#lora is figuring out what is happening in real time and is a little concerned

[graedari]

Hi and welcome to Grace still being obsessed with @radjerda's Tron Fights for the Users (Children) AU. Quite overtly obsessed if you will. And I can and will build off of this installment of the AU (without thinking too much about the logistics)

[Image ID in alt]

[terresdebrumestories]

One night only

FANDOM: DCEU, but I guess more specifically BVS. SERIES: - RATING: Explicit for safety. WORDCOUNT: 7 333 words PAIRING(S): Superbat CHARACTER(S): Bruce Wayne & Kal-El GENRE: Brief encounters of the sexy kind. One night stands. TRIGGER WARNING(S): None that I’m aware of, but it does contain sex and the vaaaaguest hint of strength kink. Also touch!starved Bruce. SUMMARY:

Bruce crashes on an unknown planet as he returns from a League-related mission. Fortunately for him, he manages to survive the accident with nothing more than big bruises to show for it. Even more fortunately, he finds himself rescued by the hottest alien he's met so far.

OR: Bruce Wayne rescued by beefy alien.

DEDICATION(S): To  obviously, who provided the very sexy prompt for this fic, and also to @lorata​, who handled the SPAG betaing of this. I, sleep deprived and unused to GDocs on mobile, may have clicked on the “refuse” button on a couple of corrections so assume any typo left is my fault :P NOTE(S): I don’t know why I was convinced my posting date was July 18th, but I was, which means that the final version of it got finished at 11pm on the 17th, which was a bit of a cardio workout. Thank fuck for timezones giving Lora enough time to hunt my typos without too much pressure :P

ALSO AVAILABLE ON AO3

The cockpit almost looks like a Christmas tree: it blinks in increasingly bright and urgent colors, the high-pitched beep of panicking instruments loud enough to drown Bruce’s thoughts as the jet plummets toward the ground. There are interminable seconds of falling, Bruce’s soul scrambling to think of Alfred, Dick Jason MomDad—

Lead on his eyelids, a ton each at the very least. When he finally maneuvers them to half-mast the light around him is loud enough to hurt. He closes his eyes. Tries again. The bright gold echoes like a bellow between his ears. Wince. Persevere. The world around is too much and too little, loud light and bright noises. He blinks and blinks and blinks until something warm licks at him, and then another noise, salt in the air and oh, Alfred, I really messed it up this—

Blue, blue, blue, blue, the world moving—a voice above, deep and tense, dark fringe over a frown…Jas—

When Bruce wakes up for the third time, there is something floating above him. An oblong shape, dark against the light, and close enough to touch if Bruce’s arm had any strength left in it. It remains there for a while, trembling until Bruce’s eyes finally shape it back into a face. It seems calm for now, not attacking or moving in a suspicious way, but it does stay where looking at it makes Bruce’s eyes water, so it’s probably best not to discount the risk of hosni—hossi—ill intent. Bruce blinks, slow and sluggish, while the head moves and melts into some kind of silhouette.

Bit by bit, the light grows quieter, and Bruce sighs, squinting to make out limb-like shapes—only four, thank fuck—as the presumed-head leans down—and then recoils as Bruce’s hand strikes at it...or, well. Tries to. It gets stopped halfway through, easy as breathing—Bruce winces, breathes in. Blinks until the shape moves around him, the hold on his wrist firm but not painful. Once it’s out of the backlight, the head looks human enough: curly black hair, eyes just a shade too blue to feel real. The kind of jawline you could sharpen a battarang with.

Bruce blinks harder and, in a bout of stupidity barely excusable even in his state, he glances down—wool-like garment, reminiscent of a sweater, but close-fitting enough to let him know he wouldn’t blush at having abs like that—and says:

“I always thought I’d go to Hell.”

The world fades again.

*

The fourth time Bruce wakes up feels like it’s the one that’s going to stick. He’s healed up enough to remember what he said last, for one, and while that’s embarrassing enough to make him groan—religion, really Bruce?—it’s at least a sign of progress. For two: fucking ouch.

It’s a good thing that he can feel the hurt. Bodies that don’t feel it are either traumatized or permanently damaged, or both. Still, if there is a superior entity somewhere, Bruce is determined to make them pay for the fucking nervous system. Aside from his feet, pretty much everything hurts right now—nothing Bruce isn’t used to, though. Healing bruises, decades-old stab wound acting up in humid weather...all in a day’s work for Batman, really, so much as he dislikes the sensation it really isn’t that hard to find a semi vertical surface to prop himself against. The move makes his head swim, predictably, but at least now he can see the person-shaped thing move around when it comes back to the currently-empty cave. If it comes back.

Rather than sit and wait for an answer on that question, which could keep him there a long time, Bruce gives his nausea enough time to subside—he is pushing fifty there, and surprisingly interested on keeping going—swallows around his cardboard-thick tongue, and sets about slowly taking stock of his surroundings.

He can feel rough stone behind his back. There’s another natural wall at his front. Stalactites line the stone ceiling and, to Bruce’s right, slope down until they meet the ground with only a narrow conduit squirreling away under the bedrock. No exit there. Turning back to the left, Bruce discovers the cave widens for about fifteen, maybe twenty feet—depth perception: still AWOL—until wet-dark stone gives way to the sun-bleached gray of fist-sized pebbles and the ruckus of them rolling through the waves. The sea beyond offers a dull brown color tinged with silver, shining under the sleek pewter of the sky.

Bruce thinks, unhelpfully, of Gotham.

He doesn’t dwell on it too much: he’s unbound and, as far as he can tell, alone in the cave. If he’s going to figure a way out of here, now is the ideal moment, though he knows better than to make it too obvious he knows that, just in case there’s some surveillance he hasn’t found yet. There’s no fire, but the air isn’t cold, and when he looks down at himself he realizes there’s a blanket draped over the Kevlar that means he won’t be catching a cold just yet. It also means that whatever found him either has no malicious intent towards him or is very interested in pretending it doesn’t.

Obviously, he doesn’t trust the thing—person? Alien, definitely—that got him here. He’s lived through more than his fair share of people treating him exceedingly well for nefarious reasons, both as Batman and as Bruce; he’s not about to fall for it. Every second he pretends to, however, is more time to recover and plan his escape. It is with that certitude in mind that Bruce leans back against the stone and, keeping his ears focused on the sounds around him, closes his eyes to fake sleep.

He nearly curses when he wakes up to the sound of footsteps on rocks. Obviously, he’s well trained enough to reign the impulse in, but he’s got more than enough brainpower to recriminate himself while he checks out the entrance of the cave. It’s dark by now, which, assuming the days here are roughly the same as Earth’s, means several hours have passed, during which anything could have happened. Fuck. If Alfred learns about this, Bruce will never hear the end of it… At least he’s still up against the wall. Nothing’s coming at him from behind.

The alien doesn’t attack, though. It walks into the cave, familiarly bipedal, dressed disturbingly like the upscale version of a Hollywood fisherman—the sweater even sports a pattern reminiscent of a cable-knit. When it’s done setting up a rough circle of stone near Bruce—with its back to him! If he were at full capacity, that alien wouldn’t stand a chance—and dumping wood into it, it busies itself lighting a fire. Only when it’s done and the first licks of warmth reach Bruce does it turn around.

Bruce, shamefully caught with his eyes open, allows himself to swear internally. An alien it might be, but if Bruce weren’t profoundly aware of this fact it could have passed for a human easily: aside from the too-blue eyes, there’s nothing to make the alien stand out in a crowd. Or, well. There is, but GQ models aren’t generally considered dangers to the general population...although judging from the way his guts twist when the alien smiles at him, right now Bruce is rather inclined to review that particular assessment.

 Come on, Batman. Get a grip.

The alien, blatantly oblivious to Bruce’s internal battle against his...heart...approaches him with an easy smile and a soft voice, moving slowly, like it’s trying to calm a spooked animal. It makes Bruce want to show his teeth, but considering he’s not exactly in a state to follow up on the threat if the alien reacts aggressively, he decides against it. He does grunt though, just enough to show his displeasure at his current predicament, low enough that it doesn’t fall into outright aggression. Not that it matters: genuine or faked, the alien’s current persona seems too cheerful to mind, and it smiles as it speaks.

At least, it sounds like there are words in its voice. Bruce’s Green Lanterns-issued translator is on the fritz, though: all he can do is assume the emotion projected actually is relief, closely followed by concern. It’s...not often, that Bruce is confronted with something like that after an injury. Neither Dick nor—Dick has always been the type to joke, and English blood means Alfred’s physical expressions of concern come in the form of tea and a duster served with the stiffest upper lip on the planet. To be the focus of eyes that blue, with that sincere-looking an expression on that face with that jawline is...Bruce swallows. Hard.

The alien says something else that Bruce, of course, doesn’t understand, and then it turns away to reach inside its bag and produce something round, purple and leathery looking. It might be a gourd or a fruit, Bruce has no way to know. He is parched though, and so he tries to dip down for a drink.

What happens instead is a hand on his shoulder, the pressure dulled by the suit, but there enough to realize he couldn’t easily get out from under it. Slowly, gently, Bruce is pushed back against the rock, intense blue eyes crinkling with a smile that, on a human, Bruce would almost describe as apologetic. One of the alien’s hands comes up to tip Bruce’s head back, fingertips lighting long lines of fire against his throat, catching his breath right in the middle of his chest until he’s tensing without meaning to. Bruce can still feel the path of those fingers against his skin, the phantom sensation pulling at his attention even as the alien’s other hand raises the purple sphere above his head. Bruce’s hand snaps up, catching on a wrist. There is a pause, as if the alien had sensed Bruce’s brief burst of fear through his touch—what if the liquid inside is acid? What if he’s about to be bludgeoned to death? —until their eyes meet. Something shifts in the alien’s face, and he stands up straighter somehow, resumes his movement with a slow grace that somehow makes Bruce want to get up on his knees. He allows the grip of his fingers to soften, thumb resting on the alien’s pulse point—it feels fast, under the thin skin—and watches the purple thing rise above his head.

It pauses right above Bruce’s face, the alien looking at him with something almost like a question in his eyes. Bruce meets his eyes head on, wishing he could think of it as defiance. Then, with his chest heaving and his body straining in the confines of his suit, Bruce tips his head back and opens his mouth.

The alien gasps when the juice—it’s too sweet to be water, despite the clear color—falls into Bruce’s mouth, the blood in his wrist speeding up. Lowering his head a fraction, Bruce meets his gaze again—or tries to. A few drops made their way past Bruce’s lower lips, dribbling down his chin and along his throat, and the alien is clearly too caught in tracking their path to meet Bruce’s gaze. He licks his lips, making Bruce shiver, and just when Bruce is starting to consider releasing the moan bubbling inside his chest, the alien takes the purple thing—the fruit? —away.

Juice splashes on the bridge of Bruce’s nose and he splutters, moment broken and yet still out of breath, fingers still clasped around a wide wrist. He takes his hand away, acutely aware of all the places where it’s not touching skin anymore, and breathes in deep, trying to calm his heart rate as fast as possible while the alien clears his throat and tosses the empty fruit shell away into the water.

He speaks again then, motioning upward with his hand, and although he’s clearly trying to look casual there is a faint dusting of pink over his cheekbones. Given the circumstances, Bruce decides to go ahead and provisionally interpret it as having the same meaning as on Earth. Once that’s done, he tries to follow the other man’s request: he barely makes it to his knees before he topples over, legs reduced to jelly despite his clear mind. For a moment, his rescuer—for lack of a better word—seems almost disappointed. Then he speaks again, slow and soothing, as he steps closer with his arms extended.

Bruce is caught in a bride’s carry before he can even attempt to protest.

For one hysterical second, Bruce’s mind provides an image of Alfred’s—or anyone from the league’s—face should he find out about this. It is mortifying and he vows to take the incident to his grave—but the thought only lasts for that: one second. Right after that, Bruce finally catches up with the fact that his companion is showing no strain whatsoever while carrying him and his thirty pounds of armor and— oh come on Batman, get a grip.

Batman does not get a grip. In fact Batman, who is feeling decidedly less Batmany than usual, slowly unravels as his companion carries him out of the cave and into the open air, the smell of clean seafoam assaulting Bruce’s nostrils while a gentle breeze blows the occasional droplets onto his cheeks. For lack of a more dignified solution Bruce lets himself be carried out to the beach, the view swiftly blocked by a tall cliff of white stone fringed with green at the top, fist-sized gravel crunching under the alien’s feet. There’s a short climb up a gentle slope to a wooden platform, and then Bruce watches as the beach grows smaller under them. The ocean, of course, is endless, but a look to their left reveals a badly damaged piece of rock, deep gouges in the ground leading the eyes to a short stripe of bent metal. There go Bruce’s hope of refurbishing the ship and using it to get off planet. Sure, Bruce is extremely lucky to even be alive right now, let alone as unscathed as he is, but even Batman is allowed a bit of hope now and then. As a treat.

Well, no use crying over spilt milk—or sulking about being stuck on an alien planet without a reasonable means of transportation. Bruce keeps looking. To the right, as far as he can see, is a forest. It rises from the ground in bushes and tall grasses at first, quickly shooting to the sky with ever taller trees that, aside from the height, wouldn’t look all that out of place in the English countryside.

Behind him—under him? Bruce is going to have to figure the logistics of this at some point—Bruce’s companion takes a turn toward the forest as soon as they reach the top of the cliff, and as they come close Bruce finally notices it. It being a tall dome-like structure made of wood and what he can only assume is something similar to glass. It rises out of the ground as if grown there, slender limbs turned to the sky in elaborate latticework, a band of colored windows circling the dome about halfway through.

The whole thing looks airy, the kind of place designed to create refreshing breezes and cool shades, which makes it look entirely incongruous in an environment where cold and damp seems to be the motto. Still, odd choices or no, there’s something appealing about the building. It feels...well, structurally, it is leaning more into something like the Taj-Mahal, which is impressive considering a touch reveals it is made of live wood. Yet as Bruce is carried outside and discovers the furniture—rich embroidered carpets of wool thick enough he could fall asleep there, luxurious piles of cushions in red and blues with the occasional gold accent—he can’t help but feel a little like he’s just entered a large, very elaborate treehouse. Everything, from the sitting space to what seems to be a cooking area to the central staircase—and how did Bruce not see any of that through the windows? He’d love to ask some technical questions about it—feels like it wants Bruce to lie back and relax, maybe even fall asleep. God, this house could probably have entire conversations on this very topic with Alfred—and Bruce is just about exhausted enough to let it.

The air inside is warm but not stifling, like a windy summer day: it chases the chill out of Bruce’s limbs, warms him up from the inside as he’s settled down on a cushion even he has to describe as ridiculously large. Bruce...kind of wants to lean into it. Sure, there’s still a chance he’s about to be hurt, but also it’s not like his host is lacking in strength. Why bother waiting when all the power is on your side? It seems probable that the alien is either genuinely uninterested in hurting Bruce, or playing the long con. Either way, there’s no reason for Bruce not to take the opportunity to rest a little.

“You can lean back, you know.”

Bruce blinks as the gentle golden glow fades from the windows, the seaside landscape once more unobstructed as he looks ahead of himself. It takes some effort to twist around enough to see his host, but when he does it’s—well. It’s worth it. The man has changed out of his Englishman costume and into a pale gold tunic that hugs both his arms and his chest before loosening just a little around the waist and falling past his hips down to his knees. Bruce notices the bottom of fitted crimson pants hugging absolutely lovely calves, and swallows before he asks:

“Is the house translating?”

“Yes,” the alien says with a wide grin. “I am quite relieved that it could do anything for us: you do not seem to hail from a well-known region of the universe.”

“You sound extremely formal,” Bruce remarks without thinking, and swallows again when his host laughs:

“Not to my ears, I assure you. I suppose, however, that where outdated technology is concerned, we had better be grateful we understand each other at all.”

Bruce inclines his head in acquiescence. Sure, he’d like the comfort of his usual translator better than having to deal with the whole house filling with his host’s words—if not his voice—but the perceptible delay between his host’s voice and the house’s isn’t enough to make him wish for the alternative of not being able to communicate at all. Even if going back to that after using the Lanterns’ translators feels a bit like trying to stream a movie with a poor internet connection.

“I guess you’re right,” he agrees. Then, because his mask was already lost in the sea and this is an alien, anyway, he adds: “I’m B.”

“Bee?” his host answers, evidently testing the sound. “That is an unexpected name. Still, I suppose different worlds have different tastes. You may call me Kal.”

Bruce pauses, eyes narrowing.

“Oh,” Kal says, as if guessing what Bruce is thinking, “I was not—names where I’m from are quite...long. Much longer than yours. ‘Kal’ is only a diminutive.”

“How long is ‘long’?” Bruce asks, eyebrows raised.

In front of him, Kal blushes, and Bruce refuses to admit it’s not exactly an unappealing sight.

“Well, they build up with our history,” Kal explains, still tinged pink but relaxing enough to step closer and sit next to Bruce on his humongous, satiny cushion. “As a man of thirty-five who has not been idle, mine has grown quite long… I am not reluctant to share it, Bee. I am merely aware that many cultures do not share our patience for it.”

“Mmmh,” Bruce says.

It sounds fair enough.

“Now that is sorted out,” Kal asks after watching Bruce’s lips a few seconds too long, “may I interest you in a change of clothing? I assume your uniform is meant to protect you, but it hardly looks comfortable and it seems to me like your body could use something softer to rest in.”

“I have to get off this planet,” Bruce replies.

Kal nods, accommodating, and leans back against the cushions. It’s Bruce’s imagination that provides the sensation of their arms brushing, the warmth of skin on skin—the batsuit won’t allow for anything less than a full punch to be felt. That knowledge doesn’t change anything to the sensation, though, and Bruce shivers with it, all his senses focusing on the area entirely against his will. His brain, for some reason, reminds him that it’s been at least ten years since he stopped playing the incorrigible playboy and sex-enthusiast.

“This is a vacation moon,” Kal says, voice perfectly even despite the heat creeping up Bruce’s neck. “There are daily shuttles for arrival and departures. When the next one arrives tomorrow morning, I can ask them to send you to the nearest Green Lanterns’ outpost, and from there you should have very little trouble going back to….”

“Earth,” Bruce supplies, and winces when that causes Kal’s eyes to widen.

“I have heard of this planet! Some of the more famous Green Lanterns hailed from your world and—ah. Forgive me, I can see you do not wish to be questioned. That is fair, you must still be quite tired from your ordeal.”

Bruce nods, careful not to look too relieved at the prospect. He is tired though. Not as much as he should be by any right, but enough that the prospect of having to balance and measure what he said about Earth to guard it against potentially hostile aliens sounds like more trouble than it’s worth.

“Well, then,” Kal says, still smiling, like nothing Bruce says can possibly alter his good mood. “Shall I renew my offer of clean clothes then? I promise not to touch or alter your belongings in any way. And after that, perhaps a light supper, and then to bed.”

Bruce swallows. Kal, it’s already been established, is not hard on the eyes. At all. He’s tall and broad shouldered, and in a human he’d be pretty much exactly Bruce’s preferred type. As an alien, he still is, but then there’s also the strength, and the entirely unembarrassed curiosity, and the possibilities provided with potentially different anatomies that Bruce has never considered before in his life but now...now Bruce is wondering if it’s a good idea to dress himself in loose fabric.

Then Kal’s eyes catch his, and Bruce decides if he’s only going to spend one night here and never see the guy again, he might as well enjoy it. He says yes, and keeps a very close eye on the way Kal’s ass pushes against his tunic as he gets up, and then retreats toward the stairs.

Of course, Bruce should know better than to let himself get distracted, let alone so easily. He’s still technically on a mission—well, on his way back from a mission—and if anyone on Earth realizes what transpired here, even if nothing else happens, he will absolutely never ever hear the end of it. Ever. And yet….

Well, frankly, maybe Bruce is just getting old, but he thinks he’s allowed to indulge himself here. He’s recovering from injuries that are frankly ridiculously light for the kind of accident he was in, he’s on an unknown planet light years away from home, his transportation is most likely assured—unless he’s really losing it and missing red flags in Kal’s behavior—and he hasn’t had sex in over eight years. He gets to indulge a little. It’s only one night.

“I took the liberty of picking night clothing as well,” Kal calls after a few moments, appearing at the top of the spiral stairs. From below, it looked like the bedroom was empty the whole time, which Bruce must admit is a neat trick. “I figured you would wish to change before retiring for the night.”

Bruce, clinging to the last of his fraying dignity—he’s indulging, that doesn’t mean he has to be proud about it—manages to hum instead of saying something that could be misconstrued as flirting, but Kal doesn’t seem to mind. He says something about preparing the meal while Bruce changes and ‘do not worry, I shan’t be looking your way’, and then leaves Bruce alone.

Peeling himself out of the suit takes more effort than Bruce would like, but it’s also far from the hardest he’s had it, and he gets re-dressed in a decent amount of time. By then, his legs feel less like jelly, and he’s actually able to sit up and scoot on the ground to gather his things in a manageable pile and set them aside in a corner where they should, hopefully, not be disturbed.

After a while, Kal reemerges from the cooking area with a large tray filled with over a dozen bowls of colorful meats and fruits, several things that look like root vegetables, and even a bowl of something that could be a sort of love-child of wheat and rice. It looks both perplexing—Bruce has never had a purple savory dish before—and familiar, which is probably why his hands twitch toward the food before he can remember to ask:

“Anything in particular to eat with?”

“Merely your fingers,” Kal says, rinsing his hands in a silver dish of lightly fragranced water. “Do clean them beforehand, however.”

Bruce makes sure to give him a “duh” look as he reaches for the dish and rinses his own fingers.

“According to the available information, these should be safe for you to consume,” Kal says, grabbing what looks like a grape but turns out, upon tasting, to be a piece of meat.

“Unlike that purple thing before?” Bruce asks, the back of his neck heating up when he thinks back on their interactions in the cave.

“The shell is dangerous,” Kal agrees, “and I didn’t have any way to explain. Doing the pouring myself seemed to be the safest option.”

“I assume you won’t be feeding me for this meal then,” Bruce says.

Then gives himself a mental slap in the face because, really? For anyone else, that would be one thing, but Bruce is, without false modesty, one of the best martial artists on Earth, an honors graduate from the best university the USA have to offer, and the fucking Batman...and there he is, making an ass out of himself just because it’s been a while since he got sexed up and he just happened to fall in the backyard of the most fuckable alien in the universe. Un-fucking-believable.

Kal, either oblivious or going for coy, gives him an amused smile and nothing else, although he does readjust his position until one of his knees points to Bruce, the other leg extended on the other side in a way that must stretch the crotch of his pants under the pooling fabric of his tunic. Bruce is kind of glad for his own, vivid-red flap of fabric at the moment.

“So,” he asks after he’s eaten enough to settle the growl of his stomach, “where are we exactly? You mentioned this was a vacation moon.”

“Indeed. Cidaris orbits around an uninhabitable planet, yet somehow retained an atmosphere for an extremely long amount of time. Kryptonian architects started thinking of kryptoforming it a few centuries ago… It has been a favored vacation post for several decades, now.”

“Are you Kryptonian?”

“I am,” Kal replies, a piece of the grape-like meat resting against his lower lip and staining it purple. “Although I don’t suppose someone whose family possesses as much as mine does can fairly call himself an ordinary one.”

Oh god. He’s a rich alien—for all Bruce knows, he could be a real life, genuine Brucie Wayne with the wits to match, and he sounds like he’s just escaped a Ren Faire. And the worst of it all is, none of that has any dampening effect on the burst of heat that goes through Bruce when their knees brush. There are times when Bruce hardly even recognizes himself.

“What is your home like?”

Bruce throws Kal a look, but he neither looks nor feels like he’s trying to wriggle information out of Bruce...and even if he were, it’s not like he can’t answer without giving away vital information about Earth. He takes a look around before he answers though: the tall, organic and yet intricately carved arches of smooth wood, the invisible shields that leave the eyes free to roam over the infinity of the ocean and a truly spectacular sunset. The quiet, the scent of salt in the air—the kind of atmosphere that makes you want to breathe deeper but quieter, as if it stole all the stress from your lungs and replaced it with a good mouthful of rest.

“Not like this,” Bruce says to start with. “It’s a lot more angular. The buildings aren’t see-through, and you can’t see the stars at night. It’s...an old city. A wounded city. Frankly, with all the terrible things people do to it and in it, it’s probably a miracle it’s still standing.”

That’s...a staggering understatement, Bruce knows. But on the other hand: how do you even begin to explain Gotham to an alien? People who live less than fifty miles outside of it have enough of a hard time trying to grasp its essence as it is—they think it’s a blight on an otherwise very fine state...which, to be fair, it is. In some ways. That’s the easy part, though.

The hard part is trying to explain all the good side, like diamonds in the mud. The way so many people try to turn things around still, in little ways—insignificant ways, but also in the ways that matter most. How do you explain the dirty alleys with their gang fights and their kids laughing around firecrackers in summer? There are no words to convey all of that in a way that even begins to scratch the surface of what the city is—of what it means to Bruce. He knows: he’s tried. Even Dick never quite seemed to get it though—not enough to stay, at any rate. The only one who came close was—Bruce doesn’t have the words to explain it.

And yet, something must show on his face: by his side, still sprawling over the cushion like a particularly content cat, Kal smiles.

“And yet, you would not leave it behind.”

“Never in my life,” Bruce replies.

There’s something trying to creep in his throat as he speaks, and he manages to tamp it down but not before it pokes at his chest in a way he’s wholly unfamiliar with. it’s such a simple statement, and yet somehow, it’s something even his closest friends—inasmuch as he has any—have rarely heard from him, if at all. It’s an unexpected thing to find himself saying to a one-night stand, and Bruce would sigh if he hadn’t accepted the most likely outcome of the evening already.

“If this is a vacation moon,” he asks in a bit to shift the attention, “how come you’re here alone?”

Kal stiffens, and Bruce...deliberately doesn’t wince. He can’t truthfully claim that he hadn’t expected a sensitive topic, but Kal was more than polite about Gotham when, Bruce is very aware, it would have been easy for him to be less than polite about it. It seems...petty, in retrospect, to answer that with a barb.

“In the interest of not spoiling the good mood,” Kal replies with forced levity, “I will say that I was in need of some personal space, and ask that you allow me to stop there.”

Bruce nods. Even if he disagreed, he’s got a sneaking suspicion it wouldn’t be all that hard for Kal to overpower him. The thought may leave him a little warmer in the neck than he’s ready to admit, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to get rude about it. The real surprise, however, comes when Bruce hears himself ask:

“Would you like me to give you some?”

“Space?” Kal asks. He laughs, incredulous, when Bruce nods; the shift of his body making them sink closer into the dip of the cushion. “And waste all the good works of physics when I could just as easily have brought you to a bench?”

Bruce snorts, but it comes out short, almost surprised. He hadn’t realized he’d leaned in too, hadn’t realized how close they were to touching, and now his elbow is resting against Kal’s shoulder and even through the fabric it feels like that’s setting his entire torso on fire, the warmth of it slowly baking up his arm, his shoulder, his neck, until every breath of air on exposed skin feels like a caress. Bruce breathes in, deliberately slow, and then allows himself to sink back, just a little. He does, after all, know how to do this.

“You’re right,” he says, faux-nonchalant, “let’s not be rude.”

Kal smiles, bright and brilliant in a way Bruce has only ever seen on Diana before—it’s the kind of smile you don’t often see on adults, and it’s all the more precious for it. Not that Bruce would ever admit it. Still, combined with Kal’s jawline, the blue of his eyes, the circumstances...Bruce leans in closer, half expecting another witty exchange. Kal responds in kind instead and, after a heartbeat’s pause, presses their mouths together. Part of Bruce, up until then, had been expecting something a little different from the usual, but Kal’s mouth has a regular mouth taste, with a thin echo of that purple meat hidden in the flavor. Other than that, and the acute awareness of the damage he could inflict with those teeth of his, it’s no different from kissing a nice, smiley, really good looking human.

It has been roughly a decade since the last time Bruce indulged, though, and he is begrudgingly forced to admit that maybe that’s what makes it so intense, lips so sensitive they almost hurt with it, his chest heaving just from that one point of contact, the rest of his body tensing not to go overboard right away. Around them the lights dim a little, highlighting the transparency of the walls, and the heat spreads from Bruce’s head to his chest, to his groin, and every other extremity he has.

With a sigh, he goes back to kissing Kal, one hand coming up to push at his shoulder...and be met with resistance. He pulls back, body cooling fast enough to feel cold, and asks:

“Did I misinterpret?”

“Not at all,” Kal replies with a satisfied smile and a shrug. “I merely had a different image of the proceedings and failed to consider you might have your own opinion on the matter.”

“I can’t fucking believe I’m about to sleep with a guy who speaks like he’s in a Jane Austen space novel,” Bruce mutters.

If it wasn’t enough to stop him before, though, it’s certainly not enough to stop him now.

“What did you have in mind?”

Kal’s grin turns impish and, in the blink of an eye, he’s on his knees and hovering over Bruce’s lap.

“Do feel free to stop me at any time,” he says. “Things are so much better when both parties feel properly enthusiastic.”

Bruce kisses Kal again as a way to make him stop talking—he does have limits—and it works perfectly except for the part where it sets his skin ablaze again. He doesn’t complain about it though: he may be sensitive to the point of near pain, but he has no intention of giving up on the feeling, and revels in the intensity of it, the feather-light feel of Kal’s fingers against his wrists, Kal’s lips on his neck, Kal’s knees around his thighs.

Bruce sighs when he’s pushed down on the bed, and pushes his hips and erection up against Kal’s ass when he is given a few seconds to object. From there, the heavy weight of another body settles over him, and he pushes up again—the friction against Kal’s clad crotch sends sparks flying all through Bruce’s nervous system, pulling every hair on his body to stand as goosebumps overtake him before there’s even been a move made towards removing his shirt. Bruce really needs to do this more often.

He’s distracted from the thought when, after some awkward maneuvering that almost has them toppling to the side, Kal finally manages to get his hands under Bruce’s tunic and on his waist, barely waiting long enough to get consent before he pulls it off Bruce’s shoulders—Bruce is fairly sure he catches a smug look in his Suit’s direction and...well. Fair. He still reaches up to worry at a nipple in retaliation, satisfied with the reaction he gets right up until he receives the same treatment. Evidently, the days when he was perfectly capable of ignoring his own body until he was sure to leave his partner satisfied are long gone.

He can’t say that he minds too much.

It feels like an eternity before Kal’s mouth finally moves past his pectorals, kissing and caressing his belly, his arms, until it feels like Bruce could come just from that and he makes an impatient noise and pushes down on Kal’s shoulder. It feels a bit like pushing a brick wall, which turns out to be an extremely pleasant sensation, and so Bruce doesn’t even bother with performative annoyance when Kal lifts his hips off the mattress and slides the back of his pants over his ass.

“Oh,” he starts, pleased when he finds bare skin there, “I must say I find this detail very—what is that?”

It’s a good thing no one is here to witness Bruce blink dumbly at the transparent ceiling, or turn around to look past the furniture into the night, where there’s nothing but trees and grass to look at him. Eventually though, he does turn back to Kal and finds him staring at his crotch with a perplexed face. Bruce looks down at where his erection is flagging under the jockstrap he favors with the special fabric of his undersuit. Back up at Kal.

“Problem?”

“Where I am from,” Kal replies with the slow diction of someone trying not to offend, “one may go with underwear or without. This seems like a...an interesting in-between.”

“Do you want me to keep it on?” Bruce asks.

He’s done far more adventurous during one-night stands, and with people he found far less pleasant than Kal. It wouldn’t even be that big a deal. After a moment of consideration, though, Kal asks:

“Is your species capable of climaxing more than once during the night?”

“Yes.”

Given how his body has been reacting so far, Bruce is even cautiously optimistic about attempting a third round, should they be inclined.

“In that case, I should like to admire you in full just now, if you are amenable.”

Bruce has to roll his eyes at that, otherwise he runs the risk of getting caught in the moment and finding this way of talking sexy when it’s anything but. He does dispose of the jockstrap, though, and makes sure to leave it on a nearby cushion where it’ll be easy to retrieve. After that he lies back down on the cushion and gestures for Kal to proceed.

He’s half expecting Kal to take him in his mouth, the break having diminished but not destroyed his erection, but instead the man dives straight for Bruce’s balls—he licks and sucks at them, makes them roll over the bridge of his nose in a way that leaves searing burns over the skin, fills him with heat like a cup in long, slow licks until finally, with one long pull of mouth around his length, he tips over and comes with a silent shudder.

He stays in place for a while, lying down and breathing hard while Kal massages his muscles into a more relaxed state. Eventually—a shorter length of time for him than for most men his age—Bruce’s heartbeat is back to normal, or close enough. Only then does he allow himself to sigh again, and sink even further into the giant pillow.

“Am I to understand you are—”

“Do not say ‘amenable’,” Bruce warns, and Kal chuckles. “But yes.”

“Oh, good. Would you like to proceed as you first intended?”

“Not if you want a third round.”

Kal smiles like a kid at Christmas, and Bruce tries very hard not to groan, even though he knows he’ll get there at some point of the night. He might as well fight for what little dignity he has left, right? Right.

Somehow, he gets even less sleep that night than he’d anticipated.

Bruce wakes up well past sunrise the next morning, the sound of waves in his ears and the smell of salt on his tongue. He still aches in a myriad of different ways, but a lot of them have turned pleasant, and his legs aren’t made of jelly anymore. He takes advantage of the fact to get up and walk to where Kal is seated at a small table turned toward the ocean. The shields, or windows—whichever it is—are gone from between the wooden arches, allowing Bruce to spy the hints of a very large net in the platformed bedroom above before he steps up to Kal. The young alien hasn’t noticed Bruce’s presence, yet, which gives Bruce time to notice he looks extremely pleased with himself.

To be fair, Bruce would be too if he’d managed to bring a near-fifty-year-old, injured man off four times in one night. Not that he’s told Kal about the exceptional aspect of it, but it is possible he was a little too well fucked to hide his own surprise entirely… Either way, Kal is very satisfied, breakfast is still waiting for Bruce, and the mist is only just clearing from around the trees. The air around them is crisp, bracing in a way that makes Bruce half-heartedly wish for Kal’s ridiculous sweater. At the table, Kal still looks entirely oblivious to Bruce’s presence.

Bruce clears his throat, and laughs when that surprises Kal enough to send him sprawling down onto the wooden deck.

“Good morning,” he deadpans while Kal throws a napkin at his head.

“Is that how people on Earth court one another?” Kal asks in mock outrage. “Mind-shattering sex and then heart attacks?”

Bruce doesn’t smile at that, too aware of where he’s going and who he will need to be soon, but he does allow his lips to quirk up.

“Maybe I didn’t think you’d be so affected by something so...inconsequential.”

“Oh, it was plenty consequential enough,” Kal replies without missing a beat with a saucy glance at Bruce’s crotch. “I might even consider letting you know if I ever visit Earth, someday.”

“You can do that?” Bruce asks, satisfied when his sudden spike of stress remains inaudible.

“I do work with the Green Lanterns,” Kal shrugs. “I wouldn’t call it probable, but I suppose it isn’t entirely impossible.”

Bruce hums and, to his relief, Kal doesn’t take offense to it. They share a peaceful breakfast instead, with fruits, fresh water and some kind of crackers that Kal dips into what must be a Kryptonian equivalent to coffee. Bruce tries to get some of it, the house encyclopedia informs them that it might not be safe for humans, and between one thing and the next the time for Bruce to get dressed and follow Kal to the shuttle.

He’s not reluctant about it by far, but if he’s being honest with himself—which he usually tries not to be—Bruce has to admit he’s also not quite as impatient to leave as he thought he’d be.

It was an excellent night, after all.

[gascon-en-exil]

Joining the Game Late: S2E5 “The Ghost of Harrenhal”

Synopsis

Renly faces death by CGI. Littlefinger and Margaery talk sense into Loras and get the measure of each other. Cersei plays coy about Stannis but is sitting on an arsenal of felfire wildfire. Tyrion gets called a demon monkey, and Theon gets no respect either but he does get an idea. Tywin is too perceptive for Arya. She also meets Chekov’s prisoner and orders a hit. Sam gets a history boner in addition to his regular boner. Bran actually understands how feudalism works, and Rickon understands...how to be a nutcracker. Dany witnesses a parlor trick by a blue-lipped illusionist and gets a marriage proposal that Jorah does not like and he is totally not jealous, shut up.

Commentary

This may be the first time that I’ve felt like too much has happened in an hour of this show to put down all my thoughts on it into 3-4 paragraphs like I’ve been doing. The pacing of this one is kind of exhausting, and I know as I start writing that I’m going to have to focus on at most two or three things or I’ll never be done.

Okay, so - Renly’s dead in the first scene. Seeing it previewed in YouTube videos did not prepare me for the knowledge that both Catelyn and Brienne would be witnesses and that his death’s impact on Brienne’s character arc would be this direct. Melisandre’s demon baby is positively loaded with religious symbolism as some kind of divinely conceived Antichrist figure (I assume this “birth” is unrelated to her earlier promise to give Stannis a son in the normal way, and the subsequent copulation), not to mention a touch of irony as getting a woman pregnant was something Renly couldn’t bring himself to do. The political fallout is immediate, but apart from Brienne’s grief the show doesn’t spend too much time dwelling on the personal ramifications. It’s a shame that Loras/Renly had so little screentime (and no real sex scenes or full nudity) to develop as a ship; normally I’m really into the gay lord/knight relationship as it often appears in Fire Emblem, but here there just wasn’t enough substance to go off. Admittedly there’s an interesting result to Brienne and Cat escaping together, with a scene of one woman swearing fealty to another, so there is that. Also worth noting how Brienne praises Cat for having “a woman’s courage” and the two of them are still in agreement that Brienne should get her violent revenge on Stannis, so gender and subversions of gendered expectations come into play on more than one level.

Let’s see...the ongoing murderous adventures of Arya now featuring one of the guys she saved back during the Gold Cloak raid, Tyrion’s investigation into a type of magical fire I can’t help but think of as felfire, the green demon-empowered fire magic used by warlocks in the Warcraft universe, Theon becoming the unloved captain of the Sea Bitch, more about Bran’s dreams, the Night’s Watch standing around in a blizzard looking constipated and not covering their heads while we get an exposition dump on Mance Rayder...ah, let’s talk about Daenerys. For the first time this season her storyline got more than one or two scenes, so it’s as good a time as any to give her the spotlight.

I’m not going to touch on the as-ever questionable optics of Daenerys the white queen surrounded by the only racially diverse set pieces in this show, or the suspect implications of, say, having her dress like one of the locals or her having to ward off her Dothraki followers from stealing everything in Qarth. I will say that her storyline might have read a bit better if they’d followed the logic that, with Valyria as this setting’s Roman Empire analogue, the Targaryens would have made more sense played by Italian or other southern European actors so they’d at least blend in better with the cosmopolitan faux-Mediterranean world that appears to comprise Essos - but perhaps that’s just me. I do like that Dany addresses the question I had last time about why Xaro would perform a blood oath to allow her into Qarth, and his drawn-out answer that he’s as ambitious as she is and has a political marriage in mind that he claims will benefit them both. Xaro also calls foul on Dany’s claims to care about the well-being of her khalasar and identifies her as a conqueror, which is entirely consistent with her motivations as restated in these same scenes. It makes me wonder again why so many people were shocked this past spring when she behaved like a conqueror in Season 8. I understand that the immediate setup may have been lacking, but the groundwork for a Daenerys concerned above all else with ruling the Iron Throne is already well-laid a season and a half in.

I’m going out on a limb here, but if I had to guess without having seen the seasons in between yet I would predict that it has to do with her fans getting too wrapped up in Jorah’s estimation of her “gentle heart” and her established hatred of slavery to pay much attention to scenes like those that finish off Season 1 or the one here with Xaro. Granted, Xaro is also perceptive enough to acknowledge that Jorah has his own biases; he’s romantically interested in Dany, and as such he’s less than thrilled with the idea of her getting what she wants by marrying another man. It’s too early for me to make this comparison in any depth, but if Edelgard from Fire Emblem: Three Houses took some design and characterizations cues from Daenerys (and, creator confirmation or not, I would say that there are enough similarities that it’s entirely reasonable to draw that conclusion), then that makes Hubert her Jorah equivalent. As it stands that’s an insult to both characters - Jorah has more than once functioned as a voice of morality but doesn’t have a ton of agency, whereas Hubert is delightfully evil and is doing all of Edelgard’s copious dirty work behind the scenes - but it’s still a notable parallel for a male retainer to a female ruler who has the hots for hers but is never going to get any. How this complicates Jorah’s ability to advise Dany going forward will be interesting to see.

[crowkingwrites]

Battle of the Bands (Ch.10)

Pairing: Robb Stark x Reader, Jon Snow x Reader, Viserys Targaryen x Reader, Ramsay Bolton X Reader

Summary: You just moved into the city for the first tie all by yourself. After you get your dream summer job working for a small magazine, you find yourself in the middle of the city’s rock festival: Battle of the Bands. Local rock bands throughout the city compete to win a record deal that could change their lives. Your job? Get close to them and write about them online.A single girl in the city surrounded by rocker boys during the summertime. What could possibly go wrong?

Words: 2664 // AO3 Link

Chapter One // Chapter Two // Chapter Three // Chapter Four // Chapter Five // Chapter Six // Chapter Seven // Chapter Eight // Chapter Nine

The first time you ever heard My Chemical Romance’s The Black Parade live, you had a nervous chill crawl down your back. It brought you a secret kind of joy that you couldn’t articulate to anyone. Robb Stark offering you a sweet, fried food and asking to talk also gave you a nervous chill down your back, but it brought you no joy.

“Alright,” you nodded. “I guess.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Let’s…talk,” you said. Robb smiled gratefully and sighed with relief. You both walked in silence until you reached a secluded part of the festival: the historic section. Outdoor panels were set up with plaques and pictures from the past. The Battle of the band festival dated all the way back to the 1930’s when people had so little, but came to the park in flocks to listen to music and maybe feel a little bit happier. Both of you had polished off the elephant ear. You licked off the remaining cinnamon sugar off of your fingers.

“I’ve done a lot of thinking these past few days,” Robb broke the silence. “And I’ve made up my mind on a lot of things. And I want to say I’m sorry. Jon told me what happened. I didn’t realize all of this would affect you so greatly. I thought you didn’t care, and I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you have panic attacks often?”

“Yeah. I-uh, well yeah I do,” you admitted. You touched the back of your neck. “I know I’m confident and extroverted, but I have my moments. I get scared. I get really, really wound up and it feels like everything’s falling apart. Jon told you about that day?”

“Yes and no. He yelled at me about it. He was pissed. Jon wanted me to go apologize to you immediately and tore me up about it. I’ve always been quick to anger. Sansa and Jon have always humbled me when I get out of hand. Both of them have bad anxiety.”

You thought of the pretty, rich Sansa with thousands of Instagram followers and a cute youtube channel. You thought of her lovely figure and her flawless skin. Her smile could light up an entire city. She didn’t need to rely on family money when she made so much of her own. She was an IT girl and she had anxiety.

“Sometimes, I wish I could turn back time and change things,” Robb said.

“Like with Robyn?”

“No. I don’t regret what happened with Robyn. She was a mess. I was a mess. We both made mistakes and it happened. If I regretted it, I wouldn’t be who I am today.”

“And you regret what happened with me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want Robyn in my life anymore. I wanted her gone. I regret what happened with you because I want you around. I have feelings for you, Y/N. Real romantic feelings.”

If you were till eating the elephant ear, you would’ve choked. Luckily, you weren’t eating anything. Still, you choked on the air round you, making an awkward seas creature noise. Robb touched your arm and looked over you concerned.

“Are you ok? Do you need water? What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine!” you said. That was a lie. You were not fine. You just lied to your boss. Good job.

“I’m sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have—

“No, no. It’s okay. I just wasn’t expecting that.”

Robb looked away from you a bit. He turned back to meet your eyes with his own. “So, how do you feel about me?”

The thought was occurred to you since you met him. There an immediate attraction to him. He was your equal in every way. He loved creativity and his small magazine thrived in the city. He was quick-tempered, but he apologized for his actions. He was kind, protective, and the way he smiled at you made you swoon.

Could you date Robb? Did you want to? After what he said and how he held your job over your head, it was hard to decide. Robb still waited while you stare off into space.

“I’m attracted to you. I think you know that,” you smiled, feeling a rush of color coming to your cheeks. “I like being around you. You make me happy.”

“So if I asked you out on a date?” Robb was tip-toeing and you knew it.

“I would have to say no.” You touched Robb’s chest. “What you said and did really hurt. I’ve lost—

“You lost your trust in me,” Robb completed the sentence. He let out a few mumbled cuss words and dug his hands in his pockets.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re right. You have every right. I fucked up, but I’d like to make it up to you. I’m not sorry for how I feel. I like you. Oh, I like you so much. If I can change your mind, would you consider me then?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I would,” you nodded. Robb smiled wide and took your hand. He kissed the back of it softly. Your heart leaped high above you free to touch the sky and kiss the birds.

“I won’t let you down. I promise.”

Robb’s words left you warm and fuzzy inside. You remembered Jon and his kind words and actions. Feeling generous, you called him, wanting to thank him for everything’s he’s done. You heard a slight fumble and then a sleepy voice.

“Hello?”

“Jon, did I wake you? I’m so sorry,” you giggled to yourself.

“What? Oh, I was only napping. Don’t worry. What’s up?” Jon’s slow drawl made it hard to focus. You secretly wished you could wake up to his sleepy voice.

“Uh, Robb came to me. We talked about things.”

“Did he say he was sorry? I told him to say he was sorry. I swear his anger gets the better of him.”

“He did! He did. I just wanted to thank you for everything.”

“You didn’t have to say that.”

“But I want to. You’ve been so nice to me since I got here. What did I do to deserve you?”

“You have no idea,” Jon laughed awkwardly. “I’m really happy you and Robb are getting along.”

“Why do I sense there’s a ‘but’?”

“There’s no ‘but’.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah! So, did he ask you out?”

“He did.”

“And what did you say?”

“I told him no,” you told Jon. You heard some shuffling around and then a more alert voice.

“You turned him down? Why?”

“Because I don’t trust him. Not like before. I don’t trust him like I trust you.” You realized what you said right after you said it. The realization hit both of you at the same time. What you said was true. Robb may have been kind to you, but Jon was kinder. Robb gave you a job, but Jon gave you what you needed: understanding and a hug. You had almost forgotten you were on the phone with him. “Sorry, I was just thinking.”

“It’s alright,” Jon reassured you. “I was thinking too. Could I see you?”

“Yeah,” you nodded. “Yeah, you can.”

The next day you found yourself looking in a mirror. You put so much effort into your outfit that you started to doubt yourself. Maybe your shorts were too short or your t-shirt wasn’t clever enough. Margie hugged you from behind.

“And why does the cutest girl look so sad in front of a mirror?”

“Because I’m just confused,” you admitted, relaxing under her touch. “I told Robb that I would give him another chance. He wants to be with me, but I trust Jon more.”

“What about Viz and Ramsay? You fucked them. You trust them too, right?”

“No,” You shook your head. “Viz and I aren’t talking anymore. He doesn’t want to chase me. He wants to be chased. As for Ramsay, well…” Your voice trailed off.

“Viz dumped you?” Margie said.

“You can’t dump someone you were never dating, Margie.” You let your shoulders slump. Margie turn you to her.

“Do you remember how we met?” she smiled.

“Online? Or real life?”

“Online, silly billy,” Margie opened your bedroom window. Sun streamed through with a gentle wind blowing air through. “Ben was cheating. He couldn’t make up his mind about who he liked more. You’re confused. Just like Ben was.”

“You’re comparing me and Ben? Ben was a piece of shit.”

“Ben wanted all the girls to himself. You don’t.”

“What? You don’t think I want girls to myself?” you played with Margie’s hair. She rolled her eyes.

“I mean, you’re caught up in four—three guys. You want love, not some guy for fucking. You’ve always wanted love. The great adventure of it all. The glory and the swooning of it all. There’s nothing wrong with that. There’s nothing wrong with you.” Margie hugged you tightly.

“Thank you.” Margaery was your best friend. When you had doubt, she was there supporting your angelic wings and your devilish horns. Both of you felt constant vibrations in your pockets.

“Loras?” Margie looked at her phone.

Loras: [I need you both to come down here. At sunspot.] Loras: [Ramsay’s going nuts.] Loras: [Jesusss he’s drunk. Get over here now.] You stood outside the Sunspot, next to Margaery, watching an angry young man rage inside. Ramsay threw down and entire table, food and all. He screamed at Loras when you stepped inside.

“Fuck you!” He said. “Fuck your fucking boyfriend! Fuck!” You exchanged a look with Margie. Margie looked to her brother. Loras stood there frozen with his hands up, shrugging at both of you.

“Ramsay,” you held your hands up and approached the raging bull. Ramsay turned to look at you. His eyes raged, but then softened when he saw you. “What’s wrong?”

“I’ve been disqualified,” Ramsay told you. “Some bands thought my band was too inappropriate to compete.” Ramsay looked hard at Loras as if he meant to burn him with just a look. You turned Ramsay’s face back to you.

“Calm down, we’ll get to the bottom of this, ok? Loras didn’t do anything. Let’s go home.”

“Go home? Go home? Are you fucking—I know it was him! Him and Renly!” Ramsay lunged Loras’ way. You had to think of something quick.

“I’ll go home with you. We can go for round two if you want,” you winked at him. Ramsay’s dark chuckle echoed through the restaurant. You reached for his hand and he happily took it. You guided a drunk and horny boy out of the restaurant and left Margaery to deal with the mess. One uber ride later and you found yourself in the same apartment you left only days earlier.

You eyed the same dog leash, classic rock posters, and guitar nestle in the corner. Ramsay’s apartment seemed to be a clean bachelor pad with horror and historic memorabilia displayed everywhere. A small beagle puppy yelped at your feet when you stepped into the kitchen.

“Audrey!’ Ramsay snapped. The sall pup stopped barking and smiled at you with her tongue out.

“I didn’t know you had a puppy! She’s so precious!” You bent down and gave the good girl lots of love. You obsessed over her big brown eyes and big ears.

“I just got her. Haven’t gotten around to telling everyone yet. So, round two?” Ramsay’s hands played with your hips. He pulled you to him and closed the space between you.

“What happened back there?”

“Are you going to make me talk about my feelings? I don’t do that.”

“Ramsay, your band got cut.”

“No, we were disqualified. Band cuts are tomorrow. We had the fucking votes.”

“So what happened?”

Ramsay backed off of you. His fists clenched at his sides. Ramsay pulled out another bottle of liquor and poured himself a little. He tossed it back and sniffed sharply.

“You weren’t at our last show. It was wild. The mosh pit was insane. People screamed my name like they were worshipping a god. I had this idea that on one of our songs, we would sacrifice a goat on stage.”

“What?” you reacted, stepping back.

“It wasn’t a real fucking goat. It was only a prop, but someone thought it was real.”

“But why did you think it was Loras?”

“Not Loras, Renly. I know his band doesn’t have the votes to go through the next two weeks, but my band did. If my band didn’t make it, his band would.”

“That’s…wrong.”

“People play dirty here. This happened last year too. Bands would sabotage each other and steal fans. When I do something creative on stage, it’s seen as obscene. But, other great bands have done the same as me. Doesn’t make much sense, does it?”

“Is there anything we can do?” your eyebrows knitted together. “Could we report this?”

“No, it’s done. Straight from the judge’s mouth. We’re out, and I’ll have to report to my father tomorrow.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, my father and I cut a deal. If my band didn’t win and get this record deal, then I have to clean up my act,” Ramsay tossed another drink back. You felt a vibration in your shorts. You wanted to ignore it, but the last time you ignored your phone it got you in trouble. You peeked to see a text from Jon.

Jon: [Were you still down to hang today? I wanted to see you.]

“You can’t help me. Not even if you tried,” Ramsay said. A part of you felt bad for him. It rooted inside like a growing plant. Ramsay was rough, wild, and awful. He liked himself that way. You did too. He wasn’t gentle or romantic like Jon or Robb, and he had a hold on you. You didn’t want to let go of him easily.

You weren’t sure why you did it. You remembered watching the Phantom of the Opera for the first time. In the finale, the music swelled as Christine kissed the Phantom for the first time. You heard the chorus in your head. In that moment, you always thought that Christine saved the Phantom. You placed your hands on Ramsay’s face and kissed him softly just as Christine kissed the Phantom. Maybe you cared for him more than you thought. Maybe you wanted to save him.

The moment was quiet and gentle. Ramsay didn’t bite you. He didn’t grab your ass. He just stood there and kissed you back. When you broke the kiss, Ramsay tugged on you and kept you close. Your forehead touched his.

“Why are you so nice to me?” Ramsay asked. “You know I don’t deserve it.”

“I don’t know,” you said. Ramsay’s eyes narrowed on you. You caught a whiff of the alcohol from his breath.

“What are you doing here?”

“I want to help you.”

“And kissing me softly is going to get me a record deal?��

You took a few steps back and looked down from him. Ramsay pulled you into him again for the third time. His hand interlocked with yours.

“Just say it.”

“Say what?” you asked. Ramsay kissed your cheek. His nose brushed by yours and he started laughing. You felt another vibration in your shorts. It had to be Jon.

“I like you too, stupid,” Ramsay said.

You peeked at your phone to see Jon’s text.

Jon: [Where did you want to meet up?]

“Oh, you’re meeting up with him,” Ramsay caught a peek at your phone.

“What? No. I mean—

“You’re not my girlfriend, Y/N,” Ramsay winked. “You can kiss whoever you please. I do like competition. I mean, I already knocked out Viserys. What’s another guy? It won’t matter in the end. You’re going to mine either way.”

You left Ramsay’s apartment dialing Jon on his cell. You weren’t sure what just happened. In two days, you were dumped. Forgiven. Asked out by two boys. And one already thought of you as his girlfriend.

Note to Self: Looking at memes isn’t going to solve your boy issues.

Ultimate Tag List (People who wished to be tagged in EVERY work I post.)

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Not Your Love Song: Chapter 12

Marked Book 2: Not Your Love Song

Chapter 12

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There’s a light dusting of snow on the ground, a few flakes still falling as Rory and Kit walk back to campus. Kit pauses, almost turning, before they reach the end of the block.

“I’m not going to be insulted if you go back for Serina,” Rory says. He digs a hat out of his pocket, crams it down on his head to keep the wind from his ears. He forgot gloves, so he shoves his hands in his pockets and does his best not to shiver.

“She’s closing tonight, so there’s no point. Especially since it’s getting busy.” Kit tries to match pace with Rory, taking an extra half shuffle every few steps. He’s at least half a foot shorter than Rory, which isn’t small, but it means Rory needs to shorten his stride to let Kit keep up easily.

It takes a little experimentation, but they find a pace that lets them fall into step.

There’s something comforting about the measured crunch of their footsteps like a cadence on the sidewalk. Rory taps his fingers against his thigh, testing it for rhythm.

“Are you going to ask her out again?” It’s awkward for Rory to ask about Kit’s relationship, but at the same time, switching topics abruptly would be even more awkward. When Rory’s phone buzzes, he takes it out and fishes it from his pocket, opening the text.

I had a good time yesterday.

Rory smiles slightly. In a strange way, talking to Darrik is easy. He’s not sure if he expects it to go anywhere: Darrik’s mourning, and Rory still has his unresolved soulmark issue. And that’s not even touching the difference in their ages, although Rory does have an understanding of life in the real world, unlike most college freshman. But he likes Darrik. He’s quiet. Knowledgeable. Enjoys talking about history, and the historical interactions between Mage and Clan. And Rory’s definitely interested in hearing more about where Darrik grew up, where the two interacted regularly.

He slows his steps, types as he walks. So did I. Unfortunately the weekend is over.

A small pause before the phone vibrates in his hand. We could do it again soon?

Yeah. Maybe that.

“You didn’t hear a thing I said,” Kit says quietly, a low laugh in his voice.

Rory types back yeah and leaves it at that, shoving his phone back in his pocket. “Sorry.”

“Whoever it was made you smile.” Kit shrugs one shoulder, gestures at the phone. “I’m not going to interrupt that.” He pauses before admitting, “And you didn’t miss anything. I didn’t say anything. You were obviously occupied.”

It catches Rory by surprise, and he laughs, his skin warming. “It was just Darrik. We went out last night.”

“He’s the guy you were thinking of developing a ritual for.” Kit tilts his head thoughtfully, pushes forward with one shoulder as if to say let’s walk a little faster, and Rory can’t disagree because it’s cold out.

A stray snowflake lands on his nose, a chill point that drips slowly after it melts. Rory rubs it away. “He is. I talked to him a little bit about it over dinner. He says as long as it doesn’t put Lora in danger, he’s in. Which means I should probably work on getting a group together.” He glances at Kit, but Kit’s looking straight ahead, as if he’s trying not to watch Rory at all. “Pawel mentioned I should probably talk to Dax.”

“Is Dax good at traditional ritual?” Kit asks. “Pawel thought your brother would be a good partner for me because he’s got one of the most traditional backgrounds, and a good handle on his natural abilities as well.”

Rory isn’t sure how much he can or should say about Dax. “Are you trying to get out of working with Thorne and take over my ritual for Darrik as your independent study project?”

Kit flushes. “Depends. Are you doing this because it’s about the ritual or because you’re trying to get in bed with Darrik?”

“I am not trying to get in bed with Darrik.” Rory shudders, shakes his head. “I’m not trying to get in bed with anyone. I like Darrik, though. I think the closure of doing this ritual would be good for him. But I also want my roommate to be safe. Alaric’s a good friend—pretty much family by now—and I don’t like the idea that there’s a thing out there that might still be hunting him.” It occurs to him that he hasn’t gone into detail about the whole situation yet, although Kit at least heard what Pawel had to say at Coven. Rory could explain. Maybe should explain.

“Relationships are complicated,” Kit muses quietly. He tilts his head back, sticks his tongue out to catch a snowflake.

“Serina?” Because now Rory wonders if Kit does want to talk about it after all. Especially if it keeps them from talking about Rory’s potential maybe possible relationship efforts with Darrik.

“Serina,” Kit agrees, the flush still staining his cheeks. “And you and Darrik.”

“I know why me and Darrik is complicated and there are a lot of reasons for that,” Rory says. “But you and Serina? She’s a cute girl and seems interested. You’re a cute guy and you seem interested in her. From an outside perspective, you seem like a love song waiting to happen.”

“You’d think so.” Kit hunches his shoulders, seems to curl in on himself. “I haven’t dated much. For reasons.” One shoulder rises, falls. “And every time I start thinking about dating someone, I have to ask myself: when do you have the serious conversations? Is it a first date thing? Is it a third date thing? Is it the kind of thing that waits three months and then she gets pissed off at me for not being up front about it?”

“I don’t think Serina’s the kind of person who’s going to not date a guy because he’s bi,” Rory says, because it seems obvious that Kit’s gun shy, and had people break up with him over his sexuality before.

Kit stops walking, turns to face Rory. He takes a step back so he doesn’t have to tilt his head as far to meet his eyes. “I don’t need to tell her I’m bi,” he says flatly. “I’m trans.”

Not what Rory was expecting when this conversation started, but okay.

He pauses as well, not looking away. Nods once, slowly. “I’m ace and gay, so I get complicated,” Rory says quietly, and Kit’s posture eases. “Some things are awkward, because you figure everyone’s expecting the typical status quo.”

“Straight, all guys have dicks, and looking to get into bed?” Kit quips, and Rory laughs dryly.

“At least you didn’t say all guys are dicks.” Rory takes a step sideways, rocks on his foot until he’s sure Kit’s going to join him. They walk more slowly now despite the cold, approaching the outer gate leading into campus. “I don’t think there’s an easy answer to that one,” he admits. “I mean, I like Serina. She’s on my floor, but she’s not one of the ones who keeps wandering into my room randomly, like Nik. So I can’t say we’re really close, and I don’t know exactly how she feels. She doesn’t seem to mind queer people, and she didn’t freak out when she realized that Nate wasn’t ever going to be interested.”

“But being trans isn’t like being gay,” Kit says quietly.

“Yeah.” Rory looks up at the sky, the snowflakes falling faster now, swirling through the darkness like a hyper speed special effect in a movie. “Maybe just play it by ear? Go out again. You need to trust her, right?” As he says it, Rory isn’t sure why Kit trusted him with it. “I don’t think she’d do anything bad, but she might feel hurt that you didn’t say something. But I think she’d at least get why you waited.” He glances down at Kit. “Serina’s good people. When are you going to go out again?”

“Guess I need to ask her that.” Kit pulls his phone out, looks at the screen like it’s going to give him answers. “I don’t think I’ve really got time this week. I need to finish that assignment with Thorne, and then there’s Coven on Tuesday, and we meet with Pawel for independent study on Wednesday and Thursday, and by that point, it’s just about back to the weekend. Carolyn’s sorority is sponsoring the Saturday movie. Maybe I’ll see if Serina wants to see that, if I don’t get roped into helping with it.” He hesitates, brow furrowing, mouth slightly open before it closes again.

“What?” Rory recognizes that look. When he sees it on Thorne it rarely bodes well for him.

“When are you seeing Darrik again?” Kit’s gaze narrows. “And is it personal or about the ritual thing?”

Rory licks his lips, huffs out a breath. “Both, I think, at this point. But he doesn’t know I’m ace. There really wasn’t a time to bring it up when he was telling me about his dead boyfriend.”

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Kit asks. His voice is low again, a soft note in it. Concerned.

“Do any of us?” Rory counters. Love is complicated. Relationships are complicated. He touches the out-of-focus mark on his wrist, because that’s just another complication on top of everything else. “We just go forward until we hit a wall, right? Or maybe we get lucky and it’s the right person at the right time doing the right thing. There are a ton of variables that make the difference between an epic love story and an epic fail.”

“We could double.”

Rory somehow expected a different reaction to his words, something more in-depth. Something more profound. “We could what? Double date? You and Serina with me and Darrik?”

Kit nods, adding a shallow, hesitant shrug. “It adds a buffer. A way to just hang out and not worry about adding in coming out stories. Right?”

That… makes a kind of sense. But at the same time, it adds yet another layer of complication over something that Rory isn’t even sure is a thing at all.

And still, he finds himself agreeing. “Okay, sure. Saturday. For the movie. If Darrik’s willing to subject himself to an on-campus movie when he escaped college campuses a couple years ago after grad school,” Rory agrees. “I’ll ask him.”

A half-smile from Kit. “Sounds good.” He’s quiet for a few steps, staring into the distance, before he asks, “Is Thorne always like that? I didn’t interact much with him our freshman year. He’s—”

“Hyper-sexual? Not as much as he says he is,” Rory says. “But yeah, he got all the sexuality in our family, and I got none of it. Mac’s right, though. If you make it plain that you want him to stop, he’ll stop, no questions asked. He might still flirt, but he won’t touch if you don’t want to, and he won’t be serious about the flirting. Just tell him what level of interaction you’re comfortable with, and he’ll adjust. Consent’s a big thing.”

“Okay.” Kit falls silent again as they pass through the gate. Rory isn’t sure where Kit lives, or even if he lives on campus, but Kit turns in the same direction when Rory does, heading toward Davison.

“Is there something else?” Rory asks. “Seriously, did Thorne make a move and I need to talk to him? Because I will. I love my brother, but sometimes—”

“He didn’t,” Kit says quickly. “I was just thinking that I think it’ll be good to work with him. It’ll put me outside of my comfort zone, which is what I wanted to do. It’ll make me interact with other people I normally wouldn’t, I’m sure, which is also good. I have a tough time reaching out.”

“Because—”

“Because I don’t want to have to explain, but at the same time, it’s hard being honest with people when you’re keeping a secret.” Kit’s voice twists, frustrated and tight. “Not that it’s actually a secret. It’s just me. But other people see it like a secret, and I’m tired of hearing that. That they think I’m tricking them. I’m not. I just want to be taken at face value and be allowed to be myself.”

“Then just be you.” Rory knows it’s not that simple, but he also knows it’s the best advice he can give. “I know that Thorne really doesn’t give a shit. Use him as a practice case for just being you and being exactly who you are, and don’t—don’t come out. Just be you.” He’s usually got better words than this, but he doesn’t want to say the wrong thing and this is new territory. “Are you introverted naturally?”

Kit snorts. “Yeah. Can’t you tell?”

“It has to be hard, because again, layers of complexity.” Rory touches his own chest. “I’m in a band full of extroverts, and I’m the only introvert. They keep me in touch with other people. It helps. So… use Thorne and me for a while.”

“Having a buffer seems to be the theme of this conversation.”

“We’re not an English paper in need of a thesis statement, but yes.” Rory smiles slightly, licks his lips. Reaching out has never been his strong suit, either, but Kit’s wariness makes him want to help in some small way. “I don’t want to use Darrik for your project,” he says. “This is personal, for him and for me, and for my friends. But if you want to help, I am okay with that.” It’s a small olive branch.

Kit presses his lips together, reaches up to push his hair out of his face. “I’ll work with Thorne for a grade, and I’ll work with you to help Darrik. That’s good.” The road splits, heading toward Townhouse Row in one direction. Kit wavers, leans in the other direction. “We’ll talk again on Tuesday?” he suggests.

“What’s your number?” Rory could get it from Thorne, but this is easier. He has his phone in his hands, sends a text as Kit lists off numbers. Kit’s phone buzzes faintly from his pocket, and Rory gestures with his own. “You’ve got mine now. I don’t remember if Pawel and I told you everything about what happened with Darrik and his friends, but I can send some things to you that you should look at. You really need to know what you’re getting into; you might change your mind.”

“I’m going to push myself this semester,” Kit says firmly. “So no, I won’t change my mind. Whatever you need, you’ve got my help. We’ll talk Tuesday.” He turns away, raising one hand to wave as he goes.

Rory’s fingers itch, and he’s not sure if he’s feeling a ritual or the words to a song. Either way, he needs to get back to the dorm and write it down. Maybe play a little, let it all spill out.

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