#secret springs resort

[pimosworld]

Secret Springs Resort

Pairing-Joel Miller x f!plus size reader

CW-18+, MDNI, Angst,hurt/comfort, mentions of body insecurity, mentions of food insecurity, mentions of smut, Joel being so supportive, reader hiding her feelings at first but we always end with fluffiness. Dream vacation Joel vibes.

WC-1.2k

A/N- I decided to go with a different direction for this weeks theme at the Resort for the Secret springs challenge by our mayor @secretelephanttattoo. I love this idea, it was so fun to write despite the angst, it’s just in my nature to make you feel a little.

[Series Masterlist][Joel Miller Masterlist]

Not beta read

Indulgence

If you thought he didn’t notice the first night then you had seriously underestimated the man that was Joel Miller. 

  The man that had turned your world upside down the moment he stepped foot into your kitchen that he would soon remodel. The kitchen that you got to enjoy for just shy of a year after it was completed before selling your home and moving in with him. The newly remodeled kitchen being the major selling point. The smug look on his face when you got well over the asking price. The look that you so often indulged in wiping off his face when you had him writhing beneath you. This burly, breadth of a man that made you believe in love again. 

  He most certainly noticed on the first night of your vacation. The one you had both worked so hard for. 

  Secret Springs Resort

  An all inclusive beach resort vacation that he had meticulously planned down to the minute. Even the daily naps were planned because he knew how you could get bratty when you were tired. 

  It pained him the way you picked at your food and shuffled it around the plate as if he wouldn’t notice. 

  The way you squint your eyes in fake pleasure to signal that you enjoyed the bite. 

  The look he so often noticed at home during a meal or out to dinner but he so foolishly thought you would be care free while in this oceanic oasis.  

  The second night. 

  When you blamed the sun burn and your headache as to why you couldn’t eat much more than a few bites. The way your eyes watered when he moaned eating his steak and you stared longingly at the buttery garlic noodles that you wanted to dive headfirst into.  

  You said you were too full for dessert and yet Joel knew you better than that. A small sliver of hope when he let you feed him some ice cream, but his hopes quickly squashed when you had one bite and pushed it away. 

  The third day was your day to relax. No excursions planned and the weather far too hot to lay on the beach. Joel opted to lay among the sheets with you for most of the morning. His head resting between your plush thighs as you played with his thick curls. 

  The way it always started out so innocent and yet he could have you falling apart beneath him in minutes. 

  It’s the most relaxed he’s seen you this entire trip, and even if he dies for lack of oxygen he’ll never come up for air if it means seeing you like this. 

  It’s why he opts to spend the entire day taking full advantage of the luxury suite. Finding different ways to bend you over every surface of this room…the balcony, the couch, the bathroom sink. The shower steams until the mirror fogs over. Fucking and laughing until he thinks he may have pulled a muscle. The way you call him an old man in jest because he knows he could outlast you any day. 

  It’s why as he watches you sleep, your soft curves peeking out beneath the rumpled covers as the sun sets over the water he decides you’ll just complete the day inside. A quick call to room service and the woman on the other line doesn’t balk when he nearly orders everything on the menu. All your favorites so there’s no room for argument. In the safety of your private room, away from prying eyes so he can finally put a stop to whatever is holding you back. 

  It’s the smell that first wakes you first. In the quiet comfort of the sheets you get the hint of the savory aroma of fresh baked pizza and garlic bread. Your stomach growling and heart warming at the familiar smells that fill the air. You blink sleepily as your gaze falls on Joel, shirtless with his jeans hung low on his hips as he bustles around the room. Plates and silverware clinking as he sets up a small table on the balcony. 

  He turns with a gentle smile as he hears you rustling in the sheets. “Hey there, sleepyhead. I hope you’re hungry.”  

  Your eyes widen slightly at the sight of the spread. A large pizza with all your favorite toppings. One half with pineapple because Joel thought it was blasphemy. A steaming bowl of pasta with Parmesan cheese and marinara sauce. Golden slices of garlic bread arranged neatly on the side. 

  Your throat constricts with the unexpected sensation of gratitude and anxiety. 

  “You…you didn’t have to do all this.” You murmur, feeling a rush of vulnerability. 

  Joel strides over to you on the bed, draping the silky resort robe around your shoulders. “I know.” He says softly as he places a kiss on your forehead. “But I wanted to darlin’. Ya deserve to enjoy all your favorites without feeling self conscious.” 

  Tears well up in your eyes as you look up at him. Overwhelmed by his thoughtfulness, at the way he surprised you everyday. “Thank you.” You whisper, with a slight tremble. “It means a lot to me.” 

  He didn’t expect you to bend so easily, yet he’s relieved all the same. A sense of pride blooming in his chest as you sit together on the balcony sharing bites of pizza and stories about your past. Things you want for your future, some things he’s heard and some things he’ll pocket for later. 

  He can tell as the meal goes on and you relax that you want to say it. To tell him why you’re this way, but he already knows it’s him. The reason he had to break down so many walls. The man whose name is rarely mentioned in your home because anytime it is Joel wants to find a way to make him a missing person. 

  When he looks at you like you’ve hung the moon and the stars as he twirls the pasta on the plate and holds it out for you, like an olive branch to open up. 

  You start tentatively to explain your past insecurities. How your ex made you feel ashamed for enjoying food. How he always made sure you knew to eat less than him. 

  “I always felt like I had to justify why I ate.” You say quietly as you sip your water. “But you…you make me feel comfortable just being myself.” 

  Joel reached across the table to take your hand, placing a kiss to your palm. “You don’t ever have to justify anything with me baby.” He says earnestly. “I want you to be happy and feel good about yourself. You should cuz you’re fuckin perfect.” 

  You smiled gratefully as he wiped a stray tear from your cheek. You knew with Joel beside you, you could let go of old hurts and embrace moments like this. Where kindness, understanding and a simple meal could say so much more than words could express. 

Comments and reblogs are much appreciated

[msjarvis]

Bonjour!

I'm here with a secret springs postcard ask.

You find a message in a bottle and it turns into the summer romance of the century. Who is it from?

Love, El

I find that letting the sea carry your message into the unknown is a super romantic gesture. And this one calls Javi G…

I imagine you find the bottle during your last daily walk on the beach during your vacation at Secret Springs Resort. Inside a short message, perhaps a quote: “Some Things Are True Whether You Believe In Them Or Not.” signed -Moonstruckboy

You decide to take the bottle and its message with you and you almost forget about it, until you find it while you are unpacking your suitcase. Your instinct tells you to try looking up that weird message on the internet. That’s how you find out that it’s a quote from a film with Nicholas Cage called “City of Angels”. And the signature? The only thing you find is a Tumblr account completely dedicated to the actor... is it a coincidence?

You decide to send a DM telling whoever owns that account your strange story about the message in the bottle found on the beach. This is how you discover that in fact the Tumblr’s Moonstruckboy is the same as the bottle. “Javier.. but you can call me Javi..”

By some very strange coincidence, or twist of fate, he was in the same resort as you but you didn't meet... He tells you that he sent that message in the bottle one evening after drinking too much wine. In the morning, when his mind was clear again, he was overcome with guilt for having polluted the sea. He tried to look for the bottle, without success...

And that's how you start DM with Javi. Which then become daily phone text messages and then phone calls… And little by little Javi goes from being that online friend who is nice, funny, incredibly passionate about Nic Cage to also being sweet, wonderful, protective, caring and with the sexiest voice you've ever heard…

Between a message and a phone call and an anxious exchange of selfies, a year slowly passes... Javi becomes one of the most important people in your life. One day, out of nowhere, Javi suggests that you should take a vacation together. Specifically, he propose to meet you at the Secret Springs Resort where, even if you were unaware, your friendship began..

After some convincing and a lot of overthinking, you finally agree... You have a huge crush on Javi but he's also your best friend. Sometimes you have a feeling that your crush might actually be reciprocated but you're not entirely sure.

But the moment you finally met him on that beach and look at him in his soulful brown eyes you realize that that message in the bottle brought you not only your greatest summer romance, but to your person and to a wonderful future full of love…

Ok… 😶 I don’t know what came to me… 😶

Anyway.. thank you for your ask, El… 😆

ILoveYouByeeeeeeee… ✨💖✨

[nerdieforpedro]

Security Logs

Part of the Secret Springs Creative Challenge hosted by Mayor El aka @secretelephanttattoo

Should be fluffy I think, any warnings will be in the specific log as always. They’ll be in first person as Chlóe is dictating her notes, (I restarted Star Trek Discovery - I was influenced). Could go smutty or smut adjacent? Depends on the day. We’ll see. Unsure of how many drabbles, at least five, managing security is a tough job. Will have all the bad jokes and puns per usual Nerdie behavior. Seeking out a giggle is in my core (we start with the puns already).

Pairing: Frankie Morales x plus size AFAB OFC (Chlóe Thomas)

Security Log - One Failed Search (Posted 07/01/2024)

Security Log Two - A Walk with your Pilot (Posted 07/07/2024)

Security Log Three - What do you use that for? (Pending)

Frankie Morales Masterlist

Main Masterlist

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: omegeverse, bullying, near noncon, sexual assault, somewhat fluff

♡ FEM reader

Plenty of Alphas would think you’re a cute Omega, so he’s had to be careful with keeping you away from prying, preying, predatory eyes. 

It's a hard feat, you know?!

Thankfully, after all his berating comments, you’ve resorted to wearing bigger and baggier clothing, which in turn has resulted in you fading into the background despite being a rather desirable Omega for any Alpha who’d bother to look. A good thing. He’s the only one who should be allowed to see your body anyway. The bad thing, of course, is the backlash—where, because of his benevolent mockery, you don’t want anything to do with him anymore.

But what can he expect when he bullies you? 

He hadn’t wanted to. Honestly, you pushed him to it when you started wearing all those short skirts and small tops where he could see your bra straps. Of course, he had to say something! For your protection! You can’t go parading around like that! Everyone would think you’re up for grabs when you most certainly are not! 

So yes, he had to tell you to cover up—that you look like a common cheap whore when you dress up in so little, that you look desperate for it, that even a bitch in her heat would have more dignity, that you ought to mask your scent glands before someone takes the open invitation as is.

Was he a little harsh? Yes. Could he have said it differently? Yes. Does he know how? No!

And now you hate him—and want nothing to do with him. Skittering away any time you see him. Hiding yourself. A sad look on your pretty face as you hang your head and run away somewhere you can be alone.

He feels bad. But… at least you’re kept out of everyone’s reach this way—so he has the time to make you his before another Alpha catches sight of you and does better at courting you than him. Yes, this way, you’re hidden and safe and secret—kept as his buried treasure until he finds the courage to come find you again.

“Oh, come on, I said I was sorry—now just take it off already,” some guy standing over you drawls with his canines on display.

You’d sought out the empty classroom to be alone, but now you were drenched in milk and surrounded by a pack. It was still unsure whether the guy with the carton had done it on purpose or not. But the result was the same—a soaked sweater and a pushy Alpha trying to lift it off as if in an act of assistance.

The mixed crowd of Alphas and Betas all stand watch, keeping you trapped in the classroom with them while you cower beneath the bigger hands pulling on your milk-soaked sweater—easily prying it off against your will and leaving you in the wee little crop top you had on underneath.

The guy whistles shortly, leering across your exposed figure with a sloppy grin. “So this what you’ve been hiding under all these lumpy clothes, huh?”

The crowd jeers behind him, egging him on with catcalls and hollers. Making him laugh as he towers over you, throwing your sweater to the floor with a splat before coming to grab your wrists, keeping you from covering up.

“Who’d’ve known, huh?” His grip is painful where you try and fight it, nearly enough to snap your joints, as he spins you against his chest and shows you off to the thrilled onlookers—pretty cleavage and all, and that unmarked neck that has them all drool. “Such a pretty little Omega right beneath our noses all this time.”

“Please—” you whimper, shying away with your eyes closed shut and your lip tucked between your teeth.

“Aw~" your manhandler croons, nuzzling his chin into the grove of your neck, then whispering hotly at you ear, “Don’t worry, sugar—they’re just going to witness. Only I will be doing the honors.”

The tears spring loose as the panic grips your chest. “Stop—stop it—” 

Before you can think, you’re already lifting your heel and planting it down on his toes—hard—making him roar and loosen his grip for only a split-second opportunity to escape. And in the small moment, you break free—attempting to run away, only for the crowd to catch you and throw you right back—all of them chuckling at your cute effort as if it were all some game to them—making you their unwilling toy. 

“Some nerve on you, huh,” their leader mutters in a growl, angry now, gripping you even harsher before slamming you down over a desk, bent at the hips with your face against the wood. “Tch—denying an Alpha like that…” His hand finds your hair, tangling the tresses to get a meaner hold on your head, keeping you down as he slots his crotch right against your rear—voice at your ear as he bends over you in a closing trap. “I oughta teach yah some manners.”

You sniffle, writhing and shaking with broken sobs now, hearing the belt being undone, “No, please—I’m sorry, I—”

“Hey, jackass.” A voice declares from the crowd. You can’t see through the blur of your eyes, but you’re sure his silhouette hadn’t been there before. “Quite sure she told you to fuck off.”

You don’t know what happened next—it all went by too quick for you to catch—but one moment, you’re held firm against the desk, and in another, you’re behind someone—the newcomer—standing between you and the others, his broad back turned to you and both his hands clenched up into fists by his side. 

Closer now, you know who it is by his scent. And, although it shouldn't—because he broke your heart with so many nasty words—it brings on a rush of relief so profound that, for a moment, you can’t help but want to forgive him for it all.

You peek around his arm to see your manhandler on his ass on the floor, a bloody crooked nose with a warped look on his face, glaring up at your unlikely protector. “Tch—” He gets up—flustered by the looks of it—casting you a mean glare as he brushes himself off, spitting out a “Not worth it” before whipping around and leaving—with all his lackeys following in suit.

And then it’s silent. Beyond awkward as your bully-turned-saviour turns halfway around. You’re still crying. And his fists won’t unwind. He knows he ought to ask you if you’re okay, but it seems like such a dumb question. And he already knows the answer.

He scoffs—this is unbelievable. He thought making you hide yourself away would make you invisible, but you just can’t help but attract attention, can you? The worst unwanted kind at that!

Shit. He sighs, then grips the edges of his sweater and pulls it off over his head. Balling it up, before reaching it out to you. Muttering under his breath, bowed head and all, “Cover up already.”

You’re unsure whether it’s a welcomed offer or not. You know it probably shouldn’t, but somehow… it still feels comforting. And so, you accept it. Taking it in your hands, you pull it on and let it dwarf you like a big, cozy safety blanket. 

“Thanks,” you say, wrapping your arms around yourself—hugging the fabric close and, with it, his scent—which, for some unknown and odd reason, somehow makes you feel all better.

“Y’know…” he begins, looking at the floor. “Stick to wearin’ my sweaters, and my scent will keep you safe.”

And there he goes, saying what he ought to have told you from the very start.

And though it doesn’t make up for his actions, it does shine a light on them.

You suppose beggars can’t be choosers, and this dumb Alpha is what you’ve been stuck with. The part of your heart that broke back when he’d been so mean you thought you’d never be able to breathe again slowly pieces itself back together—leaving a fuzzy warmth inside that has you blush.

 “Is that so…”

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Dabi, Enji ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Gojo, Naoya, Megumi, Toji ♡ HQ – Tsukishima, Oikawa, Sakusa ♡ BLLK – Reo ♡ AOT – Eren ♡ DS – Sanemi ♡ WB – Sakura

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[froggibus]

Camping Headcanons - Batboys + Wally West

Includes: Dick Grayson x gn! reader, Jason Todd x gn! reader, Tim Drake x gn! reader, Wally West x gn! reader

Genre: fluff, mild crack

Summary: spend a weekend away from the city camping with your boyfriend

CW: batboys have peak survival skills, Wally is very Wally, lots of classic camping fun

this is part of my Summer Suntacular event, come check it out!

Dick Grayson:

prefers to camp somewhere off the grid

loves traditional camping and is not at all opposed to just…sleeping on the floor of a tent

can almost definitely set up a tent in two seconds flat—even the jumbo ones that are supposed to take two people to set up

definitely helps that he’s flexible 

if there was a medal for best at camping, he’d probably win it

it's almost annoying how on point his survival instincts are

he can spearfish and does it just to show off

can cook pretty much anything over a fire but if it were up to him he’d just eat soup, burgers & hotdogs the whole weekend

packs 12 pairs of underwear for a weekend of camping

also has insane packing skills, like he could pack 2 weeks worth of supplies in one backpack

even if its not sunny, he WILL somehow tan just from being outside

Jason Todd:

also likes camping off the grid

unlike Dick, he probably prefers sleeping in a trailer or a cabin if he can help it

It’s not that he’s against sleeping in a tent or anything 

but he’s spent so much time sleeping on the hard ground/freezing his ass off that if he can afford the extra comfort, he’ll spring for it

so much more relaxed when you’re camping—it’s almost like he’s a different person

brings about a dozen books to read for like, three days of camping

if you weren’t with him he’d probably read them all too

even if you’re staying in a place with a stove, he INSISTS on cooking stuff over the campfire

a really good campfire cook too—he’ll make you some insane salmon & the most golden toasty s'mores for dessert

dork ass loves telling you scary ghost stories with a flashlight under his chin and everything

all so that you’ll cuddle closer to him that night

lets you wear his comfy clothes and his jacket if it’s cold outside and claims he ‘doesn’t get cold’

Tim Drake:

hard to convince him to leave Gotham for the weekend (mr weight-of-the-world-on-his-shoulders)

threaten to go camping by yourself and suddenly he’ll never leave your side

only camped at fancy resorts/nice cabins before Bruce

really enjoys being off the grid and being self sustaining though

loves those “cooking in nature” tiktoks and probably wants to try them for himself

doesn’t care where he sleeps as long as it has walls—but for you, he’ll get the warmest, comfiest tent or cabin possible

is weirdly prepared for almost any situation AND knows all of your cravings before you even have them

“I really wish we had strawberry marshmallows to make smores with”

“check my green backpack”

brings lots of different card games and WILL beat you at all of them before the trip is over

bring your own secret deck of Uno and watch him have a meltdown wondering how you could possibly have so many +4s

somehow knows exactly what went down with everyone while you were away

Wally West:

he’s like a kid again (as if he ever grew up let’s be fr) 

already has muscle pains from running around so much so at the very least he’s getting the comfiest air mattress ever

but most likely he’ll want to stay in a cozy cabin way off the grid 

with him, no campsite is too far or too remote

cannot cook for shit but will grill you the best burgers and hot dogs ever 

cannot roast s’mores for shit either 

they WILL catch fire and be completely crispy 

offer him one of yours PLEASE

“nah babe, I just really like them like this” 

liar. 

loves loves LOVES campfire cuddles and uses every reason under the sun to cozy up with you

tries to tell scary stories (that he stole from Dick who stole them from Bruce) but ends up freaking both of you out

has to do at least one (1) vigorous activity every day or he’ll be bouncing off the walls all night

has a secret never ending stash of candy on him & shares them with you

packs exactly two pairs of underwear for the entire weekend & is completely unprepared 

however if you forget or need anything else it is a CRIME and he will go get it for you 

manages to stretch a three day camping trip into a week

Summer Suntacular | Masterlist | DC Masterlist

(if you enjoy content like this, interactions go a long way! comments, likes & rbs are always greatly appreciated ^-^ !!)

[yandere-romanticaa]

Recently, the surge of AI has caught everyone's attention and I've been working on this little experiment.

Down below the cut are two fics and this is how I planned it - one was made up by using AI (more specifically, Chat Gpt) while the other one was written by yours truly. Below both fics will be a poll and I would like for you, my dear readers, to guess which one was AI. Personally, I don't think it'll be a difficult challenge but seeing your reactions and comments on this should prove to be an interesting endeavor.

This was posted on April 17th. And, in 7 days, I shall reveal which fic was written by me, and which one was done by AI.

Now then, let's get on with the show.

🥀 Story One.

In the dimly lit alleyways of Yokohama, Fyodor Dostoevsky stalks his obsession, (y/n), with unwavering determination. His fixation transcends reason, driving him to extreme lengths to possess (y/n)'s affection.

Fyodor's obsession with (y/n) began innocently enough, a mere curiosity sparked by their untapped potential and innocence. But as time passed, that curiosity twisted into an all-consuming desire, festering within Fyodor's mind like a venomous serpent.

Each night, Fyodor would follow (y/n) from a distance, his heart pounding with anticipation and longing. He would watch as (y/n) laughed with their friends, oblivious to the dark presence lurking in the shadows.

But Fyodor's love was not the gentle, nurturing kind. It was possessive, suffocating, and dangerously obsessive. He couldn't bear the thought of (y/n) belonging to anyone but him, couldn't stand the idea of anyone else basking in the warmth of (y/n)'s smile.

As his obsession deepened, Fyodor's mind became consumed with dark fantasies of possessing (y/n) completely. He would spend hours meticulously planning every detail of their future together, envisioning a life where they were inseparable.

But fantasies were not enough for Fyodor. He needed to make them a reality, no matter the cost. And so, he began to weave a web of deception and manipulation, carefully orchestrating events to bring (y/n) closer to him and drive away anyone who dared to stand in their way.

But as Fyodor's plans grew more elaborate, so too did the danger. (y/n)'s friends grew suspicious of Fyodor's intentions, sensing something sinister lurking beneath his charming facade. And as they delved deeper into Fyodor's past, they uncovered secrets that threatened to unravel his carefully constructed world.

But Fyodor was not about to let anyone come between him and his beloved. He would do whatever it took to protect their love, even if it meant resorting to violence.

🥀 Story Two.

Shimmering waves of starlight engulfed the man in white as he monitored his target from a safe distance, hollow purple eyes gleaming with excitement. He could feel his long fingers twitching with anticipation in his warm pockets, a stark contrast to the chilly wind on this fine spring evening.

He needed to be patient. Because patience was indeed, a virtue.

And Fyodor was a virtuous man. Perhaps not a good one, but he would gladly take the title of virtue.

Would you bestow upon him such a title? Would you do so, if you ever found out that he had taken such a keen interest in you? The rational part in his mind said no, of course not. Unlike him, you were blessed with normalcy. There was nothing extraordinary about you - no ability, no wealth, no status.

Nothing.

You could have been squished like a bug beneath his heel and the world would just keep on going as it always would. Sure, there would be some individuals who would miss you dearly but even they would move on at some point.

Such was the nature of humanity. How cruel, he thought to himself.

Fortunately for you, Fyodor was no ordinary man. Despite his predicament, he had grown fond of you. He was not sure why but after a while, he stopped asking such trifling questions as to why he troubled himself by giving you so much attention.

It was pointless to make sense of the senseless.

Right here, right now, all he wanted was to enjoy this quiet evening by his lonesome, as he tailed behind you like a creeping shadow. He would reveal himself to you properly when the time was right, when he felt you were strong enough to take him.

Fyodor just needed to wait a little bit longer, just long enough to see how he should proceed with you in case things went south.

In the meantime, he would gladly spend every waking moment simply watching you for his own personal pleasure.

🥀 TAGS: @yanroma, @oneoftheprettynerds, @misdollface, @sxy0ung, @rosemary108233, @c4xcocoa, @gettinshiggywithit, @ophticcus, @lakxcpsta, @ranposgirlboss, @robinaxolotl, @acornwinter, @enoojnij, @ishqani, @osachiyo, @bluepeanutharmony, @kaithegremlin, @fyodorscockslut, @wcayaw, @luna-mariko-akatsuki, @lovelyyz, @queenofspades403

APRIL 24TH - Story One is AI.

[shankss-magnificent-ass]

Imagine having a spa day with Shanks

You: [trying to sneak to the spa and resort on the island without the crew noticing]

Shanks: [notices and follows in secret]

You: [makes it to the resort doors and does a happy dance because you were successful at eluding the crew ]

Shanks: so this is where you were sneaking off to.

You: eek! How long were you following me?

Shanks: since you left the Red Force. Why did you feel the need to sneak off to come here, no one would be mad at you for coming here. In fact, most of the boys would also enjoy it.

You: That's the problem, they'd want to come with.

Shanks: [cocks an eyebrow at you] and why is that a problem?

You: because they'd get too rambunctious and inevitably get me kicked out with the rest of them.

Shanks: that's not true.

You: Do you remember the resort on Flower Island? Or the Hot springs at Ash Island?? Oh, they set fire to the Butterfly Haven resort on Flutterwind Island.

Shanks: .... okay they do usually get us kicked out of places, and that fire was an accident

You: That's beside the point.

Shanks: well, what is your point?

You: if they come along, I won't be able to enjoy my spa day. All I want is one day without dealing with over a dozen loud men and getting spoiled by resort workers.

Shanks: they can't go one day without causing trouble, that's true... Fine, I won't tell them, but on one condition.

You: oh lord, what?

Shanks: I get to come with you.

You: counter condition, if the crew does find us, you send them away.

Shanks: deal

An hour later

Shanks: [a few mojitos deep and has cucumbers over his eyes] This is great, we should do this more often.

You: it won't do much good if you're drunk the entire time.

Shanks: Drunk? I haven't had a drop of liquor since last night.

You: You're literally drinking right now.

Shanks: I am?

Spa worker: [nods]

Shanks: really? I couldn't tell, I couldn't taste it at all. Y'all must use the good shit.

You: he usually drinks what's basically paint thinner.

Shanks: [mumbles] Paint thinner doesn't usually have that much water in it. [Turns to the spa worker] Can I get a pitcher of this stuff?

Spa worker: [sighs, but nods]

You: and can I get another slice of cake?

Shanks: you want more cake? [gets up and twerks at you] I've got plenty of cake for you right here, love.

You: [smacks his ass with the menu] Sit down you drunk fool.

Spa worker: would you like the strawberry shortcake or chocolate dreams cake?

You: ...[looks at shanks] both?

Shanks: [nods his head]

You: both [hands her the menu]

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[msschemmenti]

one year down, forever to go

emily prentiss x reader

monday morning guest— part two

a/n: i’m actually very surprised how much y’all enjoyed the first part of this because it was in fact a crack idea i came up with randomly !! but here’s a second part and i apologize if it sucks i really had no clue where this was going <3

a/n to the a/n: also my requests are open if y’all wanna request something :)

“you’re married?!” garcia was the first to exclaim and emily sighed in exasperation. she eyed her chosen family and knew she wasn’t getting out of answering this. at all. 

“Technically i’m divorced now.” emily grimaced as she watched garcia’s face contort further in confusion.

“How can this be? How did you get married and divorced within the hour? You know I thought we were done with secrets after you faked your death but i see I was wrong and you actually don’t love me.” garcia grumbled as she threw herself on the couch in disdain. 

“Uh- Penelope, this is not the same thing. I found out at the same time you did.” Emily scoffed as she ran a hand through her hair. She lowered herself behind her desk and made to pick up a file, hoping the team would take the hint. Wishful thinking.

“Oh no, none of that. Spill.” Tara grinned as she perched on the arm of the couch expectantly. Everyone follows her lead in getting comfortable. 

“Aren’t there some case files out there you should all be working on?” Emily groaned, nodding toward their desks in the bullpen. 

“Sure, but this is far more interesting.” JJ grinned with a shrug. 

“Yeah, if I recall correctly it was only a little while ago that you were hyperbolically recounting my wives. And low and behold, you’ve got a wife of your own.” Rossi goaded. 

“How many wives are you at?” Luke asked, easily distracted but ever happy to be included. 

“Not the point, Newbie. Stop distracting. We’re here to learn about Emily’s secret wife, not Rossi’s 6 wives.” Garcia chastised, turning everyone’s attention back to Emily. 

“God, I’m not getting out of this am I?” Emily asked, and when everyone shook their heads her shoulders slumped, and she accepted her fate. 

-

backpacking through Europe may have been her best idea yet, or so she thought at least. y/n didn’t seem to agree. they were nearing the end of their spring break and as beautiful and adventure filled as the days had been— the younger woman was ready to get to a hotel.

“em, if we take one more turn you’ll be carrying me back to civilization.” y/n groaned.

“back to civilization? there’s like 60 people hiking the same trail we’re on.” emily rolled her eyes.

“okay and? i haven’t seen a mall in days. i’m going through serious withdrawals.” y/n sighed as they did in fact take another turn.

“oh stop your whining, we’re almost at the hotel. i told you, we could spend half the trip backpacking and the other half in the lavish luxury you dream of so often.” emily smiled over her shoulder, reaching for y/n’s hand to pull her down the trail.

“i just don’t understand. your mother damn near begged us to use her hotel and resort recommendations and you want to be outside. in nature’s home. couldn’t have gotten that from your mom.” y/n lamented, putting up very little fight as emily guided her further through the park.

emily listened to her complain for most of the days they’d been out but she really couldn’t think of any other person she’d want with her. meeting y/n had been rather serendipitous. she’d just started her mastered at yale and moved into this astronomically expensive apartment in georgetown. and she was hell bent on supporting herself. so she’d found a restaurant looking for waitresses and put in an application. on her way out the hostess had changed and she’d rather dumbly stopped at the station with the application in her hand.

“hi?” the woman chuckled, eyeing the brunette curiously.

emily’s cheeks reddened under the woman’s gaze and she cleared her throat. “uh, hi. they told me to give my application to the hostess but i don’t see her anymore.”

the woman leaned against the hostess stand with a chuckle and reached her hand out to accept the paper. “that was nina, she works mornings. i’m the evening girl.”

emily nodded disjointedly and handed the application over, “morning girl is nina. so that makes you?”

the hostess grinned and leaned a bit further toward emily, “that makes me y/n,” y/n looked at the top of the application searching for a name. “emily.”

emily smiled and rubbed the back of her neck, “nice to meet you.”

y/n smirked as she eyed emily, “you’ve never had a job before have you?”

emily’s cheeks reddened instantly and she grimaced, “is it that obvious?”

“yeah sweet. it’s real obvious. but you’re cute, so i’ll put in a good word for you.” y/n shrugged and headed back through the restaurant with the application. emily’s cheeks felt like they were on fire but it only worsened when y/n sent a flirty wave over her shoulder before disappearing behind the bar.

and from that day on they’d been inseparable. y/n was working her way through law school and even after emily had been rightfully fired from the restaurant, y/n had become her favorite person. somewhere during the first year of them knowing each other they finally gave into the ever present flirtation and got together.

that’s how they ended up in europe anyway. emily was graduating in a few months and this was set to be her last big hurrah of freedom before diving head first into work. she’d sold y/n on the beauty of europe and also her company.

“i don’t know if i ever told you. but anytime mother and i were in france, i spent most of my time with my grandfather up in his cabin in the french alps. there was a 10-year stretch where he didn't come down off the mountain. he had no electricity, no running water, and his food supplies came from the land. those were some of my fondest memories.”

at emily’s explanation, y/n quieted a bit and leaned in to kiss her lips sweetly. “well i guess it’s not that bad then. as long as i can get you drunk tonight?”

“i guess. not like i can say no to you.”

“not like you ever have before. if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”

and drunk they did get. so much so that they woke up with little to no memory of the night before. rings on fingers and heads pounding. they were married.

-

“So what, now you’re like Rossi? A profiler with a hot ex-wife?” Tara asked as Emily brought the story to a close. Emily glared at the woman but shrugged a little in defeat.

“well she didn’t seem too upset when she left. if anything she seemed eager for something…” spencer pointed out.

“that’s right boy genius, she thanked me. a scorned ex wife wouldn’t have done that!” garcia nodded frantically, pinning emily with a glare.

“well we are divorced. i signed the paper but while she’s in town, she’s agreed to let me make up for the twenty years of marriage i’ve missed out on.” emily replied, cheeks flushing as everyone cheered and whooped.

“when? where? what’s the plan?” garcia pestered.

“i don’t know penelope, she only just left. plus with our work load who knows when i’ll be able to actually take her out.”

garcia shook her head in determination, “mark my words, i will make sure this happens. i can smell a second wedding already.”

emily looked at the tech analyst in disbelief and jj seemed to get the hint. ���alright cupid, let’s leave emily to ponder her date ideas.” emily gave jj a grateful look as she watched her corral everyone out of her office.

second wedding was a bit extreme but she really did hope between her and garcia’s wishful thinking that she’d be out with y/n very soon.

-

“took you long enough. i thought you might’ve changed your mind.” y/n grinned as the hostess brought her over to emily.

emily stood with a sheepish smile, it had been 3 weeks since y/n had popped back into her life and as much as she wanted to get their date on the books— serial killers really stopped at nothing. “trust me, if i’d had it my way we would’ve been doing this far sooner. but alas, serial killers don’t care about my social life.”

y/n laughed softly pulling emily into a hug, “well i’m glad you could pencil me in. between solving your murders and jetting all over the US.”

“you make it sound so glamorous.” emily chuckled, pulling the seat out for y/n and taking her own seat.

“well there is a sort of luxury involved with having a jet.” y/n replied with a shrug.

emily rolled her eyes affectionately, “sure, when you’re not on your way to a gruesome crime scene.”

“well you got me there, you always did have a stronger stomach than me when it came to all that criminal stuff.” y/n smiled as she pulled the menu open.

“you know me, compartmentalizing at its finest.” emily shrugged opening her own menu as well.

“ah ah ah, i was there when you invented that excuse. it didn’t work then and it won’t work now.” y/n tsked.

“you really haven’t changed.” emily smiled with a content sigh.

“you know what i always say, if it not broke—“ y/n started.

“don’t fix it.” emily finished just as the waitress returned to take their order. with orders placed, a bottle of wine poured they both settled into a familiar volley.

“so you seem to know everything that’s happened to me in the last twenty years but i’m a little in the dark.”

“well i only know what your mother knows, which im sure isn’t much considering it’s your mother. but i’ll bite. after you graduated, i finished out law school. i think by then you’d started you undercover work though. started working and haven’t stopped since.”

emily nodded, “right right, and you got engaged while you were married to me.”

y/n scoffed with a laugh, “hey! you’re one to talk, miss i had to be resurrected. my engagement— while short lived was a big mistake. i was young and tired of being alone. but as i said before finding out i was still married was the least of my worries then.”

emily nodded sadly, knowing the pressures of loneliness very well. “loneliness will do that. also can i just explain my whole death arc, so you’ll stop holding it against me?”

“absolutely, be my guest.”

“so there was this super evil guy, i went under and he kinda fell in love with me—“

“fell in love with my wife?”

“shh! yes unfortunately he did. well obviously he went down for his crimes but he escaped prison and came after my team. and he really wanted me dead and impaled me with a chair leg.”

“a chair leg?! you can’t be serious.”

“yes a chair leg, and he got away. so it wasn’t exactly safe for me to be living and that led to me faking my death. and spending my recovery alone in paris.” emily explained.

“well where the hell is he now?”

“dead. my team was very adamant about avenging my death.” emily smiled watching the younger woman nod in approval.

“good. nobody murders my wife and gets away with it.” y/n glared before winking over at emily.

both women talked over their food, flirting like old times, and really just enjoying each other’s company. once their plates had been cleared, a waitress brought out a slice of pie with the words “happy anniversary” drizzled across the plate.

“well well well, you weren’t kidding when you said you wanted to make up for those missed anniversaries.” y/n smiled, holding a spoonful of pie out for emily to eat. she accepted the offered sweet treat with a furious blush, but couldn’t help to think just how whipped she still was for this woman.

-

emily sighed happily, pulling y/n through the streets of dc. one of y/n hands was wrapped in her own while the other held a bouquet of flowers emily had purchased no their post-dinner walk. when they made it back to the parking lot, they reluctantly walked over to y/n’s car together.

y/n grinned as she leaned against the hood of her car, emily’s hand still in her own. she watched as a smile curled on emily’s lips and at the sight of that dimple y/n pulled her as close as she could out in the parking lot. “well em, i must say this was a rather enjoyable belated anniversary celebration. i can only think of one thing to make it perfect.”

“oh really, and what would that be? you know i’ve always strived for perfection.” emily asked, eyes flickering between y/n’s eyes and lips.

“you always were an overachiever. glad to see that’s still the same.” y/n grinned, pulled emily into a kiss that lit their bodies on fire. if there was one thing emily prentiss could do, the woman could kiss. and 20 years seemed to only add to her skills. y/n held out for as long as she could but when could feel her heartbeat in her ears she reluctantly pulled away to breathe. emily looked down at her smugly and pushed a lock of hair out of her face. boy did she miss that.

“next anniversary is on me?” y/n whispered against emily’s lips.

“well i sure like the sound of that.” emily agreed easily.

one anniversary down, only about 19 more to go.

[devilfic]

❝right place, right time❞

VII. twenty-one questions.

parts: previously / next plot: everything comes to a head. pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x gn!reader. cw: surgeon!reader, secret identities, slow burn, reader's a little stupid, descriptions of surgical stitching, blood, surgical needles, knives, violence, mentions of drugs and underage substance abuse (alcohol), minor character death(s). words: 11.4k.

a/n: it has been yet another hot minute and this chapter has given me a lot of grief in terms of all the ideas I had for it and what it ended up being. as you can tell by the word count, I could Not shut up

Alfred calls you bright and early to watch Bruce spar.

The billionaire had mentioned it before, and while you didn't doubt you would meet an untimely fate were you to challenge Mr. Pennyworth one-on-one, it was a whole other thing seeing them both on the mat.

Alfred is slow but thoughtful; when Bruce attacks, he goes for several hits at once. Alfred anticipates each one. He's more defense than offense, but when he strikes Bruce in the chest even you can feel it.

Bruce is lean, quick. He ducks and rolls and uses every part of his body, not just his fists. He looks a little sloppy when he wraps his legs around Alfred's—out of practice, maybe?—but it doesn't keep him from succeeding. Alfred fights like a soldier. Bruce fights like a martial artist.

Bruce makes a noise when Alfred falls to the mat and you spring up with attention, "Everything okay?"

You hear "his leg" and "I'm fine" overlap one another.

The real reason Alfred had called you was because he wanted you to watch Bruce hurt himself. The vestiges of a sprain, he guessed, that Bruce was too stubborn to rest. When he couldn't convince Bruce to pass on sparring, he resorted to you: "an objective spectator." Alfred had sounded pleased. Bruce had looked about ready to suplex him.

You head over anyway, ignoring the protests of the injured so you could kneel and survey the damage. "Can you walk?"

Bruce doesn't meet your eyes. He forces his body to stand, but you can easily tell he's favoring a side. You reach a hand up and pinch his injured calf, hearing him hiss through his teeth. "Of course it's going to hurt when you do that." He sounds childishly annoyed. Alfred is fighting a smile from his spot next to you.

"I don't understand. You're head of the company, you can afford to take a few days off. Even chair rest is still rest."

"Ah, but there lies the conundrum," Alfred pushes himself up to his feet, "he cannot sit still."

Bruce extends his hand to you, still avoiding eye contact. You hesitate but take it anyway, and the ease with which he hoists you to your feet is a bit disorienting.

Since your agreement with Batman, you were forced to be patient. After all, there were more pressing matters in Gotham besides your own ticking time bomb. He'd promised that he'd get back to you soon about Bruce and, until then, you would have to grin and bear it.

Alfred excuses himself to get busy with lunch the minute Dory enters with the groceries, leaving the two of you alone in the middle of the living room. "As your doctor," you begin, "I can't in good conscience let you keep pushing your body past its limit."

"It barely hurts anymore."

You bend as if you're about to grab at his leg again and he takes a step back, annoyed—if not offended, "You have no record of chronic pain. No record of serious past injuries at all. Yet you strain yourself doing... what, exactly? Sparring all day? You may be young, Bruce, but your body isn't indestructible."

You get the feeling he's heard this before, bristling like a scolded cat as you stare him down, "I'm fine," he brushes past you toward the table he and Alfred moved to the far end of the room, grabbing a sweating glass of water, "Alfred's just being... Alfred. He worries too much."

"I worry," Bruce raises a brow as he takes a swig and you clear your throat, "you said you need to be reminded to care of yourself. Well, that's my job now. Not that the hospital couldn't use more of your money but it's not worth the pain you'll be in." Bruce leans against the table, one leg crossed over the other. You approach, briefly taking note of the water that dribbles down his chin. "I'm starting to think you're just a masochist."

"Yeah? How do you figure?" His lip twitches up into a smile.

You open your mouth but the thought stops you cold. You were going to say, "Because I know someone just like you," but then you're transported back to that fateful morning where you first met. Bruce and all his... familiarity. The wild speculation of your exhausted mind. All of which, at the time, overlapped perfectly. Yet now that you knew them both better, they were worlds apart to you. Except for that one thing.

What was it that set them apart, again?

Your eyes drift up to Bruce's. "I get your type at General sometimes," you divert, "real pains in the ass."

Bruce steps closer to you with his glass abandoned on the table, "And your type can't seem to leave well enough alone."

You prickle. If it weren't for the fact that he was so clearly teasing you, you'd have lingered on the almost double meaning, "The fact you think this," you raise your foot and tap the side of Bruce's injured leg; his eyes narrow, "is well enough further proves my point. You need rest."

Bruce rolls his shoulders back; his compression tee clings to every muscle as he does, drawing your attention for a brief moment. "I'll think about it."

Your jaw drops. Bruce smiles. You feel a white hot flash of irritation that's wiped away when Alfred reenters the room, dishtowel thrown over his shoulder, eyes fixed on you, "Will you be staying for lunch?"

Before you can say no, Bruce interjects for you, "Yes. Thank you, Alfred." Then he turns to you, pats your arm like a friend, and pushes you in the direction of the kitchen, "I'm gonna shower. Make yourself at home."

You stumble over yourself, regaining balance just as Bruce's head disappears over the top floor banister. How quickly he could retreat when leaving you to the lions.

But Alfred is in a good mood today. Better than usual, actually. The hair on your neck stands on end as you follow him to the kitchen, preparing for the good mood to sour now that it wasjust the two of you, but it doesn't come. You watch him hum a little tune as he fixes up some vegetables to sauté.

You even find yourself getting comfortable at the island when he breaks the silence, "I appreciate what you're doing for Bruce... regardless of its efficacy. It's nice to know someone else has common sense in this house." Alfred sets down four empty plates at the breakfast table.

You take note of his tone, an improvement from his barely concealed dislike from weeks before. You take that as a small victory for today, "It's like arguing with a brick wall. How have you managed it all these years?"

"Like a soldier." Without asking, he fills a glass to the brim with water and hands it to you.

"Right. You're a veteran." Your observation gives him pause, the food he tends to at the stove crackling away. "I can tell. I've treated a lot of veterans so I can spot them from a mile away now."

Alfred snorts, straightening his shoulders. "I served as a young lad. Eventually retired and came here, took on the job as the Waynes' butler and bodyguard. I've been with them for quite some time. Since before Bruce was even born."

"You practically raised him."

"Rather... clumsily, might I add," Alfred glances at you and you're surprised to see him bashful, genuinely, "protecting him, I could handle. Raising him... well, that was another matter entirely."

"But you did a pretty good job. I mean, he's accomplished a lot. Especially with the mayor. I imagine that's why he's working so hard: really seems like he's dedicated to restoring his father's legacy."

You can't help the little hook you throw out.

Right before the Mayor was elected, when a bomb shook the penthouse of 1939 Kane St., Edward Nashton had taken to the airwaves to out Thomas Wayne as a cold-blooded killer. Not long after, the man who'd pulled the trigger was shot dead in the street before he could be brought to justice. That would bring anyone out of hiding.

Wayne Enterprises inevitably challenged the claims, Bruce Wayne had taken to his father's defense in an impassioned press conference that even you tuned into, and Gotham General made the decision to keep his father's statue in the courtyard.

It was never ruled out, though. After all, all of the Riddler's other exposés were true. But there was no paper trail. Nothing but he said, he said, and with everyone involved dead, it was Bruce Wayne's word over a zealot who'd flooded the city.

You take a sip from your glass to let Alfred ruminate on his reply. He doesn't raise his eyes to you again, "Precisely."

"I've been keeping a close eye on him in the news. His philanthropy this past year has been really remarkable." That was a bold-faced lie. You'd been keeping an eye on him for the past few weeks. Everything else you knew about Bruce Wayne's newfound appreciation for the poor and needy came from Em. "Some of the people at the party, however..."

"Councilman Roberts, was it? He was awfully spirited from what Master Bruce relayed to me."

The very mention of his name makes your blood pressure spike, "The guest list was very diverse."

Alfred transfers the cutting board to the sink, "Master Bruce has his reasons. He's become rather fixated on the state of political affairs. First behind the scenes, and now..."

"Now center stage." You finish for him, swirling your glass. "Think he'll run for office one day?"

Alfred looks somewhere between amused and horrified.

It would be natural. Thomas Wayne had almost done it. Why not Bruce? It'd be a comeback story for the ages if someone didn't try to kill him again.

"I'd rather he keep out of it. Being in a position like that has never been his true calling."

"Yeah? And what is?"

Alfred doesn't look like he wants to say. He scrubs at the surface of the wooden board, absentmindedly brushing the same spot clean over and over. His eyes catch yours for a split second, just as quick as the smile that he flashes when the answer finally spills out of him, "Altruism."

You and Alfred don't talk much more until Bruce comes down. Dory joins you all at the table soon after and, rather awkwardly, you find yourself having a quiet lunch with the Waynes. Hooks abandoned. Fish not caught.

You wait for what feels like hours, but eventually he arrives.

His car is an absolute monster. It growls as it pulls up beside you in the withering glow of street lights, and if it weren't for said lights, it would blend into the shadows almost completely. The raindrops that dot the hood help catch the light on the deep black paint job.

You look for the door handle but it opens for you. Inside, you see Batman with one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gear shift. You swallow. This is new territory.

You throw your bag in first, then climb into the passenger seat, very aware of the pocket knife stuffed in the pocket of your scrubs. You go to close the door and it closes for you all on its own. Behind you is an intimidating engine that vibrates through your every bone and muscle, and when you look to the driver, he is staring straight ahead. A few beats pass as you try to keep your teeth from chattering, "Do the seat belts move on their own, too?"

Batman looks at you from his peripheral. Then—twisting in his seat—he reaches across you to retrieve the seat belt, dragging it across the front of your body until it clicks at your side, "'Fraid not."

Despite all the rumbling of the car engine, it's a smooth ride through the city. Even the littering of pot holes and uneven pavement doesn't ruin it. Still, it does nothing to quell your nerves.

You feel small, sinking into the passenger seat built for people wearing a lot more armor than you. You also note that there's nowhere for your legs to go underneath the seat. You bump the solid obstruction with the backs of your sneakers but can't make out what it is.

There are other weird things you notice when you start looking. Starting where your shoulders rest are six holes going down the seat, three on each side, all a foot apart from the last. You press your finger into one of the holes and feel hard metal on either side of the gap. Upon further inspection, Batman's seat has it too, "What are these for?" You ask.

Batman doesn't need to look at you to know what you're messing with, "Restraints."

You recoil, "I beg your pardon?"

"I could show you."

"I'm- sorry, what..." You bend at the waist to feel the metal plate beneath the seat and recognize that there are holes along the sides there too.

"In case I need to bring someone along who's less than willing. Metal bars are installed in the seats. Only I know how to activate them."

"Why your seat too?"

"In case someone tries to steal the car," he makes a turn into one of the boroughs and you realize you're getting close to your destination, "but I've considered putting a trunk in the back for... passengers."

"And where do you get the money for such... modest mods?"

At that, Batman does not answer you. You figured he wouldn't. There were a hundred answers he could give you that would surely, most definitely give his identity away. It doesn't stop your brain from beginning to wander.

It doesn't get very far before you're pulling up into the alley between two houses, shrouding the car in the shadow of Joey Russo's home.

It's not as nicely kept as the other houses on the street, and its age doesn't do it any favors. A lot of the off-white paint has been chipped off or discolored over the years. There's a piece-of-junk car in the driveway that looks like it works, but just barely. The lawn has outgrown the neighbors', kept at bay by patches of dead grass where you can tell someone had gone to town with weedkiller. There are old, faded garden decorations around the front porch. Some gnomes with their ceramic hats caved in, a wind chime missing most of its chimes.

You're wandering out of the alley and into the harsh, orange beam of the streetlight when you feel Batman's hand roughly drag you back into the dark. You're about to ask what the problem is when your eyes catch the side of the house.

There's a little window with its grey curtains shut, a dead flower limp on the sill. Next to the window is a backdoor cracked open.

You do not protest when Batman presses up against the side of the house and moves you behind him. There are dogs barking, cars driving by, faint sirens in the distance, but you can't hear anything from inside.

You watch as he presses his hand to the door and slowly pushes it open, peeking in from a safe distance into the dark. Most of the windows are blocked out by sheer curtains, and no light in the house is on from what you can tell.

Batman is a hulking thing, always, but every step is feather-light on the weathered floorboards as you both enter. There's no sign of Russo, even though the house feels warm. Like it'd been lived in recently. Your heart picks up as you swear you see a shadow move in the corner of your eye, but it's just the wind picking up one of the curtains.

You so desperately want to ask him what he's thinking but your voice is stuck in your throat, the thought crashing down upon you that you are here, that somewhere in this house is the man who had ensured you'd be here today (in nearly all the ways that that could apply), and that it was not so far behind you as you might've hoped.

And were you to get an answer—any answer—from Russo tonight, it would not change the fact that your name was still on Bruce Wayne's payroll.

You feel sick to your stomach all over again.

When the living room is clear, you're simultaneously relieved and terrified when Batman leaves you to scope out the adjoining dining room. The house is silent aside from your breathing.

It's a few moments alone that does it; you start to feel another wave of anxiety. It had been a few minutes, hadn't it? Maybe. A minute at least. You're not confident enough to go looking for Batman, and you fear calling out to him would just detrimentally unsettle the atmosphere. You listen for where he might be, any creaks in the floors boards, but there's nothing.

Just as you're about to step into the dining room yourself, something moves out of your peripheral again. Only this time, you realize too late that it's not the curtain.

You barely register the pain at first—the skin of your upper arm splitting in half—but then it's white-hot and you're choking on a cry before you can stop yourself. Something had rushed at you, a person. You shakily touch where they'd cut you.

Was it a knife? It had to be, with how cleanly it tore your skin. Your brain jumps to the next question: was it covered in anything? Would you get infected?

You stumble back and reach into your pocket for your own knife with a little more urgency. The person rushes at you again with something akin to a battle cry and you narrowly dodge their raised weapon, only the sound of it ripping through the curtains tells you it wasn't just another delayed reaction.

You slash at their back while they're still turned and manage to actually make a cut before jumping back. It's not enough, though. Your attacker spins and even though the light has now turned them into nothing but a silhouette, you can feel their crazed gaze on you.

It feels boiling. It feels personal.

Their breathing is ragged, panting from more than just the fight. It sounds like they're foaming at the mouth, rabid and wild, as they spit at you, "You should've died with your little bitch of a friend when you had the chance."

The anger in their voice stuns you before the words do.

They come at you again and you sidestep them once more but it's staggered, allowing the tip of their weapon to slice your cheek open. When you cry out this time, you yell for Batman.

You don't have any concept of time right now, but as you fall to the floor, you swing at your attacker's ankle, hoping to cut a vein, when you feel Batman rush past you and directly into your attacker.

They both crash into the coffee table, glass and wood shattering in a cacophony. You watch through burning eyes as the two wrestle each other, keeping your hand pressed to your arm to still the bleeding even as it slips against the skin. Batman has them pinned when your attacker starts wildly kicking, and one of his feet hits Batman hard in the leg. You don't expect it to be the leverage he needs, but it's enough to daze Batman—he looks suddenly awash with pain—and that's all the attacker needs to slip out from beneath him and head out the back door.

Your heart stutters. How hard did he have to hit him through the suit for it to cripple him so easily?

Batman tries to recover, tries to deploy the grapple gun in his gauntlet to trip him, but he slips into the alleyway just narrowly. Batman is after him in an instant.

You force yourself up from the floor to follow after him, when you realize that within all that commotion, no one else in the house made themselves known.

You stumble up the staircase, haphazardly swiping at the wall for light switches that might help clear the spots in your vision. "Russo!" You call out, and your voice is shaky. You realize you're trembling.

There are too many doors on the upper floor but there is one that is cracked open. You rush toward it first, shoving it open with your good shoulder.

And there, to confirm your worst suspicion, is proof.

You've had enough training in your field not to immediately vomit at the sight even as the smell overpowers you. He's lost weight and he looks smaller than he had been when you were just sixteen. Laying on the floor, drenched in his own blood, Detective Joey Russo isn't the crystal clear picture you'd preserved in your head these past 17 years.

You make it only a few steps before falling to your knees beside him. It's clear he'd passed from the stab wounds not long before you'd arrived and there's just so many. His chest, his stomach, his arms and legs and skull—his face had taken the worst of it. Whoever had done this had been furious.

You can barely bring yourself to stare into his eyes but when you do, you sob. You try to look anywhere else but your eyes just catch on pictures of him on the wall, happy, smiling, with a wife and a kid who leave no traces of themselves in this room.

It's just him. All alone here.

You sway a bit as you reach a hand up to shut his eyes but the blood on your fingers stops you. You realize that you've left a trail on the way up here, and as your eyes retrace back to the bedroom door, you see Batman standing there looking down at you.

He doesn't ask, just walks over to you and hoists you up to stand, forcing you to lean into him for support.

The time between him finding you and the walk downstairs passes in a muddy amount of time and you're stumbling into the hood of his car as your head swims.

You must be losing a bit of blood.

Batman presses a hand to your arm. His other hand goes to your cheek and you flinch away at the sting.

You watch him dizzily. He reaches down to the bottom of his cape and rips a strip off to tie around your bicep. "GCPD is on the way. We have to get you stitched up."

"If only there were a surgeon around." Batman doesn't find your joke funny. Neither do you, all things considered.

The doors open on their own again and he sits you in the passenger seat, leaning it back as far as it'll go before buckling you in. You think you feel his hand linger on yours before he abandons you for the driver's side. The thrum of the engine is the least of your concerns now.

You're halfway down the street when you mumble, "He said... I should've died."

"Stop talking." He doesn't say it with menace, or at least not the kind where you actually mean it. It's all bark and... worry, you think.

You hate the smell of your own blood, which is funny because it smells about the same as everyone else's and usually that's just fine for you. Or maybe you're still smelling Russo's.

You think of your attacker. About what they said. That you should've died with your "little bitch of a friend". It's too convenient to not be—one of the street lights you pass is far too bright and you have to shut your eyes to keep the thought going—be about her. And why her? Why Russo? Why now?

17 years of nothing. And now everything at once.

"Russo," your voice is weaker, "we gotta go back for him."

"Stop talking! I'm trying- shit." This is the most panic you've ever heard in Batman's voice before. The most fear. He hadn't been this worried when he was dying on your living room floor. "Please." He begs.

You're of sound mind enough to know what he's really asking. You should know, even as you sway in and out of consciousness.

You conserve what little energy you have left to focus on the side of his face. His jaw forever clenched. Eyelashes long enough to catch the city light on. And although it's not entirely clear from the angle you're laying at, you search out the blue of his eyes as his face turns to look at you. It's the last thing you see before you give in.

When you come to, you are laying in a hospital bed with a throbbing arm and an equally throbbing cheek. Your scrubs are still in tact, even with the bloodstains down the front and sides. The knees of your pants are stained too, and you are harshly reminded that this blood doesn't belong to you.

The next thing you notice is Em sitting in the chair beside your bed, head thrown back in a peaceful nap. She must've heard—or seen, you don't recall getting from the car to here—and came to keep you company. You'd reach over to tap her knee if it were your good arm's side. The next thing you notice after that is that there is someone else in the room with you two.

It takes a second, but you remember him: a kindly face even with the cloud of disturb that hangs over him. When he sees you're awake, he gets up from his position against the wall and approaches the other side of the bed, "Detective James Gordon," he introduces himself, nodding to you, "we met at the precinct before."

Your voice comes out scraggly, "I remember you."

He flashes you a quick smile, "Well, I'm happy to see you're alright. You lost a bit of blood, but your friend—" A pen materializes in his hand and he points it at Em, still dead to the world, "—said it was just a few stitches."

"Are you here to arrest me?"

He's trained well enough not to look shocked, but you see his expression shift, "Why would I arrest you?"

You swallow, looking down at your scrubs once more, "I assume you're not here to talk about our mutual friend."

James nods. "We examined Joey Russo's home. We found, among other things, your DNA on the scene. Blood in the living room and... upstairs bedroom."

You pinch your pants leg, trying to get at the skin so you could keep the churning of your stomach at bay. Anything to distract yourself from the very vivid image of Russo's lifeless eyes.

James clicks his pen and you focus back on him. He's got a small notepad in his other hand with a few words already written down. You wonder what he's written about, what he's thinking about you right now. "From what I understand, you dropped by the precinct recently asking for the whereabouts of Russo and were denied given his retirement. You mentioned that you were inquiring about an old case involving yourself, is that correct?" James continues after your nod, "You brought this up to the Batman too."

"Yes," your voice wobbles, "I asked if... he could help me."

"And?"

"He said no."

"But you were both there tonight. So, what happened? Why were you looking for Joey Russo?"

You lean up on your good arm, allowing your legs to swing from the bed so you could sit upright in front of James. One glance over your shoulder tells you Em is still asleep, "I told him it was urgent. I had reason to believe confidential information about the case had been leaked to someone. I wanted to confront him, find out if he... was the one that leaked it."

"The case being part of your sealed juvenile records, correct?" James casts a look over you, somewhere between pitying and skeptical, "given your involvement in this situation, I was given access to this record. Detective Russo worked your case 17 years ago, and was, in fact, the person to get your records sealed in the first place. Along with... three others, I believe. And you believed someone had unauthorized access to it?"

"I know- I know. I know they did."

"Can you tell me the name of this person?"

Detective Gordon seems trustworthy. Batman trusts him, you can tell that much. It's just the saying it out loud part that trips you up, "My, um... my employer. Not Rudy, but Bruce Wayne. I'm his personal doctor. I became aware he had this information and wanted to check with Russo myself before I said anything."

James doesn't bother hiding his intrigue this time. His eyebrows shoot up a bit when you say Bruce's name, "Right. And... do you have proof that he has this information? A picture or a recorded conversation, a witness even?"

Of course not. You'd been happy enough to get out of that penthouse without being caught. Your silence is answer enough. James writes something down on his notepad and nods at you, "Well, a single person—especially not a civilian employer—should be able to access something that's not public record. Even Russo couldn't, having been retired. I can't imagine Russo was the one to give him that information unless he just had a file lying around, and I doubt he did. He never revisited that case before he retired in any capacity."

"Is there any way Bruce could have accessed it?"

"There's plenty of ways if you have an in somewhere and the leverage to do so, but this is all speculation. I can look into it, though. See if anyone's accessed the file recently, sniff around. If you come across anything solid, let me know."

You doubted you would. After that night, those files had probably gone into a room with lock and key.

"There was something else that I wanted to talk about, though," James shifts closer to you, "Our mutual friend assured me that you've never been to Russo's house before tonight, and that he had been with you the entire time you were there. From what I understand, there was someone else in the house with the two of you. Do you have any idea who he might've been?"

"No, I... I didn't really get a good look at him."

"What about his voice? Could you describe it?"

"Uh, young. Sounded about my age." Your fingers grip the bedsheets tightly, "He said something. He said that... I should have died. Along with my friend."

James' eyes narrow on you, "Your friend?"

"Alex," you choke out, feeling a tear spill out of your eye, "I know he was talking about Alex."

"Hm. You think that's why he attacked you? He knows you?"

"But I don't know him."

James flips his notepad back a few pages, "There were eight people there the night Alex Villanueva was murdered, including herself and you: your three friends, none of whom have stepped foot in Gotham since 2019. The shooter, Natalie Young. Her younger brother, Dimitri Young. And a fellow member of their gang, Lucien Goulding. Natalie was killed in a shootout 17 years ago, Goulding is currently in prison, and Dimitri... he should be serving life in prison right now."

Your brows furrow, "Should?"

"He and several other inmates were reported missing from Arkham five days ago."

Your mouth goes dry. You squirm in bed with a sudden urge to take off running and never look back. Maybe you'd aim for your mom and dad's in New Jersey, or maybe the Atlantic.

You remember when Dimitri was a head shorter than you, had yet to sprout up so young. You remember what it was like looking at this kid not much younger than you, green eyes watering, curled up on the concrete as Alex kicked and punched and bled him until he could barely limp home.

And how he looked when Natalie came for you. Still a kid.

"Bat said he was about 5'11, 210 pounds, green eyes, shaved head and tattoos. A bit different from what he was when you last saw him. It makes sense you don't remember."

"He wanted to kill me." You whisper.

James—he's an angel, really—gives you a moment to let it sink in. "We want to put a security detail on you. We have strong reason to believe Dimitri was the one to kill Russo, and it's very possible you were next on his list, but I don't think he anticipated you being there tonight... which might've saved your life."

You shake your head, "Batman saved my life."

The detective smiles, "Twice in a row might make him your guardian angel." The both of you turn when you hear Em stir awake from behind, and James goes to dismiss himself, "Well, thank you for your time. You should probably be heading home to get some rest soon, but if you think of anything else, please don't hesitate to let me know." James hands you a business card, "And I'll look into Bruce Wayne for ya. Could be something there. Our mutual friend might know. Take it easy."

"Wait," you call, before he can get out the door, "Russo. He had a- a kid. A son. And a wife, I think. They weren't at the house. Are they okay?"

James looks a little pained as he answers you, "No... uh, his son was murdered a while back. His ex-wife's been living back home in Boston ever since. She's been notified."

There isn't much else to say after that, so he ducks his head as a final goodbye and exits the room, raincoat swaying behind him.

You're awoken by an incessant ringing about 24 hours later.

Popping one eye open, your brain takes in the shadowy lighting of your living room, blinds still halfway up from when you'd first returned home early that morning. Judith had caught you slumped outside of your apartment door and flanked by two officers—roused by the sound of you coming home late—and had helped you to your couch, poured you a glass of water, and stayed with you until the painkillers put you to sleep.

Frankly, you gave yourself permission to lie and rot today. But the ringing would not stop.

You grab your phone, uncaring of the caller, and accidentally press it to your cut cheek with a hiss, "Yes?"

You expect it to be Em, checking in to see if you were still alive. You also expect it to be your mother, checking in to make sure you still planned on staying in Gotham. You even expect it to be Rudy (who had been just about on the verge of tears when he saw you with a busted cheek).

It's none of them. "Can I see you?"

You place the voice instantly, actually going breathless. "I'm- what's... what's wrong?"

Sitting up hurts like a bitch and you realize that you're about two hours past your scheduled Tylenol. You inhale through your teeth and try to gather your bearings.

"I got... stabbed," Bruce sounds guarded, but it shockingly doesn't come across like that's because of the stabbing, "I need your help."

"Jesus! You need to call 911. Or- or get one of your ten million drivers to take you to the ER, or call a fucking helicopter to-"

"The tower, can you come? Now?"

You weren't supposed to be driving. The cops had brought you home, and you very much did not want to ask for that favor. You drop your forehead into your palm, massaging your temple with your thumb, "How deep is it? Did you stop the bleeding?"

"I've got something on it. I just need you to stitch me up."

You glance around the room, hazy, and reach for your water, "I'll need a ride. Can't drive right now."

"He's waiting outside." The line goes dead.

You don't believe him until you go to open your apartment door and see a suited man leaned against the opposite wall, nodding politely at you. You must look like you've sprung from the dead after last night, but no one makes a comment about it. The two officers on either side of the door nod to you, "Says he's a driver for Bruce Wayne and that you'd know what he was here for. His ID checks out, but we're gonna have to tail him if you go with him."

You shut the door and look through the peephole, but the driver looks comfortable waiting.

You'd wonder how Bruce knew you'd need a ride before you said as much, but it was clear by this point that he knew everything about you.

You probably shouldn't go. Not until Gordon looked into him, or Batman. Right?

You root around in your coat pocket for the phone Batman had given you and send a quick text to his number.

Going to Wayne's. Tell Gordon to hurry up with a warrant.

You pop two pills and pull on your coat.

When the elevator doors part, you drag yourself down the hallway, up the stairs, and into the main room. Alfred nor Dory is anywhere to be seen, but with it being past 10 at night, you can only imagine they're off to bed by now. There is just a single light coming from the kitchen, and when you turn to the breakfast table, there is Bruce. Waiting.

He doesn't look at you when you approach, however. One of his hands is holding stained gauze under the neck of his shirt, and the other is gripping the table with white knuckles. You wash your hands at the kitchen sink, then round up on his left side where he's pressing against the back of his shoulder, just out of reach for him to stitch himself. You fear he would've tried had you not answered the phone.

Or, God forbid, come to you.

He looks up when you're right in front of him, scanning you quickly, "Are you okay?" He doesn't sound all that surprised to see you like this. It raises the hairs on the back of your neck.

You pull the neck of his shirt down to survey the damage, for lack of a good explanation, "I'm certain I've got a better excuse than you." Bruce shifts when you move his hand away, exposing the bloody flesh that makes you wince. You set your things on the table and command him to lift his shirt. He hesitates. "What is your excuse?"

"Got caught off guard."

"Where?"

Slowly, Bruce slips his shirt off, allowing you to see the full expanse of his back. There was the angry red stab wound, but there were other things too: moles and beauty marks scattered across his skin that paled in comparison to the several jagged lines across his shoulders and lower back—pink raised skin where it looked like he'd been cut before. Cuts that had healed years ago. You hover your fingers above one and realize they're shaking. "You never told me you and Alfred fight with knives."

"We don't," he glances at you over his shoulder but looks away just as quickly, "some of those scars are from martial artists I trained with in Thailand."

"Some?" You see so many, and those are only the ones that leave visible scars.

"Others are from the Russians."

You begin to lightly clean around his wound and ready the anesthesia but, despite the fact that he cannot see it in your hand, he waves it off completely, "Are they... the people who gave you this?"

He goes silent again. You feel like you should stop asking questions at this point, but they itch at your throat.

He wouldn't call you here to fix this unless he had nowhere else to go.

When you make the first stitch and he doesn't flinch, your eyes flit to his other scars. Martial arts training, he said. The second stitch and still no response. On the third stitch, you press your thumb against the edge of the wound and push down. He actually swears at you as blood dribbles out of the wound, and the hand that had been gripping the table reaches back to grab your lower thigh, effectively bringing the operation to a halt.

You shove his hand off, "What the hell happened? Your hands, your leg—that was easy to explain. But this?"

He has the audacity to glare at you over his shoulder, "I don't pay you to ask questions."

"No, you don't. And yet you could've hired anyone but you hired me. Even though..." You trail off, eyes blazing, because you're not feeling that confident, "the least you can do is tell me what happened."

Bruce holds your gaze until you feel your knees begin to wobble in place. For once, he doesn't look like a wide-eyed, nervous animal in front of you. He looks angry.

Then it's gone. Bruce rolls his shoulders back and you watch the needle, still hanging by its thread, roll against his muscles. More blood seeps from the wound as your hands itch to get back to work. "One question," he starts, looking away from you, "the night of the party, upstairs. You told Alfred no one got on the elevator. But you did, didn't you?"

You swallow. "He said it was broken."

"Be honest with me and I'll be honest with you."

"About anything?"

From behind, you can see Bruce's jaw twitch just so, "Everything."

You step closer. Taking your needle, you resume the suture, "A question for a question, then. To keep it fair."

"Alright."

"Tell me what happened."

"I was looking for someone."

"Who were you looking for?"

"That's another question."

"Fine," you try not to take your frustration out on his skin, "I did. Who were you-"

"Dimitri Young." You still in your stitching. It feels like your heart is inside your head, thumping against your skull with every beat. "What did you see down there?"

You have to rake your petrified brain for context, having nearly forgotten everything that had come before... before... "I- I was... nothing." Bruce hisses through his teeth and you realize that you're just pressing the needlepoint into his skin mindlessly. "Files. A computer. A car underneath a sheet, some tools, a motorbike. A TV playing the news." You don't bother with hiding it now, "How do you know about Dimitri?"

"Because I know about you. Why did you go down there? Not knowing what you might find?"

It takes all that you have to keep the burning tears at bay, "Because I don't trust you. Because everything about this has felt off. I needed to know what you were hiding. What are you gonna do with what you know?"

Bruce takes a moment as if he's thinking about it, but when he answers you, you're for once certain of his honesty, "Nothing. I might set it on fire, if that's what you want."

"You could have another copy lying around. Or a way to access it again."

"I could. But I don't. And I wouldn't want to." He turns his head over his shoulder and you are frozen under his stare, "I'm being honest with you."

"How did you get it?"

"That's another question."

You complete the next few stitches with a little more force than needed, "Then ask me something."

"Why did you take the job if you didn't trust me?"

You laugh humorlessly, "Because I knew the pay would be fucking ridiculous. How did you get my file?"

"You wouldn't have turned me down the first time if that were true."

"Answer me."

"Be honest with me, I'll be honest with you. Why'd you take the job?"

"Because-" You choke, "you... sent me those ridiculous flowers and a handwritten note." Bruce's head tilts, you choke out more, "And when I asked you why you offered me the job, you said that it was because I noticed you were hurt when no one else did. And I said it felt like more than that. I think- I have been trying to get an answer."

Bruce studies you. He must believe you because he finally answers your question, "Russo had nothing to do with it."

"Who did you pay to get it for you, then?"

"That's-"

"Just ask me, God damn it." You finish off the suture and bite off the thread.

"Why did you turn your life around?"

You'd thought about that a lot after that night. The simplest answer was right there, but if you were being honest with yourself (and you were being more honest than you would've liked tonight), you really didn't want to die. "I wanted to live. That's what I'd always wanted. Even though I... really didn't act like it. I never wanted to live more until that moment." This time when you lock eyes with Bruce, you don't want him to look away. Maybe it's because he's defeated you, broken your pride, whatever. Right now, you want to see him.

You don't have to ask again. You watch him rise from the table, flexing his back again, and though you want to scold him for irritating his stitches mere seconds after you've finished them, you just... don't have it in you.

And then he's standing face-to-face with you.

You think the lights and painkillers are deceiving you at first, but this close, you are certain: he is littered with scars and wounds color-picked from late twilight skies. His back doesn't even look this bad. It's always been more than bruised knuckles and leg sprains.

And it's familiar. All of it. Bruises and cuts new and old, the shape of him, the color. The stab wound is new but all of this is months (years) in the making.

The closer you get, the more it knocks the wind out of you. Your eyes follow the length of his torso and then—your fingers press against his side, up against a healed gunshot wound. You brush your thumb against it. It makes you feel nauseous.

You look up and he's looking at you. Defeated. Relieved. You can feel the denial creeping in but it all clicks into place, doesn't it?

The bullet wound, the limp, the job offer, the sprained leg. You couldn't see it because, frankly, they couldn't be any more different from each other. And yet...

Bruce's hand covers yours and keeps it there.

That damned bullet brought you together. It had brought Batman to you, it had brought you to Bruce, and it had solidified in no small way that whatever had led you to this moment in time was years in the making. All because you wanted to live.

"Come with me." And Bruce leads you upstairs.

17 years ago.

"I think it could be good," Alex holds up the bottle to you, "if you're down."

You hate the taste of whatever she's giving you but it does make you tingly. You take a big swig and set it between you on the concrete, "You know I'll go wherever you go."

Alex grins, "That's the spirit!"

On Tuesdays, you and Alex like to watch the cars go by from the alley. It's between a Thai restaurant and a laundromat so it always smells good; if it's not the fabric softener, then it's the pho. It's where you always find her. After a few heart-to-hearts spent curled up on the ground with her here, it became "your" territory.

Claiming it didn't stop people from holing up inside and standing around a barrel fire, nor did it stop the laundromat owner nor the line cooks from coming out to smoke and take out the trash. But it did mean that you both liked it here. For lack of other places to go.

"You know that piece of shit from the Vipers won't take no for an answer?" Alex kicks at a rat that scuttles past, making sure it wouldn't take a bite out of her ankle.

"You're very popular, it's not a surprise."

"Shit, it's just cause they know my parents don't give a shit where I go. They're all like, 'Come join us! You could be one of our best! We'll pay you more in a day than you'd make stealing in a week!' but they don't talk about all the kids floating in the river when they try to do better for themselves."

"Like you'd let someone boss you around." You giggle, and Alex beams.

"No way in hell! I love my independence. See, I can take whatever I want whenever I want. Those sad fucks in the Vipers have to answer to some... some random guy they rarely ever see. Why would I want that?"

You'd seen the kids the Vipers recruited. There was no age limit, some as young as nine were happily making deliveries. It used to be a joke in your school that any kid with a front door would end up in the Vipers eventually.

You wondered if you would've ended up there too, had you not been with Alex.

Your makeshift gang of two which had grown by three in the last few months was less organized than the Vipers. It didn't pay unless you pulled your weight, and most of it was at Alex's discretion. For the most part, none of you moved without her. She was the head, the leader, and the only reason you could afford your new winter boots this month.

And you would truly follow her wherever she went.

You watch a few more cars pass. You press your head to the brick and let the sounds of the city light your nerves. That is until you feel a breeze where Alex had once been. You open an eye and find her inching further into the alley. "Hey," you call, but she turns and shushes you so your next words come out in a whisper, "where you going?"

She frantically waves you over.

You don't see what she's looking at until you get about halfway down the alley, but the voices are crystal clear at this point. There's a woman and a young boy standing off behind a dumpster, but when the woman catches sight of you and Alex, she shoves something into the boy's hands and dips around the corner. The boy, flustered, is just barely able to put it away before Alex is grabbing him by the arm and dragging him into the light.

It becomes clear that he's not a young boy. He's about your age, maybe off by a year or two, but so thin and lanky that his puffer jacket engulfs him completely. Alex yanks his sleeve down to reveal a poorly done tattoo of a snake going up his upper arm, jagged and unfinished like he'd run off in the middle of getting it done. It didn't seem too far-fetched an idea: the guy looked 92 pounds soaking wet.

"You're on the wrong turf, kid." Alex warns, but you know her tone of voice is too final to be a warning.

The guy yanks his arm back, "Fuck off."

You realize what he was fumbling with when the woman had run. A small bag of something white, and a wad of cash sticking out of his pocket. You snort, "Dealing for the Vipers a little far from home, aren't you? You must be new."

The guy tries to escape but Alex grabs the hood of his jacket and drags him back, "We'll overlook the trespassing if you give us a cut."

"Leave me alone. This place doesn't belong to anyone." But as soon as he says it, Alex takes a hold of his dirty blond hair and yanks his face up to look at her. You go to grab his money while he's distracted but you don't expect him to brandish a knife until he slashes at you. He misses, but it sets Alex off.

She uses his hair to throw him into the side of the dumpster and you can see the thoughts rattling around his head upon impact.

"Right, everything belongs to the Vipers. Is that why your boss is still Falcone's little bitch?"

The guy is indignant against the taunts. He tries to slash at her but Alex is faster, always has been, and she has his wrist in a death grip before he can even get close. You watch her twist it back until he lets out a cry of pain, the knife clattering to the floor at your feet. You take it and hold it up to his neck, watching his eyes go wild between you and Alex.

"Give us the money and we'll pretend this never happened-" you start, but jump back when you feel something wet hit your cheek. You almost don't believe it, but the guy has some spittle dribbling down his bottom lip and a satisfied smile when you lock eyes with him again.

Alex wasn't just fast. You remember her standing up to your childhood bullies between classes and giving them shiners that she still bragged up to this day. It took a few years before you both stopped ending up with twice as many injuries, and a few more years after that before you stopped having bullies at all.

And this guy— maybe he didn't know what he'd gotten himself into and that extended to more than just this moment in time—was half the size of the guys Alex had beaten to tears in the past.

It does not surprise you that he crumbles to the ground with the very first punch to his gut. Alex hits hard first to make the fights quick, and so when her next punch lands on his nose, you know that something has been broken. With each kick to his gut, the tears free flow as if surely, the next hit will kill him.

You watch silently. Alex is unforgiving.

After a minute or two goes by, he is so beaten down that he wheezes every time he breezes. You're certain Alex has gone overboard but something in your heart swells at the thought that it was for you.

When all is said and done, you snatch the money from his jacket and he doesn't bother to stop you, head leaning against the ground as tears and blood and snot trickle into a puddle. For good measure, Alex snatches the drugs too, "Don't show your face in this alley again or you won't leave alive."

And you know this is a lie. A trick to make her bigger and badder. A threat that she would never follow through on. Because Alex always made herself look bigger, badder, scarier, deadlier. It's what protected you both on the streets. It's what made you follow her, what made your friends follow her.

Alex was everything, and you would follow her anywhere.

You ride in silence together down to the terminus. You feel much the same as you did the first time. Bruce pulls back the gate and you spill out into the dark, but much like before, the lights and TV kick on. The News 7 jingle plays, Bruce pads over to mute it.

You watch him stand a few feet away from you, avoiding your eyes as they sweep the floor. There are those same tools scattered about, hubcaps stacked on top of tires, wires going from one side of the room to the other. It looks just like you'd last seen it, only the car that had once been covered by tarp is now on full display. It gleams in the overhead lights, as much of a monster in clear view as it was in shadow.

He really wasn't shitting you.

When you still don't say anything, Bruce walks over to his desk. Underneath it is a crate full of folders, and you realize he's getting yours when he turns and holds one out to you. You take it, inching closer. Without a word shared, Bruce pulls up something on his computer and you nearly flinch when your mugshot is reflected back at you on one of the screens.

"Your record isn't accessible unless I use a workaround which isn't... legal, but it's how I found your file without Russo. The GCPD doesn't know." You peer at him from the corner of your eye, urging him to explain, "I taught myself how to get in."

Your eyes are welling up with tears the longer you stare at the younger version of yourself. Bruce continues, "I know what the record says. That they traced back a few robberies to you and your friends over the years, and that you'd had a run in with a Viper the night you met Russo. You helped track them down, took out a portion of the gang's operation, and your record was sealed. That's all."

"They didn't trace all of them back to us," you start, not really wanting to talk, "just some. There were more."

Bruce seems to sense that as he closes the record, "It's your turn. To ask, I mean."

You look at Bruce in the face and hate the softness there. You can't be angry, or numb like you wish you could be. Your chest is all twisted up with emotion with no one feeling staying for long, even if it would flare up again every once in a while. "Did you know about me before or after you asked me to work for you?"

"Before. After that morning, I couldn't stop... thinking about you. Truth be told, me and Alfred have been doing this alone ever since I started. Before you, he was the one that would stitch me up, kept me out of doctor's offices where someone might talk. But he was also running the company for me, and taking care of me, and worrying about me. I knew if I was going to commit to this, I would need to try and stay alive, and I always meant to find someone but it wasn't an easy decision to make. Until I met you."

You know it's his turn now, but you can't help asking, "And you didn't think... maybe the kid with a record would be a bad idea?"

Bruce cracks a smile, "I mean, the stitches never got infected." You would've laughed at that if you were in a better mood. "I wasn't always so understanding. But I imagine someone who's dedicated the better part of their life to saving lives has more than made up for it."

Your head automatically shakes, "I can never make up for what I did."

"You don't have to tell me everything," he begins delicately, "but I need to know what Dimitri is after. I need to know what he's thinking. You're the only one who can help me."

You blink away a few tears and plop into a stool by his desk, dropping your head in your hands. The memories suffocate you, rushing at you like a flash flood. You don't know where to start, let alone what you want to tell him. An hour ago, you were certain he was caught up in a Gotham mob, planning to use your history as blackmail for... something.

You can't quite reconcile the feelings you have for Batman with the face of Bruce Wayne. Or who you thought was Bruce Wayne.

But he was right. You were the best chance at catching Dimitri. You were the only one who could make it up to Russo.

You swallow at the memory of Russo's mutilated body, but then... you remember him in that police station. When you were 16 and wishing you were dead. You suck in a sharp breath, "I met Alex when I was a baby. I mean, we've known each other for a long time- knew each other. She and I used to be attached at the hip. She protected me from bullies and I would sneak out at night to listen to her vent about her parents, about Gotham. She fucking hated it here. I did too.

"Alex and I learned that if you want to survive, you have to be powerful. So we became powerful. You might not think a pair of 14 year olds are all that powerful in the grand scheme of things but when it was just us against the world, it was addicting. When we wanted something, we just... took it. We started off pickpocket-ting on the streets, usually assholes who could afford to lose a hundred or two. And then we started robbing places, small-time stuff, you know. Run down houses, apartments, swiping out of registers when no one was looking. If anyone gave us shit, we just turned tail and ran. It was hard enough trying to make ends meet for our parents, and we liked the thrill of it. We rarely ever got caught.

"Eventually, some of our friends from school joined us and we become a little piece-of-shit gang. God. We were like... fucking 15, running around the city like we were so big and bad. My parents had no clue what I was really up to but they knew something was wrong. I didn't care. I was with Alex and I would follow Alex anywhere. We had this little alleyway, right? Between a Thai place and a laundromat. That's where I could always find her. And one day, we were fucking around and caught some guy dealing back there. Alex got pissed. We tried to take his money but he defended himself. I said something... he spit at me. And Alex just lost it.

"She beat him into the concrete and I just... watched. This guy, couldn't even throw a punch if his life depended on it, and she just wailed on him. And I watched. And I liked it. I felt powerful. We felt powerful. I know, a pair of jackass teenagers hurting people for fun? We were pathetic. But it didn't feel that way, being with Alex. She was my best friend."

The tears are free-falling now and you don't even bother to wipe them away. It would feel cowardly. You couldn't hide from Bruce now, not anymore. Not if he wanted to believe in you. "We didn't know who this kid was, other than the fact he was a Viper. A young one, a weak one. We didn't think he'd even last a week. Most kids like him end up getting disposed of by the boss anyway. And then all five of us were fucking around in that alley again when they showed up: the guy, Dimitri, and his sister Nat and this other kid. All of 'em Vipers.

"Nat wanted the money and the drugs back. Kid had a black eye so I guess he'd gotten shit from his boss about it. Alex was... indignant. Refused. For once, I begged her to give in but she just wouldn't fucking listen. Of course she wouldn't, do you know how much I enabled her? We were on top of the world, why would she give in? And she really pissed Nat off with that, but then she started mouthing off and then... Nat shot her. Right in front of me. It was instant."

Bruce remains incredibly still. His lips part to say something but nothing really comes out. You keep on going, "I was so shocked that I didn't even move when Nat turned the gun on me. It was like... I don't know, it was like I couldn't quite believe she was dead. But I understood what happened. Logically. I saw it happen. I saw the bullet in her brain. And when Nat turned on me, I think a part of me just... didn't want to have to think about it. Like a coward. If it wasn't for our friends pulling me out of the way, I wouldn't... be here. Next thing I knew, I was at the GCPD getting investigated for murder."

"They thought one of you did it?"

"The cops that brought us in, yeah. They just so happened to be around the corner when we ran into them. By that time, Nat and Dimitri had run off. The cops thought it was some fight between the five of us and that one of us pulled the trigger, but they couldn't find the gun. That's when Detective Russo showed up."

"And he offered to get you a plea deal."

You nod, sniffling, "He told me... he said that he could tell I'd never seen something like that before. There was no way I could've done it. And when I couldn't even finish the whole story without choking up, he said... he said that in exchange for our help catching Natalie, he would make sure all the crimes they tied back to us were sealed and expunged."

"What about Natalie? How did they find her?"

"The GCPD had been looking into the Vipers for months. Vipers almost exclusively recruit minors because they're more loyal, but there wasn't a way to get in without putting some innocent kid in danger. So they had us look into it. We found one of their hideouts by the docks. GCPD wanted to get the kids out and into the foster system since a lot of them were orphans, like Natalie and Dimitri. But the ambush didn't take. They got a couple kids out but... a few died, including Nat. Last I heard of Dimitri, he got tried as an adult for killing a cop during the shootout. That was life in Arkham."

Bruce shifts closer, "Until he got out. And he came looking for Russo."

"He was just a kid, Bruce," your voice cracks, "he was just a kid. He couldn't even defend himself. And because we were assholes we got his sister killed and we got him put away. He was just a kid."

"So were you."

Something about the tender way Bruce says that makes you sob. For years, you've looked back on that moment with so much guilt, knowing how lucky you were to make it out of that situation alive and unscathed. How lucky you were to be taken seriously, to be cared for, for a detective like Joey Russo to show you a picture of his kid in his wallet and tell you that he would hate to see them in your position.

You were lucky that you got to fix your grades and go to college, study medicine, save lives, be here. Natalie didn't get that. Dimitri didn't get that. Alex didn't get that.

"You said... you said you hated Gotham. Why did you stay?"

You wipe at your cheeks, "I- I honestly... I wanted to. My parents made a deal with me that we would leave for New Jersey after I graduated but I didn't want to leave. I couldn't. I couldn't leave Alex. I couldn't leave the city, after all I'd done to it. In it. I wanted to leave like my friends because the guilt was so much but I felt obligated to fix it. I wanted to help people. Not hurt them. And I've worked hard to do better. I just can't leave. I don't want to leave."

What surprises you is the hand on your face afterwards. Bruce cups his your cheek. His thumb brushes away some tears, and it feels so unlike Bruce even though it's him, even though he's the one who cradled and comforted you after being held hostage, even though he was the one that stood on your fire escape and confessed that he trusted you, liked you even. Your brain just sort of stops there. You melt like putty in his hand. You realize you've been craving a gentle touch like this for a while.

"Then you won't have to," Bruce casts his eyes to the side, looking at where you laid your file on the desk. You can see the cogs turning beneath his furrowed brow, "I'll make sure of it."

"How?"

"...You won't like it."

[shchristine]

LA BELLE VIE

Pairing: Chef!Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: A server at La Belle Vie, the nicest restaurant at the Secret Springs Resort, can't keep her eyes off of world-renowned chef Joel Miller. He's taken notice of her too.

CW: 18+ MDNI!, smut with very little plot, reader is a female but no other identifying traits, no use of y/n

AN: Written for @secretelephanttattoo's Secret Springs Creative Challenge! Also my first posted fic ever! Enjoy :)

“Yes, Chef!”

You hear the muffled sentiment from the kitchen staff through the closed door to the back of the house for the first time that day. You would hear it countless more before your dinner shift was over. But it was always a soft, muted phrase to your ears, since you weren’t allowed in the kitchen. That was one of Chef Joel Miller’s many rules; 

No service staff in the kitchen. 

“This is how they do it overseas,” you heard him tell the owner once.

“But….this is Secret Springs,” Tommy Miller, the front of house manager and Joel’s brother, responded.

You knew it was going to be a busy day. Opening week at the Secret Springs resort and most of the shops and excursions wouldn’t be open for business for another week or so, so how were the early tourists going to spend their time? Eating. 

And you were right. The constant chatter of patrons, clinking of silverware on glassware, opening and closing of the creaking kitchen door, and the dull repetition of “door!” and “yes, chef!” would have your ears ringing for the rest of the night. But in the midst of the dinner rush, you couldn’t help but sneak a few glances through the kitchen door during the constant in and out of Tommy and the food runners. Chef said you couldn’t go back there, but he didn’t say anything about looking back there. Look you did, as hard as you could to catch a glimpse of him. His dark, tousled hair that got progressively messier while the night went on as he stressfully raked his fingers through the strands at any minor inconvenience. How badly you wished to run your own hands through them. The white chef’s coat stretched taut over his broad chest and shoulders, rolled sleeves revealing his strong but precise hands and muscular forearms. The scruff that covered the bottom half of his face, a small grey patch on the side above his jaw. You thought about him constantly; when you were working you hoped to attract just a sliver of his attention, and at home you laid in bed dreaming of scenarios where maybe you would see him out at the dive bar only the locals visited after a long shift, doing a shot and offering you one after watching you walk in or run into him on the beach, shirtless and enjoying some time in the sun with Tommy and his wife Maria on a rare day off. Your volleyball would accidentally roll in his direction, bumping into his legs as he laid on an outstretched towel. Sorry, chef…

As diners and filled tables dwindled and servers were cut and sent home for the night, you couldn’t help but wonder what would really happen if you snuck back into the kitchen. You and Tommy were the only front of the house staff left as the minutes crept closer to midnight, and he was in the office counting the drawers for the night in preparation for the morning bank deposit. He needed you there to verify his count, which meant you just needed to sign the log book once he told you he was done. This was a notoriously long process for Tommy, and most servers would do anything in their power to not be the one chosen to stay the extra half-hour after closing waiting for him to finish. But you didn’t mind. Not when you could stand next to the kitchen door wiping down wet dishes in the hope that Chef might walk out and throw a casual smile your way before the ever-present scowl on his face returned as he stormed into the office to yell at Tommy about something. You liked to think you were the only one he smiled at in the whole restaurant, saving the sweet gesture for the times he saw you and furrowing his brows, turning down his lips for everyone else.

But tonight, you were restless. You want to see his work; what he has touched and what he has made. You wait until you see the last bus boy make his way from the kitchen to the front entrance, waving at you nonchalantly before exiting the restaurant to grab the still swinging door to the back of the house. Giving the kitchen a precursory scan before fully committing, you make sure no one was around and step in. The kitchen was neat, kept extremely clean and tidy at Chef’s insistence. The countertops seem to sparkle as you walk quietly between the impressive appliances, making sure your shoes don’t squeak on the freshly mopped and polished floor. Shelves of fresh produce, bottles of oils and sauces, and expensive cooking utensils line the walls. Towards the back of the room is a large, steel door. You make your way over and reach for the handle, twisting it and pulling the door open. It makes a small but high-pitched creak causing you to wince and pause momentarily before walking in, electing to leave the door open in case it makes the same noise when being closed. The cold air of the refrigerated room rushes you, causing a shiver to run down your spine and goosebumps to cover your skin. The walk-in, duh, you think to yourself as you peruse the shelves. Labeled containers are stacked neatly together, a piece of tape stuck to the front of each with scribbled green onions 7/3 or puttanesca tomato sauce 7/1 facing outward. Was this his handwriting? You reach out to lightly graze the tape with your fingertip when the door to the freezer slams shut behind you, causing you to jump and pull your hand down in a hurry before turning. A gasp escapes your lips when you realize that Chef was there, standing in between you and the now-closed door. His eyes are dark and jaw clenched tight as he observes you.

“What are you doing?” he asks, arms hanging loosely at his side. His chef coat was unbuttoned at the top, a sliver of skin and chest hair peeking over it. 

“I…uh,” you sputter, unable to get any words out while still processing his presence, “I…”

“You,” he interrupts, “are not supposed to be back here.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I just wanted to look.”

“Get out,” he spits. You put your head down, looking at the floor as you try to walk past him to reach the door. But he doesn’t move out of your way. He stands in place with his eyes stuck to you as you turn sideways, facing him to try and slip between him and the shelves. Your chest underneath the soft cotton apron brushes against him and he reaches out suddenly, grabbing you by the arm above your elbow and turning to face you fully.

“You’ve been watching me,” he states plainly.

“Yes,” you answer, even though you knew it wasn’t a question. He leans forward, his hot breath tickling your ear as he speaks.

“I’ve been watching you, too. Have you noticed?”

He doesn’t give you a chance to answer before leaning back, eyes scanning your face for any sign of apprehension. You look up at him through your lashes, eyebrows raised and mouth neutral. He smirks.

“Get on your knees.”

You do as you’re told, fighting the urge to whisper yes, chef. You don’t think he would appreciate the joke in the moment. You reach up slowly, taking the button of his pants gingerly between your fingers in case he changes his mind or swats you away. But he doesn’t. Instead, he reaches down as well to un-do the bottom buttons of his chef coat and pull the now-loose flaps behind his back. You unzip his pants and reach inside to pull him out of his boxers. The feeling of his smooth skin sends a ripple of anticipation up your neck, but the sight of his large cock causes your eyebrows to shoot up. The shaft is both long and thick, ending in a plump head. You waste no time wrapping your hand around it to give his member a few slow, gentle pumps. 

“Don’t tease me,” he grunts from above you, “put your mouth on it.”

You do, using one hand to guide the hardening member into your mouth and the other to steady yourself against his thigh. You feel his fingers gently thread through your hair as your tongue touches the underside of his cock for the first time. He sighs, his hips surging forward involuntarily. You swirl your tongue up his hardness and around the head, tasting the precum collected there before wrapping your lips tightly around him. Sucking him further into your warm mouth, you inch forward until your nose hits the skin and pubic hair above his cock.

“Fuck yes,” Joel stutters out when he feels his tip hit the back of your throat. His hands slide down to cradle the back of your head with both of them before pressing his hips forward just for a moment. You gag around him, a thick line of saliva trailing from your tongue to his cock when he pulls all of the way out. “God that’s hot.”

Your lips chase after his member, sucking your cheeks in once it’s back inside of your mouth and beginning to bob your head back and forth on him. His fingers tangle in your hair and he throws his head back with a groan, causing you to let out a whimper of your own.

“You like that? Bet my fat cock down your throat is gettin’ you all wet, isn’t it?”

Mhmm you moan around him as you continue your movements, the vibrations causing him to let out another deep grunt. He pulls himself out of your mouth abruptly, grabbing you by the shoulders and yanking you up to your feet. “Gonna make me come too quick.”

He looks into your face for a moment, finding lips plumped and red and eyes big with anticipation. His lips crash into yours, the kiss wet and sloppy as he slips his tongue into your mouth. Your arms reach up to grasp at his large biceps, squeezing there as his hands slide around your back to untie the apron you’re still wearing.

“Anyone could walk in,” you say breathlessly as his lips make their way from your jaw down your neck. You knew it was only the two of you and Tommy left in the restaurant for the night.

“But they won’t,” he murmured into your skin, “Most of the people here listen when I make rules.” His hands make quick work of both your pants and underwear, pushing them down hastily and grabbing at your ankle to motion for you to step out of them before grabbing your ass in both hands and lifting you up to rest on the edge of the shelf behind you. The cold metal against your skin causes you to gasp and jerk your hips forward. He uses the closeness to reach down and swipe a finger through your exposed folds, collecting the wetness that has pooled between them. 

“Knew it,” he says before pulling his hand away and spreading the wetness down himself. You watch as he lines himself up to your entrance, gripping your thighs and spreading them as far apart as they’ll go before he sinks into you. Your breath hitches at the stretch, closing your eyes and moaning loudly when he bottoms out. He sets a merciless pace from the beginning, quickly rutting into with long strokes as his hands keep their rough grip on the back of your thighs. The freezer echos with the sounds of skin slapping on skin, his deep grunts and your breathy moans.

“This what you wanted? What you thought about every time I saw you trying to look in the kitchen door?”

“Yes, chef,” you whimper, lost in the feeling of his firm thrusts and the cold air surrounding the two of you. Your eyes snap open, widening to see his expression at the slip-up. Instead of stopping like you thought he might, he smirks at you, picking up his pace.

“Say it again,” he urges, his hands squeezing into the skin of your thighs so roughly he was sure to leave red marks indented there for days.

“Yes chef, yes chef, yes chef,” you whine as you bounce up and down at his incessant pounding into you. He groans and reaches one hand out, grabbing on to the shelf behind your head for leverage. His other hand remains on your thigh to keep you in place. 

It doesn’t take much longer for your climax to creep up on you, waves of pleasure spreading slow and warm through your lower back and thighs. The roughness of his thrusts are both exciting and overwhelming you. You can’t help but moan louder as your body tightens. Joel isn’t much better off, his movement becoming erratic and rushed. Your legs tremble as your orgasm washes over you, arms reaching out to clutch at his shoulders and head thrown back with eyes clamped shut. Your cunt pulses tightly around him, causing his grip on the shelf behind your head to slip. He recovers, groaning and grabbing harshly at your still-clothed breast as he comes undone inside of you. His thrusts slow before stopping completely, the warmth of his release spreading through your lower half. But the sensation is short-lived as Joel pulls out of you, causing a gush of his release to follow and fall to floor. He watches with tired eyes, wiping the thin sheen of sweat that has covered his face and neck as his breathing returns to normal. Panic spreads through you at the prospect that Tommy may be done counting the drawers and looking for you and you bend forward to pull your underwear and pants up. You watch out of the corner of your eye as Joel does the same, adjusting his pants and shoving himself inside before pulling up the zipper. On unsteady feet you softly push past him, making your way to the door of the walk-in and try to smooth your clothing and apron out as much as possible before exiting.

“Hey!” Joel calls out your name, causing you to stop and turn sharply. Maybe he was going to ask you what you were doing this weekend or for your phone number, even though you knew he could get it from the directory Tommy kept. 

“If you want to keep your job, don’t let me catch you back here again.”

[ak-vintage]

Miller Tours | Secret Springs Resort

Prompt: Joel Miller & Speedboat Rides

Created for the Secret Springs event hosted by @secretelephanttattoo

Dividers by the incomparable @saradika-graphics

The first words he says to you are a blunder, and though unintentional, you would be lying if you said they didn’t sting a little.

“Howdy. Welcome in.” His voice is low and warm, friendly but somehow calmer, more subdued than you had come to expect from the little beach town’s many small business proprietors. “You must be my 2:00. Boat tour for two?”

He glances up at you from his post behind a weathered, white-washed counter, the little hut at the edge of the marina looking like something out of time. There’s a wooden sign with peeling paint hanging over the door, “MILLER TOURS” printed across its surface in navy blue lettering, and rather than a credit card reader or a sleek tablet on a swiveled mount, he has an old bronze cash register at one end of the counter. Spread out before him are two binders describing the features of different tour packages, and there’s a corkboard on the far wall featuring a collage of sun-bleached photographs of past adventures, all of which are held in place with shining silver pushpins.

Boat tour for two? It makes sense. That is what your reservation was for. Still, something in your chest seizes at the question, and you offer him a pained smile.

“Uh. Just one, actually,” you say, hoping that will be the end of the discussion. Of course, that is wishful thinking.

Quirking a frown at you, the man behind the counter pulls a clipboard from a drawer and scans it quickly. He says your name like a question, and you nod, lips pressed together in a tight line.

“Okay. So Bryan won’t be joining us today?” he asks. You think you see something like understanding in the tightness around his eyes, the way his prominent brows pick up just a bit in the middle, wrinkling his golden, sun-warmed skin.

“Nope. Just me.” You tug at your coverup, a delicate, crocheted thing you’d bought specifically for this trip because of the little peeks of skin it afforded, letting you show off your new bikini while still having the illusion of some coverage. The person you had bought it for, however, is hundreds of miles away now, admiring someone else’s skin, someone else’s body.

And you are here. Alone.

“I…I hope that’s all right. I’ll still pay the two-person fee, it’s not a problem,” you say after a beat of tense, significant silence.

However, instead of the reluctant acquiescence you’re expecting, the man grants you a soft smile, and he shakes his head, his dark, salt and pepper curls bouncing as he does. “That won’t be necessary, darlin’. Why don’t you let me get locked up here, and we can get you out on the water?”

A wave of relief passes over you at that, and you nod readily. “That sounds good…” You hesitate, unsure of how to address him, but he rescues you quickly from any further social awkwardness.

“Captain Miller,” he says as he rounds the counter. He extends a large, calloused hand in your direction, and you shake it happily. His fingers dwarf yours, but rather than feeling intimidated, instead it just makes you feel safe. Cared for. “But you can just call me Joel.”

You spend the afternoon lounging at the back of Joel’s speedboat, a tidy, well-kept thing that cuts through the water like a knife, showering you with mists of saltwater as he makes a circuit up and down the coast of Secret Springs. He lets you run the boat’s radio, lets you choose the speed, lets you tell him when you would like to stop and take pictures and when you would like to keep going. You quickly take off your coverup to bask in the afternoon sun, soaking in its rays and luxuriating in the ocean breeze, and he almost manages to keep his eyes focused on the ocean. You almost manage to stop yourself from blushing under his gaze.

About an hour in, Joel reaches down into the storage compartment underneath the helm and pulls out a cooler with a chilled bottle of crisp white wine and two glasses. He pours you a generous glass, mumbling something about not knowing much about wine but knowing that this one is usually a crowd-pleaser. You, of course, offer him the other glass, and though he protests that he really shouldn’t, that it’s bad manners to drink on the job, he eventually accepts. You pour him his own splash of wine, and when he asks you what you would like to toast to, you tell him, “New beginnings.”

As the sun begins to lower in the sky, Joel takes you to a secluded cove on the southern end of town. There’s an area there that has been roped off for swimming, and he drops anchor and tells you you’re welcome to take a dip if you’d like before he takes you back to the marina. You slip into the cool water with no further prompting, eager to refresh yourself after a day in the summer sun, and this time, he makes no attempt to hide the way that he watches you as you float leisurely in the shallows.

By the time he is pulling the speedboat back up to the marina, hopping out onto the dock to haul it the rest of the way in with a length of rope twisted around his thick, tanned forearm, you realize you haven’t thought about Bryan once all afternoon.

When you head back into the Miller Tours building to settle up on your bill, you ask Joel for a piece of scrap paper, and he hands you the final, useless length of receipt paper from an old roll he had stashed away behind the counter. You hand him back your payment for the excursion, a generous tip, and your phone number and the name of the hotel you’re staying at scrawled across that length of receipt paper.

“You sure about this, darlin’?” he asks you as you head for the door.

You glance back over your shoulder at him and smile, feeling lighter, happier, freer than you have in months.

“Definitely,” you say, and then you watch as Captain Miller slips the piece of paper into the front pocket of his shirt.

Tapping his hand over that pocket, as though to promise you he will keep it safe, he replies, “Get home safe, sweetheart. I’ll give you a call tomorrow. See if we can’t get that ‘new beginning’ you’re after started off right.”

[yellowbunnydreams]

Do you need some Vitamin D? (Incubus! William x Oblivious! F! Reader) [Part 9]

~I'm sorry reader - but know that tomorrow is another day~

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* Want more or something different? *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

@ruh--roh-raggy @xp-doggy @redbunny03 @marigold-petalz @seviliet @astinkerofarat @iamnotwiddle @imtiredshow

CW: 18+ MINORS DNI. Fluff, age gap (Reader 20's - William Afton 40's(?)), teratophilia, meet-cute, punny pick-up lines, scenes of working out, minor porn-logic, ditzy! reader, could be classed as bimbo! reader?, size-difference, flirting, monster-lover, sexual innuendos, Monster! AU. Angst

William Afton had successfully kept you away from your apartment for another week, and as he placed the last of the boxes from his car down into the empty space, he wondered how he was supposed to let you go and live your life without waking up in the same house every day.

He thought of every day he made you laugh, how sweet it had sounded, how he had for the first time in many years relished the sound and felt like he was able to relax around somebody that wasn't 'in' on his secret. How good it had felt to thump and twitch and do his silly little bounce that he couldn't quite control when he was excited. He'd cared for you, he'd tried every pick-up line over the past week, trying to play, perhaps a little selfishly, on that hormonal change to potentially forge a connection between the two of you that didn't feel like he was left staring at where you were and wondering if he was getting too old for that shit.

'Are your parents bakers? Because you're a cutie-pie.'

'Are you made of copper and terillium, because you're CuTe!'

'You must have been speeding, because you've got fine written all over you.'

'Do you have a map? Because I'm lost in your eyes.'

'You know, you're so small against me even when I'm human. It's okay, I can give you some extra inches.'

But you hadn't batted an eyelid, even at his latest, more lewd attempt. You were infuriating, but William had felt himself growing more and more dejected with each rejection.

Just as you had grown more dejected each time William had rejected you.

You hadn't quite given up yet, Valentines Day was approaching and you had thought about coming out with it and asking him, but you thought that was too direct and didn't follow your plan that you had laid out with Claire. William had received a picture of you cuddling the Spring-Bonnie plush in the room just down from his, you'd even captioned it 'Not as good as the real rabbit'. The text you'd received back was enough to make you sigh loudly enough that William followed up with 'Are you okay?'.

'Yeah, rabbits are pretty cuddly and soft.'

You had been texting Claire when you had the chance, wanting to know that you weren't going crazy when you touched William's arm and smiled up at him, texted him flirtatiously, even tried to make him breakfast one day, much to his delight and then horror as you burnt one of his pans. She was running out of ideas too, and you couldn't help but feel like you were coming to your last resort.

You were going to have to ask William Afton out directly.

But as you turned and looked into his softly smiling face, any bravado you had faded away and left your mouth dry. At least you might get some perspective from your slightly odd landlord, Dave, when he appeared to welcome you into your apartment.

"Well hello sugar, you didn't tell me you were having guests over so soon."

That raspy voice that set you on edge made you look past William and give a polite smile, seeing the lanky, gaunt man leaning against your doorframe. His dark circles looked more bruise like in the low light, and he was wearing an oversized, threadbare sweater than seemed slightly out of place compared to the black slacks he seemed to always wear. Aside from being half-naked the last time you saw him.

"Hi Dave, why don't you come o-"

"Bunny, I wouldn't do that." William growled, making you blink as you had never heard your boss acting like that. The low rumble in the back of his chest made the hair on the back of your neck stand up slightly as Dave simply cocked up head and raised an eyebrow.

"William, what's going on?" You asked, not receiving an answer as the tall, broad man fixed his eyes firmly on the man in front of you both. Blinking as you realised William's eyes were purple and had become slit-pupiled, making you tug at his rolled up shirt sleeve slightly. "Will, your...eyes..."

"My my, you didn't disclose that she knew William. I thought that you said she didn't." Something about the coolness in Dave's voice made your stomach turn uneasily, the two men staring at each other like animals sizing each other up for a fight. But you kept your hand on William's arm and slowly stroked over it to soothe him, practically feeling the reverb coming from his continuous growl that slowly ebbed.

"That was then."

"And this is now. You know, me not coming in is just a courtesy right? You should really introduce her to checking contracts for any...hidden...clauses."

"You wrote yourself entry?"

"Relax, nothing has been signed, has it, sugar?" Dave's darting gaze fixed on you, tilting his head to one side as he gave you that same crooked smile that he had when you first met.

"You're a monster too?" You asked him, watching him shrug and smile lazily as he reached up and tousled his greasy hair before gesturing to himself with one bony hand.

"You're looking at a top class predator, apex if you will. I, sugar, am a vampire." You blinked, the pieces slotting together in your head from years of having to cover literature and then finding out that monsters really did exist. Both of your bosses were different ones, and now your landlord too? And they knew each other? You vaguely recalled that William had said that monsters liked to band together in communities, so you guessed that you were going to be seeing a few more around since there was a monster friendly building in Hurricane.

"Ah, cool."

Dave blinked, his smirk disappearing as he gestured to himself again. His brow slightly furrowed.

"Cool? Did...Did you not hear me? I said, 'I'm a vampire'."

"No, I heard you the first time." Shrugging your shoulders before looking up at William, who was pursing his lips and running his hand over his beard like he was trying desperately not to laugh at the scene before him.

"Are you not...afraid...compelled by my charm and good wit?"

"I mean...I can pretend to be shocked if you want?" You offered innocently, and William couldn't take it any more as he burst into laughter, startling more than Dave's revelation. Smiling broadly up at the incubus as he clutched onto his stomach and leaned against the wall whilst he wheezed, the deep rumbling laugh making your heart throb and ache that you were running out of chances to hear that whenever you wanted.

"Are you even going to be phased if I come around, drinking blood?" He asked, scowling at William, his eyes darting around once more in behaviour that made a lot more sense now that you had context. Shaking your head and shrugging your shoulders again, much to Dave's disappointment. "Fine, alright, I give up. Sugar, you should have all your keys now, apart from the emergency one I have. Give me a call if you need any utilities hooking up, you'll have to invite me in, but you can rescind the invite any time."

You looked at William, who was just recovering from his laughter as he wiped away tears from his eyes, giving you a broad smile and ruffling your hair in that affectionate way that he always seemed to. You remembered what he said about incubi liking touch, which was why so much of your flirting had involved touching his arms and his back. Smiling down at you as he leaned down and bumped his head into yours softly, feeling his stubble scratch against your forehead slightly as he stroked your arms too.

"And here I was, worried that you wouldn't know how to deal with that asshole." You raised an eyebrow at his statement, moving your head slightly so that you could get a better look at Afton's greying hair and now silvery eyes.

"You knew Dave was a vampire?"

"I knew he was picking up property in the area, I just didn't know he would be your landlord." It was only a minor lie on his part, William knew that Dave was there all along, he would never mention the mild stalking Dave had previously done outside of William's house because of his curiosity about you. But, knowing that you now knew, and that you seemed to be aware of how to handle him, William felt less guilty about leaving you in the vampire's watch.

At least, he hoped you would be able to find somebody as happy as you made him.

"So what did he say to that text?"

"He said 'You're sweet, but I don't need any sugar for my coffee.'" You sighed and placed your head back against the exterior wall, eyes closed as you tried to soak in the cool air. Claire and yourself were on lunch break again, and you were discussing your latest attempts at flirting with your boss, trying to get him to notice you. Or at least, notice you how you noticed him.

Claire stared out across the back of the lot as she thought, wondering what on Earth she was going to do with you, and honestly, what she was going to do to Afton if she got a hold of him. She was too short to shake him by the shoulders, but she was semi-convinced she might convince Henry Emily to join in on it all if she talked to him. But then again, Henry Emily and William Afton had been friends for more years than Freddy's had been around, and Claire wasn't convinced that he would do anything other than scold the pair of you.

"You know...you should try one more time." She eventually said, looking at you from the corner of her eye and making you glance over at her. Hearing the sound of car doors opening and closing towards the front of the lot as you could both vaguely hear the sound of the music playing from the speakers and animatronics through the doors as they opened and closed with each patron coming and going.

"And say what, exactly?"

"Ask him how he'd like to be asked out."

You sat up, looking at your friend with sceptically raised eyebrow.

"You're not serious?"

"Deadly. Look, who else would know better how William Afton wants to be asked out, than William Afton himself?" She proposed, turning to you and making you think over it as she crossed her arms across her chest. She wasn't wrong, you realised with a slight sigh. He would know how he wanted to be flirted with and asked out best of all.

"I hate that you're right."

"Of course I'm right! Look, it's fool-proof and if he doesn't take you up on it, he's stupid as hell. I know a bunch of ladies who'd love to date you if you're into that kinda thing." Wriggling her eyebrows and you smacked her arm playfully, grinning at her as she mocked a pout and rubbed her arm where you had caught her. "Seriously! He's a fool."

"He's still our boss." You pointed out, chewing your lip as Claire shrugged her shoulders.

"So you have to get a job at Sparky's. Or you pretend like nothing ever happened and I'll get you a little bell to ring and Pavlov your ass out of this crush."

"Can you even do that?"

"Oh yeah, legally it's a bit grey, but technically you can do anything like that." You realised that you associated cherry candies with William already, how he always had a handful of them in his pocket ready to go and always seemed to be sucking or crunching on one as he walked around Freddy's when he wasn't in the parts and services room out the back.

"Fine, I'll ask him. But I'm not going to get my hopes up." Sighing as Claire wrapped you up in a hug and squeezed tightly, making you squeeze back before she clapped you on the shoulders and grinned at you broadly.

"Faz-fucking-tastic! Let's go!"

It was going to be a long day, you could already tell.

You paced around your new bedroom floor. feeling your heart pounding in your chest as you glanced at your phone, sat innocently on the bed-spread next to your Spring-Bonnie plushie that William had given you. Chewing over your lip and trying not to bite at your nails as you wondered if you were really going to go through with it.

Asking your boss out, that was.

It was just a text, he trusted you to see him as a giant rabbit man, hell, he'd brought you period products and spooned you with cartoons on to make you feel better about the whole thing. He'd been the one who offered for you to stay at his home despite the fact it could have been dangerous for him because you needed it.

You could send a damn text.

'Hey William, are you still up?'

Your fingers shook slightly as you sent the text, glancing at the clock on your bedside table and realising it was nearly eleven o'clock at night. Would he even be up at that time? The notification sound of your phone going off making you snatch up the device again quickly.

'Half-asleep, but I sure am bunny. What's up?'

'How do you ask a guy out you like?'

William stared at his phone, bleary eyed and suddenly his attention was fully on the small mobile phone in his hand. His knuckles turning white as he gripped the sides of it. For some reason, he found it hard to swallow as something ugly flashed through him for the first time in a while.

Jealousy.

Taking a deep breath, he focused on not breaking his screen as his clawed fingers tapped away on the keyboard. Thumping his foot against his mattress unhappily as his brow furrowed, lips pursed into a fine line.

'Well, guys like it when you're blunt with them. You should just ask them.'

You took your own deep breath, steeling yourself and typing out the words that made your heart race inside your chest wildly.

'Would you like to go out with me?'

The little bubble popped up that he was typing, the quickness of it making your stomach turn slightly in nerves and anxiety as you tried to imagine how he might try to gently let you down, or the hopeful answer of 'yes', you had so many images in your head of how you would handle the answer gracefully.

'Yeah, just send that to whichever guy it is you want to ask out.'

It wasn't until your screen began to blur in small dots that you realised you were crying. Whatever you had expected, you didn't realise how much it would hurt this much to be turned down by your crush.

Locking your phone, you crawled into bed, staring blankly at the wall and feeling the tears coming thicker and faster as you realised that you needed to talk to somebody. Picking your phone back up as you cuddled Spring-Bonnie closer with one hand, shakily texting Claire to let her know how it all went.

How you thought you'd ruined your only chance with the incubunny.

[0nelinerwordplay]

Koinobori こいのぼり -

Tsuetate Onsen 杖立温泉

Tucked away in the remote northern reaches of Kumamoto, Tsuetate Onsen Resort, often referred to as ‘Kyushu’s Secret Haven,’ boasts a rich history spanning 1,800 years. Although its once vibrant atmosphere has mellowed with time, Tsuetate remains an enchanting destination. Visitors are drawn not only by the allure of its bygone splendor and the nostalgic ambiance of the Showa era but also by the enduring appeal of its hot springs. These thermal waters are celebrated for their beneficial health effects, adding to the unique charm of this historical retreat.

[djarins-cyare]

If anybody’s heading out to Secret Springs this July with the kids in tow and wondering what to do with them, you can always send them to the resort’s very own summer camp!

The camp coordinator is very responsible and in extremely good shape.

Is he certified to look after children? Who cares. He’s certifiably hot! 🥵

And the kids seem to like him…

*Advertisement approved by unelected and potentially corrupt Mayor El (@secretelephanttattoo)

[crowandmousewritingco]

Coffee Shop Meet Cute

Pairing: Frankie (Catfish) Morales x gn!reader

Words: 2.5k

Rating: G (brief mention of addiction and divorce)

Summary: Needing to get out of your hostel, you find yourself at a quaint coffee shop run by handsome stranger.

Author: Mod Mouse

Notes: This is another entry in the Secret Springs challenge by @secretelephanttattoo. This is technically an entry for week 3 shops prompts (I'm using coffee shop for this)

This hostel was the worst idea. Especially when you were trying to finish this chapter in your book, but the guy in the bunk above you was snoring like a fog horn and you couldn’t handle the woman across from you who insisted she tell you the same story of her trip to Switzerland for the 18th time today. You had to get out of here. Quickly you searched your phone for the nearest coffee shop and all the chains popped up first. You scrolled past them, not interested in some corporate super shop. 

One name in particular stuck out to you. Catfish Coffee. That sounds promising. You thought and quickly packed your backpack before the storyteller returned. With the directions on your phone, you followed the winding paths of the city. 

The quaint town was one of many options in what can only be described as a vacation country. Your friend had convinced you to take a trip for yourself after your recent divorce, and  you weren’t going to argue with them. Spending a week just reading and writing to your heart's content sounded like a dream. 

The voice on the map took you out of your thoughts and you looked up to see the sign for Catfish Coffee. The logo was a simple design with a cute cartoon catfish holding a coffee shop wearing a hat with the logo of Standard Heating. You smirked not expecting how cute this shop would be. Excitedly you pushed open the door making a small bell ring. 

You were greeted with the cool air conditioning making you shiver just a bit wishing you had brought your cardigan. Soft music sang through the shop helping add to the relaxing environment. There weren’t many customers in at the moment which gave you some relief. Finally you could find some comfort in your own company. 

The single barista turned at the sound and smiled when he saw you. He was older than you were expecting, maybe in his late 40s. Curly hair poke out from his well loved hat and he wore a dark blue apron with the logo of the shop in the center which when you got closer to the counter you realized that it was the same hat the catfish was wearing. 

“Welcome to Catfish Coffee. What can we get you?” He asked in a friendly tone.

“Well this is my first time here. What would you recommend?” You asked, adjusting your bag. 

“Depends on what you like,” He stated as he turned to point at the menu behind him. “If you want something to beat the heat we got plenty of frozen drinks. Looking for something more casual we got plenty of lattes hot and cold, coffee and tea based. Want something more simple we got plenty of roasts from local farms that you can sample on our coffee flights.” He turned back to look at you smiling. 

 “That’s quite the selection you offer,” You commented looking over the menu again.

He blushed and rubbed the back on the neck. “Gotta make sure there’s something for everyone.” 

“And that gives me an excuse to come back and try all of them,” You reply.

You might have misread his expression but you might have caught a hint of a blush on his stubble cheeks. “You are always welcome back.” 

“I’ll take the honey latte then,” You said when you finally decided. 

The barista rang up your order with a flurry of hands. “Great choice, that one’s quite popular. We get the honey locally as well.” 

You hand him your card. “I didn’t realize this resort had so many local businesses.” 

“It’s amazing what they were able to make here,” He added, handing your card back to you. “That’ll be out in just a minute.” 

“Thank you…”  You paused to look down at his name tag. “Frankie.” 

“No problem. Love seeing new faces,” He added as he grabbed a cup. 

“You must get a lot people coming and going,” You commented. 

“That’s mostly who we get, but we have some regulars that come in,” He adds over his shoulder as he pumps the syrup into the plastic cup. 

“I’m glad you have dedicated customers,” You said as you look around the cafe. “It’s a very cute place.” 

“Thank you,” He replied as he poured the milk into the cup. “I’m very proud of it.” He finished making the drink and set it on the counter in front of you. 

“As you should be,” You smiled and took your drink. You turned and headed toward one of the empty tables. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Frankie couldn’t help but be intrigued by the customer that just walked in. They weren’t the usual clientele he attracted. But there you were sitting at one of the booths holding what can only be described as a tome in your hand. That book must be at least 600 pages, and you were reading as if you were on a deadline. And you had been here for a few hours at least. He was surprised you weren’t interested in any other vacation type activities. 

You seemed so sweet despite the small interaction he had shared with you, and he did want to get to know you. Though he didn’t want to come off as weird so he continued with his business. 

A couple more customers came and went, but you persisted. He checked the time. It had been well past three hours since you entered the store. Though you were no longer reading that encyclopedia. You were typing away at a tablet now with a look of determination etched on your cute face. Wait, did he really think that you were cute? Frankie shook his head rubbing his eyes. Maybe he needed more coffee. 

He made himself a simple cup of coffee and when he turned around he realized you were now the only one left in the shop. Frankie tapped his fingers against the counter and quickly set his own coffee down. He quickly made another honey latte for you, and took a deep breath before bringing it over to your table. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Writing was hard. You were on a roll, the plot and scenes were all coming together, but then you swear to any god out there it just left you. There your main character was having a triumphant monologue, and then blip! It was gone. You groaned and rubbed your eyes. 

“Troubles?” You heard a voice and looked up. You smiled when you saw it was Frankie. “Sorry, I know you’ve been here awhile and thought you could use a refill.” You held up a hand to protest, but he interrupted with a smile. “On the house.” 

“Thank you,” You smiled and happily received the additional drink. You took a sip and it felt yourself relax once again. 

“If you don’t mind me asking, what has you all stressed out?” 

“Oh just the masterpiece I’m supposed to be creating,” You answered with a bit of sarcasm in your voice and gesture to your screen. 

Frankie leaned over to peek at the screen. “You have a good amount so far.” 

“And that’s the problem. I was on a roll but then some writing demon decided to take away my ability to form basic sentences,” You sighed and ran your hand through your hair.  

“I don’t know much about writing. Never did well in English class, but I can tell you if you force something it will break. Maybe come back to it with a fresh mind tomorrow,” Frankie offered. 

You sighed. “I know you’re right, I'm just impatient. I’ve been trying to write this for months now.” 

He chuckled, “I know that feeling, but you might also feel better with some food in you too.” He glanced at the clock then continued. “I close up here soon and my buddies own a bar not too far from here. I can take you there if you want.” He offered rubbing the back of his neck. 

You smiled softly. “I actually would really like that.” 

Frankie smiled. “Then that’s what we shall do. In the meantime, read more of that book of yours. It seems like a good one.” 

You blushed. He noticed you were reading? Frankie was really quite thoughtful. “It is.  It’s got me on the edge of my seat.”

“You’ll have to tell me how it goes,” He says, heading back to his counter. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Frankie was right. Reading more of that book helped with your stress and even gave you an idea for your own book. Before you knew it, Frankie was closing up shop and the two of you walked out into the cool summer air. He quickly locked up the front. Instead of wearing his barista apron, he switched his wardrobe for a worn flannel. 

“The bar is just down this way,” He gestured down the road where you could see a neon sign outside the restaurant. 

“It looks like a cute place,” You mention as you started down the sidewalk. 

“It’s quite the popular bar. They’ve really done a lot with it. Turned it from a almost condemned building to one of the more popular restaurants in town.” Frankie beamed as he talked about his buddies. It was clear he was very proud of what they had accomplished.

You smiled. “That’s amazing to hear.” You took in a deep breath and caught a scent of Frankie’s collonge. He smelled of sandalwood and other earthy tones which you had to admit was one of your favorites. When you reached the door, Frankie held the door open and you thanked him. He really is a gentleman you thought as you entered the establishment. 

The Ironhead Bar was quite the place to be. All sorts of sports games were playing on the screens with plenty of what could only be described as “manly decor” lined the wall. Anything from sports memorabilia to old army collectibles covered the different sections. As if he owned the place Frankie took a seat at the bar and you sat down next to him. Usually bars weren’t your scene, but you felt oddly at home at his establishment. 

A young man wearing a hat almost as worn as Frankie’s hat looked up and smiled a wide smile when he saw you two. “Catfish! Fancy seeing ya here tonight.” he saddled up to the two of you cleaning a glass with a rag. 

“Benny I come here every night,” Frankie rolled his eyes, but smiled. 

“Maybe I should make you start paying your tab,” Benny joked and smacked Frankie lightly on the shoulder. He then looked over at you. “You though are a new face. Frankie, who’s this handsome person?” He asked, gesturing with his thumb. 

“I just so happened to stop by the coffee shop today,” You said looking over at Frankie. “I guess I overstayed my welcome, but Frankie invited me to get dinner with him.” 

That seemed to make Benny smirk. “I see,” He glances between you and Frankie, his smile growing even bigger. 

Frankie rolled his eyes and lightly pushed Benny’s shoulder. “Just get us a couple of Pope burgers and beers.” 

“You got it boss,” Benny winked at you before heading back to the kitchen. 

You couldn’t help but chuckle at the interaction. “I’m guessing you’ve known each other a long time.” 

“You can say that. We’re old army buddies. Once we got out we decided to stick together and open our dream places. He opened this place with his brother, and well you know the coffee shop.”

You smiled softly and leaned your head on your hand. “Ah that’s where the catfish came from,” You said more to yourself. “That's really nice actually. You must really like coffee.” 

Frankie chuckled. “You can say that. You could also say it saved my life.” 

“I feel like there's a story there,” You say as Benny sets your beers down. You didn’t miss it when he gave Frankie an eyebrow wiggle before talking to more customers. 

“There is,” He said, taking a quick sip of his beer. “I’m actually a recovering addict.” Your eyes widened and he held up his hand. “Not beer hermoso. It was cocaine. Got addicted in the army and could never get over it. It wasn’t until Will, Benny’s brother, knocked some sense into me. We found out that coffee was a good substitute for the way I felt high, and well here I am. Five years clean.” 

You smile softly. “That’s really amazing.” 

Frankie blushed and took another sip. “Thank you. It was a hard journey, but it helps when you have friends as loyal as them.” 

“I second that. I wouldn’t be where I am without my best friend either,” You smiling thinking about all the times your friends saved you. 

“What brings you to our neck of the woods?” Frankie asked before taking another sip of his beer.

“I was planning on taking a vacation to work on my book, but um,” You chuckled a little sad. “I found my husband cheating on me so this vacation became the ‘write and not thinking about the divorce’ vacation. Sorry I didn’t mean to that deep.” 

Frankie’s eyes were sympathetic. “I get it. I’m divorced too.” 

Your eyes were caring in return. He sighed “Took the kid in the middle of the night and I haven’t heard from them since. But I think it’s for the better.” 

“Most of the time it usually is, but it's that mountain of emotions that you have to drill through first.” 

Frankie raised his glass to you. “I’ll drink to that,” He said and you brought your own glass to clink with him. You both took another sip and set your glasses down. 

Benny returned with two red plastic food trays and set them down in front of you. “Two Pope burgers on the house for Frankie and the lovely fella.” 

Frankie rolled his eyes and thanked him. Benny patted his shoulder again and continued making drinks. You grabbed the big burger with all the workings and carefully took a bite. You moaned at the taste. “Damn that’s a great burger.” 

Frankie moaned in agreement. His face was as messy as your spots of ketchup dotting his salt and pepper beard. You chuckled and handed him a napkin. He blushed and took it from you using it to wipe up the mess. 

You swallowed your bit. “Don’t worry. I bet my face doesn’t look much better.” 

“I think your face looks handsome,” Frankie semi blurted and blushed. 

You giggled and took a sip of your beer. “Is that so?” You tease. 

Frankie cleared his throat. “So um how long are you on this writing vacation?” 

“About a week. That should hopefully give me enough time to write what I want. And -now that I have a comfy place to work- I should definitely finish this book on time.” 

“Well you have a table whenever you want,” Frankie blushed. 

You pick up your glass. “I’m definitely taking you up on that offer.” Frankie raises his glass to you, giving it a small clink. You had a feeling that this was the start of something really nice.

-------

Pedro Characters Only Taglist

@littlemisspascal @burntheedges

[thewhitewitch-bitch]

In Astris Supra (Chapter 4: Ardeat et Coire Cum Vera et Gloria Tua Erit)

Agatha Harkness x F!OC

Read it on AO3

March 1693

I should have known this day would come, though in truth, I almost preferred the not knowing. It allowed me nearly two full years with her, blissful and beautiful despite the challenges that arose from it. After that night when Agatha came to me bruised and vulnerable, we came to the consensus that only when the moon was at its peak and its pit would see seek me out. On those nights, we attempted to break through the barrier that divided her conscious mind and the wild form of her magic. But whether it was her reluctance to embrace the magic she possessed, or her fear that she would erupt in a deadly display of raw power, she struggled to cross the threshold into true control.

I couldn't blame her for it; most witches couldn't truly master self-control without decades or even centuries of careful, meticulous training, and that was with a coven that was willing to teach them. My knowledge of the art was barely a fraction of the knowledge that existed, I didn't have the benefit of a coven or even a mother to pass such knowledge down to me. I gave Agatha all that I had to offer. 

But it wasn't enough. 

All the while, my suspicion that the song in my heart would grow louder and louder until it was too much to bear became a proven fact. I couldn't tell exactly when it was that I realized that I loved her. It could have been any given day, even a day when she wasn't there. On those days in particular, when her presence was most desired, I had resorted to burying myself in the advancement of healing magic in an attempt to drown out the silence that surrounded me.

On one particularly warm, spring night, Agatha gifted me a copy of Medicinae Magicae that she had 'found' amongst her mother's old, untouched stacks. I had since decorated every page with scribbled notes and edits throughout its formerly pristine pages. Notes on adjustments to dosage and ideal casting times littered the pages, interwoven between the printed lines like threads in a blanket. The intricately detailed sketches of plants and anatomical structures were fascinating to study, their artistry refined from centuries of practice. The studying of benefits and detriments associated with healing magic and the influence of the lunar cycle became an enjoyable pastime to fill the void that was left behind when Agatha departed. 

But it wasn't enough. 

Evanora Harkness became increasingly suspicious of me as Agatha and I carried on with our secret society of study. Though she never once came to confront me, I could sense the encroaching presence of her coven around my camp. All of them, every last witch in her charge had their sights set upon me. In the end, it wasn't my teaching, nor my companionship that altered the course of the Salemites, but their own fear and hubris. Ultimately, their end was brought down upon them like the heavy strike of a hammer at the forge, though they had refused to see it as such right 'til the very end.

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

On the sixth day of March in the year 1693, I awaited the arrival of Agatha to begin our session beneath a dark sky. No moon would shine that night, and as such my power and my own physical form felt fragile and exposed. Even the runes that defined my protection spell seemed to waver as the black ink sky overhead cast the world in complete and utter darkness. It was a fitting exposition for what would come to pass that night and a grim shadow casting itself upon what would arise in the aftermath. 

The air was still that night, almost disgustingly so. By the gentle glow of the fire in front of me, I was able to make out the faintest silhouettes of the trees closest to my hidden circle, though incapable of discerning what lay beyond it. The cracking of an occasional twig, the rustle of leaves just out of sight, I found myself jumping at each and every sound that reached my ears.

Something wasn't right.

I could feel a shift in my very soul, as if the world was about to be turned on its head. But it wasn't until I saw the faint orange glow far off to the south, nearer to the edge of the wood. The distant sound of shouts and jeers barely reached me, though in the recent weeks, such a sound was not unusual. The mortals of Salem had finally reached the pinnacle of pure hatred, according to Agatha. Mortals accusing mortals of witchcraft, burning each other at the stake over the false words of children who thought it a funny game, it was despicable. 

But then the orange glow of flame shifted to vibrant blue before returning to its original state. I realized then that it was not mortals on the rampage, but the Salemite coven. My encampment was abandoned in an instant, traded for the dark void of the forest. As I ran past toward the source of light, I created some of my own with what little power I had reserved, a gentle white orb that floated just above my hand as I navigated felled logs and hanging branches. I ignored the sting of scrapes as I ran past thorn bushes and brambles, my feet carrying me faster and faster toward whatever waited at the forest's edge. They came to a halt just before the tree line ended, as did my heart.

Evanora Harkness was stood before a pyre, the hood of her cloak drawn back as the rest of her coven formed a circle around her. Flaming torches lit the ring in an ominous glow casting shadows in an odd light across the ground and obscuring the faces of every witch in the circle.

Except for one. 

There was a woman tied to the pyre, bound with rope and unable to move, fear present in her eyes. Her pristine, blue eyes. 

"No." I whispered, afraid that speaking any louder would draw unwanted attention. Agatha was the one tied to the pyre, looking down at her mother in desperation as the older witch met her gaze with disdain. I snuffed the light in my palm and dared to creep closer, hoping to pick up on whatever exchange of words would come from this heinous act. 

Agatha struggled against the ropes, her hair mussed and wild as she tried to desperately break free to no avail. Evanora took a step toward her daughter, the sour expression on her face more than obvious. My eyes locked onto the older witch as she began to speak. Her tone was macabre as though she were announcing the death of the King himself. She might as well have. 

"Agatha Harkness," she said clear and crisp, "are you a witch?" 

Agatha paused her struggling to answer her mother's question with a wary glance, "Yes... I am a witch." 

"Yet you have betrayed your coven." 

"I have not!" Agatha argued, but it was no use. Evanora raised a hand to silence her.

"You have stolen knowledge above your age and station. You have sought out knowledge from an enemy and refused to obey the orders of your superiors. You practice the darkest of magic."

"Damn it." I muttered to myself, shaking my head to fight the tears that were starting to form. This was my fault. I had allowed my own desires to put her at risk and for what? To encourage her to be unafraid of her power? To have even the most minute possibility of love in my life for the first time, even if it was fleeting? Look at what that had gotten her; tied to a stake, about to be burned by those who should have nurtured and loved her most. 

"I know..." Agatha paused, her eyes scanning the coven rapidly before they shifted up to the tree line for some means of escape, until at last they came to a stop. She had seen me, watching from the border of the forest, and in her eyes I saw true fear, the type of fear that grows only from the realization that your time is truly running out, that there was going to be an end to your story. She lingered on me for only a second before turning back to her mother, finding her voice once more. "I know nothing of these crimes! I- I swear it!"

"Enough deception!" snapped Evanora. Her words fell heavy from her mouth, but I could see that Agatha had begun to brace against her binds, that she was preparing herself for what was to come. 

"I did not break your rules," she explained, "they simply bent to my power." 

Her coven ignored her, beginning the ritualistic chant of what sounded like a banishment spell, or maybe even a killing curse. I started to creep closer, seeing that the Salemites were solely focused on Agatha now. 

"No! I cannot control it! I-" she paused again, her chest rising and falling in desperate, heavy pants, "If only you would teach me!" 

The chanting grew louder and louder, the swelling of power around them growing along with it. Agatha began to plead for help, looking for anyone amongst her coven that would offer her aid. 

"Please! Help me!" 

No help came from them as her eyes flew back to mine. My heart pounded in my chest. Her eyes begged me silently to do something, anything, to save her. But my power was limited beneath the dark moon, I wouldn't be able to stop them. 

"Please, Mother!" she cried, focusing back on Evanora, tears streaming down her cheeks, "Please! I can be good!"

Her mother's eyes darkened, the scowl on her face grew even sharper. I didn't believe it was possible for a woman to look so cruel. She shook her head slowly and replied, "No, you cannot." 

She joined in the chant, swirls of blue magic dancing off the fingertips of every witch in the coven. I couldn't stop them. Tears were flowing down my face now as I tried to get to Agatha, but I wasn't quick enough to cross the clearing. Beams of bright blue power came from each direction striking Agatha from every angle. I skidded to a halt, cemented to the ground, watching as everything seemed to happen in slow motion.

Agatha screamed in pain as the magic began to course through her veins, never having experienced the brunt of pure power like this before. But after a moment, the pained expression on her face began to melt away, the rigidity of her body seemed to shift to relaxation. The magic's color seemed to reverse in on itself, changing from blue to purple, the same color that Agatha's magic expressed itself as. The longer I watched, the more I realized that while the coven's magic had originally been blasted at her, the power, the very essence of their magic was being absorbed into her.

A few others seemed to notice this as well and tried to pull away, tried to break the connection, but they found that they were caught by some invisible snare. Agatha had hold of them like horses hitched to the plow, taking not only their power, but their very essence of life.

Agatha's cries were replaced by the cries of her coven, the cries of her mother. My haze suddenly faded as I came to the conclusion that, without interference, Agatha would kill each and every one of them. I started to run toward her, my heart racing. 

"Agatha, stop! Let them go!" I screamed, trying to reach her before it was too late. But the spread of her magic was too quick, reaching back toward the witches around her like spokes on a wheel before severing the connection entirely in a burst of violet energy. The sudden surge of strength that had passed into Agatha, allowed her to break free of her ropes with a simple raise of her hands, a near euphoric look on her face as she let a few heavy breaths. Around her, every witch in her coven crumpled to the earth, their skin gray and shriveled, like mummified corpses, expressions of terror on each of their faces, even Evanora's. 

I hesitated at the edge of the ring of bodies, looking around at them in shock. I ran a hand over my hair as I took in the sight before me, breathing out the words, "Oh, darling, what have you done?"

With a sort of swagger to her step, Agatha sauntered down off the pyre, an empowered look in her eyes as she knelt before her mother and plucked a brooch off of her cloak and snapped it to her own dress. 

"Do you realize what you've done?" I asked her, my voice strained. "Do you realize that if you go down this path, I cannot help you?"

For a fraction of a second, I thought I saw sadness flash in her crystal blue gaze, but it was quickly replaced by a lust, not for love or reconciliation, but for power.

"I know." she answered, though her tone was quiet. 

I shook my head, wiping fresh tears off my cheeks before looking back at her, "I told you that the choice wouldn't be easy, darling. It seems you've chosen the path of least resistance." 

"No, dear. I believe that it's chosen me." 

I took a final look at the ring of dead witches, then back to the woman that I had fallen for. Curses be to the Divine Mother, I could not stop myself from loving her still. Her path had been laid before her, and for now, at least, that path diverged from mine. 

"I'm leaving this place." I told her, turning northward to avoid meeting her eye again, "I'm limited here. My research requires me to seek the aid of others well-versed in healing magic."

"So, that's it then?" Agatha asked me incredulously, "What we have is over?"

I squeezed my eyes tightly shut. My hands clenched into fists. I could never let her go. With a halfway glance over my shoulder, I shook my head slowly. 

"I believe our paths will cross again, Agatha. But when that day comes, will you be the same as you once were?"

"Will you?"

I chuckled under my breath, hiding the pain in my chest behind an entertained smirk, "I suppose we'll have to wait and see." 

And I walked away, allowing the tears to fully stream down my face when I was far enough from her that she wouldn't hear my broken sobs. Returning quickly to my camp, I collected my books, removed my protective runes, and extinguished the fire, leaving all other worldly possessions behind as a decaying monument to the past.