#(though in my defense i only slept for 3 hours)

[qveerthe0ry]

Naked in Manhattan

Summary: Marcus has never slept with a man, Dieter's willing to remedy that - written for @romanarose Pride Event Week 3: Sex/kissing Word Count: 7,730 Pairing: (college aged) Marcus Pike x Dieter Bravo Rating: 18+ mdni Warnings: coming out, discussions of sexuality, brief mentions of homophobia, oral sex(m), (lots of) hickeys, frottage, cum eating, armpit stuff Betas: OBVIOUSLY @for-a-longlongtime and @perotovar the loves of my life 💖A/N: I highly suggest listening to Naked in Manhattan by Chappell Roan before/while reading this. Totally got the vibes of this entire fic by listening to it on a walk one day

Dieter’s learned a lot in his five and a half years of college. Not really much about statistics or geology, but about people. He’s been around long enough to know that the sad little guy on his front porch steps, avoiding the party, and chain smoking cigarettes is having a rough go of it. 

“Hey buddy,” Dieter says, quietly, as not to startle the slumped figure. 

Marcus looks up at him through misty eyes and a cloud of stale Winston smoke.

“Hey.”

He’s not crying, but he’s definitely crying for help.

“You okay?” 

Dieter takes a seat on the step below him.

“Yeah, fine. Just needed air.”

Marcus gestures with the cigarette in his hand, then huffs out a laugh at the irony. 

“You’ve been getting drunk a lot lately.”

Maybe Dieter shouldn’t pry. It’s not unusual for his rented house to be filled with students coming and going at all hours of the day, between classes on weekdays or all day on the weekends. The cheap beer just shows up, as does the weed, and he doesn’t usually question it. 

But he’s closer to Marcus. So he notices more. He usually only sees him here on weekends. During the week he’s commonly found in the library or the student union, books sprawled out in front of him. He’s driven, pre-law, and has a better head on his shoulders than most people he hangs with. 

But Marcus has been at his place every night this week, either stumbling home in the wee hours of the morning or sleeping late on his couch or floor. It concerns Dieter in a way that surprises him. 

Usually it’s none of his business. 

“I haven’t had a sip,” Marcus tells him. 

And his voice doesn’t have that sharp, defensive tone Dieter was expecting. It’s more defeated than anything. 

“Yeah but what about last night?” 

Marcus shrugs. 

“And the night before? And every other night this week?”

“Just having fun,” Marcus mumbles through another drag of his cigarette. 

Dieterlooks around at his empty porch.

“Are you?” 

Then Marcus laughs. It bubbles up out of him in an almost terrifying way, and damn near immediately turns into sobs hidden behind his hands. 

“Fuck, dude, are you tripping?”

Marcus shakes his head. Dieter didn’t think so. He’s strictly an alcohol guy, won’t even touch weed. Something about the FBI and polygraph tests. Dieter finds it charming if not a bit manic. 

He keeps crying though, so hard he has to flick his cigarette out onto the dimly lit street so he can rub at his eyes. 

Dieter’s not sure what to do. Normally he’d offer someone drugs, but that won’t work. 

His hand hovers over Marcus’ shaking back for a few moments before he rests a heavy palm between his shoulder blades. 

He can feel the way Marcus’ breath shudders out of him, and tells him to start taking slow breaths. When it works, Dieter’s kind of amazed at how great he is at damage control. 

“That’s it man, just breathe.” 

Marcus nods, finally removes his hands from his face. He’s always been pretty in a very preppy way, with his perfect hair and teeth and his little dimples. He looks even prettier now, as much as Dieter kicks himself for that thought. His face is red and wet and his brown eyes are wider than they’ve ever been before. 

A few deep breaths in through his nose and out his mouth later, Marcus is sufficiently calm enough to speak. 

“I’m sorry.”

Dieter waves him off. 

“Don’t be. Looks like it felt good, I might have a cry later too.”

Marcus lets out a wet chuckle and shuts his eyes as one last salty little droplet brushes past his long eyelashes. 

“Everything okay at home? You’re not failing a class, are you?”

“No, no, nothing like that. It’s stupid.” 

“Girl problems?” 

Marcus laughs again, and Dieter startles a little, afraid he’s going to start back up sobbing at any moment. 

He doesn’t though. He’s quiet and avoiding Dieter’s gaze as he frantically gets another cigarette from his pack and lights it up. 

Dieter thinks he’s hit the nail on the head until Marcus takes a long drag of his cigarette and exhales. 

“I’m fucking gay.” 

Dieter opens his mouth in shock, or understanding, or maybe to try and say something, but Marcus continues. 

“This whole time I’ve been gay. I don’t even— I’ve had so many girlfriends. I think they’re just nice. I’ve never— I fucking hated sleeping with them. I thought it was because it was awkward, and we’re all inexperienced? It sucked, Dieter. And I thought all guys were curious about other guys, you know? They all talk about their dicks with each other, since middle school. I just thought— and then there’s this guy… in my intro to psych class. And he’s so nice and handsome and I just always want to hang out with him. And I didn’t know why. But I want to kiss him. And I never felt that way about any of my girlfriends. And now I realize I’ve just— I’ve just been gay this whole time.”

He’s out of breath when he quits talking, but he sucks down more of his cigarette anyway. Dieter isn’t quite sure what to say to him. Usually when someone comes out to him, it’s in a less… frantic manner, more proud than anything. But this poor freshman has been on a gay crisis bender all week and is more than a little traumatized by all of it, and it’s just different with Marcus. 

“That’s um… Sounds like you’ve been going through a rough time with it.” 

Marcus sniffles and nods. 

“Been through all five or whatever stages of grief already. It’s been a long week.” 

“Are you… Upset? That you’re gay?” 

Marcus’ head lolls back to thump against the porch railing. 

“No… I’m more upset that I didn't figure it out until now.” 

“You’re still plenty young, Marcus. You’re what— nineteen?”

“Eighteen. Skipped a grade.”

Jesus. Dieter feels even worse now about thinking he’s pretty when he cries. 

“See? You’re a spring chicken, dude. You figured it out plenty quick.” 

“When did you know?” 

Dieter chews on his lip, considers lying just for Marcus’ sake, but decides against it. 

“I pretty much always knew, honestly. But I mean— I was weird anyway, you know? Never really fit in or felt I had to play a certain part or be a certain way. It just made sense. Also, my dad always said I was as queer as a three dollar bill so… that helped.” 

Dieter steals the cigarette between Marcus’ fingers to take a drag himself. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Nothing to be sorry for, man,” Dieter tells him. 

Marcus stares at where Dieter’s lips wrap around his cigarette for a bit too long, and Dieter hands it back, if only to try and stop whatever it is that’s bound to happen next. 

But Marcus takes another drag himself, and his tongue peeks out to wet his bottom lip, and Dieter has never been called strong-willed. 

“What’s it like?” 

“What?”

“To be with a guy? What’s it like?” 

Dieter shrugs. 

“Depends on the guy.” 

Marcus sighs. 

“Are you uh— how do you like… it?” 

“Are you asking if I’m a top or a bottom?” 

Marcus’s face flushes a cute color in the yellow of the porch lights. 

“Both,” Dieter shrugs, “but I haven’t really done that with a lot of guys. Kind of a hassle, you know?” 

Marcus nods, but then his brow quirks up in question. 

“What do you mean? What do you— what do you do, then?” 

Dieter chuckles. 

“All kinds of things, babe.” 

He watches Marcus’ breath catch, the little stutter of his chest. 

“Would you show me?” 

Dieter rolls his eyes to distract them both from the fact that he really, really wants to. 

“C’mon, man. You don’t wanna fool around with me. I’m a loser. Go find a pretty finance boy to shack up with.” 

Maybe he’s less weak-willed than he thought. 

Marcus’ shoulders slump again, and christ, though, is he supposed to just let him leave like a kicked puppy? 

“There’s no intro to psych guy.”

It’s quiet, mumbled around his cigarette, and his eyes won’t leave his feet. 

“What?” 

“It’s you, okay? You’re my— gay awakening, or whatever. Why do you think I’ve been here all week?”

Dieter’s heart is hammering against his chest at that admission. This was not how he figured his Friday night would go.

“Free beer?” 

His joke doesn’t land. Marcus rolls his eyes. 

“It’s not like… I’m not like in love with you or anything. I just… always wanna see you. And you’re— well, you know. You’re hot. And you’re really nice to everyone. And I get this… I feel so weird when I’m around you, like, nauseous. Fuck, I’m sorry.” 

Marcus flicks yet another cigarette to the curb and makes to get up, but before Dieter can think better of it, he grips him on the shoulder to keep him seated. 

“That’s… actually really sweet, Marcus.” 

He scoffs, hides his face in his hands, and it’s so cute Dieter can’t help but smile. 

“Really— Usually people just want to fuck me, or use me for drugs.” 

Marcus groans a little, mortified, and his hands run back to mess up his pristinely styled hair. 

“Buddy, I’m serious. You’re a little charmer.”

Marcus looks up from his lap at that, scratching that neatly buzzed hair on the back of his neck, and his eyes are a little less embarrassed and a little more twinkly.

“You’re just saying that.”

Dieter shakes his head grinning. 

“No, it’s cute. Being genuine is never a bad thing.”

And the thing is, Dieter’s not lying. It’s possibly the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to him. But he’s toeing a very very fine line here, with himself. Because Marcus is so pretty, and so smart, and he’s soft and kind and he’s real but he’s young. 

And Dieter’s just a Super Super Senior, a total burnout, on his way to holding the world record for The Longest College Career. He’s 23 and he’s still undecided and he probably won’t even get  a college degree after all is said and done. 

But Marcus is looking at him with those big brown eyes, watching, calculating. 

“I just— I feel like you wouldn’t judge me. If I did the wrong thing. You know?”

“I wouldn’t. Anyone who would isn’t worth your time.”

Marcus huffs. Maybe Dieter can still save this. 

“Would you… tell me? What you’d do? What I should do?”

And just like that, Dieter is hopping right over that line with both feet. 

“Kiss me.”

Marcus’ eyes grow even bigger.

“Like, right now? Here?” 

“If you want to. That’s what I’d want you to do, to kiss me right here, like you couldn’t help yourself.”

And Dieter will be damned if he doesn’t do just that, surging forward to grab the sides of his face and press their lips together. 

His lips are so soft, and his face is smooth, and he’s eager, a bit too much, but it only adds to that coincidental charm. Dieter’s left to catch up, as Marcus swipes his tongue along the seam of his mouth and groans. 

Dieter pulls away. Marcus’ mouth gapes open, and his shoulders heave with his fast breaths. 

“You’re so… scruffy.”

Dieter chuckles, wipes Marcus’ spit from his lips and straightens out his mustache. 

“Not good?”

“No, god no, it’s really good.”

And then Marcus smashes their lips together again as a pathetic little sound escapes his throat. Dieter opens his mouth this time, lets Marcus slide his tongue around, a little violent, and this is all a bit too much for some front porch steps, isn’t it?

“Hey,” Dieter says softly, pulling away. 

Marcus’ brows draw up in confusion. 

“Sorry. I’m not a good kisser, am I?”

Dieter sighs, grabs one of Marcus’ hands on his face to link their fingers together. 

“It’s not that,” he says. 

He turns his face to kiss the center of Marcus’ palm and smiles when his breath hitches. 

“You really wanna do this with me?” 

Marcus is nodding before Dieter even finishes speaking. 

“Only if you really want it, too.”

Dieter squeezes his hand. 

“I do, really.”

Marcus smiles the sweetest little smile, and they both stand up, and Dieter doesn’t let his hand go. 

There’s music on in the house, and it smells like weed, and a few people are playing Nintendo in the living room. They don’t pay any mind as Dieter pulls Marcus up to the second floor, down the hall, and into his dimly lit bedroom. 

At least he’s kept it semi-tidy, he thinks, as Marcus looks around while he shuts and locks the door. His bed isn’t made. He’s sure Marcus makes his bed every morning before class. He hopes he doesn’t mind. 

He seems like he’s too nervous to mind, a jittery little thing standing next to his bed. He’s fiddling with the hem of his shirt, staring holes into the stained carpet, when Dieter moves to stand in front of him. 

“Are you nervous?” 

“No. Maybe. I don’t know.”

Dieter grabs both of his hands, and Marcus finally meets his gaze. 

“It’s okay to be nervous. As long as it’s good nervous.” 

He smiles and nods, but the worry in his brow is still there. 

“We won’t do anything you don’t wanna do, okay?”

That seems to soothe him more. 

“Can we kiss again?”

Dieter chuckles. 

“Of course we can.”

Marcus tips over into him, landing at the side of his mouth but quickly correcting course. He licks, but Dieter keeps his mouth shut, goading him to calm down. And he does, slotting his lips around Dieter's bottom one, and everything else slips into place with a soft, satisfied noise from his own chest. 

He lets go of Marcus’ sweaty hands to grab his hips instead, lithe and a little bony. He twitches at the touch, sighs, and presses his lips harder into Dieter’s. His hands search around frantically, jostling them both, until he finds the hem of Dieter’s sweatshirt and gets his hands underneath. 

“Slow,” Dieter mumbles. 

“Hm?”

“Not a race, Marcus. Take your time. Enjoy it.” 

Marcus nods, but gapes at him, like he’s not quite sure what to do next. 

“You wanna get comfy? Take your shoes off, sit down?”

Marcus nods again, but with a little direction, takes his shoes off and sits on the bed, criss-cross applesauce like the cutest fucking thing Dieter’s ever seen. 

“I want this to be— I want you to have a good time, feel good. So tell me if you don’t feel good… or if there’s anything you wanna try. Communication is like, super sexy, right?”

Dieter sheds his shoes and his hoodie as he speaks, thinks he catches Marcus’ eyes staring at the spot between his signature pajama pants and his shirt where it rides up. 

“Yeah… like, dirty talk?”

Dieter huffs out a laugh as he sits facing Marcus, crossing his legs, mirroring him to make him as comfortable as possible.

“Could be dirty talk, yeah. But just normal talk, too. It can be hot to talk about things like… how do you like to be touched? Where?” 

Marcus clears his throat and scratches the back of his head with a puzzled look on his face. 

“My— my dick?”

Dieter wants to laugh, but he can’t blame the guy. It sounds like the only experience he’s had so far is rushed fucks with high school sweethearts. 

“Okay, yeah, that’s a good start. So, for me, I like being kissed. Everywhere. I like feeling lips on my jaw and my neck and especially my nipples. You can bite, too.”

Marcus’ eyebrows raise, his plush lips forming a circular shape that Dieter tries and fails not to focus on. 

“Oh, yeah, okay. I— I like that too. I like when it’s… sloppy.”

Dieter hums, smiles, and nods.

“Anything else you like?” 

He watches Marcus bite his bottom lip and trace shapes on the bedsheets between them. 

“I don’t really know.” 

“That’s okay. Maybe we can figure it out together, yeah?”

His long eyelashes flutter as he blinks real slow, and he smiles. 

“Yeah. Thank you.” 

Dieter does chuckle then. 

“You don’t need to thank me. I’m gonna have a lot of fun with you.”

Christ, Dieter thinks, if his face gets any more red he might burst into flames. 

He kisses him, to save him from a fiery death. It’s a little awkward, with both of their legs crossed in front of them, but it’s easier to take their time like this. 

Marcus keeps it slow, so Dieter can finally lead. He licks into his mouth to feel his hard palate, and the way he whimpers and shivers in response is so delicious that Dieter can’t help but to do it again and again. 

He feels long fingers grip his thighs, soft at first, but squeezing harder when Marcus returns the favor and scrapes his tastebuds along Dieter’s sharp canines. 

There’s twin sighs when Marcus pulls away, only a little, eyes still shut. 

“You’re really fucking good at this,” he mumbles. 

Dieter hums and pecks his lips again, soft and wet. 

“Could kiss you all night.”

It’s true, even though there’s also a million other things he wants to do with Marcus. He tries to push those wants down by kissing him again, getting that plump bottom lip between his teeth and nibbling on it. The noise Marcus makes has his cock filling steadily with blood, and he knows it’s very obvious in his pajama pants, and he hopes Marcus doesn’t freak out.

Like he’s reading Dieter’s mind, Marcus’ hands slide so fucking slowly up his thighs. The movements are jerky, and he hesitates when just the tip of his finger brushes his cock. His inhale is audible, but his curious touch proceeds, just the lightest ghosting across his shaft. 

But then he’s pulling away, and Dieter feels on edge, bracing himself for the worst. 

“Can I touch it?”

Dieter exhales his relief.

“You can… Are you open to suggestions, though?”

Marcus nods, his slick mouth hanging open. 

“You could get on top of me, let me feel how much you like this, too. Drag it out, make me really want it.” 

He smirks as Marcus curses, closing his eyes and pressing his palm to the front of his jeans. But he nods, and uncrosses his legs, so Dieter does the same. 

And then, he’s got a lapful of Marcus, and he’s staring up into his glassy, beautiful eyes. 

“Like this?”

His hips shift, and his pert little ass grinds against Dieter’s cock while his own presses against his belly. 

“Just like that. Is this still okay?” 

Marcus doesn’t answer him, just devours his lips again as he rocks his hips and supplies them both with heady friction. His little whimpers are muffled, and his teeth are sinking into Dieter’s lip a little too hard, but in a way that makes his cock throb and pulse against the tight ass against it. 

Dieter’s hands find those lithe hips again, this time under his shirt. His skin is scalding to the touch and so fucking smooth. He digs his thumbs into his hip bones, drags little circles into them that make his hips jolt and stutter. 

Fuck. He likes this a lot. Maybe too much. He pulls himself away to reel it in a bit, maybe to check and make sure this is still alright—

“I’m so fucking hard,” Marcus breathes, “I’ve never felt like this.” 

And as he speaks, he’s ripping his t-shirt over his head and flinging it elsewhere. 

He’s gorgeous. A little scrawny but smooth, everywhere, just miles of tan skin that’s paler here where it gets no sun. Dieter wants to bite, and kiss, and suckle on every fucking inch of it. 

For now, Dieter uses all of his brain power to mumble a distracted ‘me too,’ as his hands moved upward to splay across all that hairless skin. 

Marcus’ stomach tenses and relaxes under his hands, and his chest heaves as Dieter cradles his ribs and brushes his thumbs over his nipples. 

“Does this feel good?” 

He circles them, flicks them a little bit, and wants to curl up and live in that little gasp Marcus makes. 

“Yes.” 

His head is leaning back between his shoulders, all raised and on-edge. That’s not what Dieter wants. He wants him relaxed, wants him all gooey and loose. 

Slowly, gently, Dieter tips him over, a hand on the back of his head until it lands on the pillows. The look in his eyes gets a little squirrely, and his breath picks up, and his nails scrabble at Dieter’s bicep. 

“Is this still okay?” 

Marcus nods quickly, but he’s slower with the verbal response. 

“I think so… just nervous.” 

“Still good nervous?” 

As if to prove it, he cants his hips up into Dieter and he’s rock hard against his thigh. 

“Still good nervous.”

Dieter’s own prick throbs and twitches as he hums. He lowers himself even more over Marcus, finds his racing pulse point and plants a hot, wet kiss there. 

“Can I kiss you here?” he whispers. 

His chin brushes Dieter’s cheek when he nods, and Marcus relocates his hands to reach up the back of his shirt. His palms are sweaty and hot as Dieter trails a wet line of kisses down to his prominent collar bone. 

His skin is so salty, and the heat from his body is making his cheap cologne smell even stronger, and Dieter feels high even though he hasn’t smoked in hours. 

“How about here, Marcus?”

He looks up at the younger man as he hovers his mouth above one tiny, pebbled nipple. He watches as his adam’s apple bobs in his throat, and smiles and impish grin when Marcus nods again. 

The groan he receives when he closes his mouth around it has him pressing his hips to the mattress for relief. One of Marcus’ hands finds Dieter’s hair and grips.

“Ah fuck.”

Just like that, the fingers loosen and leave his head and Dieter actually whines at the loss. 

“Sorry!”

“No, no, that was a good fuck. Love getting my hair pulled.”

Dieter glances back up at Marcus and watches as his wheels turn. 

“Oh… really?”

He chuckles as he places a sloppy kiss on his sternum, delighted at the way the muscles twitch under his lips. 

“Mmmhmm.”

Marcus sighs as Dieter finds his other nipple.  

“My ex-girlfriend hated it.” 

Dieter nips at the hard bud in his mouth and smirks when Marcus’ hips jolt up. 

“I like a little pain with my pleasure,” he explains. 

“I— can you bite me again?”

Dieter curses and obliges immediately, sinking his teeth into the meat of his pec this time. 

“God, I like that.”

He even earns another tug at his hair, and Dieter knows there’s gotta be a damp spot on the front of his pajamas. 

“That’s so good, Marcus. Keep telling me what you like.” 

Marcus squirms under him as he alternates a string of kisses and licks and bites down his torso. His nails scratch Dieter’s scalp in between tugging on his hair, and this is the most fun Dieter’s had in the bedroom in a long while. 

Marcus has a tiny bit of hair below his belly button, and it’s so fucking cute and whispy when Dieter runs his tongue along the path. But before Dieter can get the fly of his jeans unfastened, Marcus holds a hand over his. 

“Can I try on you now?” 

Dieter’s gaze flickers up to his face, and he looks so sweet, pleading with his big puppy eyes. 

“Yeah, yes, of course you can.”

Marcus smiles, and it’s sure, like he’s finally settled into this, and it makes Dieter’s apprehension fall away. 

It also makes him that much more horny, hard as ever when he lies down with his head on the pillows. He reaches down to readjust and watches Marcus clock the movement with a heady look.

“This is good for you, too?” 

His voice is breathy when he asks, when his hand slips under Dieter’s t-shirt. 

“Marcus, I’m loving this. I feel like a sexy experiment. Poke and prod me, babe.” 

And through all of this newness and anxiety and apprehension, Marcus laughs. It’s music to Dieter’s ears, watching his eyes light up as he chuckles. 

“Take this off then,” he instructs through his laughter. 

“Yes sir,” Dieter purrs, “bossing me around also does it for me. You’re a natural already.” 

“Y-yeah? I don’t— I’ve never been like that.”

Dieter fumbles to back track at the way Marcus’ confidence falls away. 

“It’s okay, that’s an advanced lesson. My bad. Just— Just do what you want with me. Explore. I’m all yours.” 

He talks as he sheds his shirt, and when the damned thing finally pulls free, he feels a little scrutinized under Marcus’s wide eyes. And he kinda really likes it. 

He settles back against the mattress, one arm above his head while the other reaches out to encourage Marcus to come closer. He does, only a little timid as his gaze rakes over every inch of his body. 

He settles between Dieter’s spread legs, one hand dipping the mattress next to him while the other lands hesitantly on his flank. His warm, sweaty palm feels the skin there, draws upward toward his chest, but takes a completely unconventional detour to his armpit. 

Dieter’s cock throbs. This is so fucking weird and so fucking hot. 

Marcus’ jaw drops slack as his fingers card through all of his armpit hair, and it tickles a little bit, but mostly it just makes Dieter’s arousal grow heavy in his groin, burning. 

Before Dieter can really assess what’s going on, or encourage him, or tell him how fucking hard he’s making him, Marcus leans down to capture his lips in his own. 

Dieter groans and scrabbles to grip his waist, arching his hips for any relief and finding it against the front of Marcus’ jeans, a hard line wrapped in denim that twitches against his own. He moans, low and long, as he twirls the thick hair between his finger and thumb. 

And then his hand is gone, and Dieter’s quite disappointed, but he can’t just say that, can he? He weighs the pros and cons of telling Marcus not to stop as the other man trails his lips down the patchy stubble on his jaw, and bites the sensitive skin on his neck. 

Maybe he should tell him. That’s a good lesson, right? How to take feedback, good or bad. But ‘hey keep stroking my armpit hair’ is a bit startling, isn’t it? 

He’s so distracted by the inner turmoil that he doesn’t realize the path Marcus’ has taken until hot breath ghosts that bit of fat between his tit and armpit and then he sniffs, and groans, and licks up all the hair while he presses his cock down into Dieter’s own and Jesus Fuck—

He quickly finds purchase in Marcus’ hair and curses, grinds his hips back up into him with what he hopes is encouraging words. But forgive him if his brain is a little bit completely scrambled. 

Marcus bites just under his patch of armpit hair, burying his nose in it once more, and these primal sounds he makes are vibrating through Dieter’s chest. All he can do at this point is lie back and take it and succumb to the fact that this is definitely altering his brain chemistry for the rest of his life. 

It all stops rather abruptly, though, and two hot hands grab Dieter’s hips hard, pushes them down into the mattress as Marcus arches away from him. 

“I might— I might come.”

Dieter blinks his bleary eyes open to look at the panicked man, who’s squeezing his eyes shut and biting his lip. 

“It’s okay if you do. You can have me all night.” 

“Fuck— Shut up, Jesus Christ.”

Dieter huffs, scratches at his wet armpit, and patiently waits for Marcus to settle down. He could probably come that way too, to be honest, with that pretty boy’s tongue lapping at his underarm and their cocks grinding together. 

Marcus’ eyelashes flutter open, and Dieter smiles at him softly, careful not to move or touch. He looks like a hair trigger, sweaty and panting already, with a really fucking hot damp patch soaking through the crotch of his jeans. 

“Sorry. I think I’m good— wait, sorry, was that weird?”

Dieter allows himself to place one of his hands on Marcus’ own, where it’s still gripping tight to his hip bone. 

“It was weird in the hottest way possible.” 

Marcus shakes his head at himself and closes his eyes again. 

“I’m dead serious. I didn’t know how sensitive I was there. You’re teaching me things. That’s super hot.”

Marcus sighs. 

“It’s just… I like the hair. And your deodorant smells nice.”

He pries his eyes open, like he expects Dieter to be disgusted, but his confession only makes his cock jump very prominently in his pajamas. 

“Doesn’t taste very good, though.” 

And now Dieter is laughing, and tugging Marcus back down, mumbling ‘prove it’ and shoving his tongue into his offensively chemical-flavored mouth. 

It’s okay though, he just licks and licks until the taste has dissipated and Marcus is letting go of the death grip on his sides. His mouth follows a much more predictable route, this time, and Dieter watches his every move as those pretty lips wrap around his nipples, one and then the other, until he’s biting and Dieter is whimpering and asking for more. 

“You can leave marks. I like ‘em.” 

Marcus curses against his sternum and obeys, so fucking obedient, suckling Dieter’s skin and rolling it between his teeth. Looking up at him, his eyes look so determined, all dark and heavy, especially when he pulls away to admire the bruise he’s left. 

“More. Want to see you all over me in the morning.” 

“Fuck, Dieter. How’d you get so good at— at talking like that?” 

Dieter chuckles, then hisses when Marcus sucks the skin on his belly into the sharp edges of his teeth. He’s looking up with an expectant quirk of his brow.

“I just say what’s on my mind,” he answers.

Marcus hums, and Dieter places his hand on his jaw to feel it working, a third mark blooming bright red on his hip. 

“What’s on your mind?” He asks. 

A fourth mark, this one deeper than the rest, right above the waistband of his pants, as Marcus thinks. 

“I want your cock in my mouth.”

Said cock jerks wildly, disrupting the tent in his pajamas, and Marcus has the audacity to smirk. Dieter lets his thumb trace that wet, swollen bottom lip and doesn’t miss the little whine that Marcus tries to hide. 

“Will you teach me?” 

It’s now that Dieter realizes he’s created an absolute monster, with Marcus looking up at him all wide-eyed, batting those long eyelashes. He knows what he’s doing, and it just makes it all so much worse. Or better. Both, really. 

He clears his throat to try to gather his bearings before he speaks. 

“Yeah, I’ll teach you. Pull it out for me.” 

Dieter watches as his breath hitches, and he eyes the tent in Dieter’s pants with an array of emotions washing over his features. There’s hesitation for sure, as he toys with his waistband. But he’s licking his lips, and taking a big deep breath as he tugs them down Dieter’s thighs. 

And then he’s staring at his cock, swaying in the breeze, and Dieter thinks this would be much less intense if penises weren’t so offensive and in your face. 

“Pretty,” Marcus mumbles, and it makes him giggle. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah, it’s— I like it.” 

“Thank you. That’s very sweet.” 

Marcus rolls his eyes but smiles. 

“I can touch it?”

“Yeah, of course. Anything you want. Go at your own pace.”

Maybe it’s cliche, but as soon as Marcus’ hand wraps around his cock, Dieter is done for. Fuck, it feels so good, the way his movements are gentle and calculated, the way he’s being so attentive for his first time, exploratory. His free hand cradles Dieter’s sac, his thumb tracing the seam, and it’s alarming how close this is getting him. It’s so intimate, and genuine, and it’s so hot that he gets to be here for Marcus’ first time. 

Marcus squeezes him tight and strokes, once, from base to tip. He thumbs at his frenulum, slippery with pre come, then lifts that to his lips. It’s like slow motion when he watches him poke his tongue out to taste, and he closes his eyes and hums. 

“Better than the deodorant, for sure.” 

And Dieter’s cock bobs as he laughs. 

“That’s a relief.” 

“I’ve never tasted my own before,” Marcus says. 

“No?” 

“Mm-mm. Seemed… gay.” 

And he laughs at himself, but his face inches closer, and in an instant his tongue is flicking out to lap up more of it, straight from the source. 

Dieter gasps at the contact, so sudden. His taste buds are rough against his slit, in a good way, and he has to cradle Marcus’ neck to reel himself in. 

“That’s so good,” he whispers, “keep doing that.” 

And he does, little kitten licks to the sensitive head of his cock, looking up at him from under those long eyelashes. Dieter groans and closes his eyes because if Marcus keeps looking at him like that, he will come before he can have any fun with him. 

Then, in an instant, he’s completely enveloped by warmth and wetness, too fast, and he opens his eyes at the same time Marcus gags and coughs and pulls off of him. 

“Jesus, Marcus, take it slow.” 

He coughs more, with brow all furrowed and frustrated, and Dieter smooths his hair off of his forehead. 

“Are you alright?” 

Marcus clears his throat as he nods. 

“Yeah, sorry, I can’t— I thought that would be easier.”

Dieter huffs, sits up a bit and leans on his elbow so he can see him better. His eyes are watery and not in a sexy way this time. He pets Marcus’ hair a bit, hoping to soothe him, but the redness doesn’t fade from his cheeks. 

“You don’t have to take it all, that’s no fun, choking like that,” he says, “are you sure you’re okay? We can stop.” 

“No! No— I don’t wanna stop. I’m just embarrassed.”

God, he’s so fucking sweet. 

“Don’t be embarrassed. We’ve all been there. I threw up on the first dick I sucked.” 

“Gross, dude.”

“I’m just saying, it could be way worse. Nothing to even be embarrassed about.” 

Marcus sighs and hides his face in the crease of Dieter’s hip. 

“Seriously, I’m still so hard I could shatter diamonds. You’re so fucking hot, it doesn’t matter if you choke a little.” 

He feels Marcus’ teeth on the skin of his hip before he sees his jaw moving. He bites and sucks and it’s another beautiful piece of him he’ll get to take from this experience. 

“That’s it. It’s all about the recovery. Fuck, Marcus, your mouth feels so good on me. Everywhere.” 

Dieter lifts his hips up to encourage him to bite more, mark him up all over. He follows eagerly, until there’s little love bites scattered across the thin skin over his hip bone and his cock is weeping for attention. 

Marcus looks up at him, finally, as he hovers just above his prick.

“Can I try again?”

Dieter hums and cards his fingers through his thick brown hair. 

“Play until you win, babe.” 

He’s much more careful, this time. He takes the head into his mouth and sucks, lets his tongue lather and swirl around it as his hand keeps his dick in place. He’s gorgeous, with his cheeks hollowed out and his eyes shut in concentration. 

“Yeah, just like that, fucking perfect.”

Marcus whimpers around his cock, and drool is starting to leak from the corners of his mouth and drip down Dieter’s shaft. 

“Move your hand a bit, jerk me off while you suck on it.”

He follows the direction so well, letting his hand draw up to meet his lips, then back down, over and over, and Dieter can feel his gut growing hot and tight. His tongue is working him relentlessly, and he’s never really had a partner use theirs so much, but the frantic swirling and flicking has his head spinning. 

“You’re amazing,” Dieter breathes, “making me feel so good.”

At the encouragement, Marcus braves another inch of his cock. He starts to bob his head up and down, following his lips with his fist, and the breaths through his nose get heavier. Dieter babbles a bit, just encouraging words as Marcus works him dutifully, trying with all his might not to thrust up into his hot, sloppy mouth. 

But then Marcus looks up at him with his pretty brown eyes and groans around the cock in his mouth and it’s too much. 

“Fuck— fuck, Marcus, let me go.” 

Marcus does, as quickly as he can, panting when his mouth is finally free. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Dieter huffs. 

“Nothing, you’re perfect, gorgeous, beautiful. I just don’t wanna come yet.” 

“Oh.”

The little cock drunk smile he gets is too cute, and Dieter tugs lightly on his hair to get him to crawl back up for a kiss. He tastes like pre-cum, and his nails bite into the heated skin of Marcus’ back for purchase. 

“How are you feeling? Still gay?” 

Marcus laughs against his lips. 

“The gayest I’ve ever been.” 

Dieter collapses back on the pillows to look up at him. 

“Really though, are you still into this?” 

Marcus nods, presses his hips into Dieter’s thigh to swipe away any last remaining doubt. 

“Alright, next and final lesson. Get those tight little jeans off.”

He’s so quick to obey, and Dieter tries not to gawk at how much bigger that wet spot has grown just below his fly. He shakes himself out of it and gets his pajama pants completely off his legs. 

Marcus is so fucking hot, jesus, Dieter feels like he’s pushing his luck having him here in his bed. So lean and long, and his cock is uncut and curves a bit to the left, and he’s still so hard. 

“Get beside me, face me.”

And Marcus looks right at home like this, laid out in his bed, with his bicep bulging from propping his head up on his hand. 

“What’s the lesson?” 

Dieter smirks at the eagerness. 

“I’m gonna jerk us off together.”

Marcus raises his brow. 

“Like, at the same time?”

Dieter hums his affirmative, reaches a tentative hand out to cup Marcus’ pert little asscheek, and chuckles when he twitches. 

“Don’t worry, we’ll save that for another time. If you want.” 

“Shit, yeah, okay.”

And isn’t that gonna be fun? The thought makes Dieter’s cock throb and jerk and he shuffles to close the distance so their pricks line up together. 

“Is this okay? Like this?” 

He looks up from their cocks to watch Marcus’ jaw go slack. 

“Oh god, ‘m not gonna last at all.”

Even as he says it, he’s wrapping his own hand around both of them and squeezing, groaning at the feeling and bucking his hips so they slide together. 

“I don’t want you to last, I want you to feel good.” 

Dieter lets his hand join the fun, covering what Marcus can’t, and his cock jumps in their combined hold when Marcus whines.

“I do, I— fuck, I really do.” 

“Kiss me?”

He’s cut off by Marcus’ lips, all swollen and hot against his own. Marcus moans as soon as their tongues meet, and he starts shaking like a leaf. His hand squeezes harder around their pricks, works them faster, and Dieter can feel each and every twitch of his dripping cock. 

He’s so frantic with it. His breathing whistles fast through his nose, panting into his mouth, and every other exhale is a desperate little noise. It only takes a few dozen strokes for Marcus to fall apart.

“Gonna come— I’m coming, Dieter—”

He gasps as it washes over him. Dieter feels his hot, sticky cum splash over his own hand and his cock and his stomach. Marcus hides his face in the crook of Dieter’s neck and bites as it courses through him. It sends a hot white spark down his spine, and what little filter he’d maintained throughout the night completely short-circuits.

“Shit, that’s it. So fucking good, coming all over me— Fuck, Marcus, you’re hot when you come. You feel so fucking good.”

Marcus whimpers through his aftershocks as Dieter fills his ears with whatever filth he can muster. When it’s too much, and Marcus has to slide his spent cock from their joined hands, he doesn’t let go of Dieter. He helps, with the slick aid of his cum, and Dieter topples over the edge with a growl and Marcus sucks another mark into his overheated skin. 

It’s blinding, it’s his favorite orgasm he’s ever had for sure. Marcus gasps when the first streak of his spend shoots all over his smooth stomach. 

“Fuck yes,” he sighs, exerted but intrigued as Dieter fucks their fists. 

His cum mixes with the stains Marcus already left on his blanket, slowing to a trickle just as Marcus’ grasp loosens. Even when he’s empty, Dieter can still feel the orgasm buzzing through his body as he tries to regain his breath. 

Marcus finally looks up from the scene of the crime and Dieter wants to take a picture of the fucked-out look on his face, his messy hair, his spit-slick lips and flushed face. But he can’t, so he kisses him instead, closing his eyes so maybe he can burn that image into his memory for eternity. 

It’s lazy, so much slower and softer than the way Marcus kissed when he was all keyed up. 

Shit.

Dieter’s in for it. He’s always had an addictive personality, and having Marcus in his bed has been stronger than any fucking drug he’s tried before. 

He whimpers when Marcus pulls away, chasing his lips just for a moment before he reels himself back in. 

He looks down at the mess he’s going to promptly ignore, thinks about how far away the bathroom closet is with all the towels. But then one slender finger is swiping through the cum puddle between them, and lifting to his face, and Dieter devours. 

Marcus chuckles at the desperate noise Dieter makes as he swirls his tongue around to lick up every last drop. 

“How do we taste together?” 

Goddamn, Marcus is much more suave after an orgasm. 

“Like we were made for each other.” 

Christ, he needs to get himself together. His brain is just so fucking fuzzy and light.

Marcus doesn’t run for the hills, though. He giggles, and dips that same finger into their mess again. He brings it up to his own lips this time, sucking it inside his mouth and pulling it out clean. 

There’s a slight grimace as he rolls it around in his mouth. 

“Not as sweet as you were earlier.” 

And Dieter laughs, brushes his two cleanest knuckles against the skin of Marcus’ hip. 

“It’s an acquired taste.” 

Marcus nods, and looks down between them, and some of that lightness in his features fizzles out. 

“Hang on— here, use these.”

Dieter hands him his discarded pajama pants, and they use one leg each to tidy up their hands and stomachs and cocks. Then Dieter balls them up to swipe at his sticky blanket as best as he can. And it’s all so quiet, as their breathing has evened out, and fuck, what if Marcus has some crazy post-nut clarity after this… heavy situation? 

He’s staring at the bedroom door when Dieter looks up to face him. 

“Should I uh… go… now?” 

Dieter sighs and finally gets his freshly wiped hand on Marcus’ skin, colder now where all the sweat has cooled. 

“Personally, I would like it if you stayed. Cuddling after sex is… well, I like it a lot. Some people don’t… it’s okay if you don’t. Whatever you’re comfortable with. This was probably a lot for y—”

Marcus cuts off his rambling— thank god— by burrowing his face in Dieter’s chest and tangling their naked legs together. They both release two huge twin sighs, and Dieter’s instantly soothed by the weight against him, and the lithe fingers stroking his back. 

Dieter can’t help it, he tucks his chin and plants a kiss to the crown of Marcus’ head. He drowns in the scent of sweat and cheap shampoo and feels so grounded for the first time in a very long time. 

Marcus hums, and Dieter pulls him in tighter, swipes his palm over the curve of his tiny asscheek. 

He clears his throat. 

“I don’t have any plans tomorrow…” 

Marcus lifts his head, and he looks so sleepy but so satisfied. 

“So we can stay up all night? You can— could you show me more things?” 

Dieter chuckles and kisses his lips to hide how relieved he feels. 

“Was gonna see if you wanted to catch a movie or something. But I think I like your idea better.” 

“Oh— a movie sounds good! I mean, it would be chill.” 

Dieter huffs. 

“Split the difference, we’ll watch a movie here while I eat your cute little ass?” 

Dieter actually feels his limp cock twitch against his thigh, and tries to hold back a self-satisfied smirk. 

“Yep. Yeah, let’s do that instead.” 

Dieter kisses him, this time just because he can. 

“Get some sleep first, okay? I’ll be right here.” 

The look of comfort on Marcus’ face makes his chest burn and ache. His droopy eyelids close as he smiles, and his head drops to Dieter’s splayed out arm. 

He just watches, for a little while. Lets himself count the deep, even breaths Marcus takes and feels them on the skin of his bicep. 

His arm is gonna go numb in about two minutes tops, and he’ll cherish every pinprick until he drifts off.

[lagunaseca2013]

how does pecco tell his parents that he's pregnant in the teen pregnancy au? how awkward is the eventual valentino safe sex talk for both luca and pecco? Do they eventually have another kid way later in life luca unintentionally having kids that have the same age gap as him and valentino?

hi anon! this ask honestly got me to open a google doc for this thing which is more than I can say for half the wips I’ve talked about here lmao. as always things kind of got away from me so I hope I’ve answered your questions but tbh I feverishly wrote half of this in the actual tumblr app bc I was so inspired so. apologies if it’s not that good! but cheers <3

—

“Pecco?” Carola picks up on the fourth ring of his ninth attempted call. She sounds groggy and confused, like she’s just woken up, probably because— “It’s four AM,” she groans, “you just woke me up. What’s wrong?”

Pecco swallows against the lump in his throat, the words getting stuck in his mouth. He can’t think of a single thing to say, though he’d spent the entire five-hour drive to Turin agonizing about it. In his defense, he couldn’t really do his best thinking when he kept having to pull over to throw up. Most of the time he wasn’t dry heaving on the side of the road, he’d spent going 200kph and trying not to have a panic attack.

He’s breathing heavily, trying desperately not to burst into tears again. Pecco knows if he’s silent for much longer, Carola will either hang up or call the firing squad, the best big sister ever, even if his skin is crawling, just thinking about facing her right now. In his. . . .state.

“I’m outside,” he croaks, finally, his voice sore from disuse and crying and, god, so much throwing up. “But I forgot to bring my keys.”

Carola is silent for a moment, but he can hear her taking slow, steady breaths through the crackle of the line. “Stay there, I have to turn off the alarm for the gate.”

—

His mama nearly has an aneurysm when he slinks down the stairs, late in the morning. He’d slept tucked into the corner between Carola’s bed and the wall like he hadn’t since—well, probably before he moved to Pesaro. Or hit puberty, whichever came first. After his sister had tugged the explanation out of him, she’d refused to let him go to sleep alone. They'd huddled together under her soft floral sheets and she’d pressed a curious hand to the slight swell of his belly that he couldn’t even really look at without getting nauseous, an expression of wonder on her face that he hadn’t yet encountered from anyone who knew about the—

“Francesco!” His mama interrupts his downward spiral, pressing two warm hands against his cheeks. “Is that Valentino not feeding you properly? You have to come sit down and eat, eat piccolo! You’ve gotten too thin!”

For once, his stomach doesn’t rebel at the plate of brioche, and his mom happily flits around the kitchen tidying up in the way she does when she’s trying to figure out how to approach a conversation. She frowns when he pushes away the espresso she’d left for him, and asks for warm milk, but carefully hasn’t asked him what the hell he’s doing here, why he hadn’t told them he was coming home. Why he’d shown up in the middle of the night and couldn’t bring himself to face her. Since he was little, Pecco has always been. . . .different, when it came to emotional matters, and his mama had learned long ago to let him come to her when he was ready.

Pecco doesn’t think he’ll ever be ready for the conversation they’re about to have. In fact, he barely gets down half a slice of bread before he’s running to the bathroom, hacking it all back up, the thing inside him rejecting it all anyway. He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until his mama pulls him in, rubbing soothing circles into his back and reaching up to brush tears off his cheek. “Oh, bambino,” she sighs, heavy with concern. “What’s going on?”

—

He’d insisted on waiting for his papa and Carola to return, mostly because he was pretty sure he was only going to be able to handle the conversation once, and he really needed his sister’s support to even attempt it. His mama had fussed over him for the rest of the day, forcing him back into bed with bowls of broth he’d thankfully been able to keep down. She’d even taken his temperature, humming thoughtfully when it was perfectly normal, though Pecco thought, uncomfortably, that they both sort-of knew he wasn’t that kind of sick.

Unfortunately, crushing Carola’s hands like a lifeline and staring back at his deeply concerned parents, it feels even worse than he’d imagined.

His papa is the first to break the silence. “Francesco,” he says, slowly, like he’s afraid Pecco might bolt if he’s too loud. “What’s wrong, piccolo?”

Pecco swallows hard, his fingers trembling where they grip Carola’s. He feels like a child again, sitting at this very table, confessing to crashing his scooter into the neighbor’s mailbox when he was fifteen. But this is so, so much worse.

“I—” He chokes on the word, his throat tight. His mama’s face is open, patient but worried, while his papa frowns, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. Carola wriggles one of her hands out of his deathgrip to pet the curls at his nape reassuringly.

“I’m pregnant,” he finally blurts out.

They all freeze for a moment, pure disbelief. His mama’s breath catches audibly, her eyes widening in shock. His papa blinks at him like he’s misheard.

The silence stretches unbearably. Pecco’s heart is hammering so hard he thinks he might actually pass out. There's a high possibility he's going to throw up again.

“Scusa?” His papa’s voice is strangled.

Pecco licks his lips, his mouth dry. “I’m pregnant.” His voice wavers slightly, but the words come out clearer this time. “I found out a few weeks ago.”

His mama makes a soft noise, pressing a hand to her mouth, her eyes shining with something unreadable. “Oh, Francesco. . . .”

His papa, on the other hand, looks confused and concerned. “But—how? That’s not possible, that’s not—you were tested, at birth, they said—you were not. . . .” He gestures vaguely, like he’s searching for an explanation in the air.

Pecco shrugs weakly. “Turns out I am.”

Silence again, Pecco's shoulders are tensed up nearly to his ears. Carola's free hand grips the back of his neck firmly, like she thinks he'll try to make a run for it.

Then, suddenly, his mama’s chair scrapes against the floor as she stands. For a split second, Pecco braces himself for yelling, but instead she kneels down, pulling him into her arms. “Oh, bambino mio,” she murmurs, her voice thick with emotion. “You must have been so scared.”

As soon as she says it, Pecco finally shatters. He crumples into her, sobs tearing from his chest, months of anxiety and fear draining out of him all at once. His mama holds him tightly, rubbing soothing circles against his back, whispering soft reassurances into his hair.

Carola reaches over, rubbing his shoulder, and even his papa, still looking completely out of his depth, awkwardly places a hand on his back.

“It’s going to be okay bambino,” his mama says firmly, pulling back just enough to cup his face. “We’ll figure this out together.”

Pecco sniffles, his breath hitching. He’s exhausted, terrified, still fucking nauseous, but for the first time in weeks the knot in his chest loosens, just a little.

—

It’s terribly hard to focus on what Valentino is saying when Luca looks this good, Pecco realizes with dawning horror, the third time he zones out of the lecture, staring at Luca’s hands. His long fingers are folded neatly in his lap, the perfect picture of proper and respectful, if Pecco couldn't see that he was still sporting a semi under the table.

In their defense, Valentino had walked into the apartment unannounced in the syrupy hour after lunch, but before Pecco’s third daily nap, when he had the best chance of seducing Luca into messing around on the couch. He’d then decided, seven and a half months into the unplanned pregnancy, that catching his brother with his hand up Pecco’s stretched out tshirt was cause for the safe sex talk he’d been “meaning to get around to” for the last five years.

Valentino, completely oblivious—or maybe just choosing to ignore the heavy tension radiating between them—leans forward, elbows on his knees, and clasps his hands together like he’s about to deliver the most important race strategy briefing of his entire life. Pecco wonders, idly, if this is what he looks like when Uccio shows him “telemetry” on his iPad.

“Look, I get it,” he says, nodding sagely. “You’re young, you’re in love, you’re horny—”

Pecco makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat. Luca chokes on his own spit.

Valentino waves them off and keeps going. “But you clearly haven’t been careful enough, considering. . . .” he gestures vaguely at Pecco’s belly, which is currently both peeking humiliatingly out the bottom of his tshirt and pressing up against the edge of the table.

Pecco glares. He knows he's gotten huge recently, and he's been feeling particularly sensitive about it. “Wow, grazie, Vale. Really, I hadn't noticed.”

Luca, to his credit, looks genuinely sheepish. “It’s not like we didn’t try to be careful,” he mumbles, scratching at the back of his neck. “We didn't know Pecco was a carrier.” Pecco feels his face heat up at the reminder.

Valentino levels them both with a sharp look. “Clearly, you didn’t try hard enough. Even if Pecco hadn't been a carrier, it is still the safest to use a condom!”

Luca groans, tipping his head back against the couch. “Mio Dio, if this is your way of giving us the condom talk, you’re about seven months too late.”

Valentino ignores him, finally in the rhythm of his tirade. It's an interesting look on him, considering it's usually Uccio who attempts any kind of lecturing about the behavior of the Academy. “You know, there are many ways to be safe. Barriers, timing, communication—”

Pecco shoots Luca a sidelong glance. Luca, who is still, inexplicably, half-hard in his boxers. Luca, who just an hour ago had been shoving his tongue down Pecco's throat against the couch cushions, murmuring things that had absolutely not been about barriers or communication. Things much more aligned with how they'd ended up here in the first place.

Pecco swallows hard. This is kind of his second worst-nightmare, just below getting knocked up mid-season on the list. He hasn't even let himself think about how Valentino said they were, jesus, in love, and neither of them even protested it. Pecco has been in love with Luca for as long as he can remember, but he's always known Luca just saw him as a friend. Luca, of course, is just having sex with him out of convenience.

Meanwhile, Valentino is on a roll. “And don’t think that just because you’re already—” another vague hand-waving gesture at Pecco’s belly. It's kind of amazing that they're this far along, and he's in his thirties, and can't bring himself to say it. “—That you shouldn’t still be careful. Pregnancy hormones can make you want to go at it like rabbits, but you need to be mindful of—”

Pecco shifts uncomfortably in his seat, and his gigantic belly jostles the table enough to knock over the sad vase of dead flowers he'd gotten Luca for Father's Day. He's spent approximately ten minutes in one position, so his back aches enough to make him want to scream. “I am not listening to this anymore.”

Valentino raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “You think I wanted to be here?” He throws his hands up dramatically. “You think I enjoy this? But I’m responsible for both of you!”

“Vale,” Luca interrupts, desperate. “We get it. Be careful, use protection, don’t fuck up again. Lesson learned. Can we please never talk about this again?”

He squints at them for a long moment, weighing his options, then sighs, rubbing his temples. “Fine. But if I find out you’ve been reckless again,” he points an accusatory finger between them.

Luca glares. “What, you’ll ground us?” He gestures at Pecco's belly. “Bit late for that.”

Valentino pinches the bridge of his nose. “I am just trying to make sure you know how to have safe sex,” he sighs. “I don't want either of you to have to sacrifice more than you already have because of another—” he stops himself, just in time, but Pecco knows he was going to say, what he was going to call their baby. A mistake. He sees it reflected back in his eyes, in everyone’s eyes, lately. His skin crawls every time he visits the ranch, seeing Mig and Franky’s looks of pity. Nicolo’s barely-hidden derision. Bez hasn’t been able to look him in the eyes since he started showing for real, months ago.

The second Valentino finally leaves, after he gives them the dish of food from Stefania that he had come to deliver in the first place, an excruciating round of hugs, and a parting shot about prenatal vitamins, somehow managing to keep his set of keys in the rush to kick him out—Pecco lets his head thunk onto Luca's shoulder with a dramatic groan.

“I will never forgive you for giving him a key. We aren't having sex again until you get it back from him!”

Luca snorts, reaching over to place a warm palm over the silver of belly not covered by the tshirt. “You say that now, tesoro.”

Pecco lifts his head up, raising an eyebrow.

Luca smirks. “Where were we?”

[blackboxtheater]

I actually didn't see it until now and I'm not sure if you're open to doing it, but for the Title Ask Prompt, how about "Mustaches, Masks, and Misunderstandings" I just threw it together, I think it might be obvious what I'm thinking of lmao. Anyway, if you wanna do it, have fun!

Fake Fic Title: Mustaches, Masks, and Misunderstandings

Summary:

Pearl was supposed to grow out of the time in her life when she was waking up in strangers beds after one-nights stands all the way back in medical school.

But she was also probably supposed to grow out of having ridiculous crushes on boys she barely knows in middle school.

For a world class transplant surgeon who's job is to literally save lives, Dr. Pearl Moon isn't doing a great job at saving her own love life.

********

You: "I think it might be obvious what I'm thinking of"

My Wack-Ass Brain: hey, remember the Grey's anatomy pilot? And how you always got shocked that men had mustaches under their mask during covid. And how your favorite trope is love triangles where 2 people are actually the same person.....is that anything??

So without further ado, an outline/excerpts of how Dr. Pearl Moon doesn't realize she already slept with the coworker she has a crush on:

It's probably deeply unprofessional to show up to the first day of a new job hungover.

But in her defense, Pearl wasn't planning on getting drunk that night. When her friends Grian and GT from med school had said they were taking her out for a drink, she thought it was going to be a drink. But 1 drink turned into 2 and then 3 and then another bar with Grian and then that other bar turned into a loud basement, and by that point she was too drunk to question how she ended up dancing with a stranger on a Sunday night.

But at 3:49 am when she rolled over in the strangers bed, still a little drunk despite her post-hookup nap that she would not be so generous as to call a full night's sleep, she was at least sober enough to know she absolutely needed to get home and ready before her first shift at HRMT.

An Uber, shower, and lots of greasy food later, Pearl thinks she holds herself together well enough through the boring HR meetings her first day at HRMT Medical Center. The only casualty of her poor life choices is the truly terrible ID photo on her hospital badge that makes her wonder how everyone around her is even remotely pretending she isn't hungover.

Well, that and the fact that she doesn't have any way to find the mystery man again from last night. The details about him are sparse as she dredges through her alcohol soaked memory. Tall. Pronounced dark mustache. Name with O something. Otis? Oli? Oscar? An accent that Pearl has some memory of making a comment sounded Australian just like hers, even if there is some nagging feeling that he corrected her about it.

And while the details of their hookup are also a little hazy, it was definitely good enough that her main take away from all the hours listening to the mind numbing discussion of benefits packages and IT training is that she really, REALLY should have gotten his number.

*********

Over the next few weeks Pearl starts doing surgeries and she keeps working with this same anesthesiologist who everyone just calls "Mumbo". He's terribly British and makes these funny comments from behind the little curtain he always sits behind and Pearl gets hit with the "oh no I might like him" moment when she walks into the operating room one day and catches herself smiling when she sees him already in their with the patient. So then she starts to try to work up the courage to talk to him outside the operating room. Because even though she likes him, she's literally only ever worked with him inside the OR.

She has this whole discussion with Grian (family medicine physician who works outside the hospital) and GT (a plastic surgeon also known by his nickname "Scar" for all the reconstructive surgeries he does) about this and despite their best efforts to ply any information out of Scar for things about Mumbo, Scar has had a similar experience of mostly only knowing his within the OR.

Grian: I know the birthday of every person in my office because its my job to bring in the cake, and you don't even know what your colleague looks like!

GT/Scar: We're all in masks! Some of us are trying to prevent the spread of germs!

**********

Then one day Pearl sees who she thinks is the guy that she hooked up with in the hospital cafeteria because god, how can anyone forget that mustache! But by the time she hunts down Scar, he's already disappeared and now its driving Pearl even more crazy that maybe the guys she's been thinking about even despite her crush on the really nice anesthesiologist actually works at her hospital too? Cause he was in surgical scrubs in the cafeteria, so maybe she can track him down after all. Except she can't remember a name to even know where to start to look for him.

********

I like the idea of Mumbo being the first one to figure out that the woman "Pearl" he hooked up with from the bar is actually Dr. Moon who joined the hospital staff recently, and then he gets weird and awkward around her because surely he thinks that she knows he's the guy she hooked up with and she's being professional and normal about it. Because he's just being a ridiculous spoon to not have put together that it was her even if all he had to go off of was a first name and a face from the bar and she's always masked up in the operating room.

***********

In the end, the big reveal is that Pearl finally sees Mumbo take his mask off after surgery one day and it hits her like a truck that the key defining feature that she remembered about mystery guy from the bar is the mustache that's been under his surgical mask the whole time. And its not even a big reveal its just like, they finally leave at the same time and he pulls the mask off to toss it in the trash and Pearl's brain just blue screens.

*********

They live happily ever after, obviously.

********

Medical Specialty guide no one asked for:

Pearl - transplant surgeon, works to oversee complicated intricacies of removing organs, getting them to the right patients, and transplanting them in

Grian - family medicine, the primary care doc who is at the heart of coordinating all the care a patient receives

GT/"Scar" - plastic surgeon, makes jokes about how he gives people fake boobs and nose jobs but mostly does reconstructive surgery for scars and like cleft pallets

Gem - honorable inclusion of her as a orthopedic surgeon which is a male dominated specialty but she is here with a bone saw and a splint and will not take your shit. Also an homage to the fabulous Dr. Callie Torres, the Grey's Anatomy OG of a chaos bisexual

Oliver/"Mumbo" - anesthesiologist who manages all the chemistry to put the patients to sleep and keep them that way. Earned his nickname for being so tall

False - honorable inclusion of her as a trauma surgeon who people underestimate because the emergency room and trauma folks are usually kinda unhinged and unflappable caffeine junkies, which the skittish False clearly does not fit in with but then she can save nearly anyone when it actually comes down to the surgery

Keralis - honorable inclusion of him as the chief of surgery being like "i love to see you two together and happy, but now I have to do paperwork and scheduling because you told me you are dating and I do NOT like that"

[darkdevasofdestruction]

Chapter 3 - Mad Max Combo x 3

Morning came by fast, the Sun was up, and the weather was fine; For once, Billy was awake before noon - And Katrina wasn't. He felt something warm clinging onto him; He looked down, and smirked - He even let out a chuckle. Kat was really behaving like a cat, clinging onto him like that, nestling into his side like that, as if to seek warmth and affection; Her head was resting on his shoulder, her warm breath rhythmically caressing his neck, one arm draped around his torso, and one leg hooked around his thigh - She was practically on top of him, and looking damn comfortable.

Still, one thing piqued his interest - Her long hair cascaded in a wave of fire over the bed, revealing the back of her neck - And a surprising tattoo. It was the number '3'. Did it symbolise anything for her? Miss goody-two-shoes having a tattoo was hilarious to him, especially considering how easily hidden it was. Billy thought people got tattoos to show them off - Her tattoo wouldn't be evident even if she tied her hair up... Maybe.

Sleeping Beauty lay there over him for at least one more hour before her long lashes fluttered open. As soon as she noticed him, she smiled, and cuddled even closer to him. She didn't say anything, except let out a soft meowing sound. Damn, she was cute, the boy thought - But he was getting restless and bored; There was only so long he could stay laying down, doing nothing - And not smoking. All of a sudden, his hand was in her hair and rapidly messing it up.

"Hey - Hey, stop it!" in a split-second she was already sitting, away from him. He kinda missed the feeling of her wrapped around him like that - Though seeing her all messy, the collar of the Tshirt slipping down her shoulder like that, and her pretty, slender legs visible... Lucky he slept in his jeans, otherwise she'd have seen how turn very hard she was making him.

"Couldn't pass the opportunity to torment you a little." he teased her, dragging himself up. "Can I smoke here?"

"No." she deadpanned. "No smoking in my house." she followed with a sorry afterwards.

"No fun." he groaned, hitting the back of his head to the bed rest.

"Sorry, but I can't stand the stench of cigarettes." she said. "Or the taste."

"You didn't seem to complain much last night." he pointed up, all smug and teasing.

"Well, in my defense, the tar was overshadowed by the bitter taste of cheap beer." she shot right back.

"What, Princess Tutti Frutti, you only drink teas and water?" the girl couldn't help but laugh; She hopped off the bed, went to the kitchen and returned with 5 bottles of vodka, making the boy's mouth hang agape - He was even more turned on now.

"I'm half-Russian, Billy. That stereotype is not wrong. Ice cold vodka, like the coldest nights of Siberian tundras." that vixen-like smirk of hers did many, many things to him - None of them innocent. "I mix my vodka with liqueur or fruit juice - Ask Tina's girl groupie, and you'll hear Freaky Kommie Kat became Vodka Queen last night."

"You really shouldn't trust me to spend the night with you again, tootsie." he got off the bed, stepping right behind her, his broad chest pressed against her back; His hand caressed her face, before tilting her head up to look at him. "I don't think I'll be able to hold back next time with how precious you are."

"I'm not worrying." she snarked him back, leaning so she could plant a kiss on the inside of his wrist - Just enough to stun-lock him again. 

A month passed since Tina's Halloween party - Every morning since then, Billy went to pick Kat up from her home to drive her to school; Every second spent around her was a blessing to his damned existence... And every second spent outside of that hell hole, was closer to heaven than he'd ever been. Unfortunately for his mental health and sanity... That ginger parasite was constantly on his back... And even she realised there was something going on between him and Kat, considering she's the only girl she's seen hanging around him lately... Every day, without fail.

"Y'know Mad Max? The movie?" Maxine was in the backseat, her arms hanging over both the driver and the passenger seat, leaning forward to speak to the other red head. Unlike the other girls around Billy, she was actually nice to her.

"Yeah, I've seen it when it came out - The sequel too. It was pretty fun." she hummed amiably; She wasn't that bad - A typically curious middle-school girl. 

"You know - My name's Maxine - But I prefer Max. Everyone calls me Max." she said, a smile on her face. "I go to the arcade very often - I broke all records before I even started school this year." she continued, grinning in triumph. "MADMAX is now the top of every arcade game."

"Woaw, that's very cool, Max! Way to go!" Kat clapped at her.

"Hey now, don't indulge her. It will go to her head." Billy shot Max a warning glare to get back and stop bothering them.

"Oh, don't worry, Billy, it's quite alright - Just a little chit-chat." Kat waved her hand. "I'm still going to cheer on you today at basketball practice."

"Good girl." he grunted under his breath.

"Hey, Kat, you play DnD?" Kat shook her head.

"I don't have friends to play with - But I know the game. Tried to play by myself, but... Kinda lame." she chuckled casually. "I'm an Elf Druid. Healing spec." she grinned, looking back at Max. "I wanna be a doctor."

"Whoa, cool! Druids are, like - The backbone of a party." she was so enthusiastic. "I'm a Tiefling Rogue."

"Uuu, that's awesome, Max!" Billy looked weirdly at the two girls.

"The hell are you talking about?" he muttered, not liking the idea of being left out of a conversation.

"Races and classes of our Dungeons and Dragons characters." Kat explained. "It's a tabletop game played with friends. Usually we create characters that represent us."

"Oh yeah?" he spoke with mock interest. "What about me, then?"

Kat and Max shared a look, and started thinking; For once, Max wasn't afraid of Billy. She liked how mellow he was around Kat - Whatever influence she had on him made her very happy. "I think you'd be a great Bard."

"That's a lame ass name. Don't like it." his bratty attitude made the older girl grin.

"You have charisma, dexterity and strength -- And you can play the guitar, right?" he gave her a questioning look - Not enough. "You, ergh... Can go around and smack people in the head with a lute?"

"That's more like it." his expression turned into a smirk of approval.

"They can also manipulate people - By charming the pants off of them - With very good looks and a pinch of flirting." Max looked at the way Kat was leaning in towards her step-brother; She was teasing him fiercely. "And you can also seduce a door into unlocking itself."

"Ha!" he grabbed her jaw. "Is that how sexy you find me, dollface?" he glanced at her from the corner of his eyes; Too bad he still needed to look at the road ahead.

"It's how the whole population of Hawkins sees you." she chuckled, leaning back on her seat.

"What about the race?" Max asked, gagging at the occasional flirting they were doing. Gross.

"Hmm... Proud, strong, and imposing, with a natural charisma that makes everyone look at him when he enters the room." Kat pondered playfully. "And with quite the intense aura and fiery temper."

"Sounds like a Dragonborn to me." Max grumbled, not happy that her step-brother was was appointed such a badass character.

"So I'm a big ass dragon who fucks doors?" Max and Kat had to fight back their giggles at how funny his conclusion sounded.

"About right." his step-sister teased him - He wouldn't do anything to her with Kat around. 

"If I can seduce a door - Can I do the same to tree-huggers also?" he winked at his pretty girl.

"Maybe after a few songs and further progress into the campaign story." even he understood what she meant; 

Finally, the atrociously long car-drive ended. "Run along, cockroach girl." he waved Max away, watching with annoyance as she skated away. "I'll be seeing you after lunch."

"I'm sure you will - Gotta look at me when you show off." Kat winked and went towards her class.

Three hours went by excruciatingly slow for both Kat and Billy - Was it because they couldn't get enough of each other's presence? Or because the classes were boring as hell? Or, even better - The people around them were all idiots and they got quickly tiresome. They both wanted to get the hell away from Hawkins - That meant, finishing University already. It was not even Winter yet, the was passing by much too slow for their liking. At least occasional dates, working on the project and sport practice kept their mind away from the tragic routine they were stuck into. And dearly wishing for winter break and the ball to come by already - Not only did that mean a shit ton of free time to do whatever they wanted, without the responsibilities of doing homework and what not - It also meant they were almost halfway through this inferno.

As per usual, Kat was outside easing her own lunch, yet Billy hadn't shown up - He said he'd be at the cafeteria with the others, so she wouldn't bother cooking more than needed; She was listening to music on her cassette iPod. Thankfully, an hour went by fast, and she found herself sitting on the bleachers. Billy wasn't there yet, so she did what she knew best - Placed her ankle over her knee and took a book from her bag; Dostoevsky's 'The Idiot', written in its native language. Her mother gave her the book when she was much younger, as a way to help her learn the language. Between learning Russian and Chinese... Having English as the 3rd language wasn't easy. Three different writing styles, three very different languages... But she wouldn't trade it for the world.

"Hey, Black, this ain't the best place for a nerd like you." Harrington's voice came out of nowhere, yelling in her ear - He purposely tried to jump-scare her. It wasn't often he found her all alone, without her stupid bodyguard goon Hargrove. They destroyed his reputation, and his relationship with Nancy Wheeler; He really couldn't stand how, from the most popular guy in Hawkins, he became the laughingstock everywhere he went. "Give that here." he snatched the book from her grasp. "Ah, of course - Freaky Kommie Kat pretends those squiggles are an actual language."

"Give me back my book, Steve." Kat got up to her feet, extending her hand towards the boy. "You're here to play basketball, not to pick on me. Leave me alone."

"Ohhh~!" Steve had a shit-eating grin on his face. "What - You've finally found the guts to speak up? Is it because Hargrove's popped your cherry, and you think you're his one and only?" he laughed in her face. "Dream on, dumbass."

Kat arched a quizzical eyebrow. "I genuinely have no idea what you tried to tell me - But I'm pretty sure you insulted me."

"You need me to translate for you, huh?" he bent to her eye range. "The only reason you have the courage to speak back to me - Is because Hargrove's been fucking - And you think you're special." he leaned back, smirking widely as he saw the darkness in her eyes, and the way her jaw was set; He loved getting a reaction out of her - A unique, special treat.

"Don't project the shitty way you treated Nancy, to the way Billy treats me." Steve never heard her speak so defensively - Cold, steely and harsh, like a deathly blizzard. "Just because you're a jerk who can't accept 'no' for an answer, doesn't mean every boy in the world is like you."

"Whoa, you're defending him - Ha!" he placed his hands on his hips, his smile mocking and patronising. "You're really stupid, aren't you? Falling head over heels for the first guy who gets in your pants. That's low, even for you." he chuckled. "And to think you were Miss Righteous."

"Steve Harrington, give me my book back, or I will --" she had to stop herself from speaking an outright threat - Because she knew she would follow up with an appropriate action. She took a deep breath to calm herself. "Give my book back, Steve."

Harrington grinned, extending his arm up, along with the book. "Reach up and get it." he said, waving the book around. "Reckon I should change your nickname? Freaky Kommie Kat sounds outdated -- Maybe... Kat the Slut? How's that sound? You like to get on your knees for every guy who gives you some attention?"

Were it not for Billy showing up behind Harrington, Kat was sure she'd have jumped on him and ripped him apart; Her left hand was grasping tightly her right wrist, her dominant arm was quivering violently, ready to claw his face out and maul him to death. She wanted to see his blood, to see the life seep from his eyes and destroy that ugly smirk off his face.  How dare he insult her like that? How dare he accuse her of dishonouring her family? The bastard had a death wish, and Kat was ready to be the executioner.

"Hey, lookie here, King Steve!" Billy reached out to retrieve the book. "Too afraid to face me and you prefer harassing a girl? You're such a pussy." Billy's voice echoed from behind Steve. "Why don't cha come on the field and fight someone your size?" he smirked, getting in his face.

"Oh, what a surprise - He's come to defend his little whore - Since when do you care so much about your bitches?" Steve definitely had a death wish. "What's it, Pussy King? Can't get your body count to get past two digits?"

Billy, like Katrina, had to hold themselves back with every bit of self restraint they had; To think his taunts would work on King Billy too - How amusing. "Are you jealous that you can't even score one girl, Harrington?" the Californian looked down at the idiot who dared mess with him like that. He was towering over Steve, his massive stature intimidating him. "Or you're pissed that your ex let everyone know how big of a bullshit excuse of a cunt you are? What, didn't know where to stick it? Or you couldn't even get it up?" Hargrove went in his face. "You a faggot, Harrington? Need a little lesson on how to speak to a girl?"

Steve didn't dare say another word - There was hardly anything he could say. With another shady look addressed to Kat, he side-stepped Hargrove. "See you on the court, loser."

Billy licked his lips - He needed to chain-smoke two packs of cigarettes to calm down a little. He wanted to break Steve's face... But someone else seemed to have lost her touch with reality. Her nails were digging hard into her flesh, fresh scratches forming pink lines up and down her forearm. "Hey, doll, you okay?" he slowly reached out his hand to hers, grasping it away so she'd stop hurting herself. "Pretty cats like you should rip the drapes to shreds, not your own arm."

"Someone's spreading rumours about me and I'm not happy with having my family name tainted with lies and dishonour." she sneered under her breath. "I fear if I hear that dumb fuck speak to me again, I'll bash his skull in."

The ferocity of her threat made the boy let out a shocked laugh of amusement. She was so small and cute that violent threats made her look hilariously adorable. "Don't worry your pretty head over that fuckass." he took out his shirt in front of her, flexing his biceps. "Are you gonna cheer on me, pretty girl?"

Kat looked up at Billy, looking deeply into her eyes; She said nothing at first - The empty coldness of her eyes almost freaked him out - Until she grabbed his face and forced him to her level. "Fuck them up, babe." she whispered into his ear, kissing his cheek, and recovering her book, she plopped down on the bleachers and started reading. "Now go show off so I can have a reason to stop reading."

He scoffed at her - Unbelievable, he couldn't believe what she'd done to him. "How the hell can I focus on the game when you've got me all turned on, huh?" he strutted out of there, and onto the court, seeing her shrug her shoulders innocently, not offering him any more attention.  What a psycho. Getting him all hot and bothered, then letting him cool down all alone.

Well - Time to trample all over Harrington and that baseless audacity of his.  The game soon started, after a much warranted warm-up; The whistle blew and Harrington had the ball, dribbling left and right, until Billy came in front of him, looking intimidating as ever - The game wasn't yet heated up enough to get Kat's attention - But it was good enough for the surfer to start taunting that vermin. He would bump into him hard enough to throw him off his feet - It was a pleasure seeing Harrington take a few tumbles to the ground, easily retrieving the ball from him.

Every time Billy would score, he would turn to wink at Kat - Magically, she seemed to always be looking at him from above her book, he noted. She wasn't really reading - She was admiring in secret. All the more reason to show off.

The whistle blew again, one of the shirtless guys was dribbling the ball and Steve was blocking him, but, of course, since he's the best player in that team, Billy managed to easily secure the ball and dribbled it away from Steve, but then stopped and started taunting Harrington.

"King Steve! King Steve, everyone! I like it, play it tough today." he got closer to his face, annoying Steve. "Jesus! Do you ever stop talking?! Come on!" Steve tried to make Billy shut up, but to no avail. "What? Afraid the coach is gonna bench you now that I am here? Huh?" Billy laughed as easy going as usual, then dribbled and pushed past Steve and stopanotherpoint. "You didn't seem to stop talking to my girl either." Billy looked at Steve, offered to help him get up; He grabbed his hand, squeezing tightly. "If I see you upsetting my girl again, I'll break your legs and make sure you can never walk again." he let him fall harshly to the ground and walked away; His team did the triumphant high-fives and fist-bumps - Then went up to the bleachers. Kat was pretending to ignore him.

"Liked the show, babe?" he asked, his chin up proudly, his hands on his hips, smirking cockily whilst panting to regain his breath.

"Hmm? Sorry? Is that the wind?" she spoke casually, not looking at him - As if the book was more interesting.

"Ahhhh, don't do that to me, doll. You're hurting my feely-willys." his voice was playful and teasing. "C'mon, doll, wasn't I cool? Go on, praise me." 

"Dunno, I didn't watch." she hummed non-chalantly. "Guess you didn't show off enough, hot shot."

"M'kay, sugar, what's about to happen is all on you." swiftly, he plopped next to her and engulfed her in a strong bear hug; She struggled and let out a loud 'EWW GROSS' whine, making him chuckle victoriously. "That's what you get for ignoring me."

"But you're all sweaty and gross!" she continued to whine, flailing around childishly. "Whaaa, my clothes are all wet and stinky. Urghhh. Jerk!" she let out a loud groan. "Fine, fine, you win -- Gimme a break, man!" finally, he let go of her. "Go take a shower."

"Where's your shirt?" the girl asked. "Not that I mind seeing you like this."

With a smirk, Billy got up, helping her rise also. "On the court, apparently." he spotted it. "Ever stepped on the court?"

"Nope." she shook her head, following him. "I'm not a sports girl. I prefer practicing my sword-fighting." he looked at her with an interested look.

"Show off some day, will ya?" he smirked, bending to pick up his shirt and throwing it over his shoulder. "Wanna?"

"Wanna - What? Play basketball?" she looks up at the very high-up scoring ring. "Ergh... I don't think I'm cut up for this."

"C'mon, give it a go. It's fun." Kat rolled her eyes, grabbing a ball.

"I don't find physical effort - Or sweating, for the matter - Fun." she said, trying to slap the ball to dribble it. "It's pretty damn heavy - And big. How the hell do you manage this thing?"

"Remember how I picked you up and walked you around?" he looked smugly at her. "That's ten times easier than a dribble and a ring toss."

"Alright, alright - You're strong and sexy - I know." she looked up, biting her lip realising how very high the ring was. With some difficulty, she threw the ball with both hands - And Billy laughed. It hadn't even reached half the distance.

"Just what I'd expect from Thumbelina." he said playfully, going to gather back the ball. "Throw it my way - Hit it into the ground."

She phlegmatically threw the ball into the ground, and it bounced back towards him - He did the same back to her - And they repeated the process a few time. "So you do this every practice day - And you don't get bored out of your mind?" Kat found herself speaking.

"Just that, tootsie - With consistency I managed to get these puppies." he flexed his muscles again.

"Yeah, true, I get it, I get it - But it's still boring to me." she let the ball bounce idly on the ground. "And my arms also kinda hurt. Too much sport for me."

"Yeah, didn't take you for the athletic type." he chuckled, using his shirt to dry his already messy hair. "I'll go shower - Wait for me by the car, will ya?" he strutted around a little, looking at her all charming. "Unless... You wanna join me in the shower. Doubt anyone's still hanging around the locker." he winked, giving her a charming look.

"I'll let you enjoy your operetta recital by yourself." came her teasing reply.

"Heard you liked playing with balls, Slutty Kat!"

When Billy's back was turned, Steve threw a ball from the ball cube right at Kat, hitting her on the back of her head; She fell to the ground like a ragdoll with a painful thud and a yelp. Once again, her hair was spread everywhere, revealing that blasted tattoo. "OI, HARRINGTON, WHA' DID I SAY ABOUT PICKING ON SOMEONE YOUR SIZE, YOU PUNK?!" Billy's voiced echoed painfully through the court - He wanted to wipe that shit-eating grin from Harrington's face; But Kat beat him to it.

"Duck-hunting season's over, you piece of shit." she hissed under her breath, throwing the ball right at him, hitting the back of his ankles so hard, he stumbled over. Billy could only watch with deep confusion - Not only did this sweet little thing throw that damn ball so hard it made Harrington take a fall like that - But she threw it that hard, when she couldn't even reach the ring; He didn't even notice when a flash of red went by his eyes, and Kat was on top of Steve, throwing punches at his face.

"Whoa, hey, hey, that's enough --" once he regained his senses, Billy rushed to their side, easily picking the girl up and keeping her suspended in the air.

"I'll send his ass to hell --" his grip around her small body tightened the more she squirmed in mid-air; It would have been almost comical, if Steve didn't look disfigured.

"If you dare speak of this to anyone, Harrington, I'll kill you." Hargrove threatened the idiot who groaned in pain and scurried away.

"Fucking freak." Steve glared at the red head, before leaving the place.

"That's enough." slowly, he placed her with her feet on the ground. "Easy, girl. Easy." he whispered into her ear, trying to sooth her anger. "He pussied out - Ain't gonna bother you again after this." she was still shaking with anger. His hands slowly trailed down her arms, reaching to her own hands, squeezing them softly. Her knuckles were busted and a bloody mess - Much like how his used to be many times. "Easy."

"I wanna go home." her voice was frail, weak, and she hugged herself tightly. "I wanna go home, Billy."

"I hear you. I hear you." his hands squeezed her shoulders. "Go wait in the car - I'll go shower and drive you home."

"Thank you." she whispered softly, and left the safe embrace of her protector.

Kat went to lean back on Billy's car, she looked down at her bag - The temptation was high - Too high. And she gave in. She dug her hand in her bag and rummaged around for her secret sin; She lit up a cigarette, taking a long drag and blowing smoke into the air. She lost control - Again. It was already the second or third time she'd lost control of herself, of her anger, and it wasn't a good sign - The last thing she wanted was to get a suspension... Or worse... Get people suspicious.  She needed to stay in check - To finish that freaking school year and get the hell out of Hawkins. ASAP.

Her eyes were red and stinging her as tears were threatening to spill - But she had to stay strong; To control herself. Her father always told her to control her emotions - Always stay demure and noble, like a noble Princess. Her latest actions were the farthest thing from being a Princess. She was going to destroy everything she ever worked so hard for; Her scholarship, her reputation, her name, her relationship with Billy.

Failure. A failure, that's what she was. She knew she was going to fall down the rabbit hole of self-destruction, and she was terrified of the rapid descent into madness she was spiraling into.

After what felt like four or five quick stress-smoked cigarettes, the sound of a skateboard reminded Kat of reality; Max appeared in front of her - She seemed pissed also. She leaned back on the car also, and started ranting about her fight with this guy, Lucas, Her words were a jumbled mess mixed like a perfect smoothie in Kat's head; Truly, she had no idea what Max was saying - She was still fighting within herself to calm down and no jump another of person. She looked down at her knuckles - Billy must have wiped away most of the blood from her fists - But he couldn't wipe away the scrapes. 

Her hands looked awful, god damn awful. She wasn't a cute, little, inoffensive princess anymore - She was a monster with anger issues - The exact thing she tried so hard to avoid. What the hell was she gonna do? Wrap her hands and wrists in bandages, like those brawlers on the streets? Guys who did that were hot as hell - Billy would look so sexy she'd probably jump on him - But not her. She wasn't supposed to look like this - Never, ever.

"Thought you said you hate the smell of cigarettes." Billy's voice woke her up from her trance.

"I do." she mumbled to herself; Much to his shock, Kat rose her sleeve and extinguished the cigarette on her skin - Revealing the exact number of cigarettes she'd smoked waiting for him - Seven. And she didn't even seem to realise, Billy noted, as she didn't even react. She was still so hung up on her overreacting with Steve, that she was numb to everything else. It wasn't much different to the way his anger numbs him to everything surrounding him, after his father goes crazy on his ass.

The car ride was silent, save for Max trying to communicate, and Kat saying a few absent-minded 'uh-huh's to her, a simple habit she developed over the years to appear polite, even if she wasn't paying attention to the conversation. "Sure you'll be alright by yourself, toots?"

Kat glanced at him lethargically from the corner of her eyes. "Safest for everyone, yes." she muttered, opening the door. "Thanks for today, Billy. See you." she left, dragging her bag inside the house.

"What's with her? She seemed... Off." Billy nodded, his tongue licking his bottom lip before he, too, retrieved a cigarette.

"Shut up, squirt. None of your business." he shut her off immediately.

"Not fair! She's my friend too!" she chimed in like a brat. "Was it your fault? Did you upset her?"

"Can you shut the hell up for once, Maxine? Huh?!" he grabbed the front of her shirt; She gulped, her eyes wide and terrified. He pushed her back on the backseat.

It was already the beginning of December; Things had significantly quieted down among the highschoolers. Kat was back to normal, serene and nice as always, Billy was a certified King and Max kept complaining about the stupid band of idiots who didn't want to befriend her. The basketball championship was approaching soon, along with the Winter Ball.

Under the guise of working on their Biology project, Billy invited Kat over - After Max pestered both him and her mother to invite her over. The last thing he ever wanted was to expose that angel to Dante's Inferno. Even the last circle of hell couldn't compare to the shit inside his house. Still, it seemed Max wanted to hang out with her only friend, and Susan agreed to take Neil on a date the whole day, leaving them the whole house for themselves.

Once Kat arrived at their small house, she knocked and Max opened the door for her in a split second - Was she glued to the door like a dog on the doormat? Kinda weird how enthusiastic this girl was to see her. Regardless - The first thing her green eyes saw was the Godly silhouette of Billy Hargrove working out. What a sight for sore eyes. He was doing it on purpose.

The loud rock music made it impossible for them to speak and understand each other - But looks said it all; Billy knew what he was doing to her, all sweaty and shirtless, his muscles flexing all sexy with every lift of the weights; And that damn smirk plastered on his face, those kissable lips... And that tongue flick. In their mind they were all over each other - Just not physically also. Little angel wasn't ready for him yet - Not that he could blame her; With idiots like Harrington messing around with her for years, he'd run away from guys too - Or beat the hell outta them.

Max dragged her red head friend to her room - Away from her loverboy - And pushed her on her bed. She showed off her skateboard collection, and her video games - She even had multiple drawings of her D&D character. It was all a little confusing for Kat - But then, she started to speak about something different - Something that made Kat's hair stand up with fear. She used words like 'Demogorgon' , 'Demodog' and even 'Hawkins laboratory something something'. It was the worst.

"Like, can you believe him? That stalker thought he could lie to me - In the arcade, of all things! He tried to prevent me from playing any game, just so he'd lie to me. That's, like, so messed up - Right?" Kat's face must have looked completely terrified and distraught. "Like - Who would believe his stupid stories - Right?!"

"He wasn't lying to you." her voice came in a whisper, making Max yell a loud, incredulous 'WHAT?!' her way. "What else did they tell you?"

"About this girl - Eleven the Mage - Or something. Said she had some super powers. Mike and Will don't want me in the party because El disappeared - Or something." Kat's breath hitched in her throat at the mention of El.

"Eleven is alive?!" Kat shot up to her feet, her hands in her hair. "I can't believe it - That kid broke out of the lab all by herself?!" she started pacing around the room, her nails scratching at the opposite hand; Her stress levels were through the roof. "Eleven got here? She was here - And I didn't know. I can't believe it."

"Kat...? How do you know this, erg... Eleven?" Max spoke in a somewhat sympathetic voice, seeing her eyes get watery.

Kat sat back on the edge of the bed, then rose her hair off the back of her neck, showing off her '3' tattoo. "Eleven and I, like many other children stuck in that lab, weren't born with a name - We were assigned a number. I was one of the first ones around there - The 3rd experiment. Eleven was one of the youngest. She was still very young when I managed to get out of there." Kat turned around to look at the little girl - Her large blue eyes were wide like cherry pies, and she was assimilating the story like a sponge. "My parents were both scientists there. Mum was Russian, dad Chinese. It was a very communist lab, I know." she waved her hand dismissively. "Anyway - Yekaterina and Shilin, my parents, were married; Because 'One' was dead, and 'Two' was in a coma, they were tasked with taking care of me - And experimenting on me also." Kat explained. "Felt guilty after they forced my powers so hard I hemorrhaged myself into a coma, so they decided to protect me." she muttered, looking down. "They saw all these kids dying around them - Because of them - And decided to change something... And they did..." she let out a pained exhale. "After my mum was diagnosed with terminal cancer. Stage 4 lung cancer, metastasis everywhere." she scratched the back of her head awkwardly. "They ran away from there - Took me with them - And we bought ourselves a nice house here, in Hawkins. Been living there for the past 6 years." she offered an empty smile. "Now that I think of it - Eleven would be now around the same age I was when I escaped that hell."

"Are you KIDDING me?!" Kat shook her head. "No way - Like - NO way!" Max was stomping around the room, so excited and erratic. "That's insane - Really, it's so damn insane!" she continued. "So, like, that stalker idiot was telling the truth... The band of dumbasses are in a literal, real-life, D&D campaign... And they won't let me in?! But I'm a badass Zoomer, what the hell!" she let out an annoyed growl, throwing herself on the bed -- Before scurrying again to look at Kat. "Did you say something about powers?"

Kat leaned back on the bed rest and looked around the bedroom; Once she saw a notebook on top of the desk, she rose her hand up - And Max watched with awe as the notebook flew right into her hand. The ginger cheered loudly, making her do that again - Instead, Max found herself in the air, floating around smoothly like a cloud. "SO COOL!" she turned around like there was no gravitation - It was so much fun! But then, she was placed back on the bed. 

"Sorry, Max, I don't like using my powers too much." she gave a small smile. "Headaches and bleeding."

"So - You chose your own name?" Max asked, and Kat tilted her head a little.

"Sort of." she played with her fingers. "Ruyi Katerina Yelena" she smiled sweetly, saying her name. "That's my actual, real name. My dad loved the name 'Ruyi'... He said it was fit for a Princess. 'Katerina' comes from my mother, and 'Yelena' means 'Moon' because I was always a dream, and I loved to look at the sky at night." her smile widened a little. "But... Y'know... English people can't pronounce my name... Ruyi Katerina Yelena is too difficult for people to pronounce it, so... 'Katrina Black' is written on my ID - Which, by the way, it's a very fake ID that looks 100% legit and I can renew with no issue at any given time."

"Roo-EE... Kah-The-Ree-Nah... Ee-Lee-Nah?" Max struggled very hard to pronounce her name, but failed miserably. "Okay, okay, I get it. 'Kat' is much easier." she chuckled awkwardly. "But it's a pretty name!"

"Thank you, Max. I appreciate it." she nodded at her.

"Hey, Kat --?" she let out a hum, to have her continue speaking. "You and Billy...?" she made a 'sort of' gesture. "He really likes you, y'know? Since he went to that Halloween Party, I haven't seen him with any other girl except you." that comment made her smile back at the ginger. "Are you ever gonna tell him anything about this?" she shook her head. "Why?"

"Why would I? He knows my parents are dead, and that I'm 'Freaky Kommie Kat' because my parents are foreigners from communist countries. I don't think I need to tell him more than that, unless necessary." she shrugged her shoulders casually. "I just want to be a normal teenager, Max. I don't want to be implicated in this... Supernatural mess that's come up recently. I just want to graduate and leave this town as far as possible."

"You know Billy wants to move back to Cali?" Kat nodded. "And... You wanna go with him?"

"If he wants me, yeah, I'd love to." she said softly.

"Kat..." Max scooted over to her. "Billy is... Weird." she gulped. "He's violent, and mean, and rude, and harsh... And a jerk with capital 'J', okay?" she sighed. "But he's really not that bad - Especially with you. It's his dad's fault. He scares me too... But with Billy? He's awful with Billy. He yells at him, scolds him so much... And he even hits him." she shuddered a little. "I always hide when he starts going ape shit on him... I can't see Billy get all that shit. It's terrifying." she admitted. "Don't blame him too much... It's not his fault he ended up like this. Neil was abusive to his mum also... Would get very physical, I heard. I'm surprised he hasn't taken it out on my mum yet... Uhm... Billy's mum left him alone with Neil. Wasn't answering his calls and all that..." she hugged Kat's leg tightly. "No mum should ever abandon their kid in the hands of their abusive dad."

Kat looked down at Maxine, reaching out her hand to stroke her hair - She had guessed his parents weren't the best - But by hell she hadn't expected that. All the more reason to try and make his life as nice as possible outside of this house... And get the hell away from this town. "Don't worry, Maxi. I'll protect him even if it's the last thing I do in this life."

She might not have been his blood sister, but in spite of how much of an asshole he is, Maxine didn't want Billy to suffer so much; Kat was a good influence on him, at least on the surface; Hopefully, he won't kick her aside because of his self issues.

The door was swung open, and Billy grabbed the frame of the door, leaning over. "Party's over, munchkin. It's my turn to steal Jessica Rabbit." and steal her he did, picking her up and swinging her over his shoulder, bringing her to his room and letting her plop on his bed.

"I'd never seen a more 'boy bedroom' than this." she chuckled softly, looking around the room - Various posters of rock bands like Metallica and Motley Crue were messily plastered on the walls - Along with some sexy pin ups. Some left over beer cans on the nightstand, many clothes thrown around the best, and the bed was a mess. "I wouldn't expect any less." she made herself comfortable. "But I guess I shouldn't expect to look around and find a book, huh?"

"Why'd you think I'm studying science, not art, babe?" he threw himself on the bed next to her, making her jump a little on the bed. "Now then - How this sounds - Susan called. Said they're not coming over for the night - Expected around afternoon. Y'know what that means, yeah?" he smirked, leaning over to her. "No need to spend the night alone in that big, scary house of yours."

"You want me to stay over?" he nodded. "Really?"

"Yeah, sweetcheeks. Gotta return the favour, ain't that right?" he trailed her soft face with the back of his fingers. "Can't have you all scared and screaming for me, in the dead of night - When I could be right here."

"That's very nice of you, Billy. Thank you." her eyes averted down bashfully. He could see a delicate hue of pink painting her cheeks. "We ordering tonight? Or you wanna cook with me?"

He wanted to kiss those damn sweet lips of hers, that's what he wanted. He wanted to feel that flawless skin of hers against his own, to grab at her flesh and see her all dazed and dreamy underneath him. He wanted to do so many things to the pretty girl in front of him; To grab her face and pull her into kisses so long that she won't remember how to breathe... And by God, how he wanted to make her sing for him like a sweet nightingale - He was sure she made all the cutest noises. What an addictive girl... To think they hardly went any further than a few kisses every once in a while, and he wants to get all messy under the covers with her.

"Got all the things to make one big, mean pizza." his hand gingerly placed on the side of her face made its way up into her hair, to the back of the head, pulling her into a kiss. "But I need so life breathed into me to even have the energy to think about leaving the bed when you're in it."

His flirting seemed to earn quite the amused giggles from the girl. "Alright, alright, I got this. Let me save you, oh, my knight in shining armor." it was her who initiated the kiss; Damn how he missed the taste of her cherry lip gloss and how well their lips molded together - She even had such adorable reactions when he'd bite her bottom lip a little; A cute eeping noise, a slight squeeze of his shoulders...

Billy shifted a little to lean on his elbow, the free hand trailed down her back, her hips, and rested on her supple thigh - Thank God she was wearing jeans, or he'd go crazy - He brought her closer to him, dragging her leg in between in own; She was comfortably trapped in his strong arms, against the pillows, allowing herself to get lost in the bliss of his kisses.

He was going crazy - She was making him crazy; He could feel himself melting, blending together with her; He shifted his position again, this time he was comfortably laying between her legs, on top of her. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, and the rough texture of his jeans against her thighs, grinding against her slowly, instinctively, against his better judgement.

Billy broke the kiss for a moment, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he looked down into her glazed over green eyes. "You're driving me crazy, woman. All pretty and trusting, in the wolf's den." he murmured, his voice low and husky.

Kat's smile was angelic, her heart pounding in her chest. "Then I'm doing my job right." she whispered back, pulling him down to her again.

Billy didn’t hold back. He kissed her deeply, hungrily, as if he couldn’t get enough - As if kissing her meant living for one more day. His hands roamed up her sides, slipping under her shirt to rest on the bare skin of her waist. Kat shivered at his touch, feeling the heat pooling in her stomach as his fingers traced small circles on her skin. Without as much as realising, he had unbuttoned her shirt - She was below him, revealing that gorgeous body of hers, and that pretty pink lace bra of hers. Her skin perfectly pressed against his, her heat and his combining so flawlessly - It was natural, so natural, as if that's how the world was supposed to be.

The kiss was intense, full of unspoken desire and the need for closeness, desperate for an intimacy that was more love than lust. Billy’s lips left hers to trail kisses down her neck, his breath hot against her skin as he found the sensitive spot just below her ear. Kat gasped, her hands clutching at his shoulders as he explored her with his lips, his tongue, his teeth. She could feel his heart pounding just as hard as hers, their bodies pressed together as if they were trying to become one. 

But those sweet whines of hers drove him back to reality, and he forced himself awake from the reverie he willingly drowned himself into. He looked down at the beauty laying on his bed like a gorgeous pillow princess, all sweet and innocent, ready for him to corrupt her - God damn it. He took a few more seconds to regain his breath, to admire her more - That's his girl, only his - Then he pressed a soft kiss on her forehead and got up.

"So what's your favourite band, angel?" he asked non-chalantly, forcing himself not to look at her - He drove himself into his wardrobe to rummage through his band Tees. He was almost sure, if he were to look back at her, he wouldn't be able to rip himself away from her, and he'd claim her on the spot. He didn't want that - Rationally, he didn't - But her spell was too strong, and he was weak to her enchanting beauty.  He was a huge fuck up - But he wanted her to stay by his side for as long as possible.

"Uhm... I don't know. Metallica, I think." she got in a sitting position - Only to be hit in the face with a large black Tshirt with the very band imagery. 

"Good. You change while I go dream about you in the bathroom, then we can start on that pizza. How's that sound?" the look they shared made the girl blush all shy and awkward, realising his implication, but nodded anyway.

"Sure, sounds good to me." she hugged the Tshirt to her chest, waiting for the boy to leave the room so she could change.

She was shocked they got so far - But she at least knew she was right to trust him. She wasn't fooled, she wasn't wrong. And she loved every second of it very much; Oh, if only she wasn't so afraid, she'd drag him to bed herself. Still she folded her clothes neatly on a chair and changed in that Metallica Tshirt - It went just above the knee. She didn't have to wait too long for him to return - He was wearing shorts and a tank top, and he gestured her to follow him to the kitchen.

Billy flung open the fridge and retrieved the ingredients needed for a most delicious meal, all of them scattered across the countertop. The smell of fresh dough and spices filled the air as they prepared to make their pizza from scratch. Kat dug her hand into the flour bag, using the bowl to make dough. Unfortunately, although the dough was easy to make, they had to wait a whole hour for it to cool down and rest back in the fridge. How lame.

"Okay, babe, time to wait for the Sleeping Beauty Dough." he gently slapped his hands on her hips, lifting her on the counter. "What we doin' in the hour?"

"No clue." she pressed her hand on his face, imprinting her palm with flour. "The White Hand of Saruman!" she giggled cutely - But fuck if he knew. He didn't read nerdy fantasy books - He hardly read at all anyway.

"Okay, Nerd Queen, I've got no clue what you're on - But let's not start a flour on we can't finish. They will get my skin on a spike if the kitchen isn't spotless." he grabbed the towel, wiping away the floor.  "Oh, damn, you're right - I'm sorry." she cupped his face, planting a quick sweet kiss on his lips, her legs dangling idly on either side of him. 

"Apology very much accepted." he picked her up. "Now - We either make out again for like an hour, and make me lose my mind --" he placed her on the couch, going to look through his VHS cassettes. "Or we watching a horror movie."

An hour and a half well spent watching some shitty B-listed slasher, but at least the dough rested enough. "Okay, Pizza King." Kat teased, handing him the rolling pin. "Show me what you’ve got."

"You just like seeing me show off." he grabbed the pin, pressing the hell outta that stubborn dough.

"Yeah, I do. It's a lovely sight." she grinned shamelessly. "You’re on topping duty also."

Billy looked her up and down, habitually licked his lips, and smirked. "With you? Any time. Gladly." she was adorable when she got all shy on him.

Kat only did as much as to spread a little too much tomato sauce over the dough - And even more mozzarella cheese. Everyone loved a cheesy pizza. Billy leaned against the counter, watching her with a soft smile. He found it hard to take his eyes off her when she was like this —carefree, happy, and entirely in her element. 

As they added toppings, their hands occasionally brushed, sending little sparks between them. Billy took every opportunity to flirt, sneaking bits of cheese and pepperoni into his mouth - and into hers also. It was kinda cute, feeding her like that - Even though his fingers would occasionally brush with her lips, and his minds went into promiscuous territories. When the pizza was finally assembled, they slid it into the oven. Once again, they had to wait. Just the best, it was soon time for 'Hill Street Blues' and 'Murder, She Wrote' to air on TV. No more shitty slashers - Instead, some pretty funky detective shows.

When the timer finally dinged, they both jumped up to check on their creation. The pizza was golden and bubbling, the smell mouthwatering. "That smells damn good." Billy said, pulling the pizza out of the oven.

"And looks even better." Kat said. "Can you slice up the pizza while I go call Max to dinner?" ah right, the brat. He forgot all about her stupid carrot hair. He huffed affirmatively and did as instructed, throwing the slices on a big tray; He then took out some soda bottles from the fridge and brought them over in the living room.

The three sat comfortably on the couch and indulged in the fantastic food and the TV show - It was a successful evening, peaceful and nice - Something he hardly ever experiences. It's usually all gloomy and yells, maybe even tears and slaps. This night felt like something more — A taste of normalcy, of something real and sweet, in a life that was often anything but. Was this what some called 'Domestic Bliss'? If yes - He wanted that. Billy found himself wishing the night wouldn’t end. He looked at Kat, her eyes sparkling with happiness as she laughed with Maxine, and realized he didn’t want to let this go.

"A'ight, bed bug, 'nough fun for the night. It's curfew for toddlers." he didn't waste any second to drag Kat back into his bed. "Okay, lovebird, I know what you want. Get here." he laid down, patting his chest - A perfect invitation for her to lay on him again.

"I can't say no to you." she got in bed immediately, cuddling up into his side just like last time. 

"You should." he mumbled under his breath. "Girl like you has no clue how difficult it is to hold back."

"It's not easy to resist you either." what a completely delirious thing to say - Shocking, insane, unbelievable - Ahhh, there she was, driving him up the wall again. Hopefully Billy Jr. won't wake up randomly and disturb him.

"Did I ever tell you I tried to sneak into an R-Rated movie when I was, like, twelve?" that affirmation was met with a shocked exclamation. "Yeah, girl. 1978's Halloween. I and the guys thought we'd see Jaime Lee Curtis' tits on the screen." he was already making her laugh, what a success. "Our brilliant plan? Vending machine mustaches and fedoras."

"Foolproof!" Kat exclaimed, giggling so cutely. 

"So we go there - Stone cold assholes, saying we want tickets to Halloween, right? Well, that bastard on the other side of the counter, barely 17 years old, looked at us and said 'Sorry, kids, we don't screen cartoons today'. Fucking jerk." she continued laughing. "We were mad, of course - But! While Jack and Michael argued with that asshole - I sneaked in and hid in a corner. I was wearing black, hoodie up - No one even knew I was there."

"Met with quite the disappointment, huh?" she grinned up at him.

"Not once - Twice!" he was dramatic. "Not only did JLC not show her tits on screen in Halloween - But when she did, last year, in 'Trading Places', she was, like, super ugly - Like, why the hell did she cut all that pretty blonde hair, and got those ugly short spikes anyway? She looked like a deranged sea urchin -- Not to mention that horrible make up -- What was she, a clown?" he was so theatrical and charismatic that Kat needed time to breathe.

"You're so funny, Billy!" she exclaimed happily.

"What about you, sweet cheeks? Any funky story?" shit, Kat thought, her laughing stopping.

"Ergh -- I don't know, I'm not really funny, and my childhood was pretty boring. Y'know, no friends or anything." she chuckled nervously. "Ergh... I don't remember much anyway. Like - Dad built the swing in front of my face - And he taught me how to cook grandma's recipes. Mum taught me Russian literature - And how to mix drinks. I had my first drink at twelve - That's when I started appreciating the beauty of absinth mixed with water and sugar... What else..." she tapped her chin, deep in thought. Now that she thinks about it, she doesn't really have many memories from the past six years since she's been out of the lab. "I... Used to play dress up with my parents. Dad got me pretty clothes and mum taught me how to do my hair and make up."

"Lame." after exactly 5 seconds of silence, they both started laughing. "S'fine. Once we're outta here, it's memory-time for us, Maid Marian." he said, a small grin on his face. "Once you get a taste of the waves, sun and sand of Cali, you'll never wanna leave."

"...Cali?" Kat shifted a little to get a good look at Billy.

"Yeah, toots. California." his voice was a little lower, a little tender. "That's where Imma go for Uni, and everything else afterward." his hand caressed her pretty face. "You with me?"

"You really want me to come with you to California and make memories together?" she sounded completely breathless and flabbergast; In the dark of the night, Billy noticed her bottom lip quivering softly.

"Yeah." he breathed out. "I do." he couldn't believe himself, admitting such a thing - Such a commitment - Out loud, no less. To another person - The person in cause. He was going crazy, truly.

"I would love that very much, Billy." the boy was completely mesmerised - Every time he heard someone crying, especially him, their voice was all raw, whimpery, weak... Pained. He never experienced any person ever crying for any other reason than anger or sorrow... But time time, he was shocked to see... A single stray tear that was filled with a mix of pure joy, adoration and love. And they were addressed to him. "Thank you." to think she would think she needed to thank him... For wanting her by his side... 

SIlly girl. If only she knew how much he needs her - How his life depends on her and that damn smile of hers. That smile that lights up his dark world; The only sunshine in this shit hole. Stupid, innocent, silly girl... Too good for this world... Too good for him. He didn't have the voice to reply to her, nor to himself. Instead, he decided on the perfect response - And he hugged her tightly to his chest.

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New Love, New Skin (Chapter 6)

hey so I'm just a little dumb and never realized that I didn't post this chapter after I finished it 🤣 Chapter 7 likely won't be out until the new year (then only 3 more chapters before we move on to 'Memory vs Time'!) but please accept my humble offering in the meantime!

you can see the playlist I made for this fic and series here!

Summary: Kora has a fever- seems simple enough, right?

Chapter 1 📺 Chapter 2 💛 Chapter 3 📺  Chapter 4  💛 Chapter 5 📺 Chapter 6 💛Chapter 7 📺 Chapter 8

September 1960

When Vincent heard from Rich that they were considering making him a substitute anchor, he had been ecstatic. Finally, his hard work was paying off. Finally, the recognition that he craved. Finally, the chance to do more, be more. 

He slept the bare minimum that he could, and spent nearly all his free time at the station- hanging around in the hopes that someone would need him for something so he could prove his worth. He wasn’t quite ready to give up his Sunday’s with Kora, but it was a near thing; if he thought it would give him that extra edge to show the executives that he was dedicated he would do it in a heartbeat. As it was, Sundays were slow news wise and he wouldn’t have benefitted much from being there for them. He and Kora still did their grocery shopping together after spending the mornings lazy and soft, tangled beneath the sheets and relishing in each other’s bodies and company.

She was so much more open with him these days. After she had made her confession- something he still had yet to return, though the words sat burning in the back of his throat whenever she said it to him- her emotions seemed to spill forth in waves. She was affectionate with him in a way he wasn’t familiar with, though it wasn’t entirely unwelcome. She was generous with her compliments, her defense of him to others, the little gifts and trinkets that she obtained for him when she had money to spare. A book about sharks sat on the coffee table; she had gotten them matching shirts that said “I’m with stupid” that they wore to bed sometimes; she made sure to bring home his favorite side dish from Viv’s whenever she could, and she did everything in her power to make sure that he was happy.

Sometimes Vincent would wake up while Kora was getting ready for work, conscious enough to feel the press of her lips to his screen and a whispered “love you” before she left, and it left him with a warm feeling in his chest while he thought about how fucking perfect she was, and how he would do anything to give her the life she deserved.

When he wakes a few hours before his shift on Friday, he’s surprised to find Kora still in the bed with him, back towards him and facing the wall. A glance at the clock confirms that she was more than a few hours late at this point, and she hadn’t told him that she was taking the day off for anything. “Goldie, what are you still doing here?” He asks, his voice rough with the remnants of sleep, and when she doesn’t answer he rests a hand on the dip of her hip to get her attention. Warning bells signal off in his head- the shirt beneath his hand is damp with sweat, the heat of her skin tangible even through the fabric. He sits up in a rush and rolls her onto her back with a gentle shake, concern overriding everything when even that fails to wake her.

Her face is creased in something that looks like pain, her fluffy bangs dark with perspiration and cheeks tinted red. Her breath is slow and shallow, discontent sounds escaping her parted lips when Vincent presses the back of his hand to her forehead.

Hot, even for Hell. Especially for Hell. He didn’t know if heat stroke was a thing down here, but she was definitely warmer than she was supposed to be. “Hang on, Kora,” he tells her, petting her hair back from her face, and he runs to the kitchen to pop a couple of ice cubes from the tray in the freezer. He throws them into a mug for her, stabs them a couple times to make them bite sized, and slips back into the bedroom.

When he flicks the light on, his worry grows. The bed beneath her was soaked, a sure sign that she had been burning up for hours while he slept unaware beside her; guilt seizes him, his heart beating rapidfire while he gently parts her lips and slips an ice cube into her mouth, grabbing another to rub across her forehead. It melts too quickly, the water dripping down her face and making her nose scrunch up- it would be cute if he wasn’t so worried.

He hadn’t even thought of the possibility of getting sick in Hell- he had assumed that with the death of their mortal bodies that things like illnesses would have vanished. But it seemed like just as their Sinner forms could feel pleasure, they could feel pain as well, subject to the same standards as above.

Vincent strips her sweat soaked shirt from her body, laying her out on top of the sheets in an attempt to help her cool, occasionally letting cold water melt onto her face from the ice. She finally settles a bit, a break in the fever when the troubling crease of her eyebrow smooths out and she rests peacefully for a bit.

He sits in the living room eyeing the phone that Rich had lent him so he could be reached at home if he was needed. He had already called Viv’s, had a stilted conversation with Eris letting her know that Kora wouldn’t be in today, and he was currently debating calling the station to let them know that he wouldn’t be in. Vincent didn’t like the idea of that. He wanted to be there for Kora but his job was important, too- calling off even once set a precedent that people would come to expect from him, and that would make the executives think that he was unreliable.

He hears a whimper from Kora in the bedroom, and his mind is made up.

He gets more ice around as he dials the number for the station, sighing in relief when Rich answers. “Hey Rich, it’s Vincent-”

“Vinnie, my boy! Usually these calls go the other way around, with me calling you. To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

His shoulders are tense, voice strained as he says, “I’m not gonna be able to make it in today; Kora seems to be pretty sick, and-”

Rich cuts him off again. “Ahh, she caught that bug going around? Your poor golden girl- I’m sure with some good old fashion TLC she’ll be right back to her bubbly self in no time. You go ahead and stay with her for the night- I can cover for you.”

Cover for you. The phrase is uncomfortable, already speaking to the idea that he can’t be trusted that was going to run rampant through the station as soon as he got off the phone. “I’ll still try to make it,” he says in a rush. “As soon as Kora is stable I’ll be in.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Rich says, and his tone isn’t dismissive but Vincent interprets it that way. “One of the interns caught it last week- she’s gonna be out of it for a day at least, and she’s gonna want you for comfort when she comes back to herself. Plus- you might have the bug yourself with living with her. I’ve managed to go all my forty years in Hell without getting sick and I’d rather not risk you bringing it into the office with you.”

His chest feels hollow, giving a twinge when he hears Kora weakly call his name. “Right, of course. I can make it up by coming in early tomorrow evening?”

“Why don’t you take the whole weekend? I’ll tell everyone it’s so you aren’t spreading any germs around, and you can spend some time with your girl, Vinnie- you work too much!” There’s a shuffle on the other end, and Vincent hears him telling someone else that he was assigned to be a nurse for the day and wouldn’t be in. “I’ll see you Sunday night and not a minute sooner, got it? Tell Kora I hope she feels better.” The line goes dead in his ear.

He waits in the bedroom for Kora in case she needs anything, too preoccupied now with what they might be saying about him at work to try and focus on anything else. Every once in a while she would let out a soft sound- still pained, still uncomfortable, and when he chanced placing a hand to her skin she was still burning. He continued to drip the ice across her face, would slip a cube into her mouth every now and then, and tried to tell himself it would be fine.

It was just two days. Richard had assured him that it would be okay to take the weekend off to take care of her, even though he was mostly feeling a little useless at the moment while she slept. He started to think that maybe he could still go into work- Rich would understand, surely, and Kora wouldn’t notice he was gone when she couldn’t even tell that he was here now.

Almost on cue- “Vin,” Kora says softly, her voice rough and cracking from disuse and the heavy panting that she had been doing as her body tried to cool itself down. He sees her tail attempt to wag weakly underneath her when she sees him. “What’re you doing here? You have work.” 

“I know,” he says, trying not to let any bitterness creep into his voice at the reminder. “I talked to Rich; he said to take the weekend and make sure you’re okay. How are you feeling, baby?” He smooths down her hair on one side, and she breathes deeply and turns on her side to push her face deeper into his palm.

“Too hot,” she says, her brow creasing again. “Reminds me of Theron. Of death.”

“Theron?”

Her eyes clench shut, breath coming harshly once again. “Don’t hate me like he did,” she whispers, “please, I had to do it.”

Vincent’s eyes narrow as he watches her- he’s honestly not sure she’s entirely lucid, that she’s even really talking to him. “What are you talking about, Kora?”

Tears start to flow as whatever dam she’s built inside of herself cracks, and he’s reminded of the morning he had found out about Gideon- without her conscious decision, words that spilled from her in sleep. That seemed to be the only way he learned anything about her past, when she was unable to stop herself from telling him somehow. Perhaps the fever had brought the nightmares back again; they always happened around an extermination, the link between the event and Gideon’s death all too clear, too fresh when that time of year came around again. He held her through it every time, whispering soft words into her ear while she cried his name around sobs, a pattern he was used to and knew how to handle.

But Theron. Theron was new, something she had never mentioned before. It probably had something to do with Gideon still- and he felt like if he didn’t try to get the information now she might never tell him. 

“Come on, Goldie, what’s Theron?” He urges her gently, and she breaks his heart by crying harder when he says the name. “I just wanna help, doll, gimme something to work with here.”

“Don’t let him hurt me,” she cries, and he feels his face flicker in shock at the words. Her fingers grip tightly at his arm, claws digging in enough to bring dark blue blood to the surface. “I had to do it, please don’t go- don’t leave, Vin, don’t hate me-”

He gathers her up from the bed, cradles her against his chest and tucked under his screen. Her skin still radiates heat, sweat slicked and damp against the fabric of his shirt. “Never,” he promises. “I could never hate you.” He presses a kiss to her forehead, burning flesh under his lips. “Just trust me, okay? I won’t let anything bad happen to you. I’ve got you.” He repeats the words under his breath, just low enough for her to hear, and slowly she drifts back to fitful sleep in his arms.

They stay like that for a good chunk of time- Vincent reaches over every once in a while to get a half melted ice cube and coax it into her mouth, and when the ice is gone he brings the entire mug for her to take a sip from. When it’s empty, he puts her back on the mattress as gently as he can and slips out of the house- he takes the bike to the closest store that’s open and pays far too much for a loaf of bread, some canned soup, and crackers, hesitating only a moment before he grabs a small bag of those god-awful chips that she likes as well. Definitely not the greatest choice for being ill, but hopefully it would give her some comfort.

As he approaches the apartment, he can hear her sounds from outside- he rushes in, tossing the groceries on the couch while he runs to the bedroom. Kora still seems to be sleeping- and in her sleep, she was digging her claws at her wrists, not hard enough that she had drawn any blood from herself yet but the lines were stark and red against her skin, irritated and injured. Her voice was a series of whimpers and whines that made his blood run cold, words muttered under her breath that he couldn’t make out.

“Kora!” He climbs on the bed and holds her hands in one of his so she can’t scratch at herself anymore, and unlike before when she had simply allowed him to bring her against his chest, she fights back this time.

Her legs kick out from under him, striking him in the legs; her hands escape his grip when he releases her from the pain, and she uses them to shove at his shoulders, his dense muscles not budging as she pushed and cried. “No no no no,” she was crying, her eyes open now but wide and unseeing- her skin still felt like fire licked at it from her blood, the fever having come back as an inferno in her veins. “I had to, T, please, don’t- don’t hurt me anymore-”

He wills himself to calm down when she lands a strike on the edge of his screen- it had probably hurt her more than it had hurt him, he reasoned, and she wasn’t in her right mind because of the sickness. 

But this was so much worse than what had happened with Gideon; this felt like a trauma response, rather than just a nightmare. This was something deeper than an ex husband that had died, something that affected her so deeply that she was unconsciously lashing out in her weakened state.

He manages to get her hands together once more so she’ll stop clawing and slapping at him, bringing his knees together around her thighs and shifting his weight back so her legs can’t kick either, and once she’s immobile she just cries in earnest, tears falling fast and hard from blue eyes that are still looking at something beyond him.

He uses his free hand to smooth his fingers down her cheek, and she flinches at the contact. “Come back to me,” he says softly, and her eyebrow creases but her eyes remain vacant. “It’s me, baby, it’s okay. Everything is okay.” He continues to speak quietly, easing up his grip on her wrists when some of the tension seeps from her body, petting her hair back from her face and rubbing his thumb soothingly across the irritated skin of her wrists. 

He’s not sure how long this goes on- but eventually her eyes slip closed, her breath still leaving her in shaky gasps as sleep claims her before she really seems to recognize him again.

It’s a few hours before he checks on her again, the bedroom silent once he had left it. When he creeps back in, Kora is out like a light- but thankfully when he brushes his fingers across her forehead her temperature has cooled, the fever either no longer present or on its way out of her system. He sits on the edge of the bed armed with a stack of crackers in a paper towel, and soon after he arrives Kora’s eyes flutter open, that empty look gone from the, as her gaze settles on him.

It settles on the tiny gouge she had left in his casing with her claws, and her eyes fill with tears. “Oh, Vin,” she says, sitting up and reaching for him, and before she makes contact he thrusts the stack of crackers at her.

“You gotta eat something, Goldie, you haven’t had anything since you came home from work last night- then we’ll talk, okay?”

She nods, cheeks flaming as she takes the snack and nibbles at the corners of the saltines. She’s so quiet, her skin pale where he can see it under her fur, and every time she looks at the scratch in his casing she tears up again and tears her eyes away. She eats all of them, takes a sip from the water he offers her, and then sits in silence with her hands in her lap until he sighs. “I’m so sorry-” she starts, and he holds up a hand to silence her.

“What was that?” He asks finally, and Kora won’t look at him. “I thought maybe it was similar to what happened with Gideon, just a nightmare, but you’ve never reacted like that with your nightmares. And I don’t think a fever alone would elicit a response like that.”

She pulls her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms and tail around them. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she says defensively.

He places his hand on her knee, and she doesn’t flinch away from his touch- another reassurance that it had been caused by her mind consumed by fever before. “I know you’re pretty tight-lipped about your past but that wasn’t a simple nightmare. You were fucking gone.” She catches his eye over her knee before she diverts her attention again, and he feels the first hint of true irritation towards her that he can ever recall feeling. “You weren’t in there at all. You attacked me-”

“I said I’m sorry!” 

“Sorry doesn’t fucking cut it,” he snaps, and her eyes well with tears at his tone, his volume. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I just- these nightmares and shit keep happening, and I don’t know how to deal with them because I don’t know what’s causing them. I know you don’t like to talk about your life up top, but-”

“No,” she bites, the word sharp. “I’m not- I don’t want to talk about it, it’s none of your business.”

He takes a deep breath, willing himself not to lose his temper again; she was vulnerable right now, he told himself. She was out of the nightmare but it was clearly a sore subject, and he needed to tread carefully or she would close up completely.

Vincent opens his arms up, and Kora sniffles before releasing her knees and falling into him. He smoothes her hair down, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “It is my business,” he says quietly into her hair, and she stiffens a little but doesn’t pull away. “I want to be able to be there for you when these episodes happen. It’s hard to see you like this, baby- so terrified you don’t even recognize me, fighting me off like you think I’m going to hurt you.” She grips his shirt tightly, the action of pulling him closer making him think he was on the right path. “You can trust me- who is Theron?”

The effect is immediate- Kora turns to stone in his arms, her motions stiff and jerky and she shoves herself out of his embrace to stand against the wall. “What part of ‘I don’t want to talk about it’ are you not understanding, Vincent?” She asks coldly, and he’s left bewildered, the ghost of her warmth- normal warmth, not from fever- still in his arms. She crosses her arms across her chest, beautiful and captivating even in her anger. “Drop it.”

He does not. “Kora, come on,” he implores, holding his hands out to her, and when she doesn’t take them his irritation spikes; if he had a jaw anymore it would be clenched, the tension of the moment reflecting in all the muscles of his body. “I just want to help you-”

“I don’t need your fucking help!” The words come out of her like a bark, harsh and defensive with the growl that follows them. “I’m not out here prying into your fucking past, what gives you the right to try and pry into mine?”

“I’m not prying, I’m trying to figure out what the fucking problem is.” He stands from the bed, still keeping his distance so she doesn’t try to bolt before they were finished talking. “This isn’t normal, Goldie, these fucking panic responses you have; do you know how fucking scary that was?”

“I don’t care.” She steps away, to the dresser where she fishes out one of her t-shirts and yanks it onto her body. “I don’t care how you feel about it, it’s none of your business.”

“We share a bed!” He shouts exasperatedly, fingers clutching at the top of his screen. “When you wake up from this shit crying and freaking the fuck out, it becomes my business. I took off work today to take care of you, and-”

“I didn’t ask you to do that-”

“- you’re making me feel like an asshole for trying to help you-”

“I already said I don’t need your help!” Her eyes are teary again watching him, his arms moving as he talks and tries to get his fucking point across to her. The tension just seems to leave her body at once, shoulders drooping and her eyes casting their gaze at the ground. “Just- fucking leave me alone for a bit, okay? I can’t think with you shouting at me and shoving your bullshit down my throat, so please just… leave me alone.” She collapses back onto the bed, swaddling herself in the blankets and turning fully away from him, the conversation clearly over as she buries her head into the pillows.

Anger still courses through him, white hot in his veins as Vincent watches her for a moment before he storms out of the room, leaving the door open behind him. He was trying to fucking help her, to get to the bottom of what was causing her so much distress. To just dismiss him like that? Making him feel like he was somehow in the wrong for trying to help? He jerks his shoes onto his feet in the living room, grabbing his wallet from the tray by the door and leaving the house.

The streets are dark aside from the flickering lights when he slams the door behind him and takes off in a jog down the road. He thinks he hears Kora call his name when he turns the corner, but he ignores it- she told him to leave for a bit, so that’s what he was doing.

He jogs around the block a few times, by the store he had stopped at earlier in the day, past Viv’s, before finally heading home. His thoughts the whole time are a jumbled mess; he was just trying to do right by Kora. Everything he was working for was for her, so they could have a better life together. None of that mattered if Kora wasn’t there for it, if she fought him at every turn when he tried to do something for her, tried to help her work past whatever had scarred her so much in life that it was still affecting her now.

But by the time he comes back to the apartment, his head has cooled. His frustration doesn’t boil under his skin like it had when he left, and he was ready to apologize to her- for crossing her boundaries, pushing the issue when it was obvious and clearly stated that she wanted him to let it go. He shouldn’t have argued with her like he had, should have respected what she was telling him at face value. Whoever Theron was, whatever they had done to Kora- she would tell him when the time was right, when she trusted him enough to do so.

His keys jingle as he unlocks the door, and he’s hardly stepped all the way in before Kora has launched herself at him, arms wrapped around his neck and holding him tightly. “I’m sorry,” she cries, and when she tries to pull back to look at her she clings even more tightly to him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it- I love you, please don’t leave,” she begs him, and he wraps his arms more securely around her, closing the door behind him with his foot and collapsing onto the couch with her in his lap.

I love you. It still hits him like a blow to the chest when she says it, though it’s gotten easier over time to hear, to accept and know that she means it- every morning, every evening, before they part ways or fall asleep for the day. “Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he tells her, running his hand over her head like he had done earlier while she sobbed into his shoulder. “No harm done, baby, everything is fine. We’re fine, Kora, I promise.” 

They sit there, Vincent whispering sweet nothings while she held him and cried, until Kora finally calms enough to release him, bracing herself on his chest. Her eyes were puffy and red, bloodshot and sad when she looked at him. Losing so much fluid couldn’t have been good for her coming off a fever, and he resolved as soon as she let him stand up to try and urge her to drink some water for him.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, her voice quiet. “I shouldn’t have shouted at you.”

“I shouldn’t have either,” he tells her, wiping a stray tear from her cheek with his thumb.

“I’m not… proud of who I was,” she mumbles, “when I was alive. The things I did and how I ended up down here- I don’t want you to know yet. I don’t want it to change the way you see me.” She brings one of her hands up to trace along the casing of his screen. “But I love you, and I promise I’ll tell you someday.”

“And the fever dreams?” He asks, carding his fingers through her hair. “You’ll explain that part too?”

“Yes,” she agrees, “and I’m so, so sorry that I hurt you. What happened with Th-Theron is hard to talk about, and I lashed out.”

Even now she stutters on the name, and he feels a sharp stab of self-loathing for trying to make her talk about it. Her fingers caress the section of his casing that has the small gouge in it, and he grabs her hand to press a kiss to her fingers. “I shouldn’t have pushed it. I’ll wait however long you want,” he assures her, “and when you’re ready to talk I’ll be here.” He thinks about how she had clung to him when he came through the door, her desperate pleas that he not leave. “I’ll always be here for you, don’t worry.” 

She comes back into his chest again, her breathing finally calm against him, and he waits until she’s fallen asleep to carry her to the bedroom so they can both get some much needed rest. He tucks them both beneath warm sheets and hopes that they’ll get through this together.

Chapter 1 📺 Chapter 2 💛 Chapter 3 📺  Chapter 4  💛 Chapter 5 📺 Chapter 6 💛Chapter 7 📺 Chapter 8

[casspurrjoybell-18]

Worthless - Chapter 3

*Warning Adult Content*

Kade

"Where the hell is Rory?" I yelled, starting to get pissed.

First the bastard gets a hold of my phone and sets 'I'm A Barbie Girl' as my alarm then I get all ready to go but he hasn't even shown up, leaving me waiting for the last four hours. Pacing, I growled, causing Jasper, who was making breakfast, to snicker. I sent him a glare and he raised his hands in defense with a grin. Rory decided to walk in at that moment, still in his pajamas and looking like a zombie. Feeling my glare, he turned to me. It took a moment for him to focus enough to make a coherent sentence.

"Ahh, morning Kade. What are you *yawn* doing up so early?"

"Early? It's past noon Rory."

He paused to glanced at the stove clock.

"Why the fuck are you making breakfast now Jasper?"

Not that I was complaining. I haven't had breakfast yet since I thought I would hunt while patrolling.

"Cause this guy gets up so late but demands breakfast or he won't work."

He shook his head with a sigh.

"If it wasn't for Eric spoiling him I wouldn't."

It was true, Eric did spoil Rory. It wasn't just because they were brothers. Rory, though he could make you want to commit murder at times and suicide during the others, was someone you couldn't hate. He was really easy going and could bring even the most gloomy person into a smile. Everyone saw him as a little brother and even though we were the same age, I did as well.

"Don't lie, you love me," Rory replied cheekily to which Jasper responds by smacking him upside the head.

I watched their exchange with amusement, the anger already flowing out of my body as I dug into the food. You just can't be anything but happy eating Jasper's cooking. Jasper was similar to Rory in the sense that you couldn't dislike either of them. That was where the similarities ended though. Where Rory was loud and bold, Jasper tended to stay quiet, choosing to stay out of the spotlight. Plus, Jasper could cook. Rory on the other hand was forbidden from going into the kitchen unless it was to eat. He was also banned from the armory and garage too due to a couple of 'small' incidents. I literally dragged Rory out after making him get ready. He cussed and squirmed, trying to get away but I won in the end.

********

Now we were shifted and running to meet up with Shelby, who was also on patrol duty. I kept glancing at Rory as we ran, making sure he didn't fall behind. It's not like he'd skip out, he was actually a really hard worker once he woke up but he was small compared to me so I had to make sure not to go so fast. Looking at him anyone could see the similarities between him and the Alpha. Like Eric, Rory had dark fur that shown brown when hit with light and had amber eyes. If not for the scent and the size, you couldn't tell them apart.

'Man, I have to fix the roof after patrol,' Rory started to complain.

It was due to a recent firework incident that he swears he wasn't even close to. Seems that Eric decided that fixing it, and doing patrol every other day, was his punishment for almost burning down the house. He was trying to get me to convince Eric to let him off when we caught up to Shelby.

'Hey, guys, right on time,' I sent Rory a glare but he was suddenly super interested in a mushroom.

'Yeah, if I would've known that we didn't have morning patrol I would've slept in.' 

There was an amused twinkle in her eye.

'Well let's get going, we're only doing the east border today and then meet up with Eric.'

After a nudge to Rory, we started at a light run. It took us a little under an hour to patrol the eastern border. It was mainly due to Rory going so slow. He kept complaining about how we teamed up with his brother to kill him.

'Seriously, though. I know I'm hella sexy but that doesn't mean you all have to follow my brother in plotting my downfall. There's enough of Rory for everyone. What is it that I'm supposedly plotting?' Eric suddenly asked as he appeared from behind a group of trees.

'Oh, nothing, just how you want me out of the way because everyone wants my body,' Rory hummed causing Eric to snort.

I was about to tell him that he was full of shit when the wind suddenly shifted. It smelled like the forest but had a strangely sweet twist. Mouth watering, I spun around, intending to follow it to the source.

'Kade, it's nothing to worry about, just a lone wolf,' Eric reassured me.

When I didn't acknowledge that I heard him he and the others followed. My pace quickened as the scent got stronger until eventually the others had to run to keep up. Rory almost collided into me when I stopped suddenly at the edge of a clearing. In the shade opposite of me lay a wolf with a pelt of white and auburn. He turned to look at me, suddenly sensing my presence and I locked gazes with a pair of breath taking eyes that seemed to have every shade of blue in them. His scent invaded me, stirring something I didn't know I had.

'Mate,' I growled.

He shot up suddenly and I realized that I had unconsciously started towards him. I stopped, making sure I wouldn't scare him off. Reaching out to his mind I tried to show that I had no ill intentions, that I wouldn't hurt him because he was my mate. I was shocked when I hit a barrier. Not paying attention to the low growl that emitted from him, I pushed a little, inching forward. I didn't notice him tense up. I didn't give any thought as to why he was crouched down and I sure as hell didn't expect him to lunge.

[macaroni-rascal]

Sorry for the confusion! I wasn’t asking why…that was the interview question. I just agreed with his statement and thought you would too so I wanted to share. He has another interview from 2021 where he said the same thing, and it summed up my biggest issue with P/C (that they could only do one thing). With all the talk of them coming back (which I agree…I would rather see them again than a Bock medal for sure), i just appreciated seeing a sound critique.

Have a lovely day!

Ohhh my god, of course the why was in the interview. In my defense I woke a half an hour ago and slept only 3 hours, so wasn't on me, haha! It is a great quote though, they can only do one thing, but they do that thing really well, versus Bock, who attempt (sort of) to do different stuff (snake dance, alien dance, fire and air dance, time dance), and fail every time. P/C, come save us with your boring programs! Please!

[alightineverydarkness]

February 25th, 2022

It seems almost pointless to try and find words, because words, a mean of communication, cannot square up to the immense indifference of war: it simply does not care. In the past two days, I have not been able to sleep for more than three hours, most of my time spent coming to terms with a very real possibility that none of my hopes and dreams in life are going to come true, no matter how hard I may have tried. There is a good chance I won’t be a musician, or put out a successful album, or finish the records I’m working on right now, or go on tour, or have a signature style, or produce someone else’s record, or get to grow old and have a cool catalogue, or be a Brian Eno or a Scott Walker. A good chance I won’t marry, start a family, live somewhere else, build my home, or a house, or plant a tree, or see my girlfriend again, or move in with her, or have sex. I may not get to see my friends, or any of my favorite musicians, or live music in general, I may never get to read any of the fantastic books I’ve bought over the past couple of years, or finish the one I’m reading right now. It’s not unlikely that I’ll never get to wear nice clothes again, or get new shoes, or that t-shirt I want to make, or nice glasses. Or fix my eyesight. I may never get to try another haircut, or change my style, or get a new tattoo, or get to see if I���m actually balding or not. Maybe I’ll never get to cook a really good meal again, or get to go vegan, or have a house party, or try really nice whiskey, or do karaoke again, or learn to drive a car, or hear a great new album, or watch all the documentaries I was going to, or finish «Seinfeld», or even get to see Putin die — which seemed a guarantee until yesterday, with him being old and deserving of it, you know. There is a chance I’ve already heard the funniest joke I was ever going to hear. There is a chance that this me here is my final form and this was how I lived and this is what I’ve achieved in a life. I have no regrets and I have done my best to love, to be kind, to be honest. Of course, though, as I write this at 3:29 AM on February 25th in Kyiv, 24 hours have not been so far enough to confront and reconcile with my mortality, or draw a bottom line under the facts of my life, or get any of my mental affairs in order, but this felt necessary to realize. Now I am imagining someone else in my apartment, taking down my posters, carrying off my books somewhere, possibly going through my laptop or hard drive, potentially even sharing some of the mediocre unfinished music I left. Well, anyway.

Right now we are expecting the first airstrikes upon Kyiv, which were predicted to start at 3 AM. I just woke up my roommate, who slept in the hallway, since his room faces the street, and my plan for today is to finish a song for a new alias of mine, share it, and sign up for the territorial defense, provided with my non-military skillset I can be of use. After all I just said, it may be surprising, but I am not sad, not anxious, not scared, only angry.

[gauzemer]

Chapter 3: Dumpster

2708 words

According to Google Maps, it takes forty-two hours of uninterrupted driving to reach Thirtymile, Oregon from Gotham, New Jersey.

Jason manages to do it in only forty-four, but in his defense, he’d never been to a Buc-ee’s before, so that was at least three extra hours right there.

He follows I-76 out of the Eastern seaboard in what’s mostly a straight line, the distance only punctuated by occasional toll booths where he pays in cash, doling out ten dollar bills where ones and fives would do. Road maintenance is serious business, he reasons, and nevermind his extensive criminal record– he has a civic responsibility. He refills the tank when it dips towards empty, likewise refills his coffee at gas stations, makes sure to text Dick whenever he passes a billboard that promises “HELL IS REAL” in big red letters.

Dick might text back. Jason stops checking his phone somewhere around Akron.

Gradually, his playlists run out of music to shuffle through. It’s around the fourteen hour mark that he realizes his speakers relay only silence, that he’s been humming a chorus to a song for miles now with only the car’s engine for backing. He finds he doesn’t mind it– he drives in silence for a few hours. The lights over the highway cast rolling shadows on his face, like waves lapping up against a shore. Above them, he can see satellites, clouds, and, when the highway lights fall into disrepair, real stars, small and scattered and distant.

It’s nice.

The Buc-ee’s stop in Colorado, of course, sends him an hour out of the way, but it’s worth it. It’s so worth it. They have that stupid fucking beaver on everything. “On everything,” he tries to impress upon Dick after he gets in the car absolutely laden with be-beavered merchandise. “They have Buc-ee’s napkins, Dick. They put him on napkins.”

“Uh huh.”

Jason turns to look out of the back window as he leaves the parking lot. It’s, like, three in the morning. There’s definitely no one else here. He checks anyway.  “How are you not impressed by this?”

“Because I’m an adult human with a functioning brain,” Dick deadpans. Even hundreds of miles apart, the sound of him rubbing his temples is practically audible. “It’s a gas station with a mascot, Jay, it’s just a gimmick.”

“They had brisket.”

Dick pauses. “Was it–”

“It was good, yeah.”

Dick sighs, and Jason grins, hoping the expression makes it through the phone. “You’re almost there, though?”

“Yep.” He drives out of the parking lot and makes for I-25. “Sixteen hours out.”

“Jesus, haven’t you slept?”

He hasn’t, and he doesn’t bother to lie now. Dicky would have him out in a heartbeat. “You know me,” he finally says, his smile fading. “I’m just planning to crash when I get to Oregon.”

“Do you have sixteen more hours of driving left in you?”

“I’m fine,” Jason says, which he knows doesn’t really answer the question. He doesn’t sleep, is the thing. He doesn’t need to. Sleep is only a cheap imitation of death, and he’s already been ruined by the hard stuff. Besides, he’s so hopped up on Buc-ee’s coffee he’s not sure he could if he tried. “I’ve got, like, straight caffeine in my veins right now, man, I’m wired.”

“Doesn’t caffeine give you nightmares?”

“That’s melatonin.” He downshifts, pulls onto the highway. They did try melatonin, in the first days, until al Ghul told him he didn’t have to sleep if he didn’t want to. More time for training. He would stop when he needed to. All was as it should be. “I’m fine on caffeine.”

“If you say so.” Dick doesn’t sound at all convinced, but that’s alright. He doesn’t understand, but, then, Jason hasn’t explained himself. How do you even begin to have that conversation? “I’m tracking you on our maps, by the way, I can be there in, like, an hour if anything happens.”

The thought comes from way out of pocket: like what, Dick? “Nothing’s going to happen.”

The silence on the other end rings with disbelief. “You think you’ll be safe to crash when you get there?”

“Yeah, why?”

“The trap–”

“I’m not worried.”

“Why?”

God, the sky is beautiful out here. He’s starting to look forward to Thirtymile– no streetlights, no highway lanterns. Just the split-open depths of the cosmos. “I can handle whatever he throws at me,” he lies. “We always have before.”

Dick stays silent. Again, the thought comes in from out of pocket: not always. “Bruce is worried,” he finally says, clearly trying to make it sound like Bruce is the only one. “He’s stress-prowling.”

“I’m honored.”

“Jay–”

“I’m gonna get back to driving,” he says, which isn’t technically a lie this time. It’s dark out. Maybe sleep deprivation actually is starting to catch up to him, because he’s kind of looking forward to the nothingness of zoning out. “I’ll call you next time I get gas, alright?”

“Can’t you drive with me on the phone?”

Jason hesitates before hanging up. Is that concern he hears? “What time is it for you?”

“It’s… like, five.” There’s a pause as Dick checks. “Five eleven.”

“Go to bed.”

“I’m not tired.” Read: I’m worried about you.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Jason reassures him. Read: yeah, well, I promise I won’t die without telling you this time. “I mean, I’m going to Oregon, but I’m not– you know what I mean, I’ll see you soon.”

Dick doesn’t answer. When Jason looks down, he sees that the call’s been disconnected. He’s lost signal.

The trip through the Rockies passes in a haze. For what must be half a day, Jason falls into a sort of road hypnosis. He doesn’t think of anything, except occassionally about Ra’s, or about Gotham, how strange it is to be away from the city. No one here knows Jason Todd. His name isn’t written on memorial hospital wings or park benches, not on college scholarships or debt forgiveness payments or gravestones.

He’s never been buried here.

Some part of him reckons it’s good to be away from Gotham. He could start again out here, if he wanted to. It’d be easy.

Isn’t that such a common refrain, though? Lots of things are easy. Even the hard stuff gets easy, if you’re desperate enough. Synth keens. Electric bass guitar snarls. In Ab major, Penelope Scott has the audacity to ask him what the plan is.

Jason pushes down on the accelerator and keeps going west.

When he finally makes it to the coordinates in Thirtymile, it’s a little past eight in the evening, or at least, he thinks it is. His internal clock is all kinds of fucked up. He was right, though: even in Oregon, it’s winter, and with the sun down, the uninterrupted sky stretches out forever, dizzying and deep, dusted with stars. He doesn’t even care about the mystery of the property– as soon as he arrives, it becomes an afterthought. He parks the car in the tinder-downy brush of what might be a sugarpine and then clambers through the sunroof just to stare.

There is no music. There is no interruption. The creaking insects are all gone away for parts unknown, and the lonely wind rustles through the deadwood skeletons without them for company. Somewhere, Thirtymile Creek trickles through a path it carved centuries ago. He can hear it. Even in the reverent stillness, the water moves. Jason closes his eyes, and lets the silence fill him up until he goes silent, too, and for the first time since he left Gotham, he breathes.

Expectation fogs outwards, disappearing under the vast sky.

When he’s had his fill of being empty, when his body starts to go numb, Jason finally takes his sole bag of supplies in hand and gets out of the car. The cabin Ra’s has left him is a modern little thing, with a slanted roof and plenty of black-tinted windows he can’t see through, but it looks like it’s been here for years at least. It’s weathered, a little ragged– abandoned, but not unloved. He trudges up the moss-stained wooden stairs to the unassuming front door, and finds it to be unlocked when he tries the handle. “Okay, Ra’s,” he says quietly as he pushes it open. “Don’t fuck me on this, old man.”

The door creaks, of course, but nothing happens. No one jumps out to attack him. Neurotoxin doesn’t immediately spray in his face. After a moment of groping blindly in the dark, Jason flicks on the lights.

The house is little more than a bedroom and a bathroom. There’s a couch by one wall, a fridge tucked into a corner by what appears to be a free-standing stove. There’s no television, only cases and cases of books with titles he can just barely read from here: The Last Mastodon, The Plumber’s Guide to Light, After the Revival. Sylvia Plath is shoved haphazardly beside Shel Silverstein. It’s all poetry.

Jason closes the door behind him and locks the deadbolt in place, still looking around warily. The curtains are closed. The fridge is empty. The couch, after forty-four hours, is inviting– but he’s here for a reason, and it doesn’t take him more than a few minutes to see an envelope with a familiar red wax seal lying on the countertop.

He puts his bag in the bedroom (and oh, god, that bed is so tempting) and riffles through the bathroom, which mysteriously seems to have clean running water all the way out here, before he attends to al Ghul’s message. This letter is much heavier than the last, and when he breaks the seal, he’s rewarded with a veritable sheaf of paper, all of it covered in sprawling calligraphy. Jason slides down the wall and sits on the floor to read.

Jason,

Do forgive me for not stocking the kitchen with perishables. I was not sure when this day would come, and I did not know if it would spoil before you arrived. Besides, I recall that you weren’t much for eating when you were in my care. Why sup on what cannot fill you? Tantalus might have learned something from us.

I digress. If you are reading this, then our time together has already drawn to a close– that is, I have departed, and this is all I will be able to leave you. The house is yours, of course, as is the surrounding acre of land to do with what you will. You will find the deed to both in the safe hidden behind the collection of Audre Lorde, the combination to which I have included in this letter.

I suspect that this is all you will accept from me, after our strange, turbulent history, and I have made my peace with that notion. As you have no doubt guessed by now, I have given you this place with ulterior motives. Forgive me– unlike myself, my selfishness does not die easily. I did not tell Talia of this place. It is ledgered on no map of its ilk. You are the only soul I have entrusted it to.

This house is built on a Lazarus Pit.

The words blur together. Fear surges headlong with fury, the adrenaline causing his heart to beat once, painfully, before it goes still again as he grips his chest. Jason stares through the letter, his jaw clenching, his teeth beginning to grit together. “You son of a bitch,” he mutters to himself. “You motherfucker.”

You will find it soon, I am sure, and then perhaps you will understand. I have my doubts, but there is no one else on the face of this earth like us, Jason Todd, and I mourn the fact that I must depart before you come into your inheritance.

Alas, I have frittered away too much of my time already. I am tired. You are here now, and that is what matters. All is as it should be.

From wherever I am now, be well. Give her my love.

There is no signature.

Jason’s not sure how much time he spends on the floor, just that he can hear a sound that the Joker might make in between landed hits, except he’s probably making it himself. It’s the kind of noise you only get to make once in your life. It’s the sound you make when you realize no one’s coming.

Ha. Been there.

He crumples the letter in hand and throws it across the kitchen. Even in death, Ra’s can’t leave well enough alone. He’s still fucking crazy. Jason stares at it balefully without blinking, wiping off his face with the sleeve of his hoodie. “Fuck,” he finally spits out. “God. You– you–”

No one’s listening. Ra’s is dead, and the letter can’t say anything else.

Jason gets out his phone and calls Dick.

The phone rings, and rings, and Jason gets sent to voicemail. He doesn’t leave a message. Dick’s probably on patrol, so he stands up and goes to look for the safe while he cools off. He needs to be calm while he decides what to do next. He needs to be rational. He needs to not lose any more of his entire shit than he already has.

Fuck, he’s getting a migraine.

The safe is right where the letter said it would be. The door swings open almost eagerly. There’s a manila file with the deed in Jason’s name inside. There’s a corked glass phial of what could probably be flat lime soda, but which he knows can only be water from the Pit, which he reaches for and then thinks better of, just in case it bites. There’s a sheet of paper, too, covered in what can only be described as the code of a madman, emerald-green symbols running thick, vertical interference over what might be black print, like someone cross-wrote a message in two different languages with their nondominant hand.

“Because of course you wouldn’t just leave me a note like anyone else,” Jason mutters. “Had to be fucking dramatic and shit. Asshole.”

This paper doesn’t say anything to him, either.

He puts it back in the safe and tries calling Dick again. The phone rings, rings, ri–

“Did you get there?” Dick asks him without preamble, way too close to the mic. Jason fumbles his phone and drops it on the couch. “Are you okay? Are you– Jason?”

“I’m here,” he reassures him, his voice croaking hoarsely. Fuck, it’s good to hear Dick’s voice. “Yeah, sorry. Hell of a night.”

The wind in Bludhaven whistles across the connection. “Did you get ambushed?”

“Kind of.” He’s breathing again. He always fucking does this when he talks to Dicky. Stress response. Prey-based camouflage adaptation. He swallows, but it only makes his headache worse. “You were right. He left me some nice real estate.”

“And?”

Jason doesn’t say anything.

“Jay–”

“There’s a Pit,” he finally manages, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Under the house. Ra’s– he left a letter.”

Dick’s silence is duly horrified. “Oh.”

Jason nods before remembering that Dick can’t see him. “Can you–” His voice cracks, and it takes him a minute to continue. This is fucking pathetic. “Can you still come get me?”

“I can.” Dick’s voice is soft and level, like he’s trying to gentle a scared animal. It’s appropriate. That’s basically what he’s doing. Jason sits on the couch and rests his head in his free hand, lets his eyes fall shut. The darkness is a relief. “I’ll be there soon, okay?”

“Yeah.”

A rustling noise. Nightwing’s moving. “Three hours.”

“Three hours,” he repeats. That’s so fucking long– at least someone’s coming this time. “Okay. I’m gonna try to sleep.”

“Are you safe?”

The old question rings in his head: are you a danger to yourself or others? He’s not angry. They’re just doing their job. He’s too tired to be a danger to anyone right now, anyway. “I’m fine,” Jason says blearily. “I’ll see you soon?”

“Yeah,” Dick reassures him. “I’ll see you–”

Jason hangs up and tosses his phone away, lays down. After forty-four hours, he’s gone before his body finishes falling. He dreams of Thirtymile creek.

In his head, the water sluices ever forward.

I'll Eat You Up (I Love You So)

Chapter 1: Feel Better

Summary: Ra's al Ghul's body is found under extremely fuckin' weird circumstances. Jason is normal about it. 2197 words.

Somewhere deep and forgotten in the reaches of the Swiss Alps, the snarling Head of the Demon, the dreaded Ra’s al Ghul, is writing a letter.

It is not the first letter he has written tonight, but he is fast approaching the end of the matter, and he knows with certainty that this letter will be the last. It will join the stack of fine stationery he has created on his desk, and it will be found in the morning, after the alarms have sounded, after his security detail has searched the compound, after he has disappeared in earnest. It is all arranged. The letters are the last piece of the jigsaw image, and they fit neatly into the hole that Ra’s perpetual life will leave.

Talia is prepared for her role as the grieving heir apparent, but even so, hers is the letter at the bottom of the stack, the ink now fully dried. There is a letter to young Damian Wayne, so that he will understand when he is older, when the time comes. There is a letter to the boy’s father, Bruce, who Ra’s was never able to sway– he does not trouble himself to attempt the feat now. The time for it is long since past, the letter likewise already finely sealed. Ra’s could not take the sentiment back now if he tried.

Besides, he does not need understanding from the Wayne family. Not anymore.

Ra’s slips his fine pen back into its inkwell and studies what he has written upon this final and most crucial letter even as he prepares the wax for its seal. There is much he wishes to say, but there are eyes upon him, both in this compound and in this delicate world. This will have to do.

He does not doubt his decision. He has not always been a good man, he knows, both by way of being more and less than good and likewise more and less than a man, but in this, at least, he has done right. He nods to himself, and then he pours the wax, closes the letter, and stamps the envelope simply with his signet ring as it cools. 

There. He places it gingerly upon the pile with the other letters. The work of six hundred years, finally done.

Ra’s taps the letters together and gets up from his fine desk chair. Yes. The work is done– and now, there is only one task remaining. For a moment, he stands in silence and watches the wild snow whirl past the window, blanketing the compound in pure droves. He does not breathe. He does not blink. After six hundred years on the fine and leveled face of this world, he is at last able to think of nothing at all.

And then, as he leaves the room, one final thought presents itself: that it is a good night to drown.

Under the heavy, foreboding clouds of Gotham, a tinny bass guitar rumbles and crashes out of a phone speaker in a shitty apartment, and the room’s sole occupant sings along  to the best of his ability as the introduction ends: “I don’t wanna feel better /”

This is, of course, Jason Todd, dressed in his boxer shorts and doing his best to make a smoothie out of whatever the hell he’s found in his freezer. Most of the food he’s pulling out is in plastic bags, and it’s all too covered in ice to really discern the shape of, so it’s a very slow process, and it’s not going well. He’s currently trying to tell if this latest item is cooked chicken or pieces of banana.

Shit. Oh, god, he really can’t tell, but he’s got a fifty-fifty shot, right?

“No one’s ever gonna love me like that again / I don’t wanna get over it / I wanna sit with you–”

“Hang on,” Jason mutters to himself, pausing the music so he can consider the contents of this bag more seriously. Whatever it is, it’s been cut into little discs, which implies that it’s a banana, but it could also be some of Alfred’s really fancy chicken that he stole a few weeks ago. Jason frowns.

He still empties the bag into the blender.

He’s examining what’s probably a bag of strawberries when his phone pings with Dick’s ringtone. He doesn’t check it at first, not until it pings again, and then with Tim’s ringtone, and then with Bruce’s, all in quick succession– the family group chat is raucous with recent activity when he finally abandons his smoothie to look.

DGrayson: I have news

DGrayson: Starting a video call I need everyone to be so extremely cool right now

RDrake: I’m cool I’m cool what’s up

BWayne: Ra’s al Ghul is dead.

What the fuck? Jason stares at the screen for a long time waiting for someone to tell him fucking anything else, but no one does. He opens Dick’s video call.

Tim is, predictably, already losing his shit, and has, predictably, angled his phone camera so that everyone can see up his nose. Jason steps in halfway through him freaking out. “–fucking way. There’s no way, this has to be a– a trick or something, there’s–”

He turns off his microphone and lets Tim finish his thought as he closes up the blender and presses the button to start it. “Like, have we gotten the autopsy report? Do we know anything except where he was found?”

Bruce and Dick seem to be coming in from different rooms of the house, with Bruce in front of his display in the cave, and Dick coming in from… his old room, maybe? He’s clearly using his laptop, because his microphone is shit. “Tim, can you cool it?”

“I’m cool! I’m so cool!” 

Jason’s smoothie is about as smoothie-d as it’s going to get, so he turns off the blender and activates his microphone. “What happened?” he cuts in, because he’s clearly the only one who’s capable of taking this seriously right now, nevermind that he’s in his boxers. He puts his phone down on the counter and angles it so everyone can only see his top half, anyway. “S’this a power play? Is there someone new we need to be worried about?”

Bruce’s face might be carved in stone, but he’s wearing a very strange expression, and he doesn’t answer for a minute. In his absence, Dick takes point. “It looks,” he says carefully, “like it was a suicide.”

That shuts Tim up, but Jason only squints. Hm. “You guys aren’t convinced, though.”

Bruce’s expression gets weirder. He still doesn’t say anything, though, so Dick continues, his voice still oddly careful. “His security detail found him floating dead in a Pit yesterday morning.”

Oh, yeah. That’s why they’re being weird– mystery solved. Jason starts looking for a clean cup to pour his smoothie into. “Isn’t that kind of like blowing your brains out with a hairdryer?”

Over the camera, Bruce’s neutral expression splits into confusion. “Excuse me?”

“Because you’d, like, put it to your head, but it’s a hairdryer, so you’d…” He stops just shy of demonstrating. “It doesn’t work, is what I’m saying.”

Everyone is staring. “What?”

“Jason,” Bruce says levelly, “can you please put some clothes on?”

Jason grumbles, but that’s a pretty fair request, all things considered, so he turns off his camera and goes to find some pants. He can hear Tim through the phone, still trying to puzzle everything out. “Do you think maybe someone, like, hurt him and he tried to get the Pit to bring him back?”

“The official autopsy found water in his lungs,” Bruce tells him as Jason opens the door to his bedroom. Paper rustles over the phone. “Quite a bit of water, actually, but I’ve checked the report. All the evidence points to death by drowning.”

“Which shouldn’t be possible,” Dick clarifies. “Right?”

“It shouldn’t be possible,” Bruce echoes pensively. “It shouldn’t be possible at all.”

Jason picks up a pair of worn jeans from the floor and starts to put them on. There’s a spattering of blood around the hem of the left leg, but that’ll probably come out with some bleach. It’s fine. He’s able to take advantage of a quick lull in the conversation. “Why do we think it was a suicide, anyway?”

“Because he left notes.”

Shit, that’s pretty convincing. Jason makes his way back to the kitchen. “Which I assume we know because we got one?”

“Yes, I got one.” Paper rustles again, and Jason checks his screen just in time to see Bruce hold up a wax-sealed envelope. “So did you.”

Jason turns his camera back on so they can have this conversation face to face– or, at least, as face-to-face as the phone will allow. “We weren’t penpals or anything,” he preempts, but Bruce’s face only grows stonier. Jason rolls his eyes, but he thinks back, considering. “If you’ll recall, Bruce, we’re not exactly on speaking– wow, I haven’t talked to him in years.”

Ra’s is– was, apparently– a weird guy. Impeccably put together (and maybe responsible for Jason’s post-resurrection bisexual identity crisis), but also six hundred years old and obsessed with wiping out most of the planet, so, yeah, pretty weird. Their relationship, or whatever it was, could probably best be defined as ‘cordial,’ like a father towards his daughter’s boyfriend, except the daughter in question was an ancient, toxic fountain of youth. Pretty standard stuff.

Scratch that, actually. That makes it sound like Jason was sleeping with the Lazarus Pit. Gross. Reiterated: for several reasons, gross.

Jason opens the cabinet, wrinkling his nose a little at the thought, and pours his smoothie into a cup that’s mostly clean, just a little dusty. It’s weird thinking that Ra’s is gone, especially in light of the circumstances. “Isn’t he pretty notoriously hard to kill?”

Dick pipes up before Bruce can speak. “There’s still a lot we don’t know–”

“There is,” Bruce agrees, “which is why I’d appreciate it if everyone could make their way over so we can discuss this.”

Tim immediately raises a hand. “Can I be excused if I’m on patrol?”

“Tim–”

Jason sips his smoothie. Fuck yeah. No chicken. “Yeah, I’m actually hosting my book club today, so…”

Dick hides a grin, and Bruce doesn’t roll his eyes, but he very clearly wants to. Double nice. “If you won’t be here, I reserve the right to open your mail.”

Checkmate. Damnit. He scowls, and hangs up before anyone can stop him. “What are we, Communists?” he says aloud to himself as he opens his messages.

Dick is already typing.

DGrayson: JFC drama queen are you coming over or not

JTodd: yeah obviously

DGrayson: oh cool nice

DGrayson: so are you ok?

JTodd: yeah why wouldnt I be

A pause. Jason finishes his smoothie. Look at him go, getting his daily servings of fruits. He’s crushing this.

DGrayson: do you want that alphabetically or chronologically?

JTodd: very funny

JTodd: yeah im so ok im the oldest guy i know

JTodd: *okest

DGrayson: you’re just historically weird abt hole stuff

JTodd: .

JTodd: Dicky do u want to rephrase that rq before I screenshot it

DGrayson: don’t you dare

Jason takes a screenshot.

DGrayson: youre the one who fucking named it the bad decision hole

DGrayson: do not pin that shit on me

JTodd: too late

He immediately sends it to the family group chat.

DGrayson: how could you do this to me

JTodd: easily lmao

JTodd: yeah fr I’m fine tho

JTodd: fuckin weird as hell that he drowned I didnt know you could do that

DGrayson: weird as hell indeed

DGrayson: do you want to see the autopsy report when you come over?

JTodd: are there photos

DGrayson: yeah

JTodd: are they gross

DGrayson: yeah he’s all pruney and junk

JTodd: fuckin bet

JTodd: yeah I’ll be there in like 20

Jason tosses the empty cup into the sink, grabs his earbuds off the counter, and makes his way out to his motorcycle. He’s so fine. The Lazarus Pit is like an old ex, one that he didn’t even sleep with– which is to say he doesn’t think about it. He doesn’t. It’s fucking nothing to him. He puts his earbuds in and presses play on his music, and lets the distorted bass guitar snarl like a junkyard dog as Penelope Scott’s singing-speaking voice drowns out anything he’s definitely still not thinking about. For the first time in days, his mind is stillwater placid as he mouths along. “I don’t wanna feel better / I’d do anything to miss you again / I don’t wanna get over it /”

He does not think about Ra’s al Ghul, or, indeed, about his Lazarus Pit as he turns the engine and starts at a breakneck speed towards Wayne manor. There’s just the silence of the wind and the rabid bass guitar. “I wanna get under it instead /”

Jason Todd thinks of nothing at all until one final thought presents itself: that Dick is absolutely going to kill him for not wearing his helmet.

[ravenmichaelisstuff]

(PART 1 )

I think A LOT about Soap trying to give back the childhood Ghost lost. (Part 4) Warning: this one is a hurt\comfort

Ghost never slept well, but recently it was getting worse. He despised his own room because being there meant going to sleep. Sleep meant tossing in bed for hours until he could see sunshine again because if he got any shut-eye it was filled with nightmares- filled with memories of his father and the things Roba did to him, the things he made him do. 

But Ghost couldn't go like this for the rest of his life, he had to go to sleep. He knew that the longer he waits, the more snappy and brody he gets. He gets frustrated so much easier, and when you have people under your command it's not really a good match. 

Snapping at his teammates become frequent, even at Soap. It was unpleasant to be around him for the past few days, and Soap tried- really tried - to ask Ghost if something was bothering him, but it only made him more defensive. Soap didn’t deserve that, he had to go to sleep.

So the faithful night he took a hot shower to loosen up his muscles, took a sleeping pill, and forced himself to lay down and close his eyes. He regretted it.

It was painfully quiet, he couldn’t make out his surroundings, it was all a blur of familiar  places, yet nothing felt right. Sadly he could recognize all the bodies surrounding him. Gaz, Price, Rudy, Alejandro, and Laswell- all completely still, cold. Bullets all around them. And then he heard him. 

“Simon…” There in his arms laid Soap, eyes foggy and unable to focus. He was weakly grasping at Ghost. “Too late… Ye left us.”

“Soap! I wouldn’t! Johnny-”

“You let us down…” Soap’s words were no more than a weak whisper and his eyes closed softly like he just went to sleep.

“No, no, no, no…” Ghost wept, cradling his sergeant to his chest. “Don’t leave me Soap. You can’t leave! JOHNNY!”

He woke up covered in a cold sweat, he couldn’t take a breath. Ghost wanted to vomit. He never dreamt about others, always about himself. He couldn’t erase the picture of his dead team- friends, Johnny. He had to check on him. Before he knew he pulled his balaclava on with trembling hands, his throat was sore, he had to be screaming.

He was on his way to Soap’s room in a blink of an eye, only when he stood before the sergeant’s doors he felt that his balaclava was soaking wet. Soap couldn’t see him in that state, what would he think? How someone like him- weak and fragile, could protect him? A man like him should just deal with it, not-

“Ghost!” Johnny stood right in front of him, doors open. “Ey, ye with me?”

Ghost couldn’t bring himself to answer, he just stood there.

“Ok… ok, come on, Si we won’t be standing ‘ere.” He made space for Ghost to enter his room and locked the door after him.

Soap could take a closer look at Ghost now. He saw through the mask- red, teary eyes, wet streaks on the thick fabric. Ghost was hyperventilating.

“Dear God… Ghost wha-”

“I should go.” He cut in, voice raspy, about to turn around. 

Soap gently put his hand on Ghost’s chest, stopping him. “Si-”

The small touch of Soap’s warm hand right on his heart broke him to pieces. He sobbed and pulled Soap into a bone-crushing hug. Soap didn’t take long to reciprocate, he hold Ghost flush to his body. Ghost’s breathing was slowly evening out with every inhale of Johnny’s body wash he got.

“Wanna talk about it? I heard my name while asleep, though something happened.” Soap spoke up, running his hand between Ghost’s shoulder blades. "I wanted to go look for you."

Ghost just shook his head. “Can I stay?” He mumbled.

“You don’t have to ask.” Soap walked them to the bed, pulling Simon to lay on his chest.

Ghost could hear the strong beat of Soap’s heart.

“Try to not think about it, Lt.”

“If only it was this easy, Soap.” Ghost felt the arm around him tighten.

“I know…” Soap was quiet for a little bit. “I will take yer mind off of it.” He seemed to be embarrassed about what he was about to do. “I might be terrible at this.” Soap took a deep breath.

“Dèan an cadalan 's dùin do shùilean,

(Go to sleep and close your eyes)"

Soap quietly sang right to Simon’s ears.

“Dèan an cadalan beag na mo sgùrdaich;

(Have a wee sleep in my lap)

Rinn thu an cadalan, 's dhùin do shùilean,

(You went to sleep and closed your eyes)

Rinn thu an cadalan, slàn gun dùisg thu!

(You went to sleep, be well without waking)”

Ghost couldn’t understand a word, but his heart and soul seemed to be mending with every word.

“Cagaran, cagaran, cagaran gaolach

(Little darling, little darling, beloved little darling)

Cagaran foghainteach, fear de mo dhaoine

(Heroic little darling, one of my own kin)”

Soap’s singing wasn’t clean or professional by any means, but it was filled with care. It was more than enough to make Ghost’s eyelids heavy again.

“Thuit e na chadalan, thuit e na shuainean,

(He fell asleep, he fell into slumber)

Caithrisidh ainglean gu càirdeil mun cuairt dha;

(Angels keep affectionate vigil around him)

Cluinnidh e an guthan a' cagar na chluasan,

(He can hear the breath of a whisper in his ears)

'S bidh fiamh gàire air gràdhan na bhruadar!

(and the loved one will smile in his dream!)”

Soon Soap heard soft snoring accompanying him.

“Sleep well, m’eudail.” 

And maybe, just maybe Ghost still heard that, thought it was a dream. A good one.

This one turned out to be a little different huh... Look, it's still fluffy, right? RIGHT? I am wondering what to write next <3

I will post it on Twitter and ao3 tomorrow, bc I am beyond tired. You guys can feel like VIPs I love all the feedback <3

[definitelynotafurinasimp]

Them reacting to you tripping in front of them

characters: Hu Tao / Dehya x gn!reader

warnings: none

a/n: Dehya Drip Marketing got me acting unwise. So I decided to write something for her even though I slept 3 hours today and haven't written anything in a while, so I'm really sorry if there are any mistakes.

Also, this is one of my first times writing for Dehya, so if I got something about her wrong, I'm sorry

Anyway, hope you enjoy!

Hu Tao

Like it or not, as long as your fall wasn’t lethal Hu Tao wouldn’t be able to hold in at least a giggle or two, or even break out in full out laughter. She would of course help you, you were after all one of the few people around she really wouldn’t want to have as a customer any time soon, but that would probably have to wait a bit, no matter how much you pouted.

“Like I said, Qingxin Slime Condensate isn’t *that* bad-”, you barely managed to finish your sentence before being met with the unpleasant feeling of nearly face planting into the ground, barely managing to put the hands you so fervently used to gesture just a second before in front of you. And while you escaped without too much physical harm, your dignity took a massive hit the moment you let out a way too high pitched yelp.

It took the funeral director a couple of seconds to process what had just happened, but once she did, she wasted no time at all before bursting out in laughter, trying her best to calm herself down as she put her hands onto her stomach and mockingly imitated your yelp.

“Oh my sides- you should have heard yourself! It sounded so-”, she didn’t even bother to finish her sentence, too busy with trying to take a few deep breaths and wiping away her tears before once again looking down at you, nearly falling into another laughing fit once she saw you pout.

Finally she snatched your arm and started helping you up, but not without a big smile on her face of course.

Dehya

While working as a mercenary had a fair share of up- and downsides, the moment Dehya caught you before you yourself had realized that you had tripped, you couldn’t help but be thankful for the reflexes she appropriated during her working hours, even if, as you would no doubt soon notice, it had placed you in a slightly awkward position.

“That was close. Pay more attention or you might not get as lucky next time”, she slightly lectured you while still holding you in between her arms, not thinking anything to be wrong with it until she noticed your silence, causing her to finally look back down to you, only to be greeted with the sight of you staring at her in awe.

“What are you looking at me like that for?”, Dehya asked, feeling herself grow slightly embarrassed by it, causing her tone to come out more defensive than intended.

“Oh- er- nothing. I just found your reflexes really cool”, you were quick to try and play your blush off, not really sure what you were saying as you managed to take a step back, finally letting you take a deep breath instead of getting flustered by the sudden, although anything but planned, hug.

“Anyway, it’s getting late, let’s call it a day”, you continued your thoughtless rambling, even though a single glance at the sky made it pretty clear that it was nowhere to getting late. Something you would have certainly noticed if your brain were working right, instead you showed her a quick smile before going on your merry way, immediately stumbling again the moment your eyes left the ground.

[imagining-in-the-margins]

Get Lucky (S.R.)

Summary: The fire alarm in your apartment building goes off at 3AM after a pipe bursts in the middle of winter. You are soaked and you left your wallet in the apartment. You only (barely) know the FBI agent who lives in the building, but he offers to share his jacket, and eventually a hotel room, with you. Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader Category: Smut (NSFW, 18+) Content Warning: Strangers to lovers, only one bed trope, kissing, oral sex (female receiving), face-sitting, penetrative sex, protected sex (condom), implied weight for Reader (she wears his shirt/boxers) Word Count: 8.1k

MASTERLIST

There was supposed to be something romantic about winter nights in the city. The poorly maintained lighting was supplemented with colorful bulbs that caught every snowflake. Each frozen lattice refracted the light and littered the air with rainbows. For a few hours, while Washington, D.C. slept, the prismatic powder would cut through the smog.

There was usually a purity, a serenity to the city soaked in snow. But that night, as I stood in three inches of snow in already drenched slippers, I only had one thought regarding the world around me.

“It’s fucking freezing out here!”

My voice didn’t echo back to me, and instead dissipated into distant honking of an insistent fire truck slowly fighting its way through construction gridlock at 3am.

I hadn’t expected anyone to answer my cry, which had been borne out of frustration and apathy for everything around me that moment.

But someone did answer. And oh boy, did he piss me off.

“It’s actually only 35 degrees, so we’re 3 degrees off,” the man corrected what was an obvious hyperbole.

I opened my mouth to say something, anything to explain just how close this man had come to death. But when I finally turned and spotted the sleepy smile of my neighbor, I couldn’t help but soften at the sight. His eyes were barely open behind foggy glasses he’d thrown on in a hurry and he was swaddled in a chunky cardigan that must’ve been three times his size. It might as well have been a blanket.

A warm, cuddly, insanely soft looking…

“But in your defense, I think we’re close enough for it to count,” he interrupted as effortlessly as ever.

I smiled even though it felt like it should be impossible under the circumstances. Even though I couldn’t feel my ears that were suddenly burning as my face flushed with heat when I saw his eyes quickly scan my body.

“You were about 3 degrees away from getting your ass kicked,” I warned playfully.

He smiled. Then he made it worse.

“Yeah, it’s probably not the best ice breaker right now,” he snickered.

“Say one more cold thing, I dare you.”

With both hands in the air (in a very inviting way), he immediately conceded to my fury.

“Sorry!” he laughed through the surrender, “I’ll stop talking.”

“You don’t have to do that,” I grumbled, “It’s a nice distraction from the fact I can’t feel my toes.”

I looked down at the offending digits as if my glaring would make them any warmer. But it did nothing to make that contradictory burn any less painful when I’d tried to move them.

While I was trying to bend the laws of thermodynamics, however, my neighbor had decided to work within their confines to find a solution. One that consisted of him stripping off his comfy cardigan and baring his arms to the cold.

“Here,” he offered, holding out the knit fabric. “I don’t have anything for your feet, but I do have this.”

I suppose a better person would’ve refused at least once before they took it, but I was not a better person. I was a cold motherfucker standing in the snow with wet socks, so I snatched the cardigan without a single second’s hesitation. As I wrestled to put it on, I swore I saw him smile at just how eager I had been to wear his clothes.

Once I was settled, and a few degrees warmer thanks to his body heat, I sighed, “You’re a lifesaver. Aren’t you going to get cold, though?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m freezing,” he admitted bluntly enough that it made us both laugh. Then, to make me feel at least a little better about torturing the poor boy, he continued, “But I’m also not all wet, so…”

The thought was interrupted by the blaring fire engine horn as it barreled down the street to the building that was most definitely not on fire. The flashing lights illuminated similarly colored Christmas decorations, and I tried to find beauty in the free, albeit shitty, light show.

“Do you think they’ll let us back in tonight?” I wondered aloud.

“Probably, but… Not for a while,” he answered with that annoying honesty. “The pipe burst in your apartment, right? I saw the water.”

“Yeah. I’m basically Murphy’s Law personified.”

“Funny. That’s usually my line,” he chuckled.

While I probably should’ve been offended by how much joy he found in my misfortune, I couldn’t help but join him. There was little else to do when you found yourself half-frozen and swaddled in your cute neighbor’s cardigan that smelled like cinnamon and vanilla.

“Yeah? Tough. You’ve been out-bad-lucked,” I said before sticking out my tongue.

His eyes darted down to it with a startling speed. In the vibrant red light, I watched his lips part to make way for his own tongue sweeping over them. But before the fantasies got too far, he cleared his throat and shattered the moment.

“I’m probably going to go drive to the closest hotel. Did you want a ride?”

“I have a car,” I responded on instinct. After all, it wasn’t often that men offered a ride that didn’t come with ulterior motives. I was satisfied that I’d made the right decision in reacting quickly… until I started to run the mental checklist of where my essentials were.

It was only then that I realized just how badly I’d fucked up.

“… But my keys are upstairs,” I sighed before hanging my head in shame, “… and so is my wallet.”

I was convinced that the worst thing he could’ve responded with was pity, or some white-knight offer to save me from my own misfortune. But much to my chagrin — and in an odd, contradictory way, my delight — he responded in a different way.

He laughed.

“Wow… you really are unlucky.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you are very punchable?” I squeaked back immediately, only for him to answer just as quickly, “No, usually they just hit me.”

“Well, now I just feel bad for you. Thanks a lot.”

Again, the self-assured grin he flashed might’ve been off-putting if he hadn’t been so damn charming at the same time. Still, it stoked my competitive spirit a little too well. How nice it would be, I thought, to wipe it right off his face. How sweet a sight it would be for him to be so overwhelmed that he could barely even manage to speak.

“What are you going to do, then?” he asked.

“What? About what?” I answered in the guiltiest possible way.

His eyebrows jumped in response to my quick and confusing reply, but he was kind enough to clarify nonetheless, “Is there someone you can call? A… boyfriend? Or something?”

Smooth move, neighbor boy.

“No, not really. My phone is also upstairs, probably under a foot of water.”

I wasn’t sure I could make it any more pathetic, but somehow, I managed.

“And truth be told, even if I had it I… wouldn’t know who to call. I just moved here a couple months ago and I don’t really leave the house much. Unlike you.”

The ever-attentive listener just nodded along in agreement. While I would normally call bullshit on someone else being as much of a hermit as I had been the past few months, I had already accepted that the strange man next door was anything but normal.

There was something comforting about him, which was hard to say about someone who looked so damn anxious all the time. But there I was, swaddled in his comfortable clothes while his shoulders were damp with snow that clung to unruly brown curls.

And that was the same moment that I realized something terrible.

“You’re basically the only person I know in D.C., and I don’t even know your name.”

I turned to find a contemplative look behind somewhat foggy glasses. There would only need to be a few seconds of silence longer before I wouldn’t be able to recover the embarrassment that was my own audacity.

“Isn’t that sad?” I asked, and he gave the most curious answer.

“Spencer,” he said.

“What?”

“My name is Spencer.”

It suited him. I couldn’t say why, but I knew it had. There was something equally soft about the way it sounded. I mouthed the name, imagining how easily it could roll off the tongue. I was too scared to say it out loud for fear of messing it up — that I wouldn’t say it well enough for the surprisingly bold, peculiar man with mismatched fuzzy socks shoved in slippers on a snow-covered sidewalk.

The same one who was looking at me with a barely put together smile as he chuckled, “Most people would say their name at this point. Unless it actually is Murphy. In which case, I think I’m being rude again.”

Through embarrassment and laughter, I finally offered, “My name is (y/n).”

Spencer responded with… a much more interesting offer.

“Okay, well, (y/n), would you like to come with me to the hotel?”

I’d heard of hearts skipping a beat, but I’d never felt it before that moment. I was half convinced it would stop altogether. Clutching my chest and choking on the word, I managed to ask, “W-What?”

“I know it sounds weird, and I really don’t want to freak you out, but I just really don’t like the idea of you being out here all night,” he explained in a rational, matter-of-fact manner. But behind that awkward monotone was a concern that I desperately wanted to be genuine.

One thing I’d learned about Spencer thus far was that, while he was an oddball, he was a perceptive one. He knew that I was weighing the pros and cons of following a near-stranger to a hotel room in the middle of the night.

And deciding to skip the scales… in some direction, he decided to blurt out, “I promise I’m not a serial killer. I’m actually the exact opposite.”

“What? A mother?”

“Come on,” he drawled, wisely choosing to avoid explanation and instead make more comforting promises. “You don’t even have to sleep. You can leave the door open and the lights on.”

“Oh, if I’m getting in a bed, I will be going to sleep. Even if you’re in it.”

“Oh,” he squeaked before falling suddenly, uncharacteristically silent.

My cheeks started to burn in the absence of his voice, as I had started to develop the sinking feeling that I had said something wrong. The only problem was that I had no idea why what I’d said deserved such a scandalous reaction, considering he was the one inviting me into a hotel room.

So, like a normal person, I asked, “What?”

Spencer cleared his throat, but even that didn’t seem to dislodge the lump in his throat. He tried again.

When that failed, he chose to answer with bright red cheeks and a weak, scratchy voice, “I-I mean… I was going to get two beds.”

“Oh. Yeah, duh!” I said much too loud and accompanied with an awkward, guilty laughter, “I mean, yeah, of course you did. I meant… the room.”

If my ineloquent rambling accomplished anything, it was convincing him that I was most certainly lying. But he must not have minded my perverted tendencies, because he was smirking like the cat that got the canary when he whispered back, “Right.”

“But I would kill for body heat right now, not gonna lie,” I responded to justify my previous — inaccurate — assumption. I’d expected him to return with his own flirtatious banter.

He chose… a different route.

“If you kill them they wouldn’t be very warm. At least not for long.”

“Dude, aren’t you supposed to be convincing me you aren’t a serial killer?”

Spencer just sort of shrugged as if to emphasize his point. And call me crazy, but I couldn’t help but find the whole thing insanely adorable.

Even when he whispered with a sudden shyness, “… Is that a no, then?”

“Ugh. I guess it’s a yes,” I said with a roll of my eyes that strongly contradicted the smile stretched across my cheeks.

Spencer let out a deep, satisfied sigh before he mumbled, “What every guy loves to hear from a pretty girl. A reluctant, begrudging ‘I guess.’”

Despite his words to the contrary, though, he looked downright pleased with himself when his hand found my lower back. Staying as gentlemanly as possible, he guided me through the crowd of our neighbors in the direction of the parking lot.

The silence would’ve been uncomfortable if it hadn’t been for the unending contact. Even when we finally made it to the beat up blue Volvo, he insisted on helping me into the car with hand in frozen hand.

The car roared to life, blasting cold air into the cabin and reminding me just how damp I really was. It strongly contrasted the way my body was burning in the two places he’d touched me, but I couldn’t let him know how fast I’d grown fond of his touch. So, naturally, I did what any girl would do.

I threatened him with violence.

“I will throw myself out of your car if you’re creepy.”

“Duly noted,” he agreed in stride.

I figured that he’d deserved at least a little bit of sympathy, considering I was still cozily settled in his cardigan while the poor thing was a chattering, shivering mess.

At the same time, I cursed him for somehow looking good while puffing hot breath into his closed hands. Those silly grandpa glasses fogged up immediately, but he didn’t let it discourage him from continuing whatever method he could of warming up any small part of him.

Deciding to be a little compassionate, I reached forward and grabbed his hands. He seemed surprised, or at least confused, for a couple seconds. That was, until I began vigorously rubbing my also freezing hands over the top of his. Then, he was just smiling. Beaming, really.

I had to do something to combat the overly affectionate way he was looking at me. Unfortunately, the best thing I could come up with was, “I’m sorry I’m going to make your car all wet.”

“Oh! Right,” he squeaked, not moving his hands from mine but throwing his head towards the backseat as he explained, “I uh, I have extra clothes in the back of my car if you… want to change when we get there.”

And then we were back to square one, with the both of us being way too nice to each other for strangers about to (potentially) share a bed.

Pushing his hands back towards the wheel, I moved my own to the heater now blasting lukewarm arm and pointed out casually, “That will not stop your car from getting wet, but I appreciate the offer.”

“Well, I can’t ask you to change now,” he drawled sarcastically. He waited until I turned a quirked brow to him before he explained, “You said you would throw yourself out of my car if I was creepy, and I’m pretty sure telling you to strip before I let you in is firmly in ‘creep’ territory.”

“How considerate of you,” I laughed.

For all the oddities about him, there was no denying that Spencer was clever. Cute, too, if I hadn’t made that obvious enough. His stature, held up with horrendous posture, reminded me of someone who would be easy to push around. But that dark undercurrent in his eyes told me the exact opposite.

Always brief, always fleeting — there was a darkness inside of him somewhere. And despite my curious nature, I had no intention of seeing that side of him that night. I was more interested in the more obvious. The compassion of a man who would give his only source of warmth to his dripping, cursing neighbor.

The warmth in hazel eyes was still obscured by the soft layer of fog borne from his cheeks. Now that we were away from the red lights of the fire engine, I could tell that he had been blushing after all.

He was peculiar, but charming. Maybe that explained why, of all the flirting and witty banter, he remembered one thing above all else.

“So you’ve lived here a few months and haven’t made any friends?”

Then, like it always seemed to happen with the two of us, he clarified the possible insult before I could bite his head off.

“I thought that only happened to me.”

“Ha. Yeah, we’re a match made in heaven, apparently,” I sighed.

Once again dedicated to correcting the most obvious of metaphors, he bounced his head back and forth for a second before he broke down and had to say something.

“Or hell, depending on how you look at it,” he decided.

But if he’d wanted to figure out which divine cosmic eternity we would end up in, I was more than happy to help him figure it out.

“I will crash this car,” I deadpanned. The apathetic show earned me a chuckle, which then broke into a more entertained laughter after another moment of silence.

“You’re very violent,” he muttered under his breath.

There was no worry that he’d been put off by the threats, though. If anything, he looked downright enamored with me when his eyes quickly jumped over to see if he’d made me smile.

He had. Arrogant little shit.

“Yeah, you better watch out,” I warned in an attempt not to let things get too chummy.

That time, he was happy to follow my lead.

“You know, I never stopped to ask. Did I agree to room with a serial killer?”

“Yep. And you’re going to pay for it,” I shot back a little too quickly for comfort.

So, I turned to him to reassure him, but he was already looking at me. Not just a glance this time, either — his stare was so full of wonderment that it actually made me choke on the clarification that made its way out, anyway.

“The room, I mean.”

“Of course,” he said with a curious little smile.

He said nothing else. Neither did I. Not because I hadn’t wanted to, but because I couldn’t quiet the butterflies swirling through my chest.

The drive was both regrettably and thankfully brief. Regrettable because I had the feeling that once we were actually in private, we would both lose our nerve. Nonetheless, I was thankful because I was pretty sure if he said one more clever, infuriating thing to me, I was going to jump him in the hotel lobby.

That fear did not wane in the slightest once we were there. The sterile, cookie-cutter lobby left much to be desired, but it was still a more romantic atmosphere than standing outside in the (not-quite) freezing cold. It was also the first opportunity for me to ogle him with impunity, albeit from a distance.

That night wasn’t the first time that I’d noticed him. It wasn’t the first time I’d wanted him, either. There had been many brief meetings that my mind had chosen to fixate on. Many fantasies to be weaved from small smiles and peripheral glances.

But as I watched him glance over at me between the awkward exchanges of information with the front desk, I realized that the reality was very different from the fantasy.

It wasn’t a bad thing. Just different. In fact, when he finally started to make his way back to me, I realized that I preferred this version of him. The real one.

The Spencer that was stumbling over his own words and fumbling even more awkwardly with the two keycards shoved into one envelope.

“So… I have some awkward news. It’s sort of funny, really, if you think about it. Fitting, too, considering the trend of your night—"

“There’s only one bed, isn’t there?”

A stiff, dejected nod was his only answer.

My response, however, was two-fold. With a cluck of my tongue, I shook my head and sighed, “Such a cliché.”

“I’m so sorry,” he whined, almost like he hadn’t realized just how excited the news had made me. He remained solemn and serious as ever while he continued to explain, “I even asked them if they had an extra cot but they just sort of shrugged, which… isn’t a very helpful reply.”

Oh, Spencer, I thought with a dreamy sigh he wouldn’t understand, What am I going to do with you?

“Hey, like I said, I’m sleeping in that bed whether you’re in it or not.”

That odd man continued to fidget but made no meaningful movement. I could see on his face how terrified he’d been that he’d made a number of mistakes to lead him here.

But even with the horrifying, soul-crushing awkwardness that was this situation, I still got the feeling that he had wanted this all as badly as I did. He was just too scared to make it known.

Different from the fantasies.

Better than the fantasies.

“Come on, I’m literally standing in a puddle.”

As I ushered him forward towards the general direction of the elevator, I didn’t hesitate to lock my arm with his. I greedily stole his body heat and bolstered both of our confidence with a boldness that couldn’t be ignored. And despite being drenched, exhausted, and nervous, I smiled.

Because contrary to what he’d believed, my luck was finally starting to turn around.

Despite the chill still emanating from my bones, I almost welcomed the cold porcelain floor of the hotel bathroom. That oxymoronic burn was the only thing keeping me grounded. Even the normally sterile smell of the building was lessened by the comforting aroma of vanilla and cinnamon that seemed soaked into Spencer’s clothing.

I pressed the impossibly soft shirt against my face and refused to feel guilty for it. I let the thought of his kindness and his innocence stoke the flames that had burst from the sparks of his smile. I swaddled myself in the well-loved clothing and imagined a world where this was a regular occurrence, rather than an odd circumstance of combined misfortune.

But just as my fingers began fiddling with buttons, I had a thought. Just the one. Lifting my head to look in the mirror, I saw the opportunity to make something more out of an otherwise pitiful night. There I stood, with his boxers tightly hugging my hips and his shirt resting gently on my shoulders.

Then, with not a single button done and the bare skin of my chest visible, I opened the door.

I didn’t leave at first. I just peeked my head out from the door until I spotted the man. His legs were bouncing so intensely that I could hear the sheets rustling below him. It felt wrong to bother him, but I knew that — if I played my cards right — he would appreciate the distraction.

“Hey Spencer?”

“Yeah?” he answered faster than should be humanly possible. His head turned just as quickly, his eyes landing on me with perfect precision like he’d manifested the moment through sheer force of will.

“Could you help me?” I asked, and he found nothing odd about the request. He’d had no reason to. Not yet.

Not until I stepped out into the light.

“With wh—?”

The poor thing had only barely stood from his seat before he fell back down. His legs, once shaking, were now paralyzed in place. His eyes were also frozen as I’d been a few minutes earlier.

“My fingers are still numb, and the buttons are hard to get,” I explained.

Spencer didn’t respond. He just continued to stare at me with wide eyes and a dropped jaw. When he was able to compel himself to move, to do anything other than ogle a mostly naked woman, he was unsuccessful. His stare merely became affixed on the space above my fingers that loosely held the shirt shut.

Taking his silence as something akin to acceptance, I took a step forward. Then, when he didn’t object, I took another, and another. I didn’t stop until my thighs were resting gently against his knees.

It was then I realized that his legs actually were still moving, just in a different way than before. In fact, his whole body was filled with energy.

That poor, sweet thing was trembling.

“Spencer?” I called.

“Y-Yeah. Yeah, sure. I can…” he started with a stumbling tongue and his pitch growing higher with each syllable. “I can help b-button your shirt… which is… my shirt… on you.”

I almost felt bad about it, too. I almost felt bad for torturing him when he’d been nothing but sweet to me. But the rest of me felt something else; something powerful and encouraged by the deep red shade creeping up his neck.

“Thanks!”

To his credit, though, his hands were surprisingly skillful. It took me a second to remember that it had been his shirt, after all. But for all his ability, he seemed to be taking his time. Starting at my stomach, he slowly made his way up to more dangerous territory. I couldn’t blame him for being afraid to touch me there just yet.

Which was why it was particularly odd to me that he hadn’t shrunk away. If anything, he’d grown closer. Then, with one swift and powerful tug on the sides of the shirt, he almost succeeded in pulling me straight onto his lap.

But just before my knees buckled, I caught myself. My arms wrapped around his neck and my hands grabbed the mousy brown curls that were far softer than I ever could’ve imagined.

Soft like his shirt, soft like his eyes, and his smile. Soft like everything about him.

I thought that I’d figured him out, but I had been wrong. Because the next time he spoke, it was quiet, but it was anything but soft.

“Interesting,” was all he’d said.

When he didn’t expand on the thought, it was my turn to be nervous.

Without releasing my hold on him, I made the only sound I felt capable of making and hummed, “Hm?”

His answer came, swift and playful and sending a chill down my spine.

“You lied.”

At the same time as the words hit me, his pointer finger dipped beneath the fabric of the shirt. He dragged his knuckle down my sternum like a dare, and I realized that I’d dramatically underestimated his ability to be something other than soft.

There was something sharp, something dark in his stare when he slowly leaned back against my hands tangled in his hair. He smiled while my heart beat hard enough that I was sure he could feel it against his finger still roaming the bare skin of my chest.

Then, he chuckled, “Your hands aren’t cold at all.”

I had been caught.

But I had not given up.

His words were issued like a dare, and so, I accepted it. Filled with spite and a little bit of embarrassment, I stole back the power by taking his lips with my own. I kissed him and was met with no resistance.

He was every bit as sweet as I’d hoped he would be. Even though his glasses bumped against my nose, I didn’t hate the feeling of cold metal and foggy glass. I welcomed every part of him, including his hands as they left my chest in favor of my waist.

Spencer hoisted me onto him the best he could, but it was never going to be graceful. It was silly and messy and fun the entire time we struggled to find our way to the top of the massive king-sized bed.

We never really made it, either. We made it as far as we’d needed to and abandoned any unnecessary effort. But our ideas of necessary clearly differed. Because as soon as I pulled away from him, his hands were quick to bring me back in for another kiss.

Hot, heavy breath filled the little space between us with a gentle dew that our tongues would forever chase after. His was more adventurous than mine, but I didn’t mind. It was hard to feel anything but lust when he’d begun his descent down my neck. Still, the goosebumps raised, our bodies on high alert from something entirely different from the cold.

I couldn’t stand it any longer. Each time he kissed me, each whimper and moan against my skin felt like fire in my veins. I had to do something to hurry him along because I wasn’t convinced my frozen bones would be able to handle the blaze. I would choke on the steam before we ever got a chance to feel the unique kiss of ice and fire.

I tore myself away despite his insistence. To my surprise, and disappointment, he was more willing to let me go than I’d hoped. Then again, it was hard to be upset when he didn’t let the new position stop him from worshipping whatever was in front of him.

Trying my hardest to ignore the steady line of kisses he was laying down my stomach, I reached for my purse on the bedside table. I was on a mission that I knew he would thank me for later, the same as I would thank him for the cool trail of spit he left behind on heated skin.

As soon as I’d managed to dig the condom from my purse, however, Spencer decided he was also tired of waiting. Boxers be damned, he didn’t let the fabric stop him from wrapping his arms around my hips. Then, with another quick, impossibly powerful motion, he brought my hips down to bury his face between my thighs.

The gasp that he’d elicited was nothing compared to the deep, rolling moan that followed as he puffed hot breath against the flimsy fabric. His lips continued their motions, his tongue still swirling despite the barrier. He paid it no mind because we could both still feel it. The quickly growing dampness that threatened to bring me crumbling down before I’d ever had a chance to even touch him.

As hard as it was, I had to stop him. Exactly like before, he whined as I left him, but he still let me go. I couldn’t help but laugh when I did look down. Spencer’s glasses were crooked and had completely fogged over from the sudden change in temperature as he stayed begging and whimpering between my legs.

“Oh, aren’t you the sweetest, most pathetic little thing,” I cooed as I reached down to pull his glasses off. I’d done it for no reason other than missing the sight of soft caramel eyes.

But I had not been prepared for what I would find. That dazed, lovesick stare filled with desire for more.

“Please. Please let me,” he begged, all the while pawing at the clothing keeping us apart. He could have pulled the boxers down if he’d tried, but he stubbornly waited for permission. Until then, he continued with his pitiful pleading, “It’s not fair to tease me like that. I want to make you feel good, please.”

The sound was like music to my ears. I had no reservations about my answer.

“By all means,” I sighed happily, “go right on ahead.”

But for the second time that night, I realized that I had underestimated Spencer. His response to permission was as quick and strong as ever. His arms, still wrapped safely around my thighs, exerted even more force to pull me right where he’d wanted me.

I was barely able to follow his instructions fast enough for his liking, but eventually, I fell back onto the bed with a light bounce. Like inertia of the best kind, Spencer jumped up from his spot and tore the boxers — his boxers — down my legs until there was nothing else in his way.

And at first, I just laid there, rubbing my legs together and waiting for him to pry them apart again. But that wasn’t what he’d done. Instead, Spencer grabbed hold of me and used his entire body weight to pull me back on top of him.

It wasn’t until then, when my trembling arms were resting besides his head, that I’d realized what he wanted. His hands, strong and broad across the back of my thighs, he urged me closer.

I obeyed, forgetting for a moment that I was supposed to be the one in charge. But the eager boy below me was more than happy to give up control. The closer he came to his treasure, the more his body squirmed with energy.

There was still a softness about him. Still something gentle, something sweet in the way he peppered my thighs with light kisses when I was finally close enough to touch. Insistent hands remained on me at all times, although they roamed the space more freely.

It almost felt like he was memorizing each inch of me before he’d moved on to the next. But before I knew it, he was ready. Applying pressure to the small of my back, he pulled me down.

At first, I hesitated. I hovered above his face and I tried to will my body to stop shaking. But the sudden shock of the heat after coming in from the cold made every puff of his breath burn.

One of my hands found his fluffy hair once more. The other, however, sought out the headboard. It would turn out to be the smartest decision I’d made all night, because not soon after I’d grabbed it had he begun.

The same tongue that had been lovingly tracing my folds through clothing returned, this time unimpeded by the fabric. This time, it wasn’t a gasp that escaped, but a sob. I could already feel my stomach knotting and my chest filling with butterflies, and he’d barely touched me.

Because it wasn’t just the physical touch, but the obvious enthusiasm behind it. Although he tried so hard to be gentle, he couldn’t help but grip me tightly. He noticed my fear about crushing him and chose to put an end to the insecurity once and for all. Using all his remaining strength, he pulled me down.

I had no clue how he was able to breathe, but it seemed like the least of his concerns. Even with the crushing force of my weight, he moaned as he laid open-mouthed kisses at the small bundle of nerves at my crest. With his whole body, he urged me to continue on to new levels of pleasure.

He wouldn’t stop until my hips were rocking and my hands were gripping tight enough that I swore I’d splinter the wood. I still tried to give the poor thing room to breathe, but each time there was space between us, he’d close it again. I could feel the bridge of his nose digging against my pubic bone, and every time it would make my legs start to shake again.

It was that enthusiasm, that unadulterated love and worship that would cause me to fall apart. When that tension started to build, I finally allowed myself to follow his obvious direction and let go.

I didn’t bother worrying about him because I knew that he would be alright. I could still feel him, burying his tongue inside of me and lapping at the juices smeared between my legs. I felt that desire, that unending need to please me, and I gave in to his begging.

Spencer welcomed my orgasm with a similar fervor, moaning while he lavished my most sensitive point with all his worship. Even when he’d felt my body relax, he continued. He didn’t even hesitate to start all over again, no matter the fact that I was practically suffocating him. He practically welcomed an end between my thighs.

But I wasn’t done with him yet. I was only getting started.

Somehow, I managed to gather enough effort to pry his hands off my hips and throw myself off him. Still, he once again whimpered at the loss. I turned to him as soon as I could, happy to catch a sated smile between each attempt he made to taste me again. He wiped his face clean, but still carefully cleaned each finger between his heavy breaths.

Our eyes met again during his shameless indulgence, and his smile grew wider at the sight. He inched closer, his lips seeking mine for a kiss far more tender than the kind I quickly growing used to.

Again, I gave into his begging. I kissed him back and tasted myself on his tongue. The heady, intoxicating scent of me on his skin made the throbbing ache between my legs even more obvious. And for the first time, I allowed myself a chance to consider the bulge in his pants.

I pressed my thigh hard against him until I heard him squeak. I continued to grind my leg until he moved — a gentle thrust against my leg that demonstrated exactly what I’d needed to know.

“Take off your clothes,” I ordered the second he’d opened his eyes.

He’d already started before the words had even left my mouth. I watched with rapt fascination at how his hands were still quick and his eyes were still burning, still sticking to me like soft caramel and the cinnamon he smelled of.

I was so distracted by the way he looked in the dim, golden light, that I’d almost forgotten the second order I had. Once his pants were off, I floundered until I found the foil wrapper I’d dropped on the bed during his pleading. I held it up with two fingers, and issued another simple order.

“Put this on.”

His answer was not what I was expecting. Not a no, but certainly not an answer as enthusiastic as I’d been hoping for.

It was a fucking tease.

“You really think you can keep going?” he chuckled.

And despite the way exasperated chuckles floated between my words, it was no laughing matter.

“Oh, you did not just say that,” I gasped.

If it had been his intention to encourage me back into power, it had worked. That competitive spirit reared its head again. I drew from every reserve left in me and I climbed atop him again. This time, I also permitted myself the opportunity to ogle him as shamelessly as he’d done to me.

But I still found myself fixated on his eyes, which were in turn following each line of my body. His hands that had been busy searching my skin for some unknown answer were still there, gently running fingertips and knuckles anywhere that he hadn’t felt yet. He sought out the shivers and goosebumps until I caught his hand in mine.

Then, he looked up at me. Again, he smiled something soft.

“Spencer, believe me when I say that I intend on paying you back for that ride,” I assured him, but he was still not taking it seriously.

“Which one?” he snickered, instead.

I stopped trying to hide my laughter. I just leaned into it, leaned forward until I was close enough to feel dewy breath on my lips.

“Shut the fuck up,” I muttered without doing what he’d so obviously wanted. Even when he tried to chase after my lips, I refused.

That frustration eventually came to be too much for the pathetic boy’s heart, and in a moment of weakness, he issued a dare he wasn’t ready for.

“Make me.”

“Oh, Spencer,” I whispered with a low voice laced with a promise, “Nothing would make me happier than to render you totally and completely speechless.”

To prove my point, I knew exactly what I’d needed to do. Reaching a hand down, I wrapped one firmly around his dick. The slippery latex aided me in slow, strong strokes down his length. And immediately, any hint of opposition left him.

“Not so bratty now, huh?” I teased.

His lungs emptied with a broken sob that turned into a drawn out whine. It still sounded as beautiful as ever, and I found myself seeking out those sounds with a newfound vigor. The energy and color returned to him, too. His cheeks began to flush from pink to scarlet. I wanted to paint him with every color I could, but I would need my hands to do just that.

Slowly, and with utmost care, I began to lower onto him. All the while, I made sure that his half-lidded eyes stayed locked on mine. I didn’t want to risk missing the moment when the head of his cock breached my entrance. I wanted to watch those sweet brown eyes roll back and his sneaky, devilish tongue peek from between his lips as he tried to stop himself from finishing so soon.

“Tell me how it feels,” I whispered. I should’ve known better than to dare the man to speak, but I’d missed his voice too much to be upset by the sound of it.

Especially when he was still panting when he blubbered, “Y-You feel even better than you taste.”

Then, continuing the trends from earlier in the night, he dug his fingers into my hips and dragged them down as he begged, “Please. Please, fuck me.”

It was such a sweet, humble request that I’d felt compelled to follow it. I spared him the torture of anticipation and dropped my weight on him once again. This time, it wasn’t his tongue, but something much more appealing that was buried between slick folds. The wet heat still felt like steam and fire, even though my body wasn’t cold anymore. Nonetheless, I threw myself into the fire without hesitation. My hips would rise, and his would follow.

In an effort to get him to relax the same as he’d done for me, I pressed two hands against his chest and sat up straighter. Immediately, his eyes lit up with an adorable adoration that would quickly fade when he’d realized my plans.

I had wanted to paint him with as many colors as possible. That was why I drew crescent marks into his chest with my nails. Spencer didn’t protest, and in fact thrust into me harder in response. He urged me on with eyes and body alike. So, using my nails like brushes, I drew angry welts on an empty canvas until I could make something out of the mess of pink and red.

“Fuck!” he shouted when he couldn’t keep it in any longer. The exclamation was quickly followed by whimpers that strongly contrasted the filthy sounds between us.

He’d sounded so pitiful that I couldn’t help myself from drawing it out. The next time my hips fell, I stayed with him fully inside me. Grinding down with wide circles, I used some of the same fingers that had tried to draw blood to do something else. Something soft.

I traced bulging veins across his temple. I followed the sharp angles of his jaw all the way down to his neck. There, I pressed the pads of my fingers against his pulse and felt how it shifted the longer my palm was pressed against his throat.

But even through that pressure and delirium, he managed to croak, “You’re so amazing.”

And although I’d been satisfied by the praise, which had no hint of brattiness left, I’d still held a grudge for his earlier flippancy. I wanted to torture him the same way he’d tortured me with kindness and quiet longing. Because if I hadn’t made a move, who knows what we would have done that night instead?

I had a feeling we always would have ended up there, though. That was why I giggled when I asked, “Is that why you wanted to get me alone?”

“Please,” he whimpered in response.

“You were hoping that I would let you touch me?” I taunted before immediately beginning to lift my hips. The cool air tickled at the burning heat between us, and I felt every muscle in his body tense as he tried not to chase me.

He stayed put, like a good boy, gripping the sheets like a vice and throwing his head back to bare his throat to me once more.

“Please, let me,” he blubbered. I could barely understand him through the begging that seemed never-ending.

“Please,” he said, “Please.”

I dragged it out just a few minutes longer. I listened to the song-like quality of his desperation and rejoiced in the feeling of him filling the empty space between my thighs.

But eventually I missed the sweetness of his lips. I leaned forward until our lips collided together, sloppy, imprecise and entirely perfect. My exhausted arms shook, but still found the energy to slip under his pillow.

His hands didn’t hesitate for even a second. He welcomed me into the fiery embrace and buried his face in my shoulder. Even his hips had stopped. All his attention was focused on the simple task of holding me until I gave into his pleading one more time.

“Go ahead, pretty boy,” I whispered in his ear.

That elusive, ever-shocking strength brought us together again. Although, it felt different that time. The enthusiasm remained, but so did the softness. Even when I called his name, he quieted me with a kiss that was gentle enough to make goosebumps ripple over my skin.

“Spencer,” I whined when he began fucking into me hard enough that I could hear the headboard knock against the wall. But he was too focused, too enthralled with the power and the possibilities that he barely registered his name on my tongue.

“Spencer,” I said louder.

That time, he’d heard me, but it had done nothing to dissuade him. In fact, he went harder, seeking out that sound again and again and again.

I gave it to him, over and over, each time he forced himself to the hilt and held me down against him. I focused on nothing but the feeling of being full of him. The friction of sweat slicked bodies that never got enough of each other.

“I’m…” he struggled, the words breaking with gasping breath, “I’m gonna…”

We didn’t need the words to know what was coming. We could feel the steady beating of hard working hearts as they echoed in our bones. His hands kept me steady, kept me with him as his hips continued. It was my turn to find shelter in him, to press soft kisses against his neck until we were both ready. We both held on until I gave him the permission he sought.

“Do it,” I begged, “Come for me.”

I’d said it just in time to feel him twitching from deep inside of me. Despite the latex between us, I still felt the heat of him grow until I joined him in the euphoria. My arms pulled myself closer and a moan poured from my chest until it rumbled against his neck.

Although I couldn’t look him in the eyes as he came undone, I had no regrets. I basked in his warmth, treasuring these few moments where I got to feel the comfort of his embrace. In that quiet moment, I realized that it had been so long since I’d felt at home with someone like that.

So, I clung to him the same as the soaked clothes when we first spoke and I hoped that he wouldn’t want to discard me as quickly. But in the end, it was me that climbed off of him. I grabbed his glasses before I’d crushed them under my weight and I wiped the foggy lenses clean before I turned to the man half-asleep beside me.

“Hey Spencer?” I slurred.

He turned to look at me, and his eyes still burned with something pure, something innocent. Something soft as the hands that reached out to take his glasses.

“Thanks,” he mumbled with a laugh.

“You’re welcome,” I sighed. And although I was a coward, and my breath had barely evened out again, I felt compelled to explain to him the real reason I’d abandoned his embrace.

“Hey Spencer?” I called again, only to find that he was still staring at me, albeit now with more clarity.

“What?”

He’d said it so innocently that I couldn’t help but laugh. Because at that moment, I realized two things. One was that I really needed to stop underestimating that strange, soft, pathetic thing. And the other was best shared with an incredulous laughter at our luck of finding each other on such a cold night.

With a dramatic groan, I shouted, “It’s so fucking hot in here!”

(Tell me what you thought of this fic here!)

[slasherbish]

Woods Part 3

The sun had started to set and the rain was now a light drizzle. The temperature was also dropping. “How long until they come looking for you?” You asked wanting to know if you’d end up spending the night with a killer or not. “Tomorrow probably. Preston will be there. Ignore him he’s an idiot.” He responded. You pouted, the thought of staying the night in creepy woods with a killer that video taped everything made you shiver. Gathering your thoughts and emotions you realized you didn’t know his name, It seemed like at this point knowing each other's names would be okay. “Um my name is (y/n) by the way. What's yours?” you asked, now facing the disfigured man. “Jesse” his phone said. “It’s nice to meet you Jesse.” You said with a smile. Night fell quickly.

Your stomach growled loudly in the early morning hours. You had barely slept due to fear of what might happen. Jesse woke up to the sound of your stomach, making a confused look he raised his eyes to meet yours. “Oh I’m sorry my stomach woke you. It’s almost like I haven’t eaten in god knows how long since you kidnapped me.” You said with a hint of anger seeping in. A second later you realized you just basically yelled at a serial killer and covered your mouth with your hands in shock. You were about to apologize when his phone talked “You have bite. I like fire” 

“I’m still sorry. I’m just so hungry and tired.” She said apologetically. His phone spoke up again “You would probably be a better addition than Preston” She tried to figure out what he meant and then it hit her “Are you offering me a job?” You asked. He only shrugged. At this point the sun was rising and out in the middle of nowhere it was a breathtaking view. You even smiled at the sight. Unknown to you your forced companion had noticed the smile, he thought it was a beautiful smile. 

The two of you spent the morning rebuilding the fire and adding in anything that made it smoke more. You had come up with the idea of a smoke signal and Jesse was impressed at your thought process. He hadn’t thought about needing to signal your exact location since the phone by this time was nearly dead and not able to transmit it’s gps signal. The smoke signal rose high into the sky, it would be easy for a plane or helicopter to see from a distance. 

Since neither of you had the survival skills to know which plants were edible you sat trying to make a small spear with the use of one of his knives and a stick. Since you were the faster of the two it would be your job to spear the animal. You were not looking forward to it. Jesse tried to reassure you that it would be okay since it’s for survival. 

Finally you got the courage to try. It didn’t take long for you to find a lone rabbit grazing in a field. Doing your best you missed by a lot and the bunny left in a hurry. “Dammit” you cursed. Jesse silently chuckled at you. Even though it was a silent laugh due to him not being able to really make noise you could sense it and so you turned around giving him a death glare. The large man playfully put up his hands in mock defense. “Oh my gods you have  a sense of humor” you said with a dramatic gasp. 

He didn’t show it often but he did in fact have a softer side. At work it was necessary for him to be the stone cold stoic killer that he is, but in free time he was more relaxed and kind. He no longer saw you as his prey or a threat so he let the walls slip down for a bit. She was relieved that his mood had seemed to improve. After a few more tries you finally managed to kill a larger rabbit. With the brightest, most proud smile you had you held up the dead animal. Jesse clapped to show that he too was proud. He knew how to skin and cook the animal and so he did that half of the work. 

By this time it was noon and the two of you sat happily eating the cooked rabbit.  Just as the meal was finishing up you hear the sound of helicopters and ATV’s. Your eyes widen slightly in fear. Jesse easily sensed this and typed “It’s my company. Don’t tell anyone about me being nice.” the phone said as he put a small amount of sap onto his mask to act as a temporary adhesive. You frowned at this, his face was something you’d grown to like, it was friendly and kind. It pulled you back to reality that most people saw him as something monstrous. You wondered if his company even knew what he looked like. 

A gun in your face snapped you from thoughts. In front of you was a man not as tall or intimidating as Jesse. He had black hair and a wicked smile. “Preston” the phone in Jesse’s hand said. “Oh you’re the annoying one J-Chromeskull was talking about.” Your face lit up as you realized this. The smile on Prestons face left in the blink of an eye, being replaced with a frown/scowl. “You little bitch!” He yelled in your face. You only giggled through your fear. This only angered him more. A woman walked up behind Preston and pushed him aside. It was clear he was the lowest on the food chain. 

“Shut your mouth Preston. Jesse wants her alive.” The woman said calmly. Subconsciously you walked back and bumped into someone. “I..I’m sorry” you stuttered out turning around to see Jesse. The sudden arrival of thirty or so people was overwhelming. The woman eyed you before saying “My name is Spann, I work for Chromeskull.” She said. You nodded trying to collect yourself. “I’m (Y/n)” You managed to say. “I know” Spann said. Looking over the womans shoulder you could see a still angry Preston barking orders at the workers. Jesse put a large hand on your shoulder as reassurance. 

“You have two options now that you know about this organization. We kill you or you work for us.” Spann gave you the ultimatum. 

@slashershell

[deonideatta]

Bots. Yeah. Same problem here 😭

Anyway, drabble prompt: classic "sick fic" for TwiYor?

They never has anyone take care of them, so the awkwardness are there, but also genuine concern.

Hello, thanks for the prompt!!!! This is definitely longer than a drabble but I had fun with it lol. And in my defense i didn’t know that apparently a drabble is only supposed to be like 100 words 😂😂 

It took a bit long to finish because I got sick myself midway through writing it lol. At least I can say that all the details for the sick parts are based on fresh and recent first hand experience haha

But yea here it is!! Hope you enjoy!! :)

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

Twilight does not forget things. Least of all mildly important things, like his umbrella on a day when the forecast won’t stop bringing up the rain. And yet, when he reaches the hospital exit at the end of his shift, he realizes with a start that he’s left it at home, by the door in the umbrella stand. Despite his best efforts he makes it home soaked to the skin, rainwater dripping from his hair like it’s mocking him.

Yor takes his coat to hang in the bathroom, and Anya carries a whole pile of towels over to him. He takes just one, drying himself off as well as he can. But even after he’s changed into drier clothes he can’t shake off the cold, shivering all through the evening despite Yor and Anya piling blankets over him.

He brushes off their concerns, though he imagines it’s hard to take him seriously from underneath a mountain of blankets. He doesn’t think it’s anything to worry about, but he heads to bed a bit earlier than usual on Yor’s insistence. A little extra sleep probably won’t hurt.

He wakes up the next day with a deep seated ache in his muscles. The mere action of turning to check the time takes far more effort than it should, and his eyes burn as he squints at the clock in the low light.

He tries to get up, and promptly lies back down when his muscles scream in protest and his head spins. His senses come to him as if through fog, and he registers vaguely that his throat hurts and his room is way too warm. 

At first, he wonders if he’s just tired. There’s always some degree of exhaustion lingering in his bones, but he’s a master of staving it off, and not letting it influence the standard of his work. But it’s just past 6am, and he’s pretty sure this is the most he’s slept in ages.

Has he been poisoned? Some kind of nerve agent? He stares groggily at the ceiling, trying to clear his head. Even through the mental haze he knows it’s unlikely. No, this is probably just the result of the unholy union between the rainstorm he’d been caught in and weeks of getting a maximum of 3 hours of sleep per night.

Twilight groans in annoyance, making a new effort to get out of bed. This time he succeeds. Well, partially. The moment he stands up he has to sit down again, breath coming in short, frustrated puffs. 

He tries again. There’s work that need doing, he doesn’t have time to be sick. If he just manages to get up and douse himself in cold water, he’ll probably feel fine enough to at least deliver some reports. Moving at a quarter of his usual pace, he manages to make it to his door and halfway to the bathroom before Yor intercepts him with a greeting from inside the kitchen. 

“Good morning Loid, did you….” she trails off as she takes in his face. Whatever she sees causes her cheery smile to drop, and Twilight frowns. Surely it’s not that clear that he’s sick.

“Loid, are you alright? You look really ill!” Yor’s voice is filled with concern, and she rushes out of the kitchen to stand in front of him, studying him worriedly.

“I’m alright, Yor, don’t worry,” he says. It’s his least convincing lie ever, pathetic in everything from its delivery to the tone of his voice. “I just need a cold shower, and I’ll be fine.” He tries for a smile, knowing it looks feeble even before the worry in Yor’s expression deepens.

Twilight is just about to force out another half-hearted reassurance when Yor reaches up and puts a hand on his forehead, mirroring the action with her other hand on her own forehead. The contact and the proximity are the final straw for Twilight’s already struggling train of thought, and the protests die in his throat. 

Yor pulls her hand away suddenly, like she’d been burned. With how warm he feels, it seems fitting.

“I’m sorry- I just,” Yor stammers, gathering her hands together. Her concern for him seems to override her embarrassment, and for some reason Twilight feels vaguely flattered. “I didn’t mean to overstep, but Loid I think you have a fever.”

That checks out, given the headache and the warmness. With the sore throat, it might even be the flu. He doesn’t manage to say any of that, suddenly hit by a wave of lightheadedness. 

He must have stumbled, because Yor's hand is suddenly on his arm, steadying him.

"Loid, I don't think you should go to work today," Yor says, and she sounds nervous and firm all at once. “And fevers are best treated with lukewarm water, not cold.”

"I appreciate your concern Yor, but I have things to do," he starts, and he's vaguely aware of how petulant he sounds, like Anya asking to watch another episode of Spy Wars before bed. And speaking of Anya. "Anya needs to go to school as well, I need to help her get ready."

Yor's hand on his arm is cool against his flushed skin as she shakes her head resolutely.

"I'll help Anya get ready. You need rest, and that's more important than work," she says, and all of Twilight's inbuilt desire to be efficient at any cost screams in protest. 

"Just let me call work then," he says anyway, because despite that internal drive he has to admit that he's not sure he'll be particularly useful in this state. He must be getting soft. He’s persevered through injury and illness alike - it’s almost humiliating to be so incapacitated by a fever.

Yor nods, letting go of his arm to let him shuffle towards the telephone. He makes a quick call to Handler, who sounds equal parts amused and annoyed. He can almost see her raised eyebrows when he tells her he’s sick, but something in his voice must be convincing because she agrees to take care of his workload for the day and tells him to rest up. He scoffs at that, going to hang up.

"Take better care of yourself, Twilight," she says, just before he can lower the phone. "I know we give you a lot of work, but don’t neglect your health just to keep up with it.”

He mumbles something in return and makes his way back to his room. He catches a glimpse of Yor in the kitchen as he passes, filling a glass with water and gathering some medicine from the cabinet.

Lying down is a far bigger relief than he’d expected it to be, to the point that he barely registers the sound of knocking on the door, followed by Yor pushing it open. She hands him a glass of water and some pills, and he downs them, trying not to wince at how sore his throat feels. 

“I’m going to go to work now,” Yor says gently. “I’ll make sure Anya gets to school on time too, so don’t worry about her.”

She hovers above him, worried but seemingly unsure, and he does his best to give her a reassuring smile.

“Thanks, Yor,” he says, voice still annoyingly weak. “I’ll be fine, so don’t worry about me either.”

Yor smiles back, looking somewhat placated, though the worry lingers in the tightness of her smile. She closes the door gently behind her, and Twilight contents himself with half-listening to the sounds of Anya and Yor getting ready for the day, drifting in and out of sleep.

A while later Anya pops her head in to greet him and say goodbye, and he musters up enough strength to give her a weak wave and a goodbye in return.

Then he lies there, alone and in the dark, uselessly sick. Rest, Yor and Handler had both said, but his brain refuses to cooperate, racing with thoughts about the mission reports he really should have finished yesterday. Except it isn’t really racing, it’s trudging slowly through the mass of information he’d normally have no problem speedily sorting through. It’s frustrating, and it makes his head hurt more.

The longer he lies there the more restless he feels, like he could be making far better use of his time. To make things worse, his room is still far too warm. He squeezes his eyes shut more tightly, trying to force himself to sleep. If he sleeps, perhaps he’ll feel better more quickly, and then he can get back to work. But any sleep that comes is shallow and restless, and the stupid reports just won’t stop trying and failing to sort themselves out in his mind.

The clock reads 10am when Twilight gives up. Pushing himself up despite the way his body protests, he shuffles out to the living room, a folder of reports in one hand and a pillow in the other. The cooler air is pleasant against his skin, though the light stings at his eyes at first. 

Settling on the couch, he opens the folder and starts to read. He barely gets a few paragraphs in before what had been a mild headache morphs into a sharp pain behind his eyes. He squeezes them shut for a bit, finding relief in the dark. He repeats the cycle a few more times, until the headache gets to the point where the words on the page start to blur.

He’s vaguely aware of the fact that he’s started to tremble, and suddenly he’s glad he brought the pillow with him. It’s cooler out here, so maybe it’ll be easier to sleep for a while. The cacophony of aches and pains in his body lessens slightly as he lies down, and he feels himself drifting away surprisingly quickly.

Just a little sleep, he thinks. Just to get rid of the headache, and then he can get back to the reports.

When he opens his eyes, he’s back in his bed, and there’s sounds of movement coming from the kitchen. He lies still for a moment, disoriented and very confused. His room isn’t as stiflingly warm as before, and the clock tells him that it’s past 3pm. Alarmed, he tries to sit up, and finds that the feverish aches in his muscle have lessened, albeit marginally.

He looks around, trying to sort out the mess in his head. How on earth did he get back to his room without realizing?

Yor interrupts his thoughts by poking her head into the room, and her eyes light up when she sees him awake.

“Loid! Are you feeling any better?” she asks, coming to stand by his bedside.

“A bit,” he says, still mildly confused. “How did I- when did you…?”

“Ah,” Yor says, flushing lightly. “I came back early because I was worried, and I found you sleeping on the couch.”

Her expression turns disapproving. “You really shouldn’t work when you’re sick, Loid,” she says, frowning. “I understand wanting to be productive, but it shouldn’t be at the expense of your health.”

He feels oddly chastised, and nods silently. Yor’s expression melts into a small smile.

“I’ve made you some soup,” she says. “It’s the best thing for when you’re ill. I asked Camilla for the recipe, so I hope it tastes alright.”

Twilight nods again, filled with the trepidation that usually surrounds Yor’s attempts at cooking. Yor disappears out of the door, returning shortly with a bowl of soup and a glass of water on a tray. Despite her track record, the soup smells rather good, and Twilight can’t say he isn’t grateful for the kindness.

Yor hands him the tray, and he studies the soup. It looks good. It smells alright. Perhaps it’ll be fine to eat a bit. His stomach doesn’t tie into knots at the thought, so he plucks up his courage and takes a spoonful. And then another, and another, because it’s actually some really good soup. A surprised smile makes its way onto his face.

“This is really good, Yor,” he says, and despite everything there’s a note of genuine happiness in his voice. It’s nothing groundbreaking, a simple broth based vegetable soup, but it’s soothing and warming and Twilight finds that he appreciates it even more for the effort and care that went into making it.

Yor beams, and Twilight finds himself captivated by the sight.

“I’m glad to hear it!” she says, her smile wide and proud. Radiant. It causes a warm feeling in Twilight’s chest that he doesn’t think he can blame on the fever or the soup. He chooses to ignore it, tearing his eyes away from Yor and focusing back on emptying the bowl. Being sick is no excuse to indulge in things that aren’t relevant to the mission.

Oblivious to his brief internal battle, Yor sits on the bed next to him, chatting about her day and the process of making the soup. He listens, occupied by eating, interjecting here and there. It’s nice, and despite the lingering aches of the fever and his mind warning him not to get too comfortable Twilight almost feels peaceful.

“By the way Yor,” he says, when there’s a lull in conversation. “How did I get back here?”

Yor immediately goes red, eyes shifting everywhere. 

“I- I carried you over,” she mumbles. “It wasn’t too hard, and it was mainly because I was afraid that you’d hurt your back or your neck from sleeping on the couch, and when I brought you back it was way too warm in here, so I opened the window a little to let some fresh air in, and…” Yor seems to have realized that she’s rambling, trailing off.

Twilight doesn’t know what to say. The extent of Yor’s concern fills him with more of that warmth he doesn’t know what to make of. For almost all of his life, getting sick has been an arduous and solitary affair. He hasn’t really had anyone he trusted enough to help him through something as vulnerable as sickness. Miserably dousing himself in WISE provided medicines and trying to keep working through whatever coughs and colds came his way had become standard procedure for him.

But Yor’s smile is more soothing than all those medicines, and the soup is flavourful and gentle on his sore throat, and some emotion he can’t (won’t) label sweeps through him. He’s vulnerable in this state, he can’t work, and he still feels the aches and pains of the fever. And above all, indulging in domesticity is supposed to be out of the question. And yet there’s a deep seated contentment that settles in his core as he sits there and eats the soup, knowing that he’s cared for.

“Thank you,” he says, instead of addressing any of the feelings building in his chest. “I really appreciate you taking care of me like this.”

“It’s ok, I’m your wife,” Yor says seriously, before flushing and fumbling to amend her statement. “I mean, as your wife in this arrangement, it’s the least I could do.”

Twilight laughs, a quiet but genuine thing, and Yor smiles through the blush on her cheeks.

When the soup is finished, Yor leaves him to rest again with a promise to come back later. Settling back under the covers, Twilight finds that sleep comes a lot easier when his mind is filled with thoughts of Yor instead of trying and failing to analyze mission reports.

Over the next few days he recovers under Yor’s watchful eye, slowly but surely. She brings him soup and tea, and Anya comes to sit on his bed in the evenings, reading chapters from Spy x Wars to him.

There’s something soothing about the fact that they care about him enough to look after him like this. It can’t last, and he knows it, but Twilight selfishly relishes it all - the tenderness in Yor’s touch when she puts her hand on his forehead to check for returning fevers, the way Anya does her best to help out, the way Yor checks in on him throughout the day.

He still feels a bit useless being bedridden and unable to take on his usual workload, but he does his best not to think of it as going soft, or overindulging in domesticity. The severity of his sickness this time is probably the result of years of never allowing himself to recover from illnesses properly. So he lets himself rest, and if those days spent recovering are some of the most peaceful days of his life, no one has to know.

A week or two after he’s healthy again, Anya comes home sneezing. When he starts sneezing as well a few days later, Twilight begins to wonder if perhaps he should take more vitamins and start working on fixing his sleep schedule.

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

Hope it was a good read!!! I enjoyed writing it :D

[asykriel]

Love is the Death of Duty - 4.

® do not repost or translate !

☆ Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Male! Targaryen OC

☆ Status: Ongoing 

☆ Summary:  

“He is half of my heart.”

War made monsters of them all, but it also brought the two second sons together in a flurry of death, love, deceit and delusion. The story of Aemond Targaryen and the eldest son of Daemon and Rhaenyra, Maegor Targaryen, second of his name. 

☆ Warnings: Sexual content, explicit violence, dark themes, targcest etc.

☆ AO3 ☆ || ☆ Wattpad ☆

☆ CHAPTERS: (Prologue) / ( 1 ) / ( 2 ) / ( 3 ) / ( 4 ) / ( 5 ) / ( 6 ) / ( 7 ) / ( 8 ) / ( 9 ) / ( 10 ) / ( 11 ) / ( 12 ) / ( 13 ) / ( 14 ) / ( 15 ) / (16 from now on upcoming chaps only on-  AO3  ||  Wattpad  )

☆ Masterlist ☆ ||  ☆ Spotify Playlist ☆

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Chapter 4

The early morning rays of sunshine found Maegor dozing off in the same place, leaning against the same wall in the training courtyard. Slowly opening his eyes, realization hits him and he jumps back up on his feet, groaning at the dull pain that was pulsing through his head. He cannot remember when he fell asleep but he reckons it was only for a brief moment judging by how exhausting he was feeling. An hour at most.

Everything that unfolded last night between him and Aemond was hazy and Maegor was fearful it might have been just a beautiful dream. He hoped not.

Maegor swiftly stretches his tired body and scans the yard. No one in sight yet. Thankfully it seemed too early for anyone to start their day. He makes advantage of the situation to return to his chambers unnoticed by any servants or guards as quick as possible. If anyone came across him at such an early hour it could come off as wrong. Maegor could be accused of spying or worse by the Queen or Otto Hightower considering how dear his family was to them.

Back in the safety of his chambers his eyes dart around the room, scanning it. It was strangely quiet. His elder brother was usually not a quiet sleeper, often mumbling or tossing and turning around while he slept. Growing suspicious, Maegor strides over to his brother's bedroom but he finds it empty. Maybe he took his bedroom by accident.

He darts to the other chamber. Empty. Something was not right.

"Jace?" He calls out, tensing up with a hand ready against the pommel of his Nightbringer. His senses were dulled by the exhaustion creeping in his body and he was starting to become paranoid. 

"I thought I told you to return to your chambers last night, boy." Daemon's sudden voice make Maegor flinch and unsheathe his sword instinctively. His father leans against the edge of the only table in the room and looks at the blade with a bored expression completely unfazed by the defensive display.

"I could not sleep, I went to train and clear my mind. Like I always do." Maegor points out but bows his head in apology and abruptly shoves Nightbringer back in its holster. His eyes hold his father's own ones, brazenly.

He forces his body to relax as best as he could be the reality of the situation was slowly hitting him. He was caught off guard in a vulnerable moment and it was unacceptable for a warrior to be. If it was an enemy Maegor would surely be dead by now. 

Daemon lets out and amused chuckle and hums in response. However his gaze is a harsh one on his son. A cold amethyst glare biting at his flesh and trying to drive him into a corner. 

He knows.

"Is that so? I believe the training was fruitful seeing as you are so exhausted." His father narrows his eyes and it frays at Maegor's anxiety and nerves. He swallows drily, keeping his best facade and nods in silence. A poor attempt to mislead Daemon like so many others have tried in the past but unlike him had terrible fates. 

The Rogue Prince could get under his skin the way no one else could even though he was always a great father to him and his other brothers as well. Firm but caring at the same time, not sheltering any of them like his mother did with his three half brothers. If they were enemies Maegor would have been terrified of him, but it gladdens him that they share blood and that he got mentored by him.

"Surely you must have had a sparring partner to drain you this good." The Rogue Prince hits his every nerve. Maegor could not deceive Daemon even if all of the gods came down to aid him. The man had a gift to see right through anyone's bullshit and manipulation. And it was him who taught him all his tricks, they would not best his lifetime teacher.

"I was alone. My brothers were already sleeping and I chose to not disturb them." His son keeps up with this farce, offering a poorly made up excuse without even thinking about it ahead of talking. But Maegor was too anxious to think. Half of his mind was still howling after Aemond and despite the threat of whatever punishment may come, he did not regret anything that happened last night.

"Do not lie to me boy. I was not referring to your brothers." Daemon scoffs at the pathetic excuse. Even if he wasn't a witness last night, hearing such a poor thought lie was enough to make him suspicious. Maegor rarely trained with his brothers anymore and if he did it was because Daemon himself ordered them to.

Curse the dragon blood and his father's ways of always mingling and finding everyone's secrets.

"Prince Aemond." His father presses the matter and Maegor starts pacing around the room to offer himself some kind of self comfort. He was cornered and there was no escape from the deadly dragon in front of him.

"Fair. I admit we were training together. The dinner made us both restless." Maegor groans in exasperation but his words come out more interpretable than initially thought. No sin was committed in his perspective. Daemon's torture seemed unreasonable. After all, the things his own father did in his youth could make even a seasoned prostitute turn beet red with shame. 

"Not just training it would seem. I know what you did son. I saw you." His father lets out a deceiving laugh and rubs the bridge of his nose. A clear statement, the tone in his voice is firm but holds no malice. Luckily to Maegor, his father always seemed to have a softer spot for him than all of his other children.

His firstborn son reminded of him of himself and his youthful days in so many ways. At least Maegor was more inhibited when it came to his instincts and preferred more orthodox outlets, such as training with the blade or studying. It made him nostalgic. But his son could not be cursed to become him, Daemon could at least spare him of that. It was enough that the boy was in his shadow and everyone expected - or dreaded - him to grow up to be a perfect copy of the Rogue Prince. The burden of legacy was a curse for all great characters it would seem. Targaryens especially.

Maegor stops his pacing abruptly at the accusation and his cheeks turn a shade of pink. They burn with shame, not with the shame of regret but with the shame of having his secret discovered by his very own father. Why him out of everyone else?

"I shall not punish you for something that only comes natural with age. But not him." Daemon offers brief reassurance, his words bring more pain than comfort when they reach Maegor's ears.

"It is him I want." Maegor instantly retorts, holding his ground bravely and surprising his father. A bold but genuine statement.

"You can have anyone but not him. Do you understand me?" Daemon clicks his tongue and shakes his head in disapproval. 

Maegor's hand curl up in fists as irritation starts pooling up in his body. 

"I refuse. I want my Prince Aemond." Simply, he presses on, defending his claim with a defiance that Daemon has never encountered before from his son. It makes his father blink twice.

"Your mother and I did not engage you with anyone because we wanted you to have the freedom to choose, but I am asking you, son, to choose anyone except Aemond. You might as well lay with the enemy, he is no different." Daemon warns but the cold glare he receives back from Maegor cuts right through him and he is taken slightly aback. This never happened before.

Enemy? 

Somehow he understands his son's choice but he cannot allow him to indulge it. Aemond Targaryen was an offspring of the Green bitch that was commanding in his brother's stead. His mind was poisoned by her as for the rest of her children.

 Aegon might have been the eldest but he was just a fool who enjoyed women and drinking too much, he posed little threat and Helaena was just a poor girl, quite delusional in Daemon's eyes, that had the misfortune of being born in that wretched family. The fourth and youngest child, Daeron, he did not know too well, but considering how quick he was shipped to Oldtown to be schooled and trained made Daemon assume he was no better than the cunt that was Otto Hightower.

However, it was the third child that was truly lethal. The dark display and the chaos the One Eyed Prince unleashed last night at the dinner was enough proof. The One Eyed Prince was dangerous and bloodthirsty - just like Daemon was- but there was something that made him the deadliest out of all the Greens and it wasn't just Vhagar. He saw how insatiable his desire was to get vengeance on his step sons last night. Daemon could not let his firstborn son to fall in the grasp of those vipers and lose him forever like he lost his own elder brother, Viserys to them.

"Father you do not understand. The yearning I feel for him is like an insatiable hunger, hollowing me dry." Maegor grasps his hair in anger and raises his voice at his father in desperation. The blood was rushing to his head again, making him dizzy but this time with anger.

"Put an end to this farce. You do not yearn for him, boy. These feelings are fleeting, you are young still." The Rogue Prince barks. He was starting to become increasingly irritated. The two rarely had arguments, and out of all the children, Daemon despised bickering with his firstbon son the most. Maegor's stubbornness and fire could only rival his and he knew they would clash harshly. His step sons never even dared contradicting him, let alone argue with him the way Maegor did. Normally, father and son would settle their disagreements on the sparring grounds after they would both be too tired and much calmer but right now Daemon had no intention to indulge him at all.

"It is my final decision. You will not go against it and you will not mention a word about him to your mother. Tis' for your own sake, Maegor. " Daemon concludes, waving a hand in dismissal already tired of the pointless tantrum and pleading speeches. He turns and makes his way to the door to leave the room and find something else to occupy his mind with.

"Aemond has been in my heart for six fucking years. He's always been. Always." Maegor shouts at him and pleads with his father careless that someone might hear him from the hallways. Let them hear. He would shout it in their faces if he could. His father snorts crudely at the confession which angers Maegor even further.

"We are returning to Dragonstone in the eve'. Gather your belongings and bid your farewells." Daemon leaves the chambers without looking back. Maegor finds himself alone with his fury and thoughts again and in a fit of blinding anger he kicks a wooden chair against the nearest wall. 

"Sīkudi nopāzmi!" 

If it were anything else Maegor would feel pathetic for begging his father and throwing a tantrum like a child whose toy has been taken. The matter was more important than that however. He refuses to give up on his claim. On Aemond. There was no one else in the world he wanted other than him.

The one time he was truly desiring something other than claiming his own dragon - and becoming a dragon rider -  he was being forbidden from taking it. 

Maegor starts pacing furiously around the room, thinking, planning something that could get him out of this dead end his own father has placed him in. In a moment of seething rage he redirects his anger and kicks another chair. This time the wood cracks and splits slightly under the force. He needed to calm himself soon or he would end up turning the whole chamber upside down.

Then Maegor - without thinking and being increasingly unreasonable - curses his half brothers, blaming them for receiving everything they wished for. Dragons, their childhood loves and titles of high esteem. Why was he any less worthy of? He who was above them in both study and sword. He who excelled after breaking blood and sweat while they were mediocre because they were sheltered and protected. There has always been a kind of rivalry between him and his three half brothers but such cold thoughts sometimes made Maegor truly loathe and envy them.

This new kind of boiling anger he was feeling was turning him into a different person. Maegor's thoughts were slowly starting to spiral out of control if he would not find a distraction soon. Something to soothe him. No comfort would be found here as long as he would be left alone to deal with his fury. But he knew Aemond would comfort him. Maegor needed him.

The young Prince storms out of the chambers and makes his way with a sole purpose in mind. He pays no mind to the guards and servants that threw him curious and weary looks but otherwise stayed out of his way. Anyone could tell he was furious, trudging akin to a wild beast that was caged in.

Luckily his memory was still as vivid as it was six years ago and countless hallways and chambers from the Red Keep remained mapped in his head so his target is relatively easy to find, without the risk of getting lost in the gigantic keep.

Maegor suddenly finds himself in front of the heavy door that was preventing him from entering Aemond's chambers. He was looking at it silently, contemplating whether or not to disturb him. Was he even here? He paid no mind to the two guards on either side of the door who were looking at him with confusion and a bit of curiosity.

"My Prince Maegor, shall we deliver a message to Prince Aemond on your behalf?" One of the guards clears his voice and asks with a tinge of hesitation on his tongue. 

After the events of the previous day in the throne hall where he mirrored his father and killed a  man with no hesitation in front of the King, people started becoming weary of Maegor as well, especially since they knew little about him or his character to make a proper judgement. All they knew was that he was the Rogue Prince's firstborn son and that he bore the name of the Conqueror's own son. 

"That would not be necessary. I have come to speak to him myself." Maegor shakes his head in disapproval and mirrors his father's gesture from earlier, pinching his nose bridge whilst deciding his next move.

The two guards briefly look at eachother, clearly baffled by the situation. Rare were the times when anyone wished to speak to Aemond Targaryen. Usually his presence was only requested through Ser Criston Cole by his mother or directly by the knight when the time for training came. Rarely it was Aegon drunk and bored out of his mind that wanted to get on his nerves by invading his private space, which only lasted for a few moments until Aemond's temper was quick to act and throw him out. Everyone else in the Red Keep was avoiding him, staying out of Aemond's way and his nasty temper. The eyepatch and the glimpse of the long scar from beneath were enough to scare others, but the way he carried himself and the power that came off him were truly terrifying.

Maegor was the opposite of terrified. He loved it. He loved his powerful presence. He loved how Aemond even scared his own family - Aegon and his venomous mother included.  He loved what he was doing to him. 

How could Maegor give up on him so easily just because his father demanded it? Because he thought he was the enemy.

Sucking in a breath he closes his eyes and rests his forehead against the door for a brief moment. Thinking, planning, deciding. His bright mind was surely his greatest curse as well.

"My Prince? Are you well?" The guards question, thinking he might have been sick from how he was acting.

Maegor was not well. He was ill. But not with a sickness that could be seen or cured.

The son of the Rogue Prince smiles weakly at the thought. He takes a deep breath. There was no gain without risk, his own father thought him that.

"Wait, my Prince!"

Maegor barges inside the chambers.

The guards go after the young Prince to remove him from the room but Maegor stops abruptly and pays no mind to the heavy armored hands on his shoulders that urge his departure.

Sitting at a desk with a book in his hands, Aemond stares at him with a surprised expression on his face. The One Eyed Prince looks exhausted and sleepless but Maegor thinks he's ethereal. Long silver hair was untied and let loose on his shoulders that were covered only by a black inner shirt. His scabbard with his sword was neatly placed on the desk next to him ready to be used if needed. The only thing that wasn't discarded was his eyepatch still covering his eye as usual.

"Clear the room." Aemond says, giving a brief and stern look to the two knights but immediately softening his gaze when it returns on Maegor.

The guards nod in unison, obeying the command and swiftly exit the chambers, leaving the two young Princes alone. Maegor holds his hands behind his back and fidgets with his fingers nervously. He has so much to tell Aemond but he feels a knot in his throat. How should he start? Did anything that happen last night mean as much to his uncle as it did to him? His mind was spiraling into an amalgamation of thoughts yet again.

Aemond observes him closely, scanning him from head to toe with a gaze that only seemed to be genuine and soft when he looked at the younger Prince. Something was off about his nephew, he looked startled and shaken and it wasn't clear to Aemond that it was his own doing. What exactly, he could not tell but he allows the silence, letting the younger Prince calm whatever storm was brewing inside him and find his words.

"Sleepless night?" Maegor asks the obvious. The slight change in his voice from his usual cold and confident tone, doesn't go unnoticed by the older Prince. Did he scare his nephew last night?

"For you as well it would seem." Aemond hums. Maegor remains silent just nodding in response. The scorching fire was still there. Aemond could see it in his nephew's eyes - lilac and blue - how they were piercing him the way no one else did. The older Prince was used with weary looks of fear or disdain from everyone around him but the way Maegor looked at him made him feel strangely alive and burning. As if he was on the brink of death and that was his only lifeline keeping him breathing. The only time he ever felt such feelings before was when he was a child and he claimed the beast that is Vhagar. Now it would seem Aemond was the one being claimed instead.

"Come, let us sit." The One Eyed Prince invites his nephew, seating himself on a large divan in front of a tea table, situated in the middle of the room. He pats the seat next to him to which Maegor obediently follows and mirrors Aemond's actions.

"Something is troubling you, nephew. Is it not?" Aemond presses on in a gentle tone. Indeed he was curious about the sudden change of demeanor but at the same time he did not wish to treat Maegor harshly by being impatient. After all he came to cherish him more than he initially thought. Being the second sons that were always the targets of taunting and crude pranks as children brought them closer to each other, at first unconsciously and now knowingly all due to the hardships they endured, Aemond more of them than anyone else. 

Maegor sighs deeply and lowers his head, holding his forehead with a hand. He was exhausted. Tired and angry. The argument he had with Daemon sucked him dry out of the last ounce of energy. Time was running fast and soon evening would come and his departure back to Dragonstone was inevitable. 

"You see right through me, my Prince." Maegor rubs his tired eyes with one hand and smiles weakly. Aemond sucks in a silent breath hearing his nephew address him by his title for the first time.

A hand suddenly reaches out and for a brief moment every fibre in Maegor's body tenses up to a painful point and then he relaxes in an instant. Aemond's fingers were running through his bright silver locks, stroking gently and soothing him down. It was the first time anyone besides himself and his mother -when he was a child- ever performed such a tender gesture on him.

"There are no others but us here. You can always speak freely to me." Aemond hums in a voice almost as soothing as his touch. 

Maegor closes his eyes and leans his head against his shoulder, akin to a feline as he lets himself be pet by his uncle. He wishes he could stop the passing of time so he could enjoy this forever.

"My fath- Daemon saw us last night in the sparring grounds. He came to my room this morning and forbid me to continue seeing you." Maegor mutters. The blood in his veins is warming up with anger as he recalls the moment. Aemond clicks his tongue in disapproval but remains silent, continuing with his soft gesture. 

"I am to bid you farewell and return to Dragonstone with my family this eve'." Maegor grips his hands together in frustration. His knuckles turn white but he is too angry to feel the pain.

"I am sorry nephew, however as much as it may upset your family and certainly my own as well, I refuse to put an end to this. They cannot forbid our wants, we are dragons after all and I want you." Aemond speaks firmly, grasping Maegor's hands with one of his own. The younger Prince thinks he might be delirious hearing his uncle speak so dearly of him. It makes his stomach twist in countless of knots hearing Aemond confess his desires before him.

"It gladdens me so much to hear you say this, uncle. It chases away all my doubts and it makes me powerful, I could fight an entire army by myself." Maegor sighs and slumps down on his back across the divan, resting his head in Aemond's lap. The older Prince is slightly taken aback by the sudden action but he relaxes it when he notices Maegor closing his eyes partly from the comfort but mostly because of the tiredness biting at his bones.

"And what kind of doubts might those be, nephew?" Aemond places a hand on Maegor's chest, resting it there while his other is still in his hair, carding through it slowly. 

It was as soothing for him as it was for the younger Prince. Neither of them ever had a moment of respite, they were both constantly on guard, tensed and on edge ready for anything. The second sons had to fight for their share unlike their other brothers that got everything on a silver platter. And now both of them were so atrociously touch starved.

"I was fearful I might be the only one getting scorched by this fire inside us. Scared that you might be offended by the affection I carry for you for these past six years, or that you might reject me and look down on me like you do with my half brothers." Maegor opens his eyes, fixing his gaze on his uncle as he lays his heart on a platter in front of the older Prince. If he wished to put a dagger through it at this very moment, Maegor's feelings would not change.

"You are a dragon, not like those bast- scoundrels. I never held any ill feelings for you nephew, quite the opposite." Aemond shakes his head, keeping a seemingly unbothered facade but his skin was getting hotter with every honest word his nephew spoke. His hand moved from Maegor's chest to rest on his throat, just under his chin only lightly applying pressure.

"My father told me this morning I could have anyone else in the world except you." Maegor meet's Aemond's violet eye and they are both set ablaze. His mind is getting hazy with desire.

"And?" Aemond's hand squeezes tighter.

"And I shouted in his face that it is you my body and heart yearn for. No one else. You claimed me as well that night you claimed Vhagar, uncle. " Aemond barely lets his nephew finish his words when he leans over him seal his lips shut with a searing kiss. The older Prince shifts his position until he gets on top of Maegor who was sprawled out on the divan.

Maegor groans softly in his mouth, taken aback by the sudden fervor but nonetheless reciprocates with the same passion. The younger Prince buries his hands through his uncle's long silver locks and pulls him closer, pressing their scorching bodies together. Their kiss deepens and becomes more aggressive - with teeth and biting and tongue - the hotter their shared blood starts to boil. The gentleness from the earlier tender touches was long replaced by the wildness of the dragon nature.

To Hell with Dragonstone. 

If there was any voice of reason and willpower left in Maegor's brain, at this moment it was all gone. The Queen herself could have walked in on them and he would have not stopped. Neither of them would have. 

Aemond's sinful mouth moves quickly from Maegor's lips to his throat, biting the skin softly and planting soft kisses along his jugular, drawing short gasps from his nephew's lips. In return, the younger Prince fumbles with the buttons on his uncle's shirt until he manages to undo them and run his hands all over, scratching across Aemond's milky white skin - his chest, his back, his shoulders. Maegor was branding his body on the back of his head. 

It was suffocating. Hot, blazing hot. Scorching like dragonfire and the two Princes were both willingly to burn together.

To Hell with Daemon's command. Nothing can stop me.

Hips are pressed harder together, drawing groans and gasps from both of them as they start to get increasingly more impatient and lost in themselves. Even the air around them gets unbearably hot. Aemond's deft fingers finds the laces to Maegor's leather trousers and undoes them hastily. His teeth meet with the juncture of his nephew's neck and they bite harshly at the same time his hot hand finds and grasps Maegor. The younger Prince moans loudly, startling himself so he clamps his hands over his mouth. The older Prince knowingly marks his nephew in a place where anyone could see. But he wanted them to see that Maegor belonged to him and him alone.

"No. Let me hear you my Prince, my ears only." Aemond looms over him and he murmurs into his knuckles that have gone white, urging Maegor to uncover his mouth with soft kisses. It makes Maegor shiver from head to toe hearing Aemond call him like that and having him switch to another tender gesture in the midst of their lust.

Nonetheless, the younger Prince shakes his head reluctantly, his pupils blown wide and his mind half lost. Aemond simply hums in response but there's a mischievous glint in his eye that makes him distrustful. 

Suddenly, his hand pulls his nephew's cock out of his trousers and he undoes his own trousers as well with the other one. Aemond grasps both of their burning erections together and they both moan in unison at their joining. Maegor's eyes slightly roll backwards when he feels this new sensation that tears right through his core, driving him beyond insanity. Sure, he touched himself before but having Aemond undo him like this was better than his craziest wet dreams.  His hands dart from covering his mouth to twist them in the collar of his uncle's shirt. An anchor of some sorts because he was afraid he was going to either drown or suffocate.

They start kissing again. Gasping for hair and moaning in each other's faces the faster Aemond's hands kept going. The speed and friction it was unbearable, both of the young Princes were painfully close but they were fighting to make it last just for a little longer. Consuming each other like this, like predators.

"I promise the next time I will see you uncle, I will meet you as a dragonrider." Maegor mutters in between messy kisses and moans. Aemond groans against his lips and his hands squeeze their cocks harder in response, going mad with ecstasy. 

"And I will claim you like you have claimed me." Maegor continues, darting one hand to grasp Aemond's own ones, urging them to put more pressure on their cocks as his other hand wraps around his uncle's throat. Maegor squeezes at his neck, mirroring what his uncle was doing inches lower.

"MaegorMaegorMaegor..."

Aemond moans his nephew's name like chanting a mantra or praying to a god. He comes undone, with Maegor following quickly after in a silent cry. The One Eyed Prince slumps on top of him, their ragged breaths echoing in unison throughout the chamber. They catch their breaths together wrapped around eacho ther like that, savoring every little second of the scarce time they have left together until the younger Prince's departure.

"A promise made must be kept." Aemond mutters a reminder in his hair, inhaling his nephew's scent, memorizing it. Neither of them knew when they would meet again. It could weeks, months even years. The future held many treacheries and uncertainties and it made them both uneasy but none the less certain about one another.

Maegor kisses him, this time softly and chastely, sealing the oath he just made to Aemond. 

"I always keep my promises.  It was you who taught me uncle."

[ivegotdaddyissues]

Copybat Ch. 3

Bale!Bruce Wayne x Trans!OC

Warnings: Toxic friendship, mild transphobia, no Bruce Wayne(He'll be in the next chapter, I promise!) Word Count: 1,235

Victoria dials her best friend’s number, needing to tell someone about tomorrow night. “Toriiiii!!!” The other line exclaims. “Where’ve you been? You didn’t answer me at all yesterday!” “Hey Liza, yeah, I’m sorry about that!” “Where were you, girl?” “It’s a long story, but basically I was assaulted and ended up in the hospital! Concussion!” “You were probably over dramatic,” Liza laughs over the phone. “I’ve had concussions before, and I just slept it off for a few hours.” “My head was bashed into a wall,” Victoria states. “I blacked out and someone had to call an ambulance for me. I spent the night in the hospital and was out cold for at least three hours.” “Okay, jeez!” She groans. “No need to make it a competition!” “I DIDN’T--” Tori catches herself from screaming over the phone. “Whatever, anyway, I haven’t told you the best part.” “And what’s that?” “The aforementioned person that called me an ambulance, wanna know who he is?” “Oh my god! Just tell me!" “It was…” Victoria lowers her voice again, even though she’s alone in her apartment. “It was Bruce Wayne.” Liza is silent for a minute. “Liza?” “BRUCE WAYNE CALLED YOU AN AMBULANCE?!” “And… I’m going on a date with him tomorrow night.” “YOU’RE GOING ON A DATE WITH BRUCE WAYNE?!”

“Mhm!”

“HOW ARE YOU NOT FREAKING OUT RIGHT NOW?”

“I don’t know,” She shrugs. Her heart is beating but she’s cool on the outside. “But…I was wondering, wanna help me choose what to wear tomorrow night?”

“Is that even a question? What time should I come over?”

“Later today, maybe at like, 6?”

“See you!! Love you!”

“Love you too!” Victoria hangs up the phone before going to clean herself up. Showering, changing into fresh clothes, she goes into her home office to look at her creation. Fresh eyes looking at her hand crafted batsuit, working weapons and all.

Without the mask, she’s not the most confident in herself. She has the skills to fight back, but when she’s faced with a situation like being cornered, Victoria tends to freeze up. With the mask, she knows it’ll be different. It has to be if she wants to be what the Batman is. She holds one of the arm pieces, smooth and sturdy, and just admires her work.

The rest of the day passes by, a slow Saturday for her, until Liza comes over at least. The more she thinks about it, the more excited she is about her date. She can’t begin to fathom how the prince of Gotham is interested in her.

Her doorbell rings, and she rushes to answer it, but not before making sure she locks her office door.

“Liza!” Victoria exclaims, opening the door. “You’re on time!”

“Babe! You’re going on a date with THE Bruce Wayne! Of course I’m gonna be on time to help you pick out an outfit!!” Liza rushes through the house and to Victoria’s closet. “Okay! What did he tell you to wear?”

“He said something nice,” She followed her friend to her room, sitting on the bed.

“That’s it?”

“Yep.”

“Then text him! At least ask where you’re going!”

“No! I’m not going to text Bruce Wayne on a Saturday!”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s Bruce Wayne! And technically my boss!”

“Ugh, I keep on forgetting that you work at Wayne Enterprises!”

“How? You constantly bring it up!”

“I don’t know,” Liza shrugs. “I just forgot. Maybe it’s because I haven’t seen you in two months!” Victoria can’t argue with that. She had essentially shut herself off from the rest of the world, using her built up vacation time to avoid being fired.

In her defense, she doesn’t have many people she could contact. Since coming out, and more so transitioning, her family has cut her off, and Liza is the only one who’s stuck with her.

“I know, I know, and I’m sorry.”

“You texted me like, twice!”

“I was busy.”

“FOR TWO MONTHS?”

“YES!” Victoria crosses her arms. “What about when you went radio silent when that rich ex boyfriend of yours took you to the Bahamas for a week?”

“That’s different.”

“Is it though? You didn’t tell anyone.”

“Whatever, I’m done talking about this if you’re gonna have such a bitchy attitude about it!” Almost as if it’s a different person, Liza is smiling and happy again. “So, what are you thinking of wearing?” “I don’t know,” Victoria’s voice is quiet, crossing her arms in a defensive manner. “A dress, I guess.”

“Short or long?”

“Long. I’m thinking my black strapless one.”

“That would look soooo cute!” Liza squeals. “Oooh! And you could wear those Christian Louboutin’s that I got you!”

“Yeah, that could work.” Victoria takes a deep breath, resetting herself. “But won’t it be cold? I should have a jacket.”

“But don’t you want to show yourself off?”

“I don’t want to die from freezing.”

“He’d lend you his jacket!” Liza suggests. “He’s a gentleman after all! He called an ambulance for a concussion and asked you on a date! He’s so into you!”

“But what if he learns my personality and doesn’t like it? What if he’s creeped out by my knowledge and love of the Batman?”

“Girl, you serious?” She snickers. “If I were you, I’d be a lot more nervous about him finding out about…other stuff.” Liza motions to Victoria. “Are you gonna tell him?”

“I don’t think I should have to,” She grips the hem of her shirt. “I’ve transitioned fully so if we do anything…he won’t be caught off guard.”

“What if he wants kids?”

“Tomorrow is my first date!” Victoria jumps up. “We’re going to dinner! THAT’S IT!”

“Okay Jesus, I was just trying to be helpful!”

“It’s not working!” She raises her voice. “I am nervous as all hell about this and I wanted you to help pick me out an outfit!” “FINE! I HELPED! I’M LEAVING!” Liza storms out of the house, slamming the door in the process.

Victoria flops down on her back, sighing, and just spaces out for a while. Her energy is completely drained from Liza, and she turns on her tv to try to clear her head. She doesn’t have anyone else, though, so she can’t really drop her best friend. On the TV, there are reports of a robbery and shootout at the bank. All of the assailants, wearing clown masks, are dead. She’s heard of this psycho criminal, known as the Joker. Leaving a Joker calling card at every crime scene.

Victoria has been trying to find as much about Joker as possible, but when he surfaced, she was locked away, hardly paying attention to anything else. She’s been picking up things about him, and he fascinates her. All his methods seem to be provoking Batman. One thing she completely missed was Harvey Dent. He was being appointed as the District Attorney the next day, and it completely slipped under her radar. Victoria’s phone buzzes. A text, from Bruce.

You don’t care that I’m introducing you to a few of my friends tomorrow night, do you?

She’s not good with new people at first, and Bruce Wayne’s friends? What is she going to talk about with the ultra rich? But seeing as it’s Bruce mother-fucking Wayne, she knows he’s expecting a ‘yes’ and the question was nothing but a courtesy.

No, not at all.

Great. I’ll see you tomorrow night.