#ill kick us off >;3c

[aibouart]

can. can i request a red infodump perhaps? :3c ive seen them around a bit before but i have uh no idea what their lore/story is at all and im v curious!!!

WWWWWWWYAYYAYAYAYAYAYA !!!

i'm gonna gon on abt his species first cuz ........

i half jokingly refer to red as a "walking content warning" cuz he has a SUPER BAD home life. i made him to cope over 10 years ago, now, so he has a looong history of being used to get through my childhood and as such, his backstory is insane.

all you'd need to really know abt his backstory is like...

His father is a super shit person, his mother is basically missing but she was also not good in her own weird way, he has a sister he rarely speaks to because he's stuck at home and doesn't know how to leave, and he has a brother (red is the youngest) who is stuck in a baby's body and is usually being cared for by his sister (lore below explains why he's like that).

red lives primarily alone as his father is usually not home anymore, and he hates being a vampire or hurting people, and gets suuuper awkward around any pop culture vampire talk which is think is funny.

so red's vampiric species is very simple compared to human made vampiric lore and a lot of things are considered misconceptions, or things that could be attributed to *other* vampiric species that were blanketly attached to the concept of "vampire" by humans who are largely uneducated on them (and tbf most vampiric species aren't super knowledgeable abt each other either in my verse).

their primary biological traits aaare:

they are cold like normal vampire lore, and have fangs (retractable but doesn't need to be extended usually), and will often have very light coloured eyes. they can easily die due to illnesses that normally don't kill humans because of their lower body temp, to blood loss, and can only really be called immortal due to not dying of old age.

they also have a "starvation mode" where if they've been without food for too long, will become animalistic in nature and hunt humans. Red's hair turns near-black and his eyes become red when he is in this mode. they gain incredible strength and even heat vision to hunt down humans so they don't perish. after eating a meal (usually they do it with little care for the person's well-being while like this) they will revert back to their normal selves and have little memory of what happened during this state. although the state itself can store basic memories to help hunt later (such as if certain places are dangerous last time they went there, or if they got attacked for one reason or another). this separation of memories isn't meant to be an allegory for systems btw so i hope no one is thinking that i'm doing that!! ;__;;b!

these vampires start off looking and eating like normal humans, but eventually something within them hits a timer and they turn vampiric naturally (they can convert humans if humans drink their blood though). the process can be seen coming as their appetite lowers and they become a bit sluggish and lower body temp before the process kicks in full swing and they painfully turn to a vampire. after that, their body stops aging.

this specific species of vampires are meant to co-exist with humans and live along side them. humans provide a source of food, and the vampires can help provide protection and even mingle well socially. the vampire species can breed with humans and human-vampire babies on average will usually turn vampiric later in adulthood, but vampire-vampire children (especially vampires with little human lineage) tend to turn too quickly.

his vampiric species was doing well within small human communities and living how they're supposed to, before humans from far away locations came, saw the vampires and how they fed off of humans, and drove them away. plenty of vampires lost their lives to this invasion, and the other humans were too easily switched over to an aggressive mob mentality towards them, so they were forced to live isolated and prey on humans in the dark. it's def possible not all of them turned against vampires, but it was too dangerous for them to stay.

Red was born around the time this happened (he's abt 2000 yo usually)........

during the time humans and vampires slowly started to be reintroduced to each other, vampiric based pop culture started to become popular in human societies so the vampires weren't too keen on the whole, slay vampires thing media was doing a lot of. because of the focus on vampires as a pop culture thing, humans started applying a lot of concepts to them on a broad scale (unable to be in the sun, garlic allergy, etc). red typically only went into human cities or villages out of curiosity, but was terrified of saying anything to them in case he was found out (esp seeing as the whole.. kill vampire thing was a popular thing in media.......)

a lot of these ideas were applied due to sightings or findings of vampiric persons by humans, but were individualistic traits that were then applied to all vampires (my fav is like, the garlic thing straight up just being one guy's allergy). (the bat turning thing is not possible for red's species of vampires, but it is possible for a fey vampire combo species that dwell in the forest. they are shapeshifters that shift between an animal/furry form and a human form).

red's species, originally being a pretty small group in a small area, has a long history of vampires taking leadership positions and even being strict about their culture and stances on interaction between them and humans (especially after the drive to exterminate them, they developed a lot of strict rules to protect their kind and youth). red's father is part of these leaders, and red was supposed to be the heir as he's the only one who turned late enough to be an actual adult, but because of his pacifist nature and generally meek demeanour he was already on his father's bad side growing up.

the day of his turning was to be held with the other leader dudes, but when provided a person to have as his first meal, he refused to hurt them and was quickly labelled a disgrace and no longer allowed to be the heir.

red's father, and plenty of the other old guys appointed leader of the species, typically regard humans as nothing more than food things and to not be considered with compassion and especially not to be mingled with. red has made a number of human friends over the centuries but learned pretty fast to make sure his dad never. ever. finds out he has them.

despite the seemingly strict ruling on their vampiric society, a lot of young vampires (and especially those from turned humans) have a large disconnect from them and usually just know they exist and have these rules, but it's not like they can do anything about their spread out community doing what they want.

my favourite part of the modern age for them is that they have a vampiric social media and the only way to be able to sign up is to be vetted by a confirmed vampire of their species. they have their own memes and whatnot, and my fav one is "the vlad". the lovingly chosen name for the human stereotype of a vampire. a lot of them use it mockingly, but there's a tonne of them who also genuinely love the vlad and make groups for being fans of it. count chocula gets posted every halloween, ofc.

red isn't super active on vampiric facebook but he is signed up. he's not good at the whole technology thing in general, but he is aware of the vlad and will often mutter "a vlad..." when he sees one, mystified.

one time a guy who was signed up was found out not to be an actual vampire and it sent the community into a frenzy cuz how tf did they get on the site when it's so strict. it instantly became a classic meme for them, the one time a vampire kinnie joined somehow (obviously im not mocking kins, i am also a kinnie). they only found out cuz the guy actually confessed and was quickly banned. no one knows who vetted them, either.

i think im done w this dump for noooow even tho im sure it's not everything just cuz my net went down like 3 times while typing this GOD

if u wanna know more abt red himself tho i could rant abt his friends and their polycule tho hee hee hoo hoo

[agentangeles]

hello everyone please enjoy the first post i've made in my writing blog in easily 6 months and it's just to yell about the fucking center venn diagram point for two big fixations

now you might be wondering "angeles when you start moving towards other fandoms will you still be nootboots" and the answer is yes, its my brand, but also ace attorney has a fucking vice grip on my neurodivergent mentally ill ass

as a side note i am too much of an idiot to remember to read the manga but i know Points Of Interest and when I can sit for a good bit and consume it I will, so bear with my anime main knowledge

Anyways consider the concept of family clans in JJK and the Sahdmadhis and their shit in SOJ. Obviously, we see how shit happened with maki her sister and how that works, and clearly the clans are structured differently depending on the family (what the fuck is going on with gojo. love that funky little manic twink but. What.)

And yes, AA and JJK get to hold hands because of Higuruma, which means I now get to think of both of them and daydream about crossovers, and y'know what? In the JJK verse, you can reasonably explain so much shit, especially w/ Khurai'inism and bloodlines, because Khura'in's designated holy figure being a super cool badass hundreds of years ago with an equally badass sister? Sorcerers who kicked ass. Hella sorcerers who kicked ass. would be special grades without a doubt if they were alive today.

and like cursed techniques having genetic tie ins ALSO FUCKING SLAPS because that's a huge factor! you can also explain why the feys and the sahdmadhis have spirit channeling because *it's the same fucking bloodline* and it's not a stretch to say someone was kicked out of the clan, fucked off, and then those traits started popping up again in later generations

that aside, clan hierarchy also gives a nice port over from an actual extra country that capcom decided now exists, because instead of a ruling kingdom family it's a Big Fucking Clan With A Lot Of Weight To It

(And also makes sense then why when the revolution starts up, nobody steps in to do shit. interfering with another clan's family drama? no fucking thank you. not my paygrade.)

also i just think nahyuta would be really fun as a sorcerer and their rosary beads would DEFINITELY be a weapon for cursed spirits and their title as "last rites prosecutor" would doubly fuck

Unrelated to SOJ but still on the AA train, this also means that Simon Blackquill is just. Always busting out cursed techniques. And since nobody can see it they think he just slices shit with his fingers. And that's fucking hilarious to think about, the idea that someone probably got after him for it and he went "Consider this though: who is going to ask questions with the everything else i have going on", because Simon "Definitely Uses The >:3c Emoji When He Is Texting" Blackquill refuses to fucking listen to people.

"You're going to expose sorcerer society to the masses" Wrong. Everyone is going to think he can cut shit with his fingers because he's a scary samurai man who went to prison for murder and clearly this is something that tracks for that persona.

[oikawas]

@acotarnet​ EVENT 7: One Death → NESTA ARCHERON

What if I tell you what the rock and darkness and see beyond whispered to me, Lord of Bloodshed? How they shuddered in fear, on that island across the sea. How they trembled when she emerged. She took something—something precious. She ripped it out with her teeth. What came out was not what went in.

[tenthgrove]

yess thank you for letting me ask you about the lore >:3c so I have to get my absolute favorites outta the way first— what kinda lore and thoughts do you have for sorbet or gelato ( <- before they get together and the earlier years of them getting together if you need a specific period ) I have to also ask are you ok if I go down the “line” and get your thoughts in other asks about the rest of the la squadra babes? Thank you sm 💖💖 I hope you’re having a wonderf day/evening

Ah! Now this is one of my absolute favourites! Apologies to anyone who has already heard me ramble about my Sorbet and Gelato backstory ad nauseam on multiple occasions, but this is really an area where I can't help myself. Besides, this is my opportunity to go more in depth where I haven't before:

(Note after writing this: It's stupidly long. I'm sorry I just can't help myself with these backstories. I couldn't decide what to leave out so I decided nothing.)

(Also please feel free to ask me more lore questions because I love doing this)

We'll begin with Sorbet, born in Naples in February 1967 if you follow the canon timeline (although by default I write in modern AU so move the dates 20 years later). His situation at birth was absolutely dire, the eldest child of an incredibly vulnerable woman and one of her clients as a sex worker. Sorbet's mother was by all means a decent woman but her severe mental illness and drug addiction made it impossible for her to be a good mother, which of course had a bad effect on Sorbet growing up. After Sorbet, she had 5 more children, all through clients, and Sorbet was saddled with much of their care.

Though he loved his siblings, Sorbet was pretty much done with this life by age 12 and was easily swept up by older boys from the local street gang, who paid him well to peddle drugs when he should have been in school. This was a very underfunded neighbourhood so nobody questioned his truancy, and within the next couple of years he had stopped going to school entirely. Shortly after this, having acquired sufficient money through his crime involvement, Sorbet left his family to stay with his new friends, moving between them on a regular basis. He also discovered his sexuality around this time and dated a few male friends, though none of these relationships got very far.

By age 16, Sorbet had earned a reputation in the street gang for skilled and passionate violence, and was selected by the ringleader to commit the group's first planned murder, in exchange of course for a lucrative reward. Sorbet accepted, succeeded, and became the group's de-facto assassin whenever needed. He continued to hoard considerable money for the remainder of his adolescence, though continued to be functionally homeless since he didn't see it necessary when sofa-surfing was suiting him fine.

Before resuming with Sorbet, let's explain the life that Gelato came from. Gelato was born in October 1967 in St. Petersburg, Russia, (Note- I previously used the city of Minsk, unaware that this is in fact, in Belarus) to an upper-middle class businessman and his Italian wife, a distant relative of French Monarchy. Gelato's relationship with his parents was rocky from the start due to the fact they would have preferred a girl after three successive sons, but any parental love they had for their youngest child broke down entirely after he was diagnosed with both Autism and ADHD at age 5, in an evaluation intending to find the cause of some behavioural issues that were really, just a response to emotional neglect.

When Gelato was 13 he, his parents, and two of his three brothers (the eldest was already an adult by this time and elected to stay behind) moved to Italy to escape some allegations of corruption in the father's business. They moved to a rural village in North-West Italy where the community was very middle-class and quite stifling for Gelato, who had enough social rules to remember in the familiar, economically-diverse city he grew up in. His behavioural issues got worse and began to include things he would later regret, such as attacking and stealing from younger children, and things he would absolutely not, like attacking and stealing from teachers. By this point the family had largely written him off as a failure, revering instead their academically successful, well-behaved older children, which absolutely contributed to the spiralling cycle of behaviour issues Gelato faced.

Then, at age 17, Gelato failed a crucial exam and was expelled from high-school. His parents kicked him out on the spot, and with no other family in Italy Gelato had very few options on what to do next. He recalled, however, one older friend having links to a street gang in Naples, and decided to see if this boy might have a route out of destitution for him. Indeed, the friend did know of a man in Naples needing assistance within the gang, but could offer no help in getting Gelato there. Seeing no other way, Gelato walked the whole journey.

Arriving in Naples, the friend's associate announced that the position Gelato was after had been taken, but taking pity on his distress, informed him of another friend who needed someone to look after an unlicensed bar that served as one of the group's main meeting points. He agreed to arrange for the small apartment above the bar to be given as payment.

Gelato accepted, but although he had now solved the problem of homelessness his life was still incredibly miserable. For one, with his pay being the apartment he had to rely on measly tips to get by, which rarely left him with enough to eat let alone anything else. Additionally, as an outsider with little understanding of the way gangs work Gelato was an easy target for abuse, and was treated like absolute shit by the bar's patrons.

By this point in time, Sorbet had just turned 18. He was, incidentally, in the same gang Gelato had joined, and a regular at the bar he worked in. For a good couple of months they took no notice of each other, until Sorbet came to be in a coincidental feud with one of the men who was violent to Gelato at the bar. When Gelato witnessed the two of them in a fight, he made the spur-of-the-moment decision to join in on Sorbet's side, knocking the patron unconscious and leaving him too afraid to visit again. For his trouble, Sorbet gave Gelato a portion of the money he looted from the fight's loser, and flirted with him lightly before going about with his evening. Unknown to Sorbet, he had just sent Gelato falling head over hills in love.

Gelato found out about Sorbet's sexuality from other patrons and, delighted, attempted to flirt with him the next time they saw each other, but his attempts came off very poorly and Sorbet actually thought he was being insulted. Angered, he dragged Gelato into the cellar to demand what was going on. Gelato, terrified, admitted having a crush, which Sorbet found to be the sweetest and most genuine thing he'd ever heard. While he couldn't promise a relationship, he did agree to show Gelato more attention in the future. But, it was only a matter of days until Sorbet found himself loving Gelato back.

This whirlwind relationship continued happily for three weeks, Sorbet greatly improving Gelato's situation through his saved money and helping him fend off the abusive patrons. Gelato, in turn, offered Sorbet a permanent place to stay in the apartment, which he accepted. Sorbet was in the process of moving his things, and they had plans to refurbish the place to make it actually habitable.

But then, everything came crashing down. One night the bar was subject to a surprise raid by the police, operating by the false assumption it was empty. Sorbet and Gelato attempted to flee but were caught, and in a panic, Gelato shot a policeman dead. Rushing to his defence Sorbet killed two more, but a fourth escaped to tell the tale. The couple knew they were screwed. Running to the headquarters of their gang they begged for protection but were informed the small group simply could not save them from a charge this serious, and gave them only a single night of shelter to plan their next move. Gelato, who remember had never committed anything more serious than minor ABH before, had an absolute breakdown over this predicament that night, and whilst comforting him, Sorbet devised a blood pact with him to stick together no matter what came.

Over the next few days, Sorbet and Gelato fled north, avoiding the police through Sorbet's skills as a criminal and Gelato's very convincing Russian tourist impression. They were almost at the French border when Sorbet awoke one night to find Gelato missing behind him. He chased his tracks to the driveway of a rural house, a tearful Gelato clutching a knife at the shut door and trembling. He informed Sorbet that he had intentionally led him to the village where his family lived, with the intention to break in and kill them as revenge for the years of abuse. Sorbet warned Gelato that this would not be good for their attempts to flee, but said he understood fully and would help him if this is truly what he wanted. Gelato agreed, and together they broke into the house and slaughtered Gelato's mother and father, additionally killing one of his brothers after he woke from the noise. The other brother, the youngest other than Gelato, was spared, as Gelato felt his role in the abuse had been comparatively more minor and he did not deserve to die. This of course, left another witness.

The massacre in the village was quickly linked to the one at the bar and Gelato was promptly identified from a comparison of DNA found at the scene to his surviving brother's. Sorbet, a known criminal, was identified soon after. Not only were the pair now known but the police figured out what their plan was and informed the French police as well, making things exponentially harder for the couple.

They made do for a while by hanging low and keeping on the move, living off money stolen from the parents' house. Eventually however, they needed more, and began making deals with local crime organisations to carry out assassinations in exchange for money or temporary shelter. While Sorbet was already a pro at this, Gelato found himself a fast learner, and soon realised he shared Sorbet's adoration for the act of killing. He felt as though he was finally coming to meet his true self.

Though the assassination deals were lucrative, they did not help the couple keep a low profile and the attacks from police were relentless. Several times, they barely escaped capture. All this was not good on their mental states, and after two years, Sorbet knew it needed to end. He and Gelato returned to Naples in the hope their old gang might reconsider protecting them, but they were met with a surprise as their old gang had been completely overtaken by Passione. Even still, the new mobsters had heard a lot about Sorbet and Gelato's exploits and agreed to get them an audience with a local Capo, Pericolo, who was impressed by the men's skills and moved by the sense of honour suggested by their love for each other. He agreed to initiate them into the gang.

Soon after this, Sorbet and Gelato recieved stands which, although not very powerful, assisted them greatly in the art of assassination. Soon, they were natural choices for Passione whenever a hit needed carrying out in the Naples area. At some point a few years in, they befriended a man named Prosciutto who had been recently forced into Passione due to his heritage. Prosciutto was also funnelled into assassination jobs and, with less of a reputation for impulsivity than Sorbet and Gelato, was the one given the order to form a new assassination squad when the need arose, around 1993 if we're following canon.

(Note, I hc La Squadra was created by Passione in response to a real life government crackdown on the Italian mafia around 1992-93, in response to an incredibly scandalous series of assassinations. In such a climate, it would make sense for Passione to want to consolidate an elite squad of its best hitmen, do avoid future problems.)

Due to personal commitments Prosciutto did not want to be the captain, so attempted to give this responsibility to Sorbet, a request the boss promptly denied. Prosciutto was, however, allowed to add Sorbet and Gelato to the team's ranks, cementing the three of them as the first members of the team.

Prosciutto would, soon enough, find another person to give the title of captain to, but that's a story for another time.

[carry-on-my-wayward-butt]

I just found out I'm 5 weeks after a few cycles of trying. I knew it would be rough but ur kind of scaring me now lol. I always hear mothers saying stuff like "Pregnancy was the best!" or "I miss being pregnant!" and people do it over and over again, so there must be something to love about it. Right?

Of course! there’s plenty to love about it:

many people lament the changes their body goes through during pregnancy, especially the bump growing. personally? i fucking love it. literally i’ve never loved the way my body looks more than right now, and i used to be fit as fuck. i was sleek and curvy and all sorts of hot, i look EXACTLY the opposite now and yet i LOVE it.

the dips of my stretch marks, my huge slowly rounding belly, my jiggle thighs, my muffin top hips spilling over my pants, my skin is SO fucking soft, i seriously cant keep my hands off myself. if my tits werent plagued by lymphedema i’d probably love them too, but in a sleep bra they look sooooo good in my new maternity shirts. ESPECIALLY ruffle blouses. i genuinely adore the way i look heavily pregnant, and i will absolutely miss it terribly.

i mentioned before that i hate the rolls and swishes (especially the stretches) but i LOVE kicks. seeing my belly move around is surreal and kind of freaky, but in an amazing way. kicks are so... assertive. “i’m here! i’m alright! i’m growing patiently! i’m exercising!” it’s so soothing to know they’re doing well in there, in a place i can’t reach them. i’ll poke them back and they’ll react! it’s so sweet. getting kicked in the butthole isnt so sweet, but i do think its funny tbh.

learning their routine in there is so nice in a weird way. i know what foods they react strongly to(baby loves spicy), and how they react to light. they like to settle on one side of my belly button or the other, and i can feel their head (or ass?) just hanging out there. resting. i can caress my baby through my skin. it’s gross but its so lovely.

i get to park in the expectant parking spots heehee >:3c (i already have a blue badge, but when the blue spots are full, there’s still a close space for me most of the time) i always do an evil little laugh when i pull in like im doing crimes.

my hair still falls out, but not nearly as much as it did pre-pregnancy. it gets greasy a lot slower too.

i still get pimples, but not nearly as many as i did pre-pregnancy. (T1 doesnt count. T1 was like Puberty 2. hopefully yours isnt as blegh)

i’m compelled beyond understanding to drink TONS of water. I have never drank this much daily water in my LIFE. i am extremely hydrated and feel healthy.

i’m compelled beyond understanding to get into the sunlight. i stand outside for a few moments on sunny days and feel like im photosynthesizing. i never did this before now.

im generally more optimistic rather than doomscrolling my own brain for hours a day.

i feel more responsible, i feel like the decisions i make have a future in mind rather than impulsivity. i feel purposeful. my mental health has improved drastically.

i eat so much more fruit than i used to

my sleep is plagued by nightmares sure but i sleep SO fast now. it used to take me hours to fall asleep. now it’s mere minutes. is this how the other side lives???

people are way more willing to help me, and other parents readily and eagerly answer a complete strangers random questions like “was that expensive? is it easy to use? does it fit in your car well?” that from any other person would feel upsetting and invasive. i was looking at nipple balm confusedly in target a few months ago and a total stranger called out to me and asked if i needed help, then pointed out which are vegan, which have this or that ingredient, which allergens to be aware of, which have a strong smell, which were oily or lotion-y, and when i picked one (earth mama butter) just said “great choice, you’re gonna smell so good. good luck babe!” and left with her cute toddler who was happily chanting “nip-ple, nip-ple, nip-ple,”. ideal interaction. i still think about that woman. she smelled like cheerios and strawberries.

there’s plenty to love and enjoy, just like theres plenty to hate and be miserable about.

and when it comes to people who say “pregnancy was the best! i miss it!” i personally have a feeling that if it’s not because of stigma of looking “unappreciative” of pregnancy, it is because keeping an infant alive is fucking miserable, and parenting blows chunks. i’m sure that comparatively, being extremely uncomfortable and in pain for the better part of a year might actually have been the best part for them, even if they had the roughest parts.

i’ll definitely miss the way i currently feel about my body. i’ll miss the QUIET for sure, and the idleness. and ill miss sleeping so soundly, even if there’s nightmares. i’ll miss getting to shirk chores because my body hurts, and i’ll miss having 100% of my husband’s attention, but he’ll miss having 100% of mine too so at least its fair.

but........ i won’t be doing this again :^) at least unless i have free healthcare, because my GOD the bills are OUTRAGEOUS. fuck that shit.

congrats on your success, anon. it’s a rollercoaster.

[ridiasfangirlings]

Strain affects Fushimi so any touch that he feels against his skin from Munakata makes him extra sensitive, hot, and horny. >:D

Oya oya :3c Munakata might enjoy this Strain power a little too much (and even though Fushimi complains it's uncomfortable really he's enjoying this more than a little also). Like imagine the Strain hits Fushimi while he's out on a date with Munakata. The Strain was aiming for Munakata and Fushimi jumped in the way, throwing a knife at the same time which nails the Strain to the nearest wall. Munakata immediately runs to Fushimi's side to check on him, Fushimi starts to say that he's fine but his face suddenly starts getting really red. Munakata pulls him closer and wonders if he feels ill at all, Fushimi's like '...no' but he's visibly sweating. Munakata is of course very concerned and doesn't want to let Fushimi go, and being so close to him is making Fushimi feel very...hot. He tells Munakata that he's fine and to go take care of the Strain, Munakata hesitates and Fushimi manages to push him off. Once Munakata's not touching him anymore Fushimi feels fine and he's able to stand, wondering if that was just some weird temporary effect of the Strain power.

They go back to Scepter 4 and Fushimi quickly realizes that the Strain power really is still working, and it only kicks in when Munakata touches him. Maybe it's especially strong when Munakata's like actually touching his skin, imagine Fushimi stops by Munakata's office to deliver some paperwork and Munakata gives him a quick kiss. Immediately Fushimi just feels hot all over again and he's definitely feeling something lower down as well, like suddenly he's kissing Munakata back all hungrily and just clearly needing more of Munakata's touch. Munakata wonders if Fushimi is so eager and Fushimi says he doesn't know what it is, but every time he touches Munakata he wants more. Munakata's all 'oya? How interesting' and wonders if it's the Strain power, Fushimi says he doesn't care he just needs Munakata to touch him more. He's like practically crawling into Munakata's lap now, clearly aroused and sweating, red-faced and begging for Munakata's attention and this eventually ends with Fushimi bent over Munakata's desk. Fushimi's super into it too, even more so than usual, and it's probably a good thing that Munakata's door is locked and his office is soundproof.

They both figure out what the Strain power is after this, like even Munakata touching Fushimi's hand is enough to get Fushimi excited. Fushimi's probably kinda mortified by this, like imagine he's just working and Munakata will pass by and stroke his palm and now Fushimi needs to go have some private time in his room. Munakata of course doesn't want to take advantage of Fushimi at such a vulnerable moment but he's also just used to the occasional casual skinship so sometimes he'll touch Fushimi without thinking about it. Or a few times maybe they get stuck together and can't get away from it, like Munakata takes Fushimi to some official government meeting and they accidentally didn't get enough chairs in the conference room so Fushimi's suddenly pressed super close to Munakata. Fushimi's getting increasingly agitated and finally he and Munakata have to excuse themselves and hide in a convenient empty conference room in order to help Fushimi 'relieve some pressure.'

[twixtandshout]

Tagged by @pidgeonpostal! And not tagging anyone else because I have SOILED the original template (soiled it!!) in deference to my [brushes off skirt] mostly clean public-facing appearance.

...I’ve been making a lot of Spongebob memes lately for someone who has not seen Spongebob.

How many works do you have on AO3?

71!

What’s your total AO3 wordcount?

...306,834. Jesus.

How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

Uh. Many! I do a lot of one-offs (and/or start long things I never finish) in many different places. My top three fandoms by fics written are RWBY (29), Undertale (25), Gravity Falls/Transcendence AU (4).

Bet you can’t tell where my hyperfixations have fallen. 

I’ve also got some Pokémon and Sonic the Hedgehog fics back on my ff.net account, or I think I still do, anyway, but let’s never go back there pls

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

1. Sweeter Than Honey (Undertale): Taking a Completely unsurprising first place, with over 600 more kudos than the runner-up, the haphazard Underswap fic featuring a post-college self-insert I wrote just after high school! I shake my head some at how overblown and ridiculous the gap between this and all my other stuff is (c’mon, guys, I’ve written way better fics), but this is also the fic which prompted me (and at least one other person!) to start using they/them pronouns. I’ve gotten a lot of really sweet comments about how seen and appreciated it’s made people feel, so I can’t get down too far about it.

2. To Be A Hero (BNHA): I don’t count myself as part of the BNHA fandom, for a number of reasons, but for something that’s arguably the main motivation for the entire plot, Midoriya’s quirklessness is something I’ve never thought has been handled well. This fic marked the first time I (somewhat tentatively) claimed the disability label (thanks again to Sweeter Than for prompting that realization) to hold that lens over canon. It also really shot up my chart, dang! It’s the only thing here I’d consider “recent.”

3. Three-Sentence Shipping (Undertale): Self-explanatory.

4. Brothers Beyond Bonedaries (Undertale): Ah, the way-overcomplicated AU³ I got nowhere close to finishing. One of the things I really like about Undertale is the interface screw, how Toby Fox uses the medium of the video game to pull off crazy things and enhance his game, but most of the fic written for the fandom seems dedicated to explaining it away, grounding it, rather than taking it to the next step and messing with the medium of fanfiction when you keep the story going. I tried to do something cool like that here, playing with questions like narrator and authorship and breaking the fourth wall, even taking the “final boss” fight to a “totally separate” fic reached through the first by link – but, well, then I never finished it, which probably didn’t make anything less confusing for the poor folks who missed the intent.

5. Spirit and Such (Gravity Falls: Transcendence AU): A whole fic written to line out a particular image I had, which, naturally, never made it to the page. I consider it a bit of a cautionary tale for myself when it comes to writing (near-)original content; there’s a lot I look back on and cringe. I still love the characters, though – well, the important ones – and I think just stepping away from the tried-and-true Mizar formula nets it a star sticker here.

Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

>w>; I try, but a lot of the time I just don’t have anything to say? Like, oh, you liked it? Neat. There’s not much to respond to in comments like that, and then I’m weighing falling down on an ~obligation~ to respond to every message in my inbox vs annoying people with copy-paste fluff responses all down the page. Plus I know I make more of an effort to comment on things that didn’t get the attention I feel they deserve, so if I’m driving up my own comment count with nonsense, am I preventing myself from being in a position to receive more comments later? And then if I do comment, am I being too effusive or running people’s ears off explaining things they don’t actually need to know? Sometimes people just want to express interest or admiration and don’t necessarily want a whole peek and guided tour behind the curtain.

Can you tell I have anxiety? x3;

Anyway, I do respond when I can. And I keep most of the comments I’ve gotten to go back and reread. 

What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

Hm, hmm. Lots of stuff in the TQ Nonsense series would probably qualify! I’m thinking of Unfixable, Wolfsong, and Ethanol. And there’s Bursting Through A Blood-Red Sky (I Can Live, I Can Breathe), of course, but that was always intended to have a fix-it epilogue. It’s just that I wrote it in a couple of hours day-of, stared at it, and decided I didn’t wanna just then. But now that’s As Long As You’re Still Burning Bright (I’m Still Awake), and that’s probably the best romance I’ve written, so that one worked out.

Do you write crossovers? If so what is the craziest one you’ve ever written?

Now and then! When the urge strikes. Uhhh, I’ve got a series of Doctor Who x Undertale crossovers I actually made a whole dang verse for that never made it to print. Get a couple great comments on that every few months or so. I think the World Trigger x Undertale crossover is probably weirder, though, by virtue of WT being a very small fandom. My enthusiasm kinda sputtered out on that one.

Mostly I just daydream crossovers with whatever happens to catch my eye at any given moment. I have a lot!!!! Though odds are out on whether I manage to remember any of them once the initial thought’s passed, lol.

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Gotten a couple eyebrow-raising comments, but I think mostly I’m just too small a writer to draw that kind of attention.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

I don’t? think so? Think my tastes are a little niche for most people to bother ^^;

Have you ever had a fic translated?

I had someone apologize once for any language mistakes in their comment cause they had to run it through a translator! That’s not what you asked (the answer is no), but it’s very flattering to think that someone liked my fic enough to read and comment despite the language barrier.

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yes! :D @pidgeonpostal was gracious enough to agree to co-write Five Nights at Denny’s with me off an idea about shoes. This has fulfilled a long-held dream of mine (collabing with someone, not the shoes) and also introduced me to some lovely people.

What’s your all time favorite ship?

Who has time for just one? ;3c Honestly, I care more about the characters and how the relationship – any relationship – between them changes them than I do about ~A Ship~ as a solid, bounded noun-object. I’ve got characters I like more and less and feelings about who does and doesn’t have chemistry in which directions with whom, but finding anything that agrees with those preferences is hard, harder when you take alloromanticism into account. I’ll play in any sandbox with cool toys, especially if other folks have already built sick sandcastles there.

What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

[kicks every single unfinished fic further under the bed] What nooo no WIPs here, everything on my account is either finished or does not exist

I’ve got a couple extra chapters of Sweeter Than floating around unposted, but 1. that fic’s a mess 2. high school Twixt and post-college Twixt are different people and trying to contort myself into three other me-shapes just cause people Like this fic is not something I’m super interested in 3. it’s headed for an emotional dip and I’d rather leave it where it is than post two chapters, stall out again, and leave folks with a bad end.

As for other fics... it’s looking more and more likely that v7 of my Yellow Brick Road AU will never actually make it out. >w>; I’ve got some really great ideas, but not enough to make me feel like I know what I’m doing, and that’s a big roadblock. Plus trying to engage with RT’s Atlas-Mantle worldbuilding in any serious capacity is... a headache. I can’t recommend the Happy Huntress Cinematic Universe enough, but it leaves some pretty big shoes to follow! And I’ve got small feet. <w<;

What are your writing strengths?

Dialogue’s fun, probably as an extension of characterization. I love tearing into what makes people tick, especially against the backdrop of their environment, the story they’re in, and the people they’re up against. Voice is a double-edged sword; I’ve been told my writing is really recognizable and individual, but on the other hand, I’ve been growing frustrated with with the limits of my narrative ability. There’s a strong rhythm I keep when I write (you might notice it here, even) but that leaves me feeling predictable and stale. I’m not sure I’m great at setting as a matter of course, but I’m pretty good at describing setpieces where the need comes up; that comes from my background in poetry, as does the fun I have with sublimating and abstracting complex imagery. And I think I bring some needed nuance to the universal. For good or ill, I don’t do what “everyone else” is doing.

What are your writing weaknesses?

Well, writing, for one thing. If I don’t know how something’s going to go and don’t have the urge to write it, it isn’t getting done, which means there’s a billion things that will never see the page and a few hundred more that are never getting finished. I lose momentum easily and have a hard time getting started, and I put way too much standing on finding a foothold with other people; as critical as I am of my work, I have high expectations for the stuff that passes muster, and it never seems to measure up. I’m also really uncreative. Yeah, I can mix up elements and extrapolate events, but coming up with things wholesale is really hard, which is why I avoid it wherever possible and steal/reskin stuff from other places instead.

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

Something along the lines of “Hoo boy, I am Not qualified for this but hopefully it’s decent anyway.” Maria’s Spanish lines haven’t been a big deal – I’ve used it sparingly and, as a Latin language, it should be easy for English-speaking audiences to pick up on the gist – but I’ve had a harder time with Tai’s Chinese, both because I have Even Less background there and because it is, of course, an entirely different language system. If I write it out in English or Romanized italics, am I colonizing it or changing the meaning? If I write it out in the presumed-original characters (presumed because it’s Google Translate and who knows if I’m even barking in the right forest), am I confusing or alienating my presumed-majority-English-speaking audience? Where should I put the translations? Should I put the translations? And for Frisk’s sign language, thinking back, are the brackets I used instead of quotes alienating/infantilizing? I like that different characters give the text between a different feel, but I’m not an ASL speaker – and I’m pretty sure the word is “speaker,” which would only reinforce that that demographic would rather I didn’t do that. It’s important for all these characters, I think, that they use non-English language where it makes sense; it’s part of who they are. But as a white monolingual English-speaker, I don’t think I can really weigh in.

What was the first fandom you ever wrote for?

Thaaaat’d be Pokémon, followed closely with Sonic the Hedgehog. Whether those fics are still on my ff.net account or not (pretty sure I’ve purged them, but you never know) I’ve still got a couple saved to a folder on my current laptop, ostensibly so I can look back and see how far I’ve come and more practically to allow for the possibility of furthering group cohesion through public shaming.

What’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

I still like the idea behind The Man Who Is Atlas, and Burning Bright (Still Awake) gets props for being my current fic, though it’s currently in that spot where I’m excited to get new chapters posted but also quietly marking everything up in red pen. I think Harbinger gets the crown here, at least for now.

[theshatteredrose]

Relic Keepers: Awakening of the Red Lily (Chapter 25) - Original Fiction

AN: Finally done with this chapter! Took longer than necessary; had to claw my way through illness and pain to get here but it’s worth it. Getting into some of the fun stuff of this novel :3c Now, enjoy~

Ao3 | Wattpad | Inkitt | FictionPress

~*~*~*~*~*~

Chapter 25:

Zayne stayed close to Eishirou as the two of them moved along the path that would eventually lead them to their dorm building.

Jacob's tone had been playful when he suggested that Zayne should escort him back to their room. Yet, there was a sense of concern, too. He knew more about the act of meditation better than Eishirou himself did. It was highly likely he had some expectations how the session was supposed to go.

And what happened today was a surprise to him.

It certainly was for Eishirou.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Zayne finally asked after glancing at him from the corner of his eye for the umpteenth time. "You look kinda pale."

Eishirou offered him a hopefully reassuring smile. "Just feeling a little bit drained, honestly."

Zayne didn't look one hundred percent convinced, but he gave a nod of his head nevertheless.  "Was that like a recording?"

Eishirou had to consider that question for a moment. "Yeah, a little bit. But I never had one that interacted with me before. I don't think that was entirely residual energy."

"Man, I wish I could be more useful," Zayne unexpectedly muttered as he ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "I don't really understand what you're saying. What any of this means."

"Ah, sorry," Eishirou immediately replied apologetically, though he knew how he felt. He felt a sense of utter uselessness whenever Zayne engaged in battle. Especially against ShadowDwellers. "I can try to explain this to you, if you like?"

Zayne paused in his steps, prompting Eishirou to do the same. However, Zayne had his gaze focused forward, his face devoid of emotion. Eishirou briefly wondered if he had said something wrong.

Before he could ask, however, Zayne suddenly lunged toward him.

In one sweeping, fluid motion, Zayne wrapped an arm around Eishirou’s waist and drew his mana holster. As the blue beam of his blade manifested, he pressed Eishirou against his side and raised his weapon over him in a shielding manner.

A mere second later, another blade collided against his.

Eishirou grasped at the front of Zayne’s jacket as sparks flew from the clashing blades.

The greyish mana-sword belonged to someone who was dressed in strange black and white robes. Long, flowing, impractical. As was the white, expressionless mask they wore beneath a hood.

Zayne shifted his weight, which momentarily dislodged the grey mana blade from his. Before their attacker could readjust their weapon, he spun around with his right leg and planted his foot into the side of the assailant’s chest. Eishirou swore he could hear the sound of bones grating and cracking from the impact of Zayne’s foot.

The force of his attack threw the other back several feet. The robed assailant stayed upright as their feet dredged over the grass, kicking up soil and dust. They buckled forward onto their knees, however, and an arm wrapped around their stomach as harsh coughing could be heard.

Zayne took that moment to readjust his hold around Eishirou.

With an arm around the back of Eishirou’s legs, just above his knees, he held him up off the ground and against his side. Eishirou flailed for a moment before he rested his hands on Zayne’s shoulders to keep himself upright.

“Hang onto my neck and don’t let go,” Zayne instructed.

Without a word, Eishirou quickly did as he was instructed. With his arms around Zayne’s neck and shoulders, he took a moment to ensure that his hold didn’t obstruct Zayne’s view before he rested his cheek atop of Zayne’s head. In order to stay as close to him as possible.

He didn’t ask him what was going on. His voice would only be a distraction. The very best thing he could do was to do what he was told; hold on until told otherwise.

He had a lot of questions bouncing around in his head, however. Most prominently; why were they attacking them?!

Another figure dressed in the very same dark robes rushed onto the field from behind the assailant on the ground. Short, sleek dark grey mana-blades appeared from the long sleeves as they rushed toward Zayne.

Zayne retaliated by pointing his weapon toward them and released several quick-fire shots at them. He struck them three times; one in each shoulder and then in the very centre of the mask. The attacks caused their second assailant to reel their head back and stopped them dead in their tracks.

They were only stunned for a moment, however. They soon righted themselves, brushed off the attacks, and sprung forward. As did the first robe attacker.

Zayne growled deep in his throat as he tightened his hold on Eishirou. The two assailants split off to circle them, to attack them from both sides.

Why? Why were they attacking them?

Eishirou tightened his arm around Zayne’s neck. “Zayne…They’re wearing armour.”

“I know. It’ll be fine,” Zayne replied softly, determinately. “Just hold on.”

“Left!”

Eishirou only had a second to recognise the voice before Zayne abruptly turned on his heel to the right, his attention focused on one of the assailants. He moved so quickly; he parried the mana-blade with a single strike of his own weapon. The sudden change in direction caused their attacker to momentarily lose balance. It was a small window, but Zayne took it.

With the broad side of his gun-blade, he struck the attacker in their side. The opposite side to where he had previously kicked. Not only was the strike quick, it was powerful.

Zayne barely uttered a sound as he tightened his grip on his holster and used the leverage he had to throw the assailant back. And away from them. He didn’t throw them in a random direction; he purposely threw them to the left. Toward the other assailant, whom appeared to have been thrown, too.

The two slammed into each other. Back to back. Yet, they somehow managed to stay on their feet.

Not for very long, though.

A beam of red light struck the both of them.

They flew backwards several feet before gravity seemed to kick in and sent them smashing into the ground. They tumbled and rolled haphazardly (and painfully) across the lawn, kicking up clumps of dirt and blades of grass. Before they slammed against the wall of the study hall. They hit the brick façade, their bodies bouncing from the force of impact before they slumped to the ground.

Winded and stunned, no doubt.

Eishirou turned his gaze away from the two to give a quick surveillance of the impromptu battled field. And recognised the two figures who forced their way into the fight.

It was Leon! And Tatsu!

“The hell is going on?” Leon asked as he pulled himself into a battle stance.

“Hell if I know,” Zayne returned sharply. “They just attacked for no reason.”

“Elites,” Tatsu murmured, a scowl on his face. “I don’t recognise their movements.”

“Eishirou!”

Huh? Misaki? What was he doing here?

Prompted by the familiar voice, Zayne finally set Eishirou down onto his feet. But kept a hand on his shoulder. “Stay back, but don’t leave,” he instructed. “We don’t know how many of these bastards are around.”

“R-right,” Eishirou stuttered. “Be careful.”

Zayne shot him a confident smile. “It’ll be fine.”

And Eishirou believed him.

He simply nodded his head and turned on his heel, essentially turning his back on the battle. He rushed to Misaki’s side, who immediately took him by the upper arm and look him over. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” Eishirou answered honestly. “They just attacked.”

A deep frown tugged at Misaki’s lips as his gaze flickered back toward the battlefield. “We should leave.”

But Eishirou quickly shook his head. “There could be others. Just keep still.”

He had to remember that it was a battle. It may be within the outside gardens of the academy, a place he didn’t expect to be pulled into a fight. But it was still a battlefield. He needed to keep watch and stay back.

And as the two hooded assailants struggled to their feet, the battle certainly wasn’t over yet.

“Let’s beat the shit out of these assholes,” Zayne ordered as he revealed his second gun-blade holster.

Zayne and Leon sprung forward, their weapons at the ready, while Tatsu stayed back. He levelled his mana-guns at the advancing robed attackers and fired several times. Over the heads of his teammates, whom of which barely winced or seemed to even notice.

The battlefield was a frenzy of bodies and attack. Eishirou had his main attention on Zayne, unsurprisingly. Watching closely to ensure that he didn’t receive any injuries.

However, Zayne seemed to be dominating the battlefield.

Zayne easily dodged the blade, turned on his heel, and planted his boot into the side of his attacker. He managed to hit the assailant in the very same place that he had done earlier; in the ribs. The force of the attack threw them backwards once again. And likely broke several ribs, too.

Despite the numerous blows the assailants received, they kept trying to advance. Kept leaping to their feet to throw himself around the battlefield.

Yet, they were no longer interested in attacking. They appeared to be attempting to move around them. To get behind Zayne and his teammates.

Eishirou couldn’t help but feel they were targeting him for some reason…

After another combined attack between Zayne and Leon, and Tatsu landing the final blow, the assailants have reached their limits. They slumped against the cracked wall of the Study Hall, their shoulders heaving as they panting, with one of them clutching their side.

“Is there a point to all of this?” Tatsu coolly asked.

Neither figure replied at first. They shared a very brief glance before abruptly turning to look in their direction once more.

“We have underestimated their strength.” A voice, distorted and electronic, came from one of the attackers.

The second assailant nodded their head, and replied in the same modified and distorted tone. “Indeed. We best leave. We will succeed next time.”

Were their masks used to distort their voices to prevent them from possibly being recognised?

The two strangers stood tall, their arms down by their sides. Suddenly, grey mana-wings appeared from their backs, revealing that they possessed wing-holsters. They quickly sprung into the air and flew over the top of the buildings. And ultimately, out of sight.

Zayne and his teammates didn’t make the attempt to follow, which was for the best. Following them might just led them into a trap some kind.

And it was over. As suddenly and abruptly as it had begun.

Zayne stayed tensed for a few moments longer before he sighed and withdrew his holsters. He turned on his heel and hurried over to where Eishirou stood with Misaki. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m all right. They couldn’t even get close to us,” Eishirou replied.

Leon and Tatsu moved to join them, Leon roughly running a hand through his hair. “What do you suppose that was even about?” he asked once again.

Irwin’s voice rung in Eishirou’s head for a moment and he tugged at the strap of his bag anxiously. “You don’t think…?”

“What?”

“Irwin asked that I don’t speak of the Red Lily outside the museum,” Eishirou explained.

“Why?” Zayne asked.

Eishirou’s fidgeting increased, as did his prattling. “Well, he’s just worried that other Elites might be, well, jealous of the power I supposedly gave to you. But that would be pointless. I mean, it’s just…I don’t remember using the Red Lily. I certainly don’t remember how. I don’t remember much at all and-”

Misaki placed a hand on his shoulder to interrupt his rambling. “I’m sure it’s not the case,” he said reassuringly.

Zayne shared a quick glance with Leon and Tatsu. “We should tell Sigmund.”

Leon nodded. “Yeah. They were Elites, alright.”

“Amateurish, at best,” Tatsu just had to add.

“Yeah, but Elites nevertheless.”

Misaki gave Eishirou’s shoulder a small squeeze, prompting him to turn to face him. “You’ll need to tell Professor Chryses, too.”

Yeah. It wasn’t something he could keep from him, anyway. They weren’t exactly quiet, and they weren’t in a private location. So, there were definitely witnesses.

… … … … …

It felt as if it was only minutes later that Eishirou found himself in a conference room within the Elites’ wing of the academy. He sat at a table, surrounded by Zayne, Misaki, Team 3 (except Rinka as she was still out shopping with Lyvia, which Eishirou was thankful for as she deserved her fun), Jacob, and Sigmund.

He and Zayne took turns explaining that had occurred in that outside garden, though they were unable to offer much detail. Just they were attacked and what their assailants looked like.

After they had finished explaining, a silence fell over the room.

Sigmund roughly folded his scarred arms across his chest as a steely expression appeared on his face. “Did you recognise any of them?” he unexpectedly asked.

Tatsu shook his head. “Their movements were unfamiliar.”

That didn’t appear to please Sigmund. And yet, it didn’t surprise him, either. “I see. Unfortunately, it is likely that they were not students.”

“How can you be certain?” Jacob asked, his expression creased in obvious concern.

“They wore black and white robes, correct?”

Eishirou nodded before he added; “And a white mask.”

“Then they are likely of the group called Star Rebellion,” Sigmund went on to explain, his expression growing colder. “They are an illegal organisation that bears a grudge toward administration and the academy. They’ve been known to attack randomly, but their focus appears to be one the people who are associated with Silverleaf Academy. To cause as much disruption as possible.”

Star Rebellion…

Eishirou had heard of them through working at the Communications. And he really didn’t like a single thing about them. They weren’t above attacking outside the academy, either, if reports were any indication. They definitely held a great disdain toward Passives. And toward establishments that catered to mostly Passives.

No one truly knew why, however.

Zayne leaned back into his chair; his face unreadable. “So, they’re basically terrorists?”

Actually, they referred to themselves as Extreme Activists. From their point of view, they probably thought they were somehow…helping the academy?

Sigmund gave a sharp nod of his head in agreement to Zayne’s statement. “That’s right. They likely saw an opportunity to cause mayhem, believing that a Passive would make an easy target. They’ve have been known to target Passives specifically.”

Well, he had better keep a look out for figures in telling black and white robes. If it was any consolation, at least one of them had a couple of broken ribs. They didn’t get away unscathed.

“So, that means there isn’t exactly much we can do about this little event, is there?” Jacob asked, aggravated as he ran a hand through his hair.

“They are unlikely to attack directly again.” Sigmund suddenly sent a pointed stare toward Zayne and his teammates. “But if they do; do not hold back.”

“Oh,” Zayne uttered, his voice steely, as was his eyes. “I won’t.”

[nevermore117]

Hello... I'm here to wreak havoc and give you a kiss >:3c 20 and 35 for Vaughn, 27 and 15 for Buck, 13 for Seb aaand 1 and 17 for good ol Florence

 hello!!! 

Vaughn: 

20. Does your oc have any pleasure that embarrasses them so they keep it secret? Or are they open about all the things they enjoy?

Vaughn might have been a bit embarrassed by his scholarly interests if he wasn’t surrounded by nerds! Hakria’s the only one who isn’t a Nerd (tm) but she’s always been nice to Vaughn so he doesn’t feel bad about being himself with her. 

35. How easily does your oc get attached to things? Does everything have a sentimental value to them, or do they see nothing as more valuable than its practical use? What about with people/animals?

If you looked up the word “sentimental” in the dictionary, you’d see a picture of Vaughn’s face. He gets attached to EVERYTHING, weapons and trinkets and people. Even moments that he finds memorable, he tries to memorialize into some kind of physical object that he can carry with him. The first time he properly encountered a Beast, he took a feather from it and attached some of the quills to his divine focus (he would’ve added the whole feather, but. man. it was a big fucking feather.) 

Buck: 

15. If you had to choose a single object to act as a symbol for your oc, what would it be? Why?

How DARE you ask this of BUCK, the GAUDIEST and most TRINKET-LADEN character I have! 

Mnnn I suppose I’d go with a golden tooth. Gets across his *~Vibe~* fine enough.

27. How flexible is your oc? Can they touch their toes or do they have trouble just sitting down because of how stiff they are?

Buck’s stunningly limber, he can touch his toes easily. He needs to be fairly nimble to be able to, like, not Die, but he’s also just kind of naturally flexible. He makes lots of sex jokes about it lmao 

Seb: 

13. What is your oc’s immune system like? Are they invincible to illness, or are they compromised completely from the slightest of dirt?

Seb gets sick EVERY year, sometimes twice a year. The flu knocks him out for a week during the autumn almost on schedule, and he gets summer colds too. I wouldn’t describe him as sickly by any means, but when he gets sick he’s down for a couple days. 

Florence: 

1. How does your character sleep? Peacefully, fitfully? What position do they sleep in? What is their typical bedding like?

Florence sleeps like the dead. She doesn’t move. Usually she sleeps on her back, and snores a little bit, though sometimes you can catch her on her stomach. That’s usually in the summer when she’s especially hot, though, with all the blankets kicked off. Otherwise, she sleeps with a simple blanket or two, she doesn’t like a lot of weight. Weighted blankets are her HELL. 

17. How prepared is your oc? Ready for the worst no matter what, or completely lost in every situation? Would they have a medkit when it was needed? Would they have an umbrella if it rains?

Florence is... generally moderately prepared. She’d be the type to carry a utility knife, but not bring an umbrella. She’s got her basics down, she’s not gonna be caught without some basic first aid and a knife in her bag for a hike but she might forget to bring her trail mix, yknow? Her “prepared” is what she carries all the time, so she’s got a strong baseline but never really seems 100% put together. 

[vulpesvalentine]

1, 2, 3, 5, 7, 8, 15, 18, 21, 25, 28, 29, 30, 34, 40, 42, 43 about your love interests for the yandere asks!

1. how do you know when someone becomes your obsession?

Aaa that's a tough question I'm very bad at figuring that out. BASICALLY if I'm constantly like, hyped up to talk to them, want to spend time with them, and tell them about special things that happen??? It's an obsession.

2. what is the most taxing thing you’ve done for your obsession? (or ex obsession!)

Done this MULTIPLE TIMES for two (three?) ex obsessions, but putting off other relationships or my own mental health just to please them. Sick of doing things for people only to have them turn on me, or use my mental illnesses against me, but they're not held accountable for their own issues : /

3. what is your favorite gift you’ve given to the person you adore?

uhhhh I'm horrible at giving gifts!!!! I did help my darling little Bovine design his cowsona and he LOVES IT

5. how would you like to be treated in your relationship?

I just want someone who is as excited to talk to me and be with me as I am with them, AND also is totally okay like not interacting 24/7!! Cause i'm big like, I love my loved ones but I also like doing stuff on my own a lot, so my loved ones gotta be okay with that too!

7. without actually condoning violent actions towards others, if you could get away with it without repercussions, what would you do to a potential rival?

Oh god, just make them disappear like not even hurting them, I just want them to vanish and not effect my loved ones ;;w;;

8. what is the most “yandere”-like thing you’ve done?

Uhhhhhh I mean ((SELF HARM WARNING)) I did in fact self harm for an ex, but also I do for my Bovine too so uwu

15. what aesthetic do you associate with your obsession?

I have a few obsessions! So Bovine: Anything with storms, most animals, BATS LOTS OF BATS, and dark red!! Canine: Yellows and blues, sometimes storms, lightning!! Corvidae: Corvids lmao, purple???, also like rolling hills for some reason like big huge hills and such idk why Ursa: BEARS strawberries, hearts, red and pink and white, and also black, neopolitan colors I think too??

18. what weapon would you use to defend your partner in a life or death situation?

A knife >:3c

21. ideal meal to cook for your obsession?

ANYTHING THEY WANT!!!!! I'm a pretty decent cook ^w^

25. what defines love for you?

Love is a choice, but it's not always your choice. Less vaguely, I think it's when you feel so comfortable with someone, that you can be entirely yourself without and filters, and still feel loved and respected in return.

28. do you kin any yanderes?

Himiko Toga? ^^ I think she counts lmao, other than that not really?

29. if you could have an entire day with your obsession, no interruptions, what would you do with them?

Honestly I just like going to the movies and eating some food together, either at a restaurant or like going home.

30. what’s your favorite quality about your obsession? (if you don’t currently have one, what would be your ideal qualities about them?)

Aaaaaa I have so many about them all I'll true and be easy

Bovine: HES SO SWEET AND LOVING AND GIVING FOR ME he'll move heaven and earth just to make me happy for like a minute Canine: GENEROUS he'd also do a lot for me, including giving me any amount of money just to help me out he's so sweet aaa Corvidae: SO FUCKING SMART like she's just so incredibly smart and talented in so many creative ways, even if she won't admit it, and she's so FUNNY too Ursa: THEY'RE A BAD BITCH they're so bold and like, headstrong it makes me so proud aaaa

34. if money wasn’t an issue, what would be your dream trip with the person you love?

JAPAN JAPAN JAPAN I wanna go to Japan so badly, but also I really wanna go to Scotland, the landscape looks so beautiful too aaaa

40. what makes you happy when you’re alone?

So stupid but... Playing Minecraft. I love it so much it's so easy to find SOMETHING to do in it.

42. how often do you talk to your darling during quarantine?

eVERY DAY or I try at the very least ;;w;; Things happen!

43. how did you know that they were the one?

Aaa so like, it's weird, for each one I reached the point of "God my heart drops when I can't talk to them" like BIG RSD kicks in, and that's my sign like, oh no, it's too late, they Matter to me.

THANK YOU ANON FOR THE QUESTIONS !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[suntumarchive]

Argonian Mpreg Birth/Oviposition~ This is my first time writing something like that so bear with me pls! It starts off painful, but he starts to reaaally enjoy it~ Not SFW ahead :3c He believes it’s a parasite at first so please be careful if that’s not your thing!

___

Something… didn’t feel right.

Even though Claudinei couldn’t put his finger on it, he simply knew that something was wrong with him. The fatigue weighing down on his body and the ache in his muscles weren’t a result of excessive fighting; not this time. It felt different. Worse. This kind of pain was much harder to bear than the usual leftovers of his battles.

The Argonian wasn’t one to be prone to sickness, so it was unusual for him to experience these symptoms. The outbursts of sweat, waves of nausea and the dull pain in his abdomen were almost foreign to him. Claudinei tried to recall the last time he’d experienced them with this intensity… Sure, sometimes he ended up drinking a bit too much ale and wine, or eating a bit too much of the raw meat he enjoyed so much, but not this time… In fact, he’d spent the past few days with Faendal, the Bosmer huntsman of Riverwood, who was a rather decent cook and refused to serve his venison raw, even to his half-animal friend. So… why? What could Claudinei’s body be so upset about?

The lizard man let out a breathy groan, biting down on his lip as he forced himself to keep walking uphill - despite his rebelling insides begging him to stop. Mentally, he was fighting a war against himself, torn between wanting to succumb to his struggling body, and needing to find an apparent hideout of the so called Silver Hand. Werewolf hunters. Murderers. A threat to his pack. The Companions relied on him. His people relied on him. They were the closest thing to a family that he had… There was just no time for breaks when pack members could be in danger right now.

There was a good reason why Claudinei had joined the Companions in the first place. He had so much raw energy and anger in his heart, and paired with his desire to do good, it was a weapon against himself and the few people he cared about. Ever since he got accepted into their circles, he’d learned to control his temperament and use it for proper battling. For defending the weak. Normally he enjoyed killing for fun, especially Nords and racists, but right now he wasn’t even in the mood for a bloodbath… a bad sign.

A sudden, stabbing pain shot through his bowels, causing him to hunch over and gasp desperately. For a moment, the severity of the cramp seemed to push all the air out of his lungs, and his shaking knees threatened to give in. Claude felt like a newborn deer, struggling to stay on his feet and praying to whatever Gods where listening right now for this sensation to pass. He could feel his own belly gurgling ominously underneath his armor, quickly bloating up and pushing against the tight, cold steel, which somehow made him feel even sicker. It felt like something wanted to come out of him… Claudinei feared he knew what that would be, and the heat of shame caused his cheeks to flush underneath his scales.

With his eyes pressed shut, the Argonian tried to focus on his breathing, and regain his composure. Well, as embarrassing as it would be to relieve himself in the middle of the goddamn forest, if it meant he’d feel better… Still hunched over, he somehow made his way towards a nearby bush, surrounded by tall grass. Once again, the embarrassment filled his chest with heat, and he looked around several times for potential onlookers. The calm ambience of the forest around him didn’t want to match the sweat inducing wave of illness he was experiencing… in fact, the voices of the singing birds just made him feel worse. Lonelier in his misery. And at the same time, as if they were mocking him.

After fighting his way out of his armor, Claudinei already felt a bit better… the fresh, cool air brushing over his skin was comforting, even though it quickly grew cold due to the sweat continuously forming underneath his scales.

Please, let this be over quickly…

The lizard man crouched down and lifted his head towards the sky. But… nothing happened. This was, of course, not the first time his body played dirty tricks on him like that. He would probably just have to wait. Try harder. His scales shimmered in a light grey as he tried to push… another angry groan erupted from his middle, making him wince. Why wouldn’t anything move?

What do you want from me?

Claudinei attempted to give himself a clumsy belly rub, trying to help… things move along, but what he felt underneath his claws made him freeze. Was it just his imagination, or was his belly actually moving…? No, no way… that couldn’t be. The young man held his breath, feeling his heart starting to beat rapidly in his throat as he tried to feel for more movement. He was hoping, no, begging the Gods that it was just his dizzy, foggy mind playing tricks on him – but no… There it was… right underneath his belly button, barely noticeable. Something nudged against his fingers. What in the world was that?! Did his raw meat binges catch up with him? Shit… no, no, no! Did he catch a parasite?! What was he supposed to do now?!

Before the panic even properly began to settle in his chest, another sharp cramp caused him to whine like a kicked puppy. With a gross, airy sounding gurgle, he felt something shift in his lower belly… Clearly, it was much bigger than what his bowels were used to. It seemed like this parasite, or whatever it was, had pretty much been sitting still inside him all this time, but his attempt to push it out had startled it into moving. That’s what the pain had been… it was probably causing a blockage inside him. The poor guy didn’t dare to lay a finger on his belly again… he was scared he could make that thing inside him anxious, or worse, make it want to push and burst out of his belly. It definitely already felt like whatever was inside him wanted to find a way out… Claude felt his scaly skin stretching as it moved around, seemingly wriggling through his bowels. It was so sickening, so nauseating, and painful… so painful he couldn’t put it into words. Was this gonna be how it ended for him? What an awfully embarrassing way to go… busted like an overcooked sausage because he couldn’t stop himself from enjoying his meat raw.

Instead of the pop! he feared to hear and feel coming from his belly, Claudinei was surprised when he realized that the squirming in his gut actually seemed to move this thing along… A glimpse of hope began to rise in him. Perhaps he could just get it out the ‘easy’ way after all? The young man figured he should try to push along, to help his unwanted guest find the exit… but the more he wanted to squeeze, the more he realized that this wasn’t going the way he’d expected it to. Why didn’t it make its way towards his rear? Why did the pain begin to move between his legs instead? The color faded from his face, leaving him pale as a sheet. He just remembered the fact that he was an Argonian – and that every Argonian, no matter if male or female, had a cloaca. Even though Claudinei was more than confused and panicky, especially about how and why it was in there, he didn’t really care which way it would come out – as long as it would come out!!

The human-lizard whimpered miserably as he lowered himself down on the cool grass, and finally managed to lay on his side with his legs close to his middle. Sweat was still continuously piling on his forehead, his belly groaning and gurgling in a pathetic attempt to get this thing to move… his whole body was clearly working hard to get this unwanted visitor going. Claudinei inhaled sharply, barely managing to bite back a pained scream as he felt the form of the parasite finally slip closer to the exit. It was so much bigger and firmer than what his body was accustomed to, and once again, he feared it was going to burst out of him any second. It almost felt like a rock, sitting heavily in his pelvis and pressing its broad, round shape against his sensitive genitals. The squirming had quietened down by far, now that he would need it to assist him in pushing it out. While the poor guy forced himself to push and press rhythmically, his mind was racing, trying to figure out just what it could be… It almost felt like a cocoon of some sort. There was another wriggle – now it was in a position where it was pressed right against his male genitals, which were tucked away inside his cloaca – and usually kept very safe in there.

“Oh Gods, help me…!”, Claude’s voice broke, and was finally interrupted by a much needed, quite relieving yell. The sea of trees that surrounded him swallowed up his panicked, desperate crying, and with the singing of the birds still mocking him, he continued to try and force this foreign thing to move. All of a sudden, the pain subsided almost instantly, and Claudinei couldn’t help but let out a high pitched moan as it finally shot out of him. Finally, his poor, stretched cloaca could relax, his poor organs could settle… no, not yet. The lizard only had a few seconds to gaze over his own shoulder, down at whatever he just pushed out, before the pain started all over again. A blue, oval shape, about the size of his head… Was that an egg?!

Right as the Argonian screamed in pain once again, he remembered… he remembered that he and Faendal had had sex the other day. He remembered how much he had thanked the universe for his cloaca, the ability to experience so much pleasure crash against his body like a wave… but at what cost? Now he was here, digging his claws into the soft, mossy ground underneath him, with tears streaming down his face… And yet, after the first egg was out, his body seemed to be more prepared for the ‘birth’. The next egg didn’t cause the same, painful spasms in his lower belly and back anymore; no, instead it nestled itself directly into his pelvic area. Claudinei panted, cursed to himself, and pushed... Once again, the heavy sensation pressed directly against his manhood – but this time, he could feel his length, his erection, pressing right back. Shit, was he really aroused? How? Since when? This shit was painful as hell before! But… not anymore. Surprised, the reptile man actually found himself moaning with pleasure as the egg stretched out his cloaca. The familiar, prickling heat of arousal began to fill his lower belly and genitals, more and more, making him want move with the rhythm of his own pushing. After a few seconds of gasping and squeezing, the egg plopped out, right next to the first one… and again, Claude’s body didn’t give him a break.

There was that sensation again, the egg shifting down towards his genitals; and this time, Claudinei had dropped almost all his tension. He allowed his own arousal to completely guide his body. What had been so incredibly painful before suddenly filled his body with unfiltered desire, causing him to blush at his own thoughts. The reptile man was hoping for the egg to be bigger than the others, for it to stay inside a little longer… His eyes rolled back with pleasure as the rhythmic spasming of his genitals tickled him to the core. The egg pressed down on the Argonian’s erection, as if it were pressing a button to send waves of blissful arousal through his body.

“Ahh-!! Oh S-shit-!!!”, Claudinei howled, a high pitched squeal making its way past his lips as he reached his climax. The throbbing of his genitals finally brought the egg to daylight, and he was filled with nothing but intense, but rewarding exhaustion as this hellish experience finally came to an end with a positive twist…

For what felt like several minutes, the young man would just lay there with his eyes closed and allow his body to relax. Finally, the sound of the birds didn’t seem to be making fun of him anymore… finally, it felt genuinely peaceful.

Thank you… I’m so glad that’s over…

But was it really…? Claudinei managed to force himself to look over his own shoulder again, observing the eggs that had come out of him. It hadn’t even properly hit him yet that these were… his. He’d had no intention to be a father. Not yet. Especially not now, when he was in the middle of an important mission. God, he’d lost so much time with this… oh well. After that scare, he needed a snack. If he was going to be breaking into a hideout, he might as well do it with a belly full of raw eggs – one of his favorite foods in the world.

[miracleboiz]

Making a Home Ch.8

Kita Shinsuke had experienced a lot in life. He had been raised with his grandmother, a loving foster parent and for some time he followed in her foot steps before finding his own path. He thought his foster care license had expired before getting a call at three am with two small boys thrust into his arms. Miya Osamu and Atsumu, from broken homes but still fighting. Thirty days before his license expires. Thirty days to make a choice, keep the boys or let them be separated into different homes. Thirty days to fall in love with them.

Words: 4k

Relationships: Gen

Warnings: Mention of past child abuse, non-graphic abuse

Not from Kita, but it is mentioned. I will post any warnings before any panic attacks or vague descriptions of abuse.

Read below or on AO3

The clock glowed a soft red as it ticked out the time at 5:02 as Shinsuke’s eyes opened again. He yawned softly, sitting up and letting himself rest against the headboard. Yesterday had felt like it had gone on forever.

Not in a bad way, it hadn’t dragged or made Shinsuke dread the remaining hours. Yet, it had seemed to be more… full. As if he had managed to get more done in one day then he usually managed, though Shinsuke knew he had the same hours as he did every day.

Still…

He glanced at his phone as it lit up, a quiet ping letting him know there was a text waiting for him.

Koshi-san: Hey you! Hope everything went well yesterday

Koshi-san: want me to open up again? I can grab Tooru-kun early :3c

Hiring Sugawara was honestly Shinsuke’s best decision yet. He let his shoulders drop, realizing he hadn’t worried about the shop at all yesterday and he wondered if it was because he trusted his employees or if he had really been that distracted. Perhaps it was a bit of both in the end.

Me: Don’t worry about it, you have your morning training with Sawamura

Koshi-san: Kitaaaaaaa

Koshi-san: You do know technically we’re both Sawamura right?

Me: That’s not what it says on my employee tax forms

Koshi-san: Fair

Koshi-san: Okay~ I’ll see you when I get in then. Hopefully we can talk and I can meet your new babies!!

Shinsuke shook his head fondly as he put down his phone, rising to his feet and turning to make the bed. He did have to figure out how to work with the boys, after all he didn’t want to wake them up so early especially after so many things happening the past few days. The last thing he wanted to do was try and wrangle two emotionally drained and sleep deprived six year olds, he barely managed to wrangle an exhausted twenty eight-year old Oikawa into listening some days.

He slipped out of the bedroom, making his way down the hall until he could peek into the boys’ room. Osamu was starfished out, one fox gripped tightly in each hand. Atsumu however, was splayed out on the floor.

Fighting back a laugh at Atsumu’s stubborn will to cling to the blankets and pull them down with him, Shinsuke stepped into the room. He knelt down, sliding his arms under the boy’s legs and back. Atsumu curled into his arms, mumbling something unintelligible as he tried to bury his face in Shinsuke’s chest.

Shinsuke picked him and lowered him back down, careful to not let him squirm his way back off the bed. The sheets were dry atleast, so he just seemed to be wiggling towards the warmest thing in the room which was currently Shinsuke himself.

“Shinsuke-san? Is everything okay?” A voice made Shinsuke jump before he recognized and turned to see a confused Osamu blinking at him. His gaze landed on Atsumu in Shinsuke’s arms and he froze, eyes dashing back to Shinsuke’s.

“It’s alright, your brother just fell out of bed and now he won’t let go.” Shinsuke said softly, turning to reveal Atsumu’s hands starting to fist in his shirt before he tugged the hands away. “C’mon little one, let go… There you go. No… Atsumu you can’t hold my hand, I have to go eat.”

“ ‘Tsumu’s just like that.” Osamu yawned, the sound of his feet hitting the floor echoed in the dark room. Shinsuke had to bite back a laugh hearing Atsumu’s words turned around on him.

“Is… Can I just...” Osamu hesitated as if a thought came to him right as he joined Shinsuke’s side. He struggled to find the words until Shinsuke realized what he had been trying to do.

“Go on around to my other side,” Shinsuke said softly, “I won’t let him kick you.”

Osamu scrambled around him, quickly climbing his way onto the bed until he was curled up behind Atsumu. He reached around, grabbing his brother’s hands and tugging them. That was all it took because a second later Atsumu flopped to face his brother and wrap himself around Osamu like a Koala.

“Ewww, I can smell his breath.” Osamu whined, though his eyes were already sliding shut again. “Are you… goin’ to work?”

“Yes, little one. Oji-san is in the living room if you need him, or if you need me you’re allowed to come get me, the doors are always open. Okay?” Shinsuke said softly, reaching over to brush his hair down as Osamu yawned and occupied himself with burrowing into Atsumu’s arms to hug him back.

“Okay, Shinsuke-san… I won’t bother you… Don’t… want you to send us away… You’re really really nice.” Osamu mumbled before he was out like someone had hit a light switch.

“Oh Osamu… I’m here to be bothered by you, for anything that you need…. That’s what a parent is for.” Shinsuke said softly, though he knew it wouldn’t reach him.

He slowly stood, making sure both of them were properly tucked in before slipping out of the room again. Even as he stepped free of the dark room, he couldn’t help but stop and look back. How was he supposed to get these boys to trust people again only to let them go at the end of the month? 

What if they got orders to move again? Or if someone decided to adopt one but not both? There was only so much that Oomimi and Moniwa could do to keep them together if someone decided to specifically pick one of them.

“You’re thinking too much, c’mere.” Aran’s voice made him start and Shinsuke swore he was going to get bells for everyone in the house. He looked up to see Aran standing next to the kitchen with a mug of tea in his hands.

“I don’t remember letting you back into my house.” Shinsuke said dryly and Aran’s eyes crinkled with amusement before he turned into the kitchen and forced Shinsuke to follow.

“I never left. You fell asleep, then Michinari was trying to lay on you so we put you to bed and went to watch the rest of the movie and kinda… passed out. I hope you don’t mind.” Aran explained, waving the mug in the air. Shinsuke didn’t mind, it wasn’t the first time they had crashed at his house without warning it just hadn’t happened in ages.

“Akagi likes to crawl into my bed while I’m sleeping when he returns from out of the country. A single cup of tea won’t kill me.” 

Aran’s lips pursed as he tried not to laugh, quietly shaking his head fondly at Shinsuke. The strangest urge to fix his own hair overcame Shinsuke and he turned away, grabbing rice to get it started for breakfast. The last thing he needed to be thinking about was how familiar the sweet scent of Tonka Bean lotion was coming from Aran. How it still lingered on Shinsuke’s messy shirt after being carried to bed.

“I’m heading out in a few, I have to get to the gym before the kids do… But it was nice seeing you again… I don’t live far, if I stopped by occasionally… Do you think I’d be welcome?” Aran asked softly and when Shinsuke glanced back he was staring into his mug.

“I think if you call ahead, I’d be more than happy to set a place at the table for you.” 

“That’s good… Shinsuke.. We should talk sometime I… I’m going to be late… Shit, I’ll text you.” Aran said, draining the last of his tea before cleaning the cup out quickly. “Oh! And Akagi said something about… A Saru-san who wanted photos taken of her flowers?” 

Shinsuke curled his lip without thinking. Saru was an old woman who existed for the sole purpose of harassing his shop, Shinsuke wasn’t one to speak ill of customers but Saru-san had made Azumane-kun cry one too many times for Shinsuke to care anymore. He tilted his head to Aran to acknowledge he heard before the dark skinned man was grabbing his keys and heading to the door.

Shinsuke watched, wanting to call out and remind him to actually call… but the words caught in his throat. Instead he just waited for the familiar broad back to disappear behind his own sturdy door like he had so many times before.

He sighed, wondering if he was doing right by sticking to his plans and not being flexible. Then again, the idea of throwing it all away in was even more terrifying than the idea of Aran showing up to dinner with a date. 

Shinsuke did things planned, he wasn’t spontaneous or random. That was Akagi’s place in life, Shinsuke was a sturdy foundation for others to build upon. A house to protect them from the outside until they felt safe to venture forth with the knowledge that the safety of the home would always be waiting for them.

Part of him thought getting the boys was more than enough uproar in his life and he would be content for some time to get no more. A smaller part, though it seemed to be growing by the minute, was preparing for a large upheaval of his daily life. If he was going to have something as big as two children change his ways he might as well change all of it, a rather unappealing ‘go big or go home’ analogy.

Shinsuke wasn’t sure how long he stood there, but he finally turned away and moved to check on Oomimi and Akagi. Despite being sure Oomimi had taken the armchair the night before, the tall man was comfortably curled on Shinsuke’s couch on his stomach, Akagi spread out over his back.

Shinsuke debated on dragging Akagi to the spare room or even to his own bed to let the two rest without breaking each other’s spines. Then Oomimi shifted onto his side and trapped Akagi between the couch cushions and Oomimi’s back. They both snored softly and Shinsuke realized it wasn’t worth waking them up to do so. He grabbed the blanket that had fallen to the floor and tossed it over them, tucking the end around their feet before returning to breakfast.

Soft shuffling came from the couch as Shinsuke was finishing the last of his omurice. He looked up to see Akagi’s bedhead, not any worse than his usual hair, and confused eyes fluttering as he looked around. They finally landed on Shinsuke and there was another round of shuffling before the man was free from the couch.

“I have to pee.” Akagi said, staring directly into Shinsuke’s eyes before he turned and made his way down the hall. Shinsuke didn’t even bother being shocked, Akagi did things his own way including greetings.

“Okay, I’m functioning again.” Akagi yawned as he returned, shuffling his way over to Shinsuke until he could lay his head on his back. “What’re you doing up this early?”

“Eating breakfast, would you like me to make you something?” Shinsuke offered, turning to hold up a bite of the omurice. Akagi took it before he was pressing against his shoulder again, the warmth of his yawn making Shinsuke shiver slightly.

“Nah, ‘m tired… gunna go back to bed until… normal wake up time… Are the boys still asleep?” He mumbled, the words muffled.

“Yeah… I told them to come wake you if they need anything, is that okay?”

“Mmmm, yeah I’ll get up with them… Probably around seven you think?” 

“Sounds about right considering when they went to bed, I have to get back to the shop. I’m opening today. But please, let them come and get me if they need anything.” Shinsuke said softly, taking the final bite and gently pushing Akagi off to move to the sink and clean the plate. “Akaashi is always there early working on commissions, so if I need to step away I can.” 

Akagi hummed out an understanding, looking around again for a few seconds.

“Where’s Aran? Did you… let him sleep in your bed-” Akagi shut his mouth as Shinsuke shot a cold glare at him. The impish gleam in his eyes still didn’t disappear even as he looked away trying to push down a smirk.

“He left. He has work, unlike some people.” Shinsuke said slowly, eyeing him as a soft pink blush started to grow on his cheeks.

“Yeah okay, okay. I’m going back to bed. But when I’m more awake, we’re talking about your never ending crush.” Akagi stated, poking Shinsuke in the chest before he turned and wandered his way back to the couch. He paused at the back of it before simply rolling over it and onto Oomimi who yelped before the snoring started up again.

Shinsuke shook his head fondly, putting the dry plate away and making his way towards the entrance to his shop. The small mid-office had changed a little, Asahi had probably grabbed ribbons, and the fake flowers were missing now but Shinsuke didn’t bother checking everything. He slipped through to the boutique, relaxing slightly when he found it still in one piece.

He trusted Sugawara, very much in fact. However, he also knew Sugawara was as chaotic as Akagi himself and if anyone was going to put sticky notes all over his business it would be him.

He glanced at the clock above the doors, taking a moment to read the time before moving to the doors and quietly unlocking them. Across the street he could see Castle Bakery’s lights on in the kitchen, only the faintest glow reaching the main room. He watched it for a second, wondering if they would get any visitors from the bakery before deciding what happened would happen. 

He slipped over to the register, mentally reminding himself to give Sugawara a bonus or a raise. Everything was meticulously detailed, from orders to tailorings and he could already feel any worry starting to slip over his back as he grabbed the first few receipts to be typed up. He paused as his hand brushed over a thicker piece of paper and he lifted the Yamamoto wedding order to see a blue piece of stock paper.

A delicate fox was drawn in the middle, decorated in rather childish scribbles of small children and their signatures.

“Be safe Kita-san!” One line of characters was drawn over a short silver haired drawing signed by Shigeru, one of Oikawa and Iwaizumi’s children.

“Chichi says you might be dying.” Another line was scrawled out in a uniform line of characters though the signature was a lot messier from Tadashi, Sugawara’s oldest. Below that was a line insisting Sugawara had not said that.

“Please do not pass on, I would miss being able to talk to you.” Akira’s scribbling was nearly illegible but still impressive for a four year old. His drawing of them talking was… less impressive but Shinsuke appreciated it regardless.

“Come over! Papa misses you and Chichi says I can make you breakfast! I hope you’re not love sick for too long, feel better.” This one was probably the neatest, written delicately beside a cookie and Shinsuke didn’t need to read the signature to know it was from Shinji, the only child of the Matsukawas. He could only wonder what Takahiro-san and Issei-san were telling the children to make them worry.

Then again, as much as Shinsuke wasn’t one to listen to rumors, he was certain the story that his wedding planner and his personal trainer boyfriend were secretly dating the Castle Bakery owners was more than a little covered in truth. Shinsuke would not have put it past Oikawa to tell all of their kids that Shinsuke was ‘love sick’, after all he and Akagi enjoyed putting their noses in Shinsuke’s non-existent love life a little too much.

Still, the art did warm his heart and he wondered if Osamu and Atsumu would ever draw something similar. The urge to check on them started to grow, a quiet loneliness that wrapped around his heart at the sight of the empty store. He turned away from the receipts, moving to hang the small poster behind Asahi’s station where they had taken to putting any drawings the children of his workers made.

It was nearly six-thirty when the door rang to announce Akaashi’s entrance. Shinsuke nodded his head in greeting, carefully typing up the cash receipts into the laptop he’d grabbed from his office. The urge to check on the twins had overpowered him three times when he tried to work in his office so he’d moved himself to the register.

“Kita-san. Is everything alright?” Akaashi said, dipping his own head in greeting as he moved to stand in front of the station. His head tilted slightly, glasses slipping down his nose. Shinsuke couldn’t help but notice he looked tired, dark circles decorated the space under angled eyes and his black hair was still pointed up wildly in the back.

“I’m fine. I’m sorry I didn’t check in yesterday, how did it go?”

“It was fine, I finished quite a few commissions for wedding cards so they’re just waiting to be approved before I mail them out. We didn’t have a lot of people yesterday, but Shirofuku-san was busy all day. We had to send away Ito-san and Takahashi-san because they refused to let Koushi-san do their dresses but also wouldn’t do reservations. I explained Shirofuku-san was our only female tailor but they were insistent it would have to be a female or no one and they wanted Koushi-san to take over for Shirofuku-san’s current client.” Akaashi explained, face perfectly tailored to a customer service persona though his voice had deepened to reveal his annoyance with the situation.

“Ah, they’re… picky.” Shinsuke nodded, glancing over to their wedding registry. “They have everything through us to get deals so I doubt they’ll cancel everything. Did you see when they were going to come back?”

“Ito-san said she would be back today around eight and Takahashi-san’s mother called to say they would be coming on Saturday as soon as we opened.” Akaashi nodded, reaching over the counter to tug Yukie’s schedule out from under a pile of notes. “Koushi-san also has three people coming in today to speak with Oikawa-san about planning their wedding so he’ll be grateful to have something to do. It’s been a slow season for him.”

“That’s true, usually he has a lot more clients. Then again, after Akira-kun broke his leg he did pull back on his advertising. Now that he’s better, Oikawa should speak to some old clients and see if we can get word of mouth going again as long as he can handle the pressure.” 

“Not to be blunt, but I don’t think there is a thing Oikawa-san can’t handle if he puts his mind to it. I’ve seen him eat Takahiro-san’s habanero cupcakes and he only cried a little.” Akaashi said dryly, though Shinsuke could see the amusement glittering in his eyes. “Azumane-san had a few designs he wanted to go over with you as well. The cocktail dress designs from last month have sold extremely well on the online store and I think he’s fallen in love with not having to look at people when selling his clothes.”

“Perhaps. I’ll look at them when this is over. Thank you Akaashi…. Are you going to ask?” Shinsuke said as he turned back to his computer and typed in another total. He could hear Akaashi shuffling his feet and knew the stoic man was just as curious as everyone else.

“You’ll tell me when you want me to know.” Akaashi said after a minute of nothing but the tapping of keys.

“.... Thank you for that… I’m fostering two boys, twins. Probably only until the end of the month but we’ll see if it’s shorter. They’ve had a bit of a hard life so please be kind if they come out here, they’re easily frightened right now but sweet. I won’t let them in your station but they may come around.” Shinsuke hummed, aggressively shoving down the curious feeling building in his chest that wanted to go see if they were awake yet. They were not his kids and Akagi was more than capable of making them breakfast if they were awake.

“Ah. I don’t think any of us will mind them coming around as long as they don’t break anything. After all, Shirofuku-san still lets Bokuto-san visit and he lit her paperwork on fire… twice.” Akaashi’s voice was fond and Shinsuke had a strong need to ask Oikawa why he was so hellbent on getting Shinsuke to date when Akaashi was clearly pining and Shinsuke was much more subtle.

“That’s true, but Yukie-chan can be bought with food. Azumane is still scared he’s going to break one of them. Remember when Akira-kun came in with his cast and Azumane didn’t want to sign his cast?” Shinsuke said, glancing over at the ringing of the front door. Oikawa Tooru was grumpily kicking snow off his boots and looked at them.

“Akira is still upset over that by the way. Good Morning, Akaashi, Kita.” Oikawa gave them half a bow before he grabbed a chair and dragged it over to sit beside Shinsuke. “So, what’s up?”

“We were simply talking about yesterday.” Akaashi said smoothly, inclining his head before walking around the register to his own station. “The rest isn’t for me to tell.”

“Sometimes, I can’t tell if he hates me or if I’m just that pretty.” Oikawa hummed, fluttering his eyes over at Akaashi when the black haired man looked over at him in surprise. “I’m joking Akaashi-kun~ I know you don’t hate me. You just never share the gossip with me and it’s hurtful, truly.”

“Don’t tease him. We were also talking about the boys I’m fostering… If you don’t mind me asking, why are you here so early? Your first appointment isn’t until… ten.” Shinsuke said, glancing at the sticky note Sugawara had left behind.

“Well, Hajime, in all his absolutely beautiful and idiotic glory decided to take a client at six in the morning and since the boys are over at ‘Hiro’s I have nothing to do when the asshole wakes me up early.” Oikawa sniffed disapprovingly as if his boyfriend doing his job was the worst thing possible.

“So why didn’t you help out at the bakery? That’s what you normally do when you’re awake this early isn’t it? They always seem excited to see you.” Shinsuke said subtly, looking down at his papers as piercing brown eyes snapped up to him.

“My, my, I never thought my wonderful boss Kita Shinsuke would be one to listen to rumors,” his voice was haughty for a moment before dropping in defeat, “and Shinji-kun and Issei kicked me out for eating peanut butter cookies again.”

“Maybe it’s because you’re allergic and they don’t want you to die.” Akaashi called over, not looking up from whatever character he was drawing. Oikawa stuck out his tongue and turned back to Shinsuke.

“So tell me about yesterday!”

Shinsuke shook his head with amusement but started to talk, the lonely feeling starting to fade away as Akaashi turned to listen while he worked. Though he still wanted to see the twins again, he was starting to realize why Akagi had said he had a family after all. He couldn’t believe he had been so blind, but he was grateful to know now.

[scatterpatter]

15 w Corren!

15: What is your characters background story?

OHOHO, so I’m going to leave One Detail Out because there’s one part of his backstory I don’t wanna spoil for Jazz yet, but... >:3c

Also it’s under the cut because i totally infodumped and then some OOPSIE

oh also cws: serious illness, death, domestic violence, depression

Corren Hartwell grew up the youngest of 3 siblings, the oldest being his big sis Mila and the middle child being his bro Julian. Their parents were pretty detached emotionally, but that’s pretty par for the course where he was from, and they provided for the kids so it really wasn’t all that bad. Not a perfect family, no fam ever is, but they were happy.

His race’s culture is super inclined to intelligence and studying technology, the mind, etc, so Corren spent his childhood being a total bookworm. Studying history, arcana, all sorts of stuff... he never really minded it, though. He was actually quite good at what he did! 

Mila was a spellcaster- I honestly forgot what school of magic she was in OOPS, and Julian dual-classed as a Necromancer and Bard! Jules and Mila were both pretty close in age, and they were like besties on top of being siblings, and they’d often team up to do small adventuring jobs: hit up the help wanted board in town and take care of short deliveries or a monster stalking a farm or something like that- both for the thrill and to also earn some extra gold for the family. They loved Corren, but they couldn’t take him with them because it was too dangerous for him since he was still just a little kid. Still, Corren admired them and wanted to be just like them(better, even?) when he grew up! ... Oh yeah I always forget this detail but Corren’s totally trans XD He came out pretty young but his family was chill with it so like... ayyyeee

Though one day, Mila started getting sick. Corren doesn’t really know what it was, but for whatever reason she wasn’t able to heal from it with simple healing spells. It was a slow process, but she was just getting worse instead of better, and one day she passed. The family was a wreck, understandably. The issue is... Corren and Julian had... different ways of grieving. Corr was still young, the equivalent of like someone 10-12 in human years, so he didn’t fully grasp the concept of death just yet. He retreated into himself a lot, had trouble grounding himself to the present and really struggling with depression. Julian, about the equivalent of someone 16-18, had a better understanding of what was going on, but he was wrecked. He wanted their sister back, and was so upset he couldnt do anything... but he wanted to try. He ended up doing something rash, and... well, spoilers ;) (dont worry he didnt hurt Corren or anyone else, but... he Fucked Up in what he tried doing)

Things quickly went downhill from there for the Hartwells. There was often a lot of fighting between Julian and their parents, or Corren would be chided for being unable to focus, like, at all, and... Corren and Jules never really fought, but there was a clear rift between them after what happened. They still loved each other, but it was so obvious their relationship would never be like what it was when Mila was still around, and that hurt both of them so much.

A few months later, things reached a boiling point and Julian was kicked out of their home. Before he left, though, he found Corren and gave him something: a small amethyst pendant on a necklace chain, something Julian used to always wear. They made a promise that this wasn’t gonna be goodbye, that they’d find each other again, and then Jules was gone. It was just Corren and his mom and dad.

Things were still strained, and Corren just did his best to keep to his studies to distract himself from everything. Not wanting Corren to end up like his brother, his parents forbade anything necrotic in the magic he learned. The problem was... Corren still loved Julian. And still wanted to be like him, to a point, so... he would study necromancy in secret. It was kinda like his little lifeline like “hey Jules is still here to an extent if I know the spells he does”, and things seemed to be going okay, for the most part

Well uh... one day his father caught him practicing his necromancy and... well, was far from happy about it. An argument quickly erupted between them both, a lot of yelling back and forth, and before Corr could react properly, his father grabbed something from the desk and struck him with it, giving him a pretty bad cut across his right eye(the smol scar I always draw? Yeah...). In a panic, Corren’s flight of fight kicked in as he cast a magic missile at his father in retaliation. Corren isn’t sure if his attack just stunned, knocked out, or killed his father, but the flight of fight-or-flight kicked in as he just ran from the situation. He had no idea what he was to do or where to go, but he just knew he couldn’t go back home after that.

SO this poor kid, probably the equivalent of a 14-15 y/o, is out on his own now... and he sure does his best. He mainly spends his time hopping from town to town, taking up small jobs to get some gold in his pockets, and is just... focusing on surviving. Going from this sheltered lifestyle to suddenly on the streets was a wake-up call and then some, but he found ways to make it work. Luckily his background of studying all the time gave him enough intelligence to take up tasks others weren’t as capable of, but it was still... far from easy. But he made it work!

One day he’s in a city known as Lilenthemar, just taking a break in one of the town squares, when an Elven man takes a seat on the bench next to him. They both sit in a comfortable silence for a while... but the elf then strikes a conversation. Corren, socially awkward like no tomorrow, tries to keep up the conversation... key word tries. The man introduces himself as Jethro, and I imagine the conversation took a turn like this:

Jethro: I don’t see many Marelienths around here, are you new in town?

Corren: Yeah, just passing through I guess. ... Gotta say, wasn’t expecting to see the Dragon Saint of the Green as I came here, though.

Jethro, laughing: Ah, yes, Raerose. Don’t worry, he’s a kind dragon. Though, it’s certainly surprising to those who are new to the city.

Corren: Oh, no, I know all about Raerose and his connections to this city and the Edgewoods. I just wasn’t expecting to... you know, run into his path as quickly as I did.

Jethro: Oh, so you’ve done your research, I take it?

At that point, Corren does what any neurodivergent would do when asked about his hobbies: Infodumps the hell out of what he knows. He’s far from a great scholar, considering he’s only the equivalent of someone 16-21ish at this point and spent quite a few years away from studying in favor of surviving, but he was still very intelligent and knowledgable about what he talked about. Jethro, picking up on this, decided to offer Corren a temporary position as a Family Historian. Jethro was actually a noble, something Corr somehow didn’t pick up on, and not only could’ve used the help... but also, he kiiiinda picked up on the fact that Corren looked like a kid who could use a place to stay for a while. Corren, not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, immediately accepted the offer.

Now, Corren wasn’t intending to stay for long. A few months, maybe a year or two... but. He realized he was building a pretty stable life by having a consistent job for the elf- it didn’t make much sense to just leave that in favor of hopping from place to place with no purpose. Not to mention, he was actually growing quite close to his boss. They’d often spent time together during off-hours, sitting in a comfortable quiet, just taking comfort in each other’s presence. Jethro’s actually the only one Corren ever opened up to about his past, and over the years Corren really grew to love him in a strong platonic way. They both struggled with their own grieving, Jethro with his passed wife and son he hadn’t seen in years, and Corren with his passed sister and brother he hadn’t seen in years, which only helped them grow closer, since they understood each other’s pain, in a sense.

He still struggled with depression, but overall Corren was doing pretty damn well in life. ... Many years later, Corren being 44(idk which human-equivalent this would be. Mid-Late 20s? Early 30s?), actually gets to meet Jethro’s son, Jericho, and the party he traveled with... called the F.U.C.K.s. ... I couldn’t make this shit up even if I tried. They needed help getting to a place called the Menoa Tree, which Corren happened to have studied for a long while, so he offered to help the party. ... They totally broke him with their antics. He proceeded to have a mental breakdown in front of them, and essentially went “FUCK THIS IM GOING HOME AND TAKING A NAP”. Jethro got a laugh out of the furious rambling Corren came home with.

... But despite that, something stuck with him. He just couldn’t quite get the party out of his mind. Something about them, as frustrating as they were, was almost... magnetic? ... Well, weeks later, word came to Lilenthemar about a war that had been raging on for years now... but specifically of a battle at a city known as Joshua, the forces being lead by Jericho alongside many others. Jethro was of course worried about his boy... and Corren... well, something in him changed. He wanted to know more about the FUCKs and just WHAT their deal was, and he wanted to ease Jethro’s worries, so... he grabbed a sniper rifle and decided that he’d go help protect Jericho and his friends as they fought. 

He eventually caught up to the party, convinced them to let him help, and after many battles... the war was won(Corren kinda came in at the tail-end of it all). The only thing is... after that, Corren didn’t really want to go home just yet. He actually enjoyed spending time with the party... and then it clicked: They were powerful adventurers who were totally crazy, stupid, and had no sense of self-preservation... they were just like Julian. And Corren loved it, even when they drove him crazy. He felt alive, which is something he realized he hadn’t felt in a long time... and quickly grew attached to his party, Alistair now taking the reigns as leader as Jericho retired from adventuring. And, well, he’s stuck with them ever since!

He still has Julian’s amethyst, as they’ve yet to reunite(yknow, assuming Jules is still alive even), but... certain events are causing some concern with the story I’m telling. Mainly... Corren is slowly facing Aboleth Corruption(he doesn’t know this yet, but is starting to suspect there’s something wrong with him), and that’s causing parts of his memory to be... patchy. Certain things aren’t lining up, and there could be more(or just different altogether) pieces of this story than what I’ve just told... but we’ll have to wait and see until we get to the quest that deals with that before we find out what’s REALLY going on ;)

... HEY UM I HOPE YALL DONT MIND THE IMMENSE INFODUMP IF YOU MADE IT THIS FAR THEN THANK U FOR CARING ABT MY BOI ;-;

[fordarkisthesuede]

The Tolls of Justice - Chapter 7

Goooood morning, darlings!  It was a longer wait than I wanted to give you, but I hope this absolute monster of a chapter is alllll worth it for what we’re leading up to! :3c

Important Spoiler Tags:  self harm, paranoia, playing with knives, discussion of mental illness, bonding through near-death situations, omg Billionaire Playboy Vigilante Bruce Wayne has That™ kind of drawer what a surprise

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Read on Ao3 or continue below...

[Chapter 7:  Drawing the Strings]

Wayne Manor was too big. John figured he could walk the whole length of it in the time it would take to let Bruce deal with everything being set up for his fancy-schmancy party.

He was okay with not going. It wasn’t like he wanted to actually be in the enormous unused ballroom, all dressed to the nines. Or be on Bruce’s arm for any miniscule part of the evening. Or get to try to be normal-ish for once. It made sense for him not to go, what with a wannabe-killer on the loose. He knew that as soon as he’d realized he was in Wayne Manor and not in some weird fever dream made from various Arkham-brand drugs.

But hearing he wasn’t wanted there in the first place was different. Not so much from calculating, logical Bruce, who might have his best interests at heart - but from Alfred?

He felt the stirrings of the mysterious beast under his skin. It had been kicked hard in its cage and now it was angrier than ever. It was as if it had been staring Alfred down from behind its bars of bone and flesh, teeth bared and growling low since he saw him in the kitchen that morning - and it was lie Alfred could see it, somehow, and stared back as he shoved a pancake into John’s hands with his compliments like that would make things better.

John would be lying if he said it hadn’t made a fraction of a difference – Alfred treated him like he would any other guest to their face. He was polite and seemingly neutral, and even tossed a joke out about Bruce’s life juggling trick. It was enough to remind John that this was Bruce’s father figure he was dealing with and not a stranger, and he should do his best to get along with who could – in the slimmest possibilities of a good future – be his eventual father-in-law.

But the knowledge that Alfred didn’t think he should be around other people kept sitting in John’s head. It sat there in the kitchen, and in the oversized dining room, and back in the kitchen as John very carefully dried the china and attempted to make conversation about Alfred’s journey across the world in-between mentally running through a list of all the mob hits ever made on 13th Street. Bad thoughts were easy to drown out when he was thinking about other things, but as soon as he was left on his own it came back.

Alfred doesn’t want me here, the thought cycled in again as John stepped into the elevator down to cave. It was the one place he could surround himself with Bruce’s presence without the man actually being there. He doesn’t like me. He thinks I’m dangerous around people. Shadows passed over his face. 

He knew Alfred was right. Does anyone want me here, with my bloody hands...? 

John looked down at them. They were clean, but sometimes he felt like Lady Macbeth trying to scrub away the guilt that seeped a permanent red into her conscience. He squeezed his fingers into fists, feeling the short nails dig a little into his skin as his wrist muscles flexed. 

The wrists that Bruce had held not long ago, while lying on him with all the weight of the world packed in mostly-sculpted muscle. He flicked his tongue out, tasting his lips; Bruce’s flavor was all gone, and only maple syrup from breakfast remained, but he was sure it happened. There was no mistaking Bruce’s firm grip.

Bruce does, John countered himself, flexing his hands in a squeezing motion again. Bruce doesn’t care what Alfred thinks. I’m his best friend. He loves me.

He woke up alone. He woke up in the guest room Bruce had given him last time. He had to think carefully about where he was and had snatched the phone off the nightstand to prove to himself that it was Saturday.

...he SAYS he loves me. He left me alone. 

But Bruce had kissed him. Been real. John clutched his bandaged forearm, squeezing hard and feeling the fabric beneath his fingertips. He was there, in the elevator, heading towards the Batcave.

But Bruce had also lied to him before. He lied to Alfred very easily. He didn’t want Alfred to know I was with him.

Why would he do that? Why would he hide John away? Why would he not tell his father his boyfriend was there? Only if…

John squeezed his bandaged forearm harder. His gut had told him so the moment Alfred had finished his sentence from behind Bruce’s bedroom door:  Alfred didn’t know about Bruce and John’s relationship.

He’s ashamed of me.

He wanted to talk to someone about it. Badly. So badly it gnawed at his stomach. 

But of course Mickey and Devi were busy, and Dr. Song would practically say she told him it would happen and tell him to go wherever it was St. Dymphna felt would work for the time being, and John would sooner talk to Harley than go through that mess. Tiffany and Iman wouldn’t understand, and he didn’t think their budding friendships were at that level of emotional intimacy.

The elevator gave a little ding, and John felt his head start to clear with the first breath of cave air. Solid mixed metals and rock, live bats, fresh water, Kevlar cleaner - yes, this was all Bruce. Bruce in his truest form. Logical Bruce with his sweet heart that bled underneath the layers of armor he kept to hide and restrain it all.

Bruce loving him was unquestionable. He was an idiot sometimes, hiding things for his mysterious, inane reasons, but Bruce loved him. He had to. So Bruce might be embarrassed or ashamed of him, but…!

He won’t be for long. 

Sure, he could do something outlandish like kidnap Bruce without letting anyone else be wise to it and prove how clever and deserving he was of Bruce’s time and attention and love as he gave him the heavy pet-down they both deserved to indulge in, but it wouldn’t go over so well when John wasn’t officially released into the wild with the sanity stamp on his hand.

Solving at least one of the cases on Bruce’s desk, though? That was sure to earn him points. Hell, Alfred would undoubtedly be impressed, too. 

He had a lot to catch up on. He glanced over at the Batcomputer and thought about everything.

The Wednesday Nighters’ deaths at The Lot club were mysterious, but the gang seemed to have a lead on that, what with the idiot whose card was “stolen”. It wasn’t impressive enough if John puzzled the rest out.

His own attempted murder was intriguing, but there wasn’t much to go on. Unless Tiffany could show him the exact spot she lost the shooter in... If she did lose them and it wasn’t some very elaborate scheme to- 

Don’t go there, John. You know what the doctors all say about your little paranoid thoughts.

And while he could just throw their advice out the window like they seemed to do to him, he knew they were right. Thinking someone he knew (someone he was growing to like, and was sure he could get the feeling in return if he tried, no less) was out to get even with him wasn’t very progressive. Tiffany had trusted him enough to gamble on following a lead. She didn’t toss his phone over the edge of the building when he’d given it to her. She tried to chase the shooter and got her precious drone smashed to bits as a consequence. She didn’t even pull that weirded out face at the breakfast table...well, he was pretty sure she hadn’t, anyway.

The more he thought about it, the Chandis instance seemed to be connected to Cat-Lady, if the video was to be believed, and John had a feeling that it wasn’t a coincidence that both his and her attacker were wearing masks. And Selina’s looked peculiarly like a Batman knockoff.

Yup, first-in, first-out was the way to go, really. He’d just have to figure out where she was staying and then figure out a way to get there. 

It was only two things. He could manage that.

He was going to march over to the giant supercomputer when he caught a flash of movement in his peripheral vision:  Tiffany. 

For the second time, he found himself finding her in an unlikely place when her back was turned.

She’d brought up Miss Kitty-Witty. She would know exactly where she was. And John, having managed to coax her into working with him before, would surely be able to do it again, as long as he could keep his face straight.

Tiffany was in the little rogue gallery, her phone pressed to her ear. She seemed to be wearing her motorcycle gear from last night, sans the helmet; he could see some of the plating looked a lot like that of the Batsuit, but in a matte midnight blue. She was clearly planning on going somewhere...

John snuck closer, walking on the outside of his heels to lessen the noise.

“I told you, Barb’, I’m not with a guy. If I was, I wouldn’t be so tired when I come back home... Of course my Mom knows where I am; even if I wasn’t with her I’d have to text her. I mean, she’s been getting better, but… Yeah, it’s just work stuff.” Tiffany stepped closer to John’s case. What could she want from there?

Or was John just being paranoid and she was actually going for something else, like Harley’s hammer or Frieze’s ice-ray?

“Oh, uhh… I don’t know. It might be a couple of days. At least I paid rent already.” Tiffany was right in front of the old Joker items; his old belt, his grappling gun, and the razor-sharp Jokerrang. She reached up and snatched his grappling gun off the little pegs Bruce used to keep it in place. Her sixth sense was pretty shitty if she didn’t know he was right behind her by now. “Yeah, I’ll text you if anything interesting happens. Really, Barb’, I don’t know what you expect to-”

“Nice, isn’t it?” John asked from behind her.

Tiffany gave a yelp that echoed against the expansive cave walls as she swung the gun behind her in an arc - it would have hit him in the head if he hadn’t leaned back in the nick of time. John stumbled backwards a step, laughing at the wide-eyed shock on her face. He knew it was loud, but it wasn’t as if anyone else was down there to complain, so he didn’t bother muffling it.

John could hear the voice on the phone shouting in alarm. “No, Barbara, I’m okay, it’s just...one of my colleagues scaring me,” she explained, still frowning over at John. “Yeah, I’ll call you back later.” She hung up, stowed the phone in her pocket, and shoved his arm hard. “Don’t DO that! You scared the shit out of me!”

 John bit his lip to try and stop the titters in his throat. “You were on the phone! You wouldn’t have noticed my text!” he explained half-truthfully, “Nice reflexes, by the way. You’ll be like a little Bat in no time! Or would it be a batling...? A Mini-Bat?”

She didn’t seem to find the funny side to that. 

John cleared his throat, unsure of what else to say until he realized he should have apologized by now. “Um, ‘sorry’. That’s what I’m trying to say.” He stood straighter. “So - Bats won’t let you play with his toys?”

“Uh… Not exactly.” Tiffany shifted her weight and tried to cross her arms, only realizing the gun was in the way too late and having to put her hand on her hip instead. “Bruce…suggested I borrow it from you. Since you’re kinda stuck here,” she said with a shrug.

Ah-ha. She was heading out on a little mission - visiting the Cat, perhaps, in Bruce’s place. “Well, the man’s got a point… Kinda wished you asked first, though, Tiff’. It might be in Bruce’s fancy case under his fancier house, but it’s still mine.” She shifted uncomfortably. John supposed he should play nice and not glower. “But I suppose I could let you borrow it -” he rocked back on his heels once, thinking quickly - “if you let me come with you. You’re going to see the Cat, right?”

“You want to…” Her already dark eyes darkened further. “Did Bruce put you up to this?”

What a suspicious-aloysius. Clearly Bruce had her a short leash. “Give me some credit, Tiff’, I have a life outside of following him around. Though it is nice when he gets that cute proud face when I do something right…” It always gave him a nice little rush of mood-enhancing chemicals to his head, seeing that face...but he was getting off-track. And Tiffany was starting to pull her weirded-out face. “But I didn’t even know you were heading there for sure until just now.”

She seemed to be analyzing him. Thinking. Asking herself if he was lying. She could easily just take the thing and run; she might be shorter than him but the suit showed off powerful legs, and who said she couldn’t fight him? Bruce might take John’s side over hers, or he might take neither. Could she trust him? Would she?

“Let’s say I do,” Tiffany said, staring him down, “What are you planning on doing?”

“Outside of asking questions? Ha, I’ll wing it!”

The dark blue woven curls of her hair swung slightly with the tilt of her head. “And what if you do something stupid?”

“Like, accidentally hit myself in the head with the grappling gun stupid? ‘Cause I’ve done that. Really hurts!” She wasn’t finding that funny. Okay. “Ohhh, you mean whoops there’s a knife in Cat-Lady’s liver, how’d that get there stupid!” He laughed at his own joke, hoping she’d turn that serious line into a tiny smile. “I’m not an idiot, Tiff’. I learned my lesson,” he beamed, holding up his scarred hand and wiggling his fingers to draw attention to it, “I won’t be shiving anyone any time soon.” Well… “I mean, unless she tries to kill you,” he added sensibly, “Then it’d be a lot more socially acceptable.”

Tiffany blinked in confusion. “Are you expecting her to try and kill me? I didn’t think she’d be that testy about a couple of questions from a stranger.”

“I just figured that with Riddler being her ‘friend’ and all…” He could see the grim understanding growing behind her eyes. The ‘R’ word seemed to have been the trigger. “I mean, I don’t think she knows it was you, but...if she did? She might try to.”

“I see…” (He could tell she did. Though what hue she was seeing it in wasn’t for him to know.) “How do I know you won’t tell her when my back is turned?”

He supposed he could, if he felt cruel enough. “You haven’t given me a reason to,” he shrugged, “so my lips are sealed!” He made a zipping motion over his mouth as he gave her a wink.

Finally, she was actually smiling. Even a small one was better than nothing. “Alright, you can come. But you do anything stupid and I’ll test my roundhouse kick on you.”

“Hm, mhm mm-?!” He mimed grasping at his throat and unzipping his mouth and gave a dramatic gasp. “Whew, hard to breathe like that!”

Tiffany gave a slight titter as he laughed at his own joke. Hers was just a little ha ha ha - that was as much as he could’ve asked for. “John, you could breathe through your nose.”

“And what, ruin the bit? Not on your life.” John checked a little box off of his mental list of ways to win her over. He was getting there. “So, when are we going?”

She glanced him over very quickly. “Uh, you’re planning on going like that?”

How else would he go? Makeup took too long to apply. He’d stand out no matter what he did, with his complexion. “She already knows what I look like, Tiff’. If I pull out a disguise now that’s just another leg she could get up on me later.”

To his surprise, she reached around the back of his case and pulled a long piece of purple cloth off a large plastic hanger and tossed it his way. “If you fall off the bike without something on your arms they’re gonna get shredded to ribbons. And you’ll be...slightly less conspicuous with that.” 

John held up the fabric, feeling how heavy it was in his hands, and recognized it instantly. The purple leather trenchcoat he’d worn last year. “Ooh!” He gave it a firm shake and slid it on, instantly feeling the weight sink into his shoulders. He could smell something like mild fabric soap, which meant Bruce had kept it fairly clean. That sweetheart. “Oh, I missed this. I’ll never get why that vampire cosplayer just traded it away…” It was a little thick, really designed for the fall more than the summer. The buttons that made up the double-breasted style were dull black, but he could fix that later. “I need to put in some vents,” he mused, following Tiffany down to the parking pad below. He could hear his ankle boots click slightly on the metal steps, reminding him of when he and Bruce had left for their little missions last year. “How many do you have in that suit? It has to get hot in there.”

“Ten. Bruce’s suit has more, you should look at it later.”

He patted his pockets. Pretty flat. “You wouldn’t happen to have any extra gloves, would you?”

“Yeah, but they’re not going to fit you.”

Upon closer inspection, the sleek motorized bicycle was really built more for one than two. The elevated seat on the back had small handles on the sides for the passenger - or easily-strapped bag - to hold onto. “Uh, you know I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle before...”

“It’s okay, I’ve never had a passenger before.” Tiffany tucked the majority of her hair into a tight fitting hood that reminded John of knight’s chainmail. “Just hold onto the handles and lean with the bike if we turn. I need to start it before you get on.”

“What, no holding onto the driver like they do in the movies?”

Tiffany gave him a look. He’d seen it before on Harley when he’d asked what he didn’t realize was an ‘inappropriate’ question - an odd sort of angrily tired, like she’d been asked it too many times before, but had almost gotten used to it. But of what exactly he couldn’t understand; he’d never seen a guy give that expression to help explain it. “You try and I’ll kick you off the bike.”

“Okay, point taken. Handles only.” 

Tiffany was trying to find a spot on the bike for the grappling gun. She had a couple of little side compartments that John figured was for drones or her controlling tablet. There was a D-clip on what must have passed for her utility belt that could probably hold it, but John had deep pockets and freer hands.

“You want me to hold onto that?” He held out his hand, “Even I know you shouldn’t shoot ‘n’ drive!”

She plopped it into his hand, seeming somewhat annoyed she couldn’t find a spot elsewhere. “Only while I’m driving.”

It was nice and cold, and just the right amount of weight for a tool that could zip him almost anywhere. Now all he needed was a Batarang in his pocket... He did have that nice rainbow-hued knife Devi had given him; he supposed that was close enough, so he slid it from his pants pocket to his coat and heard a little clink.

It had hit a plastic tube that read Number 45, Wine under a torn brand name label. “Ha! I knew I left the spare somewhere.” 

Tiffany was digging around in the little trunk hidden under the backseat. John shuffled to kneel in front of the little side mirror by the controls. 

He hadn’t worn makeup since last year, either. It was one of those socially-unconventional things that made people everywhere look at him uncomfortably - and as much as he liked attention and making people question their own ideas of what was ‘fashionable’ and ‘normal’, he did kind of prefer finishing his recovery in peace. Being lynched in a mental ward with shitty excuses for protection wasn’t his idea of a good time, let alone worth ruining his record of good behavior. 

John rolled the lipstick on; it was a color bordering on the fine line between dark purple and red. The kind of color he wanted to smear over Bruce’s collar. Color over the inevitable purplish bruises and lines of faded scars. Mix with fresh cuts until the reds were indistinguishable and staining white sheets as they tumbled together, blurring the lines of taboo and illicit...

“Here,” Tiffany yanked John out of his thoughts by handing him an open-faced helmet. It reminded him of more of an old-fashioned army helmet than anything. She blinked, slightly surprised by the slight change in appearance. “Uh, there’s no visor, but I did find a bandana for you.”

Heavy white cotton. It could use a good coat of paint… “...are we ganging up on a piñata?”

“What?” Tiffany scoffed, the corner of her mouth upturned just a little, “John, you use it to cover your mouth. Unless you want to swallow a boatload of mosquitos,” she pointed out with a smirk.

“Point taken,” he grumbled, tying it around his neck.

Tiffany slid on her helmet and started the bike with a rumble of the engine while John was still working the helmet’s strap. He’d only just settled on the back of the bike and Tiffany took off like a shot, causing him to grin anew and clutch the handles like he was riding the old haunted house ride back in the abandoned amusement park, grinning anew.

Clearly, Tiffany and Bruce had something else in common.

*~*~*~*~*

To put it mildly, the Motel 11 on Augury Road was the sort of place that seemed to have a pest problem.

John just didn’t know what kind of pest. Arkham always seemed to have rats until his last two years. The run-down halfway house he’d been in the first time he was released had roaches in three sizes. The Old Five Points station John had kicked around for a few months had a bit of both, plus mice, spiders, and The Pact, depending on where you walked.

This place was still a step above all that, of course; it offered freedom, secrecy, hot water, and quiet.

Not too quiet. People clearly stayed there, and the freeway entrance wasn’t too far; John could hear the rush of cars speeding like they were all Batman on a Friday night call.

Tiffany parked her bike in a discreet out-of-the-way corner in a nearby alleyway and stashed their helmets in the tiny trunk as John took in the sight of the motel’s parking lot. 

Selina Kyle had reversed into her parking place so the traffic cameras couldn’t read the plate. There were no markings as to what model car it was, but the sleek dark windows and shiny black finish told John that it was expensive-ish and thus primed for stealing. Or stripping, depending on the area’s hoodlums. He was surprised it hadn’t been touched yet.

“How do you know which room’s hers?” John asked as Tiffany fiddled with her tablet. One of her miniature drones - he was so tempted to name it! - was already zooming towards the building like a little bird.

“Electronic record says someone named ‘Frieda Baast’ checked into room 14[B1]   late last night. Preeetty sure that’s her,” she smirked up at him briefly before watching her screen again, tilting it to fly the small drone, “Plus, she parked close to it.”

John hovered over her shoulder a little, watching the camera zoom around the place like a bee. It looked empty at first, but John saw lumps at the end of the bedspread. “Looks like she’s taking a cat nap.”

Tiffany gave him a look. “Ha ha.”

“What? It’s an easy jab!”

“Speaking of easy,” Tiffany snatched the grappling gun out of his pocket and clipped it to her belt, not bothering to even say ‘excuse me’, “she’s only got two exits.”

“Yeah, the front door and the back window. Duh.”

“Exactly,” she continued with an air of a new orderly, “You go around the back in case she tries to run for it.”

John felt offended at the very idea. There was no way he was going to fit through that back window. Tiffany was clearly going to try and hog the glory of confronting Cat Woman by herself.

Telling Tiffany they should switch places wasn’t a good idea, though. She’d take immediate offense, and even if he threatened her, they’d be fighting before they got to the real problem at hand. No, this would take compromise.

“How about we both go in the front door and use your little kit to guard the back?”

She wrinkled her nose and raised her right eyebrow. “Kit?”

“Yeah!” She didn’t get it. Of course. He rolled his eyes; he didn’t like explaining jokes. “Your last name is Fox, you built the drones - so, your kit. A baby fox!”

She didn’t look impressed. “Oh.”

“Doesn’t it have a laser or miniature flamethrower or something on it? It’s got that little tube under the lens.”

“No, Charlie is only a surveillance drone. That piece is so he can connect with Foxtrot in the field. We don’t need that, though,” she waved off as if his curiosity didn’t matter, “You’ve got a good point, we can both cover the main exit better. And she doesn’t know it’s only for surveillance.”

“Charlie? Ha, what happened to Alpha and Bravo?” he joked. “Wait, does Charlie surf?”

“Alpha was the prototype I made for Br- Batman until it…exploded,” she winced, looking away as if she didn’t want to think about it, “Bravo is what he uses in the field now. I’ve got Charlie, and Delta is the backup in the bike. Batman has the larger drones stashed around the city. And they’re all waterproof, but I wouldn’t say they surf.” Tiffany slid on a large pair of rimless yellow-tinted goggles that looked almost like they were taken from a movie. A small green square lit up in the corner of a lens, and John saw small text crawl across the yellow glass as what looked like a diagram flashed up for a moment.

“Woah.”

“Cool, huh?” Tiffany puffed up in pride. “I’m a few steps ahead of the industry. No big deal.”

“I’d say it’s a pretty big deal!” John flattered, actually meaning it. “You got any other surprise gadgets up your sleeves?”

“What, and ruin the fun?” She lightly smacked his shoulder. Friendly, not bruising, accompanied by a warm smile that reached her eyes - John had scored some points. Clearly, the old adage about catching flies with honey was onto something. “Come on, Selina isn’t going to lay around and wait all day.”

“She will if she’s been in the catnip,” John joked, striding next to Tiffany as they snuck their way around to number 14.

Tiffany could now see the camera feed in her right eye; a little controller in her own wrist gauntlet controlled the drone movements once the tablet was put away on her belt. It was incredibly impressive, but John wondered if it wasn’t a little distracting to be watching a camera and where she was walking. It would be worse if she were fighting or taken by surprise…

John decided to stay on the camera’s side. There was no helping her if she couldn’t see from both sides.

It was tempting to burst in unannounced, but Catwoman wasn’t just using her name for a cute pun on her burglary tendencies – he’d seen her dance with Bruce as nimbly as her namesake. So of course if they couldn’t break in to get the door open, they’d just have to get her to come out.

The easiest way was her car. Anyone who gave a rat’s ass about the safety of their primary method of escape checked on their car alarm.

John remembered Batman’s stunners, and how Bruce had started carrying around one in his pocket since ol’ Scarecrow got put away. He knew they packed a serious punch; he’d been hit with one of those, back when…

No. No no no. Not going there today, Johnny-boy.

John shook his head, telling himself he’d have his little traumatic flashback at a different time. It didn’t quite help, only bringing back that after-zap feeling and the image of Ace Chemicals’ control room, which frustrated him, and that made him gnaw on his bottom lip for something to do and squeeze the knife in his pocket really hard.

“Uh...you okay?” Tiffany asked, stopping him without touching him. He almost wished she did, so he knew for sure she was there.

“Ha ha ha! No!” he answered, feeling more annoyed at everything, “Of course not! Why do you think I was in the funny farm for so long, hmmm?”

It was the wrong thing to say. He knew it was. But he was pissed at himself, at his stupid brain for acting up at the wrong time, for not being able to make that memory better than it was because Bruce probably wouldn’t go for a little safe recreation and they kept getting interrupted, damn it, could things not go his way for fifteen full minutes?!

He grit his teeth. There was no use staying angry for things neither of them could control. “Sorry,” he ground out. “I’m just…” He couldn’t explain it. She wouldn’t get it.

Or would she? Surely she had nasty little memories of where she was last year, too. He knew he caused one of those. His doctors always said he should open up to others. Share the experience.

“It’s just one of those stupid thoughts. The ‘hey, guess what you did a long time ago, boy-o? Let’s relive that,’ kind. It’s not fun.” He breathed in. He was outside, in Gotham, with all its car exhaust and leftover hot dogs covering the rot that seemed to make up the city’s foundation. It was better than Ace or his old cages; at least he could clean out some of the mess by himself. “They just come in at random, sometimes. I’ll be...” 

Not fine. It was what Bruce said all the time. And not ‘normal’, because he never would be. 

“I’ll be okay.”

Tiffany looked sympathetic. Or was it empathetic? Both? She looked at him less judgy and more understanding, and that was all he wanted. “You need a minute?”

“Nah. I was just thinking we need to set off the car alarm and kinda wanted a taser to do it.”

“Oh. We don’t need that.” Tiffany waved over her shoulder for him to follow as she took position by the door, the material of her hood now covering her mouth and nose. John slinked under the window and stood on the other side.

John watched as - quick as he could say ‘Rawhide’ - Tiffany took his grappling gun and fired at one of the headlights before retracting the clattering metal teeth with a snap of a button and clipping it to her belt by its’ jaws.

Like back in his room, half hidden in the dark, John was counting beats. Feeling his heart drum along a little, excitement building in anticipation.

The door opened partway, and Tiffany met his eyes for the briefest second before they spun on their heels to block the doorway and push forward.

“Selina, how are you, can we come in, thanks!” John rushed, pushing the door wide open.

Catwoman was just as fast and nimble as he remembered; it made him wish he’d brought some of his old playing cards along. She rushed straight to the bathroom window and unbolted it as fast as lightning - only to find the drone flying there, the lens right at eye level with a little red LED blinking to life.

Tiffany had her hand poised over the little controls at her wrist. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” she taunted, “Unless you want impromptu laser eye surgery.”

Selina turned to face them partway, looking more pissed off than he’d ever seen her. She had cut her hair short and dressed in tight fitting black and white; John could see something slightly protruding above her lower back, which likely meant a knife. She was dressed for combative self-defense, some instructor might say. But like everyone else, she had bags under her eyes - and they weren’t leftovers of eyeliner. In fact, there wasn’t a trace of her usual style. There was only a glowering resentment and an obvious pressure bearing down on her shoulders. He could see the tension in her brow and jaw and wondered what it was that made her hate them that much.

“Fine, you got me.” Selina stared him down; he could practically see possible escape plans swirling behind her eyes. “What do you want?” 

John could not resist a joke with an opener like that. “Oh, you know - freedom, a little niche of my own, a sunset dinner with Bruce overlooking the city...and my own cotton candy machine,” John answered, enjoying the confusion twisting her face into something less threatening, “But I’d really like some answers.”

“I see.” Selina shot a glance over to Tiffany, not seeming to recognize her. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” she said sarcastically, giving her a short once-over. “You must be Bats’ side-kick. Or have you gotten yourself mixed up in this crazy clown’s delusions?”

John could practically feel his dislike for her grow, simmering in the front of his head. What did she know about him? Or even the basic definition of a delusion, for that matter?

Tiffany seemed to have bristled a little less. “It doesn’t matter who I work with. If I don’t hear what I need to know, making your little hideout a beacon for trouble will be the least of your worries.”

“What, don’t you have a cute name to go along with the rest of the crew?” Selina taunted, not looking like she was enjoying it.

John held his gaze steady on the stealthy Cat, though his mind was already wandering to what Tiffany’s reaction would be. She supposedly wasn’t in the cave half the time anymore, and with the obvious costume change she’d likely not be calling herself ‘Oracle’ now. What would it be? Spoiler, as a homage to her original purpose of spoiling criminal’s fun? Batgirl, in mimic of her mentor? Something to allude to her range of skills, perhaps…Spectrum[B2] ? Or some word beginning with ‘T’?

“Robin. Now step away from the window,” Tiffany commanded, side-stepping close to the drone as Selina moved closer to the edge of the bathtub. 

“Hm, cute. Hope that’s not your real name, Robin.”

Selina looked very much like a cat itching to stretch its claws by the birdfeeder. It made John antsier, and he had half a mind to shove her into the bathtub and hold her there until he got the answers to the questions sitting in his gut.

Calm down, Bruce’s voice echoed in his head from a distant memory.

Sweet, rational Bruce would be right. She might kick him away, and a fight wouldn’t give him anything they actually needed. His impulses had to be tempered. And what did those doctors always say to do about it?

John whipped out the butterfly knife and began to fiddle with it, opening it and twirling it in his hand in a familiar pattern. He couldn’t quite remember just when or how he had gotten so good at it since his first release. It was sort of...natural.

He already felt the little urge ebbing away with the repetitive motion. It helped that it doubled as a passive threat - Selina eyed it a little upon seeing the flash of light glint off the blade with every turn and snap.

Selina sighed, glowering lightly at him like she was a cat stuck in a bathroom during dinner. “Let me save you the time - you’re here to ask about the attack on me in Bludhaven, right? All because I wouldn’t give up the dirty details to Bruce?” She folded her arms across her chest, looking almost business like. “The short version is:  I don’t know who they were. One minute I’m strolling down my gallery, and the next the lights cut out and some knife-happy freak crashes through my window. The only thing I can tell you about him was that he was wearing a mask.”

“How do you know it was a ‘he’?” John asked.

Selina rolled her eyes. “Please. I’ve seen enough men in costumes to know one when I see one. Tall, wide build, in a mask and ridiculous cape - only a man would wear that and think they look cool.”

John thought that remark was annoyingly unnecessary. And wrong - a third of Gotham could all agree that Batman’s picture should be next to the word ‘cool’ in the dictionary. (She was clearly jealous. Who wouldn’t be?)

“Casual sexism aside,” Tiffany grunted, “did you notice anything else? Any distinctive markings? Smells?”

“I just said he wore a mask. You think a guy like that wouldn’t cover himself up elsewhere?” Selina shot back, clearly not impressed, “I would’ve thought the sidekick to Bats would know to pay attention to context clues.”

John thought about throwing the knife at her, but it was a bad idea. For several reasons. “And I would’ve thought you were smart enough to not make deals under the table anymore, now that you’re free from the pound,” he sneered, clicking the knife open and shut, “What did Roman Sionis cut you in for?”

Selina glared, her stony green eyes hardening at him. “My deal with Roman was above the table, like all my sales. I don’t see how him buying something from my gallery has anything to do with this. Just because he’s loaded doesn’t mean he’s another crazed mob boss who needs to cut ties with everyone he meets.”

So Alfred was right - Roman bought something from the gallery. John made a mental note to mention that later in the most flattering way possible later.

“Did you see him after that?” Tiffany asked.

“Why would I?” Selina asked coolly.

“Handsome, rich, easy to rob…” Tiffany trailed off, seeming to smirk at her, “We all know he’s the kind that splashes champagne on pretty girls.”

“He does seem right up your alley, Cat,” John added.

Selina looked mildly disgusted at the mild pun. Or maybe the implication. John wasn’t sure which. “Look, we had a drink together after the payment transferred. I didn’t see him after that and I didn’t care. Why does this matter?”

…so she really didn’t know. That was interesting. John had figured she had a bit more of a detective instinct than that. “Because, surprise! He is a mob boss,” John said smugly, “One in a mask, no less.”

“I still don’t see how that matters. I don’t care who my clients are, as long as I get paid. And he has no reason to try and kill me, if that’s what you’re implying – the pieces I sold him were authentic. We parted on perfectly friendly terms.”

“Pieces?” Tiffany puzzled, “What, did he buy half your gallery for his yacht?”

(John quietly wondered if she wasn’t reading his mind somehow.)

“Don’t be silly,” Selina said tiredly, “It was a set of masks. And no, they weren’t anything like what the guy from the gallery was wearing.”

Tiffany stared her down, looking cockier than usual behind her glasses. “So if you left Bludhaven to run for your life and got a nice cash deposit, what the hell are you doing here?”

“We can’t all afford to stay at the Hilton for a week,” Selina dead-panned, shifting to add another mildly scathing remark.

But now who was missing context? And with all the obvious bitterness and tension oozing out of every pore, there was a clear answer hanging in the air. One he definitely preferred over the paranoid idea that she was here for Bruce. “I knew it,” John grinned, snapping the knife in his hand open, “You’re here on a job!” he pointed at her with the tip of the knife, not missing the flash down at it. Thinking of whether he would or wouldn’t use it. “What’s wrong, Kitty, get bored of hanging paintings you hadn’t stolen? Wanted that thrill back?”

“Don’t act like you know me,” she sneered in a slightly louder voice than she needed to use, “you’ll only embarrass yourself with your paranoid delusions of what I am.”

She was baiting for a fight. Maybe she wanted to watch him crack in front of Tiffany. Well, weird people said there was more than one way to skin a cat. “Ooh, throwing around psych terms! If you want to play psychiatrist, you better bring better material than that. Like… I would be willing to bet,” he emphasized with a little faux jab and a step towards her, “that you were actually happy down there, weren’t you? Settling nicely in a weird new life you’re not used to,” step, “when it’s allll upturned by some lunatic,” step, “and you’re forced to run back to the only life you knew before.”

He could tell he was right. Very right. She looked like he’d pinned her to the dissection tray in a lab.

“So you come back home!” He splayed his hands open, feeling more and more assured of himself, “And you need to prove to the world you can still land on your feet, so you pick right up where you left off. Am I right?”

“I don’t need to prove anything to anyone,” Selina growled, looking predictably pissed off, “And what I do in Gotham is my business.”

“It’s not just your business,” Tiffany injected, stepping closer to both of them. John wished he could communicate to her that it was a bad idea without having to threaten her; he just hoped Catwoman wouldn’t get as skittish as her namesake when cornered. “This isn’t just your city. It’s all of ours.”

“Who are you doing business with, Cat?” John asked, choosing to ignore Tiffany’s attempt to get Selina Kyle to play hero. If he was going that route he might as well have mentioned how they were in the same sort of boat! Either way it wasn’t going to appeal to her the way it might with someone else. “How do you know they weren’t the ones who tried to kill you?”

She was skirting her gaze between both of them. Annoyed. Wary. Backing up just a slight bit, metaphorically and literally.

“If they wanted to kill me, they would’ve done it already.”

“Unless they realized they could use you.”

She was thinking about it, staring him down, wondering if he was right, if what she thought was an obsessive lunatic might have had a very good point… She hadn’t considered it before, had she? She had met them already. Why wouldn’t they kill her on sight if not to use her for a day or two?

“Just something to think about!” John smirked, smacking her lightly on the shoulder with his free hand and turning to leave, trying to guide Tiffany to the door by her shoulder. “Come on, Robin. Cat Lady’s not in the mood to play with us.”

Tiffany didn’t budge. She had the same sort of stalwart glare that Batman got. “You know we’re only trying to help you.”

Wrong thing to say. Really wrong thing to say.

“Help me?” Selina hissed, “You barge in and poke your nose where it doesn’t belong, and you call that helping?”

“Robin,” John warned-

“God, you’re just like him! Just as stubborn and deluded with his self-righteous concept of justice. I don’t need help! Not from Bats,” the woman spat, “and not from you! If someone’s after me, I’ll-”

“You’ll what?” John interrupted, finding the ‘if’ particularly amusing, “You’ll pull a Riddler? Put yourself on display to lure them in and go for the kill?” It felt really good to rub it in her face. Almost soothing, in its own way. He couldn’t help but grin wider through his mildly-reddening vision and twist the metaphorical knife a little more. “You know what happened to him,” he purred, pointing the knife in his hand a little at her face, “Let’s not pretend it can’t happen to you.”

He felt a weight on his shoulder. Tiffany’s lightweight armored glove was attempting to pull him back, like she thought he might actually stab Selina in the face to prove a point. He went back to spinning the knife in his hand and stepped away. “Good luck out there, Cat-Lady,” he added, pulling Tiffany’s shoulder along with him in a loose, sidelong sort of hug as the drone hovered behind them like it was on a leash, its harmless lens trained on the angry thief at their backs. “You’ll need more than he did.”

Tiffany was stiff. Or maybe that was just the armor. It was hard to tell… He decided to let go as soon they were out of sight; she didn’t seem to be at the ‘hugging’ level of friendship yet, even if it was only a little one that barely counted. It would probably take longer to get there now. Which was a shame, because he felt like they could both use one.

He did want to break the silence, though. Something about the walk back to a getaway vehicle always seemed out of place, like an overly-long transition between scenes in a movie. But things were real, out in Gotham - he could feel the short heels of his boots as he walked and the city heat pressing against him. He clicked the knife shut and put it back in his pocket, not needing it anymore. “Good job back there,” he said earnestly, flashing a thumb’s up at her, “We can officially cross Black Mask off our list of suspects!”

Even with the mask and high-tech glasses covering her face, Tiffany was clearly angry with him. “So it’s our list now? Because I thought you did an awful lot of talking back there. Almost like I wasn’t there.”

“Oh.” He felt dumb just saying it aloud, but it was a reflex. “Um… I guess I got a little carried away?”

“A little? I was trying to get her to work with us, not plant suicidal ideas in her head!”

“I wasn’t doing that!” He protested, hoping he looked as honest as he felt. (Besides, even if he was, it wouldn’t be his fault if she did go down the Riddler-esque path of showboating and winding up dead.)

“What, next you’ll tell me you weren’t openly threatening her, too?” Tiffany rounded on him, looking more furious as she stopped at the end of the row of rooms.

“I wasn’t!” He clicked his heel hard on the pavement. “I was stimming! She just happened to be close to the other end when I was trying to make a point!” She didn’t seem to believe that, but he didn’t care; he knew it was the truth. “Did you want me to just walk away and let her yell at you for nothing all day?!”

“Yeah! I might have gotten a word in that way!”

“And what, convince her to have a sudden change of heart?” He scowled, getting agitated by the very idea she’d do a sudden one-eighty, “She won’t be a hero if you tell her she should!”

“I wasn’t trying to force her,” she countered, “I was suggesting! Unlike you, trying to play psychiatrist just because she pissed you off!”

“Oh, and I guess you wouldn’t get pissed off if someone tried to tell you what your issues are?!”

“You only made her madder!”

“YOU only made her madder! You don’t just offer her help!”

Tiffany was practically stomping towards the motorcycle in the distance as she threw up her hands in exhaustion. “There is just no dealing with you! I don’t know why I went along with this!”

That hurt. The kind that left a burn-like sting over a punch. They were teammates. Or at least they were supposed to be. Was it just guilt or pity that was holding their shreds of civility together? Was trying to get along with her the first step towards failure?

...or was it her fault? She couldn’t see the obvious nature of Selina Kyle - too independent and fickle to follow life-path suggestions, let alone accept help. Or maybe Tiffany did see it, and she thought Selina was still a better match for the crew - for Bruce - than he was. Maybe, like Alfred, Tiffany thought he was too unstable and dangerous to be around.

He stood in the corner of the alleyway, watching her angrily push on her helmet, and wondered at the intricate nuances of who exactly was to blame. He looked out at the city on the opposite end, wondering if he should just get a Ryde or risk using the Sky Rail...and thought it was odd a large white van was going that fast in his direction from the turn.

Ha, they’d have to stomp on the brakes to get into the parking space here...

It was getting a little too close…

WAY too close!

John darted into the alley, his heart jumping as he heard a sickening crunch behind him.

The van had smashed right into the corner of the building. Right where he had been just a moment ago.

It didn’t matter how curious he was about the driver. He didn’t want to hang around in case they had backup.

“Start the bike!” He shouted at Tiffany as she stood there, looking at the accident behind him. “NOW!”

“But-”

There came another crunch. Like metal pulling away.

The car was reversing, clearly not taking enough damage to stop the engine. It was impossible to see who was driving.

Tiffany revved the bike to life as John slammed the trunk and clumsily straddled the back seat. He’d barely sat down when the van had successfully pulled away from the building and turned its wheels towards the alleyway.

Tiffany had clearly seen this in the rearview mirror - she sped off, past the dumpster and down one of the many long back-routes of Gotham as wind whipped John’s hair. He gripped one handle hard as he pulled the bandana over his face and practically prayed that Tiffany did not decide to suddenly lose control.

The driver of the van didn’t seem to care how fast they were going, what route they were taking, or if half their front bumper was dislodged. They sped past the same brick and concrete and fire escapes and a rainbow of graffiti like it was nothing.

Tiffany tilted the bike to turn onto the street, narrowly missing a peeling station-wagon that sat too close to the alley.

John turned to see if the van was still there, wondering if maybe he could get a glimpse of the driver as they turned - the station-wagon was upended with a loud pop of fiberglass, swiveling into the road as the van barreled into traffic with a sharp turn, leaving a chorus of honking and squealing tires to follow.

John’s heart was practically drumming against his ribs like a fist, barely heard over the roar of the motorcycle but felt all too much - the van had a web of cracks in its windshield and more severe dents in its engine and driver side, but it still managed to follow them, dropping the headlight dangling from its front into the street for some other driver to run over.

Tiffany dodged between cars, seeming to ignore the beeps and rude gestures. John turned forward to see where they were, trying to think quickly on where they could go where their chaser wouldn’t follow, and heard more telltale sounds of the van in pursuit following Tiffany’s lead.

He was horribly reminded of his chase with the G.C.P.D. last year, when he had Waller thrown in the nearest vehicle as they’d ignored almost every traffic law on the way to Ace Chemicals, winding every which way to lose the cops on their tail.

He’d already killed people that way.

He didn’t want to be responsible for more off-screen deaths. 

The van was close behind, if the rearview mirror was anything to go by. Like it was tracking their every move and just waiting to splat them against a...

Oh. Now there was an idea. The van couldn’t squish them if they did the squishing first!

“ROBIN!” He shouted over the wind, tapping her on the shoulder.

She shoved her visor up. “WHAT?”

“TURN HERE!”

Tiffany made a right turn down the emptier street, passing an abandoned storefront, and John saw his chance - there was streetlamp in the middle of the sidewalk in the distance, right next to an alley.

The van could turn, but he knew it wouldn’t be able to turn too sharply without clipping the corner.

John did what he wasn’t supposed to do and quickly wrapped an arm around the armor plates of Robin’s waist as he unclipped the grappling gun still dangling from her belt. 

“WHAT ARE YOU-?”

Timing and aim - a formula too tricky and complex to actually think through. It was all about gut feeling and best judgement.

So John pointed, waited until the mirror showed the van right at their tail, and fired the hook at the lamppost.

Aaand retract!

They were pulled towards the post sharply, and John pushed the little button on the gun to unclench its jaws as the motorcycle tilted into a turn.

The crash of the van hitting the corner’s wall rang in John’s ears like a small explosion, getting quieter as Tiffany screeched the bike to a halt.

John let go and sat back in the seat, unable to stop himself from laughing in relief, letting out the strained ache in his lungs, and then laughing harder at sight of the van. The very smashed front, the now ruined windshield, the bent tire - they were going to have a hard time chasing them now!

Tiffany pushed down the parking lever in two seconds and hopped off, looking an odd mix of pissed off and amazed as she yanked her mask down to her neck and pulled off her helmet. “You…! You fucking idiot! That was brilliant! And stupid!” She shouted with a shove, causing him to teeter a little on the seat.

“Aha ha…! Sorry, sorry,” he tried, holding up his hands in surrender, “I had to do something to get that creep off our backs! And you nailed the landing! Ten outta ten!”

She looked conflicted. Like she was proud of herself but didn’t want to admit it. “Yeah,” she said simply, “but we could have died!”

Yeesh, did she sound like Bruce. “We could have, but we didn’t,” he emphasized, sliding off the bike with ease. “Besides, life’s not worth living without some risk!”

“Just...fucking warn me next time,” she said loudly, power-walking towards the van. “You’re lucky I’m an excellent driver!”

John decided to keep the thought of there wasn’t any time to himself. She sort of had a point - Gotham was full of alleyways. A few more people might have gotten into accidents along the way, but he could have waited...though he did sort of prefer stopping the van now rather than later, so he still felt his decision was the best. Still, another instance of someone telling him something uncannily familiar to what another person said…

Ah, who was he to dwell on little things like that?

“I thought I was stupidly brilliant?” He teased, following her with a twirl of the grappling gun in his hand.

“You’re a lot of things,” she shot back, not sounding as nearly as mad.

He wasn’t sure how to take the odd mix of implied-insult and praise. He decided to focus more on the positive aspect of her actually saying something nice and marked it as a personal progress.

Tiffany pulled out one of Batman’s portable stunners and kept it ready, poised to throw open the passenger side door of the van - John kept the gun pointed at what should be level with the driver’s face. “Ready when you are, Robin.”

Tiffany counted down from three on her fingers, and opened the cabin door with what looked like enough force to rip it off the hinges.

Broken glass and plastic littered the very…empty seats.

“Well, that’s anticlimactic,” John grumbled, lowering the grappling gun, “Self-driving cars sure have come a long way!” He pulled out his phone to take a quick picture:  proof that it happened, of course, but also proof for Bruce.

Tiffany was already climbing into the seat. “It was driving pretty erratically,” she commented as she poked around the ignition.

“Oh, sure, it clipped some corners and sped up a lot – but I’d say that was more reckless than erratic.”

“It wasn’t quite driving straight.” Tiffany pulled up a normal two-pound weight from the gas pedal, tugging some wire tracing from it to the back area, which was also empty. “And it’s easy to see why. Check this out,” she gestured, waving her hand in.

John hoisted himself up and in, keeping his hands to himself in the likely case it was dusted over later. “Shouldn’t we be worrying about the eventual crowd?”

“We’ve got a minute. Look,” she tugged the line, connected to a pulley system controlled by what looked suspiciously like a standing kitchen mixer, “The mixers are rigged to pull the weights on the brake and gas pedals. They probably have remote capability.”

“You’d think that would be a reeeeally short radius...”

“That’s what the cell phone’s for,” Tiffany said, gesturing to the out-of-date smartphone sticking upright in the dashboard. “They must have used it as a dash-cam, and connected it to the mixers to control through an app at the same time. There’s actually a free one for remote device control.”

“I somehow didn’t pitch you for the kitchen-gadget type.”

Tiffany shrugged, seeming slightly downcast at that. “I’m not. I bought my mom one of these for her birthday. This one’s a little different, but it probably has the same sort of rig.”

“So whoever we’re dealing with doesn’t have the handy funds for an actual radio transmitter setup to drive this thing, huh...” John pondered, pulling away the bandana on his neck to pick up the phone up.

The phone’s battery was getting low and the signal was on the edge of reception, but a remote-wipe app was up and struggling to work; John quickly canceled the wipe action and turned the tower radio off before the mystery-driver could do any further damage.

Beep. 

A beeping noise?

Beep.

That couldn’t be good.

“What’s that?” Tiffany pulled away from the backseat. Whatever was beeping came from the back, and John had a sneaking suspicion it was positioned close to the gas tank.

John pocketed the phone. “Time to go!” He snatched Tiffany’s arm and half dragged her out of the van, thinking wildly – if it were him, he would have rigged the whole thing to blast the car sky-high, and running was likely not going to cut it.

Thankfully, like alleyways, Gotham had a lot of fire escapes.

He didn’t think, only counted off the beeps that seemed to coordinate with his heart – six, seven – as he aimed, fired, and zipped up the line with Tiffany being held against her will in one arm.

Nine, ten –

A blast of superheated air hit his back as they reached the top of the metal staircase, accompanied by the roar of exploding gasoline and metal bending against its will.

John grimaced as he smacked his shin right against the metal grating as he wedged his heels in the little bars. “That’s gonna leave a mark,” he growled, casting a look down at the now-definitely-ruined car. “But it looks like our geese live to see another day!” he joked, trying to lighten up the mood for both of them.

Tiffany was just silently looking down at the wreckage below and clinging to him like she thought he might drop her.

“You okay, there, birdie?”

“Yeah,” she said, the ‘oh God, that could have been me’ written clearly on her face.

“‘Cause you’re not as heavy as Bruce in full gear, but your pal Joker can only hang around with you for so long.”

She shot him a look he couldn’t decipher and silently climbed up and over the railing.

“You sure you’re okay?” He asked again as he followed her, pulling out his phone for another snap of the now-burning van below. “You kiiinda seem like you’re in shock.”

“Yeah, I just…” She pushed her goggles on top of her head to look at him, a little wary and unbelieving, but guilty more than anything. “I’m sorry I called you stupid. I didn’t mean it.” She crossed her arms, looking down at her bike below. “You saved us twice today.”

Part of him wanted to just say it was okay, and another wanted to rub it in her face, but he pushed both ideas away. “You’re welcome! But friends don’t wait until after they’re saved to apologize for being rude,” he emphasized with a light glare. “Still, I’d say this calls for a group pic! Just for my album, of course.” 

“...you’re not gonna let me go without one, are you?” Tiffany mused.

“How can I, it’s our first proper team-up!” He gently put his arm around her shoulder to draw her in. “Ooh, put your goggles on! Then we’ll be Joker and Robin.” He made sure to get both of them at a good angle, with Tiffany’s little smile and yellow goggles making her look like she was defining ‘cool’ in her own way. Snap! 

It was a really good one. There wasn’t a trace of awkwardness on her face this time, and the angle was perfectly flattering for both of them. 

“Okay, we should go before the fuzz shows up.” She pushed her goggles back up into her hair and led the way down the stairs, charging down with hard stomps. “You grabbed the phone from the car, right?”

“Yup! I stopped it from doing a little wipe. It was probably tracking us, too.” He followed closely, seeing the plates of her armor shift a little with movement. It really was like a slimmer version of Batman’s suit. “So why ‘Robin’? I kind of expected something a little more…”

“Batty?” Tiffany kicked the ladder down and started to climb back to the safety of hard pavement. “I always liked robins,” she said simply, “My suit’s wings aren’t suited to be bats’, anyway.”

It was a short fall, but worth every second of the wheee he didn’t even try to hold in as he slid down the ladder after her. He plopped the phone into her hand upon landing, not caring about the bemused look she was throwing him. “Here, you’ll probably find more than I could.”

Tiffany poked around on it, swiping with her gloves’ little pads as she walked towards the bike. “Looks like the wipe started with downloads and unused applications.” Swipe, swipe, tap. “Two different apps were used for the mixers… Bluetooth’s enabled, too... Doesn’t look like any navigation software was installed,” she muttered, “They might have a remote tracker elsewhere. But just what are they tracing?”

He was surprised the answer wasn’t so obvious to her. “Uh, pretty sure it’s me, Tiff’. I mean, the car did swerve towards me back at the motel. If it was you they were after, they would’ve veered towards the bike.”

“But the Batcave has a sensor to detect tracking devices upon arrival. Both the entrance and the elevator would’ve set it off if it was stuck to you...”

“I doubt they could’ve just seen me,” John panned, already emptying his pockets, “I might have changed my clothes, but I have to be carrying something…”

She frowned. “You don’t think it’s someone from St. Dymphna, do you? They gave you a phone, right?”

“I doubt it. It’s too basic! And look, it’s barely got a signal,” he held it out for her to see. “Besides, if someone working at St. Dymphna wanted to kill me, all they’d have to do is give me an overdose and claim it was an accident.”

There was his own cell phone, of course, but it was the least likely thing of all. No one but he, Bruce, and his friends knew of its existence, and he kept it close at all times. Remote access was turned off, as was a lot of casual security violations the phone’s software wanted to enable by default. It was possible that someone could use the Batcomputer to look at it, though… He wouldn’t put it past Bruce to leave an emergency loophole.

Just as he was about to put that one away, too, a text came in from Iman:  

Where are you?

There was the nagging thought that maybe it was one of their little makeshift crew. Especially former-Agent Iman, who could easily plant something on him without suspicion. 

But he trusted Bruce with his life. He should extend that same trust to those who Bruce trusted...right?

Right. It was just the paranoia talking.

Out with Tiffy for a joyride! he answered. Don’t tell Bruce though, I’m hoping to surprise him with what we’ve found.

Are you visiting Selina with her?

Of course he was, where else would he be? Hey, don’t ruin the surprise! ;)

John, PLEASE be careful. Both you and Selina have been targeted recently. Your attempted murderer/s are probably still be hunting you.

It’s safer for you to be in the Manor. 

You know Bruce would say the same.

A little too late for that, he thought privately. Not like he hadn’t thought someone would try it again eventually… 

 Iman sure had good timing with her commentary… She had access to the Batcomputer. In fact, she had access to just about everything. She could have known all along where Selina was hiding out and planted the van near there and just waited until-! 

“Robin,” he started, remembering what Dr. Leland had said about proving to himself that irrational ideas like that were wrong, “You trust Iman, right?”

“Of course I do,” she said confidently. “Why?”

See, John? It’s fine, he told himself. “Just wondering.”

There was no use worrying Iman needlessly by spilling the whole can of beans. We’ll be back soon! Promise!! he wrote, making sure not to scrape the screen against the knife he’d gotten from Devi as he slid it back into his pocket.

Speaking of Devi, he’d been carrying around that knife since last night...but the metal handle would probably interfere with a radio signal. And he doubted she would have planned out the shooting to deliberately put herself in harm’s way. She was smart enough to keep herself out of the way for something like that.

The only other thing he had was his rainbow-splattered wallet. There was the hotel key Mickey had given him last night, which he’d stuck opposite the official state ID grinning up at him from the little clear pocket. But the keycard was pure plastic with a little security stripe - nothing more. And why give it to John to bank on killing him later when he or Devi could have just thrown him in the middle of the sniper’s gunfire? It didn’t make sense…

The only other things he had in there were cash, an emergency contact card, some state-given insurance, that really good picture of Bruce he’d saved from an old newspaper…

John stared at the little blue card he’d hidden behind the clipping and felt the urge to smack himself. 

Of course. Of course - of course - of course. The expired card had a chip in it. He hadn’t even thought about it since he had to jimmy the parole officer’s door open… “I found it.”

“Found it?” Tiffany looked up from her examination of the bike’s underbelly. The trunk was wide open and searched thoroughly.

“It’s the only thing I can think of that I’ve been carrying around before Friday,” he said, stretching it out to her.

Batman’s apprentice took it gingerly, and he knew by the utter shock on her face it was something important. “How did you...?!” 

A distant wail of a fire engine pierced the air. Tiffany stashed the card in a little pouch in her belt, shoved her helmet over her head, and started the bike’s engine.

“Come on! We’ve hung around too much!”

“Oh I don’t know,” John beamed, taking the seat behind her with his borrowed helmet loosely stuck on, “We could always get lunch.”

*~*~*~*~*

Upon arriving back at the cave (unfortunately lunch-less), Tiffany had barely gotten off the bird-cycle before making a beeline for the Batcomputer. “I knew it - Michael Hodges! The same guy who booked the room at The Lot…” 

“From the Friday Nighters’ murders?”

“Mm-hmm…”

John felt like reality had twisted itself a little more at her casual affirmation. He was desperate for something to squeeze or tap. The cold metal of the knife in his pocket wasn’t doing it. The grappling gun was too familiar to ground him in the here-and-now. He settled for holding himself, clutching handfuls of leather and reminding himself that it smelled too clean to be fake.

From what he had read of Bruce and Iman’s notes, all seven cops ‘n’ crooks were drugged and shot in their seats, left to watch as each died and bleed into the couches. It stunk of the sort of gloating reserved for serial killers who had debts to settle. He’d wondered if that’s what they were - debts of death being repaid with more death. The little group had been around for a while. Who was to say someone couldn’t trace them back to a single, faulty so-called accident?

But the fact that the guy who booked the murder-room had his card conveniently dropped into John’s lap… It brewed a terrible feeling in his stomach. Clearly, whoever had tried to shoot him and tried to run him over, too, and they were connected to a mass homicide barely a day after two other mass homicides.

It could be a coincidence.

But didn’t the fact that he had to use ‘could’ tell him it wasn’t?

“It’s not a coincidence, is it,” he said, clutching himself a little harder. “They planted that deliberately.”

“I hate to say it, but...it really seems that way,” Tiffany affirmed with a concerned frown. “Where did you even get this?” Tiffany asked, shaking him out of his thoughts without even glancing over at him.

“It’s a long story,” he tried, not wanting to just spill everything he was feeling, “I kind of found it.”

“So, you stole it,” she said, giving him a disapproving side-eye as she jammed the card into a slot.

“Look, I got an order at work, it was sitting inside of it all expired, and I was never planning on actually using it to buy anything,” he growled in a huff, “I was only ever going to use it as a key! And if it wasn’t for that, I wouldn’t have found all that stuff on Ian!”

He wasn’t sure if Tiffany was actually listening or not. Her eyes were darting over the screen, hunting for something particular in the schematics of the little chip. “How long have you had this?”

“Tuesday.”

“Tuesday?” She glanced at him once, then when back to scanning for something in the computer’s analysis.

“Yeah, Tuesday! Makes me wonder why our would-be killer took so long to find me.”

“That’s easy,” Tiffany said slowly, still not looking at him, “This thing’s shit.”

Maybe it was stress, or maybe it was her expression and the casual tone she used, but John found it a particularly funny thing to say. “Y-you said that so seriously,” he managed between titters.

“Yeah, because it’s seriously shit,” she replied with a smirk. “The receiver on this thing is pretty bad - even without the Batcave’s defenses blocking it, it must only be getting a signal a third of the time.”

“And me wedging it in a door wouldn’t have anything to do with that?”

“Maybe?” she shrugged with an exaggeratingly-puzzled look, “We’ll never know now. But they can’t track you anymore - my belt has extra-special lining, so they’ll think you got severely injured, if anything. They’ll have to wait until the police or news report comes out to know, and that could be a while.”

John had heard all of that, but he was too focused on the word anymore to really take the rest in.

Even if the thing was working a full thirty-three percent of the time, that was still a thirty-three percent chance his would-be killer knew he was staying at Wayne Manor. He’d prefer that number be a nice, round zero…

“John?” Tiffany waved a hand in front of his face.

“Ha, sorry, just thinking,” he waved off, shoving his hands in his pockets so she wouldn’t see him flexing his hands.

“Look, John - I know you’re worried, but the house is going to be packed tonight. You’d have to have one borrowed brain cell to try and get past the amount of security Bruce has for his parties. And thanks to our resident genius,” she said with a self-satisfied smile, “we should be able to track the signal back to ‘em.”

That was all well and good, but whenever anyone told him not to worry, he knew whatever they were going to say wasn’t going to put his mind at ease. 

“So, do you know who slid you the card? Like, who the order was from or anything?”

He did know, but he couldn’t remember the name exactly. John pulled his phone up and scrolled through his gallery, passing the photos of the van, his friends, graffiti… “S. Townsend. Bruce never did get back to me on this signature…” He shared it with the Batcomputer, instantly seeing it appear on the oversized screen. “I was thinking it was that chairperson.”

Tiffany sat back in the captain’s seat, looking thoughtful. “There is a Sonja Townsend on our list of potentials. She’s Michael’s mother-in-law.”

It sounded like a winner to him. “So it’s got to be her!”

“Well…” Tiffany pulled up the security footage of the woman at The Lot, clearly on her way to the murder-room. Big hat, sunglasses...what about this was special? “Look,” she zoomed in, enhancing on the jaw and nose that could be seen in certain shots, “Sonja isn’t this young.” Sonja’s company photo pulled up on the second monitor. “She’s in her mid-sixties. This woman’s half her age, at least. You can see it in her face, and I know Sonja’s waist isn’t that small.”

“All it takes is a corset and a good makeup application,” John said simply.

“I’m not saying I won’t look into this. I just think we’re might be looking for another fraud. Whoever they are, they must have known Michael enough to want to frame him.”

John didn’t have any experience with mothers-in-law - at least that he knew of - but if the media had taught him anything, they were filled with vengeance for their child-in-law for whatever reason. But as he’d learned the hard way, TV wasn’t always right. “What about her kid?”

“A daughter, but it’s definitely not her. She’s currently eight months pregnant. And she’s three inches too short, even without the heels our killer wore. As far as we can tell there’s no girlfriend in the picture, either, and mutual friends that could fit the bill have pretty sturdy alibis.”

John tilted his head, studying the image of the woman on camera. A sturdy, confident pose. A slightly round face without blemish or scarring. Red lips without any hint of smugness. Dutiful.

“I swear she looks almost like one of those really expensive sex workers,” Tiffany said, “The kind that meet businessmen in their offices.”

Jealousy hit John like a light stab. Had...Bruce had someone like that? Even though he’d told John he was waiting for him… “And you would know...how?”

“I’ve run into a couple when I was doing overtime,” she said nonchalantly, “Some of the managers on the twelfth floor seem to be steady clients.”

“You...haven’t seen them above there?” He asked nervously, “Near Bruce’s usual haunts?”

Tiffany laughed. “Bruce? No way! The guy’s way too paranoid about his social persona - he’s not about to invite one of them up to the office.”

“Oh, thank God,” John sunk, feeling some weight lift off his shoulders, “Don’t scare me like that! I mean, I know he loves me, but... I mean, I wouldn’t mind too much if he’d just asked permission first or something…”

Tiffany had a very odd look on her face. Uncomfortable? Confused? Concerned? She had looked away from him and seemed to be pulling up more programs not related to what they were doing. “I’ll look more into where this card might have come from,” she said steadily, as if they had never changed the subject at all, “I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

It shook something inside, deep down, pricking his head with a familiar feeling. He’d said something wrong.

He stared at the head in front of him for a moment, wishing he could crack open her consciousness for a little peek at her thoughts. She had changed the subject and wanted to be alone, all because he mentioned Bruce. Did she not...know about them?

Naaah. Alfred he could understand not telling - but Tiffany? She was part of the team, not a relation that might judge Bruce harshly and tear his heart to shreds. Tiffany had to know.

She was probably just uncomfortable with it because of the whole almost-tried-to-kill-her thing… Or the whole almost-tried-to-kill-Bruce thing. Either way, that was water under the bridge, and she’d have to cross it sometime. Besides, she’d have to be completely blind not to notice how far along Bruce and John had come from that point.

“O-kay, well - I’m going to borrow one of the tablets and do a little research of my own. And then I will tell you what I find!” He said as cheerfully as he could manage with a slap to the back of the chair.

He picked up the spare bat-engraved tablet from the workbench on the way out, expecting her to tell him to be careful with it as soon as it went into his hand, but instead John was left with an uncharacteristically stony silence all the way to the elevator.

*~*~*~*~*

John had been careful about wandering the manor - he didn’t like the idea of suddenly running into Alfred or Tiffany and feeling worse than before, but he did like the idea of running into Bruce on the upper floor. Sadly, his fantasy about bumping into Bruce casually and pulling him into a random room to blow off steam hadn’t come to pass. Instead, he found storage rooms, a second, smaller library, and Bruce’s home office, and still wound up right back at his own guest room.

It was, admittedly, the perfect place to think. The classic green wallpaper was a pretty homey shade, the view of the garden was nice, and the vast empty space that normally bothered him was perfect to pace in and lay out all the things he needed for thinking.

“Of course I’m stimming, Doc’,” he said, looking from the picture of himself and Batman he’d put on his nightstand to his makeshift crime board spread on the floor, “it helps a lot, but it doesn’t help the nasty little thought in my head.”

“What thought?”

“That I’m not entirely welcome here.” He sighed to himself, refocusing on Batman’s stubbled jaw. “Bruce has...guests here, right now. And not just the ones having a literal ball. A surrogate father, and a...well, I don’t know, somewhat-adopted child? Their relationship is weirdly familial.”

“And that makes you feel unwelcome?”

“It’s just… Alfred doesn’t like me very much,” he lamented, looking down at the torn article depicting the Chandis stuck in the harbor. “He’s not rude or anything. It’s the little things. The way he looks at me. How much space he leaves between us.” (The killer had to have stowed away on the boat, hiding himself to lie in wait until the moment was right to kill the crew. Brutal. Forward.) “He said he didn’t think I should be around other people. He didn’t know I could hear him… It was like he was trying to convince Bruce that I should be locked up.”

“How did that make you feel?”

Isn’t that obvious, he wanted to shout into the phone. He didn’t. He looked down at the picture of the warehouse, of the crime scene photos of the mobsters on the ground. “Angry. Mostly Hurt.” He breathed slowly, squeezing his free hand into a fist and letting go. “I just… I just want him to like me. He’s Bruce’s family.”

“I know you and Dr. Leland discussed your feelings about needing to be accepted - do you remember what she told you?”

“That I shouldn’t expect instant results,” he said, not quite remembering Dr. Leland’s exact phrasing.

“That’s true, too, but more importantly:  there will always be people who won’t accept you for who you are. A parental figure in Bruce’s life will naturally be wary of someone who once put his son’s life in danger.”

She had no idea just how much he’d put him in. She would never know. “So… Should I just…not try?”

“I encourage you to try. But you shouldn’t expect anyone to take to you right away. And if there’s no improvement, you have to accept the loss.” There came a brief pause. “What about the other guest?”

“It’s a kid-of-a-family-friend sort of thing. I know she’s going to take a while to come around,” he muttered, “and I didn’t like her at first, but she’s grown on me - and I don’t think it’s entirely mutual.” He studied the picture of the dead group sitting at almost a makeshift conference table. All three major killings were in groups. The only two that weren’t were Muddy Nye and Hubbard Jr., clearly only cover-ups…

“Sounds like you’ve been making a good effort to get along with her. I’m guessing Bruce and her are close?”

“Of course! How’d you guess?” he asked, studying the strings he’d laid over the pages to connect them all. Black Mask connected to the Chandis, the warehouse, Hubbard’s Garage, Muddy, and Selina Kyle; Selina connected to Black Mask and her art gallery, with the Chandis’ killer linking it to the boat; the warehouse connected to Hubbard’s Garage; Sonja Townsend connected to The Lot and St. Dymphna, and Bruce could only be connected to both of those.

(Unless he counted his previous not-quite-a-friendship with Selina, of course… And he did know Roman, but did that really connect him to Black Mask?)

“Would you be making an effort if Bruce wasn’t close with her?”

Oh. That was a good question. One that was potentially driving in the ‘are you revolving your life around Bruce Wayne’ undercurrent that Dr. Song seemed to use as her driving force behind their therapy. It wasn’t necessarily something that made him mad, but it wasn’t something he liked to discuss with anyone except Bruce. Not that he had, exactly, but… Bruce would understand more than anyone else. Doctors and strangers and everyone else would line up around the block to tell him how obsessed he was and that it was “dangerous” and “inappropriate” if he said one word about it.

But he couldn’t keep Dr. Song waiting forever. He paced around the floor-bound casebook slowly, thinking carefully about her question.

Maybe, if they never ever knew each other before, he might not try as hard. If there was no Batman, there would be no reason to try to apologize for old-John’s actions at all. (Well, except at the funeral. But he didn’t think he caused that much of a scene...) They could just be strangers, and there wouldn’t be this dangling thread of animosity towards him. They could, potentially, just be acquaintances.

But if her Dad was alive and she just built Batman’s gear in silence…he still liked being around interesting people. And the little tech-whiz had just enough humor and potential to qualify as interesting in John’s book. He was pretty sure that was why Bruce made her his partner-in-vigilante-crime, outside of compromising for the guilt for her father’s death.

“John?”

“Yeah,” he answered, “I would. Maybe not as much, but...I would.”

“Do you think either of them would make an effort with you, if things were reversed?”

He watched the string paths on the floor turn upside down. “Ha! I wouldn’t know that… I’d have a harder time liking them, though.”

“Try to look at it from that perspective. They clearly care about Bruce a great deal, and the fact that they haven’t been openly hostile mean they’re making an effort. Take those strides with them - give them space and time, and if you feel overwhelmed or threatened, don’t be afraid to walk away,” she advised in her wise, calm tone.

John stared at the upside-down pictures, and the strings leading things together, and breathed out. She would be right, if Bruce wasn’t Batman. If Bruce wasn’t the glue holding the mansion together with his lifelong mission for his personal pursuit of justice. The Batman complicated things far beyond the notion of family and friends. He always hung there, upside down like the proverbial flipside to...

His brain fizzled and thoughts faded away as he stared down at the drawings he’d made over the bodies on display in the Chandis’ storage room.

He HAD seen that shape before. Two lines arcing out from a long vertical line, aka three lines meeting to turn into one. 

Not at all unlike the foot of a bird stamped on heavy stone tablet of the Gotham Cemetery’s mausoleum floor...

“Remember, you can always call me,” Dr. Song said in his ear, stirring him half from the memory and thoughts that were getting squished together. “My phone is always on.”

“Okay,” he heard himself say. He could hear Bruce’s innocent question echoing back out of time from Dr. Crane’s living room:  Did you ever hear anyone talk about the Court of Owls? “I’ve gotta go, doc’.” He vaguely heard her say what was probably ‘goodnight’, but he was too focused on the symbol at his feet. “Yeah, ‘night…”

There were no voices, no music, no hums of lights – just a quiet hush of a lonely room.

His head felt fuzzy, narrowing in on the symbol he’d scribbled over the bodies, silently putting the strings together.

The Court of Owls. An old cult-like organization who believed in keeping the Devil out of Gotham by any means necessary – which usually meant straight-up murder. They disbanded years ago, since the heads of it were either hung in execution or offed themselves before the law could be given the chance. The rest had left Gotham entirely, leaving their bloody sins behind to dry and stain and be swept over.

Until now.

Everything started from Bludhaven. Black Mask had his leg over the fence separating the two cities. The drug shipment, the crew on the Chandis. Catwoman had made her living there. Ian Coggs had supposedly moved to Bludhaven.

And all of them were back in town. They brought The Court with them like a plague…

But that wasn’t true - Black Mask had an inside guy, Muddy, a newbie who didn’t mind giving up the details to the Court.

They were the real rat. They knew when the ship was coming in, and who would be waiting for it – they didn’t care about the drugs, only about leaving their message behind. A warning that Black Mask was being hunted. They killed Muddy for good measure and played dress-up to throw the group off the scent entirely, just in case they delivered a message before their own demise.

John stared at the picture of his attempted-shooter. There was a line connecting the Chandis’ killer to Selina Kyle. Another connecting The Lot to himself.

The masks. The capes. Not copycats, exactly.

Owls.

John felt like he wanted to shed his skin. Chemicals in his brain rushed like he’d woken up next to Bruce for the first time. He could feel his lips wobbling and the thing inside of him vibrating.

Hee hee ha ha HA HA HA HA!

“All this time! Ha ha ha, I’d been thinking it was a riv-al ga-a-ng!” he cackled to himself. “And it’s some - rogue crusader club - risen from the dead! Hee hee aha ha ha! They could’ve killed me before I…!”

Oh.

The realization made his lungs ache with the dying laughs stuck in them. 

They could have killed him. Bruce probably hadn’t considered The Court of Owls as a possibility either. His best buddy hadn’t told him he’d had a theory about it, so he must be as in the dark as the rest of Gotham. But he couldn’t blame him, he was so busy chasing after Black Mask and the various killers and now dealing with him and the Gala and…

He stared at the pages on his bedroom floor, with all the strings laid out, connecting everything together in a complex web. “I have to tell Bruce,” he reaffirmed to himself.

But Bruce was having that big soiree downstairs. The Gotham elite had all stepped out to Bruce’s mansion to show off and pal around on the billionaire’s estate under the pretense of charity. Texting Bruce was likely to backfire, as all the music would likely drown out the phones’ vibrations and tones, and Bruce probably had his Wayne-mask on, which meant his social graces had to be generally adhered to and he couldn’t just cut off whatever schlub he was talking to just to talk to John.

Which meant there was only one solution:  John would have to go down there.

He’d see Bruce in a tux’, undoubtedly impress him with his case-solving abilities, and maybe squeeze in a make-out session in one of the unused rooms. It was a win-win.

He just had to get something to wear and smear makeup on his face. Easy-peasy.

Bruce hadn’t left the suit in John’s room or the Batcave, so it likely was kept in Bruce’s bedroom closet. The same went for John’s makeup. Bruce never just threw things away - as evidenced by the everything in Wayne Manor - so they’d likely be shoved in a drawer somewhere in his grand bathroom.

John had already dumped out half of his meager possessions when searching for his crime-board materials, but there was one thing he needed to find; even if he had to borrow another one of Bruce’s black suits, there was no way he was wearing nothing but black. He pulled out a half-eaten packet of mini-marshmallows, the shiv he’d crafted out of a broken razor and a toothbrush his first week into his stay at St. Dymphna, a very orange button-down too crinkled to deign being put in the closet, the photo album he’d been filling since Bruce had given it to him for Christmas - ah-ha! He shoved the purple bow-tie that had been folded in the corner of the bag into his pocket.

He needed something to cover his hands, too, now that he thought of it. He only had so much peach-tone foundation, and he didn’t trust the setting powder that much.

It was quiet out there, but he knew there was a party going on despite the lack of music thumping under his feet. He passed mirrors and wall-sconces and breathed in, smelling all kinds of buffet food and the smell of old house that seemed to permeate everything. He passed the spots he remembered Bruce throwing some of his clothes down on when John had been there last, and felt a little jolt of deep-seated excitement hit his groin. What he wouldn’t give to relive that wonderful rush of endorphins…

Bruce’s room was just as he’d left it that morning. Except the bed was made. And there were no more clothes on the floor. And there was a definite lack of Bruce’s super-handsome face looking at him with soft longing from the pillow.

But now he was alone in there. With no one to stop him. And John had itchy fingers and a curiosity to fulfill.

“Focus, John,” he muttered to himself, squeezing his hands to try and pass the urge to rifle through Bruce’s bedside drawers, “You’ve got a mission to do.”

The walk-in closet was like a peek into Bruce’s inner-fashionista. Black, white, gray, dark blue, thin classy stripes; t-shirts, full suits, sports jackets, slacks, jeans; shoes that cost more than John’s whole outfits; a whole section of silk ties and pocket squares in colors John had never seen Bruce wore…

It made him want to pull Bruce and his fancy-schmancy black credit card into a proper store and force him to try on some more colors. He settled for running his hands across the rack of expensive shirts instead, flipping them halfway and releasing the smells of fabric detergent and leftover colognes.

John took a step backward, seeing a flash of color behind the up-ended fabric.

A secret button. In red. With ‘ESC’ written on it.

That had to mean ‘escape’, right? What happened if he pressed it? Did Bruce have a secret panel for Batman gear? A panic room? Both?

Bruce had never mentioned it. And if it turned out to fire Batarangs, that was just extra dodging practice and wounds he could make Bruce clean up, so he decided to push it, bracing himself to move.

But there was no alarm or spray of surprise-sharp-things or secret trap door that dropped John into some holding cell. There came a quiet squeak of hinges behind him - and behind the opposing rack of suits, there was an open gap in the wall with a long, shiny pole that plunged who-knew-how-deep into the floor. John took a peek downward, seeing lights reflecting off the pole far, far down.

A secret route to the Batcave, maybe? John made a mental note to ask about that later. He did remember Bruce mentioning wanting to put in an extra entrance…but he wasn’t going to just go down the pole to find out. Pressing buttons was one thing, but travelling potentially-incomplete paths was another entirely.

The door closed by itself after John pulled his head out of the enclosure. He continued down the rack of suits, finding some in clear protective bags, and found a tuxedo in Bruce’s size - but with white formal gloves in the breast pocket. What a lovely coincidence!

They fit his hands a little loosely, but it was better than nothing, so he decided they would do. Bruce must have kept them for if he had scars or visible battle wounds on his hands.

John found his tailored charcoal-suit at the very back, kept in a full-length plastic cover with one of his playing cards peeking out over the breast pocket. He could smell the same laundry detergent Bruce used on everything else in his closet as soon as he unzipped the bag. “I’m steppin’ out, my dear - To breathe an atmosphere -” he sang to himself as he quickly changed, “That simply reeks – ha ha ha ha – wi-ith claaass!”

It still fit as snug and comfortable as ever. He hung up the street-clothes he had been wearing on the now-empty hanger for later and decided that his ankle boots (which he had worn with the same suit last time) still looked fancy enough. Bruce had not thoughtfully put the whole deck in the suit’s pockets, though. He had to have kept them somewhere…

He decided to give into the urge to peek in the drawers, finding nothing but socks in one, and another with an awful lot of boxer-briefs in Bruce’s favored colors, and the last... 

Weapons. A telescoping nightstick, razor-sharp throwing stars, an actual honest-to-goodness pair of nun-chucks, a can of extra-strength mace, a stunner, a pair of police-quality handcuffs, a literal money-clip of cash, and… 

“Oh. My. Batman.” 

Bruce had not only kept his razor-cards in a cute plastic card-case with the Joker card face-up on top, but he’d kept his old joy-buzzer on a fancy velvet bracelet-holder! (Or was it a watch holder? John could never tell the difference.) They were incredibly out-of-place sitting with the non-Batman defense weapons. It made John wonder if Bruce just hadn’t gotten around to moving them to someplace more secure - if someone poked through his drawers, like John was doing now, they might put things together.

Or just think Bruce was obsessed with him and bought the things under the table from the G.C.P.D. 

The thought made John giggle. He was definitely taking the joy-buzzer back. And borrowing the can of mace for good measure. He wanted to take the full deck of cards, but one card was surely enough to qualify as an emergency use, and the rest of the deck would be awfully bulky with the rest of the things in his pockets. Not to mention, he liked the idea of taking them slowly to see if Bruce noticed any missing.

John smirked to himself as he stood in front of the embedded mirror in one of the closet’s cabinet doors to put on his home-made bow-tie. Bruce had stolen more from John’s evidence locker than he’d previously thought, and kept them in display pieces in his bedroom like they were treasures. It was enough to make any boyfriend smug. God, he could not wait to tease Bruce for it later. Maybe pull the card out of his pocket and tap it against his cheek, and wait until Bruce got that surprised look on his face and asked him where he found it, and John would tell him it was a s-e-c-r-e-t…

Though...speaking of secrets. “I wonder where Bruce put my Batarang,” he muttered, tilting his head in the mirror to make sure the tie was staying put. “It wasn’t in the cave earlier…”

And if it wasn’t in the secret drawer… It had to be somewhere in Bruce’s room.

So naturally, he poked into the closest thing outside of the closet - Bruce’s bedside table. He wiggled his fingers before pulling the knob to the top drawer, grinning to himself as he prepared to be surprised with what was inside.

Hm. Just ordinary things. Flashlight, a candle and matches, pen and paper with the Wayne Enterprise logo, the billy club Bruce used to keep under his pillow, and what looked like a powered-off burner phone. Bo-ring.

John checked under the pillow to see if maybe it was there - nope, nothing. Maybe the second drawer of the nightstand?

He opened it, stared, and promptly shut it. He hadn’t…seen that? Right? He was imagining things?

He peeked again, half-hoping he was. Nope, that pearly-white fleshlight was definitely real. So was the bottle of lube and condoms next to it, and the…

John felt uncomfortably warm. Guilty for looking, a little embarrassed for what he’d seen, and turned on by the mental image he was producing. He let the he amused, nervous giggle leave his mouth, grateful that Bruce wasn’t there to see him like this.

Especially since his Batarang - with the lipstick-scrawled message still intact - was sitting right on top of the condom box. It really made a guy all…wonder-y.

He snatched it out of the drawer and focused on tapping on the wood grain of the furniture rather than the dangerous thoughts trying to force their way to the front of his head. Just save those thoughts for later, John. Muuuch later. You’ve got a job to do.

But it was sweet that Bruce kept his little promise-note. Really sweet. Kissable sweet. Shove-him-against-a-wall sweet. The lipstick was dried, but still slightly waxy, so John was careful when putting it in his pocket.

He breathed in and out, smelling remnants of Bruce, and went to put on his face in Bruce’s bathroom.

Thankfully, John had learned how to apply foundation fairly fast, and temporary hair color was only comb-in job. It was the little details that took longer, like eyebrows and careful shading. Especially since he had to do it in a smaller mirror, or else...it wasn’t fun. 

He left in a hurry and straightened himself out as much as possible, his mind full of Owls and Bruce and the out-of-body feeling that came with looking at himself in the mirror with his man-off-the-street makeup. He avoided looking at any hallway mirrors, reminding himself that he did a fine job and didn’t need to triple-check, and followed the sounds of people and classic lounge music to the ballroom, taking the stairs two at a time.

Wayne Manor’s ballroom wasn’t as big as John imagined. He expected something along the lines of an old castle’s ballroom, but it was actually smaller than the manor’s foyer. It still glittered like something out of a storybook or an old Hollywood movie, with an enormous crystal chandelier dangling from the high ceiling, long banquet tables complete with ice sculptures and chocolate fountains, and people dressed to the nines dancing or milling about with champagne flutes.

It was there, just outside the ballroom door, that John realized he would have to sift through the crowd towards Bruce, who was unfortunately not easily visible. 

Well, he had to do what he had to do. Enter the world not as John Doe or Joker or whoever he might have been nearly a decade ago, but as some other new rich schmo out for a shoe shine on the ballroom floor with the rest of Gotham’s elite. He could do that.

He strode in, weaving through the outskirts of the crowd as he scanned them, searching for Bruce’s beautiful face among the crowd. It was difficult - there were an awful lot of black tuxedos and pretty faces, and his growling stomach didn’t help any.

He looked over by the long buffet table - the one with shining silver trays bearing all manners of savory hors d'oeuvres - and spotted a familiar face.

She had her hair up in a very sleek ornate bun, and he couldn’t recall ever seeing her wearing lip gloss or sensible chocolate-colored high heels, but it was definitely Iman in that champagne halter dress. He approached her as casually as he could, popping one of the little fluffy pork-filled dough-things from the end of the table in his mouth on the way. “Well, fancy seeing you here, stranger,” he said as he sidled up to her.

She searched his face for a moment, clearly trying to disguise her confusion with polite examination. He grinned wide when her left eyebrow shot up to her hairline. “John?”

“In the make-up-covered flesh,” he answered quietly. “I’d say you clean up nicely, but you’ve honestly looked this pretty every day I’ve seen you!”

“Thank you,” she said politely, the silvery pearls in her ears reflecting the chandelier with the tilt of her head. They went very well with the snake-shaped hearing aid. “That suit looks like it was tailored for you.”

“It was; I tailored it myself.”

“I’m guessing you’re looking for Bruce?”

Damn, what a guess! “Ha! What are you, a mind reader? Can you guess what number I’m thinking of, too?” 

She smiled warmly. “Of course not. You’d guess a letter instead.”

“Man, you’re good,” he chuckled. “You haven’t seen Bruce, have you? I figured something out and I kinda want to tell him in person. And you, too, of course!”

Iman opened her mouth to reply when Tiffany wedged herself on Iman’s other side. 

“Oh man, I swear if I have to talk to another…” Tiffany paused, seeing John but not recognizing him. “Oh, uh, sorry. Ignore me,” she said, turning to busy herself with choosing from finger-sandwiches.

“It’s gonna be hard for anyone to ignore you when you’re looking that pretty,” John said, taking in the one-shoulder satiny blue jumper. She’d sprayed silver glitter in the dyed portion her hair, too. The effect wasn’t as cute looking when she whipped her head around with the just-seen-a-ghost type of surprise on her face. 

“What are you doing here?” she stage-whispered, “And where did you even get all that?” she added, gesturing to his whole ensemble.

“I could ask you the same question,” he teased, “I’ve had all this since the last time I was here! Well, except for this,” he added, thumbing his tie, “I just couldn’t let a perfectly good scrap of material go to waste! Oh, but I’m here to see Bruce. And you guys! I found something major, and it, uh, probably shouldn’t wait. At least for too long.”

“And you can’t just tell us now?” Tiffany asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

He bit back the desire to ask what her problem was. It wouldn’t be a great start to the evening plan. “It’s easier if I just tell you all at once. In private. Hopefully in the next ten or fifteen minutes, depending on if I can find Bruce in this ridiculous crowd.”

“Which case does it deal with?” Iman asked, watching him with that same analytical curiosity he’d seen half the time she asked him questions.

All of them! He wanted to say. But you didn’t get an audience by spoiling half of the ending. “You’ll find out if you meet me in the parlor,” he said, hoping he was projecting an air of mystery. “I’m gonna keep looking for Bruce. And if you see him, tell him I’m looking for him!” he added, clicking his fingers in their direction as he made his way to the edge of the crowd.

He looked out into the party. People were dancing, laughing, pushing signed checks and wads of cash into glass bowls for the charity of their choice - if it weren’t for the otherworldly feeling he was getting and the fact that all the upper-class twits surrounding him didn’t really care about the actual people they were helping, it might have made a nice picture.

Actually, getting a picture was a good idea. They really did help with the whole grounding-himself-in-reality task he had to do more and more often nowadays. He pulled out his phone, thinking about what angle to use, and saw a text pop up from Devi.

How u holdin up J?

His phone had definitely vibrated in his hand, so that was real… Oh, there was no way he could resist showing off, now. 

You’ll never guess where I am!!! :D He wrote back, having to press a little harder on the screen so the thin cotton would let him type.

Ur bfs bedroom????

Dude u DIDNT

John giggled to himself. Her mind would be blown if she knew what he’d found in there, but he wasn’t about to tell her all that. It raised too many follow-up questions. LOL I wish!!

He turned around and decided to swallow his discomfort to take a partial selfie in the glittering, perfectly-lit ballroom and send it to her. It was honestly better to look at his made-up face with a camera than a mirror, where he couldn’t manage to look at the whole thing without feeling distorted. Maybe it was because he’d done it with Bruce before, back at Dr. Crane’s house? Or maybe it was the way the digital camera moved that made it feel fake enough. Or both. 

I’m at the gala! Undercover, of course. ;D he added.

Ok that makeup is amazing I barely recognize u!!!

Whats it like? Live up 2 the hype?

Everyone is super pretty, it’s annoying and crowded.

But it’s got swanky music and good food sooo... Pretty ok???

He should ask how she was, since she took the effort to reach out to him. How’s it going over there? You and Mickey doing ok?

Well we r still standin so its good. My sis came to visit which was nice but I decided not to transfer out. 2 much trouble. Mickey had no choice but 2 stay bc usual insurance bs :\

Oooh but that bitch Karen got her ASS reprimanded for yelling at the mens room by the gym for some reason last night! Dont ask how i found out ;p

HA I told her Mickey went in there when he was hiding from her in the library yesterday!!! Ha ha ha ha I can’t believe she actually yelled at nothing!!!

Omg!!! Mickey actually laughed when i told him!!! Classic J!!!

If u didnt almost die id say u need to come back

Its less colorful and WAY 2 quiet wo u

John felt that familiar fuzzy warmth that came with Bruce saying he missed him. He looked up into the crowd and was sure he spotted the familiar head of sleek black hair, so he decided to try and navigate through the crowd and text at the same time.

Awwww!!! Don’t worry, it’s only until they catch the guy! He wrote, side-stepping a hired butler before the tray knocked into him. (Should he tell her about Batman working on it? Surely he could excuse it away with a surprise visit. It wouldn’t be the first time Batman had been perched outside his window.) God, was there always this many people huddled together or what? Which should be soon, since Batsy’s on the case!

He’d no sooner pressed send when he smacked into an obstacle and heard the tinkling clink of shattered glass.

“Oh, sorry,” he said, but clearly she didn’t hear him.

“Fuck,” the woman he’d bumped into muttered, wiping off the end of her oddly familiar orange off-shoulder dress. It was too dark to blend in with the rest of the summer dresses swirling in the crowd. It was more suited to autumn, especially with the chunky black heels she was wearing with it...

Waaait a second.

Sure, the curly bob curving around her ears and framing her face was brown, but he knew that cute face anywhere! He’d sat across from it dozens of times!

“Jackie Lant!” He exclaimed, unable to help the smile stretching on his lips as she turned with the very clear look of a deer caught in headlights.

It was actually kind of nice how she seemed to instantly recognize him through the makeup and hair dye. Though the sight of him didn’t seem to excite her. “H-hey, John…”

She must have been thinking he was talking to her for some sort of threatening purpose. He should squash that right away by just talking like he normally did. “Talk about a coincidence! I thought that dress looked familiar – tailored by Mr. Prinya himself! It figures you’d wear it in summer. It’s just everything pumpkiny all year ‘round for you, isn’t it?” He chuckled. “But I’m surprised you’re back in Gotham! How’s the acting gig going for you? I’m assuming well enough to get you invited here?”

Jackie snorted into a small smile as her nerves melted away. “You haven’t changed a bit,” she said, propping one hand on her hip, “You still talk a mile a minute. Well, firstly - I, uh, don’t go by Jackie. In public, anyway,” she added with a pout and a side-eye to the crowd, “It’s Jacqueline, right now.”

“Little close to home, don’t you think?” John smirked.

“It’s easy to get used to,” she shrugged, “Besides, it makes for a good stage name; I get more callbacks with it. Probably because it makes me sound classically trained,” she emphasized with finger-quotes and a slight smirk that made a spark in her leaf-brown eyes. “No one suspects I just learned from life experience and being a huge theater nerd.”

John sniggered. “Well, if you ever need a letter of recommendation, I think me and Bruce can give you one! ‘Fooled entire asylum of patients and employees into thinking she was a trustworthy budding doctor,’” he mimed writing on an invisible notepad, “‘Played dual role as a sympathetic victim of our money-hungry society and a secondary villain, with a believable and overall stellar performance,’” he continued with a grin, “‘Solid ten out of ten!’”

“…sounds kind of like you’re still mad,” she responded, folding her arms across her chest with a dull look at the crowd. She looked more like the hopeless person he’d seen clutching her stitches on the mausoleum floor than the one watching the Batmobile take off afterwards. “Not that I really blame you.”

Well, he couldn’t help but enjoy holding her sins over her head a little, but he wasn’t really mad…anymore. They both did pretty rotten things at some point. “Oh, turn that frown upside-down, Pumpkin-head,” he teased, poking her in the corner of her mouth, “I’m only messing with you! It’s water under the bridge!” She eyed him, seeming like she wanted to believe that, but wasn’t too sure if he meant it. She looked like she needed a little boost. And what better way than to lighten up her grungy past a little? “Besides,” he added in a low voice, “you’re an idiot if you think I don’t replay the memory of you shooting ol’ Scarecrow in the shoulder whenever I’m feeling blue.”

That, surprisingly, made her laugh. It was light and short, but it lit up her face, so he knew he hit a bullseye. “Honestly, so do I,” she said with a dark gleam in her expression. “Especially when someone’s really annoying me. It’s a good reminder of what I’m capable of.”

One of the butlers had swooped over to their spot on the floor to clean up the glass.

“Oh, excuse me,” Jackie said politely and pulled John towards a less crowded section of the floor. “Sorry - I don’t really like the idea of smacking into anyone else out here,” she muttered, “but I’ve been meaning to ask – what are you doing here? I thought you weren’t released yet.”

Sheesh, can a guy just not want to have a good time, he wanted to say. But he didn’t really want to rile up anyone just yet, and it wasn’t her fault she didn’t know he’d been asked that twice already. She must not have known about the incident at St. Dymphna yesterday. (Not that he could blame her for not looking at the news. The same cycle of misery and murder never made for an entertaining time.) “It’s a secret,” he said simply, “Besides, I’m here for a good time, not a long time!” he added with a wink, snatching a shrimp cocktail off a waiter’s tray. It only lasted two bites, but it was delicious. “How about you? The last I saw you, you were running from your problems in a shit-box of a car.” She couldn’t possibly have been doing well enough to get a formal invitation if she had gotten her dress tailored in his neck of the woods…

“Ha, I still am,” she said, not sounding very amused despite the tiny smirk on her lips. “I’m here because it’s better than sitting around my hotel room feeling sorry for myself,” she grunted, the light in her eyes dimming as she snatched a flute off another waiter’s tray and downed half of it in one gulp. She stared at the glass, thinking of something with all the depressed seriousness he’d seen back in the mausoleum last year. “Fifteen years ago, my best friend was found rolled up in a rug in the dumpster three blocks from where she lived.”

John remembered the many pictures she had hung up in her small apartment; a lot of those friends were dead. “Oh… Uh, I’m sorry,” he tried, not sure what else he could say without sounding like a huge jerk.

“Don’t apologize,” she said with an oddly sharp look, “I didn’t tell you to get sympathy. I get enough of that from everyone else. I told you because you would’ve picked my brain apart to get it out anyway, and I don’t really feel like playing that game.”

“Ouch, Jackie,” John clutched his chest and pouted dramatically, “You think so low of me! And here I thought we were getting to be friends…” He couldn’t hold the pout for long – if she was going to be rude, he could needle her with a taste of her own medicine. “But I guess if we were, I’d drop dead in a week.”

She didn’t seem to take that harshly at all. In fact, she lightened up a little. “See, that’s more like it,” she said with a Bruce-like smile. “No one else gives me dark jokes like that. They all think it’ll just make it worse.”

Huh! Well, at least John didn’t have to worry about tossing around grim jokes in her presence…?

“Honestly, though,” she continued, “I’m really only in Gotham for-”

“Jacqueline, baby – who’s this?” A man who couldn’t be much older – or taller - than Jackie sidled up to her out of nowhere, putting his arm protectively around her shoulder and flashing what could only be described as a bad attempt at ‘the Bruce Wayne press smile’. He didn’t have Bruce’s natural charm to pull it off, but he was fairly handsome, in a standard-Hollywood-twenty-something sort of way. Bronzer, foundation, and eyebrow powder were enhancing his face, but admittedly the curly swoop of dirty blond hair and lithe athletic frame helped with the overall look.

Jackie seemed to brighten a little more; she clearly knew him. “There you are, Matt – I was just talking about you. This is one of my old work-buddies.” She nodded slightly as she gestured to John, giving him a significant look he took to mean play along. “We worked on my last play here together. He’s a real Gothamite.”

The man called Matt reached his hand out to shake John’s. “Nice to meet you, Mr…?”

Shit. John had gotten used to being himself out on the floor, and now he had to put his normal-person face on, even if he didn’t want to play along. He grappled for the most normal names he could think of. He didn’t want to use his own, no matter how ordinary ‘John’ was.

Eric? No, I need something more familiar... Uh, J...erome? Jerimiah? Ooh, wait-!

“Jack,” he answered, thinking of the card currently sitting in his breast pocket. He might as well pick a good surname to go with it. And who was this guy to know where it came from? “Jack Napier,” he finished, reaching out to shake the guy’s hand. “Sorry - auditory processing,” he snorted, trying to smooth it over, “Takes a bit for the ol’ brain case to catch up sometimes.”

Matt didn’t seem to quite understand that, but he shook John’s hand anyway. “Matt Chaney,” he said proudly, like his mere name was something to envy.

“Matt and I snuck in here for research,” Jackie said with a small wink.

“Jacqueline-”

“Oh, lighten up, Matt. Jack’s great at keeping secrets.”

John tittered. “Got a noodle stuffed with ‘em,” he joked, “and not a single leak in the pan.”

“There’s a new TV soap role he’s trying out for,” Jackie explained with a pointed thumb up at Matt’s chin, “Think Bruce Wayne, but with less dough.”

“Oh, you’re on TV?” John asked, looking over their shoulder to see if Bruce made a coincidental appearance in the crowd. Maybe he was brooding somewhere…

“I’ve gotten some good contacts recently,” Matt boasted, which John translated to a ‘no’. “You worked with Jacqueline before she moved, right? Man, you must be pretty jealous now.”

...jealous of what? “Uh, look, you’re both rather attractive, but I’m afraid my heart’s spoken for,” he answered, tapping his chest where his undying love for Bruce Wayne lay embedded. “And neither of you are…really my type.”

Jackie sniggered as Matt frowned at him. “He doesn’t really go on social media, babe,” she said to her boyfriend with a genuinely amused grin as she pulled her phone out of the small purse dangling from a pathetically tiny strap on her shoulder. John could see the Lucky Hotel logo on a card she’d stuck in the back of the phone case; no wonder she altered her dress at his place! “Matt’s big on Root and MuSec[B1]  nowadays,” she explained, tapping on her screen, “I’ve got a bit of a following myself. Here, this one’s gotten me a lot of attention.”

John watched the very short video. He couldn’t hear the background music, but he watched as Jackie dramatically flipped a fan between her face, showing her normal face at first (with her hair still dyed brown), and then transitioning to a wide, grinning jack-o-lantern face done entirely in stage makeup. She’d worn yellow contacts to make the black of the painted eye-holes pop and seemed to have crafted painted plastic teeth for her jaw to open wide. “Ooh hoo hoo! Ve-ry nice,” he praised, watching the light in her eyes brighten further. “Reminds me of your last Halloween costume,” he teased.

Matt was clearly seething with jealousy - he plucked the phone out of Jackie’s hand and pulled up a different video. “Here, check this one out,” he said haughtily.

“‘Video removed for copyright violation’,” John read from the video placeholder on the page, “Impressive!”

“What?!” Matt pulled the phone back to him a deep scowl. “Not again! Those stupid fucking…”

“Why, Mr. Chaney,” a clear voice said from John’s left, “what a delight; it seems we’re destined to keep running into each other.”

John tossed a look towards the stranger heading towards them:  a man with extraordinarily average looks and flat, mousy brown hair. He could’ve passed him in the street a hundred times.

“And who are your friends?” The man asked, looking between Jackie and John. He settled back on John, looking more and more curious. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Oh, uh, Jacqueline – my girlfriend,” Matt emphasized by putting his arm back around Jackie and giving her a little squeeze – “this is Reverend Overfield; we met when I was scouting around town a while back. Reverend, this is Jacqueline Latern, and-”

“Jack Napier,” John interrupted, deciding to take initiative in shaking the Reverend’s hand like people were supposed to do. But weren’t guys like the Rev’ supposed to wear those little white collars everywhere they went, and not full-blown tuxedos?

“We haven’t met before, have we?” the Reverend asked as he withdrew his hand. “You seem familiar.”

You might have seen me on the news, John thought privately. “Oh, I’m just your typical man about town,” he answered with all the patented Wayne charm he could channel. “I’m sure you’d find a dozen like me in this crowd.” He looked over the faces of people behind the Reverend’s shoulders, hoping to suddenly see Bruce come into view, but no such luck. He’d have to stealthily make an excuse and slip away when he could.

“Do you live in the area, or further into the city?” The reverend asked, looking oddly probing for such an innocent question.

“I’m just taking the tour, Rev’,” John said with a growing impatience.

“Splendid!” He beamed, as if he was truly enthused by the idea, “You should pay us a proper visit before you decide to go.” He pulled out a business card and handed it to John. “We’re currently housed in of the older churches in the city. It’s quite the sight by itself; you don’t have to worry about being pressured into anything.”

John doubted that. He looked at the card. Rev. Sebastian Overfield, Church of the Written Mercy was stamped next to a picture of three people clustered together to reach up to what John figured was supposed to be a beam of light. “The Written Mercy? ”

“So it is written, and so it shall be,” he nodded with a serene sort of smile that usually came with John’s neighbors being doped up. “God has written our destinies out since the dawn of time. Regardless of evil’s lawless discord interfering with those destinies, we firmly believe those injustices can be resolved with faith, perseverance, and God’s guidance. Of course, we are always open to interpretations now and again.”

“You mean want people to tear your philosophy apart?” Jackie asked with raised brow.

The reverend gave a polite laugh. “There are no better fresh interpretations of ideas than from strangers.”

John’s first impulse was to tell him fate was as much of a joke as the justice system - but while justice had dealt John a bad hand and turned his whole life into a long, bad joke, fate had given him something worthwhile.

Something beautiful, in the form of a man who might as well have been divine for all the life upheavals and whirlwinds of emotion he caused. A man that could, finally, be seen in the immense, glittering crowd over Jackie’s and Matt’s shoulders.

“I think the inevitability of death is the only true fate in the world,” Jackie said as John stared out into the crowd, feeling a sweet sting at the sudden appearance of some pretty nameless thing putting her hands on Bruce’s shoulder to guide him into a dance, “How long we take to get there, the people we meet along the way – all of that is random.”

John could see Bruce following along with the motions, but his smile wasn’t reaching his tired eyes.

“I can see where that comes from,” Reverend Overfield nodded sympathetically, “It’s hard to believe that the people we lose in this lifetime aren’t taken away by chance; but I have always believed that every loss has a place in one’s life, even those most painful to live with. How about you, Mr. Napier?”

He did agree with Jackie’s point about them all being born astride a coffin and being subject to only the unknown, but... There was no way that was all there was. How could he think that, when a piece of his destiny was twirling slowly out beyond them as they spoke? “I think we’re at the mercy of a chaotic, constantly-changing universe,” he said, keeping his eyes firmly on his disarmed dark knight, “but there are some people that are always meant to be there…” (Some of the doctors always seemed to think it was dangerous for patients to think of soul-mates and pre-determination. But they weren’t here, were they? John could speak freely, since he wasn’t going to see most of these people again. Who would care?) “Our choices can make the universe change the how and why, but they’re there; and their choices shape us in return.”

He wouldn’t be there, the way he was now, without Bruce. If Bruce hadn’t saved him. If Bruce hadn’t believed in him. John felt it, deep down, past his thoughts and feelings, past his memories, past his sensory input…

“That’s an interesting way of putting it,” Jackie commented thoughtfully.

“So fate is essentially giving us soul mates, but with free will?” Matt said with what sounded like a sneer.

John could feel himself being stared at, and tore himself away from looking out at Bruce’s strained dance. The Reverend Overfield was staring at him a little too intently. John had the feeling he’d said something wrong; there was a definite dislike sitting in that subtle expression. Not that he cared – the guy was weirding him out anyway. “Aaany-who, this has been a fun diversion and all, but I’ve got a brooding billionaire-playboy in desperate need of some livening up - I’m sure I’ll see you all around!”

He gave a little wave to the group as he made his way back to the ballroom floor, hearing Jackie’s little call of good luck as he plopped the empty shrimp-glass onto a passing waiter’s tray.

John didn’t need luck. He had Bruce squarely in his sights, and navigating around the various tuxedos and shiny gowns was nothing compared to dodging punches and stray bullets.

Judging by the look on Bruce’s face as he spun slowly around on the dance floor with the pretty young thing that had dragged him there, John figured Bruce would rather be in his favorite suit, dancing to a very different tune.

 [B1]My answer to TikTok!

*~*~*~*~*

Notes:  ...now, I know what you’re thinking. Yes, that’s where I’m cutting this chapter off. Yes, you don’t get to see The Dance I teased you with yet. But it took well over my original time-limit to finish this with all the Tiffany-John bonding and various developments I’d been planning for ages! I always seem to go “yeah I can do this large amount of development in a short amount of time nbd” and then forget that when I flesh out ideas, I pull all the stops to make sure they flow with the story right and it takes foreeeevvverrr. So, as I sorta predicted, our Big Gala Saturday is split into 2 parts! So you’ll have to wait a liiiittle while longer to see The Dance...s. But we’ll get to see Brucie next time! It’s gonna be one hell of a night... >:3c

John is just a barrel of fun to write once I get into the rhythm! Having him bond with Tiffany was a great challenge, and I managed to check off soooo much of my wishlist. Jackie Lant’s return! John choosing his “name”! The fun inclusion of the famous Bat Pole! John and Tiff bonding through their investigation and getting a selfie out of it! Ahhhh!!! I’d been planning having him grapple Tiffany out of the way of that van for months! What fun!!! 

Writing John with Selina was tough, though, because part of me knows he’d love to just deck her in the face out of undealt-with jealousy re: Bruce, but I had to remind myself that for all his similarities, this isn’t a S2!John Doe. This is an evolving John “the player” can control, and naturally I get to choose the shape he takes in his chrysalis. Our boy is doing his damnedest to keep his violent impulses in check as he grapples with reality and grows to truly care for people outside of Bruce like the recovering patient he is. He’s come a long way in such a short time! ;w;

I’m hoping I can finish and upload the next part by my birthday. So fingers crossed I’ll upload in the next 6 weeks! Please comment, kudos, and subscribe/bookmark to help charge the muse! (And reblogs are HIGHLY appreciated!)

PS -  I couldn’t NOT reference @fractualized​‘s Free John Doe series! If you haven’t read it yet, check it out! :D

[daemongal]

Of sins and Succubi - Chapter 1 (Prologue)

So, this was an idea I had one day while my mind was wandering at work so i decided to write a prologue chapter and see how it turns out. I wanted to give Dante some limelight in more ways that just writing some quick oneshots. 

For context, this is set post DMC4 but pre DMC5. Doesn’t really follow any particular story canon but is set in the same universe as DMC. This chapter is SFW and is mostly just setting a scene. Hope you enjoy!

FYI this has been edited as I’ve decided to write this as an OC fic instead of a reader insert because I decided to be self indulgent :3c

Synopsis: "His ears twitched and his nostrils flared as the shop door slowly opened. He reflexively placed his feet on the floor and assumed a more defensive posture, quickly placing ebony and ivory in front of him almost as a threat display. His brow furrowed as he examined the 4 men that slowly strolled through the doors and across the room towards him; all clad in tight black suits, hard heels clipping against the wood floor with each step in perfect synchronicity, tan skin and devilish smirks adorned their faces.

Incubi. He rolled his eyes and huffed, making no attempt to cover up his disdain; Dante hated incubi."

Dante had a job to hunt a dangerous succubus on the run. He had expected this job to go like any other; oh how wrong he was.

Excessive sorrow laughs, excessive joy weeps

Dante stretched his arms behind his head as he leaned back in his chair, feet on the desk, staring at the slowly spinning ceiling fan in contemplation.

“Hmmm, should get a few more days if I’m lucky.” He thought out loud. To be honest, he was shocked the electric hadn’t been cut off yet. It had been a quiet, boring week. The work had all but dried up and he was relying on his loyalty tab from his local pizza place to keep him going. He sighed and reached towards his pile of well-read magazines stacked to his side.

His ears twitched and his nostrils flared as the shop door slowly opened. He reflexively placed his feet on the floor and assumed a more defensive posture, quickly placing ebony and ivory in front of him almost as a threat display. His brow furrowed as he examined the 4 men that slowly strolled through the doors and across the room towards him; all clad in tight black suits, hard heels clipping against the wood floor with each step in perfect synchronicity, tan skin and devilish smirks adorned their faces.

Incubi. He rolled his eyes and huffed, making no attempt to cover up his disdain; Dante hated incubi.

“Son of Sparda.” The tallest of the men spoke in a voice so deep, it reverberated down Dante’s spine. He leaned in a small mock bow, flourishing his hand to the side, eyes locked with the devil hunter as the other three remained still, hands behind their backs with their chests puffed out. His long blonde hair draped around his face, framing his angular features all too perfectly.  

“And what do I owe the pleasure?” The reply was dry. Yes, work was short, but he would have happily sat for weeks in the dark festering in his own filth before wishing this upon himself. “Hope this isn’t part of some recruitment drive or some shit? I mean, you’d be lucky to have me but as you can see, business is booming and I have my hands more than full as is.” The blonde’s lips furled upwards, his grin revealing the sharp teeth concealed beneath.

“Oh Dante come now. I’m sure you’ve given me more than enough business over the years with your over indulgence. I’m merely returning the favour.” He turned around to take a suitcase from the hands of one of his subordinates. “It may surprise you to know I have a job offer for you, that is,” he placed the suitcase on the desk, “if you have the time in your oh so, busy schedule.”

Tsk, Dante tutted. He was irritated; irritated that he was that desperate for some cash that he’d consort with incubi. However, his eyes did gleam at the thought of payment upfront.

“Spill the details then.” He was spinning ebony on his finger, carefully gauging for any ill intent.

“We have a… dangerous runaway, a former worker of my establishment. She decided to dispose of one of my more, profitable members of staff before disappearing out of sight. She’s of no use to us anymore and I’ve been informed from a reliable source that she’s been sighted in this very city.” He shrugged his shoulders. “It really is a pity. She had so much potential.”

A confused expression washed across Dante’s face. “Sooo… let me get this straight. You come in here with your cronies, looking all high and mighty with a briefcase full of cash to take out one, lone succubus?”

“Yes, that is precisely the reason we are here. Why, is there a problem? I bring an easy job and more than sufficient compensation for your time. If what I heard about you is true, there is no reason for you to say no.”

Wow, am I really that simple? Dante thought and considered the question. There was one thing bothering him:

“Why not just do it yourself? I mean, you seem more than capable with your little boyband over there. Or is there some information you’re neglecting to tell me?” His face twitched ever so slightly at the question, as he pushed the briefcase in Dante’s direction and unclipped it.

“Let’s just say… it would be problematic for us. She has killed humans as well, and will continue to do so if left unchecked. She has only recently matured and lacks… self-control.”

Sigh. If it had killed already it didn’t really leave Dante much choice, and these guys sure as hell weren’t interested in dealing with their own problem.  

“Fine.” He huffed, as he grabbed the briefcase to peek inside while keeping his best poker face. “I get the feeling problematic may be an understatement if this is what you’re paying me.” No reaction. “I’m gonna need more details. What’s the lead?”

The blonde’s face lit up at the hunter’s acceptance.

**********

“Damn incubi, dragging me into their weird sexual politics.” Dante kicked any stones unfortunate enough to cross his path as he muttered away to himself. It was around 11pm and he had been wandering the streets and alleys for a few hours, dropping in and out of various clubs and hot spots. “Some lead this turned out to be. God I could be spending all that cash and getting wasted but nooo, I’m trudging around like a total asshole looking for a horny succubus for all the wrong reasons!” He kicked the next stone harder than he should have. It ricocheted between the walls before smashing through a window.

“Shit.” Feeling like a naughty schoolboy, he ran to avoid any unwanted attention, taking a few turns up some alleyways he didn’t recognise to get some distance. The street they lead out onto was one he had no memory of. “Huh. And here was me thinking I knew my way around this town. Ooh what do we have here?”  

He noticed a building on the corner that looked somewhat like a club. There was surprisingly no bouncer on the door but there were a few people stood against the walls, drinks and cigarettes in hand. No booming music though, just some god forsaken karaoke. The sign read “Tyger Tyger” , definitely not a place he was acquainted with. “Well, I’ve been in every other goddamn place, might as well take a look. Christ what a day; incubi AND karaoke. This damn demon better put up a good fight to make it worthwhile.”

He passed by 2 guys sharing a cigarette and overheard their discussion about the “total hottie” inside. Promising. He swung open the doors to be hit smack bang in the face with the smell of stale beer and a horrendous rendition of Careless Whisper… and something else entirely.  

It’s here.

His eyes scanned the tables looking for the culprit, as he made his way slowly to the bar to not draw too much attention to himself. He didn’t bother asking the incubus for a physical description, he knew lust demons could change their appearance pretty much at will, but he was starting to regret having nothing to go on. No suspicious activity grabbed his attention, but he could sense their presence. He believed now what he was told about them just hitting maturity; they weren’t making much effort to cover up the pheromones they were giving off, he felt almost surrounded by them. They were weak however, so it was no challenge to Dante to brush them off. He grabbed a stool and seated himself at the bar, deciding to rely on his ears instead of his eyes. Eventually some human would fall prey to their pull, it was only a matter of time.  

Dante ordered himself a scotch and swigged it down, savouring the burn and daydreaming about the night he could have been having.  

“Hey baby.” His ears pricked up, honing in on the very drunk sounding man. “You here for a good time?” No wonder succubi prefer busy cities, humans are just such easy prey, he thought.  

“Yes, I am actually.” That voice cut clean through him, making him visibly shudder. Dante turned to hone in on the location of the voice with only one thought as his eyes met with his target.

Jackpot.

“Now, if you would be so kind as to fuck off I can continue to enjoy my night alone.” Dante was unsure who looked more dumbstruck; himself, or the poor kid that got shot down like a lead balloon. He knew he wasn’t mistaken, he trusted his keen senses and his instincts, and she was definitely his target. The commanding aura around her became slightly thicker as the kid lowered his head, and turned to walk back towards the bar. “Prick.” She muttered before downing the rest of her drink.  

Well this was new; a succubus using their ability to manipulate, to push away potential prey. His curiosity was peaked. Pushing all sense to the back of his mind he turned back to the bartender and ordered 2 more scotches. He was always willing to take a risk to gather intel, and he was pretty confident that even with his guard down, this demon would be no match for him if things turned nasty.  

He grabbed the two glasses and started towards the table.

**********

[Succubus POV]

“Prick.” She muttered to herself as she downed the rest of her drink. Ahh the glorious burn, it was all she needed tonight, nothing else mattered.  

He was the 5th attempt tonight in this place alone. She had given up on the busier clubs in the centre of town, settling for something a bit more derelict and decrepit looking in the hope of getting a bit of peace and quiet. She knew she didn’t have long left, and quite frankly she didn’t care. All she wanted was to get off-your-face drunk as she awaited her fate. She knew they wouldn’t rest until she was good and dead; a thorn in their foot that needed to be removed.  

She rested her head in her hand, elbow against the table as she ran her finger around the rim of the empty glass. The room had started to spin, her thoughts lacking some coherence, but she needed more. The emptiness inside needed filling, and this was the only way she thought it would be possible without hurting anyone. Anyone else she corrected. Her eyes prickled with a familiar sensation, as her vision became blurry. Damn, I need more booze.

All of her senses flared at once as heavy footsteps approached. The pressure from the power they were emitting, the scent of their heritage, the creaking of leather. She had heard many tales about the legendary devil hunter, and the way her senses were reeling told her everything she needed to know. Her body was screaming at her to leave, to run; but she knew better; there was no point anymore. She had already accepted her fate, she had just hoped she would have been a little drunker when it came.

“So my angel of death has arrived.” She spoke as he approached from behind. She closed her eyes, waiting for the sound of the safety being removed from the gun that she knew would be pointed at her head. Her body jolted when instead of gunfire, there was the sound of a glass hitting the table. Her eyes opened to see a glass of liquor in front of her, and a white-haired man sat with a drink in hand, staring intently. Her heart was racing in her chest as she swallowed, his blue eyes were piercing through her as if they were searching for something.

“And he comes baring…unexpected gifts?” She looked at the glass of brown liquid in front of her, as the ice clinked against it as it shifted. She pondered for a moment if the drink was perhaps poisoned, but decided rather quickly that she didn’t care if it was. She lifted it from the table and tipped it towards Dante. “Cheers.” Two big gulps and it was gone, a shiver running through her body from the taste as a sigh left her lips. She watched as Dante did the same, shaking her head at the ridiculousness of the situation.

“What is this?” She asked the devil hunter, motioning back and forth between them with the glass in hand. “Like, what exactly are you doing here?” He crossed his arms over his chest at the question, looking towards her quizzically.

“I’m here on a job actually. Been asked to deal with a troublesome demon and I’ve spent the best part of the night trying to find them. Say...” he put his elbow on the table, resting his chin on his hand as his gaze deepened, “you wouldn’t happen to have any leads on an apparently dangerous succubus who’s going around killing helpless people would you?”  

Her gaze locked with his, trying to guess what answer he expected. The room was spinning rather pleasantly as her senses began to dull. She snorted inelegantly and started to snigger. “How much they pay you for this ‘job’ then? Surely a little lone succubus wouldn’t be worth your time. Hell, I knew someone would be coming eventually but I didn’t think you would actually come yourself, maybe I should be flattered that-”

“10 grand.” Dante interjected. Her mouth dropped open.

“Ho-oly shit!” She couldn’t contain the laughter as her hands slammed on the table. It shouldn’t be funny, but she was buzzing enough right now that it was completely hilarious. “Tell me you’re kidding? You are kidding right.” He shook his head in silent bewilderment at her reaction. She threw her arms back, her fingers lacing together and resting against the back of her head, an inexplicable smile spread across her face.

“Christ, he really wasn’t joking. I can’t believe Demitri himself would fork out his own actual hard cash to see my head roll. It would make me feel somewhat special if this whole situation wasn’t so incredibly... fucked up.” Her arms dropped to her side as the elated emotions inside her chest dropped deep into her stomach, leaving a hollowness behind.  

Dangerous, killing helpless people, his words hit home suddenly. Was this the image he had of me, was this the information that had been fed to him by your keepers? She stared blankly at the empty glass in front of her, eyes suddenly feeling like weights in their sockets.

“So you know tall, dark and uncomfortably handsome personally then eh? The way he carried himself, that money seemed like pocket change, didn’t realise it was a big de-”

“Cut the crap, son of Sparda.” She interrupted, a hint of annoyance in her voice. “Why haven’t you done it then, what you’ve been paid to do? Here I am, defenceless and happy to take whatever shit comes my way.” Her hands slammed on the table as she stood up unsteadily, wavering on the spot. “I’m a murderer aren’t I?! I’m a twisted monster, a demon with no morals and no control over my own damn mind!” Tears were escaping her eyes now, tears that shouldn’t be there, tears that she knew she had no right to shed. Devils never cry, Dimitri’s words echoed in her mind.

“You know what, fuck it.” She stumbled, leaning over the table, eyeing the gun in Dante’s holster. “If you won’t do it, then I will.” Her arms reached out in a movement that didn’t even feel like her own. She was practically numb now, her ears ringing as she fell onto the table, fingers grazing his coat. Dante groaned as he stood up, taking her wrist in his hand as he dragged her unstable body towards the door.

“Fine. If you want me to do it that badly I will, but not in here.” She ignored the stares from the other patrons, the muttering of their words as they watched the scene in front of them.  

“Fuck he’s so lucky. She wouldn’t even talk to me.” 

“What a whore, he only started speaking to her a few minutes ago.” 

“Looks like she’s gonna get what she deserves, if ya know what I mean.”

Their words spun in her head as the tears continued to roll from her cheeks, as the door to the bar was slammed open, dragging her into the cool air of the night. Any other day, the sensations it brought may have been enjoyable, but being dragged towards an alley, legs seemingly moving of their own volition, her mind couldn’t focus on anything other than the firm grip on her wrist.  

This is it, she thought, as she was thrown to the ground, pulled up onto her knees by a tug on her shirt collar.

“Any last words, demon?” His voice echoed through the alley as he settled his guns barrel against the back of her head. Her body relaxed into the moment, shoulders sagging as if puppet strings once holding her together were cut. She leaned her head back further against the gun to look up into Dante’s eyes a final time.

“Thank you.” With a rustle of leather and a sharp pain at the base of her neck, her vision blacked out.

Thanks for reading and like I said, any feedback would be greatly appreciated!

[Chapter 2]

[theolddarkmachine]

Four Years- Sophomore Year

Settling back into the careful composure of his well worn scowl, Keith lifts his glass in Shiro’s direction.

“I’ll stick with Shirogane, then, thanks,” he says brusquely as he raises the glass to his lips in an attempt to hide behind another swig of beer that he forgets isn’t there until he sees the flash of Shiro’s eyes as they meet his gaze through the emptied bottom of his glass.

Heat sparks in his chest, sending a flare racing up his neck and across the rise of his cheeks at the sound of Shiro’s husking laugh as, in a show of dominance, he tossed back the rest of his own drink.

“Looks like we’re ready for something stronger.”

Part 2 of 5

AO3

Warnings: None for now aside from underage drinking and ridiculous flirting, because this is a slowburn and that’s just how it goes. Will earn an E rating eventually. and by eventually i mean in the next chapter :3c

A/N: Originally I wanted to add lyrics at the start of each chapter from songs I felt encapsulated the feel for the chapter. But then I just couldn’t bring myself to add lyrics from Tupthumping and format them like poetry, but I tried to work that in another way instead. Enjoy.

********************

There were a great many thing things that Keith Kogane had learned by his second year of college. The first, is that being in a fraternity wasn’t actually that bad.

Not that he’d ever admit to Hunk that he was right.

Again.

But it had gotten him out of the hellhole known as dorm living and had even given him and Hunk a usable kitchen that didn’t carry the high risk of tetanus. It had even come with a fridge that was almost always stocked as long as Hunk promised an endless supply of his “Beta Famous Bear Claws.”

Really, everyone won in the end.

The second, is that he was disturbingly good at drinking games. So good, in fact, that he’d earned the title of The Anchor and had been the Beta’s not-so-secret weapon in every drinking competition that they found themselves in.

His only true match, was known as The Champion.

Or rather, Shiro.

Though, how the Alphas decided he should be called that was beyond him when he currently sat with one more win under his belt.

And the only reason Shiro had managed to pull his most recent win from him, was because he’d used his dimple against him.

Keith still maintains that it was an illegal play.

The third, is that fate is a dick.

A dick that had paraded itself into his life in the form of one Professor Slav. A dick that had forced them into a group essay together that totaled half of their overall semester grade.

A dick that had landed him in a slightly sticky booth across from Shiro with two drinks between them and not even the excuse of any games.

We should celebrate, Shiro had said as soon as they’d dropped their fluid mechanics essay off at Slav’s office.

Yeah, that’d be cool, Keith had said, as if the mere mention hadn’t sent his heart crashing into the roof of his mouth along with the acrid taste of bile. It’s an exaggerated reaction, he knows. One that isn’t really warranted given his otherwise calm and cool demeanor towards his classmate and frat rival.

Which brings Keith to the fourth, and final thing he’s learned. It was a revelation that he kept wrapped in all its bits of ominous cashmere, folded and tucked safely between the space of his third and fourth ribs where even he couldn’t touch it.

Because touching it was dangerous.

Acknowledging the softness that lined his insides would be sticking his hand within the garbage disposal of his emotions that would surely cut him to bits and leave him bleeding out on the floor.

Acknowledging it would mean admitting what he had known that exact moment he’d walked into that calculus class his freshman year.

That he’s completely gone for Shiro.

And not in the perfectly acceptable way that could have been rectified by a drunken night and bad decisions. In the a way that left his heart a pale imitation of Atlas holding up the weight of Shiro’s smile.

A smile that is burning a hole through his sternum as he watches the Alpha grab his beer and raise it in salute.

“To surviving Slav,” he says, sliding the words through his grin as he lowers his gaze to Keith’s pint before snapping it back up to his face. Deep within the silver there, he sees the fire of a challenge that stokes the flames within his own chest as he closes his fist around the cool glass and lifts it.

“And to being dumb enough to want to stay in aerospace engineering,” Keith replies before draining half of his beer if only for the excuse of looking away from the blinding glow of Shiro’s look.

“Who’d have thought that we would actually work well together,” Shiro hums thoughtfully as  Keith resurfaces, looking him over as he wipes a lazy line along the condensation thats gathered along his own glass.

“Did we?” He asks dumbly, eyeing what’s left and calculating if he could finish it off in one more go.

The answer? Yes, yes he could.

The real question is, should he?

“I think so,” Shiro says easily, his dimple working its way further into the corner of his mouth as he watches Keith, some secret enjoyment turning his gaze bright. If Keith didn’t know better, he’d think that Shiro knows exactly what he’s thinking.

The very thought paints his cheeks red as he scoffs and rolls his eyes to the ceiling.

“That makes one of us.”

Regret hits him almost immediately as something a lot like hurt turns Shiro’s gaze downcast, pushing an awkward silence along their booth that’s painfully pointed. If he were being honest, they really had worked well together, but that isn’t really the point, is it?

No matter how well they may have worked together, it didn’t change the fact that Shiro is off limits, painted with a big fat X.

Swallowing down his apology, Keith cuts his gaze to the other bar patrons, mentally cataloguing each face that turns their way. He’ll never hear the end of it if any of the Betas catch him sharing drinks with Public Enemy No. 1.

Sighing loudly, Keith slumps further into the booth, turning his attention back to Shiro only to be met by his unwavering stare.

It’s the kind of stare that carries confidence and nonchalance, as if Shiro doesn’t care who saw them there. Though, now that Keith thinks about it, he supposes that only makes sense.

Sal’s was, for all intents and purposes, sacred ground where all rivalries were checked at the door since it was the one bar in town that didn’t look too closely at IDs. As long as no one made things difficult, they could overlook the differences in the laminated photos. 

That very rule made it the kind of place where even the most vehement of enemies would be able to share a drink side-by-side.

Of course, it was also the kind of place where drunken students would input the same song in the jukebox to play for an hour straight. 

At first, it had been funny. Now, it feels like an ill omen.

The song, a drinking tune made popular thanks to the 90s, kicked in once more as it listed off an obscenely long list of drinks. Keith is pretty sure that if anyone drank all of those, they’d be knocked down and definitely wouldn’t be getting back up again.

Granted, staring down the barrel of Shiro’s gunmetal eyes, he thinks he might just give it a try.

“So tell me about yourself,” Shiro’s voice is a burning ember stoked within the crashing roar of the bar patrons around them as he leans forward, gaze filled with intent as he breaks the awkward silence of their booth. It makes Keith’s heart flip a perfect 10 from the judges within his chest as he opts to throw back the last of his beer if only to buy himself a bit more time.

The smooth IPA washed down his minor panic, leaving nothing but feigned confidence in its wake as he emerged from behind the emptied glass.

“I’m not sure what else you want to know, Shirogane,” he says just as smoothly, leveling him with a careful arch of his brow as he settling back into the booth as he raised a finger with each point he made.

“I’m a Beta, I clearly like the pain of this major, and I’m the one that kicks your ass every weekend in beer pong. What more do you want to know?”

Deep lines crinkle the edges of Shiro’s almond eyes as he pulls his forearm up to rest his chin on his open palm. It makes him look younger, almost wistful.

“Shiro,” he answers, tucking his grin behind a careful sip of his beer.

“What?” Keith’s voice is a flatline as loses his train of thought to the slow drag of Shiro’s tongue along the slick liquid that coated his top lip.

“My friends call me Shiro,” the Alpha bites out, turning his smile predatory as his eyes glow with the dumbly breathless nature of Keith’s voice. Friends, was not the right word at all.

Friends, held a connotation that he never wanted a part in.

Friends, was something he wouldn’t have even wanted to be even if they hadn’t landed themselves in rival fraternities that pitted them against each other every weekend.

What Keith wanted, was something a lot stronger. He wants late nights, secret smiles and names gasped into the darkness of night.

What he wants, are early mornings, soft sunlight with softer kisses and his eggs over easy.

That, however, is a secret that he would take with him right to his grave, because Keith was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a traitor. No matter how enticing Shiro’s crescent smile and starlit eyes are.

Settling back into the careful composure of his well worn scowl, Keith lifts his glass in Shiro’s direction.

“I’ll stick with Shirogane, then, thanks,” he says brusquely as he raises the glass to his lips in an attempt to hide behind another swig of beer that he forgets isn’t there until he sees the flash of Shiro’s eyes as they meet his gaze through the emptied bottom of his glass.

Heat sparks in his chest, sending a flare racing up his neck and across the rise of his cheeks at the sound of Shiro’s husking laugh as, in a show of dominance, he tossed back the rest of his own drink.

“Looks like we’re ready for something stronger.”

The words, accompanied with a wink, carry Shiro away as Keith opened his mouth around a silent protest just seconds too late. A dryness fills his throat as he watches his classmate push through the crowd, ignoring the lingering eyes as he passes until he reached the bar.

From here, Keith gets a front row seat to the snug fit of his jeans, and the way his navy henley pulls across his shoulders, the fabric set just this side of too tight in a way that would make him go weak in the knees if he was standing.

Good thing he wasn’t.

Even from behind, Keith can see the confidence that holds Shiro’s head high as he starts to speak with the bartender. He can imagine the easy smile that would work itself high in the full of his lips, drawing his cupid bow taut and deepening that damned dimple. Something dark curled itself low in his gut as he watched the bartender toss back his head with a laugh, the sound of it snatched away by the sound of Chumbawumba calling out for one Danny Boy. Light flashes off his glasses as he returns his gaze to Shiro, his own mouth split wide as he reaches beneath the bar.

Keith shaking his head as he watches, shaking the blackened thoughts from his head as he turns away, biting down on his lip until he tastes the sharp tang of blood. If he didn’t know better, he’d think the tart taste on the back of his tongue was jealousy.

Good thing he did.

A tray of shots materializes in front of him, their contents sloshing over their sides as they’re dropped unceremoniously with a clatter on the table before him, causing him to jump as Shiro pushes himself back into his side of the booth.

“Are you up for a game?” Shiro asks, the silver of his eyes muted with a dark challenge as he licks across a sharpened canine. It’s a feral move that cracks that pesky space between Keith’s ribs wide with the brambles of sticky, sharp desire. It buries itself deep into his bones, forcing the gaps further and further apart until he isn’t sure he’d be able to keep breathing.

Crossing his arms over his chest in an attempt to hold it together, Keith tilts his chin high in defiance.

“I’m always up for kicking your ass, Shirogane,” he growls, pushing the words through his gritted teeth. A storm cloud rumbles across Shiro’s face as a hungry shadow turned it hard in a fleeting moment that makes Keith’s heart race. 

The air thickens between them, catching with the same static that fills the air before a tempest as they hold each others gazes over the tray of sharp smelling alcohol.

It would be something of a perfect moment if only Keith could hear something other than that damned song starting over yet again.

“What’re the rules?” He breathes, shattering the moment as Shiro shakes his head briefly, his gaze returning to their teasing shine as he reaches for the glasses between them.

“Simple,” he says with a shrug as he divvies up the shots until there are an equal amount on either side of the table. Six a piece.

Keith’s stomach turns.  

“I ask a question, if you don’t want to answer, you drink. You ask a question, if I don’t want to answer, I drink.”

It’s said easily, as if it the statement isn’t filled with all the makings of a trap. Shiro was handing Keith the opportunity to make this last as long— or as short— as possible. All he needs to do, is leave all his questions unanswered.

Six shots weren’t that many in the grand scheme of things, after all.

Keith’s certain he’s done more than that before.

Granted, that night had ended in a promise that he’d never drink again.

But hey. He never said he was perfect.

“Easy enough,” he agrees against the better judgement that screamed at him in the form of a strangely Hunk shaped angel on his shoulder. Smiling all teeth, he grabs one of the shot glasses and gathers it between his palms.

He takes a vodka drink, indeed.

“I’m glad we can agree.” A small shiver dances it way down the grooves of his spine as he watched Shiro’s hand fold around his own. “And in a show of good faith, I’ll let you go first.”

Violet catches steel as they eye each other. Lightning gathers along Keith’s skin as he hums lowly in faux thought as he thumbs the lip of his shot glass.

“Why aerospace engineering?” He asks finally, reveling in the way Shiro’s eyes widen at the tameness of the question. It’s a throwaway question meant to test the waters of Shiro’s intent, and Keith is sure he’s found it in the moments of silence that pass before he pulls himself back together to offer a low chuckle as he let’s his head hang with it.

“Would you believe me if I said I just love space?” Shiro asks, open and honest before him, coloring his tone a shimmery shade with a hidden plea to leave it at that. It flushes his system with curiosity as he let’s his eyes openly roam over the Alpha as if he could pull the truth from within his mind before shrugging noncommittally.

“Don’t see why I wouldn’t.” And though he tries to play it off coolly, Keith realizes that he means it. Through the weekly competitions and their short time as essay partners, Shiro had never given him any reason to question his sincerity. It was most of the reason why his heart always seemed to batter itself against the inside of his chest whenever he was near.

Shiro’s fingers rolled the shot glass back and forth within his grasp before he spoke.

“What about you?”

Keith’s reaction is instinctual as his hand twitches around the slick glass. He knows that he should throw it down for the sake of being one shot down and a bit closer to freedom. That would be the smart thing to do.

But there’s a heat pooling in his stomach and licking the inside of his veins and he wants. He wants so badly, that he’s sure he’s going to burn with it.

More importantly, he’s sure he’d enjoy it.

“I want to be free.�� The words leave his lips before he can pick them apart. They carry a weight that hangs between them as Shiro nods in understanding that stokes the flames charring his insides.

“There’s something about the idea of making it up there that sounds like the best kind of escape.”

Pausing, he drags his gaze up from the clear liquid in his glass, filling his smile with wickedness  as he winks.

“And I just love space.” It earns him a bright laugh that dances over him as Shiro raises his shot toward him.

“Touché.”

“Why’d you choose the Alphas?” Keith throws out quickly once his laughter has died down, pulling his brow up in question as Shiro swallows down his shot without pause. There’s a sharp click of glass against wood as he drops it on the corner of their table with a hiss.

“Well color me intrigued,” he says with a laugh as Shiro grabs his next victim, shrugging a shoulder as he keeps his eyes down.

“I’d tell you if we were friends but apparently we aren’t.” His smile goes sharp, filled with the same bite as a wolf. It only grows more pointed as his voice dips into nonchalance.

“Which, why don’t you want to be?”

Air seizes in Keith’s throat as panic stings his edges, leaving him buzzing as he tries to swallow it down. Suddenly, the shot warming against his palm feels like bullet as he realizes taking it would only prove he had something to hide.

Though, from the way Shiro’s grin widens, he’s sure he already knows.

“You’re an Alpha,” he tries, ignoring the way his voice sounds strangled even to his own ears. Keith doesn’t even want to imagine what it sounds like to Shiro’s. 

Like the confession he was hoping to avoid, maybe?

The very thought fills his throat with the bitter sting of bile.

Tsking softly, Shiro raises a finger at him and wags it slowly as he falls into mock disapproval, shaking his head in time with each hardened sound.

“That, sounds like a lie, and a lie is two shots,” he says mercilessly as he uses that same shaming finger to push another one of Keith’s shots toward him. It stares up at him, it’s clear stare reveling that of Shiro’s silver as he cuts his glance between the two before he sighs.

At the very least, Shiro is letting it go, and he’ll play by the rules if it meant being able to hide the truth beneath the acrid taste of vodka.

The first shot burns the entire way down.

“Making up rules as we go, are you?” Keith hums, not putting much force behind it as he grabs the second.

It chases the first’s flames with a kamikaze crash.

“Guess you’ll never know.” Shiro’s laugh is kindling to the fire that the vodka has already set, and Keith can feel it snapping and popping as it grows at his core. Mixed with the pleasant buzz of his first beer, there’s a happy kind of tingle that’s making his fingertips feels like lightning clouds as he palms his third shot. It bubbles up within him until he finds himself laughing as well.

He can feel the weight of Shiro’s gaze on him, but he doesn’t care, because in that moment he can pretend that maybe this is something more than two classmates celebrating the end of a partnership neither of them had even asked for.

“Who’s the guy you’re always with?” The next question comes after his laughter has dried up, and it causes him pause as he tilts his head, pulling his brows together in question.

There’s only one person that Shiro could mean, and that’s—

“Hunk?” He asks, though he supposes Shiro wouldn’t actually know. That would make the question moot, though he figures it should be anyway.

Shiro doesn’t have much of a reason to care who his friends are.

“He’s my best friend.”

Silver cuts into him, carving deep grooves into his skin as if he was trying to decide if Keith’s answer is a lie. It tickles his insides and turns his cheeks a light pink as the alcohol makes him warm beneath the stare. Suddenly, Keith wonders if maybe he does have a reason, because something about that look feels exciting.

Feels like maybe Shiro understands the way his fingers are screaming out to touch.

The corner of his mouth twitches up around a smirk as he leans forward on his forearms.

“Why, are you jealous?” He breathes. Shiro holds his gaze as he snatches up his next shot, throwing it back and baring his throat before dropping it in his shot glass graveyard.

A thrill runs through Keith that makes the edges of his vision light as he mirrors his stance and pushes himself forward against the table.

“Do you want me to be?” Shiro returns, barely hiding his smile as Keith opens his throat around another mouthful of vodka. It’s accompanied by the sound of his triumphant laughter mixed with the sweet, dulcet sounds of Tubthumping.

“Why do you want to be my friend so badly?” Keith volleys before the glass hits the wood, not even bothering to drop it by the empties.

The game had gotten interesting, and there was no point in pretense anymore.

Shining steel flicks downward as Shiro considers his words, mulling them over between the teeth he’s running over his bottom lip. And then he’s looking up and painting Keith’s vision a metallic shade as all else falls away. It leaves him feeling light, as if he’s about to float away, and now he remembers why he promised to never do shots again.

“I tried to tell you last year, you’re my type.”

He says it like a summer breeze. As if it were easy. As if it was right. As if it doesn’t set Keith ablaze and fill his lungs with smoke as he shakes his head.

“Lie, take two,” he manages as he tries to smoothly push one of Shiro’s shots toward him. Vodka spills over the side and slicks the table beneath it as he ignores it, instead smearing it along the table top as he pushes the glass further. Everything goes loud around them as Keith finds himself sinking beneath Shiro’s starlight gaze as he searches for something that only he could know.

“My turn,” Shiro’s voice is pitched low as he drops his stare to Keith’s mouth. In a brief moment of clarity, he notices the way it’s gone almost black.

“Kiss me?”

Everything stops and speeds up all at once as Keith finds himself floundering, crushed beneath the question. He should pull away.

He should laugh it off and take his shot.

He should bite back the gasp that has parted his lips.

But this is a game of what he should do, and what he does, and what Keith does, is none of the above.

Instead, he finds himself moving forward, his body propelled by the heat of Absolut and desire until he feels the unyielding pressure of Shiro’s mouth against his. It gathers the glowing heat of a star in his ribcage as they move against each other. Licking into his mouth, Keith steals the moan from Shiro’s tongue as he curls his fingers into the fabric of his shirt to hold him steady.

The new star incinerates his bone and his skin before building him back up and he’s certain he can see new universes glowing against the backs of his eyelids.

It’s too little and all to much as the room starts to burn around him, leaving a single point of clarity in the form of a heated palm against his nape.

That very palm, is the last thing Keith remembers as everything falls away into darkness, leaving nothing but the echo of that god forsaken song in its wake.

You’re never gonna keep me down.

***

Pain slices through Keith’s temple as he’s awakened by the sudden violence of his alarm going off. Eyes flying open as he pushes his way up from his bed, he grabs for the trash just to the side of his bed, managing to get it into his lap before his stomach empties its contents into the bottom of its cheap plastic.

This was it, the big one. The one where he promises to never drink again, and actually means it.

Why was he even taking shots to begin with?

Moments pass as his mind races to catch up with with his pulse that’s racing in his ears before it crashes down around him. Snippets of memory play before his eyes in dark fragments, set to a soundtrack of Chumbawumba.

There had been a strong arm wrapped around his waist that helped him stumble from the bar.

A deep laugh at some bad joke Keith had told.

A steady hand that had pressed into his chest and pushed him into his bed before pulling the covers up to his chin.

There had been the soft brush of lips against his cheek.

Keith’s breath quickens as he presses his fingertips to the crest of his cheek as if to chase the phantom sensation that burns there. Shiro had brought him home.

Shiro had tucked him into bed.

Blanching at the thought, Keith threw his legs over the edge of his bed, ignoring the tug of his blankets as they fall to the floor.

Something bright catches his vision as his eyes are pulled toward a glass on his nightstand. And beside it, two white capsules and a note.

With one hand clutching the trash can to his chest, Keith reaches for the pills, letting his fingers drag over the top of squared letters that sit beneath them. Each blue ink mark is another scar against his ribs as he reads the words.

Take this, and learn how to hold your liquor :)

He’s definitely never drinking again.

Groaning loudly, and wincing at the flare of pain it causes in his temple, Keith tosses the pills into his mouth, ignoring the water as he swallows them down dry to chase after his heart that was still rapidly beating in his throat.

********************