#not me absolutely WEEPING over this again this morning

[firehcart]

[emilys-bangs]

I can't read you (but if you want, the pleasure's all mine) | e.p

Tags: flirty!emily, shy!hotch's assistant!reader, fluff, hint of angst?, implied that emily isn't sleeping well :[, worried reader (duh), emily calls reader petnames, emily is down BAD

Summary: Emily loiters around in your office for no good reason.

Word count: 1.7k

A/n: I'm not sure if the idea of Hotch's assistant reader belongs to a single person, but I take no credit for it, I got inspired to write my own after reading @/mariasont's absolutely fabulous bimbo!assistant series, so very many thanks to her!! (and if there are any hotch girlies around here go check it out). Alsoo I think I'm probably gonna add a few more parts to this as interconnected oneshots, I had too many ideas and they couldn't all fit into one fic :p

It’s not that your office is hidden; it’s just out of the way. A short walk before the bullpen’s glass doors, on the opposite side of the restrooms. It’s not nestled within the buzz, and yet a single agent flits to it like a moth to a flame, with no reason or purpose behind her frequent visits.

“Hey, gorgeous,” Emily murmurs. She flashes you a smile, genuine but fading as she rests her hip against your desk and leans on it.

“Hi.” You don’t return her smile, too busy examining the bruised shadows under her eyes. A frown pulls your lips downward. “You look tired.”

“Ouch,” she mock winces. “Take it easy on a girl’s ego, will you?”

“I’m serious. Did you sleep okay?”

Something flickers behind her eyes. They’re dark eyes, endless and lovely, but something about them seems dull today. “Slept okay,” she dips her chin in a nod, “as well as I could without you there with me.”

It’s instantaneous, the knot in your tongue. Heat surges above the collar of your button down, the flush creeping up your neck, and Emily’s gaze becomes too much to hold. You drop your eyes to the neat surface of your desk, shifting files around beneath your sweaty fingertips. 

“It’s a big bed,” she continues through her brilliant teeth, gently poking at your composure. “A king. Gets cold easily, y’know? Hey, out of curiosity, do you happen to run hot? I’m freezing most of—”

“Prentiss.”

You both look up to find Hotch at your open door, his mouth set in a straight line—probably at the blatant show of fraternization from his subordinate. Emily grins at him winningly, unabashed as she gives a nod and drawls out, “Morning.”

The stare he gives her is a usual for when she’s leaning against your desk: stop flirting with my assistant. He doesn’t say it, only arches his brow, but everyone hears it.

“Good morning.” His voice is dry. Walking in, his gaze flits to you. “Any urgent cases?”

“N-No sir,” you fluster, cheeks still unbearably hot at the thought of you and Emily intertwined on her bed. Rubbing at your temple, your eyes dip down to the sticky note you’d stuck on your desk in preparation for the day’s tasks. The scrawl of your handwriting sparks competence back into your brain. “Uh, Strauss called again,” you say sheepishly; Hotch’s lips press together, his top lip disappearing, “about the budget meeting. That’s…three times this month?” You tilt your head, grimacing. “I’m starting to worry she’ll barter away the jet soon, save herself the headache.”

Emily lets out a small laugh. “I think letting Morgan go would be more cost effective.” 

She’s not entirely unfair—you’ve filed enough damage reports this month to make the director weep. The corner of your mouth tickles. Emily catches your eyes, lashes feathering over her cheek in a wink.

Hotch ignores her. 

“We’ve only got consults for today, right?” He asks. You nod. “See if we can schedule it today, get it over with. And, uh,” his eyes linger pointedly on Emily, “it’s almost 9.”

“We’ll be there in a minute,” she answers for the both of you, drowning out your low, yes sir.

The lumping of you and her in a we makes you pathetically giddy. 

It could possibly be considered rude for you to drop your eyes back to your desk before your boss leaves, robbing him of attention, but he’s already turning on his heel and with the two of them crowding your space, it’s like you’re flayed open beneath their sharp eyes. Profilers, you grumble internally, a small shake to your hands as Emily’s perfume dissolves over you in waves, a product of her coming closer. She’s next to your elbow now, the pale outline of her hand creeping up next to yours.

“Here, honey, let me help.”

You inhale a sharp breath, feeling the cold air drop all the way to the pit of your stomach. “They’re just a few files.” You mumble, gathering the consults and standing clumsily, eager to escape the heat of her body pressing against yours.

It’s a bad move. Your chest bumps into her arm, not hard, but enough to make you sway on your feet. Emily’s other hand is quick to land on your waist, steadily restoring your balance with a squeeze through your cardigan that has your head reeling.

“Careful there,” she says softly. You blink at her, the tired slant of her lashes now almost at eye-level. “Sorry, I was in your way—”

“Are you sure you’re good?” You blurt. Emily’s mouth snaps shut and you hug the files to your chest, looking her over more thoroughly. Minimal, effortless makeup, but there’s a wrinkle in her shirt, creases in the skin under her eyes. It’s not unusual for her to be tired, given the nature of her job, but the lines of her body are more tense than you’ve seen them.

At your question, it’s almost like she coils further into a tight spring.

“Yeah.” Emily says firmly. “I’m good, don’t worry about me. My cat kept waking me up, yelling all night to be let out and then yelling to be let in.” Her mouth twists into a wry smile.

“Sergio?”

“Mhm,” she nods. “He’s talkative.”

Her tone is as convincing as it ever is, buttery smooth and warm. But you don’t believe her. It’s a gut feeling, not something you can explain with any shred of reason; the certainty of it clings to you, so you look into the molten pools of her irises and hold on.

“You can—you, um…” the thoughts scatter from your brain just when you start, possibly the quiet intensity of Emily’s eyes making them flutter out of your skull. But she’s patient. Tilting her head, she doesn’t interrupt your silence, only presses her lips together in a reassuring smile.

The frustration settles bitterly in your gut, but you blow out a breath. Swallow and gather your words with a firm hand. When you finally have a good grasp on them, you look Emily in the eye and speak slowly.

“You could talk to me, you know. About anything. If you’re not sleeping, or—or just if you want to,” you shrug jerkily. “Doesn’t have to be anything, really, but I’m here. For you.” Stupidly, you wish you could reach out, gather the courage to place your hand on her shoulder or curl your fingers around her elbow. Maybe offer a reassuring squeeze, something more tangible than your useless, mumbled words. Emily touches you so much, it should be normal, but sweat slicks your skin at the thought of you initiating.

The arch of her brows softens as she smiles. It takes some pressure off your chest, more so when she loosely cups your elbow. “Thank you.” She says quietly. Her hand squeezes and your eyes skate over her face, searching. “Really, honey, thank you. But I’m fine. Slept late is all.”

Now that you’ve caught her out, she lets you hear the hint of exhaustion in her voice, raspy threads lacing through her words. It makes you wonder what else she hides so easily, exactly how much effort it would take to get her to let her walls crumble and the facade burn down. But she’s already a flighty person, wings flapping if she feels like the walls are starting to close in, so you don’t push further even though you want to.

“Oh. Uh, okay,” you fidget with your sleeve, tugging it further down your hand to dry the sweat on it. A quick flash of your eyes on Emily’s face tells you she’s still smiling, her lips drawn in a gentle curve. You look away again. 

“I just wanted you to know. That you could, if you wanted to. ’bout anything.” The last part comes out as a whisper. You hug the consult files closer to your chest, your eyes dropping to the watch strapped to your wrist. 8:59. “We should go, the team’s—”

“I do know that.” Emily says. Her hand falls away from your elbow, but her eyes fill with so much warmth you hardly feel the loss. “I know it. And I—” The heat of her eyes disappears, seeking something lower than your eyesight before snapping back up again. A confused flurry rips through your gut and she falters, mouth opening and closing. Her lips part again and she finally says, “You could, too. Talk to me about anything.” Sincerity is thick in her voice, her gaze earnest as she stares into your soul. “I hope you know that.”

The back of your throat is briefly dry. A small dip of your chin constitutes a nod; swallowing, you curl your fingers around the edges of the consultation files.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Yeah, I know.”

When Emily smiles, her eyes brighten the tiniest bit. A thrill goes through you at the thought of igniting it. Your own lips start to curve, but their path is rudely stopped when Emily’s brows tick upward.

“Oops,” she says lightly, her eyes finding the clock above your door. “9:01—” You curse as you look down at your own watch, eyes bugging out at the time. One minute is hardly late, but so far your record with Hotch has been spotless, and you want to keep it that way. 

Emily’s hand needlessly nudges the center of your back. “Let’s go, gorgeous.” She murmurs. You’re already moving, shooting past the open door of your office without hanging back to close it. A distant click tells you Emily does it, and a few more not so distant clicks of her heels on the floor tell you that she hurries to catch up to your gait. You’re still cursing under your breath, preemptively flustered at the thought of walking in late into the conference room, the rest of the team seated and waiting for your arrival. The weight of their eyes on you is already heavy.

“Your fault,” you mumble to Emily without any real heat.

She pulls open the bullpen door for you. You step through. “Hey, don’t worry. It’s just a minute, two tops.” The relaxed drawl of her voice doesn’t make you slow down. “Listen, if Hotch does pull out the death glare just get behind me, yeah? I’ll protect you.”

You finally turn your head and look at her, none too surprised to find her grinning. It makes you falter, feet slowing as you cross the bullpen floor. Stupid heat burns in your cheeks; you look away.

“Shut up, Prentiss.”

“Sorry, babe.”

taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd @lextism @catssluvr @i-lovefandom @haiklya @justhereforthosefics @storiesofsvu@ashluvscaterina @basicallyvivi@temilyrights @professorsapphic

[dxckgrxsonx]

"you can pretend all you want, i can see the fucking mess you're making of yourself." + jason please my love??? i love e2l <3

Pairing - Jason Todd x (F) Reader

Words - 900ish

Warnings - 18+ SMUT - Graphic Sexual Content - Unprotected Sex - Cocky!Jason (he's good and he knows it) - Swearing

Notes - Hi my darlings!! It's been far too long since I've written something smutty so here you are!! Hope you enjoy!! <3

**

He pisses you off like nothing else on this Earth.

Broad shoulders, incredible skill, smart fucking mouth. He calls you in the middle of the night knowing you’d answer; knowing without a shadow of a doubt that even with you seething and furious and goddamn exhausted, you would still pick up the phone.

He’s smug about it and sometimes, just sometimes, you consider blocking his stupid number.

“I absolutely fucking hate you.” You greet, halfway into a snarl. Vaguely, you acknowledge that it’s not an ideal greeting, but it’s three in the morning and the thread of patience between your fists frays horribly when Jason steps out of the dark, already grinning at the look on your face. “I was sleeping.”

“And yet…” Jason says, watching you far too intently. “Here you are anyway.” He presses forwards, crowds you right up against the nearest flat surface, and tips your head up so you have no choice but to watch him pick you apart. “It’s almost like you can’t say no to me, sweetheart. In fact, I don't think you’ve ever said no to me…”

“Don’t.” You whisper, knowing where he’s heading. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

He presses on you hard enough to bruise; hard enough to scatter hairline fractures through your whole nervous system. It feels like static. It feels like an ache Jason carved into you with his own two hands–and his beautifully thick cock–to mark you as his own.

“You want this.” He breathes, mouth still pitched up in that wicked smirk and your entire world starts bending in the middle, moulding around Jason and warping under his capable hands. You can’t stand it: you hate yourself for it. “You get wet just thinking about it…thinking about me.”

It was a chance meeting and back then you were so goddamn stupid.

You could hardly walk after the first time, cunt stretched open and sore from how many times he opened you up with his fingers–with his cock. He was big and thick and he had no choice but to take his time to get your pretty pussy to yield to him–to let him in. He praised you the whole time, and then fucked you until you were trembling and whimpering and squeezing at his cock.

It was weeks before you heard from him again and nothing you did with your own two hands was enough.

You needed him and he knew it.

You need him now and he knows it.

There’s a wet spot soaking through your underwear and the second Jason see’s it he’s groaning something feral against your throat. Shoving you backwards onto the bed he chases and wedges his broad shoulders between your thighs before you have a chance to flinch them closed.

Grabbing at your knees he spreads you open and pushes your legs back until they’re almost by your ears. Your muscles burn at the stretch, and you try to wiggle out of his grip but Jason leans forward and drags his tongue over the slick fabric covering your weeping slit.

“Fuck you.” You gasp. Unable to think of anything but how much you hate him for what he’s turned you into and how good he makes you feel. “Fuck you so much.”

He laughs and it’s almost mean with how arrogant he is.

Jason releases his hold on your knees to unbuckle his belt and then he’s back, smacking the thick, heavy length of him against your covered pussy. He rubs the fat head through the growing damp patch on your underwear and your puffy clit twitches hard enough that he can see it throb.

Wedging the tip of his cock underneath the fabric he teases your soaked hole until you thrash a little and whine. Pressing in just enough to get you to stretch open around him he pulls back so he can do it again and you snap your jaw closed around the pleas building in your mouth.

“Say it.” Jason demands.

Sinking the first few inches into your soft, slick pussy Jason holds and waits, Lazarus eyes awake and interested in each trembling twitch of your body.

“I hate this.” You lie, unable to stop yourself from throbbing around the tip of his cock, arousal leaking and squelching out around the edges of him. “I hate you.”

“Oh sweetheart.” Jason hums, using one hand to pull your underwear to the side so he can see just how embarrassingly wet you are. Your slick sticks to the fabric and it stays attached to your pussy in thin strings “You can pretend all you want, I can see the fucking mess you’re making of yourself.”

Thrusting forwards he stuffs his full length inside you with one, rough stroke and you moan loud enough to shake the windows.

“Oh–ah fuck!–Jason.” You try, voice trembling.

“There you go.” He says. “I knew you wanted this. I knew your aching little pussy wouldn’t be able to say no to me. No one can fuck you like I can, sweetheart.” Shoving your knees apart he holds you so tightly you can barely move and watches his cock split you open. “Every time I call you, there you are, all mad and pretty and wet. And the second I get inside you, you go all soft and cockdrunk for me.”

“Uh–plea–please.”

“Yeah.” Jason grins. “Just like that. Now, let’s see how much you can come for me this time, huh? You managed three last time before you started crying. But I think you can do better for me, right sweetheart?”

**

[teamatsumu]

kinktober 2023 -> day 7

orgasm denial - matsukawa issei x reader

word count: 873

warnings: regular smut warnings, daddy kink mentioned, slight degradation, swearing

kinktober masterlist

You knew you deserved this. You had been teasing him all night after all. In some capacity, you were even looking forward to it. It had been a long time since you had acted out enough that it warranted a punishment from Issei. And now you realized that time had probably dulled things in your head. Because you had forgotten just how brutal Issei’s punishments could be. 

Two hours. It had been two hours of what felt like every emotion and sensation known to mankind coursing through your veins. You had been touched subtly, sweetly, like a ghost whispering against your skin, enough to make you shiver and get riled up, enough to make your nerves buzz in excitement. And you had also been touched roughly, hard, strong hands spanking and slapping at sensitive skin, nails scratching and fingers fucking so hard and fast into you that you had lost all semblance of sanity.

At this point, your vision was swimming. Partly from your tears, and partly from your head being pressed so hard into the mattress that it left you cross-eyed. Your ass was propped up in the air by his other hand, the one not holding your head down, but instead holding your hips up with a grip so bruising you were sure it would leave deep purple marks on you tomorrow morning. But fuck, you couldn’t bring yourself to care about the next morning. You could only focus on one thing, and that was your weeping pussy stretched out over your boyfriend’s huge cock, drilled into submission and with no signs of stopping.

“I-Issei-” You gasped when he hit a particularly deep spot, another tear escaping from your eye and running over the bridge of your nose, only to fall on the sheets under your head. “Issei, plea-”

“No.” Came the nonchalant reply.

Your face scrunched up in disappointment, fingers twisting around the sheets as you laid still, taking the pounding you were getting like a good girl. You wanted, no needed, to cum so bad, but you couldn’t. Not until Issei allowed you to. You knew what would happen if you came without his permission. If this was already messing you up so bad, you couldn’t even imagine what he would do to you if you came without his approval.

You let yourself cry and moan as Issei kept fucking you slow and hard into the mattress, trying not to focus on how fucking good he felt or how close to the edge you were. You sighed when he draped himself over your back, his bare body providing such a welcome feeling against your shot nerves. He hummed into your shoulder, laying a soft kiss on the skin, such a stark contrast to the absolute havoc he was wreaking below your pelvis. 

“Issei…” You tried again, clenching around him. You were so overstimulated, you just had to beg. You knew from experience that it wouldn’t be long until you couldn’t hold back anymore, not if Issei continued to shove his cock into you at the same pace. 

“Stop asking, baby.” Came his reply, voice raspy against your ear, his breath hitting your skin enough to make you shiver. He thrusted hard and held himself there for a few seconds, letting you appreciate how wonderfully he stretched you out. Your jaw went slack.

“You know you don’t deserve to cum.” He continued, the hand on your head now tangling in your hair, tugging just a bit. “Not after that show you put on in front of my friends. You think they couldn’t tell that you were just tryna rile me up? They’re not stupid, you know? And neither am I.”

“‘M sorry.” You whimpered, barely forming coherent thoughts, but feeling fresh tears prick your eyes regardless. “‘M sorry, daddy. I was just-”

“Being a brat? Wanting attention? Acting like a whore?” His words didn’t sting, in fact they turned you on more and made you tighten around him, and you heard his sharp intake of breath.

“You don’t get anything tonight, babygirl.” He concluded, one hand slipping between your body and the bed to pat at your clit, making you yelp. You were so sensitive, even the slightest touch sent you spiraling. “Tonight, you’re gonna let daddy use your whore body for himself, and if I feel like you deserve to cum after that-” He disengaged from your body and straightened, hands gripping your hips in preparation, “then maybe I will consider it.”

Then, he began fucking you in earnest, pounding your limp body into the bed, reveling in the sounds of your mumbled ‘thank you’s, grateful just at the thought that maybe he would let you cum. He couldn’t help the little smirk that spread on his face at the sound, the notion that even his consideration for letting you cum sent you into a mumbled mess of grateful words, his cock throbbing inside your tight little cunt.

He had trained you well.

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@bxbyyyjocelyn @thisbicc @lazuliquartz @dreamayy @kuroosluthoe @true-form-hoe @akumakitsune21 @cham0mil3-and-h0n3y @samisfunky @universal-s1ut @msbyomimi @dohwaesu @leothesquishy @n0tmykays @tsukiran @reyofsunshinelol @bleach-your-panties @galaneiaeris @leyra-giovanni @erenspersonalwh0re @peachesncats @soapsoftheworld @iwannabecamiloshovel @vintagevict0ria @smithieandy @moonlit-mizukage @snazzyturtles

A/N: For those whose tags arent working, im sorry! I tried and for some reason, your names wont show up in the mentions :( another way of being notified is to turn on my blog notifs for @teamatsumufics . I only reblog my fics there so it serves almost like being in a taglist!

[hawkinshorror94]

Burning Desire

A/N: I hope you guys like it. Im sad about the election, but I wanted to get this out. Let me know what you think, might do Rolan next or maybe even Karlach. Sorry if the spacing looks weird, tumblr will no longer pull up on my mac so, weird but I had to post it from my phone.

He wakes as he often does after her, rolling over inhaling her scent on the pillow. Pomegranate and vanilla; her smell. He knew it, he had committed it to memory, like a birthday. But today is different; the smell is heady, more fragrant, like over ripened fruit. And it makes his cock hard in his trousers. He was in Heat.

Teiflings on the older side didn't go into heat every month, “pass their prime��� perhaps. But this one was strong, he needed her. Like he needed air, but he had duties and so did she, so he would have to wait. Sate his hunger the best he could until he could take her properly.

“Good morning,” she greets him when she hears the clank of his boots coming downstairs. Zevlor drank the sight of her in. Had she always been this beautiful, her skin looked dewy, and her hair shiny. She is the picture of perfection standing in the early morning light filtering in through the kitchen window. And he feels that need thrum low in his belly again.

“It is a good morning indeed.” He rasps into her ear, nipping at the soft skin there, his hands digging into her hips spreading her thighs slightly as he drops to his knees. His clawed fingers gather her nightgown at the hem pooling it around her waist.

“What are you doing?” She murmurs as he presses his nose flat against her clothed cunt breathing in deeply. The smell, Oh Gods, that smell. It burrows into his brain like a mind flayers tadpole and eats away at all the rational parts of his brain and leaves the more salacious bits. The image of her pressed against their shared bed as absolutely splits her open crosses his mind. As he takes in another deep breath letting his breath fan out over the fabric, he can now smell the all too familiar smell of arousal pooling between her legs.

“I have half the mind to bend you over this counter right now and fill you absolutely full with my seed.” He murmurs as he drags his nose away from her center, looking up at her to see her cheeks dusted with a rosy tint. “But you and I both have duties to the city.” He stands back to full height, cock painfully straining against the chainmail of his trousers. He rubs against forehead, the bump of his horns rubbing against the smooth skin of her forehead, an almost keening whine leaving his lips when she finally closes the distance between them. It would be an exceptionally long day.

This was torture, like slowly burning alive in her own skin. Except it’s just her in his line of vision constantly. Had her armor always hugged her body like that, the leathers lifted her ass to make a nice heart shape and he found it awfully hard to ignore it when she was bent over the table beside Wyll looking at a map. Was she doing this on purpose, he thought as he dug his claws into thigh?

“Commander, opinions?” She was talking to him, those lips that looked so nice around his cock were talking to him. And calling him by his title instead of by his name or addressing her as husband. His cock twitched under his desk.

“Zevlor, are you alright? You look ill.” Wyll asked, concerned as the older man tried to keep it together. Zevlor nodded curtly, apologizing to the Duke as he tried to refocus. He needed her, this couldn't wait. He wouldn't make it through the day if he didn’t have her.

“Have I ever told you how pretty you are?” He growls biting at the skin of her shoulder as he bends her over his desk. Yanking her armor down and then the leathers, just enough to see that pretty weeping cunt. He drags the sensitive tip between her puffy folds as she whines. “With the way you're whining, you’d think you're a bitch in heat, my beloved.” He huffs, finally pressing into her velvety walls. When he’s buried to the hilt in her, he sets a brutal pace. His mind is consumed with her, the way she feels around his cock, her moans and gasps. The sounds of their coupling loud and lewd in his quiet office.

“Zevlor.” She cries out as he lifts one of her legs placing it on the desk. This angle is deeper and it has her biting her hand in an effort to be quiet. His mind is feral with the thought of filling her full, breeding her. His mind thinks of her cunt dripping and leaking over her undergarments as she goes about the rest of the day. The thought drives him into her one last time and as he feels her clenching around him, he finishes painting her inner walls with hot seed.

“Better,” She asks as he helps her down from the table, smoothing her hair and righting her armor. He chuckles pressing a kiss to her fevered forehead,

“Much my beloved.” Until tonight of course, he thinks as he watches her leave from his office.

[soulessjourney]

Of Ice and Snow

Paring: Azriel x fem!Reader

Word count: 1.1k

Summary: He just can't seem to let you go

Warnings: ANGST (lots of it, I'm not sorry), death

The cool spring air whistles through the trees, dislodging petals from their place on the branches. The breeze carries them over the balcony and through the open doors where Azriel lies with his head resting on his mate's stomach. Your fingers trail through his hair as he inhales your scent, a mixture of lavender and rosemary filling his senses with each breath.

"My love, one might think you're a dog," you tease, running your nails over his scalp.

His only response is a hum as he breathes in your scent once more. "I can't help but find you absolutely divine so early in the morning," he grumbles, tightening his arms around you. A smile tugs at his lips at the sound of your laughter. For once, Azriel feels at peace in his life, having finally found someone he loves more than anything, and who loves him for who he is.

You let your gaze settle on him as a shiver runs through you from the breeze. Though you want to close the balcony door, you find yourself unable to, not when you're wrapped in Azriel's embrace. "Az, you need to visit your family. It's been some time since your last visit," you murmur, noticing how he tenses and holds you tighter.

Shaking his head, he playfully bites your stomach, causing you to jump slightly. "I'll see them eventually. Right now, I just want to stay here with you a little longer," he says so softly, you almost miss his words.

"You can't isolate yourself here forever, Az. They're worried about you. They want to be here for you, to help you heal," desperation fills your voice as your fingers continue to run through his hair.

"I don't need them, not when I have you. You're all I need, Y/N. I love my family, but they can't help me the way you do," he says, sitting up to look down at you. A frown forms on your lips as you stand and settle between his legs.

Placing your hand on his chin, you tilt his face up to meet yours. "Az, it's been two years," you whisper, running your thumb over his cheek gently, catching the tears that fall. You don't miss the desperation in his eyes as he shakes his head at your words. "You need to let me go, my love. I love you more than life itself, but it's time."

Azriel inhales sharply at your words, feeling like someone has punched him in the gut as the familiar ache in his heart echoes in the room. "I can't. You were everything to me, Y/N. I can't just let you go," he sobs, taking your hands in his.

Azriel's thoughts are interrupted by a soft knock on his bedroom door. Cassian pushes it open, his eyes softening as he sees Azriel. Azriel isn't sure how Cassian managed to bypass the wards that shielded their home, but there he was. "Hey, brother," he says gently, his gaze wandering around the room to identify who Azriel was talking to.

Azriel turns his head to look back at you, but finds nothing but empty space. His shoulders slump as he covers his face, letting out a sob. Cassian quickly pulls him into a tight hug, holding his brother close as his pained screams fill the room. "We can visit her. Maybe seeing her will help you," Cassian mumbles.

Azriel nods as Cassian helps him dress. Holding up the flowers, he smiles and guides his brother out of the once-happy home you shared. As they walk through Velaris, Azriel can't help but notice how happy everyone looks. He longs to feel that happiness again, the warmth that filled his chest every time he looked at you. Cassian leads him to the edge of the city, to the top of a hill where a large weeping willow sits, its long limbs hanging limply as the leaves sway gently in the breeze.

Azriel doesn't acknowledge his family standing under the tree, their eyes filled with pity. He despises it. He hates how they pity him. Brushing off their gazes, his eyes land on an object under the tree. There sits a marble headstone, your name delicately carved into it along with your dates of birth and death. He drops to his knees before it and places the flowers atop the stone. Feyre places her hand on his shoulder and squeezes it gently. "We wanted to do something nice for her. After all she went through, she deserved the best view in Velaris dedicated just to her."

Feyre's words bring tears to his eyes as they silently fall down his cheeks. This hill is where they would lay and look up at the stars together. The tree they would sit under during hot summer days, with you leaning against his chest as you talked about your future. His thumb caresses the stone gently before his attention is drawn away. "Papa?" a soft voice fills the air, causing his breath to catch in his throat.

Looking over his shoulder, he sees his sweet little girl, with your fiery attitude and features. The only indication of her being his child is the dark hair that falls just above her shoulders and her golden-brown skin. Wrapping her in his arms, he kisses her cheek and holds her close. He doesn't miss the way she looks down at your headstone, curiosity filling her eyes. "Uncle Cassian says this is where mommy is sleeping," she says quietly. "When will she wake? I want to meet her, Daddy," she says, a pout forming on her lips.

Azriel smiles and laughs, biting back another sob. "Sometime soon, my little rose. But for now, we need to let Mommy rest. She went through so much, and she deserves all the rest she can get," he responds, brushing her hair out of her eyes.

She nods and looks back at the stone, waving her small hand. "Bye, Mommy. Sleep well. I hope you have the best nap," Azriel rises with his daughter in his arms and follows his family back down the hill.

Turning back, he sees you standing under the tree, a wide teary smile spread across your face as you look down at him and your daughter. Clasping your hands together, they fall to rest against your legs as you give him a small nod. This is your final goodbye, and his promise to finally live again.

[expectiations]

I can't believe it's been four months since we've been given the absolute gift that is the NineRiver audios. I remember weeping at 1 am over them and just melting at the way Nine became the most protective, most gentle, caring person after understanding River. Oh to be able to listen to Star-Crossed again for the first time!

On one note, I have seen people claim that for this particular regeneration, they're in a QPR. I object, but that's not what I started this post for.

Just like what is said in this post, the Doctor and River constantly fall in love with each other because River is River and the Doctor is the Doctor. They just click. It's evidenced by this specific pairing too. Sure, Nine may have been brash and rude to her at first but it changes once he processed the fact that apparently, he'd open up enough to marry someone in the future.

I may have said this before but one of the things I love about Archipelago is how it dispels any notion that the Doctor is forced to have sex with River. I have seen too often enough the (loudly incorrect) takes over that idea which irks me out because frankly, which version of Doctor Who did they watch? Cause it was clear af that the Doctor's very much into her and is always the one who instigates physical affection—cheek kisses, nose bump bops, see-you-next-adventure kisses, etc. Their marriage isn't built around sex. There is mutual trust and respect (and steamy, hot sparks) between these two. While some have chosen to gleefully point out that they're in a QPR, once again I respectfully disagree. If you insist, just scroll away.

I also love how he tries to understand, to *know* her. He reads her diary and tries to fathom the timey-wimey life they lead. He is basically acting the way any other regeneration of the Doctor would when they meet River, except this one is fresh out of the Time War and the wounds are still too raw and the loathing still too loud. Not that it got better by the time they met in the Library but relatively and all that.

Have I mentioned that I melt over how he's also *reaaally soft* with River? When River cries out of disappointment, he asks her what's wrong. She tries to 'hide the damage' but he shushes her and tells her to tell him what is wrong. When River tells him he should have left her in the time storm, he quietly tells her that that was never going to happen. And mind you, that was even *before* he read her diary.

For an endless moment, they had their happily ever after. They got to grow 'old' together. They got to exchange secrets no other version of the Doctor or River will *ever* know. And while there are conflicting interpretations of the part where River says 'they finally lay again together', I choose to believe they somehow found a way to have sex. Although I wouldn't be able to comprehend how considering they had crystals all over their bodies but unless I'm taking things literally, it's River and it's the Doctor and between the two of them, they're very much likely able to work it out lol

The penultimate part for me was right before they reset the timeline. When River told him that it's *the most romantic thing* he's ever done, that he's not just doing it for the timelines but he's doing it for them. He's giving up everything they had for everything they will have. And he responds that if it works, he'll have a lifetime to prove otherwise.

Oh and did I mention that I started sobbing uncontrollably AT ONE AM IN THE MORNING when I realized that their time together has left an indelible imprint in the universe??

Literally peak soulmate-ism.

[waterdeep-weavemoss]

Promises

Day 14. Song is Jenny by WALK THE MOON. Gale x Tav

'Ngh- I could live inside you forever,' Gale purred, breath hot against Doe's ear. They were chest to chest, stomach to stomach, fitting together like key to lock; her neck bore his fingerprints, his shoulders her teeth, but now he lay with his full weight pressing her into her little cabin bed. The golden afternoon had yielded to an indigo conquest, the moon silvering the sweat on their skin.

'I know a few people who would object,' she said, as he wound their fingers together above her head. 'Not least-'

'Don't,' he warned, nipping at her ear, 'mention his name. Not when we're like this, my love.'

'But you love him too.'

'Of course,' his voice lowered to a growl. 'But you'll forgive me my sins, little siren. I want you to sing for me, and me alone. I want to feel you tremble under my fingertips. Moan my name. Come on my cock, on my tongue, on my fingers. We belong together, my sweet girl. I adore you. I'm not letting you go.' He grinned down at her, pressing a kiss between her breasts. 'I hope you're comfortable, because we're going to be here for hours yet...'

'Gale.'

'Mhm?' He peeked through his lashes at her, a wicked smirk on his lips. He was positively devilish.

'He's going to kill us.'

'Well,' he stroked a finger down her cheek with his free hand, held her chin gently. His eyes burned with passionate heat, the press of him insistent as he shifted, dragging tortuously inside her. 'It's not him you're full of.'

'But- hngh- we need- to-'

He tsked, thrusting hard to pull a cry from her. 'You,' he groaned, his lips at her shoulder, free hand smoothing up her already marked throat, 'are being a very bad girl. I told you not to mention him. Unless you want to seek him out and show him how you look full of my come. He might like that...' he chuckled, a bestial, primal thing. 'I'd certainly like to see his face.' He tilted his head, a dangerous gleam in his eye. 'Perhaps he'd like a taste.'

'Gale!' Doe's cheeks flushed pink. 'You absolute animal.'

'Oh, love.' He braced a hand against the cabin wall, snapping his hips into her again. He pressed a hand to her belly, nails light on her skin. 'You're so full already, but I think you can take one more, don't you?' Leaning to her ear, his tongue hot on the shell, he hissed, 'maybe more, if you're good.'

'Fuck,' she sobbed in response as he brought her overstimulated body to the edge again. Pausing to watch her face, he licked the bruises on her neck, moaning lewdly as she shivered.

'I love you,' he whispered, breath quickening as she squeezed around him. 'I'd fucking kill for you.' One last thrust sent her into orgasm again- she'd lost count by now.

'Holy fuck-' Doe whimpered. 'Gale, I want-'

'Ngh- I know-' he gritted his teeth, slammed his hips to hers and buried his face in her breasts as he came, filling her again, spilling out onto the sheets. 'I meant it,' he gasped. 'You exquisite thing, I need to be inside you forever. We're going to fall asleep like this, and I'm going to fuck you in the morning, and I'll give you as much as your body can take. Mine, mine, mine.

I don't give a damn what anyone on this ship says. I know you love it. You'll dress, and go ashore, and beguile, and all the while it'll be me you feel between your legs, me you're brimming with. So sleep now, and dream of me. Wake, and feel me within you. Leave and weep the loss, only to return tomorrow evening where I will take you all over again.'

His voice became velvet soft. 'I'll ask what information you've gleaned from your targets- from that devil-' he snarled, 'all the while making you forget anything else but me.'

Tags:

@bluerosetarot @dansnotavampire @further-than-forever

@forget-me-maybe @poetryvampire @sasha199 @wandawillow

@boufsy @owlseeyoulaterpal @lanafofana @amorgansgal

@aryancunin @miradelletarot @marlowethebard

@crimson-and-lavender @reeseykins @medra-gonbites

@roguishcat @weaverofnetheril @galedekarioswifey @hyperfixationstation128 @lastlight-inn

@astarryvamp @feedthepheasants @dabigstinky @dreamingofthewild @ladyofcrowsandcoffee

@femmefuck @spooky-lil-bee

[stormyjane7]

Teasing the Wave

Summary:

Your party obtains the wavemothers robe. which looks amazing on your vampire lover. Who will out tease who.

TW: Wavemother Robe, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Public Hand Jobs, Cock Tease

Read on Ao3

The journey to Baldur’s Gate has been a long one. Many a monster and evil do-er have been felled.You just finished a quest for the Wavemother and were granted a robe. Astarion snatched it as quickly as he could from your hands.

“While I think this would look marvelous on you darling, let me have it first?” You couldn’t resist Astarion’s puppy eyed look and agreed he could have it first. You soon found out why. The slits in the robe hit just right around his lower hips, exposing his well toned thighs. You sucked in your breath as you noticed there was no way he was wearing underwear under this. He was setting you up for failure and upon noticing your looks at him, he gave you the most devious grin.

The small journey to the tavern you were staying at seemed even longer with the teasing Astarion was doing to you. A bump of the hip into yours, swaying his hips as he walked in front of you, and not to mention his normally saucy banter was dripping this time.

“Ah yes this robe is freeing, isn’t it darling? Every inch is just so happy to meet the air.”

Your group thankfully made it to the tavern. Gale ordered dinner for the group while everyone went to unequip their armor. You got a small reprieve from your lover as he stayed down with Gale, most likely to tease him too to get a reaction of of the poor wizard.

By the time you came down the food was ready and Gale was ten shades of red. Whatever astarion did had obviously worked. You smirked as you figured it was time for payback.

You sit down next to Astarion and start fixing your plate of food. Not too much incase your plan did indeed work.

“Have fun with Gale did you?” You ask as you put some of the roast into your mouth.

“Absolutely darling. Though you are much more fun to tease.”

“Well it’s not like you don’t get something out of riling me up.” I slide my hand down and onto his thigh giving it a squeeze.

His eyebrows shot up and a grin started to hit his lips. Shockingly he didn’t say anything to you.

You kept eating, giving a squeeze to his thigh every so often and moving your hand closer to his center tiny bit by bit. You could tell he was enjoying the attention and possibility of the moment as the robe had tented up. Which gave you access to him at last.

The entire time continuing talking with your other companions and eating. When you finally touch his cock he slammed a fist on the table which shocked the group.

“Everything okay Astarion?” Wyll asked with no indication he knew what was happening.

“Yeah fangs, that was a bigger response to the big joke than necessary.” Karlach added.

Before your lover could respond you rolled your thumb over the tip of his weeping cock. This time he growled as silently as he could. He glared up at you, almost egging you on for more. You slide the precum down the shaft so that you could then move up again with ease. That seemed to have completely set him off as he gently removed your hand, stood up, and threw you over his shoulder.

“You’ll have to excuse us for the evening. We’ll see you in the morning.” He started walking up the stairs while all of your friends gave you quizzical looks. You tried to play it off like nothing but you could tell they knew something naughty was up.

Once in front of the door to your room he sets you down to open the door for you. You walk inside with him behind you and he spins you around to close the door with your body. He puts his hips into yours while locking the door. ''I hope you are ready for the hell you have unleashed my dear. you feel that?" he rubs himself into you "This is all your fault."

You slide down the door and quickly lift the front of the robe. You lick the tip of his cock and let the robe fall over you. Like this he cannot see what you are doing. He braces his hands against the door.

“Oh you little minx.” He growls as you put your mouth around him fully. You hum your approval of his words which makes him buck forward. You slowly start moving your mouth up and down his length, sucking harder when you get to the tip.

Astarion is panting heavily now, bucking his hips forward to fuck into your mouth.

As he starts sputtering in his motion you know he’s close to cumming down your throat. The thought makes you moan which is what sends him over the edge.

“Gods. Yes!” He was fucking into you until his cock stopped twitching expelling his seed into you.

You look out from under the robe up at him with the biggest grin.

“You really thought you’d get to rile me up instead? I had to turn the tables on you atleast once Astarion. You were begging for it.”

“Ha! You really are a little minx. On the bed darling. It’s my turn to show my thanks for an amazing outfit that gets my love so heated.”

You grinned at how much you got to him today instead of the other way around. You’d pay dearly for it once he gets his hands on you. But Gods it will be so worth it.

[carefulfears]

i know you probably have ten asks from me already but. i need your thoughts on the way scully loves

the thing about scully’s love is that it’s her at her most contradictory. she’s a repressed catholic scientist who writes pulsating gothic enduring love letters. she’s obnoxiously territorial, overt and loud, but relishes subtlety: an opportunity to get away with expressing any extra affection, whether through her credentials (i’m a medical doctor!! you need your hair stroked to cure that scrape on your arm!! the only way to help a dislocated shoulder is for me to snuggle you in the woods!!), or hidden beneath a situational joke (“i’d kiss you if you weren’t so damn ugly”).

she always requires proof, but she tossed her robe off the day she met him, without any sign of trust. she can never get enough, always wants more, but she overwhelms easily: she can never respond or speak when he’s just present with her, she cries. she is sharply aware of who she is, what she wants, she is debilitatingly insecure. she rebels by burning her cycle of rebellion into her skin.

she chases the same 3 moments for the rest of her life: laughing in the rain, a confession in an apartment hallway, absolution via a kiss to the forehead. she has memorized everything that he has ever said. she turns his words around in her head, reveres them, repeats them back. (his dopey face in paper hearts when she cites something he had casually said 2 years earlier, verbatim. the way he lightly covers his mouth. someone listens.)

she fills her home with him when he’s gone. sleeps holding his shirt. puts his fish tank next to her couch. sings the same song she sang to him, all those years ago, to their baby. writes to him while smiling over at the stroller. (17 years later, next to her son, weeping that she’s “so sorry” he didn’t get to know his father).

she wants his presence everywhere in the world, wants him involved and affective, needs “to know [he’s] out there” if she is to survive, as she writes on her deathbed. she wants to keep him somewhere safe and never let him out. she tells him she “worries” about him in “isolation,” then walks out and shuts the door, makes sure the gate is latched when she leaves him in the morning.

she’s always “the strong one,” she cries when it’s safe. she’s an “ice queen” that flirts and giggles girlishly when she feels valued.

she’s brave. there’s nowhere she won’t follow, yes, but there’s also nowhere she won’t stay. there’s no darkness or truth or reality that she wouldn’t sit in, if that’s where he is. she’ll shake and scream and cry when there’s a gun pointed at her: but she will not leave him there, she will not run. she‘s blunt. she spends years tiptoeing around acknowledgment.

she’s 10 inches shorter than he is, but she constantly rises to envelop him. she pulls him to her shoulder. she lowers herself to cover him. she rocks him on the floor.

she stands in the doorway and does not move from in-between him and the world. she blocks him in. she’d never let anything touch him. she never gets her way.

she’s a know-it-all who minds her business, only betrays her awareness quietly and sparingly. she’s almost always wrong. she always knows what’s truly behind an agenda, the exact right thing to say.

she’s embarrassing!! she sleeps holding the phone just in case he calls. she gets ditched for mothmen. she whines for attention, she’ll do anything to spend time with him, SHE WANTS TO HAVE HIS BABIES SOOOOO BAD. she asks “what are we?” after 25 years and 2 kids just to be annoying.

her ass is not escaping that ouroboros (not ever, if that’s where he is), but she doesn’t want to. she “wouldn’t change a day.” she “would do it all over again.” she wants to “remember how it all was.” no matter how dark and drastic the progression of loss gets, she still chooses this life, just like she chose it in the beginning.

she’s rarely truly jealous, she’s outrageously protective. when she is jealous, she retreats. she needs a moment to herself.

(when she’s protective, you won’t be able to shake her for anything)

she shares him with the world only reluctantly. she’s judgmental and mean. she’s inadvertently prophetic. if the person turns out to be a cheat/a thief/a spy, is it really her fault that she was hating on them as soon as they were breathing his air??

she’s heart-achingly kind, and perceptive. she “just knew” that he would be okay, she went to his father’s funeral because he couldn’t. she paused to share hope with his mother. she breaches the astral plane from a coma to tell her sister not to call him “fox.”

for scully, to love is to bear witness. she knows the importance of recognition. she listens. she cries with him. she always suggests he get some sleep, even when it’s laughable. there’s room in any tense situation to stop, check in, acknowledge. love is trust, love is respect, love is devotion. love is consumption.

love is free will winning out over fate, the grief that comes with being starbuck, the price paid to believe in something. to adventure with your best friend. being willing to pay it over, again, again. wanting him to know that.

[chaoticbardlady99]

Darling, Never Stop Haunting Me- MDNI 18+

Spawn! Astarion x F! Ghost Reader

Chapter 9: Performance Review

Synopsis: You and Astarion read your book and a moment of peace opens up the opportunity for risks. You ask Astarion to give you a lesson early in the morning after Karlach's morning wake up call wakes more than just Astarion's brain up.

CW: Oral (Female Receiving), Oral (Male Receiving), sex, praise kinks, virginity loss, Dom (Astarion)/ Sub (Birdie/You) ish

Disclaimer- put together the picture for the banner, but I do not own any of the pictures. I did take the picture of ‘Birdie’ and Astarion on my PS5

Likes, Comments, and Reblogs are always appreciated! Thank you for all your support and love!

Chapter 8: Chapter 10: AO3

  “He stuck his member into the man’s weeping hole-“

“Astarion,” you laugh, “stop, this is terrible- I don’t think it’s going to matter how many different voices you make or gestures- let alone languages- you read it in.” 

“I disagree, my Love,” he says as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, “I think I have made it far more entertaining this way.” 

“Ah yes because talking about a man’s ’weeping hole’ sounds so much better in a pirate voice or in Orcish.” 

 “Oh? Can you do better?”

 You clear your throat before belting out in a C Minor, “HE STUCK HISSSS MEMBER INTO HIS WEEEEPPINGGG HOLEEEEE!”

  You are both in stitches- this book is truly truly terrible, but it has erased any tension that had been lingering from earlier. 

  It’s probably pretty late now- surely it would be best to start going to sleep. You can’t get yourself to though, you want to spend as many waking minutes as you can with him. 

 You had really thought he was going to spend the night with someone else, but he’s here with you instead. He wanted to be here with you- he was rushing to get back here to be with you.

  Your laughter dies down and you are both left in a comfortable silence. You lean back into Astarion’s chest once again- relishing in the feeling of the contact. 

  Maybe you just… make your move? It could be possible that he has feelings for you, couldn’t it?

  You move slowly so that you straddle his lap and Astarion almost seems to help adjust you faster when he realizes what you are doing. He is looking up at you and your heart skips a beat. 

 Wanting. Need. Love.

 Affections that are relatively foreign to you, but you can identify in his eyes because you feel the same. 

 You cup his face with your hands, your eyes search his face for any sign to stop, but his hands are tight on your hips and his mouth is hovering over yours of his own volition. You timidly close the gap.

  It feels like fireworks, but not in the way one would expect. It feels like giddiness, happiness, whimsical, and excitement. His lips tease at yours and guide you as you learn how to kiss him. 

  It’s absolutely incredible- your hands gently grasp at his curls and he moans against your mouth. Astarion’s hands move to your ass and he maneuvers you so that you are even closer to him now. 

  You don’t know how you end up on your back, your hands pinned next to your head and your legs hooked around his hips, but it all feels positively divine. 

  All you can feel, breath, and acknowledge is him. Astarion is your entire world in this moment and you never want it to stop.

 So of course Gale and Tav are screaming upstairs. 

 Astarion lifts himself from you with a huff of frustration.

 “WHY ARE YOU GUYS SCREAMING!?”

  You feel bad for feeling so annoyed, but Gods dammit- of all the times, now!?

 “Uh hm, we- we,” they shout back, “WE ARE ARGUING ABOUT WHO IS GOING TO BE A BETTER DANCER DURING OUR FIRST DANCE!”

 “TAV,” you yell from inside the room, “GALE HAS TWO LEFT FEET!”

 “I DO NOT HAVE-,” Gale scoffs and throws his hands in the air, “you lot are insufferable!”

  As soon as the shouting stops, you pull Astarion back down on the bed and straddle him- he greedily brings your crotch down to his own. You gasp at the contact.

 More. You need more.

  He seems to have the same idea. 

  You both fumble through taking each other’s clothes off- your shirt getting stuck over your head because you both forgot to unlace the front. Astarion laughs as your shoulders slump and you look at him through the fabric, the neck stuck on your forehead, entirely unamused.

“This is your fault, ya know?”

 “Oh is it?” he says teasingly, “I’m not the one who chose the shirt.” 

“Well I wasn’t the one in charge of taking it-” you are stopped by the gasp that leaves your mouth when his mouth latches onto your exposed breast. 

  Astarion is relentless in his ministrations- he teases at your sensitive nipples. They almost feel sore in the aftermath, but it just makes you want him to continue. He releases your nub with a flick of his tongue before repeating his affections on the other. You fumble with strings on your shirt- finally taking it off- and the sight underneath you causes a wave of warmth to coat your legs.

  Astarion looks up at you with wide pupils and a hungry look in his eyes. He watches your every reaction and you try to hide behind your hair- only to have him quickly pull it away from your face.

 “Oh no, no, no,” he kisses in between your breasts, “don’t become shy on me now.”

  He brings you to a standing position, sinking to his knees as he kisses along your body and down your navel, and his hands gripping your ass. You feel worshiped, adored. 

  His mouth hovers over your already overly stimulated clit. He flicks his tongue across it and you gasp with pleasure.

“Do you want me to continue, lover,” he whispers, placing a kiss on your thigh that makes your body shiver in delight.

“Take me, Astarion,” you could cringe at how needy and cliche you sound, “I’m yours.”

  Astarion smiles widely, “Oh Darling, I am sure the Gods have sent you to ruin me.”

  His mouth is immediately sucking on your sensitive nub. Your hands grip his hair- eliciting a moan that vibrates to your core. You can feel yourself dripping between your thighs as he laps at you and teases you. 

  It all feels so right- his tongue against you, his hands holding you in place. You have certainly imagined moments like this, but nothing will ever compare to this- the real deal.

“Oh fuck- Star-“

  He hums against you before dipping his tongue inside your virgin cunt and you whine with delight at the contact. Your legs begin to shake and a knot of pleasure is forming in your belly. 

  Astarion uses his strength to keep you upright as your legs begin to give and his tongue seems to find the magic spot because you are fighting to not scream in pleasure. This is a private moment and if you can hear them, they can certainly hear you. 

  He removes his tongue from inside of you and you whine in protest- looking down at him with tears pricking your eyes. You need to cum- it’s physically painful how turned on you are right now, in the best way possible, but still.

  You had been so close.

  “I need you to be a good girl, Birdie,” he says, his eyes hooded and his smile mischievous- placing an open mouthed kiss to your clit, “I need you to cum for me and,” he grabs your hand away from your mouth, “I want the entire world to know you are mine. Cover your mouth again and I will stop- I am so much more motivated when you sing for me.” 

  Fuck. 

  You don’t have a moment to respond before he’s diving back in between your thighs, spreading your legs a bit so that his nose begins to tease your clit while his tongue drinks in every last bit of you. 

  You feel the knot uncoil in your stomach and you have to put your hands on Astarion’s shoulders for support. Your legs shake and your knees feel like jelly. You can’t believe you have been missing out on this for 354 years!

  He picks up your blissed out body and places you softly on the bed. Astarion grabs your left leg and begins to kiss up your body, starting at the ankle all the way down to your inner thigh. You feel so wonderful- you don’t ever want this to stop and a part of you is worried it’s a dream. 

  That thought is quickly thrown out the window when one of his fingers enters you and begins to slowly pump in and out. 

  Your back arches and your head goes back- a cry of pleasure leaves your lips. 

“So pretty “ he kisses the inside of your calf, “so good and all mine.” 

 You whine in agreement- your body finally adjusted to one finger so he adds a second. His mouth and other hand begin to knead and play with your breasts. Astarion suckles and nips your sore nipples- he adds a third finger and you immediately see stars. 

“A-astarion fuck…” 

 He removes his fingers from inside you- making eye contact as he cleans them off.  He kisses the rest of the way up your body and his mouth hovers over yours. You feel the head of his cock tease your entrance, it’s already easily dipping in between your folds. 

“Do you still want me to continue?”

 You nod earnestly, but you definitely feel some of the nervousness you had forgotten about begin to build up. Astarion seems to notice this and raises an eyebrow at you.

“You are thinking about something- what is it, Darling?”

 “What… what if I disappoint you?” you whisper, avoiding his eyes. 

  Astarion’s eyes soften significantly more, the flames of lust simmering and you fear you ruined the moment. He tilts your face back up so that you are looking him directly in the eyes.

 “You could never disappoint me,  Birdie,” he leaves a chaste kiss on your lips, “you are perfect in every single way and I truly am having the most wonderful time I have ever had sharing an intimate moment with someone.”

 You sigh in relief- that makes you feel a lot less nervous about the whole ordeal.��

���Let me know if I need to slow down or stop,” he whispers into your ear, “I fear, that if I have my way, you may not be entirely comfortable.”

  Warmth pierces your clit and the ball of nerves feels strained with want. You nod and Astarion kisses you again at the same time he slowly begins to push inside of you. You gasp- the uncomfortable pinching feeling making the corners of your eyes prick with tears. 

  You feel so full and his shaky breaths against your lips, the stiffness of his lower half as he tries to be gentle. One of your hands reaches between you so that you can rub your clit. 

  You can feel the static energy waiting to be released within him- he has wanted this for a lot longer than you thought. A part of you was worried he had just begun to feel this way and you were moving it along too fast. 

“You feel so good,” he kisses along your cheek, a moan leaving his beautiful lips as he moves in and out slowly, “it feels like you were made for me- made to take me.” 

  His words are genuine- you can hear it in his tone and the way he peers into your eyes now. 

 No performing, just Astarion.

 “I feel like I was made for you too,” you whisper before kissing him again, he groans against your mouth.

 Astarion rocks his hips, taking his time to stretch you around his cock. The pinching feeling is beginning to go away and unleash sensations of pleasure that you never thought you would get to experience in any lifetime. 

  He whimpers into your neck, his hips stuttering as he tries to hold back, but now that you feel good you need more.

“M-more- please.” 

  Astarion chuckles while releasing a sigh of relief, “well, since you asked so nicely, my love.”

  His hips snap, all the power he holds back being put into several deep thrusts that leave your toes tingling and reduces you to nothing but a puddle of whimpering gasps and moans. Your arms are loose around his neck and he kisses you along your chin, leaving love bites as he makes his way to your collarbones.

 The sound of your skin slapping together as he hits that perfect spot every single time is damning- his mouth is covering yours for the sake of some privacy (he doesn’t want you to feel embarrassed) but occasionally frees you so that he can hear you cry out as he thrusts back into you. 

  He adjusts so that one of your legs is up, ankle on his shoulder, and the other leg around his hip. You feel yourself blush as he makes eye contact with you through every movement of his hips, biting his lip and panting- his hair a wild mess for the first time ever.

 “You are far too good for me,” you whine, “Gods, you are perfect.”

  His pace falters- his body losing it’s rhythm for a moment and his head drops into the crook of your neck.

“You are amazing,” you say through gasps, “fuck-“

Astarion moves himself slowly within you and reaches down to play with your clit- pushing your hand away. Your back arches towards him- your body pleading for more as his pace picks up and his fingers continue to pay attention to your overstimulated clit. You are panting with want and he puts you on your knees. 

  The new angle and position as well as Astarion playing with your clit brings you closer to your orgasm than you had wanted to. You want to keep going- he feels so fucking incredible.

 His. His. His. I am his and he is mine.

  A blindingly wonderful sensation courses through your body as the knot unravels in your stomach again and your orgasm ripples through your body. You cry out his name, begging him to keep going. 

“Good… girl,” he kisses your calf, his hips erratic now as he chases his own high.

  The overstimulation and the general euphoria of being with him in this way makes your head spin in circles with happiness. Your lips are slightly parted and he coaxes pathetic whimpers from you. 

“A-as-Astarion,” you say through a shaky breath, “I need you to cum inside me pl- EASE! FUCK! 

 That seemed to have unleashed something within him because he is quickly pistoning in and out of you- your moans turning into borderline screams of pleasure, taking a guttural pitch. You can feel the thick ropes of his being coat your walls, leaving a mess in it’s wake. Astarion collapses on top of you and he softens inside you. He nuzzles his face into your neck and hums with pleasure.

  You breathe heavily as you try to regain your bearings. That was like nothing you have ever experienced before. He pulls you into him- his hands tracing shapes on your hips.

 “That, my Sweet,,” he says between kisses on your shoulder, “was incredible.” 

 “Extremely,” you let out a breathy laugh of relief, “that stupid book doesn’t do the act nearly enough justice.” 

 “Maybe we should continue reading,” he whispers into your ear, “compare notes?” 

  You laugh and kiss the top of his head.

“I think we may just have to.” 

****************************************************************

 The morning sun and the sound of ruckus downstairs stirs you from your sleep- Astarion is still passed out with his face buried in your hair and his breath fanning your skin. He obviously hasn’t heard of his other companions' arrival. 

  Memories of last night come flooding back to you and you smile like an idiot- enjoying every second of your memories of the events. 

  It had been a beautiful dance- after so long of just wanting him and somehow, he wants you too.

 “KNOCK KNOCK FANGS, TUNES! GET YOUR ASSES OUT HERE! IF I’M NOT GETTING EARLY MORNING SEX YET, THEN NO ONE IS!!”

“IF ONLY THEY WOULD HAVE NORMAL SEX TO BEGIN WITH!” Tav yells after her.

 So everyone began drinking pretty early then and no one heard a thing. Awesome!

  Astarion, obviously awake now, groans in irritation and presses his face into your shoulder. 

“If we ignore her… she’ll go away.”

 “I hope so,” you return with an equally sleepy voice, “I have no intentions of leaving this bed if I don’t have to.”

  He chuckles and Astarion absentmindedly places a kiss on your shoulder. A  needy, horribly wanting sigh escapes your lips. You would feel embarrassed, but it seems that he very much enjoyed the sound because you can feel his hard cock against your ass.

“SHIT!” 

  Astarion pulls away and looks absolutely panicked- pulling a pillow over his crotch area. 

  “Fuck- Gods- I am so sorry,” he is practically hysterical, “I-“

  Your body moves for you and you press your lips against his- it’s a brief peck and he is absolutely bewildered by your actions. You feel the tears of rejection coming on the longer he doesn’t do or say anything and you hold them back like your life depends on it.

  At least it you were given the opportunity to experience your dreams once, right?

 “I- sorry- I thought after last night,” you chuckle awkwardly, tears falling from your eyes in spite of your willing to make them stop, “I will, um, give you some privacy.” 

  You don’t even have a moment to move before his lips are following yours and his thumbs are wiping away your tears- using his body to pin you to the mattress, flinging the pillow aside, and he grinds against your clit. 

 Gods, this is divine. 

“That wasn’t just a dream?” He whispers against your lips.

“No,” you whisper back, “do you regret it?”

“Not at all,” he says promptly, “do you?”

“Not at all,” you smile back- his own smile becoming even more blinding. 

 His lips refuse to leave yours for even a second after that. He is soft with his touch, but desperate and needy all at the same time. It’s not difficult for you to keep pace with him- your body seems to be programmed to his within seconds. Only one time and you are entirely his. You are ruined for everyone else- you just know it. 

 However, you want to make him feel good and just focus on him this morning. You have heard him using the bathroom once or twice to… fulfill his needs, but you never could have dreamed he would be imagining you.

  “Wait,” you put your hand between your lips and feel him frown, “I want to pleasure you.” 

 “Is that so?” He whispers, he looks surprised if you are being completely honest.

“Teach me how to take care of you,” you cup his face with your hands, leaving a chaste kiss, “show me.” 

   Astarion pushes himself off of you, pulling you upright along with him- he looks at you with curiosity.

“Are you sure, my Love?” He says wearily, “I don’t want you to feel like you have to.”

“I don’t,” you insist, “but if you don’t want me t-“

“That- my Dear- is far from the issue,” he steps forward, leaning forward to whisper in your ear, “get on your knees.” 

  You do as you are told, a jolt of arousal going straight to your core, and you hook your hands into the seam of his underwear, pulling them down and his cock springs free. All of this, just for you, because of you. 

  His tip is already weeping with precum and he looks embarrassed. Why? You think he looks beautiful this way. He always looks beautiful.

 “You’re beautiful, Star,” you kiss along his navel, “I am so excited to finally know what you taste like.”

  His eyes alight again at the praise and the implied desire in your words. 

 “Cheeky pup.”

 Astarion wraps his hand around his cock and you look up at him with anticipation- he puts the tip to your lips and salty precum begins to dribble down your chin. You lap it up needily and that seems to push the embarrassment away. With hands tangled into your hair, he opens your mouth so you can take him. 

  Take him you do- his head hitting the back of your throat, you gag at the sudden presence, slightly embarrassed. Astarion chuckles.

“Nothing to be embarrassed about, Love,” he says darkly, “you are already being so good for me.” 

  You didn’t think you would have a praise kink, but you suppose it makes sense with the nature of your vocation anyhow. You live for praise and compliments so it makes sense. 

  Your mouth follows his hand as he strokes himself, his other hand gripping your hair, and keeping eye contact with you as he slowly fucks into your mouth. You are surprised by how much you are enjoying this, but it’s only because he obviously is.

  Astarion is a moaning mess above you and around you, sweat starting to dampen his neck, and his hand guiding you to go faster. You apply pressure with your tongue and drag it along the sensitive skin- he shudders with pleasure.

“D-do that again and I… I want you to touch yourself.” 

 The last part comes out as a whisper and again, you are surprised to see him nervous and embarrassed about the things he is saying. It’s like you are both blushing virgins.

  You happily comply, circling your tongue around his head and applying pressure on his slit. Astarion’s hand tightens in your hair as he begs you to keep doing that. You play and tease your own clit- humming with pleasure around his length. You can feel yourself blushing more and more as he praises you and guides you through touching yourself- eventually having you finger yourself at a painstakingly slow pace. 

“Do- don’t change your pace until- fuck- until I tell you to.”

  You hum and nod your head in understanding- bobbing him in your mouth. Astarion thrusts and hits the back of your throat- you gag a bit, but readjust much quicker this time. 

  Thank the Gods you have read so much pornography it could make an entire brothel blush. Being a 354 year old virgin really left a lot of free time and Donella had a very trashy library that was never redone.

  The early morning sun is illuminating the entire room- his eyes are bright and practically sparkling, his pupils blown wide with lust, and you can see the little bit of blood coming from his bottom lip. He must have bit it- the crimson liquid mixing with the thin sheen of sweat that covers his face. 

 Your ministrations coax praise from him and even the occasional begging when you stop moving to tease him. This is far too fun, for once, you are the one in control. 

  “Fuck- I’m,” he is cut off by his own moan, his seed spilling into your mouth and down the back of your throat. You can’t help the smile that graces your lips as he watches you swallow with wide, affectionate eyes. 

  You release him with a pop, swallow, and stand up- throwing your arms around his neck.

“How did I do?”

  Astarion throws his head back in laughter and you furrow your brows- leering at him.

“What!?”

 “That was the single best oral sex I have ever received and you are asking for a performance review?” he scoffs playfully, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “you were perfect, as you are in all things.” 

  You beam- deciding to ignore his teasing. 

“Would you like to join me in the bath?” He asks, “I doubt our companions are going to leave us alone for much longer if we don’t make an appearance.”

 Instead of answering, you take his hand and drag him to the bathroom.

**********************************************************************

Author note: Likes, Comments, and Reblogs are always appreciated! Please let me know if you would like to be on the tag list! I am using the Ghostwalk campaign for NPCs, locations, etc. It is a 3e Campaign and doesn’t mirror 5e Ghosts. I have tweaked some of the ghost powers and such for the sake of the story, but if you would like more information on Ghostwalk and the City of Manifest, there is a PDF online that is free to download :)

Tag List: @n3rdybirdee @fandomarchiveilyd @dajeong @hotmesshobbit @godoffuckedupcats @bitchstarion @hereliesblackdragon @pebble-bb @preciouslittlebhaalbae @lavvyan @beepersteeper @misscrissfemmefatale

[sitp-recs]

Hey Liv,

My friend had the most chaotic day today. She left on holiday and ended up packing at the last minute. Cue bags overflowing in every room, a dog to get into the car, a kid to pick up at daycare and no time to spare.

THEN her husband’s car broke down so she had to go pick him up almost two hours away with both dog and baby in the backseat….

All this so say: she might need a pick me up.

Do you have a Drarry rec where either of them (or both) are absolute chaos/ are under a bad luck spell /…?

Love love love ❤️

Omg your poor friend! 😱 I’m sorry things have been wild for her, that sounds super stressful and overwhelming! I hope everything was okay in the end. This story actually led to a really interesting ask, I did a mix of curses, pranks and bad luck with a touch of angst at the end - hope they work for what you’re looking for!

Humor/Fluff:

Bad Luck, Red Pants, and Broken Washing Machines by @the-starryknight (T, 2k)

After his five year sentence of magical suppression, Draco Malfoy got used to working without his wand. It's just days like today when nothing seems to be going right that he regrets his life in the Muggle world.

Special Affinity by @skeptiquewrites (E, 4k)

Auror partners Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy seem to have a special affinity for getting into convoluted accidental bonds. Once is a mistake, twice is bad luck, and five times...well five times seems like carelessness, doesn’t it?

Bubbles, Baths, and Bad Luck by manixzen (E, 5k)

A poisonous potion covering Professor Potter nearly head-to-toe would normally be a pretty big deal. It should be as bad as his day gets. But that’s before he’s informed that the cure involves a steamy, hot bath with an unrequited crush.

Then Comes a Mist and a Weeping Rain by Faith Wood (E, 21k)

It always rains for Draco Malfoy. Metaphorically. And literally. Ever since he had accidentally Conjured a cloud. A cloud that's ever so cross.

At the Crossroads There We’ll Meet by firethesound (E, 24k)

Potter keeps dying; Draco keeps saving him.

Rarely Pure and Never Simple by birdsofshore (E, 28k)

Harry never thought taking a job as Draco Malfoy's bodyguard was going to be easy. Add in a curse that makes Malfoy even more of an obnoxious git than usual, and Harry's got serious problems.

The Four Ds of Apparition (or: Destination, Determination, Deliberation, and Dicks) by @eidheann, @firethesound (E, 36k)

After transferring to the Apparition Department, Harry's life becomes one big dick joke. And all his friends are arseholes. So is Malfoy, but what else is new? AKA Harry Potter and the eighteen twenty dicks.

Draco Malfoy, It's Your Lucky Day by Faith Wood (E, 38k)

Even though he's unarmed, injured, lost in the Forbidden Forest, and facing a possible murder charge, Draco Malfoy gets lucky.

Skybound by @xanthippe74 (T, 61k)

No matter how much Harry Potter wanted to believe he’d left danger behind when the war ended, it found him again anyway. All he had to do was step out his own front door on a Tuesday morning. A Drarry re-imagining of Howl’s Moving Castle.

Tea and No Sympathy by who_la_hoop (E, 70k)

It's Potter's fault, of course, that Draco finds himself trapped in the same twenty-four-hour period, repeating itself over and over again. It's been nearly a year since the unpleasant business at Hogwarts, and Draco's getting on with his life quite nicely, thank you, until Harry sodding Potter steps in and ruins it all, just like always.

Angst:

Super Rich Kids by @thusspoketrish (E, 81k)

Draco Malfoy has become disillusioned by the glitz and glamour of the scandalous lives of the Post-Second Wizarding War Pureblood Elite. Enter: one existential crisis, one group of thieving cynical friends, and several terrible, terrible decisions.

Nor All That Glisters by @sweet-s0rr0w (E, 110k)

Lonely and frustrated on house arrest, with no prospects for the future, Draco begins brewing Felix Felicis in an attempt to improve his lot. Just in the short term, of course. He isn’t a total idiot.

[darksigns-exe]

I don’t have a single sfw thought about this man and you’ll all have to suffer with me.

thank you @circle-with-me for listening to my mad ramblings 🩷

This man is obsessed with getting his fingers into you. He’s a menace with it.

You feel his fingers drifting up your thigh early in the morning when you’re still drowsy with sleep. He’s slow with it then. Intent on pulling soft sigh from your lips. Won’t stop until he feels you soaking his fingers.

Think you’ll find a moment of peace when you’re doing laundry? No chance. He’s pressing up behind you, fingers already working their way into your shorts.

His favourite thing though is having you in front of a mirror. He loves making you watch, loves watching your face twist in pleasure. He’s got one arm wrapped around your middle, keeping you somewhat upright while he buries his fingers in you over and over and over again. The sound of his fingers entering your soaked pussy only spur him on. Doesn’t shy away from telling you how ruined you look, how wet you are for him, how good you feel around his fingers.

Now he considers himself somewhat of a purist, preferring to get you off with just himself but if he’s feeling especially mean he’ll absolutely bring out the magic wand. He’s not satisfied until you’re reduced to a pleading, weeping mess, begging him to finally let you finish.

On the flip side, he knows that he’ll get the same treatment from you. That you take whatever you need from him with the same kind of loving cruelty. And he doesn’t know what he delights in more. Watching you beg for him or the sight of you on top of him, hand wrought into his hair to keep his lips on your pussy.

To make a long story short: the man likes it a little rough and nasty sometimes and I love that.

[ananxiousgenz]

SONG FOR A CAGED LOVEBIRD: PART 9 (?)

i've lost track by now ngl. we're at over 9,000 words so i get a pass. this part is. ouchie central. so i am expecting a lot of people yelling at me in the comments and tags. this is fun for me.

LETS GO TPP CREW, ROUNDING THE CORNER WITH MY TPP CREW: @smidgen-of-hotboy @ceaseless-watchers-special-girl @urjover @one-joe-spoopy @waters-and-the-wilde @demonic-panini (@the-private-eye i'm tagging you too bc i can :))

The silence was what finally woke him.

Juno had been solidly asleep, dreaming about things he couldn’t quite remember but that made his stomach twist. When he finally opened his eyes, the room was abnormally quiet. No rain, barely any wind, and… he rolled over to check. Nureyev wasn’t next to him in bed. That was not entirely out of the ordinary, as his insomnia often took him on long walks through the woods as he tried to find sleep, but this morning it set his teeth on edge. Something about it felt…  wrong. Like he had walked out of the door for the last time, and would never come back. 

Juno shook the thought away. It was a ridiculous notion. He loved him too much to let that happen. If Nureyev was having trouble, or looking to leave, he would have told him. Juno trusted him.

He dressed and washed his face and walked downstairs to grab some breakfast before starting to get the bar together for opening. Hopefully, the rest of the day would pass without incident, and he could chalk this nauseous, nervous feeling up to a nightmare that he couldn’t quite remember.

It was what he saw at the bar while half-way down the stairs that really made him feel sick to his stomach.

Buddy was leaned over a half-empty bottle of whisky, rubbing the bridge of her nose, tear tracks shiny on her face. That bottle had been full when he had replaced it on the shelf last night. She never drank this early in the morning, and never that much. Always said it made her unfit to serve the public or interact with any decent human being. Jet, the man she had employed as a bar bouncer when times were better, was standing next to her, a large hand on her shoulder. He was crying too. Buddy only called him when things were drastic, like when their latest whiskey shipment had been stolen by pirates on its way to the bar.

And then there was Rita.

Rita, who wore her heart and its many thoughts on her sleeve like a badge of honor for her humanity, was nearly silent. She was snot-nosed and puffy-eyed, like she had been crying for hours, and said absolutely nothing outside of the occasional sniffle and a quiet request for Jet to grab her a glass of milk from the kitchen.

Juno thought he might hurl right there on the stairs. A silent Rita was new. Juno had known her for years, and she had never stopped talking once.

What the hell had happened?

He cautiously came down the rest of the stairs and approached the bar. Buddy looked up at his approach and tried to wipe some of the tears from her face just as Jet returned from the kitchen with the milk for Rita. “Good morning, Juno.”

“Hey, big guy,” Juno responded, nodding in Jet’s direction before looking at each one of the weeping figures in turn. “What happened? You guys look like hell. Did we get another snowstorm in the middle of the night or something?”

The three of them exchanged a look that Juno couldn’t quite decipher before Buddy answered.

“I think Rita can answer that question better than Jet or I can,” she croaked before downing another swig of whisky.

Juno turned to Rita and reached out to wipe a stray hair out of her face. “Hey, Rita, what happened? It’s okay, it can’t be that bad, right?”

At that, Rita burst into tears again. “It is, it really is that bad, Mista Steel! You don’t get it! It’s the worst thing! It’s about Mista Nureyev!”

Juno’s heart dropped through the floor the second she said his name. “Rita. Rita, look at me. Rita. DAMMIT, I need you to tell me what happened to him.”

Rita looked at him then, with such a look of despair and heartbreak on her face that Juno’s heart ached for her. And then he realized. He knew that expression. It was nearly second nature to him. He had seen it every morning on his own face in the mirror after Benten had-

And then he knew.

He breathed in, breathed out. Took a step back. The floor was spinning. He dropped to his knees. “No. No it can’t- no, no, no, no, this can’t be right, Nureyev can’t be…”

Rita nodded, tears still flowing steadily down her face as she clambered off the bar stool to hug Juno. “He came back after dark last night, and I thought he was actin’ real sketchy, so I watched him for a while, and then when the sun started comin’ up, he packed up some stuff and left, but I followed him, only he didn’t know, ‘cause I acted real sneaky-like, and he went to a train station that I’m pretty sure wasn’t there before, and he met these big, creepy guys, and they gave him paypawork to sign, ‘cause I think they were makin’ some kinda deal, and once Mista Nureyev signed it, he fell down and started coughin’, and then one of the big guys said somethin’ about not havin’ enough time to wait for him to die, and then the otha one pulled out a huuuuuge knife, and then he- then he-”

She burst into sobs again on Juno’s shoulder. His ears were ringing and he knew his face was deathly pale. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

Buddy looked at him hollowly from the bar. “Rita said he called your name. It was the last thing he did before he… before they loaded his body up onto a train and left.”

‘He called your name. It was the last thing he did before he died.’ And Juno didn’t even hear him. He hadn’t been paying attention. How long had he been calling? How long had Juno been ignoring him? Why was he only now hearing his echo instead of his voice? How pathetic was he, that he prioritized a fucking song over his husband? What was wrong with him? But of course, as soon as he realized his problem, it was already too late to solve it. 

He never got to say goodbye.

Dimly, Juno realized he was shivering and tears were flowing down his face and Rita was apologizing profusely that she didn’t do anything to try and save him. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so horrible about himself. 

Now, it was all over. He’d lost him forever, and it was all his fault.

He would never get to see Peter Nureyev again.

He sat there, curled up on the floor for a moment longer before a different wave of feeling crept over him.

No.

No.

This was not the end. He wouldn’t let it be the end.

He was going to get his husband back if it was the last thing he ever did.

He sat up, wiped the tears from his face, and grabbed Rita by the shoulders, lightly shaking her out of her self-deprecating ramble.

“Rita. Rita, look at me. I need you to tell me everything you know about the Underworld. It’s important. Really important.”

“Well,” Rita sniffled, wiping her face on the sleeves of her sky blue sweater, “I heard a while back about there bein’ a back door. A way to get in without havin’ to actually, ya know, die or somethin��.”

Jet nodded sagely. “This is true. I walked that road with a friend of mine years ago, trying to save people from unwise decisions.”

“It’s not easy though, Mista Steel. The road is reeeeeaaaaally long and difficult, and with the weatha bein’ the way is it, you could get caught in a storm and get hurt, and I don’t want you to get hurt, Mista Steel!!”

Buddy looked at Juno again, an odd kind of hollow despair marking her face, like she saw something in Juno’s set jaw and bright eyes that made her want to disappear. “I know what you’re thinking, Juno, and it won’t work. I’ve tried. Believe me.”

“I’m not going to give up on him this easily.” There was a defiant flame rising in him now, melting the shards of his broken heart back into a semblance of hope. “I can get him back. I know I can.”

Jet walked over from his perch next to Buddy and crouched on the floor next to Juno. “Rita is right, Juno. The road to Hadestown is not an easy one to take, which is why I must ask you: how far are you willing to go for your husband?”

The flame grew into a wildfire. 

“To the ends of the fucking earth.”

There was silence as Jet examined him for a moment longer, face expressionless, before letting out a small sigh and standing up again. “Very well then. Pack your things. I will take you to where the road to Hadestown begins. If you are going to make stupid choices, I will at least make sure you can begin making them safely.”

Buddy started shaking her head vehemently. “No, no, no. You can’t let him go, Jet darling, he’s just going to get himself killed too. It’s not safe.”

“And yet you took the same course of action all those years ago, Buddy. What does that say about you?”

A muscle in Buddy’s jaw twitched as she took another long swig of whiskey. Juno slowly stood up, like a prey animal caught between two predators trying to remain ignored. He desperately wanted to know what had happened between the two of them, but somehow got the impression that any requests to know would be soundly ignored. 

Buddy glared at Jet with one sharp eye, but said nothing.

Jet sighed again and put a large hand on Juno’s shoulder. “Go grab your things. We will leave in two hours.”

“Wait for me, Mista Steel! I’m comin’ too! I gotta go get my stuff and then I’ll go with ya! Lil old Rita isn’t as fast as she used to be! Wait up!”

Juno sprinted up the stairs, Rita’s voice carrying after him. And in spite of the loss he had just suffered, he was grinning.

Hang on, Nureyev. Just a little longer.

He was going to get his husband back. At any cost.

[bearsinpotatosacks]

Will the Blood Be There in the Morning? - Whumptober2023

But for days like today, he didn’t need a date to remember. He didn’t need to read a board or for someone to inform him, he knew that today was the day he died.

He could tell in the rising sickness, rippling through his stomach and leaving that thick, sharply sweet feeling of nausea in his throat. It was the screaming sensation in his bones telling him something was wrong, different in his reanimated corpse tonight. The scar across his back didn’t hurt exactly, not tingly or weeping, yet at least, but he could certainly say that he was more aware of it right now than he usually was.

----

Ahkmenrah experiences his death again.

For day 13 of @whumptober . Also on AO3, inspired by a post here on tumblr that I can't find but spoke about the exhibits experiencing their deaths. If anyone can find it for me then I'd greatly appreciate it.

Words: 4066

Ahkmenrah stood overlooking his sarcophygus with a sick feeling in his stomach. Rising bile despite the fact that his gall bladder had been removed with his liver, held by Ismeti and part of the many artifacts of his that were stored, but he couldn’t have. He often wondered if they too were restored to how they’d been when he was alive each night, or stayed dead considering they’d been removed from his body. Or they could just magically return to his body, they hadn’t been removed when he’d been alive so if he was truly how he was then, in body at least, not spirit, then surely they’d be there. He’d never ventured to the records department to find out. 

Sometimes the passage of time, and the different calenders used in the modern day, made it hard to remember exact dates from his previous life. His birthday, when his parents had died, when he was crowned Pharaoh, when he died. If it wasn’t for the historians finding old records and translating them into the modern day, he wouldn’t be able to trust himself to remember much at all. 

He was the only actual human exhibit in the entire museum, he wondered if that meant his memories were more or less vibrant than the likes of say, Teddy, who could recount tales all night long, but openly admitted to the fact that they didn’t feel like his. Ahkmenrah couldn’t really get his head around that idea. His memories were his after all, so the idea of remembering something, but knowing it was all fake, made him feel even more sick to his stomach.

But for days like today, he didn’t need a date to remember. He didn’t need to read a board or for someone to inform him, he knew that today was the day he died. 

He could tell in the rising sickness, rippling through his stomach and leaving that thick, sharply sweet feeling of nausea in his throat. It was the screaming sensation in his bones telling him something was wrong, different in his reanimated corpse tonight. The scar across his back didn’t hurt exactly, not tingly or weeping, yet at least, but he could certainly say that he was more aware of it right now than he usually was.

This night was one of the few nights that he’d appreciated being locked away for fifty years in his saarcophygus. Seeing people, when you were literally dying, was a little hard to muster. Especially with how gruesome his death would get, he should know, he experienced it every year. Also, people didn’t get concerned over his screams like they would do now, his screams were normal after all. And they left him alone, something he wanted tonight but didn’t exactly get. If he ever isolated himself too much, someone would always try to find him, not a desired outcome when you’re trying not to vomit on your own blood. Not good.

“Ahk, you alright?” That was Larry, he had absolutely no idea about what was happening right now. He didn’t want him to find out. It was far too much for even the other exhibits, much less a mortal man who hadn’t yet experienced death. 

He swallowed the rising bile, the main event wouldn’t start for a few hours, he could handle things for a few hours. “I will be,” He said, turning to him with a half-smile.

“Great, come on, there’s a red moon tonight.”

A blood moon, how ironic.

~~~~

The exhibits were loitering outside the front door of the museum when he and Ahkmenrah joined them. Teddy seemed the most interest, gazing through a pair of binoculars Larry had brought in after reading the news when he woke up. Some of the others were braving the cold, others were watching from windows inside, such as Sacagawea. He’d expected her to be out here but she’d claimed that she felt under the weather, something he didn’t think museum exhibits could do but every day was a school day, he guessed. 

He turned to Ahk, and saw the goosebumps on his arms. He supposed ornate robes made for the egyptian desert weren’t the most suitable for New York in December. He stepped over to him, still unsure about where they were when it came to what they were, and rubbed his arms. That small smile he gave him shot butterflies through him.

“The egyptian had a lunar calendar, right?” Larry asked. 

“In the beginning, yes, but by the time I was Pharoah, we had a solar one.”

His gaze was solely on the sky. Did he miss it, during all those years locked away in his sarcophygus? Did he blame himself or did he hate the old guards who did it to him? He wanted to ask him about it but was far too worried it was a sensitive subject to try. 

“How did that work?” He opted for instead.

“We had four seasons each 120 days, with three months of thirty days in them, and five holy days at the end.” 

He said it like it was simple, like he was asking him what grass was. Larry couldn’t help but feel jealous that he, all the exhibits in fact, understood an entirely different time than he did, remembered as their own. Was it like remembering their childhood? Distant and fuzzy? Or was it vibrant, held in place by the knowledge that you could never return there and it be the same again.

“Makes sense, more than ours does in comparison,” he said.

“You can image my confusion when I first learnt the new one,”

New one. It wasn’t new to Larry. Nor to many of the other exhibits in the museum. They weren’t four-thousand years old, though. 

“It’s strange how the moon doesn’t change, isn’t it?” Larry said. 

The red light radiated from the celestial figure but couldn’t break through the shield of artificial lighting made by the City that Never Sleeps. He wondered how it looked over the sand dunes and monuments of Ancient Egypt, or the forests when Sacagawea was forced to lead Lewis and Clarke, or after a battle when the red covering your weapon shimmered under the dark reflection. It was daunting and comforting to know that these things were ancient. He had something in common with all his friends, but it also reminded him that they were never meant to be here.

Ahkmenrah didn’t respond. When he turned to him, he saw his eyes closed and jaw tense. His usually tanned skin seemed dull, as if the sun had gone in on a sunny day. His hands clenched his robes with a grip so tight it almost drained the blood from his hands. It made Larry wonder how close to life Ahkmenrah was, if the blood was reall draining from his face or if he was just feeling the effects. Whatever it was, he couldn’t help but feel like it was his fault. 

“Sorry, what is something I said?”

He moved closer and wrapped his arms around him as he began to fail. His feel stumbled, moving through the snow covered stairs and slipping on the layer of ice underneath. His body was strangely light as he lent into his arms. 

“You alright?” He said. “Is something going around? Sac was acting the same way earlier?”

Teddy turned around at the mention of her name. A wave of seriousness came across his face. It spread to the others as they looked between him and where Ahkmenrah was faint in his arms.

“It’s not something spreading, Lawrence.” He spoke with experience, as if this was something prepared or expected, like he was supposed to know. 

He walked closer and removed his fake leather gloves. Placing the back of his hand on Ahkmenrah’s forehead, he began to explain without looking at Larry. 

“Every year we’ve come to life we have to experience our deaths again, like a price to pay for our strange sort of eternal life that’s brought about from the tablet.”

Larry went from keeping his eyes locked on Ahkmenrah to darting to Teddy. Ahk gulped and stood up, not looking any better but taking deep, shaky breaths as he tried to ground himself. 

“That’s why Sacagawea is indisposed at the moment, I did offer to accompany her but she prefers to be alone on this day,” Teddy looked at the ground.

Ahkmenrah gulped again, hands clenched at his sides. “It’s a hard day, Larry, to be reminded of everything you had and will never have again, despite being reminded of it every day.”

Larry had no idea what to expect. He’d researched most of them when he’d first started, their deaths being at the end of whatever article or book he read. He’d never given it a second thought, their deaths. To him, they were maniquins, mostly, exhibits in a museum given a weird chance at immortality. After realising how Teddy felt about being a fake Theodore Roosevelt, he learnt not to prod any of them too much as the details about their life, and how it affected their not-death. 

“So this is how you’ll be all night? Weak and waiting for-” He didn’t say death, because it wasn’t, not really, not if it was an annual thing. 

“A death that will never be real?” He finished. 

Larry nodded. 

“Yes, except this isn’t it, at least for me.”

The others turned to him. His usual ingrained confidence had disappeared. All his energy seemed to be going into keeping himself standing and coherent.

“My death had two parts, each by my brother Kahmunrah,” He said.

Those who’d been sent to the Smithsonian reacted accordingly. It was strange to think how they could be related, Larry had done subsequent research and seen the theories that he could’ve been a bastard son, born of Ahkmenrah’s father and a concubine. He hadn’t asked what Ahkenrah thought or knew of that theory, he didn’t think that conversation would go very well.

“I should’ve suspected that he was trying to kill me for a while. I wasn’t king for awfully long, not the decades like my father, and he was always at my side, advising and pretending. I should’ve known that he was actually trying to get close enough to kill me.”

He closed his eyes and bit his lips. For a moment, he shook in the wind, weak as a feather. Larry placed a hand on his back again. 

“He tried to poison my breakfast, but must have not put enough in, because while I fell ill, yes, I didn’t drop down dead immediately. So I lay down, and a little while later, he came up to ‘check on me’. He didn’t make his presence known so could catch me off guard and-”

He didn’t finish the sentence butturned and lifted the extravagant cape out of the way. None of them had looked at his back before, why would they, but they could tell now that there was a reason that Ahkmenrah wore his over-the-top clothes that was more than just ‘it was what he was buried in’. A raised, angry scar took up most of his otherwise smooth back. It wasn’t just a stab wound, which would be bad enough, Kahmunrah had lost control and not just stabbed his brother, but carved an Ankh symbol into his body. A wave of nausea came over Larry, he pushed it down.

“He plunged his blade into my back, all the air left my body, I couldn’t fight him off, he was always taller than me. I knew I was going to die then, I knew why I’d felt ill that morning. And it only got worse, he spoke of him being the rightful heir, of me being the favourite and him helping me along even more and making sure I stayed dead by carving the Ankh symbol into my back. The key of life, rather ironic I know, but used by us Egyptian on-”

“Tombs.” Larry finished. 

Ahkmenrah dropped the cape and nodded. He didn’t turn around however. His body stumbling again, faltering, probably regaining composure, he was always polite and formal. Larry approached him, hands going on his shoulders then down his his sides. As he pondered if it was appropriate to touch him back, Ahk let out a raw gasp. It crackled and croaked, pain in just a sound as he fell forward, only not faceplanting because Larry forgot all etiquette and grabbed him around the waist to stop him. 

Larry settled his arms under his arms, feeling all his body pressing into him as he lost more and more of that spark in his eyes, his tan skin not glowing but dull. 

“Come on, Ahk, let’s get you somewhere comfortable,” He had no idea where but he would find somewhere. 

“Sarcophygus.”

“But that can’t be comfortable-”

“Sarcophygus, please.” 

They met eyes, Larry nodded and shifted Ahk so he wasn’t fully weighing down one shoulder. As he adjusted his arm, his hand brushed his back again. Red coated his fingertips as he saw a glimpse of his hand. Blood. 

Ahkmenrah had noticed this too and his sickly face froze, startled. “It’s already started.”

Enough explaining. Teddy opened the door as Larry and Ahkmenrah hobbled toward the elevator. His breathing was getting heavier as he tried not to pant. Every few steps his feet would falter, slipping on the varnished floor. Larry kept gripping his side tighter and tighter, his shoulder aching as he took more of his weight on. 

The elevator jolted as it travelled upwards. Luckily his exhibit was near by, and private. Even though the museum had known for a few years now that Ahkmenrah wasn’t the crazed Pharaoh that they were led to believe, he guessed some habits died hard, bad choice of words considering the situation, and most people still didn’t linger too much in the corridor. Either that or the intimidating Anubis statues guarding the entrance that still gave everyone at least a harsh look when they walked past. 

By the time the elevator arrived at their floor, Ahkmenrah was stumbling with every step. Larry could see red splotches on his cape as they raced toward privacy. He didn’t mention this, Ahkmenrah probably didn’t need him to do this. With every step, that scar on his back was opening up, his face becoming sullen, eyes unfocused as he tried to concentrate on moving and not collapsing in the empty hallway. Did he feel the blade too or just the agony of his flesh being ripped apart?

The Anubis guards rose their weapons to separate Larry from Ahkmenrah, immortally protective of their Pharaoh. Ahkmenrah managed to wave a hand and they turned their weapons from them to the entrance, not exactly pointing them at anyone who could walk past but making it evident that here was not somewhere you were going to linger tonight. 

“Here, Larry, please.” 

How could he remain so polite even when he was literally dying?

They both collapsed gently onto the harsh stone floor. Ahk slipped from Larry’s shoulder to rest on his torso, giving up on controlling his breathing as he panted. Larry took his hand in his as clenched his eyes closed. There would be blood on his uniform, something he’d have to explain to Dr McPhee in the morning if he saw. Although, would it even be there in the morning, considering Ahkmenrah would go back to being a 4000 year old mummified corpse by then?

Larry didn’t say anything. There was too much going on already, too much in the air for him to add to. He could feel Ahkmenrah’s pain in the air as he opened his eyes again, his breathing not pants but slow and shallow. His body sunk more and more onto him, Larry became more and more aware of how solid the floor was, felt its cold leaching through his clothes and into his skin. The only thing he felt sure of was how tight Ahk held onto his hand, as if it was his only lifeline in a tumultuous ocean.

“Just focus on that, okay?” He said in a whisper.

All Ahkmenrah could do was nod. He’d deteriorated so fast, what was he expecting from that severe of a wound? Yet he didn’t have any experience when it came to wounds, or blood, or dying. Larry was seriously underqualified for this. Just another skill he’d have to learn for this job, it was strange how he both didn’t mind that, if it meant comforting someone he cared about, and wanted to run in the opposite direction. 

“Do you want me to say anything?”

Ahkmenrah nodded, again. He closed his eyes again, the skin around them crinkling as he tensed. Larry saw crimson sinking into his uniform, mixing with the grey to create a sticky burgundy. It stuck to his fingers, his palms flashing bright against his pale skin.

“Nick’s enjoying high school-” 

That was all he could think about, Nick had wanted to come tonight, but he had a lot of homework to do over the Christmas break that was more important than hanging out here on a Monday night. Larry was glad he and Erica had both put their foot down, this was too much for anyone, let alone a kid. 

He turned back to Ahk to finish his sentence when he jolted up. His next breath came out wet as blood spurted from his mouth, dribbling up and bubbling as he tried to get in any air through the pain. They met eyes, there was a pleading look in them as Larry went to wipe it away or say something, he carried on with his sentence. 

“He’s-he’s um still got some of his friends from middle school so there wasn’t too much of a jump,” He didn’t want to ignore the fact that he was holding someone currently bleeding to death, but Ahkmenrah trying not to choke on his own blood was an image permemantly seared into his brain. “He’s joined a computer club, I think it’s for games or coding them or something, I’ve never been good with computers, really.”

Ahk’s hand weakened in his. His eyes glazed over occasionally as he tried to focus on him and his words, he didn’t care if he wasn’t taking any of this in. 

“Not that I don’t like video games, I went to the arcade when I was a kid.” He said. “But the ones Nicky plays are just far too confusing for a guy who’s used to Space Invaders and Pacman.”

He realised, through the confusion and fear, that Ahkmenrah didn’t know what he was on about “I’ll have to show you sometime, there’s a place in Brooklyn that has a bunch of old arcade games, I took Nick there one day on my day off and it was satisfying when I was better than him, don’t tell him that.”

Ahk’s head slipped from his torso and rested on the stone below them. The blood was trickling from his chin, down his neck and marking his expensive outfit with fresh red. He could see the wound through his clothes now, wet to the touch and even heavier than before. 

Larry tried to turn him around, his body getting harder and harder to lift as he got weaker and weaker. The whites were rimmed red as tears fell down his face and mixed with the blood stuck to his face, watering it down and causing more to fall down his neck. If this is what he like now, how had he managed this every year he’d been locked away? Had he screamed more than usual? Would it have even been worth it?

He wiped one away as he let out a mix between a sob and a cry. More blood spurted out. His hands were cold now, as Larry gripped them both in his and secured him on his shoulder, running his thumb through his short hair. His eyes kept drifting shut, not clenched from pain as they had earlier. This was it, wasn’t it? 

He knew better than to admit that his shoulder was starting to ache from where Ahk was slumped on him. It was all of his weight now. His body relaxing as he gave into whatever happened when an already dead Pharaoh died again. 

There was blood everywhere, in places he didn’t think it could reach. Covering both hands, most of his uniform and his pants. It pooled in the grout between the stone slabs on the floor, dyed Ahk’s robes scarlet and wiped his skin like paint. 

His breathing got croakier, ripping and scratching as the blood stopped bubbling from his lips and dried on them as they cracked. He looked down at how much of his blood was oozing out of him, not flowing like before, and whined, how did he deserve such a gruesome death? 

Larry tilted his head with one hand and made sure that he couldn’t miss his gaze. If he was dying, reliving his last moments, he’d rather he not look at the evidence of his own pain. 

“La-larry-” Ahk croaked out, a whisper and a plead all at once.

“I know, just focus on me,” He wished this was over, and felt guilt ripple through when he did. “Not much longer okay, then you’ll wake up tomorrow night and this will all be a dream, okay?”

He nodded. His brown eyes flicked as he took in all his facial features. A distant haze creeping in from both sides as any parts of his body that still had some strength in them gave in. 

“And this won’t happen for another year. The eclipse will be there tomorrow and you can tell me all about whatever you can remember about Ancient Egyptian astrology like it’s common knowledge, because you’re smart and sarcastic and passionate and don’t, didn’t, deserve this pain.”

He couldn’t even nod anymore as he stopped looking in his eyes and sank onto his shoulder. Like he was turning into a liquid, he melted down his body. A few more shallow breaths came out of his mouth before the final death rattle, something he’d never actually heard before because he was lucky enough that his parents were still both alive. His eyes were bland and still. Hands flopped lifelessly across his lap as he moved him back into his sarcophygus, something a lot harder than usual as all his body seemed three times more heavy. 

This wasn’t how he should’ve been remembered. He realised that he hadn’t even had the graces of a comforting face in his last moments, probably just his brother towering over him as he waited for the crown to become his. The blood covering him, scarring and painting him not as elegant as he prided himself in being. Skin not soft and dazzling like it seemed to be all the time. He closed his eyes for him.

He couldn’t look for too long, however, it still was the dead body of the person he loved. Museum exhibit or not, that was hard for anyone to bear. Moving everything back into place, he nodded at the Anubis guards and waited for them to move back to their places before leaving to give the others the news. 

There was a trail of blood as he trudged back to the others. He didn’t think he could take that elevator again for a few days, not with everything fresh and new in his mind. Although he wished not to feel this, he also didn’t want to get used to seeing Ahkmenrah like that, considering that was going to happen every year the tablet was here. 

Other exhibits moved past and around him. Sun sparkled through the window as dawn broke. How long had he been in there? It hadn’t felt like long but had evidently been all night. 

He looked over the balcony and saw most of the others waiting by the desk. All he could so was nod as he moved on autopilot to do his end of shift tasks. Did they feel guilt knowing what Ahk had to go through every year he was locked up there, alone? 

The answer didn’t truly matter, though, the question dwarfed by another as he heard it ringing and echoing like bells in the distant. Would the blood disappear when the sun fully came up?

This is my kind of whump. Blood, death, all that good stuff. Like I said, this idea wasn't mine, I just expanded on my interpretation of it. Thanks for reading! @whumptober-archive

[unfortunately-obsessed]

What Is Wrong With Us (3/3)

( Previous )

Pairing: Batman x Reader

Word count: +7.7K | AO3 Link

It takes a while to see Batman again.

You didn't expect to see him again.

But the Narrow's are hungry.

Hungry dog, is what this is. It's angry because its starving.

Coming back home after a 24-hour shift, which had been mind-numbing boredom for the first half and absolute hell for the last, you're exhausted.

Your shift felt longer than two days, you're just imagining yourself getting home and hitting the showers, eating your bodyweight of food and sleeping winter away.

The place hadn't done you wrong, not worse than Gotham would to one of its own.

Four in the morning reads on your wristwatch. A chilly breeze against you, after a flight of stairs, you find your keys fast.

The apartment is dark. Other buildings and clouds didn't let any moonlight pass through.

It's a habit, simple routine. Closing the door behind you and fumbling in the dark a little, holding the keys in your finger, trying to find the lightswitch.

Your mind is clouded with exhaustion.

It's slow, sinking, like most of your days.

It isn't a choice you consciously make.

The same way the sun descends. It wasn't an option, a decision.

You take off your coat. You take a step forward and–

Outlined by an orange streetlight, light barely illuminates the living room.

A dark, towering figure stands mere feet from you.

In silence, only the silhouette highlighted and–

Your first bet is to scream.

Fast, there's leathery grip placed firmly against your mouth. You don't get a chance to weep, colliding against the very door you just closed.

The impact makes your wound hurt. You hunch against the intruder, groaning in furious pain.

Your keys fall to the ground.

In a fear-ridden mind, you try to fight against it.

Trying to find something to push, you recognize the cold metal you're fighting and– the grip is not iron-strong.

As you start to catch your breath, realizing he's not doing anything besides pressing you against the door, trying to focus and identify what is pressing you into the door, you hear a frustrated groan from the intruder.

It's easy to let go, too.

His hand is still on your mouth, terrified of you screaming so loud it awakes the whole building but– but you're eye-level with the symbol, a bat, his chest plate.

He's pressing you against the door, not to intimidate you. He's actually leaning his bodyweight into the door because he can't keep himself up.

Between your lashes, you find piercing anesthetized eyes staring you back.

Anesthetized?

Batman is towering over you awkwardly.

Your hands, hungry and desperate, do search for something. On his whole torso, searching in the armor. You can hear his breathing, shaky and shallow.

Cold panic instill over you when your hands, starving, come back wet with red.

"You're injuried," you say, like this is your turn of playing the game. But your tone is not proud, fair from it, you're terrified Batman is going to die on your living room.

He grunts. An absurdly frustrated confirmation.

"Okay," you say, more to yourself than to him. Your mind rushes with things to do. "Okay."

No way you can manhandle this mountain of a man anywhere.

You hold his elbow, no time to be tender as you shoulder his weight.

He almost pancakes you into the floor while at it. Your hand finds the edge of a wall to support you two, and you feel your thumb almost cracking up with the impact.

"Hey," you agonize flatly, lungs burning with fury, "don't do that again."

Air hisses through your teeth as you carry him to the couch, you two limping on a stiff walk.

Batman doesn't react. He falls to your couch and, this cheap furniture you decided to buy, makes a creaking sound. You normally would laugh.

His eyes are shut, he is making a face. You search for where you previously found a wound.

The fact he is not fighting you says enough of a consent.

Material shattered, below his ribcage. The armor wrecked open due impact.

"Didn't know you liked me," you joke mindlessly, humor quickly overpowered by the sight of blood.

He grunts again. You snarled too, leaning closer to look at the injury. A gunshot wound that already started to heal, a week-or-so-old. Stitches busted open by a contusion.

It's nasty.

"I was trying to hide," he says.

"Oh." You notice you're not using gloves. "Didn't know it was my house then?"

He grunts. A yes.

You almost smile at his discontent – it's funny seeing this pile of Kevlar so frustrated – but the heartstrings tugging on your ribcage won't let you.

Realizing you don't fear him is scariest than finding him in your house. This man is officially the GCPD most wanted.

(You and Gordon didn't talk about Batman, that day on the hospital. There's some things that go unsaid.)

"Don't make me feel forgettable," you smile at him, letting his half-closed eyes see your hands, "it's gonna make me sad."

This is the devastating truth. You make it sound like a lighthearted joke as your voice doesn't wave, but it's true.

He's staining all your couch. It's going to be a pain to clean his blood off.

"I don't know if you're very lucky or..." and the words die on your throat. The wound is bad. You want a whole ambulance, a well stocked one, so you can treat him.

Or a hospital. Too bad he wouldn't willing set a foot in one.

The blood is free-flowing from him, hot. The nearest cloth, your scarf, is pressed at it by your hands. You take his hand, too, and make him hold it. He knows what to do without you saying it.

"I'm going to get some things to help you out," you say, straighten up, forming a plan.

There's a emergency kit on your bedroom, below the bed. Not nearly stocked like it should but. This is Gotham, you need one. Anything is good enough.

A black stain is sitting on your couch, bleeding all over the cheap fabric. He's watching you like a hawk. Over your shoulder, you look back at him too.

You were mid-step when you remembered what is Batman so famous for.

And your hands are hungry. It's so simple because even him, of all people, gets to look vulnerable bleeding like this.

His cowl. You wonder what his face look like.

But not even your hands are this hungry.

You feel like scolding him for being reckless. "Don't disappear," you say instead.

You are quick to do so, going straight to your bedroom.

It's a mess, clothes everywhere. Fortunately you don't have the time to care about it. You throw yourself to the end of the bed, reaching fast for the bag.

Needles, threads, iron supplements. "Any allergies to opioids?" you question, marching to the kitchen while holding blue latex gloves.

He's still there, you can see as your kitchen is open.

Batman grunts. The only language he speaks. You wonder, very briefly and unprofessionally, where his mind is going.

You elected to bring the whole kit with you. Placing it in the balcony, you open the fridge. One bottle of mineral water and three beers. Nice.

What were you planning to do when you got home? That timeline suddenly feels distant.

Getting the bottle of water, tying your hair, washing your hands meticulously. When you return, he is exactly how you left him.

You allow yourself a second; his eyes are closed. Hands hungry when you put on gloves, burning this view into your memory, cracking your ribcage open and your heart–

"I'm going to remove those stitches," you start to search for the things you need on the bag. A suture kit you borrowed from the ER. "No painkiller for you?"

He open his eyes. Everytime he does you see a different color, now a pain exploding inside him while he keeps himself collected and numb.

You scan him, head to toes, noticing how there's no place where you could possibly stick an IV, all his arms and neck covered by armor.

His face doesn't have no laceration or bruise, and you can't find any other dent in his armor. Which is good.

"Just stop the bleeding," he groans.

This man could open your ribcage and take your heart raw, but he just wants you to stop the bleeding.

"I though so," you whisper, kneeling by him, holding a medical penlight. "My working space here is too little, y'know?"

He watches you between eyelashes, almost closing it. You force your left hand on his chest plate, making him lean back more.

His armor is grazed, a vicious red soaked your scarf, which is now heavy. The influx of blood decreased.

Batman barely left out any sound when you tried to take a better look by touching, examining if there's any debris. The stitches are holding together the better it could.

You know he felt pain. He's feeling it now.

You don't want him to.

"Will you have a stroke if I ask to you lay down?" His jaw clenches. "At least take off this part of the armor," you say as if it's better, gently knocking his chest plate with thump thump.

An impact this strong, able to crack his armor, definitely can break ribs. This time, you will show him how appropriately take care of broken ribs–

He blinks heavy at you. Haunting eyes.

You look at him, examining a way to undress him. (Another very strange statement.)

His hand is slow, moving up. You wonder what he's planning to do, getting increasingly exasperated as it starts to move on your direction, and– to the side, he unfasten something.

It's a like a military vest, you realize. You know how those work, and you're fast to help him on this crusade before he–

"Don't exhaust yourself," you order him, independently of what he represents, stopping him to get the whole four pounds of armor off the way and tossing it to the couch.

You wonder desperately how many layers he has on when you are caught with another fabric under his suit. You don't wait for consent, cutting it with shears.

Batman stares at you and you're back at school, the same pressure a instructor on your shoulder has as you practice stitches.

This time your hands don't wave, you know exactly what to do. Wiping around with a alcohol wipe, using tweezers to get the busted stitches out, a little blood still oozing.

The pain shouldn't be extreme at this step. It should be tolerable. He isn't flinching so you take it as something good.

But his eyes, always his eyes. You don't want him to feel pain. "You can look away, I'm not going to hurt you."

You're already hurting him.

His jaw clenched, you fear he's going to break a teeth or two with the pressure he's putting there.

You force yourself back to work, even under his scrutinity.

"I'm going to irrigate the wound now," you explain, cracking open the bottle of mineral water. "I don't have any saline solution so I'll use this."

His eyes flicker. "You have opioids but you don't have–"

Your chuckle cuts him. Yeah, it does sound funny. You would actually give him some of your pain meds for the cracked ribs, your cracked ribs, but– you start to irrigate the wound. Some things go unsaid.

He almost flinches at the cold water. Almost. You just want to help.

Your couch goes to the point beyond salvation.

"Y'know, I thought you were more bulletproof." You put the bottle by your side, tapping him dry with a gauze.

His shoulders don't relax at your attempts of lighten the situation. Needle holder, forceps, the needle and the thread. It's going to hurt and burn without anesthesia.

In fact, he doesn't look away. As you touch him, getting a better view of the wound, making sure there's nothing in there, he stiffens. You expect him to pry your touch away, say he's going to toughen this one up back home.

He doesn't. Eyes stained with black paint. It makes you curious when he stares you in a way it burns you. Bottomless. His eyes, like the blue goes on forever, that isn't nothing like cold impartiality.

He remains static and steady as stone. "I normally am."

You snort, steading your hand. "Gosh, Batman has sense of humor."

And you even see a tiny, tiny smirk on his face.

Humans are like sponges. Social creatures, always mimicking those around them. You have to keep your breathing steady, just in case he mimicks you.

But it's hard. "I'm going to make an interrupted suture. About six stitches."

You look back to him, for any sign you should leave him alone. He doesn't say no. You start before he might do.

Batman gives up a pained breath. Makes you chew your bottom lip, mumbling, attempting in a distraction, "Are you up to date with your tetanus vaccines?"

One stitch is finished. He grunts. You're not sure if it's a confirmation or not.

You proceed. Second stitch, flicking your pulse to do it right. You need to do it right.

He claws your scarf by his side, hardly letting out any sound. Clenched teeth, holding out a scream. Batman can't brute-force this one out, neither.

His skin in a fury of fire and the needle diving through. Head tilts back with blood-loss and pain-related fuzziness.

You're trying to make it fast, to end it quickly. All his color gone away. Your knees hurt in a position like this.

"I'm almost finishing," you promise with gritted teeth. A tremble goes through you, but not your hands, you can't afford to tremble them.

You can't kill hope. Of all things, there's something bigger than you two on your hands.

The cowl might be boiling hot on his head. He's sweating.

The Narrows are hungry. Like a starving dog, it bites and hurts those around, because it doesn't understand the concept of help, or the concept of trying to help.

Batman is a surprisingly easy patient. "You're doing so well," you say from the heart. Your finger brush around the wound as you cut the excess thread.

Hungry, your hands. Too much. He falls a little more easy on the breathing.

His skin is so hot. You're hoping he isn't feverish. Faintly, lazily, he looks back at you.

Last stitch. The Narrows are hungry and you grew up on its stomach. Your wristwatch read dangerously close to 5 AM.

Batman's eyes could freeze you dead. It's almost doing so.

You're holding your breath.

Last knot. It wasn't so bad, right?

You don't have enough strength to joke.

"I finished."

He exhales, slowly, and so do you.

You reach for the bag, a little pile of things blemished with his blood, gauze and your scarf, by it. "I'm going to put some antiseptic on, and then cover it with a sterile adhesive to prevent further contamination."

He grunts, wanting to get up and leave. "It seems excessive."

"I don't want you to die."

Neither of you say something about what just came out of your mouth. You play it as something you would say to any other patient.

One antiseptic and adhesive after, you're standing up over him. Observing. Again, burning him into your vision.

"Can I see if you have a broken rib?"

"I don't have–"

Before he gets to finish, you were already touching the ribcage side, the same side of his wound, examining quickly so he doesn't get upset at you.

Clicking your tongue in sympathy, you're actually very content there's no other damage your eyes, or hands, can catch on. But, your heart hurts, seeing some white strips across his skin, old and new scars, along one more injury to the list.

Your eyes goes back to his. "About the tetanic shot–"

He grunts, cutting you off. He doesn't shrug, you couldn't even imagine Batman shrugging.

Your heart beats so strong when he starts to push himself up that it might as well get off your chest.

"Where are you headin'?" you question, feeling your throat hurt with only the thought of him getting anywhere where you can't see, scrambling to hold his shoulder.

He stops, barely resisting, looking up to you with stubbornness. "I'm not staying."

The way he says it, so casually and almost angered, makes you both livid and anxious. "Humour me. Did you think I was doing this for nothing?"

Your heart keeps missing beats, you keep being unable to keep your hands to yourself.

You can't see if one of his eyebrows rose, certainly though, he isn't content with your adamant and as strong stubbornness.

Undecided, he stays in the same place for a second longer, trying to catch any hesitancy on your face. You're still learning how to deal with him.

"I'll shoot you myself if you open those stitches again tonight," you reprimanded, collecting your hand back to yourself before he can comment on it.

You toss the gloves somewhere, hoping he catches on your playful tone.

Your house is a mess anyway.

Batman frowns at you when you throw yourself by his side. You make sure to keep a respectable distance between you two.

"What you're doing?" There's this strange edge on his voice.

You're not surprised, not at this point, how his voice still so thunder-strong and low. Briefly, your mind wanders to the reality he has gone through worse.

"I'm getting delivery." You get your phone out your pocket, scrolling fast. "What do you want?"

His jaw taunts slightly. No answer.

"You'll heal faster if you eat," you explain. "If you don't say anything I'll get you the most cheap thing and–"

"You shouldn't do that."

"What?"

"Help me out."

Too late–

You frown. "Why?"

Even him struggles to give a good reasoning. He's a good person, believing it or not.

His one-second-long hesitancy gets you smug. Everything hurts, a indigo-soft sunlight starts to come off through your window.

And it's strange, seeing Vengeance given meaning and purpose, sitting by your side. Completely seeing him. Even more strange than the artificial light it's seeing him at the start of the day.

It had been easy to let it happen.

You wouldn't, normally. You're doing a lot a things you wouldn't. Getting delivery is not on your scope of things to do. Normally you would starve until the grocery store is open.

"Do you want me to leave you alone?" you lamented, unable to control your tone, hoping the answer is a clear, direct no.

You won't explain it to him. He must know he needs at least two hours, stay in observation. No fever, no symptoms or–

Or what? What would you even do? You can't get him on an ambulance, much less a hospital.

He does all that for a reason.

And if it makes him more comfortable being left alone–

The Narrows are a hungry dog. Batman keeps getting bitten trying to help it out. You don't want to lose hope, either.

But if he wants to leave, you would be helpless against him.

Batman is furious. Not now, but normally.

Now, he's lost and in pain.

The sensation of being near him, casually so, makes something twitch on your stomach. Like a knife breaking inside you.

He's a chance to Gotham. He's change. Endless being of utter hope and fury. You want him to live.

You almost cry for him to stay.

You don't realize you don't need to.

His shoulder loosen, holding your gaze, steadily. "No."

The smile on your face, against your will, is almost childish.

-------

Next time you see him, neither of you planned.

Which, fairly enough, summarizes pretty much all the times you saw him.

A bomb goes a long way to chaos. A bomb exploding on the Main Street–

You were send as a portion of the transport team, a lot of ambulances and sirens and chaos, stabilizing people to go. Gotham University Hospital was coordinating with General, Firefighters and Search and Rescue teams.

And Batman.

Days turned into weeks, and you were worried.

Both covered in soot, debris and ashes.

You see him far away, talking to Gordon, trying to make order of this situation.

Triage. Walking around and deciding who has the highest priority while directing some other EMS. This one's going to die. This one might survive. This one is already dead.

Most of the corpses are lying around uncovered. You don't have time to spend in unsalvageable cases, but you don't leave anyone that can be helped behind.

You both were busy.

So when you send the patient en-route, an woman who suffered from evisceration after blunt trauma, deciding to stay until some doctor shows up to coordinate the EMS, your heart–

–Always your heart, so weak and dumb.

Your heart have suffered heavier things.

You make your way to him nevertheless.

When no one's looking, no one needs either of you.

Patiently, at the right time. Your hand touches his ribs, where he was shot some weeks ago.

Through the armor, he shouldn't even be able to feel you by how light was your fingers.

Following him to rubble, seeing clear destruction. But he stops, looking at you back.

"You're okay?"

As in, is it hurting still? Do you need me?

He doesn't look surprised, looking at you like this. It didn't break you, but almost– "Yes."

"Okay." The silence crosses your mouth as mercy. You smile, playfully then, gently knocking his chestplate in a soft clack. "Don't die tonight."

His eyes bore into you, lips twitching like he's trying not to smile.

Batman watches you go back to work for a little longer than he needed.

-------

Weeks turn into almost a month.

You suppose you have no right to be sad about it. Gotham is already bitter enough for you.

Cold, in vain, terribly alone. The only thing the warm your hands is the tea. You were always like this, always in this situation, why does it feel different now?

For the last years of your career, there was too little things you could keep as habit. But the door of the rooftop opens the same way it did since you moved here.

Gotham, the Narrows, are pretty. Especially at night. There is beautifulness even in the ugly part of the city, of people, of rubble.

Your apartment building is not very high, but it still gives you a pretty view of it all. Close to the ledge, falling from there is no less terrifying. But, by now, you're used to the chilling shivers.

You take the time before your shift, to drink your tea and appreciate it. Gotham is not so bad, you need to remember yourself of this.

A thermal bottle on your hands. The wristwatch reads 2 AM on it, you have a little more than 20 minutes to get on the train. It's undoubtedly cold, as Gotham is, you're packed on coats.

Steam gets out of your mouth. Your heart pounding, a longing you had no way of fighting against.

"What are you doing in here?"

If the voice was from anyone you didn't recognize, you would jump, scared of not being alone.

But you do recognize this voice. A growling bass. Right behind your back, materializing out of thin air as he do.

Turning to his direction, you find a shadow standing by the other edge, hard to make out of his silhouette for how dark Gotham's night is.

Still, you can't help but smile.

The same way your face is burned by the cold, Batman, the Boogeyman itself, has pinky cheeks.

"Can't I?"

Batman grunts. You determine, now masterfully, he isn't truly discontent with your presence. As is the same for you.

He holds your gaze for a few minutes, not saying anything. Hunger strikes, on your teeth and hands, disaster that propels your nowhere but his eyes.

You see him analyzing you, too close for you not to see, too far away to understand what he's thinking.

His eyes fall into your tea.

"Do you want some?" You offer him the cap you've been using as cup, half-filled. "It's a herbal mix, good for immunity."

Batman steps closer, lighted by the moon. Made of hard edges, where you can easily cut yourself.

Life goes on without him. The moon, burning for the sun; the sun, burning for the moon. You're burning too, but you refuse to say for what.

Batman gets closer. You see his jaw, a little bruised, remember rather clinically how he operates from the 9 PM to 4 AM. So he's in the middle of his night when you're just starting it.

"I'm not trying to roofie you," you chuckle, watching how suspiciously he stares at the cap. You take a sip, to demonstrate. "See?"

He hums, contented.

You didn't think he would actually accept it. He does, surprising you forever.

"Are you busy?" he asks.

You raised a brow, letting some vapor out your mouth. "I'm not on duty."

It's as simple as you say; you're off duty, you're not busy, while on duty equals being busy. Is it the same for him?

Seeing him, tangible and touchable, feeling everything that hurts cold into your bones.

Batman is unreadable, but only a little less than before. You don't know why he decided to stay, this time, as he doesn't need to. He's not stuck with you but he's drinking your tea.

A expectancy builds on your chest, as if your world is going to fall to crumbles if he's doesn't like it. "Good?"

He answer by taking another sip, nodding slowly.

And your smile slips a little bigger. "Just don't burn your tongue."

He asses you for longer than he needs to, reading your smile.

Why would anyone be worried about clocking in time if Batman is studying one like this?

You would pour more tea to him, if he lets you. "Are you healing okay?"

He looks to you, destroying your ribcage bone by bone. "It's better."

You don't want to laugh, you don't find it funny. Even then, you smirk. "You are ninety percent painkillers."

(You don't want him to feel pain. This desire will be your death.)

He drinks a little more, retrieving you an empty cup. And longing – attachment or fondness – is a highway with no way out.

"You know I trust you," he says, regarding the tea, and the fact he knows you wouldn't drug him for the sake of causing harm.

But the fact he says it, Batman of all people, makes your throat so full of surprise any other word hardly gets out. You don't even try.

You meant to bury your fingers there, in every wound, to stain your finger with his soaking blood. Everytime you smile, your teeth and tongue reveal more than you need.

Nothing is more frightening, to you, than looking and wanting what you see. It's awfully true, without thought or regard.

You may have to break some ribs, restart your own heart. This is worth it.

Gravity is worth the fall.

"I do know," you answer, getting some tea for you too.

Today you starve for tomorrow.

---------

Dispatch hurried you so much you the place your driver almost crashed on the way.

By the address you knew two things: the person that called was unreasonably rich, and you were never so glad about working where the administration can't hunt you.

You didn't care about the fact half of Gotham's police was on the apartment. You cared about the fact they were on the way.

The penthouse was very much colder than outside was, makes you wonder what happened to the heating. The news were talking about it, reporters and policeman crowding.

You make sure your badge is visible and walk around purposefully, fast, trying to understand why were the EMS called so desperately.

Double height ceilings, ornate and impressive.

The chaos is so much no one seem to notice the EMS, you and your partner, arrived.

You do see some familiar faces, Gordon and Mayor Reál, for instance. Doesn't make you stop to hear their conversation. It only makes you more exasperated when you discern the Mayor's tone as despair.

An police officer, Martinez you read on the nametag, guides you, finally.

By the end of a hall, some seconds navigating into the luxurious penthouse. A bathroom, bigger than your whole apartment altogether.

"He was dead when we arrived," another officer reports.

You look at him. A child, a boy tied down to the bathroom filled with ice and water. Not older than eleven. He's purple, submerged. A victim of a failed hostage situation.

Why didn't they call EMS before?

Corruption in Gotham goes as far as–

A kid. Dead.

A message.

The golden lighting and crystal don't make the scene lighter. "For how long?"

The officer, you look at him better, gripping your kit with your partner right beside you. He's the same officer of the police car when you were arrested, middle-aged ginger. "What?"

You hate when people hesitate on duty, like they're not making life or death decisions.

"For how long him has been there?" you bark.

"About 10 minutes," Martinez answer, chiming in.

Okay.

Your legs move, feeling cold into your bones, which hurts, soaks, when you step into the bathtub, cutting the boy free with a handy pocketknife.

No one dies tonight.

"What are you doing?" The older officer practically screeches like you were refusing to save a life, a vein popping on his forehead.

You don't give him the privilege of an answer. Your partner don't question you either, a break on protocol but you're this stubborn.

"I want epinephrine and body warmers," you grunt, striving in not falling from the bathtub and getting the boy out at the same time. "What's his name?"

"Alex," Martinez has his eyes wide. "He is the Mayor's nephew."

You carry the boy to the ground, barely humming to acknowledge Martinez. The world turn muffled around you, your partner making a dozen of protocol questions in the background, nothing else matters but the kid.

You had seen worse. You had seem worse.

Worse than the corpse of a child–

And you knew what the human body could go through. You check his airways, scan him for any bleeding and–

Your partner place the body warmers, hook he up on the monitor, getting the soaked clothes off Alex while you draw 1 cc into the syringe, flicking the needle once.

A crowd around you, that you aren't even aware off. Murmuring. But it doesn't matter.

You watch the boy's face carefully, injecting the dose into his tight and beginning chest compressions.

Is actually incredible what the human body is able to do.

You grunt, eager for it, to be right. You've seen worse but it is not a guarantee everything is going to go smoothly this time.

What could this kid possibly have done that he deserves to die? You don't want him to die.

His ribs break under your hands, will make you lose sleep.

The blue tinge on the boy's cheeks leaves you uneasy, desperate.

It burns, as always, on your shoulder, on your back. Now, because your most recent injury, you feel like breathing in fire too.

But you don't stop. You want Alex to live.

You never felt more happy for someone throwing up on your clothes, letting he expel all the water in his lungs on you.

He starts to breath 10 minutes into chest compression.

Alex cries in pain.

You shush him, rubbing circles on his back as the crowd grows more noisy. Alex reaches out to you, gripping you strong as he screams.

"It's going to be okay," you say, soothingly. "The worst part is over."

Bella Reál barges in as pale as the boy previously was. You let her hug him, briefly instructing to not hug too tight, but your voice probably go unheard.

Now you're soaked.

When you get out of the bathroom, back to the hallway, you walk unnoticed.

"Say the hospital the boy needs a MRI, a CT and ECG upon arrival," you say to a EMT that arrived after your unit. "He came back after 20 minutes of not breathing."

You watch as other two EMS rush with the boy on a stretcher, a maks of oxygen on him and some morphine, Bella Reál following close behind. It's strange how what kills you might as well save you; the boy is only alive because of the cold.

Will probably not have any permanent damage, either. Crying is a good sign in situations like these.

Your lungs burn, trying to regulate your breathing, drenched in so much; body fluids, water, your own sweat.

The EMS go. You were about to follow them when a dark figure gets your attention, standing by the corner.

The smile is inevitable, a tension on your shoulder alleviating. You look around, briefly, when no one's is paying attention to either of you.

"He's going to be fine," you explain unrequitedly, knowing he wants to know.

He scrunches his eyebrows, his best answer.

"You'll take care of this?" you gesticulate to everything around.

Batman nods.

You sigh, looking at your wristwatch. "Shame," you dramatically leans back. "I'm basically off duty now."

A fury, vengeance on his eyes, burning strong. You smile, and you know what he needs to do. It's easy to feel safe when he is so determined.

You softly knocks into his chestplate, in the symbol. "Don't die tonight."

Because nothing makes me sadder than imagining myself not seeing you again.

Because this is the best I can do, instead of saying goodbye.

He looks at you. Really, really looks at you, unmaking you into pieces. There was something terrible on him that he's been putting to good use.

It still remains untamed, unnamed; the need to touch and be close.

----------

"Why did you choose this?"

Batman asks you.

He has been opening up little by little. Letting you stitch another gunshot wound.

This, you think, is being a paramedic.

A job where you are paid less than a pre-school teacher, where the line-of-duty death rate is the same as firefighters, where the suicide and substance abuse is far too high comparing with the general population.

You pass the thread through his skin, he grunts at the newest assault against his person.

"For the same reason you do all this."

To save lives?

No. You don't save as many lives you want to.

You do it because there's something wrong with you.

Fundamentally wrong.

Because you need something to fill the gap on your chest, to ease the hunger.

He stays silent.

----------

Batman keeps coming back to your house, injuried.

You don't know why.

"You don't need to do this," he urges, sitting on your couch where he can see the windows and doors, very careful about vantage points.

He, again, stained all your couch with his blood.

"Do what?" You absently scrolls through the several options of food.

It's almost morning, most places are not open yet. The space between you two is named madness, few inches now, humming in the early rays of light.

Then it clicks into your mind.

"What? You don't want me to spend money on you?"

He doesn't say anything, looking away. Is kind of a sweet how he is human enough to stumble.

"Then spend your money on me." You smile when he stares back to you scandalously, sharp shimmering blue eyes, like he could make a hole through your head. "What, aren't you a rich boy?"

You knocks lightly his chest, pointing at all his undoubtedly expensive gadgets.

(How can he scare anyone with those shining eyes?)

Didn't expect him to smile, soft blue light painting the still air. "Inviting me?"

Even him, of all those people, adrenaline junkie like you, doesn't risk finishing the phrase.

You play it cool, heart drumming and singing on your chest. "Inviting myself," you correct. "And i want a vanilla milkshake."

He isn't pretending nothing. You don't think you're pretending something, either.

But neither mention this again.

------------

"This isn't fair."

Your voice cuts the air to him. Gotham is getting warmer.

From his tea, he looks up to you, a silent what? Ready to break bones of what is making you discontent.

You sigh, early in the midnight. It should be disturbing, especially to you, especially to him, to be so known.

The rooftop and the tea. He keeps coming back even not bleeding, and it starts to feel like routine.

But nothing else in your routine make you feel like this.

"You have all the ways to contact me." You hardly see any stars from your rooftop, but they still burn fire even if you can't see. "Me, however..."

Batman sips his tea. It warms you both. He's soft, gentle, kind.

He almost smirks, proud. "Asking for my number?"

You sniff.

Looking at him, reciprocated. He's steering the story himself, making change.

It's destroying your face, your hands, your heart. Propels you anywhere but back to him.

You hold his jaw, protecting his face from the cold. He let you, breathing hot against your skin. This type of touch has become natural. The sky has never has been so wide and endless.

You're close but not close enough. "Don't get silly."

--------------

There are scars that can't be seen.

But you want to touch them all. Hands willing, starving.

You do know why he keeps coming back.

Sitting by his side, on his car. There's no sight of the blood you had once spilled there.

You wonder, incessantly, what was the drive-thru's employee's face when you asked for vanilla milkshake from inside Batman's car, going hard on the girlie voice.

Batman has the heater on for you.

Rambling about theories, again. Like you're his friend. That's what you do when he's having a slow night and you're off duty.

You're turning even more like a creature of the night. Now, all your time off is spent when it's dark.

"Who said I wasn't mad?" you blurt out, halfway through the milkshake.

He was the one touching the subject. You did left it die, before, not wanting to revive something long dead.

But you realize, late, you just admitted something you shouldn't have.

Batman lets a long pause in the air. His lips twitch in poorly-concealed agitation. As strange it is to want a cold desert while its winter, or being wrongly accused of murder, Batman is strange when he's so uneasy.

A gloved hand slides on the wheel, uncomfortable. His eyes burn, adamantly angry.

You decide to save his mind a little peace. "Oh, what do you mean Batman doesn't visit every victim on the hospital?" you gasped, dramatically. "I thought you would show up with flowers and–"

"Stop," he growls.

The only thing keeping him from actually saying something further was the urge to make you stop downplaying your own emotions. Simply, and fearful at it.

(And he hates how you fill your mouth with his name. That's not a name, that's what he's trying to be.)

Your eyebrows scrunch together. You don't smile, your lips actually curve down.

A hollow on your chest. It stains you in the mouth, jaw, chest, teeth, until you're the primary evidence of his crime.

You hate that you can't salvage something. There are scars that can't be seen.

His blood on your hands, not gentle at all, you. Dirt, possessive; slow and sinking.

You want. How awful is that?

Dancing between embrace and constraint, you want.

You two make this dance smooth.

The pain loses its edge.

-------------

"Do you have a concussion?" you bark to him, following him like you're the plage.

It's the same tone people use on a dog chewing some unknown thing.

Probably louder than you needed to, too, especially when you're in a crime scene full of policeman. And a corpse, somewhere. You didn't find it yet.

Anger blinds you, you can only see red and him.

Everybody focus on you two, most confused on why you, a paramedic that should have left the scene three minutes ago, is pursuing Batman around. More importantly, why is he running away?

"I don't have a concussion," he reply, slow and low, walking faster.

A dopey look on his face is the reason he is religiously not letting you see his eyes.

"You do have a concussion," you argue, chasing him. "Come back here."

He walks even faster.

Gordon shakes his head.

-------------

You got shot.

Nothing new. You were on duty and someone with a finger on the trigger got mad at you. Not even close to the worst you had gone through.

(A job where the line-of-duty death rate is the same as firefighters.)

You almost died from blood-loss, again, though.

This time there was no prince using a Kevlar armor to save you. You can't hope he's going to be there everytime to scoop you out and gift you a cold desert.

When you open your eyes, it's night. The hospital lights are off and the clean blue-dim light of other building are the only thing lighting your room.

Shifting uncomfortably on the hospital bed, you caught a figure standing by your side.

It's the first time you see him out of costume. Using a leather jacket and a helmet, carefully protecting his own identity but here. How did even get there using a helmet? It doesn't matter.

He's here. By your side.

You don't even need his eyes, or voice, to know it's him.

And nothing is more frightening to you than looking and wanting what you see. It's awfully true, without thought or regard, that you want.

It goes unnamed, you both refusing to say something.

His hand is bare, skin warm and you must've been anesthetized because all you can focus is the way his hand touches your face, almost afraid of breaking you.

It goes unnamed: the problem with you two. He's leaving a trial of fire everywhere he touches, careful on your neck and face and hair, trying to comfort.

So badly he wants to say his not worth any of this; how you look at him, how you smile immediately after seeing him.

So badly he doesn't want you to feel pain; he might not even know what he's doing to you now.

He wants you to say his name.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, trying hard to hide how he's alarmed about your paleness. It's funny how now you're able to read him by body language alone.

Your throat feels dry. You want to see his eyes, desperately. "I could use a cup of water."

His hands leaves you. He has a mission, purpose for the night, shoulders tensing up.

You don't say you want his hands back.

"Hey," you call as he walks to the door. Batman looks back at you, like a kid's cartoon with that helmet on. "Don't disappear."

You got the Dark Knight wrapped around your little finger.

It has been easy to let happen.

He keeps coming back to you.

---------------

Batman brings his own cookies next time, on the rooftop.

"Did you make this?" you wonder, dumbfounded with the taste. Soft and sweet, sugar butter cookies. It goes well with the tea.

How funny is it, Batman bringing you cookies before your shift?

He doesn't answer, watching you eat a mouthful of warm cookies. Still warm. Did he rush from his kitchen to your rooftop? You don't know where he lives.

You don't know his name. Or his face.

Even then, you want to crack your ribcage open and let both your hearts merge. Keeping this warmness in your breastbone.

Those days, you've been having the disgusting need to simply talk to him. It's turning into how you measure time: time with him, time without him.

"You never told me."

Flash fire on his eyes, wondering where possibly he could have wronged you. You realized he's terrified of doing so.

He tilt his head. "What?"

One day, you'll stop playing games with him. For now, you need to feel him near.

For now, the only named feeling is yearning.

"How did you clean my name."

Batman can destroy you, and only because you would let him. What a terrible waste of life it would be, to take life in the easier path, to not know him or to fear him.

"I only exposed the truth," Batman says, very simple, "you were innocent."

His simplicity, how much his oath is simple and you want him. He has made a slave out of you.

You've been hoarding his name on your mouth; you know it before he told you; you know it before knowing it.

Batman holds another cookie for you. You don't know how much time you stare at it.

There's too much happening. No cookie in this world will ease this hunger. Too many thoughts, feelings, sensations.

You just need him to stay a little longer, making life so achingly wonderful you want to stay too. He's worth knowing, worth finding.

You take cookie from his gloved hand. A sickening feeling of warmness. The hunger strikes your laughter, filling the air.

You lean back on the edge and he holds your hip, fearing for your life more than you do. Your voice, giggling, echoes briefly.

Keeping his hand on your hip. It's easy– wanting him is as natural as breathing.

Wanting for something that fundamentally can't love you back–

Just the mention makes you lightheaded, dizzy. But isn't it true? Love. It sounds childish for you two.

You want something that doesn't end in heartache. You want him to want you back.

He looks at you, grounding you by the hip. His touch is so tender against your jacket. The sky has never looked so bright during the night.

You gaze back to him, reciprocated. You can't look away.

You can't look at him without burning either.

"Thank you," you say.

"For what?"

"Saving me, of course," you gently knocks on his chestplate. "And for not dying."

And you know he burns for you too.