#//mod note ignore my high Voice I’m not on T

[magick-mr-skull]

Mortal Technology Pisses Me Off!

@scrumpy-swillin-scotsman FIX THE CANS

[faunusrights]

OFFAL HUNT REMASTERED LIVEBLOG // CHAPTER 17

IN THIS EPISODE OF CRYING CAT GALLERY:

“Nice?” Cinder laughed under her breath once, and returned to examining her threads. “Oh, come on, Glynda. Favor isn’t in my vocabulary, remember? It’s just a shame about your cape. The emblem looked good, and your new outfit would look much better with it. That’s all.”

CINDER FALL IS REALLY BAD AT NOT BEING GAY ON MAIN

we’re bacc baby B) let’s hop right in

When Glynda awoke from her dream of being consumed,

alright calm down we’ve literally JUST started we’ve literally JUST woken up can we chill Out,

“Cinder?” she yawned, surveying the room.

sneak peek of that Sweet Domestic Life we dream of once this enemies-to-lovers malarkey reaches the ‘lovers’ bit but no we’re just surrounded by enemies. two of them being the writers!

Still, she couldn’t go wandering around Cinder’s apartment in only her underwear, but rooting through the drawers and closet didn’t seem— 

STEAL HER CLOTHES BABY!!!! PRACTICALLY MARRIED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The clothes didn’t seem Cinder’s size or style; they were casual and soft, a black t-shirt and steel-gray sweatpants.

okay but the idea of cinder getting up and being like ‘do i have ANYTHING this Unit of a woman will fit into’ and like actually having to think abt it and then folding em up and leaving em there like ‘hope she finds em okay’????? peak. absolutely peak. shes so gay but does she know it? no,

The fabric had enough give to make it work, even if only barely, and she looked in the mirror to see the loungewear looking more like tight athletic wear. Funny that.

kc and diesel envisioning this: oh yes. oh YES. ohhohughohguhghuhu yessssssssss--

She had—trusted? Been trusted? She had told Cinder fragile little things, and had heard similarly earnest words in return. It had been strange. Nice.

i love glynda like. feeling out of the edges of her own comfort and Pleasant Feelings with this almost-wariness? like every word she uses to describe it just Edges a little closer to Softness but she has to taste the word first to see if it fits. her narration is SO fun 2 read yall what the shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit

This was Cinder’s house. It wasn’t just any house. These were Cinder’s belongings, Cinder’s resting places, and she was wandering around without Cinder.

Voyeuristic was putting it mildly. Glynda needed to find Cinder, fast.

HJGDKJGHDFSSDF GOD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! glynda just. losing it at such LITTLE THINGS is so goddamn funny jesus christ. this is cinders house!!! her THINGS!!! fuck she NAPS IN HERE. SHIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

god i love how soft this is. i know exactly why this is happening and i know exactly how [REDACTED], but i’m living for this moment. living IN it.

Spread out on the table was a wanted poster with a mugshot of Cinder on it, defaced with black permanent marker and crease marks.

cinder: yeah they didnt get the eyebrows sharp enough and im mad abt it

“Well, your clothes are in the wash.” Cinder said, turning around, coffee in hand. It was so…domestic. “It would help if you had more than one set.”

shouting from a distance: you two should get MARRIED

“You’ve been wearing the same dress the entire time I’ve known you.”

look at these lil JABS... the JESTS... the JOQUES... i cant believe theyve been married 10 years already. im also deeply enjoying how very indulgent this section is. I Am Seeing,

Glynda scoffed, and when Cinder reached for the sugar on the counter, she gave it a subtle nudge with her Semblance. It slid out of Cinder’s reach.

JESUS CHRIST LOOK AT THIS WHAT THE HELL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! soulmates.

Cinder shrugged, still looking elsewhere. “Mercury thought it was funny.”

“Mercury?”

cinder: my son and BOY. and, one day, yr son and boy, tho he won’t take it lying down.

Cinder scoffed. “You just don’t appreciate my good tastes.”

i feel like the evidence is truly stacking up to very much prove this statement wrong but u kno what lets let her figure that one out for herself

“A souvenir from the brats,” she said. “And a letter excusing the mess they made of the place.”

KIDS KIDS KIDS KIDS

She said, “I just didn’t know you had kids.”

KIDS KIDS KIDS KIDS KIDS

“It’s fine,” said Cinder tersely, but not harshly. “It isn’t wise to advertise in my business, so keep it to yourself.”

KIDS KIDS KIDS KIDS KIDS KIDS KIDS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

GOD YES that little like... indirect admittance that em and merc r basically her own kids is a fucking BLESSING from ON HIGH are you SEEING THIS SHIT????????????? we have been fed today. my crops r watered and my lambs bouncing over the green fields as we feast. what a moment. wow. what a chapter.

When Cinder finally finished hers and rose to get another cup, Glynda allowed some of her thoughts to solidify. She said, “I want new clothes.”

as a side note, i think it rly shows the strength of the writing that the feeling of the narrative can change so much, esp when u take into consideration that we jump between the points of view of TWO characters? like with cinder we’ve gone from sheer fury to gruesome sickness, and with glynda we’ve gone from Complete Dissociation to this gentle and soft morning and you can feel it absolutely fluffing up in every word! still love how good the writing in this fic is its NUTS

Cinder shrugged. Her usual clothes were still in the wash; right now, she was wearing high-waisted black pants and a loose top tucked in.

diesel i want you to know im thinking abt what u said abt the high-waisted pants mods in sims 4 and im giggling

The necklace with Glynda’s earring hung from her throat.

i didnt mention it before but this is the... second time this chapter its been explicitly mentioned? and i know we could be like ‘ah the MEANING’ but honestly im like glynda r u rly not over the bobbies y

“You aren’t dead in there, are you?” came Cinder’s voice.

“No.”

“Well. At this pace, I will be before we get out of here.”

cinder, who probably once spent 7+ hours choosing an outfit: look its only cool if i do it, dipshit,

Unsnapping the lone earring left to her, she brought it to her collar and fixed it there, under the clasped button to dangle just over her sternum.

When she stepped out of the changing room, Cinder looked up. A slow dawn of interest eclipsed the boredom on her face. Glynda stood very still as her gaze flowed up and down again, pausing over the earring.

Cinder touched the matching one hanging from her own neck, almost in surprise. She cleared her throat. Her tone was very deliberately mocking: “Cute.”

OOOOOOOOOOOH MY GOD are we for SERIOUS right now??? jesus christ. jesus christ. we’ve moved on past married now this is ride-or-die shit right here what the FUCK. jesus CHRIST. theres- i- i have THOUGHTS on this matter that are spoilery and so i will SIT ON THIS EGG but HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOLY SHIT

“Nothing,” Cinder said, smoothing her expression into something unreadable. “I was just thinking—nevermind.” 

no, no, go on, speak yr mind, please do, because if u were abt to offer to embroider that shit then PLEASE say it aloud for the audience at home

“If I was a cop, you’d already be in jail.”

“You’re welcome to try to take me in, darling.”

im sure its obvious but im BESIDE myself @ this flirting. im losing it. this is SUCH a treat and i KNOW that [REDACTED] [REDACTED] and [REDACTED] but AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

“That’s because of your—” Cinder was already gone. Glynda pressed her lips together, but watched her go. Rolling her eyes, she finished, “—Grimm tattoos.”

Whatever. She could gloat about figuring it out later.

/CHOKES

WHAT

@kc and diesel: CALL ME RIGHT NOW WHAT THE FUCK

okay okay. wait. okay. wait. theres. wait. okay. i cant. am i safe to say anything. probably not. so. im not gonna. but. you WILL be seeing me in dms, friends,

okay okay im moving on im gonna. keep going. okay. okay. im going. (but i will be in dms)

there was a brief discussion of dinner: namely, that neither of them wanted to make it.

oh god why is this me

“Give me your new cape.”

“What?”

Finally looking up, Cinder said, “Your cape. Let me have it, and I’ll put your emblem on it.”

THANK YOU MA’AM AND THANK YOU FOR READING THE FIC HAS ENDED ITS ALL OVER WITH!!!!!! WE DID IT!!!!!!! WE RODE THIS WHOLE TRAIN TOGETHER!!!!!!!!!!!!! UNFORTUNATELY IF ONLY IT WERE SO EASY.

Glynda ignored it for the time being and sent the vector of her emblem to Cinder.

i deeply love the idea of all hunters and huntresses carrying a vector of their emblem JUST IN CASE,,, SMTHNG HAPPENS,,, its right alongside the list of their next of kin and their will and testament,

Cinder Fall was a name built on Dust and money and extravagant demonstrations.

But Cinder Fall was also a woman with a family. A home. A favorite blend of coffee.

this is absolutely kicking me in the dick for reasons i cant say but also for reasons of SNOFT because oh my god. this is. like. this is why i rly vibe w. cinder in this fic and is also like one of my favourite characterisations of cinder of ALL TIME (which is why all my fav cinder fics typically have it as a Theme). shes SO good and SO dimensional and i just. god. GOD. i LOVE HER!!!!!!!!! ID DIE FOR HER!!!!!!!!!!!!! FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAA CINDER FALL IS MY ANGEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEL

It felt like being told a secret, like being told a thousand secrets, and not knowing what to do with them. All she could do was hold them in her palms, delicate as she could, trying not to break anything.

GIMME ARMS TO PRAY WITH INSTEAD OF ONES THAT HOLD TOO TIGHTLY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! /goes apeshit

And because of that, Glynda asked, “Do you have any more stories?”

Without looking up, Cinder drawled, “About Witches?”

“Or dragons.”

Gold flickered her way.

👈😳👈

“They’d already been built by the Witches that came before her,” Cinder replied. “But she’d been a headmaster at one of them, and a teacher before that.”

Something in Glynda’s chest gleamed.

lore lore lore lore LORE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! lets GET THAT LORE as i peer blearily thru tears,

“...You haven’t just been pretending not to remember things, have you?”

firstly: called out lmao JHGSDFKJHGFSD and SECONDLY:

“The moon?” Cinder made a face. “I’m not sure if it’s that literal. Your soul is powerful, but it’s not a physical thing. Besides, the moon is…”

“Broken,” Glynda finished for her.

“Yeah.”

hm what a fascinating thing hm how interesting hm hm HMMMM 👈🤔👈

Even as they ate, they both seemed lost in their own heads, but somehow, to Glynda, it seemed perfectly clear that both of them were wondering the same thing.

wait glynda. hey glynda. did u uh. ever. did u uh. text winter back or w

WE DID IT CHAPTER 17!!!!!!!!!!! this was a Lot (4,500 words? yall better be careful before those 10k chapters return to Haunt Us) and was also, a Lot. holy shit. theres. i. id make a spoiler edition but tbh its just the SAME SPOILER thats like. rly driving this chapter. i know what its for. i know it. i feel it. dont trust winter more like dont trust the writers

ANYWAY I LOOK FORWARD (?) EAGERLY (???) to chapter 18, unsure when the vibes will turn rancid for the worse. when. honey. theres a big storm coming.

[terresdebrumestories]

Clark Kent, of Krypton - 1/4: Kal-El

FANDOM: DC’s cinematic universe. RATING: Mature. WORDCOUNT: 20 404 (Fic total: ~98k words) PAIRING(S): Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne (main focus is on Clark, though). CHARACTER(S): Kal-El | Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Jor-El, Lara Lor-Van, Kara Zor-El, Zor-El, Martha Kent, Alfred Pennyworth, Diana Prince, Barry Allen, Arthur Curry, Victor Stone, John Stewart, J’onn J’onn, plus a quick cameo by Lois Lane. GENRE: Alternate Universe (canon divergence), transition fic with romance. TRIGGER WARNING(S): A great deal of anxiety and self loathing, especially in parts one and two. Some descriptions are heavily inspired by my experience of dysphoria-induced dissociation. SUMMARY: Batman crashes on Krypton a few days before the Turn of the Year celebrations and Kal-El's life takes a sharp turn to the left, on a path that will ultimately lead him to becoming Clark Kent.

OTHER CHAPTERS: [II. Shadow] [III. Superman] [IV. Clark Kent] ALSO AVAILABLE: [On AO3] [On Dreamwidth]

AUTHOR’S NOTES AND THANKS: Seven months of work and nearly a hundred thousand words! How's that for a first foray in a fandom, uh? I'm actually pretty proud of myself on that one, and I hope you all will enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! But before we start, there's a number of people I need to thank:

@susiecarter​, for getting me into this pairing (seriously, go read her stories!), cheerleading me through the writing process, and then betaing the whole monster in absolute record time!

@stuvyx​ for the AMAZING comic pages which you can find here and here, and for the banners used in the official @superbatbigbang masterpost. Go shower her with praise for her work! :D

The Mod Squad @superbatbigbang, whose instructions and work were impeccable and easy to understand even for me and my silly brain

The OfficialMovieSoundtrack channel on YouTube, for compiling the complete Wonder Woman score: I listened to this more than any other music while writing CKoK.

The jewish nerds of tumblr, who’ve been (and still are) spreading the word about Superman’s origins and the character’s original meanings and principles, which in turn had a rather large influence on Clark’s personality in this fic. I hope the bits with Martha will come off as respectful as I tried to make them.

And lastly, a tiny thanks to DC and Mr. Snyder, for deciding to cast Henry Cavill and his jawline as Clark Kent but also making him just not-how-I-wanted enough (and in the right way) to spark me into telling this story.

“Oh, you haven’t heard?” Lord Bel-Lor exclaims in lilting Council, with a hiccup of delighted surprise. “I would have expected the whole of El to know of this by now.”

 Kal-El, strategically stationed close to one of the potted plants meant to shelter the refreshments table from the dancing area, presses his lips together while the young Zod dignitary tries very hard not to sound too eager about incoming gossip. Kal swallows around a lump in his throat, but remains silent. His aunt and uncle’s Turn of the Year ball is one of the most important events of the year, and it wouldn’t do for him to cause a fuss.

 He stands in place, fingers tightening around his drink, and darts a quick look around. Lady Ona-Set has found her customary seat a few feet to his right, advanced age and a rather poor sense of rhythm having long ago banded together to keep her from the dance floor. Further to the left, close to one of five internal balconies, Lady Ra-Ny and her spouse have gathered a small but agitated-looking group of Worker dignitaries from Lot and Zod’s delegations. They seem to be engaged in a rather heated debate, hushed as it is. But the rest of the guests have, for the most part, elected to dance or make good use of the balconies allowing them to gaze over the minuscule shapes of their lavish homes, several thousand feet below.

 There was a time when El’s elite lived closer to their rulers. A long time ago, the Citadel of El was filled with habitations floor to mountain-high ceiling: the royal family lived in the last few city-wide floors, the lords and ladies shared the following quarter of the space, and the common people divided themselves between the Citadel grounds and the Outside. Then the Lords and Ladies of the Principality rebelled against King Hyr-El, who resolved the situation with a bloodbath first, and the destruction of a solid third of the Citadel’s inner buildings second.

 Ever since then, the Stateroom of Peace has floated, alone, in the vast emptiness left by the old families’ houses; the new Citadel Lords and Ladies made new homes on the Citadel Grounds, and pushed former merchants to become Mountain Lords and Ladies in city-domes of their own. The Stateroom—which, as its name implies, is used for every Guild Council meeting and many other official occasions—also serves as a ballroom for religious occasions such as the Turn of the Year, during which all of Krypton celebrates yet another cycle of close collaboration between Rao, the Helping God, and his brother-husband Vohc, the Builder. These are, at least, the Stateroom’s official uses.

 There is, however, a third—and chiefly preferred—activity that takes place here: gossiping. Kal has been privy to much of it throughout his near-thirty years of life, and he is largely unsurprised to find his family once again at the center of attention as Citadel Lord Bel-Lor proceeds to share the latest news of the Citadel Princes and Princesses of El.

 It goes like this: two days before this very ball, a mysterious spacecraft crashed on Lady Mon-Ka’s property. The precise patch of land in question, bordering the Citadel, had been deemed unfit for cultivation and left in disuse for quite some time, rarely visited and even more rarely monitored. Perhaps that was why no one raised the alarm—or perhaps, as Lady Kam-Leang remarks, Lady Mon-Ka was simply suffering from the effects of the energy depletion afflicting all of Krypton, and could not afford to keep her sophisticated surveillance system in a functioning state. Whatever the reason, no one at the time thought to investigate the craft.

 “No one, that is, but the Shadow of El,” Lord Bel-Lor says with a storyteller’s instinct for dramatics.

 Kal drains his flute of liquor in one go while the Zod dignitary dutifully asks about the Shadow of El. Lord Bel-Lor declines to delve into much detail, aware as he is that extensive knowledge of the Shadow won’t garner him any favor at court, but there is more than enough there to earn several exclamations of surprise and one shocked ‘No!’. The Shadow of El, he explains, is a disturbance to the peace, a master criminal helping other criminals escape well-earned justice...but alas, the people of the Citadel have taken a shine to them.

 “Something to do with old legends,” Lady Lin-Na says in a disdainful tone. “You must have heard of the Dark Sun.”

 “Only in passing,” the Zodian admits. “I hear they are causing some trouble.”

 “Inconsequential,” Lady Lin-Na dismisses, several other voices humming in approval, including her husband's. “But they did find their name in one of our old legends, in which Rao must go through a magical sleep, and a darker version of him—Rao’s dream self, if you will—takes it upon themselves to help protect the world during the sun’s long absence... Because the Gods may not interfere in the affairs of mortals in person, the Dark Sun casts a Shadow of themselves on Krypton, so that it may fight the monsters trying to take over the world.”

 Several voices try to be the first to express their disapproval and disdain towards the very idea, Council and Ellon overlapping in the conversation until Lord Bel-Lor clicks his tongue to reestablish silence. Kal-El picks up another drink—his third this evening—and ignores Lady Ona-Set’s judgmental glare as he sips at it, knuckles white around the stem.

 There is no true way to tell what exactly transpired in that disused field. What is known, however, is that by the time Lady Mon-Ka was made aware of the smoking ruins on her property, the Shadow of El had scooped the spacecraft’s pilot out of the wreckage and taken them to the Citadel. They appeared on the main external balcony with an alien in their arms and the light of the sun behind them, striking Lara Lor-Van and Jor-El almost dumb with awe. And the Shadow of El commanded them to take care of the alien, for the spacecraft had reached Krypton on the day of Vohc’s comet, and its pilot might therefore be an envoy of the God.

 Jor-El and Lara Lor-Van, known throughout El for their piety, took the alien in. By the time Kal-El emerged from his labs six or seven hours after dawn, groggy and sporting wrinkle marks from his pillow all over his face, the entire household was scrambling to accommodate both this badly-injured and unexpected new responsibility of theirs, and the ire of Zor-El, Citadel King of El and rather exasperated older brother, who had no patience for his younger sibling and sister-in-law’s latest religious fancy.

 “I fail to understand,” the Zodri dignitary says in hushed tones while Kal braces himself for the inevitable turn of the conversation from this point on, “why Citadel royals would comply with a criminal’s instructions.”

 “I forget sometimes,” Lord Dar Ran-No says with a smile painfully obvious in his tone, “how little of our internal politics is understood outside of El.”

 Kal listens to the giggles that follow the word ‘politics’ and resists the urge to mime gagging into his glass. It isn’t so much Lady Ona-Set he worries about—she has little affection for Bel-Lor, or any of the Citadel Lords for that matter—but rather the foreign delegations taking part in the celebrations. What the Zodri envoy is about to discover will make its way into every available ear before the end of the night; no two ways about that. Kal can almost hear General Dru-Zod teasing Zor-El about it already. At the very least, however, he does have the power to avoid bringing even more attention to himself with an untimely departure. With a deep breath, Kal forces himself not to empty his Ulian liquor in one go, choosing instead to soothe the tense ache in his neck with a slow overview of the room.

 The dancing is slow tonight, even by court standards, and most of the guests are still busy digesting the vast array of refined dishes they spent the better part of three hours sampling over the luxurious buffet. The light, as red as El’s famed sunsets, sparkles over jewelry and shining fabric. Lady Ra-Ny, her spouse and their group have retreated to one of the internal balconies, Warrior-looking men scattered in close proximity while Zor-El stands in the middle of the group. All over the dance floor, people laugh, voices loud and smiles sharp with the delight of mostly harmless gossip.

 Behind Kal, the chuckles have faded, and as Dar Ran-No feigns reluctance to share his knowledge, Kal prays in vain for the ground to open up and swallow him.

 “Something you must know,” the Citadel Lord says in a delighted tone that makes Kal slouch even further than he usually does, “is that Their Majesties have never been the sort to resist...scientific curiosity.”

 More giggles, and Kal overhears two voices sharing the title of a certain book in hushed Ellon.

 “A very specific sort of scientific curiosity,” Lord Bel-Lor chimes in, improper meaning exactly as clear now as it always is.

 More laughter. Kal doesn’t quite screw his eyes shut, but he does look down at the ground, feeling redder than the sun. In his armpit and in his ears, blood pulses with the sharp painfulness of shame, and he forces himself to relax his grip on his flute of liquor or risk breaking it. It takes everything he has to use a polite tone to send away the servant offering him a drink, instead of begging them to leave him alone.

 “I must admit,” the Zodri dignitary says with what sounds like genuine curiosity, “I am quite incapable of guessing what you are driving at.”

 “Do you truly not know?”

 “To be fair, Lord Bel-Lor,” Lady Kam-Leang says in an indulgent tone, “the young man doesn’t look much older than the Prince himself.”

 “Prince Kal-El? What does he have to do with his parents’ scientific endeavors?”

 At least two people snort at that, loud and undignified, and Kal’s face heats up even further, stomach sinking fast and low in his belly. Dar Ran-No’s voice sounds tight when he explains, in the usual embarrassing amount of detail, what exactly Kal has to do with his parents’ scientific endeavors.

 “That is revolting!” the Zodri dignitary exclaims, in a strained hiss that sends cold shivers down Kal’s spine. “Who would even conceive of something so—so—”

 “I believe it has been called primitive.”

 Kal somehow restrains himself from muttering unflattering things into his drink, but only just. To his left, Lady Ona-Set sits with her eyes closed, head tilted toward Kal, mouth hanging slightly open; but the lady shows no sign of drooling. Old she may be, but the gene for degenerative hearing has been eliminated from the collective gene pool for almost seven centuries, and she has always had a reputation for gossiping. No need to encourage that particular trait with entertaining dramatics on his part, especially when she can’t possibly be having any trouble hearing when Dan Ran-No continues:

 “Primitive or no, it was in direct keeping with their previous endeavors...and neither of Their Majesties has ever made a secret of it. When the—what was the word they used for it? I forget.”

 “The birthing,” Kam-Leang supplies, voice curling with a sort of fascinated distaste around the archaic word. “That was what they called it.”

 “Right,” Bel-Lor acquiesces with a scoff, “the birthing. Both Prince Jor-El and Princess Lara Lor-Van had been religious before, you must understand, but after the—uh—the birthing, they became quite convinced the child was a miracle of the Gods. A gift from Rao himself.”

 “Surely they didn’t—”

 “Oh, yes, they did,” Bel-Lor all but squeaks; Lady Kam-Leang and her husband both hush him.

 Kal winces at the sound, fully aware that this particular piece of gossip has lost none of its power in the twenty-nine years since his birth. He doesn’t even need to put any particular effort into picturing the looks on the Ellon nobles’ faces: wide eyes and delighted grins, vaguely hidden behind fluttering fans and flutes of sparkling Nyen wine. They have sported it at regular intervals throughout Kal’s life, and he can only assume the Zodri envoy likewise looks very much the same as every other dignitary ever has: as enraptured as his predecessors were by the scandalous yet fascinating story of the last natural birth of Krypton. There is, however, more to this story, and this time Kal does down what is left of his liquor before they speak again, wishing for all the world he’d thought to grab some of the fermented torquats Dru-Zod brought along as a gift. At least he would have had something good to chew on while waiting out the night’s agony.

 “They tried to have the child blessed by the priests of Rao—”

 “They were, of course, refused,” Lady Kam-Leang states with piercing finality. “The official reason was that to give the child such a name was an affront to the Gods no priest could ever be tempted to forgive—”

 “Truly?” the dignitary asks, genuinely puzzled. “I fail to see the problem with it.”

 “Because you are unfamiliar with Ellon,” Dar Ran-No says, “or you would know ‘Kal-El’ is the light of the sun.”

 “Although,” Lady Kam-Leang remarks, “things would perhaps not have been so bad if they hadn’t gone further still. For years afterwards, Their Majesties and their followers—yes, they do still have a handful of them—insisted on calling their offspring a miracle. A herald of great things to come.”

 Kal is...acutely familiar with that line. It is old habit, by now, to swallow the bitter shame that comes with it.

 “I heard rumors,” Lord Bel-Lor continues, “that Their Majesties wished to attempt birthing a second child, but it seems the Gods intended for the prince to be a one-time phenomenon.”

 “Some people in the Guild of Believers have whispered that this must be a divine punishment for the Els’ arrogance. I do not know that I agree,” Dar Ran-No says in a slightly pinched tone, “but the lack of a second ‘miracle’ did certainly temper Jor-El’s dreams of having a messiah for a son.”

 “But of course,” Bel-Lor adds, picking up where his fellow Citadel Lord left off, “if the other rumors are true, and Their Majesties are being plagued with a much more biological problem….”

 At least one person chokes on a drink. Another one, perhaps two, coughs. Kal assumes the high-pitched, quickly-aborted laughter belongs to the Zodri dignitary, although he wouldn’t be able to swear to it. Face burning even as the rest of him turns to ice, he makes a tremendous effort to keep his gaze on the ground and take deep breaths until the corners of his eyes stop stinging. Inside his chest, his heart throws itself against his ribs like a wild animal trying to escape a cage, and Kal has to blink several times before he can bring the patterns on the floor back into focus.

 The balconies are overcrowded, the object of too many mocking eyes and surrounded by the imposing silhouettes of Nyen Warriors. But they are the only place where Kal can hope to find a little fresh air—and peace, if he can be allowed to make use of the one occupied by his uncle and his friends, rather than any of the other four—until he has remained here for the full four hours required of him, and is allowed to retreat to the safety of his labs.

 He braces himself and, carefully avoiding Lady Ona-Set’s suddenly alert gaze, begins to make his way around the ballroom.

“Good morning, Kal-El,” Krypto says when Kal emerges from his labs, with no sleep under his belt and Kryo on his heels. “Their Majesties wished me to remind you of the king’s visit tonight.”

 Kal nods, always more tongue-tied than he’d like in presence of his mother’s hunit. Krypto has always been pleasant to him, programming far too stringent to allow even for the impression of disrespect in its tone; but it is an extension of Lara Lor-Van, and that is enough to keep Kal on his toes.

 “I remember,” he tells the hunit, “thank you. In fact, I was on my way to wash up and rest. I should like to be fit for polite company tonight.”

 “Good,” Krypto says the same way it always has, the one that makes Kal feel like he’s still a little boy. “Lady Lara also wishes you to know the doctors have officially released our guest from bed rest.”

 “Oh,” Kal says, heart rate picking up. “I suppose that is good news.”

 It will mean one more person to keep in mind, one more presence to navigate around in the palace, and Kal’s head aches just thinking of it—but it is still good that the alien didn’t die. They cannot, after all, be held responsible for Kal’s issues.

 “Quite,” Krypto replies in its usual toneless voice. “Their Majesties ask that you remember the name of House El must not be tarnished. Dinner should be served at the customary hour.”

 Stomach sinking to somewhere in the vicinity of his knees, Kal nods around the lump in his throat, head lowering almost of its own volition. He stands still as Krypto, ever unaffected by displays of emotion, extends him bland wishes for satisfactory repose and floats away towards the main rooms of his family’s apartments. The Lesser House of El may have lost much of the respect they once enjoyed, after Kal’s birth, but their living quarters do still occupy a solid third of the Citadel’s upper dome. Even living here his whole life, Kal has gone numerous stretches of several days—once as much as two weeks—without encountering his parents. The sight of Krypto leaving him to go and report their conversation to his mother is as familiar an image as Kal has ever known.

 He stands alone in the corridor for a moment, breathing in and out at consciously regular intervals while Kryo asks if he’d like a massage to be added to his personal agenda for the night. He nods, of course: a little help relaxing can’t hurt, after all, and he is going to need every ounce of confidence he can get today. That, and his sore arms will definitely thank him.

 “Your heart rate is elevated,” Kryo says after a short silence.

 “I know,” Kal says, heart picking up its speed again as he tenses in anticipation of Kryo’s predictable remark:

 “I am compelled to let you know your current readings are quite far above average.”

 “I know,” Kal says again, and breathes in deep to avoid snapping at it.

 It isn’t the hunit’s fault, after all, that these reminders were programmed into it. Some things, Kal has changed over the years; but he never did figure out how to make the hunit less judgmental without messing up its programming beyond repair, and so the tone has stayed. It's proven useful in the long run, in that Kryo's unaltered demeanor hides all the things that aren’t the way Kal’s parents wanted them to be, but it doesn’t mean the hunit is never annoying. Kal has practice with this, though, and so it is simple—if not effortless—to keep his tone in check when he says:

 “Don’t worry, Kryo, I’ll be fine tonight.”

 “You are a prince of El,” Kryo says, automatically beginning one of the most irritating conversational routines in his repertoire. “You are—”

 “Bound to interact with strangers from time to time,” Kal cuts in, “yes, I realize.”

 “Irrational behaviors due to feelings of inadequacy—”

 “Kryo. You are well aware I dislike it when you talk about me like this.”

 Kryo goes quiet, but doesn’t apologize. Contrition is not a state hunit were ever designed to emulate. They are far too matter-of-fact for that. Kal, for his part, breathes in deep again, and forces his shoulders to unwind as he finally walks away from the access stairs to his labs and strides toward his rooms. He has Kryo perform a general scan to locate the rest in the household—only in the part of the Citadel assigned to Kal’s parents, however—and is all but scolded for it. The other hunits of the palace are complaining, it seems, about the frequency of pings of that nature they tend to receive.

 “It is never a good thing to render house hunits dissatisfied.”

 Hunits are devoid of emotion, incapable of satisfaction or dissatisfaction by design. What Kryo is truly saying is that Kal’s use of household scans is above average and will therefore be reported; but the emotional vocabulary makes the whole thing sound just a tad less pathetic, and so Kal sighs and nods rather than correct the hunit. Besides, his higher reasoning functions are begging further out of this conversation with every step he takes toward his bed. No point in trying to argue in these conditions. He is in the middle of a jaw-cracking yawn, his entire being crying out for sleep, when the black-and-gray silhouette of his parents’ guest stops him.

 The alien, standing by the guests’ library, is tall by Ellon standards, though the people of Zod might find them of average size. Their anatomical model is familiar enough to be reassuring: four limbs with hands and feet, shoulders on the broader side but still within the limits of what Kal would call normal. The muscles seem too well-defined to be natural, although Kryo maintains that all staff accounts state the alien looks perfectly Ellon-like under their clothes. Kal has never seen them out of their clothes, though, and so the impressive shape of the alien’s body retains all its power as far as he is concerned.

 The main difference between him and the alien lies in the head. Where Kal’s is somewhat round at the top—though perhaps a little squarer than average around the jaw—with the ordinary short round ears of Kryptonians, the alien’s has two protruding appendages at the top, aligned approximately above where ears would be. They jut out of the alien’s cowl in menacing straight lines and narrow to frighteningly sharp-looking points. Kal...believes Kryo when it says the alien doesn’t actually possess ears—or horns—that look like this. The hunit is, after all, unable to lie to him. But that knowledge doesn’t quell the eerie feeling of strangeness that tightens Kal’s chest every time he looks at them.

 The alien’s most noticeable feature, however, is not so much their silhouette as their stance. There is no hint of groveling in it, none of the wary tension displayed by visiting envoys from neighboring planets. Not that those envoys cower, exactly, but they are always clearly conscious of the galaxy’s painful history with Krypton, and therefore never fully at ease. This alien—Vohc’s alien, as Kal has heard some call them—carries themselves with the easy authority of a Citadel Lord in the king’s confidence. Back straight, head high; no hint of doubt in their own worth, their own place, their own right to remain.

 The sight of it shrivels something already small and wrinkled in Kal’s soul, makes him want to shrink back in the darkness and hide from the alien’s presence...for, sent by Vohc or not, this alien certainly does seem capable of things Kal couldn’t even dream of; and the thought of being found wanting compared to someone who, according to the court, does not even have the decency to be from the known universe, let alone Krypton, is… distressing.

 It is, therefore, unfortunate that acting on that self-effacing impulse would bring more shame to Kal’s house than his continued failure to prove himself worthy of attention.

 “Good evening,” Kal manages after a deep, steadying breath, pulse hammering away so hard he can feel it in his clasped palms. “May I help you?”

 In front of him, the alien’s head tilts to the right in what must be—might be; hopefully is—a sign of incomprehension, and Kal almost gives into the impulse to slap himself in the forehead. The alien is not from any recognizable planet, let alone a known species. They did not respond to any of the local languages stored in the House’s courtesy translators, never mind Council or Ellon. Why, then, Kal would be silly enough to assume they would understand is certainly a mystery for the ages. Not the first of its kind, it is true, but painful nonetheless.

 Swallowing a sigh, Kal draws on his vague memories of learning Council as a child and starts again:

 “I am Kal-El,” he says in Ellon.

 He waits for a few seconds, taps his fingers to the middle of his forehead, and repeats: “Kal-El.”

 “I am Batman,” the alien says.

 The words are clearly unpracticed on their tongue, the gesture all wrong. No one in El would tap their chest to indicate personhood, after all. Still, these things can be forgiven; it is the alien’s grammar that poses a significant problem. None of the politeness markers fit their position: a nobody—for all anyone knows, at any rate—addressing...well, essentially another nobody, but of royal blood. Many at court would have had Batman’s hide for that sort of an affront, accidental though it may be.

 Batman is lucky, though: Kal has dealt with much worse than people addressing him as if he were a lower-ranked but still respected guest. It is easy, then, to quell the sliver of pleased surprise—and the subsequent shame at how readily swayed Kal is—rising in his chest; to muster a stiff smile and a nod and, when Batman does not seem willing to communicate any further, flee toward his quarters.

It takes Kal a long while before he can fall into a nap, and then it takes an even longer time for him to wake up properly once the evening comes. It isn’t that El’s simple tunics of straight lines and slashed sleeves take all that long to put on, really. It’s just...well, frankly, it’s just that Kal is somewhat clumsier than average. He tends to bang into furniture and trip on his own feet more than other people do, and existing in a near-constant state of sleep-deprived grogginess does not help. Science is worth it, he knows. It doesn’t make it any less awkward to step into the Fire dining room almost three minutes late and watch six pairs of eyes turn to him.

 Kal’s uncle, King Zor-El, is a proud man, taller and bulkier even than his brother Jor—a rare build, for Thinkers. He sits in state at the head of the table with an ease Kal knows he would never be able to replicate, gaze a strange mixture of fondness and disappointment. Force of habit, perhaps. Either way, Zor-El does not say anything about Kal’s tardiness. A simple raise of his eyebrow; the pinched look on Kal’s parents’ faces, the amused gaze that passes between Sol Ka-Zod—Kal’s aunt—and her stepdaughter...all of these are familiar enough to be set aside. Not easily, not quite. But they are set aside, and that means Kal is free to look around the rest of the room, and marvel.

 The Fire dining room is one of the smaller, cozier rooms of similar function in the Lesser House of El’s apartments. At the back, a fire burns year-round, for the rooms closest to the center of the dome tend to be colder, and fire has always been Rao’s way of welcoming guests. In front of the fire sits the table, around which Kal’s family has arranged itself amidst the flowing lines of curved columns, floral motifs carved into the very bones of the building.

There, to the right of Kal’s usual chair, sits Batman. Their back is still as impeccably straight as it was this morning, their shoulders just as steady, their jaw just as strong. This time, however, the slant of their lips, below their cowl, curls into something...well. Perhaps not quite a smile. Not a smirk, either. But there is the seed of an expression there, Kal is fairly sure, that could become either of those things; and it is such a novelty compared to the usual reactions he garners that as he seats himself Kal can’t help but blush, looking down at his hands until he feels in control of himself again.

 The meal is well underway by the time Kal comes back to himself, silten salads half-eaten and roasted keltar being rolled into the room. To Kal’s right, Batman has taken their gloves off to eat, and their hands look very much like Kal’s hands—a little bigger, maybe, in keeping with their owner’s size, but nothing strange. Nothing that would be out of proportion for a Kryptonian, at the very least. They catch the eye somehow, at least as far as Kal is concerned. Batman’s silhouette was so imposing this morning, so surprisingly regal for someone people have barely hesitated to classify as a barbarian; it is hard not to be surprised when it turns out they eat like a regular person.

 It wouldn’t do to stare, however, and striking up a conversation right now would mean talking over the main guests, an ill-advised course of action.

 “I don’t think the Melokariel Proposition will ever be accepted,” Kal’s father is saying when Kal finally dares to raise his eyes away from his plate. “Nor do I think it should.”

 Kal darts a glance over the table, unsurprised to find his cousin raising her eyebrows quite high into her glass of Ulian liquor. The reaction is, Kal supposes, understandable. As the first in line to take over the throne of El, Kara has been invited to every single one of her father and uncle’s twice-weekly dinners since the tender age of twelve, and is therefore even more familiar with Jor-El’s way of gearing up for a fight. Or, well. A debate, as he calls it.

 Notorious for his incompetence and disinterest in politics, Kal returns Kara’s gesture nonetheless. He might not know the ins and outs of this Proposition as well as she does, but he does know his parents, and the thought of another family argument beginning is about as annoying as it is stressful by now. At least he knows he won’t be asked to participate. Kal’s horrendous lack of social acuity, cultural refinement, or specialization has been exposed, discussed, debated, and condemned more than enough for a lifetime; he isn’t keen on sparking that particular conversation again by asking about the Proposition or, Rao forbid, trying to change the topic. He will get through this in silence, like he always has, and count himself lucky for it.

 “Ever the retrograde, brother,” Zor-El says while a servant takes his empty plate and replaces it with the largest keltar of the lot. “If I were to listen to you, we would be working our way back to the days of primitive savagery.”

 There is no need to look up to know Zor-El has nodded in Kal’s direction, the circumstances of his birth ever a sore point for the family. He dares a glance to the right instead, and blinks when he finds Batman looking down at the table coil they were handed along with their meat. There is nothing strange about the tool that Kal can see, though accidents do happen, so he turns back to the left when his father, having most likely run through his usual defenses of Kal’s conception—helped along by his wife, of course—snaps:

 “In any case, the fact that Krypton does not possess the necessary resources to—”

 “We have talked about this before, Jor,” Zor says in a warning tone. “Krypton will not debase itself by going around begging colonies for their scraps.”

 “Ex colonies,” Kara points out, mild but clear. “The Green Lanterns saw to that.”

 Queen Sol Ka-Zod elbows her stepdaughter in the side, but Kal has never seen his cousin heed that particular warning before. His aunt cannot be faulted for the gesture, as it is unseemly for an heir to the throne to dissociate herself from the ruling monarch so openly—even if only at the family table; but then again the only thing worse than that would be for Kara to have no opinion at all. As it is, the jab passes, and the conversation returns to its topic of choice for the past nine months or so: the Melokariel Proposition.

 Kal, knowing no one will think to ask for his opinion on the topic, takes a look to his right again, and freezes. Batman, despite maintaining as dignified a posture as can be, is making an unimaginable mess of their food. Bits of it have strayed from their plate; the rest stains both their hands and their forks...and that is when Kal realizes this should have been an entirely predictable outcome. What were the chances, after all, that Batman learned to use proper cutlery on whatever backwater planet they came from? The cost of forgetting your manners—and therefore, your place—is high on Krypton, however, and Kal is too well-aware of this to sit there and do nothing. He reaches over, ready to take action, when Zor raises his voice:

 “Mining the core is the only way to survive,” he says in a tone full of rebuke, catching Batman’s attention without effort.

 “So say Peacekeepers,” Jor retorts—too loud, too fast. “They have always been quick to demand and slow to think, but—”

 “Jor!” Kal’s mother exclaims, half reproof and half horror, at the same time as Zor warns:

 “It would do you good to remember which Guild your queen came from, brother.”

 Despite the fire, the atmosphere of the room grows chilly, and Kal has to force his fingers to relax as he closes them around his fork and table coil. He tilts his head to the side when the alien looks at him, left hand extended palm up toward Batman, coil hanging between his thumb and forefinger, and asks, “May I help you?”

 Batman looks at Kal for a few moments—or at least, they keep still, with their optical lenses pointed in the appropriate direction—before they nod. Kal nods in return and, in a practiced gesture, lifts the keltar’s nearest limb with his own fork, loops the coil around it, and slices it off the animal’s body by spreading his fingers. Batman makes no sound, and does not give any indication that they watched Kal's actions particularly closely, but when Kal outfits them with a coil of their own, Batman imitates the gesture almost perfectly, and then repeats it with diligence. There is something surprisingly circumspect in the way they move, as if trying to master the gesture in as little time as possible. It seems strange, to Kal, who tends to observe things for far too long before he makes a move, but it works in Batman’s favor, and they are eating cleanly in no time. Just in time, in fact, to hear Kal’s father snap:

 “If Tsiahm-Lo does vote in favor of the Proposition, he will truly lose the right to call himself the Wise King of anything, let alone Laborers!”

 “Jor-El!” Sol exclaims, obviously shocked.

 Even Kal’s mother doesn’t dare speak in support of her husband after that sort of claim, and it is easy for Kal to feel the assembly tense—even down to Batman—as Zor leans forward and says in a low voice:

 “I would guard my words if I were you, Jor. There are those who would consider such a statement dangerously close to treason.”

 The table is grimly silent for a moment, fragile balance poised on the edge of a knife, as Kal watches his father reconsider his words, swallow, and say:

 “Forgive me, everyone. I don’t know what came over me. Obviously, I misspoke.”

 On the opposite side of the table Lara, Sol and Kara all look distinctly relieved, though Kal can’t quite manage to relax his shoulders. He hunches in on himself a little closer instead, ignoring the way Batman’s attention seems to have moved away from their food and toward the conversation on the more interesting side of the table.

 Kara is the first to speak again.

 “If nothing else,” she says in a firm tone, “I don’t believe anyone should consider the Proposition without also considering its alternative.”

 The rest of the table mumbles their assent, until Sol and Lara join in and, soon enough, the debate veers away from the Melokariel Proposition itself and onto the merits of Krypton’s old colonial programs. Kal, who has little interest in joining that discussion either, presses his lips together and turns back to his food for the rest of the meal. Batman requires almost no further help, except when dessert comes and they seem more than a little perplexed by the singing flowers set atop the cakes.

 “You can eat them,” Kal says when Batman clears their throat and tilts their head toward their plate.

 “You?” Batman repeats, head tilted, while gesturing with their hand like they’re bringing something to their mouth.

 It isn’t the gesture Kal would use to signify eating, but context makes it easy to interpret. Kal repeats the verb for Batman’s benefit, rectifiescorrections their pronunciation to something more understandable than their first attempt, and starts thinking.

 There is no telling when—or if—Batman will leave Krypton. The Shadow of El passed along no word of anyone else in the alien’s spacecraft, and no one has reached out to El looking for a lost companion since the day before yesterday. There is a possibility—how much of one is impossible to tell, but the chance is real nonetheless—that no one is coming to rescue them. If so, they will need to integrate. They cannot possibly be expected to remain incapable of communication forever, and the odds of anyone volunteering to take them to a neighboring planet are minimal at best. As for waiting for his parents to think of Batman’s well-being...Kal would frankly rather not. And yet Batman will need to adapt and find a place in Ellon society.

 They will need to speak, Kal realizes. To learn the things they don’t know, to figure out the rules and customs of this place—for otherwise they leave themselves open to ridicule, contempt, or worse. As a man with experience dealing with two of these things, Kal finds himself loath to leave Batman to deal with them alone. Not when he knows he can, perhaps, do something about it.

 Kal is no expert linguist. In point of fact, he isn’t even a teacher. He is willing to help, though, and willing to spend some time trying to figure out the best way to help Batman around...which, he guesses, makes him the only choice available. It might be a bad idea. He has other things to do, after all. Responsibilities he cannot shirk. He is a Citadel Prince of El, though, and those responsibilities do extend to taking care of guests.

 He might not be the best choice for this, but if no one else will make time for the task, he will.

Raising his head at breakfast the next morning only to find Batman standing in front of him with the same serious expression they have always displayed is a surprise for Kal. He would say that he hadn’t expected the alien to seek him out quite that fast, but the truth is he hadn’t expected Batman to seek him out at all. Besides, it is long past breakfast time. Kal is still there, it is true, but that is only because he tends to work all night and barely emerges from his labs in time to ingest something before he collapses on his bed and sleeps most of the day away. Batman can’t possibly have missed that fact. Can they?

 Whatever the reason, the alien does not seem ready to stop looking at Kal in a way that makes him feel as though his use of his table coil is being assessed and found wanting. This is not, it is true, an uncommon sentiment for Kal. Most of his life has been spent in self-conscious discomfort. But the familiarity of the sensation does nothing to prevent a blush from rising into Kal’s ears until he feels like they are about to catch on fire.

 “Excuse me,” he tells the alien in an attempt to relieve some of the tension, “may I help you?”

 Batman remains stock still for a moment. Nothing in their expression shifts exactly, except perhaps for a certain sense of...looking for something. ‘Hesitation’ seems like too strong a sentiment, somehow, though it comes closest to what Kal perceives. Deliberation, then. Batman indulges in a few more seconds of it before they nod and take a seat in front of Kal. Behind him, Kal feels Kryo hover closer, perhaps out of a sense of misplaced protection, but the hunit does not do anything else.

 Meanwhile Batman has extended a hand and is pointing at Kal’s table coil, saying something in what Kal assumes is their birth language. He blinks, still a little too groggy to process this in a timely manner, and he is fairly sure he sees Batman’s lips tighten—a sure sign of exasperation on a Kryptonian—before they point at Kal:

 “I am Kal-El,” they say. Then, pointing at themselves: “I am Batman.”

 They point at the coil again then, and Kal blushes harder when he realizes the question was actually quite simple, and he should have understood it right away. He pushes past it, however, and answers with flaming cheeks:

 “This is a table coil.”

 “This is a table coil,” Batman repeats, pronunciation quite close to Kal’s.

 “Table coil,” Kal repeats nonetheless, just to make sure the alien will understand that only these two words designate the object they are asking about.

 That, and to make sure Batman won’t mispronounce it and accidentally refer to a very intimate part of the anatomy by accident.

 Batman, as has been the case so far, proves themselves a diligent learner, and manages a perfect rendition on the second try. Kal beams. He doesn’t stop to think, then, that Batman may not have been asking for a full vocabulary lesson when he points at his fork and says:

 “This is a fork .”

 “This is a fork,” Batman repeats, eyes fixed down on the table.

 Kal nods, grin widening despite himself, a thin bubble of pride growing in his chest.

 “This is a glass .”

 “This is a glass.”

 Kal walks Batman through several other eating implements—a plate, a spoon, a napkin—ever more pleased when Batman keeps getting the pronunciation right in two, sometimes three attempts at the most. They name all the items set on the table, eventually, and Kal imagines things will stop there for a moment, but then Batman points at the table itself and says, “This is….” with a tilt of their head.

 “This is a table,” Kal informs them. Then, because he can’t think of a better way to explain the question, he seizes his glass again and, with a tilt of his head similar to Batman’s, asks: “What is this?”

 Batman nods at that, mouth slanting...well, not into a smile, maybe, but a more relaxed angle, at least. Something that seems to hint Batman has finally found something worth considering in Kal, and, well. It would be a lie to say it does not affect him. There is something—giddy, almost, but also rewarding about this. About knowing he is useful here and that what he is doing right now will be—perhaps ‘appreciated' is the wrong word. Batman would be well within their rights to consider teaching them the language a demonstration of basic courtesy on the part of their hosts. Even so, whatever Batman learns and remembers this morning will be useful to them in the future. The sentiment is exhilarating. It loosens Kal’s shoulders, make him more willing to smile as he tries to mime the concept of a room in order to explain the word ‘parlor’.

 By the time they stop, almost an hour later—and then only because Kryo reminds Kal today is the day of his annual health examination—Kal has had time to fill his chest with so much satisfaction at a job well done he feels almost no self-consciousness at the gesticulating he has to engage in to explain that he needs to leave. Batman nods, somewhat less stiff than they usually seem to be, and then says two words—at least it sounds like two distinct words—in their language.

 Kal, caught off guard, nods back, close-lipped and tenser than he would like to be, and doesn’t look back as he leaves the room at an appropriately sedate pace, Kryo hovering at his elbow. He is in the process of trying to breathe his heartbeat into something more acceptable when the questions—the sudden uncertainty—become too much to handle, and he asks, “That probably meant thank you, didn’t it? No reason for them to—”

 To what, exactly? Mock Kal? Judge him? Insult him? None of these possibilities make any rational sense. Context, and Batman’s attitude, both point towards the alien’s words being some form of thanks but—but what if it wasn’t? Kal is familiar with his mind's tendencies. Its ability to twist even the most innocuous things into catastrophes has been a part of his existence for as long as he remembers, and he knows better than to listen to it without reserve.

 But still, a persistent part of him asks, what if he made a fool of himself this morning and did not realize it? What if Batman was only indulging him and could not hold it back any longer? What if they found Kal the dullest, most profoundly boring creature they have met in their entire existence, and are now determined to avoid him at any cost? The chances are slim—very slim, even—but….

 “You are panicking again,” Kryo says in its usual dispassionate tone.

 Kal does not hush it, but he does think about it. These concerns of his are...irrational, most of the time. He knows this. Not always, though. Kal has made a mess of things without meaning to before, has been found wanting in many and varied respects—numerous times, even—and Batman...well. It did seem, for a moment there, like Batman didn’t completely despise spending an extended period of time in Kal’s company. That is a good sign. But others have pretended as much before, and Kal should have remembered that; should have paid more attention to what he was doing, put more care into remaining—unobtrusive. Yes, that would be the right word. He knows how dull he is after all, should keep it in mind lest he keep making the same mistakes he made today—too solicitous, he’s sure, treating Batman like an imbecile or...or whatever else he did, really. It will come to him, he knows.

 “Kal,” Kryo points out again as they round a corridor towards the palace doctors’ offices, “you are panicking again. Calm down.”

 Never has that particular command been of any help in the past, but Kal has long since given up on trying to get it out of Kryo’s programming. He bites down on his instinctive rejection of the advice and breathes in deep instead. Then he asks, “Would you calculate the probability of what Batman said meaning ‘thank you’, please?”

 “Situational elements suggest an 85% chance that that would be an appropriate translation of their words,” Kryo replies. “The scarcity of available data means linguistic calculations might take as long as four weeks to process. Do you wish me to proceed?”

 “No, thank you,” Kal says.

 Eighty-five percent, he tells himself even as he knocks on the door to the doctor’s office. That doesn’t sound so bad. Granted, there is still a fifteen percent chance he misread the situation entirely. A fifteen percent chance Batman was seeking him for very different reasons—although he cannot fathom what those reasons might have been—and he only managed to annoy them beyond belief. Fifteen percent chances are more than enough to send his heart racing; more than enough to half convince him he should, perhaps, consider shutting himself off from the world for good, if only it would ensure he never made that sort of mistake again.

 “Good morning, Your Majesty,” the head physician says when she opens the door.

 She gives Kal a familiar once over, takes his expression in—and this time, Kal knows he is not imagining the exasperation. Sighing, he follow her lead and tries to steel himself for the upcoming assessment and the myriad of little embarrassments that come with it.

  The examination goes well enough, except for a few awkward bruises and wounds Kal has to admit he got from lugging heavy objects around in his labs—“If you’ll beg my pardon, Your Majesty, I know people lighter than these plants of yours,” the doctor says. Kal gives her an awkward smile and changes the topic; something new to be needlessly embarrassed about. The plants are nothing big, truly, nothing anyone would find really remarkable. Kal is known for being chiefly interested in botany, though, and most people do not associate this with sprained ankles or bruised ribs; so every instance of someone finding out must be followed by an uneasy reminder that Kal does not live a dangerous life at all but is, rather, ridiculously clumsy...and getting clumsier as the years go by.

 Still, he does escape the doctor’s office eventually, relief more than palpable in every single one of his veins. Then he gets to his laboratories, settles down behind the floor-to-ceiling, one-way window, and proceeds to lose himself in work.

 He is in the middle of a—lengthening—break several hours later, when Kara’s voice rings from the top of the stairs and bounces against the spherical ceiling of the comparatively minuscule room:

 “I might wish to update your security protocols,” she says, her footsteps gradually losing themselves in Kal’s small forest of growing plants. “They barely reacted when I approached the door.”

 “Of course they did,” Kal says without looking away from his current notes, “they know you. Besides, it wouldn’t do to give anyone the impression I’m trying to hide something in here, would it?”

 Kara hums from where, if the rustling is to be trusted, she is poking at Kal’s morose-looking keva vines. Not that he takes poor care of them—he hardly does anything else with his days, after all. But Krypton’s atmosphere has been profoundly changed by the ever-more-intensive mining projects grinding away at its soil, filling the air with more dust than many plants find it possible to survive. Some biomes have been able to adapt on their own in the northern parts of the planet, where mining activity has been subdued by the lack of remaining material worth the effort. But El is one of the least-affected Principalities. The worst of the work is yet to come, here, and while the king—in his wisdom—has remained steadfastly convinced no problem could arise from an intensification of industrial production, Kal has always been more...anxious.

 It was easy to combine this with his scientific curiosity and indulge in the sort of pet project none of his family members could truly disapprove of, despite his lack of formal education on the topic. Kara, for her part, has never quite seemed to understand Kal’s enthusiasm for his test subjects, and barely bothers to feign an apology when she accidentally snaps a leaf off a luat bush.

 “They seem to be doing better,” she says with a polite smile even as she places the broken leaf back into the luat’s force-field, the atmosphere set to mimic a seventy percent air pollution rate. She wipes her hand clean with a nearby rag before she continues: “Perhaps you are finally succeeding.”

 “We did move from a five percent survival rate to ten,” Kal replies without mirth.

 “Ah. Well...at least there is progress?”

 Kal tilts his head in concession, and then stiffens when Kara finally walks up to his desk and leans over his shoulder. The working lights, brighter than any other in the lab, must obstruct her view: she reaches for Kal’s papers, and although his first instinct is to grab after them, he knows better than to attempt it. Kara has, after all, been training all her life never to take no for an answer. Not at face value, in any case. Kal hesitates. Fidgets. At last, when he is sure Kara must have completed at least her second reading of what notes he has, he can’t help but ignore the skepticism in her expression and ask:

 “What do you think?”

 Kara’s lips purse into a doubtful expression, and she chews on her tongue for a second. Curbing her answer to sound more diplomatic, then. Perhaps Kal should warn her to get rid of the tell.

 “I can’t say that I have much expertise in linguistics,” Kara says at last.

 Biting down on a sigh, Kal reaches for his notes again, and meets no resistance from his cousin. He eyes his teaching plan for what must be the hundredth time today, and thinks.

Batman’s species is unknown on Krypton. Taking care of them has worked out all right so far, but nothing says they won’t be confronted with unexpected problems later on. They must be able to satisfy their basic needs on their own, which means they must be able to obtain food, drinks, sleeping accommodations and hygiene products. This implies naming said items, and learning how to ask lower-ranked individuals for services and thank them appropriately afterwards. Other things will come, such as asking for and understanding directions to various places, greeting individuals of various ranks and, of course, learning to make some form of conversation with the royal family without provoking an incident.

Kal is in the process of revising what he should focus on first and which verbal form to prioritize—desperately trying to remember his first lessons in any language in the process—when Kara sighs, sits on his desk next to him and asks:

 “How long do you believe this will take?”

 “A few months, I suppose?” Kal hazards. “They seem to be a fast learner, and they have more pressing motivation to learn Ellon than I did to learn La’u—”

 “I never understood why you even chose to learn La’u when you didn’t have to,” Kara interjects with a wink.

 Being ten years Kal’s senior means Kara was well into her La’u lessons by the time Kal started grasping the basics of Council, but he did hear his tutors rejoice about his prowess enough to imagine the sort of pains it must have caused Kara to learn it. Frequency-based languages are a struggle for anyone more used to words, but the fact that La’u uses deeper frequencies for more polite speech can hardly have helped Kara and her light voice. In any case, Kal himself struggled enough with the language that he cannot fully blame his cousin for her surprise.

 Still, the specifics of La’u are not the point, and Kal continues:

 “Hopefully they at least know what conjugations are, but we cannot be sure, and if they do not, it could add months of teaching in order for them to grasp the basics. And after that—”

 “After that?” Kara exclaims, but Kal is surveying his teaching plan again and only half paying attention to his cousin when he says:

 “Do not worry, I only intend to teach them Court Member forms, at first. That should serve them well enough until—”

 “Kal, I wasn’t—don’t you think you are taking on quite a lot of responsibility with this?”

 Something shrivels in Kal’s chest, a hopeful seed squashed to the ground by a distracted boot, and he hunches in on himself before he even realizes it. He does attempt to deflect the question with a shrug, but Kara would not be Kara if she could be satisfied with a non-answer of that sort.

 “Kal. You are a Citadel Prince. You are a busy man—”

 “I do believe you are confusing our timetables,” Kal mutters, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.

 “Even so,” Kara insists, after clearing her throat, “your plants take up quite a lot of time and work, especially the nocturnal ones.”

 “I am well aware,” Kal tells the piece of paper he wrote Batman’s lesson plan on, “but even so, I am not half as busy as you are. I think I should be able to handle this.”

 With a shake of her head, Kara clicks her tongue and rises from the desk, walking to the disused elevator shaft that crosses Kal’s lab and knocking on it with her knuckles. “You know I believe in this project of yours, Kal. There is a reason I wanted to get involved. I know you will continue to give it your best effort—but I also worry you might be taking on responsibilities that are not yours.”

 “Batman is a guest under my family’s roof,” Kal points out, trying to keep his tone mild despite the sudden spike of irritation in his chest. “I do have responsibilities—”

 “There are plenty of tutors in our service—”

 “I’m quite aware,” Kal replies with more bitterness than he thought he had in store for the memory of his old teachers. “I remember my time with them, and I would rather spare Batman that.”

 “I know you did not enjoy your basic studies,” Kara starts, “but perhaps if you hadn’t been so difficult, things wouldn’t have been so hard for you.”

 Kal gapes for a moment, breath stolen by the sharp stab of pain in his chest at Kara’s words. She means well, he knows. And perhaps...perhaps, in some ways, she is right. It is possible—not probable, but possible—that Kal caving in to his teachers’ demands to specialize in the learnings of one Guild would have made his youth easier. It isn’t the done thing, after all, to ignore traditional limits the way Kal does. To defy genetic marking and engage in activities best left to those who were engineered for them. Still, what was he supposed to do?

 The very source of his fame is that Kal does not have any Guild markers in his genome. That he is, in fact, the only Kryptonian to have lived without them in centuries and, if the way his life has gone so far is to be taken as an example, for centuries to come. Why Vohc allowed him to be created—why Rao did not do him the mercy of never allowing his mother’s pregnancy to come to term at all—is a mystery for the ages. Still, the fact remains that he would never have been accepted in any Guild, no matter how well he studied. Believers, Workers, Thinkers…none of them would have wanted him. Why else would Kal’s teachers have scoffed when he asked if he would ever be allowed to learn any of the Guilds’ languages?

 It is most likely that Kara believes what she is saying. She has always been kind to Kal, and treated him as an equal, if something of an incomprehensible one. But the truth is that Kal’s tutors were ever unprepared for him—and he was a son of Krypton. How they would react to an alien, Kal would rather not find out. Not, in any case, if it means taking the risk of making Batman feel the way Kal did during his training.

 Taking a deep breath, Kal forces himself to straighten his shoulders as much as he can and, sidestepping the ever-delicate subject of his former tutors’ treatment of him, says, “Perhaps you are right. Even so, I have already invested time and effort in this project. I should very much like to bring it to fruition. I have talked with Batman—”

 “Is that his name?”

 “It is. Though we cannot know for sure whether they are a he—or if this concept even exists where they come from.”

 Kara concedes the point with a nod.

 “They seem to be an interesting person,” Kal continues. “I would like to get to know them better, but I cannot do that unless they learn to communicate with us and I spend some time with them. Teaching them Ellon seems like the ideal way to accomplish both of these things.

 Silence falls around them, and Kara fixes her gaze on Kal for a long time, a skeptical moue firmly set on her lips.

 “Very well,” she says at last, sighing in defeat the way she would never allow herself to if Kal were anyone else. It fills his answering sigh with gratitude. “Although I fail to understand what makes him—them—more interesting than any of the other aliens you have met and failed to befriend before.”

 She kisses Kal’s forehead before she goes, not noticing how still he has gone. He has to be still. He would cry if he weren’t, the shame of his own inadequacy catching up with him with the force of a laser blast. He tries to explain it later, only to himself—only in the privacy of his own head—but he can’t quite put it into words without finally breaking down into sobs: the way it felt to have Batman see him as a simple stranger, rather than a well-established failure .

 It is, sadly enough, a practiced routine to ignore Kryo’s bland inquiries about his health.

  It takes Kal some time, after his and Kara’s non-fight in his lab, to realize she must not have come to see him so they could discuss his newfound interest for the art of teaching. In fact, it takes him a full night of reflection—earning him several bruises and possibly a cracked rib that could otherwise have been easily avoided. Kara is busy all of the next morning, and Kal uses that time to sleep like the dead for a while longer, before he goes to visit her in the upper levels of the royal palace.

 “I understand,” she says when Kal is done apologizing, eyes on the floor as if he were still a little boy of ten trying to live up to his adult cousin’s expectations. “I suppose I wasn’t at my best myself.”

 Kal nods, struck mute now that he has said his piece, and waits for Kara to set what she was working on aside and add:

 “I wanted to ask what you thought of the Turn of the Year Ball. You did not dance much.”

 “You know I mislike it,” Kal says with an embarrassed shrug. “It accomplishes nothing save providing the court more fodder for gossip.”

 He glances up just in time to catch Kara’s knowing look, and feels himself blush. It shouldn’t be an embarrassment, for her to know what the court has to say about Kal. He has been a source of gossip for longer than he can remember, after all, and she must have been aware of this long before he ever began to suspect there was something wrong with him. Still, discussing a source of humiliation is not the same as being aware of its existence, and for a moment Kal finds himself quite unable to speak.

 “I understand,” Kara says with the same soft tone she always uses in these conversations of theirs. “I imagine you wanted some fresh air after that.”

 “I tried, but the main balcony was rather occupied,” Kal remarks, forcing himself to take his hands out from behind his back, only to twist them together again at his front. “Lady Ra-Ny was there.”

 “Well,” Kara says, her tone as mild as her eyes are sharp, “she does like her space. Did you see who else was there?”

 “Lord Ko Li-Van of Ul, Lord Nej Tar-Plak from Po—along with his lady wife—”

 “Ce-Qod? I thought she was too sickly to travel.”

 Kal gives a nonchalant shrug, dragging his eyes back down to the ground, heart hammering in his chest.

 “So did several others in their assembly,” he says. “One must assume she made an effort for the sake of the opportunity to meet your father.”

 “Indeed,” Kara replies, thoughtful.

 Kal glances up and finds her looking down at her work, though her pen hand is not moving.

 “It seems quite a lot of Worker Princes and Princesses were hoping for the honor of meeting our king, this week. One can only wonder why.”

 She looks up then, straight into Kal’s eyes, and he shrugs.

 “Perhaps they were simply hoping to present him with well-wishing gifts for the Turn of the Year. I did hear some of them trade ideas among themselves. I believe Shadow’s limbs were invoked more than once; or, failing that, some form of garment patterned with Dark Suns.”

 “Well, thank you, Kal,” Kara tells him after a long silence, features and shoulders as stiff as stone. “You always do pick up the best gossip.”

 Kal, who knows the way his cousin looks when she needs to think on something, nods, and makes his way back to his family’s level of the palace.

  Once he is back in his family’s dwellings, Kal decides it would be best not to put off his teaching project. The prospect of approaching Batman might be mildly terrifying—though the memory of their willingness to tolerate Kal helps—but it is a necessary step for anything to happen. Besides, teaching or no teaching, it would not do to leave Batman to their own devices like an inconvenient visitor one tries to get rid of, having been followed home.

 He finds Batman, after some searching, in one of the smaller libraries of the palace, not too far from the guests’ quarters. Neither the apartments nor the library have seen much use in many years, and the silence around them is enough to set Kal’s nerves on alert, but Batman looks unbothered by it. They've taken a seat by one of the curved windows, relaxed pose incongruous in contrast to the stiffness of their clothes—perhaps Kal should see about having something else made for them—with a book on their lap and something close to a scowl on their mouth.

 Kal steps closer, and recognizes the cover of The Adventures of Flamebird . The character is a rather popular hero in El legend: a servant of Rao who went around the world helping those they could—for their gender was never revealed, if indeed they had even had one—and did so well on their quest that the Sun God himself gave them a home atop the highest mountain of the world and allowed them to call themselves Xen-El: Xen of the light, under the protection of the Helper God himself. The story itself was nothing truly original, merely a collection of legends that had lived in El for millennia before Kal’s great grandparents were even conceived...but Kal spent many a solitary hour poring over this book, devouring Flamebird’s adventures, their discovery, and their friendship with Nightwing, who rose in service of Vohc and became the first true Thinker of Krypton.

 The book itself, in fact, shows the wear of such a love. It is creased and bent where multiple sets of hands were cajoled into holding it open for Kal...and later on, from many instances of bringing it along on official travels or solitary explorations, until the order was finally given to find it a home in the guests’ library. Kal’s lips twist with the memories. There are entire sentences of the work still carved into his mind. They are not, unfortunately, the ones his parents wanted him to learn—these were lost to time, but Kal retains the vague impression of certitude coming from them, the edge of despair creeping into their voices until they could no longer cling to the hope that Kal would, one day, reveal himself as Rao’s heir and lead El back to its former glory. Nonetheless, some parts of this book Kal could recite without looking at them, and he cannot help but smile when he sees such a beloved item in the hands of someone he hopes to come to know and respect in the future.

 Batman must be attempting to teach themselves Ellon with this book. It is a commendable effort, and something Kal might have attempted in their situation, but if the alien’s face is anything to go by the experiment is not quite yielding the expected results. Then again, as far as Kal knows, Krypton’s alphabet is quite unique in the galaxy, so unless Batman is somehow familiar with something similar, it is hardly a surprise that they are finding it hard to make sense of.

 Stepping closer, Kal clears his throat and says, “I might be able to help with that.”

 It is unclear whether Batman was already aware of Kal’s presence or if they simply have commendable control of their body’s reactions. Either way, they give no sign of surprise that Kal can see. The window does offer quite the vantage point over the library, it is true. Its round frame dominates a circular room, covered floor to ceiling with the yields of thousands of years of book collecting. The truly rare editions, made of organic fibers rather than the synthetic paper everyone uses nowadays, are of course stored in the master library. Still, this particular collection is nothing to blush at, and Kal inhales the dusty smell of many books collected together with a form of reverence, even as he waits for Batman’s response.

 The alien, for their part, hasn’t moved at all since Kal entered, as if waiting to see what might happen next. The image puts Kal in mind of a predator surveying its hunting ground...although, perhaps, with more benevolence than most. It would seem...unlikely, to most, for a royal guest to keep track of people’s comings and goings around here. Then again, those same people would also deem it impossible for Kal to notice half as much as he does, and so he does not entirely dismiss the possibility.

 He endures Batman’s scrutiny instead, resisting the urge to flush and hunch in on himself even further than he already does. Thankfully, after a long moment of contemplation, Batman says something in their own language—Kal could slap himself for expecting anything more, really. Of course, Batman wouldn’t be able to answer. That is the entire point of this conversation, isn’t it? Rao, Kal. Keep up.

 “I would,” Kal starts, and winces again. Simple words, in this situation, must be best. He tries again: “I want to help you speak Ellon.”

 Batman stays silent again, the cowl obscuring their expression in a way that leaves Kal at a complete loss. He does not have the strength to wait as long as he did the first time around, though, and so he steps forward, points at The Adventures of Flamebird and its colorful pages, and says, “This is a book.”

 He might, possibly, have imagined the way Batman’s lips quirk into the not-quite-smile Kal is beginning to suspect is their best approximation of an encouraging expression. Regardless, no rebuttal or rejection comes, and Kal allows himself to sigh in relief when Batman dutifully repeats the word. Then, Batman gestures for Kal to sit down next to them and Kal takes a place on the windowsill with rather more giddy enthusiasm than he’d expected to feel.

 “May I?” he asks, hand hovering over the book.

 He waits for Batman to push the collection into his hand and flips through the pages to the beginning of Flamebird and the Secret Lake . There, he points at the illustration and says:

 “This is water.”

 “Water,” Batman repeats with a small nod.

 Kal beams at them before he can think better of it, then flips through a few more pages to the part where Flamebird serves one of the old Lords of Krypton to prevent a servant from losing their place in the palace; points at the picture of a glass, and asks:

 “What is this?”

 “This is a glass,” Batman says.

 Kal grins again, and goes through several more illustrations, naming objects and checking back on Batman’s memory at regular intervals. It is easy to find the material he needs, the book so beloved it feels like he might be able to find specific pages without even looking. At some point, he drops it in his excitement, and thanks Batman when they pick it up for him, but otherwise a solid half hour is spent on nothing but new vocabulary. Until, that is, Kal realizes he cannot possibly expect Batman to memorize all of this without any sort of support.

 He manages to refrain from apologizing—although only because knows Batman would not understand the words—as he rises from his seat and goes to fetch Batman something to write on. He is not, technically, supposed to use the blank books stored at the bottom of the shelves, but then no one ever does, and he does not think they have been counted even once since he was born. He finds one with a black cover and the El coat of arms in silver embossing on the front, the lined pages inside ideal for a long list of vocabulary, and brings it back up to the windowsill.

 “Thank you,” Batman says, and Kal gasps and blanches.

 “Oh Rao, no, no! You can’t address me this way, you have no idea how much trouble—”

 Kal cuts himself off, face and neck heated enough to cook on them. Of course Batman has no idea what they've done. Kal should have anticipated this, even: they did run into this particular problem before. Kal...well, he does not mind what is technically disrespect. Quite the contrary, in fact. But others? Oh, others definitely will mind, quick though they are to forget Kal is a Citadel Prince when their lust for gossip overtakes them. Batman, of course, is unaware of the problem, and does not have enough understanding of Ellon for Kal to explain it to them as of yet, not without running the risk of confusing them for a long time to come—which means the situation calls for some social gymnastics.

 So, Batman is an alien. In theory, this would make them lower-ranked than any Kryptonian, let alone an Ellon in their own Principality. They are, however, also a guest of the royal family, however reluctant their hosts. This, in turn, will protect them from quite a lot of negative reactions, despite Jor-El and Lara Lor-Van’s disgrace. Servants’ modes of speaking are, of course, quite out of the question; but Batman cannot be allowed to address Citadel Lords and Ladies like equals either, or they will end up in a world of trouble. Which means they probably ought to talk like a Mountain Lord then, or at least as if close to them in status. It is, after all, unlikely that they will run into anyone ranking any lower than that while they are staying in the palace, and if they are to visit other parts of El...well, hopefully, they will wait until they can communicate better before they attempt it.

 “Let’s try again,” Kal offers, once his grammar is decided. “’Thank you’.”

 “Thank you,” Batman repeats, something in the way they move making Kal wonder if they have picked up on some of the social cues involved.

 Regardless, they do not seem eager to question the new, quite different version of the phrase, and Kal beams again, hard enough to push the embarrassment of his earlier mistake almost out of his mind. He ignores the lingering traces of it for the time being in order to pull Batman’s notebook open, pen a rapid sketch of a glass in the left hand margin, and label the drawing in his most careful schoolboy handwriting. He hands Batman the pen when they tap his wrist, and repeats the word when asked, impressed when Batman adds notes in what looks like two different alphabets of their home world.

 They archive the rest of what Batman has learned so far in the same manner, Kal flipping through the pages of The Adventures of Flamebird between words, finding his favorite illustrations without much effort, even though it has been years. After the words come sentences, and Batman puts them through the same process as the rest, writing down both the way they are to be pronounced and what Kal assumes is a translation below the Kryptonian letters. Then, after a while, Batman speaks again, in that strange language of theirs.

 Kal turns back to them, only for them to point down at the book and repeat whatever they were saying. The words, obviously, are entirely opaque, but the sentiment behind them seems easy to interpret, and Kal decides to go out on a limb in order to answer.

 “This is one of my favorite books.”

 He clutches the book to his chest with a wider smile than he remembers sporting in years, excited to meet someone whose reaction to the stories does not range from fond amusement to open disinterest for a collection of children’s tales.

 “Favorite books,” Batman repeats, and Kal beams again, closing the book to point at the cover.

 “They are Flamebird,” he tells Batman. “The legends say they were the very first El of Krypton.”

 Batman looks—not invested in the topic, perhaps, but mildly interested, if their mouth is any indication. No more disinterested than before, at any rate. And Kal—Kal has had few occasions to discuss a book he is passionate about in his life, his family not much for fiction. This, most likely, explains how he manages to spend over three hours talking Batman’s ears off about the book and why, in the end, even the mortifying certitude he must have bored the alien almost to tears isn’t quite enough to prevent him from seeking their company the next day.

  Batman progresses much faster than Kal expected. It takes them only two weeks to remember the numerous words Kal plied them with during their first lesson—something of a mistake, perhaps, to throw so many words at them and expect they would remember them all so soon—and then only about a week after that to grow quite at ease in asking for what they need at the dining table. Where before Kal used to remain silent while his parents or the rest of his family discussed one topic or another, he is now able to put this time to good use helping Batman improve their mastery of Ellon with an enthusiasm he does not remember feeling for the rest of his work before.

 He does not neglect his studies, of course, and Kara eventually stops feeling the need to ask if he is still fit to take care of his nocturnal plants. He does, however, spend most of his afternoons in the guests’ library with Batman, learning bits and pieces of Batman’s language through their alphabet of sound, and engaging in more and more complex discussions about Flamebird and the various legends surrounding them.

 He convinces Batman to let themselves be measured—with their uniform on—during the second week, and presents them with a black and cowled variation on the latest fads in Ellon fashion, the slashed sleeves of their new tunic opening up to reveal lighter gray underneath, and the strange motif of Batman’s original outfit embossed on a breastplate similar to what even Kal has taken to wearing on a regular basis.

 “Thank you,” Batman says when they receive the gift, although Kal is rather unsurprised to find their expression as mild as ever.

 “You are quite welcome,” he says. “I know the old one is cleaned every night, but I also know how uncomfortable it can be to wear the same thing every day.”

 He cannot be sure Batman truly glances up at him at the words, covered as their face is, but he does get the impression of it nonetheless. They have, after all, been spending almost all their time together these days—save for the one evening his uncle received a small group of Worker Princes and Princesses in the Stateroom of Peace, and Kal put his family’s absence to good use, excusing himself early to work on his nocturnal specimens. Such proximity makes it easier to understand someone’s expression, limited though their shared vocabulary may be, and so Kal is, perhaps, not caught as wholly off guard as he could have been when Batman asks, “Is this Nightwing?”

 Despite having anticipated the question, Kal blushes. It is one thing to draw inspiration from a legendary hero for a friend’s outfit, it is quite another to have them pick up on it. Not that Kal is too concerned about anyone else understanding the reference, seeing as Nightwing had fallen into disrepute long before he was born.

 “Perhaps,” he hedges, though it does not feel like Batman believes him.

 Nightwing was once as popular a legendary character as Flamebird, at least in El. He was, after all, the very first Thinker, and Thinkers are El’s favored Guild. Many Els have been engineered to be Thinkers in the past, and Kal’s family members are no exception. Why, his father even married into his own Guild, a rather unusual choice for royals. But where Nightwing, and his patron God Vohc, was once revered and respected as a leader of the people and a Builder of great things, later centuries turned him from ambitious to proud, from charismatic to authoritarian, from an instigator of beneficial change to an agent of chaos.

 In El, at least, it is Rao who now presides over the Gods, guiding them with his light to follow the rituals set thousands of years before by early Ellons. Flamebird, too timid and too tangled in the story of Nightwing, has also been largely relegated to the role of fairytale character, following in Rao’s footsteps with unwavering loyalty and teaching the young how to make their parents proud. A worthy goal, Jor-El used to say when Kal was little; and Kal’s destiny, his mother would add. To make them proud. Not that it did them—or Kal—any good but then the future is a hard thing to predict, and Kal did not turn out to resemble Rao in the slightest.

It was, perhaps, quite inevitable that Kal would never meet anyone who shared his preference for the older versions of the tales.

 “I like it,” Batman says at last.

 The tears catching in Kal’s throat are a surprise but he does, thankfully, manage to keep them from falling.

  Weeks turn into a month, and then another beyond that. Batman continues to progress in Ellon at astonishing speed, his—not their, as he tells Kal at the end of his first month on Krypton—ability to pick up on a word’s meaning and the complex grammatical structures of Ellon beyond anything Kal has ever heard of. Not, of course, that many people are willing to discuss much of their lives with him, language learning included, but still. He did read a few books on the theory of language acquisition, after all, and from what he sees either Batman comes from an especially quick-witted species, or he is even more exceptional than Kal suspected.

 Eventually, Kal’s parents start talking to him a little. Nothing more than idle conversation in between more important errands, but it is still progress, and an occasion for Batman to practice his skills with someone other than Kal. It...worries Kal, in the beginning. A selfish reaction, he knows—but Batman is smart, with a dry sense of humor Kal can’t help but grin at, and prone to engage in the sort of verbal sparring that makes Kal feel more alive, somehow. Talking to him—existing next to him—is a breath of fresh air. It is the very first time Kal has met someone who doesn't merely tolerate him, but rather, for some reason, seems to appreciate him.

 So it is...understandable, perhaps, if not honorable, that he fears losing this once Jor and Lara start addressing Batman over the dining table. He won’t do anything to stop it, of course. Knows better than to keep someone he has come to care for more than he ever planned to from making new friends and building himself a life on Krypton and in El...but there is still a part of him that sighs in relief once it becomes obvious something about the Prince and Princess of El’s conversation displeases Batman. Not much. Not enough for him to shun them entirely. Just—just enough for Kal to pick up on it and feel selfishly, shamefully glad.

 Kal is, in all honesty, not as good a person as he wishes he could be.

 Nevertheless, Batman does not desert Kal, and when the time comes for him to be invited to one of King Jor’s minor receptions, he appears on Kal’s doorstep long before they are to join the rest of the palace’s occupants for the descent into the Stateroom.

 He looks—well, Kal has always known Batman looked good, even in the strange, almost goofy outfit he brought from this Earth of his. Shoulders like his cannot be disguised by what is clearly thought of as a set of armor. The softer fabrics of El’s ceremonial outfits, however, the elegant work of the decorative breastplate and the geometrical embroideries—all of these combine to reveal a body no one would have to blush at. A body Kal may well be thinking of a tad more often than he is supposed to, hidden as it is behind its layers of clothes.

 “I would offer my assistance,” Kal says when he has made sure he isn’t staring, “but it seems to me like you have everything under control.”

 “Contrary to what everyone seems to think, there are things I am quite able to handle on this planet.”

 Kal chuckles despite himself, and hides the smile that lingers on his face by busying himself with the fastenings of his tunic. It has only been a week since Batman started talking to him as an equal and while Kal should, by all accounts, maintain a proper distance between him and someone so insignificant in Kryptonian society, he finds he does not want to. What does it matter, that Batman is a nobody from nowhere, if he is Kal’s friend?

 “Well, the outfit suits you well,” Kal tells Batman as he finishes putting his breastplate in place.

 “Black does seem to be my color,” Batman agrees, a dry blankness to his tone that makes Kal smile again, “even when everyone else satisfies themselves with the darkest khaki s I’ve ever seen.”

 It takes a bit of time for Kal to understand what khaki means and provide a decent translation. When that is done, though, he cannot help but agree with Batman as to the rather monochromatic state of Kryptonian fashion. Most fabrics that Kal is familiar with are dark and muted, as if the light had been leached out of them, so that the solid black and gray of Batman’s outfits seem almost bright by comparison. It is a good look on his friend, though, and Kal finds himself toying with the idea of saying so as they move to join the rest of his family at the entrance to the Way Down.

 “It is a fancier name than it needs,” Kal admits, rubbing at his neck in embarrassment, once Batman asks about it. “But it is the only way to reach the Stateroom of Peace from here, so….”

 “The only way?”

 “There are the service elevators, I suppose,” Kal says with a shrug.

 There used to be five of those, actually, disseminated at various points around the palace, until the lower botany labs were built and one of the shafts had to be closed; one of Kal’s ancestors disliked the coming and going of servants so close to them. Nowadays the serving staff use the four remaining—small and uncomfortable—service shafts, deliveries are made through a specific balcony, and Kal’s family uses the Way Down, voices echoing against the room-wide walls of polished metal. The feeling of it is rather like sitting in an egg meant to welcome forty adult Kryptonians, and Kal cannot help but wonder how much of his discomfort every time he goes down rests on that particular architectural choice and how much is simply due to what he knows he will have to face downstairs.

 “You live in a fortress,” Batman says after a pause.

 His gaze is still firmly set forward, his shoulders unmoved. Yet there is something in his tone that squeezes at Kal’s heart, a sort of tightness he isn’t sure he can figure out on his own. It leaves him nervous and tense, more hunched than he would like as he fiddles with the hems of his sleeves.

 His father, when he notices it, pulls Kal's hands apart without a word.

 “It is unbecoming,” Kal’s mother says with a shake of her head. “You must rid yourself of this habit, Kal.”

 Kal leaves his cuffs alone and mumbles an apology, though he can’t help but try and explain himself.

 “No one is as fond of these occasions as they would like to appear,” Jor-El replies as the seven of them step into the elevator, “but you cannot shame our House with that sort of ridiculous behavior.”

 Resisting the urge to wrap his arms around his midsection—a much bigger embarrassment than simple fiddling—Kal nods at the ground. It is, in all honesty, a good thing that Batman is here. Kal has no desire for his friend to realize how pathetic he can be just yet—or perhaps ever—and so it is easier to keep his shoulders straight than it would usually be. Besides, while Kal has no illusion about the interest people may find in him—very little, if any—Batman still hasn’t tired of him. In fact, the alien has treated him with something not unlike a form of fondness, like tolerating a faulty but well-worn hunit. It isn’t much. Kal knows it isn’t much. It is, however, better than he remembers ever knowing elsewhere, and it helps him keep his self-consciousness at bay as he takes a small step away from his family and toward Batman.

 They both stay quiet during the ride down, Batman having learned by now not to expect too much conversation from Kal’s parents. Brilliant scientists they may both be, but they are not teachers, nor very patient. And so, despite the keenness of Batman’s mind, behind that strange cowl of his, he has been forced to content with Kal as his only company...until, that is, rumors of his progress reached the Citadel Lord and Ladies, and he was invited to this latest function.

 “Are you always this nervous?” Batman asks just before they exit the elevator.

 Kal would like to have the conversational skill and the confidence to answer ‘often enough’, but in truth it is not that much of an exaggeration to say, “Yes.”

 Batman, thankfully, is not prone to clicking his tongue, shaking his head or, indeed, acknowledging his emotions or opinions in any voluntary way at all. This is good, because while Kal is slowly learning to read the alien—the man, he should probably call him—it makes it easier to pretend Batman doesn’t think he is being ridiculous for this. Kal squares his shoulders instead, breathing in and bracing himself just as the doors to the Stateroom open and the members of the royal family are introduced by order of importance.

 The Stateroom, far too vast for this fairly intimate assembly, has been divided in two for the night. At the front, closest to the exit of the Way Down, stands the royal table, at which Batman, Kal, and the rest of the family will sit on display for all the court to see for the duration of dinner. Then the assembly will move to the back of the room for the evening’s first dance—a mandatory exercise, Kal has been informed—and the other points of interest. There are professional dancers, two magicians, three jugglers, and one woman whose business is in fire; Kal would rather spend the evening admiring them all than dance for even a few minutes, but that is, unfortunately, not an option.

 By Kal’s side, Batman seems decidedly unperturbed by the crowd, the noise, and the myriad of occasions one has to embarrass themselves in this sort of public setting. He moves the way he has always done, head held high as a king’s, back unbowed, step unafraid. He behaves, in fact, more like a prince than Kal knows how to.

 As soon as the first nobles have paid their respects to the king and come to engage the mysterious resident of the palace, Batman slips into an almost liquid version of himself. His mouth stretches into a smile, the set of his shoulders mellows, and even his voice softens enough to become almost unrecognizable. It is like watching the man become another part of himself entirely, and Kal would gape if he were not as aware of their audience as he is.

 He follows Batman at a distance instead, watching him charm Citadel Lord after Citadel Lady, easy and practiced despite the still-obvious gaps in his vocabulary. It is a talent Kal could never cultivate, and a deep sense of shame settles in his chest, almost obscuring the pride he feels in his friend’s talent. The assembly, predictably enough, pays him little mind. Kal is used to that treatment, however, and while it is never pleasant it is easier, with Batman here, to push past the stopping power of indifferent disdain and listen to the gossip circulating in the room.

 If, that is, multiple talks of financial transactions can be considered gossip. Kal is...too well-known as an incompetent to join any of the conversation, but mining projects seem to be all the rage in El, and more than one Lord or Lady is already considering what to do for the king’s birthday, in six months’ time.

 Slowly, Kal trails Batman through the dining half of the Stateroom, wondering if this was how Kara felt when she was first allowed in polite society twenty-five years ago. They make small talk with many people, Batman coming up with a new way of calling Krypton grandiose for each pair of ears that would not accept anything less, and answering countless variations of the question: “What is your favorite thing in El?”

 No one, Kal notices, asks whether Batman misses his home planet at all. Not that he would answer—in Kal's experience, attempts to make the man open up about his emotions go about as well as punching the wall of the Citadel and expecting a door to open. Still, Kal cannot help but think the asking of that question matters, perhaps even as much as the answer. He might be biased, of course. Trying to bolster his own importance. Even so, he is glad he had the mind to ask this, at least once.

 They make their way back to the front of the room, where the dining bell will soon call them and the rest of the royals. Cold golden light shines over the room in waves, like a winter sun filtered through water. It gives the whole scene an eerie look, as if seen in a dream, though Kal does not remember it feeling like this before. Eventually, he and this mellowed version of Batman catch up to a small group composed of Kal’s family, all caught in conversation with General Dru-Zod.

 “You don’t like him?” Batman asks, tone flat enough to almost turn it into an affirmation.

 “I don’t believe he is very fond of me either,” Kal mutters in return, trying and failing to sidestep the question.

 He is under no illusion that Batman missed the evasion, of course. Still, the man has the kindness not to laugh at the childish sentiment, though Kal can’t help but feel like he wants to. Batman approaches the conversational circle, but Kal knows where his own place in this particular configuration is and stands by a nearby table instead, just far enough behind his parents to affect ignorance should any courtly eye wander his way. He can’t be sure Batman glancing at him through the lenses of his cowl is anything more than a figment of his imagination, but he does give a little shrug just the same. Just in case. It is good, after all, for Batman to have more interesting things to do than content himself with Kal’s company all day. This evening will do him good, and if it means he makes better friends than Kal in the process, well, it will have—it will be alright. Perfectly fine.

 As it is, though, none of the speakers pay Batman much attention, and Kal watches General Dru-Zod as he clinks his glass against Zor-El’s first, and Kara’s second.

 “To a most excellent deal,” he says.

 The small circle sips on what Kal assumes is one of the Zodri wines the general is so fond of, unbothered by Batman’s empty hands. The silence settles around them as they savor the taste, Kal’s uncle swishing the wine around his mouth before declaring it absolutely delicious. Kara sways after her second sip, closing her eyes and saying, “Forgive me, this is perhaps a little strong,” as if Kal hadn’t seen her drink men twice her size under a table.

 “Strong wine for a strong future,” Dru-Zod replies, self-assured. “This proposition is a boon from the Gods!”

 “This proposition hasn’t been signed yet,” Kal’s mother counters in a quiet, yet firm voice.

 Around her, the air tenses. Batman, caught between her and Dru-Zod’s piercing gaze, remains unmoved, while Kal’s shoulders bunch together even as he looks away. He knows these people’s faces well enough by now: there is no need for him to look at them to imagine the pursing of his cousin’s lips, the frown on his aunt’s face. The tightness of his uncle’s jaw when he hisses, “Sister.”

 “I am but speaking the truth,” Lara replies, still in an undertone. “You and all your Laborer friends may rejoice all you want, but none of your pretty gifts will amount to anything if Tsiahm-Lo changes his mind at the last second.”

 “Gifts have nothing to do with his decision,” Kal’s aunt replies in a mild, somewhat miffed tone. “His Majesty is perfectly capable of making his own choices, and no one here has any close contact with him.”

 “Not directly,” Kara remarks.

 Kal almost hears the air grow tense after her words. He cannot fathom Batman’s expression has changed much...nor that anyone else looks very pleased. Not with the heaviness of the silence around them. Still, he keeps his eyes turned away from his family, sweeping in wide arcs over the Stateroom and its crowd of milling nobility, the performers entertaining the crowd until the royal family finally feels the need to eat. Lady Ona-Set, robes swishing around her, wanders between tables, no doubt lamenting the excessively modern arrangements of cutlery.

 “Nevertheless,” Jor says with a tone of finality, “it would do Tsiahm-Lo good, rethinking his position. The Melokariel Proposition is pure folly, and my father—”

 Lady Ona-Set must have stirred some dust: something tickles at Kal’s nose and he finds himself sneezing three times in rapid succession.

 “Perhaps we should not speak of this where a foreigner can hear,” Kara interrupts Jor, switching to Council.

 “Perhaps you are right,” Dru-Zod replies, “although there is nothing much more to be discussed. Krypton has been stagnating for far too long, and this project will serve to revive it.”

 “You are a fool if you believe that,” Jor retorts with enough feeling to turn Kal’s head towards him, “and so are the Wise—”

 “Jor!” Zor and Lara hiss at the same time.

 On his chair, Kal stiffens. It is not done, to openly disagree with the Wise Council. Their hearing is quite keen and their new militia, specifically trained in Kandor to help unify the planet under one rule, has lengthened the reach of their arm. El holds some power in Krypton’s politics and retains its own police force, still—as does Zod and the distant Principality of Quod—but even Kal has heard whispers of how briefly prisoners taken by the Council’s militia remain in Ellon prisons. When, that is, they visit them at all. Even for royals, it is not done, to openly disagree with the Wise Council.

 For a moment, Kal thinks his family members will attempt to resurrect the topic and keep the conversation going. They spend a long time looking pensively at their glasses instead and then, without a word, the king leads his entourage up to the main table.

 The meal starts quietly enough, but the conversation on Kal’s right picks up again by the time the first dishes are brought out. To his left, Batman eyes the various foods with a tight pinch to his lips, and Kal smiles, even as he points out his favorites as well as one thing he is not very fond of but believes Batman might enjoy. They are well into the meal—in silence, for Batman is not one for idle chatter—when Batman asks, “What does your grandfather have to do with the Melokariel Proposition?”

 Kal almost chokes on his glass of water, and has to reach for a napkin with some urgency to cover the blunder. He is flushing, he knows it, and his heart is pounding hard when he answers with a question of his own.

 “Whatever do you mean?”

 “Your grandfather,” Batman repeats without looking away from his food, perfect profile insufficient for Kal to figure out what he is thinking. “Your family was talking about the Melokariel Proposition earlier. Your grandfather was mentioned, but I fail to understand how he is related to it.”

 For the barest moment, Kal gapes. He is, after all, widely known for his disinterest in the Melokariel Proposition, and his utter inability to change that fact. That Batman would have questions about it had never crossed his mind, let alone that he would come to Kal of all people for answers.

 “I’m afraid,” he says with some difficulty, cheeks burning with too-familiar shame, “you misunderstand me. I meant I don’t know what the Melokariel Proposition is.”

 Batman’s head turns toward him. The man’s eyes are invisible, and yet Kal still wishes he could squirm away from them.

 “The Melokariel Proposition,” Batman repeats. “I have been here more than two and a half months, and I’ve heard it discussed at least twice a week since then.”

 “Then,” Kal admits, shoulders drooping almost of their own accord, “you have a better mind for these sorts of things than I do.”

 There is no change in Batman’s posture, no indication in his expression or on his face that what he has just heard displeased him. This does not in any way prevent Kal from feeling like a great divide has suddenly opened up between them.

  Kal collapses at the door to the elevator shaft in his labs with a grunt of relief, and takes a couple of minutes to get his breathing back under control. His outfit rearranges into more palace-appropriate garments with a tickle, the slick feeling of dirty water and blood sending his stomach reeling. He wishes sometimes that he could just use one of the regular elevators for these outings of his. The scrutiny that would bring him, however...it would be ill advised, at best. And an unnecessary complication besides. So, abandoned shaft it is, though the necessity of the scheme does not prevent Kal from snorting, from time to time, as he tries to picture his parents’ expressions should they learn of this habit of his.

 “Avoiding servants?” Kryo asks when Kal slowly pushes himself to his feet.

 “Always a success,” Kal replies, and does not watch Kryo bob up and down in acknowledgment.

 His entire body is sorer than it has been a while, bruises growing on top of bruises. Tonight was not a good night. Multiple incidents; he’ll have to tell his family tomorrow. A dozen plants dead. Significant structural damage—well, no, that he can’t share. They would want to see it if he did, and it isn’t as though Kal could show them. In any case, it will be at least three days until Kal can afford to leave his work again.

 Three days might be pushing his luck a little, Kal knows. Two would arouse less suspicion. But the truth is, this is not an effort Kal is willing to expend, not when his only wish is to lie down and sleep for an entire week undisturbed. He may have to, at some point—Batman still has questions about the workings of El in particular and Krypton in general, and Kal is still the only one willing to answer him. Even that, though, has lost quite a lot of its appeal.

 Teaching Batman about his surroundings used to be a breath of fresh air, a dream of spring in the middle of winter. Ever since the ball, though, Batman has been—it feels like something broke. And—it makes sense. Somewhat. Kal was—he has never been an interesting person to begin with. A subject of morbid fascination, maybe. A specimen for the study of Krypton’s society. A cautionary tale for those foolish enough to dream of following into Jor-El and Lara Lor-Van’s hubris-filled footsteps, reminding them that wishing for Krypton’s next great leader will only get them someone like Kal.

 An interesting person, though? Not really.

 The thought twists at Kal’s gut, but he swallows the hard truth nonetheless. Tears won’t change things that are, and so he gulps them down and makes himself face the facts while he walks to the showers at the back of the labs. He is uninteresting. That, he knew. But at the very least, Batman used to find him—useful. Tolerable, maybe. A companion of limited worth, but still preferable to complete solitude and then...well, then, Kal did not see Batman for almost two weeks.

 Three weeks in, and they have finally resumed their usual study sessions, but it is easy to see the tone of them has shifted. There are as many questions as there have ever been, as many topics to touch upon. Batman still teaches whatever English Kal is willing to learn. But where before these moments flowed like long exchanges between friends, it seems to Kal Batman is now merely perusing a list of references, gathering information to examine it at a later date. Seeking pointers to guide his solitary studies rather than answers from someone he trusts. It is—it makes sense. Kal should have known it would happen. Batman has figured him out and moved on. He should have known. He should have. He should.

 But he did not, and tonight more than ever the thought twists inside him, clawing at his throat and the corners of his eyes in a way it hasn’t in the three months and some weeks since Batman crash-landed on Krypton.

 It is no use, spending so much time thinking of this. Kal knows this, and tries to push the thoughts out of his mind as he steps under the shower. Clearly, Batman was unwilling to bother with someone uninterested by the topic of the Melokariel Proposition. That is that; no more to say on the subject.

 Although it does, of course, beg the question of why Batman has become so invested in that project in the first place. What does an alien who did not even come from this galaxy care about a strictly Kryptonian affair? Everyone, after all, keeps repeating the truth that no neighboring planet will be affected, let alone Batman’s distant and unknown solar system. Why, then, has the man developed such curiosity about it? That he did not know of Krypton’s existence even while passing by it close enough to crash on it after an accident, Kal can believe. Light-speed spacecrafts are all equipped with automated pilots, and Batman did say he was traveling on business, attempting to reach friends who had required his help. The lack of help, too, is unsurprising. Batman did not have any way to communicate for a long time, and no one—not even Kal, he realizes, wincing—thought to offer help in getting him back home.

 But why would he grow so passionate about the Melokariel Proposition as to reject Kal on the sole basis of his lack of interest in it?

 “Would you like me to order some breakfast to be brought up?” Kryo asks when Kal emerges from his shower in a hurry and immediately shoves himself into his now-anthracite tunic.

 “In two hours, please,” Kal replies. “I have something to do, first.”

 It must be the space making him paranoid. It must be. There is too much of an echo, down there, too much darkness, like a cave of insanely regular proportions. Still, the doubt clings to Kal’s skin as he strides across the space, drooping leaves brushing at his face and arms as he goes on, wishing desperately for answers—or, failing that, for some way to stop thinking altogether...two things he might, in fact, be able to find in the same place.

 The Adventures of Flamebird has always been a source of comfort to him, well-worn pages and cover a soothing sight of their own by now. It would do him good to hold it, to lose himself in the myriad of tales it contains and the distant, unknowable lands of Krypton in its earliest days. It would ease his mind; soothe him enough, perhaps, to let him sleep and forget the night’s casualties, at least long enough to survive. And since the book has been residing in Batman’s bedchamber for several weeks now, perhaps Kal will manage to seize whatever feeble courage he has and ask some of the questions that, he can tell, will not leave him alone otherwise.

 He has no desire to do it. Kal is many things, but brave is not one of them, and the fear of losing whatever shreds of Batman’s friendship he still has stops him in his tracks at the bifurcation between the guests’ quarters and the royal apartments. He is, however, a Prince of El. Not the most glorious of them, and not a particularly good one, either; but if he suspects something strange is going on in the palace, it is his duty to examine it. He must do this, and he must do this fairly—he cannot let his desire for friendship blind him to whatever reasons Batman might have to research a planet-wide project involving so much energy...and if those reasons come with ill intent, then Kal will have to stop the man. Friend or no.

 Kal knows his duty, he truly does, but he cannot deny that relief washes over him, a few minutes later, when Batman does not answer the knock on his door. For a brief moment, the urge to forget about all of this seizes him, and he almost turns back. But tonight has been a bad night, and a dozen pe—plants have been lost by his fault. Four of them only saplings. He should have—done many things. He did not, and now they are lost, and that knowledge is what spurs him on to push Batman’s door open. The book can wait, though Kal will miss its presence tonight; his questions cannot.

 Making no noise across the carpeted floor is an easy feat, with shoes as light and supple as socks. Even then Kal is wary. Batman, he has learned, sleeps lightly. And, these days, most likely in short stretches. The first, Batman has admitted to him directly. The second, Kal is forced to assume from what he has seen of the man. He naps at random times, and is irritated and bad-tempered when left to sleep longer than he meant to. He has the uncanny ability to fall asleep anywhere, without needing to adopt an even vaguely horizontal position. All of these are symptoms Kal recognizes from his own poor sleeping habits, ways to get some rest between his nightly work and the demands of a princely life. It is neither healthy nor agreeable, but Kal has grown used to it, and he is at least capable of recognizing the signs of it in another, when faced with them.

 All of this, of course, can mean only one thing: something has come to disrupt Batman’s sleeping patterns since he distanced himself from Kal. Something that probably can’t  be the fault of any other Kryptonian, for Kal is still the only one to speak to Batman with any regularity, and he knows perfectly well no work was given to the man besides making sure he does not accidentally insult his hosts, or his hosts’ guests. The question now is to find out what, exactly, that something is.

 Kal, stomach heavy as a stone, crosses from Batman’s living quarters into his bedchamber without a sound, relieved to find the man asleep with his back to the door. He is snoring, too, soft and regular, and Kal allows himself a relieved breath before he creeps closer, knowing Batman well enough by now to realize nothing of importance in his Kryptonian life will be kept out of his reach.

 Batman’s Earth outfit rests on a dummy by the bedside, mended torso, yellow belt and all. To the right of that, immediately left of the bed, the crimson glow of the moon washes over a pile of books—some Kal recognizes, some he doesn’t—with some kind of sharp-looking weapon and, at the top, a bracelet of some kind sporting the all-too-familiar symbol of the Green Lanterns. Kal can’t help but stare at it for far longer than he should before he grabs it, shoves it into a brand-new inside pocket of his tunic, and has to put all his focus into exiting as quietly as he came in.

 He stops outside of Batman’s quarters for a moment, grateful for Kryo and its never ending watch as he tries to sort through his thoughts. A Green Lantern! In the palace! If anyone knew this—no. Better not think of it. Not, at any rate, until Kal has decided what to do about this information. He is not thinking clearly, he knows. Cannot possibly handle this information with the amount of care and objectivity it requires on his own, not without several days to ponder it, and he does not have that kind of time. This in turn can mean but one thing: he needs counsel, and not from Kryo, which does not know the meaning of affection. No, he needs someone whom he can trust, and someone who will understand, at least in part, the dilemma he finds himself in.

 With a clear path in mind at last, Kal sighs, braces himself, and sets off toward the upper levels of the royal palace.

  Kara’s pillow slaps him in the face with enough force to disorient him for a moment, and Kal only owes the lack of a second blow to the sharpness of her reflexes. She hisses imprecations at him for a while, until he pulls out Batman’s bracelet and cuts her short. Without a word, Kara reaches for the item, scowling when Kal pulls it out of her reach on reflex. She sits up straighter and asks:

 “Where did you get this? I swear to the Gods, Kal, if you contacted the Green Lanterns—”

 “Do you truly think I would be so foolish?” Kal hisses back.

 There are those on Krypton who have managed to get in touch with the Green Lanterns and remained on the planet, but Kal has never contacted any of them directly, though he is working with them after a fashion. The Green Lanterns’ name may only serve as a curse in the higher circles of Krypton, but the general population is hardly fond of them either.

 “Then where in Vohc’s name did you find this?”

 “Batman’s room, as a matter of fact,” Kal admits.

 Kara mutters something that sounds a lot like ‘Rao help us’ with the deepest scowl Kal has ever seen on her face. He supposes he cannot blame her for it. She looks him straight in the eyes then, still frowning, and Kal has to force himself to hold her gaze, to show her without words that he is not entirely careless but merely out of his depth.

 Eventually, Kara’s face goes through a complicated movement and, with the twist of her mouth that signals questions too delicate to be dealt with immediately, she asks, “Are you sure no one else knows?”

 Kal nods with a sigh of relief. He can’t know for sure what Kara’s advice will be, but whatever happens next, at least he can have some control over the situation, and maybe—hopefully—spare Batman the worst outcomes. Colluding with the Green Lanterns would send him to jail, at best—and not an Ellon one, at that. Kal may not be an expert on the topic, but he knows his uncle: there are not many things in this world that tighten Zor-El’s jaw with a mere mention, and the people who leave El for Kandorian cells tend not to come back.

 “Good,” Kara says.

 “Do you think the Lanterns could have sent him here on purpose?” Kal asks, heart in his throat. “I don’t think so, but I—I don’t know that I can tell what I wish to be the truth apart from what really is.”

 Kara clicks her tongue as she scoots to the edge of her bed and crushes Kal into a brusque hug.

 “They would have to be stupid to do that,” she says after she releases him. “Much though Krypton’s power may be….”

 “Diminished?”

 For once, Kara’s distinctly unimpressed look leaves Kal mostly unaffected. Krypton has been steadily declining for several centuries now, and the Wise Council’s reach has only grown upon Krypton these past decades, not beyond it.

 “Let’s call it that,” Kara begrudges after a beat. “Nevertheless, we are still a force to be reckoned with. It would be foolish of them to come look for trouble our way when we have respected the terms of the Treaty. Especially with Leaark and Axor at each other’s throats, at any rate.”

 Kal does not know what is going on between those two planets exactly, although he understands some kind of blood feud is involved. Still, it does not take a genius to grasp why the Green Lanterns would be keeping an eye on that rather than spying on a long-dormant enemy who has made no effort to communicate with the rest of the galaxy since the Independence Wars. The thought releases something in Kal’s chest, but only for a short while.

 Just because Kara sees things this way, after all, does not mean her father would agree, to say nothing of the Wise Council. Kal wouldn’t expect them to care whether a friend of the Lanterns came to Krypton by design or by accident. And Batman...well, even assuming he was lying when he said he knew nothing of Krypton when he landed there, his species, his planet, and even his solar system have no presence in Krypton’s database. There is nothing, intergalactic law or otherwise, to forbid Batman from associating with the Lanterns from Earth, so why should he be punished for it?

 But then, of course, there is also the matter of his latest activities.

 “I think,” Kal says with a heavy heart, “we still need to keep an eye on him.”

 Relating his reasoning to Kara only takes a few minutes, but Kal still feels like he has been speaking forever by the end of it. It is the right thing to do, he knows. Even for Batman’s sake—it wouldn’t do to let him involve himself in something as fraught as the Melokariel Proposition without at least a warning. That thought, however, does not do much to ease the feeling that he is betraying a friend, and he knows he has been too obvious in his worry when Kara loops an arm around his shoulders again.

 “Perhaps you should have a conversation with him, and take his version of things into account before we decide what to do about him. If he is planning to do harm to Krypton, we will need to stop him...but I see no need to punish him if he is only an unlucky traveler a little too curious about things he does not understand.”

 Kal nods, too afraid to voice the thought weighing on his mind: Batman seems too smart not to have any notion of what he is doing. Kal is still hoping all of this is an unfortunate misunderstanding, but already his heart sinks with the possibility of tragedy.

 “He hasn’t been friendly toward me since your father’s latest ball,” he admits, glad that he manages to keep the tears clogging his throat out of his voice. “I doubt he would listen to me even if I tried to broach the topic...and it is too risky to have that conversation in the more public places of the palace.”

 “Well,” Kara sighs, settling back under the covers, “the other you, then.”

[hsj-scenarios]

Mods! Could I request “we’re creatures of the underworld. We can’t afford to love” with Yama-Chan please?? I know you’re busy but take your time ^^

Familiar⎜Sentence Prompt⎜Song Inspo: N/A

Note: This was meant to be angst but turned fluffy by the end I think? 😅

His skin was warm against your cold one, the scent of dark amber and ginger lily played against the top of your nose as you nuzzled yourself within his arms, the night was colder than usual, Winter was near. Despite his tender wounds and the constant stinging discomfort on his upper back, he willingly let you sleep on his arms, and chest whenever you moved.

“Ryosuke ..” You softly called, taking him by surprise as he swore you were in a deep slumber. “Yes?” He replied, eyes still fixed on the ceiling.

“Will it ever stop? The attacks I mean .. will it get better?” The torment lingering in your tired voice tugged even the most stiff strings of his heart.

“It doesn’t matter, I will always be here to protect you. I can take it all, it truly doesn’t matter.” He spoke so nonchalantly, so unbothered and it most certainly irked you. Ryosuke was expressionless and careless, you questioned if he was truly that strong or simply foolishly presumptuous, it was a mystery.

Concerned you lifted your gaze from his arms, immediately pulling his eyes on you, “But your wings .. t-they ripped them off—“

“It doesn’t matter. They will eventually grow back, you need not worry.” A weak attempt of a reassuring smile made its way upon his chapped lips, he was drained and it showed. But you couldn’t settle for his apathy towards his mutilated body, or the situation; he was too relaxed.

But you knew better, you fully knew it was all a mere facade to ease your own worry. It wasn’t working unbeknownst to him.

“Stop acting like this, so .. so indifferent. Please .. stop pretending like this isn’t my fault—“

“Silence!” As expected, Ryosuke’s unremarkable temperament lashed out at you, stunned at his quickness in lifting himself off the bed you stayed quiet, not by his orders but by perplexity. He was fast in getting up but did not measure the amount of pain he would feel coursing through his back muscles as he did so, while he pretended to be unfazed by the blistering pain, you saw it being displayed crystal clear within his body language, he was as stiff as rock and his breathing was agitated.

Putting his brutish temper aside you stood from the bed and walked towards him, the bed sheets clinging gently on your fingers to tenderly lift them over his sore shoulders, covering his shirtless body and bringing him warmth. The tender act brought a sense of relief to his sudden anger, your predictable kindness alleviating his rigid breathing, the thin material upon his shoulders wasn’t remotely as warm as the fingers that gently graced him.

“This is not your fault. Please stop saying it is, don’t ever say it again ..” His anger ultimately lessened and his tone became low, tired. Still you could hear the implore in his voice, “You aided me in my time of need and for that I devote myself to you, a human. I, as a Tengu took that as my own burden willingly. I was fully aware of the consequences of taking care of a human, it is not your fault, it never will be.”

As Ryosuke spoke you went back in time for a moment, the recollection of your teenage years and how you met Ryosuke hitting you in vivid flashbacks. You still remember him, like a wounded animal resting ever so uncomfortably by a near river, his upper body was laying on the riverside while the other half was soaked in the waters, as you cautiously approached the boy you could see evident wounds, deep and raw on his arms and back. Similar to the present time, you found Ryosuke with deep lacerations just a little below his shoulders, a few black feathers were stuck to his skin, as bizarre as it was, they seemed to be plucked out. Little did you understand what you were witnessing; a wounded boy, of course! Yet you couldn’t understand how was it possible that a human boy had black feathers sticking out of his forearms and the lacerations on his back. What happened to him. You’d ask your 14 year old self.

Naturally you helped the half conscious boy to dry land, receiving a few mumbles and winces from his freshly looking wounds. You helped him. Little by little as days went by, you learned his name. Yamada Ryosuke, he said. The young boy was fascinating to you, a bit grumpy and whiny but so interesting; perhaps the icy blue eyes the boy possessed were the key part to your undying interest in him. Your teenage heart had, slowly but surely, caught a crush on the mysterious boy you happily gave a home to.

At the time, Ryosuke had long hair and most days he would wear it in a messy short ponytail, the rebellious strands of hair that fell to the sides of his face and the fringe that covered his ethereal eyes surely added to the beauty he had. He helped both your mother and yourself around the house with chores, he even took it upon himself to cook most nights, he was truly a dream inside one hell of a moody teenager. Ryosuke’s generosity did not match his character, but it added to your interests.

You grew close to the boy, in truth he was one of the first friends you made while living in the Gunma Prefecture in the town of Kusatsu. It was the countryside of Tokyo and you lived mostly with elderly people or children, you were the only teenager until Ryosuke appeared. The boy was reserved and didn’t speak much unless angered, then he would be the most outspoken and straightforward person, never missing a beat on telling it how it is regardless of whom he spoke to. You wondered why he decided to stay in your town but he would just say he had nowhere to go, no friends or family, he was alone.

It wasn’t until your last year of high school that you finally had the chance to see his true form and identity. Little did you know that the teenager you helped back on the riverside wasn’t even a human boy, but a god. One that rebelled against the demons of war and was ultimately rejected into living among the humans ..

You learned that all along Ryosuke had been serving you as a familiar, a kind repay for the days you spent sheltering him. He was a Tengu, the most humanized yokai you had ever met—or seen for that matter. You’d hear stories about dangerous Tengus, yet Ryosuke seemed to be gradually softened into one of protection. Stubborn but kind, grumpy but beautiful .. he wasn’t a monster like his kind had been depicted for years.

During that year you also learned that one of the reasons Ryosuke willingly protected you was because other fellow demons wanted to persuade you, see who was the infamous human girl Yamada Ryosuke proclaimed himself as her familiar, have a taste of you perhaps. To his kind, he was a traitor.

It was then after high school that the attacks become more serious, no longer were you able to live a normal life within the comfort of your home, things were unstable. The best place for security against the evil spirits and your wellbeing was entirely within the walls of a shrine in Kyoto far inside a forest but not entirely isolated from society, frankly, it was your own wish to be among nature and a little bit away from the busy streets of the crowded city.

The Atago Shrine reminded you of home, it’s forest felt like your childhood town in Kusatsu, filled with greenery and nature. You became known as the shrines caretaker and heard people’s prayers and stories, although you were not a land god or even a spirit, the locals were fond of you nevertheless. They found it strange how an unknown girl came from out of nowhere to live her days in a rundown shrine, the locals had their own theories about you however, and you could tell. Never had the locals met Ryosuke, but rumors say ‘they have seen a man with black wings around the shrine, mostly at night’ they believe the unknown man is actually the shrines protector and your guardian, in which they were indeed right. Of course, you never entertained any of the rumors or theories, you merely let it be.

You smiled upon the memories, your life had taken a bizarre turn, it was an odd fairytale. But you felt lucky nevertheless. “Stop spoiling me so much, Ryosuke ..” He could hear the smile on your lips as your arms leisurely surrounded his waist, careful not inflict pain, and rested your forehead on his back, trying your best to cover his body with the sheets around both of you.

He chuckled in return, “I’m reprimanding you, not spoiling you. Although I do guess I tend to spoil you rotten all the time,” His hands began to reach yours, looking down on them and having his own sweet smile as he placed them above your fingers, immediately lacing them together.

An intimate moment began to bloom, as always the feelings you sought to prevent came back, each time harder and difficult to ignore. You shut your eyes off to the thoughts, trying to shake away the feeling and the intimacy you knew he did not feel. Ryosuke couldn’t, many times he had told you before ..

“What’s wrong?” He asked, concern in his voice, sensing your sudden queasiness. “You’re tense.” Ryosuke points out, you wanted to chuckle upon his more than normal attention on your body language but you couldn’t. It hurt trying to avoid and hide certain emotions that simply would not stay silent.

You began to cower, “You already know ..” and as predicted, Ryosuke quickly detached himself from you, leaving the sheets to fall on the floor as he moved away from you, likely aggravated.

“Then stop,” He warned, swiftly searching for a sweater in his drawers, ignoring your dejected gaze as much as he could, “Block those feelings or throw them away, you’re only hurting yourself.”

Admittedly, Ryosuke couldn’t believe the irony behind his own words. It was laughable how truly contradicting he sounded, yet there he stood, masking away his own feelings with, literally, broken wings. What an idiot. He thought.

“What are you so afraid of, Ryosuke?” You asked, a hint of annoyance in your voice, and as he turned to answer he froze unexpectedly. He’d blame it on the hopelessness reflecting on your eyes that made him freeze on the spot.

I’m deathly afraid of not being able to protect you. Ryosuke wanted to scream it, he was in enough pain to do so yet he swallowed it all and kept his cold demeanor. “I’m not afraid of anything—“

“That’s bullshit!” You lashed out, “ We’re all afraid of something at some point, Ryosuke.” Granted, you were tired of his constant standoffish demeanor. “Stop acting like you have everything under control all the time–you got your wings ripped off for Christ’s sakes! Stop pretending to not have feelings or any sense of emotions, just stop trying to fit in so badly into what old tales say about you .. you are allowed to feel just as much as I do.” Your fingers gripped tightly the sheets around you with anger, feeling tears brim your eyes you opted for biting your bottom lip in nothing short of frustration.

Ryosuke’s instinct upon your disheartening sight brought him urgently to your care. It was either natural instinct as your familiar, or the plain and simple love he had for you that brings him to bindingly attend your every need and provide for you unquestionably.

After all, Ryosuke alone took it upon himself to be called as your familiar. It was a responsibility he took without ever making it formal, you weren’t his master, you weren’t a god.

“Stop ..” He whispers, his hands gently reached for your face as his thumbs grace the skin under your eyes, soothing the threatening tears away if they dared fall. Ryosuke wanted to eliminate the pain and sadness displayed on your features, he wanted to vanish all the worries but as you said, he wasn’t always in control, some things were out of his reach ..

You lifted your eyes and met an adoring and caring gaze casted down on you. Then don’t look at me like that. It was a pleading thought almost, you wished he could’ve heard it frankly. But perhaps, you were a little bit more bold.

“I love you. Always have, always will.” Unabashedly you delivered words that weren’t entirely new to him, but the meaning and power behind them weren’t the occasional best friends’ ‘I love you’, Ryosuke always knew they meant more.

Ryosuke maintain himself calm, a trait you were beginning to envy considering you were a nervous mess inside. But you knew what he would say eventually, his icy blues shared sympathy towards you and you hated him for short seconds for doing so. Still, you braced yourself.

“We’re creatures of the underworld, we can’t afford to love.”

Even then, as the words fell casually from his mouth, you knew it wasn’t true. You wholeheartedly believed he was lying, because no demon god would go out of their way to protect a feeble human as a mere good deed for aiding his wounds in the past.

No demon god would go through hell and back for a helpless human, no god would ever allow his wings to be mutilated twice as punishment for being a weak human’s familiar .. no demon god would care for a human the way Ryosuke does. His statement didn’t make sense.

“That’s not true ..” you argued back. Determined to prove him otherwise, that he was merely letting himself be led by said taboos about humans and demons not being able to coexist.

Strangely enough, Ryosuke didn’t say anything in return and instead closed the proximity with a hug. The act was tender unexpected, you’d thought he would surely start an argument but you were wrong. It was obvious to him how taken aback you were, within his embrace you were stiff as a rock. He managed to smile to himself, thinking how odd it was of you to not return the hug as fast as you always did.

“I hate how you’re always right, _____.” He spoke against your temple, no anger within his voice just a fact being confessed.

“R-Ryosuke?” You stuttered his name, still dumbly confused by his unusual and sudden behavior. Thankfully you worked your way into carefully hugging him back, slowly embracing him by the waist and pulling him in. Quite frankly, the smell of dark amber and ginger lily on him was an exquisite aroma to good to not get slightly consumed by.

“Amanozako tore my wings off today because to her I am not worthy of being a demon god if I serve a human. Essentially, Sojobo will stripp me away of my powers, leaving me unable to properly protect you. But like I said, there’s no need to worry, they can punish me all they desire .. I will always serve you.” He spoke so calmly and as usual, so confident in himself, so careless about the nonstop abuse his own kind gave him. It was basically torture, yet he did not care.

Your heart ached for the martyrdom he went through, it was ultimately hard not to put the blame entirely on yourself even though he would advise otherwise. The sheets within your hands had long been let go and fallen by each others feet, regardless of his physical pain you couldn’t hold back a tight and secure hug in exchange, again you nuzzled your face on his chest and finally allowed the tears to fall. The fact that you were powerless and incapable of protecting him the way he did made you feel absolutely incompetent.

“Why can’t they just stop? Why can’t they just leave us alone? What can I do, Ryosuke?” It was then when you lifted your head and he saw the tears that he couldn’t possibly hide it anymore. For your pain, you deserve every answer.

“You don’t have to do anything,” to your own aggravation, he gave you the sweetest chuckle. You weren’t entirely following his humor, at all. But before you could question his behavior, he continued.

“That’s just the price I pay for falling in love with a human.”

You heard the words loud and clear, and still, you were unsure of whether or not you heard him correctly. Maybe you were paying too much attention to his scent, his warmth or even the softness of his white sweater and didn’t quite catch his words properly. You thought at least.

“You what?” After lifting your gaze you watched him laugh at your reaction, the most breathtaking sight on the most confusing moment. “I’ve been serving you for most of my youth and declared myself your familiar, are you really that surprised?” He questioned bemused.

“Y-Yeah .. I actually am.” You admitted, still perplexed, “Ryosuke, just give me anything! Tell me how I can fix you!” As elated as you were inside for the new confession, you couldn’t set aside the torture, you were willing to do anything.

“There is something. But for that I would need your permission,” A shy grin tugged the corners of his lips and both curiosity and need drove you to nod with eagerness, begging him to go on.

“Would you be my lady and mistress by becoming a land god?” His request sounded quite absurd and in a way, old fashioned. Lady and .. mistress?. That was a word that most likely shouldn’t be said in public, and surely you’d hope he wouldn’t announce you as his mistress by any chance. Even so, as unfashionable as the inquiry seemed you would do anything for the man that has willingly put you up high on a pedestal for most of his life, becoming a land god did not sound half bad neither.

“I will accept the offer if you don’t ever call me master or mistress in public .. ever. I like my name how it is.” Although Ryosuke certainly got the humor and mentally agreed to your request, the idea of making you a land god kept him from further speaking. The air between the two began to change and the feeling was quite prominent.

“Well, how do I become a land god?” Your question didn’t went entirely unnoticed but halfway through your request on how he should call you in public, Ryosuke suddenly wasn’t paying much attention to anything other than his heart going wild in his chest and the interest he had on your lips. The proximity was just as close from the hug he previously gave you, his hands were firmly placed on your hips and you were still holding on to him. Ryosuke had to question, was he really nervous about making you a land god or more so of how you’d earned your mark?

His stomach was a pit of nerves and luckily for him, you were not any different. The tension in the air was palpable, it was now or never. And before another question escaped your lips, you were surprised by a kiss. His right hand brushed against your cheek as he leaned in, cupping the side of your face and keeping you in place by the sudden collision between lips.

And so, it was through a demon god’s kiss that you became the Atago Shrines land god and Ryosuke’s one and only lady and master, through a kiss you earned your proper mark to at last honor Ryosuke as your devoted familiar.

While still being rejected by most demons, Ryosuke as a familiar finally gained all the glory he desired by having you not just as his one and only lady and land god, but a lover.

Tengu – A type of legendary creature found in Japanese folk religion and are also considered a type of Shinto god or yōkai. (Think of Kurama Shinjirou from Kamisama Kiss as a reference to Yamada here)

Amanozako – “heaven opposing everything” or “tengu deity” is a monstrous goddess. This deity is described as having a furious temper, a beastly head with a long nose, long ears, and great fangs so strong they can chew metal blades ragged, and to be capable of flying for a thousand li.

Sōjōbō – The famous Daitengu of Mount Kurama.

[thehuggamugcafe]

You Need Proper Punishment I/II

Wisps of steam wafted out from the cup of tea Mod Barista held in her hands, the hot drink soothing her throat as she took a sip. The lone barista surveyed the coffee shop and how... desolate it looked, for lack of a better word. Besides her there was just a lone customer, polishing off the slice of cake she’d been eating. A small smile curled Mod Barista’s lips, quietly pleased; she seemed to enjoy the first slice of her cake. “I should get to work on the next part of her order soon,” Mod Barista murmured to herself, flicking a glance at the front door of her small, quaint establishment, as though she was expecting someone else to enter and place an order. Still smiling, the barista took another sip of her hot tea. “...Business is so slow today,” she whispered to herself, breathing a sigh as she stared down into her cup of tea. It was to be expected; she hadn’t been open that long, after all. Of course a small establishment such as hers would be as empty as a graveyard. Mod Barista wandered back into the prep area, to start working on the next decadent part of her first customer’s order.

OOC: The title says it all, but if I had to summarize it, I’d say this one particular post would take place during one of the two times (or both times.) I mentioned where Incubus!Akira/Ren was disappointed with you, dear reader. He’d feel an appropriate punishment would fit your... misbehaving, shall we say? The usual heads up applies here, my dears. Discipline/spanking kink, dirty talk, mild bondage, some aggressive behaviour (depends on how you’d define aggressive of course, dear reader.) and small hints of possessiveness from Incubus!Akira/Ren. Please enjoy and prepare for your thirst to be quenched, my lovely peeps!

A brief breath of warm air passed between your lips, hanging agape as you panted from where you sat: on Akira’s lap. You took advantage of the precious few seconds you had to breathe in air before, once again, your lips were claimed by the male incubus. He took several breath-taking, potentially bruising kisses from you, peppering your cheeks and jaw with short, affectionate kisses and nips before his lips, teeth, and tongue attacked the sweet spot that he knew was on your neck. You knew there’d be painfully obvious signs of hickies bruising your clavicle and neck; in fact, the skin was already starting to tingle as it swelled up a bit. Aside from your underwear, you were completely naked; a stark, but clear contrast to the male whose lap you sat on. Your shirt was on the floor, torn so badly that it was little more than shredded ribbons of cotton, and the buttons that popped free were scattered around the remnants of what had once been your top. The loose-fitting cotton pyjama leggings you’d been wearing fared little better, reduced to tattered cloth just as your shirt was. Your bra lay atop the shredded night clothes that clearly hinted of an eager mauling, not having suffered the same dismal fate as your outer layer of clothing had. You’d long since lost count of how many times he’d pinned you to your bed, his mouth claiming yours in a greedy and ravenous kiss, but until that particular night, one thing remained the same. The onyx-eyed male was usually careful with how he removed your clothing, slowly peeling whatever you wore away from your warm body as you writhed, panted, and begged for him to continue. On that night, he hadn’t been so merciful with the flimsy threads you called “clothing” on that particular evening. Your mind thoroughly disorientated, your brain clouded in a thick, bewildering fog of lust, your thoughts drifted back to how you managed to get into the situation you were in at the moment... You had barely managed to get the words “Oh, Akira, good evening” out of your mouth before, suddenly, the onyx-eyed male took quick, powerful strides toward you, a hand shooting forward and grasping your wrist, tugging you into a bruising kiss that had you gasping for air once he finally decided to pull away. The buttons to your top popped off as it was gripped and pulled at, the shirt tearing from your upper torso with a sharp rip, holding the tattered remains of what had been your shirt seconds ago in his hand before he tossed it to the floor of your bedroom. Akira breathed a growl into your face, ignoring how surprised you were at his aggressive demeanor as he pressed you up against the closest wall, his mouth quick to find yours once again as a hand was raised, cupping the curve of your jawline so you couldn’t break free until he, you, or both of you required air. Beads of nervous sweat formed on your crown, feeling the tapered edge of his claws lightly grazing the curvature of your jaw. The contact wasn’t enough to draw blood, but it was close enough that you could feel what was ghosting over your skin... Akira wouldn’t hurt you on purpose, and certainly not without your expressed consent; you were positive of that much, at least. However, he was still a denizen of the infernal realm through and through, and his body language, his aggressive kisses spoke silent volumes of just how annoyed he was. You were sure that behind his face of carefully restrained irritation, there was a river of boiling anger. A roaring river of silent ire running its course through his veins, one born out of jealousy. You had a feeling what had birthed the physical incarnation of the green-eyed monster who stood in front of you, chest to chest, mouth to mouth, stealing one hungry lip-lock after another from you. How could you not know the reason behind Akira’s unusual, high-key seduction, after all? It was your fault that he was even feeling jealous to start with... You were broken from your inner musings as the hand that had been lovingly caressing the curve of your jaw was now cradling your head, his free hand—that had been gripping a hold of your clothed hip—trailed down to the waistband of your pyjama leggings. Akira lightly dragged a lone clawed forefinger across your abdomen, tugging on the elastic waistband of the pyjama pants to allow a brief draft to whisper its way down your legs. A chill danced up and down your spine, though not an entirely unpleasant one... That is, if the sudden gush of liquid flowing into the crotch of your underwear was any indication. You felt the smooth wetness of his tongue flicking across your bottom lip, quietly asking for permission—permission which you granted him after a brief moment of hesitation. His tongue quickly delved in past your parted lips, seeking out your own, voicing an almost primal growl upon feeling the wet organ touch his own, soon coaxing you into reciprocating. By that point your lungs were screaming for air and so, you raised a hand, draping a bare arm over Akira’s clothed shoulders, your other hand rising to rest on his chest, tapping his collarbone gently. The way his onyx eyes softened, he understood—and recognized—that signal. The incubus took a few quick licks of your tongue before he finally pulled away, releasing your lips and tongue with a moist pop noise. A string of saliva connected your mouth to his, glistening trails of spit dripping from your mouths and coating your chins, staring into each other’s eyes as you both panted in unison. Akira’s dark eyes stared at you through the glasses perched on his nose, raising a hand to push them back up. There was a flash of pink as his tongue darted out to lick at his lips, lowering his raised hand to catch the saliva that dripped from and clung to his mouth and chin, staring at you all the while. “Who was it...?” he asked at last, watching as you blinked owlishly. “H-Huh?” You mentally winced at the stutter that left your saliva-coated mouth, raising a hand to wipe away your saliva from your lips and chin, as well as Akira’s. “Who taught you how to kiss so erotically? Who was it?” For the second time that night, beads of nervous sweat started to form on your forehead, but it wasn’t due to his claws; they had already returned to resemble human fingernails. No, this time, it was something that you still found to be a bit unsettling. Akira slowly removed his rounded, black-framed glasses, his gaze rivaling that of the intensity of the sun. Flecks of marigold could be seen within the mesmerizing onyx irises, causing you to swallow slowly, thickly. Neither the audible gulp or your silent anxiety went unnoticed by the male incubus, narrowing his eyes slightly. “Answer me, love. Who personally mentored you to kiss like that?” There was still a note of jealousy present in his voice, but he spoke softly to you. His movements were gentle as he raised a hand, cupping your cheek. You swallowed thickly. “...Y-You did, Akira,” you spoke, your voice barely above the octave of a stuttered whisper. However, Akira had no issues with hearing you. “Who claimed all of your firsts before any other man could?” Your mouth popped open, a response at the ready as Akira continued talking. “Who saw you bare as the day you were born first?” “You did.” “Who finger fucked you first?” “You did.” “Whose erect cock did you hold first?” “Yours.” “Who taught you how to give a proper blowjob first?” “You did.” “Who gave you your first orgasm?” “You did.” “Who ate you out and slurped up your pussy juices first?” “You did.” “And most importantly... Who was it that popped your cherry first? Who is the one that holds you and screws your brains out every night?” “You did.” You paused, licking your lips nervously before adding, “You are, Akira.” “Exactly. I did. I took all of your firsts before anyone else could, love. So... Why is it that you feel the need to test me?” “T-Test you? Why would you think...? I didn’t say I was... I’m not trying to...” “Shh.” Akira raised a hand, pressing a finger to your moist lips, silencing your meek protests. For a moment, and only a moment, you felt—no, you sensed—the smallest traces of worry, staring up into his onyx eyes. A bead of sweat trailed down from your perspiring crown, swallowing a thick gulp that wormed its way down your esophagus and to your gut, where it squirmed in unvoiced nervousness. His eyes. You could never break your gaze away from his eyes, not when he removed his glasses. They were too intense, always quietly demanding your attention to be focused only on him, and nobody else, but... Especially when those damned flecks of yellow shone in his onyx eyes, the molten gold specks that gently highlighted Akira’s dark irises similar to a starlit night. They were a beautiful sight to behold. You would have found them to be more attractive, if you could stop feeling so intimidated, so meek, so small when they were focused solely on you. “...Do I have your undivided attention again?” Not trusting your voice, you nodded slowly. “...Good.” Akira waited a few moments before lowering the hand, the finger leaning away from your lips. You didn’t speak. You couldn’t speak. There was a disquieting stillness in the air, a tranquility that bothered you. For a few moments you forgot to breathe before, finally, taking in and releasing air to regulate your pounding heart that raced in your chest. “...Darling?” “Y-Yes, Akira?” Once again you quietly cursed yourself for the tiny, but obvious wavering note in your voice. “I believe that you are in need of proper punishment, my kitten.”

[littlejedii]

You’re My Gutter Girl

SO IT’S @buddymueller ‘s MOD’S BIRTHDAY TODAY!!!!! So I wrote a birthday surprise... about a birthday surprise! Title from “Gutter Girl” by Hot Flash Heat Wave. Girlfriends AU of course. Story under the break <3

There’s just something about birthdays which is so divisive. Either people love their birthdays, spend the entire month gearing up and make sure they have some wild plan to celebrate, or they despise them and would rather spend it as another day. Joan thinks that’s too black and white. Yes, birthdays are just another day, but it’s a special day nonetheless. She likes to celebrate. Feeling special for a day can be fun.

Sid’s face appears to her first thing in the morning. His “happy birthday!” is joyful, but his face is sheepish. She inches up in bed, rubbing her eyes as he plops onto the edge of the mattress.

“Happy birthday, what’s with the wake-up call?” She speaks through a yawn, and Sid looks down at his hands.

“So I know we, like, always spend our birthday together...” he looks up, studying her face. She arches an eyebrow in confusion.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah... but Mike and Paige surprised me with a ticket to Jimmy Eat World... and they could only get one. But if you don’t want me to go I totally get it, dude-”

“No,” Joan smiles, but it feels stiff and pinched. “That’s awesome! You have to go. I’m sure Mich will want to do something, anyways!” Her voice rises just a touch too much at the end of her sentence.

“Awesome! Thanks Jojo, I’ll make it up to you I promise! Tell Mich I owe her one- wait, actually, don’t.” Sid is out the door without another look. She shakes her head, realizing she’s still plastered with her fake grin. Sid won’t have to owe Mich one, because Mich forgot her birthday. Her girlfriend hasn’t mentioned a thing about it lately. Even Josefina hadn’t said anything about it, and she never forgets a birthday. And last night, her back-up plan with Louise fell through, because her only friend other than Sid and Mich is Dungeon Master for the day. She just slides out of bed, feeling more slime than person as she lazily grabs a towel and makes her way to the shower.

The house is shockingly quiet when she pads downstairs, which any other day would be great. Usually, Steve makes chocolate chip pancakes on birthdays, but the kitchen still smells like their grapefruit disinfectant he’d wiped the counters down with last night. A note stuck to the fridge tells Joan that her foster dad and two of the foster kids are at the walk-in clinic to deal with some raging ear infections.

‘Cereal is in the cabinet, I’m sorry you two! Happy Birthday!’ The note ends with a little drawing of a balloon.

“Good morning, Joan.” Deena’s voice and footsteps interrupt the silence in the house.

“Good morning,” she says, standing on her tiptoes to pull a bowl out of the cabinet, turning to face her foster mom.

“Happy birthday. Any plans?” Deena is straightening her tie and flattening her collar in the hallway mirror, and Joan knows she isn’t actually interested in the slightest.

“Uh... nothing really. Just hanging out here, I guess.”

“Oh. Shouldn’t you be doing something with Sidney?”

“He’s, um, he’s busy.”

“What about your other friend?” Joan flinches a little at the condescending edge in Deena’s sharp words

“Louise’s busy too, it’s no big deal, I don’t-”

“Well if you’re going to be around all day, don’t just sit around eating and playing video games. Do something productive.”

“I... will.” Joan stares into the empty bowl in her hands, no longer hungry. Deena grabs her briefcase and is out the door with a militant nod. Joan simply stares out the window, into the street, wishing it was raining. The rain would match her mood just a bit better. But it’s bright, sunny, the sky is cloudless and the air is warm.

And she’s alone. Mich had texted her early in the morning, around 3.

Mich | 3:04 AM

visitn my dad at th penn tmrow, prob ly be done llate

Joan rubs her thumb over the screen of her phone, dark and void of messages, as she continues to stare out the window. With a pit in her stomach she slowly puts the bowl away and trudges up to her room to pull her sneakers on and grab her board.

She skates lazily, without purpose, without any real destination. Even the streets are empty, she realizes, as she pushes her foot softly against the pavement. She’s rolling slowly towards the industrial park near the high school, her eyes cast downwards at the glittering asphalt which flows away under her deck as she glides along. She presses her sneaker against the pavement as the noises of construction, beeps and hums and shouts, emanate from behind the fence. She can’t help but let out a breathy, humorless laugh, because the one place she wanted to actually be alone is flooded with people in reflective vests and hardhats. She stands for a bit, feeling defeated, before her eyes start to burn, and she turns on her heel. She practically tosses her board out in front of her, nearly falling off as she jumps onto it and pushes furiously, her sneaker slamming the ground rhythmically, desperately.

Gritting her teeth as the wind whips her face and blows her hair around she continues picking up speed, wanting to go faster, needing to go faster, frantic to get away. She throws her entire body into pushing her foot quicker, ignoring the way the board begins to waver beneath her foot. The big hill down towards the woods appears over the horizon, and her heart beats with something different than her exhaustion. She still doesn’t stop pushing. The road begins to dip downward, plummeting towards the earth in a slope that’s anything but gradual that makes her stomach rise to her throat. The board stops wavering and starts shaking, almost vibrating under her feet, and her stomach drops. Steadying herself would be futile, so Joan just lets one good wobble toss her off near the base of the hill.

It’s nothing for a moment while she’s airborne, watching the grass and asphalt grow closer to her face, feeling like she’s floating except much more terrified.

It hurts when she hits the pavement, landing right on her side with her hand out reflexively to catch herself. The heel of her palm grates against the street, and her arms starts to sear as it meets pavement. The initial impact is hard, but what hurts worse is the sliding. Her shirt inches up as she slides, her side tearing against the road. She rolls once and stops, on her back, staring at the warm cloudless sky. She sniffles a bit, letting a tear curl down the side of her face into her ear before it tickles and she wipes it away.

That was dramatic and pointless. She squeezes her eyes and sits up, wincing as her side folds, irritating her road rash. She peeks an eye open at her hand, torn skin with beads of red beginning to seep up. She can see blood gathering under her skin, watches the purple beginning to bloom all the way up her arm. It’ll be nasty, dark purples and reds and maroons over most of her skin for a good week. She studies it closer, groaning as she eyes flecks of stray gravel sprinkled along the injury. She stands then, on legs quivering from leftover adrenaline and fear, and limps over to her board before staring down the road towards the ocean.

The last thing Joan is going to do today is sit around that big empty house, she just wants to be at the one place that means anything. The cove without Mich, without Sid, totally alone... might feel incomplete. But she trudges on, slowly, through the trees and down until the air starts to smell salty. Her heart drops when she spots a figure on the beach, but it doesn’t stop her from climbing down anyway. She decides to stay at the far end, away from the stranger, tossing her board against the rocks with a clatter and plopping down in the sand. She closes her eyes and lets out a long breath, painfully aware of her stinging skin as the bright sun shines through her eyelids.

“Joanie?”

Her eyes blow open and she scrambles up to a tall figure making it’s way over. Mich’s long strides carry her over in no time, her face colored with shock.

“What’re you doin’ here, I didn’t want you to- oh fuck,” Mitch barks, eyes widening at the arm Joan cradles. She stares at Joan, closing the distance between them to gently unfurl Joan’s fingers away and hissing at the nasty scrape.

“It’s n-nothing,” Joan lies, feeling embarrassed and pathetic, wincing when Mitch turns her arm to examine more of it.

“Nothing? This ain’t nothing, the fuck happened? Did you get hit by a goddamn car? You’re bleedin’ through your shirt,” Mich darts a hand out to catch the hem of her t-shirt and yank it upward, causing her to whimper as the fabric peels away from her raw skin.

“I-I fell, I just fell,” Joan sniffles, still unable to meet the taller girl’s eyes. “I told you it’s nothing, why are you here?”

“Shit, this looks bad. I don’t have any, like, band aids or nothing. Shit. Can you put ocean water on cuts? You can right, it’s like good for them, right? I’m gonna go get some- but what if it isn’t? I don’t know. Alcohol you can put on. I’m gonna call Bite, he can bring us some vodka to pour on it or something-”

Joan snorts at that. Mich looks so confused, frantic, and is ready to give her a vodka bath.

“It’s not that type of alcohol, but I think seawater is okay... I’ll- I don’t need it though. I’ll just go home and take care of it.”

“Go... home?” Mich looks incredulous. “You just got here, you’re tellin’ me you wanna walk all the way home to deal with-”

“Yeah, it’s fine. I’d rather go,” Joan speaks quickly, her eyes on the sand.

“O...kay then,” the taller girl’s face shifts from worry to confusion, “I’ll go with you.”

“No.”

“No?” Mich doesn’t sound angry, exactly. More incredulous, but Joan’s blood boils. Mich doesn’t get to ignore her for the morning and forget about her birthday then just tag along when she so pleases.

“I came here to be alone. So I’ll just go be alone at home. Aren’t you supposed to be visiting your dad?” Her words have a bite to them, but despite that, Mich’s look softens.

“Joanie, I don’t want you to be alone. It’s your birthday for shit’s sake.”

“What? You- you remembered? You haven’t said a thing lately, and then you’ve been ignoring my texts all morning telling me you’re somewhere else.”

“Yeah,” Mich grins, “I was tryin’ to plan a surprise but guess I didn’t do so good.” She raises her arms out and waves her hands weakly. “Surprise.”

Joan’s hands ball up into fists as Mich’s grin becomes apologetic and guilty. Mich had known the whole time and hadn’t said a word. She’d let her believe that the one person she cared about more than anything had forgotten the one day that she mattered. And now she’s here, in their most special and sacred place, offering to take time away from planning her surprise to clean up Joan’s scratches. When Joan starts to cry, Mich jumps, seemingly convinced she needs to start profusely apologizing, but Joan shakes her head.

“No, that’s not- I’m not sad. Thanks,” she sniffles, wiping her eyes with her good hand. “The surprise is great, whatever it is. I love it already.” Mich wraps her into a hug and kisses the top of her head, tugging her down towards the shoreline. She’s still sniffling as they wade ankle-deep into the gentle waves, only pausing when Mitch peels her tank top off to soak it with water. Joan yelps when her skin is blotted, winces when Mich gently wipes away the gravel. She’s bombarded with gentle pecks on the top of her head, on her shoulders, on her fingers as Mich works gingerly, frantically responding “Shit I know shit it’ll be over soon I’m sorry I’m sorry I hope it don’t hurt too bad,” every time she squeaks out a noise.

Mich hums out a noise of contentment as she pulls Joan’s shirt down and back into place, wringing the stained-pink saltwater out of her tank top. Joan inspects her skin, beginning to bloom with bruises, then looks up at her girlfriend.

“You really have a surprise for me?”

“Yeah,” Mich’s lips curl into an enormous grin. “I mean, it’s nothin’ special, but I think you’ll like it.”

Mich leads her to an outcropping of rock, hanging her top on it to dry in the sun and plopping down on a blanket which sits on the sand. There’s an unmistakable smell of melted cheese and tomato sauce which makes Joan’s mouth water, reminding her she hasn’t eaten anything today. Two presents, terribly wrapped with newspaper and duct tape, sit next to a plain white box in the shade.

“Your clone bought a pizza for us, I think he feels bad for leavin’ you. But I’m glad I got you all to myself today,” her girlfriend winks as she opens the pizza box and hands a slice to Joan, who settles on the blanket next to her. Mich strokes her thigh as she eats, bringing out the mystery box.

“Cupcakes or presents first?”

“I get both?” Joan speaks through a mouthful of food, her eyes widening as Mich opens the box. The cupcakes are somehow even uglier than the presents, with cake crumbs all over the crooked, uneven frosting.

“Josi helped me with these so even though they’re ugly as shit, they’ll taste good,” Mich laughs. “Bite helped me pick out your presents. Actually, even Clem helped me with this one.”

“I... I thought you guys had all forgotten...” Joan plucks a cupcake from the box, focusing intently on tearing the wrapper off to ignore the stinging in her eyes.

“You really thought I’d forget?” Mich’s voice is so soft and earnest, and it doesn’t help the her watery eyes. “I couldn’t wait. ‘Cuz I’ve wanted to give you this present forever. C’mon, open it.”

“Jeez, one thing at a time!” She laughs, swallowing the cake and letting Mich shove the box into her lap. The wrapping paper is torn away and discarded quickly, the lid flipped open. Then nothing.

She stares into the box, mouth agape. Then she looks back up to Mich. And back into the box again.

“Are you... are you serious? How...?”

“Clem’s grandma had it in her house, it actually works too!” Mich is practically yelling, inches from her. “Do you like it?” Joan lets out a wobbling breath.

“It works? Mich, it’s- it’s incredible,” she picks up the camera delicately, turning it in her hands. A vintage SX-70 Polaroid instant camera, a little dinged up but in nearly perfect condition. And it’s all hers. Her lower lip begins to quiver, and Mich bursts into laughter, leaning over to pull her face in and smother it with kisses. She tries to rear back, be serious for a moment, but Mich doesn’t let up and soon she’s squealing with laughter too. Her girlfriend leans too far and falls into her lap, resting her head on Joan’s denim-clad thigh.

“Next present,” she demands, waving it in one of her big hands.

“I don’t want anymore presents, the camera’s too hard to follow,” Joan teases, grabbing the present. Mich smiles up at her softly, bringing a hand up to stroke at her knee as she tears the package open. Joan’s smile falls and she looks down with an eyebrow cocked, unimpressed.

“Michelle. Mueller.”

Mich starts laughing so hard she’s choking, curled into herself with her hands around her abdomen, burying her face into Joan’s leg as she shakes with each bark. Joan fishes the outfit from the box, holding it up with one finger. It’s lacy and red with more straps than she even knows what to do with. It looks like the world’s flimsiest, sexiest torture device/rock-climbing harness. Mich is wiping tears away from her eyes.

“I couldn’t help myself, you’re gonna look so sexy in it-”

“I’d look like a tied-up holiday ham!” she yelps, her voice going shrill, and Mich breaks into more loud laughter. “I am never putting this on.”

“Joanie, baby, please,” Mich whines, bolting upright and grinning maniacally just inches from her face.

“No.”

“Pleeeeease?” She leans in and kisses at Joan’s ear, winding long arms around her shoulders.

“... Maybe.” Joan hisses, leaning her head to the side to expose her neck to her girlfriend. She feels Mich’s smile widen even more against her skin as big teeth make their way to her neck.

“Good enough for me. Happy birthday, Joanie.”

[avidfanficwriter]

Cleansing the Awkward Air

 James McAvoy X OFC. 

Summary: James McAvoy is a gentleman. 

Authors Note: So, i had this idea and didn’t know who to put in it! then i was watching a few James McAvoy interviews mainly because I just watched Split and was going nose deep in interviews. (I’m weird, i don’t like watching interviews before i see the movie) and He can be hella dirty and funny, especially on Graham Norton (But come on who isn’t?) anyway that’s where this came from. 

The night before was a blur... more a lost memory, actually. 

There was one thing that was obvious due to the pounding in Natalia’s head and bloodshot color of her eyes, she had been drinking. Her surrounding are her own, thankfully. Her own bed, her home and still in her clothes... some of her clothes. It seems last night, she’d also tried to get out of her pants before falling asleep but only managed to get one leg out of her jeans. 

It’s the worst way she’s woken up, a few years ago, she woke up in another state with some guy she had apparently slept with. Alcohol and her were never a great combination, her inhibitions were low and her sex drive was high. The most surprising part however was that she’d actually made it home in one piece. It wasn’t like she was twenty-one again, she was nearing thirty-one but the minute her lips touched alcohol, it was down hill from there. 

Natalia pulls herself out of bed which took three tires before she was successfully on he standing upright. Slowly, she walks out of the room, not bothering to check her hair; she knows it’s a mess. Her dark curls would be a mess, sticking up in odd places, flat in the other; it’s the last thing on her mind. Her objective at the moment is to get aspirin and something to drink which are both unconventionally located down stairs in the hallway closet. If her head wasn’t on the verge of killing her she’d ignore it and go back to bed. Each step down the stairs was long and ridiculous, she mentally cursed herself for buying a two story home. 

Resting on the railing is a man’s jacket and suddenly she finds herself questioning if she did manage to get home alone. she takes a few steps closer and recognizes the jacket, It’s James’ thankfully. Little by little she remembers the events that took place last night. 

James’ was on vacation... or a break as he claimed but considered the growth of his beard, it was a vacation. James was in town and to celebrate they decided to have a night drinking, which didn’t work out much either. She worked late and they couldn’t get to the bar so instead they drank whatever was left in her house. She grabs a hold of his jacket, clutching it tightly into her hands as she walks down the stairs. At the bottom she can hear the television playing, some news channel and smell freshly brewed coffee. 

 “Well, look whose come to join the living?” A Scottish accent shouts from inside the kitchen. James is standing at the kitchen counter, a blue mug of coffee in his hand, steaming. He’s got a large smile on his face.

“You been here all night?” She asks, quietly. 

“Yes, Ma’am.” She groans and walks into the kitchen, slowly slumping into the chair at the counter. 

“Coffee? Aspirin?” James asks with a quiet tone. 

“Mm-hmm.” She responds nodding her head. James passes the pill bottle towards her and his mug of coffee. She opens the bottle, though it’d taken her longer than she would like to admit. “God, how much did we drink last night?”

“I didn’t drink nearly as much as you did.” James says with a chuckle. 

“I wasn’t that drunk.” She tries to argue. 

“You tried to sleep with me.” James draws out, purposely making his accent thicker. 

She jerks her head in his direction. “Bull shit.” 

James steps closer, leaning on the counter. “No shit.” 

She cocks her head, taking a small sip of James’ coffee. “No, I didn’t.” 

James chuckles. “You were on your knees, trying to undo my belt... you didn’t succeed but I give you an A for effort.” 

Slowly, her eyes grow in size until it looks like their going to fall out of her skull when the memories come flooding back. 

“Oh, come on, Jamesy! You’ve thought about it.” Natalia said in a sensual voice, trailing her fingers up his chest. “Just laying me down and plowing me.” 

“No. No, I haven’t.” He said gently pushing her towards the stairs. 

“Oh, don’t lie.” She toys with the hem of his t-shirt, inching her hand down to his jeans and suddenly, she drops to her knees and attempts to pull his belt off. 

“Nat...” he says with a laugh. He puts his hands on her shoulders trying to cease her actions she doesn’t give in.

“Jesus Christ.” Natalia mutters under her breath. They weren’t close by any means, they had night outs every now and then rare occurrences, usually when James found himself stuck in L.A. for the night with no flight to London available.   “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.” 

James walks over to her, pulling her into a hug. “It’s okay.” 

“I tried to--” She stops mid sentence. “Did i take my pants off?” 

James bites his lower lip. “You tried too.”

Natalia looks up at him, her green eyes peering up at him. “Tried too?” 

“You almost fell down the stairs trying to get your pants off.” The entire time he speaks, he looks like he’s trying to not burst out laughing. “I wound up having to pick you up and basically toss you into your bed.” 

“Oh...” She says nodding her head, still shocked by her actions. 

“At least you kept everything else on.” He says trying to lighten the mod. 

“Yeah but i made a fool of myself.” She says putting her head into her hands. “What are you doing here still?” 

“I wanted to make sure you were okay.” 

“Well, you should go home before I try to jump you again.” 

James smiles, tapping her back and planting a small kiss on the top of her head. A few hours later, Natalia’s phone goes off with James’ ringtone and she sighs, slowly making her way to answer the phone. 

“Hello.” Natalia says holding the phone up to her hair. 

“Hey.” The Scottish man says over the phone. “What are you doing tonight?” 

“I’m going out to stop thinking about what i did last night.” 

“So you can do it with someone else?” He says loudly, hiding a chuckle. 

“Don’t you have a plane to catch?” she interjects slightly annoyed. 

“No.”

After further deliberation, she looses her battle and James once again whines up accompanying her to bar. Where her intent to drink away  the memories of attempting to seduce failed as he was right next to her, reminding her of that very moment.  Which wasn’t helping. 

“You know, you’re very clumsy when you’re horny.” James says as they approach the counter. 

“I haven’t even had a drink yet.” She drops into the bar stool with James doing the same right next to her. They each order one beer to start only this time Natalia was positive that she would only have four beers minimum, more if James left but that option didn’t seem very likely. 

“When do you go back home?” She asks trying to change the subject. 

“Don’t know yet.”  Unfortunately, it didn’t work. There was still this silence in between the two. An overwhelming silence, the only thing on Natalia’s mind is that she made a move on James the night before. 

“What about your next movie? What are you doing?” She tries again. 

“I don’t know yet.” 

“Come on, James, try!” She argues, putting her head flatly on the counter in annoyance. 

“I apologize.” he says raising his hands. “Truly, darling. I’m sorry.” 

“Okay, what about the girl you were seeing. What happened to her?” Natalia asks. 

“She doesn’t understand the life of an actor.” James sighs and takes a sip of his beer. “Didn’t understand my hours.”

“I’m sorry.” She says, quietly. 

“Me too.” 

“Is that the same girl that you did it with in the back of her car?” 

James nods, sucking in a breathe between his teeth. 

“Classy.” 

“Just about as classy as you wanting to have sex with me last night, love.” James says with a smile. 

“Hey, hey, hey, I was drunk. I would’ve asked to sleep with anyone.” 

“Yes, because every time you’re drunk you always beg me to fuck you.” 

“I do not.” She’s quick to say, proving his point. “How do you know that I was just really drunk and hadn’t gotten any lately? You being the only guy I saw well?” 

“Please?” James says, scrunching his face. “With this body?”

She rolls her eyes, “Let’s just say--hypothetically; that I wanted to have sex why the hell would i choose you just for...’ she rolls her eyes. ‘your body?” 

James’ jaw drop and he looks at her offended. “Why not? I’m sexy. I’m popular with the ladies, might even be packing some impressive equipment.” He gives her a smirk. 

Natalia stares at him blankly. “That’s why you let me try to get into your pants, huh?” 

“If you got it, show it.” James says, putting the beer bottle to his lips before quickly bringing it down. “But I didn’t do anything back.” 

“And why is that? A woman begging for you, doesn’t float your boat?” She asks, tapping her beer.

He shrugs his shoulders, smiling. “I prefer the women, I sleep with to be in the right state of mind.” 

“Ah, you’re one of those men huh? ‘are you sure?’ ‘are you positive you want this?’ every five minutes?”

“Of course, I’m a gentleman.” 

“Boring.” James shakes his head. “You should have just done it. Now it’s all awkward.” 

“How so?” 

“I basically tried to do you or have you do me and now it’s like all we can speak about when we see one another. I regret it, you are awkward. We should just do it to clear the damn air.” She jokes, by every account it’s a joke but her eyes give her away and her nearly chokes on his drink because of it. 

“You’re serious?” James asks. 

“Why not? We’re not that close. We hang out every now and then. It’d be simple. Plus...” She says, taking another swig of her beer. “it’d clear the air.” 

James ponders his answer for a while, watching her drink her beer slowly. “What are you trying to get me to agree too?”

“Nothing. She says smiling. “Ready to go?” 

They leave and James drives her home, it’s the proper thing to do rather than force her into a cab but they don’t say anything to one another. Natalia doesn’t even look at him or in his direction; she stares out the window or occasionally at her phone. When they arrive at her house, he shuts off the car and looks at her. 

“Thanks, James.” she says giving him a smile and opening the door. She walks out without another word but it’s what she said to him at the bar that repeat in his head. “ We should just do it to clear the damn air.” It baffles him, she wasn’t serious. There was no way she was but it looms over his head. He nibbles on his lower lip with frustration before he practically launches himself out of his truck. 

“Stalking me now, officer?” She asks without turning to face him. It’s a reference to his newest movie where he plays a police officer. She digs into her pocket presumable for her key. 

“Just making sure you get in safely.” James finally says. 

“Well...” She says, turning to face him her key sticking out of her hand. “I’m safe.” 

“That you are.’ He says stopping just a few feet in front of her. 

She smiles. “Night James.” 

“Night, Natalia.” If he had a hat, he would’ve tipped it but there was two problems with that, one: he’s Scottish they don’t wear the type of hats you tip and two: her eyes are stuck on his. It’s a problem. The desire is starting to grow and suddenly he can’t stop thinking about her lips. How bright and plump they are or to make matters worse, how much he’d like to kiss them, suck on them if given the chance. Not to mention how much he’d love to leave a trail of hickeys down her neck to her collar bone all while his hands roamed her body. 

She starts to turn most likely going to put the key in the lock but it's that finale movement that gets him. The sway of her hips that causes him to decide. "Fuck it." he says harshly through his teeth. He rushes towards her before she can properly turn around. He didn't waste any more time, he finds her mouth with his own and kisses her.

She's taken by shock but it's gone the second his hand starts to trail up her shirt, his rough palm kneading at her side puts her in play. She kisses him back just as rough. He forces her into the house, the shingles shaking with the impact and he inches closer to her, spreading her legs with his own so he lean into her comfortably. His arousal is pressed right into her and he does exactly what he wanted too, trailing his tongue down her neck emitting a moan from her smaller frame.

He hears the key clink with impact at the floor and feels her hands tightly wrap around his broad shoulders, the tips of her fingers digging into his back. He would take her right there if he could. If her house wasn’t surrounded by neighbors, if there wasn’t the tiniest chance one of them could peek out their window and spot them. He'd toss her clothes off and have his way with her but she deserves privacy. James parts, pulling himself away from her against all his primal urges, he rests his forehead on hers and curses.

"That fucking key." James groans, breathing deeply before giving her a quick kiss. "Don't move." he commands. Then he bends down and retrieves the key, pushing it into the key hole and unlocking the door with little effort. He opens the door quickly, pulling her inside and slamming the door behind him.

James was a quiet man, he could make a room fill with laughter and also manage to be the quietest person in the room.  It was how he operated but there was things he was letting out, unknowingly.  Like how he kissed, it was hard and demanding. Nothing about it was intimate from pulling her lower lip in between his teeth to bite then run his tongue over the slightly swollen spot. He kissed like he couldn't get enough, like she was a drug.

Inside is another story, there were no strangers or nosy neighbors to watch. There wasn't a possibility of being caught meaning there was no reason to wait. He pulled her into him roughly, lighting her shirt from her body while his hands trailed down her body. Then her pants, unbuttoning them quickly. He cursed the inventor of skinny jeans and openly detested the layer of clothes she wore.

They move to the couch, shedding clothes with each step they take until they're bare. Inches from the moment they--he was longing for. She's underneath him, his body hovering over hers.

Beyond the sharp inhale of air and the small grunts they're quiet. Her nails scratch along his forearm as he moves, slowly at first. He felt high. Like he was on cloud nine. The whimpers from her only edged him further, he repeated his movements faster this time. A thin layer of sweat gathered on his back and arms as he gave into the pleasure. He laid his hand flatly against the cushion beneath her head and the other on the back of the couch.

He'd be lying if he didn't think about this moment in the past, he wanted her; she invaded his dreams. He longed for her far more than he'd like to admit. The night before when she was begging for him, it took all his strength to not give in. Only now, was another story, she wasn’t sober but she wasn’t drunk either, she was perfectly aware of what they were doing. He felt her hand slide up his arm onto his back pulling him closer while she lifted her hips to match his thrusts. James could hear the sound of their skin slapping and feel the warmth and tightness pool in his stomach but he'd be damned to hell, if he came before her.

James slammed into her wrapping his arms around her body and lifting her from the couch to roll. He sits on the couch with her in his lap and forces himself inside of her once again. She sinks onto him with a loud moan and curses, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and moving. 

He leans back taking in the sight, snapping a mental picture of her.

"Jesus." She says breathlessly. He smiles and drives himself into her forcing her head to fall back and her mouth to drop open. Her moans grow louder and her grip around him tightens as she falls apart in his arms, her body trembles around him. James falls in love with the sight before him, her chest heaving and her mouth wide open with her body unable to contain the euphoria. He pumps himself in her a few more times, holding her body tightly. It's the last few words she says that make him fall overboard.

"Fuck.. James." She says and he's lost. the control he once had is gone and he falls. Driving himself into her one last time while he rests his head in the croak of her neck and groans as he cums. Her fingers lace in his hair as she breathes out deeply. 

“If we’d done this yesterday, you wouldn’t have remembered it.” James says quietly. 

“Who says that?” She says leaning back to face him. 

He glances up at her, smiling. “Because some of the things, you told me last would make a grown man cry.” 

“I was drunk.” 

“I’m noticing a theme with you.” 

She smiles, “What’s that?” 

“You’re much more open when you get alcohol in you.”

“You’re quick when you’re drunk.” Natalia says, grinding her hips to further her point. 

“How would you know that?” He asks, confused. 

"I’m guessing.” She smirks as James pulls her head down to capture her lips in a deep kiss. She lets out a small moan and rakes her nails down his chest once again igniting the flame between them. 

[sinkingorswimming]

My Boy Builds Coffins (3/? aka Mortician Yuuri and Goth Victor)

“Victor glides into his office thirteen minutes late, Wayfarers on, velvet lapels billowing, and “Friday I’m In Love” sung in a low whisper.

“It’s Wednesday,” calls the bitter and world-weary child intern Yuri Plisetsky. “Also I’m revoking your Goth card.”

“The Cure is technically Goth,” calls his CFO/CPA Chris Giacometti. Chris has a blond undercut and leans more towards jewel tones as he’s firmly a winter. “Though I mean, maybe not that specific song.”

Victor smiles at him as he opens the door to his office. The space is industrial and minimalist save for the decor choices---velvet sofas with sleek lines and an aubergine chandelier commissioned by a hipster artist Victor saw on display in SoHo. 

If Yuri hadn’t interviewed in a suit, Victor wouldn’t have hired him because the lemon-yellow leopard print he sports upends the curated aesthetic.

Georgi, who depending on how well his partnership with ladylove Anya is going, matches or not. When they’re well, he’s more in bright colors and Halsey. When they are having strife, he’s in grays and Lana del Ray. Right now there’s murmurings of Anya wanting to explore romantic anarchy so he’s kind of somewhere in between.

Victor fell into a google and r/relationships hole for two hours to make heads or tails of “romantic anarchy” before he gave up and contemplated suggesting Georgi put them on a break. Call him old fashioned but being an Elder Goth with a lifelong partner and their herd of fabulous poodles sounds much preferable.

The lifelong partner in this fantasy now represented by a stunningly beautiful man with coal-black hair, glasses, and warm eyes the color of a fine piece of cherry wood. Victor wakes up his iMac and blares baroque styled love songs by long-gone cult artists.

“Oh my God,” cries Mila as she comes into the room in all her lipstick-lesbian glory. She’s the rare redhead that works the hell out of pink, choosing to do so today in a dress she got from Mod Cloth on sale and a pair of gold heels. “What did you do? Who is he?”

“He’s named Yuuri,” Victor says with a grin. “He wears mostly black, drives a hearse, and likes Dragon Frappucinos.” His eyes twinkle at her. “Annnnd he’s meeting me for lunnnnchhhhhh. Pookkeeeee bowlllllssss!”

Mila laughs and grins. “Sounds like you should be playing ‘At Last’ instead of...” she trails off as she walks around the desk to look at his Spotify. “’You Are the One’ by Shiny Toy Guns.”

“I contain multitudes,” Victor huffs. “And he is perfect. I want six.”

“Six what?” Mila asks as she unlocks the company iPhone.

Victor gives her a blank look. “Six...Yuuris? One for every day and one for the weekend? Duh.”

Mila sighs and laughs at once. “God. Young love.”

Victor pouts as she exits his office with a chirp of congratulations.

He wants to Postmates bagels and cream cheese or maybe fancy doughnuts because he’s in such high spirits when Chris knocks on his open door. “Got a few?” he asks. He’s wearing his glasses today, round metal frames akin to John Lennon that are both chic and outdated, a warm emerald shirt showing off his wushu and pilates toned chest, and a pair of dark jeans. 

It’s fairly casual at Living Legend Enterprises. Victor is only so formally attired because of the chance to see Yuuri again. Generally he lets them wear whatever, he doesn’t care as long as they aren’t unwashed or overly sloppy. 

Yuri mentioned possibly dying streaks in his hair, and Victor cheerfully said for him to go for it. He only cares if it’s ugly.

“Yes, Chris,” Victor says. He lowers the volume of his music.

“Well,” Chris says. “I’m reviewing our budget, end of the fiscal year thing. And...I think it’s okay to bring one another full timer on board. That deal with the wineries in Napa is gonna help us out for a long time, and we can handle the overhead without much risk.”

Victor smiles. “Amazing! Get with Mila for the ad.”

“Of course,” Chris replies. He winks, his glasses making it cute but also roguish. “We’ll run the finer points by you for qualifications.”

“Since they’re a second Georgi, just follow his,” Victor says. “It’s neater.”

“Makes sense,” Chris says with a nod.

“Let me know when we have viable applicants, so the three of us can kvetch over who to interview,” Victor says. “No LinkedIns without photos. I mean it.”

Chris gives him a saucy face as he exits.

Victor gets approximately 100% jack shit accomplished. He’s too busy mooning over Yuuri’s beautiful face, his slighty soft round cheeks, the flecks of amber in his brown eyes, the careful messiness of his hair. He’s so cute and perfect. Victor can’t wait for lunch.

Fortunately, at 1:09 Yuri comes in unannounced. “Ugh, there’s some square here in a suit with my name, says he’s picking you up for some kind of dorky bs.”

“It’s lunch, Yuri,” Victor says as he rockets out of his seat. He fixes himself in the full length black framed mirror. Ah yes. 10/10 would date, heckin’ handsome.

“Whatever,” Yuri grumbles. “The guy is a pocket protector and a math book short of being shaken down for his lunch money.”

“Does that still happen?” Victor wonders.

“Nah, it’s a lot worse and meaner, too,” Yuri responds. “Regardless, that geek you ordered from Amazon Now has arrived.”

Victor rolls his eyes. When he enters the lounge, he sees Yuuri perched on the midnight blue velvet chaise thumbing through Nylon on the iPad. His suit jacket rests over the arm, and his dress shirt’s sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. His forearms are nicely toned. His light blue tie is horrendous. “Hiii,” Victor coos.

Yuuri looks up and adjusts his glasses. He’s cute, rosy cheeked and with a bashful smile. “Hi, Victor. Ready?”

“Born ready,” Victor says. 

Yuuri flushes deeper and clears his throat. “Walk or drive?”

Victor spots that Yuuri managed to get rock star parking. The cafe is a half a block. “Walk,” he says though he longs to ride in that fabulous hearse. It’s not fair for Yuuri to lose prime parking real estate. Victor takes the jacket and hangs it in their black wardrobe. He reaches out and takes Yuuri’s hand in his. 

“Come with me,” he says with a bright smile.

Yuuri hesitates but lets Victor escort him down the sidewalk to The Ramen Bar. It’s crowded but not so bad they can’t manage the wait, and when they get a  table, Victor orders a Boozy Boba for himself. Yuuri gets a Lychee Oolong tea with rosewater jelly. 

“Do you not drink?” Victor asks. He’s curious, not picking.

“Not during the work day,” Yuuri replies as he sips his tea. He swirls the straw around clockwise five times. “I don’t want to risk forfeiture or suspension of my license.”

“License,” Victor muses. His index finger touches his lips. “Sales? Insurance? Cosmetology?”

Yuuri bites his lip, and Victor wants to do the same, tug on the plush pink skin  with his teeth while he wrecks Yuuri’s hair and shirt collar. “Um, well...my family has a funeral home. It’s been ours since my grandparents immigrated here. My father owns it now that they’ve passed, and my sister and I will be the joint owners when he retires with our mom.”

Oh. Oh wow. Victor’s more in love than he has been his entire life ignoring the first moment NorCal Poodle Rescue introduced him to a puffy brown puppy he now calls Makkachin. 

Makka gets his ears dyed pink or purple every time Victor has him groomed.

“That’s so amazing!” Victor exclaims. “What a cool line of work. I’m so intrigued.”

Yuuri stares at Victor as if he’s never been told anything like that in his life. Actually, it’s more like he’s staring as if Victor just informed him he’s suffering from upside-down face disorder. 

“Really?” Yuuri squeaks.

They order their food---Victor gets the poke trio bowl, Yuuri the octopus by itself. It’s far too warm for ramen or anything hot to eat. 

“Yes! I’ve always found funerals calming. There’s something soothing about them, especially the religious ones. Like Catholic funerals with all the Latin rites. I don’t know. I don’t want people to die---” Victor is careful to clarify. “But the actual ritual of grief and letting go...I find it quite lovely.”

Yuuri keeps staring, eyes wide and bright like a startled cat. He cracks the knuckles on his index fingers. Yuuri fidgets a lot, Victor notes. He also looks at Victor when he thinks he won’t notice, and turns his eyes away when he’s caught. It’s cute, like he’s a schoolboy with his first crush. At least, Victor hopes.

Victor rests his chin on his right hand. He unabashedly stares at Yuuri, his eyes focused on him intently to catch every movement. Yuuri avoids his gaze as he licks his lips, his cheeks staining like someone brushed a wash of red watercolors over his skin. Victor watches him run his hand through his hair, though it just falls back how it was, and he swallows as he meets Victor’s eyes.

Their food arrives and before Victor can break the silence, Yuuri breaks apart his chopsticks and digs in. He’s elegant and careful when he eats, Victor notes. Almost meticulous, but then his occupation requires attention to a lot of fine detail. Why should his eating habits be different? 

Victor can’t help but wonder if it extends to sex. He really wants to know, he thinks as he breaks apart his own chopsticks and selects a piece of tuna for his first bite. 

Yuuri washes down his food with a sip of the tea. “Um---” he starts. “Well. No one’s ever...people tend to not care for my work.”

“Narrow minded simpletons,” Victor responds without looking up. He can feel Yuuri’s eyes on his face as he combs through his bowl for the next morsel.

“And...you’re right,” Yuuri says. “Funerals are supposed to reassure the ones you leave behind. They’re supposed to enable you to say goodbye, let go, and move on. Sometimes when someone comes to us, like a wife grieving a husband of fifty years, they have a really hard time. They can’t make choices or even fully grasp the situation. It’s my job to help them make sense of it and voice their love out loud one last time.”

Victor looks at him. “That’s beautiful,” he replies.

Yuuri smiles, though his lips are closed. It’s sweet without being sickening, and Victor gives him an expression that amounts to a heart eyes emoji.

They finish their food, and with a refill in a to-go cup for Yuuri and a new non-boozy drink for Victor, he pays their bill. They stroll back to the office, and Victor halfway reaches down and entwines their fingers.

Yuuri chokes on his drink, stumbling, and almost taking them both down hard on the pavement. Victor manages to save the day as he tugs him back, but Yuuri lands half clutching Victor’s blazer. He blinks up at him and Victor’s blue eyes widen a bit in awe as they stare at each other. 

Yuuri blushes again and Victor can’t stop, won’t stop, as he kisses him just a centimeter away from his lips. Yuuri gasps. “Oh.”

Victor pulls away. “Please,” he says. “May I have dinner with you soon? Somewhere with white tablecloths and----”

“Yes!” Yuuri blurts. He coughs. “Um. Yes.”

Victor is pleased. Victor is so pleased that right outside his office he pulls Yuuri close a second time and after wrapping his hands in his hair, he kisses him for at least ten minutes by his estimation. Yuuri kisses back with skill and equal amounts of affection, his hands clinging tight to Victor’s biceps like he thinks he’ll become a bat and fly away.

God Victor loves bats.

What Victor does not love is his entire staff cat-calling them and pounding on the glass windows of their office front. He actually didn’t even know Mila’s voice could pitch that high, and of particular note in terms of obnoxiousness is Georgi blaring “Young and Beautiful” from Yuri’s desk.

Yuuri breaks the kiss and hides as best he can behind the recycling bin a few feet away. Victor glares at his staff, sending them scurrying away like roaches. He pulls Yuuri out of the not-subtle hiding place and walks him inside to get his blazer. He puts it on him, Yuuri holding out his arms after a moment’s confusion, and Victor may or may not get a bit frisky with his (strong, corpse-lifting) shoulders.

Yuuri faces him and he hands Victor a white business card with an austere typeset. “Here.”

It’s his card with his information, like Victor gave the day before.

Yuuri runs his hand through his hair. “Um...call me. Whenever. I’ll go to dinner.”

He bites his bottom lip and exits, though when he pushes the door open he turns, opens his mouth, and closes it. Victor watches him go to the point where he sees the hearse disappear into the rest of the FiDi.

He looks at the card and grins.

[modelronpagame]

And When Your Stitch Comes Loose || Kagemori || MM Trial 8 || Re: Kaz, Koharu, E.ve

“…am I a joke to you, Kaz? You’re just… gonna ignore all the evidence I just presented? No thoughts… whatsoever? Don’t leave me hangin’, I’m tryin’… so hard here. How many times do I have to say it: prizes won from puzzles in the basement aren’t faked, falsified, whatever other word you wanna use. If you… still think that, you’re bein’ purposefully ignorant here.

…seriously, I feel like I’m talkin’ to myself sometimes. If we focus on the basement stuff, we’ll find both captors. Is it because none of the basement evidence is related to E.ve? If you wanna… try to relate it, I’ll listen. But really… think about it. I don’t know what else you want me to do at this point.”

Shaking their head, Kagemori looked away from Kaz. That was more than then intended saying, but the EMT’s words (or lack thereof) stung more than they’d admit. Onto replying to Koharu, who they… really didn’t know how to feel about after their small exchange during her rounds. They’re… calm, so it’s back to a voice void of much emotion.

…masculine voices pitched down wouldn’t do much to disguise ‘em. Not without makin’ ‘em warped too much. However… I’ll give you that it’s kind of… less trustworthy evidence, Koharu.  However, as someone who spent their whole fuckin’ life workin’ in sound design, I know my stuff. The first thing that usually gets changed when using a voice changer is the pitch. So if there’s a high voice it would likely become a low voice, and visa versa. (note: that’s a mod-given statement)

On the explained evidence? Petbe picked those words out of… fuckin’ millions for a reason. Everythin’ they do is intentional. I LIVE wasn’t the only message… to be gotten from that passage. You and Kaz have grasped shorter straws, so... I think the second meanin’s clear.

…onto Cain and Abel. Cain killed his brother, right? I think…

The wheels turn so hard in Kagemori’s head that smoke metaphorically pours out of their head. In the end, though, they just looked confused.

…yeah, I got nothin’. I got absolutely jack on interpretin’ that. I’m gonna… guess we’re Cain in Petbe’s eyes… mmmmaybe? Or maybe they’re Cain, we’re Abel? That’s literally all I got.”

Kagemori just shrugs with the one hand they have free. They tried, but all their brain power is pretty much used up at this point.

“E.ve, dude. When did she talk to you… about the Bible? Did anyone else hear it, was… it in texts? And to… to expand on your point about the robots… Petbe kinda wrote about ‘em like they’re their kids. They were in Petbe’s room… you couldn’t have missed ‘em. We already know who does that, if the evidence talked about them like equals, I’d consider it pointin’ to E.ve... but it doesn’t...”

After looking over at Preston (who was… right next to them. Awkward.), Kagemori points a finger across the room directly at Atsuko before looking over at the Cute Team.

…Preston isn’t Petbe, I know this. Atsuko Fujimoto is Petbe, Preston Ng is her accomplice. That’s my decision as of now… Like Hinata-san said, I just… don’t think E.ve has enough evidence that sticks to be either. If I did, I’d be more willin’ to deal with this.

…you know the captor wants us all dead. They’ll leave alive - with us very fuckin’ dead - if we give ‘em the chance regardless… of the versions of 'em we think we know. 'Koharu and Kaz defendin’ Atsuko’ narrative aside… which I hope doesn’t mean you can’t change your mind… I’d be talkin’ like this even if I disliked E.ve because I wanna… go home alive, you feel me?”