#He goes to cities that hold no meaning to you and burns them down and suddenly it's home sweet home.

[ferritins]

IN A STITCH, IN A PINCH | J. TODD

SUMMARY: you’ve developed something of a friendship with the Outlaws, but you’re not quite sure about what the irascible Red Hood thinks of you.

WARNINGS: graphic description of burn injury, oblique reference to canonical parental drug dependency, reader is a meta.

NOTES: bringing back an old work! Re: the burns treatment depicted here - my area of study was clinical microbiology, not emergency medicine; everything I know about burns is relegated to opportunistic Staphylococcus aureus infection and how Gram negative skin flora influence wound healing. Take none of what you see in this fic as medical advice; if you do have a severe burn, call 999 and get your arse to an A&E ASAP.

After an extraterrestrial incident in your city that ended with something to the tune of 5 and a half million dollars worth of property damage and you knitting Arsenal's torn-open back together in a moment of adrenaline-fuelled insanity, you've developed something of a friendship with the Outlaws.

What that really means is that you periodically come off your shift at the hospital to find 2 mercenaries and an alien princess divesting your fridge of it's contents, and get wheedled into using your meta abilities to heal wounds that would otherwise take them out of play for a good few months.

You're under no illusions. You're aware that a healer is a useful contact to have, that should the situation necessitate it they'll take the few scant inches you can give and run a mile with them.

However, you're also aware that being a meta is a risk and that it pays to be liked and valued by dangerous people.

It's a friendship of convenience, but a friendship nonetheless.

Kori picks you up bodily and spins you in a tight circle until you're giggly and dizzy when confess her favourite shirts of yours are always freshly washed, just in case.

Roy gives you a vulgar wink when you order his shirt off to take a look at where his back scarred over, but faithfully applies the Vitamin E cream you give him for the scarring, trusting you to ease his discomfort, and sneaks bottles of your favourite elderflower cordial and the tins of Zambuk you can never find in the US for you to find when he leaves.

The only one you can't quite puzzle out your relationship with is Jason. He's taciturn, stands watch faithfully as Roy and Kori pull you into friendly hugs and dizzy spins, pepper playful kisses on your cheek and rub their knuckles into your hair. He rolls his eyes at his teammates' antics, huffs through his nose at your fussing.

Sometimes though, he'll call you sweetheart in a low rasp as he bumps you away from the sink to take over doing the dishes.

Sometimes, you think you catch him watching you with something unnameable and warm in his eyes.

You're not expecting your front door to fly open and damn near off the hinges late on Saturday evening — just as you're fresh out of the shower and only just into your pyjama shirt & shorts, might you add — but your alarm and annoyance die on your tongue when you see Roy and Kori's grim faces and the way that Jason sways despite both of their considerable strength holding him up.

You smell the odd, sour-smoke char of burned flesh as they pass you to ease Jason down oh so gently onto your sofa, and your gut goes cold with fear. The burn, once you get his shirt cut open, is not as extensive as you'd feared, but it's still something from a horror scene.

It's a third degree burn, skin mulberry-red, weeping and blistered in a long arc that curls up from his right hip to just under his right pectoral.

"Bloody hell." You breathe, horrified.

You run to your room, digging out your first aid kit, and drop to your knees by the couch as you tear it open.

Roy snorts, bitter as cyanide. "Yeah, that's a fairly accurate summary of the situation, sweets. The only reason he's still alive is because he dodged and got a glancing blow from the energy beam instead of a direct hit."

You look up from Jason's side.

"I'll need you and Kori to get some things." You say, hands shaking at the prospect of the task in front of you. "I can reduce the severity of the burn to a first degree, maybe, but it–"

"What do you need?" Kori snaps, terse. You reel off a list - topical antiseptic, light bandages, a banana bag & an IV kit, amoxicillin - and then look to Roy.

"I need you to get him to take some co-codamol. It'll kick in in about 10 minutes given his enhanced metabolism, but I can't do anything until he's got painkillers in him."

Roy's brows tighten further.

"Jason doesn't do opiates."

"Roy, if this was anybody else he'd be hooked up to IV morphine! If I start working on him without him having painkillers, he'll go into shock which could kill him." You exclaim.

You make low, soothing sounds when Jason tenses at the shouting, only to groan at the fresh wave of agony in his side.

The sound of Jason's pain seems to be decisive enough for Roy, who moves round the couch and grabs the box of effervescent tablets, dissolving two in water and coaxing Jason into drinking it down.

When the glass is empty, Roy is back to his feet, quick as lightning. He strides to the door, shepherding Kori out of your apartment.

"We'll be back with everything you need in half an hour, tops. Please, help him."

Jason comes out of the shrieking adrenaline of agony to the sound of your voice, and a slight cotton fuzz in his head.

Narcotics, then, but a fairly low dose for him to still retain this degree of alertness. Feeling the encroaching spectre of that terrible pain just barely held at bay, finds he's grateful for the medication.

He goes to prop himself up on his elbows, only to strike a line of phosphorus-white flare of pain down his side that has him hissing breath through gritted teeth.

Above him, you make a startled sound, press a hand to his sternum to keep him down. His eyes catch yours, and he sees the relieved sag of your spine and shoulders at the alertness in his eyes.

"Thank fuck you didn't go into shock." You sigh. "Stay still, I've just about got this down to a second degree burn. I've just got your hip."

You snap off your nitrile gloves and lean forward, cupping his face in your hands. "Don't make a habit of this. You'll kill us off with stress if you keep on nearly-dying."

As if on cue, the front door opens and Roy and Kori come into the living room, pharmacy bags clutched tightly in their grips and fragile hope in their eyes.

When they see Jason's alert eyes, the slow knit of skin and sub-dermal tissue and hear his sheepish grumbling in, response to you, their smiles are like sunlight.

Healing the burn is slow going, taking a full five evenings after your shifts.

Roy and Kori are intent on Jason staying the full course of treatment — settled by a, literally, on account of Kori, flaming row when he asks for his helmet and body armour —and though your entreaties are quieter, they're no less insistent.

It serves him right, probably, but it's driving him to distraction.

Specifically, the feeling of your hands over his skin is driving him to distraction.

He's not sure whether it's mercy or the sweetest of torture when you approach him, eyes darting down his body in a way that's half-assessing, half appraising before the heat-shock of your touch makes contact, pieces his skin back together.

(The thing is, Jason's attuned to everything about you, has been ever since you pulled Roy's flayed skin back shut whilst the city was still smoking behind you, totally unafraid in scrub trousers and a hoodie.

He's got it bad, and it's not exactly subtle.

Roy and Kori haven't missed that, or the way he reacts to you, judging by the raised eyebrows and teasing smirks as they lean up against the wall and watch you work.

He hopes the glare he levels at them over the top of your head communicates exactly what he'll do to them if they open their mouths.

It all comes to a head on Monday evening, when you come home from your OR shift, duck into the shower and then come into the living room in a too-large grey t-shirt and deliciously short sleep pants.

Jason's heart stops for a second. He lets his eyes flit despairingly over to Roy and Kori as you prep your kit, watches their unrepentant grins with a burning resentment towards them.

Having you this close to him, worry-soft and lit like a Rembrant from the lamp on the side table without being able to touch you is the closest thing to hell there is. You're close enough that he can smell the overlapping, inoffensive fragrances of your facial skincare products, see the faint pearlescent sheen of the residue of some serum on the apples of your cheeks, the tip of your nose, the soft line of your jaw.

Your nitrile-gloved hand settles gently on the raw new skin just above his hip and he jumps, his own broad hand flying up defensively to catch your wrist and still your movement. It's a mistake he regrets immediately.

The skin of your wrist is still tacky-soft with still-settling moisturiser, hair curling damp where the spray of your shower caught it. Jason's mind spins an unbidden reel of your hands, smoothing lotion over the plush expanse of your thighs, the line of your neck and the gentle swell of your décolletage, the curve of your hip.

He presses his eyes shut tightly.

He feels feral, the hungry bones of him blown open and exposed like the hull of a shipwreck. He wants to worry marks the shape of his mouth into your thighs, your neck, across your collarbones. He wants your knees bracketing his hips, the weight of you on top of him.

God, he wants–

"Are you okay? You're not in too much pain, are you?" He hears you ask.

He knows he's in far too deep when the thought of tasting the way the words roll off your tongue flits across his mind.

"Sorry." He croaks, releasing your hand. "Instinct."

(Roy turns to Kori with a snort, murmuring low so you can't hear.

"He's been watching like he wants to eat them alive since the first time we met and it's a miracle he's got enough blood north of his waistband to be capable of speech, but sure. Instinct.")

[avocado-writing]

omg… could we get an astarion x reader where the reader is gale’s apprentice? she’s extremely studious and focused on her learning of magic (as gale teaches her to be) and because gale took her on as a young girl she’s never had her first kiss (much less her first time) bc she’s been so focused on her academics… mwahahahahah 😈

notes: reader’s gender isn’t mentioned, but Astarion does call you “little”! (Edit; part 2)

rating: M

words: 1.8k

pairing: astarion x reader

Taglist: bg3 Taglist: @ghosti02art @sadandanxiouswtf @yeethaw13 (let me know if you want to be added!)

“We hope to see you soon!” calls the cashier from behind the desk, waving amicably as you leave with your arms laden with scrolls and books. You manage a smile over your shoulder, no hand free to return the kind gesture.

“I’m sure you will!” you reply. This is true. Gale has probably spent a small fortune at Sorcerous Sundries, and - with the amount of time he’s been spending with Tav recently - supply runs have fallen to you. Not that you particularly mind. It’s nice to get into the city and get away from your mentor and the de facto leader of your group making heart eyes at each other from across the camp. It’s wonderful that he’s found someone (gods know that he deserves it after all that Mystra business) but he doesn’t have to be so bloody nauseating about it.

You wait for a cart to pass, readjust your hold on the pile, and head across the road. You’re so lost in your own thoughts that you don’t hear your name being called for a second and barrel on ahead - it’s only when you become aware of footsteps approaching that you turn.

Astarion isn’t jogging to catch you, exactly. He’s far too precious for that. But he has increased his speed to close the gap, that little smile on his face which you know can only spell trouble.

“Well, fancy running into you, my dear. Isn’t chance a fine thing?” he purrs. You raise an eyebrow.

“What, you fortuitously meeting me at the only store I ever seem to go to?”

He doesn't reply to that, instead putting a hand on his hip and cocking his head.

“It can be dangerous for a little thing like you to walk around a big city alone. Never know who might take advantage.”

He flashes his fangs with his smile, and you swear your cheeks don’t start to burn.

“I know the route back to camp perfectly well…”

“Oh, so you won’t mind if I join you then? Let me help with those books, they seem to be rather precariously perched.”

You take a moment to look him over. He’s got muscle, of course, you’ve seen him with his shirt off at camp, but you’re certain it’s all for show – you are definitely stronger than he is. Being Gale’s glorified pack mule means you have to be. But, suppressing a smile, you press half of your haul into the elf’s waiting arms and chuckle when he stumbles under the unexpected weight.

“You could suggest to your mentor that he gets into a little more light reading,” he mutters, and that makes you laugh properly. He seems pleased with himself for that. Well, more pleased with himself than he usually is, anyway - so you find yourself walking through the city streets with his company. 

And it’s… nice. You’ve never been sure what to make of Astarion. He’s a bit too cunning for your usual taste in companion, but there can be no doubt that he’s competent. He travels the city streets with a familiar ease, and when he goes to turn down an alleyway mid-conversation, you almost follow him without thinking.

Almost.

“The thing is I’m sure he eats them, but – what are you doing back there? Keep up, I won’t wait for you,” he says, waiting for you. You shuffle awkwardly, and he reads your face without you having to say a word.

“Come now, I’m not going to bite you. Not unless you want me to,” there’s that damned grin again. You harrumph, knowing full well that’s exactly why you hesitated, but not wanting to show weakness in front of him. Nothing that he can use against you. You scuttle along until you make up the distance, and fall back in step.

Soon it’s just the two of you. The city noise dies down and the sound of your boots echoes in tandem with his. He has you completely alone. He could do whatever he wanted with you. You know he wouldn’t, of course, but… you’d be lying if you said the idea didn’t thrill you, just a tiny bit.

Astarion lets out a laugh.

“Your blood’s started pumping faster. Tell me, little mage, is something making your heart pound?”

Oh, right. Vampire. The bastard is uncannily attuned to these things.

“No!” you say, quickly, but there’s not much fire behind it, no real sincerity. His lip quirks. 

“I’ve seen the way you look at me, you know. It’s alright to feel desire. Gale doesn’t seem to take very good care of you, after all…”

That makes you stick your tongue out and gag. You totally ignore the first part of that sentence and spit:

“Eurgh, Gale? Absolutely not! He’s like my brother. We’ve known each other since… well, for as long as I can remember, honestly,” you say. And it’s true. You love him, of course, but not like that. Maybe you’re a bit jealous of Tav but only because they’re taking up so much of his time. You’re desperate to have another magic lesson. It feels like it’s been ages since he’s taught you anything, and you’ve been somewhat demoted to his personal assistant rather than his student. You can’t be too upset, though. He does have that tadpole in his head, so things are probably a lot more pressing to him than teaching you how to properly refine your Fireball spell. 

Astarion sees how introspective you’ve become. You have a habit of chewing on your lip when you’re lost in thought, and he’s become quite partial to it. It’s… sweet. Secretly he’s become quite partial to you. You’re endearing, bullheadedly stubborn, but sincere and enthusiastic. A bright spark in a dark world and he is drawn to you, whether he wants to be or not. 

He’s harbouring something for you, and doesn’t quite want to admit what that might be. So he teases. 

“You really do take up all of your time with studying, don’t you?”

You shrug as much as you can beneath your armful of books. 

“Wouldn’t you, if you had the best tutor around? Wouldn’t you want to learn every single thing you possibly could?”

“All that time squirrelled away over a spell book. I wonder if you’ve ever even been kissed.”

You stop dead. Ah, he thinks. Got you. 

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” you snap, but you know your voice wobbles a little. A bit of a sore spot if you’re honest. Seeing Gale and Tav has made you realise that, actually, maybe there is something you long for. Something more. 

“Ahh, so you haven’t. There’s no shame in that, little mage.”

Your cheeks are burning. You can’t look him in the eye. Thank the gods the two of you are alone, you wouldn’t want anyone to see you so flabbergasted. 

“I’m… you’re…” you struggle to find words to adequately express how you feel. Furious. Embarrassed? A whole tide of things all at once, rooting you to the ground. 

He walks closer. If he was living, you’d be able to feel the heat coming off of him. He puts his pile of books on the top of a part-built wall, then takes yours to do the same. You don’t resist. 

“Would you like to be kissed?”

You manage to drag your eyes up from the ground to meet his gaze, searching it for any hint of insincerity. He is teasing you, a bit, but… his eyes are surprisingly soft. 

He means it. 

And before you can think it over, you nod. 

His lips are soft. Far softer than you expected for a vampire. His kiss gently presses your mouth open, allowing for a lithe and curious swipe of his tongue. You eagerly accept it, voice catching in your throat a little in a half-rendered moan. 

He tastes like mint. It’s fresh. It’s sweet. 

You want more. 

Carefully you put a hand on either one of his biceps, a gentle test of the muscle there. It might be only for show, but it’s firm enough for you to enjoy how it feels in your grip. You sense him smile against your mouth and deepen the kiss, running his fingers up the length of your arm until he can cup your face; grip the back of your head.

When he walks you back to press up against the alleyway wall, you trust him; and when he hooks your collar down with a single long finger, exposing your neck, that half-moan comes back with full force. 

“That’s it,” he sighs, feather-light, “let me hear you, you sweet thing.”

His mouth leaves yours in order to kiss a long line down your jugular. His teeth ghost the skin there, but he never threatens to bite. 

Not unless you want me to. 

You find yourself trusting him absolutely. His tongue flicks against your pulse and you thrust your hips forward inadvertently. It’s an impulse. An instinct. But it has an impact, and you hear Astarion catch his breath just a bit. 

“Where have you been hiding all this?” he asks, gravel filling his voice as you thread your fingers into his hair. 

“Maybe you never gave me a reason to show it to you.”

He seems to like that answer, so when he slips his leg between yours, presses his thigh up to your sex… gods, you start to rock against him without a second thought. 

It’s good. It feels good. Good in a way only your own hands have ever made you feel, late at night, beneath your bedroll with fucking Astarion, Astarion, Astarion running through your head. 

“Look at you. All desperate for me. What do you want me to do, little mage? Where do you want me to touch?”

You take his hand and guide it down your body, yes gods yes to the apex of your legs, and —

Greetings! Hope I’m not catching you at a bad moment, but need those books at camp ASAP. Do let me know when you’ll be back!

Gale’s Sending is like a cold bucket of ice through your body, and you freeze under Astarion’s ministrations. The moment is utterly shattered. A hand on his chest moves him away and he acquiesces, confused but not pushing back. 

“Hello Gale,” you sigh out loud, letting the elf know the reason for the interruption. “Will be back as soon as possible. Not too far from the camp now. Sorry for the delay. Got a little… held up.”

And then you’re just standing there. In an alley. With Astarion. And you feel very silly all of a sudden, very small. Once again your eyes drop to the floor and you start grabbing the books, quickly, anything to distract you from how humiliated you feel. You’re not sure if it’s because you let yourself give into him so easily or if it’s because you didn’t want him to stop — and you’re a bit terrified at how far you’d have let him go. 

“I’ll see you at camp,” you manage to stutter out, before practically running away. 

Astarion watches you go. Your departure stings. 

[devilfic]

❝right place, right time❞

X. we don't fight fair.

parts: previously plot: you and bruce talk some more about your arrangement. everyone wants to know what's going on with you two. pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x gn!reader. cw: surgeon!reader, secret identities, slow burn, angst is back baby, but so are the romcom plot beats, somebody get gordon a drink and get one for me too. words: 7.6k. a/n: LOTS of plot this chapter, but also some maybe cute things coming later. in between the horrors :D

It takes more coaxing than you would like for Bruce to let you leave alone two days later. Even with proof of a patient, he insists he send you in his car, with his driver and his guards. One of the cops on your detail had confessed they were feeling redundant, leisurely as they were anyway, parked outside General with coffees barely keeping hot in the November chill, “Just the one today, right doc?”

You snuggle deeper into your coat, hands eagerly grasping at the warmers in your pockets, “Just the one. If everything goes smoothly, I’ll be out before lunch.”

“Well, we’ll be here. Holding down the fort.” The two of them snicker to themselves. Glancing to the side, you see Bruce’s men: one in the driver’s seat of his car and the other waiting by the entrance for you. Unlike your detail, they dared not crack a smile for fear of looking too cheerful. You wouldn’t admit it out loud (because these cops were being paid to keep you alive), but you felt like your life was in much better hands with people who weren’t currently goofing around on the hood of their car.

“Right. Thanks, fellas.” You can’t be bothered to sound sincere, and from their general lack of acknowledgement, they don’t seem to care.

You spin on your heels, preparing to follow Bruce’s guard into the hospital, but nearly crash into a woman walking behind you. The collision has you stumbling and jumping back, Bruce’s guard jumping forward, and the woman baring her teeth at you in a… smile?

Her teeth glint bleach-white off the gathering snow, a few shades lighter than the hair smoothly pinned at her crown. Unlike everyone else shuffling past on the icy sidewalk, she is perfectly content with standing right in front of you under the porte-cochère. You supposed the black, mink coat wrapped around her person kept her all warm and toasty. You felt jealous. Then you felt like you should apologize for ramming into her, but nothing came out.

“Apologies, I didn’t mean to scare you,” The extravagant woman speaks first, glancing over her shoulder at the guard who now looms between the two of you, prepared to defend if need be, “Oh! Hello, pleasure to meet you.” She reaches a hand out to the guard and when he doesn’t go to take it, she snatches his hand up from his side in a firm handshake.

You’re more forthcoming with your hand when she turns to you, though you’re not at all sure why she’s bothering to introduce herself. Anyone else would’ve moved on by now. And flipped you off while they were at it.

“Ma’am, is there a problem here?” One of the cops pipes up from behind you, eyes fixed on the woman.

Her smile grows wider, “Not at all, officer. I just thought this all looked so… curious.” She gestures between the cop car and Bruce’s car with one French-tipped finger, “You wouldn’t happen to be a celebrity doctor, would you? Plumping up the pillow-faces of our city’s darling socialites, perhaps?”

You try to scoot around the woman, but she moves with you, keeping perfect eye contact with you the whole time, “I’m real sorry, but I need to get going. I have an appointment-“

“With Bruce Wayne?”

You flinch. The woman looks… familiar, now that you’re looking at her more closely. Her name escapes you. “Excuse me?”

“Bruce Wayne. That’s his car- well, one of them anyway. A source of mine says it’s the same one from two days ago when you both arrived together for… something. And the same one from a few weeks ago; if I recall, Mr. Wayne made a generous donation—a whole wing!—to Gotham General earlier this month. And now you’ve been spotted using his car. What’s that all about?”

The same cop from before flanks your side, locking you in with Bruce’s guard and this mysterious woman, “Lady, they’re busy. I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.”

“I only want to ask a few questions.”

“And they don’t have to answer. If you keep this up, I’m gonna write you up for harassment.”

She looked like she’d been waiting to hear that. She reaches within the folds of her coat and pulls out a badge, brandishing an ID for the cop to read, “Whatever happened to freedom of the press?”

You peer at the ID yourself, at the impeccably styled photograph of the same woman with the same blonde hair falling in loose, Hollywood curls that frame her smile. Beside her photo is her name: Vicki Vale. You suddenly remember where you’d seen her before.

Vicki knows you know, too. You try to sidestep her for the door but she crowds in on you, barreling through the arms that attempt to hold her back, “Are you Mr. Wayne’s doctor? Is he sick? Is he dying?”

Your lip curls back in a snarl, “What ever happened to HIPAA?”

That amuses her. “Is he in the car right now? Is that why you’ve got all this security? Is Bruce Wayne paying for your protection after you were taken hostage a few weeks ago?”

The cop grabs Vicki by the upper arm, managing to wrangle her away from you, but she only pivots to the car, tapping her nails on the tinted windows and calling out for Bruce to comment. You almost feel sorry for her, in the way you might feel sorry for a rabid dog walking in circles on a busy street.

You feel a hand on your back and Bruce’s guard ushers you quickly into the hospital, even as Vicki shouts after you for clarification on Bruce’s whereabouts. His expression, as always, is flat.

When you’re far enough away from the lobby, you ask, “Does that kind of thing happen to… him a lot?”

The guard doesn’t bother to pause in his stride, doesn’t even bother to look down at you as he answers, “Yes.”

You supposed if you had to deal with people like Vicki Vale all your life, you’d become a recluse too.

At the very least, you hadn’t said anything damning. She would have nothing to go off of with whatever soundbite she managed to grab from you, and God save her editor when they’d inevitably have to cut out her getting threatened by a cop.

She’d been waiting for you, though. How she knew you’d be here, at this time, meant she’d either been tailing you or she had someone on her payroll doing it for her. The thought makes your stomach churn.

Bruce had been in your office twice, but you had never been in his.

It was bigger, obviously; it’s two floors below the penthouse with a receptionist outside and some hallways leading to God knows where. The receptionist—Jennifer, who insists you call her Jenny—is very forthcoming with refreshments as you wait outside for Bruce’s meeting to finish. You decide there’s no better time than now to pick apart the marble floors and TVs on the wall replaying WE’s corporate reel.

The lobby downstairs was modern, clearly remodeled, but Bruce’s office and penthouse were comparatively frozen in time. You could almost picture the first Waynes walking through here all those years ago. Everything—from the luxurious leather chair you were sitting on, to the warm low light, to the gentle clicking of Jenny’s fingers on the keyboard, to the empty glass of sparkling water she’d given you had almost made you forget that you were currently living in the penthouse upstairs.

The door to Bruce’s office opens, breaking you out of your contemplation. A man in a fine suit walks out, chatting with Bruce, though you couldn’t see the latter from where you were sitting. You can only catch the last half of their conversation: something about an auction?

You don’t have much time to think on it. Jenny quickly rises from her desk and slips into Bruce’s office, and a few seconds later comes out to invite you in.

You don’t see Bruce at first. The room is just as big as you imagined. Bruce’s desk is right across from the doors, backlit by large windows letting in the noonday light. It’s a heavy, wooden thing that is far bigger than it really has any business being with next to nothing actually on it. And, notably, he is not sitting at it.

It takes you a second to spot him to your left at a built-in bar, washing out a glass of what looked like dark liquor down the drain. It isn’t until Jenny shuts the door behind you that he looks over at you, setting the empty glass on the counter.

Today, he’d forgone a sweater for a white button-up with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. You noted the healed over cuts and scars on his arms and wondered if people asked about them the way you had, enchanted (rather than perplexed) by stories of martial arts hobbies with no concerns for where he went at night. He watches you thinking about it, but before you can ask, he speaks first, “So, you met Vicki.”

Your shoulders slump just at the mention of her. Bruce catches it and a smile, however small, warms up his expression. “Unfortunately.”

“Bet she made an impression.”

You cross the room in a few strides, undoing your coat and throwing it over a nearby chair, “She’s tactless. She said her source recognized your car and now she wants to know what we are to each other,” You pause in your ranting when you see him pour a bit of brandy into the glass next to him, “Is that for me?”

He casually hands it to you, “You look like you need it.”

You don’t have the marbles to take offense to that at the moment. You knock back the shot in one go, then go to pour yourself another one as Bruce watches you. After you throw back the second one, you realize that he hasn’t responded to you. “Weren’t you listening? I said she’s following us.”

“Plenty of reporters are, she’s not special.”

“Wh- sorry, what?”

Bruce shrugs, “Vicki Vale isn’t the only reporter in Gotham who knows what cars I drive, who I go to lunch with, or where I put my money.”

“Isn’t that…” You start to ask, but the way Bruce is looking at you makes you feel like your perfectly reasonable question has a perfectly obvious answer already, “…isn’t that bad?”

“Not when I know what cars they drive. I know who works for them. When I don't want to be seen, I’m not seen. They don’t have that luxury.”

“You keep tabs on all of them?”

You watch Bruce lean against the bar to face you, one hand in the pocket of his- okay, whoa. Either his thighs were getting bigger or his pants were getting tighter. You don’t remember his other suits being this… formfitting. You can’t help but notice how they stretch as he reclines, and though your eyes flick back up to his before he can catch you, he makes no mention of it… even if his eyes narrow some. He waits until he’s sure he has your undivided attention, “I like to be informed. Especially since we’re selling a narrative, now.”

“A narrative.” After a moment, it clicks in your mind. “That we’re together. The narrative we never agreed on selling.”

Bruce brushes right past that, “So what’d you tell Vicki?”

You pour yourself a third shot, though it’s a bit more modest. You cap off his brandy and move away from the bar as if it would silence the siren song of day-drinking, “I told her that asking if you're dying is a HIPAA violation.” Bruce's mouth twitches as if containing a laugh. "What?"

You watch him contemplate telling you, and then, as if he suddenly thinks better of it, he shakes his head. “You just reminded me. If we do agree to do this, I will have to fire you. Patient ethics."

“Which is another reason why we probably shouldn’t do it.”

His head tilts, “Probably?”

You flush. You sip on your drink, folding your other arm around your waist as he questions you with his eyes, “I just… I’m frustrated. I hate this. I hate that the safest choice here is to hide away while you take care of it. It’s not that I don’t trust you to do it, I just don’t want to run away.”

Bruce watches you in that way of his, calculating and assessing. “Going in alone is running away too. You’d be Isaac bound at the altar.”

“And you, Abraham? Delivering me to a cruel god?” A rush of exasperation sours his expression. “I’d be stopping him. It’s me he wants.”

“And what about your parents? Your friends? Judith? You’d be fine leaving them to bury you?”

“Of course I’m not- of course not.”

“Then you don’t have to do it. Trust me.”

“I do trust…” You stare at him for a moment, “I trust you. I have to. But you get that this is weird, right? Getting together for the press? Putting all eyes on us? You get why this feels weird for me, don’t you?” Bruce is quiet, holding your gaze steady. You know that this plan wasn’t his first choice, and yet he didn’t look nearly as put off by it as you were. Perhaps it was another way you two differed. Something else to chalk up to being so rich that things like this- maneuvers like this become necessary. “Why do you want to do it?”

He pushes himself off the bar, taking a step and then another until he’s squarely in front of you. You have to squeeze your hands into fists to tamp down the immediate flight response you feel being this close to him, seeing this almost unguarded side to him. It was different from the deer-in-headlights deal he had when you first met: open, but unsure. It rocks you that he doesn’t look so unsure anymore. You swallow and keep his gaze, but it feels like a lot more work for you than it is for him.

“You said you don’t want to hide, and I don’t want to make you. We need a good reason for me to stick by your side. This is a solution.”

“You don’t need to stick by me. I’ve got a detail, remember?”

“I don’t trust two cops to keep you safe.”

“Your guards, then. You’ve got more than enough to do the job for you.”

Something in Bruce’s eyes flicker, “Maybe I want it to be me.”

Your courage slips. Your lips part, sounding out words you can’t bring yourself to say. What do you say to that?

He wants it to be him. He wants to be the one to keep you safe.

Logically, you know he’s right. GCPD’s finest couldn’t hold a candle to his strength and dexterity. They couldn’t even keep him out of their servers. And his guards were better, but they were still fallible. A gunshot or a stab wound would take them out just as easily as it would anyone else. The man before you had survived both of those things and more.

Uncanny warmth unfurls your fists. It curls around your rib cage, through each bone, around each lung, worming its way up your throat and unspooling in your mind. You feel warm all over. It is a terribly strange feeling to have for Bruce Wayne, but you’re having it all the same.

If he was still just Batman to you, you might’ve done something you couldn’t easily take back.

You suddenly wish for the times when that was the case, when blindfolds were commonplace, so you wouldn’t have to look him in the eye or think through how one might have gone through with those thoughts, if one had the chance- “As far as reasons go,” you struggle around the lump in your throat, “That’s not the worst.”

Bruce smiles.

He skirts around you and heads for the desk as you watch him go, the scent of him finally permeating past your defenses. He didn’t smell like green apple today—more sandalwood or pine—and as you debate on the specific notes, he comes back to you with a flier in hand. It takes your scent-drunk mind a minute to read it.

Gotham City Food Bank presents: The Thanksgiving Bachelor Auction!

You stare. Bruce is still holding the flier out to you, expecting a reaction. You can’t really think of one. “Uh.”

“I’d like you to come.”

“Why…?”

“The food bank puts together Thanksgiving baskets every year for the needy: turkeys, tofu, yams, stuffing, the works. They do a charity event to raise money to stuff the baskets. It’s for a good cause.”

“That’s awesome. What does this have to do- oh, fuck.”

Bruce raises his eyebrows. You recall what the man from earlier mentioned about an “auction”. You snatch the flier away to look at the finer details. It would be this weekend, there were six bachelors planned (including Bruce), and each person was encouraged to bid big for charity. Dinner would be provided. It sounded nice.

“You can bring Dr. Madison,” Bruce offers, “I think she likes me.”

She does. She painfully does. You could imagine her emptying this month's and last month's paycheck on a date with Bruce. Taking him to the nicest (and least vandalized) sushi joint in the city, engaging him with tales of the kids she's saved and her love of Broadway. Pampering him with praises for his charity work, admiring him openly and easily, charming him the way she charmed him at General.

She is a charming, sweet, beautiful woman. Bruce would look very good with her, even for charity. You wonder what things would've been like had he broken into her apartment instead of yours.

“Just wait 'til she finds out you personally invited her," you force a laugh, "She's going to have to take out a loan."

"I didn't know you were planning to bid on me, too." He's joking. Obviously, he's joking, if the barely restrained smile is anything to go by.

"In your dreams, maybe." Bruce shrugs. "But... I thought we were creating a narrative. Letting someone else buy you for a night isn't very romantic." You hate how hesitant you sound, like the idea of it displeased you. You don’t mean to sound that way, of course. It's just that if anyone were going to go on a date with Bruce... shouldn't it be you?

“The dates are just for fun. You'd be my real date.” His real date. God. “It would make you look like a good sport." He sees you mulling it over, still unsure. He folds the flier into his pocket. "Or not. We don't have to tell them anything yet. I wouldn't want to make it awkward for Dr. Madison if-“

If what? If she found out you were "dating" Bruce days after telling her to her face that you didn't know his relationship status? God forbid she rub it in your face after you spent so long being indifferent about him. “It's fine. We'll come. But maybe hold off on calling me your real date until you’ve fired me. Officially. You know.”

“I'll have my people talk to your people.”

You feel queasy at the smile he gives you, so casual and reassuring. You could really use a lie-down right about now. “Okay. Well. I’ll see you at home.”

Bruce blinks, but you’re already heading for the doors of his office before you've realized what you just called his place. You hear a quiet “see you” from behind, but you don’t dare to look back.

“Please don’t agitate the inmates. We are liable for anything that happens to you on the premises, but if you go poking around where you shouldn’t, that’s on you.”

The corrections officer hands you a clip-on badge with your name on it, but when she goes to ask Batman for his ID, she hesitates.

“He’s with me.” Detective Gordon assures her from his other side. The officer’s eyes narrow. James raises an eyebrow, “I talked to the warden about it. If you’d like to bring it up with him.”

That seems to be all the convincing she needs. She passes James his badge and gestures for you three to continue on down toward the visitation room.

It had been a hassle getting Bruce through the metal detectors, and it had been distraction enough that it didn’t weigh on you just who you were going to see until you were already in the room.

It was wide, with vending machines and a couple of tables scattered about, barred windows allowing a look into the unusually sunny afternoon outside. A handful of inmates were already there: some visiting family, others meeting with lawyers. It made it easy to spot him. Lucien was the only one alone, and from the looks of him, he was more happy to see you than you were to see him.

As you three walk over, he stands from the table, grinning ear-to-ear. You barely remembered his face from when you were younger, save for the same patchy beard that had yet to fill in after all these years. He greets Bruce first, holding out a hand, “Wow. You know, I’ve never seen you up close before. Kinda glad about that.”

Bruce does not shake his hand. Lucien’s smile is unwavering. His eyes slide past yours to meet the detective’s, and James shakes his hand out of pity.

It isn’t until you and James sit down that Lucien finally looks at you dead on. “You look good.” You feel your stomach lurch. It didn’t feel good to hear, especially when he looked at you like freshly caught prey. When you make no move to reply to that, he shrugs, “I almost didn’t recognize you. I hear you’re a doctor now. Really worked your way up from gutter trash, huh?”

Your expression hardens and he snickers.

James cuts in for you, “Mr. Goulding, we requested a visit because we think you might be able to help us with an ongoing case you were involved in. Can you tell us what you remember about Dimitri Young?”

Lucien’s eyes slither back to James, “Not much. Kid wasn’t with us long. He was… skinny. Cried easy. Up Nat’s ass all the time.”

“Were you close with Ms. Young?”

“Yeah, yeah. You could say that. We worked with each other. Ran the trade for a while with a couple other kids. Got a lot of customer service experience back then. She was… nice. Shame what happened.”

James raises an eyebrow, “Seems like you were on good terms. And after Natalie was killed, did you keep up with Dimitri? Visit him at Arkham, maybe? Write him letters?”

Lucien glances at you. “Well… it was tricky. Thanks to the good doctor and friends, I had to steer clear of the whole thing for a while. Felt bad for the kid, though. When I heard about the plea deal… I’d have taken life here over Arkham. I don’t care how fucked up the kid got over Nat’s death. What they’re doing down there?” He looks over at James and grimaces, “That’s the real criminal shit.”

You remembered that. His lawyer had pleaded insanity under the guise he’d get parole on good behavior, gain sympathy for having lost his only family so brutally. You remembered what Bruce said too; he’d been good. He was doing good until he saw you.

James gears up to ask another question but Lucien cuts him off, “Are they gonna talk or are they just decoration?” He points his finger at you and Bruce who hovers over your shoulder.

You wring your hands underneath the table, feeling Bruce’s eyes burning into the back of your skull. The truth was that you had a list of questions to ask him. You’d stayed up all night writing them down, rehearsing them.

Now, you could only remember Natalie and the barrel of her gun.

Lucien was there, too. He was on the frays of the memory as he always was. The shootout had yielded successes and failures, and Lucien, who’d been there that night—who laughed as Alex laughed and laughed harder when the bullet nestled itself into the meat of her brain—had not been found for years after that. You thought sometimes that you saw him on the street, but his appearance in your memory was just as frayed.

It all comes back to you now that you’re sitting in front of him. The everyman, a person meant to blend into the crowd. It didn’t surprise you that he’d managed to stay out of here for so long.

“…You don’t have to if you’re not ready.” James’ voice floats in between your musing, making you aware of his and Lucien’s eyes on you. Lucien is still smiling, strands of golden hair slipping out of the small bun at the back of his head.

“Why did you stay with the Vipers for so long?”

Your question surprises him, like he hadn’t expected you to have a voice after all these years, “I was open to new opportunities. But they paid well and you’re almost guaranteed a good position if you don’t get gunned down before 18. I was running my own little unit of teenyboopers before I got locked up.”

You frown. How casual he is describing it all. “They didn’t toss you aside as soon as you got too old to control?”

“No, no. That was your friend’s big issue, wasn’t it? Scared to be controlled. Nah. The boss man liked me. You know they like ‘em young, easy to impress upon and all that. They want the lifelong loyalty. I’ve never been that devoted, you know? But I liked the money.”

“Do you know what happened to Dimitri?” This question, Bruce asks. For the first time, you see Lucien’s smile dim some.

Lucien clears his throat, “No. Kid kick the bucket?”

“He broke out with some inmates not too long ago. He’s on the street hunting down people related to Nat’s case.”

Lucien looks from Bruce to you, then breaks out into a fit of hysterical giggles. The sound is grating to your ears. “Holy shit. He wants to kill you.”

“He’s killed one person already,” James stresses, trying to save you the humiliation. “We need to know if you think he could be working with the Vipers again. We believe someone is supplying him with… venom.”

“Venom? Fuck me. That’s expensive, especially those newfangled strains they had on the street when I was out. Can really fuck you up if you’re not careful.”

“Did the Vipers have their hands on that kind of stuff? You were a lieutenant after all.”

“Maybe. Not as much as they did drops. That was all the rage. Venom’s too volatile and, like I said, it can really fuck you up,” Lucien exhales hard through his nose. “If Dimitri’s on that, he’s not gonna last. Especially if the Vipers are giving it to him.”

You frown, “Why especially?”

“I mean, come on. Same reason you and your friend beat the shit out of him all those years ago,” You flinch at the memory. “He was weak and nobody gave a shit about him except Nat. My guess is the kid probably went back to ‘em for help, and they saw an opportunity to make him a lab rat.” You feel Bruce shift behind you as his cape brushes what little of your arm you were allowed to leave exposed here. Lucien’s eyes drift up Bruce’s body, sparkling with some new recollection, “And with Mr. Vengeance on the streets, I imagine juicing your best men up with venom oughtta make a nice challenge.”

Lucien watches as you process what he'd realized instantly. Behind the feigned impassivity, some little bit of him seems to find this just as awful as you do. Even if it's just pity, a shake of the head as foresight grants him the knowledge that what comes next will undoubtedly be a tragedy.

It had to have been Dimitri’s first time on venom when he attacked Russo, and as uncoordinated as he was, he had put up a fight against Bruce. You couldn’t imagine what he’d be like if he got better at it. If he got more of it. And he would, if the Vipers had any sense. You knew they didn't give a shit about you, or Russo, or Alex, or Dimitri. They were just hoping that his rage would make a casualty out of the Batman.

He was going to kill himself for the chance. And the Vipers wouldn't care. They would leave his doped up, bloated carcass in the street like they had left Nat.

You realize that you aren't breathing when you feel a cool hand on your upper back, closing around your scruff and sending a jolt of awareness through you. You almost think that it's Dimitri—having crawled out of your racing thoughts and come to take you once and for all—before realizing that it was Bruce, hovering so close now that his cape brushed your shoulders. His leather-clad thumb brushes against the nape of your neck, and when you look up to see him looking down at you, you catch him imploring you for something. Urging you to get out of your head.

Looking at him reminds you to breathe. You take one deep breath in, holding his gaze, and turn back to Lucien.

When you do, he looks different now. His eyes linger on Bruce’s hand. When you ask him your next question, he doesn’t seem to delight in the drama of it anymore, “After Dimitri was put away, what did the Vipers do?”

Lucien stares at you, then past you. His tone is solemn after a few moments of silence, “It was business as usual. They packed up what they could, moved to their other safe-houses in the city, relocated and reallocated. They talked about… the kid costing more than he was worth. Handful of us pitched in and got Nat a grave. I’ve been a few times. Not recently. It was nice.”

“Where?”

His eyes narrow at you, “Why do you give a shit? You feel guilty? Wanna leave some flowers for the dearly departed?”

You feel your lower lip wobble and you curse the feelings burning inside you. You were trying so hard to keep it together. “Do you think any of the Vipers would bother to tell him?”

He stares at you for a minute. Someone new walks into your peripheral view. It’s one of the correctional officers warning you about time. Something soft coats Lucien’s voice then, "She's in St. Agatha’s cemetery, near the treeline. The name on the marker is Adelpha Lions. We couldn't bury her as Natalie.”

Adelpha Lions. St. Agatha's. You think about bringing her flowers, but the thought leaves a terrible taste in your mouth.

The officer from before comes back to escort the three of you out, and Lucien doesn't bother to acknowledge her or James thanking him for his time. He only watches you, leveling you with a look of such contempt that you feel your chest hollow out, breath stolen again. He watches you well until the door to the visitation room swings shut.

Bruce and James walk ahead of you, though you notice that Bruce lags behind, glancing back at you every once in a while to make sure you're keeping up. James mentions something about keeping an eye on the cemetery, just in case Dimitri does know about it, and it leaves the same terrible taste in your mouth from before.

You know you ought to say something, but you find yourself drifting after them, mind elsewhere, stuck on the way Lucien looked at you. It was like a switch flipped when he saw Bruce touch you.

Why had he touched you? So blatantly, so intimately? He had to have known how that would look. Could it have been that he didn't care? Or, that he cared more about you?

You peek at Bruce’s profile as you walk; the cold lights above you both make the black of his cowl stand out, but they also make the blue of his eyes that much more piercing when they suddenly zero in on you. Your name is called. You look to the side and see James staring at you, expecting, worried almost, “You good back there?”

“Sorry. What?”

“I said I’d like to talk to you.”

“Oh. Sure.”

“Alone. If you don't mind.”

You look at Bruce. His eyes have focused on James now, searching for what he might want to talk about. You wished you could read minds. You decide it couldn't hurt to ask, “Can I ask what about?”

“Just some... questions. We haven't had the chance to really speak since the night you were attacked. I'd like to follow up with you." You bristle when you realize he expects Bruce to fully leave. James notices, glancing between you and Bruce. "I’ll drop you back at Wayne Tower, since your detail says that’s where you’re staying now.” When you don't make a move to confirm, he sighs, jerking his thumb toward the exit, "...I'll let you two talk."

You watch him walk toward the parking garage, just as Bruce crowds up against you, dropping his voice to a whisper, "He wants to know about me."

"Yeah, no shit. What do I say to him?"

"I told him I'd look into Bruce Wayne to keep him off my trail. There's not much I can do since you told him what you saw." You can hear the irritation bleed through his words. "As far as he knows, Bruce Wayne could be a suspect and you could be in danger."

You curse under your breath, "So I need to clear your name."

"What exactly did you tell him the night you were attacked? Exactly."

"I... I said that I had reason to believe... uh, confidential information was leaked to Bruce."

"Did you tell him exactly what the information was?"

"No."

"Did you tell him where you saw it?"

"No. Just that I knew you knew something you shouldn't. But he knows I had no proof."

Bruce goes quiet. You see him looking off to the side, eyes flicking to and from as he thinks about what to say next. Each second feels like a minute, and you keep watch over the direction James went for fear he'd come looking for you after too long.

You feel Bruce's hand take your upper arm and he brings you closer, tucking you away from the security cameras overhead and into him instead, "Can you lie?"

"You want me to lie to a detective?"

"We don't have a lot of options here. Can you lie?"

You frown, biting into your bottom lip to ground yourself. The pain focuses you some, "What do you want me to say?"

It's your luck that James is patient. A few minutes later, you find him propped up against the trunk of his car, hands in his pockets as he waits patiently for you and Bruce. Bruce gives you both a single nod before heading off to his own car, leaving you alone with the detective and the world of questions he could be gearing up to ask you.

But before you prepare yourself for the first one, James walks around to the driver's side door, flashing you a playful look, “You ever seen the Bat Signal up close?”

The answer was obviously no, but now that it was right in front of you, you wanted nothing more than to see it turned on. You'd seen it light up the cloudy night sky a million times it felt like, and it never failed to take your breath away. It's far too sunny out to see it now. As the chilly breeze tries to sneak under your clothes, you turn to watch the sunlight glint off the skyscrapers, enjoying the little bit snowy Gotham afforded this late in the year.

The city’s still loud from this high up, but it’s different. Kind of like how it felt watching the city from the penthouse. Up here, it felt secluded. Private. Perhaps that’s why James picked it. He kicks the base of the floodlight with his shoe and it barely tremors, “Was a hell of a time trying to get this thing up here. Chief's still coming around to it.”

You think about the burner phone in your pocket. Bruce’s relationship with the rest of the GCPD was… strained at best, but he and James seemed close; you wondered just how deep their relationship went, exactly. Apparently, not deep enough to tell him who he was.

His voice catches your attention just then. “You living with Wayne, now? How'd that happen?"

You breath out a heavy sigh, “I uh… yeah. He offered. After the whole thing with Dimitri. Just until he’s caught.”

“That’s awfully generous.” You don’t respond to that, so he presses more. "Did he offer or did he...?"

"He offered. No coercion." That wasn't entirely the truth, but you had no room for nuance right now.

“Do you feel safe with him?”

“I do.”

“You seemed worried when we first talked about him. You said he had your file.”

“I... I said that I thought he had access to it. Because of something he said."

James’ eyes narrow at you, watching you with his head tilted. “What'd he say to you?"

"He just mentioned something about the... the case. I told him where I grew up and it jogged a memory."

"Is that so?"

You cursed how apathetic James could make himself look. You had no clue if this was working on him, only that you had to follow through with this, seams tight, no loopholes. "He heard about the shooting. His butler, Alfred, he's always been really protective of Bruce. Everyone knew the Vipers snatched kids with no one to check on them, I think he just wanted Bruce to stay safe. Make sure he didn't make the wrong decision if he went out and got himself in trouble. Like I did."

"So, you told Wayne where you grew up, he brought up the shooting, it triggered something in you. You assumed he knew about your file and you felt threatened. That's why you went to the Bat."

"Yeah."

"And now... nothing?" James raises an eyebrow, gesturing to the empty air. "It's all good now?"

It wouldn't be a good story if it was all good. You twist away from James, leaning against a nearby pillar, "Not exactly. I don't know if he really knows or not, it just felt like a scary coincidence. You know? But I told Batman and he said he'd look into it. I trust him above all else."

"You seemed so sure the night I interviewed you."

"I was looking for patterns."

James hums. "The Bat seems to really like you."

That a was a shift. You perk up a bit. “What do you mean?”

“He speaks highly of you. Says I can trust you like I trust him. If you say you feel safe for now, I trust you." Your skin prickles with flattery. "There's just something that's not quite making sense to me."

“Oh?”

"When I looked into your file, nothing looked out of place. GCPD keeps a log of who accesses a file, and from what I could tell, it hadn’t been touched in years. It looked fine… at first.”

Had this been a few days ago, this information would have shook you to your core. It still does, but for an entirely different reason now.

“I’m—admittedly—not great with computers. Normally, I’d ask the guys down in IT about this kind of thing, but seeing as… anyone could be involved, I had my daughter take a look at it. She-“

“Your daughter?”

James pauses. You were no cop, but that didn’t sound particularly legal. Then again, you didn’t have much room to speak. “She… she showed me the metadata, beyond just the stuff we usually see up front, and she found something. The database logs who accesses what because poking around files you have no business looking at can get your badge taken. Needless to say, she found more than a few things wrong.”

“Oh?” This time, your “oh” sounds decidedly more nervous.

“The name and badge number of the last person to access your file was scrubbed from the frontend, but it was still available on the backend. It was an officer, Paul Brown. When I pulled him aside to ask why he needed your file, he claimed he didn’t know anything about it or you. He seemed to be telling the truth, but doing some further digging, I found a trail of cases he’d been accessing over the past two years. Cases related to certain notable figures in the city.”

Notable figures. Like Bruce? Was there more he hadn’t told you?

"I found a connection between those cases and some recent movement from the Penguin. Turned out the guy was a mole feeding intel to Cobblepot. And not just him. I was checking the files he accessed against a timeline of events, and I have reason to believe he’s been feeding a couple of politicians the same need-to-know information. Politicians like Daniel Roberts.”

“Councilman Roberts.” You feel your blood pressure rise as James nods, “Detective, I don’t mean to be rude, but should I even be hearing about this? This sounds serious, way too serious for me-“

“You were there that night at the party Wayne threw, and so was Roberts.”

“Well, yes, but that doesn’t mean anything. There were tons of politicians there who support the mayor. Bruce is interested in politics. Doesn’t mean he’s in bed with them.”

Your defense seems to intrigue James. He rests an arm on the floodlight, “Did the two seem chummy at the party?”

“They didn’t really… talk. I mean, he intervened when I got into an argument with Roberts, but-“

“An argument about what?”

You could kick yourself. It was like this man had a skill for drawing the truth out of you. “It was stupid. He said some stuff about Batman and it got me riled up. Bruce put out the fire.”

“Roberts is the most vocal anti-vigilante member on the city council. Now I know he's connected to a dirty cop, and that he's in Bruce Wayne's circle. Doesn't that seem a little strange to you?”

You swallow, “What exactly are these questions leading to, detective?”

James moves away from the floodlight, approaching you slowly, cautiously, as if he expected you to take flight the second he got too close. “You told me that night that you knew Wayne had information about you he shouldn't have. I found the thread, I pulled it, and now I find Wayne at the center all over again. I'm looking for patterns, too. So, I'm going to ask you again," You watch him reach into his pocket and pull out his phone, flipping the screen to you. In big, bold text, it reads, "NOD IF WE'RE BEING RECORDED" "Are you sure you're safe?"

You should win an Emmy for how you school your expression into one of complete nothingness. All the while in your head, you are cursing the very bed Bruce was conceived upon. You curse him for leaving you here to explain all this, but most of all, you wish you’d kept his bottle of brandy.

You shake your head. James blinks. "I'm sure." You watch him exhale heavily, shoving his phone back into his pocket. "I'm telling you what I believe, detective. I believe I was wrong about Bruce Wayne."

"Maybe. But maybe there's more out there I still need to find."

"You're a good detective, James. Thank you for caring so much. If you can't trust me, trust Batman. If there's something to find, he'll find it."

You can see the slight shake in James’ shoulders. You wonder if he’s starting to freeze up here. You reach into your pocket and hand him one of your warmers, and though he recoils when you first hold out your hand, he thinks about it for a moment, then takes it. "You and the Bat..." He starts, rubbing his thumb against the heat pack in his hand. "He tell you who he is?"

You dodge the question as stealthily as you can, "Did he tell you?"

James considers your question, stern-faced and shivering, “No. But I have my theories." After a moment, he side-eyes you. "You didn't answer my question."

"It's... not for me to say."

He's not satisfied, and you didn’t expect him to be, but he looks too tired to argue now. He runs a hand along his face and looks out onto the city horizon. Under his breath, you hear him whisper, “Yeah. I figured.”

"He trusts you a lot, you know. For the record. I can see why."

You watch him reach into the pocket of his coat and pull out a lighter and cigarette, bringing it to his lips to take a long, deep drag. He holds one out to you, but you shake your head. You'd never been one for smoking (you'd seen the effect it had on the insides), but you could envy the temporary peace on James' face as he blows out a cloud of smoke. "Not a lot of that to spare these days."

a/n: this was a bitch to write with a headache

[notsofunsenpai]

Small Fight

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"Sampo Koski! How fucking dare you!" You shouted at him,clearly angered by him as tears threatened to spill from your eyes as his eyes widened with realization.

"Baby,Darling!-" the male begins to say,trying to be quick and trying to grab your hand, which you quickly moved it away from him.

You quickly get up from the seat that you were sitting on,walking out of the cafe pissed. You wanted to cry but also frustrated at yourself,sure you haven't been taking care of yourself weight wise but the way your lover said it or how he said it fucking upset you.

'It's fine love,it's not like you're gonna lose weight anytime soon.' Was his words as you were eating some Snapper Jam Appetizer with a side of Cosmic fried rice as you brought up the conversation of wanting to start a diet or wanting to go on mission to get more exercise and to spend time with him.

Ignoring your phone as you felt it going off along with vibrating like crazy from the calls and texts messages that you won't bother to look at. You decided to visit a friend,staying with them for a few days because you didn't want to come face to face with your lover,nor hear his pleads. You needed some space to calm down and collect yourself as you hide out at your friends place. You had turned your phone off because you got tired of hearing it. You had your knees tucked to your chest as your arms wrapped around them,resting your head on your knees,looking out the window,watching people going by. Sometimes you thought in moments like this it was unfair how life goes on without the care in the world,nor does time stop for anything. Closing your eyes for a moment, listening to whatever comes to your ears first,it felt peaceful. Calming your nerves some,as the sound becomes fainter and fainter as you slowly drifted off to sleep.

Sampo fucking curses to himself,"Good one Sampo.." he mutters,he had called your phone about fifty times and had sent you over twenty messages.

Baby? :(

I'm sorry,I apologize from the bottom of my heart for causing you such pain.

Please let's talk this out,I didn't mean it!:(

Honey.

My cinnamon roll.

I swear that I will be a better person and will never hurt you again from now on.

I need you

Honey Bunny, I'm so sorry if I brought tears to your eyes; it was not my purpose. Please accept my apologies..

Sorry for acting like a fool; that was not my intention. I'm hoping you'll be able to forgive me and allow me to love you once more.

Please,answer me. I wanna make things right!

Please message me as soon as possible.

I love you, baby♡

He frowns as you weren't answering him,he's worried he fucked this up so bad that it can't be fixed,he feels like something in him had died.he ran his fingers through his now unkept hair,pacing back and forth,"Sampo,you idiot..i have to fix this... i NEED to fix this." He grits his teeth,putting his phone back into his pocket as he as he starts walking hoping he'll find you. He already tried going to your place,you weren't there and he knew you loved your home but he checked else where like your favorite restaurant,he went to see Serval because you love to gossip with her. He went to your favorite park because nearby is an ice cream place,they had your favorite flavor there that no one else serves or sells. He asked some people if they had seen you which they all had said no,he was losing his mind. He sits at a nearby bench,staring at the ground as his eyes were dull and lack any life to them,he clearly wasn't happy.

What happens if he never sees you again?

What if you ended up hating him?

What if you decided to leave town without him knowing?

What would he even do?

You were the only thing that brought joy to him,his sunlight and energy source. He hold his hands together in front of him,clenching or trying to hold himself back from any negative thoughts,he knows its not working but he doesn't want to end up burning this whole city down to find you.

Because he will.

He stared at the ground for a long while,he doesn't know how long but when he comes back to reality it was near night time,maybe doing some jobs will get his mind off if things.

He stands up and finds random tasks at hand,nothing too crazy it was just delivering messages and looking for said things. He usually tries to scam - I mean, help them depending on the situation, but he wasn't really feeling like it, so he actually did the small taks. He did about maybe three to six before stopping,going to a small food stand nearby, and getting something to snack from the running from point A to point B.

He ate quietly to himself,as he tried messaging and calling you once more to only get your voice mail,"Great..she turned her phone off." He curses,finishing his food quickly,tossing it away.

"Baby.. please forgive me." He frowns,head hanging as some of his dark blue hair covers his eyes as his quivering lips turn into a scowl. He finally gives up for the night,heading back to his place,turning on the lights as he enters the room,and flopping down onto the couch,staring out into nothingness.

It was gonna be a long night for him,he could already tell.

You woke up,your body cracked as you moved,groaning in the process as you noted you didn't fall asleep on the bed. You got up,nearly falling on your face as your legs give out but managed to not fall somehow,you went to the bed,getting underneath the covers along with noticing or taking note that it was still dark outside,probably about maybe five in the morning. The bed felt empty and unusually cold,probably because you're usually cuddling your lover,enjoying his warmth or either fighting with him over the blankets. You missed him,but you still were pissed at him,you also didn't bother looking at your phone knowing there's a shit ton of messages. You shuffled alittle in the bed to get comfy,resting your eyes once more,as you went back to sleep until like nine or ten in the morning.

Sampo barely slept,if he did it was probably a power nap? He wasn't sure if he slept but around six he finally got up,his body felt heavy,he felt like he was dead,he trudge to his kitchen to get some caffeine in his system along with eating something sugary to help with his energy levels and not want to die. Getting his phone as he ate breakfast, he sent you a good morning text.

He knew his princess wasn't a morning person but he still wanted to send you a text then a voice-mail,saying how much he loved you. He then goes to the bathroom to shower and brush his teeth,drying himself once done and changing into something more comfortable. He didn't wanna go out today but he didn't want to do anything,so he just kinda did alot of cleaning around the house even if he hated it,he just need to distract himself. He swept and vacuum the floors,did the dishes,mopped the floors,dusts around the house,made the bed,did the laundry along with drying and folding the clothes,he organized his bookshelves or whatever needed to be organized. He eventually ran out of things to clean,dust,or organize and immediately went back to his phone to send few more messages to you,hoping at least one text or that you looked at it at least,but all this poor man got was nothing.

He sighs,setting his phone down.

"Y/N..I missed you so much." He frowns grows.

You woked up a few hours later,sitting up and yawning it the process,rubbing the sleepies out of your eyes as the sun hits your face,feeling the warmth on your skin. You stepped out of bed,fixing your hair into a messy bun and going to the bathroom to do your business then went into the kitchen where your best friend had already had breakfast on the table. The two of you ate together,chatting about random things about that one tv show that was airing or about what your plans were today.

"Hey Y/N,I know you're mad at your partner at what he said,I get it I really do.Well Sampo seems like a nice guy,we all know how he is. He tends to talk before thinking sometimes but I generally think he didn't mean to hurt you,he loves you to much to hurt you. Maybe try to give him another chance,after all we aren't perfect and we all gotta fuck up here and there." Your friend said watching you finish your breakfast. You gived it a thought,letting out a sigh you decided to get up and get your phone,turning it on,immediately got blasted with tons of messages. You waited for like three minutes for them to finally stop,you didn't read them but had an idea of what they were about because you already saw few of the messages that popped up,you would rather call him then go through the messages at this minutes. You dialed his number,putting your to your ear,waiting for him to answer.

"Hello! Baby,I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to hurt or say anything mean to you! I wasn't thinking!" You heard him say,he sounded frantic and worried which was unlike his cool and calm personality.

It almost broke your heart to hear him like this,"My little Blueberry,calm down I'm not going anywhere I promise. Let's meet up at our favorite place."

"Okaay,I'll see you there pumkin pie! Be there soon! I love you." You heard him before he quickly hangs up to meet you there.

You get up,fixing your hair to make it look more presentable and put on new comfy clothes that your friend let you wear. You put your shoes on along with grabbing your keys and the things you need,walking out the door to meet up Sampo.

You guys met outside the ice cream place,the one at the park or near the park,Sampo immediately hugs you tightly.

"I'm sorry,so very sorry." He mutters as his grip doesn't let up.

"Sampo,you're suffocating me!" You squeaked,trying to push him away.

"Please let me make it up to you! I'll buy you a million ice creams! I'll spoil you even more than usual!"

"Sampo." You called out to him.

"I'll steal from people for you!"

"Don't do that."

"Okay.. we'll have date nights everynight!" He smiles,whatever his gal wants she gets,he'd make sure he'll follow your request.

You managed to break free from his grip,grabbing his hand and kissing it,making small circles into his palm,"I appreciate the thought but you don't gotta do all of that... I may forgive you to easily and way to quick,it could be the dumbest mistake I can make,but love is all about making mistakes and forgiving right? We are people,we are bound to make mistakes rather its everyday or not we still make them."

The dark blue haired male smiles,bringing you into a kiss,"Let's make all the mistakes then." He kisses you once more as small giggles escape your lips. He deepens the kiss,slipping his tongue into your mouth,exploring every inch of you.

You felt dizzy but in a good way,feeling your knees become jelly, but lucky for you,you had an amazing, strong, and handsome boyfriend to hold you. You felt like time had stopped for just a moment until you heard some random person clearing their throats.

Sampo breaks the kiss with a grin while your face was flustered from the kiss and from the embarrassment,you apologized to the citizen,feeling Sampo taking hold of your hand, whispering into ear,"I know of another way I can make it up to you my queen." Hints of lust was in his voice as your face turn darker in front of the citizen,Sampo quickly drags you to his place.

He wasted no time getting you naked,in between your legs kissing and bitting your inner thigh,"Mhh such beautiful thighs you have baby." He squeezes your chubby thighs,admiring them,loving them. You looked away shyly as he complements you,"Ah,Ah,Ah,look at me, baby." He calls you which you immediately obey.

"That's my gal." He smiles.

He gets close to your pussy,you could feel his warm breath,he gives you a kiss down there before licking all over your pussy. Your hands went to his hair,trying to remain eye contact with him as he eats you out.

You felt weak.

Weak to your knees.

He then went back to placing kisses,sloppy ones,messy ones,long and short ones,and my God the tip of his tongue puts pressure on your sensitive clit,you bite your lip as you rolled your eyes slightly.

"Sam..po.." you moan.

You begin moving your hips,grinding yourself on his tongue.

Sampo gets closer if even possible,his strong hands his on both of your thighs,gripping them like he's never gonna feel them again,sucking and biting your clit till it's swollen. He gently kisses it,loving the noises you made for him as he enters his tongue in you one more and fucks you with his tongue,making out with your walls as the best as he could.

Your eyes rolled back again,your wall clenching around his tongue,grinding faster or as fast as you could,"Sampo.. please..please..." you plead to him,feeling tears in your eyes as your fingers grabbed harder onto his hair which he moan from that. You felt his tongue touch a certain part,a sensitive part,"Ah!" You cried,feeling light headed,you would of fallen by now if Sampo wasn't holding you.

You were close,you could feel your climax coming quickly.

Huh?

He took his mouth off of you..

You wanted to cry.

Hearing him undoing his belt,"Baby,let's finish this on the bed,I said I'll make it up to you,plan on doing it in different ways. Going to spoil you tonight. " His eyes gleamed in mischief.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Nightlife 18

Warnings: dubcon, noncon, touching, coercion, manipulation, violence. Proceed with caution.

Note: I know what you’re thinking, why the fuck are you doing this? Well, you wanted bouncer Lee and I did too. Also, short!reader, not sorry.

Part of The Club AU

A long moan slips from between your lips. Your dewy cheek presses to the bedspread as your thigh clench, throbbing from inside as the swirling stirs your wits. You clutch the edge of the bed, gasping as Lee laps loudly behind you.

“Mmm, darlin’,” he murmurs against you, dragging two fingers along your leg. You quiver and he chuckles, the rumble rolling through you, “just relax…”

He lets the last letter drawl out as he places his mouth against your ass and nips at the tender flesh. His fingertips circle your hole and you squeeze your muscles tight. He purrs, teasing you as he prods and rubs you.

“I said… relax,” he pulls his fingers asay and you hear the wet noise if his mouth sucking, “I just wan’ make you feel good, baby.”

He touches your ring with slobbery fingers, spreading his spit around as he pokes against the resistance. You hiss and he once more pinches your cheek with his teeth. He hushes you as he dips a fingertip slowly into you.

You yipe and throw your head up at the intrusion. You slap a hand on the mattress, the bounce urging him further in. He sucks on your flesh, a welt forming with the pressure as he buries past his first knuckles. He wiggles in you, slipping back and in again. He works your hole, loosening you with short but gentle thrusts.

You tremble, the pressure mingling with the burn of his invasion. You never felt anything like that. It's painful yet delicious. It's only the shock of your own shame that keeps you tense. You've never done this before, never even thought of doing it.

“Lee….” You wisp, “you said… wait… we'll wait…”

“We gon’ wait,” he snarls against your ass, rocking his hand as he presses a second finger against your hole, “this ain't… ain't nothing. Just a bit of fun.”

“Please…” You gulp and your eyes roll back as you bite your tongue.

“That's it, kitten, you like it, huh? Gonna purr for me, ain't ya?”

His breath fans damply over your flesh as you grasp at the blankets. Your back arches and your toes curl. His other hand creeps up and tickles along your folds, slick as he fingers glide between them. He finds your clit, rubbing lightly as he adds to the flames licking at your core.

You hold your breath as the pressure boils and quakes in you. You drop your head and cry out, spasming as the tension unties. Your legs go slack and you heave into the mattress, murmuring as he coos sweetly against your skin.

He slips his fingers out, little by little, and moves to lick you again. He twirls his tongue around, still teasing your clit. He hums and raises his head, resting his chin on the cusp of your ass.

“Ya ain't so sad now, are ya?”

You shudder, unable to speak as your mind lay in pieces. As good as it feels, there's still a part of you afraid of it. The way he never really asks, but does as he pleases.

🌸

“Got a big surprise for ya,” Lee swings your arm as he clings to your hand, “ya excited?”

“A surprise?” You wonder as he walks you down the pavement to the curb.

“Can't spoil it. You just get in and see,” he winks and kisses your forehead. He stops and looks you up and down, “you look so good, my blossom flower.”

“Oh,” you glance down at your red coat and pale blue jeans, “I do?”

“You always do to me,” he grins, “but I think I know something suits ya better.”

You blink at his cryptic words. You don't quite get what he means. He opens the car door and you get in. You buckle up as he shuts it and goes around his side.

He flips on the radio, bopping his head to The Ronettes as he drives. It's a sunny day despite the cold. You watch the city pass outside the window and try to enjoy it. The shadow of your shortcoming never really leaves, it just fades into the background.

As the car pulls into a lot, you stare curiously at the bookstore in the corner of the plaza. You like books, that's a nice surprise. Lee gets out and stretches. You undo your seatbelt and follow him, keeping a hand on the car as you stare at the shop.

You set off across the lot without a second thought.

“Wow, wow,” Lee staggers after you and catches your hand, “where ya off to?”

“Oh, I was…” you turn back, “I thought we were going to look at books.”

“Maybe after,” he chuckles and he gives a dramatic look to the storefronts along the stretch of pavement, “anything else catch your eye?”

There's a hobby shop for a game you don't play and a butcher's. None of it really interests you. He tuts and squeezes your hand tighter, pulling you across the lot.

You look up as he approaches the store at the far end and plant your heels as you see the word ‘bridal’ in curly cursive. Oh!

“Lee, you don't mean…”

“Well, we gotta find you something pretty to wear, don't we?” He lets go of your hand and drapes his arms over your shoulders instead. “I'm not very superstitious. I don't mind a sneak peek.”

“I… I… maybe we should wait,” you sputter, heart beating wildly.

“Wait?” He pulls away completely, “for what?”

“Well, I don't know,” you glance at the windows. The dresses are so pretty but they all seem too much for you. “It's fast is all–”

“Well I'm darn serious about you,” he crosses his arms, “ain't you serious about me?”

“Um, y-yeah, but I just… I just flunked out and I'm still figuring things out.”

“What's there to figure out? You and me, that's all there is.”

“Right, but… but… what if I'm not ready?”

“Not ready for what? Not ready to be mine? Huh? Not ready for me to take care of ya? Sleepin’ in my bed, living under my roof… you been doin’ all that.”

“I'm sorry, I'm not… sorry, sir, it's just… I'm young. It's all new.”

“Young? You're grown. And it's new to me too. I ain't never married neither.”

“You haven't?”

“No, think I been waiting for you,” he softens, “come on, darlin’, I made an appointment and everything.”

“Uh, okay,” you gulp and face the bridal shop. He grabs your hand again and tugs you forward.

You're greeted inside by a woman in all black. She's pretty and elegant and older. You notice how her eyes skim between you and Lee, curious about your relation.

“We're gettin’ married,” he supplies, “appointment for Bodecker.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Bodecker,” she smiles, “of course, can I take your coats?”

You let her take your red coat and he hands over his jacket. You’re led down a long hall, glimpsing other women standing before mirrors in ivory and pearl. Your stomach flipping and flopping.

You enter a room of your own, hangers lining the walls and a few hung on a rolling rack by the low podium before the mirrors.

“We chose a few pieces to your specifications,” the consultant explains, “if you wanna have a look, we can get you in one.”

“Go on,” Lee nudges you and sits on the bench.

You inch forward, letting the consultant take the lead. You keep your hands to yourself and eye the dress with the little flounce at the hem. She notices and unhooks it.

“This one first, follow me,” she waves you along with a gentle smile.

She hangs it inside a changing room and lets you know you can ask for help. You enter as she closes the door and you undress slowly. You step into the dress but can't reach the buttons.

The consultant enters as you reticent call. Her name is Grace, you read it on her name tag. She turns you to face the mirror as she helps button the back.

“Just you and your fiance?” She wonders.

“Mhmm,” you nod.

“That's alright,” she assures, “it's about the dress, right?”

You shrug as she gets the top button done. She looks at the mirror as you try to avoid your reflection.

“You look gorgeous, hon, why don't we go show him?”

You let her take you out, watching your feet as you walk the hallway back to the large room. You hear Lee suck in air as Grace takes you to the podium. You step up and she arranges the skirt around your legs.

“Wow,” is all Lee can say, “looking like the girl of my dreams, darlin'”

[mydarlingbat]

Batman endgame is absolutely amazing. I honestly really got down to reading it again, and i was opened to a lot of new things. I hadn't even noticed. The thing about Batman Arkham City endgame. It's so freaking heartbreaking. Let's skip all of that and get down to business. Let's talk about this first panel.

We're seeing such a wide view here. Batman can't help but be vulnerable in front so many people right now. Right now the crowd doesn't even exist. Harley Quinn slapping him doesn't exist at this moment. Commissioner Gordon screaming his name, inquiring to know what went down in there isn't catching his ears. All he can think about right now is that the Joker's dead, so that's why he walks through those doors, not looking at anyone, just laying the Joker's body gently on the car. There's cops who's happy the clown's dead, but Batman isn't feeling no type of happiness, although he should be, even though he said he should let the Joker die earlier. That's not what he truly wanted. Sure he would be okay with the world being free of The Joker, but not him being free of The Joker right?

What is this? Jim mention he wished he could've killed him himself, and Batman head goes down. No, no, there's no denying it. That's Batman mourning the Joker. Jim even apologizes to Batman, but truly for what? Why can't he have his joy that the Joker is dead? Batman stands there the whole time, trying to grasp the reality, and he doesn't want to. This is also mention in this novel.

The exact words in Batman riddler's gambit novel.

The answer had been right in front of them the entire time, and he'd refuse to see it. The parallels had all been there from the beginning _ the bomb in gotham merchant's bank vault, hunting killer croc, Mr freeze research. The puzzle hadn't been difficult he'd just refuse to solve it. He couldn't admit the Riddler was making a play for the Joker's place in the underworld hierarchy, because to acknowledge that would be admitting that the Joker was gone.

Batman has to try to focus on something else. He has to pretend what he's seeing isn't reality. He wants to be angry at something. He wants to believe this is what the Joker wanted, and maybe it was. Maybe it was, but why are you so angry Bruce? It specify informs us in Batman riddler's gambit novel, that Batman didn't want to believe the Joker was dead, even after the body was burned.

The exact words in Batman / Riddler's gambit novel.

Is it possible the Joker is alive? That would explain the deliberate echoes of previous events. But it was unthinkable. Batman had seen the Joker body. Gordon had watched it burn, and help dispose of the ashes. He was gone. Unless he'd employed a disguise or a body double. No, Batman thought. Not this time. There was too much evidence. They had confirmed it every way possible. Then why am I still clinging to the chance he might have survived. He had fought the joker for years, and came close to to death on more occasion than he could count. He should be joyous it had ended. Yet it seemed as if he had lost someone terribly close. Perhaps he had. That's what Alfred and Robin been hinting at, before the arrival of the package. As bizarre as it seemed, as much as he hated to admit. Batman knew that in some twisted way the Joker was still a part of him. They had defined each other for so long.

This wound presents a deeper meaning. It let's us know that even Alfred knows Batman's sick twisted relationship with the Joker. He doesn't want to acknowledge. The wound gets stitch up by Alfred earlier on, but that same wound wounds up bleeding again. The Joker death will always have a hold on Bruce's heart. Bruce will never truly forget the Joker, and the Joker death will always be a open wound.

Why? Is it symbolic? I think Bruce don't want It to heal. Maybe the artist is letting us know that the wound will never heal. The hidden wounds that no one sees.

You have to understand when the Joker gave Batman another job after he passed. You have to understand this exactly what Batman needed. The thrill of it is visible on his face. Batman looked pleased to finally be solving a case that the Joker left him. This is not an angry face. This is a face of interest. He desires to hear more. He needs this as much as he needs to hide from reality.

However when the Joker mentions his death? Batman face shows a deep sadness, like once again he is face with reality.

Part one.

[allwormdiet]

Buzz 7.7

Nazi capes fuck off, again

Okay, cool, the Protectorate needs to have one or more Triumvirate members mobilizing for Brockton Bay fucking immediately.

I'm certain that Alexandria or one of the others will be here any second now to deal with this televised brutality that's currently going uncontested in a Protectorate city

(The BB Protectorate doesn't get shown doing a whole lot during this particular incident, and frankly I don't think that means they're doing nothing. We see one front of the Empire's offensive and we know there are others who can cause just as much damage if left alone, plus the only Protectorate members who are maybe equipped to deal with Purity are Armsmaster and Dauntless, but given her flight and sheer destructive capability I'm not sure. I'm not so dismissive as to say they're letting this all slide, whatever they're doing is likely off-screen so to speak.

But the higher-ups should have sent in someone who could actually knock Purity's head concave, and frankly I trust them even less for not doing it with this or with Bakuda's threats.)

We get more of this later, but I think this is the first real sign of where Brian and Taylor's sensibilities diverge. Taylor's given up on being a superhero, but she still wants to be a good person, and that means that when fucking Nazis are running around burning down the city she wants to stop them, not least because they're being blamed for this rampage. Brian's priorities are different: his number one priority is his people, family or team or otherwise, and everyone else is a very distant second. As long as the Empire doesn't manage to come down on anyone he cares about, he's willing to let the city take whatever they dish out in the meantime.

This difference of opinion is going to come to a head in pretty short order, but we already see the friction before that.

Who the fuck decides whether the Triumvirate gets put on a job or not? If Alexandria or one of the others is hearing about this, can anyone actually stop them from holding back if they want to come out and put an end to this? If somebody can hold them back, that someone is at best wildly incompetent. If nobody can hold them back, I automatically hold those three in deep fucking contempt. Take a day trip and beat the shit out of some fucking Nazis, how is that such a burden?

Also, "genetically pure or not." What a fucking winner we have here, no wonder there are Purity stans who want to redeem her with the power of love or whatever.

So, this is an execution on live television. Of a cameraman, who was just the unlucky son of a bitch to get chosen for this demonstration. Are there genuinely people out there who believe the idea that the Empire is "civilized" compared to the other gangs? Some kind of lesser evil? Who reads this and goes "well actually I think that Kaiser and his followers are misunderstood and quite noble" go fuck yourself

Taylor gets fucking mean when she's not keeping a lid on it, huh?

Yeah of course the only thing she gives a shit about is her stupid baby. God I hope they figure out how to take custody from her or something, nobody deserves to be raised by a maniac like that.

Thank you Coil, that's very helpful of you Coil, this does nothing to tarnish your carefully constructed image of being in total control of the situation Coil.

Yeah, so. Proof that Purity is too strong for the local Protectorate to handle.

Also glad to see that Brian can be convinced of the right course of action once someone leans on him enough. There's only so much collateral damage he can stomach, it turns out. Hopefully that means he gets his head out of his ass about Dinah.

I don't think Taylor knows Brian well enough to have a real insight into his moral stances. A month into most of my friendships over my life I couldn't tell you how they'd respond to the trolley problem or whatever, except for the one girl who considered the trolley problem to be a stupid joke of a philosophical exercise and didn't really shy away from that.

I think she just kind of assumed that the two of them being alike in other ways, and seeing him in a particularly positive and flattering light, meant that he'd be on her side with whatever moral quandaries might come up as parahumans.

I'd say it's best she get over the shock now but she's not done being shocked by her peers this arc.

Sighs

These fuckers

Taylor having strong opinions on particular power sets is pretty funny.

Current Thoughts

Taylor you really gotta stop putting the people you like up on pedestals, it's just gonna lead to hurt and disappointment

Fucking hate Purity and the rest of her merry little band of Nazi fuckwits. I hope the Endbringer kills them to a one.

This upcoming fight is interesting tbh. I don't think it's the coolest or anything, but it's a display of how someone with a hard counter to your superpower doesn't mean an automatic loss, it just means a really fucking hard-fought win.

[flymmsy]

Carry This For Me

Ficlet/Drabble/Headcanon - 600 words, Durgetash

Ahead of the likely fatal showdown with their sibling, Durge has one last thing they must do. [Warnings: ANGST, Durge acting like an Idiot, no smut but lots of feelings.]

When The Dark Urge goes to face Orin, their companions understand when they say they need to do it alone. The group does not even bat an eye when Durge takes the Netherstone with them.

But Durge does not go straight to Orin. Instead, they allow their body to lead them down an unfamiliar path that they somehow have memorized by heart - over a garden wall, scaling a trellis, and climbing through a window to somewhere that (still?) feels like home.

Gortash is at his desk, hunched over a mass of papers and illuminated by well-worn candles burning their last. He doesn't mark Durge at first despite the once familiar creek of the window sill that announces their presence - something only made possible by ignoring their ghost for so long. It is only when his Netherstone resonates with their own that his head snaps up to meet their gaze.

Deep black eyes framed by dark circles. Durge inhales sharply and searches for words. How do you talk to someone unknown to your mind but etched into your soul?

The call of their name rescues them from their turmoil, and suddenly all that matters is closing the distance between themself and the man they once knew.

Gortash rises from his seat in alarm, but when Durge presses their lips to his - they immediately feel him relax, wrapping his arms around them with practiced perfection.

Durge breaks the kiss to look at him, a palm caressing his face with undeserved tenderness. They watch as his heavy-lidded gaze grows even more languid, but Gortash only registers the paralytic that had been on their lips when his legs begin to give. Foolishness born of desperation.

Silence lands before Gortash's call for his guards leaves his lips. Durge handles him with gentleness despite his increasingly weak attempts to shove them away. They guide him onto the bed, laying him down carefully. There is fear in those beautiful black eyes, and a pang hits Durge in their chest. Durge reaches for their Netherstone, feeling it resonate even stronger this close to Gortash's own. They pass over Gortash's gauntlet and press their Netherstone into his other palm, tenderly guiding his fingers to curl around it.

They can't afford to have two Netherstones fall into Orin's hands.

Their sister bested them before, at the height of their power. They would be a fool to believe that they stood a chance in their current state. It is better for Gortash to have them both, giving him the upper hand. They might not be able to take out Orin - but they can damage her enough that the combined power of two Netherstones should be enough to finish the job.

Gortash's brow lightly furrows for a moment before Durge's meaning hits him. Then, he is frantic. His body twitches, muscles fighting against the paralytic. The fear in his eyes has become desperation, and Durge is grateful that they cannot hear his pleas.

They press him into the bed to still his writhing. One hand moves up to push back his hair as their lips meet his forehead. They cannot remember what they are thanking him for - all they know is that here, with his head cradled in their hand, they feel like they are holding the entire world. And that's enough.

Durge moves swiftly, rising from the bed before tears can fall from their eyes. They do not look back as they cross the room. From the window, Durge dispels Silence and hastily drops into the city below, shielding their ears to Gortash's cry that carries on the wind. It's up to him now.

[dilemmaontwolegs]

Another Lie || CL16 {2}

Warnings: Angst, unhealthy relationship, drugs and alcohol WC: 2.7k

F1 Masterlist || One || Two || Three

Below your feet shone the lights of the city you called home. The plethora of colours dancing on the horizon promised an unforgettable night, or one you wished you could remember. But you wouldn’t be joining them tonight.

The red glow of the cigarette burning in your fingers was the only light up here at the peak of Tête de Chien. In the daytime this track would be full of people but at midnight it had been abandoned to the moon and the stars.

The light crunch of gravel beneath feet alerted you to his approach and a soft sigh broke the silence at the lookout. “Busy?” 

“What are you doing here?” You flicked the ash off the cigarette before taking another drag, not even bothering to look his way. “Oh, and happy birthday, Charles.”

“It’s not like you to turn down an invitation to a party,” he commented as he took a seat on the stone wall beside you. “Can you put that out?”

“If you don’t like it you can just leave,” you offered, taking another puff before blowing a smoke ring at him. “And stop tracking my fucking phone.”

He plucked the cigarette from your fingers and stubbed it out. “What else am I going to do when you don’t answer my calls?”

“Accept that maybe I don’t want to talk to you?” You opened your handbag to grab another smoke but he was quicker and tossed the entire box off the ledge. “Asshole.”

“They’re bad for your health.”

You snorted and finally turned to face him, the lights of the city reflecting in his eyes. “That’s rich coming from you.”

The lights danced as he rolled his eyes but he didn’t deny the truth and he jutted his head to the track he walked through. “I didn’t see your car in the parking lot.” 

You smiled darkly and his eyes narrowed at the sight, knowing he wouldn’t like what came next. “I caught a ride with some guys, but don’t worry none of them were handsome Monégasques - so I was safe.”

“Like fuck you were. What the hell were you thinking?”

Your head fell back with a laugh. “You don’t want to know what goes through my head. Your mother called, again. When are you going to tell her? It’s been four months.”

Charles shrugged and leaned back on his elbows as he scanned the city he loved so much.

This peak would always hold a special place in your heart. It had been where he first asked you to be his girlfriend and it had been where he first told you he loved you. It was also where you had found him after his father died and that was when he had begun to change. You both had.

Even without him, this was where you ran to, when the high rises of the city seemed to smother you and you needed to be in reach of the heavens.

“I don’t want to disappoint her,” Charles finally admitted, his fingers busy fidgeting with the rings he wore. “We’re having a family dinner tomorrow, you should be there.”

“I’m not your family, I’m not even your girlfriend.”

“You’re my…” He fell silent as chewed his lip while trying to think of a word suitable and you waited to hear what he settled on. Would it be fuck buddy, first love or friend? “Everything.”

“That’s just another lie you tell yourself.” You reached over and pulled his collar away to see the purple marks on his neck before slapping it back in place. “If it were true, I wouldn’t see that shit.”

“She didn’t mean anything, I can’t even remember her name.” He straightened his collar and rolled his eyes before mumbling. “Wouldn’t have even happened if you had come to my party.”

An unpleasant sound growled in your throat as you jumped off the wall and started making your way back down the path. Anger fueled you as you stormed along the winding track in the dark, the moonlight barely enough to see your footings before Charles caught up using his phone as a torch.

“Slow down or you’re going to hurt yourself.”

“Good thing you’re here then,” you replied sarcastically before ignoring him and breaking into a run instead. Your laugh trickled back to him as you heard his insult but he was predictable as ever, quickly following in your footsteps. You couldn’t help teasing him when he caught up. “That hero complex is going to get you hurt.”

“No, that’s just you.”

The arrival at the carpark came faster than you expected and it wasn’t hard to spot his Pista looking lonely under the stars. He opened your door and you saw a garment bag on the seat, a pair of heels in the footwell. “You can get dressed on the way.”

“You went into my apartment.” It shouldn’t have surprised you when you regularly woke to the door being unlocked and his keys being tossed on your table because he couldn’t be bothered driving the extra ten minutes to his place. You had even changed the locks but somehow he had managed to get the key for that too. After that you had given up.

“Technically, it’s still in my name.”

You felt his eyes on your skin as you undressed but you refused to look his way. If you saw the desire they held you wouldn’t be able to resist reaching over and feeling just how much he wanted you. He was a bad habit you were trying to break.

Needing cool air to chase away the heat on your skin, you hit the button for the roof and watched it disappear from overhead. Charles smiled as you looked up at the stars and, knowing how much you loved to feel the car purr, put it in gear and tore out of the parking lot until you screamed with elation. You didn’t even feel the cold despite the short dress that barely covered your body and Charles shouted at you to get down when you rose to your feet, holding the windshield to feel the full force of the wind lashing your face.

“I’m flying, Jack,” you screamed as you opened your arms.

“Get the fuck down,” Charles growled as he grabbed your arm and tugged you roughly back into the seat. “Put your fucking seatbelt on too.”

You pouted as you buckled up and it silenced the warning beep. “I just wanted to know what freedom felt like.”

The exclusive night club was full of Charles’ friends but it was only his brothers who had even noticed his disappearance. They hadn’t even questioned him about it once they noticed you making a beeline to the bar.

“So he managed to track you down then,” Pierre commented as he saddled up beside you while waiting for his drink.

“You sound as happy about the news as me.” The regular bartender lined up four shot glasses and automatically filled them with tequila before you even had to ask. Almost immediately you slapped Pierre’s hand away when he reached for one. “Get your own, I need these more than you.”

The first shot burned your throat but the next three went down smoothly and Pierre shook his head as he watched on with a sigh. “I’ll try to talk to him again, but not tonight.“

You both turned to look for Charles and found him at the edge of the dance floor with his arm around a woman as she swayed her hips against him. Hurt stabbed your heart and anger burned your belly as Pierre gave you a look of pity before you turned away.

Waving a hand to get the bartender’s attention, you leaned over and cupped your hand around your lips to whisper. “You got anything stronger behind the bar tonight?”

He winked and shouted to his coworker that he was taking a quick break before nodding his head to the staff only door. If Pierre had an opinion he kept it to himself and instead took his drink back to where his girlfriend was dancing.

“Thought you were going clean,” he said as he pulled a small bag of powder from his bag.

You pulled some cash you had tucked in your bra before leaving your bag in Charles’ car and handed it over. “Things change.”

No one even noticed you weave your way through the club to the bathrooms and lock yourself in a stall. No one noticed how the strobe lights caught the tear that rolled down your cheek or how your fist that was wrapped around the bag trembled with rage.

You needed an escape and this was the only option you felt you had.

The white powder dusted the top of your hand as you sprinkled it in a line and you stared at it a moment before cursing Charles. You wanted to rid him from your thoughts but he was a worm burrowing his way deeper and the drug promised oblivion, if only for a while.

Your eyes watered as the powder shot up your nostril with a quick intake and you leaned back against the cold metal partition waiting for the coke to hit your system. All thought began to recede from your mind until what remained was just a body numb to emotion.

A lazy smile graced your face as you tucked the bag into your bra and left the bathroom to enjoy the high. The music now called to you and the lights came alive as you reached for them, your hands dancing above your head as your hips moved to the beat.

A pair of hands found their place on your waist and you didn’t have to open your eyes to know who they belonged to. You would recognise him anywhere, from the rings that adorned each hand you placed yours over to his cologne that envelope you to the way he breathed across your skin before his lips followed.

“I thought I was going to have to come find you again,” he spoke into your ear before kissing your neck. Your soft sigh was lost to the music but he seemed to sense it anyway and turned you in his arms.

There was no space left between your bodies as he held you close and your arms draped around his neck. “I hate that you can do that.”

“Liar,” he chuckled, the woody scent of whiskey on his breath. If was sober he would have noticed you were high the moment he looked you in the eyes. “You could’ve changed your password.”

“You’re right,” you murmured as you unlocked your phone. “It’s about time.”

“Woah,” he gasped as he swiped your phone out of your hand, his eyes widening when he saw the settings to Find My iPhone open. “Don’t do that, I was joking.”

“Well I’m not, it’s been four months since we broke up, Charles. It’s time for you to move on, I am.”

“No, you’re not,” he laughed as his hands travelled down to your ass, the alcohol making him more touchy than he usually would be in a public setting. “We have been over this, angel. You’re mine, and you’ll always be mine.”

“I saw you dancing with that girl, Charles. And you can call her yours, or any other woman, because you're done having me.” You squirmed in his embrace but you couldn’t break free of it. “Just let me go, please, Charles. I’m begging you.”

“I can’t!” He dropped his hands and instead gripped your shoulders tightly and you winced at his strength. “You’re the last good thing I have, you hear me? Dad’s gone, Jules is gone, my career is practically fucked at this point, but I still have you.”

You stared at his collar, knowing what lay hidden underneath it and the spite you had buried resurfaced before you could stop it. You weren’t even able to understand what he was confessing, you were blinded by anger. “Maybe it’s a good thing they’re gone, so they don’t have to see what an asshole you’ve become.”

The club seemed to fall silent as the blood in your head rushed past your ears and Charles’ hands slipped from your body to hang limp at his sides. Regret slapped you and you stumbled back as you covered your mouth, shaking your head. “I’m sorry,” you murmured but he couldn’t hear you over the music. “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t follow as you walked out of the club in a daze. Never, ever had you said such a terrible thing, not in all the fights and screaming matches on the worst of night.

Your high quickly became a low as you hit the fresh air out in the street and bent in half with a sob. Your stomach cramped with nausea and your entire body was wracked with shivers as your mind raced a million miles an hour, retracing every word you had spat at each other knowing nothing came close to hurting as much as what you just said.

Numb, that’s what you needed to be. Cold, unfeeling, carefree.

You pulled out the little bag but before you could open it it was slapped away, the powder blowing away on the breeze.

“No. You don’t get to escape,” Charles growled as he took your hand and started dragging you towards the car park. “You’re going sit and fucking listen.”

He trapped you between the car door and his body so the only option was to climb into the passenger seat before he shut it and walked around. You hated that even now with his unpredictable moods you still felt safe and trusted him to know he was in control as he started the engine.

“I know I’m an asshole, I know I’m controlling. But I need to know you’re safe. Because one day I’ll be back in the right state of mind to love you how you deserve.” He combed his fingers through his hair as a frustrated growl escaped his lips before he put the car in gear. “Don’t you see? That’s why I had to leave, I couldn’t be around you, I can’t be around you without making things worse. But I can’t live without you.”

He sighed as his knuckles turned white where he gripped the steering wheel tightly. “You were right and I’m sorry. This is not how my father raised me, but I’m going to change. I swear to you, this isn’t another lie.”

You swallowed down the lump in your throat and tried to settle the butterflies that exploded in your stomach. “How can I trust you again? You’ve already fucked some stranger tonight.”

“I didn’t fuck her, or anyone,” he said sincerely. “I’ll hook up with them and fool around, but the thought of anyone that isn’t you in my bed makes me sick.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” you asked as he pulled into your apartment garage and parked beside your car.

“No, I just thought maybe since I’m a year older I could try to be a little wiser and start telling you the truth.”

“The truth,” you echoed with a laugh. “Alright then, what was your birthday wish?”

“If I say it then it won’t be granted,” he said as the car idled and you nudged him to hurry up. “Fine…I wished I could come home…to you.”

Of all the things he could have said that wasn’t something you would have guessed. But it wasn’t what he said, it was how he said it. The reservation in his tone, the hesitancy. The fear. He was afraid, but you weren’t sure if it was because of the fear of rejection or humiliation that was behind it.

All you knew was that in that moment was that the version of the man sitting beside was the reason you had forgiven the one who was manipulative and controlling. This man beside you was a remnant of the man who held your heart.

You would give anything to have that man back.

You reached across the console and pressed the key button, the silence deafening as the roar of the engine cut out. He watched expectantly as you opened the car door and whispered, “Come home, Charles.”

Click here for the final part.

[torhues]

tooru oikawa.

"so, any other girl, or boy, you have your eyes on?" the question leaves your mouth almost too carelessly, words laced with your soft chuckle and a hint of witticism that leaves oikawa smiling.

you wonder if they're enough to hide your true emotions.

"yeah, actually, i do," his words resonate with the same emotions as yours, a smile dancing on his lips, the corner of his eyes crinkling as the notification of your battery reaching twenty-percent appears on the screen. "have had a crush on them for four years now,"

it's the same answer as always.

"you do?" your eyebrows raise up amusingly. "tell me more,"

"i think, i should confess with a bouquet of lilies," he says dreamily, as if he's living in a fairytale, about to propose the love of his life. there was a point when you were the love of his life, and you still are, because if not, why would he ever had spent his whole allowance on a bouquet of white and yellow flowers.

"and, take them out on a date night," because if he didn't love you, he wouldn't have borrowed money from iwaizumi to make reservations at the most expensive restaurant in the city to surprise you with a perfect dinner before leaving for argentina just three days later.

a minute passes, you admire his eyes, the way they shine bright at the sight of you. perhaps, they've grown a little dim, perhaps it's just the fatigue from a day long practice. you picture tracing your fingers down his nose bridge, then his lips, before cupping your face with his hands to pull him into a chaste kiss. you imagine yourself laughing with him amidst the kisses as his fluttering touches leave tickles down your waist, leaning against his forehead with your eyes closed, letting down all the worries from your shoulders.

you feel his fingers intertwining with yours, missing his touches that make you feel ever so alive. you have never stopped loving him, not even in your dreams, but you miss being in love, and perhaps it's a sacrifice you made to stay with him, even if it means you both have to stay thousands of miles apart.

"didn't know you were so romantic," you smile lazily, clock ticking to eleven thirty before you realise that it's almost bed time for you. new year would've been a little more special to you if it was with him, and if only time didn't separate you from oikawa, things would've been a little easier.

oikawa says something but you fail to hear, too lost in your thoughts to keep check of reality. you see his lips moving but you haven't got a clue, you're too busy admiring his features. you're drowning in the thoughts of him, while he's right in front of you.

maybe, long distance relationships tend to have that effect on people.

maybe, it's fine to think about the memories you made rather than focusing on the person you share those memories with.

maybe, it's fine to not yearn for the person anymore.

"i miss you," another battery warnings appears on your phone. "i want to hold you," you rush to find the charger instead of even paying attention at his words.

"i don't think i can ever love someone else the way i love you," you check under your duvets, on the table, run to the kitchen counter if case you've accidently left your charger there.

"i can't even think of loving anyone else," you check on the couch, under the cushions.

"because i don't want to spend my life with anyone, except you," and in the drawers, on the shelves.

"i think, i am . . . " the rest of the words never reach your ears because of the fireworks going off at a distance, illuminating the sumida river alongside your apartment in shades of red, green, and yellow.

"will you—" and your phone goes off with you in the middle of your living room. the sound of fireworks going off is the only thing you're able to perceive at the moment. the charger is in your hand, you realise you never heard what oikawa was trying to say. you realise that you're a little late.

they say, the flame that burns twice as bright burns half as long, and oikawa and you were the brightest of all. you don't think you've ever met someone like him, someone who is so similar and yet so strange, someone you think you know but there was always something new about him that made you fall for him even more. you would've said those words up until a few months ago, but now your heart doesn't beat the same way it used to, because oikawa is a little too similar that you think there's nothing more to him, and a little to strange that it makes you feel like no matter how much time passes and no matter how much you try, you can never get to know him completely.

maybe it's fine to fall out of love for the exact same reason you fell in love with.

maybe, it's fine to get bored.

the clock ticks to twelve fifteen; another year without oikawa passes, another year without him comes by, and you realise that this is how it's going to be for the rest of you life.

maybe it's fine to let go.

[morganski-19]

The One with the Trifle Pt 1

Pretend it’s Thanksgiving please and thank you. Flashback to Eddie’s first Thanksgiving after moving to the city. (If you’re a friends fan or know this episode, this will only be about the trifle bit and not the secret revealing section at the end of the episode. That will be coming at another time.)

Robin is standing in the kitchen with a large glass container in front of her. She’s carefully reading the instructions of a cookbook, pulling out ingredients as she goes. Steve comes out of the bathroom and walks over to the kitchen.

“Are you sure you got the dessert this year? We both know what happened last Christmas,” he asks, again. For the third time.

Robin rolls her eyes. “That was a fluke. I think I really got it this time. And, nothing is going in the oven, just stove top.”

“You say that like it makes it better. I’ve seen you burn water before.”

“No, that was dry pasta that I forgot to add the right amount of water to, so it dried up and then burned. But that was years ago. Now I know how to use the stovetop.”

Steve sighs. “If you need anything, I mean anything, I’ll be right across the hall helping Nancy with the rest of the food. No question is too stupid to ask me.”

“We both know that is a lie.”

“What are you making anyway?” Steve leans over the counter to see the cookbook.

Robin picks it up to show him. “It’s a trifle, from this old British cookbook I found at the thrift store. Cute, right.”

“Yeah, if you don’t fuck it up.”

Robin smacks him with the book. “Out, out. Go help Nancy and stop making fun of me.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever stop making fun of you, but whatever.” Steve walks across the hall to Nancy’s apartment. She’s in the kitchen basting the turkey while Eddie, Argyle, and Jonathan are sitting on the couch watching the parade.

“Steve, thank God. I needed someone who,” she turns her head to the living room, “actually knows what they’re doing.” She stares at the back of Eddie’s head.

Eddie makes a large gesture. “I didn’t know it was possible to fuck up cutting green beans.”

“It is when you cut them like this.” Nancy holds up a green bean sliced down the middle lengthways.

Steve winces. “How the hell did you think this is how you cut green beans.”

Eddie stands up. “That’s it. I’m going to hang out with Robin, at least she won’t make fun of me.”

“You sure about that,” Argyle snorts.

“She is just as bad as cooking as Eddie apparently is, it’s honestly fifty-fifty with how this goes.” Steve starts to peel the bowl of potatoes.

Eddie gives them the finger before shutting the door.

“Speaking of,” Jonathan turns to face the kitchen, “Do we have a backup dessert for when Robin eventually ends up burning hers?”

Nancy gives Steve a death glare. “Do you want to explain or should I?”

Steve sighs. “I had parent teacher conferences yesterday and didn’t have time to bake anything.”

“Because.”

Another sigh. “Because I went on a date with this girl I’ve been talking to for a few weeks.”

Argyle stiffens, having gotten close to Eddie in the past few months. Knowing how he feels about Steve. “I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.”

Steve shrugs. “It’s not that serious to be honest. We’ve only been on the one date.”

“And now we will end up eating whatever Robin ends up burning because someone couldn’t push it off until next week.” Nancy angrily jabs at the bread she is cutting.

“Woah, Nance, take a deep breath. Your parents aren’t coming this year, it’s just us. There’s nothing to stress about.” Steve stops peeling the potatoes to try and rub her shoulder, only to get his hand swatted away.

“Yeah,” Argyle agrees. “I’ve eaten plenty of Robin’s burnt cookies, and I’m still here. Some of them were pretty good actually.”

Steve gets a text from Robin.

Robin: Quick questions, how do I tell if the butter is browned

Robin sends an image

Steve: About five minutes before it looks like that

Robin: Shit

A while later, Steve is watching the stove while Nancy takes a break on the couch. Eddie opens the door, barely poking his head through before calling Steve into the hall. He calls Nancy back into the kitchen before heading out into the hall with Eddie.

“So,” Eddie draws out as Steve closes the door. “We have a bit of a problem.”

“Oh God, what did she do?”

“There’s beef involved.”

Steve’s eyes bug out. “What? Beef? How, I thought she was making a trifle.”

“She mostly is,” Eddie says. “Just this cookbook is the weirdest one ever where the recipes are mixed in with each other instead of in their own sections. And it’s an old book, and some of the pages were stuck together. So, turn the page to get to the rest of the recipe, and it’s a recipe for shepherd’s pie.”

Steve makes a horrified face. “Nancy is going to kill me. Like straight up murder. I will be dead tomorrow.”

“Why? Robin’s the one making the dessert. Shouldn’t she be the dead one.”

“That’s the thing. I always have a backup dessert. It’s a little game we play each year. Robin wants to try to bake again but leaves it in a little too long and it gets burnt. Or accidently adds salt instead of sugar. Or thinks she knows better than the recipe and adds too much flour. So, then I come in with another dessert for the people who don’t like to eat burnt cake. She isn’t the best at cooking, or baking, but she tries, and it brings her so much joy, so we let her do it and eat the dessert. But then mine is like the palate cleanser. Except this year there isn’t a palate cleanser and we’re going to eat a trifle with beef in it.” Steve takes in a deep breath, trying not to hyperventilate.

Eddie nods, trying to process everything. “That’s kind of sweet that you guys eat messed up baked goods just to make her happy.”

“Yeah well, it’s Robin. No one really likes to make her upset. Which she will be if we let her know that this is a major fuck up.”

“So we’re going to eat the beef dessert thing. There’s fruit and custard involved.” Eddie makes a disgusted face.

Steve gags at the thought. “Yeah, yep, yes. We are. I’m going to do damage control, you keep her happy. And if the pages become unstuck before the beef gets added, no one will be mad at you for interfering.”

“It’s already been done. There is no stopping it.”

“Alright then. I’m going to go get murdered, it’s been nice knowing you.”

Eddie nods before going back into Robin’s apartment. Steve takes a deep breath before walking back into the apartment.

“What did Eddie want?” Nancy asks.

“Nothing that important, Jon can I talk to you for a second.” Steve rushes past Nancy and pulls Jonathan into Eddie’s room. “We have a problem.”

Jonathan adjusts his shirt. “One that you had to physically pull me into a bedroom for.”

“Yes. Robin mixed up two recipes and now there’s beef in an English Trifle.” Steve makes a face like he’s bracing for impact.

Jonathan stands there silent for a few seconds, blinking. “It was nice knowing you.” He pats Steve on the shoulder.

Steve rolls his eyes. “I am already very aware of the fact that I am dead, but we do in fact have to eat the beef trifle.”

“No we don’t,” Jonathan says with disbelief.

“It’s Robin,” Steve shrugs. “We have to.”

Jonathan nods, pained. “We do. Remind me to get super high before dessert comes out, it will help it all go down. Hell, I might like it.”

“You mind telling Argyle about this, I have to go tell Nancy.”

“I’ll go guard the knives. Good luck.”

Steve and Jonathan leave the room. Jonathan going over to Argyle and whispering something in his ear, Argyle seeming indifferent to the news. Steve takes a deep breath before asking Nancy to talk in her room.

“What happened?” Nancy cuts to the chase, crossing her arms.

“Robin. Lovely, sweet, kind, sometimes confused when it comes to baking, Robin. May have mixed up two recipes when making the dessert.”

Nancy takes the first part well. “That doesn’t seem too bad. They were both desserts, right?”

“That’s the thing. Apparently, this book has the recipes mixed up and not in sections. So when the pages were stuck together, one page was an English trifle, and the other was a Shapard’s pie.”

“What,” Nancy yells. “How can those to be mixed up?”

“I don’t know, I wasn’t there. I was here helping you with the rest of the food.” Steve takes a step back.

Nancy follows after her, slapping him on the arm. “I can’t believe this. Robin is going to be crushed when we won’t eat it. Then she’ll be mortified when she realizes her mistake.”

Steve makes a pained face.

“Steve, we’re not going to eat this are we?” Nancy’s death glare sets in again.

“It’s Robin, of course we have to.”

Nancy starts hitting him again mixed in with anger about his mess up. When she calms down, she says, “I am doing this, not for you, but for Robin. Because I cannot even begin to think about how she’s going to react when she figures this all out.”

Nancy leaves the room without saying another word. Steve goes back to the living room and flops on the couch, being dramatic about the nonexistent bruises that Nancy gave him. She did not hit him as hard as she could have, or wanted to.

“Get up you big baby and get your ass back into the kitchen,” Nancy says from the kitchen.

Steve turns his head towards Jonathan and Argyle. “You know, sometimes I wonder why we broke up in college. And then I am reminded why.” He stands and goes to the kitchen.

part 2 coming tomorrow

Tag list (let me know if you want to be added or taken off) @slowandsteddie, @annieofhearts, @cacdyke, @ubpd, @captain--low, @thespaceantwhowrites, @goodolefashionedloverboi, @anne-bennett-cosplayer, @lunaticparisianlady, @apomaro-mellow, @dolphincliffs, @dragonmama76, @maggiebug417, @stevesbipanic, @fearieshadow, @eightpackdiaz, @au79burger @bookworm0690 , @practicallybegging, @potato-of-the-lord, @autumncrocusandladybug, @estrellami-1

[captainofthedauntless]

Hello!! I just wanna say first I love your work and your doing amazing and if possible I'd like a to request something.

It's my birthday today, and I was wondering if you could write the bayverse tmnt boys and how they would celebrate your birthday or their birthday's if that's ok? I love you and have a great day👋

Hi lovely! Happy Birthday :] I hope it's still the right day LMAO

(Thank you BTW! You are so kind and that means a lot.)

Post-movies HCs below!

I think they all go a little apeshit for birthdays TBH. They are very aware of mortality, risking their asses all the time, and love any excuse to celebrate life.

(Since you didn't specify romantic or platonic, I'll try to do a bit of both! I think the guys would make an effort to know their brothers' partners anyway, so if you're with one they're probably all excited to celebrate with you LMAO)

Don's a sweetheart, okay? Like, to his core. He's sweet and thoughtful and caring, so if you're important to him then it's important to him that he do everything he can to make your big day as special as possible.

This guy totally keeps a list of all the things his loved ones mention through the year that might make good gifts. Things you need fixed, things you need replaced, stuff you want to do- he writes it all down (literally or mentally, I'm not sure). So when your birthday comes around, he's got ideas ready and waiting!

The remote for your TV that only works if it's held at a Very Specific Angle, with a muttered prayer and a sacrifice of chicken nuggets? Replaced, and it probably controls your lights now, too.

You mentioned your computer running slow? He gives you a very professional looking purple coupon for one free computer cleaning, courtesy of DuzMachines LLC, signed by the CEO himself, Donnie Tello. (He looks way too amused by it, honestly.)

Or your hidden passion for table tennis that you only brought up off-handedly six months prior? Well, you better be ready to stretch your wrists, because he assembled a table for it and found a net and paddles and he and Mikey have been practicing to kick your ass.

If you guys are dating, he makes absolutely sure that he gets some solo time with you, away from his family. He leaves all of his tech in the lair (except for his phone and an Absolute Emergency Only panic button, because he's been doing this "save the city" thing long enough to know that if he actually goes off without a way for his brothers to get a hold of him, he'll come back to something on fire or someone bleeding or some sort of bomb going off in Central Park) and takes you for a nice drive. You guys go out in the middle of the night when the traffic is as easy as it'll ever get, and he puts you on DJ duty, and you spend a couple hours just driving around and enjoying each other's company until you end up parked in a quiet spot and he's pulling out a cooler bag of your favorite dessert to share with you.

He stutters a little, but he tells you how much he loves you. How happy you make him. How grateful he is to get to be yours. He kisses you so sweetly that it's even better than the dessert, and when you finally break apart you're smiling and he looks absolutely lovestruck.

"I mean it, you know that?" he says softly, cupping your cheek is his hand and squeezing ever so gently. "I love you."

Leo is micro managing the shit out of his family. Every inch of the lair will be cleaned and prepped for celebrating, okay? If he sees a single pizza box out of place he will be a bitch about it.

He really, really wants to have everything perfect for you.

He's really big on meaningful gifts. He works with April to get you a nice copy of one of his favorite books and writes a heartfelt little note on the first page, wishing you a happy birthday.

Or maybe he's painstakingly curating the perfect playlist of songs that make him think of you and burning them onto a CD, writing your name on the front in that perfect handwriting of his that makes it look like he cares about each letter.

He's the one coordinating all of Mikey's big plans for your big day, too. Leo makes sure everyone's at the lair and settled on time, makes sure that every gift is accounted for and wrapped, makes sure that you know exactly what to expect so you're fully prepared when you walk in to a very happy (read: loud) family gathering.

If you're dating, it's even worse. Everything gets double and triple checked. He makes himself and everyone else a little insane.

And then you come in and grin at him and suddenly the mismatched wrapping paper and clashing bows are more charming and homey than they are frustrating.

Leo makes absolute certain that he gets you alone at the end of the night. It looks like a really natural transition to you, but you know from the big fake yawn Mikey puts on that he isn't nearly as tired as he claims- and knowing your boyfriend, you suspect he had a hand in the comfortable privacy the two of you find yourselves in.

You almost call him out on it, but he's looking at you with so much love it makes your heart ache a little, so you decide to skip the teasing. (For now.)

He gave you a gift with the rest of the group, sure, but now he digs out a cute little box. When you open it, there's a bracelet in just the right metal to contrast gorgeously with your skin, lovingly shaped and formed and perfect.

He's nervous, but it only takes you looking up at him and going "Oh, Leonardo," for him to smile at you again.

"I'm happy to make adjustments to it, if you want."

"If you think I'm letting this out of my sight long enough for that, you are spectacularly incorrect."

He chuckles, and he helps you put it on, and he presses a kiss to your forehead so tenderly you think you may melt right into the floor.

He immediately gives in to you tugging him down to kiss his lips, too.

Obviously, Mikey has exactly zero chill. He goes a lot apeshit. We're talkin' hand-painted banner with your name that goes across the entire living area, a table cloth in your favorite color, every single game and activity you have ever mentioned enjoying all stacked up nice and neat so you can pick whatever you want. You want to play Twister? You bet, baby- he'll even go easy on you. More of a Charades person? He's rounding up the whole crew to play, and Splinter is damn good at it. Mario Kart? You get first dibs on characters and cars. (He will not go easy on you, though. He has a reputation to protect, birthday or not.)

Do not get me started on food.

This guy goes ham. April gets a novel-length shopping list, with your favorite snacks and all the ingredients for your favorite meal and your favorite dessert and he's making mixed drinks that have edible glitter in them. Booze optional- he's a mocktail master, alright?

Leo happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time when Mikey does a test run of your meal. Leo proceeds to be stuck because Mike needs a taste tester, and "C'mon, Leo, it's gotta be perfect!", and "No no, just one more tweak, 'kay? Then you're free to go be boring."

(It was not just one more tweak.)

Now, if you're more lowkey, he tries- really really really tries- to keep it chill for you. He does. But he doesn't know how not to do a little something, so you're still getting some Chef Mikey action. Sorry.

If you're dating? Hooooo boy. You are getting smothered in as much affection as you can stand- and he's pretty good at gauging that, so it's only good vibes here. No overload from Mikey, not on your big day! But if you're receptive, you're getting texts right at midnight (despite him being on patrol, BTW) full to the point of bursting with emojis. He follows that up with good morning texts when he gets up. Then it's you coming down to the lair and celebrating and eventually, when things start to slow down a bit, he tugs you away to a secluded corner of their home for cute smooches and big hugs and "Happy birthday, Angel."

("You have a good day?" he asks, eyes big and hopeful and sweet, and when you say yes he scoops you up and spins you just to hear you giggle.)

Raph is actually the only one of the four with any kind of chill- mostly because he is terrified of ruining your day. Birthdays are a huge deal to him, and if he screwed up yours he would legitimately feel guilty until the day he died.

So he keeps it pretty simple. He's a crafty guy, so he might carve you a little wooden decoration for your place, or make you a bowl out of clay, or knit you a big blanket in your favorite color. It's thoughtful, it's either useful or gorgeous, and it's easy for you to carry home.

He's the one that keeps Mikey in check- tries to keep some of the bigger, crazier schemes in line, but he does it without raining on Mike's parade.

And if anybody catches an attitude on your big day? They have this guy to deal with. He takes zero shit. Seriously, Leo's getting bitchy? He gets one (1) warning look. Vern turns up and does anything even remotely annoying? Raph's behind you, silently threatening anything and everything Vern holds dear. Mikey gets too noisy? Raph's bumping his shoulder and having some silent sibling communication. It's all so subtle it's almost off-brand, but it's his way of making sure you have a good day. He's protective!

And if you're dating? Please.

He's doing whatever you want. You need a massage? You're hungry? Tired? Like two degrees too cold? He's got you.

You're having the perfect day if he has to cut his own arm off to make it happen, okay?

He's perceptive, too, so you probably don't have to ask for much.

The gang tries to sing and you look a little uncomfortable? "Happy Birthday to you, blah blah, cake time." And he's winking at you and passing you the cake cutter and it's so no-bullshit that everyone takes the hint but it makes him the center of attention long enough for you to relax again.

(And if you're not a cake person, he totally has Mikey organize another treat, just for you. He helps Mike in the kitchen, too. That shit is made with so much love.)

The night ends with the cuddles of your life. He gets kinda quiet, and it's easy to think he's just tired, but you look over at him and he's staring at you and he looks like you're built out of stardust.

"Shit," he mutters, nuzzling into you and hiding his face in the process. "Love you."

[astxrwar]

blunt force trauma [1/x]

SYNOPSIS: traumatized!Bucky x Brainwashed!supersoldier!reader.

Rating: M

Word Count: 5k

Content Warnings: Canon-typical violence and that is all (for now). Check out the tag "fic; blunt force trauma" for Content + ao3 chapter notes for extras if you're interested. <3

Read on AO3

[ 1 ] [2]

Bucky had known, is the thing. Before getting sucker-punched out of a fucking moving semi truck, before getting his ass kicked in a spectacularly fucking embarrassing fashion, before getting saved by two dipshits with government-financed uniforms and the most ridiculous fucking make-believe superhero names—

He had known that there were others like him.

Super-soldiers. Enhanced. Whatever.

Well—

He’d known about one.

~

The first time he sees her it’s March, nighttime, cold and dark and fucking raining, for like the fourth day in a row. He’s gone outside to take the garbage out, the last in a mundane and seemingly fucking endless procession of normal-human-being tasks that he is trying very hard to be comfortable in doing, day after day, the way he is also trying hard to be a normal human being in general, a concrete and intact person who attends his court-ordered therapy and grocery shops and goes outside semi-regularly and does not commit violence even when it definitely feels warranted.

He’s tired. He has a headache starting somewhere around his left temple, the muscles there beginning to tense and tighten and pulse, irritatingly, against his skull. He wants a fucking cigarette, and he’s going to have a cigarette— he keeps meaning to quit, because it’s really not a  great habit, even if he’s pretty sure the serum will keep him from getting, like, lung cancer, or something. He’d been a pack-a-day asshole in the 107th because they were free, and he’d stopped when he was him because he didn’t have wants or needs or desires as a soulless killing machine, so part of it is probably just— the way that it feels grounding, kind of, the acrid burn of the smoke and the bitter taste of tar and the gently flickering embers of the cherry this bright spot of red and orange against the endless black backdrop of the alleyway at night. It’s very human. Very selfish. Very not like the person he used to be.

He doesn’t see the figure standing there until the cigarette is already half-gone, presumably because they’d been mostly obscured from him by the massive industrial-size apartment complex dumpsters and also, more importantly, because they hadn’t moved at all in the entire time he’d been outside. And it’s something about that, the unnerving and inhuman stillness, something about the way that they’re holding themselves, the vicious and barely-restrained and entirely recognizable tension he can see— feel— even just in their silhouette, the way that they’re standing, it reminds him of—

Something.

Bucky can tell when the figure realizes he’s seen them; there’s this shift in the dark line of their shoulders, like an intake of breath.

He flicks his cigarette, scattering ash down onto the pavement, the flakes drifting in the puddles of dirt and oil and city grime, becoming waterlogged, sinking in until he can’t see them. 

They— she— she says his name. Her voice is quiet and hoarse and crackles like she hasn’t spoken in a while and like it had taken some amount of effort to do so now, and she says his full, legal, god-given name, like she knows him.

“How do you know who I am,” Bucky says, flat, a question, but not really phrased like one. He grinds the end of his cigarette against the brick side of the building until the ember is out, and tosses it into the open dumpster; he’s aware of her in his periphery, that instinctive part of him that he mostly tries not to think about tracking her presence and waiting for movement and anticipating, calculating, flexing the fingers of the metal arm at his sides and breathing in deep and slow and relishing in all of it a lot more than he knows he should be.

She doesn’t reply. He can’t make out her face, not with how dark it is, with where she’s standing, deep enough into the alleyway that none of the light from the buzzing and flickering street lamp closer to his end reaches her at all; there’s still something about the way that she’s holding herself that prickles with familiarity, recognition, but he can’t place it. He’s positive she’s not government or military, reasonably certain she’s not Dora Milaje, less sure she’s not some kind of HYDRA offshoot minion or some other kind of general bad news. 

“Are you going to try to kill me?” he says finally.

Her breath catches, like she’d choked on it, and it’s audible even over the muted sounds of TVs playing and casual conversation and arguing floating down from the scattered collection of open windows above the alley, even over the louder and more persistent dripdripdrip of water down from the gutters, the sounds of traffic that never fully relents drifting out from the road.

“No,” she says, with enough vehemence that it stuns him, for a second– he’s taken aback by the force of the word, and then also, a second later, by how absolutely uncertain she sounds. Like she doesn’t believe it herself, or maybe more like she really doesn’t know.

“Okay,” Bucky says slowly, after a pause. “Okay, so what do you—“

He makes a mistake, then— he turns, the sole of his boot grinding softly against the wet, dirt-streaked asphalt, and he takes all of an aborted half-step in her direction.

She stiffens.

Bucky trails off, his fingers curling into loose fists at his sides–

She flees.

He hadn’t been expecting that, fucking obviously, so he wastes an essential handful of seconds just processing what the fuck even just happened. By the time it occurs to him that she’d ran, by the time he moves to the other end of the alley and rounds the corner and stares out into the adjoining street, there’s just—

Nothing. Nobody. An empty stretch of pavement. She could have followed the road down past his field of vision, the line of it blurred in the distance by the gently misting rain; she could have gone down any number of nearby alleys, could have climbed a fire escape onto the roof. If he’d been expecting it, he could have followed fast enough to see, but—

He hadn’t. 

He’d honestly expected her to fucking attack him, not— run. 

“Fuck,” Bucky says aloud, to nobody. 

He turns back to his apartment building, kicks a rock and watches it skitter across the glittering wet pavement and into the shadows.

He lights another cigarette.

~

He’s wired and on edge for hours afterwards, meaning he doesn’t sleep well. That thing inside of him is itching for it, a fight, an excuse, something to break the painful fucking monotony of his life these days; his therapist keeps saying that he’ll get used to this, the boredom of normalcy, and while he nods and plays along during the sessions, he’s not sure that’s even the issue.

He is used to it. He has a routine. He cooks and cleans and does general life maintenance on a strict and unwavering schedule. He even goes out once a week, goes and gets sushi and drinks with Yori, and even if that might technically not count as a friendship, it’s– something. He has a life. A normal, boring, regular, semi-adjusted life.

He just– 

He just doesn’t fucking like it.

It sucks, right, because back in Bucharest he remembers wanting this so fucking badly, wanting to just be normal, to be able to go grocery shopping and cook meals and listen to the radio and do nothing. Be nobody. And now that he has it, for real, forever, it’s like his stupid fucking brain has decided nope, y’know what, I don’t really want this after all.

What he wants, honestly, is another cause to throw himself into. Another banner to follow blind. Something that would let him relieve some of this constant fucking pressure, this itch just under his skin, this feeling like he’s forcing down and holding back and choking on all the worst parts of who he is, with no outlets to turn to, no options, no hope for relief.

I don’t do that anymore, is what he says to people, the pre-programmed line another term for the conditions of his parole. 

What he doesn’t say to anyone: I kind of miss it a fucking lot, though. 

Bucky stares up at the slowly-turning blades of his ceiling fan until his vision goes blurry and it turns into this meaningless shifting shape in the dark, and then he closes them, finally, and tries to will himself to sleep.

He should tell his therapist.

There’s a lot of things he should tell his therapist. I have nightmares, still. I probably qualify as paranoid. I made friends with the father of one of the men that I killed, and I go out to eat with him every week, and I think I feel just as bad about doing it as I would if I didn’t. I still haven’t figured out how to work that TV in the apartment, even though I said that I did, and I don’t even really know why I lied. I miss hurting people. I can’t sleep. 

“How have you been, James,” she says, peering at him across a cheap-looking wooden table, her pen poised threateningly– okay, not threateningly, but, like, still, threateningly – over a blank notebook page. The chair he’s sitting in is straight-backed and uncomfortable and slightly too small, and he wonders if that’s on purpose. “Anything new happening?”

She always asks this, in the beginning, like an ice-breaker, or something, except it feels like the opposite. It always feels–stiff, and perfunctory, and performative. That’s another thing– before all this, he used to be great at shooting the shit, talking about weather and sports and who’s seeing who and all that meaningless, petty nothing; he missed it, too, when he first started coming out of the fucking fugue state. And then it’s like– all those disassociated and splintered pieces of himself reintegrated, fused, solidified into something vaguely resembling a whole person, and he found that actually, he couldn’t stand any of it, anymore.

“Nope,” he says, popping the ‘p’ and leaning back in the chair until it creaks, dangerously, like it might break. Fucking government office, you’d think they could afford decent and non-flimsy furniture. Doc glares at him like he’s full of shit and he makes a point to dial back the affected nonchalance, gauging her response to try to figure out the range of what might strike her as believable. “Nothing. Same old, same old. You know.”

Someone found me, yesterday. They knew me. 

She narrows her eyes. Scribbles something down. The scratch of the pen on paper sets his teeth on edge, makes a muscle in his jaw twitch, erratic and uncontrollable. He forces himself to stay very still, not to lean over, not to try to look. Forces himself to smile.

Wonders, vaguely, if it even looks like he’s smiling, or if it just looks like he’s baring his teeth.

~

Days pass. Then weeks. A whole month.

At first, Bucky maintains that alertness; his senses sharpen, expectant, the handful of times he ventures out to toss the garbage or have a cigarette at night, and he sleeps in short, fitful bursts, waking with a start at the sound of cars backfiring on the street outside or the building settling as the temperature drops or the radiator when it creaks, just a little louder than usual, as the heat kicks on. He doesn’t mind any of this, actually, and that’s another thing he knows he should probably tell his therapist.

Hey, Doc, I’m kinda thinking somebody wants to murder me, so I’ve started keeping a knife under my pillow again, and I’ve really only been sleeping for like, an hour or two at a time. 

Weird thing, though– I feel better than I have in weeks, and I haven’t had any nightmares.

He does not tell his therapist, for a lot of reasons. Part of that is because he guesses she’d want to have the military deal with it, whatever it even is, which is just–absolutely not necessary. He’s a grown man, a fucking ex-assassin, for god’s sake, he can handle his own shit; but then there’s also the fact that she doesn’t even really know he’s still having nightmares. She suspects, he’s pretty sure, but he’d started denying it the fourth or fifth appointment in, got tired of her saying stupid shit like let’s do an exercise; I want you to describe it to me and talking about it will help, James, and you should try establishing a relaxing bedtime routine. 

Planning contingencies in case he’s attacked in his sleep, he’s pretty sure, does not count as a relaxing bedtime routine, but even still. Whatever works, right?

And it does work, for the first week, and then the second week, and then some of the third week, too, but eventually that pervasive vigilance starts to wane in the absence of any actual threat, and there’s nothing he can do to maintain it– it’s instinctive, that response, and while he can force himself to go through the motions, the checking and the watching and the knives stashed in places, he can’t bring that feeling back.

She’s never there. He looks, at night, lingers for a while and paces aimlessly after he’s tossed in the trash and his cigarette has gone out, sometimes even lights a second one and stays out even longer, leaned back against the brick and waiting, still, silent, like maybe if he goes long enough without moving at all she’d just reappear out of thin air, like a magic trick.

That doesn’t happen, because of course it doesn’t.

Eventually he starts to run short on the drive for that, too. Humans, it’s just how they are– get nothing for long enough and they’ll start to lose interest in trying. Bucky used to be above those kinds of things, or beyond them, or something like that; he could maintain single-minded focus on something for months, years, when it was necessary. 

Bucky misses that, too, sometimes. But he’s human now, or some approximation of it, and so eventually he stops looking so hard. Just glances over at the spot where she’d been standing, tosses the trash in, finishes his cigarette, heads back inside. He sometimes tries to find her in the daytime, in the people he passes on the street, in the dark figures at the bar when he goes out with Yori, cataloging the stature and posture and the shapes of strangers, the way a girl holds her shoulders in line at the grocery store or how the bartender will sometimes stay leaned against the counter for a long while, perfectly still.

But he never sees her. Not once. He’d know, he thinks, if he did; he might not have seen her face, or really anything beyond her silhouette, but there was something eerily familiar and immediately distinctive about the way that she held herself, how she stood, how she moved. The pieces of that he sees reflected in other people are never enough to trigger that same automatic, visceral feeling of recognition.

That vigilance– it just keeps fading. 

He starts to sleep in larger and larger chunks, unbroken, and the nightmares come back.

~

“How are you doing, James?”

“I’m doing good, Doc, how about you.” He doesn’t phrase it as a question. He’s tired and his jaw hurts and his teeth feel weird in his mouth, loose and sore and wrong– he’s probably been grinding them in his sleep again. The thought aggravates him, the idea that his body does things now that he can’t control.

“Bullshit,” she says, and he tightens his grip on the armrest of the chair, a reflex, until he can feel the wood give a little under his fingers, like it might splinter into pieces in his hand. 

“Yeah, y’know what, I have a headache,” he says, mulish and stubborn and not in the fucking mood.

Doc just stares at him, lets the silence stretch and stretch and stretch– in the beginning, when she would do this shit, he’d just stare right back and say nothing for the entire forty-five minutes. Learned real quickly that just makes things worse, because she started making him come in twice a week. He’s down to twice a month, now, and would really like to keep it that way–ideally would like to make it less, even, if possible. 

Bucky sighs and he shifts in the chair and he runs his tongue over his teeth and gives up on attempting to tamp down the irritation that he knows he wasn’t doing all that great a job at disguising to begin with. He thinks about what to say, and it’s like threading a needle, kind of, trying to find that sweet spot, something that sounds like honesty without feeling like he’s being fucking– violated.

He ends up telling her about how he’d went and made a nighttime routine and that’d stopped the nightmares. He does not tell her that the routine involved checking the locks on all the windows and scuffing the hinges on the door enough to make sure it would creak if anybody opened it more than halfway, taping knives under the end table in the living room and on the inside of the door to the coat closet in the hall.

She looks– suspicious. Uncertain. Like she doesn’t trust him, but isn’t quite decided on whether or not he’s lying.

Bucky smiles, again. 

She relaxes, just a little.

He’s been practicing– how to do it and make sure it reaches his eyes.

~

It’s that same night that it happens again. He’s tired and still irritated and his jaw hurts, this tense, throbbing pain that comes and goes in waves and just pisses him off more, and he’s thinking about how much he fucking hates therapy and how ridiculous it is that anyone in the world would pay money for that, to be examined like a bug under a microscope, vivisected and picked apart until there’s nothing left. 

All it’s doing is making him a more convincing liar, he thinks, bitter and sour and mean.

Bucky stops in the alleyway to have a cigarette before going inside, because he’s pissy and wants one. He does that cursory once-over of the spot behind the dumpster and there’s nothing, which is expected, and so he leans back against the soot-stained brick and shoves one hand in the pocket of his jacket and sighs and tries to just– not want to commit murder. 

He notices it by chance. 

From here, he can see his own bedroom window, four stories up, the drapes shuttered. It’s like six at night, but it’s April, so it’s not pitch-black, the sky that sort of soft blue-purple color with the sun obscured behind the endless sprawl of buildings. It’s still bright enough for him to be able to see the shadows of the folds in the curtains. Bright enough for him to see them move.

It’s not a lot, just a slight shift of the fabric, the shadows rippling like the air had changed inside the room– it could have been a trick of the light, he reasons, he could be overstressed and underslept and kind of loopy off all of the half-second buzz he gets from the nicotine, seeing things. It could be the stupid fucking window, the fact that he knows the seal around the edges needs to be repaired; it had been drafty as hell all winter. It could just be that the radiator had happened to switch on at that exact moment, sent a rush of heat spilling up to the ceiling that swayed the drapes just enough to make him think that there’d been– something.

Those are all perfectly viable explanations. None of them settle his pulse. 

He thinks he can probably feel his senses heighten, like everything in his field of vision sliding into better focus, or maybe his awareness of them just amplified; same with his hearing, the din of constant city noise sorting out into isolated and individual sounds that he filters through as he stalks the length of the lobby hallway, takes the stairs two at a time, silent and barely breathing.

When he gets to his floor he stops on the landing. Listens. There’s the muffled noise of traffic outside, a horn going off that sparks two others in quick succession, all from different cars; the couple three doors down from his whose argument is devolving into yelling at each other, again, their voices overlapping and rising in volume; the echo of scattered, tinny applause from what’s probably a TV on in an apartment upstairs.

And then there’s this soft, unassuming thump that comes from his apartment; nonspecific, maybe just the building settling as the temperature drops, but Bucky still stops breathing entirely and holds himself very, very still and waits–

But there’s nothing else. Nothing important. 

He tells himself sternly not to get his hopes up, and then realizes a half-second later that he’s not even sure what that means– if he’s hoping that there will be something or hoping that there won’t be.

His doormat is crooked. Just a little, one of the corners closest to the hallway folded over, kicked up, something that could have just happened by accident, a misstep from someone else living in the building, but–

That’s way too many fucking coincidences.

He opens the door as quietly as he can, enough to slip through and into the foyer but not quite far enough for the hinges to scrape against one another in the places where he’d scratched divots into them. The lights are off in the apartment, his living room and the adjoining kitchen shrouded in that late twilight shade of purplish-black; he sees a solid shadow in the corner by the fridge and something inside of him lights up and comes alive and floods his entire nervous system with this immediate shock of energy and it’s like everything just sharpens, his awareness of the world around him, like everything had been fuzzy and gray and muted before and now it’s not, the shadows are darker and richer and the colors are brighter and he stops feeling like he’s watching the world slip past him in this monotonous and unending blur.

She doesn’t hear him until he’s almost all the way across the living room, and even when she turns he just raises his arms up, a gesture he hopes comes off as nonthreatening.

She doesn’t move.

Bucky steps into the kitchen— it’s an open floor plan, so, honestly, there isn’t really a strict dividing line— and realizes his mistake as soon as he gets his palms flat on the counter. He’d meant to close the distance and show her that he’s not going to hurt her, keep his hands open and within her line of sight, but he’d miscalculated by a fucking large margin. There’s nowhere for her to go, he’d trapped her in the corner, not even on purpose; the door and the window in the bedroom are her only exits, and he’d situated himself directly in between both of them.

The last time, she’d ran, when he’d tried to get close.

Belatedly, it occurs to him as he watches the stiffening line of her posture that if she can’t run, she’s probably going to–

She lunges for him and swings at his head and he sidesteps it, moving down further along the long side of the dividing counter. He’s not even between her and the door anymore, but it doesn’t matter, she just keeps moving towards him, and her face, when he sees it– her expression– her eyes, that violent and single-minded focus, the strange serenity to them, like her mind is blank and her head is empty except for the way that she’s tracking him, the steady steps that he keeps taking back, and back, and back–

“Listen,” he says, “I don’t want to hurt–”

She lashes out at him mid-sentence and he jerks back and hits the wall in the adjoining hallway; he’s operating mostly on an old and familiar instinct so he twists to the side when she tries to hit him again before he can think twice about it, realizes only afterwards that he’d been standing in front of a support beam and he should have just let her hit him, it’s not like she could hurt him, and she’s going to break her fucking hand–

She hits the two-by-four dead-on and he expects to hear the solid awful crunch of the bones in her knuckles or her wrist, but what he actually hears instead is the drywall crack as an impact crater erupts out from under her fist and the plaster crumble like wet sand and the two-by-four fucking snap, bow in on itself and splinter into jagged shards like a tree hit dead-on by a car veering off a highway.

“Oh, shit ,” he says, aloud, and suddenly a lot of that instinctive and unthinking recognition starts to make a lot of fucking sense. “You’re–”

She swings for his head again and he ducks and lurches backwards and catches her next attempt with the metal arm– he deflects it harmlessly to the side, but the angle is strange and he ends up absorbing a lot of the momentum and the force of the blow jars all the way up to his shoulder, and, holy fuck, yeah, she’s exactly what he thought, she has to be–

“Will you– just– stop,” he tells her, or tries to. She’s gotten close again and the sentence is cut off when she goes for his sternum with her elbow and he barely manages to move back, a few milliseconds from having the wind knocked clean out of him, and then a second time as she steps in to knee him in the ribs and he’s force to twist to one side at some strange angle that nearly has him off-balance. She’s fucking fast, Jesus Christ; he catches her arm when she swings at him again, grabs her wrist with his hand and presses the metal one out flat to the inside of her bicep and tries to force her backwards into the wall, but she steps in and closer to him before he can gather the momentum and this time she throws her elbow towards his fucking face–

Bucky makes the split-second decision to just let go and try to put some fucking distance between them, retreating back into the kitchen.

He doesn’t want to hurt her, not if he can help it, not with how she looks right now as she advances on him— there’s something in her eyes that he doesn’t just recognize, something that he knows, it’s like looking into a fucking mirror if mirrors could be fucking portals into the past, or something.

“Stop,” he says, again; they’re following each other around the long counter in his kitchen, now, her eyes fixed on his with this startling precision, staring him down like a cornered animal. And, god, he fucking gets that, if only she’d just–

She seems to realize after a few seconds that they’re just circling, because she leverages herself up on the counter and slides across it and nearly breaks his nose with her heel.

He catches her next punch dead-on and the look of blank fucking shock on her face is satisfying in ways that he knows, rationally, shouldn’t be. 

“Listen to me,” he says, and she doesn’t, predictably, but when she steps in to try to hit him and maneuver out of his grip like the last time he just uses her own momentum to get her turned around and pinned flat down to the counter with both of her arms twisted behind her back, held together with one of his hands, applying enough pressure to keep her there without tearing ligaments. She thrashes, violently, catches him with her feet a couple of times in the shins, but he’s running on adrenaline and the pain doesn’t even really register as pain at all, the way it used to, like it’s all just sensation, no more important than temperature or hunger or pressure or time.

“Listen,” Bucky says, again, trying to keep his voice nonthreatening but not sure how well he manages that, “Listen, alright, I don’t want to hurt you, just relax.“

The thing about the stupid counter in his kitchen is that it’s not really at waist height, even for him, which means when he’d forced her down onto it she wasn’t bent over at an angle deep enough for him to have the leverage to keep her there for long. The ideal position would be anything more than ninety degrees, an angle that would have someone stuck and unable to straighten against the pressure without the use of their arms; the thing about that stupid fucking counter being so high up and her being shorter than him by a meaningful margin is that the edge of it doesn’t even come close to hitting her waist and the angle he’s holding her at is incredibly fucking shallow. It wouldn’t be that hard, if she were to realize all of that, for her to drop her weight down and press into the counter with her knees to force him backwards; it wouldn’t even have to be far, there's a lip jutting out from the top that she's bent over, so there’s space between her and the side of it already. She’d only need enough room to brace her feet and push-- the legs are the strongest muscle group in the human body, and the impact when he hits whatever’s behind him would be more than enough to force his grip to loosen.

Bucky had been aware of all that, is the thing. Obviously. He’s a professional. 

He just thought it might have taken her a little longer to figure it out.

His back hits the fridge hard enough that it rattles all of the contents inside and forces the air out of his lungs with a pained and entirely involuntary groan and though he tries real fucking hard to keep ahold of her, he loses track of one of her arms.

She starts to turn against his grip on the other and from that look on her face he knows— intimately, personally, from fucking experience— what will happen next. Either she will keep going, keep twisting until she can hit him hard enough to escape and tear the tendon in her arm in the process, or—

Bucky lets go.

She scrambles back and away from him. He stays perfectly still, not moving his hand from where it’s still half-outstretched and open. 

She only looks at him for what’s probably less than a second before she makes for the door, but it feels like so much longer. That kind of glassy, thoughtless fog breaks, when she does, and her eyes widen a fraction and something glints inside them, fragile and expressive and aware.

It’s just that one second, and then she’s gone, the door to his apartment ajar and swaying farther open, pushed by the air that had moved when she’d slipped past it.

Bucky releases the breath he’d been holding, and slumps back against the fridge. 

~

That night he does a bug sweep for the first time in what feels like forever. There aren’t any, which is almost halfway to a surprise; he checks again for anything left behind, and again, more carefully, for anything out of place, but finds nothing.

Later, laying on his mattress and staring up into the dark, he thinks about calling Sam. He still doesn’t know anything about her, who she is or who she works for or what she wants, from him and then just in general; she’s had some kind of serum, and she moved like she’d been trained— like she’d been conditioned, how she hadn’t even hesitated at the thought of causing herself some pretty fucking significant damage to escape, the same way an animal in a trap gnaws off its' own leg. 

That’s a lot of fucking glaring red flags, and she’d broken into his apartment.

He should definitely tell Sam. Or anyone, really. 

The thing is, though—

He’d recognized something in her, the very first time. If he was going to tell anyone, he would have done it then.

No, this is— it’s fine. He can handle this himself, Bucky decides, and then closes his eyes.

He doesn’t sleep for long, but he doesn’t have any nightmares.

[stevesbipanic]

Steve hadn't even remembered the letter.

After everything had happened, after Steve had to leave Eddie's body, had to sit at the bedside of a girl that might not wake up, had to bury an empty box and hold his kids as they were told they were losing Max all over again, the letter was furthest from his mind.

Max's body was too damaged, her mind too post despite El's best efforts. The weight of responsibility and the energy it took every time El tried to bring Max back was killing El too. After the fifth time Max had coded, Hopper had to tell her to not being her back again if it happened.

Three months after they buried Eddie, they buried Max too. The ghost of her was felt in everything they did. When Suzie visited Hawkins for the first time, Max was missed in the party's introductions. When Lucas became captain of the basketball team in junior year, Max was missed in their group hug. When they party graduated, Max was missed in the chair left empty between Darcy Lunce and Paul Meston.

As the kids left one by one to college, following the footsteps of Nancy and Robin years before, Max was missing from their goodbyes.

Steve hadn't been able to leave until he knew the kids were safe and grownup and out of Hawkins. He'd thought about leaving with Robin when she first left, he'd had a panic attack when he started packing. Now the kids were gone he could leave too, the protector could finally rest.

He was moving to Chicago, Nancy and Robin already had his room ready for him. They had understood why he'd had to stay. Most of his items were packed up and loaded into a moving van that the girls had driven back to their apartment. All the was left was Steve's car. He was selling it, he didn't need it in the city and some extra cash would tie him over while he looked for a new job.

He was cleaning it out ready for the buyer when he found it. Dropped between his chair and the gearbox. Perfectly preserved from the day Max handed it to him. At the time he refused to believe he'd ever need to read it, refused to believe he'd lose one of the kids before dying himself first. Yet here he was, alive, and the author of the note was gone.

He tucked the letter into his jacket and finished with the car. Once it had been picked up he still had an hour before the taxi came to take him to the airport. He made his way to the cemetery, it was only fair he say a proper goodbye to her before leaving her to watch over their town. When he arrived at the plot he took a moment to admire the bright flowers the kids had planted years ago, the beautiful mural Will had painted on the back of the headstone.

Here lies Maxine "Mad Max" Mayfield

1972-1986

He took a deep breath and sat down facing her grave, eerily mirroring the girl years before. He took out the letter, carefully opening it and began to read.

Dear Steve,

First off yes of course I'm going to write you a letter, I don't want to hear any self deprecating nonsense when I hand this to you, you're my brother as much as Dustin is and as much as Billy was. People care about you and love you and shut up yes they do.

Second of all if I somehow don't die you better have burned this I don't want you having anything soft and gooey to hold over me if I'm still kicking. If I find out you've still got this I get to drive your car ok?

I should really get to the point of this letter, I'm writing yours while putting off Lucas', I don't know what I'm going to say to him yet, I wish I could ask you to help me but I need to write these myself, he deserves that and so do you. These might be my last words to you and I need you to know a few things and you've got to believe them because if you're reading them it means I'm gone and you have to honour the dead asshole.

It's not your fault.

Listen to me Steve, if this is the last thing I do, if tomorrow everything goes wrong and I can't be berating you for getting hit in the head and you're crying somewhere alone I need you to know it's not your fault.

If I'm dead, if any of us are dead, it's not your fault. We're old enough to make our own choices. If I'm lucky in a couple years I'll be the age you fought a demogorgan for the first time. If I'm dead it's because whatever is down there took me but that's not on you. If I've made myself bait, or run off or done something stupid or brave or sacrificial or we just got unlucky, it's not your fault Steve.

It's not your fault.

If I hear you thinking it's your fault I'm coming back to haunt you.

Love, Max (your favourite)

Steve has to catch a later flight, he doesn't cry until later. Max's words rattle through his brain, years of guilt that he had pushed down slowly bubbled to the surface until he was in Chicago and could sob in his best friend's arms. Whenever he needed to he would reread Max's letter just to remind himself.

It's not your fault.

[barbwillbrb]

OC Smash or Pass 🔥

Got tagged in this a couple times (thank you @commander-krios and @kimberbohwrites ❤️) and finally got a moment to fill this out. :3 Let’s do this thing.

First, no presh tags (sorry if you’ve been tagged multiple times!):

@ladyofcrowsandcoffee @matchabunbun @lemonsrosesandlavender @savriea @reverieblondie @redroomroaving @faerunsbest

Bringing out the bug guns for this— my boy Rackal Orro (I suck at taking screenshots and need to redo his BG3 run but have some art and a pic I took with my phone. Also see “tav: rackal” tag for more info/art with him).

Quick facts:

Half-drow (drow father, human barbarian mom; all of the height/strength comes from her)

Has a twin sister, Clairice

Oath of Devotion turned Oathbreaker (happens during game, but he’s been struggling with rules vs. justice/virtue for a while and beginning to think his oath is getting in the way of doing the right thing)

Former Flaming Fist; been freelance adventurer for the past five years after being discharged

Age: 52

Height: 6’11”; over 7’ in armor.

Sexuality: panromantic demisexual

Pronouns/sex: He/him, AMAB

Pros:

While rough around the edges and prone to impulsive decisions, Rackal has a heart of gold and ultimately wants to do the right thing. He has a very strong sense of justice, and protects the innocent/weak. Similarly, he will fight tooth and nail for his friends/loved ones.

Will fight in your honor/lay someone out if they cross a line.

Very observant/insightful with a good memory, Rackal is quick to see if something is wrong with a companion, but also has the sense to read their language/figure out what they want/need. Big caretaker energy; he looks after his people.

He is the quieter of the two siblings, but he always means what he says. He’s a terrible liar.

He has a soft spot for animals, especially dogs. Living in the city, he and his sister couldn’t have a dog— Scratch is the glue holding his sanity together in Act 1.

Very, very strong and will be insulted if you think he can’t carry you (will also prove you wrong).

He loves very deeply, both platonically and romantically; once you have a place in his heart you will never leave it.

He is an eager-to-please soldier who knows how to follow an order, has self-worth issues, and is desperate to prove himself worthy again. You will have many orgasms.

Similarly, he is observant and will read you like a book in the bedroom.

Has a tongue and dick piercing.

Cons

Prone to impulsive, reckless decisions— especially if the only allied party that could come to harm is himself. He’s not one to risk other’s wellbeing, but is more than willing to hurl himself into the fray. He has more than one close calls before his companions try to get to the root of this behavior (survivor’s guilt/suicidal tendencies).

The braincell goes out the goddamn window when he’s with his twin. He definitely licked the spider because she dared him to and he was not about to let her hold that over him.

Unfortunately because SOMEONE (*glares at Emp*) thought it was a brilliant idea to disguise themselves as Rackal’s dead lover, any romance with him will he a slower burn as he is getting jump scared by a ghost in his dreams/waking moments. If you’ve been a good friend/companion to him, you’d be able to start breaking down his walls after Emp’s reveals his identity.

Unfortunately, he is also very bad at communicating his own wants; if/when he starts to develop feelings for you, he’s going to keep them very close to himself out of 1) concern that he is imposing and 2) fear of rejection. He will wrestle with his feelings and whether to address them, especially with the chaos surrounding you. However, his behavior/actions will likely betray his feelings— always keeping an eye out for you, making space for you, remembering things about you, etc. If he starts collecting things/bringing items back to camp that he thought you might find interesting, he is GONE. Smitten.

The twins are determined to get their friends their happy endings; as such, Rackal goes to Avernus with Wyll and Karlach. He will come back and will wait for you if you’ll have him still, but he needs to do this for his friends.

Being with him means dealing with Clairice as well. This can be either a pro or con.

Know that if romanced and on a mission with him, he will do whatever he can to protect you. This means being potentially involved in one of his hare-brained, last minute gtfo escape plans. If he says “do you trust me,” this is not a question but a warning that something very dumb is about to happen and it’s gonna require 1) Featherfall, 2) a broken window, and 3) a “watch this!” directed at the Gods.

In order to ride this ride, some form of connection/feeling has to be there; Rackal is not really one for one-night-stands with strangers. He could be convinced into something casual with a very close, trusted friend, but honestly he will develop feelings on his end (would keep them likely to himself, tho, unless there is a chance they could be reciprocated).

Anyhoot, you guys know what to do! Smash (or other if smashing is n/a for you due to sexuality but you still wanna hang or something) or pass, Rackal Edition!

[towine]

[alhaitham/cyno] an elaboration on form

modern restaurant au / pre-relationship / oneshot / 1.5k

notes: look i binged the bear and i have feelings. i had the idea of alhaitham inheriting the family restaurant after his grandmother passed, and i had to get this out of my system.

maybe the real restaurant was the found family we made along the way!!! bone apple teeth

-

-

Cyno finds Alhaitham out back, crouched in the alleyway with a lit cigarette.

“Dehya didn’t burn the kitchen down,” Cyno announces by way of a greeting.

“Really? That’s too bad.” Smoke billows out of Alhaitham’s mouth as he speaks. “Guess we’re running dinner service after all.”

Cyno huffs and sits beside him. He’s not wearing his apron. His hair is still tied up, a white tail high on the back of his head. They’ve done this a few times before—sat in the alleyway in silence, nothing but the sounds of the city and the clang of pans in the kitchen just behind them. Cyno normally tilts his head back to look at the sky, but today he looks at Alhaitham. His stare has always been discomfitingly piercing. Sharp as a filet knife.

“So lunch was a shitshow,” Cyno says.

The surprise of it makes Alhaitham cough on a laugh.

“It’s been a shitshow since we re-opened last week,” he says, tapping the ashes off his cigarette. “Not sure what you think is different now.”

“Please. Dehya nearly triggered the fire suppression system twice. Kaveh threw a whisk at you when you told him to remake the creme pat. And Collei cried in the walk in.”

“She always does that.”

“No,” Cyno corrects, “she always goes into the walk in to stop herself before she starts crying. This time she actually did.”

“God,” Alhaitham mutters and scrubs a hand over his face. “Okay, so it was a shitshow.”

“Growing pains,” Cyno says wisely. “New staff, new menu. We’ll get it eventually.”

“Not all of them are new,” Alhaitham says. “Some of them came with the territory.”

Dehya grilled him when Alhaitham first walked through the front door—something about his high and mighty attitude, never showing his face here in all the years since he graduated culinary school. She was protective of this place, possibly even more than Alhaitham. It wasn’t easy for her to see it change, especially under the hands of someone she considered a near stranger.

Alhaitham could have fired her. He could have done a lot of things, like sold the damn place and returned to his role as Chef de Cuisine at Azar’s restaurant, Divinity. He could have returned to having all his flaws picked apart: every smudged plate, every lagging ticket, every misplacement of micro basil, lemon zest, agar.

No. Going back was never an option. Neither was selling the restaurant, or firing Dehya. Maybe that stubbornness will be Alhaitham’s downfall, but right now, it’s the only thing keeping the restaurant standing. There’s something here, in the dishes that hold all the flavors of home to him. A solid foundation, something worth elevating.

It’s just taking a little longer than he hoped to get everyone else on board. Like Cyno said: growing pains.

Alhaitham takes another long drag of his cigarette, then says, “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Cyno. Why here?”

Cyno blinks. “What?”

“This place isn’t exactly on its best legs.” Alhaitham watches his smoke swirl into arabesques in the air. “It was in the red even before it came to my hands. A résumé like yours, this doesn’t seem like the logical step forward. I was desperate for a sous chef and you were the first one that didn’t cower when I interviewed you, so I didn’t point it out then. But still, I did wonder what you were even doing here. Now I’m asking. What are you even doing here?”

Cyno blinks at Alhaitham, then turns his gaze to the ground, a pensive expression on his face.

“I will tell you,” he says, “only if you promise not to laugh at what a sentimental fool it makes me.”

“Do I strike you as someone who laughs?” Alhaitham says dryly.

“You laughed when Kaveh made that eclair that looked like a di—”

“That’s because Kaveh is an idiot.”

“It was for the table with that rude guest,” Cyno reminds him.

“I remember.” Alhaitham’s mouth twitches. “Yes, they deserved it. But there was no way I was going to serve that.”

“A pity,” Cyno says. “It still tasted good though.”

“Anyway,” Alhaitham says loudly. “You were going to explain why you’re here.”

“Yes.” Cyno clears his throat. “Well. It probably doesn’t surprise you to hear that I knew who you were, even before we met.”

Alhaitham shrugs a shoulder. So his name has been printed in a culinary magazine or two. It’s never really mattered to him, but it does mean his reputation precedes him.

“So, what, you wanted a peek behind the curtain?” he asks.

“Not exactly. I just—” Cyno sucks in a breath. “I used to walk by here a lot when I was young. Foster kid. Moved around the city a lot.”

“Ah.” Alhaitham’s not sure what to say.

Cyno waves a hand. “It was a long time ago. But I had no money. And I would walk home from school and see this place on my way home. I was always told it was rude to watch others eat, but, well. The food looked good. It always did. One day, someone was eating at a window seat and she caught me staring. Instead of scolding me, she invited me inside. She sat me at a table, brought me a plate of the same thing she was eating. It turned out she was the owner.”

“My grandmother,” Alhaitham says quietly.

Cyno nods. “It was such a long time ago, I don’t even remember what the dish was. But at the time, it was the best meal I ever had. Sometimes I still think it is. It made me want to know how to make food taste this good. Made me want to learn so I can share it with others.” He exhales, looking up at the sky. “Then, of course, I was moved to a new house on the other side of the city, and I never came here again. Not until years later, when I was working the restaurant circuit and heard that Memory is under new management. By the renowned CDC of Divinity, no less.”

Alhaitham examines the last embers of his cigarette, not sure he could bear looking at Cyno directly. “And the verdict?”

“Wilder than I remembered.” A wryness dances through Cyno’s voice. “An eclectic staff. Tiny kitchen. The new owner has a terrible attitude, but he’s a genius. Almost annoyingly so.”

“I’ve heard that before,” Alhaitham mutters.

“The food, though…”

Alhaitham looks over at him.

A smile quirks at the corner of Cyno’s mouth.

“It’s damn good,” he says.

Alhaitham swallows. “It’ll be better when we can get through one lunch service without wanting to kill each other.”

“Who, me and you? Not likely.”

“I was talking about the kitchen as a whole, but sure, me and you.” Alhaitham drops his cigarette butt to the floor and grinds it under his heel. He straightens up. Cyno follows his lead. Before they go back inside, Alhaitham says, “I want to revisit that stone fruit salad you suggested. It was good, it just needed… more acid, I think. If you finish your dinner prep early, let’s discuss it.”

“Yes, chef.”

“And one more thing.” The two of them pause in the doorway. Further inside, they can hear Dehya loudly recounting the time she almost burned all her hair off. “Does Collei think I’m evil now?”

“I’m pretty sure she always thought you were evil,” Cyno says.

“Great,” Alhaitham sighs.

“I was joking,” Cyno says. “Collei blames herself before ever blaming anyone else. I wouldn’t worry.”

It’s not exactly reassuring to hear, but Alhaitham keeps it in mind. Later, when everyone on the line is prepping for dinner service and Alhaitham is taking inventory of the pantry, Collei meekly approaches him with a small bowl of the seafood broth she was tasked with preparing.

“Chef?” she asks, holding it out to him. “If you’re ready.”

“Oh. Yes.” Alhaitham accepts it.

Collei is babbling before he even puts the spoon in his mouth.

“It’s probably all wrong, I can start it over again. I just—I felt like I kept adding salt and it wasn’t tasting right but—but I know it’s probably just me not following the recipe correctly. And I’m sorry again about lunch, when my demi-glace kept breaking. I’ll get it right for dinner. I swear I know how to make it I’m just a little off today and—”

“It’s great,” Alhaitham says.

Collei’s mouth shuts, and she stares at him with wide eyes. “Huh?”

“The soup is great, chef. Thank you.” Alhaitham hands the bowl back to her.

“Oh.” Collei takes the bowl.

Alhaitham nods at her and returns his attention to the shelves.

He’s crossing things off his checklist while Collei takes a few steps away, then stops.

“Um!” she says, prompting Alhaitham to look at her. “Thank you, chef.”

A wobbly smile has taken over her face.

He nods at her again. Collei hurries back to her station.

About an hour later, Cyno meets Alhaitham in his office, stone fruit salad in hand.

“I think you made Collei’s whole life,” he says, setting the plate on Alhaitham’s desk. “By the way, try this. More acid, like you said.”

Alhaitham takes a bite.

“Well fuck me,” he blurts.

Cyno grins.

And Alhaitham thinks to himself, maybe this family business thing will work out after all.