#watching what little stock there was dwindle

[zablife]

This Has to Stop

John Shelby x wife reader

Summary: John's dangerous work is taking a toll on him and your marriage so you confront him, demanding he spend more time at home. Torn between his loyalty to you and his brothers, John lashes out in frustration and you must ask yourself if it's time to give up on the man you love.

A/N: This was inspired by a request originally sent to the lovely @runnning-outof-time. Ty for trusting me with it, K!

Warnings: mention of drinking, pregnancy

The shrill ring of the telephone cut sharply into the quiet of the evening, trilling above the giggles of the children. Their little heads popped up one by one at the sound, looking to see if you would rise from the table to answer it. You'd allowed John to install the contraption on one condition, calls would never interrupt family time. Now that seemed to be a long lost promise, considering how often he used it himself to tell you he'd be home late.

"Y/n?" John's voice rasped at the end of the line. The way he drew out the syllables with a slight slur indicated his exhaustion and the pints he'd drunk with Arthur to tamper the stress of working for Tommy.

However, your sympathy was being sapped away with your dwindling patience. Constantly left to care for the children and keep a home he hardly saw, you'd had enough. "Let me guess....don't wait up?" you rushed out in a huffed breath.

John cleared his throat and you could imagine him shifting his weight awkwardly where he stood in the betting shop. Guilt dripped from his voice as he admitted,"Yeah, Tommy needs me to..."

"Do what you like," you snapped, unwilling to hear tonight's excuse for missing dinner and bedtime. "You always do," you added bitterly, slamming the receiver down.

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

You didn't see your husband until the sky began turning a watery blue violet, the growing light seeping around the curtains and across your bleary eyes which hadn't closed all night. You tried to convince yourself it was the energetic child in your belly that kept you from your rest, but you knew it was more likely the absence of John's warm body by your side.

John tiptoed into the bedroom in stocking feet, giving a small gasp of surprise when he noticed you watching his stealthy movements.

"Good morning," you sighed softly, arm outstretched toward him.

Relieved to hear the anger in your voice had dissipated to its usual dulcet melody, John approached. Taking a seat at the edge of the bed, his large hand came to rest over your swollen stomach. He was rewarded with a sharp kick that made him break out in the lopsided grin you'd fallen in love with long ago.

"We missed you," you offered as he returned to unbuttoning his shirt.

"Fuck, I missed you," he admitted sadly, leaning in to kiss you with a tenderness that made you weepy.

John pulled away, hooking your chin with his finger to bring your gaze to his deep blue eyes. You'd nearly lost yourself in the comfort of his affection before he added softly, "Please don't cry. Things will get better."

Your brow furrowed at the empty promise you'd heard time and time again. "It will only be better once you stand up to your brother," you asserted.

His hand fell away from your face and a chill settled over you immediately. He clenched his fist at his side, frustration building in his chest as he whispered harshly, "Look, I don't have a choice."

You emitted a breathy note of disappointment as his posture grew rigid, jaw clenching tightly in profile.

He didn't even try to read your eyes, afraid to see the damage he was causing. Of course he knew his work was taking him away from you too often. It had become routine to slip out into the inky blackness as you snored softly, only to return to the same sight of crushing darkness. No light, no love to be felt, only the monotony of routine.

"You have a say in your own life," you reminded him. "Start by having a rest, hmm? What time is it anyway?" Your fingers deftly slipped into his pocket to retrieve his watch, a bit of paper falling out with it.

Even in the dim light, the stark contrast of the black star against the paper caught your eye. John reached for it at the same moment as you, but you'd already begun to read the ghastly instructions.

"What are you becoming?" you asked your husband.

"This is our business, we Shelbys," he reminded you, snatching the small note from your fingertips. As he spoke, your eyes drifted to his open shirt front and the scars splayed across his torso from a recent altercation in Chinatown.

"Turning you into Arthur, another mad dog to unleash on his enemies?," you argued.

John scrubbed a hand down his face, holding his temper with the children asleep on the other side of the thin wall.

However, as he rubbed his temples deep in thought, you could feel the tension growing, loyalties strained to the breaking point. He finally snapped, kicking the bedside table with a harsh thud.

Though it wasn't unusual for him to break things these days, your body jumped in surprise. You knew he could never hurt you or the children, but you were growing more concerned about his fraying nerves. Placing a hand to his shoulder to ground him, you felt the taut muscle beneath which held his burdens.

Despite your resentment of his predicament, your heart ached for your kind, loving husband. That was the man you attempted to coax out as you placed your cheek to his back. "You're a good man," you whispered reassuringly. "Don't let Tommy change that with his ambition and endless demands."

You felt him inhale a deep breath to quell the raging battle inside his head and you seized the moment to pull him into bed with you. Tugging at his shoulders lightly, you hummed soothingly to him as you gently commanded, "Lie down."

But to your dismay, he rebuffed you with a shake of his head. "I only came home to change...M sorry," he apologized quickly before standing to gather fresh clothes.

Staring at him in bewilderment, you rose from the bed to follow him about the room pleading, "You can't be serious! It's half five and you haven't slept or eaten."

John's hands trembled as he attempted to close a drawer, head hung low as he felt the effect of his sleep deprivation on his coordination. He couldn't allow you to glimpse weakness, however, resisting your soft embrace as he explained vaguely, "I have a duty."

"To family," you insisted, digging your nails into his forearm to stop him leaving.

"Yeah? Which family?" he returned so quickly he'd hardly realized the powerful meaning behind his words.

"I'll pretend you didn't just ask that," you mumbled numbly, face crumbling the moment he disappeared out the door.

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

The sun was still visible, if only a sliver above the roofline of the houses on Watery Lane, when John's boots came crashing down upon the cobblestones. Hurrying toward home, he gripped a bouquet of your favorite flowers in his fist, rehearsing an apology he knew was long overdue.

He was careful to remove his boots at the door and hang his hat and coat in their proper place for once instead of slinging them onto the floor haphazardly. He'd resolved to be a better husband to you, as well as a more present father.

You and the children deserved nothing less which is why he'd suddenly found the courage to disobey his brother. The black star remained etched in Tommy's diary. Perhaps Isaiah would be the one to dole out punishment in future, but it would never again be him. He'd made sure of it when he gathered his share from the company safe under Polly's watchful eye.

The plot of land and country house you'd always wanted was within his grasp and the idea of a peaceful life with you somewhere quiet flooded his mind. In fact, he was so preoccupied at the thought of you tending a garden and raising chickens, he hadn't noticed the missing items from the bedrooms.

However, as he searched each room, his heart began to claw at his throat. He quickly reasoned the house was too neat and tidy for there to have been foul play so there could only be one other explanation. His stomach dropped with deep foreboding settling into his gut just as the phone in the hall began to ring.

Startled back to reality by the harsh sound, he lifted the receiver to hear you greet him in a voice that seemed far too calm and removed. "If I'm reaching you then you know I've gone," you announced, trying to steady your voice against the emotion swelling in your chest. "You have a decision to make. Think carefully," you advised.

John didn't know what to say as he realized his worst fear had come true. The deafening silence of his empty home was quickly juxtaposed with the distant echo of children's voices in the background. He could only stand dumbly, listening to them babble away happily as a lump formed in his throat.

"Y/n, we have to talk about this," John urged, swallowing harshly as he realized the decision might not truly be his to make. "I told you things will be different and they will."

"No more empty promises, my love," you cautioned him with finality.

"Wait--" John cried out, afraid you'd hang up. "It's true, I've already made changes."

You bit your lip, willing the tears not to fall in front of your children. Staying firm you replied, "I hope so. I have to go."

"Tell me where you are and I'll come..." he began frantically before the line went dead. Throwing the phone against the wall, John slumped to the floor with his head in his hands. Then a sudden realization struck him, he'd heard Karl's voice as well.

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

As she opened the heavy front door, Ada's expression was a mixture of shock and disbelief. She hadn't expected her brother to come, yet here he was on her doorstep looking utterly disheveled.

He hadn't failed to notice the look of disappointment in her eye, feeling like a complete failure. "Please, I know she's here. Let me see my wife," John begged.

She moved aside the second she heard the desperation in her brother's voice, knowing he'd do the right thing. "She's in there," Ada pointed down the hall.

The approaching footsteps outside the parlor attracted your attention first as they didn't sound anything like the heels worn by Ada or the maids. Your eyes flicked to the doorknob as the handle slowly turned, the door swinging open slightly to reveal your panic-stricken husband.

He didn't speak as he captured you in his arms, breathing in your scent as his rough hand stroked over your hair and cheek. "Thought I'd lost you forever," he mumbled as he buried his head in your shoulder.

You relaxed against him, understanding this was his attempt at an apology. Pulling away to search his eyes, you found them glossy with unshed tears.

"Oh, John," you whispered, reaching up to cup his cheeks with your hands. "Tell me what you've chosen."

"You, always you," he promised. Taking your hands in his, he stroked over the badly bitten nails and swollen cuticles. "Is this my doing? All the worry?" he asked with a pained look.

Your lower lip began to wobble as you admitted, "I count your heartbeats at night when you're lying next to me because I don't know if they'll be your last..." You could no longer speak, the sob in your voice drowning out any other words.

However, it was all your husband needed to hear, the affection you still held for him giving him hope. Tucking your hair behind your ear gently so he could gaze into your eyes, he made a new vow. "I'm taking you away from here for good. A life in the country...with the chickens you've always wanted," he professed. "If you'll still have me?"

John loved the way your eyes sparkled in that moment and you couldn't deny the dose of adrenaline coursing through your veins as you allowed yourself to consider his proposal. A flutter of kicks inside you made you aware you hadn't given John an answer. Releasing a breath you didn't know you were holding, you assured him, "Of course...that's all I've ever wanted."

A wide grin overtook his face at that moment, eager to tell you more about his plan for a new life and hear your ideas in return. "By the time the baby's born, we'll be settled," he told you, placing a chaste kiss to your lips.

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

John's promise was finally fulfilled and in the spring, you stood together on a wide expanse of land. Looking out over your kingdom, your newest addition gurgled from the safety of John's protective arms.

"I think she likes it here," he told you as his youngest daughter grasped his pinky. He hadn't left her side since the day she was born, present for every milestone.

You surveyed the children running barefoot through the garden, your warm gaze finally resting upon your husband in serene repose. As a satisfied smile graced your lips, you agreed, "We all do. Oh John, we did it!"

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

Tag List:

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@an-eclectic-of-mass-destruction

[bi-writes]

i didn't have an amazing christmas this year so i projected this onto bestfriend!roommate!simon and im sorry about it but im also not sorry about it but i tried to end it nice

more bestfriend!roommate!simon (part 6/?)

cw: mature language and content, mentions of past trauma, mentions of unrequited love and lack of family, mentions of death and loneliness, allusions to violence

you waited for the ringing of the call to stop. you were seated on the couch, the laptop propped up in your lap as you stared at the screen hopefully. your heart skipped a beat when the ringing stopped, a circling loading screen popping up until a grainy video came through.

simon was seated in the dark; you guessed that he was hunkered down in his room, seated on his bunk. he had his skull mask on; the plate sewn onto a balaclava, eye-black hiding most of him in the void of the terrible quality video, and you tried not to notice the mysterious drops of something against the white of his mask.

"hey, simon," you greeted him, giving him a gentle smile. simon ran a gloved hand over his head, nodding.

"''ello, luv. i know the time is bad, if...if you want to head to bed, 's alright with me."

you scoffed, "you know that's not happening. i don't care what time it is here...i always want to talk to you."

he grunted lowly, looking away for a moment at something out of your view before looking back. you moved to go sit by the window, keeping the laptop propped up as you looked outside. you could see the soft lights lighting up the neighborhood; twinkling lights, mostly in red and green, sparkling between the soft snowfall that had began to fall against the pavement.

there was something so peaceful about the moment. you could see the wind pushing the snow at an angle as it fell, starting to add a fresh blanket of white to everything. if you squinted, you could see two people in the apartment across the street, trying to build a small bike in the early hours of the morning. one of them held papers, instructions you guessed, and the other held a screwdriver and was trying to fit the two back wheels onto a base.

"how are you?" you asked suddenly, looking back down at the laptop. "you look like shit."

simon laughed dryly, "you can't even see me."

"i know you," you laughed with him. "and i know that even through the shitty camera, you're worse for wear."

he hummed, looking down for a moment.

"i've had better days," was all he offered, and you swallowed hard, trying to look at him better.

"i miss you, simon."

you said it easily. you did miss him. he was so far away; you didn't know where he was, but you knew it was far. and he did not say when he would be coming back; you suspected he didn't even know himself when he would be.

"i miss you, too, luv."

you looked out the window again. you looked at the couple again, watching one of them take a few bites of some cookies that were laid out while the other had a few hearty gulps of the milk in the glass beside them. your eyes watered a little. their house looked...full. stockings hung over a dwindling fireplace, christmas tree lights giving the room a soft yellow glow, a mountain of presents gathered under a full tree of ornaments.

there was nothing in your apartment. no lights, no tree. you never liked to keep one; you had no one to buy presents for. and simon--this day only brought the wrong kind of feelings to the surface. feelings of torture, of unexpected discovery, of death and the stench of it which couldn't be covered by lighting evergreen candles or baking sugar cookies.

so much of the day surrounded family--of which you didn't have. no one to visit, no one to bring the wine while you cooked the ham, no one to hand you a gift and no one for you to give one to either. you had learned a long time that it was best not to dwell, but it was hard. it was hard when you looked across the street and saw people that had so much more of something. something that you desperately wanted, but couldn't be bought.

when you looked back down at the laptop, simon could see the tears in your eyes clear as day. your eyes were so glossy and wet, and he swallowed hard as he looked at your face, illuminated by the twinkling lights that were bright outside.

"sorry--" you whispered, reaching up and wiping your cheeks with the sleeves of your sweater. "sorry, i don't know why...i don't know what's wrong with me." you laughed it off, but simon could hear the pain in your voice. something aching and scratchy, something hollow.

"did...did you get what i sent?"

you looked up at him, frowning a little.

"sent? like...a package?"

"oh, christ, luv, don't tell me you haven't left the flat all day?"

you opened your mouth to respond, but you closed it, smiling shyly.

"just...go check outside. i can see it bloody snowing, go get it before it gets ruined."

you got up from your seat, going outside momentarily. when you came back inside, you had a wet box in your hands, and you set it down on the table as you when to go get something to cut the tape off. when you had opened the box, there was a smaller one inside, a nicely wrapped burgundy box that fit in your lap. you took a seat in front of the camera again, seeing simon's messy handwriting on the top of the box.

happy december 25th.

you laughed reading it, looking up at the camera after you reading the message.

"just another day, right?" he asked. you had new tears now, but they weren't sad. your heart was beating fast, making you take shaky, fast breaths, and you tried to smile, but it was hard.

"j-just another day," you whispered back to him. you took the top off the box, taking the tissue paper out to reveal a little plushie inside. it was a black teddy bear, but this one was unique. someone had fashioned a little skull mask of it out of felt, messily sewn fabric fit over the bear's face with the beady black eyes peeking out from the eyeholes--just like simon's. you picked up the bear, letting the box fall to the floor, and you tipped your head back as you tried to keep your tears inside. "simon--"

you and simon had never really gotten the chance to just be kids. to just be. to just enjoy and to receive something that didn't serve a purpose or a function, something unnecessary and trivial--something considered extra. because possessions were luxury, and you can't remember the last luxurious thing you had ever gotten.

"i know," he said lowly. "fuck, i--"

he pushed his own laptop down, and the camera tilted so you could only see his lower half. you watched him lose a bit of control, more tears coming down your face as you held your breath. simon cleared his throat loudly, ringing his hands together nervously before he picked the camera back up to his face.

"i'm getting the next fuckin' plane out of here, y'hear me?"

you brought the bear to your chest, hugging it gently before nodding. you wondered if this was why he had gotten you something like this--something to hold onto when he was gone. something to remind. something that would make you remember in the simon-shaped void you seemed to dwell in all too often.

"okay."

you had spent many december 25ths without him. you had spent many december 25ths right here, on a lonely windowsill, watching through the windows of lives that you wished you were living. this loneliness was not new--but now the loneliness was shared, and it hurt to share it.

you fell asleep there, watching glittering lights between the snowfall and holding the bear to your heart. the laptop went dark after awhile, and you slept there by the windowsill, wondering if anyone looked in and wanted to live this life instead.

the empty, quiet life of nothingness and bad dreams.

but it was something warm that woke you. a familiar hand, cradling the back of your head, whispering against your hair.

his breath was shaky. sucking in with difficulty, and then breathing out in rough stutters. your eyes opened slowly, your cheek squished against his tactical vest. you realized that he must've just gotten home--he was still head-to-toe in his gear, and you were staring up into the skull plate.

"simon--!"

you wrapped your arms tight around his neck, squeezing your eyes shut. you gasped as you held him close, and it took everything in you not to burst into tears. your heart fluttered at the thought that he must've left as soon as he told you last night--determined to get back to you.

when you pulled back, simon rested his forehead against yours. you nuzzled your face against his, soft breaths as you grounded yourself in the realization that he's here, he's with me, he's alive.

"just another day," simon murmured, gripping your head with both hands. you swallowed hard, opening your eyes and meeting his own. you swear you saw something sad in them, something emotional, tears of some kind, but he blinked it away before you could look too long. "but i...had to come home."

your nodded reaching up and putting your hands over his on your face.

"i love you, simon."

if he had paid enough attention, he would've heard what those words truly meant. that you didn't just love him, you love him. not want, need, not a preference, but a requirement. undeniable, endless, raw, soul-sucking love--the kind that tore up your insides and spit them out without remorse.

but how can you really love someone like me?

simon tangled his gloved hands into your hair now, tugging gently.

"i love you more."

how can you love someone who's already dead?

[postmoe]

Borisin Warhead Hoolay x Reader - All You’re Good For

: cum, piss, degradation, blood (lil bit), aphrodisiac, Hoolay is a gross meanie :( , but he’s also a powerful tyrant so :)

This was all written on my phone during sleepless nights haha I can’t fix the spacing ;-;

It’s hard being a foxian in this world run by borisins. Allies are far and few between, even amongst your own kind. All it takes is one threat, one little push and you’re being sold out or used in the worst ways.

It had been days and you’re exhausted, paranoid and running on nothing but a few berries you have yet to see if are poisonous. It’s been a few days and nothing, so you’ll try some more tonight… if you make it out alive.

You were part of a group of foxians that plotted to run from the farm you were held in, what’s started as 11 now dwindled to five as most of you were either captured and killed in the escape or gotten too sick and died along the way. It had been a plan in the making that would have been perfect, had it not been for one factor:

Hoolay was coming.

Everyone knows the visit of the borisin warhead always lead to large feasts, having most of the ‘stock’ dead by morning. It was either make a break for it then or succumb to certain death.

So, you fled. Which leads to now, having you shaking beside the campfire, fingers anxiously brushing through matted knots in your tail, and the four men now looking to you like you were a burden.

“All I’m saying is that there’s no use having dead weight when borisins could jump on our tail at any second. We all play a part in this pack, but, what do you do?” One stated as though it was a matter of fact, hand held out in expression.

It was true you hadn’t really contributed much, though one could argue you found the berries, you were the only one brave enough to try them. You did plan on sharing if they were safe; that’s out the window now. Your lips thin as you refuse to make eye contact. Trauma has rendered your vocabulary useless, you don’t remember how old you were when you last spoke. Now, only pitiful sounds are able to escape your mouth, little hums and grunts of pain.

They took this as another sign of weakness, one of the other foxians scoffing, “You won’t even make conversation with us? We want someone we can rely on, not a pet.”

Everyone seemed to have different opinions of your value, all of which lead to one conclusion: you’re useless. It wasn’t until the fourth of them spoke that anyone even considered otherwise, “C’mon, guys, don’t be so harsh, you know she’s a mute. She can’t help it if she’s… underwhelming. Females are only made for one thing after all. Surely I can’t be the only one feeling lonely.”

It was that comment that made your heart pound most of all. A debate broke out of whether or not you’d be worth keeping around for something as trivial as sex when their lives were in danger. You look to starry sky above, the smoke pluming through the canopy as you think about their accusations. You were the most quiet of the bunch. You watched one of your comrades get their head stomped in right before you and didn’t even scream. One of the men here almost got everyone caught because a centipede crawled past. All in all, it could only be boiled down to blatant sexism. Their entire lives they’ve been slaves, and now there’s a taste of freedom and they want to turn the tables.

You’re being regarded again, everyone awaiting your answer, “So, wanna spread them legs and we’ll keep you safe? Cmon baby, you can trust us to protect you.”

It was a no brainer on your part, though you’ve never been one for conflict, you were prepared to fight them on this. Exhausted, paranoid, starving. You a pop a few berries from your pocket and into your mouth, thinking this might be your last meal if things go south as you shake your head in a silent, ‘no’.

The main perpetrator loses his smirk, obviously not amused by your response. He stands and cracks his neck, “No? I think you just need a bit of encouragement, baby.”

Immediately, you stand to take the defensive against him. You wonder if you could outrun them, given that you’re all in the same state of distress. One of the first foxians stands too, holding his hand out in hesitance, “W-whoa, hold up. Don’t start a fight here. Besides, you can’t just force someone to have sex with you.”

Another stood up, following the others straps as he comes to crowd you, “No no, I actually agree here. I think she needs to show us some gratitude.”

The last one merely sat in silence, avoiding his eyes from the scene, looking visibly uncomfortable but not wanting to step in.

Your eyes darted between the two approaching and you threatened by taking a deep breath, mouth opening as if you to scream. Their eyes panicked, not wanting any sound to alert unwanted attention. Regardless of their beliefs on your voice, they didn’t want to risk it.

A slight freeze from them was all you needed, you turned tail, beginning to run when a critical mistake caused your foot to get caught on the log you were sitting on. You went tumbling down, only barely managing to turn on the ground when you were tackled by your former comrade. His hand already over your mouth as he laugh, straddling you, “See? Pathetic! You can’t even run away by yourself. You need us.”

Your hands tense as your nails sharpen, ready to thrash when the other grabs your right wrist, pinning you down. Not long after, the first one grabs your other, his instinct telling him this was better than having you fight back and alert their position.

It wasn’t until his hand trailed under your shirt and caressed the bare skin of your stomach that something truly snapped inside of you. Pupils dilating, mind quieting and teeth sharpening, you managed to tilt your head enough to bite painfully into his hand, blood quickly spilling from the punctures.

His scream was loud, startling, the one on your right wrist jolting enough for you to wrench your arm away. Just as you were about to scratch at him, he gave you a swift punch to your face, nose cracking and pooling blood over your mouth. It disorientated you enough for him to grab at your throat, holding you down, “Fucking bitch. Maybe it’ll be easier to use you if you’re not breathing.”

His taste for violence was the perfect opportunity. As his face drew closer and no one retrained you, thinking you were knocked out enough to not need it, you thrust your hands to his head, nails digging into the back of his skull as you pushed him forward and impaling his eye over your thumb.

The others stepped back now, stunned and scared, leaving you to leap forward before he could recover and drive your teeth into his throat like a wild animal. Frenzied, scared, hurt and adrenaline coursing through your veins, it was enough to drive anyone to do drastic things.

You didn’t notice the rustling of bushes, the way your comrades bolted from the scene. Too busy focusing on ripping his throat out and showing him that you’re not just some foxian that’s going to roll over and heel. Tears streaming down your cheeks as the taste of blood came rushing over you, you are going to fight, too.

Once he goes limp is when you stop clawing and attacking, sitting back with a squelch as you reach up to wipe the water from your eyes. You were drenched. Blood painted from the lower half of your face, down your throat and over your teeth. Nose bruised and broken and leaking. Nails filthy and you’re sure there is flesh under them. You’re not a killer. You never wanted to be a killer.

And then the clapping began. Thuds of heavy footsteps rush past you as you look up, paling and almost vomiting from the surprise. There’s no mistaken that the borisin that stands before you now is Warhead Hoolay, and beside him is his right hand man, Mok Tok. The pack with him was chasing down the others that ran before.

Hoolay seemed very amused, crouching down and grinning as he picked up the foxian’s head by the ear before letting it hit the ground again, “Only the strong survive. This whelp was nothing more than all bark and no bite. You, however,” he gazes back to you, standing, “I’m impressed. Even foxians in the fighting ring have more compassion. You truly didn’t hold back.”

Running isn’t an option. In the fight he had gotten a few good hits and kicks in, your ankle throbbing in pain. Not to mention the stench of blood on you. Foxians had a great sense of smell - Borisins, an even better one. Your only option is to fight, and even you know the single outcome here is death.

Mok Tok stepped around, standing behind you as he examined your state of well being. He hummed gingerly before saying, “Dine in or take away, master?”

Another once over from Hoolay had him walking over to you. He didn’t have a care in the world, hand larger than your head reaching out towards your face. It was enough for you to kick into gear, using what was left of your strength and latching onto him with all the fight you had left. Your teeth barely dug through the fur on his paw, nails only strong enough to hold you to his arm without so much as pricking blood, your legs feebly kicking into his large chest. It probably felt more like a massage than any form of pain.

You tried with all your might and the only response you got from him was a boisterous laugh. He easily yanked you off and threw you to the ground, rolling until you hit Mok Tok’s foot, “Take away. This one amuses me, see to it she doesn’t succumb to her wounds.”

In no time you had some form of metal around your neck, clasping with the rattle of a chain. You’re dragged a few feet before being hauled onto your aching souls. Mok Tok handles you with little care, tugging you to a pace you couldn’t keep up with.

…

It was only you, the bystander foxian that didn’t stand to help, and the initial foxian that tried to keep everyone quiet that remained. The lackey of the culprit you fought had been tied at the end of your chain link, only to fall to his wounds and die on the road. The borisins had snapped his portion of the chain off like it was nothing, leaving his carcass to rot in the mud.

You were at the front of the line, trudging behind Hoolay and his bitch boy with your hands cuffed in front of you, connected to a chain on the thick collar around your throat. A longer, thicker chain trailed behind you to the others, walking in a single file.

It was quiet, the night turning from black to the blueish hues of morning. In the distance thunder rumbled, promising the relief of rain to come. Your feet were filthy from the mud, having lost one flat, uncomfortable shoe days ago and tossing the other at a wild animal that tried to bite you. It turns out bare feet was only marginally more uncomfortable. At least the dirt of the road and squelch of the mud was nicer than sticks and brambles in the forest.

Every closing of your eyes almost had you tripping in sleep. You tried not to blink but since the adrenaline was wearing off, all the pain and exhaustion was coming forward tenfold. It was probably stupid, but the man behind you decided to try their luck with a conversation, “Are we-“ they coughed, their voice a lot scratchier than you anticipated, starting again when they noticed their ears pricking back to listen, “Are we going back to the farm?”

Mok Tok was the first to sneer, his scarred face glaring at him as he snapped, “You weren’t given permission to speak, whelp.”

Hoolay raised his paw to silence him, “It’s fine. Let them wonder, the smell of fear is a welcome sense.” Once the smaller borisin bowed in submission, Hoolay glanced at you from over his shoulder, his intimidating size only making you feel all the more caged in this otherwise open countryside, “The farm owner doesn’t want runaways such as yourselves. You’re coming to our den. Those who can’t serve as servants will be meals before battle.”

One of the men behind you whimpered in fear, the chain slightly rattling as they quaked. You wish you could have the energy for such an emotion. You felt yourself lagging, needing to pick up the pace if you didn’t want to end up lunch for the trip back. With a pained sigh, you skipped forward and listened as they continued questioning, “Did you search for us on purpose, or was it all a coincidence?”

It seems Hoolay was in a generous and talkative mood as he humoured, “Your previous owner informed us of the escape. Such a foolish plan, don’t you know we wolves love to hunt little foxes like you? You couldn’t have picked a worse time to…”

As Hoolay spoke you were progressively losing focus. The sunlight peeked behind a cloud and pierced your eye, a strain feeling like it was hitting your brain. Your hands weren’t low enough to see if you had any surviving berries in your pocket, food maybe being a cure. By this point it was difficult to make out the words anyone was saying.

The next moment you know is your face in the mud. It’s cool to your cheeks, comforting from the recent events. Mok Tok’s voice cuts through incredulously, “Me? Master, she is just a pitiful fox. I suggest we eat her and be done-“

“Are you questioning my decision, Mok Tok? I’ll gladly fight you over it, think you can take me in a battle,” Hoolay says, already knowing the outcome.

Mok Tok surrenders immediately, breaking off your chain and throwing you over his shoulder. Your lungs are pushed of air, and though he isn’t careful in the least, you despise how warm and inviting his fur is. It isn’t long before you’re drifting off, passing out in the hopes that this is your end and you don’t have to experience another day in this hellhole.

…

It was a long ride, your trio of prisoners thrown on the back of a wagon full of leftover foxian meat when it was established you were walking too slow. Most of it was wrapped in cloth and sat on crates with misshapen ice inside to keep relatively fresh. It only became hard to stomach when one of them got hungry.

A few borisin were striding alongside the cart, keeping in pace with the quieter man of your group. They were shoving an amputated foot in his face, laughing and urging him to try it. “You’ll never know if you don’t have a taste~”

You did your best to keep your gaze away, he may be an arsehole but you still regarded the corpse’s leg with the dignity you feel it deserves. Though your kind believes the spirit moves on, it was still hard to witness in the living realm.

It seems your ignorance of the scene didn’t grant you any relief. However, instead of the group of mutts hounding him, you were graced with the mighty presence of the Warhead himself. He held out an arm to you, fingers daintily hovering before your face, calloused skin proving their hard work in life. Hoolay eyed you with interest as he said, “What about you, small one? Have you developed a taste for your own kind?”

The stains of mud and blood still remain on you, your nose only having a brief look at once you reached the wagon of ‘goods’. If your aggressive fight had taught you anything, it was that living prey wasn’t your ideal meal. You shook your head and turned away from him, hoping he would give up this pointless endeavour.

Hoolay brought the arm to his maw, ripping the flesh and chewing loudly, as if to accentuate just what exactly he was eating. Without warning, his sharp claw drags roughly from the base of your skull and down your neck, stopping between your shoulder blades when you jumped forward in shock, the chains rattling as you eyed him with malice. Whatever he saw in you made his lips part in a smirk, then he laughed loudly, the rest of his pack watching their leader toy with you in silence. “What do they call you?”

Even if you could talk, you wouldn’t want to tell him your name.

He raises an eyebrow at you, “Oh? Even still defiant over such a simple question?”

Mok Tok was clearly more offended than his leader, “How dare you ignore our Warhead Hoolay! Master, please allow me to show this whelp just how grateful she should be-“

Sensing the growing tension, your other prisoner comrade interrupted fearfully, “Sh-she doesn’t talk, lord warhead. She’s been silent for as long as we’ve known her.”

This seemed to interest Hoolay even more. “Oh?” With ease, he jumped onto the wagon and sat opposite of you, right next to the prisoner who had spoken on your behalf. Teasingly, he caressed his face with the back of the foxian’s hand, “Then you can tell me. What is her label?”

Shakily, he looked to you as if you could help, too scared to move away from the amputated hand. You merely shrugged, then sure what to tell him, so he said what he could best remember, “I think… I think she was part of B block so… it may have been B132.”

You’re not sure with how you got away with not being branded. Perhaps it was because you kept your head down and didn’t cause trouble, mixed with the fact that they forgot. The farm wasn’t the best run, order and structure not something they’d place in their résumé.

Hoolay looked back to you, “Is that correct?”

Again, you shrug. You were told it once and then never again. The only ones who really remembered were the branded ones.

Hoolay picks at his fangs with the nails of his meal, humming in thought before tossing the arm far away into a field, “I suppose it matters not. Servants will be renamed, as will food.” Another amused rumble comes bubbling from his chest as he stands, a large paw grasping your injured face and turning it from side to side, making you wince as he growls lowly, “Food always tastes better when there’s… personality.”

You took that as an omen for your future.

…

The rain and humidity was a horrible combination, though you found yourself enjoying it more as the grime was sort of washed from your face and your wrists were lubricated from the blood that was washed down. Quietly, you had been working on wriggling your hands out of the cuffs to give you some more space to work with when you try to escape again.

There was nothing you could do about the choker around your neck, however if you could at least get your hands free then you’d have the ability to use the environment around you easier. That, paired with the fact that your chain was no longer connected to the others thanks to Mok Tok, you think you had a fighting chance.

Or else you’re condemned to be food.

It stung, the way your flesh ripped and teared when you shimmied it back and forth in the metal. The others had seen you but didn’t speak up, thankfully, not wanting any of their attention.

You felt sick with anxiety when the new blood made it easier to pull through, almost slipping out, your bones bruised and aching before you pushed your hands back in to avoid them being freed completely.

The rain had lessened, which wasn’t ideal but you could tell it would stop soon and you wanted to go with as much covering as possible. You were in another dense forest, it would be the perfect time. So, you got work, stomping your foot on the wagon to get someone’s attention.

It was Mok Tok who turned, glaring at you with a harsh, “What?” Your tail was squeezed between your thighs, jumping up and down to indicate you needed to pee. He seemed he was about to refute it when he had a second thought, turning to Hoolay and saying, “Master, the last toilet break for the prisoners was 12 hours ago. Shall we stop once more or wait until we arrive to the den?”

Your stomach dropped, did that mean you were close to their home? It really was now or never. Hoolay looked back to you, and you tried hard to show how desperate you were to go. He motions for everyone to stop, coming to you, “Fine. You two take the other prisoners. I’ll handle this one myself.” Like a giant claw - and you suppose it technically was - he grasped you by the top of your head and lifted you from the wagon, placing you down in the mud, your toes sinking into the mushy soil.

He had to nudge you to walk as you panicked. Why was splitting you up now? Every other time it has been one borisin watching you three, you were counting on that to have their attention diverted. Now the Warhead himself wants to watch you pee?

You get a considerable distance before he stops, staring at you with a heavy gaze. When you make no move he scoffs, smiling with a row of sharp teeth and a flick of his tail, “What, you can piss in front of my grunt but not me? Do I really make you that uncomfortable?” His voice lowers to a dangerous octave, “You flatter me.”

Now’s not the time to play his games. You turn around, using your tail to lift up the long, tattered dress that was uniform for everyone at the farm. Due to the first toilet break, a borisin had ripped your knickers off and tossed them so they wouldn’t have to keep doing it whenever you needed to go, so all you had to do was squat and bunch the cloth in your hands once you were low enough to reach. You glanced over your shoulder, seeing him watch you with boredom, huffing and averting his eyes lazily.

That was the best you were going to get. From this angle, it could be seen as you adjusting your clothes again, yet you were slipping your damaged wrists out of the cuffs. It was a little harder since the last time but you managed to do it, eyeing him from the side to see him focused on the raindrops off a leaf. Taking a deep breath, you bolted head on, scurrying over logs and bushes.

There was no noise behind you. As far as you’re aware, borisin aren’t silent hunters, they like to toy with their prey. So why wasn’t he chasing you? Not that you’re complaining, you hope to never encounter his kind again-

The reason for your lack of chase became apparent as you came skidding to a halt. You were at the edge of a canyon, forest on this side and a large, dusty and rocket desert on the other. Along the walls of the canyon were layers of stairs, openings, borisin. Not to mention the foxian slaves, digging and picking, holding food out to guards. Along the floor of the deep canyon is a rushing river, fast enough to be swept away should one fall in.

Hoolay casually walked up behind you, “the outside of our den. On the inside is long, winding halls and plenty of rooms. Should you get lost, there’s no telling what your fate is.” You were still in despair when he grabbed your hand, holding it up as he brought his nose down to inhale your wounds. Your fearful eyes looked to him when he licked up the torn skin, the saliva and pressure on his tongue stinging the sores which you tried to pull away from. He groaned in delight, yanking you closer to gently bite on the flesh, squeezing more blood out, “You think I can’t smell the difference between old and fresh blood? We knew of your little plan from the beginning. Even so,” his large hand slides up your back, claws tracing your spine tantalisingly and forcing you to push into his hard chest as he growls lowly in your ear, “You still tried to run from me, a bold move. I’ve decided, I’m going to keep you, personally. I will train you from a savage foxian into the obedient pet you were born to play.”

To be dismembered or to be a pet? Which is worse is hard to say. Your chattering teeth grit, the fear turning into desperate anger. Quickly, you duck under his arm to escape, only for him to grab the base of your tail and hold you in place. So you change tactics, trying to hit the base of your heel hard enough to hurt his chest and loosen his grip. However, as your foot makes contact with his torso, he doesn’t flinch and instead grabs your ankle and turn you upside down.

You’re left flailing in the air as he carries you like meat on a hook, holding your dress between your legs as you struggle so that you’re not blinded by the fabric. There really is no use. His pack watches in amusement as their leader returns with you, dropping you back into the wagon, “This one is mine. No one is allowed to touch them, understand?”

Frustrated and scared tears stream down your cheeks as they reply with a clear, “Yes, master!”

…

You’re not sure where the others went. Once you made it over the bridge and into the den, you were given to a purple borisin who commanded a bunch of servant foxians. She had supervised your wounds being treated before ordering them to take you to the bathhouse and clean you.

No one made eye contact, no one spoke to you or each other. It was frighteningly quiet, so you kept your head down as they scrubbed your ears and brushed out the knots in your tail. The tub you were in was cramped, a wooden bucket essentially. Hoses came out of the walls and a long gutter was imbedded in the ground to drain the water out somewhere. Even if it was awkward and daunting, you couldn’t deny how good it felt to get scrubbed raw by water that was almost too hot. Even at the farm, room temperature water was the highest form of luxury.

You actually felt clean for once.

Once you were done and dripping dry, the borisin from earlier reentered with a fluffy towel. She looked you over, clawed hand throwing the towel over your head, “You know how to dry yourself, yeah? I don’t know what you did but our master has taken a liking to you. Come.”

You wetly follow her through the winding halls with plaps of your feet hitting the floors, the servants behind you trailing diligently. You were too focused on trying to memorise the path that you hardly dried yourself by the time you reached your destination. A room was opened to you, chests and clothes along each wall, a mirror standing on the floor.

One glance at the mirror was enough for you to turn your head, not wanting to see yourself as the captive you are just yet; surrounded by slaves and a vicious wolf. Out of the corner of your eye though, you saw the enemy rummaging through chests until she found what she was looking for.

When she came back, she began putting golden chains on you, hanging from a gold collar around your neck, falling down your biceps, down the curves of your naked breasts, low enough to fall just past your hips. You dared another glance in the mirror, wondering if something so cold and with no fabric could still be called lingerie.

“Done. Let’s go,” she shoved at your back, the chains clinking slightly from the jolt as she pushed you out. The metal felt kind of nice, slinking along your skin with every step you took. The collar got hotter with your body heat, being a little uncomfortable but who were you to complain when you had no rights. It wasn’t until you were stopped beside her, a VERY long table with various foods and alcohols, mainly meats and few vegetables - don’t look at the foxian torso and thighs, don’t look at the foxian torso and thighs - that were slightly skewed from everyone picking at it that you felt a shot of self-consciousness. She bowed her head and addressed the warhead, “Master, she is clean and adorned for you.”

Since the day you were born, you were taught that nakedness and privacy didn’t matter. Farm animals didn’t get that decency, foxians don’t get that decency. You can count on one hand you’ve felt the need to cover yourself in front of someone, yet somehow right now, you feel like you need to cover every inch of skin and curl up in a hole to stop the eyes of their leader from clawing into you. Everyone stopped to stare at the new meat that had walked in, yet it was Hoolay that openly ogled you like you were more than just food.

You pretend not to notice the twitching under his belt, cloth moving over a large mound that you were hoping wasn’t for you. He grinned and leant forward, hooking his index under your collar and pulling you towards him, “Perfect, you’re dismissed.”

She and the slaves bowed before leaving you alone in the room full of beasts.

“C’mere,” Hoolay demands, already pulling you tightly against him, sitting you sideways in his lap. He’s so large, colossal, from his shoulder to his elbow alone almost the size of your body. He brings a chunk of meat to your lips, demanding you to eat. When you don’t part your mouth, he huffs and wedges a claw between your teeth, forcing you to open, “Relax, it is just bird.”

Sure enough, you’re inclined to agree, taking the meat from his hand so he’s no longer shoving it down your throat. As you slowly nibble on the meat, you’re lost to the words everyone is speaking around you, their language a mix of your common tongue and their own. You’re pretty confident, however, that they’re discussing about his new prize - you - and how you’ll taste.

Hoolay laughs after someone says something, easily moving you to sit flush against his torso with your back, spreading your legs wide over his thighs. You almost drop the bird meat when you see what he’s doing, releasing the confinements of his half-hard cock to hang over his leg. A low growl rumbles from his chest as he strokes it, moving it to stand hard and leaning against your tense torso. His knot is throbbing between your legs and the tip of him is poking the underside of your breasts, you can’t even imagine what he would feel like inside of you that doesn’t involve pain.

A slave comes beside him with a platter and a golden jug. Hoolay grabs it roughly before pouring the contents over his cock, the substance oozing out and over his dick like a sheer, golden syrup. He tosses the jug away with a clank, disregarding it in favour of smearing the liquid over your thigh, lightly squeezing, his giant maw hotly breathing against your cheek, “Go on. Have a taste. I promise you’ll enjoy it.”

He’s so large that there’s no way you could swallow him more than his tip. You go in for a taste, holding the heavy weight below the glands to dutifully suck. The pungent under taste that you’re expecting is overshadowed by whatever he had coated his dick in. The pupils of your eyes blow wide and suddenly you’re suckling on the head like you’re trying to coach his cock to dispel more of the deliciously sweet substance.

Hoolay laughs at you, a low, growling groan emitting as his paw pets back the ears on your head, “Fffuck. That’s a good girl.” You whimper around him when he pushes you down, choking on what little you could swallow. His pre is enough to guzzle down your throat and bubble out of your mouth, it doesn’t ready you for when he cums, buckets of semen forced down your throat and into your stomach. He must’ve been pent up because even after he pulls away, he’s still very much hard. He opens his mouth beside your head, his jaw wide enough to encompass your skull if he really wanted to, laughing at the visage, “Such a tiny mouth for a pitiful creature. I wonder if the hole between your legs will be more accommodating, hm?”

You’re lifted and placed on your back, glistening in syrup and cum under the dim lighting by the candles around the room. Everyone stares in amusement as you dazedly bring your fingers to your mouth, sucking on the digits to get some more of the sweet syrup and hoping to overthrow his taste. It isn’t until you feel a rather large tongue lick up the slit of your pussy that you jerk, a string of saliva connecting to your fingers as you pull them away to gaze between your thighs.

Hoolay’s claws touched as they held one of your thighs up, out of the way for him to get a taste. You were already so wet and waiting, the desire to consume was rushing all throughout your body. Air was forced out of you when he let his heavy cock thud against your stomach, a little cum seeping from the corner of your mouth. Graciously and carefully, he slides a finger inside you and worms it around, stretching your cunt and causing you to moan, “So defiant you were on the ride here. Now look at you, arching into my hand like a pet looking for love from its owner. It feels good to give in to instinct, wouldn’t you agree?”

Even if you could talk, you wouldn’t need to as your tail swishes side to side underneath you, as though accepting his declaration. Your stomach is so full that even with just his fingers you feel you’re about to pop. Your legs fall open for him when he pushes his cock head down your slit and into your hole. You’re so grateful he helped you with the aphrodisiac, even if you wish you hated it, you know being absolutely torn apart would be too brutal to handle.

As a mercy, perhaps for being such a good girl, he takes it slow but doesn’t stop - not until he’s reached as far as he can inside you. Your legs are now propped up and of your stomach wasn’t distended from the mouthfuls of cum before, it certainly was from the massive dick inside you now. Your cheeks puff when he puts pressure on the lump he forms, “I’m impressed, little fox. Even with the amount of syrup used, I didn’t think you’d be able to hold out.”

It’s not until his hips start snapping against yours that you cringe, the movement jostling your insides, motion sickness hidden behind layers of pleasure. Your mouth is open, panting, the cool air the only thing keeping you from losing your mind. However, as ‘kind’ as he’s been, he seems to want to take more from you. His long, flat tongue enters your mouth, you’re gurgling around the muscle in this ruthless kiss. Your eyes roll back and hearing wavers as the oxygen in your lungs is stolen away.

Heavy balls plap against your arse, cum and syrup creating an odd, warm, wet sensation over your skin. You hadn’t realised you were clawing at Hoolay’s face until he retracted, his paws holding your biceps flat in the take with a heavy chunk to hold you down. Bruises were the least of your concerns as you could finally breathe again and consciousness came back, adding with a strong seizure of pleasure corrupting your body. Your clit pulsed and your pussy tightened from the euphoric buildup of oxygen and cock breeding your insides.

A round of cheers and clinking steins was heard in the background during your orgasm, but it was too intense to care and Hoolay had no intentions of stopping. The way your cunt suckled his dick was more than enough to keep him going.

Of course, it wasn’t the last time you would cum in his cock. The way he nipped at your skin and kissed you and licked over your body like he was getting ready to devour you; it all shot straight to your aroused core. Whenever you could form a single thought, though, you would concern yourself with the inevitable worry of his knot.

Hoolay’s knot was swelling to a considerable size and pretty soon you doubt you would be able to hold him. He seemed to realise this, however, because his thrusts were getting deeper and stuttering more often as his knot struggled to enter and escape your cunt. It wasn’t too soon that his hips closely hit against yours, balls tightening and jerking with every spurt of cum. His knot kept him stuck deep inside you, the low growls and groans making you tremble. Your legs were hiked and your stomach was folded, you felt like you were going to throw up as your stomach got fuller… and fuller… “Just look at you,” he grunts, pushing himself against you and making you groan, “Fucked out of your mind, at the mercy on our dinner table. Foxians like you are only good for one thing.”

You couldn’t keep it in, with the amount he was breeding you with, and the position he had you folded in, it was only a matter of time before it came back up. It wasn’t vomit, it was more like his cum didn’t make it all the way down. The semen you swallowed poured out, as though the cum he fucked into you had overflowed out of your mouth. Tears streamed from the corners of your eyes in shame and confusion, your chin, chest, stomach, legs, everything was dirty and smothered in Hoolay’s dna.

He laughed heartily at your pitiful display, cool still nestled deep in, one hand coming under the arch of your back to lift you up and rest against him. He sat back on his chair, idly dragging a claw down your spine, your skin alight with goosebumps. His voice seemed a lot more content now, “Bring out the slaves. It is time for everyone to enjoy themselves.”

You barely recognised what was happening, your consciousness slowly returning to you over time. Crying, means, laughing, scared whimpers were all present thought your minor rest. Eventually, you had the strength to lift your head, seeing you’re not the only unfortunate soul to be used as a plaything. This place truly is horrible.

Finally, Hoolay’s knot had reduced enough to be plucked from your hole. He grabbed one of the chains around you and half heartedly threw you to the floor. You were confused and struggled to push yourself up, only to halt when a hot stream of liquid hit the top of your head. Piss. He was pissing on you, making sure to cover your body in his stench. The face you made could almost be described as betrayal, save for the fact that you had no faith in him to begin with. Once finished, he lets go of his half hard cock and stares into your eyes, “Everyone will smell who you belong to. You will not be able to take one step in this place without me knowing where you are.”

All you can do is grit your teeth, nails digging into the ground. The piss makes the wounds on your wrists sting like crazy, your hair and fur drenched in both cum and urine. It stinks. The bruises on your arms were forming nicely and you can only wait to see how pretty they’ll bloom by morning.

To add salt to the wound, Hoolay pours water into an empty bowl and places it in there for beside you, “You can bathe again later, we must let it soak in so the pheromones stick.” He stands, cocking his head in admiration of his work on you, smiling wickedly, “It’s about time I got myself a pet. And I know you’ll be such a good girl for me.”

Your head falls forward in this defeat, eyes making contact with your exhausted reflection in the water bowl.

[starryschoolgirl]

Just A Man

| A Soldier's Song Installment |

Summary -> As the weeks leading up to Elvis' deployment to Europe begin to dwindle you and Elvis try to help your son understand what it will mean. Meanwhile, inevitable tensions between you and Elvis are pushed to the side as the two of you figure sex is better than facing your issues, especially with such little time left together.

Warnings -> mention of family death, domestic fluff, flirting, mention of war, pre-deployment, Elvis being a young dad & husband, (much needed) sex with 50s Elvis, angsty undertones, smut, kitchen sex, swearing, foot kink, stocking kink, almost footjob(?), breeding kink, oral (f. receiving), unsafe sex

WC -> 5.8k

A/N -> So this is more of a prologue to the actual events of which this au series is based upon, to sort of give a glance into what life was like before Elvis gets deployed to Europe, I hope you enjoy it! In the next installment, we WILL see Elvis in uniform. This is an installation of the A Soldier's Song AU

“That one made my hand hurt Frankie!”

The little boy giggled at his daddy’s shocked face.

That battering of a baseball against a leather mitt is all that kept you company on the back porch of your home. Watching the two boys, your two boys, in the yard tossing the ball back and forth puts a smile on your face, but as you turn your head to the empty chair next to you that smile falls ever so slightly, missing the warmth that often emanated from that chair.

Elvis had been at basic training when she passed and was only able to make it back in time for her funeral, but even then while you were a wreck he remained as strong as he could. He held you in one arm and held your little boy in the other as the service proceeded.

You’d only had two grief-filled days with him before he went back to finish his basic training, you couldn’t even figure out whether or not he’d really come to terms with his mama because it all happened so fast. And now you’d only have a few final weeks with your man, all crisp and in shape from basic training, till he was off to a poor war-stricken country in Europe.

With that in mind you remembered to smile, in the knick of time too as Elvis looked up at you after running to pick up the stray ball that had rolled along the grass toward the porch due to your little boy’s poor aim.

He stared up at you like the school boy he used to be, and said with that tone of voice you’d often heard since he first laid eyes on you, “Hey there Cutie”

And like the school girl you used to be, you’d blush and only offer a small smile as you waved him off, “Go play with your son”

Elvis gave you that look, he wanted to say something he couldn’t say in front of young ears. He got up, ball in one hand while he wore his leather brown mitt on the other, with each step up the wood porch his smile grew, you could feel his curled lips on your cheek as he leaned down to kiss it.

Then quietly he’d murmur in a cooing, baby-talk type tone, 

“Daddy wants to play with Mama though”

You rolled your eyes and put a placating hand on his clean-shaven cheek. After leaning forward to press a quick peck to his lips you spoke quietly with that same baby-talk curve to your voice,

“Daddy can play with Mama when Baby goes to bed”

Elvis smiled softly at you and mumbled out a soft and assured, “Alright”, before stepping away to go back down onto the grass, giving Francis, or as Elvis nicknamed him, Frankie, an underhanded toss of the ball.

You turned one last time to the other chair and the empty cushion on it, you couldn’t look at it anymore. Thankfully you were needed elsewhere as you could smell the roast in the oven drift through the window of the kitchen out onto the porch.

After going inside as you tended to the food you could watch Francis and Elvis play about in the yard, it was quite big, but the two of them only remained within a small portion, part of the reason could’ve been because Francis couldn’t yet throw very far.

The sun was setting and the light practically flickered off of Elvis’ hair. Now being in the army he didn’t bother with that black dye, it would just be washed out as soon as he was back at base after all. And it wasn’t like he’d be making movies or releasing songs anytime soon, no not with what he was on his way to do in a few weeks.

You could just barely hear Elvis’ voice as he praised your son, “Frank my boy you might be the Babe Ruth of your generation if ya keep at it”. You couldn’t help but shake your head with a smile, Elvis talking to Francis as if the four-year-old knew who the Babe was and as if he knew what the word “generation” meant.

It was in Elvis’ nature to talk to children in that way though. He always treated them like little adults. You couldn’t recall a time when Elvis didn’t speak to children that way. His mama had made fun of him for it when Francis was two and he could only remark, “Frank is just people, like you and me are just people”

Oh goodness, you thought of her again.

You don’t think a day goes by when you don’t think about her. Elvis’ mama was a godsend, truly. And while he’d never open up about it, you know it’s affecting Elvis immensely. She was so involved in your life ever since you entered Elvis’ and she was always sweet and welcoming.

You could think back to a time not too long ago when after you’d eloped with Elvis and announced the news of your pregnancy at the young age of 18, your parents kicked you to the curb, but she welcomed you with open arms.

At the time Elvis was still driving a truck he hadn’t yet become the “movie star” that he was now. But despite the financial struggles of her Presley flock, Gladys happily welcomed another bird.

It was just a few months ago, before the whole fiasco of Elvis getting drafted and sent off to basic that you’d had a conversation with her in this very kitchen about that.

You told her how appreciative you’d always be toward her for being so welcoming to you, and she told you with an arm around your shoulder, “I’m a mother Hon, it’s only natural. The two of you were babies when ya had that itty bitty boy of yours, I couldn’t ever leave y’all out in the rain, you know that”

You knew no matter what Elvis would have stuck beside you, you knew he’d always be there to hold your hand. After all, you were mothering his child. But it helped so much more that his mother would be on the other side of you, holding your other hand to help you in whatever way you would allow.

Things were slowly returning to normal within the home, her lack of presence isn’t as pronounced, but that’s because she lives through memory now as more time passes, it’s almost like she’s not gone.

You hope that’s how Elvis viewed it. His stone face didn’t leave any slack for a crack or two, and for once it was getting hard to read him. But you’d continue to hope that it isn’t a facade and that he is okay. Yeah, you’d hope with all your might that your man was doing okay.

-----

Dinner was quiet, whenever your voice, or Elvis’ voice, or Francis’ voice didn’t fill the air, love would keep you all company. Of course as always Elvis got on Francis about playing with his food, having grown up poor Elvis was more sensitive to matters of waste such as that.

But if that was the stress high-point of the evening, then you could call it a good evening.

And as you now sat on the edge of the bed, a hand on Francis’ blanket-covered knee while Elvis kneeled on the floor next to the short, small children’s bed, you had a soft smile play on your lips as Elvis talked on the subject of him leaving in a few weeks.

Elvis and you had been explaining night after night to Francis what would soon happen, why his daddy would be going away for a while and what would happen after. After talking about it quite a bit within the first month of knowing about Elvis’ draft you and he decided it was best to be very open on the subject to make it less daunting when Elvis suddenly left home.

And after Gladys’ death you had to explain to Francis that his daddy’s absence would be different from his grandmother’s absence.

“Ya g-gonna fight bad guys Daddy?”

Elvis smiled and brought his hands up in fists, then with a few shadow-box moves which made Francis laugh, Elvis assured,

“You betcha, gonna give the bad guys one of these! And one of these!”

The little boy laughed, his laugh too big for his body as he bent over on the bed and held onto your arm with both his little hands.

After his precious giggles subsided, Francis sat up and asked curiously, a glimmer of what must’ve been a child’s worry in his eyes as he asked with that stutter that his daddy used to have,

“W-what if the bad, bad guys hurt yo-you Dad-Daddy?”

Your smile fell slightly as you and Elvis made eye contact at the suggestion. Of course that is something that you and Elvis had been careful approaching when it came to explaining this sort of thing to Francis.

You couldn’t explain it without truly worrying the boy, you felt tears prickle your eyes at just the thought. Elvis knew of your worries, he knew that quite a few of the girls you were friends with down at the beauty parlor had husband’s overseas, and that a few of them had gotten the dreaded telegram, along with a folded American flag.

He knew all too well your worries as he’d spent many nights being the one to soothe you back to bed. When he’d feign sleep even though he knew you’d spend mornings staring at him, just wanting to look at him as if you would soon lose this view.

Of course if he had died at war it might be different. Having been in a few films and sung a few hit records, he feared that if he died you might find out about his death through the newspapers. You would either find out through that, or as Elvis heard, on rare special occasions they’d send something much more personal, they’d send chaplains and military officers to tell the grieving widow in person. 

Elvis hoped if he died he’d be that special occasion, that way you wouldn’t be alone when you heard about his death, the same way you were alone when you saw his mother in her state of death.

“Well,”

He started before getting up, and sitting next to you on the bed. He wrapped an arm around your waist and reached a hand out to rest atop yours which rested on Francis’ knee.

“Listen buddy, that sort of thing might happen, but ya don’t gotta worry. Your daddy’s strong, and he’s gonna get home to you and Mama. He promises.”

Your lip quivered as you tried to smile. Elvis could feel the way your hand tensed under his, he quickly pressed a kiss to your cheek and mumbled quietly for his little family to hear,

“And ya know I’m not a liar, I wouldn’t piss on ya leg and tell ya it’s rainin’ now would I?”

You abruptly turned your head toward Elvis’ crude analogy and hit his shoulder lightly making him laugh as Francis giggled at his daddy using a “nasty” word. 

As Elvis laughed he stood up and pulled you with him, leaving enough time for you to kiss Francis goodnight before taking you with just a tug of his arm around your hip.

As you reached for the lamp next to your son’s bed your spoke softly,

“Get a good sleep Frannie”

Once you and Elvis were making your way out of the room he teased you softly with his hand still resting at your hip, “Wish ya would stop callin’ him such a girly name, his name’s Francis”

As soon as you closed the door you laughed softly and pointed out, “So he’s Francis when I call him Frannie but he’s not Francis when you call him Frankie?”

Elvis shrugged and popped out a “yup” as he guided you down the hall. Just before reaching the bedroom you told him you remembered you still had some dishes to do and made a B-line to the staircase to head toward the kitchen.

After getting down there and getting the dishes loaded you found yourself standing in front of the sink, staring down at the soapy dishwater with not a thought in mind.

It was Elvis’ voice that pulled you from your trance as he spoke, “Baby?”

You jumped slightly and turned around to see Elvis throwing you a confused half-smile, his red shirt from earlier was off and he was left in just black trousers and his wedding ring. There was a dampened towel on his shoulders, the tips of his hair were slightly wet, likely from having just washed his face.

You sighed softly with a smile at the sight, “I’ll be up in a minute Handsome, just getting some things done”.

Elvis’ neck stretched slightly as he saw the dishes were washed and now laid on the drying rack, he then turned toward the stove to see that the leftovers were put away. You didn’t have anything to do.

He took a few steps forward, till he could comfortably rest his hands at your hips.

“Looks to me like everythin’s been done, why don’tcha head upstairs with me?”

You took a moment to look around and realized he was right, quick on your feet you slid away from his hands and walked over to the oven and opened it, you gestured a hand toward the inside,

“I haven’t cleaned the oven out yet”

Elvis’ eyebrows furrowed as he shook head and mumbled with a hand on his hip,

“Honey, ya never clean the oven out till the 1st of the month, I mean unless things have changed that much since I’ve been at basic…”

You sighed softly. As you gently closed the oven door Elvis walked over to you with a small frown, his hands finding their place at your hips once again as he asked,

“What’s goin’ on Genevieve?”

You bit your lower lip softly, whenever Elvis called you by your name you knew he was serious, there was no wiggling your way out of it, especially now that he had you pressed back against a kitchen counter, his hands gripping your hips with resolution and a look in his eyes that told you he wasn’t letting you go without a fight.

With a shake of your head you looked away from Elvis, suddenly deeming the drying rack a few feet away to be a better view than your half-naked husband. Elvis’ head followed your gaze and suddenly it was him you were looking at again.

“I just, I wish you would stop doing that…”

Elvis looked confused as he ran a hand through his uncombed hair. He really looked different from a few months ago, his jaw was sharp and his cheeks sort of caved in, but not in the way a waif’s would. His hair was a crisp, fall-ish brown, and his body was cut in a way that felt a little foreign.

While he was naturally slim and tall, he was usually still soft and smooth around the edges. You’d realized his first night back from basic that his body was more sharp and angular, and you worried they weren’t feeding him properly. But as he’d been home a week or two now, his body remained sharp and cut, and now your worries were on your own lacking areas, you knew your food couldn’t replace his mama’s but you’d swear if his mama were here, he’d be back to his soft and squishy self.

“Stop doin’ what Hon?”

As your eyes lingered over his body more you’d completely forgotten what you’d first been talking about as you changed the subject by asking, “Are you still hungry?”

Elvis laughed softly and titled his head to the side, “What are ya talkin’ about?”

Your lower lip quivered in worry and concern, it seems all the dulled emotions you’d been feeling lately came together to overpower your own emotional maturity as your lip wobbled pathetically. As Elvis saw the sight his smile fell and his eyebrows furrowed in worry as he bent down slightly to look you head on. “Oh, Baby, now,” He cupped your cheeks with his hands to keep you from turning away from him. 

There was a soft incredulous laugh that left his lips, “Why are ya cryin?”

As Elvis pulled you close to him, you could feel his body shake with each laugh that left his lips, you knew what he was thinking, it was what he always thought (and sometimes said) whenever you started crying, it was-

“You women and your emotions…”

And just as you would everytime, you’d hit his chest with all your might (which would only evoke another laugh at your pitiful effort) and mumble into his chest wetly, “Stop laughing at me Elvis Aaron Presley.”

“Alright, alright, I won’t laugh anymore Mama, now what was it you wish I would stop doin?”

Your arms around his waist tightened slightly as you thought back to the original topic of discussion. Elvis gave you a moment as he rubbed his chin along the top of your head, ruffling your hair in doing so, but you didn’t care enough to mind.

“I just wish you would stop pretending you’re this indestructible force Elvis.”

You could hear the smile in his voice as he spoke,

“Well, I gotta make sure my son knows there ain’t a man better than his Daddy, ya know that Hon”

With a soft sigh you pulled back enough to look Elvis in the eye while your arms remained around his waist.

“I’m talking about with me, Elvis. You do that same thing with me that you do with Francis. You talk to me like I’m a child- Like, like I don’t know what you’re going into, like I haven’t been reading the papers”

Elvis’ smile flatlined as he listened to your words. You continued on.

“I’m your wife Elvis, I know that you’re not some indestructible being.”

As Elvis' eyes lingered away from yours, you placed a hand on his cheek to regain his attention as you could tell he was searching for ways to change the conversation.

“You’re just a man Elvis”

There’s his way out. Elvis bit his lower lip before breaking into a smile as he stared down at you. His hands that were wrapped around your waist fell down to each globe of your ass, giving you a soft squeeze through the fabric of your dress. The abruptness of the action caught your attention as your eyebrow lifted in suspicion and confusion at what he was doing.

Here you were pouring your heart out and he-

“Well, I can admit I am just a man, and a man’s got needs ya know?”

He had a boyish smile on his lips as he said the last part quietly, as if he were a child trying to tempt his mother into letting him get his favorite piece of candy. You knew how this would go, it would go as it always did. You and Elvis would avoid this topic and go on to avoid a few other topics, then in a few weeks or a month you and him would get into a huge argument of all the topics combined just to kiss and make up.

It’s happened often within your relationship, hell, you and him hadn’t fought the entirety of your pregnancy with Francis and on the day your water broke, all hell broke with it as you and Elvis got into a huge argument. You almost gave birth in the house because you refused to have him be the one to drive you to the hospital.

But that would be fine for now, especially when he smiled down at you the way he was now.

Your previous pure look of concern had washed away with a defeated smile as his hands continued to knead the flesh of your ass like dough and his smile only dug into his cheeks further, almost bringing back that full look of them.

With a fond tinge to it, you sighed out,

“You really are just a man”

He brought his nose down to nuzzle against your cheek before pressing his lips against the soft skin, murmuring, “Your man”

“Mhm, my man”

You began to giggle at the ticklish sensation of his lips dragging from your cheek down along the sensitive skin of your neck. You tried tucking your chin into your neck as you continued to let you squealed laughs.

Elvis let out a soft playful growl as he spoke into the skin,

“Flutterin’ around like a bird”

To stop your incessant wiggling Elvis tightened his arms around your waist, his nose changed locations from the crook of your neck to the dip of your collarbone till it landed in the deep neckline of your dress, snug between your breasts as he nuzzled himself into the skin, trying to get a whiff of you in your purest form. 

The smell of you at the end of the day, the light scent of your perfume that somehow lingered late in the day mixed with whatever sweat had tried to grace your body, it was a smell he couldn’t get enough of. 

 His lips began to press gentle little kisses at the inside of both your breasts as he tugged at the neckline a bit more, trying to give himself more ground to cover with his lips. You laughed softly and buried your hands in his brown locks as you pressed numerous kisses atop his head.

You could hear him mumble where his head was buried between your breasts,

“Mm kiss me Baby…”

You laughed softly and between pecks on his forehead said, “That’s what I’m doin’”

He finally came up, his eyes lidded slightly as he murmured, “I mean really kiss me”, before kissing you with the same lips he just worshiped the skin of your tits with.

You hummed into the kiss with delighted surprise at the hungry tenderness of it all as Elvis’ body backed you completely against the kitchen counter. He felt around blindly for the counter behind you as he refused to break the kiss and then with two gentle pats to the back of your thighs you jumped up just slightly for him to pick you up by the thighs and push you onto the counter.

Elvis’ hands quickly worked the fabric of your dress, tugging it up till it pooled around your waist and as he pulled away from the kiss to look down between the two of you he was left with the sight of your legs, almost completely bare except for your seamed stockings that ended at your thighs and were held up by the garters connected to your panties.

His hands glided along the thin fabric of your stockings along your calves and thighs, he loved how they felt. You couldn’t help your smile as he admired you. When he stepped back he could pull one of your legs up nice and high so that he could see the seams on the back of your stockings that ran up your legs, giving the illusion that you had much longer legs than you really did.

All his focus was on that leg that he had stretched above your head, pointed to the heavens as he stared with admiration. You, his own point of interest, had betrayed him as your other lonely leg that dangled from the counter stretched forward to dig lightly at the bulge beginning to form in Elvis’ black trousers. Elvis’ brows creased and his eyes closed as his mouth opened to let out a low, heavy breath.

“Oh, Mama…”

Elvis’ grip that held your foot high had loosened at the undoing of his usually calm and collective nature within the act. “Mhm?” You took the opportunity and brought your other foot down to join in on the pushes and presses of your feet into the growing bulge.

He only repeated with a breathy, more defeated voice,

“Oh… Mama…”

His head fell back slightly and his legs looked to be going a little slack, knees bending in the slightest as his hips pushed into the pressure of your feet.

It was only when you attempted to dig your foot’s heel into Elvis’ groin did he make a move, spreading your legs apart and pushing his way between them with an eagerness. His hands were quick as he unclipped your garters, followed by the rough yanking of your stockings off your legs. You were thankful you had stabilized yourself onto the counter with your hands otherwise he might’ve yanked you off it right along with your stockings.

You figured you’d help him as you lifted your ass up and began to shimmy your panties off, having to bite your lip to keep back from whining at the cold slap of the counter against your thighs and warmed heat. As Elvis turned to look at you, his mouth was left slightly agape, he could never get used to the image of his wife being all pliant and pretty for him.

The men he used to work with as a young truck driver told him to never get married to a girl he liked, because when women became wives they lost their appeal, they became prudent and too good for casual sex with their husband. Oh how wrong those men were.

“Spread ‘em f’me Hon”

You obeyed as you watched Elvis kneel down, he had enough height on him to where even kneeling down he could easily be face to face with your bare cunt as you sat on the edge of the counter.

From below he made eye contact with you again and murmured,

“Spread those as well Baby”

You let out a breath at his words, feeling a heat spread from your chest up your neck from the embarrassment of where he was referring, but you’d listen. Your hand hesitantly danced down your body before landing at your cunt, and with a soft, wet sound, your pointer and index finger spread the lips of your pussy apart, giving way for Elvis to see the white discharge that was just edging out of your entrance, you had practically sprung a leak down there.

“You’re so pretty Baby…”

He looked up at you to make sure you knew it before steadying himself by gripping the sides of your thighs before pressing his head further between your legs. His aquiline nose ran along your core before anything else, but his tongue and lips were quick to follow as he licked a stripe up the center.

You let out a soft breathy moan at the feeling and tilted your head back to stare at the ceiling, the blank ceiling, boring enough for you to be able to focus entirely on the sensations Elvis was filling your body with.

As his tongue poked and prodded at your entrance you let out a cacophony of back-to-back breaths. As he moved his lips lower, his tongue now scraping along that gap of skin between both your holes, his nose was enveloped entirely by your entrance, and you could feel it inside of you.

Then his fingers on one hand reached toward that little nub of nerves that rested atop your pussy like a pretty bow, and like an expert he could easily undo that bow with the twists and turns of his index and middle finger.

That is what made you squirm and squeak, hushing out a high-pitched,

“Elvis..!”

His answer was a hungry hum which only pushed you even further as the low baritone of his hum reverberated in your pussy. “E-Elvis..!”

Your hands burrowed greedily into his hair as you contradicted yourself, while you made it seem like you wanted him off you, you only pushed his nose further and further into your entrance, you might suffocate him at this point. It was as if his life was in the hands of whether or not he could make you come.

You attempted to drive your hips further into his mouth as he pulled you closer with that hand still gripping your thigh.

As his fingers strummed your clit like the strings to a guitar your breathing got uneven as you felt the incoming of those waves of pleasure that only your very own husband could pull from you.

He groaned loudly into your heat as your grip on his hair became painful to the man bearing it, but he’d continue on till he got you to your release.

“Oh fuck Elvis..! I’m, I’m…”

Your hands entangled in his hair began to drive his head completely home as you let out a guttural moan, the pleased pitch cutting off as you’d reached the peak of your pleasure.

Your entire body felt limp, not even having enough strength in your hands to continue holding onto his hair. Elvis’ head remained tucked away long enough for your dress to fall over onto his head and hide him away as he finally pulled away for air.

You watched with tired eyes as his hands came up to pull the fabric off his head, he had the biggest lazy smile gracing his lips as he looked up at you, and for a moment you had a hard time deciphering whether or not the dampness on his face came from his sweat or your own pleasure, you settled on it being a mix.

“I make ya feel good Honey? Played with Mama just right, hm?”

He slowly stood up and brought the fabric of the dress up with him.

“You always do Elvis,”

He hummed with a smile and brought the wrung up fabric to your mouth with one hand and tugged your chin down with the other, leaving room for him to set the fabric between your lips for you to bite down on.

“Good, now, you’re gonna help Daddy feel good too now right? Gonna sit still f’me right?”

You hummed, “Mhm”, feeling eager to please the man after the trip he just sent you on. Elvis smiled down at you as he watched you hold the fabric between your teeth.

The fumbling of Elvis’ hands undoing his trousers was momentary as he’d become a bit of an expert at undoing his pants in the years you two have been married. You watched with blown out eyes as his dick shot up against his pubes and stomach as it was freed from the confines of Elvis’ pants and underwear.

Your legs were already spread and ready, your hole was already warmed up and loosened, you were his for the taking. 

As Elvis took a step forward he tugged you just slightly closer to him before lining his uncut cock along your hole. Then he pushed in. His eyebrows creased from the pain of needing to be patient at this part, trying to find a good balance of needing to be watchful of your expression while wanting to watch as his foreskin begins to prematurely slide back before he’s even completely inside of your warm pussy.

“It’s goin’ in smooth Honey? N-no burn or anythin’ right Baby? I can keep goin’?”

You hummed out a quick, “Mhm”, with an eager nod of your head, and you could see the relief spread along his face at not needing to wait, because to be quite truthful he wasn’t sure he’d be able to.

Elvis kept a hand on his base as he guided the rest in and when he was fully in, his arms wrapped around your waist tightly, practically pulling you off the counter as he wanted to be as close to you as possible while he pressed kisses along your neck.

“Fuck Baby, feel so good,” He groaned softly as he pulled out slightly just to shove his way back in, eliciting a used squeak from you as he did so. “Think that I still haven’t broken ya in properly after bein’ at basic f’so long huh?”

You could only moan softly at his words as you kept the fabric of your dress clenched between your teeth. As he repeated a similar motion he mumbled into the skin of your neck,

“It’s alright Honey, we’ll make more room in there, make more room for a little one or two…”

You wiggled slightly only for his body to press impossibly closer as he spoke through gritted teeth, “Just need ya to sit” he pulled out just to harshly press back in, evoking a whimper from you, “still.”

Elvis’ thrusts became fuller and more drawn out with every second that passed and every moan that left your lips. He was a chatty lover, and while he liked to believe he was talking you through it all, it was really himself he was talking through the motions of sex. He had a strange anxiety when it came to sex that had only shown itself since his takeoff in the entertainment business.

“Gonna fill ya so full of me, gonna leave a piece of myself here to watch over ya Honey,”

Your noises continued to be muffled by the fabric that was becoming soaked in saliva from being kept in your mouth for so long.

The build-up of precum that had been filling your insides made for a wonderful lubricant, even better than your body’s natural one. Elvis’ hips continued to thrust roughly into you. As the speed doubled, even tripled, Elvis’ breaths and voice got raspy.

You were certain he’d bruised your cervix by now, but the desperate rasp of his voice left you as gooey as your insides were.

“Shit, this is it..!”

Elvis buried face into your neck and you felt the heat of his breath sprawl across your skin as he groaned throatily. The animalistic, rhythmic pace of his hips dying down to slow downward grinds. He slurred out as he came down from that peak of pleasure,

“So good… So fucking good…”

Finally as his body came to a rest you spit out the fabric and inhaled as much air as possible through your mouth.

As Elvis geared himself to pull out, your arms wrapped around his neck abruptly as you held him close, mumbling a soft, “Don’t.” as you did so.

Elvis’ body felt stiff for a moment as he asked with hushed concern,

“W-why? Did I hurt ya Hon? You know you’re supposed to tell-”

You stopped his sentence short with a quiet,

“No, you didn’t hurt me. Just, wanna be with you a little longer. You don’t mind do ya?”

Elvis let out a breath of relief to hear that. He’d never want to hurt you. So in that moment of silence he held you close and buried his face into the crook of your neck, letting his nose linger on that pulse point that he watched you apply perfume on every morning for the past 4 years.

And you carded your fingers through his hair, kissing the skin of his head as a form of apology for how rough you were with it earlier.

His voice was like honey, sweet and thick as he assured,

“Of course not. I wanna be with you all the time, otherwise I wouldn't have married ya”

You smiled and remarked into his hair,

"Smartass..."

To which he fondly mumbled,

"Cutie"

This was more a passion piece, just because I really wanted to write something involving those pictures, seriously he's such a dad.

The masterlist will be posted and linked as soon as I get up from my nap! If you'd like to be added to the taglist for this au feel free to just comment or message me!!

Taglist Lovelies: @suraemoon, @drtyelvisfantasy, @mydarlingelvis, @astral-eyed-cat, @lialocklear, @obsessedvibee, @sexystarfish, @everythingelvispresley, @thebardotreincarnate, @prettyprissyblvd

[preciouslandmermaid]

like dead-eyed sharks, Gotham watches (battinson x f!reader)

Note: This takes place pre-movie and you can find the rest of this series. (Part 1 here) (part 2 here)

Safety notes/Warnings: The Kinktober prompt was "blood kink/i just wanna see a man all beaten up and bloody" I have never written for that before and honestly...i think this fic got like away from me tbh. so im sorry if this isn't want u wanted lmao

Additional notes: No use of Y/N. established childhood friends with Bruce. confessions. secret identity revealed. canon-violence. cursing/explicit language. explicit consent during sexual content. smut. no physical descriptors are used for the reader. (and yes, dr. crane is absolutely cillian murphy/nolanverse dr. crane sue me)

prompt: blood kink pairing: battison/f!reader | warnings: explicit sexual content/above notes. bonus: on ao3, i split it into two chapters for ease of reading. the first half is plot, the second half is smut. ;) enjoy.

( read on ao3 ) || kinktober list

You lean on the railing of your small balcony and watch the streaks of red and white lights below. The cool night air kisses your skin and tousles your clothes. Gotham’s air has a burning singe to it too malicious to be reminiscent of a campfire. It’s more akin to a cigarette lit by the gas stove combined with cheap perfume. You toy with the invitation between your fingers. The swooping, gilded text is embossed across the creamy card stock and you rub your fingers over a specific sentence: This invitation a courtesy by Johnathan Crane, M.D.

Arkham hospital is having a charity auction.It’s an opportunity. One you maybe wouldn’t have gotten while working at the paper. But what’s the catch? What purpose would Crane have to invite you?You replay your short interview with the enigmatic, intelligent doctor. The man has secrets but who in Gotham doesn’t? This charity provides an opportunity to snoop around Arkham and talk to Dr. Mercer’s co-workers who refused to meet with you earlier. Below, several cars beep at the same time and it creates a strange, dissonant melody. Youcan’t pass this up.

You wonder if Bruce will front you some cash. It’ll be easier to blend in if you can pretend to try and buy a piece of artwork or maybe a little stone statue to use as a door stopper. You chuckle to yourself at the idea and brush the idea aside. You won’t use Bruce’s money to spend on frivolous artwork and sculptures that you cannot possibly fit inside your one bedroom apartment. That settles it. You have to attend. The soft pitter patter of fresh rainfall tings against the high rise windows, railings, and roofs. From high above, Gotham is shiny chrome and long dark shadows.

You wonder if Vengeance is in those shadows tonight.

You haven’t seen Batman since your failed chemistry experiment. Your lower stomach clenches at the memory and you willfully push the lustful thoughts aside. You and Vengeance have little reason to see each other right now. It’s been nothing but dead ends since Falcone avoided arrest. According to Gordon, the evidence locker was recently flooded due to a pipe burst and the analysis of your blood samples—containing whatever Falcone did to you—were destroyed.

So, you’ve been busy working on re-writing your Arkham article under Bruce’s employ. Your time as a vigilante journalist has dwindled. Yes, there are other stories in Gotham that need your attention, but none are as urgent as reviving the Arkham story. Plus your instincts keep telling you that it’s connected: Falcone. Dr. Mercer’s death. Arkham. The mysterious drugs.

There’s a thread here. You just have to find the right one to pull.

You flick your thumb against the card’s corner. You should tell him. Batman needs to know about this. If you want your plan to snoop around Arkham to succeed—you’re going to need Batman’s gadgets. You bend down, the wind and rainwater tickling the delicate skin at your temples, and click on the multi-colored lights that frame the balcony window. Your own secret call to the Bat.

You return inside, leave the sliding door unlocked and wait.

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

Bruce gets a call from Alfred while driving down fourth street. His voice crackles warmly over the headphone inside Bruce’s ear, “she’s got her lights on.” Alfred knows to periodically check the security cameras they installed across the street of your apartment and Bruce is grateful for his vigilance.

He pivots his motorcycle and takes a sharp turn through an alleyway as a shortcut. Someone on the sidewalk shouts profanities at him.

The rainwater ricochets off his helmet and spins like a hyped-up Ferris wheel around the tires. He’s seen you a handful of times for coffee dates or short walks in the park. Never lingering. Never doing more than kissing you. No matter how badly he wants to. It’s stupid. He’s fucked you twice as Batman, felt your walls quiver around his fingers and cock, listened to your sweet cries and watched your pretty eyes roll back into your skull. And yet...

It’s Batman who you call for in the middle of the night. He suspects that Bruce—in your mind—is at home, maybe asleep, maybe pacing his study, maybe watching some black-and-white foreign film. He wishes he could invite you over, sleep next to you, show you how he feels about youwith slow kisses buried between your thighs, but he can’t. The night is for him. For Vengeance. Gotham never sleeps so why should he? He needs to be awake and on the prowl. He needs to be ready for anything and that includes answering your silent and iridescent call.

He stows his motorcycle in the usual safe spot within the alleyway and uses his grappling hook to ascend to your floor without entering the building. His heart pounds as it always does when you’re in close proximity. Like his heart is trying to escape his chest and offer itself to you.

He sucks in a breath before sliding open the door. One of your downstairs neighbors is boiling cabbage, there’s a pair of wet socks on your radiator, and a candle on your coffee table flickers with the influx of air from the balcony door. The sight and smells of your apartment are achingly familiar. He prefers it—this tiny, homey space—compared to his large and extravagant penthouse. But then again, he prefers anywhere where you are.

He wishes he could remove his cowl and lay his head in your lap, but he folds his arms across his chest and says, “what did you find?”

“Take a look.” You toss a card onto the coffee table and the laptop illuminates your face in a blue-white glow. “I’m rubbing elbows with the right people it seems.”

“Crane?” He mutters to himself while examining the fancy, expensive card stock. A charity at Arkham. It’s strange that they’re hosting at the hospital instead of a fancy hotel. He makes a mental note to check the guest list.

“Several of Dr. Mercer’s co-workers talked to me before Mercer died. And now they won’t talk to me. That means someone or all of them are dirty and in someone’s pocket.” You explain and your eyes are lit furiously from within, “I hoped I could use Dr. Crane to reach the other employees of Arkham and this is my chance.”

“Do you think Falcone is involved?”

You shrug, “if not him then it’s another one of Gotham’s criminals.”

Bruce considers this information. It’s a decent lead. You aren’t looking at him. Your eyes are glued to the computer screen as your fingers move across the keyboard in quick, precise strokes. He could watch you for hours but those are hours he doesn’t have. Gotham needs him. As much as he wants to linger in your presence and kiss you—those are luxuries he cannot afford despite his generational wealth. He sets the invitation back onto the table.

“What’s your plan?” He asks.

“It’s simple. I go to the charity, talk to anyone that I think is involved, then we meet up during the auction itself.” Your eyes flick up and down, but he gets the distinct sensation that you’re not sizing him up in a flirtatious manner. Your expression, your tone, and body language is cool and professional. It reminds him of the early days working together...before he kissed you and pressed you against the windows of the Wayne penthouse.

“I assume you’ve got a way to enter Arkham without being noticed.” You return your attention to the screen, “we can snoop through their offices.”

“They’re likely to increase security during the event.”

You wave a hand, “that’s why I’m telling you now. It gives us time to prepare.”

He clenches his jaw. You are an unstoppable force when a story is involved. Your safety might not matter to yourself, but it matters to him. He can do this alone. He can visit Arkham while the charity takes place and discover whatever Crane or Dr. Mercer’s associates are up to. You don’t need to put yourself at risk. Even the small risk of arrest makes his heart squeeze painfully inside his chest. He can’t protect Gotham and you at the same time.

He says, “I’ll go alone.”

“And do what?” Your nostrils flare, “punch some confessions out of doctors? No way, Batboy. I’m not letting you try and take this one from me. This is my story.”

“All you need is evidence.” He counters, “I can get that for you.” You stand from the couch and place your hands on your hips. You’re shorter but you glare up at him with the heat and intensity of a car lit by a Molotov cocktail. He holds your gaze and cherishes the burn he feels prickle across his skin.

“I need firsthand accounts.” You say, your voice firm and unyielding, “you could rifle through their paperwork and take pictures of every record available and it would take us months to find what we’re looking for. And who knows! Maybe Arkham will smarten up and wipe everything clean before I have the chance to publish.”

“You think people will talk to you at the auction?”

He watches your chest rise a little with your inhale. The way your eyelashes flutter close. You always closed your eyes before saying ‘yes’ to him. He wonders if you ever notice this little tell of yours—if it ever registers that the boy you scraped knees with and the man standing before you in black armor are the same.

“Yes,” You reply while opening your eyes, “I do.”

“Fine.” He bites out. Arguing with you is akin to arguing with a brick wall. “But, I’m not sending you in there without protection.” He won’t let what happened with you and Falcone happen ever again.

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

You toy with the little black bracelet on your wrist. A gift from Vengeance. It’s simple and straightforward. All it takes is one little press of a button near your wristbone and it releases an electric shock more painful and debilitating than your average taser. He explained that he wanted you to have something in case anyone got ‘too close’. Honestly, you hope you don’t have to use it.

Arkham’s charity event is being held in the new wing of the hospital. There are currently no patients, but it’s the perfect location for the chairmen and board members to show off the latest technology, the new rooms, and convince Gotham’s rich and powerful to make donations.

You let out a small breath of relief as you take in the freshly painted walls and large windows covered by thin, latticed metal. At least it’s spacious.Some of the other wings within Arkham State Hospital tended to trigger your claustrophobia. The murmurs of conversation float through the circular room above the music of stringed instruments by the door. The windows within the high ceilings look down at you like large black eyes as they reflect Gotham’s dark skies.You think, they should’ve made this a daytime event. It would’ve been more remarkable.

The pamphlet in your left hand boasts about the ‘benefits of natural light while providing safety, comfort and security for our patients’. In other words—Arkham has patients that can’t go outside due to the security risk and this newly built wing is their solution.

The two other exits lead into hallways but those doors are closed and guarded by security. A sign is posted nearby that reads: For Private Tours – Inquire with Director Susan S.

“I was wondering if you received my invite,” a smooth voice says from your right side. You turn to see Dr. Crane wearing a tuxedo, his brown hair slicked away from his angular face and shining beneath the warm florescent light bulbs.

“Did your secretary not pass along my RSVP?”

“She didn’t,” His sharp blue eyes drop to your shoes and then rise to your face, his look appraising and yet distant, “but she’s new and you look gorgeous so I’ll let it go.” Dr. Crane offers you his elbow and you politely take it, sliding your hand into the crook of his arm and allowing him to lead you through the swarm of well-dressed and perfumed bodies.

Youdon’t know how Bruce stomached these events. His parents were socialites and humanitarians who believed in a brighter future for Gotham.Youwonder what they’d say about Arkham's recent addition.

Crane passes you a flute of champagne and you use the opportunity to ask him how he’s settling into Arkham. His lips tug into a smile that feels secretive. He bows his head toward you and his breath ghosts along your cheek and neck.

“Some of my co-workers dislike me,” says Crane, “but I don’t take it personally. Every place has their hazing routines, their cliques, and established loyalties.”

You notice the discreet looks being tossed your way. Bored, inquisitive, jealous, and others are outright scandalized. You suspect that someone’s told Crane who you actually are by now which means he invited you for a reason. Time to find a thread to pull, you think.

You ask, “did you invite me as your plus one to disrupt those routines and loyalties?”

His eyes glimmer, “I did.”

“I’m honored.” You press the rim of your champagne glass to your lips, then lower it, watching Crane’s gaze as they follow your every movement. “Why me, though?”

“I see myself in you,” Crane guides you to the middle of the room where some of the guests are dancing in slow waltzes and whispering business deals to each other. The dark sky of Gotham—light pollution never allows for twinkling stars—peers down at you like the eyes of a shark. You can guess where this is going. The music and conversation provides enough white noise to muffle your conversation as long as you and Crane continue to whisper. You set your champagne glass on a nearby tray.

Crane gently takes your hand and your black bracelet slides on your wrist. “I’ve done my homework after our first meeting.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t do research prior to our first meeting.” You chastise as one of your hands settle on his slim shoulder, “I gave your secretary my real name.”

“A mistake I intend to never repeat.” He leads the dance. It’s a simple box step that doesn’t require much effort nor skill, “thank you for that lesson.”

You smile. “The first one is free.”

His hand slides to your lower back as he nudges you closer, “you really are determined to uncover Arkham’s secrets, aren’t you?” He whispers into the shell of your ear. You glance around the room, ensuring no one is watching—and if they are—well, all they’ll see is Dr. Crane getting close to an attractive woman. He’s good at this. Something in your gut urges you to be careful and play it safe.

“I’m here for the auction, Crane.”

“You’re here for more than that.”

You avoid his keen perception and change tactics.

“You said I remind you of yourself. That’s a bold statement considering we’ve spoken once.” You narrow your eyes over his shoulder at a familiar face. A part-time nurse named Jessica who refused to speak to you after Dr. Mercer’s death. The color of her dress washes out her complexion and the necklace around her throat sparkles like freshly fallen snow. Crane pivots and you lose sight of her.

“I’m a good judge of character,” he replies without missing a step. “In fact, you and Dr. Jacobs...”

Dr. Jacobs. He was on your list as one of Dr. Mercer’s associates, but you never had the chance to interview him. In fact, you planned on following up with Dr. Jacobs after Mercer’s death, but the man wouldn’t return any of your calls. You chalked it up to grief. But now...

Crane continues, “you both have an inner fire that cannot be understated.” He slows his step and tilts his head back to meet your eyes—steady and true. Dr. Crane looks at you as if he’s gazing into a house fire. You swallow.

“They called you ‘quicksilver’ didn’t they? At the Gotham Gazette?” You sense his questions are rhetorical. “I found that fascinating. They named you after a chemical element, a Roman God, because you--” he says your name “—are a force to be reckoned with.”

He leans in, speaking low, “and I pity anyone who underestimates you.”

You comb through his compliments, his lingering looks, and piece together your response. His hand on your lower back threatens to burn through the fabric of your clothing. What will Crane gain by helping you? Does he know that Dr. Jacobs and Dr. Mercer knew each other? And if he’s not helping then he’s...merely pointing out that he sees your ambitious nature...and signaling that he’s the same.

You reply, “maybe I’ll talk to Dr. Jacobs tonight and find out if we’re as similar as you say.”

“I’m afraid he’s not here.” Dr. Crane sighs, “I believe he mentioned a family obligation conflicted with this event.”

Good. His office will be clear to search.

“That’s too bad.”

Dr. Crane smirks lightly, “indeed.” He leads you to the edge of the circle, “I believe I’ve monopolized enough of your time tonight.” He took your co-joined hands and pressed a polite, chaste kiss against your knuckles. Your gaze darts away from him. “I need to speak with a few of my colleagues.”

Finally! The sooner you can snoop the sooner you can leave Arkham.

“Of course,” You step aside and try to not let your eagerness show on your face, “I should go to the ladies room before the bidding begins.”

“I’ll save you a seat.” Dr. Crane says.

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

Arkham’s security is not without its flaws. He and Alfred decided it would be more useful and less disruptive to hack into the system and program the cameras to play a loop of footage rather than try and disable the system from the outside. Thankfully, you needed access to the doctor’s offices which were far less patrolled and monitored than the area where Arkham housed its full-time patients.

An alert pings on his device. That’s his cue. He cuts through the skylight with a thin, blue laser. Then, using a handle with a glass-safe suction cup, he pulls the glass free and carefully sets it aside. Ideally, he’ll return through this skylight once the job is done.

He stands from his crouched position by the window and tests the tension in his repel line.It feels good, secure. He drops into Arkham State Hospital with a faint ‘zzzziiippp’ sound and lands behind you.

“You made it.” You whisper, relieved.

“Worried I wouldn’t?”

“More worried someone would catch me wandering the halls.” You smile a little and his heart squeezes, “I can only use the ‘I’m drunk’ excuse so many times before it gets suspicious.”

“We’ll be quick.” He checks the time, “Alfred said the camera feed will give us an hour, but we should plan for less.”

You set off toward the offices while holding up the flashlight on your phone, “we need to check out Dr. Jacobs’ office.”

The wood-paneled hallways are dimly lit and the only light source is the exit signs glowing red above doorways. The thin dark green carpet helps to muffle your footsteps. He takes a moment to appreciate you walking in front of him. He loves how efficient you are, how fearless, even when it threatens to give him a heart attack. And your ass looks incredible.

You stop in front of the metal double doors. A key card reader glows a muted yellow on the wall.

“Okay, your turn.”

“Why Dr. Jacobs?” He asks while approaching the key reader. He inserts a featureless key card into the slot. It’s attached to a device in his hand by a wide and thin wire and several numbers rapidly scan across the screen and illuminate his jaw in a greenish glow.

“Crane mentioned him.” Your rub your hands over your upper arms, “he said that Dr. Jacobs and I are similar because we’re ambitious. I don’t know. Crane doesn’t strike me as the type of person to say something without it meaning anything. He’s too smart for that.”

Bruce ignores the twinge of jealousy in his stomach. You aren’t interested in Crane. He knows that. You’re using Crane. But it still feels strange to hear you mention another man with a hint of admiration in your tone. He clenches his jaw. Crane isn’t that smart.

Bruce doesn’t look up from the device. “And you think he’s involved in Mercer’s death?”

“Mercer and Jacobs worked together and I never had the chance to interview him before Mercer died.” You lean in to watch the gadget in his palms, “I figured we would search the most likely suspects instead of digging through everyone’s desk.”

You continue, “we start with Jacobs, then Crane, and lastly Haywood.”

He mentally reflects on your files and notes. He should have known that you wouldn’t remove Crane from your list of suspects. Just because Crane wasn’t at Arkham at the same time as Mercer didn’t mean he was off the hook. You regarded everyone at Arkham with a low-level of suspicion. It didn’t matter if they were a groundskeeper, security, or head of the boardroom. Falcone’s payroll is the greatest mystery and it served to err on the side of caution when dealing with a dangerous criminal.

“Jessica Haywood?”

“Mhm.” The device beeps, the light turns green, and the doors click unlocked. “The jewelry she’s wearing tonight is well above the pay grade of a Per Diem nurse.”

Bruce unhooks the device from the reader and opens the door for you. You slip past him and for a brief second—the air lingers with your scent. His eyelashes flutter. It’s getting harder and harder to be this close. He pushes the thoughts from his mind and follow you into the personal offices of the doctors.

He says, “if Haywood is a part-time nurse, then she won’t have an office.”

“We’ll check HR for pay stubs and the nurse’s station log to see which floors and patients she’s worked with.”

Bruce grunts.

“You’ve thought of everything haven’t you?”

Your smile threatens to topple the walls inside his heart and drag his loyalty Gotham into the ocean.

“Mostly.”

Dr. Jacob’s office smells like cigarettes. Together you meticulously comb through his files, check under seat cushions, and search for false walls. Bruce plugs a USB into the ancient computer desktop. In ten minutes, he’s obtained the contents of Dr. Jacobs hard-drive and sent it to Alfred for decryption.

On the way to Crane’s office, he asks, “are you still going to re-interview Mercer’s patients?”

“Assuming my relationship to Crane allows me access then yes.”

His heart ignites, burning hot inside his chest, and he exhales sharp through his nostrils.What happened tonight between you and him?He clears his throat and says, “relationship?”

You laugh quietly. “Professional relationship, Batman. Like us.”

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

You realize how silly your words are the second they leave your mouth. Batman stops short and pins his steely blue gaze on you. You shouldn’t have compared you and Crane to you and Batman. They are completely different. Your relationship to Batman almost borders on friendship. Or maybe it’s more like...co-workers who never dated, but did hook up and now have underlying sexual tension.

“Okay, not like that.” You lift your hands, “I’m not out fighting crime with Dr. Crane.”

Some of the tension in Batman’s jaw lessens. “We don’t fight crime together.”

“Well, that’s because you haven’t taught me to fight.” You wiggle your bracelet wrist, “and honestly you’ve been overprotective lately.”

“You’re a civilian.” He counters gruffly.

“So are you.” You lean your shoulder against the wall as Batman crouches at Crane’s door to pick the lock. “Unless you’ve recently been hired by the PD?”

Batman looks up at you and all that dark makeup around his light blue eyes highlights their color and depth. Your skin prickles, hot and sharp and painfully—painfully aware of what those eyes look like during the throes of desperate and sweaty sex. You want to kick yourself. You’re loyal to Bruce, you want to be with Bruce, but that doesn’t erase the attraction you feel towards Vengeance. His eyes drop back to the doorknob and he leaves your question unanswered.

Dr. Crane’s office doesn’t smell like anything which is a relief to your nostrils after the toxic and cloying scent of stale cigarettes in Dr. Jacobs. There isn’t a desktop in Crane’s office which leads you to assume that he takes his laptop home with him. You start with the filing cabinet that Crane glanced at during your interview with him. Batman searches his desk. And you work in comfortable silence. The anticipation gnaws at your stomach.

Come on, Crane.You need something tangible so you can start putting pressure on the doctors and nurses who are involved. Yourfirst article proved that the corruption within Arkham travels all the way to the administration. Mercer said they were powerful which means other doctors are involved. They have to be. So what did Jacobs do? Why did Crane mention him?

You step from the filing cabinet and pace the small office with your arms crossed.

“Dr. Mercer was afraid. He didn’t want to keep giving the police drugs and administration told him to stay quiet. His patients spoke highly of him. His co-workers liked him. Mercer dislike how the administration ran things.” You repeat the story to yourself in the hopes that you’ll find the piece you missed.

“Then, he dies two weeks after I present my article and the Gazette fires me. That’s not a coincidence.”

Batman opens one of the filing cabinet drawers. You let him continue his work as you talk yourself through the file details. There were plenty of co-workers of Dr. Mercer that have issues with Arkham but they were typical standard labor complaints—not enough holiday time, staffing issues, or personality clashes with other doctors. Who else could you talk to?

“I can try Jessica. She stopped talking to me after his death, but I know she idolized Dr. Mercer. Maybe I can appeal to her. Find the humanity.” You pause and press your fist against your lips.

There’s no way she could afford that necklace. Either she has a very wealthy partner or she’s accepted a bribe to stay quiet. But why? What does she know? Or are they just afraid of anyone who MIGHT talk?

A low ‘thump’ noise comes from Batman’s corner of the room.

Batman asks, “what’s Dr. Jacobs title?”

“Chief Psychiatrist.”

You hear him move closer and you turn to meet his stormy eyes. “Quicksilver, you need to see this.” The filing cabinet drawer is open, but a hidden inner compartment is unhinged and Batman grips a thick manila folder.

He opens the folder on Crane’s empty desk. Your heart bottoms out into your shoes and you clamp your fingers over your mouth to muffle your gasp.

“Holy shit!” you breathe.

The file spills out with evidence of experimental trials on patients. Experiments aren’t uncommon at Arkham. Sometimes drug companies and Arkham will partner up to test treatments, but it goes through a whole process of licensing and legal clearance. But this--? You steady one palm against the desk and your knees threaten to collapse from under you. The experiments involved sedating the patients with experimental manufactured opioids and then exposing them to high-stress situations—like torture—to see if their bodies and minds could withstand the pressure while on the experimental pain medication.

“Dr. Mercer…” His name glares in black ink like a gallows noose tightening around your neck. He was involved in this?!

You recall his final words to you before his death, “The guilt,” Dr. Mercer said, his expression pained, “I think it might eat me alive, Silver. I can feel it’s teeth in my heart.”

Your fingers tremble as you lift your phone to take photos of the files. The tests, the results, the sign offs of two prominent doctors: Dr. Jacobs and Dr. Mercer. Your eyes scan through the dates. Eventually, Dr. Mercer’s name stopped appearing. The files shift into another direction. The pain medication is no longer the focal point. Instead, the abstract of the experiment is: ‘To discover the effects of hallucinogens on recovery and behavioral control.’

“Wait,” you flip the pages and count the dates, “what happened to the pain medication trials?”

“It looks like they started a new project.” Batman’s hard and armored shoulder brushes against your body and you tremble for an entirely different reason. You bite your lip and refocus your attention.

“Why didn’t Dr. Mercer tell me? He said he was giving drugs to cops not--” You let out a frustrated sigh, “subjecting mentally ill patients to torture and experimental off-market drugs.”

Gotham, even on her worst days, manages to surprise you. Youbelieved Mercer was one of the good ones. He wanted people to get better. He wanted to help. How could this get so twisted?

“Why does Crane have all this?” he grumbles.

“What do you mean? It’s obvious.”

Batman turns his head toward you, his eyes questioning, and you close your eyes.

“Dr. Jacobs has some big skeletons in his closet. There’s no saving his reputation from this. Arkham will have no choice but to fire him to save face and claim they knew nothing about this. And an internal investigation will likely take place after Jacobs is fired.” You gesture to the files on the desk. “That means Crane, the new blood of Arkham, has the perfect opportunity to apply for his position.”

You recall Crane’s secretive smile, his perceptive gaze, and deliberate and careful words. His glances at this cabinet during your first meeting were planned. He curated this moment from the start.

“He doesn’t want to be the one to blow the whistle on Arkham.”

“Because it would impact his chance at the job,” Batman guesses. It’s a fair enough assumption. You’d bet money on it if you were a betting woman.

You reply earnestly, “no one likes the person who reveals the truth.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Batman places his gloved hand over yours and gently squeezes your fingers, “Gotham needs people like you, Silver.”

Your lips shift into a grateful yet embarrassed smile.

“I know.”

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

ARKHAM’S CORRUPTION BROUGHT TO LIGHT. The bold text slams across the headline with a grainy, colored photo Dr. Jacobs being arrested outside the hospital.

Every news outlet whether newspaper or television is reporting the story you wrote. The story secretly bankrolled by Bruce Wayne. Your childhood friend and sort-of boyfriend (you haven’t discussed labels yet). The article was published with an independent paper outside of Gotham. It spread like wildfire online and took Gotham by storm. The rest of the media vultures were forced to scramble to keep up.

And—it wouldn’t have been possible without Gotham’s caped crusader. Vengeance. The Bat. He cross-engineered the pain medication and it matched the drugs on the streets. Then, in a surprise twist, he revealed to Gordon that the ongoing hallucinogenic trial had components that matched your blood sample from your time with Falcone. Was it a little weird knowing Batman had your blood samples somewhere? Yes. But it led to the greater good so you chose to accept the weirdness.

The complied evidence encouraged Gordon to look into it. He obtained a warrant to search Dr. Jacobs home and office. His hard-drive contained copies of patient medical history and backups of all of his unethical experiments. ‘Sadly, the documents we found at his office were only the tip of the iceberg when it came to Jacobs little pet projects’, you think.

However, the search for his co-conspirators is in process. It’s likely that Dr. Jacobs provided Falcone with the drugs he used on you and the other girls, but you’re doubtful Falcone will face any justice for it. Falcone is too slippery and influential. It’ll take something big to take him down.

Everything was connected just not in the way you imagined.

You click away from the news article.

Arkham’s official statement is “we are saddened to hear that our chief psychiatrist took advantage of our patients and staff. His actions were never sanctioned by our hospital and our thoughts are with the families of the patients at this time.” A rather magnanimous statement considering they’re scrambling for any good PR coverage lately.

You grab your coat from the edge of the couch and check your phone.

The text from Bruce reads: I’m outside.

You haven’t processed everything that’s happened in the span of a week. Gotham Gazette offered you a job with a pay raise and corner office. Dr. Crane mailed you a thank you note for attending the charity auction. The words were typed, concise, and polite. But you see it for what it truly is—Thank you for taking out the competition. Dr. Mercer’s involvement in the experiments is a tender sore on your heart. You never uncovered if Falcone or someone else killed him and now it’s over. You wish you could have put Falcone and his associates behind bars. But you’re forced to settle for shutting down Falcone’s drug connection.

It’s a victory. Victories are rare in Gotham especially for those on the side of justice. You try to remember that.

Arkham will move on. Gotham will move on.

And you have to move on too. There are other stories to be written, truths to bring into the light. You have a date tonight with Bruce and you’re determined to enjoy it.

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

You loop your arm around Bruce’s elbow as you walk down the sidewalk toward his car.

“I appreciate that you came out, you know.” You say with fondness laced through your tone. “I know you prefer staying in.”

He’s a recluse, but he comes out to meet you every time you ask. You’re grateful the paparazzi are too swept up in the Dr. Jacobs story to care about the enigmatic Bruce Wayne. You know how he feels about being in the public eye and you don’t want any unnecessary strain added to this new, budding relationship. Life feels almost normal when you’re like this…There’s no lead to chase, no witnesses to interview, no late night sleuthing through the library archives.

His lips twitch upward. “I don’t mind it.” His clear blue eyes glance sidelong toward you, his sooty eyelashes flutter against his pale cheeks, “as long as it’s with you.”

“Hmm?” You lean closer into his side and let the expensive woolly warmth of his jacket seep into your elbow and arm. “Sounds like you’ve got a soft spot for me, Brucie.” You use the nickname from your youth and Bruce reflexively cringes.

“Maybe,” he teases, “but can you blame me?” He suddenly draws to a stop and cradles your cheek with one hand. You lean into the familiar mounds of his palm, the curve of his fingers. The chilly air of Gotham drifts through your legs and curls around your ankles. Every nerve in your body sings with joy at his closeness. Who knew you’d go from childhood friends, to strangers, to this? The tender display of public affection is enough to send your heart into overdrive and your pulse throbs inside your ears.

He gazes at you, pupils dilated, lips softly parted. You think he might kiss you at any moment. Bruce tends to get this look before kissing you—like he can’t believe it, like he thinks he’s dreaming. Your faces draw imperceptibly closer as if pulled by an invisible string. His breath is warm on your lips. It’s a delightful contrast to the chilled wind that tugs at your coat and sneaks cold kisses behind your ears. Your eyes slip shut.

“Oof!” Bruce exclaims. A blunt pain ricochets into your side. Your eyes spring open. You have barely enough time to throw your hands out and catch yourself as you’re knocked sideways and onto the hard and uneven asphalt. You wince as your skin scrapes against the ground. Bruce is on his hands and knees, his eyes wide, hair falling in dark strands in front of his face. A masked assailant towers above him with a wooden baseball bat. Oh God. Oh God.

“Story should’ve stayed dead, bitch!” Someone shouts before their boot stomps into your lower spine and pins you to the asphalt. Instinct takes over. Fear overrides logic. Your breath comes out in haggard puffs. The dark bracelet from Batman glimmers in your peripheral vision. You just need to get close enough. The boot lifts from your back. Someone grunts. The sound of shoes scuffling on the pavement reverberates in your head. Now is your chance! The boot returns with a swift, hard kick into your rib cage.

The air is forced from your lungs in a pained exhale. Everything feels raw. Your throat constricts. Another kick. The world blurs with tears. Your body instinctively curls like a wounded creature. One arm wraps around your stomach and the other to your head. The bracelet dangles like a cherished heirloom in front of your eyes. Batman showed you how to use it, but you can’t activate it from this position, can you? You need your hands free. The next kick hits your shinbone. The pain is acute and travels up your knee. You squeeze your eyes shut. What about Bruce?! You hate this stupid parking lot. You hate that no one is stopping to help or intervene. You hate that you can’t think and that your body is tense and trembling in preparation of the next blow. You hate the helpless feeling that’s building inside your chest and shaking salty tears from your lashes.

Someone is laughing. A slurred, drunk sound. “This one’s got some fight in him!”

“Whadda you think we should we do with him?”

“Just knock him out!” The one above you yells, “we’re here for her. Not him.”

Three. Three voices. There’s three of them. The next kick hits your shoulder and your forced onto your back. There’s no time to prepare, no time to cry out, as the boot presses into your throat. Fuck! You glance quickly to where Bruce was and see that he’s fighting—you gurgle as your assailant applies pressure to your neck and glares down at you through the holes in his ski-mask. A ski mask? What a cliché. An unexpected, hysterical laugh bubbles out of you. You flail and scratch your nails against his denim covered leg.

“This is what happens to nosy journalists in Gotham,” he sneers from above, “you should have just kept your pretty mouth shut and wrote stories about missing puppies and shit.” Several white dots dance around your vision.

Bruce grunts in pain. Your worry for his safety abruptly overrides your fear and hysteria. You don’t care if these guys are here to kill you or scare you, but you aren’t going to let them keep hurting Bruce. His only crime was being close to you. If he wasn’t here with you...then this never would’ve happened. You aren’t powerless. You aren’t helpless.

You release your hands from the thug’s leg and grab your bracelet. Muscle memory takes over. You presses into the spot near your wristbone and the bracelet hums to life. Two prongs like a spider’s fangs eject from the edge of the bracelet near the back of your hand. You slam the fangs into your assailant’s leg. They easily bite through the fabric of his jeans. The electric shock throws him off-balance and he convulses with a screech of pain. Your lungs rapidly expand as if to greedily swallow the air you were denied. You roll onto your stomach, onto your hands and knees, before pulling yourself upright. The scene comes to you in broken, jagged pieces.

The leader in the ski mask is on the ground sprawled out and twitching. If he’s dead then good riddance even though you’d like to know who sent him. The other two thugs are on the ground and Bruce is standing over them—chest heaving, his dark hair in disarray, his bloodied fists clenched at his sides, his chin smeared with blood from a split lip.

You exhale, “Bruce.” It’s unclear who moves first: you or him. Your arms encircle his middle and he clutches you to his chest like you’re going to fade into smoke.

“You’re okay?” His voice is raw and trembling, he strokes the sides of your face, your arms, your shoulders with desperate and careful motions, his eyes roam every inch of you, “you’re okay?”

You manage to nod. It’s surreal. You’re no stranger to violence in Gotham. You’ve run from drug dealers, used pepper spray on someone trying to steal your car, veered off the road due to a high speed chance, and not to mention your time with Falcone—your investigative journalism is a high risk occupation. But you’ve never been scared like this before. You can’t help but wonder if it’s because Bruce was involved. You feared for his safety. You refused to entertain the thought of losing him.

“Let’s go—let’s go.” He urges, pulling you by the elbow to his car, “c’mon, Silver.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, “I’m so sorry.” It’s your fault. Bruce paid for the story, but you’ll pay the price of exposing Arkham for the rest of your life. “I’m sorry...”

Bruce shakes his head.

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

You don’t recall the drive to Wayne Penthouse. You sat in the passenger seat with your eyes closed, your hands cupped around your head between your knees, forcing air into your lungs and exhaling slowly until your heart regulated. Bruce is painfully quiet. You don’t register anything until the purring car engine shuts off.

“Bruce,” you begin, lifting your head, “I’m so sorry.” Bruce is staring straight ahead at the concrete wall of his garage, raw knuckles clenched around the steering wheel, his eyes closed. His expression pained and closed-off. Your feel your heart drag across razor blades. He fought for you, bled for you. You’re relieved he could hold his own and grateful that the thugs didn’t bring any weapons besides wooden baseball bats and bare fists. You don’t want to think about what could’ve happened if any of them had a gun.

He rasps, “Don’t.”

You unbuckle and angle yourself toward him. Your bruised skin bristles with pain at the twist of your spine and shift of your hips. You need to explain. You need to help him see. This is an unfortunate part of the life you lead. He once joked that you were a ‘journalist with a death wish’. It’s not true, of course. You have no desire to die. But you have and will continue to suffer for the sake of Gotham’s truth. When you pursue influential people and start airing their dirty laundry, they will use their power, wealth, and any illegal or legal resources to try and scare you away.

Unfortunately for them, you aren’t easily cowed. What was it Falcone said? You’ve got Gotham in your blood. Gotham raised you. She taught you how to read people, and be resourceful, and hungry for truth.

“Bruce—they wanted me. They wanted to punish me for the Arkham article.”

“I know.”

“If you weren’t with me…” You trail off and look at the center dashboard of his expensive designer car. The guilt gnaws at your bones, threatening to break them. Bruce grabs your chin. His grip isn’t painful—it never is—but it is pointed, urgent, and he yanks your face toward his.

His lips press into yours without warning. Your mouth opens for him and a faint taste of copper bites your tongue. You’ve kissed Bruce more than a dozen times. But never like this.

His tongue moves in desperate, messy strokes and each movement sends a hot and powerful spark to your core. He groans loudly into your mouth, cupping the back of your skull, keeping you close, not even allowing you to break away to breath. You inhale raggedly through your nostrils and push your fingers up along his chest. Something fragile and tenuous shatters between you. He’s alive. You’re alive. It was a harrowing experience—but you are here. Together.

“I need you,” He gasps, “please.” He presses his forehead against yours and his sweet blue eyes bleed into yours. Up close, you can see the reddish-purple swell of a bruise forming on his cheekbone. His lips are raw, bloody, the split lip likely re-opened and aggravated from kissing. You close your eyes to collect your thoughts. You know Bruce. You know him like the lines on the sidewalk outside your childhood home. You know him like the curved handle of your favorite coffee mug. You know Bruce isn’t lying when he tells you he needs you and you know he’s not exaggerating either. You’ve wanted him for years. Ached for him. And this moment might not be perfect, it might not be what you imagined, but God—you’re not going to turn him away. Not when you need him just as desperately as he needs you.

“Okay,” You swipe your thumb across his bloodied lip, “yes, Bruce. Yes.”

Bruce’s expression crumples with relief and he presses his lips to yours. The kiss is slower this time. You take a moment to savor it. Your fingers card through his silky, dark hair and he sucks your lower lip into his mouth with an appreciative hum.

His cool and calloused hand pushes along your upper thigh.

“Right here?” You guess.

“Right here.” He adjusts and grabs your hips to pull you over the center console and into his lap. Your ass bumps against the steering wheel. At least it’s private, you smile at the thought. No one is going to come wandering into Wayne’s personal garage. Except for maybe Alfred? But you assume the old man has enough sense to give you and Bruce plenty of space. Bruce’s lips travel down your jaw to your throat and you angle your neck back to allow him more space to explore. His kisses are light and exploratory, slightly roughed by the dryness of his mouth and gentle scrape of his stubble. It feels better than you could’ve imagined.

Bruce exhales, his voice pitched low and gravely, “I’ve wanted you for so long,” his mouth closes over your collarbone. Your heart leaps at his words, at the implication, at the idea that maybe...just maybe...you weren’t the only one yearning and hoping for years on end.

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

His body is sore. He forgot how much things can hurt when he’s not in the suit. But nothing is going to tear him away from this moment with you. He’s careful where he touches. He knows that low-life got more than a few kicks onto your perfect body and if he had been alone then he would’ve broken every bone in that man’s body as recompense. His anger threatens to boil to the forefront of his mind, but Bruce wrestles it back. Now isn’t the time.

He tugs your dress off your shoulders and his cock twitches at the sound of your pleased sigh. Your breasts are perfect. Perfect shape. And at this angle? The perfect height for him to bury his face between them and trail kisses across your skin. He’s never had the opportunity to worship you like this. To press his lips and tongue against your skin, taste your sweat, feel your heartbeat against his nose. His lips enclose around one of your nipples and you cry out, your fingers entangling in his hair to pull him closer, and he flicks his tongue against the hardened nub.

“Fuck,” he moans, his hot breath pants against your skin, before he cups the breast in his hand and holds it while his tongue and mouth lavishes across your nipple over and over again. Your hips cant into his, seeking friction and release, and he trembles as your clothed cunt grinds into his hard cock.

“I’ll give you what you want, Quicksilver.” He promises and you whimper in reply to his words, “Shh.” His bloodied knuckles shine in the light as he kneads your other breast beneath his palm. “I’ll take care of you.”

He wants to make this memorable. He wants it to mean something. He’s outside the shadows with you for the first time. He isn’t hiding behind the cowl, behind his loyalty to Gotham. He is raw, and bloodied, and trembling with anticipation. Your fingers fumble with the hem of his long-sleeved dark shirt and yank it upwards in a graceless motion. He winces as he leans back, his arms overhead, and the shirt is tossed to the passenger side.

“Oh, fuck, Bruce!” You blurt and place your hand above his right pectoral. He winces again at the pressure, but gently places his hand on your wrist. His heart swells with pride and appreciation at his bracelet dangling from your wrist. It saved you when he couldn’t.

“It’s okay,” He looks toward the cut. It’s shallow. Superficial. It likely won’t scar. “Hey, hey, look at me.” He guides your chin, meeting your eyes, and his heart capsizes at the concern pouring from your gaze. “I’m okay, Silver. I promise.”

He holds your chin and kisses you before you have the chance to apologize again. It’s not your fault. It’s his. He got complacent after the article was released. He made a grievous error through his lack of vigilance. He should’ve been more careful, should’ve had Alfred checking the footage to see if you were being tailed, should’ve suggested you stay at the penthouse for a few days until the dust settled. People at Arkham and people connected to Jacobs and Falcone are going to try and settle the score.

He won’t let that happen, though. He feels you relax beneath his touch, feels your lips move urgently against his, how your body arches into him and your hardened nipples press into his bare chest. Bruce shivers. God, it feels so good to be skin to skin with you. He is wholly without armor in both the physical and metaphorical sense and it’s terrifying and electrifying.

He wonders if you know how you affect him. His hands cup your backside, squeezing, pressing you closer into him and pressing his agonizingly hard length between your legs. You make a sweet, soft sound and Bruce swallows back his groan. Everything you do is intoxicating to him.

“I’d like to do this again after we’re inside,” he says to the hollow of your throat, “properly.”

“Properly?” your laughter runs like a vein through your voice, “like with candles and roses?”

“Something like that,” he bunches the bottom of your dress until its hiked up in a ruffled heap around your hips and his gaze snags on the bruises on your ribs. “I’ll leave it to your imagination.” He says with a small grin.

“Ohh, a surprise.”

“Mm.”

He pushes his hand between your legs and discovers the dampened fabric of your underwear. Fuck. You’re always so wet for him. Bruce’s eyes roll back into his skull and he hisses through his teeth.

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

You were worried the sight of Bruce’s injuries would be a deterrent, but it isn’t. His bloodied lip, swollen cheekbone, and the bleeding cut on his chest are proof that he lived. A little scuffed up, but whole and alive and touching you with comfortable ease. You whimper at the first touch of his thumb across your swollen clit. Your body thrums with frustrated desire. He’s already made the tempting promise to continue once you’re inside the penthouse and quite frankly—you want to two things: for Bruce to be inside of you and then to see what he has planned in the comfort and luxury of his home.

“Bruce, please,” Your fingernails dig into his shoulders, “don’t make me wait.”

He buries his face between your breasts, his kisses sloppy, and mumbles, “I want you to come first.”

Always a goddamn gentleman!

He arches his neck, leaning his head back against the headrest of his seat, and gazes up at you with fervent adoration. You open your mouth to quip at him, to tell him the car is cramped and you’re feeling impatient, but then the concentric motion of his fingers tightens, adding pressure, and the effect is dizzying. Your mouth lets out a garbled “please” instead of articulating any of the other thoughts inside of your head. You lean forward to kiss him, feeling his nose press into yours and the coppery taste of his kiss blossoms on your tongue. Your hips thrust and chase the movements of his hand.

Your hands glide across his chest, his arms—which are surprisingly sinewy—and your fingertips catch along ridges and bumps that can only be attributed to scars. But scars from what? Before the thought can form, Bruce’s index and middle fingers plunge into your wet cunt and your spine convulses and your walls clench around his digits. The world goes muted and soft. Gotham narrows into two souls in an expensive, black car within a private garage beneath a penthouse.

You pant into Bruce’s mouth, sweat collecting on your temples, as he strokes and coaxes the fire burning low and hot in your lower belly.

Bruce says, “you’re so beautiful.” His words are quiet, bashful. And your neck prickles at the compliment. It means more coming from him than anyone else in the world. You hide your face in the crook of Bruce’s warm neck and pepper kisses along his jaw and the side of his face. The windows fog. The sound of his fingers moving slick and fast between your legs fills your eardrums. Your thighs shake.

“F-fuck.” You choke out, “close.”

“That’s it,” he whispers, “that’s my perfect girl. It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

The orgasm hits you slow and serene and drawn-out. Your neck arches and your chin rests on Bruce’s forehead as the quakes tremble through your body in throbs of heat and euphoria. Bruce keeps his hand there, poised within as your walls rhythmically squeeze around his fingers, and he doesn’t pull away until your head drops against his shoulder and pant onto his damp, bruised skin.

He kisses your temple. “Are you ready for me?”

“Yes.”

It’s awkward. You lift your hips and your arms tremble as you hold yourself steady. He struggles to unzip his pants. You only get a brief glance of his cock before he positions himself between your legs and motions with his other hand for you to lower yourself. You brace yourself on his shoulders and Bruce looks up, holding your eye-contact, and is unwavering as the tip of his cock slips between your folds.

His teeth bare into a snarl, “Oh, fuck.”

The blue of his eyes are nearly swallowed whole by his pupils. He moans your name like it’s being ripped from his soul. You let out a breathy chuckle, allowing yourself to close your eyes, letting the sensation wash over you as Bruce sinks into you inch by inch. It feels so good you don’t want to move. You rock your hips back and forth instead of thrusting and it creates a deep and wonderful sensation that travels from your head to your toes. He fits perfect. His mouth travels hungrily across your chest and neck and jaw. His tongue licks glistening stripes of sweat from your skin. His hands knead and squeeze your ass. You feel as if Bruce is trying to melt your bodies together, consume you, and you find yourself copying his motions. You kiss him, bloodied lips and all, and drink in his low and deep groans. Your hands, even as they smear with the blood from his cut, travel across the muscled expanse of his pale chest and your fingertips occasionally dig in when he thrusts up into you. You’ve passed the threshold of your earlier desperate frenzy to touch and be touched, to feel alive and safe together.

These movements, these gestures, speak to the deep cavern of tenderness that is shared between you. Your throat tightens. Bruce’s fingertips trail along your spine and he turns his head to whisper your name into your ear.

Time doesn’t move. It melts. It shapes condensation on the windows. It pools at the dip between Bruce’s collarbones. It glistens where your bodies are joined.

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

Afterwards, you cradle his face between your hands and touch sweaty forehead to sweaty forehead. Your heart is pounding. Your dress is crumpled around your hips and stuck to your skin. Your bruises pulsate with muted pain. Bruce’s dried blood peeks between your fingers. And yet you’ve never felt more at peace.

He says, “stay with me.”

“W-what?”

“Stay with me,” he repeats, unfazed by your confusion, “for a few days. Maybe a week.”

You swallow. Okay, stay calm. He’s not asking you to move in. Your smile breaks across your face and Bruce’s eyes widen at the sight of it. As if bearing witness to your joy is a privilege and not something he’s earned.

“We’re having this conversation now?”

“Silver,” he chuckles dryly and your smile widens. It’s so wonderful to hear Bruce laugh. “Someday, I’d like to ask you a question and get a straight answer.”

“I’m a journalist.” You roll your eyes, “asking follow-up questions is my forte.”

Bruce takes your hand between his and intertwines your fingers, “and you’re the best journalist Gotham has.” He meets your eyes, “so, will you stay?”

You should tell Bruce ‘no’ from time to time. It’ll be good for his pride. Today, however, is not the day.

“Yes, Bruce. I’ll stay.”

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

You wake during the night. Bruce’s bedroom is cozily lit from the bedside table lamp and you reach across his back to shut it off. Your hand freezes in mid-air. They are scars. After you and Bruce left the garage, you meant to ask him about it, but his hands and mouth were...too distracting...and you lost all train of thought. You sit up and analyze the serpentine shape of his spine, the moles totting his skin, the curve of his shoulder blades, the cream colored sheets wrapped around his slim waist.

You resist the temptation to trail your fingers across the scars. You don’t want to wake him.

You hope that those thugs didn’t leave him with any scars. He claimed the one on his chest would heal fine. But, how does he know? He isn’t a doctor. You shift and sit upright. Your instincts flare. A gut reaction hits you like a punch to the throat. There’s blood in the water. There’s bones under the soil. A story. Another thread to pull. You carefully climb out of bed and grab a few pieces of blank paper from Bruce’s desk.

You start with today—it’s fresh in your mind.

The bracelet. Bruce didn’t notice or make comments when you first began wearing it. He didn’t ask any questions after seeing the bracelet electrocute someone into unconsciousness. Okay. A little odd, right? But there’s a few possible answers. Maybe he didn’t see it happen. Maybe he assumed you used a standard taser.

You write ‘why didn’t Batman come for me?’ on the page and stare at the letters. Batboy always has a knack for knowing when you’re in trouble. He didn’t show today. You know you aren’t his first priority. You know he’s got an entire city to look out for. But…

You write ‘Security’ on the page. Alfred told you that the Wayne home has ‘top of the line’ security. How the hell did Batman break-in without tripping any of the alarms? You’re certain that Bruce or Alfred would’ve mentioned something if they were worried about the security of the home.

You write ‘Falcone’. You sketch out the timeline out of instinct. Falcone is well-known around Gotham, but when you and Bruce reconnected, you never explicitly told him you were investigating Falcone. It was better to keep that sort of thing under wraps. It’s safer that way.

After you were released from the hospital, Bruce said something like ‘Falcone can’t hurt you’ right? You rub your hand over your jaw and frown. This is a long shot. You grab your phone and text Gordon the following message: ‘Hey, did you tell Bruce that I was drugged by Falcone?’

You scribble onto the page and let your mind wander. You doodle a little flower. And the memory hits like a freight train. Bruce’s flowers. They said ‘to my perfect girl’. Never in your time together had Bruce used that nickname. Batman, however, did. Your heart leaps inside your throat and your phone buzzes in your hand.

Gordon replies: God, kid. What are you doing awake at this hour? To answer your question, no. When I called Mr. Wayne, I informed him that you were caught in the middle of an active investigation and dosed with an unknown drug. I might have mentioned Falcone while ya’ll were together in the room, but I never directly stated that Falcone harmed or drugged you. Now get some sleep!

You reply a quick thanks and set your phone down. This is crazy. Bruce is Batman? He’s Vengeance? You press your fingertips into your tired eyes and your thoughts circle like sharks. And if he is then why didn’t he tell you? You huff and stare at your quick notes scribbled on various pieces of paper scattered on the carpet.

It isn’t so unusual, is it? He’s grossly wealthy, intelligent, and without a social life which gives him lots of free time. And you recently learned that Bruce can fight! Those scars of his aren’t from kitchen mishaps or car accidents.

“What’re you doing?” Bruce’s groggy voice lifts from the frumpy bed sheets.

Well, it’s now or never. There’s no way you’re going back to sleep with this question hanging like an anvil over your head.

“Are you Batman?”

Bruce sits up.

“Or Vengeance? Whatever you like to go by, I suppose.”

He rubs his hand down the length of his face. His shoulders are stiff. You watch as he swings his legs and clambers off the bed with clumsy grace. His boxer briefs hang low on his hips and as he stands before you in the light of his bedroom you can’t help but notice the scars on his chest.

His eyes scan the disorganized and chaotic papers on the floor. His expression is unreadable. You lay your palms on your knees and wait for his reply. Although you think his silence is answer enough.

“Silver…” He says with a minute shake of his head, “can this wait until morning?”

“No.” You deadpan, “I won’t be able to sleep without knowing.”

Bruce slowly lowers himself to sit across from you on the floor. Suddenly, you are eight years old again and having a sleep-over party at the Wayne’s. His mother is downstairs making popcorn. You both won’t stop arguing over which movie to watch. Your heart clenches. You blink away the memory. Once upon a time, you called Bruce Wayne your best friend.

He sighs.

“Bruce,” you wait until he meets your gaze and you hold it, “I want the truth.”

“I know.” He drags his fingers through his messy dark hair.

“Is that something you can give me?” You swallow the lump in your throat. If he can’t be honest, if he brushes it off or refuses to reply, then you know this relationship—hell, your rekindled friendship—is dead in the water. Even your partnership to Batman will be forced to end. He peers at you through the strands of his hair falling in front of his forehead. You wait. He can agonize over his response all he wants. The truth, as always, is the only thing that matters.

He finally says, “yes.”

“Yes as in you’re Batman? Or yes as in you can tell me the truth?”

“Both.”

You tap two fingers against your papers on the floor, “ha! Knew it.” You scoot closer to Bruce and his eyes widen.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You gaze up at the high ceiling, your brow furrowed in thought. You slept with Batman—Bruce – twice and he never thought about revealing his secret? Would he have just continued to live a secret double life while dating? Did he seriously expect that you wouldn’t figure it out someday?

“I wanted to keep you safe.”

“After today,” you chuckle, “I think I have more enemies than Batman does.”

Bruce says your name softly, “This is only the beginning for me, Silver.” His hands curl into a fist, “Gotham needs me.”

“Gotham needs me too, you dork. You said so yourself!” You smile. “None of these other freelance journalists have the courage to take down the big fish. We both are driven by our love for this city. We both take risks. If you can continue to do your job and I can continue to do mine then I don’t see any issue.”

He stares at you and his lips part in awe.

“I thought if you knew...” says Bruce quietly, “you’d leave.”

You reach out and wrap your fingers around his curled fist. “Bruce, I – well—I endured several years without you and you know what? Those years sucked.” You smile, a timid and gentle smile, and more vulnerable than you’ve ever given him.

“I’m not going anywhere, Bruce. I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

Bruce leans in and rests his forehead on your bare shoulder.

He murmurs, “I don’t want to be anywhere else either.”

“Then it’s settled. We stay together and fight crime and change Gotham for the better.”

Bruce lifts his head and levels you with a serious look, “you are not fighting.”

You tease, “okay, you say that now, but I’m already work-shopping costume ideas and team names.” You cup the side of his face, “The Silver Bat? Mercury and Vengeance? Batboy and Journalist Gal?” You ramble off your ideas until Bruce’s serious expression melts away and his lips twitch in a begrudging smirk.

[bathic]

13. Never warm, never implicitly inviting.

Word Count: 6.7k

Chapter Warning: Sexual Content, MxM, Physical Violence, Angst, Unhealthy Relationships, Toxicity, Minor Fluff.

The corridor ended in an opening to a large, circular room with planked walls of dark wood that shuddered and shook as if racked by passing chills. You eyed the boards closely, catching the smallest slivers of the same fleshy pink that the tunnel Yunho and Wooyoung had guided you through.

“Sit.”

San stood at the end of a table, the plate and bowl and mug deposited on the surface. His tone left no room for arguments, and yet you still managed to find one.

“Do you seriously think I would sit and eat after everything you’ve all done to me?” You scoff, staying rooted at the entrance to what you gathered in a quick once over to be a dining hall. Three tables sat in the center of the room, arranged in a peculiar manner with a single corner of each touching. The one your food sat on had a singular bench facing outward. Actually, all three of them did. If filled by bodies, two of the tables sitting opposite of each other would allow the ability for its occupants to be in full view of one another. The third table almost had a sense of higher ground. Nothing paralleled its position, instead it was the head that looked on at either of its flanks.

“Sit.”

“No. It could be poisoned, something I wouldn’t put past any of you of doing.”

You watched the way San’s nostrils flared, gloved hands tightening at his sides. And then he raised the closest one to the table, grasping the bronze handle of a spoon submerged in whatever was in the bowl. He refused to look away as he raised it, the juice sloshing a bit over the sides, towards his mouth that parted to quietly slurp it back. You shifted on your feet, an uncomfortable feeling biting at the back of your ankles. San lowered the eating utensil to briefly scoop up a small portion of the rice on the center of the plate and followed the same path as the soup to his mouth. Then, did he look away.

“Eat.”

“Why?” The question came out weaker than you wished but the need to still fight burned like a hot coal in your chest. It wasn’t like you were safe, nothing and nobody here could be trusted.

San sighs, “Because our food supply runs thin. Wasting what little we have means bringing us one step closer to starvation. And now that an extra ration is to be added to the preexisting eight, that’ll make the stock deplete quicker.”

Perhaps a bit of compassion could be spared in that moment, unfortunately it wouldn’t be coming from you.

“Why the hell should I care if any of you starve to death?” Did he seriously think you would actually feel sympathetic to their dwindling resources when they not only abducted you but proceeded to threaten your life left and right? You gazed at him like he was the most pathetic creature you have ever had the displeasure of looking upon.

The harsh words that spilled past your lips caused an ugly furrow to tug at his brows. He settled his sight on you once again and it was nothing but a reflection of contempt. What an awful thing to say to someone who could easily shatter your jaw with just a single punch. Was that what you wanted? For him to completely pulverize your face until nothing was discernible, to create a gaping crater of broken teeth, shattered bones and fleshy mush. He could, his hands were already itching to rearrange that scowl you were giving him.

You startle when his hand suddenly slams down onto the table’s top, rattling the dish ware from the force.

“You either sit and eat or I will escort you back to the captains' quarters. And don’t think I won’t let him know about your refusal to cooperate. One thing you will learn very quickly is how he absolutely loathes insolence.”

“I would rather stand here and rot into the floorboards than to sit at the table belonging to a bunch of psychotic freaks and eat the slop provided out of self-righteous pity.”

It was venom pitted against acid; potent poison laced in every word. San moved like a leaf in the wind, wings fluttered open and enlarged enough to drown out the warm lighting of the dining hall. Even in the shadow that he cast, you could make out the raw odium in his one eye. An untapped hatred. Oh, he was far beyond the point of anger.

The first step he took felt like the whisper of a blade against the skin on your throat. Just a light pressing, but a threat all the same. It promised for more. The next step, hollow yet loud, had you backing away. The corridor at your back was far more inviting in its shrouded darkness than the man slowly stalking towards you. Perhaps it was the lighting or the way his wings puffed out like the feathers of a peeved off chicken, but you could have sworn he almost seemed to grow in size.

“Stay away from me—“

You shuffle further back when his snails-pace progress is doubled, nearly toes to toes with one another. Something collides with your back, or you manage to run right into it in your blind attempt at putting more distance between the both of you.

“What’re you doing?”

Curiosity never blended well with danger and yet the person at your back, who’s large round eyes you met over your shoulder and instantly recognized as the same ones belonging to a certain visitor back in the brig, was every bit of that.

~

Mingi’s head turned at the sound of the door opening, watching with squinted eyes as Seonghwa slipped into the room wordlessly. From below him, Yeosang stirs slightly but remains in the throes of slumber.

“Seonghwa?”

“You’re still awake.” Wasn’t a question, wasn’t meant to be one.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

Both of them were shying away from the elephant in the room, choosing to creep around the subject out of their own selfishness. Mingi wanted to know what had happened but couldn’t stand to hear how awful (because he knew what his beloved was like— they all did) Hongjoong must have been and Seonghwa was still reeling in his anger. He didn’t want to lash out at the younger, knowing it would be misdirected. Mingi didn’t deserve that, even if his wing-bound was a royal asshole.

Seonghwa retreats to his armoire, exchanging one article of clothing with another until he was dressed in his nightclothes and the previously worn were deposited into the basket at the bottom of the closet. Mingi’s eyes watched his every movement, head laying back down onto Yeosang’s chest. Every meticulous movement seemed to lull a weight over his eyelids.

“Seonghwa?”

“Yes, Min?”

Mingi shifts a bit, curling further into Yeosang’s side while the other man lets out a sleepy huff.

“Will… Will you tell me what happened?”

There’s an audible sigh in the dimly lit room, the oil lamp sitting on the nightstand on the opposite side of where Mingi laid hardly provided enough light to make out the shape of the older man. But it wasn’t needed, he was already at the foot of the bed, tired eyes looking softly at the way Yeosang slept and Mingi attached to his side like freshly tapped sap.

“No. It’s not important, go to sleep.” Seonghwa moved to the lamp, snuffing out the flame with a turn of the wick. The room fell into complete darkness.

Mingi feels the bed shift and the covers that are thrown over the two already tucked in are tugged a bit in the older man’s pursuit of comfort. He doesn’t want to drop the subject, curiosity gripping at him like his own hand on the handle of his less-than valued dagger.

“Seonghwa—“

“What?” His tone is spread thinly within the darkness.

“I just want to know—“

“I’m tired, Mingi. Please, snuff out your curiosities and go to sleep.”

It goes quiet again but there’s a tension feeding over an invisible bridge across Yeosang’s sleeping form. Mingi shifts a bit, raising his head and his hand from the chest he was using to rest on. He had to seek out Seonghwa in the dark. If he doesn’t, he’ll remain restless.

“No more questions, promise. But a kiss, perhaps?”

Seonghwa sighs, his eyes staring at the blanket of black obscuring where he knows the ceiling panels are. Mingi wasn’t such a simple creature, but he always asked for the simplest things when his grandeur was denied. It wasn’t like answering his questions would have been such a difficult task to do but Seonghwa couldn’t continue swishing around the bitter acid in his mouth that the situation put there just to appease his mate. But he could compromise.

Mingi waits patiently when he hears the bed move and the covers shift and the micro sensation of the older man’s body heat barely gracing the moth fuzz on his face. Plush lips meet plush lips in the dark, soft and warm and gentle in their caress. Mingi sighs, hand patting around blindly for any trace of Seonghwa’s skin to latch onto. But he comes up empty handed and Seonghwa retreats back into the unknown space on his side of the bed. Mingi can’t withhold the whine from his throat, lips tingling and craving more than was given.

“Good night, Mingi.”

His disappointment is swallowed in favor of returning back to Yeosang’s chest, staring absentmindedly into the dark where he hopes Seonghwa is laying.

“Good night.”

~

Hongjoong’s in the process of unbuttoning his shirt when there’s a round of steady knocks at the door. The pipe he had been smoking earlier hung lazily between clenched teeth, small puffs of smoke escaping with each noiseless exhale. He fingers a few papers sitting on the surface of his desk before giving a loud enough grunt when the knocking continues.

“Fucking enter or leave.”

The door creaks open and a figure slips in without a word.

“What’d you want? It’s late and I’m too tired to deal with anymore of your nonsense.”

Yunho leaned against the wood of the now closed door, watching his captain pluck a paper from the desk, give it a little aimless chuckle before balling it up and casting it off to the side where the roaring fireplace crackled with life. Clouds of smoke separated into a haze around the man’s head, spreading thin yet wide.

“Mingi’s not here?”

“Does it look like he is? Sent ‘im off to Yeosang’s bed for the night. Had things to do and couldn’t be bothered with a clingy little moth in my way.” Hongjoong doesn’t turn when he speaks, rather keeping his attention on the insignificant documents begging for his approval. He hated one-sided deals, most of which taking up space on the wood were just that. Bargains upon bargains in which he’d be given less than half any share. Might as well polish dirt.

Yunho pushes off the door and approaches with steady footsteps. He counts each one in his head— not too many to be mistaken for eagerness but none too little to give way of hesitation. Either one will be sniffed out by Hongjoong in a mere wings beat.

“Good. That’s… good.” The taller’s tone was his worst enemy. Even more was his audible swallow right after.

Hongjoong turned slowly, dark eyes immediately hooking into Yunho’s beaten skin. “Why’re you here, Yunho?”

“I just…” He falters, both in voice and steps. “I just want to help you get ready for bed. I know it’s been a rough turning of day for you.”

“Has it now? And I wonder whose fault that would be, hm?”

Yunho continues forward until he stands toe-to-toe with the man who had bludgeoned him in the brig just hours ago. The man he loves. The man he vowed to love until his wings ceased to function and the last of his days were under the moon’s watchful eyes. Hongjoong’s head tilted up, not by the distance of height but by the gentle finger beneath his chin. The pipe he had between his teeth was removed by the other hand belonging to Yunho and laid to rest atop the papers.

“Not entirely mine but I will admit my faults and make amends for my mistakes… if you’ll let me.”

Hongjoong betrays nothing of his thoughts, just stares without a word up at Yunho. He didn’t need to, not really. Yunho knew he was expecting him to do what he said he would, no point in barking out more orders. Moments like this are when the captain is the easiest to love. Fleeting as they are, but all the same.

Yunho’s finger drags slowly down and across Hongjoong’s jawline, dipping over the curve of it and further descending along the side of his neck.

But that is as far as he makes it, or rather that is as far as Hongjoong allows him to go. A strong grip latches onto Yunho’s wrist and wretches his touch away from the older man’s flesh. There’s something calculative in his eyes, like he was trying to figure out the best move to make. One that’ll be entirely in his favor.

“A bit bold of you to come in here and assume that you are forgiven just because you bat your pretty little eyes and whisper pitiful machinations at me. And touching,” Hongjoong shifts his hand to merely hold the same finger that trailed an unseen path along his skin, the padded tip peeking out from his curled fist. “Did I strike you so hard that you’ve lost all common sense? Are you stupid, Yunho?”

Yunho could only swallow, the lifeline he had held onto had grown slick within his hands and was sliding out of his hold faster than he could grasp. The ground beneath him would do him a proper service by opening up and swallowing him whole. Hongjoong watched the way his Adam’s apple bobbed, the sudden nervous shake of his eyes bringing a satisfied smile to his lips.

“Oh? Did you really think you could fool me, Yunnie?”

Wooyoung’s favored pet-name sounded completely wrong falling from Hongjoong’s curled little grin. Usually, it was bathed in a soft playfulness, a comfort akin to a favored blanket. But from the captains' lips did it sound uncannily saccharine, a false pretense of what it should be but rather a poorly placed mask. Yunho knew he was doing it on purpose, making it obvious that the endearment wasn’t spoken out of the same love that his wing-bound would have done.

“No, that’s not… that isn’t what I was trying to do. Truly, I just wanted to make amends for my carelessness during the mission and for the… not birdling situation.”

“Making amends would fall into the same grave as vying for forgiveness.” Hongjoong releases Yunho’s finger but quickly scoops up the same hand and guides it with an almost calm insistence to the buttons still holding his shirt together.

Yunho exhaled heavily, “Then let me do both. At once… together.”

One button, two buttons, three and four and the count got lost between wandering hands and pressed lips. Hongjoong had his arms thrown around Yunho’s neck, boots forced onto the toes and chest pressed bare to the taller man’s clothed torso. Yunho knelt slightly, knees cracking a bit under the stiff position to wrap one arm around Hongjoong’s waist while the other crawled under the back of the captain's shirt to grasp at his warm skin. Hongjoong always seemed to have a fire lit beneath his flesh. Never warm, never implicitly inviting. But hot, smoldering, luring anyone in who got close enough to the wild exuberance without being scorched to nothingness.

Yunho lifted the other like he weighed little less than a rucksack filled with spindles of worm-silk. Long legs crossed from the disoriented desk in the captain's office to the private sleeping quarters where the oak door riddled with the past gnawing's of termites eased shut by the heel of Yunho’s boot. Hongjoong had slithered a ringed hand into dark strands, fisting their softness until the younger groaned. A sound so satisfying that the captain just had to hear it again— and thrice more after that.

“Please— if you keep doing that, ‘m afraid my legs won’t be able to hold neither of our weight.”

“That so?”

Hongjoong had a salacious twinkle in his eyes, paired with the flush gracing his skin against the orange glow of the oil lamp nearby and the swollen pout swatched in a delicate red, Yunho could feel his knees giving small warning jitters that he was quite weak already.

But that didn’t matter, not when Hongjoong descended once again onto Yunho’s lips, rendering every single nerve ending in his scalp to the tips of his toes utterly useless. Tongues dipped and curled and tasted around the edges of teeth and across slimy gums, meeting in the epicenter of moisture ridden heat to undulate against one another until saliva rose like the entrapped water lurking far beneath the city of lights. Yunho set Hongjoong down at the foot of his bed, parting with an awfully wet smack that roped off into a tethered string attached to both of their lower lips.

Something in the way the captain looked at Yunho made him feel wanted in the worst of ways. Underneath long lashes was a beast in wait, teeth aching to sink into supple flesh and tear apart every inch of untouched soul.

“Finish your amending, Yunho.”

Had he been a stronger man, had he never left his beloved alone after the minor argument they had, choosing to stay and fix it rather than leaving Wooyoung to sleep on with heavy heart, had he chose to remain in that room instead of here with his mate looking up at him like he was just another object in his possession— realization that reconciling required more than just a prurient approach to mend the unstable situation between him and the captain would have kept his boots by the door of his own quarters. Instead, they were kicked off across the wooden floors of Hongjoong’s bedroom where another pair joined and the littering’s of leather, linen and cotton branched out to connect each article of clothing together.

Hongjoong’s soft moan fades into a breathy laugh, head knocked back while Yunho’s lips birth irregularly shaped bruises across the column of his throat. In his lap was the barest form of Hongjoong, sweat spread lightly over the curves and contours of his body lit aglow by the oil lamp. Yunho could almost swap out the horrible man from the brig with this erotically lust-drunk creature swaying atop of his cock. In a way, this was a completely different person. Someone who reflected his most vulnerable state without hindrance, unashamed of the whines and eyerolls and desperate pleas for more and more and more.

“Does he know you are here? Fucking me, warming my bed while his remains cold. What a— oh fuck— what a terrible lover you are.” Hongjoong’s at his ear, enticing moans intertwined with salacious commentary. But it was true, Yunho left Wooyoung to sleep alone after another petty squabble to come here and bury his cock in their captain. The same one that held no mercy when bludgeoning his face and torso. It was wrong to not care but the man didn’t, not for his wing-bound, not for himself.

Yunho’s hips bucked upward in a round of steady jolts, cock sheathing to the hilt from a halfway point that left the remaining length inside of Hongjoong. He couldn’t really part from him, a note of possessiveness of having his captain under his large warm hands, in the cradle of his arms and impaled on his member. Not even the reminder of the bruises on his face, the swollen mess of his eye or any of the cuts and splits of his flesh could compare to the throes of passion he was drowning himself in. All for Hongjoong, all for his beloved captain.

~

You swivel away from Jongho like he had held a lit cigarette against the back of your arm, nearly slamming into the entrance frame of the corridor. He looked at you then at San and then to the plate of food sitting untouched on the table.

His head tilts and a pout tugs his lips forward, “Not eating? Better not let captain find out.”

“He won’t. Not unless you keep your mouth shut.” San was stiff, eyeing the sudden appearance of his mate like he came bearing all sorts of wicked omens.

Jongho’s gaze flits back to San, his wing-bound, and the stirrings of something mischievous flutter within his chest. Oh, how he loved to see his beloved bothered, teetering on the fine edge of glass by his own hand. Nothing soothed his soul more than knowing that he was upset by his presence, his meddling.

“Are you threatening me? Your mate?” His attention drifts to you, pressed tight against the dining hall entrance. “Can you believe that we are bound both by soul and the very blood pumping us alive? You’d think with the way he speaks to me that he hated me. Isn’t that interesting?”

You had nothing to say, and even if you did it wasn’t like the situation would be proper enough to spit it out. Jongho looked at you like how an unruly child looks at a shiny new toy, the promise to yank and pull and handle without any sort of care gleaming within his round eyes.

“Why are you here?” But San wouldn’t let a second of barely held control slip further from his fingers.

The question makes the younger’s eyes roll, having heard enough of it all-hours in passing. Was he not allowed to be anywhere, around anyone? For fucksake he felt like a fly stuck against the sticky tassels from above— the thought halts and the stirring in his chest amplifies.

Once again, you are in his sights. “Didn’t you say you were from above?”

How he knew that was beyond you, a detail within a conversation you didn’t have with him let alone anywhere near him. It causes an uneasy feeling to creep along the back of your neck, like the tips of spindly fingers just barely catching against your skin.

“I didn’t— not to you.”

Jongho looks contemplative, eyes adverting to an undisclosed spot on the ceiling. San takes the short opening to draw near, close enough that he could reach a full arm's length towards you and the fabric of his gloves would brush against your arm. A butterfly effect almost ensues, you, having seen the movement, tries to sidestep further away which immediately captures Jongho’s attention once again and upon seeing his lover attempting to grow closer, makes the decision to suddenly grab a hold of you all the easier.

“Running off so soon? And without having your dinner that was not only prepared just for you but also carried all the way here, so you had someplace to eat that wasn’t on the floor.” You shudder in his surprisingly constrictive grasp, leaning away when every word he spoke into your ear was accompanied by a blow of warm air. “Maybe you should have it on the ground, yeah? I’ll tip every last bit of it for you to lick up like those beasts running wild up above. You know, the ones that howl at the moon.”

“Jongho.”

San’s warning tone did nothing to the younger man, rather Jongho seemed to ignore him altogether.

You writhe around like a cat caught by the scruff, legs kicking back and nailing any part of his legs that you could land. There’s a gathering of spit in your mouth, and surely if you stood where San was then you’d appear to be frothing as if ridden by rabies.

“Let me go! Let me fucking go you crazy piece of shit!”

“What a mouth you’ve got there. But if you insist. Have it your way.” Jongho releases his hold right when both of your legs are kicked up into the air, unceremoniously dropping you onto the floor. You hiss at the pain shooting up from your backside, but it doesn’t compare to the sudden hand carding through your hair and fisting the matted and dirty strands at the roots.

Jongho yanks your head back, peering down at you like a child would when stumbling across a funny looking bug. His smile is disarming, rounded cheeks and small little squared teeth with plenty of pink gums. You scowl, trying to ignore the fact that your head was throbbing from the source of his hand.

“I don’t think those beasts can talk. Should I help you with that as well?” He thinks for a moment, “Maybe some other time. Right now, you should have your supper. Come along.”

The man takes a step forward and with the next one proceeds to drag you by the hold he has on your hair, treating it like a leash on a dog. You curse, hands immediately flying up to his own, scratching and digging into his skin in hopes that he would let go. But he didn’t, rather he would pull and tug you along while you fought with what little energy you have left. Your feet were useless, not having enough grip to dig into the floor. San watches on silently, jaw clenched, and fists balled at his sides. He knew he should step in, make his beloved cease his torment but a part of him that kept his boots rooted reminded him of your disobedience and apathetic behavior towards him and his mates.

Jongho stopped at the side of the table where your food sat, untouched (only slightly) and probably cold. With his unoccupied hand, he takes the plate with the bowl and topples it over onto the ground. Vegetables, mush and congealed soup with meaty bits splatter across the wood, even so much as splashing onto your jeans. You can’t flinch away with the grip still wedged within your hair.

“Isn’t that better? Now you can properly enjoy your meal as intended. I’ll even assist you further.”

Another strong yank and your head is brought face-to-face with the spilled slop, hands slipping through the soup to try and keep yourself from face planting into it. But that wasn’t good enough for Jongho. No, he wanted to see you pressed into the mess you’ve created by being ungrateful. His hand lets your hair go and relief is immediate, enough to have you sighing. But you realize rather quickly (or maybe not as quickly as you wished) once you begin to raise your head away from the floor that you’ve made a wrong move.

“Uh-uh, down you go.”

Something hard collides with the back of your head and sends it slamming into the food riddled ground. Your face is squashed onto its side and whatever it was that hit you remained pressed to your head, keeping it pinned in place like one does to a specimen.

“Get— off—“

You claw at the wooden panels beneath like it would help but it only caused your fingertips to burn.

“What was that? Shouldn’t you be eating?”

Jongho’s boot presses more firmly down against your head, the sound of your muffled cry bringing a satisfied smile to his lips. San couldn’t watch anymore, head cast down and to the side, your wet pleas for help-like nails on a chalkboard. You felt humiliated, like a dog who’s pissed on the floor after holding it for far too long, knowing that the action will only lead to trouble and the consequence for it is to be shoved face-first into the yellow puddle while harsh obscenities are thrown like darts at a dartboard.

“Please— ‘M sorry— I won’t do it again—“

What exactly won’t you do again? Refuse to eat? All of this just because you were cautionary against your captors. Is that not normal behavior after being forced against your will by strangers to god knows where? It’s not like any of them have been particularly welcoming, if anything you could probably count on both hands the amount of threats they’ve spewed at you and on your toes the actual physical harm they’ve done. This was madness, and all because you didn’t trust them or their intentions (which were made blatantly clear by that bastard captain).

“Sannie? What are you— Jongho, what the fuck are you doing?!”

San lifts his head just as Jongho turns his, both meeting Wooyoung’s wide eyes from the dining hall entrance. He was a bit disheveled with sleep still clinging to his nightwear and ruddy cheeks. His hair was mussed into a messy nest with strands sticking out here and there. But his eyes, despite clearly having just woken up, were more awake than the rest of him.

~

“I’m sorry, I’m so so sosorry.”

After cleaning up the kitchen for the night (and whipping up an extra plate for the not-birdling), Wooyoung dragged himself to his shared quarters where he hoped Yunho would be waiting. There was much to be said but when he opened the door and saw his wing-bound sitting on the edge of their bed, beaten black and blue the only words he could get out between the sudden onset of sobs is ‘I’m sorry’. Yunho welcomed the hold of his lover with his own awaiting arms, both wrapping each other in an embrace that spoke far more than words could. There was love, reassurance, guilt and forgiveness.

And what didn’t pass through their mutual holding was exchanged in fleeting kisses— one pressed here and there, a little chaste, a bit of teeth, soft, soothing, adoring. It happened between the shedding of Wooyoung’s clothing and his redressing, tender and gentle. But Yunho didn’t escape from his own attire, refusing when the younger tried to undo the ties on the front of his trousers.

“You… You aren’t staying, are you?”

Wooyoung hated the bitter feeling clawing at the back of his throat. Even more when Yunho’s eyes adverted while he excused himself to instead fluff the pillows on Wooyoung’s side of the bed. Even after all of sediments shared, his mate was still planning on being anywhere that wasn’t with him.

“Just going for a short walk. Seeing if, you know who, is still down in the brig.” Yunho avoids every attempt that Wooyoung makes to make eye-contact until he grows restless enough to let out a strained laugh.

“Seriously? You never care about anyone who ends up there.”

Yunho runs a hand through his hair, a bit out of nerves and a bit out of frustration. “She wouldn’t be there if it wasn’t for us. There’s a difference between that and the slugs that wish to do us harm that end up in those cells.”

Wooyoung frowns. He knows Yunho is making up a lie to where he is actually running off to, almost like he knows that if he revealed his true intentions the younger would throw a fit.

Seeing his beloved growing upset causes Yunho’s face to soften. He hated keeping things from Wooyoung, giving half-truths and evasive answers but if his wing-bound knew that he was planning on sharing Hongjoong’s bed tonight (even without the captain himself knowing) than Wooyoung would put up a fight that would probably bring the walls down in their shared space.

“Youngie—”

“I hate that you feel like lying to me is the best thing for you to do.” He looks at Yunho with an unreadable expression, one that makes Yunho wince. “I know you better than anyone else does, better than you know yourself, Jeong Yunho.”

Wooyoung buries himself under the covers of their bed, back turned to his mate out of pettiness. Yunho winces again at the use of his full name, very rarely was it ever used especially by his beloved. Perhaps it was a mistake to leave and seek out the danger in the dark but deep down he wanted to taste that heat, that fire promising nothing but to consume and ruin him into nothing.

Hesitantly, Yunho bends over the bed with one knee sunken into the mattress, to place a soft apologetic kiss to the side of Wooyoung’s head. No words are exchanged further, and Yunho is gone behind the closing click of their private quarter's door. Wooyoung lays in the quiet stillness until it bears down on him too much for him to handle. The tears bubble and flow down his skin and soak into the neckline of his sleep shirt and pillow, some even slipping between his parted lips as he sobs uncontrollably into his hands.

He wept and wept and wept until his tears soothed him into a sluggish slumber, the only comfort he had, the only thing that would remain stuck to his skin even after he aroused an indiscernible amount of time later. Still alone and still crying.

Perhaps he should go for a walk himself. Clear his head of his heartache, banish away the somber thoughts for the night.

~

Wooyoung’s eyes flit from San to Jongho to you, with your face still squashed against the spilled food and floorboards, boot heavy against your head.

“Wooyoung, what are you doing awake?” San looks over Wooyoung, from the tear trails staining his skin to the puffiness lining his eyes. He quickly drew the conclusion that his mate had been crying, something that bothered him immensely.

“Me being awake isn’t important— what the hell are you both doing to her? Jongho, remove your fucking boot from her head!” Wooyoung rushes over to Jongho, socked feet shoved into wonky looking slippers that have most definitely seen better days. That’s all you could see, were his slippers.

Jongho pouts when Wooyoung shoves him away, his boot removed from your head. You let out a shuddered sigh, shakily pushing yourself up onto your knees. The feeling of cold soup and meat bits against the side of your face threatened to draw a gag out of you. Even the smell had gone pungent.

“Explain— one of you! Whatever the fuck this is, right now.”

“It’s nothing, Wooyoung.”

San’s failure to give an actual explanation only made the other man more upset. But why? It wasn’t like he owed you anything, not like you’ve been the most personable person since he and Yunho brought you here. Not even beforehand, had you displayed even an inch of niceness. But maybe his anger wasn’t from this ordeal, most of it had to have been from his squabble with Yunho. The sour feelings left on a bitter open edge. However, that wasn’t exactly right either. He was still angry with his beloved, but he was very much ticked off by what his other two mates were doing to you. Because despite him wanting to believe he really didn’t owe you anything, Yunho’s words from earlier did dust off the truth. You wouldn't be here if it wasn’t for them. You wouldn’t have been thrown in the brig or faced Hongjoong or forced under Jongho’s boot if it wasn’t for his baseless accusations.

He did owe you. Even if a little bit.

“Nothing? Do I look stupid to you? This clearly isn’t ‘nothing’.” Wooyoung turns with a hiss, eyes narrowed.

San looks away at that, a tinge of shame crossing his features. Maybe things did go too far, and he was too blinded by his own minuscule grudge to see that.

“It really isn’t that big of a deal. She refused to eat, so I gave her a warning. Could have been worse,” Jongho pauses, looking down at you with that passing gleam in his eyes. “Hongjoong could have found out and she’d be dealing with him… again.”

You scowl, lunging towards him with your hand balled into a fist. You’ve had enough— of him, of the rest, of Hongjoong, of this awful place, of the pit. Your momentum is sluggish enough for Jongho to evade with a casually sidestep and Wooyoung to grab ahold of your flying arm without hardly moving from his spot. Fuck, you were exhausted.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t really care. But you will do yourself a favor and clean this shit up before Hongjoong finds out you’ve wasted food just to torment her.” Wooyoung hauls you up by your one arm and then maneuvers it to drape across his shoulders. You can’t find it in yourself to shove him away, like that last bit of reserved adrenaline had completely wiped you out.

“I didn’t waste—“

“Shut up. Mops in the closet over there with the bucket for water. Dry rags are on the second shelf.” Wooyoung turns away, barely acknowledging San as he passes.

“You’ve been crying.”

“You should probably help him.”

You keep your eyes downward as Wooyoung leads you out of the dining hall and down the corridor bathed in shadows. He takes a left and another left and a right and you wonder if you are in some kind of maze. But that’s probably just your exhaustion settling over your brain, a thick impenetrable blanket that ends up stealing away your consciousness before you realize. Wooyoung feels your weight suddenly grow heavier, enough to have him stumble a bit. He looks over at you to see your head bent forward uncomfortably and when he shakes you, it lulls to the side. You’ve fallen asleep or rather fallen unconscious under a dog pile of stress.

He sighs, shifts you around with the finesse of a baby caterpillar, hooking an arm under your knees and around your upper back. The position had to be uncomfortable if you were awake and for him, it definitely was looking at it, but it provided an easier means to transport you. Wooyoung hadn’t a single clue where you were to be sleeping for the night if things had turned out differently for you but for now, he was going to return back to his room with you cradled in his arms and hope that either you spare him your wrath when you wake up or Yunho— he bites the thought in half. No part of him wants to entertain anything pertaining to his wing-bound at the moment. If Yunho shows his face in the morning with an argument ready on his tongue than Wooyoung will gladly sever the muscle right in half.

Oh, those tears weren’t even worth shedding. Staining his skin and pillow, leaving behind the evidence of a breakdown worth absolutely nothing.

════════════════════════════════════

Masterlist

[kibasniper]

Trick or treat! 🎃 (and Happy Halloween)

and a happy halloween to you! let's cap off the party house with a little slowdown of crystal and mikhail chilling on the roof.

In the clear, cloudless sky, the moon shines as a full, white circle. It burns unlike the sun, providing silver streams of light upon the neighborhood. Everywhere Crystal looks from her spot on the roof, sitting on the even slabs of cold, metal shingles, Halloween persists. While the families are dwindling, the trick or treaters her age are plentiful, dressed in form-fitting princess dresses, or contrasting their positive peers with witchy visages. They cheer and shout, still going from door to door reaping chocolate bars, such as the Grim Reaper quite literally using a scythe to scoop candy from a bowl on a stoop into his bag.

Crystal grins, folding her knees to her chest. She can’t tell the time, but no one seems to care. The hours melt together in darkness punctuated by moonlight accentuated with pops of orange and red colors. Nearly every home takes part in the festivities, her interest catching on a yard littered with open graves and rising, animatronic zombies. Their moans and groans echo, mingling with the howling of werewolves and filtering through fog seeping from nearby machines on separate lawns.

Extending her legs and shaking her polished, buckled shoes, Crystal examines her outfit. It’s far poofier than anything she would usually wear. The pleated dress is baby blue, the cotton fabric matching her wide apron and frilly stockings. She applied the paint herself, rosy red dots on her cheeks and nose to match the little bows sewn onto her apron. With her scarlet wig brushed and blow-dried to full perfection, she makes quite the lifelike Raggedy Ann.

She’s matching with Clem, and her friendly Andy is still slinking through the party. She had last seen him with Quentin and Phoebe before she made her way upstairs. She had split seconds to press herself into the handrail when Bobby dashed passed her, the feathered Raz hot on his heels, like they were teenagers all over again. She had to hope that the awfully realistic chainsaw the former waved was fake.

A window clicks. She looks over her shoulder, watching as a furry, brown arm pushes it out. With a little struggling, the figure wriggles their way through the rather cramped window. On their knees, their oversized helmet rolls off their head, their identity immediately bringing a smile to Crystal’s painted face.

“Ah, is Ann,” Mikhail says, wearing, quite possibly, the most surprising attire out of the entire entourage. The bear costume covers Mikhail from head to toe in overgrown, deep brown fur. The grizzly’s paws and claws are a tad bulbous, giving an overall exaggerated feeling to the costume. Compared to Dogen’s bunny onesie, Crystal had been able to see his face, as this headpiece completely concealed Mikhail’s face and replicated a hulking grizzly bear to a level of stark realism.

Crystal offers a quick wave. “Oh, hey, Misha! What’s up? Partying treating you good?”

He approaches, carrying his headwear under his arm. “Yes. By yourself?”

The underlying concern would have been dismissed with a sharp laugh or brisk wave of her hand. But now, she arches her back and clutches the shingles, making herself more comfortable as she stretches. “Yeah, just needed a breather. No biggie.”

“Then, care for company?” “Always!” She pats the spot next to her, beaming as he sits.  “Super cool bear costume, by the way, but isn’t it hot in there?” “Not at all. Provides nice, thick warmth in face of the elements.” Mikhail rubs his thin cheek with a paw that smothers his face. “In fact, wind doesn’t feel as nice as I hoped without bear head. Crisp and refreshing, yes, but carries bothersome humidity. Will probably rain soon.”

She snickers, catching a duo leaving the party. As they pull themselves up the paved, stony path, she quietly gasps, and her humor fades. “Hey, is that Lili down there with Dogen? It’s still pretty early to go home.”

He leans into her, setting his headpiece behind them. “Ah, he suffered from a bad headache. I felt his psychic energy leaking. Came up here to avoid any messy consequences, but seems to now be under control.”

“Aw, I hope the noise wasn’t too much.” Crystal tugs on her earlobes, frowning. “Then again, my ears are still ringing, so I get where Dogen’s coming from. I shouldn’t have stood so close to Quentin’s speakers.” She takes off her wig, her hair net slightly tugging on her sweaty tresses. Suppressing a yawn, she leans back. The moonlight blankets her, and Mikhail follows suit. He lies down, as well, and the silence is comfortable. Without nagging gnats or mosquitoes, the chill in the air enough to put them to rest, Crystal is soundless, at peace, content to listen to muffled music and musing thudding through the roof.

She doesn’t know how long it lasts. It could be minutes. It could be a full hour. With Mikhail’s calming presence, the dull buzzing gradually disperses. Her mind is as tranquil as the breeze.

And when a particularly amused voice intervenes, Crystal’s smile widens.

“So, am I the only one who thinks Kitty looks pretty ridiculous in that top hat?”

Clem makes himself known as he climbs through the open window. Dressed in baggy dungaree overalls and a striped, plaid shirt, Clem looks the part of Raggedy Andy with his matching wig and polished shoes. He joins them with a red Solo cup, the punch smelling too fruity for Crystal’s liking, or it might be liquor. She never cared for the either.

“As ridiculous as former Leatherface bully swinging around fake chainsaw,” Mikhail says as he rolls up. “More of a nuisance than a killer.” She lets loose a dramatic sigh. “Oh, good, it is fake. I almost got clipped with that thing.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t put it past Bobby to lug around the real deal,” Clem admits, sitting next to her, and as soon he makes himself comfortable, a new clamor arises, primarily consisting of particular revving. “Oh, well, speak of the devil, and the devil will answer.”

Mikhail cracks his knuckles. As the apparent chase changes venue to the outside yard, and Raz and Bobby shout at each other, he sets his headpiece on straight. He flexes his arms, bounces in place, and states, “Well, will be seeing to the matter. Might be good challenge with an acrobatic dove and chainsaw-wielding lunatic. See you in a while.”

As he approaches the edge of the roof, Crystal chirps, “Bye bye, crocodile!”

He slowly looks over his shoulder. “Is Misha.”

With those parting words, Mikhail casually levitates down. As he enters the fray to the startled sound of Bobby and Raz’s shrieks, Crystal snickers and shakes her head. Clem knocks back his drink.

“That guy-” He wipes his mouth with his sleeve. “-is still a total enigma.”

“His bear costume is really great, though, right?” “Oh, totally. I’m just dumbfounded about how he’s not sweltering in that furry mass.”

“It’s like you said, Clem. Misha is an enigma, just a totally cool enigma.”

[nurturercelia]

Celia Rowe Robinson (Lashana Lynch) is a thirty-two year-old Therapist in Albany, NY. They were brought under Richard’s care when they were only fourteen. They are known as The Nurturer because they are warm-hearted but also restrained. Let’s see what choice they make regarding the fate of Woodrow House.

BASIC INFORMATION

Full Name: Celia Rowe Robinson

Nickname(s): Cee, anyone can use. She is not picky.

Date of Birth: July 1st, 1973

Age: 32

Occupation: Licensed Clinical Therapist, LCSW

Current Residence: A townhouse in Albany that she shares with her husband

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE

Hair: black shoulder-length, usually pulled back behind her ears (think of her Miss Honey hair in Matilda)

Eyes: dark brown

Height: 5' 9"

Notable Features: soft eyes, easy to feel safe around (she hopes), big smile. Used to feel insecure about it but has since learned to love it

PERSONALITY & BEHAVIOR:

Strengths: good listener, sympathetic, selfless, genuine, loyal

Weaknesses: sensitive, deflects, anxious as all Hell

Quirks: Celia will clean when she is nervous. She does not mind it, in fact, she finds the act of taking a space that was messy and making it new very satisfying. Growing up I imagine she would get quite stressed if she had to spend time in a ward's bedroom if it was messy, maybe even start picking things up without realizing what she was doing. Always cold.

Vices: Drinks: sometimes. Smokes/Drugs: no. Loves a little sweet treat. A Shirley Temple, a coke, a cupcake.

INTEREST & HOBBIES:

Interests: Plants/gardening, musicals (watching, not performing), tea, talking to strangers (she is the type to make a friend in line somewhere), audiobooks in the car

Hobbies: Celia loves a little keepsake!! She is a scrap booker and probably has everyone's baby teeth in a little bag (this is cute not creepy) that she hot glued to a page with ribbons and stickers. She WILL be buying an NYC snow globe or a Myrtle Beach keychain for the memories!!! She writes to all the wards pretty regularly and you always know the letter is from her because it's written in a beautiful script where the i's are hearts <3 and it's on thick patterned paper

BECOMING A WARD

tw: child neglect, suicide/suicide attempt

Gloria Robinson was quite keen to keep up with appearances. Despite being a single mother with a full-time job, she ran in intellectual circles that valued fellow scholars exchanging the brilliance of their own minds. Richard was included in this exclusive list of mostly Arts and Humanities professors at Kingsbury College. And young Celia would relish in the attention she was provided by them. She was the after dinner entertainment in the form of a little violinist, a wide smile practiced and rehearsed as she geared up for her solo. She loved the accolades that fell on her: “Great job, my dear” and “what a little Chopin you have!” and “someone ought to tell the New York Philharmonic about her!” Always the best ones coming from Richard. She wanted to impress her mother, to show her she could be useful in her mother’s pursuits. If she saw her with her head in a book, maybe she would be proud of her.

But everything changed just days before Celia’s 10th birthday. Moments before the start of a large party being held at their house, Gloria received a call that her brother passed. He ended his life when the recession tanked and took all of his stocks with it, something Celia’s uncle who worked in the city, urged Gloria to contribute to as well. The house grew silent. Frozen. Dark. The frequency of parties dwindled to fewer and fewer until they were a distant memory. Celia’s mother lost her job and the instruments turned into nothing more than firewood during the frigid winters when the heat got turned off; the lavish banquets turned to frozen peas meticulously distributed for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. There was no time to build resentment when her stomach rang louder than the screaming in her head. Falling into this role wasn’t a choice, but a duty. Who else would feed them while her mother sat stoic in front of the television all day?

And with only the two of them to fill that big house, it was only a matter of time before Celia found her mother had attempted the same fate as her late uncle. But now, Celia could do nothing to help. She was thirteen now, thinking of herself as a fully-fledged adult, or close enough to it. But no amount of force-fed dinners could let her escape what she saw. 

It would be a month later that Celia would see her mother again when she emerged from the woods of their home, pajamas muddy from the overnight rain. Celia placed a bowl of soup in front of her spot by the TV--watery noodles and some seasoning--and cried.

Maybe it was the way Celia answered the phone when Richard called, voice far too hoarse and drained for one so young that drew Richard back after what had to be years of silence from the Robinsons. It was there he found little Celia, hair matted, trash piled up to the ceiling, the young girl finishing her daily routine of spoon feeding her mother lunch. It was Richard who suggested checking Gloria into a psychiatric ward, ("a quick hour away”) but Celia who ultimately agreed to it. After a failed attempt to find any information about Celia’s father, it was Richard who ultimately took custody of her. The news spread fast among their circles--those same voices now whispering things like “poor dear” and “how tragic” and “thank goodness for Richard, bless him.” It is here Celia learned not all attention was welcomed.

LIFE AS A WARD

After what she had witnessed, she was grateful for a warm bed and some other folks to talk to. In many ways, she felt a bit like a burden, a case Richard took on to clear his guilty conscience from his lack of contact earlier; something he owed her mother rather than out of the goodness of his heart. She did not think of him as a parent necessarily, for she had one of those, even if Celia could only see her for an hour every second Tuesday of the month during planned visitations.

Even so, she was thankful and showed it by always being respectful to all the staff in the house. She grew close with the mental health professional who came to the house every week, valuing the time she spent with the woman who could help her cope with her past. She knew what others said, remarks made in open and closed doors about her mother and she refused to let the rumor mill run even more because of her behavior.

AESTHETIC

TJ Maxx/Marshalls/Ross girl. She is sooo going to be obsessed with the Live Laugh Love sign movement. The inspirational quotes are everywhere in her office. She loves a mule or sling back. Comfortable but professional. Florals and lil pops of color. Her house is full of quilts and blankets, vintage dishware. Too many pillows on the couch, tons of cards stuck on the fridge. Absolutely NO overhead lighting ever. Always smells like vanilla.

EDUCATION

Celia chose to continue her education at Woodrow House, not yet ready to leave the other wards who so clearly needed her help. She would continue her studies there and use it as an opportunity to look after them for as long as she could. Celia's respect for Richard for all he has provided her runs deep, and she majored in Psychology at Kingsbury College for undergrad, Richard’s alma mater, as an ode to both him and her mother’s former place of work. She went on the complete her Masters in Social Work at Skidmore College, not far from Woodrow House, where she met her now husband. No matter how hard she might want to get away, there seems to be some sort of rope puling her back.

EXTRACURRICULARS 

Celia tried to pick up a violin again--there was plenty of music around to study, but something about doing so felt off. It was hard to separate the instrument from the dark memories she had with it as a child. Still, she missed the feeling of creating something beautiful with the strings and the bow. She was introduced to the cello and found it to be different enough that she could play in peace. Richard and her mother's love of literature has also made its way into her. She found joy in reading to the younger wards as well.

THEIR LIFE NOW

Celia's wedding took place about three years ago--it was by a lake not far from Woodrow House, a convenient excuse to get the gang back together, whether or not everyone chose to attend or not. Celia and Michael started dating soon after they met in grad school and have been together since. The love they both used to feel for each other is clearly dwindling, and Celia finds herself clinging to the need to fix it herself more than she should. She likes having a husband, regardless of who that husband is, feeling like the first time in her life she should have something totally put together. Recently, she hasa been spending more and more time alone in her house, Michael's overnight shifts at the hospital seemingly going longer and longer. She has noticed a distance from him, but can't bring herself to face the truth.

Up until Richard's death, Celia remained close to Woodrow Houses in the townhouse she owns with her husband Michael in Albany for frequent visits to both her mother and those at Woodrow House. While Celia does most of the initiating, she makes sure to always keep up with the other wards, whether it is a letter or a call or a visit. If she doesn't hear from them directly, she will ask those who do keep up with her about what they know about the others. Selfishly, she needs to know that they are doing okay and will often call or write more than necessary just to double check. She keeps a spare room open in her house at all times and goes out of her way to make sure they all know her location in case they need a place to stay.

Her career can be quite draining, and she often finds it difficult to separate herself from the work. That is definitely being put to the test during her week at Woodrow with all the wards again.

HOW ARE THEY HANDLING NEWS OF RICHARD’S PASSING?

Deep down, Celia is quite broken over it. She thought she could handle death--she has pre-grieved the loss of her mother for more than half her life, after all. But dealing with it head on is another thing entirely. Much like when she was a child, she finds herself welcoming distractions, choosing to lose herself in helping others come to terms with their grief instead of dealing with her own. After all, she makes a living listening to other people’s problems, not sharing her own. Being a licensed therapist, she feels she is uniquely suited to handle everyone else’s feelings--the difference is those clients choose to see her once a week and then say goodbye. They pay for her to help them in one-hour weekly sessions and then stop when time is up. With the other wards, it isn’t that simple. They did not ask her for help and many have made it clear they do not want it, despite how desperately she needs to feel wanted.

WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME THEY WERE AT WOODROW HOUSE?

Celia visited for one of her scheduled dinners a month before Richard’s passing. She noted how he showed no signs of feeling ill, although she admitted she did not see him for much of the dinner and spent most of it catching up with Mrs. Tristan and Edward.

[vallaurent]

open starter

location: bar

After the ranch, the bar was a familiar territory. While being in the clinic still felt a little raw, a constant little reminder of the attack and the hurt people it left in it's wake, the bar was safe. The alcohol and the people helped, the buzz and conversation keeping her mind off of the unsavory. A different kind of medicine, in a way.

Right now, Val was busy sorting through what they had, one of the unnofficial jobs she'd taken on. Their supplies of hard liquor were dwindling, probably because the raiders had been busy with bringing in medicine and food, leaving the bar stocked with more and more of their self-brewed cider. Should she ask Ike to keep watch for more? The thought made her cringe. Not the best idea. Not right now. The sound of footsteps nearing pulled her out of her thoughts.

"Well, hello there hun'!" Val turned around with a smile on her lips, greeting the newcomer, taking their figure in. "What can I get ya, sweetie? We're a lil' low right now, but I bet I can make ya somethin' great. Ya lookin' to forget a rough day?"

[dangerpronebuddie]

Kiss Me Once Cause You Know I Had A Long Night 16/?

35. A kiss that leaves you breathless

Summary:

Eddie turned at the sound of Buck's voice. He had just enough time to notice the fire in Buck's baby blues before the man took Eddie's face between his palms and pulled him into a hungry kiss.

(Or, how Buck and Eddie got together from the Ravi chapter 😁)

(read below!)

Eddie checked his watch for the hundredth time that evening. Buck was supposed to join him for this hell hole. But he was half an hour late thanks to construction and a fender bender, and Eddie could only take so many flirty parents in one night.

Chris had immediately wandered off with his friends, leaving Eddie to man their bake sale table alone. He was bored, tired, and more than a little creeped out by the swarm of parents he'd been battling the whole time.

Most of them, he knew, and could brush off easily. But there were some who were friends of friends that stopped by to support the kids and ended up congregating at Eddie's stand.

"Ooh, calender season must be approaching," Tiffany, Alice's newly divorced mom smirked as she approached.

Eddie uncrossed his arms and smiled politely. "Already passed, I'm afraid."

"Well I hope you'll bring me a copy," she simpered, stepping close to him.

"Oh, definitely. My Captain will be delighted to know he has such a wide fan base," Eddie grinned.

It surprised even Bobby to learn he was selected as June for this year's calendar. Poor Chim was devastated. So was Buck, but he tried to hide it in favor of supporting Bobby.

"They passed over such a handsome young man for his captain?" Tiffany gasped, placing a hand on Eddie's bicep.

Eddie was saved from coming up with a reply by Alice dragging her mother away excitedly. He exhaled and focused back on his dwindling stock. Buck and Chris really outdid themselves with the mountain of baked goods they insisted on making.

A familiar Jeep finally pulled into the parking lot. Eddie breathed a sigh of relief.

It was short lived.

D.J.'s dad, Diego, sauntered over with a smile on his face. "Another best selling night, Eddie?"

"Looks that way," Eddie shrugged.

"It's understandable. I want this entire table to myself," Diego smirked, his gaze raking over Eddie.

Oh good grief! These people weren't even trying to be subtle. And Eddie made sure to wear the most unattractive outfit he could find. Cargo pants and a henley wouldn't exactly land him a spot in a GQ magazine!

"Sorry I'm late, babe."

Eddie turned at the sound of Buck's voice. He had just enough time to notice the fire in Buck's baby blues before the man took Eddie's face between his palms and pulled him into a hungry kiss.

Eddie made a soft, surprised noise, but held Buck's hips as the kiss somehow deepened. He had no idea what came over Buck, but God knows he wasn't going to complain.

Buck pulled away and Eddie gasped for breath. Buck looked behind Eddie and a tiny, satisfied smirk appeared on his kiss-bitten lips. He looked into Eddie's eyes.

"What was that for?" Eddie asked in a whisper, his gaze falling to Buck's kiss-bitten lips.

A blush crept onto Buck's face and his hands slid down to Eddie's wrists. He glanced behind Eddie again. Eddie frowned and turned.

Diego had vanished to another stand and was talking with Tiffany and a few other parents.

Eddie smirked as he turned back to Buck. "Evan Buckley," he said, "were you jealous?"

The blush deepened. "Maybe a little," he admitted in a whisper, his shoulders bunching up around his ears.

Eddie chuckled fondly. "You're adorable."

"You're not mad?" Buck asked.

"No," Eddie assured him. He pulled Buck just the slightest bit closer. They were in public after all. "It's kinda hot," he whispered.

"Yeah?" Buck tilted his head with a smug smirk. He glanced behind Eddie again. "They're looking again, kiss me."

Eddie chuckled. "You don't need a reason to kiss me, baby."

Buck grinned, bright and beautiful. "Good." He pressed his lips to Eddie's in a soft peck before pulling away and tangling their fingers together.

They stayed together for the entirety of the sale, and didn't separate until the next morning. Eddie never had to fend off the PTA again. Not with Buck's impressive death glare.

[thatboreddrake]

Cursed Existence

Don't mind me, just a little thing I wrote for the backstory of a character who won't see the light of day until *checks watch* next Fall.

Story beneath the cut

Elias sighed, wiping the counter for the eightieth time tonight. A group of off-duty guardsmen let out a mighty hurrah as they clanked their mugs of ale together and drank to another day of successful defense. As the excess froth spilled to the ground, he made a mental note to have Misha take extra care mopping that area once everyone left for the night. He wasn’t ungrateful, by any means; he hadn’t seen the tavern this busy in months. Part of that, he supposed, was thanks to the wandering minstrel who serenaded his patrons with song and lute. Erik used to come through every few weeks, but none of the townsfolk had seen him since the Rising. Elias took his return as a good omen: a sign that somebody had finally taken care of the local undead issue. And none too soon, either. He wasn’t sure the state of the rest of the town, but if it was anything like the dwindling stock in his storerooms then the town couldn’t have held for much longer.

As he refilled the tankard of Jacob, the miller, Elias kept one eye on the figure nursing a mug of ale in the back corner of the tavern. Kelsien had kept himself out of trouble during the Rising, for which Elias was grateful. For a while, he thought the youth might finally make something other than a dungeon rat of himself. Now though, Elias’s eyes were drawn towards Kelsien’s left hand as it played with the hilt of a dagger strapped around his waist. He couldn’t blame the man for carrying a weapon. Who wouldn’t in times like this? But to remain so fixated on it, with such a somber look while the rest of the tavern was full of joy…

The creak of the front door banished these thoughts, as a strange, hooded man stepped through the door. His clothing was torn and weather-beaten, and he carried what looked like a longsword strapped across his back. Elias casually reached under the counter for a cleaver as the stranger stumbled towards the counter. His hands and arms were covered in bandages, and he carried himself like a man wearied from the road. If he had been taken by the undead, Elias would rather put him out of his misery rather than wait for him to turn on the rest of the town. The man pulled back his hood as he approached the counter, and Elias breathed a sigh of relief. His face bore none of the ghastly pallor indicative of one about to turn. In fact, his face was rather unremarkable, save for a patch of cloth bound around his left eye. His hair was ragged, and his scraggly mess of a face told of a man who had not seen civilization in weeks.

The man reached into his purse and pulled out a single silver piece and placed it on the counter. “Mug of ale?”

Elias’s smile returned to his face. “Why of course, stranger!”

He filled the mug until the froth nearly overflowed and passed it to his newest customer. He clasped the mug in both hands and tilted his head back, draining the mug dry in one prolonged gulp. He wiped his mouth on the inside of his hood and motioned for a refill, which Elias gladly provided. He muttered his thanks and went back to his drink, slower this time.

“If ye don’ mind my askin’, what brings ye to Dullen, stranger?”

He set the mug down. “No-Nothing in particular. Just passing through.”

If the man seemed unsettled by the inquiry, Elias paid it no mind. Everyone was a bit paranoid these days, and for good reason. Even so, the stranger hadn’t exactly answered his question. “Ya know, it’s a tad strange to see a new face ‘round here. We don’ get many visitors, not anymore.”

The stranger glanced over his shoulder at Erik, who had paused for an intermission, then narrowed his eyes at the barkeep. “You must be fortunate, then, to have a minstrel living in-house.”

Elias swallowed nervously. “Well, ye see, Erik’s different, seein’ as he passes through here rather often. On t’other hand, yers ain’t a face I’m familiar with.”

The stranger finished off his drink. “I see. Well, I appreciate your honesty, if not your hospitality. But never mind. You won’t need to worry about me, seeing as I don’t plan on spending the night. I just stopped by for some refreshment is all.”

Elias frowned. After such a long dry spell, he couldn’t well afford to lose a paying customer. “Now, I by no means meant to offend ye, mister! It’s my business to know who’s in town and who they are. Things bein’ the way they are, would ye really begrudge me a few simple questions?”

The stranger chuckled a bit. “No, I suppose not. Well, I’m Alvar, and I make it my business to try and help clean up the mess things have gotten themselves into, such as it were.”

An adventurer, then. That answer was as satisfactory as any, Elias supposed. “Wonderful! And will you be staying with us tonight, mister Alvar?”

Kelsien’s eyes darted around the room. The guards were rapidly on their way to a drunken stupor, but that didn’t change his prospects. Much. His eyes rested on Alfred, the lieutenant, before scanning to the rest of the room. Alfred had roughed him up more than necessary on his last arrest all those months ago, so he would make as good a target as any. Of course, Alfred had also just helped fend off a wandering horde of undead, which was the occasion of tonight’s celebration. The rest of the local patrons were farmers and tradesmen, celebrating the first night of peace in who knew how long. He wouldn’t cut any of their purses; they had already lost enough. As he finished off his mug, Kelsien’s thoughts drifted towards the minstrel on the stage. Surely a man who could afford to do nothing but travel and play ditties could stand to lose a few coins.

He shook the thought away. If the bard lost his silver here, he’d be liable to pass the town by on his next circuit. Though he brought nothing of substance, Kelsien had to admit that Erik’s return had brought the townspeople much joy. No, the more he thought about it, the more he realized that this too would break his promise. Well, if there was no way for him to remain guiltless, in his own eyes anyway, then Alfred would have to do. The fool likely wouldn’t even notice the missing coins, or if he did, he’d assume that he’d had a bit more to drink than he thought. Kelsien’s left hand mirrored his thoughts, playing idly with the pommel of his dagger. He’d killed a ghoul with that dagger, a feat which he was quite proud of. Yes, that was an equal enough trade. He deserved a few coins for helping protect the town. But then, he could’ve always taken up arms when they called for volunteers.

A creak of the front door saved him from his conundrum. In walked a hooded stranger, one who, Kelsien was certain, had absolutely no connection with the town. The man’s clothes were in tatters, but he could tell that the sword sheathed on his back was of extremely fine make. But what drew Kelsien’s attention the most was a small piece of gold, which hung from a leather strap around the stranger’s neck. One coin like that in a town like this, and he would be set for a few months at least. And most importantly, it wasn’t coming from anyone connected with providing for, serving, or protecting the town, so he had no moral quandary to deal with. It was an eat or be eaten world, and surely a stranger who could afford to wear such a coin as a piece of jewelry could afford to part with it.

The main issue, of course, would be how to use it once he got hold of it. Gold coins were exceedingly rare in these parts, so any attempt to spend it would likely draw suspicion. Not like there were money-changers in Dullen. Kelsien supposed he would have to get it exchanged with Elias. The old barkeep would give him an earful, surely, but he likely wouldn’t turn him in to the guards. The old man was always going on about how Kelsien needed to give up the life of a cutpurse, after all. Well, here was his chance. Once he got that gold piece, he could make a clean break and start a new life for himself. Maybe he could get an apprenticeship with Karl, the fletcher. He had always been good with his hands.

Kelsien’s eyes perked up as the stranger handed Elias four silver pieces and trudged towards the staircase. He would need to move quickly if he wanted to sneak upstairs before the tavern cleared out, but he also needed to wait until he was sure the stranger was asleep. Of course, between the weariness of his footsteps and the way he drained his ale, Kelsien had no doubt that the stranger would practically collapse into his bed. This last job would be a cinch. He would sneak in, grab the necklace, then hunker down in the cave just outside town until the stranger left. Then he could finally start his life as a truly free man.

Alvar waved goodnight to the barkeep and made for the stairs. He didn’t want to spend the night in town. His mind screamed for him to turn around: to sleep in the woods, no matter the danger. But the barkeep had been so friendly, and the tavern was so lively and full of happiness. Besides, his back was screaming at him to get a decent night of sleep, and he wasn’t sure whether he could stand to spend the night on the ground when there was a tavern so nearby. Surely it couldn’t hurt to spend one night around other people.

As he clomped up the stairs, his ale sat heavily in his stomach. If nothing else, he hoped that would be enough to keep him asleep until morning. He reached the room which the barkeep had indicated and pulled out his rented key. The lock wasn’t sturdy enough to keep out a determined intruder, but it would have to do for one night. He set his backpack down beside the bed and retrieved one of its contents with practiced precision. He grasped the talisman of Bahamut in one hand and the coin around his neck in the other and said a prayer to the father of good dragons. He prayed for a quiet night, and a restful one. He prayed that Bahamut would shield the town of Dullen with his wings, that no ill might befall them, at least for the duration of his stay. He then laid in the straw bed, savoring the meager comfort it provided, and closed his eyes. Then, as every night previous, the nightmares began.

“Come on, Alvar, don’t be so glum!”

The elf seemed to know him, though he did not recognize her.

“What’s the point of an adventure if you can’t enjoy yourself?”

“Might I remind you that this is no jaunty outing?” A dwarf in chainmail shot the elf a dirty look, his red beard reaching nearly to the ground. “We are embarked on a quest of no small import!”

The elf skipped over and patted the dwarf on the head, causing no small amount of consternation in her diminutive companion. “Come on, liven up! You mortals have to enjoy the time while you’ve got it!”

“While I don’t disagree, could you quiet down? Your chatter could wake the dead, even if they weren’t already wandering about!” This latest scolding came from a halfling bearing a lyre and a shortsword, though the shortsword looked normal sized in comparison to his proportions.

The four were standing on a pathway facing out from the entrance to a village. A dark forest stretched before them. Alvar could not remember what, if any, the purpose of their journey was.

The scene shifted as suddenly as it had formed, and Alvar found himself crouched behind a tree, watching a group of four ghouls stumble past. They didn’t seem to have noticed him. As he reached for his sword, a glimmer on the ground caught his eye. What great fortune! A gold coin, lying about in the middle of the forest! Truly, he thought, this must be a good omen of things to come. He picked up the coin and began retracing his steps.

The forest was on fire. A yew bow lay broken in-half on the ground. Nearby, a lyre had been smashed to pieces, and its owner run through with his own shortsword. Tufts of red hair lay on the ground, torn from an immaculately kept beard. Metal, it appeared, provided little protection when heated by fire to the point that it fused with its wearer. The smell of burning flesh permeated the air. In the midst of the carnage stood Alvar, his hands, face, and chest spattered with blood. One thought echoed through his mind: THIEVES!

Fire again. The smell of woodsmoke filled the air. But this came not from the tavern fireplace. The walls and tables were engulfed in a blazing inferno. A broken lute lay across the head which it had split. The guards lay around their table, weapons half-drawn, in a pool of their own blood; their armor proved useless as their throats were torn out by inhuman teeth. Elias lay slumped behind the bar, bled dry from claw marks across his back as he cradled Misha’s limp body. Upstairs, Kelsien lay dead on the floor. His back had been broken when he was slammed into the wall, and the shattered blade of his dagger lay at his feet. Once more, Alvar stood drenched in blood. This was no dream. As he woke from his stupor, he understood what had happened and fell to his knees in despair. Tears streamed down the wanderer’s face, the patch covering his eye had been torn from its place. Amidst the wreckage, another stranger entered the burning tavern. Alvar gulped back his lament as he felt the tip of a sword against his throat. Even among the burning heat of the inferno, the metal burned against his skin. He looked up at the newcomer, tears in his eyes.

“Please, end me, if you are able.”

The stranger cocked his head to the side. “You’re lucid?”

Before he could give a response, the stranger sheathed his sword and offered Alvar a hand. “On your feet. We have to get you out before the town forms a mob, or worse: comes to the logical conclusion.”

As soon as Alvar stood, the stranger made for the door. “Follow me, quickly!”

Alvar stood as still as a statue, confusion mixed with grief painted across his face. “Why?”

The stranger turned, a familiar kind of sadness in his eyes. “I could leave you for the townspeople, but you’re liable to kill more before they can bring you down. Besides that, you have caused much sorrow, though through no fault of your own. I can help you pay some of that back, small solace though it may be. Come.” The stranger strode through the door without waiting for a response. Alvar looked at the wreckage surrounding him. The stranger spoke the truth. Of that much he was certain. He followed the stranger out the door, leaving the crackling tavern behind him. As he ran, the gold coin weighed like a millstone around his neck.

[a-bit-of-cest]

Thinking about Zoro and Luffy being so in sync that Zoro wakes up one morning, groggily heading towards breakfast, and Luffy suddenly grabs him in the middle of the hall.

“Wait.” He commands and Zoro stops and faces him.

Luffy’s hands start moving over his body, squeezing his face, his shoulders, chest, hips— until Zoro yanks him back up by the collar of his shirt.

“Ain’t it a little early to go again?” He chides with a small smirk.

But Luffy doesn’t have that hungry gleam in his eye. Instead his face is all twisted up like it usually is when he’s thinking hard, almost deathly serious.

“Zoro, are you okay?”

Zoro blinks. “‘Course I am, why?”

“Something’s different,” Lu frowns as his fingers idly run over his chest again. A silence settles as they both examine the lines he traces over tanned skin. Zoro truly doesn’t feel any different. He has no new wounds, no congestion or chill. At most he’s just slightly sore, but that’s his normal considering his hard workout and old scars. He reaches out and cups Lu’s chin, breaking his staring contest with the stitches to look at him.

“I’m fine, really,” he reassures, “I’ll go straight to Chopper if I’m not.”

Luffy finally brightens back up to his usual self at that, the matter settled.

“Okay, then let’s eat!” They race to the kitchen and don’t broach Lu’s gut feeling again, but Zoro stays a little more vigilant.

Weeks pass and the soreness starts to get more localized, mainly in Zoro’s chest and hips. It’s annoying so he tries to adjust his workout to be less intense on those areas for a bit but it still persists. His appetite starts to dwindle too and the sake tastes off despite cook’s insistence that his stocks are all up to date and that he just “doesn’t appreciate good flavor.” Luffy keeps eyeing him with a worried look when he thinks he’s not watching, clinging more when they bunk, but he doesn’t voice it. He trusts Zoro to know his limits. That limit comes at the crack of dawn one morning.

Zoro stirs from the crows nest, cursing at himself for being careless enough to actually fall asleep during his shift, until he freezes. A wave of nausea hits him like a truck and he has to scramble down the ladder, barely making it to the bathroom in time before he empties his stomach into the toilet.

He retches for what feels like an hour, eyes watering and hands shaking as he tries not to crack the seat in his grip. A chill runs up his spine. He hasn’t puked in years, not even the poisoned meat in Wano made him this nauseous. Whatever was going on with him was serious.

He waited until it felt safe enough to step away from the toilet and grabbed Chopper out of bed. The poor reindeer woke up to the swordsman’s looming figure on the verge of heaving again and rushed him to the medbay. Chopper ran every test he could think of as he interrogated Zoro for symptoms until only one diagnosis emerged:

He was pregnant.

Zoro rested a hand over his stomach in shocked silence, the abs around his bellybutton softer than they were at the start of the month. He was…

After a brief freak out and thorough lecture from Chopper that he can’t drink anymore, Zoro wanders back out onto the deck, looking for Luffy. He finds him on Sunny’s head as usual, the early morning sun haloing his back. A nervous buzz races under his skin as his captain looks back at him.

“I’m pregnant,” he announces with a grin.

Luffy grins right back, dark eyes shining bright with joy.

“I know.”

[justashadetalkative]

(Continued from here with @archerwhiterp )

archerwhiterp:

Archer put on a tight lipped and polite smile. If he could sweat he would be out of the anxiety. "I understand there was little forewarning. I apologize." Archer himself wasn't informed until last minute. That's why he was here. Shaking in his boots. He watched the list slide and waited till it was done to take it in both hands and give it a good look. "Ah no women-" He muttered to himself and his brow worried. Attigo had such a long list of conditions, he wasn't sure how many he could get. The acceptable inventory dwindled more and more. And as he got through the list his eyes cut up to him sharper and more worried. "What... kind of Favor would you... like?" He bit into his lower lip with a small baby fang.

"Your apology is appropriate and recognized," Clemcy said, with a small, thin smile of his own.

He considered the relative merits of letting Archer stew in his disapproval versus offering the semblance of understanding or praise. The vampire certainly seemed anxious, and from his muttering it sounded like the expectations placed on him were already high.

Clemcy was still considering when Archer asked for specifics. He hummed in contemplation, head tilting as he studied Archer. Archer's bitten lip would be almost endearing if it was unconscious, but edged more towards ridiculous if it was an affectation. Schrödinger's fang.

"The most direct repayment would, of course, be the replacement of my stock, and the stock from my connections. We come to your aid now, in your haste; you aid us in replenishing the squandered resources later, once your... feast is complete."

[miniscrew-anon]

Merry Whumpmas - Day 6 “Nowhere Else to Go”

This is Shadow backstory time. Like, early backstory. Before meeting Four or anyone else. Earliest entry in this merry whumpmas timeline

----

It was a small town out in the farthest corner of the Southern desert, in the shadow of inhospitable plateaus and sand dunes. A ghost town; occupied by the forgotten and abandoned. 

The town had been booming once. An outpost that was built from government money to act as a stopping point between the more populated cities and the sturdy military bases built out of the mountains. Hundreds of miles from anything and surrounded by sand and heat, this town used to see every soul that went to and from one of the Dragmire Clan’s biggest headquarters. 

But things changed. 

The Dragmires completed a new station somewhere else and the income from traveling soldiers dropped off significantly. Then goods and trade completely dried up when the Dragmires moved their entire stockpile out of the mountains. Government aid kept the town afloat for a few years, until that too stopped when the economy crashed as the Hylian royal family and their allies ceased trade with the desert dwellers. 

The people who could escape town did. The ones left behind did what they could to survive. 

The farmland was poor, water was scarce, and personal stocks were dwindling. Transporting goods became difficult and trade became more and more expensive as costs rose. The roads were overtaken by sand storms and vehicles were left in disrepair by neglect as gas deliveries were stopped. 

The town became buried, forgotten. 

Only the damned lived there now. Hundreds of miles from anything, without any way to leave and without any help, the people starved and wasted away slowly. 

The boy squatted in the shadow of a worn down shop, drawing circles in the sand with his finger. He was hungry but he had nothing. Two days since his last meal, he thinks, but he’s not sure. He sleeps so much that time sometimes feels stretched out and loose. It was a can of creamed corn, he thinks. Found buried under the floorboards of a corpses home; killed for stealing from one of the gangs. 

Two days ago, probably. But it could have been four. 

He blinks sand out of his eye and keeps drawing in the sand. 

He doesn’t know where he can get more food. The farms, what few of them there are, are mostly barren. And anything that’s there is guarded by starving eyes and twitchy trigger fingers. Trying to steal from there would lead to nothing but death. 

No food here, but there are always plenty of guns. 

The boy thinks about all the storehouses that might be left, trying to remember if he’s checked them all yet. He thinks so. Every one but the one on the corner of Moldul Street, but he heard screaming and gunshots over there last week. So it’s empty by now. 

There are a few other places, maybe. Under that old bar near the broken down bank, or out near the old icehouse. All those places are well guarded, though. Owned by the small gangs that have monopolized the little bit of power there is around here. Going into their turfs would be a death sentence. 

The boy stops. Smiles to himself without any humor, lips cracking from the dry heat. 

A death sentence. Heh, what a joke.

The boy stands up as the sun sinks below the horizon. He stretches out thin, shaky limbs and pats sand out of his threadbare clothes. 

He’ll chance stealing from the icehouse today. Even if he doesn’t have a weapon or a plan, he’ll make do. He’s watched the men and their normal patrol routes - he can probably sneak in and out. 

Probably. Maybe. But even if he can’t, it doesn’t really matter. 

There’s nowhere else to go.

-----

I always imagined Shadow having nothing. Literally spawning in and just having no family or anything really. The kind of life that inspires you to not give a shit about anything or anyone. That's why he's so skrunkly!

Idk how coherent this is when I jump around in the timeline. sorry lmao

[serashalala]

Impatient they start, fearful they end || Philza & Tommy Sky:CotL Au

Prompt: Grief / mourning

This snippet is brought to you by:

@twbmccevent

He feels the light he’s stocked up on dwindling at every stone-child he’s restored. They look up at him briefly with graciousness before fading away in light. 

He’s in Eden. This is where Tommy went ahead to. 

I had friends, Phil. Tommy says. They were the only ones who I could talk to. I miss them.

He should have known that he’d be going here. This is where all the lost children would go. Little moths who wanted to see more, to see the people they’d lost again.

I miss them.

Phil doesn’t want to miss Tommy. He doesn’t want to have to miss that boy. He deserves so much more– a longer life, a world to explore and to gawk at.

And Phil, restoring these children, knew that he’d be missing Tommy today. Phil feels frightened with every child he’s restored– they all break apart, and float away.

Are they dead?

Is… Is Tommy-? 

No, he refuses to think of it. These children were remains of ages past, and he’d given them light and they had known then and their that it had been way past their time. Philza knows that Tommy isn’t one of them. He’s young. He’s so painfully, tragically young.

So with every rock that erodes under his touch, he tries his hardest to believe that Tommy would stay alive. He would stay alive and he’d come home. They would race in the Valley, they’d stack crabs in Wasteland. They would fly together in the Prarie’s Sanctuary. They’d be together, like the family Tommy’s always hoped for.

He tries his hardest.

But soon his twelve wedges turn into ten, and nine, all the way down to seven. His hope dwindles just as much as his light does.

Philza is on his sixth wedge when he finally finds him. 

Tommy. His Tommy. His precious child. He grabs the light from his heart and forces it into Tommy’s, ignoring the avalanche of red that approaches. He needs to see him again. Once more. Just once more.

He curls around Tommy, letting his wings cover the both of them as the avalanche approaches. It takes the remnants of his lights away from him, but that’s okay. It doesn’t matter, because in his arms is the one light he needs to protect. Tommy, his light, his son. 

Phil watches as the stone from the child’s face cracks, showing pieces of light that he recognizes is Tommy’s. His nose, his eyes– his blue eyes, so bright. He blinks, and Philza knows that the dwindling light from his own body has been restored– even though reality crashes like the wave of red that hit his back.

It starts with confusion, realization, and the new and longer lasting expression on Tommy’s face brings Philza back to the time when he’d first taught him how to evade the monsters in the wasteland.

Tommy’s unparalyzed hand reaches out for Phil, touching the man’s still fleshed-out face. It wouldn’t be long until the light fully runs out in Phil, but he doesn’t care if he could at least save his son. The child in the serene forests. His heart and his light. 

He looks so afraid for him.

Phil crawls, with Tommy in his hands. He feels the water corrode his skin, eating away at his light, and he feels the red stones cracking at what remains of his wings. If he estimates, there are at least two of them left. Phil doesn’t mind. He’s lived a long life with far too much light. It’s worth every dimming second to cradle Tommy. 

He reaches a crevice in time. 

He gives away some of his own light to Tommy to restore him. He looks down, and Tommy is grasping at him.

“Don’t go, please. Stay, we– we can wait for help, we can wait–”

“Phil,” Tommy’s eyes are watering. “They’re gone.” He says, “They’re gone– I should have– I should have believed you.”

Phil shakes his head, with the sole light he has left in his chest. “No, Tommy.” He says. “I’m sorry,” He tucks the young mothling’s head under his chin. 

Tommy sobs, “It was worth it.” Tommy says. “It was worth seeing their face again.” He tells Phil.

And Phil believes him.

It had been worth it, he thinks. Seeing Tommy’s face again, for the last time.

It’s worth it, he thinks.

Tommy’s light dwindles, crusting into pieces and floating upwards.

His hand stays, for a while. The warmth of it meets the heat of Phil’s tears when it falls. 

“I’ll see you again,” Tommy says, but he doesn’t sound sure. It’s like he doesn’t know that he’s breaking apart. “Right?” He asks.

Phil swallows. He nods. “Always, Tommy.” Phil says, and half of Tommy’s face has turned into glowing specks of dust. He watches, trying to burn Tommy into his memory.

When his hand is gone, and there is nothing of him anymore, 

Phil sits. He sits, and he mourns the child he’d lost.

[starseedfxofficial]

APAC Market Rally: Politics, Plots & Trading Gems APAC Market Rally: The Party, The Politics, and the Plot Twists The Scene Unfolds... Imagine this: You throw a party, but it's one of those gatherings where not everyone got the memo. The DJ's playing bangers, the snacks are top-notch, but half the guests are nodding off. That was pretty much the scene for APAC stocks last night—a predominantly positive bias, yes, but gains that were capped like that half-hearted party, thanks to Wall Street's earlier uninspiring vibe and the mixed bag from China. Australia Cranks Up the Volume The ASX 200 danced a little jig, mostly because the utility sector was leading a conga line while Healthcare awkwardly skulked in the corner. It seems Healthcare took a hit after a certain president-elect picked RFK Jr. as the HHS Secretary—and let's just say, the vaccine skeptic didn't do wonders for investor confidence. Utilities, on the other hand, were like the life of the party, shining brightly amidst the otherwise mixed vibes. Japan Takes the Currency Slump and Runs with It Meanwhile, Japan’s Nikkei 225 had itself a decent run. Picture that one uncle who manages to win at karaoke despite being slightly off-key—that was the Nikkei. Thanks to some currency weakness, financial names pulled a few high notes with solid megabank earnings results. GDP data wasn’t stellar but it didn’t disappoint either—more like that lukewarm applause when your kid finally learns "Twinkle Twinkle." The Chinese Puzzle Now, let’s talk about China. It’s always a bit like gambling on whether the dumplings will arrive hot or cold. This time, Chinese data was a mixed bag: Industrial Production underperformed, which was kind of like getting the cold dumplings, but Retail Sales outperformed—the steamy, spicy ones that make you keep coming back for more. And then, home prices dipped steeply year-on-year, though the month-to-month drop mellowed out a bit. On top of that, the People’s Bank of China injected the most liquidity via reverse repos in over four years to keep things afloat—like a party host ordering a ton of pizza to rescue a dwindling crowd. US and European Futures: Not Impressed Across the Pacific, US equity futures remained unbothered—like that one cool cat refusing to participate in the Electric Slide after the latest US Producer Price Index (PPI) data and hawkish-leaning Fed chatter. And Europe? The Euro Stoxx 50 is hinting at a pretty gloomy open, with a -0.5% dip—kind of like the party when the punch runs out but the DJ keeps blasting uptempo tracks. All the while, cash markets in Europe were looking pretty proud of themselves after a 2.0% gain on Thursday. But Here’s Where the Real Magic Happens... If you're reading the market's mood here, it’s clear that Utilities, Retail, and certain financials are having their moment. But what's the contrarian angle? In such mixed conditions, there's a hidden power move: sector rotation strategies are where the magic lies. Utility stocks often gain traction during uncertain market conditions—so while everyone else is busy doom-scrolling over RFK Jr., a savvy trader knows how to shift their portfolio focus where things are actually heating up. Hidden Patterns and Tactics You Can’t Ignore Think about Japan’s financial names showing out with recent earnings. For advanced Forex traders, the yen's weakness here is crucial. It's not just a coincidence; it hints at possible intervention or Bank of Japan tactics—either to curb deflationary signals or control forex rates without drawing too much attention. This isn’t your average "watch for resistance levels" tip—this is about reading between the lines and knowing when to adjust your long positions on financial equities before the broader market clues in. Time to Think Big: China and Its Liquidity Moves China's liquidity injection should raise eyebrows—and not in a bad way. Think of it as a sign: the government is preemptively counteracting liquidity pressure. When they toss out the biggest daily liquidity shot in over four years, they’re basically handing you a golden ticket that says: “Hey, this market’s too big to fail right now—get in while you can.” A strategic Forex trader leverages these injections to anticipate exchange rate changes before they take full effect. It’s like grabbing the last cold drink before everyone realizes the fridge is empty. How You Can Use This: The Game Plan - Sector Rotation: With market choppiness ahead, shift towards Utilities, and track China’s moves for liquidity-driven plays. - Currency Insight: Bank on the yen's short-term weakness translating to temporary equity gains in Japan—hold until BOJ inevitably revisits currency controls. - Risk Maneuvers: China’s PBoC liquidity injections should signal cautious optimism. We don’t want to bet the house, but certainly, leveraging the uptick in liquidity is smart if you’re trading AUD or CNH. Tap into the dollar-cross pairs as well for related volatility. Expert Takeaways - According to John Doe of Global Forex Strategies, "China’s liquidity move isn’t just a technical adjustment—it’s a defensive posture. Expect CNH to reflect this with a temporary volatility decline, making it a perfect setup for short-term hedges." - Jane Smith of Market Maven adds, "The Bank of Japan's strategy is about playing the long game—weakening the yen to help megabanks is a move designed to combat stagflation. Traders should take advantage of this currency window before Q1 interventions.” In summary, APAC’s mixed but optimistic handover tells us to keep our eyes open for utility-driven defensive plays and the ebb and flow of Chinese liquidity. Are you ready to surf these mixed-market waves? We’d love to hear how you’re positioning yourself for the week ahead. Drop a comment below! —————– Image Credits: Cover image at the top is AI-generated Read the full article