#this occurred to me in the wake of a horrible physics final

[the-algebra-thing]

step up to the plate, start swinging

[flanaganfilm]

You have spoken about dealing with addiction in the past (congratulations on your sobriety, btw), and Hill House, Midnight Mass, Doctor Sleep, etc, all feature characters struggling with addiction. Do you find a sort of catharsis in writing those characters and their storylines, and do you find that having gone through that affects how you write those characters and their stories? p.s. if the question is too personal, I apologize. You are, of course, free to ignore it.

Happy to talk about it. I was writing about addiction long before I admitted having a problem. Looking all the way back to my student films, many years before Absentia, I can see myself starting to pick it apart. The fact is I was a really shitty drunk. I was absolutely a problem drinker. It was always that way, going back to school - I was never able to handle it, and there were times throughout my life starting very young when that thought would occur to me, and I'd get scared, and then I'd convince myself I was being dramatic and that I had no problem whatsoever.

The truth is that I didn't have an OFF switch, I was inclined to hide my drinking, and the older I got the more self-destructive I became when I was under the influence.

But I was also very committed to the belief that I could handle it, and that I didn't have an actual problem, so for years I'd coast by, telling myself whatever issues I may have had weren't so serious. "Nine times out of ten, I'm just fine - I'm the life of the party," I'd think. I wasn't, though, and soon enough it was 50/50 whether I'd have to make apologetic phone calls on a given hungover morning. And those stretches where'd I'd really let go and drink hard, the person who emerged was less and less like me. It got to the point I didn't recognize him at all - there was this stranger who lived inside, and if he got out, he was could destroy everything I held dear, and he didn't give two shits about it. Looking back at the last decade of my work with the perspective I have now, I can see an escalating subconscious urgency in the way I was talking about alcoholism and addiction. My 2003 student feature Ghosts of Hamilton Street features a wanna-be writer with a horribly self-destructive alcohol problem. The people in his life begin to physically disappear, and the world around him resets as though they never existed at all, so he's the only who notices. I was 25 years old when I made that movie, and looking at it now, the addiction issues are a huge blinking red light all over the movie. At the time, I thought it was just interesting context for the character.

I wrote the opening scene of Midnight Mass (which features Riley Flynn waking up from a blackout drunk driving session to find that he's killed someone) all the way back in 2010, eight years before I finally sobered up. That was always something I was absolutely terrified of - not that I'd die because of my drinking, but that I'd kill someone else and live with the consequences. That was probably my biggest fear for most of my life, if I'm honest. And there were mornings I'd wake up at home and wonder how the hell I'd driven myself there the night before. I remember those mornings with a stomach-turning degree of terror and shame.

It was always somewhat cathartic to write about characters with addiction issues. There's a long stretch between Absentia and Hill House where it appears that I'm not dealing with those themes in my work (though I'd argue there's a subtle addiction meditation at play in Before I Wake that I've only recently noticed), but I was also secretly working on Midnight Mass that entire time, and just pouring all of my thoughts and anxieties about alcoholism into that story. So while Oculus, Hush, Ouija: OOE, and Gerald's Game don't seem to dwell much on addiction, that's really because I was spending my nights pouring all of that into the pages of Midnight Mass, which existed alternately as a novel, a screenplay, and then a series during those years.

Working on Doctor Sleep is what brought it all to the surface for me. Stephen King's novel deals thoroughly with the theme of recovery (The Shining is about destruction of addiction, and Doctor Sleep is about the journey and reality of recovery), and a lot of people in my cast were sober. It was while we were shooting that film that I realized I needed to make a seismic change in my life.

My wife will say that reading the scene in Doctor Sleep where Dan sits at the Gold Room bar in the Overlook was when she knew I was reaching a critical moment. That scene isn't in King's book, and my first draft of that conversation between Dan and Jack was almost fifteen pages long. It's basically a prolonged argument between the addictive and sober voices in my mind, and writing that scene shook something loose in me. I stopped drinking just a few days before we filmed that scene for that movie, and I haven't had a drop since.

But for catharsis, Midnight Mass truly is the most personal piece of work I've ever made. Riley is a very thinly disguised avatar of myself. I look at that series and I see several distinct versions of myself in conversation with each other over more than a decade. I'm glad it took so long to get that show made, because if I'd made it in 2016 like I wanted to, I wouldn't have done a good job - there is no way I could have told that story until I was finally sober. If you listen closely to the AA meeting scenes between Riley and Father Paul throughout the series, you're basically looking directly into my conflicted brain over many, many years.

This year is my fifth year sober, and I spend my days happy, busy, and so grateful that I was able to make those changes before my drinking destroyed my career, my marriage, and my life. I was lucky. I am lucky. But since I finished Midnight Mass, I haven't felt that pull when I'm writing. I haven't felt those themes elbowing their way into my work. That part of me is still in here (it always will be), but I feel like I was somehow able, over many years, to coax it to sleep. I'm sure I'll return to those themes over the years, as I hope to learn more about myself and have more to say... but for now, those voices are peaceful and quiet. I have projects on the horizon that will touch on some of those things (if I'm able to make The Dark Tower, there's some wonderful elements with Eddie's addiction issues that I look forward to exploring) but it feels different.

One of the things I hold onto when I look back at that time is the hope that the work can be helpful to someone else who may struggle in a similar way. And talking to fans, I've heard here and there that it has, and that means the world to me. I think storytellers can't help but use their stories as a mirror, it's one of the ways we take ourselves apart, look at the pieces, and put them back. It's one of the only ways we can see ourselves clearly.

Sometimes we don't even realize we're doing it. It's only looking back that we can see ourselves, and our work, with any real clarity.

[miscellaneoussmp]

I'm so normal, I am so normal, I am normal about Bad and Cellbit, I swear! They live in my brain rent-free. Anyway, here's Bad helping Cellbit get some rest in the same way he used to (cw/tw: implied/referenced violence, implied mental health issues):

"Cellbit." The voice was deep and powerful, horribly familiar. It's never spoken his name before. It didn't know his name before. That is new. Cellbit freezing in place is not. The terror of the faceless worker he's standing over is not new either. He tightens the grip on his knife. "C'mon, step away. It isn't worth it." The voice continues. Cellbit knows he doesn't have to listen. The voice doesn't know him anymore. There's a part of him that screams to turn around and face the voice. That part wins out. His breath hitches as he turns around. There stands Bad, face unreadable. Cellbit's heart rate impossibly increases. He feels small, again. He hates it. He wants to turn around and finish the job. It's not worth it, the part of him that's still winning echoes.

Bad turns around, and Cellbit immediately goes to follow. He hates feeling weak like this. He's small and weak again, and Cellbit hates it. Deeply and truly. He wants to stop following the demon. His mentor, the part of him that is making him follow corrects. "I was doing what you taught me to do." Hissed arguments are all Cellbit has, really. Bad's always been physically stronger. "I didn't teach to be reckless, did I?" Bad, the demon, the voice, his mentor hisses back. Oh, and suddenly? Cellbit young again, being pulled back from a fight by the collar of his jacket. It isn't worth it. Stop being reckless. The nails of his free hand dig into his palm. Cellbit knows he doesn't have to listen. He didn't have to back then, either. He continues to follow. He continued to follow back then, too. It's just blind nostalgia, Cellbit tells himself.

It finally occurs to Cellbit that he wasn't exactly sure where they were going. He should have been paying more attention. What if something- His thoughts are cut off by Bad stopping in the middle of a seemingly untouched forest. He can see buildings not too far off. They weren't separated from civilization, but they were far enough way for it not to matter. He didn't catch it the first time, but Bad was asking if he had a sleeping bag or bed with him. Cellbit doesn't. The sleeping bag he was currently using is hidden in an unground office. Bad lays one out on the ground. "Cellbit," the voice knows his name now. It's terrifying and oddly comforting in only the way the familiar can be. "It's getting dark. You should rest first." There's a softer egde to the voice now. Cellbit doesn't know how it took it him this long to realize what Bad was doing. Honestly, though, he's exhausted. Cellbit lays down, but he keeps the grip on his knife.

When Cellbit wakes up, he's alone. He feels oddly refreshed for sleeping on the dirt. It didn't take that long for him to notice a backpack left near him. Of course, Cellbit goes through it. The backpack was mostly filled with food, and there was a note from Bad. The note was apologetic in tone. Bad had been surprised his idea even worked, but he was apologizing for the fact that it had. The note ended mentioning golden apples left in the bag. Cellbit found one and took a bite. It's as sweet as it always has been.

[raichett]

what a wicked thing to do

AU where Third Life was nothing but a dream, and none of the people in it were ever real - except Grian, the dreamer. Can also be found on AO3 here.

1. Grian wakes up. He’s not expecting to.

He’s in a hospital bed - white walls, beeping, a bit chilly - it’s unmistakeable. There’s a woman by his side: Pearl. 

That’s my sister, he thinks, numbly. He’d forgotten he had a sister. He’d forgotten what a hospital was, and most of the machines that he now recognises.

He forgot a lot. And what he remembers is tainted with blood and sand.

2. “You’ve been in a comatose state for the last eight weeks, Miss Griande,” the nurse tells him, using his deadname but since he’s not out publicly he lets it slide. It also shakes him a bit: no one there called him anything but ‘Grian’. 

“Eight weeks,” he repeats, numb. His voice is too high, too breathy, even though it’s strained with lack of use. It feels wrong. It doesn’t sound like how he thinks he should sound, how he’s used to sounding.

“There was an incident with the lighting equipment,” Pearl tells him gently. “It crashed down on the stage while you were on tour - no one died, but several were badly hurt, including you. Your agent has already hired lawyers - they’re suing, but don’t worry about any of that, it’s all in hand.”

Grian looks at her, feeling overwhelmed. I died, he thinks. Three times. 

“I’m glad you’re awake,” Pearl says, happy tears at the corners of her eyes. 

Grian, suddenly, horribly, wishes he weren’t.

3. Grian goes home with Pearl after a few days. He struggles to sleep through the night; Scar isn’t there to hold him. His bed is too empty, the place by his side too quiet, and - 

Scar’s dead. Grian killed him. But Scar wasn’t ever alive in the first place, and now it’s all tangled in Grian’s head.

“Who’s Scar?” Pearl asks him one morning as they sit at the breakfast table. Grian’s still struggling to eat, and not all of it can be put down to having been on a liquid diet for the last few weeks.

Grian freezes.

“He was...” Grian struggles to say it. How does one describe Scar? The man was larger than life, despite not owning one. (Or despite owning three, and losing all of them.) “From my dream,” he settles on. 

“From your coma?”

“... Yeah.”

4. The fans are clamouring for his attention since it was announced that he awoke from his coma. Grian can hardly look at Twitter, at the constant begging for some sign of life from Ariana’s personal account. There’s an official one, run by his team, but it’s the personal Twitter and Instagram that people are spamming. He doesn’t think he can stand the thought of opening his inbox.

No one wanted him this badly there. Except Scar, perhaps, but even Jimmy and Scott - both gone the same way as Scar, disappearing into nothingness, existing only in warped memory of fragile dreams now awoken from - hadn’t been so attached that they hung on his every word.

Finally, Grian types out, Physical therapy isn’t very fun but I’m doing well everyone! Please be patient with me xxx and posts it. On his Ariana Griande Instagram, he posts a selfie of himself in front of a window, smiling cutely and holding two fingers up in a victory sign.

Most of the fans gobble it up, but Grian, scrolling through the comments like he knows he’s not supposed to if he wants to keep his sanity, sees a few people noting that he looks thin, pale, not himself. They’re worried, and probably right to be.

I don’t feel like myself, Grian thinks. I feel like someone else.

What is the space between who you were and who you have become? When did the transformation occur? Or can you only come out the other side and say that you survived? If you did, of course. Survive, that is.

5. “I want him, I want Scar,” Grian cries into Pearl’s neck as they sit on the bed, Pearl embracing him tightly after another nightmare of the desert and the cactus ring and the cliff of Monopoly Mountain. “I want him back.”

“I’m sorry,” Pearl says, helplessly. Tears wet her pyjama top collar as she holds her brother close, his limbs still weak as he recovers from their atrophy, nowhere near ready to take to the stage again yet. “He’s not - Scar’s not here. He can’t be here. I’m sorry.”

“He was mine,” Grian chokes out. “He was mine and I killed him!”

“Grian,” Pearl says, trying to be gentle, trying to find the right words, but the right words don’t exist, “he wasn’t real. He wasn’t ever real.”

“But I loved him,” Grian whispers, broken and small. He looks up at Pearl desperately, begging his sister to try and understand. She won’t. “Pearl, please, I didn’t - it’s not - but I - I loved - ”

“Gri...”

“But I loved him...”

[reviewsthatburn]

*This essay excerpt contains minor spoilers for Babylon 5 (S3 E4 "Passing Through Gethsemane"). 

The full essay (at this link) also contains moderate spoilers for the first sixteen October Daye books by Seanan McGuire, with major spoilers for SLEEP NO MORE and THE INNOCENT SLEEP.

INTRO

When reading SLEEP NO MORE and THE INNOCENT SLEEP by Seanan McGuire (the newest October Daye books), I was struck by similarities in the ethical framework of these two books and certain aspects of the 1990's sci-fi show Babylon 5, particularly the way that changes in personality or memories are treated with relation to assumptions of personhood. I am certain that Seanan McGuire is also very familiar with Babylon 5 because one of her telepathic characters in the Incryptid series uses specific aspects of Babylon 5 as a framework for ethical telepathy. 

THE DEATH OF PERSONALITY IN BABYLON 5

In Babylon 5, set in the late 2250's and early 2260's at a time when capital punishment is not in use by EarthGov, some criminals are sentenced to "the death of personality". In this punishment, a telepath takes the mind of the condemned and strips everything away, reworking and rebuilding them until a completely different person inhabits the body. They have killed the previous personality by overwriting them with a new one (hence the name). Whether this stays shy of murder is something the show grapples with on several occasions. There are two parts to this: did someone die, and was that death a murder? I tend to use the definition that murder is killing which is not sanctioned by the relevant ethical/moral framework. When the life of a body is ended, there’s often little debate over whether a death has occurred, but room for much ambiguity over whether that death was murder. In the case of the death of personality, there’s also room for debate over whether anyone died at all.

Outside of this punishment, there are several other instances where someone's personality is manipulated or rewritten against their will. It is, stripped of context, often thought to be kinder than murder of the body as well as the mind. However, by its very nature, if it's successful then the prior person is gone, utterly and completely. In at least one instance where the previous person could be partially recalled, the results were horrifying in their own way. The episode “Passing Through Gethsemane” involves a monk who begins having horrible dreams of death, and is threatened with violence in his waking hours. Towards the end of the episode, he is kidnapped and tortured. At this point it’s revealed that his previous personality was that of a serial killer, and his kidnappers are relatives of the victims. He dies (mentally and physically) as a result of his injuries, and his kidnappers/torturers are sentenced for his murder. The end of the episode shows the lead kidnapper after undergoing the death of personality himself. The new person is being sent far away, to live a life of service far from those who were harmed by the previous personality. It sets up a kind of horror in the final moments of the episode, as the circumstances which lead to the other monk’s torture seem to be now set up to potentially repeat. In the greater context of the show, it reinforces the concept that personalities can be changed or overwritten, but that each personality is treated as a new entity with their own moral history and responsibility. 

The key for me is that the loss of a previous personality is recognized, specifically, as a death in terms of punishment but not necessarily in terms of the law and the conscience of the telepath/executioner. There’s some ambiguity in the way that the new personality is sentenced to a life of service for something they didn’t do, rather than a judicial model focused on punishment long after the crime. Those who want to believe the person was punished can (hopefully) rest easy that the personality who committed some terrible crime is gone forever. Those who want to say that the executioners didn't actually kill anyone can point to the body who walks away to live a new life in a new place, with (hopefully) nothing to trigger the old memories. It allows for a social and legal fiction existing in a delicate balance, a kind of Schrödinger's murder where everyone has agreed not to look too closely at the same moment. 

Full Post at Link

[armatuspoeta]

~Redamancy~

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- // This story follows Detective Emily Walker, a gifted police officer who has close ties with Lieutenant Jim Gordon and a tragic past. She goes with Gordon to investigate the crime scene and murder of Mayor Don Mitchell Junior, however things soon become much bigger than she ever thought, and her life will never be the same. Romance, tragedy, heartache, and all the many wonders and misfortunes of life ensue on her determination-fueled mission to apprehend the Riddler and uncover the truth of Gotham side by side with Gordon and the infamous Batman. [Emily is an established character; however, I left many aspects about her (like her physical appearance) purposely vague. I want the reader to be able to walk in her shoes... like a middle ground between a y/n fic and an oc one.] ```````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````

Tw: Violence, mild depictions of gore, murder, other mature themes, cussing ``` Word Count: 13,924 ~~~ A/n: Wow, this took a lot longer than I expected, lol.  But here it is, the first chapter finally finished! With that being said, this is my first fanfic, so any feedback is welcome! There might also be some spelling errors in here, so I’m sorry in advance :}

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                             [Chapter One: The Bad Beginning]        

                                                             A scream. A horrid pierce through the night. It woke me up instantly, like a splash of cold water. My blood felt like ice, pounding almost painfully with each thump of my heart.  I couldn't move my wide-open gaze from the ceiling. Fear sunk its claws deep into my flesh. I couldn't move, not even as pained gasps came from down the hallway. There was a wet choking noise. Sputtering. Labored breathing… a thud. I couldn't move, even now as there was only an eerie silence. My chest rose and fell with a shallow rhythm and my hands gripped onto the blanket with white knuckles. An attempt to break from my spell of hesitation. It didn’t work. Quick footsteps began to come from my parents’ bedroom. They got closer, louder, and I felt my body begin to tremble violently with the promise of a horrible painful fate. But the noise carried past my bedroom door. They hurried down the stairs until they were eventually out of earshot. The front door slammed. Suddenly the claws were ripped away, gone with the footsteps. However, they were replaced with a different terror, a horrible urgency in the aftermath of the dark deed that must have occurred.  The aftermath of my cowardice.  In one swift motion, like a much more confident and braver version of myself, I threw the blanket from my body and ran down the hallway towards my parent’s bedroom. Moonlight spilled through the gap of the door, not fully closed in a rush to flee. With my heart in my throat like a steadily pounding drum, I placed my shaking palm against the wood of the door. I paused to gather courage. To mentally prepare myself as much as I could. ”..Mom?...Dad?...” I pushed it open the rest of the way. I had never seen so much blood.                                                              ~ I wake with a start, my eyes wide and my breathing fast. My heart beats against my ribcage like a caged animal.  I look down at the table I’m mostly slumped over, my brow furrowed with a mix of confusion and terror. The typical aftermath of that nightmare. My spiral notebook lay open in front of me, the one I use for work. Messily written notes take up about half the page, detailing my findings and other important information. Scattered around the table is an assortment of papers, photographs, and statements, all belonging to a case I’m working on about a simple home robbery. I look in front of me to see my laptop open in the middle of the table.  The screen is black. I reach for the laptop to confirm my suspicions about the battery being dead but am instantly met with a nasty stinging sensation.  On the underside of my forearm, there’s a big red indent on my skin from where the thin metal spiral holding all the pages together dug into it during my unplanned slumber. Momentarily distracted by the discovery, I raise my left arm off the edge of the pages.  How did I manage to fall asleep on top of the worst parts of the notebook? I gingerly let my arm rest on the tabletop and then reach for my laptop with my right. A quick smack on the spacebar lets me know that the battery is in fact dead. Damnit. I can’t keep doing this.  I can’t keep pushing myself this far, ignoring myself this much for the sake of others, for my job. But how can I stop? The precinct is overworked enough as it is, and as much as I would love to forget, these cases aren’t just a job. They’re people. Living, breathing, and hurting... but sometimes... Sometimes I wonder if it’s even worth it. If I’m even making anything better.  I became a detective to help this city, to do the best I could to make sure that no one would have to go through what I did, So that I could do my best to let people live happy and peaceful lives, to be a light in the darkness. An agitated sigh escapes my lungs as I place my hands to my forehead.  The old kitchen chair groans as I lean back against the uncomfortable wooden backing. I’m working myself to nothing and I’d be lying if I said that my cause was selfless. In all honesty, it helps me forget my own troubles. Solving the mystery, giving people closure and helping them move forward with their lives... it distracts me from the deafening silence I come home to. Temporarily satiates the vicious monster that my grandmother had carefully sewn into every aspect of my existence. The words that I eventually began telling myself.  This is the only way I’m worth anything... But time and time again, it’s never enough, the beast is never satisfied. I am never enough. Still, I keep trying, keep forcing every aspect of myself into my job, pouring all of my life into my foolish hope of healing whatever I can get my hands on. I’m getting tired. I know that I can’t keep this up forever... I can’t keep running this marathon, and the finish line will never stop moving. When I take down one operation, there’s always another. When I’ve solved one case, there’s always a new file on my desk.  The underbelly doesn’t sleep, and in that regard neither can I. Gordon sees it, I know he does.  He’s been a light in my life ever since that night when he pulled me away from my mother’s body.  I know he knew my parents, even though he was a good bit younger than them when they were all working in the same precinct. Maybe that’s part of the reason he stayed in contact after that night, always made sure I had what I needed and more.  He tries to talk to me about it sometimes, tries to convince me to take a break.  As much as I want to, I can’t. I’ll be left in my head, left with my fear and finish line getting even farther. Even if it kills me, I have to keep running.  I take in a deep breath before I let it out again. I need to stop thinking about this and get on with my day. With a newly established sense of vigor, I grab my glasses from beside my notebook and put them on. The lenses are a bit smudged from my half-asleep struggle to get them off my face, but I ignore it for now. I need some caffeine and some grounding. Pushing up from the old kitchen chair, I make my way to the kitchen. My bare feet catch the chill of the cold linoleum tile, classic shitty apartment off-white and a bane of my existence during the colder seasons.  Though, I like most of the other aspects of the space.  The walls are painted a calm yellow and my small square table is pushed against the left wall. Matching yellow chairs are pushed in and a modest house plant acts as a centerpiece. I’m not really sure what kind it is, but Gordon got it for me as a housewarming gift when I first moved in after I finished college.  It must be very resilient or need very little care because I always forget to water it... honestly, it’s a miracle it’s still alive and still green.  Tea. Right. Newly re-focused, I go up to my white cupboards and stand on my tip toes to open it and pull out my favorite mug. At this point, the routine is easy, and my body goes through it on autopilot. Fill the kettle with water. Put it on the mount. Press the button. Grab the package of tea. Take the bag out. Put it in the mug. Most of my coworkers prefer coffee and while I do sometimes partake in a good cup of joe, I just like tea better. It’s easier to drink for some reason. I tried to get more into coffee before, when I was just a rookie cop trying to fit in. It didn’t really work. I still can’t seem to find my place there. Even though I made Gotham history with how fast I was promoted; I work hard, and I can’t even count how many cases I’ve solved... it’s still the same.  Though, maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I don’t set aside time for friendships and maybe my tunnel vision gets too consuming.  But I can’t stop it, everything I’ve tried doesn’t work.  I’m stuck in this endless loop of filling a forever emptying cup, drying a waterfall with paper towels.  The kettle beeps, high pitched and ear piercing. The water’s ready. Once again, I shift my focus to starting my day. I pour the water into the mug before setting the kettle back on the mount. Steam fills the October air, and the water begins to stain with swirls of green. Cup in hand, I continue the routine and go to stand by the window. It’s about four and a half feet tall and two feet wide, nice to look out of but otherwise not much to write home about. The wooden edges were painted messily and it’s chipping a bit from how long ago it must’ve been. It’s my favorite window in my apartment. The reason doesn’t even really have anything to do with the design itself, but rather it’s functionality.  I can get to the fire escape through it.  On clear nights, nothing is more soothing than sitting on the cold metal with a blanket and looking up at the stars or watching Gotham’s sleepless routines.  I often think about someone I really like and trust sitting up there with me, sharing in the serenity... but that’s all it ever is. Thoughts. I don’t have time for romance. On the horizon, golden sunlight is cresting over the dark buildings, painting the sky with various shades of pink. A contrast to the greys and blacks of nearly every building in this part of Gotham. The warm morning glow brightens the town, making the darkness retreat like hissing vampires. There doesn’t seem to be a lot of clouds right now... maybe it’s gonna be sunny today.  A faint honk from the street below catches my attention. A taxi angry at a person on a motorcycle for going before them, even though it didn’t even really seem like the taxi had the right of way. Though, seeing the biker in question brings a small smile to my face. They drive off into the distance until they’re little more than a blurry dot. I know that it’s a bit weird to smile at strangers who have no idea that you exist, but this person passes by here almost every day, almost always near dawn, and they always wear the same grey jacket, dark green helmet, and tan backpack. After seeing their commute so many times, I can’t help but think about who they are and find comfort in the familiarity. What kind of a life do they have? Are they going to or coming home from work? Do they have a family? Who are they? It’s funny how two separate routines lining up just right can make a complete stranger start to feel like a distant friend. Though, I know that my amicable affections are one sided. I take a sip of my tea and resume my quiet observations of this town. This city, where I lived since I was born, where my parents started their life together. Gotham is a cesspool in many regards, but there’s still good. I see it every day. Humble families doing what they can to scrape by, neighborhoods and communities helping each other during times of crises, seats given up on the subway to someone who needs it more. The sun is still there when it’s covered by clouds. Kindness and empathy still exist even when overshadowed by darkness. Even if it feels hopeless, even if I can never stop running... I won’t give up on Gotham. I can’t give up on Gotham.                                                        

                                                         ~

The rain pummels against the asphalt, batters against the metal roof. It was not and still isn’t sunny today. Warm air is blowing from the heater vents of Gordon’s unmarked station car and it’s a saving grace in this harsh weather. I’m sat in the passenger seat wearing my work clothes. A white tucked in button up, my shoulder holster, a black tie, my very professional black jeans with my golden detective badge attached to my left front pocket, black converse which are also very professional, my glasses, and my puffy midnight blue GCPD jacket. I had gotten it when I was first hired. The right shoulder has the GCPD symbol embroidered on it in a golden yellow and the zipper doesn’t really work anymore after years of not-so-gentle wear. I can’t bring myself to ask for a new one, though.  Four years of fighting crime carries a lot of memories with it. I look up out of the rain-hazed windshield. The city is dark around us and the only light comes from the headlights and the buzzing streetlamps lining the sidewalk. This part of town is trashed. More than usual. There’re piles of garbage, a lot full of bulldozed rubble, and the bones of a tall unfinished building. It keeps my attention and as we get closer it’s easier to observe the details. It’s comprised of rusted scaffolding and thick weather-stained concrete slabs. Near the bottom in a long strip is an old metal sign with the renewal plan logo and catchphrase printed throughout in tarnished white letters. It seems like it wraps all the way around. To my surprise, Gordon slows in front of the building and pulls into the nearly hidden entry way. My brows furrow and my mind begins to swim with a dozen questions, all of which I’m trying to answer at the same time and getting nowhere. We’re supposed to be investigating the crime scene of the mayor, and to my knowledge this place is nowhere close to it. Gordon drives further into the unfinished parking area and stops in front of an elevator built in the middle. It sheds a sickly yellow light and provides the only illumination in the otherwise dark building. I turn my head to look at Gordon and I know he can see my confusion... But he says nothing as he puts the car into park and shuts the car off. Like such a menial task could take all of his attention. Knowing that he won’t acknowledge my silent question, I voice it instead. “Wasn’t Mitchell killed in his house?” My voice is a slice through the silence. He takes out the keys and keeps his focus ahead, utterly unphased by my words. He was expecting it. “Yeah.” He answers simply and my stewing confusion festers into quiet bewilderment at his avoidance. Sure, he answered the face value part of my question, but that wasn’t what I really wanted to know, and he knows it.  “So... why are we here?” I prompt again, this time I make sure to phrase my words in a way he can’t step around. After a small moment of tense silence, he turns his gaze to me. His face holds an expression that I rarely see when it’s just me and him. His eyes are sharp and there’s a neutral scowl on his lips. The tough exterior he uses during work. His armor of sorts, a way to hide his true self from anyone who either wouldn’t like what they saw, or to protect himself. “There’s someone I want you to meet.” He answers gruffly before he unbuckles his seatbelt. My mind begins to race once more with possible explanations, but nothing makes sense. If we’re here to see some sort of informant or other police officer then he wouldn’t be acting so strange about the situation, he would just tell me what’s going on... so who are we meeting with? His continued silence gives me no more answers and before I have the chance to ask more questions, he gets out of the car and closes the door with a soft. ’thunk’. Without even sparing me a glance, he begins walking to the elevator.  I don’t want to be left behind, so I get out of the car and follow after him. The elevator has two metal grate-like doors that he squeaks open before stepping inside and standing to the right in front of the panel of buttons. I follow him in and stand on the left side. He pulls the doors shut and pushes the button for the top floor. It’s still silent between us and I can’t help but wonder if I did something wrong. The lift begins to ascend, and I turn my head forward to watch the empty floors go by through the gaps of metal. Did I say something bad to him without realizing? Did I forget something important? I try to think back to earlier today, looking for a reason he would be upset at me, but I come up blank. I trust Gordon, he’s been an important figure in my life for quite some time now... but still, the taught energy between us tingles up my spine, sinks it’s fangs into my back and infects me with an anxious itch.  Sure, I can survive a shootout, keep calm in pursuits, and witness the horrors of humanity on a near daily basis, but I’m a coward when it comes to personal human interaction. I want to ask again, try to get the answers that the little demon in my back is so ravenous for...  but when I open my mouth to speak, Gordon beats me to it. “This place and what I’m gonna show you... you have to keep it secret.” He’s still looking forward at the column of buttons, his gaze intense yet blank. Like he’s thinking just as hard as I am. My mouth closes, but I’m left with even more questions than I had before. What’s so special about this skeleton of a building? He looks over to me with a raised brow and I realize that I didn’t answer him. Almost panicked at the revelation, I rush to answer and in turn stutter my words. “Ye-Yeah.” I clear my throat. “Yeah, I won’t tell anyone...but what is this about, Gordon? You’re making me worried.” His gaze softens and with that little action, all of his armor falls off.  There’s a cocktail of emotions behind those deep chestnut eyes.  Tenderness, fear, guilt, nervousness... why? Nothing is making any sense. “I’m sorry... you’ll understand soon.” Is all he offers before he looks back at the door.  Godammit, why won’t he just tell me?! The creature gnaws on my flesh and my bones begin to jitter as the curiosity starts to eat me alive.  Finally, the elevator shudders to a stop and Gordon pushes the doors open. Rain blows in from the open spaces where walls should be, with it carrying a deep chill. Some illumination is provided from the elevator’s aforementioned glow, but the floor is still shrouded in darkness. Closer to the edge of the concrete across from the elevator, there’s a strange shape. It’s cast in a deep black shadow against the far away lights of the city. Gordon steps off of the elevator and begins walking towards it. Tentatively, I once again follow him. As we get closer, it gets easier to see... it’s a spotlight... and stretching across the surface is a metal bat symbol. Oh... oh. “This is the Batman’s signal tower.” I blink as the realization causes an internal avalanche, the creature in my back howls with glee and my cascade of thoughts wrap around my mind.  Gordon is working with him. How could he not be? If we were here to lure him out and arrest him, Gordon would have said. No, Gordon was nervous, afraid of what I would think of him after I found out.  Understandably so, Batman is a bit of a touchy subject back at the precinct. Most if not all the cops hate him, but it’s not out of fear for the people.  It’s from a selfish belief that he’s doing their jobs for them and encroaching on their territory.  They forget what’s actually important here... Protecting Gotham. As for myself, I have mixed feelings.  I’m glad that it seems he’s keeping a good morality, but what if that ever changes? What if it’s more complicated than he thinks and he ends up hurting the wrong people? Though, I guess cops face that dilemma too.  As long as it seems like he keeps the best interest of Gotham in mind, I have no problems with him.  Gordon reaches down and flicks the switch. It starts buzzing and a dim green glow resonates within the bowels of the light. It gets brighter with the second until it’s a powerful yellow beam across the sky and his symbol is projected up into the clouds. I’ve sat on my fire escape and looked up at that thing so many times now, but it feels so surreal to be seeing it this close.  This symbol represents more than just the bat.  I’ve seen it firsthand. Criminals are terrified of him, enough so that even just seeing his light can send the timid ones home... and the brave? The foolish? I end up seeing them in the interrogation room and I can tell that they’ve run into him before they even talk, and not just because of the bruises.  Their eyes dart, their knees bounce, and they flinch at every sound.  That symbol doesn’t just mean Batman, it means fear. I turn my attention from the projected bat back to Gordon. He’s observing me, trying to gauge my emotions through my stunned silence.  The fear is still there, deep within his gentle chestnut eyes. I take in a deep breath. “I’m not mad at you.” I break our spell of festering stagnancy with a gentle tone. Sure enough, his shoulders relax a bit and he breathes out a quiet relieved sigh. “How long have you been doing this?” I ask one of the many questions buzzing throughout my mind. Gordon is quiet for a moment before he turns his gaze out towards the city. He’s observing the glittering lights, the cars down on the street... but I can tell he’s not really paying too much attention to them. “Been two years now.” I blink silently as I let the information sink in.  Two years is a long time to be hiding something like this. I then voice my next question, trying my best to pick the most relevant ones since I’m assuming our time alone is limited. “Why bring me here tonight?” The mayor was just murdered, a very important case. It wouldn’t make sense for Gordon to delay us being there just so that he could make this confession to me. Talking with the Batman had to have some sort of significance to the investigation. “When I got the call, they told me there’s a card addressed to him at the crime scene. I want him to check it out, see what he thinks...” The others really aren’t gonna be happy about that. He turns his head towards me, and his eyes now carry a glimmer of softness. “I need you on this case too. Figured you should meet him now instead of later.” A bit of warmth fills my chest at his words and the deeper sentiment underneath them. He wants me to work this case with him instead of the other detectives that were already assigned to it, and he wanted to bring me in the loop sooner than the others so I would have time to process it all. He likes to pretend that he’s such a cold and callused lieutenant, but I know the real him.  Gordon is kind and considerate to the people he’s close with, but something I value most about him is the bond we share. In my entire life, there’s only been a handful of people who have been able to read how I feel, understand what I mean when I say something a bit more abstract. Those people were my mom, my dad, and Gordon. After they died, it was only him left on that list. I feel my smile falter a bit at the thought of them, but I try to fix it before Gordon can notice. It doesn’t work, I can see his own fading and a gentle concern take its place. It’s been twelve years since it happened, I’ve long since learned to live with it and I try my best to not think about it too much. Doing that does bring me some reprieve, but it never fully goes away. It’s like my trauma is a living thing, an apex predator that stalks my every move and waits for the perfect times to pounce, rips me apart from the inside out with images that never truly leave. Regrets that I can never rectify. I wish I could just focus on the good moments with my parents and forget everything else, but the memory of that night gets stuck in my head like a broken VHS tape, rewinding over and over at the worst possible parts, a scream on repeat. Then a lion claws its way out of the TV screen, boasts itself with a puffed-out chest while it glitters red with dark bloody pride. It casts a shadow over all the better times spent with my family. I can lock the animals away, take out the VHS and push it to the very back of the shelf... But then the nightmares come. They’re not nearly as often as they used to be, but when they rear their ugly head, it’s an entity that escapes my careful control. It lets out the spiteful zoo, rips out whatever was playing and shoves the dusty tape back in. On those days, I just try to ignore it, to distract myself. They go away eventually... but other times there’s more reminders and it’s much harder. The roars get louder, more demanding, starving for my attention. The shadowed hand grips my chin forces me to look at the blood red screen. I blink and give up trying to convince Gordon. I know he’s not gonna let me go so easily, not when he knows something’s off. “What’s wrong, kid?” He speaks in a gentle voice as he closes the distance between us and puts a comforting hand on my shoulder. I give him an appreciative little smile before I turn my gaze to the darkened cityscape below us. “...I dreamed about them again. Of the night it happened.” The only sounds around us are the faint buzzing of the signal, the loudly pattering rain, and the far away noises of Gotham below. It seems that he’s trying to think of what to say. “I’m sorry...” He draws in a little breath, and I turn my head to look at him. He’s gazing out towards the city now, just like I was previously. “You have nothing to be sorry about.” I remind him with a melancholic sense of certainty in my tone. I don’t see it often, but sometimes I catch little hints that he feels guilty for it all, even though there was nothing that he could’ve done. Whenever I see it, I do what I can to correct it. Regardless, his expression is sorrowful and behind his eyes I can tell he’s thinking about when it happened. “It was hard for me too... it still is. I still miss them. We worked together sometimes, me and your folks. I looked up to them a lot.” The VHS clunks and sticks itself on a different part of the worst event of my life. Gordon was one of the first responders that came to the house.  I know it wasn’t easy on him either... I know I didn’t help with that. But I was only thirteen and I couldn’t accept that they were dead. “Wanna talk about it?” He asks me and moves his head to return my gaze. Part of me wants to, wants to just let it all out and hope it’ll stay gone, thrown to the wind like a handful of ashes.  But I know that this isn’t the time. The mayor is dead and at any moment Batman could come up that elevator.  Right now, how I feel isn’t important. I gently shake my head and give him a small smile. I mean it to look reassuring, but I can see that it must not have worked because Gordon’s expression stays mostly the same. He lets out a quiet sigh before he gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Alright. But if you ever need anything, I’ll be there. All you gotta do is ask.” My smile becomes more genuine at this. The reassurance is calming, especially because I know he’s not just saying it to make me feel better.  Gordon took care of me while social services were making sure that my grandmother’s house was a stable place for me to live, he helped me get the scholarship I needed to get my Criminal Justice degree, he helped me become an officer, and then he convinced the Commissioner to give me a chance when I applied to be a detective way sooner than it’s usually allowed in most departments. I owe a lot to Gordon, and I’m glad to call him family even if we’re not related. “Thank you. For everything.” Gordon smiles in return and he lets his hand rest at his side again. We fall into a few moments of a comfortable quiet. The rain still pours, and the city still bustles with nightlife, but it’s a soothing ambiance. One I’ve been accustomed to for many years. Though, it’s interrupted when the elevator suddenly whirrs to life behind us. It startles me and I spin around to find that it’s begun to descend. In my peripheral I see Gordon turn his head to look back at me as the elevator goes, leaving us only in the yellow aural glow of the spotlight. Someone must have called it from one of the lower levels... Gordon speaks my thoughts. “He’s here.” I turn my head to look at him, my eyes a bit wide as the nervousness grows stronger, overpowers any residual warmth I was feeling and spreads throughout my upper body like a parasite. I’m not quite sure why I’m so nervous to meet him.  Maybe it’s because I’ve been curious about him for so long, or maybe I’m afraid of making a fool out of myself in front of someone so revered and infamous. Or maybe, it’s because he feels like such an intangible thing to me... something surreal and unfathomable. Like a dream. Much more casual than me, Gordon turns around to face the empty space where the lift was in preparation for the vigilante’s arrival. I take a breath and level my gaze towards the darkened elevator shaft as well.                              Soon, the light starts to come back and within the rising elevator there stands a shadow. Batman. His suit is so much more detailed in person... different shades of black make up the ensemble and every single detail seems like a lot of thought went into it.  A black cowl made of thick leather with ears that come up in a point, a dark grey chest plate with his symbol going across, tactical pants, a utility belt, arm guards with a row of what I assume to be some sort of... crossbow arrows? affixed to them. His black cape is attached to his shoulders and it seems to be made of some sort of heavier material... leather maybe? If so, it’s a smart choice. Leather is pretty protective. His boots seem to be a higher end brand of work boots, also leather and also black. Rainwater still drips from him onto the elevator floor... but it doesn’t seem like he would be too affected by the rain. He’s got all those protective layers on, I bet he doesn’t even feel it.  He reaches out with a gloved right hand and pushes open the door... but then his gaze lands on me and he stops in his tracks, like a deer caught in the headlights.  Did Gordon not even tell Batman I was coming?... Or is this their only way of communication? Regardless, I swallow a lump of anxiety and turn my head to Gordon, silently hoping for the best. “You got here fast.” Is all Gordon gives in form of a greeting. I still can’t bring myself to say anything yet, even as I look back towards the vigilante and see that he’s looking right back at me. “Who is she?” Batman’s voice is equally as enigmatic as his persona. Deep and rough but still soft and rounded at the edges. It’s almost breathed out, like a dark whisper. “She’s detective Emily Walker. We can trust her.” Gordon answers. Batman’s quiet for a second as he looks from me back to Gordon... like he’s deciding for himself if he can trust me.  Then it seems he’s come to his conclusion, and he closes the distance between him and us... It’s so surreal to see him this close.  Like something you’d dream and can’t possibly be real... but here he is, standing right in front of me... wait, he’s actually right in front of me- I look up and find a pair of ice blue eyes shrouded in black greasepaint staring right into me.  It’s a shock, an electrocution that pierces into me and stabs through all of my defenses.  Throughout my life, I’ve carefully built these walls, and I’ve made them so thick and so tall that hardly anyone could scale them, and therefor they could never truly see me living in the middle, trapped in my dusty old cottage.  But he’s here now, standing in front of me in this signal tower and in the decrepit old shack I’ve forgotten how to escape from.  The lion scurries back into the fuzzy TV screen, terrified of the stranger that’s appeared in our home.  I’m scared too, horrified of what he might find here, horrified that the bloody pictures and the stagnant staleness permeating the air will disgust him or drive him away, that he’ll use it against me or mock me.  But... there’s something else too. I’m elated, ecstatic that someone is finally visiting, someone is in here with me and I’m not alone anymore.  Maybe he has a key, maybe he has a sledgehammer, maybe I can escape, remodel, do something to stop drowning in the dust and death, to feel the warm sunshine on my skin once again and breathe fresh air. “Don Mitchell Junior was killed in his home earlier tonight... the killer left a card for you. I want you to come take a look with us, see what you can find out.” Gordon breaks the spell, pulls my hand from the live wire, causes Batman to shift his gaze back over to look at him instead of into me.  My cheeks feel hot against the frigid air, and I’m still disoriented from the mental intrusion.  Was that what it was?... How did he even do that?... How did he easily break through every single barrier I put up? In all my life, I’ve never had eye contact as intense as that... no, it wasn’t even eye contact. It was opia, he was staring directly at my soul... and I was completely defenseless against it. Why couldn’t I look away, what was he searching for? Did he find it? Batman hardly seems distressed by our exchange, but I know he felt it too. How could he not? How could he not know that he was standing right inside of my inner world? Regardless, batman shows no emotion on his face.  His mask -both physical and metaphorical- is flawless... but there’s a slight tick in his jaw, like he’s holding something back. Maybe it did have an effect on him.  Maybe he wasn’t expecting to fall that deep into my eyes. I wasn’t expecting him to either.  However, that’s all the clues I get.  “Sound good?” Gordon asks Batman and I finally turn my head to look at him.  The poor Lieutenant looks confused... I wonder what that exchange looked like from his perspective. Probably very weird. ”What?” Batman rasps out and with a furrowed brow, I take my chances at looking back at him. He seems almost dazed, shocked, confused... like he was completely in his own world for a moment... Did he experience the same thing I did, or was he just thinking very very intensely for some reason? Gordon raises a brow at the Bat before he looks between me and him, confusion clear as day.  “The mayor was killed. I want you to come with us to check it out.” Oh, the others are really going to hate that... having batman running around Gotham is too much for them, but having him in an active crime scene? We’re in for a long night.                                                               ~ Yeah, I was right. The others really do not like this.  We’re walking down the dim hallway of the late mayor’s home, a beautiful old townhouse that’s well cared for and cozy, definitely owned by rich people. Gordon is walking in front of me, leading the way through the parted sea of glowering stares. Not a single one of these cops are giving us any mercy, no they’re all glaring in unison like a hive minded creature, determined to make us feel like scum. It’s working. Well, for me anyways. However, I try not to think about it too much. They can make me feel like shit, but they can never make me fold... I trust Gordon, and therefore I trust him with his decisions... even the ones that involve bringing a vigilante to a high-profile murder case. He walks behind me, his heavy bootsteps a constant interruption in the tense atmosphere. A metronome, steady and even. A reminder that he’s still behind me beside from the way I can feel him. His looming figure almost seems to carry a cloud of shadowed energy with him, the kind that tingles up your spine, raises the hair on your arms, and steals the breath from your lungs. It probably helps that he’s always so quiet. In the short time I’ve known him, I’ve realized that he doesn’t talk often, and when he does it’s usually just short replies. Martinez and another officer are guarding the entrance to the study and behind them a few crime scene analysts in their white jumpsuits are measuring, taking pictures, and dusting for fingerprints.  Martinez lets me and Gordon in with a little tip of his hat, mostly aimed to Gordon I think.  Me and Martinez aren’t friends, but we aren’t enemies either. In truth, I’ve only spoken to him a few times and it was all work related. We keep walking into the scene and I’m about to begin taking stock of what I see- but then I hear the heavy footfalls stop. Why’d he stop? “Woah, woahwoahwoahwoahwoah...” I turn my head back towards the commotion.  Officer Martinez’s palm is placed firmly against Batman’s chest plate, and he’s leaned his body a bit to block the path through the threshold of the study. The bat looks down to the hand on his chest and then back up to meet the officer’s gaze. He remains silent, but the expression in his eyes is searing, like he’s just daring Martinez to try something. “Police action.” Martinez finishes his sentence and looks right back into the burning glare he’s receiving.  Martinez will never let Batman through, and with the way they’re looking at each other, the vigilante may very well get arrested tonight. “Gordon-” I get his attention and he stops walking to look back.  He lets out an annoyed puff of air before addressing the situation. “He’s with us, Officer.” Martinez looks utterly bewildered at Gordon as he turns his head to look back at us. “You kiddin me, sir? You’re gonna let him in here?” He asks before letting his incredulous gaze flick between the Shadow and Gordon. Despite the way the Bat slightly tensed up with agitation when my coworker referred to him in such a way, he remains patient with the matter and Gordon remains diplomatic. “Martinez... let him through.” The officer is plagued with uncertainty... but orders are orders, and he can’t very well refuse if he doesn’t want to face the consequences. So, with a palpable silence carried between the four of us, Martinez returns his hand to his side and let’s Batman through into the study. Gordon continues walking further into the crime scene as he puts on some white disposable gloves, and Batman walks past me where I’ve stopped.  I turn to follow after him when I hear Martinez mutter to himself. “Goddamn freak.” Wow. What an asshole. That’s definitely being added to my mental file of him. Forcing myself to ignore my anger, I continue to follow after the bat... I don’t know if he heard the insult or not, but it seems pretty likely he did. I hope he’s not letting it upset him. Regardless, this is a crime scene. A man was murdered. Anger has no place here... at least not from me. With that in mind, I observe my surroundings. The sight is grisly. Mitchell is posed sitting in his recliner with his left arm on the arm rest. Over his left hand is a small paper bag and his head is covered in duct tape all the way around except for the top. Brown hair matted with red sticks up messily from the space. Gordon steps up to the right of the body as he finishes putting his gloves on. I stand in front as I begin putting on mine. “What do we know?” Gordon asks the lead detective standing behind Mitchell’s chair. Seemingly done scanning the room for now, I feel batman glide to the left of Mitchell from behind me and the lead goes quiet as he watches him with a bitter stare. Of course. Because we totally need this to happen again, right here, right now, in front of the dead body of a brutally murdered mayor. But, I stay out of it and refocus myself. I look back to the body and scan all the details I can find. Written across the face of the tape mask is the phrase ‘NO MORE LIES’ in red marker.  So Mitchell was hiding something... or maybe Mitchell’s death is supposed to convey some sort of message. Probably both. I would like to give Mitchell the benefit of the doubt, but I don’t think any politician doesn’t have a few skeletons in their closet(s). “Detective.” Gordon prompts again and I look up, thinking for a moment that he was addressing me.  Though, I quickly realize that Gordon was addressing the lead. Whoops. I give a quick glance around and it doesn’t seem that anyone noticed. Good. I look back down to Mitchell. As I observe what I can, the lead detective seems to have been taken from his resentful Batman-caused stupor and answers Gordon’s original question. ”Sorry, Lieutenant... we’ve got blunt force trauma, lacerations on the head. He got hit a lot of times... and hard.” That much is obvious. Though the headwounds do look particularly nasty, they don’t seem like they would be the direct cause of death. Unless maybe he also had gotten a very bad concussion and suffered internal bleeding. Though, I see no convincing evidence of that yet. My eyes trail down to the floor in front of Mitchell... blood has seeped across the ground and splattered in other areas. Deep red with a darker tint towards the edges in the larger puddles and the same dark color all throughout the smaller ones. It’s been a couple hours since it was spilled... there’s a lot of it, too... It couldn’t have come from just his head, something else must have happened. There’s a thoughtful silence between us and I make careful steps towards the right side of the body, next to Gordon. With gentle movements, I hold the late mayor’s forearm in my right hand and carefully take the bag off it with my left. The sight that greets me is fairly ghastly, but not unexpected. His thumb has been cut off... that explains the blood at least. “All this blood from his head?” Gordon asks and I answer, turning my attention upwards towards the vigilante and my coworkers. “No. The thumb was severed... the killer probably took it.” The lead detective’s expression turns even more sour, and I realize that I must have stolen the words from his mouth. Again- whoops. Still, I keep focused and look down at the deceased hand once more, determined to find out all that I can.  Maybe I’ll be able to see something that Mr. Sunshine detective over there missed, and I can make him annoyed again. Gordon takes his little flashlight from his pocket before leaning over and clicking it on over the stump. I bring it a bit closer to the light so we can observe it better. With the added visibility, I see that the edges of the sever is bruised. Mitchell was alive when it was cut off. “He was alive when it was cut off.” A much darker voice echoes my thoughts and in a moment of quiet surprise, I look up at batman to find his eyes flit from the deceased hand I’m holding to meet my gaze. The contact is less intense this time, but it still sends a tingle up my spine, still sends a rush through my nervous system and still grants him access to the little cottage inside my head. My coworkers look to him as well, almost questioning. As they stare, I come back to myself and look down again. Batman is a better detective than I thought... or maybe he watches a lot of true crime. Maybe both. My coworkers are still looking at him and the air is becoming unbearably tight. I have to say something. “There’s ecchymosis around the wound.” I give some clarification to hopefully let us push past this awkward tense spot. In Batman’s eyes I can see a bit of subtle bewilderment.. maybe I voiced his thoughts as well. Eye for an eye, I guess. After only a few seconds of the thick atmosphere focused on me, I feel myself crumble a bit under all the attention. So, I shift my focus back to the sever, hoping they look away again soon. What’s so crazy about me clarifying something Batman said to warrant this kind of reaction? Am I supposed to just let the conversation hang like that? Is the lead pissed off that I backed up something the Bat said? Is Gordon lost in thought or waiting for the lead to say something? Whatever the case, I want them to do it not staring at me. I try to ignore it and just focus on my job. Doing so, I realize how clean the cut looks. Bloody and horrendous, sure, but lacking the usual jagged and uneven implications of movement. “There wasn’t a struggle either... he must have been unconscious from the blunt force to the head... which means he probably died from suffocation when his airways were blocked with the tape.” Gordon releases a quiet sigh at my deduction. His expression becomes a bit pained as he thinks about it. “Damn...” And I have to agree. It seems like a terrible way to die. A terrible way to murder someone. With that thought, I don’t see anything else worth noting about the finger and I gently set the hand back down on the arm rest. I feel more than hear batman’s bootsteps glide behind me as he crosses the room, most likely observing something else.  I’m still not used to having him around... it’s strange how he can seem to float through a room. Maybe he really is just a living shadow.  I look up and see Gordon turning his flashlight to the TV, observing the newspapers taped over the screen. They’re of Mitchell, headlines and articles about his campaign. Painted over them in the middle is the word ‘LIES’. The theme repeats. This killer either knows something about the mayor that we don’t, or he’s completely delusional. Either is perfectly believable at this point. The lead detective finally continues the brief, and I listen while I scan the room. “Security detail downstairs said the family was out trick or treatin. The mayor was up here alone... the killer may have come through the skyline.” His words are finalized by the click and flash of one of the crime scene analyst’s cameras.  I look up to the skyline to try to see if there’s any cracks or smudges on the glass... but if there are, they’re too small to see from here.  Though, my attention catches something else. Batman is moving from the wall toward a seemingly unnoticed spot on the floor, his face retaining all of that stone-faced coldness that seems to be the baseline of his persona. With a new curiosity, I follow behind him. The vigilante stands silently in front of it as I walk up beside him. He eyes me before glancing down at it, observing it. I look down too. It’s a strangely shaped bloodstain, an outline of something with a right angle. I crouch down as I retrieve my small flashlight from my jacket pocket and click it on. With my light shining on it, I can see little streaks from where it seems like whatever object left this slid against the floor a little bit, as if thrown or dropped. My mind goes to the possibility that Mitchell dropped this when he was attacked... but then why would it be bloody? Would the killer really have the ability to finish the job while injured and still manage to not get their blood anywhere on the crime scene? I guess their blood could be here too, but from what I’ve seen, the patterns don’t really match up if it was coming from two different people. Another odd thing is that the blood here is darker than the rest, meaning whatever this event was, it was probably done sooner than when the thumb was removed.  I look up from my crouched position and Batman meets my gaze. Again, the opia is still there but I try my best to ignore it. “This blood is older. I think whatever left this outline was the blunt weapon.” He’s silent for a moment as if thinking, analyzing the stain with my theory in mind, matching it up with the various other small clues and blood splatters in the room... I suddenly feel like a rookie version of myself telling Gordon a theory and anxiously awaiting his approval.  Even more like the approval hungry person I was (and I’m sure I still am) a great flood of relief and pride washes through me as Batman gives me a small nod in agreement. Though, the stupidly pathetic wave of dopamine leaves nearly as quick as it came as he turns to walk back towards Mitchell. Well, at least he acknowledged me for a second. That’s a start, right?

I click my light off and pocket it again as I stand. A quick yet thorough scan of the room reveals no new information jumping out at me.  So, I follow the Bat’s example and return to my spot next to Gordon as the Lieutenant prompts the lead detective again. “You said there was a card.” The detective nods and turns his attention from the small notebook he was writing in towards a desk to his right.  On top of it are two things that look like they don’t belong in the usual clutter of paperwork and books.  A stiff green envelope with some small black writing on the front, and a strangely marked piece of paper with a plastic sleeve over it. “Yeah.” He answers as he holds both the pen and notebook in one hand and grabs the card with the other. The man hands it to Gordon, and I move to stand a bit closer to Gordon’s shoulder so I can read it as well. ‘To The BatmaN’ It says in a scratched handwriting. It’s easy to see that it matches the rest of the scrawls here. Gordon is quiet as he carefully pulls the card out, his expression focused and deadly serious. It’s a Halloween design with a cartoonish print of a skeleton with its arm around a giant owl while he shushes the reader with his other hand. Something about the childish nature of it in such a gruesome setting makes a knot form in my stomach.  Gordon begins reading the stylized print on the front cover of it. “From your secret friend. Who?” Gordon then opens the card and continues to recite. “Haven’t a clue? Let’s play a game just me and you... What does a liar do when he’s dead?” Underneath that, there’s a line of strange symbols... some sort of code I don’t know the key to. I can hear Batman start to take slow steps towards us, see his dark figure approaching in my peripheral vision. He’s as curious about this as I am... and rightfully so. This card is addressed to him after all. I lift my gaze up and observe his features as he takes his final step a couple feet in front of me and Gordon. A sharp jawline with a slight bit of stubble and lips shut in a firm line. Even though I’m pretty doubtful that I’ll ever be able to guess who he is, I still take mental notes. “There’s a cipher too.” The lead states and draws my curiosity once more. So that’s what those weird symbols must be. Gordon hands me the card before he accepts the cipher page from the lead detective and holds it where we both can read it. He looks over it with confusion before he looks to me, asking me a silent question with the raise of his brow. ’Do you have any idea about what to do with this?’ Holding up the card so that I see both sets of symbols next to eachother, I begin to think and observe, try to find matches to the symbols on the card or some sort of hidden clue within them. However, there’s too many of the strange markings and I quickly get lost within them, like reading a very boring book with very small letters.  Gordon watches as I do this, holding up the page of ciphers for me as I strain my eyes and my brain in more futile attempts to find out the hidden code. His curiosity seems peaked at my attempt. I know that I’m probably onto something, but this method of trying to solve it isn’t going to work.  A quiet and frustrated sigh leaves me before I lower the card once again and give Gordon a shameful shake of my head.  I should know how to do this. It’s my job to solve things, to find the pattern. I can’t help but feel a bit disappointed in myself. Though, I’m not going to give up that easily. It’ll just take me some time, my own copies of the cipher, and a place that’s not covered in blood or has a murder victim in it. In response to my temporary admit of defeat, Gordon looks up to the vigilante, curios of what he’ll make of all of this.  “Any of this mean anything to you?” Gordon asks with a raised brow and turns the paper so the Batman can see it. I hold out the card in a similar manner and watch as the Shadow’s cold gaze flicks between the two documents with a mix of curiosity and puzzlement... but there’s something else underneath that as well, it’s like he’s just now seeing that the card was written to him. Under the controlled guise, he’s a bit alarmed... which is understandable. Nobody wants a killer to write them some cryptic riddle. A few moments of silent contemplation pass. Batman opens his mouth to respond, but he’s cut off by a shrill voice near the entrance of the Study. All of our attention shifts to it. ”What’s goin on here?” Rasps the telltale half-screech of my boss, Commissioner Pete Savage. He’s wearing a white dress shirt, a dark tie, dark pants, dress shoes, and a black windbreaker. His short grey hair is swept back and on his face are a pair of clear framed glasses and a very unhappy scowl. To really drive home the palpable anger, his hands are placed firmly on his hips. Not only that, but Savage speaks in a thick Gothamite accent... which really just sounds like a stereotypical angry New Yorker, which makes his scolding even more unbearable. I’m really not looking forward to what happens next. I give a worried glance to Gordon, and he meets my gaze. In the span of seconds, we have a silent conversation with each other amidst the blooming chaos.  Me telling him that I’m not the one who’s going to try to talk Savage, and him reassuring me that he can handle this to where we both still have our jobs. Gordon then looks back to our commissioner. “I asked him to come, Pete.” He says with a motion towards Batman. Man, this really isn’t going to end well... Savage already doesn’t like me too much. I feel bad letting Gordon take the fall for this, but he has a lot better chance at getting away with this than me. Savage begins stalking up to Gordon as he speaks, and Gordon reluctantly goes to meet him halfway. I can tell that he’d rather be anywhere but here. “This is a crime scene!” It’s Mitchell for christ’s sakes, I got the press downstairs!” Savage scolds as he points at the body, his furious eyes staying fixed on Gordon. “Ya know, Jim, I cut you a lotta slack cuz we got history. But this-” He pauses to point over at Batman. “Is way over the line!” The bat in question doesn’t seem too perturbed with the situation... instead it looks like he’s deep in thought as he keeps scanning his eyes over the body. I wish I could ignore conflict as good as he seems to be able to, but I’m still painfully aware of the arguing going on a couple feet away from me. “Kid, c’mere.” Gordon grabs my attention. My head snaps in his direction and I see that he’s holding his right-hand palm up in my direction. It take me a second to realize that he’s asking for the card. Once I do, I quickly jump to correct myself and hand Gordon the card. Savage subtly rolls his eyes at me. I wish I knew why he hates me so much. Nothing I ever do seems to be good enough, and I always have to work my ass off to even be slightly acknowledged by him. He knows how capable I am, he knows how good I am at what I do... but maybe that’s part of the problem.  He didn’t actually think that I would pass that NDIT, not within my first year at GCPD... I think that’s a big part of the reason why he even let me try. Not only did I pass, but I got 100% on my first try. That was the day his loathing began. Gordon silently holds up the card for our commissioner to see, frustration clear as day on his features.   ~~=~~ As Savage reads it, he begins to seethe with rage. ‘To The BatmaN’. “Wait, he’s INVOLVED in this?!” Gordon shakes his head, trying his best to remain calm but it’s easy to see that his patience is wearing thin. “No, he’s not involved-” “How do you know?! He’s a goddamn VIGILANTE, he could be a suspect!” Commissioner Savage continues his outrage and I feel bad for Gordon... I feel bad for Batman. Gordon invited him here, but everyone’s just been treating him like dirt the entire time. The Shadow hides his emotions well, but I know that if I was in his situation, I wouldn’t feel too great about it. I want to try to help. I push down the bloom of tingling nervousness within my chest as I leave my spot next to Gordon and stand next to the Bat by Mitchell’s body. He’s still ignoring the heated argument and his eyes are glued to the corpse. I can see that he’s deep in thought, but about what I can’t really tell... maybe multiple things at once, maybe he’s mulling through all the clues we have. On top of this, I can tell that he’s hyper aware of my presence but trying to ignore it. Maybe he’s afraid I’ll start scolding him too, or maybe he’s just plain weirded out by me. Either way, I came over here for a reason. I give a glance over to the two policemen and find that they’re still deep in their argument.  The coast is clear.  I look back to the Bat. ”I’m sorry.” I extend an apology like a friendly hand. It’s up to him if he takes it.  The sentiment seems to catch him off guard and he looks to me with a furrowed brow from under the cowl. Is he really that confused that I’m being nice? Or maybe he’s just not understanding what I’m apologizing for. ”The way they’re acting... they don’t have to like you, but they don’t have to be children about it. Gordon wanted to bring you, so it’s gotta be for a good reason.” Now he fully turns his attention to me. Soft blue eyes burrow into my own once again, but he doesn’t have to break through any walls this time.  I open the door and welcome him inside the cabin. There’s an added bit of skepticism inside the puzzled expression as he searches the house, pulls books off of the shelf and overturns couch cushions. I let him. A few moments pass and it seems that he gives up. His eyes soften a bit before they turn back to the body.  I can’t help but feel a bit dejected that he didn’t say anything, but at least the air feels a bit lighter between us. The agitated words have since raised into a hushed shouting and there doesn’t seem to be any hopes of the argument getting calmer any time soon.  ”He lies still.” Until Batman once again seems to cut through it all with his rumbled discovery and casts the room into an uncomfortable silence... again. So he must have been thinking about the riddle. Gordon and Savage are looking at Batman, Gordon like he’s caught onto a rapidly moving train of thought, and Savage like Batman had just insulted his mother.  Maybe he should. ”Excuse me?” His tone is thin, and it’s obvious he’s on the verge of losing it. ”The riddle.” I speak up and Savage’s searing gaze lands on me until Gordon re-directs it and raises the card up for the Commissioner to see once more. “What does a liar do when he’s dead? He lies still.” Exasperation fills his tone, but still he’s trying to be professional. We’re all cast into a silence once more.  Me and Gordon waiting for Savage’s move and Batman assumingly waiting for ours.  Finally, the raging grump of a police commissioner stomps from Gordon and over to the corpse, stopping on the opposite side of it that me and the Bat are standing next to. His expression softens into one of a pained sorrow as he looks at all the damage done, and I can’t help but feel bad for him. I knew that they knew each other, but it seems like Savage and Mitchell were closer than I thought. “Ah, Jesus...” Savage mumbles to himself as he continues to observe the state of his dead friend. It’s never easy seeing a dead body, but when that corpse turns out to be someone you knew... it’s always so much worse.  My left hand moves to nervously fidget with the broken zipper of my jacket and Savage suddenly turns his attention back to the vigilante beside me. His eyes are sharp and bitter once more. “This must be your favorite night of the year, huh pal?” The commissioner spits out, obviously turning his grief into rage for anyone he deems worthy of it. “Happy fuckin Halloween.” Savage finishes as he turns his hateful glare to me.  I can tell that he probably wants to start laying into me as well, but Martinez’s soft voice cuts through the atmosphere and steals all of our attention. “Excuse me, Commissioner?... They’re ready for your statement.” Savage lets his gaze go back to Mitchell. Again, his rage morphs into sorrow. After a moment of a tense pause that holds us all hostage, Savage tears his eyes away from the former mayor and fixes them on Gordon. He stalks over to the Lieutenant and stops just about a foot away from him before he leans in close to his face. “I want him outta here. NOW.” He growls the last word out and Gordon somehow still manages to not say or do anything in retaliation. Without another word, the ball of rage leaves the scene and storms off to deliver his statement, Martinez following at his side. Gordon is taking a moment to collect himself... I don’t blame him.  The room around us has become a bit easier to breathe in since Savage left, but the air is still dense and tinged with iron. A man is still dead and the one responsible is still on the loose. Gordon turns his head towards me and Batman. ”Come on.” His tone is short but it’s clear that the annoyance in his voice is not meant for us.  Regardless, I oblige and the three of us begin to walk the opposite way we came, down one of the dimmed hallways of this now broken home.  Cops are still littered throughout the area, and I look down to avoid them. That’s when something on the floor catches my attention and I can’t will myself to go any further... there on the dark wooden planks is the sticky red footprint of a child’s shoe... perfectly positioned to see the grotesque tragedy.  Soft yet thudding bootsteps trail to a stop beside me as the TV clicks on, red static buzzes across the screen. I look up towards the sound of quiet voices and see that a few feet down the hallway there’s a bedroom door open and mumbled words. Consumed by this pit of grief-stricken realization, I follow them, Gordon and the Bat going momentarily forgotten. I need to know what happened, and I hope to whatever god is out there that it’s not what I think. In the room, a little boy dressed as a red ninja is sitting on the edge of his bed and across from him a policewoman is writing something down in her handheld notebook.  In my head, the VHS clunks into motion and the past plays for me once again.  The lights in the cottage dim. The screen is all I can see. I was in his place before... looking at him, I see my reflection. An echo of the summer night that I come to dread every year since. One that tossed me out to sea and left me to fend the rough waters with storms that never seem to truly pass. I can’t look away as his tear glazed eyes looks up to connect with mine. They hold all the sadness of a devastated child.  One that’s seen something they were never supposed to and now has to live through the anguish. He looks so young... I hope he can find it in himself to still be a kid after this, to be carefree and playful. I was older than he is, but when my parents were killed, it still took all of those away from me. The boy’s gaze flicks to the right of mine and it’s only then I can bring myself to follow it.  Batman is standing beside me, a tower of darkness and mystery... yet his demeanor seems just as far away as mine just has been.  His eyes seem just as troubled... maybe he also knows how it feels.  Maybe he’s got a bloody VHS of his own. Gordon must have kept going when we stopped because he’s walking back to us from the way towards the exit. I look at Gordon and I know he can feel my pain, my grief for this poor boy who just had his life forever changed.  ”Yeah...” He confirms to us, and I feel the weight in my chest sink heavier. Batman’s eyes are still on the boy who’s since looked back at the officer in front of him. ”Kid found him.”       ~* THURSDAY, OCTOBER THIRTY-FIRST ------------------------------------------------------- The city streets are crowded for the holiday, even with the rain. Hidden in the chaos is the element, waiting to strike like snakes.  But I’m there too. Watching.  Two years of nights have turned me into a nocturnal animal. I must choose my targets carefully. It’s a big city... I can’t be everywhere. But they don’t know where I am. We have a signal now. For when I’m needed... But when that light hits the sky, it’s not just a call... it’s a warning. To them. Fear is a tool. They think I’m hiding in the shadows... but I am the shadows. I wish I could say that I’m making a difference... but I don’t know.  Murder, robberies, assault... two years later they’re all up... and now this.  The city’s eating itself. Maybe it’s beyond saving... but I have to try. I have to PUSH MYSELF. These nights all roll together in a rush behind the mask. Sometimes in the morning I have to force myself to remember everything that happened. The notebook closes like muscle memory.  It is muscle memory at this point. Nirvana plays in the background, loud enough to echo against the cavernous walls of the abandoned subway station, but soft enough that I’m able to keep enough attention on the morning news playing on the screen behind me and the events of last night playing on the one in front.  The music helps me think, lets me passively take in both sources of information without getting overwhelmed.  I’m still in my drifter outfit, the middle stage between Batman and Bruce when I can’t be seen as either. It’s how I spend pretty much every morning now. My way of winding down, shedding the skin I put on every night so I can go back to just being Bruce... though sometimes, I wonder if there’s even a separation between the two anymore.  ”..This certainly isn’t the first time Gotham has been rocked by the murder of a political figure. In fact, in an eerie coincidence, it was twenty years ago this week that celebrated billionaire and philanthropist Dr. Thomas Wayne and his wife Martha was slain during his own mayoral campaign.” My mind stutters when the news anchor says my parent’s names. It’s like a cold glass of water thrown into my face.  I try not to think about that night too much... but it seems that everyone else just can’t help but bring it up. Reporters are like vultures when it comes to tragedy, and it seems that they’ll never stop feasting off of mine. I need to listen to what else she says.  Keeping my attention focused on the news, I reach over and turn down the music all the way before allowing myself to look at the television behind me. ”It was a shocking crime that remains unsolved to this day. Don Mitchell Jrs’ political career was especially notable for his tough war on drugs..” The news anchor keeps speaking about the mayor as the elevator in the shaft behind me starts rattling down. Great. I’m sure this conversation is gonna go well. I turn my gaze from the television behind me to the screens on my desk, trying to delve deep into my work so maybe he’ll leave me alone. As much as I try, I can’t truly focus on it. I’m too distracted listening to him close the elevator door and walk towards me, the thump of his cane accentuating every other footstep. Still, I try to ignore it as I reach out and hit the fast forward button. I need to get to the crime scene. ”I assume you’ve heard about this.” He asks about the news story. Like usual, he’s pretending that nothing happened, like we didn’t just have a verbal war hours earlier. ”Yeah.” I answer him, not bothering to hide the shortness of my tone. I’m not gonna bring it up, but I’m not gonna act like I forgot either. I don’t care if he knows I’m still angry at him. I hear Alfred take a couple steps closer until he’s standing beside me at the desk. The monitor’s screen displays Mitchell’s body through a grainy veil of red, what my contact lens cameras saw.  Gordon’s observing his head with his flashlight, the lead detective beside him.  Picking up his hand and removing the bag is her, Detective Walker.  I don’t know what to think of her yet.  Gordon said that we can trust her, and it seems like she’s good at her job... but there’s just something about her that feels... different somehow.  The way she looked at me... I was just trying to size her up, see if I could trust Gordon’s word about her... but then her eyes locked onto mine and everything suddenly fell away. We weren’t in the signal tower anymore, we were at Wayne Tower, and she was there, locked in the empty dark home with me. She saw the angry little boy sitting there in his parent’s bedroom, wondering why the world was so cold... she saw me. I don’t like it. No one is supposed to be able to see that deep, not even Alfred, not even the people that know me. ”Bruce!” Alfred snaps me out of the trance. I look down and realize that I paused the video on a perfect frame of her face, the moment when she seemed to read my mind about Mitchell’s thumb. ”Bruce, did you hear me?” I blink and take a second to collect myself before I finally look over at Alfred.  He must have thought that I was ignoring him on purpose because he looks angry.  ”No.” I answer and look back at the screen. It’s still paused on her, crowned with the information my recognition software found. Alfred lets out a soft frustrated sigh before he repeats himself. ”I recognize her name... but I don’t know what from.” What? Why would Alfred know her?  I need to find out, I need to know everything about her that I possibly can. My curiosity feels like a beast, feral and unrelenting. Starving for every bit of information it can get it’s claws on.  I move to my monitor on the far right and minimize the displayed camera systems, then open the search engine and type in her name and title.  Multiple articles appear, but none of them are what I’m expecting.  ’Det. Amelia Walker and husband Ofc. James Walker Murdered || GCPD1′      ’Celebrated Cop Duo Murdered! ||GothamGazette’            ‘The Mysterious Case of Amelia and James Walker || GothamColdCases’      My breath catches in my throat... She went through it too, then. That’s why she froze up when she found Mitchell’s son.  I click on the first link.  ...’At approximately 3:28 AM, July 15th 2010, GCPD first responders received a phone call from a concerned neighbor claiming that screams were coming from the Walker Residence.  When police arrived, they found the bodies of Amelia and James Walker, stabbed to death in their bedroom.  Amelia was on the floor and James still lying in bed. Emily Walker, their thirteen-year-old, was on her knees at her mother’s side unharmed. The police have not yet found the killer.’... ”Oh... I see.” Alfred breathes out with a heavy sadness. My jaw clenches and I minimize the page. I can’t read any more of that, not right now... why are people always murdered in this fucking town? Why does this darkness have to spread so much, infect so deeply and take so greedily?... I’m getting distracted.  I look back at the main monitor and press play.  We watch the video silently for a few moments before I skip ahead to when Gordon’s reading the card. I pause it and then hit the print button.  The warm paper glides out from the printer and it’s a grace for my aching fingers.  As much as I’d like to savor it, I don’t want to waste any time.  The video continues in the background as I write down the answer to the riddle in silver sharpie, writing each letter above the symbols in the card- what I can only assume is the letter’s equivalent in the cipher. ”The killer left this for the Batman?” Alfred’s alarmed voice breaks the silent peace we found.  There it is, all my hope for a calm morning gone. I look at him, expecting the tension to soon break into a shouting crescendo. ”Apparently.” He moves his gaze from the screen back to me and I can see the agitated shift  in his features.  ”You’re becoming quite the celebrity. Why is he writing to you?” I glue my eyes to the screen once more and press the fast forward button.  I can tell that our conversation is quickly becoming a ticking time bomb.  One wrong move, and it’ll blow. ”I don’t know yet.” The answer stays on the neutral side of things, doesn’t comment on his first statement. It’s a bit ironic though, Batman becoming well known. I started this project to try to make a difference in Gotham, an actual difference, instead of our politician’s usual way of staying in good light and making more money... but I didn’t realize just how freeing anonymity is. ”Have a shower.” Alfred changes the subject with a tone of defeat as he sets a glass of water down on the desk beside me.  I expected him to re-open the festering wound of our argument from last night, but I guess he learned that saying the same thing over and over again won’t make me change my mind. I never thought the day would come.  He turns away from me and begins to walk back to the direction of the elevator. ”Our accounting friends at Wayne Enterprises are coming for breakfast.” What?? Those are the last people I want to see right now and Alfred knows it. Not only that, but they’re going to be in our house. Today alone I’ve had to deal with two assaults, a mugging, murder, and now accountants?? He couldn’t have even told me beforehand so I could have some time to prepare for it? ”Here? Why?” I try to find some sort of reason why he might ever think this was a good idea. It seems that my question was the end of his patience. ”Because I couldn’t get you to go there!” He bursts out as he turns to face me again. Oh boy. Here it comes again. ”I haven’t got time for this.” I say as I look back towards the red screen. It’s true, I really don’t have time for this conversation again, especially since he knows I still feel the same about it that I did last night. ”It’s getting serious, Bruce. If this continues, it won’t be long before you’ve nothing left.” There it is. Alfred wants me to go on my father’s route of change, to use money to become a mayor and try to save Gotham ‘the right way’. Maybe it would have worked for my father, but I’m not him, as much as Alfred wishes otherwise. I was born into this company and robbed of every major life choice since I was ten. I don’t want to be the ‘Prince of Gotham’ I don’t want to have my name and face plastered everywhere. That won’t help anything, not from me. This town is rotting, and it gets worse every day. Old fashioned politics can’t save it anymore and no matter how much he hates it, this is the only way.  Gotham needs Batman, not Bruce Wayne the hermit screw-up. With a deep breath, I turn my head once again to meet the eye contact. I want him to be able to see how much I mean this. ”I don’t care about that. Any of that.” His jaw ticks and I can tell I’ve struck a nerve. ”You don’t care about your family’s legacy?” He thinks kissing babies and being famous is my legacy? No, what my dad stood for, his charities and kindness, that was his legacy. Doing what he could to help Gotham, to save people. ”What I’m doing is my family’s legacy. If I can’t change things here, if I can’t have an effect... then I don’t care what happens to me.” His expression shifts as the anger seems to melt away and instead a grave sadness replaces it. ”That’s what I’m afraid of-” ”Alfred, stop. You’re not my father.” Fuck. I really didn’t mean to say that... I really don’t mean it either, but Alfred doesn’t know that. The damage is done. There’s a weight between us, one that bogs the air and makes him pause for a few seconds as the sadness in his eyes grows deeper. ”I’m well aware.” I can’t do it anymore. This conversation, this night, the accountants, the disappointment and pressure, the murderer on the loose, and that fucking detective... I just need to be left alone for ten goddamn minutes or else I’m going to explode. Neither of us say anything else as I look back to the screen.  Gordon is showing the cipher page.  I quickly pause it and press print before I get up and leave for the elevator. I don’t know why I always have to make everything so much worse.  Sure, Alfred pressures me to be someone I’m not, but he still raised me when no one else could... even though he didn’t know how to. He’s not my father, but he always took care of me like one. Drowning in regret, I close the doors and press the button. The freight elevator begins to rattle upwards and once my work-station is out of view my eyes close and my head thunks against the cold metal wall. I’m so tired and sore, and there’s a million different emotions going on all at once, thrashing, fighting, screaming, crying...  I just want to lay down.                                                                   ~ ​

[i-cant-sing]

Hey I have a yandere erasermic obsession. I don’t know if you do angst but what if they were punishing reader and she gets really exhausted and passes out. They think they killed her, I know this is dumb and you don’t have to do it if it makes you uncomfortable-🍓 anon

Yandere Erasermic punishing reader

I've missed these two a lot😭

Anyways, enjoy! Check out my MASTERLIST for more!

Yandere Erasermic:

"Hey! I'm home! How are my darlings- Shou? You okay?" Hizashi asked as he entered his home. He was looking forward to spending time with you and the hero, but judging by the pissed off look on Aizawa's face, it didn't seem like happening.

Aizawa was taking deep breaths, his eyebrows furrowed and face contorted into a scowl. God, what did you do now? Hizashi couldn't help but wonder that, as he slid onto the couch next to his husband.

"What did she do now?"Hizashi asked, resting his head on Aizawa's chest as his arms wrapped around him.

Aizawa closed his eyes in annoyance, his own arms engulfing Hizashi as he let out a huff. "She's so ungrateful."

Hizashi lightly chuckled at that, waiting for him to continue. "You know what she did today? She tried to escape. Again. I don't know how she got the code to unlock the main door, but she opened it. She barely made it 2 steps out the door before I pulled her back in. I was taking a shower and she thought she could make a run for it. " Aizawa runs a hand through his hair, but Hizashi suddenly caught it. He looked at his husband's hand, it was turning a nasty shade of purple, and was red around the knuckles, slightly swelled. "Shou, babe... what happened to your hand?"

Aizawa exhales deeply, closing his eyes, trying to control his anger. "Our sweet little darling happened. After I got her back in, I told her to apologise. You know what she did? She spit at me, screamed all kinds of profanities. When I took her down to the basement to chain her up, she tried attacking me." Aizawa clenched his jaw. "I was only going to leave her there for the night. But what she said to me next... Hizashi, I lost it. I punched her." Hizashi's eyes widened. He knew Aizawa wasn't one to lose his temper easily, he knew he wasn't one to resort to violence immediately. So the blonde could only wonder what in the hell did you say to him. "Shouta... what did she say?" He asked softly, almost afraid of the answer himself.

Shouta looked at his husband, trying to calm himself when he told him what you barked out. "She said...she said that she wondered how UA let... let creeps like us around kids." Hizashi's eyes widened. If there's one thing he knew about Aizawa, it was how deeply he cared about his students, treating them like his own children. He prided himself in being their teacher, and so the nerve of you to even say something so disgusting like that, Aizawa was bound to snap.

"I cant believe she'd say something...so horrible. I'm so sorry, Shou." Hizashi whispered, nuzzling Aizawa's neck. The pro hero only grunted. "Whatever. I think it'd be good if she stays down there... for 2 weeks. Yeah that'd be good. And no dinner tonight either. I don't want to put up with anymore of her bullshit." Hizashi only nodded, but then caught another look at his hand and he stood up, pulling Aizawa along with him to the kitchen. Hizashi pulled out a bag of frozen peas and started applying it on his bruise hand to reduce the swelling.

As the two ate dinner, Hizashi couldn't help but worry that if Shouta's hand looked like this from the punch, then what did the receiving end look like. He chose to remain quiet on that matter, not wanting you to ruin the night anymore.

The next morning when Aizawa woke up, he went downstairs to the kitchen to find his husband. Hizashi who was almost done plating up, greeted Aizawa with a kiss. "So, should I take this plate down to our baby bird?" Hizashi asked, already knowing Aizawa didn't want to see you yet. You had really hurt him. Shouta nodded as he took a sip of his coffee. "Be right back." Hizashi pressed a kiss to his lips before going to the basement.

Hizashi opened the door to the basement, walking down the stairs, hoping to see you greet him like the angel they know you are deep down. But when he got down there, he saw you were still asleep on the floor, your limbs still bound to the chains. Your face was turned away from him and Hizashi wasnt sure if he wanted to see the damage that was done to your face.

Hizashi just called for you. “Love, I’ve brought breakfast! Eggs and hashbrowns! Your favourite!” When you didnt respond, he just sighed before placing the plate on the floor. Your chains were long enough to for you to reach it, and while Hizashi wished nothing more than to feed you himself, he knew you needed to be punished.

As he went up the stairs and out of the basement, he couldnt help but feel a sense of dread creeping up on him.

“Do you think she’ll be sorry after her punishment?”Hizashi asked his partner.  Aizawa rolled his eyes. “Unlikely. But she’ll learn to think twice before she says stupid shit like that.” Hizashi chuckled, but secretly hoped that would be the case. He got up from the couch where he and Aizawa sat. “I’ll go get her plate.” They were done eating 2 hours ago, but still waited for you to finish up because they know how stubborn you are.

When Hizashi walked down the stairs, he wasn’t surprised to find your plate untouched. You would always do that the first few days, before finally succumbing to your hunger. Pointless, really. But what disturbed him was how you were still in the same position he had seen you in 2 hours ago. And it was coming to him how still you looked, he couldn't see your body moving a single muscle, he couldn't see if you were breathing. 

Hizashi walked towards you cautiously, waiting for you to jump up and scare the crap out of him. But his breath hitched when he finally saw what had happened to you. 

A big bruise had formed on your cheek, swelling and taking all the shades of the purple, blue and green. But the worst part was seeing the blood and a clear liquid dripping out of your nose slowly, forming a pool around your head.

He turned you on to your back and started shaking your shoulder. “Darling? Wake up, baby. Its me. Baby, wake up.” But your body remained unconscious. He started tapping your cheek, only then noticing you weren’t breathing. All the alarms went off in his head. “SHOUTA! COME DOWN OVER HERE!” 

Shouta rushed to the basement, wondering what stunt you pulled now. But seeing your limp body in Hizashi’s arms, blood coating your cheeks, he knew something terrible had occured. Aizawa ran towards his partners, looking at your bruising cheek. “She’s n-not breathing. She’s not fucking breathing, Shou!” Hizashi sobbed as Aizawa took your wrist in his hand. His blood ran cold when he found no pulse. “What are we gonna do?! She’s dead! Our baby is dead!” Shouta blocked out Hizashi’s voice. They both cant be panicking right now. Aizawa turned to his partner. “Hizashi. Bring her up. I’ll get the car out.” He commanded. “H-hospital? Shou, its too late-” Hizashi cried out but Aizawa gave him a stern look. “Bring her up. Now.” 

They got to the hospital in fairly record time, passing you over to the doctors while Aizawa made up a story of how they found you in an alley. Only after the doctors left them alone did it dawn on Aizawa how serious the situation was. He killed you, didnt he? You would still be alive if he hadnt hit you. How could he ever claim to love you when he hurts you-

Aizawa shook his head, he could wallow up in his guilt later. For now, he needed to comfort his husband and pray that you make it through somehow.

A few hours later, the doctors had given them an update on your condition. You made it, barely. Something had hit your face and damaged some part of your brain, causing there to be a very slow heart beat. But you're all okay now, since they brought you in time.

When they were allowed to finally go in, thats when Aizawa finally broke down. Seeing you unconscious, knowing he almost killed you, it got to him. Hizashi wanted to console Aizawa, but he couldn't bring himself to leave your side. Hizashi pressed soft kisses to your temples, wiping his tears that fell on your cheek, while Aizawa stood to your side. He wanted to hold your hand but he was afraid to hurt you again. As the duo sat by your side, they made a silent promise to never hurt you again, at least not physically.

After that incident, you'll never be left alone. The two are always breathing down your neck, drowning you in love, looking at you with even more fondness; obsession and protectiveness swirling in their eyes, right there with guilt.

Aizawa would never apologise, but that doesn't mean he's not sorry. You would often wake up to him looking at your bruised cheek with worry, caressing it so gently, as if he'd break you. He'll be a lot more demanding with physical affection, always wrapping his arms around you, forcing you onto his lap and tucking your face under his chin as he cards his fingers through your hair.

You didn't think Hizashi could be anymore overbearing, but you were proved wrong. He'd panic if you were out of his sight for more than 5 minutes. Always worrying, paranoia creeping up on him when you're not in the same room as him. And when he would finally find you (mostly in the bathroom), he'd check you all over for injuries, not trusting your assurances.

Punishments aren't violent anymore. They're humiliating. Pulling you in their laps and feeding you by hand, talking about you as if you're not there, making you take baths with them(not showers because they end too quickly), making you sleep with them, naked.

And the couple won't lie, but this form of punishment seems to be far more effective. With how quickly you turn docile, folding in on yourself as if you could hide from them... its cute.

But hey, its better than getting beat, right?

[bts-trash-blog]

Best Of Us

Chapter 7: Risk

Summary: Being an Omega is hard, it could be so lonely. The hardships that you would sometimes feel seemed to much, always expected of things you could never fully reach. Always seen as a piece of meat to some, seen as weak and stupid. So you worked your ass off to finally work your dream job. And the world all changed when you met one of the bosses. And couldn't help but end up falling.

Paring: Rap Line X Fem!Chubby OmegaReader

Warning: A/O/B!VERS, mentions of sexual harassment, heats, ruts, knotting, breeding, angst, possessive behavior, more warnings will be added as needed.

Chapter edited

PREV._.NEXT 

The feeling of warmth spread across your cheek, it had your eyes blinking open bright sharp almost cat like, brown eyes staring back at you.The soft beeping of your phone had you whining as the person in front of you, Bambam lets out a chuckle as you slowly move from the pile of blankets you were under. The smell, the sticky sweet smell of the two of you sticking to you like glue, your hand reaches over to your phone. Seeing a light up message, from Jin saying you didn’t have to come in for the meetings after all, and then an email from Yoongi.Eye tightly shutting, reading for the Sorry but we’ve decided to let you go.. Email especially after what you had said right before you left. You wouldn’t be surprised at all for the termination.

Y/n,

Due to the events that occurred last night I am giving you the rest of the week off, though you will still need to do work from your laptop or the tablet we have given you. My single request is that you give me your address so I can send you physical copies of paperwork through Jin.

I would also like to invite you to an outing with Hoseok, Namjoon and myself, and talk through what has happened. I do not want you to feel pressured into anything so for the next week at five my mates and I will be at the cafe across the street from our building we will stay until eight each day.

I would also like to apologize for using my Alpha authority over you. I am never one to do that unless necessary and in that situation it was clearly not, I feel horrible about it but I do know that no apology will ever heal that wound. Only actions. And from this day on I will try to prove to you that I am not like that, I am not that type of Alpha. I am an Alpha your father will approve of. Hoseok is an Alpha your father will approve of. We are a pack your father will approve of, and even if he doesn't right away we will show him and your mother time and time again that we are worthy of your love. That our love is enough for their little girl, if you will have it of course. And if you don't want it, then we will let you go. Y/n this is up to you, and you alone. Just know how sorry I am that I even used that tone on you. I will never do it again.

Sincerely,

Min Yoongi

You felt your hand shake as you dropped your phone in shock onto your lap as you let out a whine, Bambam letting out his own as his nose nudged under your jaw as his arms wrapped their way around your waist. Your hands fall onto his arms as you feel his nose nudge against your scent gland, making your curl into him as he lays you down back into the nest. The pillows stacked along the wall and the ends of the bed moved slightly. The scent of the two of you mixing as you nose nudged against his scent gland. Purrs passing your guys lips as you sniffle, your fingers gripping at his bare shoulders, his skin warm under the palm of your hands. His nose rubbing against your skin trying to calm you down as you took deep breaths of his oranges and cream smell had your calming as you took a deep breath pulling from him.

“What up Y/n?”

“Just read.” He nods, taking your phone as you kneaded the bed below you, trying to see if you could make it softer, more welcoming. Hearing him sigh, you look to see the boy's eyes lingering at you as he gives you a tight lipped smile. “What do I do?”

“What do you want to do?” Your body froze as you sat in the middle of your bed, Bambam moving to rest his leg in your lap as your hands fell onto his thigh. Your fingers rubbing into the muscle uncousionaly as you take a deep breath.

“I don’t know.” Your voice was shaky as Bambam typed on your phone and handed it back, seeing he had emailed Yoongi back.

Mr.Min,

My address is (I really don't know what to name this) apartment 3a, and to give you an honest answer to the rest is a simple I don’t know.

Sincerely,

Y/LN Y/n

“That easy huh?” You wonder making him smile and nod as he sat up and grabbed his phone, a frown falling on his face making you move wrap your arm around his leg resting your cheek on his knees. “What wrong Bam?”

“Jackson hasn’t messaged me at all..I..I miss him.” His pout dropped to a full grown as you watched his lip quiver, his eyes building with tears as you moved to nuzzle yourself on top of him, his arms wrapping around your back as he let out a whimper. “It's like he doesn’t want me anymore. I know I'm not a conventual omega, you know? I'm tall and lanky and I’m a stubborn brat, but he said he was okay with all of that. He said he liked my body, and he was okay that I’m taller than him and that I’m not afraid to speak my mind..but what if he’s not. What if he found a shorter, curvier omega? Someone more obitident and he just doesn't know how to tell me.” His words had you moving closer, knowing he had no concern about your weight completely on him, he needed to compression as you nuzzled yourself deeper into his skin.

“Bam..”

“He didn’t even spend my heat with me, he hasn't even gotten me a courting gift.” His voice was full of pain as he held you close, letting a sob pass his lips as you let out a growl. Jackson had chased after your best friend for five month prior to Bambam caving and agreeing to be in a courting relationship with one of the richest families' sons. Their only son.  When the news broke, Bambam had been assigned bodyguards and a driver. Even when he was alone he was never really alone, and the stress of it all he just wanted to cuddle, scent with Jackson. Yet you would wake up to a facetime of a tired looking Bambam wrapped up in Jackson's sheets, alone, your mutual friends Lisa and her mate Jennie growling at the treatment Bambam was going through. Yet Bambam couldn’t seem to grow the courage to end the relationship. The pull to great between the two.

“Break up with him.”

“I can’t, I love him and I feel like its m-”

“Bam, if you leave him and he doesn’t try to fight it then he isn’t worth your fight. If he wants you then he needs to prove it. Also how he treats you, how any Alpha in this world treats you is not your fault. It's their own head being shoved far up their ass that they can’t see the world around them, and how it doesn't revolve around them. Bam. Text him, tell him you think the two of you need the end thing cause clearly he doesn’t have time for a relationship. Then me and you are gonna shove our faces while he freaks out.”

“But that's so curle.” “So is him, your supposed boyfriend and courting Alpha, not even texting you two words when he gets up, or even just letting you sit with him during his lunches in his office in silence. He hands you a scented hoodie for the week then you rarely see him afterwards. It's his turn to see how it feels.”

“I don’t want to lose him.” “Then don’t take my advice, okay? I'm not gonna force you but I'm gonna be here for you, nesting and feeding you.”

“It hurts.”

“I know.” He sighs pulling away from you, grabbing his phone, your eyes peering over watching him write out a text to Jackson. I’m sorry to bother you during work, I know you hate that, but I really think we should break up. You clearly don’t have the time for a courting relationship, and I can’t handle you being so cold to me. Again I'm sorry for bothering you. But I think this is for the best. It was scent with tear filled eyes as your arms stayed wrapped around his neck, the delivery staying, like it was a tattoo on his phone. It had him scoffing as he dropped his phone and turned into your chest.

“I hate Alphas.”

“Me too.”

“Lets mate so no Alpha will ever fuck with us again.” His words had you snorting as he let out a pain filled giggle against your chest as you ran your hand through his hair, his eyes closing rightly as your mother knocked on the door.

“Sorry to bother you, but Y/n don’t you have work sweetheart.” Her tone was sweet as she lingers at the open door, her eyes falling on the still crying Bambam as you gave her a small smile.

“No, I was given the day off.”

“Oh well, breakfast for the two fo you is in the microwave.” Nodding she gives a small wave in goodbye and shuts your door. The ding of a phone had babam tenseing, but he relaxed, though with a deafeed look when he saw his message was still on delivered. While your phone was showing a new message from Jin. Saying what time he was going to arrive to extache paper work with you.

“Food then back to sleep?”

“Yes.”

_____________________________

Waking up to a pounding on your door, had your eyes snapping open, Bam had taken the spot closest to the wall, under a large pile of blankets. A sweater of yours draping over his skin, lips parted eyes still closed dead asleep. Yet the pounding on your front door awoke you. Slowly moving out of bed you see his phone had twenty missed calls, and too many messages for Jackson not wanting the boy in your bed. Taking a deep breath, you walk out of your room and down the hall to your front door unlocking the deadbolt but leaving the chain hooked. As you open the door, there you see a panting Jackson, his eyes pitch black as he looks at you with a pained expression. His alpha scent was sour, thick, the minty freshness of his scent drowned out by his distress. His pain.

“Please.” He whimpers, his head bowing, neck on show as you shut the door slightly undoing the chain lock and opening the door more. His body stays put as he takes a deep breath in, whining as he drops to his knees. “Kunpimook, please.” Turning your head you see a shuffling Bambam, his eyes red puffy as you step back, Jacksons body dropping to a full bow. Forehead touching the ground as you see Bambam tilt his head, looking to you as you nod for him to follow.  His body slowly drops to the ground pushing Jacksons shoulders back making Jackson whine, his eyes looking at the hand that was placed on his shoulder. “Omega mine.” Jackson mumbles, your body slowly moving back, trying to give the two space but also needing to make sure Bambam was safe. You watch Bambam tilt his head  as Jackson mimicked him, his action following the younger as Bambam gave what you assumed was a tight lipped smile as you watch Jacksons shoulders drop. Head falling forward pressing against Bambam chest as Jackson let out a purr.  “Home.”

“He isn’t talking normally.” Bambam whispers to you, looking at you as you giggle as you move slowly as Jackson wraps his arms around Bambam and growles at you making the omegas jaw go slack as you place your hand over your mouth.

“Just go with it, my mom called it the puppy stage.” your words had Bambam nodding as he looks at you with a frown. “Bam if you want him, go with him. “ He gives you a smile as he pulls from Jackson, who whines as he watches Bambam stan following the Omegas movements as he moves and nuzzles his face into Bambams neck.

“I think you should go. Listen to what they have to say.” He mumbles whe Jackson suddenly lifts the boy in his arms making , Bambam sequel as you giggle. Jackson is moving out of your apartment. “My stuff!”

“Home. Omega home.”

“I’ll bring it to you later.” You call out watching men in suits fall in toe behind the pair as you shake your head and shut your apartment door. A deep breath in.

Should you give them a chance? You wondered, moving to your living room couch, fixing the messy bun your hair was in. Eyes blinking slowly as you take a deep breath in, what bad could come from it?

“A lot.” You state out loud shaking your head as you let out a deep sigh, wrapping yourself into your fathers blanket that your mother kept in the living room. His scent was long gone, yet the memories of him wrapped in the blanket had your eyes water as you nuzzled yourself into the grey fabric. How you longed for the day you could speak to him, he’d know what to do.

“Dad you don't get it!” Your voice echoes through the halls of your home, his body trailing after you as you storm your way into your bedroom, his foot stopping your bedroom door slamming. His brown eyes shone as he looked at you. “Alphas don't understand!”

“Then explain it to me kiddo, please. Why aren’t you eating? Why are you changing your wardrobe? Tell me what that has to do with being an Omega.” His words were full of begging. Pleading as you whine leaving your door, gathering the blankets from your bedroom ground, rushing to your bed as you begin to move around the mattress. “Kid, come on I hate seeing you like this.”

“I’m just doing what any Omega would if no Alpha looked at them Dad, that's all. A diet doesn’t hu-”

“You haven’t eaten in over a week, a weak young lady. I don't want to force my hand and use the Alpha tone on you just so you’d actually eat. Baby I hate seeing you like this.” His words softened as he trailed into your room.

“Just go away dad.” He went silent, then you looked up to see he was gone. Rolling your eyes, you start rearranging  the pillows around your bed, when suddenly your dad's scent wraps around you as he enters your nest. Your eyes widening as you growl to he wraps you in his favorite grey blanket. A bowl of rice and chicken in hand as he shakes his head.

“I’ll never go away, but nice try. Now eat something pup.”

You missed those days, the days he showed up in your bedroom food in hand, blanket in the other making sure you ate. Then you felt comfortable enough during your school days to eat.You missed the days, where you fingers would glide along the keys of a piano, his laughter joining as he pressed a kiss to the side of your head. You missed the look in in your mothers eyes when she looked at him, or how he always found her in a room no matter how big, how crowded. You missed their joint laughter as they teased you on your birthdays, or how much your father loved the two of you. Without him it was quiet walls, and lonely nights. It scared you.

It scared you to even think about letting someone love you the way your father did, letting someone see you the way he saw your mother. It terrified you, cause you saw how quickly people leave, they disappear so quickly without a trace, well that's a lie, the only trace is pain. The empty feeling craves in your chest, the sadness that elopes every memory with them. You never knew that the taste of chicken and rice could make you cry, or the smell of lily flowers mixed with an unforgettable spicy could make your chest hurt. How on random days, your body felt as you were in the car again, the car became so scary to you. You never knew you couldn’t listen to a piano without your body shaking, never could understand why music became so sour for you. You're scared to show them why you flinch away from loud noise, all because the flash of a blaring horn rushes through you. How could you put them through that? Dealing with the night terrors and panic attacks on your bad days. You wish you could. You wish you could love them without the fear of losing them.

But isn’t that the part of it all? The chance of losing it all for just one moment of happiness. So, take the risk or don’t.

Tag list:

@kth-kpoplover @alex4243 @malyxsoulpersonal @purelyecstacy @ryuyalana  @nlost21 @xanny91 @barbyisafangirl @munchyn @lashaysaurusrex  @scentedsope @purpleheartsfortae @btsforlif @barbikatherine @mauranglc @uniquelyabnormallyoriginal  @keepyourdreamsalive @ellethemoon​ @thickemadame  @chimchimooo73 @thickemadame​ @lazykingcomputer @channiespup @yoongitoo @missmoxxiesworld  @4evahevah @schmetterlingsbluetentee @moonchilreneverywhere  @yeojunswhore @shereen1603 @lovelysky15 @tinieretro @mininimmy @caratarmy131

 @milopenne  @fauxthephoenix @cuteipat  @lustremyg 

[sailors-diary-for-elise]

Reaching Out

SEE! SOMETHING OTHER THAN SMUT. Also this one is old and a bit dusty, sooooo warnings are gonna be to the best of my ability. ALSO. THIS IS ANGST AND HAS TRIGGERING THEMES. PLEASE SCROLL PAST IF THE WARNINGS ARE DISTRESSING TO YOU. I wrote this during a really difficult day and was just word vomiting tbh. I am also gonna state that this is a work of fiction and I am in no way a therapist or anything, so if something here bothers you I’m sorry this is just something I wrote mostly for myself.

Warnings: god this is painful but here we go. Reader is depressed and has anxiety, mentions of self-inflicted injuries (she punches a mirror...repeatedly-), blood, panic attacks, it takes a few of the members to restrain the reader so if you’re uncomfortable with that please don’t read this, this is honestly just a hard read imo so please read with care. Also, the reader hates herself and just doesn’t really think highly of herself at all sooooo yeah-

It was the fourth time this month. The fourth argument that could’ve and should’ve ended differently.

You’d come out of your room to find San off at practice or on some work related schedule, spend the entire day outside trying to break a horrible cycle in your mind, just to disappear again once he returned home. It was frustrating you both and causing a serious strain in your relationship.

On San’s side, he couldn’t understand why it was that you would fight against him trying to get you to come out of your room when you spent the entire day alone. Then there was his frustration when you would complain about never seeing him and yet would disappear and avoid him when he was available. To San, it didn’t make any sense. All he wanted to do was spend time with you and support you, but it seemed as though you were determined to shut him out. He watches you storm off to your bedroom, running a hand through his hair as he tries to recall the last time he’d come back from a schedule and had a nice quiet evening that didn’t end in you both screaming at each other. When he can’t, San grabs his jacket and walks out of the apartment with his phone and keys, planning on spending the night at the dorms so that you can have some space to cool off. Once he gets in his car, he quickly dials Hongjoong’s number, pulling out of the parking garage of your complex and letting out all of his frustrations and concerns. 

As he drove, San had no way of knowing how much you hated yourself for what was happening between you both.

What San didn’t know was that your depression and anxiety had been spiraling lately due to the pressure that had been placed on your shoulders from not only your work but from being the girlfriend of an idol that had become so famous. He didn’t know that every day you were terrified that, now that his future was so bright and secure, he’d no longer want you. That he’d leave you just like so many before had done, and that he’d realize you were no longer something of use to him. And finally, how you criticize every minute of your life, finding ways that you are failing even when you’ve done nothing but your best. It came to the point that waking up from dreams was physically painful, because you could control a dream and guarantee the people you love never turned their backs on you. San didn’t, or rather, couldn’t know this. Because to know this would mean you would have to tell him. And no one should have to bear this burden but you, and there was always that small part of you that was terrified of having your feelings invalidated. 

Your whole life people have toyed with you, accepting your depression only when it was convenient to them and berating you once the curtains fall. Some even went as far as to weaponize your emotions, tearing you down in an argument with something that was the equivalent to the beating heart in your chest. Yes they would apologize and you would eventually forgive them because people make mistakes. But the thing about words is that once they leave someone’s mouth, the damage is already done and there’s no amount of remorse or forgiveness that can repair it. That’s where you are now.

You slam the door shut, leaving all the lights in your room turned off, your head pounding after the screaming match you and San had just finished (rather, you ran out on and barricaded the door so he wouldn’t see you cry) and your face stained with tears. Not a sound left you as you curled up on the bed, biting your fist as a punishment for your body's betrayal of emotions. All it would take was one minute of silence and the entire apartment would be able to hear how you were feeling. In all honesty, you didn’t want San to see you cry. Because in your mind, you didn’t deserve to cry. You were the one who picked a fight. You're the one who made unfair accusations, using his career and passions as weapons against him. You were the one that hurt him in the same ways that had been done to you, falsely claiming that it was to “beat him to it and strike first.” 

The front door slams shut, and you work quickly. You unbarricade the door and peek out, making sure no one is there. Dashing across the living space, you reach the spare bedroom and lock the door, not seeing the need for such extreme measures as earlier. You then sit with your back to the door, listening for the sign of San’s safe return from the store. Your butt has just about gone numb when this occurs, the front door shutting softly alerting you instantly. You rise from your position, albeit a little slowly due to your cramped muscles, and shuffle to the bed. A knock sounds, and a decision has to be made.

“Y/N? I know you’re awake. Can you come to bed? You and I both know that neither of us can sleep alone anymore.” San mumbles through the door. You hear shuffling, and you hold your breath thinking he might unlock the door. You’re not sure though, whether you’re holding your breath in hope or fear. But all you hear is a thud, indicating San sitting down. “Look, we don’t have to talk. You don’t even need to look at me, it just feels better for both of us if I’m holding you through the night, because at the end of the day, we still love each other, right?” 

San’s cheeks are marked with tear streaks, eyes red and puffy as he waits for any sign of confirmation from you. He loves you more than anything else, so much so that he’d give up everything for you, and needed to hear that you still loved him as well. He holds his breath, hands covering his face while he waits for you to show him a sign that you’re even listening. That you’re even there. 

You tip-toe over to the door, gently crouching down in front of it and rest your fingertips lightly on the wood, near where his shoulder is supposed to be. It’s cold and unyielding, but this is the bravest you’ll ever be. You hear a sigh on the other side, almost as if he can sense your presence.

“You know, you don’t have to keep it all in. From the first moment I saw you, I knew that there was so much going on in your life that it’d take time to get you to trust me. And I still want that. I want to know what’s going on in your life again. I want to hold you as you're crying again. And I want to repay you for all the times you’ve helped me.” San whispers, his voice showing how much of a toll this has taken on him. “I know a lot has changed, I travel a lot, and it’s harder for us to go anywhere without me being recognized. But I promise you that my feelings for you, the amount of love I feel for you, it’s all still there. If anything, I love you even more now than before. I don’t want to lose you Y/N. I want to keep fighting for us and I just need you to reach out to me, show me you want this too. Open the door, even if it’s just a crack, and let me help heal those open wounds. Yes there will be scars and yes it will take time, but I’m willing to wait.”

At this point you have tears streaming down your face as you withdraw your hand. You don’t move though, despite your broken mind willing you to do so, you stay rooted in your spot. Sniffles break through the other side, showing how much San is hurting. You feel as though there’s a war going on inside of you, your heart begging you to open the door and stop this madness, but your mind resolute on keeping this wall up. 

“I. Can’t.” you croak out, bringing your trembling hand to your lips and nibbling your thumbnail as you rise slowly. “They were right, I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve you.”

“What? Who told you that?” San questions, confusion swirling in his head as he struggles to better understand where this was coming from. Standing, San presses his hands to the door, trying to open it only to find it locked. “Love, talk to me.”

“All I’ve been doing is hurting you, and I’m sorry. ” You whimper, your mind screaming at you to shut-up and not give away anything while your heart, your very being, is begging to be set free and allow him back in. “I, I love you, San.” And with that you rise, walking towards the bathroom attached to the room. You close the door, locking it and turning to the mirror to see your disheveled state. Tears stain your cheeks, your eyes have bags under them, and your hair is greasy and a mess from the lack of effort on your part to take care of yourself. 

Thoughts swirl and distort your reflection, harsh words clouding your mind. Some of the words surface from your past, some are from deep within you stemming from your lack of forgiveness for yourself. You don’t deserve forgiveness or a second chance. You don’t deserve him caring for you. You’re toxic. You do nothing but hurt him. Toxic. Toxic. 

You start screaming, starting in your gut and ripping out through your mouth, scaring the shit out of San who begins pounding on the door. You hear him calling out to you, but it’s muffled in your head as you continue to sob and scream at your reflection, running your hands through your hair before tugging on it out of frustration. The longer you look at yourself, the worse the feeling in your gut gets as the harsh words continue to tear you apart, worsening with each passing moment. With one last scream you pull your arm back and punch the mirror, desperate to feel something other than the all consuming self-hatred. And it works.

There’s a crack on the mirror with droplets of blood in the center. You bring your trembling hand into view, noticing your knuckles slightly bloodied and cut. The pain replaces all of the noise in your head, if only for a moment, and you become entranced by it. Raising your fist again, you punch the mirror once, twice, three more times before stopping to look at your handy work. The crack has grown and your hand is bleeding steadily, a couple of pieces of glass stuck in your knuckles. You’re ashamed of what and who you’ve become and raise your fist again when the door breaks down.

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!” San shouts, restraining your flailing and screaming form as tears stream down your face. Four pairs of hands are pulling you out of the bathroom, with San’s arms wrapped tightly around your waist as he pulls you on the bed. He immediately starts shushing you, whispering into your hair as he wraps his legs around you as well, restricting you so the others can clean you up and call an ambulance if need be. At this point though, he doesn’t need to as you’ve gone completely limp, sobbing into his neck loudly as the emotions you’ve kept hidden flood out in a wave that swallows you whole. “Shh baby, it’s okay. We’re here now and we’re not leaving you. I’ve got you, we’ve got you. It’s okay, it’s okay.” His voice is trembling, absolutely terrified by what he’s just experienced. It’s lucky that Hongjoong, Yunho, and Seonghwa arrived when they did or he might have been too late, having planned on coming to help San piece back together your relationship. It took Yunho and Seonghwa to break down the doors, and all four of them carried you out of the bathroom so you wouldn’t hurt yourself or them.

Soon, you run out of energy and are left whimpering and quivering in San’s hold, slowly coming to your senses as you hear running water, hushed murmurs, and the cabinet mirror (or what’s left of it) being opened in search of something. When the realization sets in that San, Hongjoong, Seonghwa, and Yunho have seen you at your worst, your chest tightens and your breathing becomes irregular which are the first signs of a panic attack. Something San was familiar with but hadn’t seen happen in some time.

“No no no no.” San repeats, noticing the changes in your behavior and looking towards the bathroom. “Hongjoong! It’s getting worse!”

Immediately, footsteps can be heard heading in your direction, and a gentle face appears in the corner of your eye. Hongjoong slowly reaches forward, grasping the hand that had begun curling in on itself to the point of almost drawing blood and pulling it away from your chest.

“Sweetie, grab my hand and squeeze that instead. You won’t hurt me, I swear.” Hongjoong whispers, slowly working his nimble fingers between your clenched ones. It comes as a surprise to him when, instead of resisting, your hand flies open into a rigid position. “Shh… it’s okay sweet-heart. How about this. Follow this.”

Your hand is placed on a firm and warm chest, a slight bump hitting your palm and drawing your attention to the pattern. It’s his heartbeat. Hongjoong’s pulse creates a rhythm in your head, distracting you from your fears and disdain towards yourself momentarily while Seonghwa and Yunho both return to the room, one holding medical supplies and the other holding a bowl with warm water and a towel. Crouching in front of you, Seonghwa notices the hand on Hongjoong’s chest is the one that’s injured, glancing at San who is fighting back tears as he strokes your hair.

“Y/n-ah. We have to clean your hand. Put your hand on San’s chest, follow his heartbeat.” Seonghwa says in a firm yet kind tone. At this point, you’ve lost almost all self-awareness, too exhausted to fight anyone as you nod partially, removing your hand from Hongjoong’s chest to place on San’s. “No sweetie. The other hand.” Seonghwa instructs, a heartbroken smile crossing his face at the sight of you behaving like a toddler who skipped their nap. You look confused, bringing your hand to your face to inspect it, finding the streaks of blood and bits of glass as a few tears trickle down your face. 

You’re not sure how long it takes for Seonghwa to properly clean your hands, or when you got changed into one of San’s shirts that fits like a dress, but as you’re lied down on the bed with San, who’s watching you intently to make sure any slight changes on your face are caught immediately, you find yourself in an almost numbed mind-frame. Too exhausted and confused to comprehend anything around you. 

Your eyes slowly close, the occasional tear slipping out only to be swiped gently away by San. San, the last thing you see before you fall into a dreamless sleep. And you are blissfully unaware of what’s to come in the morning.

As you snore softly in San’s grasp, your chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, Yunho leaves the room to clean up the mess that has been left behind with Seonghwa following closely behind, most likely to comfort the younger boy. Hongjoong reaches forward to brush hair out your eyes and slowly strokes your cheek. Who knew such a small body could take this much pain? he wonders to himself, not even beginning to understand what caused you to struggle so much and break down so devastatingly. And that’s the only way to describe your attack. Devastating.

Like a tsunami, you receded from social outings and even your true love San, and once they realized what was happening and why you’d “changed” the wave had already hit. But his main question was voiced by San.

“Hyung.” San rasps out, looking up at Hongjoong with tears streaming down his face. “Why-or how did this happen? What caused this? What are we-what am I supposed to do?” 

San’s breathing becomes labored, almost as if the weight of the situation has sat fully on his chest. He chokes on a sob, looking at you in your angelic state while pressing a gentle and wet kiss to the top of your head while crying. He clutches you to his chest, rocking slightly and burying his face in your head. Hongjoong panics, thinking he’ll wake you but settles once realizing how exhausted you must be. “Why would she keep this from me?”

“San-ah, I honestly don’t have the answer to that.” Hongjoong mumbles, holding his own tears back with a few deep breaths before looking at the pair of you. He honestly considered Ateez his family, and you became his little sister that he felt he needed to protect from the world. If only he’d realized sooner how much damage the world had already done to you. “But I do know one thing. Now more than ever, she needs us.”

San looks at his hyung and leader, absolutely wrecked from the storm of emotions that flowed between you two. “How?” he croaks out.

“I’m not sure. But what I do know is that the storm hasn’t gone and that this is only the beginning of our journey.” Hongjoong places a hand on your cheek and his other on San’s hand, squeezing slightly in hopes of reassuring the younger boy. “I see how much you need her San. And how much she needs you. She’s scared San. More so than any of us right now. Which is why we have to stay with her no matter what. No matter what she might say or do to scare us off, we have to fight through it all and show her we are here for her. Because if we don’t.” Hongjoong’s voice cracks, revealing his true emotions and the toll this whole ordeal has taken on him. “We might lose her forever.”

San sits quietly, shaking slightly from the silent tears that are being shed and pulling you closer to his chest if that was even possible, crying himself into a slumber much like you did moments prior. Hongjoong rises, tucking both of you in like he would an upset child, and walking into the bathroom. The scene that awaits him is what finally breaks his own dam of tears, collapsing next to Seonghwa and Yunho who are both crouched down. They’ve hunched over, scrubbing the white tiles of your blood and throwing glass shards away in a paper bag. Upon noticing Hongjoong, Yunho drops what’s in his hands, embracing his leader and best friend. His tears fall as well, the sight of someone as strong as Hongjoong breaking down terrifying him. 

Seonghwa wipes the few stray tears before rising, quickly finishing the task of cleaning before ushering the two broken boys out of the room. He sits Hongjoon and Yunho down, pulling out a paper and pen and titling it “Y/n’s Healing.”

“We’ll make a plan, and take this journey one step at a time. Until Y/n’s finally healed.” Seonghwa states, immediately writing steps and plans he’s already come up with in his head. And so the journey begins.

[ichayalovesyou]

~Act One: In Denial of Pon Farr~

Blood Moon~by Saint Sister, Madrid (Album)

“To return home, and take a wife… or die.”

Spock is feeling anxious and unusually lonely, more resentful of his complex heritage than usual. Feeling rejected, but not by Jim, he finds his thoughts wandering to T’Pring. Who he feels deep resentment toward, she hasn’t contacted once him in the two decades he’s been gone from Vulcan. He has yet to realize it is the beginnings of Pon Farr.

“I am sure, you craved me once before. When I think of all the fruit I’ve found, and how easily you left it on the ground.”

Evening On The Ground (Lilith’s Song)~by Iron & Wine, Woman King (album)

“I hoped that I would be spared this.”

Spock’s yearning and loneliness transforms into anger and frustration. He knows Pon Farr has begun, and he hates it. He has no desire to return to Vulcan, worse still, he loathes that he yearns for someone who he does not know. Worse still, she’s not the only one he’s longing for…

“We were born to fuck each other one way or another but I’ll, only lie, down by the water side at night”

I Want You (She’s So Heavy)~(Originally) by the Beatles, performed by the Cast of Across the Universe, Across the Universe (Album)

“How do Vulcans choose their mates… Haven’t you wondered?”

Spock cannot bear the tearing between Human & Vulcan halves that has come ferociously to light under the stress of Pon Farr. His duty is to that man on the bridge, but the call of Koonut Kalifee is only getting louder. He has no desire to burden Jim with horrible display of emotion. Yet desire is quickly becoming all that he can think about.

“I want you, I want you so bad, it’s driving me mad, it’s driving me mad.”

~Act Two: Blood Fever, The Nightmares of Plok’tow~

Howl~by Florence + The Machine, Lungs (Album)

“To have their logic ripped from them, as this time does to us.”

The first, foreboding rumblings of Plok’tow have begun. He dreams of a hunt, he’s chasing someone, he does not know who. Each time the blood of this faceless, slaughtered, ravaged victim is a different color, every time he turns around, green, red, green, red, green, red, green, red…

“Like some child possessed, the beast howls in my veins, I want to find you, tear out all your tenderness.”

The Horror of Our Love~by Ludo, You’re Awful, I Love You (Album)

“It strips away our veneer of civilization.”

The dreams are getting worse, more violent, detailed, intense. He knows his quarry-

Jim.

He tears his captain apart in a thousand visceral, grotesque ways, physically, mentally, no love, no hate, no want, just blinding hunger. And the most frightening part, he enjoys it. He begins withdrawing from Kirk, for fear of what may happen should dreams threaten to become reality.

“Carnivorous and lusting, I’ll track you down among the pines.”

Become the Beast~by Karliene, Become the Beast (Album)

“It is the Pon Farr, the time of mating.”

The last of his Blood Fever dreams occurs after Kirk confronts him about his behavior. This one is, much to Spock’s relief, not violent. The lyrics are spoken through the faces of fellow Vulcans- T’pring… childhood tormentors… Sybok… his cold and disapproving father… T’pau… Surak… himself.

The rage and hunger has cooled into ice rather than fire, for now.

“Do I terrify you? Do you feel alive? Do you feel the hunger? The desert howl inside?”

The Woods~by San Flemin, Jackrabbit (Album)

“You humans have no conception.”

When James Kirk grabbed the shiv from Spock’s hand in their confrontation, a shard of Spock’s Blood Fever came with it. Spock was spared a nightmare this final night, but not Jim. The dream even dared to be pleasant initially, alone together in the woods. Before the arena of Koonut Kalifee erupted violently around them, as did Spock. Yet, before Spock could deal the final killing blow, Kirk found himself sinking into the sparkling sands below. He startles from his slumber, feeling suffocated.

But he does not remember how, or why.

“The nights are lovely dark and deep, but I’ll appear when you’re asleep. You’ll wake up with a sudden hurt, your mouth and nose all full of dirt”

~Act Three: Kalifee, the Death of A Friend~

Take Me Down~by Brother, Pax Romana MMV (Album)

“I’ll get you to Vulcan somehow…”

All Jim knows is that Spock is getting worse, and that he needs him. Not knowing, and not daring ask whether the shiv was meant for himself or Spock haunts Kirk, as does the ghost of his forgotten dream. He does not know what will come of this wedding. Only that he will do whatever it takes to make certain Spock lives. No matter what, it’s a race against time.

“The powers that be, the powers that run you through, I’m taking a stand I know what it comes down to, God knows I do.”

Hunting Grounds (feat Joe Cotela of Ded)~by In This Moment, Mother (Album)

“He is deep in the Blood Fever, he will not speak with thee again.”

Kalifee has begun, Spock has completely lost himself to the Blood Fever, and Kirk must fight for his life. He finds himself outmatched by the environment, and by Spock’s rage. He knows two things, he has no desire to die, but he cannot, under any circumstances, kill Spock. (I imagine this duet could be as seen as Maria Brink=Kirk, Joe Cotela=Spock)

“Like a predator sink my teeth into your neck.”

Die Today~by The Txlips Band & Guitar Gabby, Queens of The New Age (Album)

“Kill Spock? That’s not what we came to Vulcan for is it?”

The Kalifee has been an intense drain, Kirk knows, deep down, that not even the “Triox Compound” could save him in this fight. He feels his life flash before his eyes, he bears no ill will toward Spock, he’s not in control of himself. He reflects on their relationship, and how much it has meant to him, and accepts, that for Spock to live, he has to die.

It was worth having known him, saving a friend isn’t the worst way to go out…

“If you die today, if we die today, at least I’d be in your arms.”

Pearl Diver~by Mitski, Lush (Album)

“You may find, that having, is not so pleasing a thing as wanting.”

Spock is absolutely distraught, he’s disgusted with himself, he loathes every single Vulcan he’s ever known, but most of all he is angry with Kirk. That he had to be the moth to his flame. How dare he want to get close to him! How dare James Kirk ever have the stupidity, the courage to love him?! The wanting had driven Jim to his death, and himself to murder. It was illogical, and he will never, forgive either of them for it. Curse having, curse wanting, and curse himself too.

“But hunter you were human don’t forget it and go safely. And I? I’ll live without you, though the struggle will be daily.”

Sweet Dreams~by JOSEPH, I’m Alone, No You’re Not (Album)

“I shall do neither, for I have killed my Captain, and my friend.”

Spock languishes in the agonizing hours between the Kalifee and confronting Bones about what must be done. He prays for a short and cruel life… and dares ponder the question, do Humans have Katras?

“I’ll return to my sleepless night, dreaming with my eyes open, watch the shadows play on the ceiling.”

[The final act is a little on the smutty side, here’s a read more just to be safe.]

~Act Four: The Need is Met~

To Be Alone~by Hozier, From Eden EP (Album)

“I shall offer no defense, their is no excuse for the crime of which I’m guilty.”

Though overjoyed and relieved that Kirk is alive, Spock continues to anguish over the reality that had Bones not intervened, he would have killed him. Jim knows better this time, he will not let Spock continue down this path. A tender and honest conversation puts salve to Spock’s fears. In any event, while the Kalifee burned away the Blood Fever, it becomes clear the needs of Pon Farr still remain. Kirk suggests, delicately, to put a new Bond in place of the old.

Spock accepts.

“You don’t know the hell you put me through, to have someone kiss the skin that crawls from you, to feel your weight in arms I’d never use.”

Mermaid’s Calling #2~by the Cast of The Lure, The Lure (Album)

“The ancient drives are too strong, eventually they catch up with us.”

The thrum of Bonding needs no words, it is not just a joining of minds, but of bodies as well. They complete one another, no thoughts, no voices are required. They soon find that the physiological differences between them can be more than a little… fascinating.

“…”

The Deep~by PHILDEL, Wave Your Flags (Album)

“One touches the other, in order to feel each other’s thoughts.”

The tangible, physical world of course has it’s pains and pleasures, to be joined physically is one thing, to be joined in soul and mind alongside those sensations is a different ordeal entirely. If this, completeness, is what it means to be Bonded, Kirk now understands why Vulcans go mad over it.

“Give me a sign ‘cause it runs through my mind like your heat, caught in the web you’re so easily lead to the deep.”

The Mermaid~by Kate Rusby, Life in A Paper Boat (Album)

“In this way, our minds are locked together...”

Unbeknownst to anyone else in the universe, James Kirk & S’chn T’gai Spock are now Bonded, and neither has ever felt less alone. For once, it does not matter to Spock that he is of two worlds, here, he is home. For once, Kirk does not feel as though he is forced to live the Enterprise’s life, this time, she helped him live his. A shining, blissful moment in the vast, expansive sea of stars that they have devoted their lives to exploring.

For them, the journey itself, is home.

“In peace now, the sea it comes, and peace now, in her arms where I’ll be love, sleeping in the sea.”

[baoshan-sanren]

Chapter 51

Emperor Wei WuXian And His Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Birthday

Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 Part 1 | Chapter 8 Part 2 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 Part 1 | Chapter 15 Part 2 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 Part 1 | Chapter 22 Part 2 | Chapter 23 | Chapter 24 | Chapter 25 | Chapter 26 | Chapter 27 | Chapter 28 | Chapter 29 | Chapter 30 | Chapter 31 | Chapter 32 | Chapter 33 | Chapter 34 | Chapter 35 | Chapter 36 | Chapter 37 | Chapter 38 | Chapter 39 | Chapter 40 | Chapter 41 | Chapter 42 | Chapter 43 | Chapter 44 | Chapter 45 | Chapter 46 | Chapter 47 | Chapter 48 & Chapter 49 | Chapter 50

Jiang YanLi is asleep.

Her eyes had not strayed from Wei Ying’s face for the majority of the evening and the night, but now, her head is pillowed on her arms, her breaths soft and nearly soundless. The dawn is only a few hours away, the darkness assuming a gentle, mellow glow, as it usually does before giving way to the morning light. Resting in the far corner of the Imperial chambers, uncle’s form is only a shadow draped in blue robes. XiChen is playing, his fingers moving over the strings, the stiff posture of his shoulders giving away the misery in his wrists.

WangJi’s own wrists and fingers ache, a dull, burning sensation that refuses to fade. He is grateful to the pain, for it keeps him alert. Even under the shifting light of the candle flames, Wei Ying’s face is no longer ghastly pale. There is a delicate flush across his cheeks now, a healthy color of dreamless sleep. His mouth is slightly parted, his breaths deep and even. Jiang YanLi had been the one to remove the cumbersome hair ornaments, to brush the thick curtain of Wei Ying’s hair until it shone. It is braided loosely now, a heavy, glistening coil of impossible length. WangJi has moved to touch it more than once, but drawn his hand back each time.

The memory of sliding his fingers through the strands, marveling at their texture, at the rich and lush weight in his hands, is a painful, physical presence. Wei Ying will recover, uncle had said. He will wake. WangJi keeps these words in his heart, a small, burning flame of hope. But there is very little uncle can say about the adverse effects of Wei Ying’s ordeal. Since the time of YanLing DaoRen, the study of resentful energy and demonic cultivation has been prohibited, its practitioners facing a swift and brutal death in every corner of the Empire.  

Uncle may be knowledgable on the subject, but he has said precious little, leaving most of WangJi’s questions unanswered.

Wei Ying will wake. Wei Ying will recover. But will he still be Wei Ying?

The Rogue Prince shifts slightly in his place against the far wall. He has long ago settled down to meditate, the sword placed across his knees, the white bandage around his eyes glowing in the gloom.

At first, WangJi had believed his presence to be a family matter. After all, what is more natural than a concerned uncle at the bedside of his ill nephew? But now, WangJi thinks that perhaps Xiao XingChen is here for an entirely different set of reasons. There is no other living person so intimately familiar with YanLing DaoRen, with the corruption caused by the resentful energy, with the symptoms of YanLing DaoRen’s particular type of madness.

If Wei Ying wakes, and he is no longer Wei Ying, will Xiao XingChen take the matters into his own hands? Will WangJi be expected to abide by the man’s judgment?  

Silent and still, wrapped in white, the Rogue Prince is not a comforting presence, but a ghastly specter of an executioner. WangJi moves a little closer to the bed, his knees aching sharply, another pain that will keep him awake and alert.

Time passes, slow and thick with waiting.

In the soft light of the early dawn, uncle wordlessly takes XiChen’s place at the guqin. Although XiChen’s skill is significant, WangJi can immediately feel the difference in the richness and the depth of the sound, in the strength and determination behind every note. Each time it wraps around him, uncle’s spiritual power is familiar and comforting, a calming memory, a steadying touch, pressing gently on his weary shoulders. It is a battle now, to keep his gaze clear and focused. He had wanted to wait until Jiang YanLi woke on her own, so that he may close his eyes instead, but sleep is dragging him under despite his aches and pains. Reaching across Wei Ying to wake her, he feels a tremor underneath his arm, a stutter of a breath, a slight impression of movement.

He freezes in place, his own breath locking in his chest. Wei Ying’s eyelashes flutter. His mouth moves, the motion soundless. A tiny line forms in-between his eyebrows.

“Wei Ying,” WangJi says, his voice rough with disuse.

The Rogue Prince shifts again, a soft rustle of robes. WangJi can now feel uncle’s sharp gaze on the side of his face. Jiang YanLi sighs deeply in her sleep.

“Wei Ying.”

The eyelashes lift. Underneath them, Wei Ying’s gaze is blank and unfocused. They descend again.

WangJi carefully fumbles for the hand resting on top of the covers, mindful of the neatly splinted wrist. He struggles upright, the pain in his knees forgotten.

“Wei Ying.”

The throat moves. A heavy swallow, then another. Fingers tremble, brushing against WangJi’s own.

This time, when the eyelashes lift, Wei Ying’s gaze is focused. His lips move around a name, but no sound comes. Still, WangJi has seen Wei Ying’s mouth form that shape many times before; he does not need to hear, to know what it means to say.

Lan Zhan

The sound of the guqin ceases. Chaos erupts.

Uncle is first to reach the bedside, reaching down to check Wei Ying’s pulse. Jiang YanLi is awake; she relinquishes her hold on Wei Ying so that uncle may take her place. WangJi is grateful to be allowed to stay where he is, to keep his hand lightly pressed to Wei Ying’s palm. XiChen takes uncle’s place at the guqin, the Cleansing now forced to battle with the clamor of activity. Although her eyes are red and shining, Jiang YanLi’s voice is steady as she sends the guards scurrying out of the Imperial chambers. The Royal Companion and the Council must be informed that the Emperor is awake. More candles are brought in, despite the rapidly brightening skies. Servants are sent for tea, despite the fact that no one will drink it. More servants are sent for food that no one will eat. This all occurs around WangJi, meaningless and unimportant events that cannot compare to the gentle brush of Wei Ying’s fingers, the grounding pressure of his thumb on WangJi’s knuckles.

Nie HuaiSang appears just as uncle moves away from the bed, half-dressed and noticeably disheveled, the state of his hair perfectly reflecting the disorder around him. Jiang WanYin arrives on his heels, tidy where Nie HuaiSang is rumpled, contained where Nie HuaiSang is vibrating in place. Still, the dark shadows under Jiang WanYin’s eyes reveal that he had been the one who had not slept, his neat uniform the same one he had worn the day before.

“I can detect no traces of resentful energy,” uncle says, “However, the Emperor is very weak, and should not be moved. I would prefer to consult with the Head Healer on any further treatment.”

The Rogue Prince had not yet approached the bed, but now he does, a soundless movement bringing him into Wei Ying’s field of vision. Although the man’s smile appears to be relieved, WangJi finds himself turning slightly, just so he can monitor Xiao XingChen while still keeping his hold on Wei Ying’s hand.

“The Head Healer is in the dungeons,” Jiang WanYin says, “and so is her apprentice.”

Jiang YanLi hisses under her breath, turning a disapproving gaze onto her brother.

Wei Ying’s fingers tighten, his expression growing alarmed. He attempts to sit up.

This results in utter commotion, nearly loud enough to drown out the Cleansing altogether. Jiang YanLi tries to convince Wei Ying to stay put, her tone pleading but firm. Uncle grumbles in disapproval, giving voice to a string of words that should never be used in reference to an Emperor. Jiang WanYin curses loudly, a collection of profanities that make WangJi’s ears burn. Wei Ying ignores them all, his grip on WangJi’s hand now painfully tight, his breaths labored from the struggle.

Finally, WangJi can see no other course of action but to slide his arms under Wei Ying’s shoulder blades, and lift him up. Wei Ying is strong enough to latch on to WangJi’s robe with his uninjured hand, but not yet strong enough to remain upright on his own. With some shifting, his upper body settles against WangJi chest, forcing him to sit on the edge of the bed in order to bear its weight.

It is an intimate, utterly inappropriate position, and WangJi finds that he cannot look up at his uncle again. At this very moment, with Wei Ying pressed against him, he cannot muster the necessary fortitude to confront uncle’s disapproval. Somehow, in all the shifting and movement, the long braid had slithered down into WangJi’s lap. Wei Ying’s body is a scorching line of heat from his hip to his shoulder, and yet, it is the weight of that braid that that keeps driving WangJi to distraction, the inky black coil a sharp, eye-catching contrast to the white of his robes.

“A-Yuan,” Wei Ying croaks, the feeble sound lost in the ongoing procession of Jiang WanYin’s curses.

Still, Jiang YanLi hears it, immediately rushing to reassure, “He is safe, and well-hidden. The rest are unharmed.”

“A-Sang,” Wei Ying says.

“I am here,” Nie HuaiSang says, only now moving closer to the bed, his posture cautious.

“Tell me,” Wei Ying says.

“Are you stupid?” Jiang WanYin bursts out, “You cannot even sit up on your own. Do you want to die again? Wei Ying, you best lie down right now, or I will put you down myself.”

“You will not,” WangJi says.

He had not intended to speak out loud, but the words come out sharp and cold, leaving silence in their wake.

Nie HuaiSang’s eyebrows climb so high, they attempt to disappear in the messy tangle of his hair. Jiang WanYin has finally been made speechless, although his mouth is still moving; at this moment, he very much resembles Wei Ying, who does not know how to be silent even when his lips are sealed. Jiang YanLi is studying the carpet under her feet. There is an odd expression on her features that WangJi does not recognize.

Is she... going to laugh?

Wei Ying’s body shudders against his own. A soft gasping sound follows the shudder, and WangJi looks at him in alarm.

Wei Ying is... also laughing.

WangJi feels his face heat.

Jiang YanLi delicately clears her throat, “Sect Leader, if you wish to speak to the Head Healer, I am sure my brother would be pleased to provide an escort. It may be prudent to do so now, before the Council realizes that they had failed to impose any restrictions on visits to the Wen Sect.”

His face still burning, WangJi does not look up to see his uncle agree, or to watch him take his leave with Jiang WanYin.

No longer laughing, Wei Ying slumps with a sigh, forcing WangJi to wrap an arm around his waist in order to keep him upright. His temple presses to the side of WangJi’s neck.

“My protector,” he whispers, the teasing note obvious despite the weakness of his voice.

“Shameless,” WangJi hisses back, but there is no real heat behind his words.

It is hard to muster any heat, when most of it has collected in his face and throat. Wei Ying’s hair is soft against WangJi’s skin. His temple is warm and full of life. The smell of pears is heavy now, carrying with it memories of a mouth pressed against his own, a gentle huff of a laugh against his lips.

The sounds of the guqin have gone on uninterrupted, but he can practically sense his brother laughing at him. He has a feeling that the Rogue Prince is laughing silently as well.

It is not all due to WangJi, their amusement. The Emperor is alive, awake, and well enough to tease. The relief in the air is palpable and infectious. Under the circumstances, it does not take much, to be cheerful. WangJi feels it himself, a light bubble of air in his chest, bright with contentment. The mortification of being so intimate in front of so many witnesses cannot be simply willed away, but he finds that it can easily be overshadowed by joy.

“A-Sang,” Wei Ying says, “Tell me everything.”

[cora-vizsla]

The Kings Pet (3)

Chapter 3

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Word Count: 3.8K+

Warnings: Mild talk of violence/injury. Angst. Stripping. Cock warming. Mild voyeurism. F/f touching/kissing. Praise kink?. 

Authors note: I start grad school literally today so I wanted to get this out. If I missed any tags, please let me know. Part 1 and Part 2 are up and on my master list. Please let me know if I missed anything for tags! Thanks!

You had woken up in a particularly good mood. Din needed more help, but things were always okay when your King left with him. You were more comfortable with Fennec and she always made sure you were comfortable and happy. Not to mention Boba was on his way back to you.

Life was good.

You smiled over at Fennec as she watched you walk around the throne room. It’s not that she thought you were going to run or take off, but more so that she was just attentive. You figured at first it was because Boba would kill her if something happened to you but quickly it became apparent that she did genuinely care about you.

“You look restless, pet.”

You gave her a soft smile and shrugged.

“I guess so.”

“Ready for your king to come home?”

“Always! I’m glad he has someone like Din though. Makes me feel less nervous about him being out there.”

She chuckled and motioned for you to come back to her. You walked over with a carefree bounce to your step. Once you pulled yourself up and went to sit down, she motioned for you to sit with her. You plopped down gently and she started to play with your hair. It was something she did whenever you were close regardless if Boba was there or not.

“Your King is tough. He hardly needs another Mandalorian out there with him. He doesn’t really need anyone.”

“I know, Fennec. It just makes me feel better than he has someone looking out for him.”

“Even if he didn’t come back, you’d still be safe. You do know that right?”

You looked at her and frowned.

“That’s.. I’m not worried about him because of what he provides for me.”

She hummed and continued playing with your hair.

“What is it then?”

“I-I.. well.. I care about him. I appreciate everything he does for me more than I could ever speak. I owe him my life. Without him I would be dead or enslaved.”

“You’re not enslaved now?”

“No! Well.. I mean I guess? It’s not unwilling though. I.. like being here with him.”

Fennec gave you a sly smile and nodded. You started to wonder if she was there for more reasons than just to keep you safe. Your heart sank at the idea.

“Fennec? Does he ask you to stay here to make sure I don’t run away?”

Before she could answer you, loud footsteps rang out from the stairs. You both stood and saw Din rushing in half dragging Boba. Fennec ran out of the room and you ran directly to him.

“He’s hurt.”

“Get him to our room. The bed is made.”

Din grunted and continued dragging him to the back. Fennec ran into the room and opened the med pack while you helped Din get him into the bed. You made work on his armor, gently taking off what you could, leaving his helmet for last. You slipped it off and moved so you could rest his head on your lap.

“What happened?”

“We weren’t given all the information. Things went south very fast.”

“Keep him calm, sweetheart.”

You nodded at Fennec and tilted your head down to look at your King. His eyes were screwed shut but he sighed as soon as you started gently running your thumbs across his temples. You held his face in your hands as the other two cleaned him up. He finally opened his eyes and you smiled the moment his locked eyes with yours.

“Mesh’la.”

“Hey.”

His lips almost twitched into a smile and that was enough for you to know he was glad to see you. He reached one of his hands up and put it over yours.

“Can’t say this is a horrible way to wake up.”

He grunted when Fennec pressed on his abdomen, so you moved your face down closer and kissed his forehead. He hummed when you did which made you smile even more.

“You’re supposed to come home in one piece.”

“I’m still in one piece. Just have a few holes.”

You frowned and he chuckled, wincing once he did.

“Stop that! You’re hurting yourself.”

“Bossy little thing today.”

“Well, you came home hurt and I-“

He cut your mumbling off quickly with a squeeze to your hand.

“It’s okay, pet. I’m not mad at you.”

You sat in silence and held his face while Fennec patched him up. The normal snark and fire in the man you were holding seemed absent. Once Fennec was done patching him up, she left to go get pain meds for him. He needed to rest, and everyone knew he wouldn’t do that unless physically forced.

“Tell me, cyar’ika, if you could be doing anything right now what would it be?”

“This.”

He chuckled again and you scowled.

“Stop laughing. You’re just going to hurt yourself.”

“I have enough bacta on me to heal a bantha. I’ll be fine.”

“You need to rest.”

“I will once Fennec gets back.”

“Please, sir.”

He hummed as you continued to trace circles gently on his skin.

“You ask so sweetly, mesh’la. Figured since your demanding didn’t work begging would?”

“I’m not- I’m not manipulating you if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

“I would never. You really think that-“

“Everyone manipulates, princess. Everyone does what they have to, to get what they want. Don’t try to pretend that you’re here for any reason but to keep yourself alive. I’m not a fool. You’ll run the moment you can.”

You felt tears start to sting your eyes as he looked up at you. You wanted to run away. How could he think those horrible things? How could he not know that you cared about him far beyond the agreement you had. Running away from him had never occurred to you, not until then.

Fennec walked in with the medication and injected Boba after telling him a few things. You couldn’t seem to focus on anything more than keeping your tears from falling. Fennec left again and Boba fell asleep, finally breathing easier. Once you knew he was asleep the tears fell down your face.

“He didn’t mean anything by that.”

You jumped, forgetting Din was sitting quietly near the wall. Using your sleeve, you wiped away your tears.

“All he did was speak of you. He wanted to get home to you.”

“Why would he say that then?”

“Pain can twist things. Boba is.. prideful. If he thinks for a moment, you’re only here because of the agreement he isn’t going to let himself hope differently.”

“I meant what I said. I want to be here.”

“Anyone that sees the way you look at him knows that.”

You sniffled a few times and looked down at the man comfortable resting.

“Din, does he really think that? Does he really think I’m only here because of what he can give me?”

A modulated sigh came through his helmet.

“I think a part of him does.”

You sniffled and ran your thumbs across his face.

“This is the only time he looks peaceful; you know. When he sleeps. It’s like a lifetime worth of pain finally leaves him.”

“He’s had a rough life. It’s made him who he is though.”

“No matter how gruff he gets or how hard he pushes me away. I want to be here. I can’t say he doesn’t make my life easier but that wouldn’t matter if I didn’t want to be with him. That’s not how I am. That isn’t who I am.”

“Try not to take it personally.”

“How do I not?”

“Understand that it has very little to do with you, cyare. I have to go get the bounty turned in. Let him know I’ll be bringing him his credits as soon as I am done.”

“I will. Thank you, Din.”

He nodded once and left, leaving you utterly alone with your thoughts.

-----

Your back ached but staying with Boba was much more important to you. When he finally opened his eyes, he seemed shocked that you were still there.

“How long have I been asleep?”

“Half a day or so.”

“You stayed the entire time?”

“I left once to use the refresher. Came right back. How are you feeling?”

“Sore. Feels like the Bacta worked though.”

You gave him a weak smile and helped him sit up when he started to move. He groaned and clutched at his abdomen, but he was moving much more fluid than you expected.

“Din said he would be back with your credits.”

“Fennec?”

“There was an issue in town she needed to take care of. Said it shouldn’t take long. Do you want me to get you anything?”

“Water.”

You shot out of the bed and walked across the room to grab the canteen Fennec had brought earlier. You handed it to him and sank to your knees, nestled between his legs. He took a long drink and looked down at you.

“Why are you staring at me, princess.”

“I’m not here because of our agreement. At first, I was because you were sparing my life. That ended a long time ago for me.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I want to be. I know you think I’m only here because it makes my life easier but you’re wrong. I would want to be with you if you spent the rest of your life on Slave I. You could settle down in a mud hut and I wouldn’t want to leave your side. You mean the world to me, Boba. It’s okay if you don’t feel the same for me and if you only want me here for our agreement. I am here for as long as you want me to be. Willingly. I just.. I can’t stand you thinking that I’m here to use you or manipulate you. My heart can’t take that, sir.”

Boba reached down and gently took your chin in his hand and a shiver racked down your spine.

“Are you done?”

You nodded, looking down out of embarrassment.

“Ah, ah. Don’t hide your face, mesh’la. You look at me, remember?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good girl. You always do just as I ask you.”

You nodded and moved with his hand as he guided you to him. He put his hands on your hips and pulled you forward so you were straddling his waist. You looked down hoping you didn’t bump his wound.

“Don’t fret, princess. I’m tougher than you think.”

“I don’t think that’s possible, sir.”

He finally gave you a smile and pulled you in for a kiss. He practically devoured you with his arms wrapped tightly around your waist and his tongue deep in your mouth. Small moans and sighs kept slipping through your lips and Boba groaned in response.

“Normally you scream for me, cyar’ika but these sounds are beautiful too.”

He started running his hands across your body while he kissed and nipped at your neck. He pushed your head back gently so he could get access to the sensitive skin. Your head was swimming with how gentle he was being with you; handling you like you were breakable instead of something he wanted to break.

“Such a good girl for me. Taking care of me and make sure I was okay. Now your body responds to me so beautifully. The way you meld into my hands it’s like you were made for me.”

You sighed and leaned further into him.

“I’m yours, sir. I’m all yours.”

He hummed against your skin, only removing his lips from you long enough to pull your shirt off. He tossed it to the ground so he could gently palm your breasts. You breathed out a moan and leaned in to kiss him. One arm wrapped behind you so he could hold your head to him. You expected his hand to twist into your hair, but his touch stayed gentle but firm.

“Stand up, mesh’la. Take your pants off and let me see you. Let me see what is mine.”

You felt the heat rise in your face as you slipped off him and slowly pulled your pants down. He watched you and gently palmed himself, already hard inside of his pants. He motioned for you to come closer and you bit your lip, hiding your smile. You had been afraid that if you spoke up, he wouldn’t want you anymore. You were always afraid he’d become bored with you.

“Take the rest of my armor off me.”

You dropped to your knees between his legs and felt his eyes on you as you pulled the rest of the armor off him. You reached up and put your hands on the button of his pants, looking up through your lashes for permission. He nodded once and you quickly undid them, letting his cock spring free. You pulled his pants down as he carefully held himself up, careful not to jostle himself too much. Once you pulled his pants off you sat patiently waiting for what he wanted.

“Come here, little one.”

You climbed up onto his lap and straddled him with his guidance. He reached between your bodies and placed himself at your entrance, using his other hand to push you down onto him. He held your chin in his hands and you knew him well enough to know he wanted your eyes on him.

“You’re going to do what I tell you to, right pet?”

“Yes, Master. Always what you want.”

“Good girl. You’re going to sit there without moving. I don’t care who comes in this room or how bad you want it.”

“O-oh. Okay. Yes, sir.”

“If you’re a good girl for your king, then I’ll let you fuck yourself on my cock. Would you like that?”

“Yes. Yes please.”

He hummed and kissed you deeply. You told yourself it would be easy to be connected to him like that. He was seated deep inside of you which made you feel so deliciously full. He continued to kiss you and run his hands all over you until you felt like your head was in a cloud.

“Well now, what do we have here?”

You felt your body tense when you heard Fennec’s voice behind you. You peeked over your shoulder as she was sauntering into the room, more supplies in her hand.

“I really hope you didn’t split anything open.”

“Only one thing has been split open in this room.”

Boba smirked up at you and gripped your hips hard. You gasped and buried your face into Boba’s chest. Fennec sat down next to Boba and brushed your hair back, so you weren’t hiding behind it.

“Don’t hide your face, beautiful. You look so pretty on his lap. Would be a shame not to see it.”

Boba started to lay back, but his hands kept you steady. When he shifted inside of you, you bit your bottom lip to stop any noises from slipping out. Fennec got to work checking the bandages on his abdomen, barely paying you any mind. You reached down and held one of them that was giving her problems and she gave you a quick grin. You could feel your muscles shaking slightly because of the new angle he was hitting inside of you, but you did the best you could to stay still.

“She’s being an awfully good girl, Boba.”

“Yes, she is. She always does what I ask of her.”

“You should definitely reward her.”

She smirked at Boba and he grinned back at her.

“You think? What do you think, pet? Should you be rewarded for being so patient?”

You trembled and nodded.

“Y-yes, please. If y-you think I should be.”

“Look at her, Boba. She’s already shaking. How is she ever going to be able to finish properly when she’s already trembling so much?”

“I’m not sure, Fennec. Maybe it just isn’t going to happen today. What do you think, mesh’la? Think you can do it?”

“I-I.. I will try. I’m..”

You let out a whimper when he shifted underneath you. Your legs were shaking much more than you wanted to even admit. Fennec got up off the bed and stood behind you, running her fingers through your hair.

“Maybe she could use some help.”

“Hmm. Perhaps she does need some help. Too bad I’m so injured.”

You trembled again at the pure mischief written all over Boba’s face. Fennec hooked one finger under your chin and tilted your head back so it was against her chest and you could see her peering down at you.

“We can’t have our King hurting and wanting for anything, can we?”

“N-no?”

“No, we can’t. We want him comfortable and satisfied, right?”

“Y-yes.”

“I guess that means you need someone to help you, right?”

You nodded, stiffening wondering exactly what the two of them were trying to do. You wondered if it was a test since Boba had brought up Fennec before. You looked back down at Boba and his eyes were blown wide with lust.

“Go ahead, princess. Fuck yourself on my cock, just like I told you to. Fennec will make sure that we’re bothsatisfied.”

You shivered and nodded. When you started to gently move your hips both you and Boba groaned at the friction. You were afraid of hurting him, so you found yourself moving much slower and carefully than normal. You felt Fennec hook your chin again and pulled so you were looking up at her. You continued moving your hips while looking at her and she had the dirtiest smirk on her face.

“What do you think, Boba. Am I allowed to kiss your pet?”

“Whatever you need to do to make sure she’s taken care of. Whatever she wants.”

She looked back down at you and moved so her lips were almost touching yours.

“Well? Am I allowed to kiss you, pet?”

Your movements started to falter until you felt Boba’s hands tighten on your hips.

“Don’t stop moving, mesh’la. Fuck- don’t stop.”

You finally nodded at the beautiful woman asking and she crashed her mouth against yours. You moaned against her mouth as she continued to kiss you while you rocked yourself on top of Boba. Fennec moved so she was sitting directly behind you, bracing herself on your kings’ legs. She kept kissing you as she wrapped her arms around you, helping you with your movements. Boba groaned loudly and moved his thumb to your clit. You gasped and broke the kiss to look at him.

“Look at you, pet. Fuck you’re so beautiful.”

Fennec hummed in agreement and moved to kissing and biting your neck. She snaked one hand down, her fingers replacing Boba’s. Her other hand moved to your pert nipples and you moaned loudly at how overwhelmed your body felt. Your head tilted back so it was resting on Fennecs shoulders as the two of them continued to work you towards your quickly approaching orgasm. You didn’t want to hurt Boba so you put your hand son Fennecs muscular thighs caged around yours.

“That’s it, princess. Fuck you’re so tight. Let me watch you come undone. Let me watch you cum all over my cock.”

Fennec increased her pace on your clit and with three more rotations of your hips you were screaming out. The two of them made sure you continued to move, and it felt like too much. You were too full. There were too many scalding hot hands on your body as they worked you through your orgasm.

“Fuck. How could she possibly be so beautiful coming undone?”

Boba grunted and you felt him twitch inside of you. Fennec put her hands on your hips and helped you bounce on top of him, fucking yourself on him like he would have been doing to you if he wasn’t hurt. She bent forward and kissed you as Boba grunted, his orgasm finally hitting him. He came deep inside of you and held you on his waist. You relaxed back into Fennec and she continued to kiss your face and neck, helping you come down.

“T-thank you, Fennec.”

You opened your heavy eyes to Fennec giving you a beautiful smile. She kissed you once more before helping you slip off of Boba, lying next to him. You carefully curled into his side with his arm wrapped around you. Fennec made sure you were looking before she put the fingers that had been playing with your clit in her mouth. She let out a content hum and slipped them out with a pop.

“The pleasure was all mine, sweetheart.”

She gave Boba a nod and sauntered back out of the room just like she had come in. You buried your face into Boba’s side, and he chuckled.

“What have I told you about hiding your face, mesh’la.”

“I’m sorry.”

Your voice came out muffled because you had yet to try to rectify the situation. Boba rolled on his side, wincing but pressing his nose to yours.

“You did so good, pet. You’re so good to me.”

“I.. I was afraid you’d be.. mad.”

“Why would I be mad at you?”

“Because.. I kissed her? And she..”

He rumbled out a laugh and kissed your forehead before tilting your head up to look at him.

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you regret any part of it?”

“No! No.”

“Then there is nothing to ever be sorry for. As long as you are comfortable and actually want to do something, I am always happy to give you new experiences and pleasures. Just promise me that if you ever don’t want to do something that you will speak up. I will never be mad at you, princess. Not for enjoying something I am giving you permission to do.”

“I did like it. I wasn’t sure that I would.”

“I am glad that you did. I don’t mind sharing you if it means I get to watch you come undone like that. Just make sure you always have my permission. You’re still mine.”

You nodded and finally gave him a smile.

“Get some sleep, pet. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Shouldn’t I be saying that to you? You’re the one who is hurt.”

“It’s my job to take care of you. Now do as your told.”

He gripped your chin, but it was playful and light. You kissed him sweetly and nodded, nestling back into him. You weren’t sure if he really believed that you wanted to be there, but it was something you could worry about later. For the time being, falling asleep with him was more than enough.

[ahlis-xiv]

journal 50.4

G’raha sat alone, semi-hunched over a piece of parchment as he worked. Although he did not show it, the drafting he ambitiously began was nothing short of a place between fascinating and downright tediousness. The solution to tempering that nestled within his mind and finding a proper way to convey it into some sort of physicality that others could understand took time and a level of focus that brought him back to his Studium days.

He did not mind the effort, really, yet part of him couldn’t help but feel he could be applying himself to something else...namely figuring out why his dear friend decided to depart in such a hurry without so much as a word.

G’raha sighed, and scratched out part of the formulae he attempted to use as a proper proof. It wasn’t correct or, rather, not good enough, and he knew it: it almost felt like he had to somehow invent a whole new notation and he was second guessing every attempt. That, he knew, was as strong a sign as any that he needed a break.

Abandoning his work for the more welcoming sight above Mor Dhona proper, he took to his usual perch and leaned over the ledge to watch the activity below. Ever since he arrived there—since waking up, really—G’raha found the habit of people-watching a welcome one when it came to clearing his head. It had also been an old habit as well from his time as the Exarch. It was difficult at times to not be reminded of it when he went there to be alone--not that it troubled him, but rather his thoughts inevitably wandered to those he had to let go. To old friends and, naturally, to her.

What would Lyna think, he wondered. Of everything? Despite assurances, both given and told to own self, he knew it was a question not quite answerable. He was unfettered, free—free to live the life he wished. A second chance. Yet something gnawed away at his heart that only grew in the wake of what occurred in Ala Mhigo. And the Warrior of Light was nowhere in sight.

He didn’t wish to admit it, but that this point most of all prickled his thoughts. She had been wounded in the confrontation: not severely but enough to warrant considerable healing, namely for her arms. She berated herself for not properly handling the situation, that it was foolish to not deal with Fandaniel and his summoning there and then somehow. When the dust settled with wounds seen to and mended, she slipped away and out of his reach.

G’raha’s hands clasped together in front of him, fretting as his anxiety swelled. Ahlis said many things in the aftermath at the menagerie; much of which he knew was said in a fury he rarely witnessed. He also knew he ought to not dwell on it, as it was not directed towards him—but it felt personal, watching the anger and the walls that suddenly erected around her, forbidding his approach. Surely she knew, she must’ve known that he cared—that they all cared? G’raha understood what it meant to seek solace, to lick one’s wounds after a poor bout in battle, yet to shut him out? Why?

He huffed a frustrated growl, and pouted to himself. This is not about you, G’raha, his more sensible self spoke in his mind. It did little to help when he knew naught what to do with his...feelings, with no soul to utter them to. For the moment, all he had in certainty, was himself.

Looking above to the darkening sky, stars were beginning to sparkle in the deep blue, the gloom weak and unable to hinder their shine. He hoped that wherever Ahlis was, and however she felt, that her safety was sure and her healing swift.

---

Ahlis suddenly grasped the pillow within her bare arms as a sneeze escaped her nose and immediately regretted it.

“Bless you, dearest,” Aymeric spoke above her, his hands gently working her back’s aches and pains into a soothing massage.

“Augh, no,” she said, voice muffled by soft cotton where she shoved her face into it. The great debate of whether she should lift her head up or not kept her in place, lest she reveal a potentially not-so-graceful mess. “I think I ruined it.”

Wordlessly and only with a soft chuckle of amusement Aymeric rose to retrieve a handkerchief as if reading her mind in her current discomfort. When he returned Ahlis was already sitting up, the pillow still pressed to her face. He did not know how to assure her that there were far worse things that could ruin one’s bedding, but seeing the flushed look upon her face while she cleaned herself as discretely as possible encouraged him to say nothing.

“Are you feeling better?” Aymeric asked, once she seemed satisfied to show herself, the pillow and handkerchief no longer covering her face.

“Yes, thank you,” Ahlis spoke, relief entering her voice. “I am sorry, about this, though.” Her hands still held onto the pillow until he reached for it himself, lightly tossing it aside and back onto the bed.

“It is of no consequence. My home is yours, including the aforementioned pillow.”

That made Ahlis laugh, as he hoped it would, and Aymeric took this moment to join her again, sitting side by side upon the edge of the bed. It was useless however to ignore the wrappings around both her palms and forearms, both of which had been kept out of sight when lying on her stomach. Catching his glancing eyes, Ahlis took that moment to adjust her bandages.

“The pain is mostly gone. Now it’s just itching,” she spoke, more annoyed than in any sort of true discomfort. “New skin takes some getting used to and breaking in, imagine that.”

“May I see it?” Aymeric asked after a moment’s pause, his voice careful in its near-whisper like intensity.

For a second, she hesitated. Unraveling them didn’t hurt much anymore, so when she did reveal the newly healed burns that rested beneath she didn’t hold back in extending her arm in front of him. If only her heart that thumped heavily in her chest agreed! Nerves, however troublesome they proved to be, would do little in assuaging his concern.

“There you are,” Ahlis said with an exuberance she hoped sounded sure and confident. “It’s not so terrible now, aye?”

It was not her intent to fool him, rather, it was better than the ire she felt deep within at how it happened, and better still than to appear caught off-guard or foolish to have been struck at all by such an injury. It had been a mistake, one that could’ve gone even more horribly wrong in an instant if not for…

“Oh, Ahlis...”

Her thoughts stopped, everything stopped. She was helpless as she watched the shock that touched his eyes turn to despair, to pain that flowed into the tenderness that came with his touch as he cradled her wrist to his cheek. There was a knot of scarred tissue just below where his lips met her skin; the first kiss was given there, then another just above it towards her palm.

Such sensations, intensified against her freshly healed wounds, rendered her voice frozen within her throat. It was almost too much; she released a heavy, shaky breath that gave him pause, and Aymeric turned to look upon her so intensely, so painfully, she dared think she might cry herself.

“It’s fine,” she found herself saying, finally, unsure if it truly was after all.

---

Later, long after they had gone to bed, she would wake to see the stars out in the beyond just outside the window, the silhouette of spires cutting across the dark. A rare, clear night in the city. Gripped by the sight, she stole herself away to find a place to write...

Evenings have proven to be the best, and only time, to write clear-headed these days. As if I do not need sleep.

The itching has finally subsided enough to carry on without thinking about it and now I can finally sit for half a bell to write while at the same time not wishing to scratch my skin off. I’ve had lacerations, all manners of bruising and concussive injuries. I’ve even been shot at! But note to self: never get fucking burned like that again.

I’m going to kill that bastard with his own medicine, and I will enjoy it

[there is a drawing here of a figure in a robe with a sword skewering it all the way through, who is also on fire]

The healing has progressed as it will, and I trust Krile and Alphinaud’s hands more than any other—although granted my sourness over it all could have been a little less scathing, I guess.

But what can I say, a lot of bullshite has been happening these days. I’m getting a mite bit enraged that these Ascian arseholes aren’t leaving me alone, and yet I am not entirely surprised. It’s not over until it is over.

gods when will that be never ah ha ha ha

In the meantime I have made good on my own promises to make my own self comfortable as best I can, heal as best I am able, and spending what time I can in Ishgard. The others are probably wondering when I’ll return to the Stones but until G’raha outlines our approach on implementing proper protocol on the tempering solution I honestly don’t want to hear about anything else. Alisaie should be helping, I am sure, as is Alphinaud too I think. It’ll be fine! And fast too.

I mean I would help more too but I don’t have a crazy as all hells academic background as they do seven hells I’d love me a curriculum found in the Studium within those stupid halls and their even stupider “zero involvement” stance on bloody everything

share your goddamn science you twits

I am far more tired than I thought. But! I am also finally able to think about the impending reconnaissance we’re bound to have soon once Thancred and Urianger return.

if something happens with them I swear to ever loving shite I am going to boot them back to the First with my fist

Without my Stupid! Arms! Annoying me!

OH is that little

[the writing stops here with an ink blot, as if the pen was dropped and left there, the smeared and distinct shape of a cat’s paw crossing part of the page]

[3pirouette]

Fic: Fighting Doesn't Make You a Hero (2/?)

Title: Fighting Doesn't Make You a Hero

By: TriplePirouette/3Pirouette

Disclaimer: They're not mine.

Distribution: AO3 Anyone else please ask first :)

Story Summary: StuntCoordinator!Steve meets Actress!Peggy, who is an absolute menace when it comes to stunts.

Chapter Summary: Steve falls hard for Peggy (figuratively) while Peggy falls hard (literally).

A/N: Here’s some more of the story I tried so hard to write last year when I put this little AU out. Also, this is the “more” that I think only one person actually asked for. Hope you like it, anyway. I’ve always loved this idea, the rest of the story has just alluded me until now. For Steggy Week ’21 Day 3: Favorite AU.

Apparently, there will be more of this, because my brain has FINALLY figured out how this is supposed to go, and it’s not just one chapter’s worth. Sheesh.

Also, if it is not clear (it should be…) I know nothing about stunts or stage fighting. Completely made up. Please enjoy.

~*~

Chapter 2: Thrust and Parry

It was hard to be nice to her when he was waiting for the next injury to occur. He was professional, clear, and concise. They rehearsed for hours straight on Wednesday for a long, single shot of her moving through a room full of stunt men for one of the climatic battles.

Though no one got seriously hurt, there were a few bumps and bruises that shouldn’t have happened.

It was hard not to be harsh with her, not to be demanding. He could see moments of beauty in how she moved, but then she’d go too far and make contact. He had to find a way of breaking her of it, if not for his own safety, for that of the stuntmen around him.

~*~

It was an early call for the shot they’d spent the entire previous day rehearsing. He was bleary and chugging coffee as quick as he could stomach it. Peggy was already on her way out of hair and make-up as he passed the trailer. She gave him a shy half smile as she passed him, being ushered from one trailer to the next to be slid into her ridiculously tight costume.

On one hand, he got it. He couldn’t deny that she looked absolutely gorgeous in that costume. (How long he’d spent thinking last night about her in that costume and what she might be able to do with that Lasso of Truth absolutely was not relevant…) But from a practical standpoint the costume wasn’t realistic at all, and she wobbled horribly on the stilettos. They had to stop rolling often to keep her taped into the thing.

The stuntmen around him were warming up, and he even heard a few near him joking about wearing cups. He gave them a sharp look, waiting until everyone was quiet before he reviewed timing and patterns while they waited for her to come out to set.

The director wasted no time once Peggy was on set. They made minor adjustments to the cameras and rolled on the first run through. He was proud as he watched them all, every move was timed right and it looked fantastic. He waited, with a smile, for the director to give his notes.

There wasn’t much for his team, but the director took Peggy aside and gave her quite notes and reset the scene quickly. He shot it over and over, from new angles and with different lenses, and by the time it was over, there were three black eyes and a cracked camera lens.

Peggy’s assistant ushered her off set as soon as they cut the last take, the star unable to look him in the eyes as she walked past.

~*~

The director decided, after a short break, he wanted another go at the capturing the pattern. Steve reluctantly went off in search of Peggy, hoping to figure out where she’d gone wrong that morning. He couldn’t find her in her trailer, and her assistant only pointed vaguely towards the parking lot.

He found her in a far hidden corner of the lot, sitting on the edge of a flower pot, crying. He was startled by a side of her he wasn’t prepared to see. He thought maybe he’d be coming out here to find her sneaking a smoke or a flask of rum. He’d heard she was dangerous, a bitch, a tough broad who didn’t care about the stunt men that she hurt. This didn’t really fit with all the stories he’d heard. “Peggy?”

She moved to wipe away her tears, manicured fingers moving swiftly and carefully around the fake lashes and caked on make-up. “I’m sorry. I’ll be right there. He wants another take, right?”

Steve crouched down next to her. “Are you… are you ok?”

She laughed, watery and weary. “Oh, good lord, no, but I’ll be there in a minute.” She waved her hand at him. “I’ll have to stop in make-up first.”

Steve stood hesitantly, astonished at how she pulled herself together so quickly. “Is there… is there anything I can do?”

She looked up at him, taking a deep breath. “I don’t mean to hurt anyone, I promise. I mean, I know I have a reputation, but… I’m not an action hero. I’ve never been physical. I’m not good at it.” She shook her head. “I’m a Shakespearean actress.” She stood, wiping at her mouth and pacing. “Give me Ophelia or Bianca or Beatrice. Hell, even give me a sword fight. I can fence, you know. But one time I get a tiny part in an action film and all of a sudden, I’m being type cast as some action hero and no one ever even taught me how to do any of this!” She was pacing quickly now, the rant spilling from her lips like a waterfall of words she couldn’t stop if she tried, her weariness evident with each syllable. “Not once was I instructed on the how, just, ‘punch here’ and ‘kick there.’ And it was fun so I kept doing it. I thought it was worth it, you know? But I should be saying no. The sane thing to do would be to say no to all of this but I mean, who says no to Wonder Woman?!” Peggy stopped, her face morphing as she realized all she’d said, her hands coving her mouth for a moment before she forced herself back into a stoic, hard shell. Her chin wobbled, betraying her hidden emotion as she pushed past him towards the make-up trailer. “Just know I don’t mean it. And I’m sorry.”

He watched her move away, stunned in her wake. He didn’t quite know what to do with that information, but he was quickly starting to feel a soft spot for her forming. He moved quickly back to set, relaying that she would be there soon and watching the team of stuntmen around him stretch to perform the scene once more.

She was back on set, looking fresh and happy, in just minutes. He ran them through the pattern again, and watched closer this time.

Once he’s shed himself of expectations, it was easy to see that she really didn’t have any idea what she was doing. She was a natural mover, to the point where he figured she was probably a good dancer, and that went a long way to hiding the technical flaws. But she was jerky when she tried to pull her punches and she wobbled off balance when she held back power in her kicks. She misjudged force when blocking constantly, and it put her on her heels, literally.

She was on her back in a blink when she shouldn’t be, coughing and sputtering. She had the air torn from her lungs with the impact, and everyone froze in place.

Steve bounded over, pushing through his stunt team to kneel by her side. Her eyes were closed, pressed tight. “Peggy, are you ok?” She was gasping, trying to get the rhythm of breathing back. “Slow in through your nose, slow out through your mouth, ok?”

He lifted her hand in his as she nodded, sputtering once more before slowly getting a deep breath in, and then another. He squeezed her hand tight. “Good, good.” He smiled when she blinked her eyes open, her breath starting to come back. “Better?”

She nodded, but he could see the frustration and fear in her eyes, welling tears following quickly.

“Let’s get her checked out,” the director called. “We got what we needed anyway.”

Peggy tried to sit her up, but Steve pushed her back down. “Wait until the medic gets here, ok?”

“I’m fine,” she argued, having tamed the tears quickly.

“Be that as it may,” he smiled, whispering, “You know what the protocol is.”

It wasn’t quite a smile, but it was the closest he saw to one today as her hand held tight to his. “Fine. Just this once.”

He moved away mindlessly when the medic came in and started talking to her, checking for a concussion or cervical injury, eyes still on her face.

Forget about the Lasso of Truth, her smile would be what was haunting his dreams tonight.

~*~

He met her in the rehearsal gym, bright and early the next day. He was on the floor, warming up, when she came in, hair pulled back messily and no make-up on, thermos of coffee in her hands. She was pretty much the exact opposite of the made-up, costumed bombshell from yesterday, but he was no less enthralled with her.

He couldn’t help it: he smiled.

Her smile back was half hidden behind another sip of coffee. “Good morning,” she said softly in her lilting English accent that she covered up for her movie appearances.

“Morning,” he stood, wiping his hands on his pants. “How are you feeling?”

“Bit of a headache,” she replied, setting her coffee down and pulling off her jacket. “Are the rest of the team coming?”

Steve hung his head, bashful. “Uh, no. I had them stay last night and run through tomorrow’s scene with your double.”

“Oh.” Peggy froze, the word slipping out softly. She started putting her jacket back on, trying to hide her disappointment. “I didn’t get the message. I thought I was doing the scene.”

“You are!” Steve corrected quickly, holding his hand out. “I just thought…” He sniffed and cleared his throat, trying to sound as professional as he could. “After I found you yesterday, I watched you do the scene again. I mean, really watched you. And you’re right. You’re missing a lot of the basics.”

Peggy wrapped her jacket back around her, crossing her arms. “Yes, well, like I said—”

“You weren’t taught,” he supplied quickly and gently, eyes kind and open. He shrugged and tried to smile. “I thought we could spend some time on that this morning. You already know the scene, so if we go back in and fill in some of those blanks you have…” He trailed off, hoping she’d understand.

She licked her lip slowly, thinking. “And you told the other stuntmen to stay home because…”

He wasn’t sure what she thought he was going to say, but he could imagine how some of his collogues might have treated her and couldn’t say that he almost expected her surprise. “I don’t want you to feel like they were watching you, or judging you. It’s not your fault no one taught you this, or that whoever you’ve worked with before didn’t take the time to make sure you were doing it right.”

She bent, grabbing her coffee to try to hide the shock he saw. She took a long swing and then nodded, pulling her jacket off again. “Alright then.”

He waved his hand, signaling her to follow him to the middle of the cushioned floor.

She was a quick study, and he’d been right as she eventually reveled somewhere in their discussions of balance and force, that she’d been a dancer before she became an actress.

“ACL surgery,” she replied, pulling up the leg of her legging and showing him the scar on her knee that he was sure must have been covered by make-up every other time he’d seen her. “Retore after the first surgery, and I never danced the same after.”

The melancholy that had started to disappear as they’d been going through their first few lessons returned, and Steve swore he’d do anything to see a smile on her face again. After a moment, he pulled up the sleeve on his t-shirt and showed her the crisscrossing pattern on his shoulder. “Cool scar, but I think this one wins.”

“Ohhh,” Peggy reached out, her fingertips lightly brushing over the flattened lines. “What happened?”

“IED just outside of Fallujah. Caught our caravan off guard.” He turned, pulling the shirt back more to show her the back of the shoulder. “Two bullets, six pieces of shrapnel, three torn tendons and almost a year of physical therapy.”

She let her hand run down his arm in a gentle way that made his heart pound. “Is that why you got out?”

He shrugged, stepping away and pulling his sleeve down. “It’s why they wouldn’t let me back in, so yeah, I guess you could say that.”

“Do you miss it?” Peggy asked, truly interested.

He paused. He wasn’t sure anyone had ever asked him that before. He must have been quiet long enough that she took his lack of an answer as not wanting to answer, because she started rambling, stepping over to get more coffee.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. I only asked because,” she paused to sip, taking a deep breath. “Well, because I didn’t really get to choose to stop dancing, my body chose for me. And as much as I love this…” she paused, her voice growing quieter as she looked down at her coffee, “sometimes I miss it.”

Steve softly stepped towards her. “This can be a lot like dancing, you know.” He held out his hand.

Peggy set her coffee down and took it, a smile on her face. “Really?”

He nodded, giving her a gentle pull that pulled her towards his body. “Think of it less like moves and add beats to it.” He started counting softly in fours, walking them through the pattern they’d just practiced: step forward, step back, parry, swing and miss, swing and block, swing, connect, turn under and sweep the leg.

Peggy laughed with delight as they stopped, standing. “That was… so much easier!”

Steve couldn’t help but smile back, she looked like an excited child on Christmas morning and he wanted more of that. “See? I told you. You just needed to understand it a little more. To figure out how to make it make sense to you.”

She bounced on the balls of her feet, excited. “Can we try the second pass?”

He nodded, stepping in front of her. He started counting again as she squeaked with happiness behind him. Push, pull, drop, jump, punch, punch… they moved through with the fluidity he knew she possessed but had somehow never understood or tapped into before. He smiled at her as they finished the set: her wrists in his hands, held over her head as they stood face to face.

They both smiled, but didn’t move. Steve could feel his heart pounding, and if the look on her face was any indication, the moment wasn’t one sided.

But he was here professionally, and it did no good to lean in and kiss her breathless like he wanted. He started to pull away quickly, but Peggy grabbed his hands, keeping him close. “Thank you,” she whispered, eyes shining with an emotion he didn’t want to think too hard about.

He didn’t understand. “For what?”

“For this.” She shrugged, twining her fingers with his. “For not just believing I’m a dangerous bitch who doesn’t care who she hurts. For taking the time to actually teach me,” she smiled, “and get to know me.”

It was still between them, and he could tell what they both wanted, but he couldn’t give in. Not while they were in the middle of the movie and he knew she’d still need so much more help if she was going to make it to the end of all of the complicated fight scenes and wire work. Instead, he redirected, smiling wide. “Don’t thank me yet. We’ve got to do all that again, but this time, in the heels.”

Peggy frowned, but didn’t let go of his hands. “Bloody hell, I hate those fucking things.”

[chokefriends]

Anatomy model Eustass Kid

By @godims0tired ♡ for my fic Life Drawing

Rating: E

Warnings: None

Characters & ships: Eustass Kid / Trafalgar Law

Word count: 2978

Summary: Law practices his anatomical drawing with Kidd as his subject. With his devil fruit abilities he can see right inside him.

Kidd finds this insanely romantic.

~~~

Read on Ao3 or below the cut. I know it's an older fic by now but I havent posted it here before so here!

~~~

Kidd jerked into full awareness as he lay sprawled in his bed. He checked around himself without moving and sensed a second heartbeat in the room, near enough that the dim echoes of its electrical impulses lapped at his skin like waves. Slow and calm. Just watching then; not yet poised to attack…

There were eyes on him.

It took him a moment to remember that the other heartbeat was supposed to be there. He wasn't used to having bedmates stay overnight.

Red eyes slid open and found keen grey ones fixed on him.

“The fuck you staring at.”

“You, idiot.”

The big redheaded sprawl snorted crassly at that and flopped over, returning the stare with sleepy menace.

Law smirked. He was wedged sideways in one of the heavy carved armchairs in Kidd's quarters, loosely wrapped in a sheet and busily scritch scritching in a large book. His gaze flicked from page to Kidd and back.

Kidd prodded him, “See something you want, Trafalgar? Come over here and take it.”

His limbs were still all loose and languid from when they'd fucked a couple hours before, but Kidd could stand to go another round. Especially with the sharp, evaluating looks Law was throwing him right now.

“Come on, c'mere.”

“Later. Go back to sleep, Eustass-ya.” The pen bobbed.

“Don’ wanna. What are you doing still up?”

“Just passing the time until my brain decides to let me fall asleep.” Law's insomniac woes again.

“A good fuck will do that for you. Lemme do the ligature thing and you'll be out like bam .” Kidd offered generously.

“Heheh. Thanks but oxygen deprivation is not the kind of sleep aid I need.”

“Your loss.”

Kidd burrowed into his cluster of satiny pillows with a sigh. For an infamously brutal pirate captain he sure liked his little extravagances. The whole room was draped with horribly clashing bits of luxurious fabrics and furs, and the odd shiny sharp thing. The manic magpie whims of past raids.

“Nah, that's no good,” Law recrossed long legs over the chair’s arm, well cushioned with some spotted pelt. “Go back to where you were a second ago.”

“Are you…? What, taking notes on me? Writing an ode to the sinful curve of my flawless ass?”

“Something like that. I'm adding my own anatomical diagrams to this medical text. It’s my favourite for reference material but the illustrations are scanty and kinda shit -- it's like they've never dissected anyone before.”

“Nice. Add a diagram of these.” Kidd kicked up a leg.

“Hah. I'm nowhere near the section on genital abnormalities, but I'll look you up when I get there. Turn on your side again, I was doing upper body musculature.”

“Ooo. I got lots of that, yeah.” Kidd complied.

The lamplight was flickering low behind Law. Kidd could see him and his book backlit dimly, the small hairs on his leanly muscled shoulders aglow like a nimbus. Tinged subtly blue.

Wait, blue?

“Do you have a Room up?”

“Yeah, so I can scan down and see the actual anatomical stuff.”

“Huh. That's handy. You don't even have to dissect anyone.”

“Yeah but it’s easier to see everything if you physically open someone up. You can isolate the individual structures that way.” Law peeked overtop of the book. “And it's more fun to do it the old-fashioned way, heh…”

Kidd gave a low laugh. Law wasn't even joking, he knew. He imagined waking up one night like this, to find some part of him delicately splayed open and the dark haired doctor sketching away with the same expression. If Law used his devil fruit power he could do it painlessly and bloodlessly, without even waking him. Kidd had seen him sever heads away from bodies completely within that blue sphere, both pieces still functioning as one. He’d never been the subject of that eerie power himself, though.

He didn’t think so, anyway.

Law untangled himself from chair and sheet, and finally came over to join him on the bed. Kidd was gifted briefly with a full view of the lithe figure. His recent handiwork was beginning to show in the mottling that ran up either thigh and the bites framing his chest tattoos.

The long limbs refolded next to him. “Stay there, I wanna do the neck muscles now.”

“Lemme see that first.”

“Don't be grabby,” Law complained, but gave up the book.

“Holy fuck.” Kidd flipped through studies of his back, shoulders, hands. “So that's how I look without skin, huh.”

He had been expecting more… yeah. Skin.

“I did say I was drawing the muscles.”

“And my bones and everything.”

“Yeah. Good skeletal structure too. Several odd calluses where breaks didn't quite set right, though.”

“You can see all of that?”

“Yeah, of course. Like I said, I can scan down to any level. Though it helps if I know already the shape of what I'm looking for.”

Something about the drawings was just so Law. The lines so precise, so sharp, somehow impatient. A little obsessive and overworked on certain details, like the hollow between his collar bones and the knobbly crook of his index finger, broken at least twice. Many practice studies on loose sheets of paper showed that Law had been trying to get these parts just right.

It occurred to Kidd that these weren't just anatomical studies using him as a model -- these were him.

Jotted notes crowded around the practice studies, but Law grabbed the book back before Kidd could read them properly.

“Trafalgar. Does that seriously say I have 8.2 litres of blood in me.”

“Nevermind that. Just an interesting fact. You have a lot of blood.”

Kidd stole another peek as Law held him off. “And that I have a grip strength of 68 kilograms in my right hand?”

“At least. That’s not something I can see; that's from uh, experience.”

Kidd leaned back with his hands laced behind his head to look at Law. “One might misinterpret this as a target profile of some kind.” Because that's exactly what it was -- a detailed map of Kidd’s strongest, and weakest points.

“Whoa, your blood pressure’s spiking.” Law grinned with more teeth than usual and leaned in to hover over him.

“Now you're just showing off,” Kidd complained.

“Does this disturb you?”

That wasn't exactly the feeling that was spreading through him, no. Or not entirely, anyway. Kidd just cracked his neck, stretching it out for Law's benefit, and raised an eyebrow.

“So you wanted some neck action? It's all yours.”

Law seemed to like the sound of that. He angled Kidd’s head away and up with a gentle press of fingers, so the ear and neck were exposed to him.

Kidd watched his shadow flicker on the opposite wall and listened to the pen scratch across paper. The undulating magnetic field of Law’s heart was so close now, washing over him. His own blood thudded in his ears, senses all on high alert from holding himself in this vulnerable position.

He could be fuckin patient. Sometimes. Well… when he had all of Law’s attention focused on him like this, he’d stay still forever. He could feel the sharp eyes on him like a touch. His own eyes started to wander back over…

He jumped a little when Law did touch him, nudging him back into place. And then trailing fingers over the mound behind his ear.

“Sternocleidomastoid,” Law mouthed to himself. “Levator scapulae…” The hand travelled down to his collarbone and rested there lightly, his thumb tracing little circles.

It was so calm. And strange. Rare for the reserved doctor to be so casually intimate. Even while they were fucking, touch was more like a struggle, hands straining against and into each other. Kidd was rough without even trying, but it was Law who seemed to flinch from any contact not resembling combat. Or medical care. Such structured things. He’d objected -- vehemently -- to being “pawed at” and “pet like a lap dog” often enough. As though anything less than bruising force would hurt more.

He was so guarded. It made Kidd greedy.

“You're hard, you know,” Law breathed onto his neck.

“Yeah I'm aware.”

“Heh.”

Tattooed fingers ran along Kidd’s side, over the tight bands hugging the ribs (“Serratus anterior…”), and pinpricks rose in their wake. Kidd found himself arching up against the hand desperately.

“Ah, fuck, Trafalgar…”

“Mhm,” Law responded, distracted. Or pretending to be. He followed a particular cord of muscle down Kidd’s powerful thigh with his thumb. “Sartorius. Gracilis.”

“Dick.”

“No that's not a muscle, Eustass-ya.”

“Oh for the love of GOD.”

Law made a sound that was probably a muffled laugh. “Hold still. I'm doing anatomical studies.”

“Oh is that what we're doing.”

“Obviously.”

“Where's the book.”

“It's…” Law looked around for a minute. “On the floor.”

Kidd covered his face with his hands and just laughed. Law sighed dramatically.

“Well. Guess I gotta start from the top again.”

 

---

Law could be a pushy bastard when he topped. But he kept up the slow, focused treatment this time and it was driving Kidd fucking insane.

“I'm gonna flip this the fuck around and pound you inside out if it takes any longer.” Kidd growled from under his arm, slung across his face.

This was as close as he could get to actually asking for it. Here he was laid out, so open and ready, core clenching and unclenching. Needing to be fucked, to have hands on him, in him, whatever. All of it.

“Nah you're not.” Law countered smugly.

“F-uck,” was all Kidd could come up with when a third finger twisted into his slicked up hole. His body tensed and spasmed before yielding itself open.

By the time Law was actually fucking him, Kidd had nearly popped a fucking vein.

Law pushed in slowly, slowly. Until they were pressed together as tight as they could go, breath hot on each other's faces.

“Shit, Tr--ahh…”

“Eustass-ya…”

He was done with all the slow shit. Kidd was a shifting mass of need under him and honestly, he was even more worked up. He dragged almost all the way out only to grind back in hard, and the tight body jolted.

“Aw fuck, yeah…”

Law braced his weight on his arms, pressing Kidd’s hips into the bed. He watched the muscles bunch beneath him with each impact, Kidd straining to meet him. Watched through skin so pale it was translucent, glowing and rippling.

Kidd still wasn't entirely sure what to make of that gaze. All hunger and splitting seams, open lips and ragged breath.

He quirked up one corner of a mocking mouth.

“The fuck’re you-- ah --staring at?”

Law didn't answer for a moment. Under Kidd's skin it was like… layers of red ribbons, wrapping him up. The ribbons all pulling and straining against each other when Kidd moved (when Law moved in him), like something inside was trying to burst out. Under them, ribs curving -- jealous fingers. Wetly clinging membranes. Then under that…

“Your heart. It's…”

Their bodies collided, beaded with sweat. Harder. More. Law could see, hear Kidd's heart beating faster as he picked up his pace. God, he could feel it in his palms. In his dick. Beating so strong it echoed in his ears, drowning out his own.

“Fucking perfect. It's perfect.”

Kidd laughed breathlessly. His heart. What the hell. “...You wanna get your hands on that too?”

Law did.

He wanted to grip it, feel it flutter, make it burst …

… What if I could? he thought. He slowed, thinking, and spread a hand over Kidd’s breastbone. Not just to incapacitate through dismemberment, but to cut a piece from the whole, one vital piece…

Kidd watched the pensive eyes flicker and gave him a swift jab of encouragement with his heel.

“You'll just have to get hold of it the old fashioned way. Hahahaaa…”

“Hah.” Law shook himself from his distracted state. He picked up a pace that was slower than before, though not less jarring. “Like… I should court you or like I should cut you open?”

“Whichever ...ah ... But you should fuckin get me off first.” Kidd guided the tattooed hand down from his chest to his dripping cock, and Law obliged, finally.

They fucked with foreheads pressed together and grips slipping on sweat slick skin. Kidd thought of Law digging his hands right into his chest and came in jerking starts like it was being beaten out of him, legs clamped tight around him. Skin thrumming with the echoes of hands and heartbeat.

 

---

Kidd flipped through the last few drawings with some undefinable flutter in his gut.

“That's some shit you won't see in any other textbook.”

“Mhm.” Law allowed himself to press against Kidd just slightly as they lay sprawled out, sweat drying in the cool air. He was in a fuckin good mood, kinda dazed.

“I do look damn good without skin, I'll say that much.”

“Heh. And with. You can see the suprasternal notch really clearly even under the skin, it's nice. I fuckin love all of that. That area.”

Kidd choked a little but Law didn't seem to realize what he'd said. And that's not even what he meant anyway, Kidd told himself.

But the whole thing kinda was the same as a confession, at least as far as Law went. The drawings, as vaguely threatening as they were, betrayed an intimate preoccupation with Kidd's finer points. Maybe even admiration. Definitely possessiveness. Need.

“I wanna do you too.”

Law grinned, “Already?”

“Not that, idiot. Draw you.”

“I didn’t know you could draw.”

“Well, draft. I can draft things -- just basic. For engineering stuff on the ship, mostly.”

“Oh, nice!” Law bounced up to get fresh paper from the floor by the chair. “How does one usually draft stuff? Don’t you need a triangle thing? Compasses, etcetera?”

“Maybe. I’ll just make an outline for now.”

Law seemed right into this whole idea. “Draw me like one of your machines, Eustass-ya.” He draped himself dramatically across the bed and Kidd shoved him with a grin.

“How do you want me, though.”

Kidd appreciated that question for a moment.

“Doesn’t matter,” he shrugged. “I don’t know how to draw from life -- like perspective or anything. So it’s gonna be pretty diagrammatic. I just need a few details and some numbers.”

“Like specifications? How to build a Trafalgar?”

“Yeah, so I can make another if this one breaks.”

That made him laugh.

“Okay lie out flat and lemme measure you.”

“With what measuring tools?”

“I'll just eyeball it,” Kidd insisted.

This turned out to mean that he was going to get his hands all over him, which Law supposed was fair. He tensed and shied but stayed mostly still, letting Kidd explore his dimensions and proportions. Pages filled up with ratios and vectors of movement. Things got off track again around when Kidd was testing the rotation arc of his arms and quickly became vicious rutting. Light, skimming hands could become crushing ones so quickly.

Anyway, turned out that Law could get off while his arms were being hyperextended behind his back. Pretty effectively, in fact.

After, when they were laid out next to each other once again, and Law’s breaths were finally lengthening into sleep, Kidd dared to try another light touch. Without their thin pretense of functionality this time -- just want. He smoothed a hand over all the tattoos he'd taken such careful note of earlier. A large heart on his chest with a grinning skull similar to his Jolly Roger. Hearts on his shoulders. Kidd’s fingerprints blooming dark purple on his upper arms.

Sixty-eight kilograms of pressure and Law hadn't made a sound, but a feather touch over the marks and a quiet ah pushed past his lips.

“Whose emblem is that tattoo?”

Law mumbled with his eyes closed, “Someone who died. Long time ago.”

“Someone…” Kidd repeated to himself, but didn't probe. “You going to get any more?”

“Nah.” His breath stuttered slightly when Kidd trailed knuckles down his jaw. “I just like… your marks…”

He fell asleep with Kidd's lips against the shell of his ear.

 

---

A roll of broadsheet tied with string arrived by carrier gull when Law was back on his sub some days later. He stole away to his cluttered quarters and spread the roll out on the bed.

Inside the broadsheet was a large-format technical drawing.

There were three flat outlines of Law: front, back, side. All heavily marked out in blunt pencil, all surrounded by arcs and lines, dotted and solid, indicating measurements and angles of motion. The insides of the outlines were empty except for perfectly to scale renderings of his tattoos.

[authoressofdarkness]

Guide Me Safely To Shore (Chapter 4)

And then he’d apparently crashed through the side of Stark tower. Because this was the safe spot now, apparently, though he hadn’t consciously decided that. He hadn’t consciously decided anything, really. Instinct and subconscious had completely taken over. And apparently, they were still in control, because how the fuck else would he have ended up pulling Tony Stark into bed with him? Or begging him to stay?

Notes: Yeah, I’m still a dumb bitch who keeps forgetting to update here, so here is the link to this story on AO3, if you’re tired of waiting on me. Mind the warnings/rating, though.

Tony is so used to the way he wakes up screaming that he automatically assumes it’s him. So it takes a minute to process the facts; that yes, his heart is pounding; yes, he feels adrenaline, the familiar fight or flight reflex, coursing through him, but the pain, the memory of the nightmare, isn’t there. Just a warm body pressed up against him and breathing fast and-

Shit. It’s Peter.

He barely has a moment to register the fact that Peter is actually pressed up against him, that they’ve apparently gotten much closer through the night and that he frankly can’t believe the pressure of Peter’s body against his hadn’t fed into his own night terrors or caused him to wake up at all. But then Peter gasps and jerks in his arms again and he refocuses on the problem at hand quickly.

He lets go of the omega when he jerks, realizing his eyes are open, pupils blown wide with fear — an effect of the dream more than seeing him, he hopes.

For a moment, they’re frozen, just staring at each other. Tony feels the nearly overwhelming urge to reach for him, but he doesn’t, not wanting to scare him even more.

Finally, Peter refocuses a little, eyes flickering around the room again. “Where- where am I? What did you do to me?”

He makes sure to keep his voice soft and steady, not wanting to start him more. “Nothing, Peter. Do you remember crashing in through the side of the tower?”

His eyes go even wider for a moment. “I- oh my God. I didn’t mean to, I-“

He holds up a hand. “It’s alright. It’s already fixed. But you crashed in and passed out right around the time I got to you. I just took care of your injuries and cleaned you up as best I could.”

Peter just stares at him. His eyes are almost comically wide as he seems to try to put all of the details together. He looks around the darkness of the room again, then glances down at himself. “So… now we’re in your room?” he asks, tentatively.

“No. We’re in yours.” Another confused look, so he elaborates. “I started setting up a room for you after… the other day. I intended to put you to bed tonight and let you rest, but you wouldn’t let me go.” He lifts up his hand, showing him the ring of bruises around his wrist and pillow marks from where Peter had clung to it and subsequently had been laying on it for hours.

Peter flushes after a moment. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stark,” he murmurs, unable to meet his eyes.

“Hey.” They’d talked this long without him running or freaking out, so he takes a chance, reaching out to tilt his chin up. “Don’t be. We should just… get some more rest. I’ll leave you be, if you want.” He moves to sit up.

“No!” Peter’s body slams up against his chest, surprising him. “I mean… stay,” he mumbles, voice muffled by Tony’s shirt. “Please. I just… it hurts, Mr. Stark. I… I need you to stay.”

Tony wraps his arms around him, gently but firmly, pulling him tight against him. “Then I’m not going anywhere.” It’s a relief, frankly, to be given permission not to, because Tony feels the exact same way. He hadn’t realized precisely how much their separation was hurting him until the seemingly massive hole in his chest felt filled waking up next to him.

Peter just nods against his chest, arms tight around his back. The weight of the smaller boy is comforting, nice and warm and solid against him. Any worries he has of hurting him just seem to melt away with him so comfortably wrapped around him like this. How could he possibly have a nightmare with this sweet thing holding him tight?

How could he possibly stay awake, seems like the better question. Within a few minutes, he���s out like a light again.

~~~

Peter doesn’t last long, either.

He doesn’t know what possessed him, honestly. He doesn’t remember consciously deciding to come to the tower. He barely remembers patrolling, just the getting hurt and the sensation of panic, Spidey sense telling him if he didn’t get out of that situation right now something horrible was going to happen and that he needed to get somewhere safe , and then-

And then he’d apparently crashed through the side of Stark tower. Because this was the safe spot now, apparently, though he hadn’t consciously decided that.

He hadn’t consciously decided anything, really. Instinct and subconscious had completely taken over.

And apparently, they were still in control, because how the fuck else would he have ended up pulling Tony Stark into bed with him? Or begging him to stay?

When he woke up screaming, the response had originally been at the visions of the nightmare, the green and orange still flashing behind his eyes. But the terror lingered when he realized that there was another villain entirely laying right beside him.

But then the initial panic faded, and his own body returned to betraying him. Panic and relief somehow flood him simultaneously when Stark says he’ll leave, and he opens his mouth to agree, though that’s not what comes out, and curse this fucking bond . Like the pain and physical illness that have tormented him this week haven’t been enough.

And yet there’s none of that now that Stark is pressed up beside him. In fact, he falls back asleep easier and rests better than he has in… years. Since Ben’s death, at least. Saying this week is hardly sufficient, considering he barely slept at all, and the trend of horrible sleep has been happening forever, now.

Surprisingly, though they sleep straight into the morning after that, Peter wakes up first.

For a long moment, before reality comes rushing back, it almost feels… good. One of Stark’s arms is securely wrapped around him, keeping him close, and Peter has nestled into his bare chest in his sleep. He’s warm and solid and his scent is just so nice up close like this. Relaxed and protective and strong and just pure alpha -

And shit. Peter's eyes flutter open and he moves to stretch automatically before realizing his legs are wrapped tightly around one of Stark's, hips pressed right up against him. He can feel Stark’s morning wood pressing against his stomach, almost terrifyingly large, and firm against him in a way he can’t ignore. And apparently, his body can’t, either, because when he shifts again, he can feel that he’s not entirely unaffected either. Between the effect of the bond and their time apart, and the fact that his body knows this is his soulmate, that he’s warm and comfortable and safe, even if his mind isn’t quite convinced of it… well, maybe it was only to be expected, but he is soaked. And scent aside, if the dampness he can feel on his thighs is any indication, there won’t be any hiding it when Stark wakes up. It isn’t exactly being contained.

Peter swallows thickly and lets out a shuddering breath. Fuck. What is he supposed to do now? Lay here, pretend to be asleep, and see what happens? Or does he risk trying to move and clean up before Stark wakes up, and maybe wake him sooner in the process?

Too late. He should have realized Stark would be a light sleeper. His squirming around had caused Stark to start to as well, and he must feel the same thing as Peter, because he hears his breath catch as the movement stops abruptly.

It’s silent for a moment, and Peter just hides his face in his chest, unsure what else to do. Then, after a moment, Stark’s voice: “Peter?”

Cheeks flaming, but knowing he’s been caught, Peter tilts his head just enough to peer up at him. “Uh…”

Stark’s face is only inches above his, close enough his warm breath causes the curls on Peter’s forehead to flutter. He can smell it, too, though even his morning breath isn’t that bad — and it’s completely overpowered by his scent, anyway, as it continues to grow stronger, arousal and curiosity and something that might even be nerves and resignation mixed in. To his horror, Peter’s seems to grow stronger in response as well — fear and arousal and growing emotions of curiosity and desire all in turmoil.

Again, the silence stretches for a long minute as they seem to search each other’s faces — Peter almost desperately, and Stark seeming to be calculated but undeniably curious.

Finally it’s Stark who breaks the silence. “I’m… I’ll leave,” he says shortly, looking away as he starts to sit up a little.

The words spark panic deep in his chest again, though he tries not to show it. Yeah, he’s terrified, that much is undeniable. But he doesn’t want to go back to feeling the way he did the week they were apart. He could barely function. And it’s going to be worse now that he’s been so close to him, he’s sure of it.

“You’re going to leave me like this?” The words come out quietly, tentative and scared, but he forces himself to speak all the same. “Is that my punishment for leaving?” Why does he sound so small? Why does he shrink in fear even talking to him out of the suit but still feel so safe laying beside him?

The nerves that feel like they’re gripping his chest are all the worse for the fact that he isn’t that far off from what could be true. He knows enough to know that the moment their marks changed color that he became Stark’s. Not even the law could come between them, and Stark is the law, now, so even more so than anyone else, he’s completely at his mercy. He could do whatever he wanted to him and no one would care. Even if someone did, they couldn’t do anything.

And, yeah, the fact was, scared or not, he’d been an asshole the last time they met. Their fight and everything that occurred before they knew they were soulmates could be excused. But after… Stark is well within his legal rights to punish him. Even if there was someone to enforce them on him, they wouldn’t stop him.

Stark stops, letting out a little breath and looking down at him. Confusion is the prominent emotion in his scent, now, though the arousal is still undeniable. “No. I hadn’t intended to punish you for leaving. I’m sure the bond did enough of that,” he says gently. “I just meant… I won’t stay, if you don’t want me to. I’m not going to force you into anything just because our bodies respond naturally to each other.”

“Why not?” Now Peter is confused. And yeah, it’s a dangerous question, but he just doesn’t understand. Tony Stark is supposed to be a monster. This behavior, none of it, none of their encounters besides the first, add up to what he’d expected and been so afraid of. “I mean… you own me now, don’t you? You could do whatever you want.”

“I can do whatever I want. That doesn’t mean I have to. And it’s all the more reason I don’t need to rush it,” Stark answers. He sits up completely, running his hands through his hair, but doesn’t move to get out of the bed. Peter doesn’t move, letting his arms and legs fall away but staying there flat beside him. “And believe it or not, I don’t take pleasure in forcing anyone to do anything. Especially things that should be pleasurable for you.” He shakes his head. “Why does it matter? Do you want me to punish you?”

“No- I mean, I don’t know, I just expected it, I guess.” Peter looks away. “You have good reason to. Past aside, I haven’t been… good this past week.”

He sighs. “I let you walk away, Peter. I told you, I’ve no desire to keep you here against your will.” He pauses, glancing back down at him. “Why did you come back? Last night? And why didn’t you just come in the open balcony door, for God’s sake?”

Peter blushes again. He has no recollection of an open balcony door — or anything else, really. “I… I don’t really know. I was scared and kinda on autopilot. It just… happened. I didn’t even really realize it until this morning.”

“That’s the bond at work, then.” Stark gnaws on his bottom lip, eyes far away for a moment, and then refocuses. “You were scared and hurt. What happened?”

Peter swallows hard. He doesn’t like to talk about what he does as Spider-Man, and telling Tony Stark of all people… this morning really can’t get much crazier, can it? “I… do I have to tell you, sir?” he whispers, tentatively, avoiding his eyes.

Stark draws in a little breath. “No. Not right now, at least.” He tilts his head, looking down at him. “Look, I just… do you want me to leave you alone? I can let you get cleaned up and make breakfast and we can pretend this didn’t happen, at least the… messy part. I really just want to talk without you running away, Peter. Everything else is up to you right now.”

The right now doesn’t slip his notice, but for the first time, his stomach flips with something like excitement as the possessive words, instead of immediate fear. There’s a little of that, too, but not quite as intense as before. And it does make him feel better, a little bit, but…

He’s just never been so wet like this before. He can’t fathom being left like this. It aches for fuck’s sake, in a way he can’t even begin to place or imagine having to deal with for however long it takes.

He swallows again, audibly, throat clicking as he looks up at Stark, who’s still watching him intently, waiting for an answer. “I… we can talk, I promise, I just… I’m really wet, Mr. Stark,” he whispers, tentatively, face flushing red again.

The alpha’s pupils flare at the words, but he doesn’t immediately say anything, to his credit. “I can take care of that, Peter, if that’s what you really want. But I don’t want you to feel like you have to. No punishment here, one way or the other.”

“Even though I deserve it?” He bites his lip.

He tilts his head a little. “Yes… unless you really want me to punish you.”

Peter looks away. “I don’t want you to be mad at me later,” he murmurs, unable to meet his eyes. He’s well aware of exactly how much trouble he’s caused. And getting it out of his head is going to happen… probably never. “I know I deserve it. I’ve done a lot of things. You have a lot of reason to be mad.”

Stark considers him. “I’m not mad. You do have a long list of discrepancies, though, I will admit, and I would like to discourage you from doing anything like that again… but, for right now, let’s shelve it, yeah? If me punishing you would make you feel better, then we can talk about it, after. Over breakfast. Yeah?”

Peter just nods. He can’t pretend he’s not still scared of it, of him, but he’s kept his word thus far, so he agrees. “Yes, sir.”

“Don’t do that right now. Come on. You’re my soulmate. You can call me by my name.” He reaches out, tilting Peter’s head up towards him when he shakes his head, years of instincts telling him not to. “You can do it. Say my name, Peter .”

The way he says his name sends a tingle down Peter’s spine and tickles his wrist. He shivers and bites his lip nervously. “Tony…”

The alpha smiles a little. “Good boy, Peter. What am I?”

“Alpha…” Just saying it makes him relax a little. This is his alpha. His body knows that, if nothing else.

“Good boy. Now tell alpha what you want.” Those eyes, so bright and unnaturally blue, flash, pinning him to the bed with a look that makes his breath falter a moment.

“Alpha… want you to… um…” He stops, squirming and biting his lip. “Want you to help me. Please.”

“So polite,” the alpha cooes gently, smiling a little and running a hand down his chest. “Help you what, omega?”

Peter shivers again, at the touch and at the sound, the way Stark- Tony pronounces the word, like his tongue is stroking it, almost obscenely. The thought makes his face flush bright red. It only reminds him of his needs, and he can’t bring himself to say it. “Alpha, please… I… it’s dirty… you know…”

“I do know, Peter, but I want to hear you say it. Ask me for it, omega. Tell me what you want. There’s no shame in asking alpha to fulfill your needs.” He waits, looking down at him.

Peter gulps. Unable to look at him, he grabs the pillow Tony had slept on, hugging it to his chest and breathing in the lingering calm scent to steady himself and let him hide his face. Then he blurts, as quietly as possible, “Please, need you to touch my pussy, alpha.”

He hears Tony purr in response. “Good omega, telling alpha what you need. Touch your pussy, hm? Like this?” He feels the hand slide under the over large shirt he’s wearing, calloused and warm as it presses against the soaked material of his panties, cupping him. “Is this what you want?”

“No, sir, please…” Peter whines into the pillow. Of course an alpha like Tony Stark would want to tease, want the control and to make him tell him everything when he’s undoubtedly smart enough to figure it out.

“Please, what, then, omega?” Tony’s eyes are on him, he can feel it, but he doesn’t look at him, even as the fingers stroke over the wet material, tracing the line of his slit, and his hips squirm in response. “You want me to take them off? You asked for touch, not skin on skin. You want alpha to finger you, is that it?”

Peter whines again. He doesn’t want to say no and risk Tony stopping, but that’s not what he really wants. “I- if you want, but I…”

“Yes…?” he prompts. “What do you want, Peter? Tell your alpha. If it’s not my fingers…”

“Don’ wanna say it…” Peter whines, hiding his face in the pillow. He hates to admit that this whole thing is making him so much wetter, even if it’s frustrating.

“That’s okay. I’ll just sit here and play with this while I wait, hm?” He feels two fingers pinch his little clit through the panties, rolling it between them.

“Ah!” Peter’s back tries to arch off the bed, but the other hand is there, just above his hips and splayed across his stomach, stopping him. “Oh sir, please, ugh- I just- just want your tongue!”

It stops, and the hands lift away. “Oh, my tongue touching you? You could’ve just said so, sweetheart.” Something warm and soft pressed against his thigh — a kiss. Then hands are at his hips, peeling the panties down and off, and a moment later, on the inside of his sticky thighs, pushing them open. Peter bends his legs automatically, but doesn’t look up.

He feels the bed shifting as Tony gets in position, and his breath hitches, but he still doesn’t lift his face from the pillow. His hips twitch a little as the first warm breath of air touches his inner thigh, and he holds his breath, but then — nothing.

Tony’s voice a moment later explains why. “Peter. If I wanted to not see those pretty eyes, I’d have blindfolded you. Can you look at me?”

Peter jolts at the words, the idea of being blindfolded apparently going straight to his core if the rush of slick is any indication. He doesn’t really have much access to porn, as it’s considered distasteful for omegas, though all of them have to touch themselves occasionally, if they don’t have an alpha by the time they start their heats. Still, of course he’s had fantasies, and he’s heard of it, though he hasn’t expected it to be such a turn on right now. They always scared him more than anything.

Still, he lifts his face from the pillow, nervously biting his lip as he looks down at him. Tony’s eyes are a deep blue, dark with arousal, face just inches from where he wants him most.

Holding eye contact, Tony kisses the inside of his thigh, making him shiver. He smirks. “Is this what you want? You want my tongue in your little pussy?”

Peter’s breath hitches. “Yes, alpha, please ,” he breathes.

Tony flashes a dangerous grin, and then he’s leaning down, and oh , fuck- conscious thought goes immediately out the window. The way the alpha’s tongue feels, touching him there , and he’s all wet and so sensitive, and fuck. It’s so different from touching himself with his fingers to get through his heat.

Tony’s tongue is wet, in a different way from his slick, and the way it feels, is just so different from the press of a finger; it’s firm but soft, longer than his own fingers but not Tony’s, from what he’s seen, and God suddenly he can’t wait to find out how those feel, thick but flexible and wet but warm and oh fuck the way it just felt on his clit-

“Alpha!” Peter keens, unable to help himself. The words are torn between a moan and a sob. It’s just too overwhelming for him. Of course he’s had an orgasm before, but it’s never come close to feeling like this, and he’s not even cumming yet. His legs shake around the alpha’s head as his hips start to squirm instinctively from the intensity.  “Please, alpha, please !”

All he gets in response is a growl that goes straight through him, and then hands wrapping around his hips, pinning him in place. He can’t help the moan that tears out of him again at the realization that he can’t move now and the feeling as the warm tongue keeps moving, teasing him for what seems like ever and lapping up all of his slick before going up and up and just attacking his little bud relentlessly. He barely tolerates a minute of it before he’s cumming, crying out loudly, hopelessly overstimulated with tears streaming down his face.

He must dissociate for a minute, drifting in the pleasure, because when he comes back to, Tony is sitting beside him, gently wiping him down with a warm washcloth; first his face, then between his legs and down them, touch so light so not to hurt where he’s still sensitive. He’s shushing him gently, too, murmuring something, but his hearing hasn’t come completely back online yet for him to understand. It takes a moment for it to, but he slowly tunes in to what the alpha is saying.

“-alright, yes, see, all clean now… nice and clean… breathe for me, Peter, and calm down some, hm?” He seems to realize suddenly that Peter’s eyes have refocused and he’s actually listening, and he stops. “There you are. Are you alright? You dropped off there after you came.”

Peter blushes a little. “Yeah, I, uh… overstimulation. It happens a lot.”

“Does it, now?” Tony sounds bemused, like he’s trying not to laugh at him.

Peter blushes deeper. “Not- like that. I just… my senses are dialed high all the time. If I get too much sensory input of any kind I can just kinda… power down for a minute or two.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Interesting. I didn’t know that,” he says, sounding actually surprised.

“Yeah, well, there’s a lot you don’t know about me yet,” he murmurs, cheeks still red as he moves to get up.

“I guess so,” Tony agrees. He stands up behind him. “Would you like to go get some food?”

Peter glances back at him, then looks around the room, humming a little. The mention of food has his stomach growling. He hasn’t eaten in hours, which means his stomach is… severely unhappy with him. Even if it wasn’t, he’d probably have to agree. They can’t avoid talking forever, especially after… that.

“Uh… yeah. Food would be nice. I just… can I get some pants, first?”

Tony blinks, like he hadn’t considered it. “Oh yeah. There’s some clothes in the dressers that will fit you. Go ahead and get in something comfy. I’ll just... wait outside.” He walks to the door, stepping out and closing it behind him with only a cursory look back.

Peter moves slowly to the nearest dresser, gnawing on his bottom lip. This room is larger and so much more grandiose and furnished than he’s used to, so it takes him a minute to find what he needs. In the end, he manages to find some clean underwear and a pair of pants. He keeps the alpha’s shirt on. He’s not cold enough to want something heavier and it smells good.

When he’s done, he stands there for a minute, soaking it in — and psyching himself up, to an extent. There’s no going back, now, but he can still be nervous, right? He doesn’t know whether it’s really reasonable or not, now, but he still is.

Oh well. It’s only going to get worse if he doesn’t face it. And the idea of leaving again now is too painful to even consider.

With these thoughts in mind, he makes his way to the door. Slowly, so slowly, bracing himself for the deep dive, he opens the door.

“Alright. I’m ready.”