie Lounds figured that she in no way owed him anything that would help him catch Clark Ingram. He said find Will Graham, and she’d find Will Graham. Maybe get some kind of award for being the only one smart enough to hunt down the man that’d stuck an FBI agent with a stiletto with his partner not even fifty feet away. Jack Crawford was so concerned with sticking it to Lecter that he was missing the piss in the proverbial pie.

It probably said something about her that she was more concerned with her story and her career than helping anyone -she often wondered if that made her a psychopath to some degree, that her successes were more important than their lives. As she picked her way around a particularly muddy patch near a fallen tree, she wondered at her gall, that she’d rather go about this the hard way than just call Crawford and tell him she’d found Ingram. Pride. There was a whole lot of pride involved.

Maybe not a psychopath, but certainly a narcissist. She wanted the glory, and it’d be a damn good feeling to shove it in his face when she called him from the safety of her car with Will Graham in tow. ‘Found your guy,’ she’d say casually. Found him and I didn’t have to incarcerate someone else before I got to him.

Her readers would just love that.

She wasn’t quite sure about the girl that’d accompanied him, though. She didn’t seem the murdering sort -she had an innocent, mom-did-drugs-and-I-suffered sort of expression. Freddie couldn’t discount her, though; it was the innocent ones you had to look out for. There was something about her that was utterly recognizable, but Freddie couldn’t put a finger on it. Emma. Clark Ingram had called her Emma. Something to table later, after she’d saved the day.

Hannibal Lecter had murdered at least fourteen people while aiding others in therapy, after all. You couldn’t discount the innocent ones.

She wondered if Will Graham would allow a photo op of her saving him when the time came. Things to think about later, when she wasn’t sidling around a tree in order to avoid slipping down an unpleasantly muddy hill.

-

           Lloyd was woken abruptly by his phone vibrating off of the nightstand and onto the floor. Drug-induced sleep was difficult to wake from; it left thick dust over his thoughts and made his throat hoarse. He groaned, shifted, and tried to turn just enough to scoop his phone up. The wound burned in anger, and he triumphantly grabbed it before collapsing back into bed, sighing. He hurt. A lot.

           “What do you have?” he asked, turning the speaker phone on.

           “You’re going to want to see this,” Nick said by way of greeting. “I found it.”

           The laptop was far easier to reach. He kept it just to the side of him while he slept, for ease of access in case he woke with a hunch. He turned the brightness down as it started up and burned his eyes. The e-mail loaded, and he clicked the prompted link with a yawn.

           “I gotta say, these guys have a flare for the dramatic,” said Nick as Lloyd waited for it to load. “I think this is more theatrics than genuine belief, but maybe that’s just me trying to normalize these weirdos. Either way, it’s wild.”

           The page loaded to a black screen with red ink dripping from the top of the page to the bottom. Lloyd blinked lazily and stared at it, thinking of how his blood had looked dripping onto the pavement. The thought hadn’t come to him before; trauma, most likely, that his mind had repressed it until now. He’d laid there, pressed on top of the assailant, before someone turned him onto his back. His blood had dripped to the pavement much like it did on the webpage, and he wondered just who’d designed it to get the vision oh-so very right.

           “How’d you find it?” he asked. His voice was rough, gravel across concrete. He waved his mouse over the screen before it shifted from an arrow to a pointing finger on a particularly plain spot, and he clicked the apparent link curiously.

           “A bit of this and that. Say, I got a date lined up with a girl from that soulmate site. Wish me luck, right? They claim I’ll find ‘the one’ with just one date, but it can’t be that easy. I need to make a real experiment of this.”

           “Nick,” Lloyd cut in.

           “I mean, if she’s the one then I won’t complain, you know? Her photo was cute and all, but I’m not going to get too excited. It’s easy to get your hopes up, I’m sure, but-”

           “Good luck with the date –now tell me about how you found this place.”

“You don’t really want to know, do you? Because if you do, I’m actually really fucking proud of it, but it’s kind of like ‘how do I cut this down to laymen’s terms so that you-”

           “You’re right,” Lloyd cut in irritably, waiting for the screen to load. “I don’t really want to know.”

           “I figured. So, you find the link yet?”

           Lloyd hummed an assent.

           “Here’s where it gets good, right? Has it loaded?”

           “It’s loading.”

           Nick’s excitement bled into the earpiece. “Guess what, it won’t ever load. It’s a dummy link. It makes you think that you’re going to, like, the next step, but then you don’t. You just look at this seventh-grade emo site for sad kids for ages and it never loads.”

           “So how’d you get in?”

           “Looks like these guys are basically recruiting those with a little bit of tech smarts. Smart on their part. They don’t just want fangirls, they want some real shit. If you basically hack into the interface –sounds more complex than it is, trust me –it pops up with a chat box that you can send a message to them through. They get back to you pretty quickly.”

           Lloyd froze, staring at the hourglass loading icon as it continued to turn and turn and turn. “I’m…guessing you did exactly that.”

           “Hell yeah,” Nick said with a laugh. “Guess who I’m talking to right now?”

           Lloyd’s blood went cold. “Who, Nick?”

           “Agent Francis-Fucking-Dolarhyde, that’s who,” Nick crowed. “I’m tracking their IP right now. I’ll send the information to Crawford once I find them. The little fucker’s trying to give me the slip, but I’m good. I’m damn good.”

           “Nick, do not engage with them,” Lloyd said, and he pulled himself to a sitting position with a wince. “You think he’s not tracking you and looking into your background as you try to find him? He was an actual FBI agent, not one of your tech buddies that you play Dungeons and Dragons with on Roll20.”

           “That’s a really sharp crowd, Uncle Lloyd,” Nick said off-handedly. “Don’t knock them just because one of them keeps playing a Halfling that dies every other session.”

           “Nick, I’m serious, don’t-”

           “Besides, you wanted my help, right? He won’t find me. I’ve got no trail that can be tracked, and this will show the FBI just how to find these ass holes. I’m helping you out, remember? That’s my job? That’s what you got ahold of me for?”

           “This isn’t one of your games that you can talk yourself out of if you get in too deep. One mistake, and you’re dead. Do you hear me? In the real world, to lose means that you die.”

           “I won’t lose. Don’t worry.” Nick was miffed; it sounded through on the speaker as he let out a curt huff of breath. “You’re welcome, by the way. I’ll call with more information.”

           “Nick-”

           He hung up, and Lloyd cursed, glaring at the screen that kept dripping blood with slow, lazy ease. A lot of animations made blood look odd, just different enough that no one took it seriously. They made it ooze rather than spread like water, reaching and grasping with all intents of a liquid set free from a container.

           Liquid spreads to meet the space in which it rests. In a cup, it is a cup shape. In a box, it is a box shape, his eighth grade science teacher said.

           He stared at the blood dripping, and he nodded to himself as he bookmarked, then exited the browser. Whoever made the animation certainly knew what it was like to see blood spilt. They had a perfect, genuine understanding of just what that looked like, had seen it often enough to know.

           And Nick was barreling straight to them.

           Oh, good!

A lovely thanks to my patrons: @hanfangrahamk @matildaparacosm @starlit-catastrophe @frostyleegraham @frostylicker @sylarana Duhaunt6 and Superlurk! <3

[jokers-sweethearts]

Harley’s Daughter Imagine: Fear Toxin

Request: @iamnotazombiie Can you do an imagine where Harley introduces her daughter to Jonathan Crane and then she helps Scarecrow release his Fear Toxin on Gotham? (the last one I swear lol)

//////////

The sun was barely over the Gotham horizon as Harley and her daughter drove through the streets. The purple lamborghini was drawing the attention of the few lost souls that that filed through. Some were so doped up they didn’t dare look at the woman whose attention would guarantee their death, others were so doped up they couldn’t help it.

“See all these people baby?” Harley said.

Your mothers voice was deep with no amusement whatsoever. It was so unusual you didn’t even think of a reply.

“All these people will be affected and most of them grateful. What other purpose in life do they have?”

“Their next fix” you said, half joking half not.

Harley laughed, deep, not the giggle she always let out. “Now that’s my girl, that’s why we’ll need your help with this. Your outlook is refreshing”.

We, the word disturb you because it was the first time your mother had been using in not relating back to her and your father. It seemed impossible to you that Harley and Joker could exist or do something without each other.

“I used to be like them too, without a purpose. All I cared about what writing my book and becoming famous. My next fix really. Until I met your father”

You took a discreet sigh of relief when she brought your father into the topic.

“He showed me there was more to this city and we were the only ones who could see it. He hates Jon but he can respect him”.

Your mother turned the corner into a dark alleyway behind the derelict buildings of Gotham, where the sun didn’t reach. She slowed down and kept a keen eye outside her window looking for an entrance. Your adrenaline began pumping thinking about meeting him for the first time. You heard so much about Dr. Crane over the years he almost had a mythical reputation. But if your mother could trust him, so could you. It gave you a glimpse into your mothers life as a rogue doctor that you were happy to be apart of at last. No matter the cost. But you couldn’t help the overwhelming feeling of longing for your father to be there. When she stopped the car and began to get out you cleared your throat and joined her, standing tall not to exhibit any doubt or fear of your own. She was clutching her small purse to her side like it was a lifeline. 

The two of you entered the building, it was filled with vats of boiling liquid that exhumed a green smoke. It reminded you of Ace Chemicals and you got some comfort out of that. You kept close behind your mother as she headed through the building, stopping and looking up at the railings near the ceiling.

“Ah Miss Quinn” an inhuman voice reigned down. “Right on time” the person behind it was protected by shadows.

Your mothers red lips spread into a cryptic smile. She grasped the bad harder. “Johnny!” her voice was high pitched and excited, returned to normal it made you smile too. “get your ass down here and let’s get started!”

The man stepped out and made his way down to the two of you. That’s when you saw the mask for the first time. It looked like a wool bag that had been stitched up. The suit he was wearing looked dusty and not fitted to him. Quite the opposite from your fathers flashes and perfect wardrobe. The closer he got the better look you had at the machinery around his body. Cords and mechanics you didn’t understand wrapped around his torso and led up to the back of his head and the mask itself. He couldn’t have been human, at least not completely. 

“Glad to see you brought her” he stood in front of you and extended his hand like an ordinary business meeting. You slowly took it to shake.

“I want my baby to see what we’re capable of”.

“Oh I’m sure she will. Follow me ladies” your mother and him began to walk side by side and you followed behind listening.

They were using vocabulary you didn’t quite understand, stuff from their medical brains referring to the vats surrounding you.

“The clown doesn’t mind?” Jon whispered to Harley, making sure her daughter didn’t catch it.

“He doesn’t know, but she thinks he does. Keep it that way”.

“Trouble in paradise?” 

“He wouldn’t want us working with anyone but him, but I can’t pass this up. It’s too good” Harley stopped and tapped her heal examining the vat. Her head got flashes of the night in Ace. Part of her still wanted her Puddin there with her, but he’d never be happy with it. She had to break free a bit.

“Has your mother told you the plan?” the man turned to you.

“Not really” you said, slightly nervous at the close up look at him. You’d seen strange things in Gotham but even he was a bit eccentric.

“You’re mother and I have crafted a plan for this dear city of ours. A fear toxin that will, to say the least, stir everyone up”.

“A fear toxin?” you inquired.

“Oh she hasn’t told you my real name? Just call me Scarecrow”.

......................

Joker sat on the floor with nothing bu this gun and a glass of scotch. It was only a few hours that his girls were gone and the feeling of uncertainty was taking over completely. The years he spent with Harley he always tried to uncover new things about her. To read her better. But she was good and kept certain parts of herself hidden. It was what was so intoxicating about her. So he let them both go, briefly believing that it was just a ‘girls day’ and not to ‘pry’. He always gave them what they wanted and he loved and hated it about himself.

He twirled the glass thinking about her words before she left, kicking himself for not double checking with their daughter. For trusting the only other master of manipulation besides himself. As much as he loved Harley he knew she wasn’t telling the truth but he tried to ignore it. It was the subtle things, the tone of her voice, where her eyes locked, the clothes she wore. Harley was up to something she knew he wouldn’t like. After the squad and the sirens Joker was used to her wanting to work elsewhere. But he couldn’t let his daughter go to. She was his and he wanted it to stay that way.

He threw the glass against the wall and stood up. He couldn’t resist from finding them no matter what. Harley should expect it, he thought to himself. Joker pulled out his phone and tried to lock onto their signal. Harley had her secrets and he had his. She went somewhere without telling him and he could track her easily. An error signal popped up before him, Harley must have disabled it He gritted his metal teeth together, she was one step ahead of him again. He then tried his daughters phone, he could always count on her. The signal locked immediately.

It showed her in one of the filthiest and mostly abandoned part of the city. Now Joker was mad. It was one thing for Harley to try and take her to work with someone else or keep her from him. Another thing to expose her to such a place. Not my princess, Joker thought to himself, not in there. He put his phone back in his pocket and fired angry shots into the ceiling. 

“Frost!” he called out and within seconds his right hand man was there asking what was wrong.

“yeah boss?”

“Bring the car around” 

“Where we going boss?”

“Not we. I’m going alone”.

.......................................

You couldn’t deny how fascinating it all was. What Scarecrow was claiming the toxin could do. What it was capable of. There was something about him though, you wanted to protest and ask him questions but you didn’t want to betray your mother. She had something in her eye that was glistening. A hunger that was being fulfilled looking at the chemicals.

“You should be able to sympathize with this, being your fathers daughter” Crane addressed you. “Causing some chaos. This is just a better way of doing it”.

“How so?” you snapped back, upset the word father even left his mouth. Harley shot you a look, confused at your tone.

Scarecrow waited for a moment, you would guess he was laughing under the mask at you. Which only set off more internal alarms. 

“Once people are exposed to this, they’ll lose all sense of reality beyond even your father. Their wildest fears will come to life and that will be their new world. We can make them do anything, even the slightest possibility of relief will turn them into our slaves” the more he talked the louder and more unhinged he sounded. 

It was a nice plan, you had to admit, and you wanted to be apart of it. You wanted power just like your parents and if he could provide it, maybe your mother was right to trust him. Still, you wanted some sort of reassurance. 

“How do we protect ourselves from it?”

“That’s where I come in” your mother interrupted. “I created an antidote. After so many breaks in to Arkham and so much time, I was finally able to create it. I can’t believe I wasn’t caught” she reached into her bag and pulled out a needle. It had a yellow liquid inside of it. “There’s just enough for the people who matter”.

“Caught?” you asked referring back “Didn’t dad help?” you had never seen your mother afraid of being caught, her and your father were untouchable together.

Harley closed her eyes and breathed out, not used to slipping her words up. She turned to her daughter and saw her longing eyes. Her chest weighted heavy on her and she began to feel bad about the ongoing lie. To both the people she loved.

Scarecrow stood still waiting for Harley’s answer just as much as her daughter. He was amused to see Harley make a mistake.

“Oh kids huh?” he broke the silence, it was entertaining but distracting. He wanted to get the plan going. “They think their parents are ....superheroes.... for lack of a better term. Don’t think your parents get nervous darling?” he reached for the girls face but she slapped his hand away.

“Not my parents” you protested. “And I’m not your darling”.

“Enough!” Harley said. She grabbed her daughters hand and led her away from Crane to talk in private. “Get everything ready Johnny, I’ll just be a moment”. 

“Mom I don’t trust him” you blurted out. 

“You don’t like the plan?” she said through a pained expression.

“I love it, that’s the thing. We can do this on our own, we don’t need him”.

“If we didn’t he wouldn’t be here, do you trust me?” 

“But... what about dad”

“Do you trust me?” Harley grabbed both sides of her daughters faced and starred into her blue eyes. 

“Yes” you said coldly. 

The two of you headed back over to Crane. He held some sort of trigger in his hand. He held it up high for both of you to see. 

“Once I push this, what you see in these vats will empty. Beneath them they’re connected to the water source in Gotham” So that means that..”

“Every shower, sink, it’ll be contaminated” you said looking over at your mother, reassuring her you were there with her in mind and body.

“Yes” Scarecrow said, annoyed that he didn’t finish “Clever girl”.

“Harley!” he yelled and it echoed through the building. “Time for the antidote” he extended his hand for her to give him one of the needles. 

Harley threw her head back and began laughing. “So soon Johnny?” she reached into her purse and pulled out one of the syringes. It was different from the one she just showed but she tossed it to him anyway.

“No more playing around with me clown”

“Don’t call her that!” you fought back

The three of you stood in a stand off all waiting for someone to make the next move. You looked at your mother who was smiling devilishly, it reassured you and frightened you at the same time. Scarecrow was breathing heavily and fast. Now more than ever you wished your father was hear. 

When the doors you had came threw blew open all three of you dropped to the floor. You felt your mothers hands cover your neck and head to protect you from it. Smoke filled up around you combining with the smoke from the vats. You had had enough of not knowing and lifted your head up to see what was going on. The only thing you could make out was the green hair approaching. You crawled out from under your mothers grasp and stood up. 

“Speaking of clowns” Scarecrow got on his knees looking at the same sight. “You betrayed me you bitch!” he went to lunge towards Harley but Jokers hand grabbed the cords around his mask and ripped him back.

“Puddin what are you doing here?” she stood up, looking shocked, relieved, and angry all at once.

“What am I doing here? What is our daughter doing here?” he threw Scarecrow to the ground violently. He started to crawl away, keeping his hand tightly wrapped around the needle before sticking it in his arm to inject and scattering away.

“I told you! Girls day!” she laughed. 

Joker didn’t know what to say to her and turned to his daughter opening his arms, she didn’t hesitate before running into them.

“I knew you wouldn’t like that Jon was involved but this is bigger than him Puddin. I’ve done something I’m proud of”.

“And you couldn’t share it with me?” his pale face changed from anger to confusion. Harley felt that weight on her chest again.

You took your head off your fathers chest and looked up at them. They were face to face with only a few inches between them but their eyes suggested they were on separate sides of the world. You saw your mother reaching into her bag.

“Oh Puddin.... still don’t really trust me after all these years?” she smiled before slamming the needle into his chest. He cried out briefly in pain and you shrieked before your mother put one into your shoulder. She pulled them out and dropped them on the ground before giving one to herself and dropping the bad on the floor.

Scarecrow raced to the doors that had been blown open and pressed his thumb down on the trigger. The vats in the building started to make a rumbling sound and the liquid inside started to seep away to the bottom.

You father kept his arm around you and one hand over his chest where Harley had put the needle in.

“Harley I know you’re crazy but what the fu-”

Joker was cut off by his wife’s lips against his. She grabbed his shirt collar with both hands and kept him steady against her. They melted into each other. Your father let go of your and wrapped his arms around her waist.  Harley pulled away and they stared at each other for a moment.

“But what?” she said teasingly. Joker didn’t reply, just smiled.

The vats were now almost completely empty and you turned around eyes going crazy looking for Scarecrow.

“He’s gone!” you said. Your father took you into his arms again and pulled his gun from his holster. 

“You won’t need that Puddin, he won’t get far”.

“You gave him the antidote!” you cried to her, feeling betrayed yourself.

“Oh baby no no no no. Really think I’d let that happen? I said it was for the people who mattered. The only people that do are right here”.

You studied her face looking for more answers. Her eyes and smile were just like they always were, nothing like they were since you arrived here. 

“You said you trusted me right?” she placed a kiss on your cheek leaving a lipstick mark. 

Harley looked back at Joker and ran her fingers over his face, caressing the small scars he had. “I only needed him for the toxin but now I don’t anymore. I have what I need”.

“You could have told me” Joker said dragging the barrel of the gun along Harley’s lips. She smiled when the cold metal touched her.

“Oh I know how jealous you get. Besides....” she grabbed her daughters hand and pulled her over. “How many times do I have to tell you? Girls day. It was fun wasn’t it baby? We did this all together” she looked down to her side, running her fingers through her daughters hair. 

Outweighing the confusion of the day was the fascination at what was occurred. The craving of power still in you. It was fun.  And you did it.

Joker breathed deep looking at his girls, both happy. “I’m keeping a closer eye on you both from now on” he put his gun away.

“Good luck” you teased him, feeling accomplished. “So wheres Scarecrow now?” you looked back at your mother.

.....................

Jonathan ran through the streets, the sun in the sky was covered by the misty clouds of the toxin he had created. He looked through the windows of diners and apartments, the people were drinking water, using it for coffee. No one would be able to tell but the smile spread across his face. The mist rose up from the gutters and filled around him. He breathed it in deep, his own concoction. 

He thought about Harley and laughed wildly. She thought she bested him again, but failed. I’ll deal with the Joker and her and their brat another time he thought to himself. 

The people around him began to collapse and scream. They waved their hands around frantically fighting whatever fears they were seeing. Their nightmares, his dream. He held tightly onto his mask when he felt a clog in his throat. It was making it’s way up to his head before it began pounding. It made him weak at the knees it was so powerful.

A dark shadow began to appear around him, he looked up and tried to follow it but it kept vanishing. He held his hands up to his face, maggots formed and crawled all around them. He shook them furiously trying to free himself. 

“Crane.....” a dark voice called out. The screams of the city began to dissipate and all he could hear was the menacing voice taunting him. 

He tried to run but his feet were locked down by cement hands reaching out of the ground grabbing his ankles. He ripped his mask off his head and dropped it to the ground. His breathing apparatus cracked once it hit but he couldn’t think straight enough to worry. Then the dark figure that was following him appeared right before his eyes and his clogged throat was grabbed by a black hand. 

“Crane..........”