#jonathan pine fic

[five-miles-over]

The Forbidden Room - Part One

Summary: During a late night alone in the lobby of the Hotel Meister, you - a student at the University of Zurich - meet the charming night manager Mr.Jonathan Pine. And what starts out as simply two strangers getting to know each other turns into something more when Pine shows you a secret part of the hotel.

Warnings: Innocence/corruption kink, age gap (reader is of legal age, maybe 19?), sheltered reader has overprotective parents, mentions of strip poker, some comfort/fluff

Word Count: 4,234

"My name is Pine. I'm the night manager."

Sitting in the empty, luxurious lobby of Hotel Meister, you looked up from your hardcover copy of  Henry V. You wore a little black dress, matching flats, and red-tinted lip balm, with your hair remaining as close as possible to its natural texture. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Pine." You offered the tall, blond man standing in front of you a smile.

"And you are…?" Jonathan's eyes traveled over your form, and his thin, pink lips reciprocated your smile. 

You gave him your first name, crossing one leg over the other and placing the book in your lap. 

"It's nearly eleven-thirty. What are you doing here by yourself?"

"Oh," you craned your head to glance at the gilded windows of the hotel. "I…I'm so sorry, I didn't realize the time. I…" You closed your eyes and shook your head. "I was here to have dinner at the restaurant, and after I finished, I was hoping for some time to read, and to enjoy the…the ambience of this place. Sorry, I didn't realize it was so late."

The night manager chuckled, and he glanced at the hardcover. "No need to apologize. Are you a big reader?"

You nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "Yeah, always was."

"You must be quite intelligent." After a moment, Jonathan sat next to you. "Are you here on holiday?"

"No," you gently corrected him, sharing that you were actually a student at the University of Zurich, studying history and political science. 

Jonathan listened intently, his smile widening just a little. "So…what's a lovely, intelligent young woman doing here all alone tonight? No boyfriend or perhaps a date?"

You nervously chuckled. "Actually, I…I have never had a boyfriend before. Or have ever been on a date. No boy was ever interested in me like that."

He raised his eyebrows, and a small laugh escaped. "That's impossible. A young woman like you…pretty and smart. How could no one have noticed that? Unless…" Jonathan bit his lower lip. "Unless you're not interested in dating. How long have you been single?"

"My whole life?" You shrugged. "My parents were protective; I wasn't encouraged to have a boyfriend or date."

A more clear picture of you formed inside Jonathan's mind as you spoke: a picture of a young woman who was constantly guided to focus on her studies, someone who'd never gone to parties or dated people, someone with an innocent demeanor. "So you've been a good girl your whole life?"

"I…I was the good girl." You confessed. "Perhaps I still am." Leaning forward, you rubbed your knees underneath your dress. "My parents had a lot of rules growing up - no short clothes, no clothes that showed cleavage, no boyfriends, no dating, no sleepover, no swearing, no…running up and down the stairs, no crushes, no bold makeup, and screaming."

The night manager laughed. "And what did you do? Did you rebel, and break a few of those rules? Or were you a perfect girl, like a doll?” His glance flitted towards your hands and knees. “Let me guess…no tattoos or body piercings either?”

“None.” You shook your head with a small giggle. “"Though...there were a few times I used to go to school early, sneak into the bathroom before class started, and put on magenta lipstick behind my parents' back."

Jonathan laughed again, he was already beginning to adore you. "That's very naughty: putting on makeup behind your parents' back. Did they ever notice it?”

“No. If they did, they would’ve scolded me, asking why I would need lipstick for school.” You joined in his laughter, leaning against the leather couch in the hotel lobby. Never before had you felt so safe around an older man whom you'd barely known, yet there was something about this night manager that gave you the sense of protection, like nothing bad was going to happen to you under his watch. Maybe it was just because he was handsome, older, and charismatic. Or perhaps it was because this night manager was meant to be so much more. 

“I bet wearing that lipstick made you feel quite free,” Jonathan surmised. “Tell me, darling…have you ever broken any other rules?”

“I…” You began, your cheeks growing hot. “I…once got caught reading an erotic book that my mum bought when I was twelve years old…I’m not really sure why she bought it, but I snuck into her closet to read bits of it in the morning while getting ready for school. And one morning, my father caught me.”

“And what did he say?” He chuckled, enjoying how comfortable you were to talk to him like this. “Did he get angry?”

“Yeah, he did. He loudly scolded me to stop filling my head with unnecessary things that polluted the mind, and to get ready for school.” You placed one hand over the other. “My mother also got upset with me for reading it, so you sat me down and lectured me about how erotica exploits women."

“They seem quite strict. Did you keep reading the book after they found out?” He tilted his head o the side, out of curiosity. 

“It was my mother’s book. I…I don’t think I ever saw that book again, she probably hid it really well.”

“Perhaps that explains why you seem innocent.” Jonathan teased, a thin row of white teeth present as he smirked. “Your parents never let you do anything! I bet they never let you go to parties or go out to have a good time with a group of friends. You've never even drank alcohol or smoked a cigarette, have you?”

“No cigarettes or alcohol.” You shifted in your seat, crossing one foot over the other. “But I was allowed to go out with a few friends in high school to have ice cream. Only girls though, and my parents had already met those friends.”

“See!” Jonathan remarked. “Your parents were strict with you; your friends couldn't even be male. But you don't seem resentful of your parents, not at all. Why is that?” His playful demeanor shifted into an expression of curiosity.

You shrugged. “Maybe it's because I was given anything I needed. If I wanted a book my parents were willing to buy it for me. Of course it had to be something educational, not dirty. My parents took good care of me, and because of them, I have the privilege of going to a wonderful university.”

The night manager took a breath, relaxing into the couch. “Perhaps you’re right in that sense. But you never got to experience the parties, the dates, the kisses that are so typical of adolescent experiences. Don't the strict norms of your parents make you feel as if you've missed out on some things in life?”

“Sometimes…but it’s not like there was a line of boys waiting to date me or anything like that.” You laughed a little.

“Are you sure?” Jonathan’s lip reverted to a smirk, and he raised an eyebrow. “I doubt it. You’re smart, pretty, and not at all rebellious as we’ve previously established. A girl like you would have made any boy crazy about her.” He leans forward a little. “Maybe they were just too scared to ask you.”

“Maybe.” You blushed, tapping the hardcover book in your lap. "I've talked a lot about myself, I'm sorry. I'm not very good at keeping secrets.”

The night manager chuckled, his cerulean eyes twinkling with amusement. “I love hearing from you, it's a pleasure. You’ve told me about your school days, your parents…even that you wore lipstick behind their backs. You’re not exactly shy.” Jonathan smiled and leaned back on the couch. "Now I think it's time for you to hear about me. What do you want to know?" Jonathan put his hands behind his head as he spoke your name for the first time.

You turned onto your side and ran a hand through your hair. “I want to know...what were you like as a boy, Mr.Pine?”

“Me?” Jonathan looked up, as if he were buying time for his next words. Then, he began to make up a backstory for himself, one that was akin to a young man from a privileged yet troubled background “I was…I happened to be a bit mischievous when I was a boy.” He tilted his head and assumed a jovial tone. “Always stirring up trouble, always getting into something.”

You giggled.

“That’s how I ended up in military school.” Jonathan continued, “There I got involved with a group of boys, and we had our own set of shenanigans.” “What did you do?”

“We…” the night manager narrated with a hint of bravado in his voice, “stole, like a merry little band of thieves. We used to steal from our superiors’ stash of alcohol, even before we were of legal age to be drinking.”

Continuing to giggle, you gazed at him. Just the way he told these things with such conviction made you believe that he was truly someone who’d seen the world, someone who’d been through more things than you could even imagine.

"I swear, we didn't just steal alcohol. Guns, watches, souvenirs,… you name it and we could steal it." A mischievous smile crossed his face. "Do you want to know the biggest thing we ever stole?" 

You nodded eagerly. “Was it an antique?…A tank?”

Jonathan grinned. "No, nothing like that. No, when I was about fifteen or sixteen, my friends and I stole a car - our lieutenant’s car: a nice, new black Corvette. It was risky but we took it at night and went on a joyride in the streets of Dover. It was the best night of our lives.”

With a gasp, you burst into a fit of giggles that made Jonathan’s heart melt. To him, yours was the type of smile that would make someone do a million things just to see that smile reappear. “Wow! Did you..” You bit your lip to stop laughing . “Did you break any speed limits?”

“Of course. We were practically kids,” Jonathan explained. “We went over 160 kilometers per hour a few times, we even had a few shots of vodka while we were driving. Stupid, yeah, but the adrenaline…it was incredible.”

“Did you get pulled over by a police officer?” Your eyes widened.

“Yes. You’re a smart girl.” The night manager admitted, “We got caught by the police and our lieutenant in charge had to come and get us from the station. I remember him yelling at me like never before, I had never seen him like that, it was terrifying.” Jonathan laughed and shook his head. “We were sentenced to corporal punishment for a month, but it was worth it.”

You giggled, still leaning against the couch. “So…how did you grow up? I’m assuming you don’t race cars or steal alcohol anymore.”

“Not anymore.” Jonathan took a deep breath and rested his head against his hand. “I grew older, and eventually had to stop being irresponsible.” “What made you realize that you didn’t want to race cars and steal booze anymore? Was it...when you turned of legal age, and you could have alcohol?”

Jonathan clicked his tongue. “"That's a good question. Well... it was not only when I turned of age, it was... it was when I realized that I could die. I lost someone close because of alcohol.  And when I was deployed across the globe, and nearly lost my life in combat several times. That’s when I realized that life is much more." Jonathan said quietly, a serious expression on his face.

Your smile disappeared. "I'm so sorry, Mr.Pine. I...I couldn't even imagine what that must be like.” You took a breath, straightening yourself. "So...what does life mean to you now?”

"Life... life is a gift. I always try to do the right thing. To do something that impacts others or leaves a small mark on the world.” Jonathan simply said with a small, charismatic smile. "To try to be happy without hurting anyone, and maybe help others along the way. I think that's what life is all about.”

You looked into his eyes with amazement. How could such a wonderful man be so real? “That’s really brave of you to say, Mr. Pine.”

Johnathan eyed you for a moment, and replied. “I have a feeling you’re pretty brave yourself. After all, you moved away from home to study at the University of Zurich, that’s not easy. And you’re here all by yourself in a hotel lobby past eleven-thirty at night.” He stood up from the couch and offered you his hand. “Follow me, I want to show you something.”

You blinked, wrapping your fingers around your book. “W-w-where…where are we going?”  Your legs shaking and your heart pounding inside your chest, you stood up and cautiously followed the night manager.”Mr. Pine, where are we going?”        

"You'll see soon enough...." Jonathan said with a devious smile as he walked further and further away from the lobby without saying a word. 

You shuffled your feet behind him, holding your book in one hand and glancing at the artwork that lined the opulent hallways. Finally, you and Jonathan reached a door near the staff room at the very back of the hotel lobby. Without a word, Jonathan opened the door at the back of the lobby, led you down  a flight of dusty stairs, and near a small door at the end of the staircase revealing a room. Inside the small, dimly-lit room were filing boxes, dust and some old furniture: a coffee table, two sofas, one small fridge, and a bedroom.  "Welcome to the hotel's basement. This is where the... more private activities happen," he introduced with a mischievous smile on his face.

"Private activities?" you trembled, your voice barely louder than a whisper. Taking a few steps, you glanced around to find no window in sight, no way of escaping except for the door, which Jonathan closed with a click. 

Jonathan leaned against the door. “Yes. Private activities. It’s the hotel’s forbidden room, the one place where clients can be sure no one can find out what they’re doing. No one other than the staff, of course.” He crossed his arms, and let out a small, darker chuckle. “Perhaps you can imagine what kind of activities they might be up to in a room like this.”

You swallowed. “Drug deals?…Smuggling.” Your knuckles whitened as you held onto the hardcover book in your hand, while your free hand stroked your own arm in a self-soothing manner.

The night manager smiled and walked towards you. “No. Those aren’t the activities that I had in mind.” His tone turned a bit more flirtatious. “Why don’t you have a seat, darling?”

The word rolled off his tongue like honey, and all of a sudden, you were reminded why you felt so…comfortable around this man. Despite having known him for a few hours - what time was it even?- you felt as if you could tell him anything, and that he would keep you safe. 

“Come on.”

You sat down on the edge of one of the couches, your eyes following his every move with curiosity. “Gambling?”

“Sometimes, but that’s not the most popular thing to take place in this room.” Jonathan laughed, standing an arm’s length from you. “Be honest,” he gently said, calling you by your name, “and tell me what you think happens in a hotel’s forbidden room.” Jonathan looked into your eyes with a hint of seduction. “Don’t be scared, darling. I won’t hurt you.”

After a few moments of silence, you answered with a thick swallow. “Adultery.”

“Something like that.” With a smile, Jonathan placed his hand on your upper arm. “This room is ideal for... discreet affairs. The clients can come with their lovers or mistresses and have a good time with them without anyone knowing. And the staff is sworn to secrecy - they won’t tell a soul. This room is a safe heaven for all those forbidden and hidden romances.”

Your eyes widened, and you felt a slight tingling in your lower stomach, butterflies perhaps. “If it’s supposed to be forbidden, how do people come to know about it without…getting the hotel in trouble? Does the hotel owner know about this?” Your voice grew quieter with every question.

“A forbidden romance can’t be incriminated in this city.” Jonathan simply said, rubbing a circle along your arm. “And because only certain people know about this secret, those who frequent the inner circles of the hotel’s patrons. A rule that the staff and I never break: what happens in this room stays in this room. No words spoken, no information given, no clues.” The night manager smiled. “And do you know what happens when that rule is broken?”

You rifled through your mind, thinking about what you already knew about famous gangsters and their affairs, which probably took place in seedy hotel rooms and luxurious private lounges .“They’re silenced.”

His smile faded. “Exactly.” He leaned in, close enough that you could see the incandescent light of the room reflected in his ocean blue irises. “Now…can I trust you to respect the one rule of this room? Can I trust that you'll never mention anything about what happens in this room?” 

You bit the inside of your cheek and watched as Jonathan let go of your arm and sat down on the other sofa. “You can..You can trust me, Mr. Pine. But tell me why we’re here.”

“I didn’t want you sitting in the lobby all night, a place open to the public. This way, you’ll have a bit more privacy without having to take one of the guest rooms. Now,” he began, “let me tell you what kind of activities I had what kind of activities I had in mind for this room. And if you like them, we’ll do them. Alright?”

Placing your book on the coffee table, you nodded. “What did you have in mind, Mr. Pine?”

“Well... first I was going to invite you to drink some champagne with me. To celebrate our new friendship and to make sure you're relaxed.” Jonathan stood up and walked to the small fridge "Then... I was thinking that we could start with a game of strip poker. If you lose a round, you have to take off one piece of clothing. And we'll see where that takes us." Jonathan said with a flirtatious smile. "Sounds good?”

You shook your head. “I don’t know…”

Jonathan continued to smile, confident that he could get you to change your mind. “What if you win? What if I'm the one that has to take off a piece of clothing?” He opened the fridge and reached inside it, grabbing a bottles of champagne. "Come on. You only live once, darling. It's time to do something dangerous and live a little. And this is the perfect place for it, don't you think?”

“But…why me?” You quietly asked, looking up at him with shaking hands. “Why…why would you do this? Bringing me here of all places?”

The night manger set the bottle of champagne down, and his demeanor morphed into a caring one, almost protective. He put his hands in the pockets of his blazer, and gazed upon you as if you were a rare, exquisite piece of living art.

“Because I think you’re someone special, darling. I think you're smarter and braver than you think you are. I have a gut feeling that says we're going to get along and understand each other. I like talking to you, I believe that we could have... something special. And if you let me, I want to show you a night you'll never forget.” Approaching you again, the night manager brushed the back of his finger along your shoulder. His eyes seemed to soften from their striking ocean hue to a soft shade of pale blue. “I want you to have fun, experience new things, to live a little.” He took a step towards you. “Would you let me make this night unforgettable for you, darling?”

You blinked, and harshly bit the inside of your cheek, your heart racing at the infinite possibilities of what could unfold throughout the night. Would there be more people involved? Was something illegal going to happen?

 “Yes, Mr. Pine.” You uttered. 

With a rakish smile, Jonathan took the champagne bottle and opened it with a loud pop. The bubbles freely flowed from the bottle until the night manager filled two clear flutes with the golden liquid. Then, he offered you one of the glasses. “To a special night,” he declared with a soft theatricality in his voice, raising the other glass.

That damn smile was enough to make you wrap your fingers around the stem of the glass, clink it against his, and raise it to your lips. “Cheers.” You took a sip of the golden liquid, sucking your lips in while the alcohol trickled down your throat. “It’s…it’s bitter,” you admitted, “but it’s good.”

Jonathan took a drink as well. “That's the effect of alcohol: the first time it tastes bitter and even repulsive. But sooner or later, you discover that it's not so bad. Some people start to enjoy it…others, not so much.” He took another gulp and emptied the contents of his glass. “Just be slow with your drink, take your time. If at any point you feel uncomfortable, please tell me. Alright, darling?”

You nodded. Your fingers crept towards the rim of the champagne glass as Jonathan knelt before you. He took your free hand in his, looked into your eyes with a sincere expression, and murmured your name. “I think you’re very beautiful.” His large, pale fingers stroked the back of your knuckles. “Would you let me give you a kiss?” 

You took another sip and gently set the glass aside. Never had you been kissed before and yet here you were, alone with one of the most charming men you had ever seen in real life. And this man, this elegant variant of a man was asking to kiss you. 

“Just a kiss,” you agreed, leaning towards the night manager. Closing your eyes, you felt his lips, slightly chapped, delicately brushed against yours.

The kiss started off sweet and affectionate, as delicate as a feather, but soon Jonathan’s fingers reached for your hair and pulled you closer. His lips pressed harder against yours, allowing him to savor the aftertaste of champagne on your lips while his fingers rested on your soft cheeks.  After a few moments, you leaned back on the couch and allowed Mr.Pine to take control. He grabbed your waist with his free hand and you put your arms around his broad shoulders, your fingertips enjoying the crisp fabric of his blazer. A little intoxicated by the champagne and a pleasure you never thought you desired, you couldn't help but admire how easily he could overpower you. 

“Mr. Pine…” You breathed after a few moments, breaking the kiss for air. As Jonathan pulled apart from you, you licked your lip, hoping you could catch the aftertaste of his lips.

The night manager blushed as he watched you recover. “Now, for the next part of our night…a game of poker,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, already a bit excited about the game. “Do you know how to play?”

“I know how to play poker,” you answered, straightening yourself. “I learned how to when I was fourteen, some family friends taught me.”

He nodded. “In this game of  poker, we can use anything as a bet: a kiss, an article of clothing, a touch... whatever comes to our minds. But only one rule applies: the loser has to do what the other person asks, no questions asked. Are you okay with it?” Jonathan asks, his voice getting slower and more seductive with each word.

“Okay.” You climbed off the couch and sat on the floor, in front of the old, worn-out coffee table. You couldn’t believe you were actually going to play poker - a game you’d only seen among grown-ups in real life and mafia men in films. And now instead of watching them with awe, you were going to play for the first time. “Do you know where the cards are?”

Jonathan smiled and walks to a nearby cabinet, opening the rickety door to find a dusty box. "They're right here.” He opened the box and fished out two decks of cards, taking one and shuffling them in his hands several times."I give you the deal, do you want to cut the deck first?” 

"Sure." You split the deck of cards into two halves, lifting one half of the cards and placing it face down next to the other half.

Jonathan picked the deck of cards, holding it in his hands. "Here's how we play this game: it's just a simple poker, five cards for each one of us. The person who has the most points wins and he gets to choose the bet of the next round. Do you want to deal the first hand or should I?” 

Part Two

Tagging: @lokischambermaid @smolvenger @lovelysizzlingbluebird @evelyn-kingsley @omgsuperstarg @holdmytesseract @lokidbadguy @stupidthoughtsinwriting @icytrickster17 @thatdummy-girl @fantasyfan4life @anukulee

[occudo]

So... There is this Beauty and the Beast jmart fic by the wonderful @cirrus-grey called Not quite a tale as old as time 👀

[hyperfluffed-scribbles]

recently read this fic by @bifrostworms and i think it altered my brain chemistry. I want to make a full scale drawing at some point but here are some quick doodles for now.

[ellesthots]

Fateful Beginnings

XLI. “guilty as sin?”

parts: previous / next

plot: left reeling from an abrupt interruption, you and Bruce fight a losing battle against rising tides. Crane makes himself clearer than ever before.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, smut, brief mention of past suicide attempt, psychiatric hospital scene, brief seizure

words: 12k

a/n: hiii lovelies !! consider this a holiday gift <3 i thiiiiink it’ll be worth the wait :)

He’d come much too close. And not close enough. Your lips lingered on his like a searing knife. A flame that came too near and singed off the top layer of skin.

His head buzzed as he followed Alfred without thought down the steps. His fingers traced the ghost of you as they skimmed his lower lip. It had only been a second, but you’d sent such a jolt through him that he’d swore he’d been struck by lightning. Why did Gordon have to come now? 

The edges of his vision blurred knowing you were up there waiting; if he’d remembered to shut the door, maybe he could’ve ignored Alfred. Asked to kiss you. Maybe you would’ve reciprocated. Maybe. Then he could’ve tasted you. 

Nah. No way.

His left hand flexed at his waist, holding the tension of a quiver as it grieved the loss of your warm skin. He thudded hard down the last stair, thoughts wandering to how quickly he could get this over with; he hadn’t expected the tension to linger like this, consuming his entire body, even as he shook Gordon and Martinez’s hands and listened to them speak. His hips sitting in the chair didn’t feel right—too hard, too static, he needed to move. 

Something about paperwork regarding something about a court, something about a trial, something about testifying against Risou or signing away the rights. As much as he tried to blink back to the moment and engage with what was in front of him, he remained untethered. 

Focus. Seems straightforward. Jail time and some institutionalizing. That part of him burned again thinking about how animalistically they treated patients. Focus. My word has weight. 

It was a constant refrain as your fingers brushed your bottom lip: why did Alfred have to interrupt? 

You swore you felt a shift in the air—but maybe you wanted to think so. There couldn’t be a world where he had actually wanted to kiss you, right? Where his breath on your neck meant anything... You pulled your legs up to the couch and leaned against the back. Head pounding. Heart racing. 

The room was extraordinarily empty without him. The television’s screensaver ping-ponging within its frame, the gentle whir of the mini fridge to your left. Though the door was open, you couldn’t make anything out; with how unstable your body was, consumed with the shock it just endured, you couldn’t begin to snoop.

At the back of your mind were your worries: would Mar be okay? Would Bruce have to leave? Did someone escape? What happened? Soon after they materialized they were flushed away by the pounding in your mouth and the tingle in your hands and feet. His lips touched mine. Your thoughts were jumbled and incoherent besides. Our mouths touched. 

The caffeine wasn’t helping much, and any possible adrenaline from his abrupt departure had been drained by holding him close. Your heart’s thunderous pace was relentless, even as the seconds turned to minutes and your eyes began to close. 

An hour later Bruce sat with his head in his hands, supported by weak wrists from endless stacks of paperwork. Two untouched mugs of coffee sat where Gordon and Martinez had. Too busy slogging through formalities, they hadn’t bothered. Bruce was glad for it. Could have prolonged their loitering. 

Alfred wandered back with the click of his cane, setting it against his chair while he walked the two cups over to the sink. Bruce knew it was awful, but despite the images from the crime scenes and Martinez’s bright, happy-go-lucky tone while he incessantly spoke, his mind was stuck on the room upstairs and its possibilities. Yet now, when he could finally move back to you, his feet were welded to the floor. 

“Should I anticipate the young lady coming over more often?” The cups clinked together as the man rinsed them, and Bruce tried to play off his surprise.

Should he? “I don’t know.” Something ensnaring had sunk its teeth in and overtaken him; he was drawn to the room like a moth to flame. Had your mouth truly touched his? Not your chin, or some trick of the air?

“It’s good to have a friend.” 

It rang discordantly through him like a bent gong. Friend. When he was procrastinating climbing the stairs to see you because he worried he’d trip and fall onto your lips and lose his hands in your hair. When he was overflowing with unused, pent-up energy that wouldn’t lower to a simmer. 

The alternative of being questioned by Alfred about having a woman upstairs had unglued his feet, not able to bear where he might steer the dialogue next. Within a few seconds he was jogging up the stairs and counting each step.

He repeated a mantra to hype himself up as he stood in the hall. He needed to breathe. That’s all. Breathe. A deep breath, then walk inside… “Sorry for—” 

You were sound asleep on the couch, but he slunk in a few more steps to make sure. Your breaths were long and deep, your eyelids with a slight flutter, both signs that he shouldn’t wake you. Sensing the chill in the room, he padded to Alfred’s study and grabbed the blanket laid atop the chair by the fireplace. He fluffed it in the hall so he wouldn’t disturb, and held his breath as he tossed it over you. In a blip he was gone, sending a text to Alfred through sweaty palms about letting him know if you woke, then descended to the batcave before anything else could be said. 

You startled when you felt something on top of you. An emerald green quilt covered you to your chest, the occasional snags of white thread in its valleys lending a homemade quality. Waking up in unfamiliar rooms started to wear on your sanity, but thankfully Bruce had kept the decorations so slight it didn’t take long to orient. 

Pushing off the blanket Alfred had undoubtedly tossed on, you slapped around for your phone. Getting to your hands and knees revealed it tucked at the bottom of the couch, squarely between the cushion and the arm. 

HOURS. You’d been asleep hours. 

3:02 a.m. was the time blaring from your home screen. You had a single text from Mar updating you with a group picture from Mora’s, but she hadn’t responded to any of the messages you'd sent prior. She hadn’t invited you, though you probably wouldn’t have gone. You didn’t think you were allowed to feel bad in such a case, but it stung.

Impossible to decide if it was a blessing or curse that Bruce was nocturnal, you padded out to the hallway with the quilt wrapped around you like a cape. What had compelled him to make a cape on his suit? Were capes intimidating? Heroic? Distracting?

The stairs were cooler than you remembered, but you stalled after the first set. Standing in the hallway where you’d embraced, like this. The air, the night. Your melancholy was admittedly lower, but you knew a hug from him would fill you the same. You forced yourself down to the foyer, and jumped when you met Bruce sitting in your seat at the table. He startled too.

“I let you sleep, I thought you needed it.” He sounded apologetic, nervous. You shook your head and pursed your lips. 

“No, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” He got up and opened the fridge. You entered the room in full, careful to scoop the edges of the blanket dragging on the ground. “Want anything?”

The eye contact was fleeting; the second your gazes met, you both cut away like a dodged bullet. You snuck to your chair across the table, furthest from where he stood, and nodded. “What do you have?” 

“Bread, cheese, broccoli." He sifted through unknown items and withdrew some ciabatta and a cheddar loaf. 

“Grilled cheese is good.” What you wanted to say was that you didn’t deserve for him to be cooking, that you’d overstayed your welcome, and it was embarrassing you were here. Arguing with your host, however, seemed even more remiss—and you didn’t want him to turn around yet. His presence was stifling. 

While he prepared a pan on the stove, you rolled the quilt into a compact cylinder and placed it on Alfred’s seat. 

“Was that warm enough?”

“Yeah, perfect.” Had Bruce given it to you? “Thanks.” 

He didn’t respond, busy slicing cheese and toasting the bread. Had he noticed what had happened upstairs? You couldn’t have imagined it. You really, really couldn’t have…

“Want a drink?”

Each syllable was a firework popping. 

“Think there’s juice.”

You got up while he placed the bread in the pan. A container of orange juice glistened on the top shelf, and you followed Bruce’s opening of the cupboard to his left and grabbed two glasses. 

The drink was sweet, with a tang that was an ideal distraction from the elephant in the room. If he wouldn’t mention it, you weren’t opening that can of worms either. 

Seeing as he’d only made one sandwich, which he put on a single plate and walked over to you, you sought to test the waters after taking a bite. Maybe it would ease the pressure. “You call that a sandwich?”

Bruce straightened, his eyes narrowing. “What do you mean?”

Admittedly, it was delicious. “It’s fine, but…” you eyed the pan on the stove. Feigning a groan, you rolled up your sleeves and grabbed the spatula. He moved to stand but you waved him down. “I’ll show you how it’s done.”

As you began making the sandwich the exact same way he had, placing the toast down, the cheese on top, flipping it at the same time, he grew increasingly suspicious. “That’s how I made it.”

“It’s different.” You flipped the sandwich once more, then placed it on a small plate from the cup cabinet. You sat it at his table setting and gestured to him. “Try it.”

Bruce looked up at you with discernment. You bit your cheek to stave off a laugh. Slowly, almost methodically and with a great hesitance, he picked up the sandwich and took a bite. It didn’t take a second for him to catch on, speaking with food in his mouth. “Tastes the same.”

“Probably won’t taste it on the first bite, detective.” You put the spatula away, wondering if you shouldn’t do the dishes to make the load easier on Alfred in the morning. Or their housekeeper. Or whoever did the cleaning in the kitchen. The gentle crunch of another bite was music to your ears, and turning back toward him revealed the most concentrated expression you’d ever seen him make. It was a brutal ordeal not to fall to the floor and laugh until you saw stars.

He opened his mouth with what you were certain would be another comment about how it was not different, so you interrupted. “Just take a few bites. Really think of the flavors.” Slowly, you wandered back to your seat opposite him. He was almost entirely finished with the sandwich, and had just swallowed an especially large bite. Perfect.

He was almost glaring. “Are you messing with me?” His brows were knit together, his jaw tight, his eyes roaming the tabletop as he struggled to uncover the difference. 

Once his gaze landed squarely on you, you folded. He lowered what remained of the sandwich as you barely held a laugh. “Why would I ever mess with you to get you to eat?”

Bruce’s eyes flashed, but yours were already shut with silent, full-bellied laughter. Something about how late at night it was. How dark the kitchen was. How seriously he took things. How awkward things felt after your embrace. When you managed to open your eyes a good twenty seconds later, you noticed the flicker of a smile on his lips. 

He’d totally fallen for it. While he wanted to join in on your contagious laughter, he felt supremely unnerved. He bought himself time by moving the plate to the sink, hoping your laughter wouldn’t be so easily contained as he waded through confusing thoughts. 

Only twice in recent memory had he forgone his own perception for the words of another, and both belonged to you. He recalled the creature vividly; in fact, at least once a week it would infiltrate his dreams. But you had a different story—so he bowed to you. He wanted to feel stupid for overthinking a grilled cheese at three in the morning, but it hung over him like nothing else. Not a raincloud, per se… that was too sinister, too foggy.

He peeked over his shoulder to watch you pour another glass of juice. A blanket, maybe? A weighted blanket? It was a heavy feeling, but one he wasn’t so nervous to give in to. Like something supposed to soothe. Why did he believe you so easily, and why did he want to believe you? It couldn’t be familiarity; if Alfred had tried the same antics, he would’ve outright refused. Possibly taken one bite, then made it clear the two sandwiches were precisely the same… God, it was ridiculous. 

A chuckle escaped him. It must’ve been at the precise time you’d taken a particularly big sip, because he heard the strangest, bubbliest garbling sound and turned to see you with chipmunk cheeks struggling not to blow your drink. Another laugh ripped out of him, and you slapped the table and shook your head, eyes crinkled with humor pleading for him to shut up. Bruce bit his lip and turned away, breathing tightly through his nose. 

He liked hearing you laugh. He liked seeing you playful and lively. He liked having you in his kitchen, even if he might have to mop after you went to bed if you couldn’t get it under control. He looked to check if you’d managed, and you had. Your bright eyes staring back at him from across the room. You were alone again, and he swallowed thickly. He could move the pitcher to the counter, the same with your glass. Shove the placemats to the floor…

“Not gonna finish it?”

He glanced at the quarter of sandwich left, his eyes blurring the edges of the toast as his pupils struggled to focus. He popped it into his mouth and centered on the taste of the cheese and roughness of the bread against his tongue. It was barely enough to keep himself tethered as he plunked into his seat. 

You grinned and asked about what went down with Gordon, and he responded with the most detail he could muster: it wasn’t much. All his effort channeled into what you were saying, because the other side of the seesaw was hyperfixated on your mouth. No, your eyes. Your lashes. Your fingers. The intangible location of your voice ringing in his head. Whew.

And so you talked for the next hour. Trying to pretend like you hadn't clung to each other like koalas mere hours ago, hoping he was forgiving about you tricking him into eating, playing a cat and mouse game with eye contact that drew progressively more tense though the conversation remained logistical. 

The topics weren’t enthralling by any means; updates about the people you’d help house (all situated, some starting new jobs soon), opinions about the candidates for mayor (you and him agreed that Mr. March was what Gotham needed, but were unsure if he’d break in with such genuine focus on people over profit), and a bit about how the election was covered in other states (as you told him: ‘almost nonexistent’). Regardless of how exciting the discussion was or was not, the simple act of engaging with Bruce was addicting.

You truly didn’t talk about anything invigorating, or even anything about each other or your individual lives—the time just flew. By the time you both started talking about each other, the room was misty, and you couldn’t stop staring at his mouth when he spoke. 

“Speaking of,” Bruce piggybacked on the campaign talk to direct things more personally. Each time he went to City Hall, he risked being found out. Each time you went there, you risked being openly harassed—if you hadn’t been already and had the foresight not to tell him. 

“How do you deal with being treated that way at meetings?” He intensely focused, like you were about to say some ancient, secret code he couldn’t miss a second of. While it felt like being spotlit, it was so unusual for you to hold anyone’s attention that it was frightfully endearing. You didn’t have to ponder long for the answer to spill. 

“I just think about how pointless it is to value their opinions. I don’t respect them.” You took another sip of the juice as you shrugged. His eyeline followed the glass, perceptive as ever. “If they think I’m weird, or gross, or whatever else, it probably means I’m doing something right.” Even as you said the words, you struggled to internalize them. Though you technically believed it, your chronically unmet desire to be valued proved a shaky foundation to dismiss scrutiny. You wrapped your arms around your chest, noticing a subtle flick of Bruce’s eyes down and back again. “And I don’t like them anyway. Why do I care what they think of me?”

He wished he could walk into rooms and not care. Throw away their opinions without thought. As a Wayne, this was another way he was isolated from normalcy. His gaze cast down from yours, following a small crack in the wood midway through the table length. He had to play into the elite’s hand; he didn’t have a choice. He was more them than the other way around. “Easier said.”

“I guess it’s about caring more what I think.”

He looked again at those beautiful eyes. Why should he care if they thought he was an idiot? Did they define his family’s legacy, or did he? After all, did the public decide if Batman was good or evil? When he stopped people from getting mugged? Saved kids from trauma? He followed your fingers as they wrapped around the glass. When he stopped you from being assaulted?

Bruce’s eyes had trailed again to his own fingers and thumbs. You prompted him. “What?”

Lamenting on the public’s opinion had pulled the air from the room. Did he value a public that had stolen his family? A public which, until very recently, had all but smited Batman, and condemned the Wayne legacy to a drugged-up skeleton hiding in his tower? 

“My mom.” He sighed from the bottom of his lungs. You followed his rapid blinking, how his eyes scattered across the table. His voice was more timid than you knew it to be, his body fidgeting. “She, uh.” He bit his lip, and you flung away creeping thoughts. “I spent most of my time with her. She lived as if there was always an audience.” Memories of her toying with the hem of her pajamas during a movie night, checking the mirror she kept in her pocket to see if her lipstick had moved. Even when she was alone, she had to be camera-ready. What had she endured to make her behave that way? How little did he know her? Know them?

And he hated to say that. Lived. 

His brows fused together, his back straightening to meet the chair. You leaned forward, hoping he knew you were a willing, attentive audience to any part of his mind. That these moments were gifts, not burdens. He didn’t look up.

“You’re right.” You struggled to avoid the jump in your stomach at his acknowledgement. “Living for the public’s estimation is borrowing a legacy. Can be taken at any point.” He sat in silence after that, time which allowed a smile to spread to your eyes and your chin to rest in your hands. 

“Keep going.” His eyes stuttered up to yours, and the slightest tinge of pink speckled his cheekbones. 

“About what?”

“Anything.”

He flushed to red, and your thoughts became jumbled again. So sweet. His lack of arrogance was staggeringly apparent, and rapidly becoming the hottest thing about him. It was terrifically difficult not to think about how that humility might translate elsewhere.

An expanse of possibilities had his mind inching toward disaster. Surely ‘anything’ didn’t include making a speech about how nice you looked, or how much he enjoyed seeing you across his table. The neckline of a tee had never bothered him before, but now it chafed. He glommed onto the first question in an effort to distract from the tension building in his chest. The question spiraled out of his journals and into the open air between you. “The meetings. How do I throw people off?”

“Of Batman?” Taking advantage of the single space you could reveal his alter ego felt holy. It made him feel larger, a little more imposing. The tired frame of the man in front of you was the same armored creature slinking through shadows in the night. Too often you forgot that, and now it was scintillating. He nodded. The room heated a few degrees. You wrung your hands together beneath the table, suddenly clammy. Well, to start… his eyes were so Vengeance it was virtually comical. He noticed the flicker.

“Tell me.”

You might tell him anything. He could rifle through your thoughts like you’d handed him a stack of your journals back home. Reminiscing on that moment where you’d faltered an apology to the faceless man, and the click of your eyes on his that spurred instant recognition. If you could slow it down, piece it out any further, you would. But it was simple. Agonizingly simple. 

“You can’t really wear colored contacts, so.” 

His eyes narrowed. You knew he was suspicious. For all he knew, you could’ve been stalking him for months and tracking his every whereabout, and you didn’t have any way to convince him otherwise. “You actually recognized me from my eyes?”

Crossing your fingers he wouldn’t notice your increased consideration, you soaked in the possibility that you’d been enamored from the beginning. His absorbing eyes, just as expressive as they were right now. Oh, if he kept looking at you... “Guess so.” 

He shifted in his seat, something you read into far too deeply. His fingers tapped the table’s edge, occasionally clenching to grip it. Speaking of absorbing.

Your attention focused on his fingers, and he realized you’d been staring at them. He tucked his hand into his lap, fingers straining toward something he couldn’t get. He tracked your eyes to the jug, noting you swallow when your lashes fluttered. The air in his lungs compressed. “Nothing else?”

You had a twinge of doubt; a shred that dissipated when you and him walked arm in arm and you’d felt how stacked his muscles were. Something you never would’ve known hid beneath his oversized wool coat. You mustered enough energy to stop blush from creeping onto your cheeks. Unfortunately, it meant not leaving enough to refrain stumbling over words. “You’re uh, pretty dense. Walking me to the hallway, muscly. Felt them, it.” To make matters worse, you’d said it while making ceaseless eye contact, so you noticed every twitch in his face when you did. Don’t breathe, don’t blush, don’t let oxygen get to your head…

“Lose the muscle, then.” 

You couldn't make out if he was joking. “Yeah. Don’t need ‘em.” You wanted to demand he stop boring his eyes into you. You were parched and desperately needed relief, but your hands shook and rattled against your thighs. You’d cause a scene if he kept it up too long. 

“What would’ve thrown you off?”

You hummed, wondering if any combination of traits or behavior could’ve convinced you that a person of the precise build and brooding demeanor was not a vigilante. Separating him and Batman was impossible. You dug your palm against your chin to freeze the tremble as you mused his question in avoidance of your blooming desire. “I don’t know.” His eyes dropped to your mouth, and you reflexively bit your lip. “Clumsy. Talkative. Casual, maybe. Batman seems so… cold, and calculated. So serious, and uptight.”

“I have to be. My family.”

“They already assume the worst of you, what’s some superficiality?” You stuttered when you noted he continued to linger on your lips. “You need something that gives an alibi to your nights.”

“Like what?” He was looking at you again, and you went weak. 

Your face heated to a fever pitch. If there was one quality Batman didn’t possess, it was sex appeal. At least, not in how he, uh. You hollowed thinking of how brutal and merciless he could be if he handled you with those gloves, and that armor… “I mean, if you want to lean playboy,” your lips pressed into a hard line, not believing you’d introduced it to the airspace. 

His pause was unraveling. “I can’t bring people here.” 

“Go there?”

The tension pooling in your stomach bubbled into a laugh at the absurdity. His brow quirked. “What?”

“Talking about pimping you out, it’s, it’s ridiculous.” 

That laugh again. He reached for his glass. “Eventually word would get out that I’m not sleeping with them.” 

“Why not?” Too busy taking care of me? You pressed your thighs together.

“Can’t have anything take up my nights.” Why did he—feel jealous? At the thought of touching anyone but you? He released his grip on the cup before he broke it. You bit your cheek, brows cinching. “What?”

“Nothing, it’s weird. Already deleted it.”

He heard tight, shallow breaths escape his nose. Whatever it was, it was likely a good idea. You were full of good ideas. Full of, of… less weirdness than he was right now.

“I was thinking about if you did, but it was fast, but then—”

His eyes flashed. “Fast?”

“I don’t know!” Bruce’s face was bright red, his jaw slack. Get a shovel and bury me. “I told you. It wouldn’t make sense, it would be too short.”

“Too short?”

The room spun. With how goddamn perceptive he was it was a matter of seconds before he noticed the heat in your cheeks, the shake in your hand, and the barely-concealed panting. He laid his palm flat to the table. You felt it painted across your lower back. You squeaked. “I’m feeling tired, um,”

“You can sleep here, same room.” Why did he say that? “As last time.” 

“Okay.” You downed the last of your glass to cool your throat, and grabbed the jug to put back in the fridge. 

You sounded out of breath, he felt breathless, and you were leaving so hurriedly. “Y/N,”

You stood up so fast you slammed your legs into the table and knocked over the juice. It splattered across your shirt and pants, dousing the fabric, and you scrambled to place it upright. “I’m sorry,”

“It’s alright.” His elbow brushed yours as he soaked up the wreckage with a dishrag, and you banged the chair back in an attempt to distance. 

“I need to, um,” the frenetic energy had you about to pass out. 

“You can use the shower upstairs.”

“Thanks.” 

The instant you were out of his eyeline you sprinted up to the bathroom and pushed your back against the door, floundering for air. The nanosecond he heard you in the stairwell he bent over the table and took deep, labored breaths that did nothing to neutralize his headiness. He didn’t know what he meant by saying your name, but his next thought was how you might look splayed out on the table.

Fuck. You tossed your clothes on the counter and got the water running, jumping in despite its freezing temp. It met your blazing skin and melted in small streams down your legs, but it didn’t comfort. You turned the knob hotter. 

Steam tinted the shower glass, adorning the aged shampoo bottles with pearls of dew. Cold didn’t work. Heat didn’t work. So scorching it practically scalded your shoulderblades. It did quicken your heartbeat, but it was already racing. 

That meal was dangerous. Being alone together so late, staying over so often… a plume of hot breath fell out of you. It was a miracle you were showering and not straddling his lap. Was it?

Would it… be so bad? 

It was as though your body had already given in; the room’s lighting was hazy, your breathing increasingly deliberate. You thought back to what Mar had joked about many a night at Mora’s: “There’s no such thing as bad thoughts.” She’d said it while thinking about getting a third or fourth drink, but it settled into the thick of your chest differently now. 

You swallowed hard as you pressed your back to the glass. The coolness brought a gasp to your lips, and your mind shot to Bruce’s sigh against your ear. Your heart was a broken metronome; speeding up as your fingers flexed down your torso, catching when you hesitated.

No bad thoughts, huh?

Your trembling fingers slid across your stomach, then paused. Not in his shower. Not in his bathroom. Not in his home. Not when he’d been so… vulnerable with you. Your throat went dry, your pulse echoing between your thighs in rebellion. How he’d gripped your shirt. His pause. You could’ve sworn… What if he kissed me? Feeling his heartbeat knock against yours and the heat of his breath on your neck threatened the stability of your legs. 

Maybe he’d hate you for fantasizing about him; maybe it was creepy, and horrible, and nasty. Maybe it was inappropriate and weird; maybe you’d loathe yourself in the morning, but the morning wasn’t here, and neither was he. As much as you fucking hated it, you could keep a secret. 

You ached, so sensitive to touch you had to start gently, practicing godly restraint. It took a Herculean effort but you shoved your guilt to the side, telling yourself it could come back when you stepped out of the shower. Right now, as your fingers swirled circles over your clit, you needed to imagine his hands on you or you might die. The all-consuming desire slammed a fever to your cheeks and let your reason slip away with little fight. 

The outside of your thigh flushed beneath the grip of your free hand. You never touched yourself in the shower, the water destroying any lubrication, but it didn’t make any difference when you were this drenched. You kept repositioning, making the circle tighter and tighter with increasingly firm pressure for your fingers to stay in place. 

However he wanted, you were ready—against the wall, on the counter, his bed, his car, Jesus, even the bare ground. You bit your lip to the point of pain as your wrist began to ache, speeding up as you imagined his cock slipping in and out of you. 

“Fuck,” he cursed under his breath, muffled moans slipping past his lips. He could hardly breathe, his air so ragged, body impossibly tense. You’d feel so good, so fucking good, he couldn’t take it. He was so close already. His hips drove off the bed as he chased the image of you. Jesus fucking Christ, he couldn’t think, stroking himself faster and faster, imagining your, oh, your, your mouth, fuck,

Your tongue jammed against your teeth and your jaw trembled as your body tensed toward an orgasm. Lewd, sinful noises of your wet cunt absolutely begging for him to pound into it, slamming deep into you over and over—you could take it, fuck, you could take anything. If he heard you, if he came in right now, if he said he wanted you, you’d fuck him. All fucking night, until you memorized the taste of his fucking sweat and the exact angle that made his eyes roll, oh my GOD—

This was sacrilegious; you were here, and there was no way you felt the, he prayed you wouldn’t hear him—mmm. How would he explain this? Panting and trembling in his bed, envisioning the shapes you could make, how you might sound, how you’d look at him as he… goddamn.

You forced your fingers to slow down, your orgasm building too quickly. Unwillingly pulling your hand away brought a fantasy: he was so fucking frustrating, he would absolutely, positively, god, he would make it hell, wouldn’t he? 

He’d never whined while he stroked himself, never sweat through his sheets, never felt his heartbeat in his temples, but he didn’t want this feeling to end. It was hell moving his hand away, his chest caving into itself as he caught his breath, but he wouldn’t finish until he got enough of you. Enough of your lips on his neck, of your gasps in his ear, of making you feel so, so good… His praise fell out in wanton moans. “Yes baby, perfect, ah, ah,” 

Making you beg, right when you were the most strung out… His voice in your ear telling you no, not yet… lacing his fingers between yours and guiding your hand away. His lips warming your cheek as he kept teasing. Your face going red as you writhed beneath him, begging him to move your hand back, the water pounding the shower floor cloaking your pleads. “Let me just, fuck!” The dull ache in your hand was yours, but that was the beginning and end, all but levitating under his imagined touch.

“Yeah, right there?” His lashes fluttered, his tensing abs creaking the bed as he nearly lost it.

You were even more responsive after only a few second’s break. “OH,”

“Baby,”

You groaned, sighing out gasping pleads for him to fuck you, understanding this feeling had been growing for weeks, realizing how horrendously fuckable he was. Even when he made rude comments, when he was pissy, annoyed, “please,” you begged the air to bring him to you, “please, Bruce, please please,” you were so gone you couldn’t breathe. It was happening so quickly, the tsunami of how it felt to fantasize about him… 

He shut his eyes and imagined you saying his name, begging him to cum. Bruce, let go for me… His brows knit together and his jaw slacked, stroking himself faster when goosebumps tingled up his spine. Faster, his cock twitching, you’re doing so well, baby, so needy… you made him so desperate, so pathetic, nothing but a fucking toy for you… he stroked his cock like it was you gripping him, moaning and grinding on him like it was all yours. It was. He was all yours. All… fucking… 

The tension snapped when you visualized his shower-sodden form standing in the doorway, so real you could almost reach and pull his pants down his hips. Your vision whited out and your heart stalled, an involuntary groan pulling itself out of you as your abdomen tensed forward, folding in on yourself. The guilt sideswept you at your most vulnerable, transforming the pleasure into a sharp knife and the heat in your face to burning coal. 

He’d never wanted someone more, and nowhere was this more evident than the pure flight that was his climax. Maybe calling after you in the kitchen had been a vow, a premonition. Your name fell from his lips like poetry; like water flowing through a river. 

After a speedy wash through riptides of shame and yearning that threatened to drown, you stared at your clump of dirty clothes that had fallen behind the toilet. As much as you trusted Alfred and the maid to keep things pristine, and how you were fairly certain you’d been the only person to use this bathroom in decades, you couldn’t bring yourself to put them back on. You couldn’t bring yourself to move. Couldn’t bring yourself to remember you actually existed.

Standing in your towel, hoping clothes would magically appear, you shivered in front of the massive bathroom door. The steam from the shower was heavy against the mirror, manipulating shapes that looked a lot like sin. The towel was long and thick, arguably the biggest tell that he was a billionaire. You’d never seen a towel so long or so wide, it nearly hung to your ankles. You tightened it and took deep, regulating breaths. The notion of seeing him after he’d consumed your fantasies made you want to die. Your hair was still dripping, your knuckles shaking as they gripped the cotton at full strength. 

You narrowed your glare to the golden doorknob. I can do this. I’ll just walk up and ask for a shirt. It’ll be fine. Just fine. Painfully, you reached for the door, hoping for the metal’s coolness to soothe you, but you’d been in the shower too long. It was warm and slick, matching the temperature of your own skin. Your heartbeat quickened, and you swallowed hard, still acutely aware of the echoes between your legs and praying it wasn’t stamped to your forehead. 

You slammed the door wide and found yourself standing alone in the open hallway. It was dark, thankfully. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to tell you were only in a towel. Maybe he’d already have clothes right by the door and you’d only have to face him for a few seconds. Maybe you wouldn’t even have to look at him. Pretend you got some shampoo in your eye. 

The steps to his doorway were much too difficult. Your legs were lined with lead. You did another pep-talk as you situated in front of his door, making sure to knock with your opposite hand to try and feel less naughty. You released a shivering breath.

Shit. Bruce’s heart stopped when he heard your knock, and he tripped over himself as he stumbled out of bed toward his bathroom. Faster than he’d ever done anything in his life, he desperately bent himself over the sink to wash off his abdomen. The water was too cold, it was making things too sticky, it needed to warm up, warm UP!

Another knock. You would leave if he didn’t show up soon. Maybe you were having a reaction, oh, shit! He grabbed a towel and scraped at his skin and tossed it behind him, throwing on a folded tee atop his dresser as he fumbled his way to the door. He’d bought new Benadryl, but where was it? Had he brought it up with him to the movie room? Was it in the medicine cabinet downstairs? Was it in here somewhere—

“Hi, um.” His eyes landed on your bare shoulders before stuttering up to yours. Your lashes were clumped together from the shower, face flushed from the heat. Probably why he couldn’t get hot water. “Do you have a spare shirt?”

“Yeah.” He could barely hear himself talk over the ringing in his ears. Of course you’d show up like this, not even a few minutes after… he bit his tongue as he turned and ransacked his dresser drawers. His cheeks turned red as it dawned on him that you might have heard… fuck. 

He cleared his throat as he moved to the middle drawers. “Uh, how was your shower?” He hoped you’d say something to the tune of: Oh, long and uneventful. The shower is so loud in there, could hardly hear myself think. Definitely couldn’t hear you jacking off to me. His fingers shook as he pulled on the handles. There seemed to only be pants in the middle drawers, and your faint response reminded him you were stranded in the hallway. “You can come in.” His increasing anxiety nearly made him implode when he heard you step inside. The last drawer came up empty. 

“It um, it was, yeah, fine.” 

He didn’t know whether to look at you or not. He moved silently to his closet, hoping Dory might’ve hung some of his undershirts. Could you see how red his face was? Oh god, did the room smell weird? Could you tell something was off? Were you about to confront him about it? 

He was acting strange. Not so strange as to be concerned, but a bit off. Like you’d interrupted something. How did he spend his evenings when he wasn’t out as Batman? Was he prepping for Batman, but you’d gotten in the way? Did he hate that you were here and felt like he could finally stop the facade, but now he had to plaster on a kindly demeanor? Was this a kindly demeanor? He appeared… frazzled, though that could be a total projection given you’d just climaxed to… you gulped. Not now.

Relief flooded you as you realized his hair was wet, and his shirt clung to his torso. If he’d showered at the same time, he probably couldn’t hear! Your tone was too sunshiney for the apology, but you didn’t have the capacity to manage it. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your shower, I’m sorry, I can wait.”

He hesitated before continuing his thumbing through hangers. “I didn’t shower.” 

The room was silent a few beats. He kept searching through his closet, which was decidedly massive, while you stood clinging to your towel for dear life. You would rather Alfred saw you dripping in the hallway than stand shivering within a few feet of Bruce’s bed. 

His bed looked comfortable. All too inviting. Your attention was split between watching his body move, and trying to take a photograph of the room’s layout with your mind. The guilt that gnawed at you was quieted in his presence, overwhelmed by being with him again. Truly all-consuming; so tall, strong, capable, understanding, smart… he was everything.

In his effort not to make you uncomfortable, he hadn’t looked at you since you knocked. He tried to focus on finding a tee shirt, any non-collared shirt, but kept coming up short. Was this the last shirt he’d just put on? Jesus… 

His attention snagged on the corner of his bed, horror flooding him as he realized he may have left cum on his sheets, or his blanket, and oh god, you might see it— “Uh, you can grab whatever you want in here.” He stepped to the side, waiting for you to step up and start looking before he rushed to the bed and scoured his sheets. 

As you neared, his chest thundered. His body still caked in sweat, he probably smelled like shit, you could probably tell exactly what he’d been doing, you always read him like a book, fuck… he needed to check his bedsheets, make sure there was nothing on them, okay, you were starting to peruse the hangers,

He stepped to turn, eyes locked to his bed just a few feet away, cursing himself for creating a sweat pattern in the sheets, when he heard you gasp. Whipping his head around showed his foot had caught the edge of the towel and yanked it off of you. He squeezed his eyes shut and stepped back, apologies propelling from his chest. “I’m sorry, shit, sorry, sorry,” 

Some rustling and whooshing sounds, then you spoke. Bruce stood in the middle of his room in total darkness, mortified, refusing to open his eyes until you left. He’d accidentally caught a view of your lower back before he’d realized his fuck up, and failed to rid his mind of the image. Sure that his face was beet red, that his sheets were dark with sweat, that his body was beaded with it, his hands and torso still dirty and incriminated, tearing your only covering off of you, he prayed a bomb would explode under his feet and take him to an early grave. 

“Lock a woman in your tower just to get her naked?” He went utterly still until he heard you laugh. You aren’t mad? He felt his heartbeat in his fingertips and the tightness in his chest loosen. “I’m covered now.” 

Blinking back to the room to see you standing in his dress shirt, one button at your waist holding everything together, your eyes crinkled at the edges holding back a smile. His eyes narrowed as if to ask, and you obliged, like you were beginning to share a secret language. 

“I’ll be sure to spill juice on this in the morning.”

Playing it off. He wasn’t about to get in the way. He looked at the white shirt you’d chosen, and smirked. How was he still standing? “Just Dior.” 

“At least it’s not the Prada.” You winked at him and turned to leave, the spin fluffing the back hem enough to skirt his leg. Certainly you could see how enamored he was if you looked back, and right then he might not have cared—but you didn’t. When you shut the door he fell to the edge of the mattress, planting the heel of his palm to his forehead as he caught his breath. You were a goddamn force.

Impossible to stifle your heaving breaths, you moved from his doorway with utmost urgency. The cool air of the tower traveled underneath the linen to relieve your heated skin as you made your getaway up the stairs. You couldn’t believe you’d said that, or winked, or that he’d very likely seen you naked. Or that you were in his home again. Dressed in his clothes. Fresh from a shower where you begged him to be inside you.

Your body already knew which direction to walk; you already knew the height of the knob and weight of the door, and how many steps it took to fall into the bed. It was starting to be normal talking to Bruce. Normal to be in his tower. You both… knew each other. If he’d pulled that towel shtick a month ago you would’ve argued, stormed away, and avoided him at the next meeting like the plague. But you believed he didn’t mean it, and thought it adorable how he’d stammered an apology through a clenched, closed face. Though initially distracted by the accidental kiss (?!), it was endearing how he’d launched into your arms. How you launched into his. 

He felt familiar; he felt safe.

He scrubbed the shirt in the sink, showered, and managed to change his sheets before staring at the ceiling until the sun rose. Whirls of smoke crowded the room, permeated only by drive-by thoughts that attacked just when he thought he might be falling asleep. Of going to your room. Your room. In his home. Knocking on the door. Your door. Admitting that he wanted to listen to you talk. Or stare at you. Or both. Or more. All night.

The thrill was short-lived. Whenever his muscles tensed like he actually might, the ceiling turned to meteors. His reputation. Family. Batman. His heart bled. He would crush you. 

That was something Alfred failed to understand: his life was fundamentally incompatible with others. Either layer was too much on its own, but when they stacked? When he was a Wayne and when he was Batman? What would happen if the world found out? If they threw him in jail, then you too? If he kept up this public persona, which he figured he’d need to, he would only become a bigger and bigger target. What happened to Alfred could happen to you, or worse. 

Even if nothing tragic ended up happening, your life would be irrevocably shifted. You wouldn’t be able to get coffee. Go to bars with your friends. You’d need security outside your apartment, people following you at all times. Always looking over your shoulder, always doubting the motives of whoever wanted to get to know you. Whatever you chose to do for a career would be squashed. After that first headline, you’d live and die by his association. He loathed being under perpetual shadow, preceded in every. little. thing. by preconceived notions, cursed to contrived interactions for eternity. To put you in the blast radius… fuck. He fisted his sheets and grit his teeth until his jaw popped. It couldn’t even be a question. If he wouldn’t wish this on his worst enemy, how could he do it to you?

That was if you felt the same, and how could he ever know for sure? You never failed to speak your mind or put him in his place, absolutely, but the imbalance was too great. Even for you. He’d never trust anything other than the word ‘no’. 

By the time Alfred knocked on his door in the afternoon, he’d cemented his conclusion into a megalith. It was dangerous, cruel, and selfish of him to pursue you. Like Alfred had said: you were a friend. A secret, temporary friend, and he could enjoy his time with you as such. He wouldn’t forgive himself if he pushed it any further, no matter how much he yearned for it. When he considered cutting you off entirely his body locked up, his mind procuring a million alternatives; the most convincing of them being that you were lonely here, and it would be kinder to lend some companionship until you left for home. 

And wouldn’t that be the ultimate show of care? Seeing an incredible flower, wanting to cut it, but letting it grow? He was convinced you’d thank him for sparing you, anyway.

You awoke to gentle taps at your door and someone clearing their throat. “Breakfast is ready. Or—lunch.”

Bruce. The room wasn’t yours, the sheets too expensive for you to mistake them for your own. His shirt had slid off one shoulder and crumpled under your side. “I’ll be right out.” 

Sliding off the bed reminded you that you didn’t have any underwear. How would you sit—

“Dory left your clothes here. Want me to bring them in?”

You pulled the shirt straight and fastened a few buttons. “Sure.”

“Now?”

You grinned. “Now.”

Like a true gentleman, he opened the door slowly and kept his eyes to the ground, holding a shallow wicker basket in front of him where your clothes lay folded with a candy on top. “Dory washed them.”

“Tell her I said thanks.” You bridged the space between, taking the basket from underneath to nullify any possibility of your bodies touching. He nodded, making brief eye contact before sighing and grabbing the door. Your spine prickled with the ghost of his fingers on your back, his breath on your ear. You bit your lip. 

“Do you want to walk down?”

“Oh I uh, I need to change,”

“I’ll be outside.” He left with a nod and the click of the lock.

In the spirit of speed, you pulled on your pants and tucked in his dress shirt, finishing the buttons so Alfred didn’t get any ideas. You stretched your arms, shook out any residual sleepiness, and pulled your hair back. You grabbed your phone to check the time, and noticed three missed calls: Dr. Crane, Dr. Crane, Dr. Crane. The blood left your face. 

You shouted out to Bruce, starting to pit his shirt. “I’ll be a minute, I’ll meet you down there.” 

“Sounds good.”

You scurried to press your ear to the door, making out the faintest footsteps down the staircase. Shit. Shit, shit. The last call had been a few minutes ago, and you pressed the phone to your ear with a force that threatened to crack the screen in half. With each passing ring you grew more nauseous, kicking yourself for continuously forgetting to call. But Bruce had been fine, right? Bruce had been normal, and polite, and talkative, and open about his feelings. 

“Y/N.” 

“I’m so sorry for forgetting to call, I woke up—”

He launched into a scolding, in a voice somehow made sinister by how measured it was. “I haven’t been asking a lot of you, because I assumed you would take the initiative to tell me what I need to know.”

“Dr. Crane,”

“However, given your history of dodging my calls—”

“I’m sorry, I’m really not trying to dodge anything,”

His sigh sounded like a curse, which sewed your mouth shut. “You’re not working, correct? No longer in school?”

You paused to ensure you didn’t interrupt him again. “Well,”

“Are you keeping his status from me?” 

“Not at all,” you looked to the doorway as if Bruce had his ear to it. 

“Perhaps you’ve formed an alliance with Mr. Wayne.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You do.”

The room dropped ten degrees. 

“Come to my office today before five. I have some things to show you that should convince you to take the precariousness of life seriously.” He hung up before you could reply, leaving you stranded with a gutting blend of anxious guilt. 

If only Alfred hadn’t scheduled Wednesdays to be meeting days… then the pancakes wouldn’t be burnt, and the juice wouldn’t be insulting, Christ.

Bruce’s wrist ached from manually driving orange halves into the juicer for the past half hour, a task which had made the pan on the stove start to smoke, which contained the pancakes, and he hadn’t even began with any sausage or bacon, or eggs—why had he said things were ready? Because he had five blackened pancakes sitting on the table and a half jar of juice sitting uglily on the counter? 

He heard you descending the stairs. Despite his pep-talk the entire morning, and the one he gave before waking you, a lightness besieged him while in your presence. It decorated the walls of the kitchen when you stepped inside. “Where’s Alfred?”

“Meetings.” He tossed the last rind, embarrassed by the pitiful juice rations. “The juice from last night was for today, so I, it won’t be as good.” As he walked to place the glass by your seat, his ears turned pink and the silence in the room ricocheted. Every step pounded in his head, hyperaware of your placement in the room, his limbs tingling at the squick of your chair across the floor. He peeked over his shoulder to see you taste it. He grabbed some utensils and tucked into his seat, feeling a peculiar need to micromanage his table decorum. 

You grabbed some pancakes and he handed you a fork. “They’re burnt, I was juicing the oranges, and,”

“It’s fine.” Your smile was meek, but the twinkle in your irises made him forget. You took another small sip. 

“So it’s horrible?”

Your eyes crinkled once more; it was happening more often now, and he soared higher each time. “Telling on yourself there, Bruce.” 

Who knew his name could sound poetic? That he’d clutch each time you said it like a security blanket? If it hadn’t been made abundantly clear in the past twelve hours, he might’ve realized in this moment—as he roamed the slopes and valleys of your face with the spirit of a loving caress—that he adored you.

Your face slipped, and his matched. “What’s going on?”

“I didn’t sleep very well.” You took another drink from the glass, your eyelids heavy. “Nightmares.”

“You could’ve woken me.” Did he sound too indignant? Possessive? Needy?

“They weren’t too bad, just tossing and turning a bit.”

Whatever it was, you didn’t want to discuss it further. He chewed on some pancake (that was somehow sour, dry, and too wet—either your tastebuds were nonexistent, or you were capable of more politeness than he knew), and thought through his next move. The creasing by your eyes had withered, your grin the same. “What do you like to do back home?” Remembering how you lit up talking about your town, and your cat. Wearing his earnest on his sleeve. 

Your lashes fluttered, chewing slowed. “Be in nature. Go on bike rides, drives, camping.”

“You said the trees were nice.” He tucked another bite into his cheek, hoping either the conversation or his insistence on eating the entire plate would lift your spirit. 

“Yeah, they are.”

“What else do you like about it?”

“I don’t know.” You rested the fork and moved the plate away. If he followed his ambling convictions, he might assume you were angry with him. If he followed them deeper, he might think you had a reason to be. 

“Sorry if bringing up your hometown isn’t—”

“It’s alright, not feeling very… energetic today.”

You played with the rest of your food while Bruce finished his. Each passing second you appeared more dejected, and by the time he rose to put his dish away, he was about ready to blurt how can I help?! so loudly it would’ve interrupted Alfred stories below. 

You bumped into his back when he turned to meet you, and he blushed. A quick swivel and he’d put your pancakes down the chute, rinsed the plate, and cleared his throat. “I know a place outside city limits, lot of empty roads. Used to test drive out there.” He cleared his throat again as he wrestled a stammer. “I could take you on a drive, might help.”

You could’ve cried. Domestic Bruce was a sight you were rarely privy to, but it kept your heart beating. The clock on the stove read 3:47, and Arkham was a twenty minute Uber from your apartment. When he turned and looked at you once more, god, you turned into a puddle. He was so pretty. He searched your face for a second, then went still on your eyes. The smallest upward tilt of his mouth made tears well. Sitting passenger while he gunned it down abandoned roads, taking a turn too hard and slamming your bodies together. Maybe your lips could skim again, or press, or… 

“Can you take me to my apartment?” You brought your hands to your chest and turned before he could notice a tear slip. Whatever waited for you in the shadowy offices at Arkham was menacing, and you couldn’t tell the one person who would actually listen.

“Sure.” A pause, which you held your breath in for, your stomach tight. “Now?”

“I’ll grab my stuff.” You longed to sprint the stairs all the way to the top and howl jagged, desperate truths from the rafters, but you walked calmly to the room above his, knelt to grab your folded shirt and shoes by the door, and followed him to the garage. You blurred your eyes to focus on the material of his shirt and not the outline of him underneath. A pipe set to burst. 

Hopefully he wouldn’t ask you on the drive about what your plans were. The cabin air was stifling, especially so lying on your back. Once Dr. Crane told you what you needed to know, you could regroup. Journal about it, even. In some shorthand. Codename. Pretend you went on some journalistic assignment and discuss it that way with Mar, if she would listen…

“Here.”

Your neck cricked with the rocket speed in which you scurried out of his car. You made it halfway down the alleyway, planning a low shout of ‘thanks!’ once you were out of his forcefield, but his door was opening. No, Bruce, please… if he initiated a hug, or even a fucking high five you would pour everything out.

“You left your bag.” 

Oh. You both walked toward each other, and his strides were so long it took a single move from you to be mere inches from him. The pleather wrinkled in your fist. You muttered your thanks, and took off without a second glance. 

Turned out there weren’t many rideshare drivers who would accept trips to Arkham. After being tossed around by a dozen drivers, the only acceptance was a gruff looking older man in a Chevy pickup. He made a joke about ‘the loony bin’ when you got in, and you grit your teeth for the duration of the drive. 

At 4:47 you pulled up to the steely gates. You’d planned a speech to hype yourself up, but faced with the memory of Bruce black and blue in vicious restraints, you instead pretended you were visiting a jail. A jail, or a school that was funded in a strange way. Anything to not sob at his supposedly very precarious existence.

The guard at the front desk didn’t look at you while you checked in. You stood with twiddling thumbs in the empty waiting area; an area with no seats or benches, the sole accompaniment being a fish tank and a cacophony of creaking metal. 

You checked your phone: five minutes passed. If he didn’t hurry, he’d blame you for showing up late. Even though you’d run up to your apartment to change, ordered Uber after Uber while on the toilet, forgone a snack…

“‘Ave a good one, chief.” A man with a forceful tone and heavy accent cut through the hallway and nodded at security. He was recognizable, you’d seen him before, but you couldn’t place it…Thick brows, black eyes. He paused and tucked a folded paper into his black leather jacket. His eyes flit to yours, and his cheeks coiled into a grin. A gold-capped tooth twinkled under the LEDs. “Ay sweetheart, how you doin?” 

The man from City Hall. Except Bruce wasn’t here to grab you by the elbow and escort you away. You nodded. “Doing okay.” Your voice lost its gusto. 

“Aren’t we all, eh?” He chuckled and it pierced your gut like a dull knife.  

“Ms. Y/L/N?” Your gaze moved a few feet to the right to the lady you’d checked in with. Goosebumps prickled your arms when you walked past the man. 

“Don’t worry. The people here, they run a tight ship.” He winked, then went on his way. The woman escorted you to Dr. Crane’s office, the first room on the right. You heard him before you saw him. “Ms. Y/L/N, finally. Follow me.”

He sped past you, his clipboard dipping in a ‘come here’ gesture behind him. You had to jog to keep up, though he wasn’t tall. The hallways were tinged green with stale lighting, the concrete floors crunching the arch of your shoes. He stopped halfway down the second turn and pointed to a small window situated at two-thirds the height of the door. 

The bolts smelled rusty when you walked closer, Dr. Crane’s narration starting immediately. The room was empty, except—no, it wasn’t. Someone sat facing the opposite wall in the far corner with their legs pulled to their chest. 

“This is Ms. Reál’s room.”

She turned as if she heard her name spoken, and you made out dozens of scratches across her face and neck. Some were old, some freshly scabbed over, some oozing and raw. The freshest ones trickled streams of bright red down the orange jumpsuit. Your voice shook. “She’s bleeding, can you—”

Bella locked eyes with yours through the window, and she shrieked. She clawed her way up and threw herself at the door, pounding and screaming against it. You gasped back, the force of her torment shaking the door. Your body spun to him, shock crossing your face. “Can someone go help?” 

“Keep looking.”

“It’s too—”

“Too what, Ms.?” He tucked his clipboard into his chest, his expression so neutral you couldn’t make sense of it. Bella’s screaming was dampened by the reinforced walls, but remained booming and apparent. 

“Personal.” You’d never met Bella Reál, and surely you weren’t cleared to see these things. As a prominent government figure, she had to have a similar process to Bruce. Paperwork, NDA, consent… 

“Look, Y/N.” His jaw clenched, the clipboard digging into his armpit. You couldn’t feel your body as you inched closer, keeping your eyes low and shutting them when the psychiatrist could no longer see. All you heard were her screams. Screams that began to roar and pierce through your chest. He clicked his pen impatiently, and you wondered if he could tell your eyes weren’t open. You snapped to attention when she sounded like she’d been struck. 

She was flat on her back, body convulsing. Her head and eyes moved wildly, and you reached to grab Dr. Crane’s coat. Your fingers were numb, and you scoured the room for things she could hit her head on. Her bed was about a foot away, the metal edges sending you into a tailspin. “She’s seizing, get a nurse to, her bed,”

“She’ll be alright.”

Your head whipped back, the slack expression transforming to a glare. “What are you talking about?” You turned to look again, and her convulsing had brought her about a half foot closer to the bed frame. You yanked the doorknob but it wouldn’t budge. Your mind went white. 

Dr. Crane was nonchalant, pulling out his clipboard to note something as you slammed your palm against the door in a futile effort to loosen it. You stopped when logic caught up to you, realizing that might scare Bella more. 

“Psychosis can involve many nights without sleep. High stress, low food intake, unwilling to take medication because they believe they’re unchallenged. It can all lead to Ms. Reál.” The clip snapped against the board, and it echoed along the hall. 

Bella’s seizing had begun to calm, just inches from the metal corner. You caught panting breaths as you gathered your wits. Using her name like she was a symptom. Like something on display. “She needs someone to help her.”

“I wanted you to see the best outcome.”

“Of what?” Anger was seeping into your voice. Dr. Crane’s brow raised, and his knuckles tightened against the board. 

“Ms. Reál didn’t have someone like you. By the time we got her inpatient, it was too late. Her seizures had already stolen her sanity.”

“How did she get those cuts? Why isn’t anyone monitoring her?”

“We have cameras in all patient rooms, Y/N.”

Your name in his mouth felt like a razor. “So, what? You think Bruce—Wayne will end up the same way? Caged and catatonic?”

“Catatonia is the opposite of what you just witnessed, ma’am. It would be in your and Mr. Wayne’s best interest to follow the advice of professionals rather than the whims of an impressionable amygdala.”

His smugness made Bruce sound like he was singing in a church choir. Fucking stuck-up… “Is this why you brought me here? He’s doing fine.”

He squinted. “Defensive.”

“He’s taking his meds, he hasn’t seen any owls, he hasn’t had an attack, he’s been completely normal. Which is why I haven’t been talking, there’s nothing to report on.”

“Nothing, hmm?”

You shrugged, completely out of sorts. Why were you talking about Bruce now anyway? “She needs someone to help her.” You turned to look through the window, but it slid closed. “What the fuck?”

“You’ve seen what I meant you to.”

“And what aren’t I meant to see?”

His lips pursed. “If Mr. Wayne is functioning as you say, then I have nothing more to discuss.”

“So he’s fine? Since he’s been taking his meds, he’s had no side effects,”

“You seem to have it all figured out.” He walked back toward his office, this time without motion to follow. “Call me if he’s catatonic or otherwise.”

After another pass at the window to get it to open, you ran after Crane. “When is he in the clear?”

It was like you weren’t there, and it was insulating. When he pushed open the door to his office, you jammed your foot inside to keep it from closing. “I want to help him. If there’s anything more I need to know, tell me.”

It was tough feeling thankful he’d responded with his voice dripped in disdain. “Dr. Vry recommended you on the basis that you were uniquely immune to the charms of the Wayne estate. I’m not sure she was correct.”

“I—”

“Your face flushes when you speak of him.” He stared you down like he physically had you in a chokehold. Your throat constricted. “You’ve become increasingly defensive the more time you’ve spent in his presence.” He stood from his chair. “And you now seem very assured in your estimation of his symptoms.” The clipboard slapped onto the wood and he strolled to his door, gripping the handle but not opening. “Almost like he’s spoken intimately with you to assuage any anxieties.” The light blue of his eyes was arctic, and you were so flabbergasted by his insinuation you couldn’t move. “Why would he do that with someone he isn’t colluding with?”

You breathed out a response. “Colluding—”

His voice rose: “I brought you here to remind you of what is at stake. If you keep anything from me, any behavior even slightly outside of the norm, there is little between him and a coffin.” He opened the door with a gust that blew your jacket askew. 

“When is he safe?”

“If Mr. Wayne makes it to his next prescription pickup with no side effects, and no deviation in mood, interest, or reality, you are relieved of your post.” 

“When is that?”

“Is he attached to you?”

These turns threatened to send you flying. Bruce, shaking, clinging to you. Answering every text, every call; stepping in line with you at meetings, driving you home, orchestrating hangouts. Opening up in ways you couldn’t imagine he’d spoken to anyone before. And how Dr. Crane had forced that level of vulnerability. The guilt grew fifty tons. “You made him have to rely on me, I don’t know what kind of answer you’re expecting.”

“I would advise you to begin untangling yourself from my patient now, to prevent an unfortunate situation.” 

An unfortunate situation? He talked of Bruce’s death like it was gum stuck to his shoe. Oh, Jesus, your head started to spin. 

“Look what he did the first time you left.”

The wind knocked out of you. He stared back with his dead eyes, his creaseless face glassy smooth. This was the most forthright he’d ever been in saying it was your fault. Stars popped into vision. “He has medication now,”

“Which is why you are even capable of leaving, and need to start the severing at your earliest convenience. Good day, Ms. Y/L/N.”

Luckily the hallways were clearly marked in bold, bright letters, or you wouldn’t have stumbled out. Since it’d been less than fifteen minutes, you requested your same driver. If he didn’t accept, you’d call Mar until she answered. Get wasted at a club. But the man accepted, and ten minutes later you found yourself bumping over Gotham’s potholes.

Bruce wasn’t fragile. He could handle someone leaving. He could handle you leaving, and certainly you from before the attempt. He’d said it wasn’t your fault. That your arguing hadn’t caused it. He’d told you to leave multiple occasions since. He could. He could. He could. 

The man dropped you at the parking garage entrance. Pedestrians sidestepped you, a man shoved into your shoulder to ensure he wasn’t inconvenienced. And you took it. 

You checked your phone to see if it was worth a trip to Rai’s. A text message from an unknown number had been sent three minutes ago. 

Meet me at the old deli under the Tricorner Bridge. 2am. Come alone. Tell no one.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Time for Cheer

Warnings: non/dubcon, dysfunctional family, and other dark elements. Not all kinks or triggers are tagged. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Summary: After your Christmas is ruined, you find an unlikely saviour.

Character: Jonathan Pine

Day Eight of the December Daze Challenge.

Prompt - finding your home away from home

Note: As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

“It wasn’t the transmission, it was the fuel line,” your father snarls. 

“Then why did replacing the transmission fix the problem,” Aiden spits back. 

They’re having another of their pointless arguments. It’s more of a weighing of the egos. It’s not entirely unusual for them to spend hours trying to one up the other or prove the other wrong, but you thought Christmas might be a respite. That assumption seems foolish the more you think about it. There’s never been a good enough excuse to just stop. 

Your family has never been like other families. There are no cute matching sweaters or festive photos. The only tradition is to see who you can make feel the worst. You know better than to tell either of them to cut it out, otherwise you’ll just be drawn into their race to the bottom. 

Besides, you have bigger things to worry about. Dinner. Every year you fight to make the perfect spread and every year, something ruins it. Usually, your family. 

Last year, your dad couldn’t get over the ‘watery’ gravy and the year before that, your brother whined because someone put beans on his plate and he hates green beans. For an adult, he sure does act like the same seven-year-old brat that used to scream about bathing. 

You feel just as stagnant. The holidays are just the stamp on the year, sealing your lack of progress. Year after year and you’re still here. Still filling the hole your mother left all those years ago. You can’t even blame her. You can only blame yourself for not following her lead and running for the hills. 

Vivien arrives just as you baste the turkey and check the temperature. It’s only noon and there’s some hours to go. Your father and brother don’t stop arguing even as the churlish voices of children rise in the entryway. Your sister’s children are another obstacle to your endeavour. 

“Hey, Viv,” you say as your sister appears in the doorway. 

“Any wine?” She asks. 

“There’s beer,” you shrug. You don’t drink, she knows that. 

“Beer?” She mutters. 

“I don’t know. Dad could have some whiskey hidden in the garage--” 

“Whatever,” she huffs. 

“You can put the pies on the counter.” 

“Pies?” She echoes, “what pies?” 

You brace yourself and take a deep breath. You face her, “you said you were bringing pies.” 

“No, I said they had the pumpkin pies at the grocery, I never said I’d bring them,” she shakes her head. 

“No, you said--” 

“Why would I bring the pies? I have three brats to take care of a husband. I got enough to spend my hard-earned money on,” she sneers. 

You flinch. Hard-earned? You don’t remember the last time she worked. She calls you about every other week to complain that Chuck’s overtime still didn’t break even. 

“It’s fine,” you go to the cupboard and take out your emergency can of apples. “No pumpkin but I’ll figure something out. Maybe crisp?” 

“See, you got this,” she says as she goes to the fridge and steals one of your father’s Molsons. 

“Viv,” her husband calls from the other room as something crashes. 

“Ugh, he can never do anything by himself,” she mutters as she cracks the tab. 

You shake your head. Your father’s holler joins the chaos of voices. The kids whine as one of them cries, and your dad yells about whatever’s broken. 

You won’t be lured into the storm. Vivien couldn’t offer to help you in the kitchen. This is her chance to get drunk and let her husband wallow in the destruction. Your father never lifts a finger in the kitchen past opening the fridge and your brother would only get in your way. 

As you forge on, you can’t help but wonder why you bother. What do you ever get in return? Not even a thanks and you only end up cleaning the mess after. Well, what other choice do you have? You’ve been pushing the same boulder uphill for almost twenty years and you still haven’t gotten over the apex. 

You manage to scrounge enough together to fill a pan with the impromptu crisp. You have everything prepped and ready to cook in intervals; bean casserole, sweet potatoes, regular potatoes, corn, and carrots. Even if everything else is a mess, dinner should be good. 

You open the stove and slide apple crisp in next to the turkey. It won’t be your best work. As you shut the oven door, there’s a sudden clatter behind you. You spin as the bowls hit the floor and their contents scatter with the shards of broken glass. Viv’s oldest, Cameron, swings around his hockey stick, stomping over the mess. 

You stand stunned and paralysed. You blink as tears burn behind your eyes and your hands shake in horror and rage slowly builds from your stomach to throat. You can only stare at the clueless child as he wiggles the stick proudly.  

“See what I got for Christmas?” 

You sway. He’s eleven years old. He knows better. Or he should. 

“What the hell is all that nonsense?” Your father yells as he clamours into the doorway. “Now whatcha gone and done--” 

As he turns the blame on you, you wince as if you’ve been slapped. Cameron once more swings around his stick, playing with a sliced carrot like a puck. Your father’s voice fades into the back of your mind as your vision narrows. 

“You fix it. I’m done.” You shake your head as you swallow down your devastation. “I’m done.” 

“Done? What d’ya mean done?” He snarls as you brush past him. He follows you down the hall to the front door. 

“It’s over. I’m not doing it again. I’m not cooking for you animals anymore,” you rip your jacket off the hooks and shove your feet into your well-worn boots. “You want a Christmas dinner, figure it out yourself.” 

“You can’t just walk out.” He slurs. 

“I’m going.” 

“Where? Huh? Going to find your mother?” 

You stop and face him. He knows it’s low but he doesn’t care. He always throws her in your face, like you ever had a say in what she did. You scowl. Before you can explode with the fury boiling in your chest, a knock comes at the door. Great, now you have witness to the storm. You don’t need another police report. Better deal with the neighbour. 

“Well, maybe she’s nicer than you,” you retort and spin around. 

You pull open the door and swiftly flit out, swinging it shut to muffle the bluster of shouting and smashing. Worse than Paula coming to complain about the noise, it’s the landlord. Of course. 

“Oh, Mr. Pine,” you greet in a fragile tone. 

“Hello, I see Christmas is in full effect,” he remarks kindly on the rabble behind the walls. 

“Sure is,” you utter. You look him over as he holds a wrapped basket. You don’t expect him. Especially on the holiday. “Um, what are you doing here?” 

“I bring holiday tidings. I hate to disturb you and your family but I’ve been making the rounds of my tenants and it’s been a bit more taxing than I would expect.” 

“Oh?” You furrow your brow. 

“This is for you. And your family,” he pushes the basket toward you. “Just a little gesture.” 

“Uh, wow, you...” you slowly take it, admiring the ribbon tied around the red plastic wrap, “that’s very generous but... I don’t have anything to give you.” 

“It is not given in the spirit of reciprocity,” he assures. “You know, I sadly could not make it home for the holiday but I’ve got many to share it with here so I thought I would.” 

“Well, that’s lovely,” you say. “I’m uh... on my way out actually so I’ll just leave it here.” 

You turn and put the basket on the wicker chair near the window. You feel Pine watching you. You turn back to his pensive gaze. He wears a nice grey coat and a deep blue scarf with silver edging. He is a perfect contrast to the disaster of your appearance. 

You zip up your coat to hide the food smear across your sweatshirt. You pull your hat from your pocket and tug it down over your hair. You near him and force a smile. 

“Thank you so much. I’m sure we’ll enjoy unwrapping all that later.” 

“Well, where are you off to then?” He sidles to the end of the steps, making way for you. 

“Um. Just going for a walk.” To be honest, you don’t know where you’re going. You didn’t make a plan. You just need to get out. 

“Would it be terribly rude to invite myself? It isn’t often I get to stroll through the neighbourhood.” He dips his chin down as the bitterness turns the tip of his nose pink. His blue eyes are pale but bright in the snowy atmosphere. 

“Uh, sure. Not much to see around here,” you shrug and descend the stairs. Your anger subsides for the roiling embarrassment nipping at your nape. 

He follows you down and you drag your treads along the walkway heavily. You turn down the street and he comes up next to you. You’re quiet as you wallow in agitation and humiliation. 

“Sounded like a very hectic affair,” he muses through the whistling winds. 

You snort. You can’t help yourself. “Yeah.” 

He hums as you carry on in a lull. You can appreciate that he doesn’t push it and yet the silence, welcomes your annoyance. You sigh. 

“It’s awful,” you breathe. 

He chuckles, “family can be a lot.” 

“Yeah, well, mine is just... we don’t even like each other.” You rub your cheeks as you speak. “I shouldn’t complain. It’s not your problem.” 

“Well, as you can see, I don’t have anything pressing to attend to. You are my last stop.” 

“Hm,” you sniff. You mull your temper and consider going back. The thought just sparks another flare in you. You shake your head at the idea. “They ruined dinner. Again. Every year--” you stop and click your tongue. “I can’t go back. Not today. So, I guess I’ll figure something else out.” 

“No? But surely, they would miss you.” 

“No, only what I do for them,” you roll your eyes. “Like I said, we’re enemies more than we are family. Not that it’s your problem.” You get to the end of the street, where the dead-end sign stands. “Look, you’re really nice bringing that by but you should go enjoy your Christmas somewhere warm. Alone. In peace.” 

“Ha, it seems we envy each other for what the other has,” he remarks. “You romanticize my solace and I can’t help but covet your lack of.” 

“Yeah, sure. Well, I should get the car cleared off. I’ll probably drive it down to the train station and sleep there.” 

He tilts his head. You realise what you’ve said as his forehead creases, “you say it as if it common.” 

“Won’t be the first or last time,” you say. “Look, you’ve heard enough of my problems. Really, I’m already embarrassed so please, just go.” 

He clicks his tongue, “and yet I fear I cannot.” He insists, “you see, I was raised to be a gentleman and that includes never leaving a woman in despair so, I cannot allow you to spend your Christmas behind the tracks. So, either I stay and we shiver together,” he gives a moment to quake in the frigid air, “or you come with me, gather your wits, and maybe a bit of warmth.” 

You scoff louder than ever, “and why would you do that?” 

“Well, it is Christmas,” he suggests, “and I am your landlord so is it not my onus to house you?” 

You laugh sardonically. He grins. 

“Come on, I have to confess, I don’t do well in the cold and I cannot feel my hands,” he drawls. 

You drop your chin and turn your hands out, “alright. Twist my arm.” 

“I would if I could bend my fingers,” he jibes. 

🎄

Pine lives further than you expect. You suppose you never thought much about it. Where he’s concerned, you only ever worried about making rent. Yet, subconsciously, you built up a man in his sophisticated condo, like a king in a tower. 

Instead, he drives past the city limits into the sparse rural lands where houses are set far apart around thickets of trees. It’s not entirely without sense. Out here, the wealthy can build without the confines of a city lot. 

He turns off toward a countryhouse with brown and white siding with black trims. The Tudor-style stands out amid the more farmhouse style facades. He pulls into the plowed lot as you stare up at the immaculate structure. The property he lets to you stands in a lowly contrast. You can’t help another twinge of insecurity. 

“Um, thanks... for this. I really appreciate it.” You wring your hands as he shuts off the engine. “I feel a bit stupid now.” 

“I wouldn’t. Sounds like you’ve a lot to be unhappy about. To think you’ve put up with so much for so long, a weaker person could not. Myself included,” he assures. 

He undoes his seat belt and you do the same. You mirror him in all your movements, taking his lead as you step onto unfamiliar ground. You come up the front steps of the house and he unlocks the broad wooden door. 

He lets you inside and you take your time slipping free of your boots. He leaves his salt-stained leather shoes on the mat and hangs his jacket on the rack in the corner. He takes your coat and puts it next to his. You pinch your thumbs between your knuckles anxiously as you look around the spacious and finely curated interior. 

“I’ve tea. Or hot cocoa. My mother sent me a specialty frother as a token of her absence,” he offers. 

“Oh, I'm okay,” you twist around as you examine the walls. “It’s a very nice house.” 

“A very nice but empty house,” he agrees. “I spent so long with the design and construction, I hardly thought of filling it up with more than things. Far too much for only one person.” 

“I guess everyone has different problems we don’t think of,” you say. “Like you said before, I’m whining about my family yet yours is so far away.” 

“Ah, yes, funny how we rarely get what we so desire,” he slithers. “So we covet what others have so much we cannot see any possible flaw.” 

“Right.” 

He waves you further inside. You’re quiet as he takes you on a brief tour; a front room, dining room, a large kitchen you could die for, a den, a back office, and that’s just the first floor. He brings you upstairs and shows you a guest room. 

“You might stay in here. I’ll find some clean sheets.” 

“No, I’m sure it’s fine.” You insist. “Thanks, again. Uh...” 

“I’m not much of a cook, but I could put together something. Cheese toasties and soup always do me well.” 

“Sure, that sounds great. I could help,” you suggest. 

“Only if you truly wish to,” he says. “But I don’t mind.” 

“I’d rather stay busy.” You reply. 

He nods and takes you back down to the kitchen. The meal isn’t very hard to put together. Melted cheese on toast and a jar of the gourmet soup they sell at the more expensive shops. It’s tasty too, warm and comforting even.  

Yet, you can’t help the glimmer of guilt in the back of your head. Your sister is probably throwing a fit, your father too. They’re ranting and raving about you walking out. Comparing you to your mother, as they always do to the worst people they know. It’s that dagger they keep sheathed until they’re ready to cut deep. 

Pine jars you from your worry as he takes your empty bowl and plate. You sit up at the table and thank him. He gestures you to stay before you can get up. 

You wait in the dining room. You put your hand in your hands and yawn. You feel like you did when you were a kid. When one of your friends invited you over and you realised how much better their house and their life was. 

“Tired,” Pine muses, “well, I will make up your bed then.” 

“Really, you don’t have to do all that,” you lift your head and bat away the fatigue. 

“I do,” he counters. “Shouldn’t take me very long. Feel free to explore. Or if you are so inclined, I've left a bottle and glass on the counter.” 

“Oh, uh, that’s sweet of you.” 

He goes and you stay just as you are. You feel like you could taint this place if you stray too far. When he returns, you feel sluggish. 

“Is there anything else I can get for you? A book to read?” 

“No, I think I’ll just lay down,” you get up and push the chair in. “I’ve already taken so much.” 

“Taken, you say, as if I’ve not given freely,” he smiles. “I’ve left you something to sleep in as well. I’m afraid my selection is limited.” 

“Thanks, uh, again,” you rub your neck. At this point, it’s becoming a chant. Thanking him for everything. 

You go upstairs and gently close the door of the guest room. He’s right, the house feels sonorously empty. It’s so big, that it’s almost desolate. You replace your clothes with the button-up he left over the duvet and climb into the lush bed. Even that makes your own seem like little more than a wooden pallet. 

It doesn’t take you long to sink into a sleep full of violent illusions. You’re back at home, your father yelling as you try to pick up the spilled potatoes, only for the glass to cut your fingers and stick in your flesh. No matter what you do, you can’t do more than slice yourself up, the blood smearing your skin and dripping onto the cracked tile. 

You wake with a start. Your heart races as you’re startled at the unfamiliar surroundings. It sets in that you’re not at your father’s house anymore and you calm. You languish beneath the fluffy duvet and dread climbing out from beneath it, but your bladder demands it. 

You finally get up and near the door. It has to be late. You inch open the door and listen to the hallway. You creep out, expecting the floor to creak like the boards at home, but your feet only pad lightly on the polished hardwood. 

You find the bathroom down the other end of the hall and swiftly pop in and out. On your way back, you stop near the side table where a small boxy clock stands. The digital face shines the time. It’s just after midnight. 

You squint as the background changes behind the numbers. Fancy. You tap the screen curiously and the time disappears. It’s one of the smart devices you’ve seen in the Black Friday ads. But the next image, startles you. It’s all too familiar. 

You blink at the sight of your family’s living room. Your father’s passed out in his old recliner and the corner of the rug is bent over. There’s wrapping paper strewn across the floor and Chinese food containers littered over the table. Cameron is sleeping on the couch as your brother continues to drink in the armchair and stares at the television. 

But why is there a camera in your house? You shakily bring your hand up to touch the screen again. A menu comes up; Favourites. You tap the first option ‘bedroom’. The next image nearly makes you scream. It’s your bedroom. Your sister’s taken over the bed with her husband. The moonlight shines on them through the window as the camera’s night vision limns their slumbering figures. 

Your heart hammers. How could this be real? You pinch your thigh and squeak. You’re not waking up. 

“Restless?” Pine’s voice has you stalk straight. You lurch on your feet and face his shadow as it looms at the other end of the hallway. 

“Mr. Pine,” you greet. 

He slowly struts out of the shadows. You wince and lean back on your heel. He clucks as you try to cover the screen with your hand. He stops and puts his hands on his hips. In the dim, you can see the outline of his naked torso above a short pair of boxers. You gulp. 

“It isn’t how I wanted it to go,” he says quietly. “I meant to woo you a little...” 

“What... Why...” 

“Why... what? Darling? Why would I want to give you a proper home? Why would I keep a close eye on such a sad soul?” He hums, “well, as I said, I was raised to be a gentleman, and this house is dreadfully empty, don’t you agree?” 

You gape at him, horrified and confused. What he says cannot be true. It cannot be real. Why? Why you? Has it all been a ploy? Was he just waiting and watching for the moment you cracked? 

“Mr. Pine,” you utter. 

“Please, darling, call me Jonathan,” he comes closer and swipes your hand before you can allude him. “It only feels right, doesn’t it?” 

You writhe in his grasp but cannot escape him. You look around at the walls and the isolation of that place sets in. No, it didn’t make sense, after all. A man like him should be in a condo, in the city, not out here where the trees hide him from civilization. Where the roads are endless and treacherous. It doesn’t make sense, not unless he means to go undisturbed. Unless he means you to go undiscovered. 

“Merry Christmas, darling,” he purrs as he brings his hand up to cradle your head, “I give to you the greatest gift at all. A true home, a true family. We will build it together.” 

[darkmasterlistyouneveraskedfor]

The Dollhouse Masterlist

Summary: Five girls move into a shared residence for the upcoming school year but not all is as it seems. 

Status: In Progress

Character Guide

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

[trans-jon-rights]

Hm. New Idea. I'm putting this one out there because the Discord buddies said it was good.

Gravity Falls and TMA crossover, but Jon and Martin arrive at different times.

Martin arrives a few years before Jon. He meets Ford, becoming buddies with him. He distrusts Bill a lot, being sometimes reminded of Jonah before he revealed what he was. But Ford is a grown ass adult, and Bill doesn't try to bother him much, so he lets him be.

Jon arrives the day Ford fell into the portal. He tumbles from that exact same portal right before shit hits the fans, and both Martin and Ford end up lost.

He has almost no Eye powers, no knowledge of this strange new place he ended up into, and has to work with Stan to repair the portal and get both Ford and Martin back.

Talk about a Situation to end into.

(I need Martin to become a ruthless killer with Ford and Jon to have to make scams with Stan even though he hates it)

The timeline stays about the same. It takes thirty years for Jon and Stan's combined efforts to bring the other two back. In the meantime, neither Jon nor Martin are ageing due to the Entities still being present.

Just imagine.

The anxiety of Stan seeing himself age during those thirty, long years, unsure if he will manage to bring his brother back or not. Making Jon promise to do it for him if he couldn't go on because, despite himself, he'd learned to appreciate and trust this odd, prickly British guy.

Jon never certain if, when Martin will come back, he will be the same, or if he would have aged like every other person around him, being robbed of this opportunity to grow old together. Martin had never been an Avatar, right ? Jon didn't grow old because he was already dead, in a sense, but what about Martin ?

(Crossing between dimensions was a good metaphor for death and an excuse for Martin's Becoming, but Jon doesn't know that :3)

When twins arrive in Gravity Falls, Jon works at the shop (Stan used his "weird British narrator voice" to make him a tourist guide. For some reason, tourists like his voice).

Also this AU works well with my general idea of Jmart, both of them clinging to that ideal of the other and of what their relationship would be in a non apocalyptic context, making them confront the reality of things when they are reunited again.

Had it truly been their love for each other that had pushed them to work towards being reunited, or had it been the idea that once it would be over, being together would automatically mean they would be guaranteed happiness ?

Also, maybe give them each a period of time during which they were really happy and almost forgot their guilt for the other, and maybe give them some rough time when they're back together. Then, they look back at that and rethink their relationship and their quest, wondering if it really was worth it.

Happy ending for both is expected, of course, just lots of talking things through before. Making them healthy.

And as a bonus, I'm giving them a "Tim" and "Sasha". Not in the sense that they are actual alternate version of Tim or Sasha, in the sense that they are different characters who behave very similarly to Tim and Sasha. Sometimes, they mix up their names, and their face have the biggest grief for some reason.

Bonus point if "Tim" dies in an explosion caused by Martin and Ford and if "Sasha" dies to a shapeshifter. And after that, Jon just guiltily thinks, "At least it didn't take her face this time".

[alicedopey]

Sending a snuggly sweater for the cooler season

Soft to the touch

A/N: So errr... I did a thing. It has haunted me since I got the ask. I hope you are proud of yourself, Roo :)

No warning under the cut, just some bad written stuff.

You softly knocked on the mahogany door of your CEO and opened it after hearing his prompt and professional, “Come in.”

You opened the door and entered the room. The sight that greeted you almost took your breath away. Jonathan Pine was standing in the middle of the room in all his glory and you thanked whoever had decided to create this “casual Friday” tradition. Your boss had replaced his traditional suit for a pair of jeans and what looked to be the softest and comfiest sweater you had ever seen. The blue grey shades were mirroring his kind eyes that matched his so soft and charming smile. His hair had grown since the first day he had been introduced to the staff six months ago. He had let his curls loose and you fought against yourself to not raise your hand and let it run through them. 

He cleared his throat and you startled, suddenly realizing you had been staring for too long.

“is there something wrong, Miss Y/L/N?” He asked and you swore you could feel the smile in his voice.

“No, Sir.” You also cleared your throat to try to regain some composure and chased an invisible dust on your blouse. “I was just admiring your sweater. It seems very…comfy.” So very tempting to the touch too.

As if reading your mind, he casually slid a hand down his sweater. “It is and it is also perfectly warm for the season.” 

Perfect for snuggles too, you could bet. But there was no way you would say it out loud. “It looks like it. You wished to see me, Sir?” You asked to change the subject and rescue you from your own humiliation. 

“Yes, I did. I’m sorry for making you wait so much, especially on a Friday night, but I wanted to finish my few corrections on your different accounting reports.” 

“Is there something wrong?” If there was one thing you were sure of, it was your team. You knew they were working well and you always knew you were not often inclined to make any mistake. 

He handed you the files you had given him earlier this afternoon and threw another one of his ever-charming smiles your way. “Not at all. They are absolutely perfect. It seems your team is one to be trusted.”

“Thank you, sir”. You smiled back and hugged the precious files against your chest. 

“I must apologize again for keeping you so long here.”

“It’s quite alright, Sir. Work has to be done. It will make me enjoy my weekend a bit more.”

He chuckled and you felt yourself shiver at the sound. “Good thinking.” He took a few steps towards you. “I hope you will have a nice one.”

“You too, sir” You gave him a nod as goodbye and walked to the door. You were about to reach the handle when his voice startled you. 

“Would it be very unprofessional of me to ask you to have dinner with me tonight?”

You spun around so fast, you let go of the files and lost your balance. Luckily for you, Jonathan was just a few feet away and instantly circled your waist. “Are you alright? I’m really sorry, I shouldn’t have asked you that. I don’t want you to feel any pressure…”

“No!” You almost shouted, resisting the urge to touch him again so that he would not let go. “I mean, I don’t feel any pressure at all. As unprofessional as it may be, I would gladly accept your dinner offer.”

His arm tightened a bit around your waist. “Wonderful. Do you have any preference?”

“No, as long as I’m with you.” You instantly felt mortified and let out a squeak. Why on earth would you say such a thing out loud? You were so going to get fired. 

To your surprise, your boss chuckled again. “It’s quite alright. I also like your company, Darling. Let us enjoy this very unprofessional evening. Who knows what it has in store for us?”

Your belly did a tiny somersault at the term of endearment. This evening was not turning out as you had planned but you were certainly not going to complain. A nice dinner with your boss sounded way more exciting than your usual Friday nights with your salad and an old sitcom to watch on Netflix. Who knew indeed what the night had in store for you? But the way Jonathan Pine was looking at you gave you the tiniest hope that he could maybe feel the same attraction towards you. Maybe you would not sleep alone tonight either after all. 

Your hands finally found their way on his sweater and you almost purred at the softness you met. It was as good as you had imagined. Softest to the touch, perfect for snuggles and…more.

“Promise me, one thing Mr. Pine.” You looked up at him, your hands still running on his sweater dreamily. “Whatever happens, do not take off your sweater.”

Your boss smiled and leaned down until his lips were almost touching yours. “A lady’s wish is my command.”

Tagging: @thezombieprostitute @naaladareia

[spookycreeture]

Dipper and the Archivist

Hi all! Here's my art from part two of The Pines and the Archivist, Know the Being With Many Eyes. I really like tall monster Jon tbh, he's neat like that.

[jonathanbyersphd]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Stranger Things (TV 2016) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Jonathan Byers/Nancy Wheeler Characters: Jonathan Byers, Nancy Wheeler Additional Tags: Post-Season/Series 04, Season/Series 05, Canon Compliant, POV Jonathan Byers, Exes, Pining, Idiots in Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Divorce Era Summary: Jonathan and Nancy share a tense car ride on the way to the hospital.

Can I interest you in pining exes during this trying time?

[smolvenger]

How To Fake Date A Spy Part Two

Jonathan Pine x fem! Reader Miniseries

Word Count: 6K

Series Summary: You have to deal with numerous men of Roper's business having a gross interest in you for more than small talk. Going to Roper for help, he offers an idea- pretending to be the date of his newest friend. A handsome sous-chef known as Thomas Quince. Little do you know yet, the man's real name is Jonathan Pine and he is on a mission to take Roper down...

Part One

Chapter Warnings: Reader being thirsty, but no smut (yet). Discussions of depression and suicidal intentions with the character of Elena with a note of hope and good mental health and comforting fluffy fix-it goodness. But if you or a loved one have legit intentions, please get help and tell someone, 988 is the American hotline number in addition to 911. Some angst at the end. Discussions of domestic abuse.

A/N: Shout out to @muddyorbsblr for hyping me up as I was writing this draft!!! It always motivates me !!! Thanks, Bestie!!! I hope you guys like it!

Taglist: @evelyn-kingsley @jennyggggrrr @five-miles-over ) @fictive-sl0th @ladycamillewrites @villainousshakespeare @holdmytesseract @eleniblue @twhxhck @lokisgoodgirl @lovelysizzlingbluebird @raqnarokr @holymultiplefandomsbatman @michelleleewise @wolfsmom1 @cheekyscamp @mochie85 @muddyorbsblr

A03//My Ko-Fi//My Etsy Shop//Masterlist//Wattpad

Why the hell was this happening? Why the hell did you even agree to do this?

Just a few minutes before the cocktail party hosted by Roper. The first time you and Thomas would be seen as a couple in public. That is, a pretend couple. You have taken at least twelve anxiety trips to the restroom in the last two hours. You still felt like any minute you would shit yourself. You kept redoing bits of your makeup because your hand kept shaking. If there was a wrong step, a wrong move, you wondered if something would explode. If someone would either laugh at you or Roper would frown. Then again, this was The Worst Man In The World we were talking about. A frown would be the least of your worries if he wasn’t happy. And Thomas, what was going through his head? It was too long since you dated-really dated. And your heart was racing out of your chest.

You took another look in the mirror to make sure your cocktail dress was right. What would he even think? You wondered. He was probably repulsed by you- he was forced into this too! Now that Elena was your roommate, she was applying mascara next to you. But you could only stare blankly at your reflection. Overthinking and psyching yourself out as you scanned your appearance again.

“Hey Y/N, what's up?” she asked.

“I’m…I’m just…uh…nervous,” you replied. Nothing fake about that statement.

“Nervous? How come?” She began.

She looked around and then whispered. “Are you…are you in danger….did…”

“No, Roper didn’t threaten anything!“It’s just uh…I hope…I hope tonight just…goes okay,”

“Alright. Whatever you say. It’s just a cocktail party. Another party full of boring guests doing boring fancy things.”

“Well, Elena…today, uh, I gotta tell you something- uh-”

Then there it was. The fateful knock against the door. You jumped and let out a small shout of surprise. Elena looked at you with wide, scared eyes. You saw her hand shake with the mascara tube. But you held her other hand.

Then a soft, British voice was behind. You felt the teenage girl relax. You, however, did not.

“Y/N, I’m here. Ready when you are.”

Taking in a breath, you went to the door and opened up. Though you were delighted to see Thomas. The black eye and nose healed nicely. The bruises didn’t seem too obvious with his tanned skin. The sight of him was dazzling- a crisp blue suit that brought out how his eyes were like the spring sky. He looked down and smiled at you. You couldn’t speak at the sight of him. Excitement mixed with nervousness.

“Are you ready, Y/N?” he asked with a warm smile.

You looked back and saw that Elena tilted her head and squinted at him.

“Are you escorting us?” asked.

“Y/N is my date, but I’ll be glad to walk you over too,” he replied with a shrug.

You might have grown feathers and laid eggs before Elena's eyes. Her jaw fell to the floor. Then she looked at the two of you.

“Your date?!” she cried.

“Yeah….Thomas and I are dating!” you announced matter-of-factly. At least, you hoped it sounded matter-of-fact.

You put on a smile that you hoped wasn't too false looking- small and happy. You leaned in a little closer to him.

"Why....uh....congrats!" Elena replied.

"Yes...I wanted to tell you Elena, but..." you began

You felt your hands twitch and you hoped she wouldn’t notice. Then Thomas stepped forward.

"No, it's alright....come join us, Elena. You’re always welcome with us.”

As Elena walked out beside you two. Both of your clicking heels echoed in the hallway. Her dark hair contrasted with the white of her dress. As she got closer, you could hear the guests chatting. Her mother stepped up and opened an arm. She went up and got her mother’s hand and then walked to the party.

You walked beside Thomas, only giving the odd glance at him. You felt your heart pick up as you got closer. You felt fluttery inside. When Elena and her mother vanished into the party, Thomas leaned in towards you.

“Nervous?” he asked.

“Is water wet?” you replied dryly.

"Take my hand," he instructed.

He splayed out his hand before you- large and smooth. You reached yours, then hesitated before touching him.

“Your hand?" you repeated.

"Take my hand, Y/N. It will make it more believable,” he said.

With a deep breath, you took his hand. It still felt warm, warm from the sun that shone on his skin. His own large hand was soft on you again. With his free hand, he touched your chin, his thumb going to the corners of your mouth. It felt as intimate as a kiss on your thigh. You felt yourself take a breath so deep, you got a little dizzy. Then you went up to him. Suddenly, though there was a whole party of people, it felt like you two were the only ones on earth. Though you had more presentation of calm, his voice was doing nothing for your racing heart.

“Now…we have to smile. Just relax. It’ll be easier than you think,” he advised.

You unclenched your jaw at him. Under the graze of his thumb, you felt the corners of your lips twitch up.

“There…there it is,” he said, with a smile that matched yours.

Then use that…like method acting. Y/N you thought.

So then you both walked on and entered holding hands. It was another large group with cocktails in wide glasses and thin stems. Full of light laughter like wind chimes on a summer day. It was thick with every cologne and perfume you could name. There were bright flowers and green, leafy plants everywhere. Waiters in suits walked around serving drinks and hors devours. You felt Thomas squeeze your hand and you walked with a smile.

Just stay by him and hold his hand and smile. It had been too long- why didn't you notice what it was couples did? Your sister draped her arm around Roper's all the time. Caro would give kisses on Sandy's cheek and then his lips.

Yet when you entered, eyes went forward in greedy curiosity. You were recognized. And so was the new man-Danny’s savior. You saw their acknowledgment. The big eyes. The frozen smiles. Some noticed you and then immediately turned to their circle. Then those people turned heads. You couldn't hear a word but you knew they were talking about you.

But best of all were the men’s reactions. When your gross potential suitors turned to you, they saw your hand firmly in Thomas’s. And there were frowns on all of their faces. Then a nod when their eyes met Thomas's. He would nod back. The man who bested them. The man who beat them. Now, for once, you could be at a party of Roper’s and relax.

Well, not entirely. Elena was still with her family. And you made sure that you at least stayed by her side. You wouldn't leave her alone. The thought of what almost happened at her birthday party... made you want to be sick and disturbed you so much that it chilled your body and made you tense. So you kept an eye on her at the bare minimum. Though it seemed by now, she was sitting by Danny as he showed her his books.

"Wouldn't you like something to drink, darling?" Thomas asked, his voice putting a bit more weight on darling.

"I would love a drink" You nodded.

Both of you walked up to the bar. There was already a guy right by you. The guy from the last party who asked about your book- you could feel his green eyes on you and already smell the hair gel on his platinum blonde comb-over. You could see him get ready with a way to hit on you as he sat. But then his eyes turned up to see the intimidating Six Foot Two barricade to get to your panties. The guy shrunk into himself and then turned away promptly. You had to smirk. You knew he wanted to date you. But now it looked like the only date That Asshole would get tonight would be with his right hand.

"Could the lady have a martini, please?" Thomas asked the bartender. The old man nodded and handed you one. Thomas leaned there to watch the bartender make the drink.

Right as you turned, another familiar man from the other day swung by. Mr. Jacobson. He had been pretty persistent and determined last time. Though your body flinched as if ready for a fight, you made yourself still. Part of you didn’t shoo him away because you knew it was going to be entertaining to watch him try tonight.

You saw Thomas turning to watch you two.

"Hey there, Y/N, you look gorgeous again," Mr. Jacobson said, picking at a toothpick between his teeth with the sensual appeal of a patient at the dentist.

You opened your mouth to speak. To say something. A fruitless refusal. It was in your habit to. Then your fake boyfriend arrived. You felt Thomas’s arm reach across your shoulders. A protective half-hug. You could feel the muscles from how well fitted his suit was and you felt your breath flutter in your lungs. Looking up, Thomas gave the man an icy glare.

"I know she does."

The pure threat of it. If you had to be honest, the low growl in his voice…did something to you. You felt yourself clench your legs. Your breath was shallow and sharp You...liked it. Yes, it wasn't the most progressive thing to be a damsel in distress. But with this fine specimen in blue rescuing you, you were not going to complain.

Mr. Jacobson jumped and his face turned pale. He put his arms up.

"Oh, my bad! My bad! I thought she was...single, you know."

"No, she's not," Thomas said flatly. His glare continued right into the eyes of Mr. Jacobson.

“I am so sorry, man. So sorry, I swear…won’t happen! Won’t happen again!” he begged.

"It won't," Thomas replied firmly.

The guy fluttered away to the other end of the room. You looked up and smiled.

"Thank you, Thomas,"

“Y/N!” you heard Jed from across the room. Already in her light blue summery dress. The flowing skirt made her seem like a mermaid as she walked up. Then she widened her eyes at you.

You turned around and went over to give her a hug.

“You look lovely!” she said.

“Oh Jed, stop! You look gorgeous too!” you shook.

“Oh, don’t say that and…is that…is that Thomas!?” she asked.

You turned over. Thomas went up to her and shook her hand.

“Yes…” You turned to her. Trying to ignore how dry your mouth was with the phrase.

“Jed, Thomas, and I are dating now!” you announced. You followed it by sipping your martini.

Her jaw dropped, but she let a smile on her dazzling face and hugged you.

“Oh my god…that’s wonderful! Y/N! Oh, you should have told me the second it happened!”

"We wanted to be private...until we were certain we were on the same page," you lied through your teeth mid-hug.

Then she dropped to a frown and her eyes hardened. She let go of the hug and crossed her long arms.

“My sister is a sweetheart. And you will treat her well. You got it?”

You were surprised, but you took it.

“Yes, miss," Thomas replied.

“I will fight you if you do anything to hurt you,” she added.

“I understand…and I won’t do anything, Jed. I'll treat her well. Promise," he swore.

“Thank you…”

You sighed. Jed was right- he was decent. As dinner arrived, you both sat next to Elena and her parents. You were glad for her being a third wheel. She spoke to you and smiled. You even made jokes with each other. Both you and Thomas were aware of holding each other's hands whenever possible. But it didn't feel too different from just eating next to him anytime. He did flash you a smile and you found yourself smiling back. On instinct.

But…you couldn’t get this too complicated quickly. No, you read enough Romance novels to know where this kind of shit led up to. It wasn't right. You didn't like this...romance was in stories and fiction. Not in the real world. In the real world, where too many men, men like Roper, were just there to assert power and squash the women beneath them to prove a point. You couldn't risk that. Couldn't risk anything. Just enjoy a fleeting fantasy. A pretense. Like being an actor on the stage.

After dinner, he led you out to the balcony. There were a couple of other people out there smoking cigarettes and admiring the view of the city and the ocean at night. Then they began to walk off. You both were left alone. So you squared your voice.

"Thomas, promise me this thing. Don't get any emotions. Because I won't. Let's not get too attached to each other during this. The last thing I need is to actually believe our little game with Roper.”

He leaned over the balcony. A light breeze from the night drifted onto you both.

“What emotions should be involved?” he asked.

You felt yourself cross your arms. Your jaw hung open, but no words formed immediately.

“Um...Just....friendship I guess, nothing more," you answered.

He nodded with a small smile.

"If that is what makes you safe, then I won't mind," he assured you.

You put your forearms on the balcony. You looked out at the moonlight as its reflection still shimmered over the gentle rustling of the sea.

"You’re quite the gentleman," you acknowledged.

“I tried. I saw how uncomfortable they made you, Y/N. I feel sorry you have to go through that… You don’t deserve to feel unsafe," he said.

"Thank you....Thomas, Maybe I should return the favor…Is there anything I can help you with, Thomas?" you asked, turning to him.

He looked at you. Then he licked his lips and took in a breath, ready to say his boon.

"Not really, just this one thing..." he began.

“What is it?”

"If they're going to believe we're a couple...we have to know things about each other. That’s what couples do. They might test us. Especially when we’re alone. That's what couples do.”

You tilted your head.

"Have you been in relationships before?" you asked curiously.

He nodded.

"Married briefly, then we divorced. We were both young-too young to understand what marriage meant. And...there was a woman once but...it didn't work out," he answered.

You heard the wind whistle in your ear.

"Even with those- you learn things about each other. I could tell you my ex-wife liked to paint. Jed could tell you what Roper's favorite color is if you asked her," he pointed out. "You know...hobbies. Foods. Favorite colors. What are yours, Y/N?"

You blinked. Then opening your mouth, you began your answers. “Well, for one, I like to read. I bring books in my purses in case events get dull. Jed would tease me about it. I have her and our mom…but things are complicated right now...”

It felt like some icebreaker activity on the first day of school. But he smiled warmly, nodding. You described what you liked to do. Your favorite foods you couldn't resist. And the colors that you liked the most. Thomas relaxed to a smile and nodded.

"I'll keep that in mind," he replied.

You drummed your fingers on the balcony.

"Do you have hobbies, Thomas?" you asked.

He nodded.

"Yes. I like to read, too. I collect books," he answered. He stood up and put his hands in his pockets.

"Ooo, and your family?"

"Father died. Then my mum. Never had a real family. Just foster homes."

You looked down to the ground.

"Oh...I'm sorry..."

He then took out his hand. He touched your chin, lifting it gently to look at him. He only shrugged with a calm expression on his face.

"Don't be...I only got to have many families. I was with a family who spoke Arabic. Another spoke German. I learned their languages, too."

"Cool! Do you know a phrase you can teach me?" you asked.

He nodded. He looked around, then his eyes met yours again.

"Easily-here's a German one. Die Sterne sind heute Nacht hell."

"And that means..."

He removed a hand from his pocket and pointed at the sky.

"The stars are bright tonight..."

Both of you looked up-an expanse of stars glowed above you. They were so bright they glistened down. Their own light gave his skin a more silver glow to him. You saw he smiled and his shoulders relaxed. He looked beautiful, looking up, admiring the sky.

“Yes…they’re very pretty,” you said.

There was a knock on the glass door and you turned and saw Jed. She signaled to you that the guests were heading out and you had to say your goodbyes. You both flashed a "couple" smile and a brief, half "couple" hug. Especially with her eyes on the both of you. As you headed back inside, she turned to you.

“Well, first you had Danny, now you have Elena, and now Thomas! It’s like you hardly see me!” she teased.

“Oh, by all means- join us in our room, we could get a sleeping bag for you! And don’t pretend you don’t have your own man too.”

She smirked, then gave you a kiss on the side of her head. But as you looked back, Thomas was still admiring the sky.

The next morning, you woke up in your room to the sounds of birds. You listened to Elena snore in the bed next to you. She went on her stomach, and her dark hair splayed across the pillow. It was like the snore of a puppy and it was pretty cute, you had to admit.

She was resting. She was sleeping. She was alive-her inhales and exhales signaled by his body rising and falling softly.

When you went over to her counter, you took note of something you hadn't noticed- prescription bottles. Looking at them, you saw her counselor prescribed her anti-depressants yesterday. You smiled. It did look like she was going to have to take one in the morning. You'd have to remind her. Normally, you’d get water or coffee, but you made a promise not to leave her alone. You would honor it. Just in case she woke up. But as you sat by in the room, you turned your head to the window to look outside. Dear God, You were glad you looked.

Outside, you saw none other than your fake boyfriend, Thomas, running on the beach in dark shorts. No shoes. And no shirt.

You felt the corners of your lips tug up as if a smile was brewing. You felt your eyes glaze over his muscled abdominals- he was lean but you could count the six packs on his ripped stomach. His pectorals bounced with the force of his jogging. All of a sudden, you understood heterosexual men a lot more. He was delicious. His determined eyes shot forward like nothing on earth was going to stop him from getting to the other side of that beach. And that was alluring, to put it mildly. You could have squealed and pressed your face to the window like a fangirl, but stayed put. Savoring each inch of him. From his short hair to the trail of hair on his lower stomach leading you to the center of sin. His muscled arms with bulging biceps moved with each turn of his shoulder per step. You found yourself creeping to a corner. So he wouldn't see. So you could indulge yourself. Oogle him. Even lust after him. He was getting very sweaty and you could feel his breathing with how hard he ran. Then you would be blessed with imagining him taking a shower.

You were tempted for a second to wake up Elena so she could see him too and drool over him. But honestly, it went in a second because you could not take your eyes off of him.

“Holy shit” was the only phrase in your head as you watched him continue to run on. Even seeing how his sweat was hinted at by the glow of the rising sun. His trail grazed the ocean and the water splashed from his running. And his feet weren't the only thing starting to get damp.

You felt warm and tingly as he ran by. Your pussy was beginning to....feel things you hadn't felt in a long while. Then he was gone. You had a good look at his perfect, peachy behind and the back of his muscular thighs in the shorts and then he went on his way.

You swallowed. Pacing the floor, you shook your hands as if to shake the lust from your body. You were a lot more thrilled you had to be a pretend girlfriend to him. All the man on earth and it was him you got to hold hands and sit next to! Any other girl could have him. It was a miracle he didn't have a hundred lovers at this point- but he was yours! All yours!

No-NO! A more rational part of your brain yelled.

Yes, he's hot. But it's fake. Don't let your feelings get involved. He's a nice man. He’s got an amazing body. But he's still a man. Yes, he's hot, but it's fake, Y/N, you reminded yourself that morning.

It's fake, it's fake, it's fake.

That morning at breakfast, you could smell that Thomas had taken a shower. Elena stood by you when he greeted you. He used a soap scented with citrus. God, the fantasy of him taking a shower was screaming in your impulsive thoughts now. He went up to you and smiled. In Boyfriend ™ mode, he gave you a half-hug.

“How are you, darling?” he asked.

“I’m alright. Starving.”

“Then let’s get you something to eat then,” he said as the chef wheeled in omelets and toast for everybody.

You looked over around the table. Then a sight caught you that hit you like a brick.

Sandy and Caro had hired a nanny- a gorgeous young woman hired to look after Sady and Caro's two little boys. But Sandy sat next to the beautiful woman and smiled at her. Not in a way that felt appropriate.

“Why, don’t you look beautiful this morning!? Did you wake up like this?” he asked the lady.

“Oh…yes! Yes, I did,” she replied flirtatiously.

Wait a minute, you thought. How long has she been here? When you counted the weeks, you realized that there was a correlation between Sandy stopping his flirting with you when she first arrived. No coincidence. Your mind spiraled further.

The woman knew he was a married man. It was not stopping her.

Whipping your eyes to the side you saw Caro blink. Her face went pale. Then red. Then pale again. Their boys complained bout wanting pancakes and she would tell the chef to make some batter for them. But Caro didn't eat the rest of her food.

You felt suddenly sick. You gripped your fork in your hand.

“Is everything alright, Y/N?” Thomas asked, his jaw tight but his voice earnest.

“I…I, uh, we’ll talk later. Not right now,” you said.

Thomas was there, he slipped a hand to hold yours as you ate.

The next day, you took Elena to visit the church before getting some lunch somewhere. It was a blazing day and you were grateful for the coolness of the cathedral. A sanctuary in many ways. The heat. And for Elena. Both of you sat down. You saw her make the sign of the cross and half kneel before sitting at a pew. She was right- this was a safe place. And maybe if Roper was the devil, then he couldn't touch you here. Neither of you.

"How is therapy going?" you asked.

"It's...it's good. Very good. I never listened to someone...as kind as her...I never felt so...so safe. No guards. No Papi. Nothing. She told me all sorts of things. I cry almost the whole time. But she…she listens to me. She believes me. She tells me every feeling and part of life is only temporary and the bad feelings and bad parts eventually go away…"

"That's good. I'm glad. And the apartment search? Have you picked a city?"

"I'd like to live here. It's not too far but far enough. I'm looking at applications...And you- how are you and Thomas?"

"We're...we're good, thank you."

"Just good? How did you two meet?" she asked.

"Well...he rescued Danny. Roper brought him to recover. Got to talk to him a lot. Then he asked me out." So far, so good. You just prayed he would say the same if someone asked him.

"Does he kiss you?"

"Yes," you lied.

"I don't see it. I see your sister kiss Roper all the time."

"Thomas...it's the British in him. Stiff upper lip. He's not the PDA type outside of hands and hugging. That might be pushing it....he kissed me the other night under the stars at the party." you added with a smile. Your memory flashed to Thomas staring up at the sky.

"Huh...nice...but Y/N...I’ve been scared..."

She blinked.

"Will Roper...catch me? Will he...kill me? He's not beneath it. I know he is."

"Why would Roper want to kill the daughter of his lawyer? He'd turn his own ally against him?"

Her jaw tightened.

"He'll see...that I'm not happy...he knows I know the truth about him…"

“Then why hasn’t he done it yet?” you asked.

“I…I don’t know…but I want to get out now!"

"Then..." you turned around.

"Then that means, if you're not happy draining his wealth, then we'll get out of here. Just bear it-be patient, Elena. We have to find you an apartment first...and then we go through the application process."

Her eyes shined.

"Anywhere is better than at Roper''s."

"Okay...we'll take some time here. You can go to the confessional if you want. Whenever you're ready...let's find a place that's leasing. Ask them some questions. See what you might like.”

Elena nodded. After a bit, you saw her go off and have a chat with the other people around the cathedral. Old women kissing their cross necklaces. Tourists taking photos on their phones. Funny...that was the same pregnant tourist she talked to on the first day! Maybe a pregnant Catholic tourist. She went back to you and you gave her a smile as you both stood up and walked down the halls to the door.

You commented "One thing to remember about yourself Elena- you're a good person. You make friends with everyone- no wonder that lady keeps coming back to you! People like you!"

She sighed and her shoulders sagged.

“What is it?”

"Y/N…I feel sometimes I’m…I’m yelling for help to get out, but at my parents, at Roper’s…it’s like no one can hear me. I should be happy. But I’m not…I'm just...just a whining, weak little rich girl..."

Tears were in the ducts of her eyes.

"No, Elena. Don’t discredit yourself. You are going through a hard time. Something happened to you to make you think there was no getting better. And that poor girl may think she has no other escape...but there is...there always is…and you are not alone...”

You turned to her, gripping her shoulders.

“Deaths’ a permanent solution to a temporary problem. You have to remember that. Your problems are real…so are mine! But they are temporary!”

You swallowed, your voice broke with your words yet you spoke on. But you saw Eelena smile despite her sobs.

“You’re already seeking help. And getting therapy and talking. And we’re getting you a new place. Even if it takes a while, you’re going to get out of Roper’s grasp and never look back, and never have to live off of blood money again!! Neither of us will!"

You were crying too.

"I promise you. We will get you to escape. We'll find something- I will do whatever it takes. That little rich girl isn't whiny or weak...she's a brave young woman who looked at death right in its eye and when she was going to cross….she chose life instead. She did the right thing. She's a hero who saved herself and she deserves to be happy."

Crying, she hugged you deeply.

“Oh, Y/N! Thank you! T-thank you-u-u,” she replied, her own voice breaking with tears. But it felt nice. Freeing. Crying released the tension between the two of you. “You’re a strong woman, Elena. I’m proud of you-just for living. Just for surviving.”

After lunch, both of you toured apartments around. Elena lit up and smiled with each bare corner and wall you both saw. As you returned, it was a lazy evening. You were enjoying your reading while lounging at the pool. You saw Thomas walk around and saw Elena chatting with him. Part of you was tempted to be jealous or concerned. But it was alright. There seemed nothing inappropriate between them. Let her make another friend. But Caro only sat by the edge dipping her bare feet in the water. Her face was despondent. Staring at nothing.

There was a dinner the next day. It was no party (Corky was grateful- guests were a lot to keep track of). But it was nice as always. Nice with lobsters for everyone and large glasses of wine for each person. You saw Corky was already on his third one as he dug into his crab cakes and spuds. You had to grin. At least he was off your back when he had a few.

But Jonathan was handsome as ever. In just a dark suit and white shirt, he still appeared like a Greek god in the flesh. Whenever he smiled at you, it was like you had swallowed a bird and it was flying around in your stomach.

"Is there any...dessert you'd like to split?" he'd ask.

"Yes, uhm...how about...uh- a slice of cake- sweetie," you said, adding emphasis on the last two words should anyone hear.

"Cake sounds marvelous, my dear," he said, feeling yourself tingle at the words. Enjoying the fakeness while it lasted.

Elena looked at you and gave a smile over her chicken as she continued to eat.

Yes- eat. Drink water. Sleep. Live, Elena, live, I'll get you out. You’re going to live. You’re going to be happy with your life, I promise...

"Oh, Thomas! One would think you were a nun and a eunuch!" Roper teased.

You shot up. You made a point by leaning closer and holding Thomas’s hand.

“Roper, really…” you said. But you were interrupted.

"Go on, Y/N is as sweet as that dessert, why don't you give her a little kiss on the cheek..."

You looked down, an embarrassed laugh coming out of you. Thomas opened his mouth to speak, but Roper pressed further. He was testing you both and he knew it. Like you were both his playthings.

"C'mon! Just a peck, Loverboy!” Roper pressed.

You glanced at him and he at you.

“Would you be okay if I kissed you, just on the cheek?” Thomas asked.

“Uh, yes. Sure.”

He leaned in close. You could smell the food on his breath and feel warm air from his nostrils, from his breathing. Then he brought his lips to your cheek. They were soft. Gentle. Like a drizzle in April. You felt your whole body get hot. The fact you were kissed in such a spot. It was as chaste as chaste could be. Yet you could have melted from how tender his lips felt against the skin of your cheek. Then he retreated.

Roper smiled and lifted his glass, taking a sip of his chardonnay.

It then struck you. Sandy and the babysitter had been gone. Too long. Suspiciously long. Then, from the hallway, you heard steps. And laughter- both deep masculine and bright feminine voices. The nanny returned first. The nanny was blushing, but smiling as she returned. Then a few minutes later, Sandy walked returned. You saw his shirt looked disshelved and there was a swagger to his steps.

The asshole wasn’t even subtle or secret about it.

Caro looked devastated. Her face was white. She was shaking. Everyone turned their faces away and kept talking as if nothing happened. Even if Caro looked like she was going to break in a hundred bits. You could tell it was everything in her not to cry in front of her boys.

“Well, I hope everyone has room for dessert. Hear the cake’s magnificent! A chef Ludesma signature!” Sandy announced with a flourish of his voice. That stupid asshole. Caro was devoted to him and she loved him. She did everything right- gorgeous socialite mom who gave Sandy two sons to take fishing and to sports games to be more copies of their father. She always got her hair and nails done and her clothes always looked in place. She was friendly and polite to everyone and you never heard of her capable of hurting a fly. Caro never stepped a toe out of line and looked away when men hit on her. And that bastard cheated on her anyway.

She did everything right and she was the one crying. He was having an affair, and he was smiling.

You had had enough. You got right out of your chair. Thomas looked up at you, but his face remained neutral.

You went up to Sandy before your self-control could get you. You took Sandy and looked him in the eye. He went up, wiping his mouth with his napkin- you didn’t see it closely but you knew the nanny wore pink lipstick. Sandy looked up at you with that stupid, shit-eating grin.

"Y/N, how are-"

You slapped him hard before he could finish his sentence. The crowd gasped and chairs squeaked as people got up. Sandy immediately got up, trying to let his tallness and his masculinity scare you away. But you did not back down.

“Y/N, what was the point of-”

Before he could finish that, you gave him a kick in the groin too. He groaned and leaned over in pain, then you grabbed his shirt.

"You stop fucking that babysitter, or I WILL use one of the wine glasses and break it and cut your balls off with it, do you understand?" you raged.

His eyes went wide and he gritted his teeth. You saw his fists curled as if ready to punch you. You took a step back but didn’t stop glaring his eyes.

“Caro loves you and this is how you repay her, you prick?! She doesn’t deserve you. You’re lucky she hasn’t stabbed you!” you continued.

“You little bitch!” Sandy cursed.

But the party already ran up to you. People held both Sandy and you back.

Roper stood up. He went over to Sandy and got him, restraining him from lunging. You felt Jed and Thomas get up and get you, pulling you back. Then you shot your eyes into the nanny to give her a death glare. You would have slapped her too if it wasn't for Jed holding you back.

“! You’re as bad as he is! You KNEW he was married, and it didn’t stop you, you little-”

Jed pulled you away. And you gritted your teeth as the nanny stared horrified, frozen in her seat.

Sandy meanwhile was pointing a meaty, sausage-like finger in your direction.

"Did you see what she did!? She attacked me!” he cried.

"Now, Sandy, don't panic...it's just a scuffle. I don't see a mark on your cheek. Not a large one, anyway." Roper began.

He glared at you. His voice steeled with more venom than you could imagine.

"We know the lowest brothels in Munich and we'll sell you straight to them this minute !" he threatened.

You felt your jaw clench. Terror gripped you and you couldn't move, couldn't think.

“No! Please! Please don’t!” Jed begged, leaning forward.

Then Thomas stepped forward. He replaced Jed's arm around you and then leaned out a hand in peace. Jed ran forward to beg Roper and Sandy not to sell you off as punishment. Could they...could they do that...oh no...what on earth had you done!?!

Thomas however, was still quiet. But he was strong. You found yourself wanting to nuzzle into his shirt. You could smell his cologne subtly applied. He was again...so warm and soft. And safe. He then began speaking with such authority, anyone had to listen.

"Please...everyone...let's not fret ourselves. Sandy has done wrong, and he should acknowledge how much this hurt his wife. Don’t be upset at Y/N, either. She’s fiercely devoted to her friends, especially the women here. She was trying to protect Caro," he reasoned.

He looked down at you. His gaze softened and you felt yourself relax a little near him. His arm enclasped you in an embrace. Youcould feel his pulse in his body. You hugged him back and swallowed hard.

Roper furrowed his brow. He then took a step forward and spoke to your pretend boyfriend giving you a very real defense.

"If she was my woman...she would be off to Germany by now. But she's not. Thomas, you have to learn to control your woman. I do so with Jed. Sandy does it with Caro. Now it’s your turn. Take her to your quarters. Give her a dressing down. Or we will have to do it for you,” threatened Roper.

You felt your heart race inside your ears. This was some real 19th-century bullshit Roper was pulling out of his ass. Would that be…be possible? Now even Jed looked scared. So very scared. And she stopped trying to beg him. Oh god, now it was going to happen to you. Elena and her parents were silent and you saw the teenage girl trembling. She took a step forward out of her seat, but then Roper put an arm up to stop her.

Thomas then put his hand around your arm.

“Here…I will take her to my room and I will dress her down, as we say. Just give us a moment…” he began.

Thomas was a nice man. A docile, polite, quiet, if not slightly mild man when you talked to him. He wouldn’t…beat you. He didn't seem the type. hen again, you remembered a phrase you heard once. It was always the ones you would never suspect. You bit back your bile. Your legs were shaking so badly, you wondered if you were standing.

“Here, Y/N…come with me…” he directed.

You had no choice but to follow as he led you by pulling you with him. His touch felt like a grip this time. You were shaking. Then he led you out. Out of that building. The guards nodded and let him. Out into the cool night air with the crickets and stars. You could still smell the sea too. It would usually be comforting. But this was not usual. You saw his muscles and big hands- he could overtake you in a fight. A blow from his fists would hurt. He could easily overpower you. You should have known. You should have known he was Roper's friend. And friends meant one's future-your sister's future. Yours.

He had a smaller cottage near the property. He took you right inside into the front foyer- a little hall with a kitchenette right there. Then he locked the door and looked at you. His jaw tight. Then he took a step forward. You squeezed your eyes shut and braced yourself.

“Just get it over with, quick!” you insisted.

“Y/N…you're safe here. They would have pressured me to hit you. But I'm not. Not here or anywhere. I’m not going to hurt you…” he said.

You opened your eyes. Your shoulders relaxed though your heart was still racing. He went up to you.

“Thomas, what are you talking about?” you hissed.

He leaned in close. His voice was just a whisper.

“You don’t have to call me Thomas here…you can call me Jonathan.”

“What…you have another name?” you asked, your mind reeling with every word he said.

“Yes-Jonathan Pine.”

[lokidbadguy]

the intro 🤭

jonathan pine x bathroom = perfection

[daily-doodles-and-fics]

[130]Gravity falls season 2 spoilers!

“Gravity falls”

Case # 0171609

[click]

[Archivist] Statement of Dr. Stanford Pines, PhD regarding a self contained apocalypse that occurred in August of 2012 in Gravity Falls, Oregon, USA. Statement taken direct from subject September 16, 2017. Statement Begins

[Stanford] To give a bit of context, about 5 weeks before, I had just returned from about 30 years of hopping dimensions and I was still getting acclimated to everyone and everything around me.

When I returned, a small inter-dimensional rift, which in the wrong hands could spell the end of our world, had formed. I was sitting in my lab, researching hotspots of unusual activity as I tended to do, when a deafening Bang rang out. I ran upstairs to find my great nephew outside, looking at the sky.

A great rift had been ripped into the sky. I had lent him the rift for safe keeping, but he and his twin sister had a disagreement and she probably had run off with his bag and broken the rift.

An apocalypse had started, and creatures of pure horror just streamed out of the rift in the sky like an oozing blood. The creature that started this, an interdimensional dream demon known as Bill Cipher, had opened a gateway from his world to ours. Only thing was, Gravity falls had such a strong pull of weird things to it, everything stayed inside the town.

Bill kidnapped me and brought me to his Penthouse Suite, the Fearamid. He tortured me for god knows how long, trying to get an equation to take his messed up idea of a Party worldwide. He tried electrocuting me and worse. Every time my body would give out, he would bring me right back, healing the worst of it before continuing. I couldn’t die if I wanted to.

[Archivist] this weirdness apocalypse, Armageddon if you will, what was it called, or at least what did you call it?

[Stanford] Weirdmageddon. All things weird and off and strange and unnatural thrived for possibly days in that town. My brother Stanley saved us all, though he’s suffering amnesia for it. We were up in London to investigate weird things here, and I saw your building and thought you might want to hear my story.

[Archivist] well I’m glad you did decide to come to us, you can rest assured that this is going to be safe on this tape, in the archives, for a very long time. Statement ends.

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[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Precocious 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, arranged marriage, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: your family expects you to marry, but you don't expect to be happy.

This is part of the Three Sisters for Three Misters AU (this reader is know as Chicky)

Characters: Jonathan Pine

Note: And here we go.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

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I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Heart racing, breath like fire, air stolid as beads of sweat speckle your scalp. There is only the moment. Only one shot. This is it. You have your target in sight. You squint down the barrel of the rifle and narrow your focus. 

One, two-- 

Cheep, cheep, cheep-cheep-cheep. The melodic tweeting of birds sounds from your single airpod. You sigh and steady the gun. You press down on the earbud to dismiss the incoming call. You reset your shot and follow the unwitting target as they twist and turn, searching for their adversary. For you. 

You take the shot. Right between their shoulder blades. You smile at the splatter of yellow paint across their vest. They stagger and twirl around in disappointment. They harrumph and toss down their gun.  

“Ah damn it!” Mackenzie stomps his foot. “Bull shit.” 

You point the barrel in the sky as you emerge from your perch, “don’t be a sore loser, Mack.” 

“Whatever,” he pouts. 

The tweeting starts again. You reach to tap the bud, this time answering the call. You kick through the dirt as the other players disburse. Game’s over. Back to reality.

“Howdy,” you trill as check the canister on your gun. Almost a full round left. It’s not how much you shoot, it’s where. 

“Where are you?” Your mother snips.  

“Hm,” you raise your wrist as you sling the strap of your gun around your shoulder. You tug back your sleeve to check your fitbit. “I’m not late.” 

“What do you mean you’re not late? Where did you go?” 

“Mom, I’ll be there,” you huff. “With bells on.” 

“Oh, trust me. I will hunt you down,” she sneers. “You will be here in one hour. Dressed. Acceptably.” 

You roll your eyes. You prefer it when she can’t see it. You love her, you know she means best, but you’re an adult. You agreed to her demands so why is she so rude? 

“I will, mom. I’ll even put a bow on,” you giggle. “Anywho, time to claim my prize. Ta.” 

You hang up without waiting for her no doubt scathing retort. You stride up to turn in the gun and your helmet. The gloves and boots are your own and your trademark hot pink outfit is custom-made. You get a voucher for free round of play and another medallion claiming you as champion.  

Your mom chides you often, says it’s a child’s game. Well, if she insists on treating you as one, you may as well be one. You stop and chat with a few of your competitors, some of them regulars, others just out for a day of fun. The older men aren’t very talkative. Not even a congrats on your win. 

Oh well. You try not to let the unhappiness of men rule your world. If you did, you would never do anything at all. Besides, you’ve sacrificed enough. You promised your father you’d behave and that you would show up for dinner. Well, that’s just the beginning of the agreement. 

You strip off your canvas and jacket and change out of your dirty pink jeans. You pull on a pair of lululemon flares and a loose white tee, sheltered only by your car door. Your mother would be scandalised to see it. You cackle and shove everything in your trunk. 

You blast some 90s pop for the drive. It amps you up and wards off the dread of what awaits you at home. As you drive up to the gate of your family estate, you turn down the music. You stop your out-of-tune singing and push your shoulders back. This is the real battleground. 

You pull into the garage, parking in the empty spot between your father’s lexus and your mother’ cadillac. You keep your head down as you get out. You near the interior door and ease it open. You listen to the house. You hear the flurry of the kitchen staff and all those others brought in to prepare for dinner. 

Sigh, your whole life has been parading around for company. 

You peek through the east doorway of the kitchen. Your mother screeches as she demands that the dessert be redone. You duck across and hurry upstairs. 

You swing yourself into your room and sigh. You take out the dress hand-picked by your mother. She gave you options and you bartered something cute. She wasn’t happy about the length but the faux petals around the neckline convinced her. You just love that it’s pink! 

You drape the hanger from the handle of the drawer on your vanity and look in the mirror. You take out a face wipe and clean your face of the residue of sweat and dust. You wish you could have stayed for the afternoon matches but responsibility calls. 

You begin your usual process. Primer, concealer, foundation. As you blend, there’s a tapping at the door. You recognise the melodic rhythm. You whistle back and your eldest sister enters. She’s already done up, all but her lips. She wears a burgundy robe and matching slippers with pearls. 

“There you are,” Kestral says. “Mother’s been squawking all day.” 

You look at her in the mirror and shrug. She looks down her nose at you. She has the same imperious expression as your father. If you didn’t know better, you’d be scared. 

She laughs and puts her hands on her hips. “Please, let me do your hair so she doesn’t tear it out.” 

“If you want,” you shrug, not very bothered by the task. You’ll make do. 

“Oh,” Kestral nears, “that dress is so you.” 

She touches the fluttery portrait neckline. She’s a bit more sophisticated, a lot less flowery. You dab on some blush and smear it with your fingers until it looks natural. 

“What about Wren? She’s usually much more elusive than me?” You ask. 

“Oh, yes. She took her nose out of her book for five seconds to get the witch off her back,” she takes the wide toothed comb and starts from your ends. “Even after a lifetime, she can’t really accept that this is what we were born for. I worry for her but she locked her door.” 

“And probably climbed the window,” you snort. 

“Always the most clever of us,” Kestral agrees. She’s silent as she untangles your hair. “Are you nervous?” 

Her eyes meet yours in the mirror. You shrug and hold off on the eyeliner. You’ll let her figure out your hair before that. 

“Strangers, aren’t they? But mother and father were too.” 

“Mm, and look how well that turned out. I don’t think they’ve been alone together since right before you were born,” she scoffs. 

“Likely not. But... mother says the men are well-bred. Polite.” 

“Frigid,” Kestral grins. “You must read between the lines. That is how society talks. They never say the truth, the toe around it until it kicks you in the teeth.” She takes a pin and secures it in your hair. “I’ve asked around but people never talk about interesting things, do they?” 

“No, not really.” You make a face at her in the mirror, a clownish smile, “am I pretty, sister? Will mother approve of me?” 

She chortles and shakes her head, “oh, it will be quite the night, won’t it?” 

“Don’t act as if I will be the only menace. And I’m not so worried about mother, as she shouldn’t be of us. We have to impress these men, not her, right?” 

“Impress? Well, I shouldn’t need to try for that. He can win me over. Tradition and all,” she drones. 

The door clicks behind her and you both give a start. You turn as Wren stands against the door, her eyes wide and her hair as unwieldy as ever. So much as she tries to tame it, it has a will of its own. Despite her reticence, she is much the same. 

“I saw one,” she says. 

“Saw one?” You echo. 

She hushes you and comes forward. She’s in a plum sweater and linen pants. Her glasses are tangled in her hair and crooked. She has a book under her arm. 

“He’s tall. Blonde. Look,” she points to the window. You and Kestral share a look before you rise. You follow her to the window Wren remains by the vanity. 

“Oh, wow, isn’t that typical?” Kestral drawls, “an antique car. Well, Wren, you should hope he’s yours then. By the looks of it, he’ll spend more time with that beast than you.” 

She squeaks and flutters around behind you. She’s always been the softest spoken of you all. Reserved but willful. Most wouldn’t guess it, but she’s rather funny when she wants to be. 

“Mm, he has manners. He is chatting rather intently with Reginald.” 

“Yes, Reginald can be rather chatty,” Wren murmurs. Sometimes, she is too honest. 

“Well, Kes,” you turn away from the window and lean against the wall, “you said you asked around. What did you hear?” 

“Like I said, gossip is rarely useful,” she sighs and retreats. “Mine, Conrad... he’s not much history in ‘society’,” she emphasizes the last word with her fingers. “From what I’ve gathered, he comes from a well to do family. I heard more of his brother than him. Frustratingly mysterious.” 

She crosses her arms and sits on your bed, “then there’s Laufeyson, Wren’s match. He does have quite the reputation. A tricky man. I’m not entirely sure why mother and father chose him but no offense, Wrenny, you are a middle child.” 

“Mm, I’d say better than no one but no one sounds rather nice,” she mutters. 

You laugh. She really is so silly. 

“And me?” You prompt. 

“Pine. Proper gentleman by my measure. Never a toe out of line. No mystery, no scandal. He sounds like he was created in a factory.” 

“Boring?” You comment. 

“I wouldn’t expect any of them to be more than,” she examines the crimson tips of her manicure. “But we should try to pretend they are interesting.” 

“Forever,” you utter. 

“Forever...” she agrees dully. “So is our lot, yes? We must make the best of it. Get through tonight, then the wedding, and when all is said and done, we can still be us.” She leans back and crosses one leg over the other. “I’ll take Lottie with me. She’s a loyal stead and I’ll need something fun to ride.”  

She gives a wink and you giggle. Wren squeaks and rocks bashfully. 

“Wren, you can take all your books and add a thousand more to your shelves. You could build yourself a castle and lock yourself away to read forever,” she says, “and Chicky,” she looks at you, “you can just be you. Go out shooting or dancing or shopping. As long as our duty is met, we will be free. Truly. No more mother, no more father. We will laugh in their faces and say ‘no’.” 

“I hope you’re right,” you turn back to peer out the window. 

The blond man stands below. His brow suit is sleek and tailored. Even from there, you can tell it is cut of fine material. He looks up as you peer down and you think for a moment he sees you. You flinch and draw back behind the curtain, tugging it across the pane. 

“I do too,” Kestral agrees. “Think of it this way, we want out of this house. This is how we get out. Then we have our own titles, our own rights, and our husbands, well, they can have their own hobbies.” 

You nod and go back to the mirror. You sit and look at yourself. You want to believe Kestral. She’s never been an optimist but she’s just so desperate to get away, she’ll believe her own lies. You want to think this is an escape, yet you can only see things staying the same. You’ll still be putting on a mask. Still living to someone else’s standards. 

[darkmasterlistyouneveraskedfor]

Three Sisters for Three Misters Masterlist

Precocious (Jonathan Pine)

Summary: your family expects you to marry, but you don’t expect to be happy.

1

Precarious (Loki)

Summary: you’re forced to leave the pages of your books and face reality.

1

Pugnacious (James Conrad)

Summary: the day has come to do your duty as a noble daughter.

1

[pearlypairings]

Jonathan Byers x Chrissy Cunningham

Summary: Jonathan drives around Chrissy to sober her up and help her decompress after the party's crazy confrontations. After a little scare, she opens up about her break up and how she's been feeling lately.

Fanart for this chapter💕

Chapter preview below the break:

She giggled, tapping on his arm on the middle console to the beat. Even in his periphery, he could see her bouncing and shimmying her shoulders in the passenger seat, and he had to turn his head, her light irresistible. If there was a human embodiment to sunshine, even on a stormy day, it would be her. It was contagious.

He bobbed his head side to side, nudging her hand as he refocused on the road. For the few minutes of that song, they had a little bit of late night fun to blow off steam. Jonathan wasn’t sure if this was what The Cure had in mind for this song, but the claps and catchy beat helped her let go of the tension that boiled over. It even helped him ease into being her inexperienced escort for the night.

The night had settled, draping a thick darkness over the highway and its woods. Only his headlights and the twinkle of the autumn constellations lit up the street as he drove carefully down the last stretch before they were out of Hawkins proper. With the change of song, Chrissy propped her elbow to stare out the window at the trees rushing past.

Quiet solitude, but not awkward, just comfortable. He steered the car through several bends, one after another, in quick succession like a horizontal roller coaster. He wondered if whoever had designed this road was drunk from the way it curved graciously around the groves of trees. As if answering his unspoken question, Chrissy gripped his wrist on the wheel.

“I need to get out. Now!” The urgency in her voice scared him. She’d gone from carefree and floaty to desperately demanding in an instant.

He swerved to pull over into the patch of grass outside the treeline, realizing maybe she’d panicked when she saw they were in the outskirts of their town alone. His heart thumped against his chest. “I can take you home now. I wasn’t taking you anywhere, I swear.”

By the time he lifted his hands off the wheel and tried to look earnestly at her, Chrissy had already unlocked and flew out the door....

Read the rest on ao3 ❤️!