Mutual Pining - Tumblr Posts

Prompt 4

Geralt is the captain of a pirate ship, named "Kaer Morhen." Perhaps he's still a witcher, perhaps he's just a regular old human (with white hair and golden eyes? Lol) His brothers (and "cousins" from other witcher schools) are his crew Now I can see this going two different ways, so choose a favorite (or make up your own, I am only the beginning, I hold no affront of being anything more) Jaskier is a nobleman's son, aboard his family's ship, possibly on his way to be forced into a marriage to a woman he doesn't love. And either he falls overboard or he's shoved off as a murder attempt, but he's lost in the ocean. Lambert (or someone else, but I love to imagine how Lambert would attempt to call this out to his captain who he doesn't take seriously 90% of the time, #brothers) calls that he spots a man bobbing in the sea, and they haul him up. The majority of the crew sees sight of his jewels and finery and insists on holding him ransom. But when the prisoner wakes up and isn't afraid of death, Geralt looks into this a little more. Apparently their prisoner won't get a ransom because his entire family despise him and his want to run away and become a bard. Funny. Most pirate ships have entertainers aboard to help the pirates deal with months of nothing but ocean. Perhaps they'll have use of this dumb twink after all. OR, option number two Jaskier is a nobleman's son, chained and starved for the crime of wanting to become a bard and not wanting to marry some prissy noblewoman. He hears a lot of loud noises and screams and then a bunch of burly men in fur cloaks stomp down and start rifling through their supplies. One catches eye of him and immediately yells to the captain. The captain is a very handsome man with silver locks and bright eyes, and the dreaded pirate captain is treating Jaskier with more kindness and gentleness than his family or their workers ever have. The pirate hauls Jaskier up into his arms and carries him to their own ship, laying him down in his own bed, and looking over his injuries and sending one of his crewmembers to make hm a fine meal. Jaskier begins telling the captain of his abusive life beforehand and mentions that all he's ever wanted is to spread music and love, and shockingly enough, this big scary (gorgeous) man doesn't even laugh at him for it.. Oh fuck he's falling in love-

♡!Optional addons!♡ • Geralt gayly teaching his bard how to swordfight!!!

• Perhaps Jaskier's family is crueler and has done more than beat him, perhaps they've stabbed him or something, and the very last thing he sees before he passes out from bloodloss is Geralt (Maybe he even thinks he's an angel! Lmfao)

• Geralt getting lovingly bullied by his brothers for taking care of his songbird so well

• Geralt's crew revenge-robbing or revenge-killing Jaskier's family if we do Option one for the story (attempted-murder route), since it's implied it happens in Option Two while they ransack the ship-

• Perhaps I'll do a sequel for this prompt one day for Mermaid Jaskier, I do LOVE mermaids, take this as a much smaller and much less detailed prompt for if you want that idea, too! Perhaps the Pankratz ship has a captured mer aboard, parched and dehydrated (I just mostly think it'd be funny if Geralt was checking his pulse and if he has any injuries while random other witches dump buckets of sea water on him-)

Prompt 5

Everything that can go wrong one night, goes wrong, and it's just annoying inconvenience after annoying inconvenience. Jask falls and drags Geralt down with him, Jask gets them kicked out of an inn, Jask spends their last coin, Jask complicates the fight and accidentally gets Geralt injured, etc, etc, and eventually Geralt snaps at Jaskier for getting in the way and making things harder. They get into a big fight over it, and Jaskier even gets a second room to sleep apart. They are still on icy terms after the argument, until Jaskier starts realizing he doesn't.. feel well.. In fact he feels quite awful. Jaskier shortly realizes that he's getting ill. But he's terrified to tell Geralt, in fear of this being the straw that breaks the camel's back. What if Geralt really leaves him after this? What if this is the last thing that Geralt can handle is Jaskier delaying them getting new contracts because he's ailing? So he does what every smart honorable self-respected bard would do. He pretends nothing is wrong and prays it goes away on it's own. It isn't. It's getting way worse. Geralt can smell something off with Jaskier's scent, and is getting worried. He keeps asking Jaskier if he needs breaks or help doing things (Jaskier is convinced Geralt is just proving he can do everything without Jaskier, and that stopping for breaks will show Geralt how shit a travelling companion he is) Geralt just needs to get them to a town so he can pamper Jaskier with his favorite sweets, a warm bath, and a nice bed, and then ask him when he feels most ready to tell. But then Jaskier suddenly just.. Collapses.

He's walking alongside roach like always, only for him to suddenly roll his eyes back and just.. fall to the ground. Geralt is of course, freaking out- Geralt picks up his bard and makes an abrupt camp to check on him. Holding Jaskier so close, he can smell the fragrance of illness, muffled and muddled by Jaskier's soaps and perfumes. His bard is sick. Geralt, loving his bard unconditionally, treats and watches over Jaskier until he awakes. Jaskier, when he finally returns to consciousness, immediately begins begging Geralt not to get rid of him, not to leave him behind, that he's barely even sick, that he can keep going, just keep him, please. Geralt is horrified Jaskier thinks he could ever be left behind by Geralt, and they make up and kiss and say "i love you" idk.. think it'd be kinda gay...

Prompt 7

Villain of the week captures Jaskier and Geralt and either uses a potion or spell or curse of some sort to revert Geralt down to nothing but baser wolfy instincts, perhaps while saying a snarky quip to Jaskier about "finally seeing what a monster the witcher is", only to get blindsided by InstinctsOnly!Geralt just going CUDDLECRAZY over his bard. Kisses, licks, hugs, snuggles, nuzzling, the whole shabang. ♡!Optional addons!♡ • Obligatory "perhaps things get spicier than just cuddles"

• The captor tries to separate them and/or harms Jaskier and Geralt casually proves he doesn't need his swords to kill

• This all happens pre-slash, and Jaskier is stunned at Geralt's behavior, but suspects it's just the instincts and Geralt doesn't truly like him nearly this much (Geralt has to tell him how wrong he is after they're safe, of course) ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

PISSING AND SHITTING ON THE FLOOR @araglas1989 found a pre-existing fic that ticks almost all the boxes! I'd still love to see someone write this prompt, but if you're a fellow reader like I, feel free to give this one a try! by leodesic on AO3

Prompt 9

Geralt can't sleep without cuddling Jaskier. He always does it IN his sleep, and only finds out when he wakes up in the morning before Jaskier wakes up. In the winter, it's hellish trying to sleep without him

They've had amazing luck with jobs recently and have plenty of money. Jaskier wants to treat them to separate rooms, and is confused why Geralt is moody all of a sudden. They'll figure it out.

Prompt 10

Geralt has monstrous eyes. He has claw-like nails. He has fangs. His skin is deathly pale. He is disgusting to look at. Everyone thinks so. He's beginning to realize he loves Jaskier, but surely someone as gorgeous as Jaskier would never want anything to do with someTHING like him. Jaskier is about to start ripping his hair out and frothing at the mouth he loves Geralt so much. Jaskier's kink is Geralt. Just Geralt. And all the "weird" traits Geralt seeks to hide from him just make Jaskier love him more. But it's been a decade of flirting with the dunce. Surely if Geralt felt the same way, he'd bring it up by now? There's no way he's THIS oblivious to Jaskier's love for him, right? Right?

This is epically written! I loved it so much. 💜💜

everything ; skz ; werewolf!felix x reader

requested by @yongbbokkie: if possible, can I have Sunshine!Felix with the prompt/s: ❛ i'm waiting for your permission to let me have my way with you. ❜ and ❛ do whatever you want with me, i'm yours. ❜

((maybe it's a pining from afar situation and something puts them in close quarters and Felix just can't help himself anymore))

read on ao3

pairing: lee felix/reader content info: werewolf!au. friends2lovers. miscommunication and misunderstandings followed by resolution and smut. mentions of reader being in a past abusive relationship though the circumstances are not detailed. not omegaverse just werewolves but mentions of rut cycles and slightly different physiology.

this is, um, the wettest thing i've ever written. there is no other word for it. so much come, masturbating (reader walks in on felix), pervy masturbating using reader's stuff lol, massive breeding kink, multiple rounds, scenting, possessiveness, throat-grabbing, biting, pussy eating, squirting, dirty talk. did i mention come.

word count: 15800 words. (hope it makes up for the delay hehe)

masterlist. part of the valentine’s day stories series. credit to prompts. requests are closed.

enjoy <3

-

For a few moments, Felix is yours.  There is no awkwardness, no reluctance, just dancing, just friendship. 

The club is packed so tightly, the lights and music as roaring as lightning and thunder.  The extra stimulation overwhelms the senses, even werewolf senses.  He doesn’t think and neither do you.  You just dance, finding each other in the bouncing circle of your half-drunk friend group.  He smiles and you take his hand, letting him pull you across the dance floor and into his arms. 

You’ve missed this smile.  You’ve missed these arms.   

Sure, Felix is still your best friend and he is never truly far.  The distance is not literal, just emotional, and that is so much worse. 

Ever since his werewolf genes kicked in, ever since a pack took him in, things have just been… different. 

Right now, you can pretend nothing has changed.  You are far away from ivory moons waning over woodlands, of werewolf packs and supernatural powers.  His senses are diluted here, overpowered by so many moving bodies and so much wild noise. 

Felix smiles, that wonderful big smile that crinkles his eyes so sweetly.  Lights flash over him, his blonde hair nearly glowing, his freckles like stars.  He’s your best friend again.  All yours for a few precious moments. 

He’s bigger than he was, you think, with a bit of a flush, as you dance closer to him, his arms circling your body.  Or maybe I just never noticed before. 

Felix is not very tall, but he is not small either, lean and athletic and confident in every inch of his body.  It feels like he is everywhere.  Every time a strobe light flashes over him, he seems a little closer.  You breathe in his cologne, subtler than it used to be because his sense of smell is so powerful now, but still recognizable. 

You are definitely not a werewolf, but you are captivated by that smell.  Something oak, woodsy, masculine but pretty.   So very Felix.  You want to bathe in that smell, luxuriate in him.  You spent so many nights curled into his side, sharing his bed, wearing one of his hoodies, that you associate that scent with everything good, safe, and home. 

His hands dance up your sides very softly, his breath puffing across your cheek as you dance and dance.  One song pours into the next.  You lose track of time.  In forgetting the world, you forget yourself.   You slide your arms around his shoulders and press close to him. 

You used to hug him like this so easily, but you have hardly touched him at all the last few months.  Felix could never be cruel to anyone so he has not outright rejected your usual closeness, but it is obvious that your touch now makes him uncomfortable.  The last thing you ever, ever want to do is hurt Felix.   So you have followed his lead.  Every time he accidentally pulls a face –  a displeased twitch of his nose, an upset furrow of his brow – you have backed away.   

It’s just the werewolf senses, you keep telling yourself.  He’s more sensitive now, that’s all. 

He still hugs the others.  The werewolf boys love rough-housing, in fact, tumbling all over each other constantly.

That’s different.  Yes, very different than this, right here, right now, his hands sliding down your sides – slowly, like he is memorizing the shape of your waist.  He squeezes your hips and it fills you with heat.  His hot face touches yours, cheek to cheek.  The music is pounding, a frantic sound, but you are slow dancing, keeping to the rhythm of your heartbeats where they beat against each other. 

You slide a hand up the back of his neck, into his long blonde hair.  You feel the shudder move through his whole body.   It makes your legs feel weak, realizing the effect you have on him.  It seems impossible, especially with how much he has pushed you away, but there is no way he is shivering for any other reason.  He cannot possibly be cold.  The club is packed and, besides, he is not human.  He runs hot. 

So hot.  He radiates it, burning where your bodies press together.  Felix has always been the sunshine that keeps you warm, but this is a different heat.  You know better than to succumb to it, knowing this moment will pass, but right now it is so easy to cling to him, to breathe him in, to feel like the world is just you and him. 

The real world soon returns.  It’s getting late so your friends call it a night. 

“We’ll drop you off, yeah?” Chan says to you.  Felix lives with him and the other wolves now.  They all have their own apartments but they live in the same high-rise.  You live a few blocks down, close, but not quite belonging. 

“I don’t mind walking,” you say. 

You do not want to intrude and you do not want to make Felix uncomfortable.  He doesn’t even know Chan is offering you a ride because he standing so far away. 

Felix is looking at his phone, slouched against the car while everyone organizes themselves.  He is wearing a leather jacket, a white shirt, blue jeans, his long hair falling into his face.  You want to brush it back, feel it between your fingers.  You want to lift his face and see his smile.    

But he doesn’t look at you.  Now that you are outside, now that the heat has dissipated and the cold breeze carries your bland, dull, human scent, now that he can remember you are not special and not like him – now, he is someone else, and you are too, and it is cold and dreary and miserable. 

“What?”  Chan says.  He is such a good pack leader and a good friend, but it makes him utterly oblivious to little dramas like this.  “You’re not walking by yourself this late at night, don’t be crazy.  Come on.” 

The pack leader does not take no for an answer.  Even though you are not in the pack, being human, there is no refusing Bang Chan.  He grabs you by the wrist and drags you to his car. 

Jeongin is in the front seat.  Seungmin takes a back corner before Felix can lift his head, before he even knows you will be in the car too. 

Felix looks tense when realizes he is trapped with you.   Whether he takes the middle seat or the other corner, you will be beside him.  If standing together outside is so intolerable, then being in a car is going to be torturous.  

“I can walk,” you say to him. 

“What?”  He shakes his head.  When he smiles, it is not his usual smile, not something real.  You know the difference.  His proper smile brightens you but this smile makes your heart sink.  “Of course not,” he says.  “C’mon.  It’s late.  Let’s get home, yeah?”   

“Yeah,” you say, but he is already gone, taking all sense of home with him.   

You take the middle seat.  Felix rolls his window down and leans towards it.  His eyes are closed the entire journey, the wind blowing across his tired face. 

Seungmin is also a werewolf but he does not seem bothered by your human scent.  Jeongin and Chan, the other packmates, likewise seem indifferent, chatting about everything and nothing, totally unperturbed.   And you must cross paths with many werewolves during the day, but no one ever seems bothered by you. 

Felix is the only werewolf who seems to have a problem with your scent.  You do not know what it is that affects him so deeply.  You have tried changing soaps and shampoos but nothing seems to help.  It must be something natural to your human body.  Humans do not smell like werewolves in general.  Werewolves release pheromones that humans cannot smell, and it is important in forging interpersonal dynamics.  That includes romance.  Werewolves mate for life.  You know they find their true mates through smell as much as the other senses.  They are biologically wired to pursue their perfect match based on all those senses. 

You are not a werewolf.  You can never be his true mate.  In the few months since he fully and rapidly developed his werewolf senses, Felix has withdrawn from you even though he promised it would never separate you. 

You used to talk about what would happen if his werewolf genes activated.  He comes from a family of werewolves but the gene lays dormant in certain carriers.  Most werewolves develop in puberty if they develop at all.  Some people never develop their wolven senses or powers.  A minority, like Felix, are triggered by something in adulthood and succumb all at once. 

It was always a possibility, however minute, but he promised things would stay the same.  He said you were his person, that best friend did not even suffice as a word to describe your love.

You’re my world, you know, he said one night, speaking with the sort of earnest sincerity that only Felix could, his deep voice rumbling in your ear as you cuddled into him.     

You wanted to say it back but you were hurting at the time.  You ended a bad relationship a year earlier.  It took your tender heart far too long to realize how badly your ex-boyfriend was treating you.  When Felix found out the details, he was furious, though he kept it down around you.  You had never seen your best friend so emotional.  He became even more protective in the aftermath. 

He showed you, time and time again, what real love is supposed to be.  It doesn’t rush or demand, it doesn’t manipulate or coerce, and it doesn’t ask you to be small.  He would hold you all night if that’s what you needed.  He would make you laugh and let you cry. 

You slowly realized true love had been in front of you, all this time, begging to be seen. 

At least, you thought so.   After such a bad relationship, you were taking it slow, and Felix never rushed you.  You thought, maybe, one day…

But just when you were ready, everything changed.  The werewolf gene unexpectedly activated.  Felix was admitted to a wolven hospital and underwent his first transformation under a full moon.  When he came home, he was different.   Sure, he was still Felix, with his long dyed hair and his many freckles and his sun-kissed skin, but his brown eyes were so very different when he looked at you. 

If he looked at you, which he avoids these days.     

“Home sweet home,” Chan says, parking the car outside your apartment building. 

Felix wastes no time getting out of the vehicle, practically spilling onto the sidewalk in his haste.   He holds the door for you but averts his gaze. 

You thank Chan, say good night to the other boys, then you shuffle across the seat and step out of the car.   Felix still does not look at you, pretending he is distracted with something across the street. 

You are a little tipsy, your emotions easily riled.  You want to say good night so it will finally prompt him to look at you, but you are suddenly very choked up.  Thoughtlessly, you touch his arm instead.

He flinches.  It feels worse than a slap.

You do not look at him again, hurrying to the building before he can see the tears in your eyes. 

Miraculously, you hold them in until you reach your apartment.  You are one foot in the doorway when the tears spill, all the emotions you’ve suppressed over the last few months finally flooding free.  The door falls closed with a slam and the whole world collapses under you.

You drop right there, knees pulled up to your chest and face buried in your hands. 

You spent so many nights like this, crying all alone until you worked up the courage to tell Felix about your bad relationship.  He was immediately understanding.  It was so foolish to fear he would ever judge you.  He put an arm around you and held you all night.

He is the person you want to call when you are hurting.  It is agonizing to be without him.  He is the one person you need and the one person you cannot call right now. 

You let yourself feel sorry and miserable.  When the tears have subsided and you are slouched against your door, empty and tired, you make a decision to end this.  You have spent too much of your life collapsed on the floor and crying on your lonesome.  You refuse to do it again. 

As horrible as it is, you need to distance yourself from Felix.  This slow deterioration of your relationship is excruciating.   If he decides to reach out, you will be there, but you simply cannot continue to compromise yourself. 

You somehow manage to wash up and get in bed.   You sleep through the morning and rise late, delaying the inevitable a little longer by scrolling on your phone.  Felix used to be the first text of the day but there is nothing from him.  You would usually message anyway but today you put your phone aside and get out of bed. 

So much of Felix is in your apartment.  Borrowed hoodies, games, books, and so much more.  Items are littered everywhere from the bedroom to the bathroom to the kitchen and back.   It takes an hour and you are not sure you find everything because he is so inextricably woven into your living space.  You do not even see it anymore because it – because he – is always there. 

You fill a cardboard box.  Your plan is to walk the couple blocks to the high-rise and return it with a vague explanation.  You are not sure what to say.  Perhaps it is best to opt for brevity.  After all, this is not a break-up because you are not a couple. 

No, you think, staring at the full box with watery eyes, this is worse. 

You make it a few steps out your door before you drop the box.  It is way, way too heavy for you to carry two feet, never mind two city blocks.  Already panting with exertion, you stare at the box taking up a huge slab of the narrow corridor. 

You really don’t want to ask him to come get it, nor do you want to make multiple trips.  You are scared that if you give him the opportunity, he will try and reassure you that nothing is wrong and you don’t need to do this.  You’ll believe him in the moment, but then it will start all over again.  

Like ripping off a bandage, it has to go all at once.  It’s time to heal. 

You push the box, budging it down the corridor inch by slow inch.  You reach the elevator and press the call button.   You calculate the logistics of pushing and shoving the box for two blocks, mostly concerned the cardboard will rip if it snags on something outside. 

Lost in thought, you don’t see a person in the elevator and accidentally shove the box at him.  He yelps, a loud cry of surprise as he jumps aside.  It makes you leap out of your skin, shooting upright to look at him. 

Some of your despondency leaves at the friendly face of your neighbour.

“Changbin!” you say.  “I’m so sorry.  I didn’t even see you there.”

“Hey now,” he says, winking, his handsome face plastered with a grin, “I’m not that short.” 

“No, of course not,” you say, laughing along with him. 

Changbin is a werewolf as well.  There are a lot of packs on this side of town because the large national park is nearby.   The wolves like to use the expansive forest when the full moon cycle swings around. 

“Moving out?” he asks with an eyebrow quirk.

“Ah,” you say.  “Not quite.”

You explain your predicament, that the box belongs to a friend and you need to somehow reach his apartment building two blocks away.  Changbin, ever the charmer and ever the helper, immediately offers his aid. 

“Oh, you don’t have to—” you start, but he has already swung the big box into his arms.

Werewolves do have supernatural strength.  Changbin looks strong, with big biceps and a stocky frame, never mind the supernatural enhancement.   He doesn’t even break a sweat.  The box might as well be empty for all the difference it makes to him.

He is kind enough to walk two blocks to the high-rise.  You chat on the way and find the conversation flows easily.   You also can’t help but notice he has no problem with your scent.  It really is just Felix who seems so repulsed. 

You ring the buzzer for Felix’s apartment but there is no answer.  You try a couple more times, embarrassed because Changbin is waiting.  Fortunately, he is very non-plussed, humming to himself while you ring the buzzer. 

After a few tries, you ring Chan instead.  He answers promptly and you explain the bare bones of the situation, that you have a box for Felix and you would appreciate if he could pass it along.   Chan agrees, of course. 

Maybe it is for the best. You can leave the box with Chan and not even have to confront Felix at all.   

Chan buzzes you into the building.  Changbin walks you to the elevator where he puts the box down.  You thank him profusely but he waves it off and states he was happy to help. 

It looks like he wants to say something more, looking at you while he rubs the back of his neck.   In the end, he says he will see you around and departs.

You exhale.  The worst of your nerves have dissipated since Felix is not even home.  You have been the one instigating your interactions the last few months so you figure if you just quietly step back, he won’t even notice. 

It pains you to admit it, that you could disappear from his life and he would just… not care.  You stuff those feelings down, down, down for now.  You prepare a friendly smile for Chan so he doesn’t ask too many questions. 

When you reach the pack floor, you give the box a good shove into the corridor.   Chan lives directly across from the elevator so you don’t have far to go.

Except there are voices in the corridor.  You turn towards the sound. 

An awful chill freezes in your blood, your whole body going rigid at what you see. 

Felix is home.  He is standing in his open doorway, half-dressed in a pair of jeans and nothing more.  His long hair looks more dishevelled than usual, like someone has been running their fingers through it. 

Someone.  He is talking to a young woman.  You don’t know her too well, simply that she is the only female werewolf in Chan’s small pack.  She is wearing more clothes than Felix but still very casual in shorts and a t-shirt, barefoot like this is her home.   You suppose it is, much more her home than yours.   

She belongs.  You do not. 

Her and Felix are standing close while they converse.  So close.  They speak to each other in hushed tones, her expression tender and sympathetic while Felix winces in seeming pain.  The details of their conversation are inarticulate at a distance but their voices are nonetheless audible. 

Your scent reaches Felix first.  He straightens so fast it would be comical under any other circumstances. 

Nothing is funny right now.  You feel like a complete and utter fool, standing in his corridor with a box of his things like he cares about them at all.  He has already moved on.  You were in denial, a stupid little human girl still clinging desperately to old memories.   

“I better go,” the woman says.  She leans up and kisses Felix on the cheek, gives him a little wink and mumbles something only he can hear.   She turns and walks into the apartment next door, giving you a genuinely friendly wave.  She has always been polite to you and you have no reason to dislike her.  You can only wave back pathetically. 

Your hand slaps your side when she disappears into her apartment.  You and Felix look at each other. 

He looks guilty.  Sweat dots his hairline, streaks his bare chest, and his face is flushed.  It is very obvious what he has been doing all morning.  

The thought of such a fantasy was once tantalizing.  The sight of him, like this, would make you dizzy. You remember the last time he casually took off his shirt, the swoop of desire that moved inside you, a sensation you did not even know you could still feel after your bad relationship.

Now that swoop is just nausea.  There is no pleasure in it at all.   

You are completely mortified. 

“Hey,” Felix says.   His deep voice breaks on a high-pitched twinge.  He clears his throat.   “Um,” he says.  He runs his fingers through his hair, mussing it even more.   He can’t seem to bring himself to meet your gaze, eyes darting all over the corridor but never you.

You curl your fingers, nails pressing hard into your palm. 

“Look,” he says, clearing his throat again.  “We need to talk about—”

You don’t want to hear it.  You can’t hear it.  You are hurt and embarrassed and devastated.  Why couldn’t he just tell you he wanted to pursue a werewolf?  It makes sense, biologically, and you can hardly fault him for the desire.   Honesty would have hurt but not like this.  Now you have to suffer the rejection of the only man you ever truly loved and suffer the fact you were not even worth a conversation. 

It is too late to talk.    

“It’s fine, Felix,” you say.  All your messy, menial scripts crumble in your mind.  Emotion takes over, bitterness and pain and irritation.   “I brought you your things,” you say, pointing to the box.  His eyes dart there for the first time, brow furrowing.  “If I find anymore, I’ll give them to Chan.  He’ll pass them along.”

“Um, what?”  He looks from the box to you. 

“I can’t do this anymore,” you say, blinking back tears.  Your feelings come out in fragments, word after word with little coherency.  “After everything I went through last year – I just – this is too much.  The werewolf thing – I just – I can’t.  I’m sorry.  I can’t have you in my life like this.  Thank you for your friendship.  The memories will always be important to me.  But it’s for the best we don’t see each other again.”

You had not planned on so much finality, but that was before.  Now you need to leave.  If you stay here another second, you are going to fall apart. 

“Good luck with everything,” you say. 

You turn to leave but he says your name.  You suck in a breath, wait a beat, and slowly turn back around. 

Felix walks partway down the hallway, his whole face screwed up with pain and confusion.  His mouth is moving but no words are coming out.  Finally he closes his eyes and shakes his head, slamming a hand into his hair. 

“Hold on,” he says.  “Hold on, I – what are you talking about?  You – you don’t want to be friends?  How can – You can’t—”  That deep voice breaks again, fracturing with emotion. 

A part of you knows that you are being too harsh, letting your own emotions dominate your words.  Another part of you is too heartbroken to care. 

“It’s for the best,” you say weakly, your voice barely more than a breath of a sound.  “Really.” 

“For the best?” he asks, voice pitching up again.   He has not looked at you so intensely for so long.  “How can you say that to me?”

Much to your horror, he starts crying first.  His tears seem to catch him by surprise too, his expression puckering as he tries to stop it.  A hand flies up, covering his eyes.  He shakes his head rapidly. 

“Felix,” you whisper. 

“For the best?” he repeats.  He drops his hand and takes a shuddering breath. 

You avert your gaze.  You can’t stand to look at his eyes so full of tears, his face so strained with hurt. 

“Did something happen?” he asks, taking a few more steps towards you.  “Was it – was it me?  You said – the werewolf thing –  Did I do something?  Please, please tell me.”

He doesn’t even realize how much he has withdrawn from you.  He is bad at controlling his face, as evidenced now, so he probably has no idea how blatant his repulsion has been.   Maybe he thought he was being subtle.  Maybe he thought you wouldn’t care, that you were just his friend and you would be content to relegate yourself to the sidelines of his life.  Maybe that is all your fault after all. 

If you were a better friend, you would have coped with his new feelings.  You would have been happy for him.  If you were a better friend, maybe he would have told you sooner. 

“You deserve a better friend than me,” you say. 

He looks at you like you are completely crazy, his head tilted, his eyes narrowing. 

“What?” he asks.  “Where is this coming from?  Please, I don’t understand.  You can’t be saying what I think you’re saying.” 

“I already told you,” you say, as calmly as you can.  “I just can’t do this anymore.  Our lives are heading in different directions and I – I – I just need to go.  I want to go.  Please.” 

You have known Felix all your life.  You were children together, hapless youths on a playground that immediately loved each other with the easy, thoughtless affection of childhood. 

He reminds you of that child now, innocently standing in the corridor with his arms hanging limp at his sides and so much bewilderment on his freckled face. 

“You want to go?” he repeats, voice low, soft.  

You nod.  After a second, he nods back, bottom lip still quivering.  A fresh stream of tears spill over his eyes.  He hiccups on a sob, turning away and covering his face.

“Fine,” he says, speaking between shaky breaths.  “Go.  I can’t – I can’t keep you here if you want to go.” 

“Thank you,” you say softly.  The elevator is still waiting when you press the call button.  You step onto it and say, “Good bye, Felix.” 

As the doors close, you hear another choking sob.  You name is lost in the sound.    

The door closes. 

-

The regret is instantaneous.  You stare at your phone for hours and even debate returning to his apartment, but in the end you do nothing. 

You replay every moment, from seeing him with the other werewolf to his confusion and your departure.  It was a long, long walk home, tears streaming down your face as your mind went back even further, remembering every moment of your friendship. 

How could this have happened?  You and Felix have always been open with each other.  He was the first person you confided in about your bad relationship and he immediately did everything to save you from it.  But when it was the other way around, when the werewolf gene activated, he turned away from your friendship.  You poured your heart out to him, trusting he would catch it and keep it safe, but he did not feel the same way. 

Secrets, confusion, heartbreak.  It plays on a loop in your mind. 

It is the middle of the night when you get a text.  He has not messaged in a while, not in a substantial way.  If you scroll back on your phone, you can see the disintegration of communication, the days when he would send message after message with any and every thought slowly petering down to brief replies and a vague acknowledgement at the very best. 

This message is more.  You can hear his voice when you read it, can picture those dark eyes. 

Tell me this isn’t real.  Please. 

You feel sick.  You are angry at him for being the one to withdraw only to suddenly turn on his heel.  You are angry at yourself for reacting so drastically and immaturely.   Mostly, you are just sad. 

If I did something, I’m sorry, he writes.  I’ll never stop being sorry.  I’ll fix it.  I’ll keep my distance.  Just don’t say I can never see you again. 

You type a reply, then delete it, then repeat.  

You say nothing. Every time you try, you see him and her in that corridor, you see him flinching from your touch, you see him recoiling at your scent.  It twists and tangles with memories of warm nights and tender smiles.  You wipe your tears and remember when he did it for you, his thumb so gently sweeping your cheek.  He used to touch you like you were precious to him.  Now he flinches from your touch.    

He does not text the next day, or the day after, or the day after that.   You are not sure if it is better or worse. 

After about a week, he messages again, stating, I miss you.   

You are at your work desk but he immediately seizes your full attention, as he always has. 

You stare at your phone.  You take a breath.   You have had a few days to decompress, to let the wound bleed.  It is still sore to the touch. 

You write, I miss you too. 

You do not check your phone for a while, listening to the relentless buzz as he sends eager message after eager message.  It feels like the old days for a minute, but slows to a stop when you do not reply.  You read them back later, his pleading, his sweetness.  It makes you spiral, on the one hand wanting to take it all back, but on the other hand picturing his flinch, his disgust, knowing it is only a matter of time before your heart breaks again. 

You do not reply.  He takes the hint and gives you a few more days, then he messages, I still have your stuff in my place too, you know? 

I know, is all you say.  I have more of your stuff too.

As predicted, you have been finding his things all over the apartment.   Even things which are technically yours are still stamped with his memory.  He helped you move into this place after the break-up.  He took you shopping and paid for so many things to get you back on your feet.  Everything from blankets to cushions to plates make you think of him.   This was just a room before he made it a home.  Without him, it is just a room again. 

There are a couple days of silence, then some of his packmates start messaging you.  You don’t think he is sending them after you, as Felix would never manipulate or coerce you like that.  They reach out of their own volition, curious because they have not seen you in a while.  But it is all so overwhelming, so you throw your phone under a pillow and go for a walk.

That is when you run into Changbin again.   His smile is charming as ever when he strikes up a friendly conversation.   

“I was wondering,” he says, scratching the back of his neck, not-so-inadvertently flexing his big bicep when he does, “I was going to ask a couple weeks ago, when I helped you with that box – ah, I was kicking myself after because I didn’t see you for a while.  But – I thought we had a nice conversation.  Maybe you and me could do something.”

“Do something,” you repeat.  It sounds like he is asking you out which is a little perplexing, because he is a werewolf and you are a human.  Surely nothing serious can come of it.  You used to think it was possible, as there are plenty of movies and romance novels to prove it, but your personal experience has led you to other conclusions.    

“A date,” he clarifies, grinning that handsome smile.  “You and me.  My treat.  No pressure.  I just think you’re clever and, ah, very beautiful, and I want to know you better.” 

A polite rejection is on the tip of your tongue.  You are not in any emotional state to try dating someone right now.   But you think of Felix and that woman in the corridor, and you think of your phone buzzing, and you think of another long, lonely night stewing in it all.   

Changbin must be looking for something casual anyway.  A werewolf would not truly settle down with a human.  Maybe this is a good opportunity to put yourself out there. 

“Sure,” you say.  “I’d like that.” 

Changbin takes you out a few days later.  You actually do enjoy yourself.  He is very charming and it is easy to talk to him, plus the date itself is very fun.  He takes you out for food then to an arcade, flopping at every game in a hilarious spectacle.  

“I’m a werewolf,” he complains later.  “I’m strong!  Those games were rigged.” 

You giggle, wrapping yourself up in the jacket he leant you.  You are walking back to the apartment building, the warm evening giving way to a cool night as you make the trek.   It is enjoyable until you reach the building, at which point you start to panic.  Does he expect to be invited into your apartment?  Does he expect… more?  The thought leaves you dizzy and not in a good way.  Changbin is so very handsome and so very likable.  Going out with him showed you that you can enjoy yourself without the crutch of a lifelong friendship. 

You don’t need Felix. 

But you still want him. 

You try to go back and find the moment it all went wrong, try to picture a different ending, but it feels impossible.  A foolish fantasy from a girl still clinging to the dying dredges of hope and affection.  There is a wonderful, handsome man at your side, a werewolf at that, and your mind is somewhere else. 

Changbin remarks on it, politely but nonetheless curiously.  He gives you a penetrating look, like he knows something is wrong and there is no use lying. 

You sigh. 

“I’m sorry,” you say.  “I just… I recently broke-up with a friend.”

“With a friend?” he asks, eyebrows jumping with surprise.  “What kind of friend?”

“A close one, very close,” you say.  “We’ve known each other forever, you see.  He’s the most wonderful person I have ever known.  He’s good to everyone, open-hearted, kind, warm.  I have truly never known a better man.  He just makes every room a little brighter when he’s in it.  You would like him, I think.  Everyone does.  He’s a werewolf but the transformation only happened for the first time this year.  Since then…”  You sniffle.  “Things have been different.  Werewolves are biologically wired to be with other werewolves and form packs… I think my human status just started affecting him negatively.”

“Biology,” Changbin says like it is a foreign word.  He looks at you with a cocked eyebrow.  “It exists, yeah, but werewolves still have hearts, you know?  It’s nice finding other werewolves so you aren’t alone, but it isn’t necessary.  Love is complicated.” 

That does give you pause for a moment.  A logical part of you knows it is true, that plenty of werewolves make relationships work with humans, but that is almost harder to accept.  If it’s just biological, then it cannot be helped.  But if it’s a choice—

“So he isn’t biologically wired to hate me now that he’s a werewolf,” you say miserably.  “It’s just something he chose to do.”

“Now, I didn’t say that,” Changbin says.  “But, if that is what happened, he’s an idiot.  If you were that obviously in love with me, ah, I wouldn’t let you go that easy.” 

“I’m not in love with him…”  The lie tumbles without an ounce of confidence.   Changbin just gives you an amused look.  Embarrassed, you drop your gaze.  “It doesn’t matter,” you say.  “He doesn’t feel the same way.  Believe me, I know how he’s been looking at me, or how he won’t. That’s why I walked away.  I was holding onto a friendship that once was and a fantasy that will never be.  It’s time to be reasonable.”

“Ah, I don’t think love is very reasonable,” he says.  “But you should stay true to yourself and do what’s right.  And, in the mean time, if you need a friend…”

You exchange smiles.  A weight lifts off your shoulder as Changbin changes the subject to friendship between you.

“I would like a friend,” you say.  “Thank you, Changbin.” 

“Ah, it’s been fun.  But give me back my jacket,” he teases.  “Since we’re friends I don’t need to impress you.  I’m cold.” 

 “I thought werewolves run hot,” you say, laughing.  You shrug off the coat and hand it to him. 

“Eh, a little bit, maybe more than humans.  But the blood really only gets hot during a rut cycle,” he says.

It is a casual statement.  He is too preoccupied with zipping up his jacket to notice you get a little flustered. 

You know a bit about ruts, namely that werewolves have a cycle which span a few days every month.  It’s a fertility and reproduction thing, pushing developed werewolves to find mates and, well, mate them.   It is a common part of the werewolf lifestyle so it is fair for Changbin to so casually mention it. 

It is not because of Changbin that you feel flustered.  You are thinking about Felix that night at the club, how burning hot he was compared to everyone else.  Now that you think of it, not even Chan felt so hot when he grabbed your wrist, nor Seungmin beside you in the car.  Felix, though, was radiating heat.  Was he starting a rut cycle?  Perhaps that explains why he was so hot and sweaty the next day during your confrontation. 

You remember the other werewolf in the corridor.  Your heart sinks again.  Was she helping him through his rut?  Then again, she left the second you arrived.  Why were they even in the hallway?  If she was spending his rut with him, surely they would have been inside together, not yapping in the hallway... 

“You look worried,” Changbin says. 

You are gnawing your bottom lip, eyes darting around as you contemplate that day.  At his words, you blink to attention, doing your best to shake the anxiety. 

“It’s nothing,” you say.  “I’m just confused about so many things right now.” 

“You know, if this guy really is so great and wonderful – and I think he is, if someone like you loves him so much – then he will probably be happy to answer your questions so you don’t feel so confused.” 

“Ugh.”  You slap a hand over your eyes and shake your head.  “Why do you have to be so decent and mentally competent and right?” 

“Jutdae,” he says, then flexes an arm and squeezes a bicep through the jacket.  “And lots of protein.”

You laugh again.  With a few more words of thanks and a promise to catch up again soon, you give him one final good night hug.  He says he might meet up with some friends so you part ways, Changbin strolling while you head inside. 

You look at your phone, considering his words as you ride the elevator to your floor.  Changbin is right.  Giving Felix the silent treatment is not helping you or him.  Even though the conversation will probably be uncomfortable in so many ways, you should talk to him.  It might not repair anything, but at least you will have closure.  That wound cannot heal so long as it is still bleeding and festering. 

You are drafting a text message in your head when you step off the elevator. 

Then you lift your eyes and stumble to a stop. 

Felix is sitting outside your apartment door.  He is wearing jeans and a blue flannel, a denim jacket on top of that.  A habitual joke is on the tip of your tongue, seeing him so decked out in his favourite colour.  It disappears at the morose look on his face.   

His long blonde hair is down around his shoulders, neglected black roots peeking at the crown of his head.  He looks a little wan and very tired, his head lolled to the side. 

He scents you before he sees you, eyes fluttering closed for a second, then he looks at you. 

He really looks at you. 

Felix always has such a softness in his gaze, but this look is searing.  It moves through you, a forceful heat twining its way around your insides.  It holds you in captivated thrall as he stands, one black boot thumping against the ground with the force of his push as he straightens himself out. 

That piercing looks crinkles as more of your scent registers to him.  His face twists with revulsion, except it is even more severe than usual.  It is so disturbed that it makes you think his past expressions were not disgust at all, because this face is so terrorized by whatever he smells. 

“Where were you?” he asks. 

You have been staring at each other in silence for so long that his voice reverberates loudly in the corridor.   It makes you jump as the smoothness of his deep voice pours into you.  It’s only been a few weeks since you last heard him speak, but somehow you forgot how profoundly that voice could affect you, especially when he drops it so deliberately. 

“Out,” you say.  You are so flustered that your body goes into defense mode, your tone sharp when you say, “I don’t need your permission for that.”   

That softens the slash of his gaze.  He shakes his head. 

“No,” he says softly.  “Of course not.  I’m sorry.”   

His apology is so sincere, eyes searching yours for something beyond the surface.  You feel like he is speaking to you without words, somehow conveying a lifetime of love in the way he looks at you, saying, it’s me.

You soften too, in every way, your voice and your posture, your heart and everything inside you.  So soft and malleable, all that heat expanding in every direction until you can imagine yourself radiating it like he did.  It feels so inappropriate to be aroused when there is so much drama between you, when a serious conversation needs to be had.  But he is looking at you so intensely, colours of emotions playing across his face.  A shaking breath draws your gaze to his lips. 

He says your name.  It feels like a touch.  You feel dizzy again, this time in a very good way, despite yourself.   

You hear his sharp intake of breath as you step a little closer.  Your scent is affecting him.  It makes him do a double-take, looking at you up and down without any subtlety.  It is blatant, searching.  For lack of a better word, predatory, a wolf on the prowl, scenting something it wants, maybe needs.   Your skirt is long, sweeping past your knees, but you feel like he can see past it somehow. 

His eyes, low on your body, flick up to your face.  Your knees knock.  That hungry look twists into something repulsed again, his brow furrowing.  It darkens his whole face.    

Of course.  He is disgusted with you and your boring human scent and he always has been.  You cannot give into hopeful delusions. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask in your most casual tone, striding up to him like you are unaffected by his presence. 

He steps to the side, staring while you fumble around in your purse for your keys. 

“I wanted to talk,” he says. 

You stare into your bag, rifling through mint wrappers and lipsticks and bus tickets.  You can feel his eyes, practically burning a hole in the side of your head.   You want to be chill, want to laugh and tell him he’s acting weird, to knock it off.  You want to be indifferent, remind him there is a distance between you now and his staring is not appropriate. 

Then he puts a hand on the door, near your head.  He moves around you, undeniably scenting you as he goes.  His other hand comes around the other side, caging you between him and the door.  Your back is to him but you can still feel his gaze, shivering when he breathes you in.  

You swallow, cringing at the wave of arousal that moves through you when his nose brushes the back of your neck. 

Werewolf instincts, you remind yourself, trying to find the resolve to snap him out of it, except that’s not what you want.  You want him to press right against you and put his mouth on your neck, to taste everything he is scenting. 

Until you remember he hates the scent.  So much so, he makes a guttural noise that sounds like a growl, rumbling at the base of his throat. 

You expect him to flinch and move away.  You imagine him shaking his head as he abandons his efforts to reconcile because you’re just not worth it. 

You are not expecting him to say, “Why do you smell like another werewolf?” 

“What?” you say.  “I – I don’t—”

“Yes, you do,” he says, taking another deep breath.  “It’s all over you.  Who is he?” 

Oh, you have been wearing Changbin’s jacket for the last half-hour.  You did not notice any smell but you are not a werewolf.   To Felix, you must be utterly smothered in it.   You wonder if it smells like a sex pheromone, given Changbin was taking you on a date, maybe permeating a desire your human senses did not notice. 

Whatever it is, it has Felix riled in a way you have never seen before.  He has been very careful to hold himself in check around you.  The worst of his werewolf symptoms have been hidden from the start.   It is part of why you are so hurt, that he would not trust you with it. 

Now it overrides his good sense.  His nose swipes the back of your neck again, his fingers curling against the door where his hands sit. 

“He’s just a friend,” you say. 

“A friend,” he repeats.  “He doesn’t smell like a friend.” 

“Well, he is,” you say.  All your desire, heartbreak, and desperation swell inside you, bursting like a firework, hot and crackling.  With a pounding heart, you turn around to face him, intent on confrontation when you snap, “Why would that even matter to you?” 

You look into his eyes.  He is so close, arms around you, that woodsy scent enveloping you.  It feels like coming home, falling into his gaze, letting the heat wash over you as he stares back.  There is something animalistic about his intensity, a predator with its hackles raised, sights set and hunger striking.    

“Felix,” you whisper, voice heavy with a thousand questions that never manifest. 

One hand leaves the door.  He grabs the back of your neck, not roughly, not cruelly, but with an undoubted and irrevocable command.  It makes another firework burst inside you.  You gasp. 

That gasp is interrupted when he dives in without any hesitation, his mouth thoroughly claiming yours in a hot, desperate kiss. 

Whenever you dared to fantasize a kiss with Felix, it was always soft, a little brief, giving it time to grow.  You never imagined so much heat overwhelming you all at once, that his mouth would be so ravishing.  You didn’t even know a kiss could move through your whole body, that when he puts his tongue in your mouth it would feel like he is already fucking you, your body throbbing with want. 

It is not just werewolf instinct because you react too.  You drop your purse on the floor and put your hands on him, one on his chest and the other his neck, clinging to him like he clings to you.  He takes it as invitation, his other hand leaving the door to hold your waist.  His grip is powerful, but despite the supernatural strength it does not hurt.  No, Felix would never hurt you.  Oh, it was so stupid to think he ever would. 

He makes a sound that has you whimpering in turn, the low grunt pressing at your most vulnerable places.  The kiss is open-mouthed, hot and wet and messy. 

He walks you back that final step, pressing you to the door.  He cups the back of your head so you don’t hit it.

You grab the collar of his denim jacket and yank on it, pulling him even closer.  You are completely delirious with him. Everything that has happened and everything that will happen is wholly unimportant as he slots his whole body along yours. 

His leg pushes between your thighs, his hips pinning you to the door.  The thought would have you terrified a year ago, but now it just feels right.  Of course it feels right, because this is Felix, who has seen you at your most vulnerable and healed you, who has caught you every time you fall.  He will always fix what hurts.  He will always take care of you. 

Your body knows it, begging for him, hips rearing towards him.  It presses his thigh against the juncture between your legs, makes it so your flimsy skirt doesn’t matter at all.  You are not thinking when you start to rock against him. 

You forgot your body could feel so much pleasure. 

“Oh, fuck—” he says, his already deep voice somehow even lower as he curses.  

You squeak as he holds you against the door, deliberately rocking his thigh between yours with more pressure and speed than you could manage.  It makes a torrent of mortifying sounds spill past your lips, but he gathers them all up lovingly, tastes them on his tongue as he chases down your gasping breath.  Every little mewl, every breath, every squeaking hiccup is swallowed up by him. 

“Come for me, please,” he whispers, roughly.  It sounds like begging despite how much physical power he has over you.  It would scare if it was someone else, but that supernatural strength doesn’t matter because it bends to you, waiting for your permission.

You just barely remember you are in the corridor.  You hope no one chooses now to step out of their apartment.  You wonder if the other werewolves on the floor can scent whatever pheromones Felix must be giving off. 

It doesn’t matter.  You’re hurtling towards an orgasm and you can’t stop it.  You’re going to come on him, just like this, fully clothed but so wet that you can feel it gushing as he grinds his thigh against you. 

You grab onto his belt, feeling the curve of his bulge just below your palm.  It makes his breath stutter and it makes you surrender.  Your body seizes and your pussy throbs as you come, a strangled cry in your throat while rocking desperately against him.   

It settles slowly, the world coming back in increments.  You are breathing hard, clinging to each other, bodies still pressed so tightly together.  You can feel his heart beating hard and fast.  It keeps rhythm with the lingering thrum below. 

So much for conversation.  Grinding all over Felix in a semi-public space was not in the plan at all. 

“Oh my god,” you say, voice breaking as you are hit with realization.  You push at him and he goes obediently. 

“Fuck,” he says, rubbing his eyes and shaking his head.  He runs his hands through his hair, shakes out the length of it while breathing erratically. 

Your heart is still pounding.  You put your hand over your chest like that will calm it down. 

Felix looks at you.

You recognize this look. 

This look – this is the face you have been mistaking for disgust.  Now that you have seen him truly reviled, snarling at Changbin’s scent on your body, you realize it is not disgust, not at all.  It’s pain, a wincing, cringing desperation as he fights to keep everything inside him. 

It is barely contained right now, his chest still heaving, his fly still bulging, hands shaking at his sides as he stares at you with open need. 

“Oh my god,” you say again.  You lean against the door for support, closing your eyes to try and make sense of the world.  You see the events of the last month play out, the months before that, going back further and further until you shake your head to clear your mind.  “I just—”  You open your eyes, meet his anxious gaze.  “Just give me some time,” you say.  “I – I need to think – I’m so—”

“It’s okay,” he says, hands out to placate you, but careful not to touch you.  He forces himself to smile despite his own emotional tumult.  Sweat breaks out on his hairline.  “Take your time, I – I’m sorry, I didn’t come here to—I just wanted to talk—I—”

“I know,” you say.  “I know.” 

He nods sharply, clearing his throat as he turns awkwardly to the side.  He points vaguely behind him, stutters something like, “I’ll go, um, I’ll just—”

He turns on his heel and walks away, taking the corner to the stairwell so fast that you blink and he is gone. 

You can hear him bounding down the stairs.  You stand there, listening until he is too far to hear. 

With every limb shaking, you pick up your purse and finally fish out your keys.  You manage to turn the key in the lock and step inside before you crumple to your knees. 

This time your thoughts are a very different whirlwind, just as confused and just as emotional, but so conquered by sensation that you find yourself just sitting there, touching your lips, thinking of him.

There is a lot to think about.

-

You realize you have been wrong about so many things.  You and Felix should have spoken a long time ago.  You have both been skirting each other, tentatively regarding the other, worried you might hurt them.  It resulted in you both getting hurt anyway.   

You are so, so scared of making that hurt worse.  It makes you hesitate. 

A day goes by.  Felix respects your space.  On the second day, when you contemplate reaching out for a conversation – a real conversation – your phone buzzes. 

You are surprised to see that it is Bang Chan. 

Hey, he writes.  I need to talk to you right now.  It’s about Felix. 

Your heart-rate shoots through the roof, terror obliterating every other emotion.

Is he okay? you write.  What happened??

Look, I’m just gonna say it, Chan writes.  Felix is in rut.  You know what that is? 

Yes, you say. 

At first, you are relieved he is not hurt and it is something so mundane.  Then you are flustered as you recall the other night.  You remember the heat between you, the way you came on his body and the way he begged for it.   Even now, you are more aroused than embarrassed, shivering as you remember the way he looked at you. 

Right, Chan says.  Look I promise I’m not asking you to sleep with him or something.  I wouldn’t do that.  You have no responsibility for anything.   But you also gotta know that dumb kid is in love with you, right?  Like… insane in love.  Like… won’t let anyone else see him or help him even though he’s a new werewolf, hasn’t had that many ruts, and it hasn’t even been a whole month since the last one. 

You watch as each text appears, your adrenaline building with every word.  The phone shakes in your tight grip.

Didn’t someone help him with his last rut? You ask.  I saw her at his apartment.   

What??? Chan answers quickly.  No.  I sent her over to see if he needed anything, because he kept telling me to fuck off because I was telling him to call you.  I’m telling him again but he still won’t listen.  You know he thinks he’s a monster right? 

You are still reeling from the revelation that he and the girl were not an item at all, that they were truly just having a conversation.  He was flushed and sweaty because he was in rut, not because he spent all morning with her.  You were the one racing to conclusions, not even giving him a chance to explain.  You remember him stepping towards you, asking to speak, but you cut him off before he could.  You assumed he just wanted to reject you. 

Chan says Felix is in love you.  Is it possible that after a conversation with another wolf, he was gathering the courage to tell you, only for you to say you never wanted to see him again? 

Now you read the last message and your heart sinks, a painfully heavy weight in your gut.     

A monster? you write.  What do you mean? 

That doesn’t even make sense.  Felix is the kindest, most loving man you know.  Assuming werewolves are monstrous is such a medieval thought that it never occurred to you for a second that he would feel that way. 

Yeah, Chan says.  Look, he never told me the details because he said it wasn’t his story to tell, but he told me that you went through something really hard and that was why he didn’t want to stress you out with the werewolf thing. It can be pretty intense, especially at the start, and especially when you’re already an adult.  He spent his whole life thinking he was one thing only for everything to change really quickly.  He was really scared of coming on too strong and losing you because of it.   

You made his worst fears come true, you realize, numb as you stare at the screen. 

You know Felix, Chan writes, He’d rather just suffer alone than have someone else feel it too.  I told him to trust you more, that you would want to help, but there’s no getting through to him when he’s like that.  I love the guy but he can be kinda stubborn.

You both have a stubborn streak.  The last month of drama attests to that. 

What do you want me to do?  you ask.  You have more answers but you feel just as lost as before, maybe even more. 

Can you just talk to him please?  Chan says.  He holed himself up in his apartment and he won’t let anyone in.  He stopped answering my messages too.  Ruts are a Molotov cocktail of hormones.  They’re intense even if you’re experienced and he isn’t.  I just don’t want him to get hurt and not do anything about it because he doesn’t want to bother anyone. 

You remember Felix in that corridor, arms hanging limp at his sides, looking at you with so much hurt and sorrow.  Despite that, he didn’t pressure you to stay.  He listened.  He let you go because he thought you wanted that.  He stood by himself in that corridor, crying over a box of his things that he thought had a home with you. 

Tears blur your vision.  You have to rub your eyes before answering Chan. 

I’ll go to him, you write.  I don’t want him hurt either.

I know you don’t, Chan says.  You have a spare key to his place?

Yes.

Good, Chan says.  He’s not answering his door so you’re gonna need it.  Give the guy a smack for me, hey? 

His joke makes you laugh, though it is strained. You give yourself a second to compose yourself then you are on your feet.  You are in a loose house dress and tights, face bare and hair undone, but you do not waste another second.  You know you can be yourself around Felix no matter what.  You wish he understood the feeling was reciprocated.

This time, instead of running away, you run to him.  This time, you will make him understand. 

-

The two city blocks pass in a blur.  You have never moved so fast in all your life, bumping into slow stragglers as you barrel down the street. 

By the time you step off the elevator on his floor, you are warm and out of breath.  You wipe a little perspiration off your forehead as you approach. 

You were so frantic in your determination to arrive, there was no time for nerves to materialize.  They strike all at once, twisting anxiously as you knock.   You wait a minute but he doesn’t answer, just like Chan predicted.

You take a steadying breath and put the key in the lock.  Hand over your heart, you push open the door and step into the apartment.   

It does not look any different from the last time you were here.  Even your slippers are still by the door.  You disregard them now, stepping out of your shoes and venturing forward with a nervous little patter. 

If you were a werewolf, maybe you would have scented a change in the air, but it smells and feels familiar.  The apartment is very still, maybe a little warmer than usual, sunlight streaming through the windows. 

You finally hear a sound.  You leave the small foyer and make a very clumsy entrance into the room. 

You can hardly blame yourself for stumbling.  Felix is sitting on the couch in nothing but a pair of jeans.  It looks like the same blue jeans from the other night.  Yes, in fact, you are sure they are because you can see the faintest streak on his thigh.  You were embarrassed to find you were so wet that it came through your panties and skirt.  You wondered if it got on him. 

You certainly have an answer now.  

Felix is touching himself.  He is slouched back on the couch, his bare chest damp with sweat, his knees spread apart.  His jeans are pulled open and it looks roughly torn, the zipper snapped off the fly.  His hand is wrapped around his cock.  One of your t-shirts is clutched tightly in the other hand.  He is holding it against his face, covering his eyes, mouth, and nose.  He is clearly chasing the scent, knuckles whitening with how tightly he grips it.     

His abdomen clenches as he approaches a climax.  You watch as he quickly wraps the t-shirt around his cock, fucking the material.  His eyes are closed, head thrown back. 

You snap to the realization that he has no idea you’re here, so overwhelmed with your scent from the shirt.

You quickly cover your eyes with both hands and yelp his name. 

His reply is a startled yelp as well.  You peek at him through your fingers, watching as he frantically stuffs the t-shirt between the couch cushions.  He tries to stand at the same time, fighting to close his pants over an uncooperative erection that does not seem to be going down. 

“Fuck, sorry, I – hold on, fuck – I can explain—” he stammers. 

“Um, me too,” you say.    

He can’t get his pants closed but he gets himself tucked back inside.  He keeps a grip on the fly with one hand, the other running through his long hair. 

Then he is standing there, flushed and out of breath.  You slowly lower your fingers from your face. 

There is a moment of silence, both of you startled.  After a bit of staring, he cracks a nervous smile.  You tentatively return it. 

His brow smooths out, his dimple poking into his cheek.  He chuckles first, then you laugh, then you are laughing together.  It feels good, letting out all the ridiculous tension. 

“Why, uhh, why are you here?” he finally asks. 

“Um, Chan texted,” you say. 

“Oh, for the love of—”  He cuts off his own tirade, shaking his head and exhaling heavily. 

You twist your hands together, fingers budging in a nervous fidget. 

“Um, he told me… he told me…”  You forget your precise words because Felix meets your eyes, holding your gaze in his.  You lose yourself in the depth of his dark eyes.  You think your heart is beating loud enough to hear.  

You look away, overwhelmed by the intensity of his stare.  Your eyes stray to the couch, to your t-shirt poking out between the cushions.  You are startled by a jolt between your legs, like a lightning bolt of arousal, the previous scene suddenly resonating with clarity. 

“I—”  You almost choke on your words, so much nervousness, so much fear, so much need in your voice.  You meet his searching eyes, stepping forward as if compelled by them.  “I thought my scent disgusted you.” 

He blinks back at you, your words taking a moment to settle.  Then he furrows his brow and tilts his head.  A bit of hair falls forward and he tucks it back. 

“Uhhhh, what?” he asks.  “Dis—disgusted me?  You thought—”  He looks back at the couch too.  He is very flushed, his rut no doubt keeping him suspended on a perpetual edge, and his ears darken with a richer tinge of red.  “Um.  No.”  He laughs at the ridiculousness, looking at you with wide, blinking eyes.  “I, uh, I definitely don’t – I think you – I mean—”

“Um, yes,” you say, clasping your hands together again.  You rock a little on the balls of your feet.  “Yes.  I can see that, um, I think you’re not disgusted.”

“No,” it comes out on a breath.  His eyes drop from your face down your body.  You look so simple, but he looks at you like no one has ever been more beautiful.   “No, I’m not disgusted.  Why did you think that?”

“You, um, you make faces sometimes,” you say.  It sounds so petty and silly to say out loud, but it’s time to get it all out there.  “And you’ve been so distant, Felix.  I thought that maybe, now that you’re a werewolf, you didn’t want anything more to do with me.” 

His face scrunches up with bewilderment. 

“Nothing – nothing to do with you?” he asks, voice breaking where it pitches up.  It would usually make you laugh, but now is not the time as you stare back, all your insecurities and vulnerabilities on display.  He does not laugh at them either, taking a small step towards you with a tender look on his face.  “I could never feel that way,” he says.  “You’re my whole world. I – I’ve told you that.  You’re my – you’re my person.”

“Chan said you felt like a monster,” you say softly.  “I wish you would have told me how you felt.  I could have told you that you aren’t a monster, not at all.   You’re my person too, you know.” 

He exhales, shoulders deflating.  He rubs the bridge of his nose, thinking of something to say.  Eventually he shakes his head and drops his hand. 

“I didn’t want to be a burden,” he says.  “You’ve been through so much.  I couldn’t – I couldn’t ask you to take care of me too.”

“Felix,” you say, throat cloying with emotion.  You take a step closer as well.  “Felix, you’re not a burden.  I wanted so badly to take care of you.  I – I love you.”

The word love resonates like thunder.  It pierces the air, leaves a ringing aftermath. 

“You – you love me,” Felix says, like the words are incomprehensible.  “As a – as a friend – or?”  He tries to look disinterested but completely fails, staring at you with all that intensity again. 

You combat the instinct to make yourself small, to hide your vulnerabilities, to retreat into denial and just smile prettily.  You hold his gaze.  When you smile, it is honest and affectionate. 

“I love you, Felix,” you say.  “As more than a friend.  As everything.” 

“Oh,” he says.  His hand goes back into his hair, untucking it from behind his ear just to tuck it back again.  His eyes dart everywhere like he is replaying the scene and scanning it for answers.  He blinks at you.  “Oh.” 

“Yeah,” you say, with a small laugh. 

“But you – you never wanted to see me again,” he says, then lifts his brows, expression all at once understanding.  “Because you thought I didn’t want you.  Oh my god.  I’m such an idiot.”

“I’m not the brightest either,” you tease.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, closing the distance yet again with another step.  He forgets the state of his clothes and lets go of his pants, too wrapped up in his words to notice the startled drop of your eyes.  Not much is exposed, just the shape of his hips and a stubborn bulge, but it still leaves you sweating. 

“Look,” he says.  “I – I can’t just say I love you.”  Before your heart can sink, he continues frantically, “Because it’s not enough.  I do, I do love you.  The werewolf gene activated for you.  The doctors asked if I had been in any dangerous situations that might have triggered it and I said no.  They – they said it sometimes activates in peril, when you feel the need to protect yourself.  That’s what happened to me.  Except it wasn’t because I wanted to protect myself.  I wanted to protect you.”

“Me?” you say in a small voice, like you can hardly believe it.

“Yes,” he says, smiling, both hands moving as he talks.  “I felt so helpless, watching the way you were hurting.  I wanted to protect you.  I never wanted to see you suffering again.  I tried to be calm around you but pushing it down just made the feeling more desperate.  My wolf, it’s like my heart.  It’s just an animal, you know?  And it only understands loyalty and love.  And the first time I changed, I didn’t think like a person, no, but I thought of you all the same.  They could barely keep me contained in that hospital.  I just wanted to run to you. I wanted to protect you.  I wanted to keep you safe. Staying away from you… it’s been killing me.”

“Me too,” you say, so filled to brim with emotion you think you might burst.  “Oh, Felix, me too.” 

A laugh spills out of him, more of a release than humour.  You take another step towards each other, this time close enough to clasp hands between you. 

“I wish you would have told me,” you say.  “But it’s my fault too.  I know I’m still recovering in some ways.  I’m quick to think little of myself.  But I shouldn’t put you in the role of the mean voices in my head.  I’m sorry too.  So, so sorry.” 

“How could you think I’d ever be disgusted with you?” he asks in a low voice. 

When he cups your cheek, a shiver moves down your spine.  You straighten, leaning into his touch, looking at him with wanting eyes.  He swallows hard, staring back. 

“It was silly,” you say.  “I even thought you were seeing someone else.  That werewolf lady in your pack.  I thought maybe you wanted a werewolf mate and I wouldn’t be enough.” 

“That’s crazy,” he says.  “You’re my everything.” 

“And you’re mine,” you say.  

You touch his arm, just the lightest caress of your fingertips.  His skin is so hot it makes you gasp.  Your cool fingers must be a balm because his eyes close and a little sigh parts his lips. 

“Uh,” he breathes, eyes still closed.  “Sorry for what you, uh, saw, coming in—  I promise I don’t usually – ruts are just—”

You step a little closer.  You can feel his breath on your cheek when he breathes in and out. 

His hands drop to his sides as you lean in and kiss his neck.  It is just a chaste touch but it makes his eyes fly open.  He looks at you and you swear his eyes have never been so dark.   

“You want me,” he says.  When you nod, he releases another deep breath, a massive exhale of relief.  “Ruts are… intense,” he says. 

“Mm,” is your gentle reply.  Your eyes run down his bare skin, fingers itching to touch.  You meet his gaze.  “But it’s you, right?” 

Some romances depict ruts as an out of control haze.  Though Felix is certainly more intense, it is your best friend’s familiar eyes locked on yours.  You realize it actually makes him the vulnerable one, all his desires so blatant, his needs on the surface, unable to hide them for a second.  You understand why he held back, especially while you were in recovery.   There is so much of him. 

But that is what you love.  You can never have enough. 

“Yes,” he says.

His deep voice is so rough that it makes you whimper.  His hand jumps at the sound, settles on the back of your neck like it did yesterday.  Anticipation tingles from the crown of your head to the tips of your toes, every inch of your body aware of him, desperate for him. 

“Yes,” he says again, staring at your mouth.  “Yes, it’s me.” 

Your breath catches when he squeezes your nape.  In the back of your mind, you recall all those little courtship rituals of werewolves, the instincts that manifest between them and their mate.  A gentle squeeze of the nape is a request for your submission, for you to put your trust in his strength and his affection.  

You do, utterly.  You rest your hands on his waist, your cool palms against his hot skin, making his eyes flash with hunger. 

“What are you waiting for?” you ask, his mouth so close, kissing a tantalizing promise.  

He smiles that real smile, eyes crinkling sweetly, sunshine radiating with all that heat. 

“I told you, ruts can be intense,” he says.  “I’m waiting for your permission to let me have my way with you.”

“You have it,” you say.  Your eyes drop to his chest and you run your hand from his collarbone all the way down to his abdomen, watching the muscles tense under the caress of your fingers. 

You smile at him, swiping at his hot skin with your fingertips as you step back.  He lets you go, hands dropping to his sides.  He moves when you do, like his whole body is tethered to yours, magnetized to your core.  Each step you take, he follows with a fixated prowl. 

“Do whatever you want with me,” you say, peeling down a strap of your dress.  “I’m yours.” 

His steps gain speed, his smile brightening.  In a matter of seconds, he is chasing you into his bedroom, laughing behind your trail of giggles as you scamper ahead of him. 

He catches you around the waist inside the bedroom, pulling your backside into his front.   The straps of your dress are both lowered and you hold it to your chest with your hand, heart pounding from excitement and the little chase. 

You make a sweet sound when his nose swipes your neck.  You tip your head, offering more skin.  It is a good thing his grip is so strong, because you tremble when he exhales, breath caressing your skin.  He gathers your dress in his hands, plucking the fabric out of your grip.  He pushes it down your body and it puddles on the floor. 

“Felix,” you say on a sigh when he kisses the back of your neck while working his fingers under your bra.  You help remove it, dropping it onto the floor.  You rock back against him when he touches you.  He uses both hands to cup your breasts and squeeze. 

“Can’t believe you thought I was disgusted,” he says.  “Like I didn’t spend my whole last rut in here thinking about you.” 

“Y-you did?” you ask, with a little whimper, because his open jeans are not doing much to shield him and you can feel how hard he is against you.  

“Yes,” he says, a hand coming up to circle your throat, gripping it possessively as he puts his teeth in your neck.  It makes you jump in his arms, body shaking. 

He holds you tight against him, the denim of his pants rough through the thin fabric of your tights. 

“I’m sorry for all that,” you rasp.  “I must have made it so hard for you.”

“Mm,” he says, grinning against your neck.  “You made it very hard.”

“Pfft.”  You slap a hand over your mouth when laughing.  “That was a terrible joke.”

“Mm. True though.” 

You squeak when he nudges you forward, so close to the bed that you stumble right onto it.   He climbs up behind you, grabbing your hips and flipping you onto your back. 

“At first, I was just sad,” he says. 

He leans back to grab something off his bedside table.  You admire the length of his body as he does, the low-slung jeans, the sheen of sweat across his chest, and his subtle, slender musculature.  

You meet his gaze when he comes back.  He is kneeling over you, a cocky grin on his face.  He gathers his hair and ties it with the band he just grabbed. 

“Then I really thought about it,” he says.  “Mm, yeah, thought about hunting you down.”  He straddles your thigh, his hands planting on either side of your head.  “I’d find you and I’d remind where you belong.”  He leans down, kissing along your jaw.  “With me.  Under me.  Moaning my name.  Forgetting about everything else.” 

“Did you—”  You start but gasp, his mouth on your throat, biting, sucking, licking.  You arch your back, leaning into his mouth as he works his way down your body.  “Did you… like with my shirt… when I saw you before…”

“What?  Did I get off to your scent?” he asks.  “Yes.”  His hand follows his mouth, fingers curling into the band of your tights.  “I told myself I shouldn’t.  The last few ruts I managed.  It wasn’t fun, mostly too hot, but I got by.  But – you weren’t coming back, were you?  You left so many pretty things here that made me think of you…”

He abruptly kneels upright.  He uses both hands to grab the waistband of your tights. 

“Found one of your cardigans,” he says.  “Soft, like you.  Put it on my pillow and fucked my hand like I wanted to fuck you.” 

He rips your tights open with little effort, tearing right down to the thigh. 

“Put it on my face,” he says.  “Tasted it.  Like I wanted to taste you.” 

You moan for him, threading your fingers through his hair as he gets between your legs and opens his mouth on your pussy.  He licks right through the material of your panties, like he doesn’t care at all, tormenting you with the obstruction until it is soaked through.   You say his name over and over, your thighs already shaking just from warming up. 

“Mmm.”  He pushes himself up again, his mouth wet, tongue sweeping over his lips.  He grabs your panties by the waistband and tugs them down. 

By now, his jeans have slid down his hips.  He is so hard, beading at the tip, as wet for you as you are for him.  You watch as he uses your panties to quickly jerk his cock, gathering the wetness at the tip, then tossing them over his shoulder. 

He falls back on top of you, face between your legs, licking you with nothing in his way. 

“Wanted to find you,” he says between teasing kitten licks, looking up at you, smirking with the flick of his tongue.  “Wanted to make you come so hard – mm, fuck you so good…”  He slips two fingers inside you.  Even though it has been some time, they move with no hindrance, your pussy so wet that he sinks right in. 

“Yeah,” he says, momentarily going cross-eyed with his face so close to your pussy, watching his fingers move in and out of you.  He grins when you clench around him.  “Show you we were meant to be,” he says.  “Just like this.”  He licks you again, fingers moving so quickly that it sounds as obscenely wet as it feels.  “Wolf or not.  Knew you were mine.  Was gonna make sure you know too.” 

“Ohh,” you say, tugging at the blankets beneath you.  “Who are you and what have you done with my sunshine Felix?” 

He laughs, a low chuckle, the vibrations moving in your pussy.

“Mm, I’m right here, sweetheart,” he says.  “Right… here…” 

Then his mouth is occupied, little licks replaced with broad strokes of his tongue, then a repeating pattern that has you swelling and gushing on his tongue.  You come so hard that it makes you dizzy, head thrown back as you squirt all over his thrusting fingers. 

“That’s it,” he says, kissing your wet thighs. 

While you are recovering, he grabs you and moves you.  He arranges you neatly in the middle of the bed, making sure you are comfortable.  Then he lets down his hair and removes his jeans.

“Felix,” you say, though it is generous to describe your voice as anything but a needy whimper.   

He runs his hands up and down your trembling thighs, coaxing you open with murmurs of sweet nothings.   You let him in, stringing your arms around his neck as he fits his hips between your legs and leans over you.   You feel the head of his cock against your pussy, still throbbing with aftershocks.  You are clenching around nothing, needing him, so ready you could scream. 

You don’t scream, but sigh, like you are relieved when he gets inside you, like this is what you have been missing all along.

He takes his time despite the fever of his rut.  Maybe because of it.  His senses are so heightened, the pleasure felt so strongly.  He groans, eyes closed, putting his face in your neck and breathing deeply as he slowly rocks into you. 

“What were you thinking,” he murmurs, lips moving on your throat, “Trying to run away from me?” 

“I’m – I’m sorry,” you say, interrupted with a hiccupping little uh-uh when he rolls his hips and you feel him deeper, harder, faster. 

“You thought I wanted someone else?” he asks.  “Impossible.” 

Your eyes are closed, head thrown back.  He grabs your chin and pulls your face to him, says, “Look at me.  Right now.” 

You do, blinking your eyes open.  His thumb rubs your bottom lip and you open your mouth.  You don’t even need to think, instantly accepting the intrusion of the digit, sucking on it while holding his gaze. 

It would have terrified you a year ago, with anyone else, losing yourself to instinct like that, opening yourself up so willingly.  With Felix, it feels right, it feels good. 

“It’s you and me,” he says.  “You understand that?”

You nod, humming affirmatively around his thumb.  It rubs over your tongue, opens your mouth a little more.   You want to close your eyes with every rolling thrust into you, but he tugs your face back to him when you try. 

“You’re my mate,” he says.  “Just you.  It’s always – always been you.”  He groans on the second always, picking up some speed, making you whine against his fingers.  

He is so hot, clearly in the grips of his rut fever, but you cling to him, accepting everything he has to offer. 

 “Gonna be mine,” he says.  “That’s right, yeah?”  You nod frantically.  “Yeah.  Gonna put a ring on your finger.  You’re gonna be so good to me, aren’t you?  Gonna let me take care of you.  Gonna be my mate.  Gonna have my children.  You and me.  Home.  Oh, yes, sweetheart, that’s it—”

You clench so tightly at the mention of children.  It catches you off guard, your body’s visceral and immediate response, faster than your brain compute can why.  You have told Felix you want children one day, in the future, back when you were just friends and it was an abstract thought.  Thinking of a home with him, having his children, making a whole life together, being bound so completely …

“Fuck,” you say, his thumb sliding out of your mouth.  He cups your face to keep it locked on him, your lips brushing each other. 

“Look at me,” he whispers. 

You do, though you are so close that you barely see him.  It feels like he is everywhere, everything, around you and inside you.  You melt when he kisses you, stealing your breath as he claims you so completely.  You kiss back, messy and haphazard, all heat and wetness, but it feels good.    

“C-can’t get pregnant,” you say with a pout, a bit delirious from getting fucked, letting the words roll thoughtlessly off your tongue.  “B-birth control.”

“I know,” he says.  He moves a little, gets up so he can hold your hips and pull you onto his cock with every thrust.  “I’m stronger,” he says, just as deliriously, watching where his cock moves inside you.  “Yeah.  Gonna fill you up so much, it’ll happen anyway.  It can’t stop me.” 

He holds your hips, keeps you in place.  He thrusts into you deeply and says, “You’re mine,” and thrusts again, “You’re mine,” and thrusts again, “You’re mine,” and comes inside you. 

It is not quite like all the werewolf pornography, with exaggerated knots on preposterously sized cocks, but werewolf physiology is still a little different than human.  That difference is exacerbated on a rut.  You feel it as he comes, the way he swells and gets harder, just enough that you feel your fullest as he releases.  Pushing at you walls, stretching you around him, making you his without question. 

He doesn’t really soften after, the rut sustaining him, but the swelling goes down.  Even then, not entirely, as you feel a sharper burn when he pulls out of you.  The flicker of pain is oddly tantalizing, a biting sensation on top of so many others.  It ripples through you, makes you moan. 

Your whole body is twitching, eyes closed as you come back to yourself. 

You look up at Felix.  His eyes are between your legs, his hand running up your thigh.  You feel his thumb spread your pussy open, feel his release spilling out of you.  That is the other different element; with a werewolf, there is a lot more of everything.  

Though you know your birth control will function regardless, when you feel all that inside you… for a moment, you believe he might be strong enough to overpower it. 

It makes you giddy, pleasure moving through your body.  He smiles at you, all sunshine and sweetness.   Then he takes control of your hips and puts himself back inside you.  The refractory period on a rut is virtually nonexistent on the peak day, which is usually the second day, which is today. 

“You okay?” he asks, rocking into you slowly even though he fits so easily now, your body made to take him. 

You nod, sliding your hands over his shoulders.  You scratch across his back then up in his hair, making him grunt and close his eyes.  He leans down and kisses you, continuing to fuck you until you are making all those sweet sounds again. 

“Good?” he asks, kissing your jaw, your neck. 

“Good,” you say. 

“Not too much?” he checks. 

“Mm, no,” you say.  You give him a teasing smile.  “Not enough actually.”

“Oh, really?”  He laughs, eyes big with playful incredulity.  “Should I growl and bite more?”  He makes a playful snarl like the werewolves in all the erotica. 

It makes you laugh.  You can’t remember the last time you laughed while having sex, but it feels so good, just as good as all the hot, desperate stuff.    

“Hmm, maybe not,” he says, laughing too.  “Maybe all the making-a-bitch stuff is a bit much, hm?” 

It seems you will learn more about yourself than him over this rut, because that also makes you clench involuntarily.  He blinks with surprise, mouth in a soft ‘o’ as he looks down at you.  He laughs just a little at the look on your face, a low chuckle as his grin widens. 

You cover your mouth, blinking innocently up at him. 

“Oh shit,” he says.  “I see.” 

You pout when he pulls out of you, but there is little time to feel bereft because he flips you over onto your front.  Your face lands in the pillows, then he yanks you down the bed.  

Oh, it feels filthy suddenly, because the new angle opens you up and you can feel come dripping out of you.  It catches his eye too, because he puts his fingers there and stuffs it back inside you.  

With little effort, he gets you back under him, pushes down your shoulders and lifts up your hips.  You feel him at your entrance again, pushing the tip past the rim. 

“Is that it?” he asks, dropping his voice so low yet sounding so sweet.  “You want me to make you my bitch, baby?” 

He slams home, holding your hips up while pounding into you with relentless measure.   You grab a pillow to hold, yelping and whining into it as he fucks you with wild abandon.  

For a few seconds, you succumb to that single-minded animalistic pursuit, and you really do believe he can put a baby in you.  You start babbling the desire – begging for it, asking him to fill you up. 

“Please, please, please,” you say, gasping. 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he says, draping himself over your back, not stopping his hips for a second.  “I got you.  I’ll give you a baby.  So good for me.  Made to take it from me, yeah, baby?” 

 You know you are going to come again, his angle and precision too much to withstand.  Sure enough, you are coming all over his cock in a matter of seconds, squeezing him into another orgasm too. 

He kneels behind you, throws his head back while coming.  Then he grinds inside you like he is trying to get it as deep as possible. 

“Oh, Felix,” you say, whimpering when he pulls out, still hard, the burn less this time because you are so filthy wet that he slides so easily.   You can feel his release gush out of you, his fingers chasing it, pushing back into you. 

He rubs at you until you are rocking your hips and coming on his fingers.  It is so much stimulation that your eyes water and your nose starts to sniffle. 

He rolls you over and cups your face.  You open your mouth instinctively, tilting your head to expose your neck.    He looks at you like he can’t really believe you are exist and that you are here. 

“Wow,” he says.  The hand on your face slides so he can put his thumb back in your mouth, letting you suck on it like it is giving you life.  He clenches his jaw, makes a rough sound, presses down on your needy tongue.  “Next time,” he says, while starting to put his cock back into you, “Your mouth.  And my mouth.  You’re gonna sit on my face for hours.  I’m gonna take care of you.  Oh—”

He is halfway inside you when you reach up, putting your hands on his chest.  He stops immediately, pulling out, taking back his hands, looking at you with a concerned tilt to his head. 

“Will you lay on your back?” you ask, voice hoarse. 

He blinks, like for a second he doesn’t understand words, but then he obeys.  His hair is in absolute disarray, a veritable lion’s mane.  He rakes it back, smooths it down as best he can.  He never takes his eyes off you, watching as you sit up, as you climb on top of him, as you put him back inside you and set a slower pace. 

“My turn,” you say, smiling.  “I want to take care of you too.” 

He smiles, putting his hands on your hips but not guiding them.   He lets you take the lead, moving on top of him, finding all the ways to make him moan and close his eyes and twitch inside you.   

You make him come twice that way.  After the second time, he finally starts to soften enough that you can take a break. 

You lay down beside him, squeaking with surprise when you press down on your belly and a little more come gushes out of you.  You look at each other, his face the picture of total innocence despite his hand in it.  You swat his chest, rolling onto your side and putting your head on his chest. 

He laughs, putting his arm around you, stroking your back. 

“You know I do mean it,” he says, looking down at you.  “I want everything with you.” 

“Me too,” you say.  You kiss his chest, then his neck, under his jaw, making him sigh contently.  “I love you, Felix.  Everything about you, wolf and all.” 

“I love you too,” he says, pressing you close, kissing your forehead. 

There is a long moment of content silence.  He strokes your back, up and down, lulling you to a dozy state.  It is too early to sleep and, besides, the sheets need changing before that – even though you suspect they will just be dirtied again. 

You are contemplating these sweet mundane nothings when he says, “You’re in the pack, you know.  As my mate.  That makes you one of us.” 

“Does it?” you ask. 

“Yes,” he says.  “I’m telling you this, because you’re a packmate and Chan is leader, but you’re my mate, so you have to take my side and tell him to fuck off when he tries to say I told you so.” 

You laugh, shaking your head and playfully rolling your eyes. 

“Sounds good,” you say.  “Hmm, I might go have a shower before… the next… round…” 

You do not have to look down to know that he is hard already, his blinking gaze revealing all.  You giggle together and kiss again. 

“All right, fair enough,” you say, eyes closed, exposing your neck obediently when he cups your nape.  You press against him, moaning softly when he scents your neck then sucks a bruising kiss there.  “It can wait,” you say, smiling.  “We’ve been waiting for this long enough.” 

“Mm,” he says, already slipping back into his feverish need.  He grabs you and pulls you back on top of him. 

There is not much talking for a while, but there is some laughter and plenty of smiles, and for the first time in a long time, you are looking forward to everything that follows after.   

The Roomate

The Roomate

Y/n is desperate to find a place to live in her city when her best friend, Jimin, suggests she moves in with his friend Jungkook.

I LOVE this story. There are multiple parts, I only linked part 1 of the og fic. This contains poly with vmin x y/n and jk x y/n. However, if you want to read the mostly jungkook version you can read it here. I’ve only read the og version which still has jk x reader. 

Neighh

Shy Smiles and Soft Snuggles.

a vds one shot. you can find more on my ao3.

( @ apolloswords )

feel free to comment/message me any suggestions for one shot ideas!

Lucas takes Jens and Jana on a weekend trip to Utrecht. When Jana teases them about the status of their relationship, it has Lucas thinking about making it official.

Continuation of “ Buried Boxes and Bashful Booths.”

“The train!” Lucas yelled as he tried to keep up with Jens and Jana.

The three of them raced down the platform, lunging their overnight bags on their side or their backs as they tried to make it to the train to Utrecht. The train they had taken to Antwerp’s main station was delayed by five minutes, which meant they had to get to the train to Utrecht in the next ten seconds if they didn’t want to miss it.

Luckily, Jens practically flung himself through the doors, holding it open just in time for Jana and Lucas to hope on. They took a second to catch their breath, panting heavily as they tried to find their seats.

When they did, they threw their bangs down and sat. Lucas and Jens placed their bags beside Jana, so they could have a bit more room on their shared seats.

“I thought we were going to miss it.” Jana said, still catching her breath. “So much for thinking we had that five minutes to spare.”

“I hate running.” Lucas pouted, before letting his body weight fall on top of Jens.

Jens groaned, but shifted a little to make sure he and Lucas were more comfortable. Jana laughed at the frown Lucas had on his face for having to be shifted into a new position, and she shook her head.

“Are you excited for us to meet your friends?” She asked. “You get to introduce them to a sister and a boyfriend.” She teased.

“We aren’t boyfriends!” He and Jens said in unison, which only fuelled her amusement.

“Yeah right.” She crossed her arms and looked at them with a smug smile. “You guys are definitely more than friends.”

“Well what if we’re just doing it to fool you?” Jens teased back. “You’re the one who keeps teasing us, maybe we’re just putting on an act for you.”

Jana snorted. “Please, I would hope the both of you hanging around each other almost 24/7 isn’t because of me.”

“Should I ask you for permission first?” Jens teased again, matching her smug smile. “Have your blessing so I can date your brother?”

“I would hope my brother had better choices in boys.” She shot back, and Lucas let out a laugh.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure Jens knows you’ll kick his ass if anything happens to me.” He assured.

“So your friends,” Jens asked, turning away from Jana and raising a brow. “Have you told them anything?”

“They know as much as Jana knows.” He said with a smirk.

“I hardly know anything!” She cried, throwing her hands up in the air. “What did you tell them? That Jens was just some random kid we picked up and decided to bring along for the weekend?”

“Basically.” Lucas shrugged, now turning to wink at Jens. “I said you were a charity case.”

“Oh fuck off.” He snorted, lightly pushing him off. Lucas only laughed and fell on top of him again, only reviewing a chuckle and a roll of eyes as retaliation.

“Alright, I want peace and quiet for the next hour.” Jana instructed. “Faoucci’s math test fried by brain during my last class. I need time to heal.” She eyes the both of them seriously, narrowing her eyes and pointing at the two of them. “If you both leave me here and abandon me at the stop, you’ll both be sorry.”

-

“Oh fuck no.” Lucas said, as he saw two familiar faces standing next to a small black car in the train station’s parking lot.

Both of the boys standing there waved at him, giving him mischievous smiles before they raced over. As much as Lucas wanted to pretend he wasn’t happy to see them, he felt a sudden burst of adrenaline shot through him and ran up a bit. When the three of them had gotten close enough, they enveloped into a hug.

“Luc!” Kes laughed, hugging the right side of him tightly. “We thought we’d never see you again!”

“It’s not the same without you!” Jayden dramatically cried into Lucas’ left shoulder, only to get snorts of laughter from the other two boys.

When they pulled apart, Lucas turned around and saw that Jens and Jana had caught up to him. Jana had a wide smile on her face, the breeze blowing her hair in the wind as Jens tried to look composed with his straight posture and confident grin.

“Hey guys, these are the people I brought.” He said, standing off to the side a bit so he could properly introduce them. “This is my sister Jana and my friend Jens. Jens, Jana, these are my friends Kes and Jayden.”

“The charity case huh?” Kes said with a smirk. “If I didn’t know any better, I would have figured he was your-“

Lucas shot him a glare which made Kes quickly shut up. Kes gave him a smug look, much to his dismay.

“Damn, does everyone in Belgium look like you guys? I might have to consider moving.” Jayden said, smiling at the both of them.

Lucas felt his face burn up as Jens and Jana chuckled, obviously flattered by Jayden’s compliment.

“Well it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Jana said with a smile, as Jens managed to give both Kes and Jayden some handshakes.

“Luc, we got a car so we don’t have to train back to Jayden’s place.” Kes explained. “It’s going to be a tight fit but I’m sure they’ll find a way to fit all of you in the flat.”

“Come on!” Jayden called out, pulling some car keys out of his jacket pocket. “I’m driving.”

“Oh we are so fucked.” Lucas muttered under his breath, causing everyone around them to laugh.

They all started to heard towards the car, with Lucas following slowly behind. Jayden, who seemed very interested in Jana, was walking beside her, as Kes basically lead the entire group. Lucas felt his face flush when he noticed Jens walking beside him. Feeling the familiar nudge to his shoulder, he looked up and was greeted by a satisfied smirk from the tall raven haired boy.

“So, do you think I’m cute enough to move countries for?” He asked, a smirk on his lips.

Lucas scoffed. “You’re cute for a Belgian.”

He continued walking, trying to hide a smile from his face as Jens took a pause, standing there and thinking about what Lucas had just said.

“Hey!” He called out, Lucas whipping his head around to teasingly grin the boy behind him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

-

“We are going to get wasted!” Isa cried out, throwing her arms around Jana who was becoming a giggling mess.

“Aren’t you already?” Liv shouted over the music, groaning as she shook her head, following them across the room.

Lucas shook his head, laughing and knowing the two girls were probably going to find some more alcohol. He could already envision the horrible hangover that awaited them the next morning.

“Hey,” Jens nudged his arm gently. “I’m going to go smoke some weed. Come out with me?”

“Was that pun intended?” Lucas laughed.

“What pun?”

“Never mind.” He shook his head, while still chuckling. “Sure, let’s go.”

They headed outside of the house and towards the front lawn, leaning on the gates. Everybody else seemed to be inside. Lucas had already lost sight of Kes and Jayden about five minutes after entering the house. And if they weren’t outside smoking weed, it was a definite loss cause to even try to find them amidst the crowd of people.

Jens took out a lighter from his back pocket and a pre-rolled joint from the back of his ear. He lit the end of it, and Lucas couldn’t help but almost gawk at how attractive he found it. As Jens took a hit and let the smoke curl out of his lips, Lucas could feel his heart race and body go to complete jelly.

He passed the joint to him and he took it gratefully. The weed seemed to calm his nerves down a bit, and he was pleasantly surprised with its familiarity.

“Where’d you get Nederlands weed?” He asked Jens, who took the joint from him again.

“Your friend Kes gave it to me before we got here. He gave me a few actually.” He pulled out two more pre-rolled joints from his front pocket. “I hope he doesn’t think I’m going to smoke them all in one night. I don’t have that tolerance to this type of weed.”

“I hope he’s not doing that either.” Lucas scoffed.

He watched as Jens tilted his head back in a light laugh, more smoke coming out of his lips and making Lucas suck in a breath.

“Your friends are really nice.” He noted. “I can see why it was hard to leave them.”

“They’re chaotic as hell.” He snorted, but gave a small smile. “But I can’t believe how much I actually missed their chaos.”

“It must be nice to be back home at least. How does it feel?”

“Weird. I know in a way it’s still home but it’s weird to be a visitor.” He managed to look up and give Jens a small smile. “But I’m glad you came along?”

“Yeah?” He smirked. “I’m glad you brought me along too.”

Lucas knew his face probably had a light blush to it, and he looked down at his shoes to hide it. He felt Jens lean a little more to the gate, reaching out and letting the sides of their hands touch. Lucas felt something fuzzy inhabit his body, and it only made the blush on his face feel warmer.

“Have you ever thought about what Jana said earlier?” Jens asked, a little hesitation in his voice.

Looking at him, Lucas gave him a confused loo. “What did she say?”

“Well she mentioned us being boyfriends.”

“Oh.” He didn’t really know what to say. “I mean, I have.”

“Really?” He seemed rather surprised.

“Yeah, have you?”

“Yeah, I have.”

He widened his grin. “Really? Since when?”

“Probably since I met you. I looked at you and thought, wow, this guy has to be the one who puts up with me.”

“You’re kidding?” Lucas asked in disbelief.

“I’m not.” Jens leaned in forward and whispered to him. “I really thought that.”

Lucas smiled, blushing again and felt himself staring into Jens’ eyes. His eyes then lowered onto his lips, their soft pink colour looking down bright against the dim sky. He wanted to lean forward, to stand on the tips of his toes and wrap his arms around the other boy, finally doing what he had thought the second he had looked at him.

Just before he was going to do it, they were quickly interrupted by Liv shouting at them from the front steps of the house.

“Luc, Jens!” She called out. “We need you to carry Jana home, her and Isa just threw up all over the place.”

“Classic.” Jens laughed as he nodded at her. “Okay, we’ll be right there.”

Lucas bit his hip, a little disappointed that their moment had been ruined. Trying not to let it show so much on his face, he tried to crack a small chuckle.

“Looks like the party is ending earlier than we thought.” He managed to say, as they walked towards the house.

Jens laughed again. “Sorry us Belgians have a weaker tolerance than you Dutch.”

He shook his head. “Didn’t you hear Liv? It was both Jana and Isa throwing up.”

“Isa doesn’t stand a chance against that Dutch tolerance does she?”

“Nope. It wouldn’t be a party without her losing to it each time.”

They arrived into the house and were greeted quickly by the rest of this friends. Poor Isa was being held up by Kes and Jayden, her eyelids dropping as she groaned from her nausea. They found Jana being held up by Isa, her face pale and her voice slurred.

“Liv, Liv, Liv, look!” She exclaimed, pointing at both Jens and Lucas. “My rescuers have come to save me!” She pouted her lips. “My favourite pair of boyfriends.”

“In a different country but the party routine still commences, doesn’t it Jana?” Jens teased, ignoring the last part and walking towards her side. He slung one arm around him, letting her shift some of her weight onto him. He nodded at Lucas. “Come get her other side.”

“Oh yeah.” Lucas said, figuring to ignore what Jana had said as well. He walked over, Liv placing her gently onto him.

“Looks like Isa finally found her drinking buddy.” Jayden laughed, before opening the front door with his foot.

“Too bad she lives on the other side of the border.” Jens snorted. “She won’t be able to party like this every weekend.”

“Oh thank god.” Liv said from behind them, rolling her eyes as they all headed out the door.

-

“Even in a different country, I still manage to sleep beside you.” Jens chuckled as he slid into the empty space on the bed beside him.

Sleeping arrangements turned out to be fairly easy. The second they had walked into the flat, Isa and Jana both collapsed onto the two couches. Liv seemed decently pleased, knowing she wouldn’t have to share her bed. They threw some blankets on them, chilled out in the kitchen for awhile before eventually heading off to bed. Since Ralph was gone for the weekend, Lucas and Jens were able to crash in his room while Kes was forced to make do with Jayden.

“Some things never change.” Lucas said with a smile, instantly feeling some of Jens’ radiating heat off of him. Instinctively, he moved in a little closer, minimizing the space that laid between them.

“Hey.” Jens whispered in the dark, smiling brightly that his teeth shown like the stars.

Lucas giggled. “Hi.”

“You know, it’s kind of nice that I’ve gotten used to sleeping beside you.” He whispered. “It doesn’t make this place feel any different than home.”

“Does it feel different?” He asked, frowning a little. “Do you feel weird being here?”

“No!” He shook his head quickly, and chuckled. “No, of course not. I actually love it here. It’s a nice place to make a life out of.”

“Oh.” He paused. “I kind of want to move back here after high school.”

“For university?”

“Probably.”

“I’d come with you.”

He widened his eyes in surprise. “You would follow me here?”

“Sure, why not?” Jens shrugged. “It’s not that far away from Antwerp. Close enough for me to visit my parents and far enough that they have no control over me.” Now Jens paused. “To be honest, I think I would prefer the distance actually.”

“Are things at home not good?” Lucas asked softly and nervously, hoping it wouldn’t upset Jens.

But Jens only chuckled again. “No, it’s not that. Things could be better though. I don’t think I’ve ever told you this, but I’m also a child of divorce. Except instead of living with my dad, who by the way, moved all the way to Switzerland of all places, I live with my mom. And the second marriage brought some baggage, also known as my evil step sisters.”

“I thought it was going to be strange from going from an only child to having a sister.” He admitted. “But it’s actually pretty cool. It’s like having a permanent friend with you all the time.”

“Yeah, you got the lucky deck handed to you. I don’t think my sisters even tried being remotely decent towards me.” His voice lowered a bit. “To be honest, I almost got a little jealous over Jana. When she told me she was getting a brother and he was really nice, I was a little upset that I didn’t get a nice sibling.”

“Oh.” He paused again. “Sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” Jens smiled. “I was lucky she got you. You ended up being one of the nicest people I’ve ever met, and now I have no idea what I would do without you.”

“Oh.” His voice went up in a delight as he smiled back at him. “I don’t know what I would do without you either.”

Jens looked at him softly, bringing a hand up to the side of his face and tucking some loose curls behind his ear. Lucas held his breath, feeling his heart race and the familiar fuzzy feeling take over. It was the same feeling he had gotten earlier, right before they were interrupted, just before Lucas was going to kiss him.

“Luc,” He said quietly, not taking his eyes off of him. “You do know I like you more than a friend, right?”

“I know. It, just.” He trailed off.

“Just what?”

“Well I haven’t asked you to be my boyfriend yet because I haven’t kissed you yet.” Lucas blurted out. “And I know I shouldn’t be scared to because I know you feel the same way I do and even if you didn’t I know you wouldn’t make me feel bad about it but I just don’t know when’s the perfect time to do it and then I panic and over think and then I miss my chance and then I-“

Lucas was quickly cut off by a kiss.

It took him a second for his brain to register it, but when he did, he instantly melted against it. Jens was holding his face firmly while still managing to make the kiss soft and gently. Lucas hummed into the kiss, almost having to hold his breath as he felt his chest tighten with so much euphoria. The space between them didn’t exist, and Lucas trailed his hand to Jens’ jawline, tilting it so he could have more of him. Lucas felt him smile against his lips, and it felt like a breath of fresh air. He could almost feel Jens’ own heart beating against his chest and he wondered if he could feel his.

He wondered why he hadn’t kissed him sooner. He wished he had. If he had known it was going to be like this then maybe Lucas wouldn't have felt so shy about his little crush.

But he also didn’t mind the waiting. He didn’t mind that he got to spend time with Jens before this, to really know him and understand him. To have had their shy glances exchanged for shy smiles to eventual shy affections.

Lucas didn’t mind the waiting. Because right now, the moment was perfect. And he wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Eventually they pulled apart, staring at each other in awe. Lucas couldn’t stop holding his face as he marvelled at the boy in front of him. The boy he had fallen so hard for, despite the short amount of time he had known him for. But with the way he was being marvelled at and also being held in the hands of Jens, he knew there was no more questioning between them.

“Now can you ask me to be your boyfriend?” Jens asked, his voice panting a little as he tried to regulate his breathing.

Giggling, Lucas leaned his forehead forward, pressing it against his.

“Will you be my boyfriend?” He asked in a whispered.

And he smiled. Because he already knew the answer.

-

Lucas was barely awake when he heard the bedroom door swing open. Groaning, he opened his eyes halfway and saw Jana standing there. She looked way better than she had last night, and based on the brightness on her face, she was definitely way more alive.

“Wake up.” She instructed them, flinging her hands everywhere. “We’re gonna roam around Utrecht today and we have to hit all the spots.

“Few more minutes.” Jens groaned, his eyes still shut and his head still buried in the pillows.

Jana narrowed her eyes at them. It didn’t take her long to realize the way they had fallen asleep. Jens hand one arm tucked under Lucas, his hand wrapped around to his back. Lucas was practically shoved into his chest, as one leg was thrown over him, peeking from the tangled blanket that halfway laid on top of them. Jens had his other hand thrown over Lucas’ waist, and it was unlike any sleeping position Jana had ever seen them in.

“Oh my god, it finally happened.” She squealed.

“What?” Lucas mumbled, trying to sit up but Jens only pulled him back down.

“Ignore her.” He mumbled.

He could hear Jana excitedly running towards the kitchen, which he figured everyone else was at based on where the sound of a clatter of dishes, smell of breakfast food and chatting voices came from. He wanted to sit up, to try to figure out what was happening but Jens’ grip was tight and firm. There was no escape to it.

“You guys!” He heard Jana exclaim. “I told you! I told you all! Lucas and Jens, they’re boyfriends!”

“I called it first!” He heard Kes yell, envisioning him scrambling through the kitchen to go declare it to them personally.

Knowing his friends were going to instantly swarm into the room and interrogate them, Lucas ducked underneath the blanket as Jens’ chest vibrated with a laugh. He felt Jens kiss the top of the curls that peaked out from out of the blanket as he pushed himself closer to his chest.

At least only one of their flushed faces would be given away.

what would happen

if we kissed

would your tongue

slip past my lips

Stolen Glances and Culinary Charms. PT3

notes : DREAMY SIGH FOLLOWED BY AGONIZING SOB. this took me awhile to write oml ( had writers block ;v; ) butttt I managed to finish it tonight !! sooo yay me!!

<< 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 | 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 >> | 𝙼𝙰𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙻𝙸𝚂𝚃

THE GOING MERRY WAS CURRENTLY DOCKED AT A QUAINT ISLAND'S HARBOR, the scent of adventure lingered in the salty sea breeze, and the air was filled with the tantalizing aroma of food wafting from the nearby restaurant. It was a sight for sore eyes after days at sea. 

The crew disembarked, their eyes wide with wonder at the charming coastal town. A Restaurant was perched on a cliff overlooking the bay, and its soft, golden lights beckoned like stars in the night. 

Nami gathered everyone around and issued a gentle reminder, ''Everyone meet back here by 6, okay? - And please, try not to get into fights.'' she added with a pointed look at the male members of the crew, eliciting a soft chuckle from you as you stood by her side.

The boys nodded in agreement, with some grinning sheepishly at Nami's warning about avoiding fights. With that, the group dispersed to explore the town, leaving you and Nami to head off together.

She had insisted on helping you get ready for the evening, promising that the right outfit would make a lasting impression on Sanji. 

The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink as you followed Nami through the winding streets of the coastal town. The soft glow of lanterns illuminated the cobblestone pathways, casting dancing shadows on the walls of charming shops and cafes.

Nami led you to a small, elegant boutique tucked away in a quiet corner. It was a treasure trove of beautiful dresses and accessories. She combed through the racks with the precision of a skilled treasure hunter, her fingers occasionally stopping on a particular dress, considering it before moving on.

You couldn't help but admire Nami's expertise. Her discerning eye seemed to pick up on every detail, and her sense of style was unparalleled. 

After some deliberation, Nami pulled out a dress that seemed to capture the essence of the coastal town itself. It was a flowing, pristine white dress adorned with delicate lace that mimicked the frothy waves of the sea. The fabric felt cool and luxurious to the touch, and you couldn't help but smile at the choice.

''This is the one,'' Nami declared with a satisfied grin. ''It's perfect for tonight. Just wait until Sanji sees you in this.''

With Nami's guidance, you selected a pair of elegant sandals and a necklace that complemented the dress beautifully. The transformation was remarkable, and as you looked at yourself in the boutique's mirror, you felt a newfound confidence.

Upon returning to the ship, you were met with admiration and awe from your fellow crewmates. Luffy gave a thumbs-up, Usopp praised your elegance, and even Zoro managed a rare, appreciative nod. But it was Sanji's reaction that left the deepest impression.

Sanji's eyes were widened, his cigarette nearly slipping from his lips when he caught sight of you. He was known for his impeccable taste, but he seemed genuinely captivated by your appearance. “You look absolutely breathtaking,” he said in a voice that was almost a whisper, a hint of awe in his eyes.

Your heart fluttered at his words. ''Thanks, you don’t look bad yourself.''

As the crew entered the restaurant, the scent of freshly prepared seafood filled the air, and the evening was filled with laughter, delicious food, and shared adventures. The restaurant's interior was just as enchanting as its exterior, with dimmed lights casting a warm, intimate glow over the wooden beams and nautical decor.

You couldn't help but feel a sense of excitement and gratitude as you settled in at the long, polished table with them. Nami regaled everyone with tales of the island's history and culture, her eyes occasionally meeting yours with a knowing twinkle.

As the night continued at the restaurant, you found yourself drawn to the bar, its soft, warm lights casting a gentle glow on the polished wooden surface. It beckoned you like a siren, promising a moment of solitude and reflection amidst the lively atmosphere.

Leaving the laughter and conversations of your fellow crewmates you excused yourself from the table with a polite smile, before making your way through the bustling restaurant toward the inviting glow of the bar area.

Taking a seat on one of the cushioned stools, you found yourself lost in thought, gazing at the array of colorful bottles lining the shelves. The bartender, a friendly and experienced soul, approached with a warm smile.

''What can I get you tonight?''

You contemplated your choice for a moment before deciding on a signature cocktail of the house. The bartender nodded appreciatively and set to work, expertly mixing the drink. As he worked, you couldn't help but feel a sense of peace settle over you, as if the world outside had momentarily ceased to exist.

Sanji, ever watchful, couldn't help but notice your departure from the table. His concern for your well-being overcame his hesitation, and he decided to join you at the bar. With a quick excuse, he left the table and made his way toward you.

However, just as he was about to reach your side, he paused abruptly. His heart sank as he noticed you engaged in lively conversation with a stranger. You were laughing, sharing stories, and seemed entirely engrossed in the conversation.

As he stood at a distance, watching you engage in conversation with a stranger at the bar, a mixture of emotions washed over him. Concern for your well-being had driven him to follow you, but now he found himself feeling a bit uneasy. He didn't want to intrude on your moment of solitude, but the sight of you enjoying yourself with someone he didn't know raised questions in his mind.

He decided to give you some space and waited nearby, keeping a watchful eye on the situation. As the minutes passed, he observed your body language and the interaction between you and the stranger. Sanji knew you could handle yourself, but he couldn't help but feel protective.

As Sanji continued to keep an eye on you from a distance, he suddenly felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. Turning around, he was met with the sight of a young woman standing before him, a warm and inviting smile on her face. She looked to be about his age, and her presence was both confident and charming.

"Hey there, I couldn't help but notice you standing here all alone. Would you like to dance?"

Sanji, who had been focused on watching over you, was taken aback for a moment. However, he couldn't deny the allure of the moment, and he appreciated the girl's courage in approaching him. With a suave smile and a slight bow, he replied, "Well, it would be my pleasure."

You took another sip of your cocktail, your gaze lingering on the dance floor. Sanji's graceful moves and the easy chemistry between him and the girl were impossible to ignore. You found yourself torn between wanting to see him happy and feeling a pang of envy at the connection he was forging with someone else.

The woman’s laughter and Sanji's charismatic charm only intensified your conflicting emotions. You tried to push the jealousy aside - After all, you were having your own engaging conversation at the bar, and there was no reason for you to feel this way.

However, despite your best efforts, the jealousy lingered, gnawing at the edges of your thoughts. 

"You really should slow down with that," Dos, the kind stranger you had been talking to, spoke in a gentle but firm tone.  "It's a strong drink, and you don't want to overdo it."

You waved off his advice with a carefree gesture, taking another swig of your drink ''Let’s dance!''

The effects of the cocktails you had consumed began to take hold. Your movements became a bit unsteady, and your laughter grew louder and more exuberant. 

As you danced, the world around you seemed to blur, and the music's infectious rhythm took hold of your senses. You twirled and swayed, laughter spilling from your lips.

Sanji watched you and Dos from a distance, concern etched on his face as he observed your intoxicated state. He couldn't help but worry about your well-being, and when he saw you stumble slightly while dancing, he decided it was time to step in.

With a determined stride, he approached the pair, his voice polite but laced with a hint of concern. "Hey," he said, addressing Dos with a friendly smile, "Mind if I steal her from you for a moment? She's had a bit too much to drink, and I'd like to make sure she's okay."

Dos, understanding the situation, nodded with a kind and understanding expression. "Of course," he replied. "Take care of your friend. She's a great dancer, by the way." He gave you a nod and a pat on the shoulder before stepping back, allowing Sanji to take over.

Sanji's eye twitched in irritation before turning his attention to you, offering a supportive arm. "Come on, darling," he said gently, "let's get you back to the ship. We wouldn't want you feeling too rough in the morning."

“What? No!”

Sanji sighed inwardly, recognizing that your intoxicated state might make you a bit stubborn. He maintained his composure, trying to reason with you in a patient tone. "I know you're having a good time, but you've had enough to drink, and I don't want you to wake up with a terrible hangover," he explained, his concern still evident in his eyes.

You pouted and swayed a bit on your feet, clearly not in the mood to leave the lively atmosphere of the restaurant. "But the music is so fun, and Dos is a great dance partner!" you protested, clinging to the bar for support.

Sanji visibly frowned at your response, continuing to try to convince you to leave the restaurant and head back to the ship for your own well-being. He couldn't help but feel a bit envious of the attention you were giving Dos and the time you were spending together, especially in your drunken state.

However, just as he was about to insist more, you surprised him by wrapping your arms around him. The sudden embrace caught him off guard, and he blinked in surprise, his irritation now forgotten.

You looked up at him with a playful glint in your eye, your smile a bit mischievous. "Sanji," you said, your voice warm and inviting, "Why don't we dance together for a little while? I promise to go back to the ship after this dance."

Sanji's heart skipped a beat at your unexpected invitation. He couldn't resist your charm and the genuine affection he saw in your eyes. His irritation and jealousy melted away as he reciprocated your embrace, holding you close.

A smile graced his lips as he nodded in agreement. "Of course, my dear," he replied, his voice softening. "I'd be delighted to dance with you."

As Sanji led you in graceful twirls and elegant steps, it was clear that his skill as a dancer was remarkable, even in his slightly tipsy state. His movements were fluid and precise, his confidence shining through as he guided you across the dance floor.

"You know, Sanji," you began. "if we ever get tired of the pirate life, we could always become a dance duo. We'd make a fortune!"

Sanji couldn't help but play along with your mischievous idea. He flashed a grin and replied, "Well, my dear, I've heard rumors of the Grand Line hosting various dance competitions. Perhaps we could establish a reputation as the most stylish pirate dance duo to ever grace those waters."

You both chuckled, the idea of swaying and twirling your way to fame in the pirate world sounding both ridiculous and enticing.

You continued, "And just think, our crewmates can be our backup dancers. We'll be unstoppable!"

Sanji nodded with enthusiasm. "Exactly! Nami could handle the finances, Zoro could... well, maybe not Zoro. But we'll figure something out."

Your head tilted back, and the room was filled with the sound of your laughter.

Sanji, in the midst of his actions, came to a gradual halt, his eyes locked onto yours. You, in response, blinked and offered a soft smile in his direction. The feel of your skin against his, the warmth of your gaze, it all etched itself into his memory like a haunting melody that grew louder and more insistent with each attempt he made to forget it. 

There was nothing in the world as beautiful as the sound of your laughter, he realized.

"Sanji?" Your voice, a soft and affectionate whisper, flowed effortlessly from your lips, reaching his ears like a melody he couldn't resist.

His name on your tongue was a sweet symphony, a cherished melody that he longed to hear over and over.

He leaned closer, his fingers gently entangling in your hair, savoring the intoxicating sensation of being close to you. In this moment, nothing else mattered but the warmth of your presence, the tenderness in your voice.

...and just as he was about to close the distance between your lips, the world around you seemed to blur.

In that suspended moment something inexplicable happened. It was as if time itself had taken a sudden twist, and reality slipped through your fingers like grains of sand. Everything became fragmented, and your consciousness spiraled into darkness.

@narutoskz @honnelander @browneyedhufflepuff

taglist: reply to be added !

© 2023 x-uno ── all rights reserved. do not copy, translate, edit, alter, or redistribute my work. 

White Walls and Dead Air

They were dying. They were dying and there was nothing Aziraphale could do to stop it. He had his orders, and he couldn’t interfere. He was the protector of humanity, the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, and all he could do was watch as they dropped like flies. He was touching them, mostly. No one else would. No one else could. He was smoothing his bare hands over their fevered and blackened skin. They would wheeze and cough and stretch out for him as he walked away to the next body, pride crushed long ago by hours of agony, but it was somehow even harder to leave the thousands of people he had yet to reach than it was to walk away.

He thinks this must be what starving feels like. To call out for something so desperately with every fiber of your being, something to end the pain. He hasn’t stopped praying in days. Begging. He thinks he’s dying with them--he feels it in his chest, seeping into his lungs with every breath of the rancid air. Flies buzz over the bodies, like vultures, and rats hold back in the corners of rooms and alleys, and Aziraphale can’t interfere. He can’t.

He doesn’t understand. No one told him why and he doesn’t understand.

It’s after the fourth day that he decides he hates God. He’s too tired to hold it back. Too miserable. Too busy dying. He knows he’ll go back on it later. He knows that he’ll repent later, and he’ll mean it, he thinks, once he gains some perspective, but there is nothing that could stop this bone-deep agony from churning and rising into something ugly. He’s not supposed to feel this way. He’s an angel, he really shouldn’t be thinking these things. Blind obedience is what they were created for. It’s in this moment that he can admit to a flaw in the Almighty’s design. If she wanted soldiers, she shouldn’t have given them the capacity to love.

It’s on the seventh day, and isn’t that ironic, that his saving grace appears. Crowley. Through the haze of sick and death and flies, Crowley emerges--Aziraphale can do nothing but watch after his eyes catch on Crowley’s form, purposeful and sure--walks to him through the maze of bodies, takes his arm and tugs him away. “Crowley, stop, please, let me go,” he’s protesting, but it’s weak. He’s not even trying, just letting himself go. He’s the protector of humanity. The Guardian of the Eastern Gate. He could destroy Crowley if he wanted. As much as they bicker about who will win in the end they both know hell will lose. God doesn’t say much, not anymore, but She did say this. Hell will lose. Aziraphale was built for that inevitable battle. He could tear Crowley apart. He doesn’t. He doesn’t do anything. In the end, even his protests die out in favor of silence and he just lets himself be pulled.

A part of him, a part of him that he hates, is glad to leave. He wishes he continued to argue. Wishes he didn’t want to leave with Crowley. Wishes he was a better angel, or maybe a worse one, depending on your perspective. He’s never thought in terms of perspective before. He doesn’t think he likes it.

He doesn’t know how long they’ve been walking. It feels endless. Crowley is walking quickly, or he wants to, but every once in a while he’ll glance at Aziraphale and adjust his pace to the dragging of his feet. Aziraphale is so tired, and so, so full of hate. He’s starting to understand why Crowley sleeps so much. Is this what it’s like to be a demon? To be so full of bitterness?

It’s slow going. The streets are cramped and filthy, and weaving in and out takes time, despite the lack of people. They’re all inside. Hiding. Every once in a while they pass a cart stacked with bodies and Aziraphale doesn’t even have it in him to be horrified, doesn’t feel anything at all anymore. The sky is a beautiful blue, and there’s crying coming from an alley to their left, a woman, and Aziraphale isn’t going to check on her. He doesn’t even think he’s dying anymore. He thinks that maybe he’s finished, a wandering wraith, and Crowley has come to take him to hell for his sins. Except that heaven and hell are only for humans, and nothing is supposed to happen to angels and demons when they die. Maybe this is all he gets. This nothing. He wouldn’t be surprised if God didn’t want him anymore after this; if she just let him go, let him slip between the cracks.

It’s only after the streets have started to open up, only after the dirt turns to grass and things have stopped dying that Crowley lets them slow. He pulls Aziraphale up a grassy hill and sits him down under an apple tree. Aziraphale can’t help but laugh when he sees the apples. The laughter is rattling around his insides, bouncing off of his walls and coming out hollow, the way a voice sounds when it has nothing to echo off of. He’s changed his mind. This must be what a proper angel is supposed to feel like. He’s always hated the emptiness of heaven--the pristine white walls and the dead air--and he knows he’s never been quite right to think so, but now. Now look at him.

He’s still laughing the nothing laugh of an empty chapel and Crowley is looking at him like he’s the most terrifying thing he could have imagined, but the horrible irony of the Original Tempter taking him to an apple tree in this moment is cracking him open to reveal all of his cobwebs and there’s no stopping it. His wings burst out of the aether without his permission, powerful white sails that envelop his quaking corporation. His feathers are messy and dry, he didn’t think to groom them until it didn’t seem to matter anymore, and are so unkept that some feathers are starting to come loose in protest.

It’s like this, hunched over in sprawling laughter, that he feels the first touch. It’s tentative, shy, but undeniable. A hand on one of his primaries, straightening and smoothing it. His laughter dies at the touch, slowly sliding away to remind him of the exhaustion that’s been hounding him for days. His wings droop and open to reveal Crowley sitting parallel to Aziraphale, kneeling on the ground in front of him as if he would have waited patiently for Aziraphale to pull back the protective cover of his white feathers for centuries. His crimson hair is long, cascading down his back and over his shoulders in gentle waves, and his sharp features are softened by something flickering in his eyes, lending him a tenderness that Aziraphale hasn’t seen since Mesopotamia.

Crowley gets like this, sometimes. Lets his sharp edges fall away. Lets his defenses down for Aziraphale. He’s usually drunk. If he’s not drunk, he’s hurt. Or Aziraphale is. He’s… sweet like this. Peaceful. Aziraphale has caught him with children before, playing. The mothers would let him, smile at him, and slip children into his arms with ease and trust. It would make a throbbing pain go off in Aziraphale’s chest to see him like that and he’d have to look away. He’d then spend however long he could spare pretending he wasn’t stealing glances.

Crowley reaches forward, slowly, like Aziraphale is something wild that might run at the snap of a twig underfoot. His fingers are soft as he cards his them gently through Aziraphale’s hair, and his hands are warm, and there is something so knowing in this action that Aziraphale feels like he might shed his skin and slip into Crowley’s to get closer to it. He leans into the touch, a cat in the sun, and his eyes fall closed for a long moment before blinking open heavily. He doesn’t look up again--doesn’t need to when he has the touch to ground him in whatever this warmth is--instead his tired gaze stays on the grass and he lets himself feel: the rough texture of the thick blades beneath his fingers, the cool night air, so sweet after the miasmic haze of rot, Crowley’s hand on his cheek. Aziraphale lets his wings spread out around him, open and vulnerable and impossible to lift, he wonders how he ever managed to lift them at all, and he’s slumping forward into Crowley before he can stop himself.

Crowley moves forward to catch him with natural fluidity, like it’s easy, like he doesn’t even have to think, pushing up with his knees so that Aziraphale’s head is resting against his chest. Crowley’s arms wrap around him, one around his shoulders, another holding the back of his head carefully. Aziraphale wonders if anyone has ever been so very careful with him. He doesn’t know how long they stay there, but at some point he’s closed his eyes again and by the time he opens them the blue of the sky is streaked through with oranges and pinks and Crowley has wrapped his own sable wings around them both loosely in a protective shelter to block out the breeze, chilled by the sun’s impending disappearance over the horizon.

Aziraphale shifts against him, and when Crowley speaks Aziraphale can feel the soft rumble in his chest, “What can I do? What do you want from me?”

Aziraphale pulls himself up to press his eyes into Crowley’s neck, “Nothing.” There’s a long pause as neither of them move, “Stay.” His next word is a whisper, tentative and reaching, “Please.”

Crowley moves backwards, and for an awful second Aziraphale thinks he’s pulling back so that he can leave, but the catch in his breath is soothed by Crowley’s hand running down the length of his back, stopping to hold over the small of it, “Okay. Okay, angel. I’ll stay.”

Aziraphale lets out his breath in a gust of relief, and when Crowley continues to move he lets himself be maneuvered until he’s lying flat, cheek to the earth. He’s stretched out and pliant in the slightly damp grass and the soft sensations of the night are lulling the aching in his bones to a quiet hum. He thinks he should be surprised when he feels Crowley's fingers sink into his feathers but he’s really, really not. It makes sense that he’s there, that he saw the grime and the disorder to his feathers and he decided to make it right. He’s always been caring in a way Aziraphale has never managed. In an easy way, like giving these things to Aziraphale is nothing more than an extension of himself, like breathing.

Aziraphale can’t help but wonder what he did to deserve this from him. It feels like all he does is take from Crowley. He’s worried that there isn’t enough left of him to give after he’s exhausted so much of himself on heaven, on humanity, on all of the ways he’s tried to help and has come up wanting.

Crowley is working on his feathers properly now. He’s miracled up a damp cloth and is wiping each one clean of grime meticulously, pulling out any loose feathers and down he comes across along the way and dropping them into a forming pile at Aziraphale’s hip. It’s silent as he works. There are crickets, and frogs somewhere, but no one is crying, and no one is choking on their own life force, eyes wide and begging wordlessly for him to help. He’s so tired of helping. No. He’s not tired of helping. He’s tired of comforting. He knows he could stomach it all if he was helping, but he’s not, and he hasn’t in so very long, and what is even the point of him anymore?

Silent tears are slipping from his eyes and dripping into the grass and he’s shaking with grief and when did this happen? When did his emptiness start to feel like knives to his insides? Crowley makes a broken sound when he sees Aziraphale’s tears. Moves one of his steady hands to the center of his back and presses him down with it, just slightly, lending him comfort through the weight of it, tethering him. Crowley must decide this isn’t enough because he leans over his prone form and rests along his back, sliding the hand between his shoulder blades up to brush away the tears he can reach. Aziraphale can feel his breath on the back of his neck, cool and dry, and lets himself get lost in the sensation of the warm blanket of Crowley’s body. It’s sealing him up, whatever this is, patching his cracks and stoppering the holes that have been letting in water to drown him, and Aziraphale holds himself back from letting a low whine escape his throat before he can seem even more desperate than he already is.

After some time Crowley levers himself up again to continue, eventually tugging at Aziraphale’s shoulder, signaling for him to flip over and give him access to the underside of his wings. Aziraphale obeys ponderously, and it’s strange to feel the cold night air on his damp clothes, his skin still itching with indentations from the coarse grass. Crowley sets to work on the other side, and Aziraphale watches the pile of his discarded feathers grow.

His wings had been a constant discomfort, although he wasn’t aware of it, and having them groomed is akin to how he imagines Crowley feels after taking his hair down after a long day and shaking it out. Aziraphale hasn't seen this end-of-the-day routine often, but when he has the chance he always watches with fondness as Crowley runs his fingernails over his scalp and closes his eyes in pleasure at the freedom. It’s such a simple comfort. A loose relief.

Crowley touches his shoulder again, his fingers are cold now after being exposed to the chill of the air for so long, and Aziraphale rolls over onto his stomach, bringing his arms up to cushion his head. Crowley works the oil from the gland at the base of his wings, coating his palms, and sets to work on the second round.

He takes his time, laying each feather flat as he coats it with fresh oil. It’s another hour before he finishes, the sunset has brightened and faded, leaving new stars in its wake, but he never wavers. Crowley has taken care of him like this twice before, after both the flood and the crucifixion. Actually, they took care of each other after the flood: curled together in the corner of one of the few unoccupied roofs left to stand on. They were soaked by then, and it took a steady stream of miracles from them both to keep from being swept away by the current, but neither of them could leave. They didn’t discuss it, simply sat together in the perpetually rising rapids and listened. They took turns mourning, falling apart and putting each other back together as they watched the world die. It took days. The animals went first, then the humans. The last to go were the birds, but the two didn’t stick around to watch them drop from the sky in exhaustion. They didn’t mention it, would never mention it, would never let the horror of those days rise up from the secret places they buried them in.

The crucifixion was three days of agony. The Son of God gave up his spirit, taking his light, the light of the Almighty, with him into death, and for three long days and nights there was nothing but a devastation so complete the humans were left groping their way across the earth, helpless and lost. It pressed in and ate at them, a despair so profound children didn’t stop crying until the sun finally rose on that third day. Aziraphale was shaking with it, anguished and breaking apart. He was created to serve, to be in the presence of God, and her absence… he had never felt anything so horrible in all of his existence. Crowley held him through it, whispered to him, touched him, reminded him again and again, “I’m here, angel, I’ve got you. You’re not alone.” And he wasn’t. He clung to Crowley like a life raft in a storm, and for the first time comprehended what it would be like to fall. He couldn’t… he wouldn’t.

Never again.

By the time Crowley finishes Aziraphale hasn’t been able to focus on anything but his touch for a long while and his wings are sleek and perfectly ordered in the moonlight. When his touch finally leaves Aziraphale misses him, but he makes no sound, simply flips back onto his stomach and raises his wing in invitation. They’d done this before. Crowley knows what he is asking. Aziraphale is breathless with anticipation, with longing, with hope, his heart beating double time at his small offering.

Crowley doesn’t hesitate, but crawls forward and wedges himself against Aziraphale’s side. He’s freezing, Aziraphale feels horrible that he didn’t notice before and shifts so that he’s lying on his side. He should have known, should have realized. Demons run cold--so deep under the earth, so far from the light--and Crowley has nothing to replace that glow, nothing but skin and bones. He pulls Crowley closer against him and wraps him up in his warm arms. If nothing else he can provide Crowley with this comfort.

Crowley reaches out slowly in return. He attaches himself to Aziraphale in increments: first coiling his arm around Aziraphale’s side, keeping the other furled tightly between their chests, then sliding a leg between Aziraphale’s knees. Aziraphale hugs him tight. No one has ever been so very aware of him. Of his corners and cracks. Aziraphale tries not to think this way, tries not to think about Crowley at all when he can help it. About the reverent way Crowley treats him. The way he steals glances and touches. The way his eyelashes cast shadows on his sharp cheeks and he leans towards Aziraphale like a plant in the sun.

The more he thinks about it the more he aches with the loss of him, and if Aziraphale lets himself feel the way his insides tear to pieces whenever Crowley leaves without saying goodbye he’ll never stop. So he doesn’t, even though the warm glow of being close is stealing his breath away and setting off a minefield’s worth of explosions in his head, he doesn’t think about it. He screws his face up tight and pulls Crowley’s shivering body closer and lets his wings thrum with the memory of his touch and he does not think about it.

He just doesn’t know what goodness is supposed to look like if it isn’t white walls and dead air. He hates it, he hates it with everything in him, and he thinks it makes him horrible, but the reality of his twisted existence is that he doesn’t know if he could stand without the crutch of heaven’s vague orders. So he pulls Crowley closer and tucks his head under his chin, letting his lips hover over the crown of Crowley’s head, don’t touch, careful not to touch, and he doesn’t think about any of it.

Crowley will be gone in the morning. He always is. Aziraphale can’t bear to think about that either. He thinks that if he feels Crowley slip out of his arms he might give himself up to it with wild abandon. Drag him back down. Beg him to stay, stay next to him forever, they’ll never have to untangle their limbs and no one will ever have to go, but he can't. He can’t make himself. Not after all this time. Instead, he lets himself drift off to the soft whir of the tender warmth in his chest, and he pretends that tomorrow he’ll wake with the sunrise, and everything will sparkle in the new light, and it will all be okay. Like this, Crowley curled close to his chest under a blanket of constellations, letting himself believe is as easy as falling asleep.

10. what do you see? (final) | reliability • kth

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pairing: taehyung x reader word count: 5.662 genre: drama, angst rating: pg-15 warnings: cursing, kissing, implied mental health struggles, brief description of panic attack au: ceo/office trope: enemies to friends to lovers tags: ceo!taehyung, office!au, best friend!yoongi, unresolved emotional tension, mutual pining, slow burn crosspost: ao3

summary: all good things must come to an end so that better ones can begin. until then, taehyung is forced to deal with the aftermath of y/n’s choice

A/N: i'm a tad emotional to finally share the last chapter of this special story. full note at the end :)

shout-out to my wonderful beta indigo (@playmetheclassics). thanks to you i'm wrapping this up the way i always dreamed of: with fluidity emotion and good dialogues. i appreciated all of your suggestions <3

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

Walking back to Yoon Gi’s car, I felt the cold wind on my back as it passed through the thin layer of my suit and made my teeth chatter. My hands were cold as ice and all the heat that consumed me minutes ago disappeared the second I heard Eric’s voice. Now I had this strange sensation on my face as if my skin was tight. I think it’s the dried-up tears.

“Drive” I said as soon as I got in the back seat, startling Yoon Gi.

“What happened?” he locked his phone and faced me.

Something felt off. I had butterflies in my stomach, but not the good kind. I felt nauseous, consumed with shame, and my chest was aching. It felt as if there wasn’t enough air in the room and I couldn’t breathe, I wanted to take a deep breath and I couldn’t.

“Just drive, please” I mumbled quickly, doing my best not to pass out or throw up because I didn’t know which one would happen first.

Yoon Gi understood and firmly said to his driver, “Dong Hyun, go!”

I thought the car moving would help calm me down, but it didn’t. I thought physically distancing myself from Y/N would help, but it didn’t. Instead, distancing myself from Y/N caused me a sense of panic that I had never experienced before. To the point where I started to sob uncontrollably, on the verge of hyperventilation. My head screamed control yourself, but my heart screamed something way louder, and it didn’t let me hear anything else. A wave of anger suddenly took over me, and I started kicking the front seat, scaring Yoon Gi. He never saw me like this, and I never felt like this either.

“Tae, breathe” he stroked my arm a few times.

What is happening? Why is my tie so tight? Stupid hands won’t obey me.

“I can’t” I cried out, as I struggled to take the tie off and open the window at the same time.

“Slow down” Yoon Gi said, loosening the tie for me.

“Hey, hey… look at me!”

I met Yoon Gi’s serene and commanding eyes. He was determined to de-escalate the situation, and I realized by how calm he was that he had done this before.

“Deep breath” he guided me gently as I did what he said, “Nice, that’s better. Keep going”

I felt better, yet the pain in my chest remained.

Fuck. This is horrible! Is this why they called it a heartbreak?

“Dong Hyun” he tapped the driver’s shoulder, “take us to Tae Hyung’s house, please”

“Yes, sir” he responded, stepping on the gas pedal.

The drive to my house was silent. With my tie loose, the window open, and Yoon Gi checking in now and then, I began to calm down as the minutes went by.

I felt utterly empty. My despair was gone, making room for sadness. The image of Y/N crying and Eric showing up played in my mind constantly in slow motion. The way she pulled herself together when she heard his voice as if what we were doing was forbidden hurt me.

Honestly, I don’t know what I was expecting from her. She is engaged. Of course, she would choose him. She repeatedly said that she needed time for herself, wanted to make her own choices, and look at me, Mr Trying To Intervene Again; every time I try to fix a situation, it just gets worse.

But I don’t regret it.

I had to tell her.

Maybe it was a little selfish and pretentious of me to think that with a confession, she would magically accept me, and things would be back to normal but I had to try. What was my other option?

Complain about it for the rest of my life? Wonder every day what could have been? No thanks, I had been doing it for a month, and it was miserable enough.

“We’re here” Yoon Gi’s soft voice dragged my attention back to planet earth.

I get out of the car feeling heavy. I don’t have the strength to walk. If I could, I would lie right here in the street and stay. Next to me, Yoon Gi bends down to speak to Dong Hyun through the passenger window.

“I’ll stay with him. Take the day off tomorrow. Thanks!” he tapped the roof twice and turned to me.

“Where are your keys?”

My eyelids were already closing on their own. All I could do was reach for the keys inside my jacket and give it to Yoon Gi without saying a single word.

“Let’s get you inside, come on.”

With each step, my body gave more signals that it would shut down at any second. I couldn’t say whether it was an automatic response to trauma, the alcohol losing its effect, me just being exceedingly tired, or the combination of all three. What I was optimistic about was that I needed to lie down. So I went into the house, taking off one piece of clothing at a time, starting with my shoes at the entrance, until I reached the bathroom and closed the door.

I didn’t notice Yoon Gi coming right behind me, just his voice through the door when I slid against it towards the floor, “I’ll be right outside if you need me, just don’t lock the door, okay?” I nodded, feeling the cold tile floor below me.

I don’t know how much time passed before I could muster enough strength to get up, go to the shower and turn it on. Once I did it, I removed the last pieces of clothing still on me and went under the jet of water, feeling my skin burn from the temperature.

“You love to exaggerate things, don’t you?”

“Honey, this is your opportunity to differentiate yourself from your father”

“Bold?”

“Yes, you are not scared to take a risk”

“You and I have more in common than you think”

“You poor thing. No, you won’t. She won’t come back. I’m sorry to be the one to break it down for you, but she’s ‘the one that got away”

“Just remember to speak from the heart”

“I wanted to be your friend, wasn’t it obvious?”

“You never bothered to get to know me”

“For the first time in a long time, this is something I chose for myself. Not for you, not for my family, not for anybody”

“You think I wanted to walk away from this? From you? I had to”

“Please don’t marry him. Don’t go to London. Choose me”

“I love you, Y/N”

Crying so much made me dehydrated. I must have spent almost an hour in the shower, brooding over different moments, possibilities and words. I already felt more relaxed and ready to sleep, but I decided to go to the kitchen and grab something to drink before doing so.

“What’s this?” I asked once I saw my dinner table full of food.

Yoon Gi smirked, “I’m hungry, and I thought you would be too”

“Thank you” I sat down.

“Don’t mention it” he handed me the chopsticks.

Yoon Gi was an excellent cook. Everything was delicious. His mother used to be a famous chef before getting married, and he visibly learned a lot from her and inherited the natural gift of making people feel loved through food.

“I did it” I finally spoke, eating a piece of tteokbokki.

“Did what?”

“Told her how I felt” I placed a piece of meat on Yoon Gi’s plate.

“I’m proud of you” he smiled and ate it.

I wrinkled my nose, “Why?”

“Being vulnerable takes courage and actual physical strength. Not many people talk about the effort you have to make to verbalize the words. It can hurt”

I recognised the truth in what Yoon Gi just said. Still, I don’t get why things had to happen the way they did.

“And all for what? For fucking nothing!”

“What happened?” he cautiously asked.

Saying what had happened out loud made the situation real, and I couldn’t help it when some tears escaped. I dried them quickly and tried to explain as rationally as possible.

“I confessed, she cried, I cried, the fianceé showed up, and she chose him”

“No” he said with his mouth full.

“Yes” I replied, playing with the food on my plate.

“Are you sure?”

“What do you mean? Of course, I’m sure. It’s done. We’re done”

“What did she say?” Yoon Gi took a sip of water.

“Nothing” I shrugged, “Eric appeared, and the moment was gone”

“Damn”

“I don’t think she was going to say anything. I mean, she couldn’t. She was crying. Hard. I’ve never seen her like that before”

“Isn’t that a good sign?” he asked, waving his chopsticks.

“Me making her cry?”

“Maybe it was a good type of cry, you know?” he slurped some of his ramen, “She was touched by what you said”

“I guess we’ll never know” I got up and put my plate in the sink, “Thank you for the meal. You don’t have to stay. Sorry to drag you into this. Good night”

While I said it in a monotonic and practically robotic way, deep down, I was overwhelmingly grateful that my best friend was by my side today. I hate being a burden to him, and that’s why I made it a point to say he could go. He saw enough. However, being the great guy he is, Yoon Gi stayed the whole night and knocked on my door early the next day.

“Tae, I’m leaving”, he paused, “It’s almost 7. You have to get up for work”

I was already awake and just hummed.

“I’ll text you later”

I heard his footsteps moving away and thought to myself how stupid I must look right now because how come a grown man can be lying in bed feeling sorry for himself when he had a multimillion company to run? I’m young but not that young. I don’t have any excuses for acting like a teenager, and God, do I feel like a teenager when it comes to Y/N. I had a couple of girlfriends before, but nothing compares. This is intense, warm, and also hurts like a bitch.

My pride is wounded. I thought I could make her stay. Was it crazy for me to believe that was even a possibility? I thought we could be something. Did I take too long? What is “too long”? Does it mean Eric beat me to it? It feels like that, but I know it’s not. Maybe she decided to try things with him because I never showed interest, I don’t know. Am I being too conceited? All I know is that now that the truth is out there in the open, I feel ten times worse. She didn’t precisely reject me, but she didn’t accept me either. I don’t know if I should be happy that she was so emotional over what I said.

I won’t take it back. I feel for her is real and won’t go away that easily.

I have never been heartbroken before, so I don’t know how to move on.

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******

6 weeks later

To say it was easy would be a lie on my part, but it was not as difficult as I thought it would be. My goal wasn’t to forget Y/N, instead to live one day at a time, trying not to overthink the things that happened and the fact that I couldn’t change them. I had two choices: torture myself for everything I did wrong or focus my energy on something more productive, like work or the relationship with my father.

Although far from ideal, I started spending more time with him to absorb any tips or lessons he could pass on to me about the company. Believe it or not, he simply placed the company in my hands and walked away. There was no transition phase where he taught me the day to day. I just showed up and learned over time.

Ironically, I am in a similar situation. Nobody explained what it is like to have your first heartbreak, so I just live and learn as I go.

My mother has been torn ever since I told everything that happened with Y/N — it was honestly way harder trying to hide than to tell the truth — because even though she wanted us to be together, the fact that we weren’t made it possible for me to see my father more often, so she was happy to see me around the house and watch the bond between the two of us get stronger.

A month or so ago, I finally gathered the courage to tell my dad that Y/N had left Vante and moved to London to study. He reacted better than I expected. However, he still criticized how I ‘should have predicted something like that and provided better opportunities for her’.

In the weeks leading up to the wedding, I kept my mind busy with some best man duties. My brother asked for a simple bachelor party, which was enough of a distraction not to think about my pain, and last Saturday, both of us, plus two of our cousins ​​and three college friends of his, went to a nice cottage in Chuncheon.

Ye Jun’s definition of fun was the following: a luxurious place close to nature, lots of drinking and good food. Cell phones on airplane mode.

Pretty reasonable in my book, so I ensured we were all set for a fun, relaxing weekend. By Monday morning, I felt the old Taehyung slip through the cracks of what it was once a heart. Maybe that meant I survived. Perhaps it wasn’t that bad after all.

Today, standing in front of him while fixing his tie, I find myself pondering how life doesn’t stop or wait for anyone. Time is everything. And that’s kind of the beauty of it. To heal our hearts and feelings to find closure takes time. There is no other way to put things into perspective.

“You look almost as handsome as me” I say to Ye Jun, making him instantly roll his eyes, “Hey” I give him a nudge, “You know how much I look up to you, right?”

“Tae...” he looks down, all red in the face.

“It’s true” I smile, playfully shaking him by the shoulder, “I don’t say it that often but I hope you know I mean it”

He looks up and cups one side of my face, “Thanks!”

“Are you nervous?” I ask, moving sideways so he can check the mirror.

“Not really” he replies, making a few poses and inspecting his outfit from head to toe.

“There’s a lot of people out here”

“There’s nothing to be nervous about”

“You’re committing yourself to another person for the rest of your life” I cross my arms and look at him through the reflective surface, “You’re signing a document. A binding contract”

“That’s romantic of you to notice” he gives me a thumbs-up, and I burst out laughing. He was so dorky. Ye Jun knew how to be funny sometimes.

“I’m not nervous because I want this” he explained.

“Hopefully, one day, you will want it just as much, and I’ll be right by your side saying the same contract thingy”

“We’ll see about that” I flashed a quick smile, trying to change the subject, “Now, let’s get you married!”

Once we stepped out into the garden, all eyes were on us. The sun was shining, not a cloud in the sky, a light breeze, and just the perfect temperature set the scene for this special day. I was so proud to be with Ye Jun that I couldn’t contain my genuine smile as soon as we walked down the Aston House’s stairs. The place had a stunning view of the Hangang River, and my mom did a fantastic job scouting the venue.

We passed by all our family and close friends, greeted them with smiles and nods, and took our positions at the altar, waiting for Hyun Jae’s grand entrance. When it finally happened, everyone turned to her. On the other hand, I turned to Ye Jun, who was completely mesmerized. He always had that in love look, but ten times more. And I don’t blame him, because the second I glanced over to her, I was sure that a princess was coming towards us. Hyun Jae was the personification of delicacy.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

******

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After the religious ceremony, the couple’s grand entrance at the party, and their special dance, the DJ turned the music down and handed me the mic.

“Hi everyone, if I may have your attention please” I began, “My name is Kim Tae Hyung, brother of the groom and also his best man. I would like to say a few words to the couple”

The entire room went dead silent, and, for a brief moment, the sudden attention became unsettling to me. Putting on my best CEO attitude, I continued.

“Not long ago, I discovered what it was like to truly love someone. On the other hand, Ye Jun knew that for a while and always told me how special and meaningful his connection to Hyun Jae was. Today I can confidently say I understand every single word he meant”

I remember when he first told me he was in love with her. He spent almost 10 minutes explaining how amazing their date went, the clever things she said, and how much he missed her whenever she wasn’t around. I thought he was crazy. I did. I was sure he was exaggerating. It didn’t make sense to me how another human could be that likeable. Skip to a few years later, and here I was, reminiscing about Y/N, how she was the coolest, most intelligent person and how much I missed her.

“Being here today celebrating two people I deeply care about is an honor, and I’m sure you all feel the same, so please let’s raise our glasses to Ye Jun and Hyun Jae. May they…”

And that’s when I saw her. Sitting in the back, the third table from the left, looking prettier than ever with her hair tied in a bun and an off-the-shoulder silver dress. She caught my breath, and I had to clear my throat to keep going with the speech.

“May they… uh… always celebrate together the happy moments, rely on each other when things get tough, find forgiveness in their hearts when they feel they have been wronged, and above all, trust that their love is strong enough to heal, overcome and protect. No matter what happens. Cheers!”

With the glass raised in front of me, my gaze met Y/N’s across the room, and I could feel that she understood the message when her hand tipped the drink further in agreement. The toast ended up revealing much more about the two of us than about the bride and groom, which took me by surprise because I hadn’t planned on speaking so honestly, especially if I knew that she would be there listening.

A few minutes later, while I absently contemplated the buildings across the river from underneath the garden’s wooden gazebo, wondering what Y/N could be doing here, she carefully approached me.

“Great speech”

“Thanks” I looked over my shoulder, then back to the river, “Weren’t you supposed to be in London?”

“I was. Flew in last night” she paused, stepping out from behind me, “Can we find a quiet place to talk?”

“Sure” I agreed, following her inside the hotel for a little more privacy.

Once we stopped in front of a large glass window with the Gwangjin Bridge in the background, we could see the sun already setting as the sky mixed different shades of blue and purple with orange clouds. The light was coming in reflected on Y/N’s dress, and I’m positive she has never looked so beautiful.

“Wow, that’s what I call a view” Y/N eyes went wide.

My gaze shifted from her to the window, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

Trying to keep the conversation light as if the last few weeks hadn’t been overwhelming was my biggest challenge right now. Thank God Y/N didn’t take long to take the lead.

“I need to start by apologizing to you”

“No, you don’t have to, it’s fine” I reached my hand forward, “I was out of line to show up at your house like that”

Y/N sighed, “You weren’t”

“Oh?”

“Your timing kinda sucked,” she chuckled, “but you said everything I dreamed of and then some”

Everything I dreamed of? This woman knows how to make a man speechless.

“I’ve been pretending for a long time” she turned to me, “I lied to myself, saying that my feelings weren’t valid, that I could not have fallen for my boss, and that you would never see me the same way”

She paused for a second, eyes staring into mine, making sure I was listening to all of it—my turn to step forward, more attentive than ever.

“In my head, you would never notice how I wanted to be noticed, even though the chemistry was there” Y/N looked at her feet for a second, “To be honest, there were times when I thought I was crazy because I was sure you felt the same, but…” she looked up at me, “next thing I knew, you went and did something that sent the complete opposite signal and I—”

I already felt terrible about everything, yet hearing Y/N confess her feelings so honestly filled my chest with a renewed sense of guilt. She fell for me.

Me.

“I’m so sorry” I whispered.

“When you questioned your trust in me, I felt my world collapse. You are the person I admire the most, trust and care for the most, and hearing those words made me think that we didn’t have the relationship I thought we had. I felt like it was all a lie”

The last sentence made her emotional, and I could spot tears forming in the corner of her eyes.

“We were never friends, I know…but through work, we created a bond, this sort of mutual respect, and once I realized the decision I made was what caused a side of you that I never wanted to know existed to come out, it hurt me” one single tear broke free. I immediately swiped it away before she kept going, “My pride was wounded, but soon after, I felt liberated. I suddenly understood that ultimately it was all a fantasy. You and I would never happen, and I needed to do my own thing”

Y/N smiled and recomposed herself while I took a step back to give her some proper space.

“So… I took some time to think about what the next phase of my life would be like and what I wanted to do, which ended up being to enroll in another course in London” she explained, fixing her makeup.

“To my surprise, Eric was responsible for admissions, we reconnected, and I felt that that was a sign from the universe for me to give a 360 in my life. A new course, a new city, new people. Until, of course, you showed up at my house” she poked my chest playfully.

Seeing Y/N go from serious to cautious, then vulnerable to funny in such a short time left me relatively shocked. I did not expect to hear her side of things like that. I wasn’t prepared for this conversation — not today of all days — and I must say that the Tae Hyung of 6 weeks ago wouldn’t be able to hold it together like I am doing now.

“But you were already engaged” I pointed out, attempting to display some humor in my voice.

Y/N made a ‘duh’ face, “Yes, but not married”

“Yoon Gi said the same thing!!” I shouted, making her laugh out loud.

My God, I missed her laugh.

“You two are close, huh?” she added, more like observation and not a question.

“Yeah, well, anyway, you went to London, you got married….”

“Who said I’m married?” she interrupted, “I don’t see a ring on this finger”, and pointed to her left hand.

“W-what? Wait…” I grabbed her hand as I’d never seen one before in my life.

She laughs again, and I can’t help but laugh with her, only this time nervously because I don’t know what’s going on right now. I’m getting this tiny bit of hope inside my chest, and I’m scared it will be taken away, so I refuse to believe it.

“Even though I went to London, I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said. I kept replaying it thousands and thousands of times in my head. Before bed, during classes, cleaning the house…”

It’s happening. She’s giving me hope, isn’t she?

“What about Eric?” I gently let go of her hand.

“That was another hard conversation I had to have” Y/N pinched her lips.

Yep. This is it.

“You’re telling me you’re not with him anymore?”

Every fiber of my body was vibrating, and the seconds that followed my question were incredibly long. I hadn’t allowed myself to think about this whole thing again, much less believe in the idea that Y/N and I could be something for real. However, I should’ve known she would surprise me. She always does.

“No, I’m not” she beams at me like a kid telling a secret. It’s like she can help herself. And I can’t help either — happiness is infectious.

“Plus, a little birdie told me that you needed a date for this wedding, so I’m here doing a favor” Y/N shrugged.

My mother had many talents. One of them is bringing people together. She always made sure to do everything for our family, and this time was no different. It means a lot that she intervened. Without this opportunity, I wouldn’t have a new chance at love.

“A favor?” I quirked an eyebrow.

“Oh yeah,” Y/N nodded, “I was promised free booze too, by the way”

I can’t help but find the idea of my mom and Y/N negotiating extremely funny, “I’m serious, Y/N. What does this mean?”

Before she could say anything, I decided to be just as honest and vulnerable, committing myself to her and the possibility of an ‘us’.

“You know what I see?” I moved closer, “I see a future”

“For us?” she tilted her head, intrigued.

“Yes,” I sighed and chuckled at the same time, relieved that we were finally on the same page, “One where I support you, where you don’t have to make choices for anybody else but yourself. A place full of trust”

“What else?” she asked, genuinely curious, analyzing every inch of my face.

“I see us being happy, never fighting and baking. Do you bake by any chance?”

“Uh, I bake, yes,” the question took her by surprise and earned me a giggle, “but I don’t know about the fighting part. You can be very annoying”

“I’ll do better. I’ll do better!”

“Keep going,” she moved closer to me, “I like your plans so far”

“No, tell me what you see. I wanna know” I said, placing my hands in my pockets.

“Huh…” Y/N took a second to think, “I see myself finishing my studies, then traveling for a couple of months, then coming back to Korea and starting my consulting firm”

“Amazing! What else?”

“I see this handsome guy waiting for me at the airport with balloons and a big smile,” she said, shifting from one foot to the other, “then taking me to a proper date where he will tell me everything he’s been up to with as much detail as possible and that will be our day one”

She looks so cute when she’s nervous.

“I didn’t know you were a romantic person”

“See?” Y/N smirked, “There’s a lot about me you have yet to learn”

“I can’t wait”

I deeply meant it because this was a chance I didn’t expect to have and to hear from her lips that it would be possible floored me. Here she was, in front of me, willing to and very much available, feeling the same way I did. It felt like a dream.

“What? Do I have something on my face?” she rubbed her right cheek.

“No, it’s just that I wanna kiss you so bad right now” I wet my bottom lip.

Y/N blushed, “You do?”

“Yeah”, I nodded, approaching her slowly, moving a strand of hair away from her face and caressing her cheekbone with my finger. “There’s something about your lips that is just fascinating to me” I then brushed my thumb across her bottom lip while pulling her by the waist very gently.

“Interesting” she gazes between my eyes and my mouth, hand coming up to my nape and stroking lightly with her nails.

I move in closer, cupping her face, our lips almost touching, “I’ve been wondering what they taste like”

“Why don’t you find out?” she looks up at me with the most gorgeous and mischievous expression in her eyes.

And just like that, I closed the space between us to meet the softest lips ever, tasting an unusual combination of green apple and vanilla. I’m instantly addicted, and I think Y/N is too because she took the initiative to separate her lips in search of mine through delicate and cautious movements. As she was discovering me, I felt my insides melt. I knew she was testing the waters, wanting more, so I tilted my head and deepened the kiss. My heart was racing like crazy. The way we clicked was just surreal. It just...made sense. The more we kissed, the more sure I was she was the one for me.

As we slowed down, I softly pulled her upper lip, then her bottom lip, and left sweet pecks while tugging her hair behind her ear with both of my hands.

“I’m so happy” I pressed my forehead against hers.

“Me too” she takes a deep breath, placing her hands over mine, eyes closed.

We stood like this for a few seconds, totally lost in our little world, like it was only the two of us in the party, feeling as though time had stopped as we held each other. And as badly as I wanted to stay here longer, we needed to talk about what would happen next, so I addressed the elephant in the room.

“So, when is your flight back?”

“Tomorrow” she lamented.

I pouted and kissed her hand, “Already?”

“Yeah. But I’ll be back!”

“How long?”

“A year” she revealed.

“A year???” I whined, “No, no, no, I won’t survive!”

“Always so dramatic” Y/N laughed and hugged me, “You will be fine”

“You are right. Doing the math real quick, 365 days seems like a fair amount of time to plan the perfect date”

“Whatever keeps your mind occupied, Mr Kim” Y/N’s arms rested on my shoulder.

“Mr Kim, huh?” my hands intertwined on her lower back, “You don’t work for me anymore, remember?”

She quickly pecked my lips, “I know”

“Okay, is this happening?” I looked around to make sure I wasn’t going to suddenly wake up in my bed again, cursing my head for conjuring another perfect dream.

All Y/N apparently could do was smile and nod. It was as if she had slept with a hanger in her mouth. The joy oozed from her body, and I wanted to remember this feeling forever. And kiss her forever too, so that’s what I did again and again after that.

“Right” I try to regain focus, “We’ll make it work. You can come once a month. I can go once a month… we’ll figure something out”

“You mean that?” she grabbed my hand.

“Of course, Y/N. There’s a world out there for you to conquer. I don’t wanna hold you back”

She gave me a squeeze to show she understood my feelings. I knew she was thankful too. She didn’t have to say anything. I could see it in the way she held my hand, looked into my eyes and kissed me. She was in this as much as I was.

It was crazy to think that a few months ago, things were completely different. Even crazier that I woke up today with no idea what was coming next or how my life would change. Man, that’s the real power of choices.

“Let’s go” she said, leading me back to the garden and poetically into a new life.

After so many mismatches, ups and downs, I found that trusting someone depended on me a lot more than anything else. I had to be confident enough to expose my fears and desires without expecting anything in return. So I faced my insecurities and dove headfirst into this strange and scary feeling of love, choosing Y/N with the hope that she would pick me too. She accepted my flaws and wants to see where this goes. It took her a bit, but here we are.

Our story could have been a lot different, but I wouldn’t change anything because, in the end, I learned so much. No, wait, probably just the part where I take years to realize my feelings and all the signals this gorgeous woman was sending. That would save me some time and a ton of tears, for sure.

In all honesty, I can’t say I’m an entirely changed man yet. I don’t know if I ever will be. The only thing I’m sure of is that I’m willing to try my best for her. Because she deserves it, she earned it, and it’s perfectly okay to rely on someone.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

A/N²: this wasn't the first fanfic i wrote but it was the first one i showed anybody (my best friends) and the also first one i shared with the world, so it will always be one of my favorites. maybe because of that, i put pressure on myself to reach a level of excellence and perfection completely unrealistic for a girl who had never written before, let alone in a different language.

i liked the first chapter a lot, the second one as well, and since the story was drawn perfectly in my head, i thought it would be easy to execute and put into words everything i had imagined, but it wasn't. i faced many challenges along the way and thought about giving up a lot. the low post engagement also helped with me thinking i wasn't good enough to publish stories. honestly, my mistake was attempting to build the perfect blog. i spent so much time structuring a posting schedule, trying to stay active, writing a little bit every day, following the right people, affiliating with known networks, and so many other tips that i read in hours of research. all for nothing bc i became more and more unhappy.

with this unhappiness came a new author's block and after struggling a lot i managed to finish chapter 09 and post it. this happened in march/2021, now it's jan/2022. i don't know if anyone who is reading this now, in fact, waited ten months to read what happens next but if so: i'm deeply sorry. it was never my intention to take a year to publish such a short story.

regardless, i hope that whoever got this far enjoyed it, had fun, laughed, cried, and allowed themselves to be transported to a new reality. my only wish is that my stories help people overcome a bad day, a bad week, a bad month; to feel happier, more loved, more connected. deep down, that's what we are: connected by the love for bts. 

thanks for reading, thanks for liking, for sharing, commenting or simply taking some time out of your day to experience a world that only exists in my head.

until the next story, xx bella

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𝗳𝗲𝗲𝗱𝗯𝗮𝗰𝗸𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗺𝘂𝗰𝗵 𝘄𝗲𝗹𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗱 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗶𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗶𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗱 ❤ 𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗺𝗲 𝗮 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝗹𝘆 𝗼𝗿 𝗮𝗻 𝗮𝘀𝗸! 𝗶 𝘄𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆

this idea just came to me rn: reader and tom have been writing secret notes to each other and leaving them around the castle for the other to find and reader finally gets the courage to confess/flirt in a message but for some reason the note never gets to him :( and its kinda angsty bc reader takes his lack of response as a rejection but ends with him finally finding it

A/N: I went feral when I read this so obviously I had to write it ASAP. I changed the premise only slightly, I hope you enjoy!!! And thanks for the super cute idea, I'm really feeling the soft fluff tonight 🥺💖

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

Ink From The Well

Summary: “We sit at the same desk,” he calls after you. When you looked over your shoulder he’s still standing there with a glint in his eyes that makes you suspect that he’s already put two-and-two together. “Though you already knew that,” Tom continues, head tilting back a little as he smiles. [GN reader ★ no pronouns ★ ambiguous house ★ fluff ★ mutual pining]  Wordcount: 3.1k Warnings: none

ℙ𝕖𝕣𝕞𝕒𝕟𝕖𝕟𝕥 𝕋𝕒𝕘𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥

𝔸 - 𝕄 @abhorredlara @anevrismes @arana-alpha @books-butterbeer @catastrophicalllyy @cranberrypills @dear-fifi @dropssofjupitter @dravenwitchmusings @empath-bunny @evertiel @expectoscamander @fish-eg @grimdevil @herfantasyworldd @hueanhdang @itsjustfics @just-wordsandthoughts @lemirabitur @lovelyysiriuss @lucys-brain @mentally-in-northern-italy @mikariell95 @moatsnow ℕ - ℤ @niallwrld​ @nothinghcppens @obliviouspotterhead @oui-magnifique @pearlstiare @pink-kixxes @raven-riddle @rededfoxy @saintsha @seriouslyginnychase @silverdelirium @sokkasdimples @suicide-sweetheart636 @sunles @tallyovie @tm-mrvl-rddl @toasterking @valentinecarnage @vallastempermental @voidmalfoy @weirdowithnobeardo @whentheskyispinkandabitblue @whoevenfrickenknows @whoreforgeorgeandfred @wizardcherryblossom​

The Potions dungeon is always cold, always a little damp, and only ever lit by sickly yellow lights hanging in grim iron cages from the hewn stone ceiling, but it has an ethereal, sinister sort of beauty to it. The Charms classroom is nearly the reverse, bright and wooden and polished, smelling faintly like fresh popcorn and lined with teetering stacks of bound parchment. The Greenhouses are beautiful too, burnt orange bricks lined with vibrant green weeds, gnarled tables bowing under the weight of strange, colourful plants, and vein-like vines spreading up across the grubby glass ceiling panes in a way that always casts the sunlight into dappled streams. There’s something to love about every classroom the castle, but there’s one that you love most of all.

Transfiguration isn’t necessarily your best class, and Dumbledore isn’t necessarily your favourite teacher, and yet walking into his classroom fourth period on Tuesdays and first period on Fridays never fails to make you smile like nothing else can. It’s not so much the classroom itself that you love, but rather where in the classroom your desk sits. It’s in the back row, first on the left from the door.

Because that just so happens that, in second period on Wednesdays and fifth period on Mondays, Tom Riddle sits down at the very same desk.

Professor Dumbledore likes to ask questions with two correct answers so that even when you answer correctly, he can still be a little bit more correct than you, you’d written absently one day on a scrap of parchment. You’d rolled the scrap between your fingers until it was a twig-thin scroll and discarded it into the inkwell of your desk when the bell rang, forgotting about it completely until the following Tuesday. Perhaps you would have missed it if you hadn’t remembered the note, leaning forward to check if it was still there. You’d not been expecting much but your brows had raised in surprise when you’d caught sight of a little square of very yellowed parchment sitting in the bottom of the well, nondescript and folded along perfectly aligned edges.

You’d pulled it out quickly, replacing it with your ink pottle and sitting back without anyone noticing – though you hadn’t had a chance to open the note until Dumbledore turned his back to write up a very long explanation of the dormant life potential of live creatures transformed into inanimate objects.

You’d pulled the square note from under your textbook and unfolded each razor-sharp margin to reveal a single sentence written in an alluring slanted script.

And in this practice, is it Dumbledore’s intention to challenge his students or to insist on retaining the intellectual high ground?

There had been a strange exhilaration to it. Someone had actually found your absent thought, someone had taken the time to indulge in writing out a reply. Your response, which you’d left folded up, flat, and covert in the bottom of the inkwell just like the stranger, had read;

Conscious or subconscious?

It had been at the forefront of your thoughts walking to class that Friday, your heart skipping a beat when you’d peeked into the ink well as you’d sat down and found another yellowy square of parchment.

Your implication is not lost on me.

Your excitement had dwindled, your smile slowly fading. It wasn’t much to reply to. Fearing that the close-ended comment had been a subtle request to end the strange exchange, you’d left the inkwell empty when the bell had rung, and an entire month had passed before you’d scribbled out another note to the stranger in a fit of boredom.

This class is 30% people trying to impress Dumbledore, 5% Dumbledore actually being impressed, 15% him saying the phrase “now I’m sure the problem here immediately presents itself,” 20% an unhinged monologue, and 30% watching the guy next to me create monstrosities that defy imagination out of common household items

And there it was. A reply waiting for you three days later as if the month-long silence had never occurred.

You’ve left very little allowance for actually practicing Transfiguration in those calculations. Perhaps Dumbledore would be more impressed if his students spent less class time writing to strangers and more time paying attention to his unhinged monologues.

Which had made you retort with a sarcastic accusation that they, too, were spending class time writing to strangers, and then they’d replied with an equally sarcastic invitation to compare grades, and that had been that. A reply waiting for you in every single Transfiguration class, not a single one missed, each note growing a little longer until you started to wonder what would happen if one of the other students who sat at that desk took a peek into the inkwell by chance between your conversations.

You hadn’t had any idea exactly who you’d been writing to until one fateful Wednesday when, after realising a little too late that you’d left your textbook sitting beneath your desk the previous day, you dashed back to the Transfiguration classroom during break to retrieve it. The double doors were open, the previous class was still filing out, Dumbledore calling after them about the upcoming due date for the very same essay he’d assigned you yesterday.

You wait for the crowd to clear a little, craning your head around the door to see if you can pre-emptively spot your book on the ground under your desk when you catch sight of the person still sitting there. At that moment he’s placing a tidy stack of notes into a simple black folder and sliding it into his bag, head bowed to his task and leaving you to stare quite freely at his very striking profile. You watch frozen as Tom Riddle stands, slings his bag over his shoulder, leans forward, and in a fluid series of very nonchalant motions, picks up a capped pottle of ink and drops a small cleanly folded square of parchment into the empty inkwell in its stead. He turns and steps through the door into the corridor as he stows his ink in his bag, looking up curiously when he notices you standing there motionless.

You stare at him, coming to terms with the impossible realisation that apparently, you’re very good friends with Riddle, the jewel in Slughorn’s crown, most likely to be Minister for Magic before 40, and current record holder for number of Outstanding O.W.L.s in Hogwarts history. Plus there’s the whole thing about him being catastrophically gorgeous.

Tom has paused in front of you, expression polite but with a definite hint of amusement as he clicks his bag shut. “Are you quite alright?” he asks, lips just barely quirking.

“Yes,” you say hastily, turning for the door and leaning down to seize your book off the ground where you’d left it. “I forgot my book,” you mutter as you pass him with averted eyes, hoping it’s enough of an explanation to write off your slightly erratic behaviour as you try to flee the scene.

“We sit at the same desk,” he calls after you.

It’s your turn to hesitate. When you looked over your shoulder he’s still standing there, lips still quirked, a glint in his eyes that makes you suspect that he’s already put two-and-two together.  

“Though you already knew that,” Tom continues, head tilting back a little as he smiles.

“I just found out,” you say, waving a little sheepishly at the door.

He turns to you, striding closer with intimidating ease and his smile visibly growing as he watches your eyes widen – but he moves straight past you with nothing more than a single quiet comment in your ear, lilted with humour. “I await your reply.”

You don’t tell anyone. Not even your friends. Everyone is in love with Tom and you can’t help but suspect that things would quickly get out of hand if anyone found out that you’ve been in close correspondence with him for the past four months, even if you hadn’t technically known it yourself. And things had already become hard enough now that you knew who was reading the notes you left, and whose hand was penning his replies.

You try very hard not to think about it too much, you try not to wonder if he smiles when you write something funny, if he looks forward to your answers to his questions, if he thinks about the notes outside of class like you do. Maybe he’s just bored. Maybe he’s just messing with you. Maybe it had been the anonymity he’d liked about the interactions, and now he’s just humouring you.

It’s useless. You’ve been wondering who was on the other end of the notes since the beginning, wondering exactly which of your peers is made up of this striking mix of shrewd humour, clear intelligence, and measured charisma, and it’s very, very hard to continue as if things are normal once you know that it’s him.

It’s not really that surprising that he evidently noticed your replies shortening, becoming steadily more stilted and less familiar as your nerves get the better of you – though you’d hardly expected him to be so blunt in pointing it out, and you definitely hadn’t anticipated how he’d apparently been interpreting your distance.

Were you disappointed that it was me?

You reread Tom’s note countless times. It lies open and looming at the head of your desk for half the lesson as you try very hard to focus on the class to no avail.

Is this seriously what he’s been thinking? Is it a joke? Is it supposed to be so clearly ridiculous that you’re supposed to understand it as just his way of coaxing the real answer out of you?

You write out your reply, knowing it’s the overly cautious way forward but unable to bear the thought of misinterpreting him.

What do you mean?

In the three days before you get his answer, you find yourself actively avoiding any situation in which you might see him – you attend meals at peak hours to get lost in the crowd, you avoid the library like you’ll disintegrate if you set a foot inside, and you don’t dare stray near the 6th floor on Saturday when you know for a fact that Slughorn is hosting some poncy get-together in his office.

When you finally sit down on Tuesday at your desk, you don’t even pretend to pay attention to Dumbledore starting the class at the front of the room. You seize the yellow parchment square from the inkwell and hastily flatten it on your desk.

I’ve noticed that you’ve been somewhat different since we met. I’m sorry if you were disappointed to learn of my identity, if you’d like to retire our correspondence I promise to let it go gracefully.

Your eyes widen. You pick up the tidy little square and hold it a little closer, barely believing what you’re seeing.

The parchment bears tiny little ink marks, the faded ghosts of letters adjacent to the pitch black carefully constructed script of his insane note. You could just barely make out some of the words – reserved, one of them seems to say, apologies, says another, a couple more faint letters here and there but nothing else you can properly decipher.

It’s heart-wrenchingly obvious what the marks are.

Tom must have drafted the note at least once before leaving this final version for you, his ink bleeding through onto the parchment below.

Dumbledore’s open hand suddenly appeared in front of you and you jump out of your skin, looking up with burning cheeks and a thundering heart. “Note-passing is not tolerated in my classroom I’m afraid,” Dumbledore says kindly, “now please hand it over, and content yourself with note-taking for the remainder of our lesson.”

You crumple up Tom’s note into a ball over the snickers of the rest of the class, placing it in Dumbledore’s hand and ducking your head in embarrassment as people cast looks your way from all over the room. Dumbledore nodded and made his way back to the front of the classroom, and you try to ignore the way people were still giggling at you.

Tom had drafted the note. He’d drafted it.

It’s this more than anything he’d actually written that makes you consider actually answering him honestly.

When everyone’s attention finally slides away from you and Dumbledore is helping a trio of boys at the front of the class with their Augor charms, you surreptitiously tear off a scrap of parchment. You carefully write out your reply, hoping that Tom doesn’t pay half as much attention to your handwriting as you do his. If he did, he might notice that your lettering is a little more shaky than usual.

I wasn’t disappointed at all, Tom, kind of the opposite. You just make me nervous.

You fold it very hastily just to get your own nearly-confession out of your sight before you second-guess yourself, slipping it underneath your ink pottle. Your heart’s beating too fast considering nothing’s actually happened yet.

It takes all of twenty minutes after class ends for you to regret being so honest. You have to force yourself not to go back and retrieve your note before Tom’s lesson the following day, dreading someone seeing you and demanding an explanation. Instead, you throw yourself into a series of distractions that are almost successful in keeping your mind off your square of parchment sitting in that little wooden nook waiting for Tom’s elegant fingers to lift it from its hiding place.

You don’t know what the hell to expect when you sit down on Friday, but nothing could have prepared you for what you found in your inkwell when you leaned forward.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

You sit back, stomach sinking so hard your throat closes up like you’re about to be sick. It’s the first time in half a year he’s not left you a reply.

It had been really stupid to read into those marks, he’d probably just been writing notes for class overtop of the note. It had been really stupid to read into any of this, now that you think about it. You drop your ink pottle into the well, jaw tight, wishing you weren’t this disappointed.

There’s nothing there the following Tuesday either, the nook sits empty and dusty and silent. When Friday comes and there’s still no note you start to accept with grim, hard-to-swallow shame that your confession hasn’t gone unanswered at all. The silence is his answer.

Maybe it had been a ruse after all. Maybe he’d lost all interest in the game when he’d found out you’re just like everyone else in the school, harbouring feelings for him. You have no trouble coming up with increasingly mortifying reasons for his silence over the week that follows, and  you very quickly come to the resolute decision that you need to put the entire ordeal out of your head – clearly Tom already had.

You’re winding your way back to your common room after a late night finishing Slughorn’s assignment on the ethics of using fairy blood when you hear the footsteps.

Someone was running somewhere nearby, echoing through the vaulted stone ceilings and airy corridors, and you pause at the corner looking around curiously as the footsteps seem to be getting much, much louder. You jump back a bit as Tom suddenly skids to a stop in front of you.

You blink at him, stunned. His normally pale face is flushed, the black waves of his hair slightly stuck to his forehead, his lips parted and he’s breathing hard, his tie askew and his usually perfect robes hanging slightly off one shoulder. He’s leaning forward a little, squinting at you as he tries to catch his breath.

“Tom,” you say in utter astonishment.

“He just gave it to me,” Tom says through hard breaths, lifting a small scrap of paper in his hand that, with a feeling much like being impaled through the stomach with a large icicle, you instantly recognise as your note. “Dumbledore.”

“Dumbledore just gave you my note?” you ask dumbly, still very bewildered by his appearance.

Tom nods. “I went to ask him some questions, about some of the comments he left on my essay,” he manages to say, his dark brows pulling together and his chest still rising and falling a little more than usual. “And afterwards, he asked if I recognised this.”

You find yourself wishing violently Dumbledore had thrown the thing out. “He caught me reading yours the other day,” you mutter, holding your books a little tighter to your chest and looking away. “He must have seen me hide it.”

“He just gave it to me,” Tom repeats, holding it out a bit more.

“Well he may be a little unhinged but he’s still pretty sharp,” you quip, turning your shoulders away and hoping he takes the hint and lets you leave. “I’m not surprised he knew it was for you, I suppose he recognised your handwriting in the first one –”

“You don’t have to be nervous,” Tom interrupts loudly.

You go very still, staring at him again. Tom’s lips press together, and he finally lowers the note.

“I just wanted to tell you,” he adds with a slight frown, and if this wasn’t Tom Riddle you would have sworn that there was something almost awkward in the way he averts his gaze from yours.

“Did you run here?” you ask suddenly, even though the answer is very obviously yes.

Tom’s uncomfortable look intensifies, and you watch him shift slightly on his feet with a mixture of deep gratification and a sudden bursting fondness so intense you feel a smile appear on your lips.

“How did you know I was here?” you add curiously, turning back to him.

“I saw you when I was in the library earlier,” Tom says quickly, sliding the note into the pocket of his trousers like he’s hoping you somehow won’t notice. “I thought I might still catch you.”

You nod slowly. Tom’s eyes are now flicking between yours and the smile on your lips like he’s trying to figure out exactly what this combination of emotions means and someone’s timing him to do so.

“Well,” you say after a long second, taking a step back down the corridor and savouring the sight of him standing there with his ruined hair and dishevelled uniform before you have to turn away. “I await your reply.”

He nods wordlessly, watching you retreat, and you bite back your smile as you force your eyes off him and hurry away.

Maybe you’d been a little too harsh on Dumbledore after all.

Fateful Beginnings

XV. “mutually-assured destruction”

parts: previous / next

plot: Bruce elicits your help in a desperate bid to validate his sanity, but the both of you reach a permanent standstill.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, arguing, anger, fear, hopelessness

words: 2.6k

a/n: I love when they bicker lmfaooooo, here’s a lil scene for the enemies to lovers crowd 😌

You tried to be subtle with your double-take. His hair was so much darker when it was soaked from rain, and he was nearly unrecognizable in such oversized, bulky clothing. Your eyes wandered to a notebook clutched tightly in his hand. Is it slippery? His knuckles are white.

He pulled you quickly toward him and the gentle spray of what would have been an outfit-ruining tsunami grazed your ankles. As quickly as the car passed he let go and began walking across the street. "Follow me." Too curious for your own good, you followed. Only when you reached three blocks from the hotel did you stop and question the affair. He gave a gruff response to asking where you were headed. "It's only a few more blocks." He continued walking until he realized your footsteps weren't following, and hesitated to peek over his shoulder. Of course you wouldn't follow him. Of course you had to make this difficult. He very nearly pressed on without you out of spite.

He was unrecognizable to you from behind. His wet hair splayed in a haphazard frame around his face, this wasn't what a billionaire looked like. A glimmer of curiosity captured you. Why would a billionaire want to dress himself down like this? It was decidedly less glamorous when he was outside of the suit, and less pathetic than when he wore baggy black clothes to walk around his empty home. You remembered you were in seclusion in downtown Gotham with a rich man, a man so rich he could ruin you without a second thought; and even though you knew his secret, you didn’t know him. He could do anything to me and the world would let him. The possibility alone petrified you and you resigned to stay back.

He picked up on that resolution (though he thought it wasn't self-preservation but resolution to his dissolution) and turned around, glowering at you. He noted that your feet were particularly dug into the gravel, your arms stiff to your sides. The chill of the evening air outside of your lips was the only evidence you weren't a statue. "It's just a few more blocks."

"I heard you." You crossed your arms to protect your chest and you saw his eyes track the movement. Heat rose in your chest. So fucking perceptive. It's like I'm prey.

"Are you coming?"

"No. My parents are expecting me back." He was just a random guy. Your mother was sick, your dad was probably unable to figure out how to work the remote and move from HDMI 1 to HDMI 2. You grit your teeth and he, of course, noted the subtle movement in your jaw.

What are you, twelve? He bit down on his tongue with a sliver of shame. You were just a random woman. Someone who had parents to get back to, parents that were waiting on you, parents who would be concerned if you were back too late, parents to spend time with, parents to see you, to know you...

A story was flashing across his eyes, even in the dark, but you weren't staying to figure it out. "I'm sure Alfred is waiting on you." You spun on your heel but didn't make it two steps before he retorted. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you should spend time with him instead of stalking girls on street corners."

He didn't need you. You didn't know what you were talking about. "Don't act like you know anything about him." He wasn't letting you get out of earshot before defending himself. You don't know a thing about Alfred. A possessiveness snuck into his tone.

You spun around, your hands lazily following until they slapped against your thighs. "I got a good sense of your hospitality while I was there, you're ridiculously antisocial." You emphasized your eyeroll.

He huffed so firmly clouds of warm air obscured his face, making him for a moment a total shadow. "My apologies for not wanting a stranger loitering in my house that just threatened to blackmail me!" His voice had risen, but it wasn't quite enough for you to call him out yet.

You put your hands up in the air, dressing your words in as much syrupy sarcasm as they could hold. "God forbid someone stay in the giant empty mansion of the person hoarding all the city's resources for three days."

He turned around swiftly, menacingly. "I'm doing more for this city than anyone else."

You didn't bother to temper your scoff. It echoed off the wet brick. "Your ego is fucking insane."

He barked back. "What has anyone else done?"

You thought of your father who had so many aches and pains he couldn't count from his endless career work. The farm workers working in nearly inhumane conditions for meager paychecks, paychecks the Wayne family spent in a day even with just one man and a butler, the people putting food on Gotham's table. You thought of all the houseless people you'd walked past on your way here and couldn't help but laugh, but it was filled with so much tension it was painful. "You picked up a voluntary night shift, congrats, what cookie do you want?"

His chest constricted like his ribs had been welded together. "This is ridiculous. I don't know why I thought you'd be any help." He moved to turn but you ensnared him with another biting accusation.

"You are sitting on a mountain of wealth while people rot in the streets."

He rolled his eyes and committed to the full turn of his back to yours. "I'm not talking about this."

You scoffed again, your chest constricting with the beginning of adrenaline. "I made a point that you don't know how to respond to because you can't. And you're just leaving! Some fucking savior!"

God, who did you think you were? He spat the words out on the pavement with his back turned, eyes narrowed to slits. "You came here just to shit on my city and—"

"It is not your city. You are just a rich kid whose parents happened to live here. And you've done nothing besides saving counterfeit checks and people who have no other choice—"

"Oh, not this again." His smugness brought you right back to running to the city hall bathroom. He didn't know how easily he could massacre someone with his tongue. "Some of the people you take so much pride in scaring the shit out of are already scared. I guarantee if you just gave everyone food, shelter,"

"Money doesn't save everything." You. Didn't. Get. It.

"How can you possibly know even a fraction of the value of a single fucking dollar when you have billions in your bank acc—"

"I'm already allocating." He increased the distance between you two.

You snapped at him, seething at his audacity. "Don't you dare interrupt me."

"Money gets you shot dead on the streets." He continued without a care in the world.

"Don't fucking interrupt me."

He turned his head to peek a touch over his shoulder. Your sharpness has rustled him. He wanted to speak up again but your chest was heaving and splotchy red. Your hands were in trembling fists at your side. He averted his gaze and looked over at the wall while you both stood in silence. His heart was racing, but it wasn't showing—blood making a racket in his ears and practically drowning out all sound. He waited, and waited, and waited more, the adrenaline steadying him and giving him clarity. No one had ever been this mad at him outside of the suit... it was weird. It felt like he should be in armor, ready to dodge a punch and land one square in the jaw. He hated the way his eyes lingered on your jaw, nose, and the bottom of your ribcage. An enchantingly strong sensation of shame erupted from it. More combatant than human.

You noted his features softening, and with it yours slowed to simmer. It was impossible not to notice how sad he looked, and that pissed you off. Why do I give a shit what he's feeling? It was like there was a small box sitting in the corner of your chest, a slim panel hidden in the back of your mind. It contained something you couldn't reach. Every time you were around him it began to glow, but it was too hot. It burned your eyes if you ever tried to look right at it. Frustration had created a mist in your mind to try and distract you, convince you he was nothing of importance; Bruce Wayne could go fuck himself. Another part leapt out and tried to tell you, right then, your empathy was pure socialization. It's a woman's job to soothe, after all. Be easy, after all. The world catered to men, and here was the stereotype and living idol to the alpha male archetype. It repulsed you. Your eyes flit down to his journal as it slipped ever so slightly on the pads of his fingers. You squinted. Curiosity. That's what's coming up. You recalled Dr. Vry on the first day of your first journalism class. She'd opened the class with a speech.

You are all here because you were curious. Curious about this class, curious about writing, and curious about interviewing. I want you to hone in on that feeling; if you have a curiosity about something, anything, anyone, this unintelligible itch to figure it out, it's the sign of a story. A truth needs to be witnessed that you might be the only one capable of seeing. A truth you need to share with the world.

His eyes were the story; it elicited such a feeling of curiosity, his eyes. They were angry, and dark, and sad, and in a position unique to one in 8 billion. You were curious. You were curious about Bruce Wayne, and you hated him. You hated his clothes, his voice, his face, his gait, his position, his quiet arrogance. It clashed so hard with the embers of sympathy for his emotional darkness you felt you could burst. Still, you weren't about to follow him into the black abyss. "Why do you need to talk to me?"

Bruce's reaction didn't quite help you feel safe; he bristled at the question. There was something he wasn't telling you, that was obvious enough, but he refused to give any of it away. "I can't talk about it right here."

"I don't trust you."

He sighed. It made sense, as much as he hated to admit it. He wouldn't follow just anyone out into the corners of Gotham at night either. He shrugged over at you, opening his arms to flap them back down. "Want to check for weapons again?"

Again. You'd been genuinely petrified back in his basement; up until Alfred had arrived, you were certain you would have been meat to string along the ceiling for the bats to feed off of. It still didn't feel quite right, and you didn't feel quite safe, but you felt safer. Safe enough to not be agreeable, safe enough to not run away the second you saw him, but not safe enough to revoke suspicion. The thing on top of your mind now, taking up so much space it hurt, was hypervigilance. Every movement of his hand, his eyes, even the rhythm of his breathing was being tracked and gauged. You didn't know why this question came up, but it fell out of your mouth when it opened. "Do you really trust I won't tell anyone?"

Damn. He didn't, in truth. He'd said so back at the airport because it hadn't fully sunk in that someone knew. Now that he'd had to begin constructing this new persona, now that he had realized how someone could see past it, he was terrified. Almost imperceptibly he shook his head. "No."

It made you a bit afraid hearing that, not that him saying yes would've made you believe him. How could he trust you? If the roles were reversed, you wouldn't. "I don't trust that you won't hurt me."

"How can I convince you?"

Before you could answer your phone buzzed. It was your dad.

"Hey hun, everything good down there?" He sounded like he was munching on the hideously expensive bag of chips that had been provided by hospitality. You nodded before realizing he couldn't see you and your cheeks burned with heat at Bruce having seen it. "Yeah, I just got caught up."

"Caught up? Is that code for something? Do you need me to come down there?"

You glanced over at Bruce who was staring down at his shoes. He slowly looked up at you and lingered in eye contact briefly before looking down to kick at a pebble. Bruce Wayne kicking pebbles on the sidewalk. Get the paparazzi over here. "It's fine, dad. I'll be back in a few minutes."

He didn't miss a beat before a small shuffling and you heard him whisper. "She must have met up with that Wayne guy. Probably doesn't want to tell me." He came back to the line and you thanked god your speaker was off. "No it's, I'll be back soon. Bye." You hung up even though you could tell he didn't quite buy it, which made you have to hurry your exit even more. You plunged your phone in your pocket, avoiding eye contact. You answered him. "You can't convince me."

You both stood there in total silence, not even a car driving in background noise. Finally an ambulance mauled past and he let out a deep sigh. "How do we level the playing field?"

You shrugged, your mouth drying up. You rolled your eyes and sighed out some tension. "Mutually assured destruction, I guess." You didn't particularly like that, the threat of violence from him ever-present in your mind. He didn't like that either, in fact, he felt like he could vomit the second you said that. "I won't hurt you."

"I don't believe it."

"We're at a standstill, then." He straightened his back. "You could say we're even." God, it made him ill that he saw no route to convince you. Another reminder of his status, another reminder of how inhuman he was. You probably looked at him like his veins were thick with gold. He felt the need to give you another reminder, not wanting to hide behind the cloak of assumed violence for another second. "Even if you wrote that, I wouldn't hurt you."

Playing the nice guy, huh? You crossed your arms and shook your head vigorously, the cold chill starting to get to you. You needed to get home and couldn't have this conversation much longer. "You can't convince me, you just can't."

You still felt a twist in your stomach at how much privilege he didn't even realize he held, so much wasted opportunity and ignorance, but you nodded. How could you explain to someone that was born into it how much power he held? Was he actually ignorant of it, or did he just want people to think he was so they would get comfortable and let their guard down for him to strike? It still felt uneven, massively so, but you reassured yourself that you would be out of his reach soon enough. Your parents were waiting, your mom was sick, and you'd be gone in the morning for good. You spun around on your heel without a look back and sped on back to the hotel. Bruce glanced down at the journal that was nearly melted into a puddle in his hand and groaned. Whatever. Mutually-assured destruction.

Fateful Beginnings

XVII. “orientation”

parts: previous / next

plot: back in the godforsaken city, you attend orientation and set up your new apartment.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+

words: 2.3k

It could've been the sun blasting from your windows waking you up, but you lived in Gotham—instead it was the sound of shouting and piercing whoops with a sprinkle of taxi honks that made you rub the crust off your eyes. Mar was already awake and stood impatiently by the door. She looked up at you and grinned when she saw you sit up. "I ordered some donuts for us, figured you might wanna eat."

She almost looked like a little dog waiting to be let out; she was short with dirty blonde hair and hazel eyes, rearing to get out the door and feel some adventure. Huh. She reminds me of a cocker-spaniel. The clock read 11:05, and you jumped out of bed to get in the shower. You thanked her for ordering them before rushing to get your body clean. The water in the W’s shower was absolutely scalding, and it reminded you of another inequality in the city—only the rich people got fast-heating water. You cringed as you put the hotel shampoo and conditioner in your hair, then fought with the hair dryer that was too closely connected to the wall, and stepped out to Mar's lap covered in powdered sugar. "Here! I saved you these."

Since you signed everything virtually, Mar insisted on taking your bags to your new apartment for you. Much to your chagrin (you were feeling strangely jet-lagged from the day before) she was being convincing. "Just let me take them so you don't have to worry while you're at orientation. That's rent you're wasting!"

"I don't have a bed, I don't have anything to even sleep on in there yet, Mar." You shoved your arms through a sweater and pulled up your trousers.

"Won't they be giving you that welcome stipend or whatever today? How long is orientation?" Mar was always ready to get things moving, and you vacillated between appreciation and admonition.

"I mean I think so, and it's only until three." You furrowed your brow. "Maybe we could go to Target after and pick out some stuff?"

She clapped her hands and squealed. "Mmhm, perfect. Meet me at Jonson Street Target at 3:30?"

In the taxi to GU, you emailed her the information and messaged the apartment about a guest coming to get your things set up. You arrived at 11:58 and rushed to the Challey building, arriving sweaty and out of breath but on time. Dr. Vry was wearing a black velvet (?) sweater with a leather skirt, and had bright red lipstick. Her gray hair was up in a ponytail that sent a wash of neroli-scented air your way. "My protégé!" She wrapped you in a hug and led you by the elbow down the hallway to her office. Why does she keep calling me that? I didn't even get the interview with her billionaire.

"I'll be here. You dear, will be down the hallway just so." She pointed a few doors down to a vacant room with a sturdy desk and chair. You could've sworn it used to be a study room, and even pictured you and Mar studying for an exam there on class conflicts and inequalities.

The orientation was lackluster, but you hadn't expected much anyway. The doors creaked just as much, the cobwebs were still very much present, and the hallways were completely devoid of life. Your position was extremely straightforward: come in at least 8 hours a week to be available for any clerical work she had, and the other seven would be used up at weekly city hall meetings (two hours) and remote work. She took you down to the print room to meet one other lonely soul, Bridgit, explaining that you would bring your column to her by the end of the workday Thursday for printing. "The only thing you have to worry about is writing about whatever is happening at the meetings per week. And staying below the fifteen-hundred word count of course." She laughed like it was supposed to be funny and you and Bridgit followed suit.

By 2:30 you had completely exhausted even your boss's endless capacity for conversation, and she sent you on your way. Right as she was going to shut the door to her office you remembered the check. "Oh, Dr. Vry, the uh, I'm sorry, was I supposed to receive the initial payment today?"

She laughed again and shook her head. She waved her hand in dismissal only someone with six figures in their savings could manage. "It will be mailed to your new apartment by the end of the week." She smiled at you and shut the door. You held your raincoat limply in your hands. You only had twenty dollars in your account.

You got a taxi back to the W. 2:45. You went to the front desk and prayed this would work. "Hi, when I scheduled online I booked out through the end of the week but I don't need the room anymore. Can I cancel and get a refund?"

"Name?"

You told him and he clicked away. "Room 208?"

"Yes." You sat your hands on the edge of the desk behind a row of pens and flyers. There was a children's play at a private school close by. The Muppets. You wondered how they would accomplish that.

"Card ending in 5620?"

Fuck. "Oh I'm sorry, that card doesn't work anymore. Is there any way to get cash?" You bit your cheek to keep the anxiety at bay.

He shook his head slightly. "I'm sorry, but we have to... well, I could..." The man leaned into a mic nearby. "Manger to the front desk please."

A lady with a plastic smile arrived swiftly. Her eyes met yours with a blank, wide stare. "How can I help you?"

"She says the card she booked with doesn't work anymore and wants a cash refund."

"Oh, was there a problem with your stay?" Her teeth were blindingly white and ridiculously straight. You nearly had to squint back at her.

"No no, I just don't need it anymore." You gripped the edge of the desk hard barely out of their gaze. Please please please. The manager clicked a few buttons on the computer and scanned her badge. She flashed another beaming smile at you before skirting away. After what seemed like an hour but was likely only a few minutes, the manager entered. “Yes ma’am.” After a very tense nod, the desk clerk opened the register and began counting hundreds. "One hundred, two hundred, three hundred, four hundred, five hundred, six hundred, seven hundred, eight hundred,"

When he handed you 1800 dollars you felt faint. You handed over the key and thanked him before pocketing the cash and taking a taxi that had just dropped off a couple at the hotel. "Jonson Target, please."

3:01 you pulled up to the curb. Mar was perusing the dollar items when you walked in, and you both made quick work of finding your way to the home aisle and packing everything into a cart. A mattress, a frame, a sheet set, a comforter, pillows, a throw rug, a lamp, hangers, a bedside table, and two beanbag chairs cleared off that section and the cart. You grabbed another and headed to the hygiene section, grabbing toilet paper, shampoo, conditioner, body wash, toothbrush, toothbrush holder, toothpaste, lotion, cleanser, moisturizer, towels, and finished off with some multi-surface cleaner, rags, and a swiffer. The total came to just under a thousand, leaving ample room for Ubers and food until your first paycheck. Exhausted, you ordered an Uber Pickup to take you to your new abode: The Moore.

The driver was a big, burly man with a big, burly pickup. You both squeezed into the back seating and he blasted some music neither of you had ever heard. When you pulled up to the front steps he was kind enough to help you out, bragging the entire time about his muscularity. "You know, city folks don't know much about this but I spent all my summers bucking hay in Georgia." You both humored him, since he was able to carry both the mattress and frame in one smooth trip. 5:30 and you and Mar were just getting out the mini toolkit provided by apartment management to begin assembling everything.

The apartment was massive compared to your last one. No longer a studio, you were upgraded to a bathroom with a full XL tub and a one-bedroom master. The queen bed fit well, and after everything had been assembled (much to your exhaustion), the apartment still looked somewhat empty, but inhabited. When you and Mar finally settled into the beanbags in the living area, you groaned about forgetting a tv. Mar asked if she could take a shower, and you moved to the bedroom and set up your iPad in the meantime.

Hi hunny. How is the new place? Your mother wants pictures ASAP ( as soon as possible ).

It's good! I'll send some pics in the morning, I'm tired from setting up the place all day. Orientation went well too. Doesn't seem like I'll be too drained there.

Mar stayed the night again, and you pestered her about if she really wanted to stay here or not. This wasn't the longest you two had been together—during your first year of undergrad here you both had been exceptionally close, sometimes spending a week flip flopping between the other's apartment. "I just don't want to be asking too much of you." You threw the comforter over you and grabbed your phone. She was slathering on some moisturizer. "Y/N." She gave you a look as the pads of her fingers pressed along her cheeks. She's right. She's never had a problem with being straightforward. She skipped over to bed with you and got under the blanket. "This gives us time to talk about the juicy stuff."

Oh no. Mar had been trying to get you a partner since the first time you both had a conversation. Extremely flirtatious and non-monogamous, her most used apps were Tinder and Uber. It had taken you a minute to get used to that coming from a smaller town, and only ever having been on a smattering of first dates and had a brief 'boyfriend' in high school. "Are you finally in a relationship yet?"

"No." You shrugged and tried to change the subject to a funny meme you'd just seen on Scypher. She shook her head and leaned in closer. "What about Ryan? Jade?" With every shake of your head she grew more exasperated. "C'mon Y/N! Get it together!"

"I'm good on that." She gave you another look and you reaffirmed. "I'll even pinky swear."

Mar held out her finger with a knowing look. You put out your pinky and moved to her hand, but stalled. You let it fall back into your lap and then pulled the covers over your head. "Okay fine. I don't completely hate the idea of dating." This created an hour more of conversation detailing all your past dates, including the coffee situation with your friends back home, and culminated in such a dense feeling of loneliness you nearly wanted to cry. The moment was short lived however due to her inclusion of the most frustrating man alive.

"I know you don't want me to say it, but what about Bru—"

"Absolutely fucking not." You mimed throwing up and passing out and she playfully slapped your arm. "Christ, dude. Last time you were here he literally chased after you."

"Last night you thought it was stalking."

"Yeah but the more I thought about it," She looked off into the distance for dramatic effect. "I wouldn't mind being invited to Paris for your birthday."

A laugh slipped out of you which eased the tension. Mar was persistent but not rude, and she had sensed this was a soft enough spot for you she didn't push it past that. You both fell asleep quite similarly to how you did the night before, but this time you didn't have to wake up for anything. Dr. Vry had told you work did not officially begin for you until Thursday evening when you were to go to the first city hall meeting to gather report. She hadn't given very specific instructions, just handed you a PRESS badge for security clearance and told you to use your phone and a notebook. She called it 'adapting to the times'. You tried not to focus too much on the logistics as you fell asleep—would you interview someone or would you simply give a summary of the meeting's happenings—and most importantly, you made sure not to zoom in on a particular aspect of the affair Dr. Vry was especially fanatic about: Bruce Wayne's attendance. You loathed how he was the last thing you thought about your first two nights back. It wasn't fair, it wasn't right, and it certainly didn't make you want to stay here any longer. What would you say? What would you do? Would he pretend not to know you? Would you pretend not to know him? What if you tripped again?

The rumination lingered in your dreams and you woke up the next morning feeling like you'd napped about five minutes. Checking your phone saw that you had slept until noon, and Mar was still sound asleep in bed. You got comfortable. This was going to be a long week.

Fateful Beginnings

XVIII. “indebted”

parts: previous / next

plot: employed as the resident Gazette journalist, your first night at City Hall leaves you panicked and reeling from a last-minute confession from Bruce.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, bribery, panic attack, mental institution

words: 3.3k

Mar had taken you to Nordstrom to peruse the sale rack for appropriate journalist attire. You'd settled on a black long-sleeve mini dress; you'd wanted to go midi, but she had insisted you be more risqué. "You don't have to hide your femininity to be professional." Now you were wearing it with matching pointed toe heels—with less heel than your old ones. The press lanyard dangled around your neck nearly obscured by hair that had taken you all evening to curl; the rain was hellish, weighing down your roots and frizzing out the lengths. Paparazzi waited and for a moment you stalled to wonder why they were here; that was until they started shouting "BRUCE WAYNE?!" and racing past you. You stopped in your tracks, and all you could hear was the pounding of your heartbeat against your eardrums. Fuck. He's here already. The hectic, giddy flashes blurred your vision and created floating black specks as you made your way up the stairway. It felt... weird being at the beginning of it all. Like a bad omen. You walked to the appetizers to see if Rai was working it, but it was some random catering company with bland, pompous snacks. Caviar, Oyster and a billion other things you couldn't name.

As much as you wanted to wipe him from your mind, it was impossible to not know when Bruce Wayne entered the building. Everyone inside gasped under their breath and turned like he was a shark in the water, like cat to mouse, predator to prey. It would have taken you too much brainpower—you wanted to spend precisely none on him—to figure out who was hunting who. You grabbed some champagne and tried not to bump into any of the frail, callous rich people. As you surveyed the room (making sure to glide your eyes right past him) you noticed a few upgrades; the foyer housed fresh paint, a new rug, and an ice sculpture. You squinted your eyes to no avail trying to figure out what it was supposed to resemble.

On your gaze's loop you locked eyes with the man of the hour. Your cheeks stung with angry, embarrassed heat and you spun to grab an oyster. Anything to look busy. Anything at all. Excited voices became a passing buzz in your ear as you hyperfocused on the food in your hand. Slimy.

"You may enter now." A man in black pants and a crisp linen shirt opened the door to something vaguely resembling a conference room that vaguely resembled a dystopian art gallery. It didn't quite fit right in your mind, which sent the visceral reminder of loneliness down your gut. You made your way quickly toward the room, foregoing thoughts of where he might or might not be. A mantra pinged between your ears: I will not talk to him. I will ignore him.

Oh how bitterly inferior you were to the actions of Bruce Wayne. You smelled him before you heard him, a musky, clean detergent scent; he smelled just like he did back at Wayne Tower. Only now it was dancing with some... grapefruit? Mandarin? You held back a laugh at the thought of him shuddering whilst spraying cologne.

You were already laughing. He didn't want to see you here. When he walked in he thought it couldn't be you—you hated it here—but when you turned it was immediate. Panic lurched in his chest; you weren't supposed to be here. The word 'destruction' banged around his skull. The badge around your neck alluded to him not being able to avoid you for very long, so much to his chagrin he thought he'd brave the storm and break the ice. "Didn't expect to see you here." Dancing around it. Would you do the same?

You wanted to test his limits, see how he would react if you refused to be on your best behavior, so you resorted to fronting a rude persona. "I'd say the same but..." You gave him a once-over. The Dior stitched into his breast pocket nearly rolled your eyes to the back of their sockets, but you were in public, and he was Bruce Wayne—every room orbited around him. This wasn't the place to make a bad first impression, so you slapped a grin on your face that showed your teeth. "When it strikes midnight is your Dior gonna fall off? Fairy godmother on speed dial?" You lowered your voice a bit so no one would think twice about your conversation. You hid a wince; fuck. That first part had sounded weird. He looked down and put his hands in his pockets, huffing out exasperation. You know. You know. You know. He thought about telling you he didn't like this, to reassure you he did not enjoy the facade, but: he didn't owe you anything and you owed nothing to him. Mutually assured destruction, he thought, even though it didn't help him in the slightest. He didn't need to reveal truths to you, you were more or less even.

"Nice to see you again." He sensed your nerves and tried to soothe them, (were they because you planned to make a surprise announcement this evening?) but it wasn't coming off well. He stared at you with a tight-lipped grin to meet your squinted stare. So the schtick applies to me, too. He turned around to head toward the strange conference room and you stopped yourself from trying to 'trip' again, only holding back so Dr. Vry didn't steal the badge and send you home with no income. He scooted a few people over and took a seat at the front of the huge table. A few of the paparazzi tried to sneak inside but the man in the linen reached for something on his belt and they took off outside. Does this dude have a gun? Is this because of Prince Bruce?

"Welcome everyone." A man with spectacles and a gray suit stood to the direct left of Bruce, and he clapped his hands at the end of everything he said. It might have been frustrating if Bruce wasn't dominating that bandwidth. "Tonight marks the first City Hall meeting of 2024 after our summer interlude." He leaned in while saying it which got some chuckles from the other rich people. You took a quick note. First meeting since summer break.

"And this year we have a new member of the City Hall Board! Mr. Wayne, would you?" The man bowed to Bruce and he rose from his seat with a quick, polite wave. You shook your head and got your pen ready, knowing Dr. Vry would be salivating over whatever he was about to say now and later. You were able to get a good look at him from this perspective; his hair was maybe a bit lighter, much like at graduation, though his suit had become more tailored since then. "Good evening everyone, it's a pleasure to be here in this new capacity. I look a bit less green." He mimed looking down at his suit, and everyone started howling with laughter. Holy shit. You thought about passing out in a puddle of your own vomit. Is he the same human being? He continued, nodding off the rest of the laughs. "I look forward to meeting all of you and getting to know you better as time goes on. I'm excited to collaborate and invest in Gotham City. Thank you."

Everyone clapped like he'd just won an Oscar. He studiosly notated while the other members took turns introducing themselves. You scribbled down as many names and positions as possible with a plan to commit them to memory before next week's meeting. Someone named Fox, a woman named Laurie, a man named Larry...

At the end of the brutally long introduction the man nearest to Bruce, the head honcho, introduced himself. Miguel Convoy - interim mayor. Interim mayor? Mr. Convoy heaved a deep sigh (too deep) and performed condolences for Bella Reál's recent admission to Arkham Asylum. "Miss Reál, as you are well aware, began showing some symptoms of serious mental decline mid-July. The new mayor's elections are coming up this November, and on such short notice we only have a few candidates announced to be running. These include Sebastian Hady, Marian Grange, and Lincoln March. In the following weeks they will make appearances at these meetings, so make sure to give them a warm welcome."

Sebastian Hady, Marian Grange. Lincoln March. - mayoral election, November.

The rest of the meeting was wholly uneventful, with a bunch of meaningless small talk among the bourgeoisie. You made sure to write down everything, however, as Bruce was writing a novel of notes in a small journal. I can't know less than him. He'd never let me hear the end of it. When the meeting adjourned and people began filing out, you set a reminder on your phone to research the candidates for interview prep.

You waited for Bruce to walk past to catch a glimpse of what he'd written, but when he passed... christ. Your teeth ground against your heavy steps as you rushed to reach him. Heat flushed your cheeks and you grabbed his forearm to get his attention. He snapped around and restrained a startle response when he noticed it was you. "So you didn't write anything?" You couldn't stop the gall soaking your tone. "Just scribbles?" Maybe being rude to him wasn't a front, maybe it came naturally with how insufferable the man was.

He hid a laugh—well, he thought he did, but it must have appeared somewhere because you reacted to it immediately. You wrestled with what to say next bogged down by already saying too much. In the meantime he blinked at you, his stare unwavering from your shifting eyes. You had a conviction he'd done that—only written scribbles and wavy lines—to fuck with you, but with little evidence besides a hunch you decided to let it go. If he wanted to get some little jabs in, fine. You did know life-ruining information about him, after all.

He was disappointed you didn't follow the glint in your eye. During the meeting he'd anticipated a showdown, maybe even you snatching his notebook and ripping out a few pages. In his defense he had taken some notes, but quickly devolved to scribbling when he'd caught you glancing in his periphery. He thought it might get under your skin a little, just like you did with your eyes plastered to him. He always felt like your eyes were glued to him, even when you were thousands of miles away; it was a permanent side-effect of being found out. Was it so wrong to want you to share his dread?

"Have you heard of any of these candidates?" You were thumbing through your notes, which looked...impeccable to Bruce. He shook his head. "Too short notice."

"I'm sure you're soo busy." You flipped the spiral shut and held it at your side. He flashed back to when his notebook fell in front of Alfred, his face slipping, and your brows knit together. "It's not just a jab, c'mon." You paused as he looked just behind your shoulder, eyes beginning to glaze. Huh. Weird. You cleared your throat. "With all your, Dior stuff?" God, it took so much effort to act like his activities were of any importance to greater society. It didn't help that you'd had to avoid dozens of behind the scenes clips and photos from his latest shoot on every corner of the internet the past week. Still, your heart felt a bit bruised at the prospect of hurting his feelings for some damn reason. "Hello? Bruce?"

That startled him back. He'd forgotten you used his first name after the nearly three-month reprieve. "They were only announced this afternoon."

You stood there, your skin withering from the dryness of his conversation. Men. The very second your shoulders shifted to move toward the exit he vocalized. "What made you come back here?"

You stared blankly at him. You were a bit offended at how blunt he was being, and decided to be blunt back. "Money."

He was confused. "I thought—" he stopped himself, but you weren't letting him off. "What?"

"Nothing."

You stepped toward him. "It's something."

He wanted to step back, but refused the urge. "It doesn't matter."

"Then why aren't you telling me?"

How obvious was it that he had paid for your mom's medical bills? You saw him thinking and jumped on it. "What? Why do you think I don't need money?"

God, it was maddening not knowing how much you knew; where was the line between speculation and trying to catch him in a lie? You flustered him. "I don't think about money." Ooh, that was not the way to go. You wore your feelings on your sleeve, and his chest cinched when he noticed you scowl.

You refused to let up, feeling your limbs light up with tingles. "What were you going to say?"

He felt scolded, but you weren't scolding; Alfred scolded, sometimes, in an attempt to fulfill a parental role. The problem was he did have things he was going to say and you were picking up on it. The problem was that no one ever called him out in broad daylight. You didn't appease. He winced. "I thought paying your parent's debt would—”

"I knew it!" Bitterness and appreciation dueled in your chest. Your heart raced as the reality of it set in and Mar entered your mind with bright, pulsing letters: S T A L K E R. "How did you, what," He didn't know your family, he didn't know your last name, even. You felt naked.

"Mr. Wayne!" Mr. Convoy (what a rich name) stole Bruce's attention. The edges of your vision swirled and you stepped back to abate the wooziness. STALKER. STALKER. STALKER. STALKER. It was only a handful of seconds before Bruce apologized and asked to excuse himself, which you barely heard over the ringing in your ears. He shot a quick look at you before walking down the hallway towards the restroom. Begrudgingly you followed him this time, feeling forcibly tied to his ankles, and the second he was out of earshot he turned toward you, eyes darting across your face. "You left your phone in Alfred's study. It was open. I only looked at what I needed to." His hands were gripped tightly together, the folds of his fingers beginning to turn white.

You paused so long he nearly spoke again, but you shoved shaky, frustrated words from behind your teeth. "But you didn't need to." You felt shockingly affected; you'd suspected it was Bruce, but had apparently successfully deluded yourself into believing it was God himself, or an accident, or Alfred had accidentally seen some texts and it captured his old, kind heart. Bruce wasn't kind, meaning this wasn't kind. Your fingers went cold and the tips began to tingle—fuck, you felt like you owed him something again, him saying it reopening the guilt you'd tried desperately to disappear.

Bruce felt trapped. Your eyes had glazed over a minute ago; he felt like you were miles away. You were right. He didn't need to. "I thought it would help." He scrambled for anything else to say but came up short. You leaving to Pluto was exceptionally distressing and rendered him nearly incapacitated.

"I didn't ask for any favors,"

"I'm sorry." He stood there feeling foolish. Naked. Uniquely stuck.

A thought sunk down to your gut and nestled into the feeling of guilt. "Was it a bribe?"

His eyes flashed and he shook his head vigorously. "No." He saw you glance over your shoulder towards the paparazzi trying to lean inside for a photo and moved his back to them. You shifted uncomfortably. This vulnerability felt exploitive; you felt small.  Standing by the Burj Khalifa made you feel deeply insignificant. That fear came back again, tenfold. He noticed the shift, and he hated it. You were lost in your own head, spiraling again about how alone you were in the world, how much more alone you were going to be so soon, especially if she got the placebo, what Walter would do once she left, what you would do once Walter left, if you'd ever see them again, if this was the only shot you got, and if so, what the hell were you doing here in a city that hated you, in a city you hated; your life was being wasted with so little of hers left, there wasn't enough time, they could get in a car crash this minute, last minute, your phone could ring any moment, Bruce could be planning your demise—

You only noticed you were having a panic attack when Bruce gently grabbed your wrist. You only realized you'd been shaking when you felt his steadiness. You stared at his hand for a brief, still moment before ripping it away. You sniffed back a tear threatening to burst containment and turned wide, only making it a step before your shoulder slammed into a man's walking to the restroom. The collision caused the tear to slide down your cheek and you collapsed to your knees. A high-pitched sob slipped out and you bolted to the bathroom, into a stall, and pushed your back against the metal door right as the weeping started.

The man glared at the WOMEN'S bathroom sign as if he was thinking about following you. He intercepted. "How are you? I'm Bruce Wayne." Another plastered smile and Ken handshake. The man's eyes lit up and he rushed to take Bruce's hand, shaking it about ten times before Bruce slipped his hand back into his pant pocket. He pretended to laugh at the man's jokes, made small talk about the upcoming election, the usual suspects. Bruce knew what waiting might be twisted as, but the man's initial step toward you left him on edge. A few people stared at him as they exited, then leaned in to whisper something to their partners. He rubbed his head and mentioned a small headache coming on, saying he needed to be on his way. He leaned his head back against the rough white wall and shut his eyes after the man finished lingering, crossing his hands around his chest with a leg up for balance. Your reaction had been an oversight. Maybe you were right, again. What's the value of a dollar?

You popped out of the bathroom quicker than he'd anticipated and he startled when you flung the door wide. A small wash of humor at having unsettled him rapidly devolved to sourness. He'd been leafing through various solutions to your bribery claim, but everything felt hollow like the slick tear troughs under your eyes. He grasped for anything to ease the tension, for once even if it wasn't fully thought through. "Let me at least give you a ride."

You stared at him with your nose huffed up. Unshed tears pleaded to be freed. This dress was a silk blend, and you could hear just how heavy the rain was. You nodded curtly, afraid to say no, but thanking yourself for remembering to move your taser to your clutch. You'd get him to drop you off at a fake location, throwing him off your scent for where you actually lived. He nodded back. "I'll meet you around back."

Fateful Beginnings

XX. “close call”

parts: previous / next

plot: your friend is set on knowing what you can’t divulge. Bruce is left conflicted about his next course of action; the next day at work, your boss tries to force your journalistic hand.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, anxiety, arguing, alcohol, creepy men

words: 4.7k

"I'm coming to get you." Mar set down the phone and sounded like she was grabbing things to come there.

You panicked, wondering how you could tell her you were with Bruce right now without potentially giving his identity away to someone near the car. And what if she still comes and sees I'm actually with Batman?

"Mar." She wasn't answering. "Mar!" She still wasn't saying anything, and this time you heard a door. "I'm hooking up with someone and they're sleeping."

"Don't believe you." You heard the click of keys in a lock, and panicked further. She wouldn't be one of those Batman trackers, right? She wouldn't know you were near the Bat signal right now, right? You took a deep breath. "Just, stop! Stop!"

"Why? This is so fucking suspicious, what if you get fucking murdered?" She sounded genuinely afraid, and you heard a car door open. She already got a taxi? "Please, I know you care about me,"

"Fifth and Stark, please. Thanks." That was… extremely accurate to where you were sitting right now. Fuck!

"I know you care but please, I want my life to be my life. I don't want to be monitored, I am 100% fine." What would Bruce do if he found out I let his secret slip?

"Then you'll be fine when I get there. It's the middle of a fucking alley, Y/N,"

Even if you left the car and ran off into the night, she would get dropped off and see a car that was so obscenely expensive it had to belong to Bruce Wayne, and she would know. At this point your panic was eroding away into irritation, because she was starting to act like a helicopter parent. You put the phone on mute and frantically searched the empty car for some keys. Maybe I could just drive somewhere else while location is off. Where the fuck does he keep keys?? Does this car even have keys? Is it one of those card things?

"Y/N??" Mar had reacted even to your line going silent. Between the fear of giving away Bruce as Batman, your annoyance at being monitored so closely, and the residual fearful anger from the anonymous donor reveal, you snapped at her. "I want to live my own life without being suffocated!" Your words hung in the air a moment, then you felt sick. I shouldn't have said that. Fuck.

"Hello??" OH THANK GOD. You'd forgotten to unmute. You took a few regulating breaths, then unmuted. You saw her location as five minutes away. "How about I meet you..." On the map she was two minutes away from a queer bar downtown you and her had frequented in undergrad. It would probably be a ten minute walk from here. "At Mora's, in ten minutes."

"Do you know how much could happen in ten minutes?"

"I'll keep you on the phone." You looked around to make sure you hadn't accidentally lost anything, and she sighed. "I don't understand what's going on. But. Fine. Oh, and if you're not here in ten minutes I am calling the police, 'kay?"

"Sounds good." You muted yourself for a second just so she wouldn't hear you popping the door open. If you had to answer about sitting in a car it might move the conversation towards more sleuthing. A quick pop of the lever made the door swing open wide, and you were able to slam it shut and unmute before Mar had even realized you were silent. A few steps in the dusty alley made you turn around, wondering how the hell you might let Bruce know where you'd went. Did you even need to let him know? You feared he might stalk the city for you if he didn't. You noticed steam had accumulated on the windows from you being inside, just enough for you to maybe write out where you were going, or at least that you were safe. Pointer finger to wildly expensive glass, you wrote a quick note and evaporated into the depth of the dark night.

Bruce's inside wrist buzzed. UNL was in small blue text, signaling an unlock in the car. Gordon had just pushed up his glasses to look at the hilt, but pulled back to take a breath being so close to the stench, which was rapidly filling the room. Bruce grit his teeth and stared longingly at the knife handle before tearing away and walking across the room. "I'll be back." The detectives paid him no mind as he strode strongly past, breaking into a run down the hall to the staircase. Why did it unlock? Right when Gordon was about to look at the owls, too... He resigned to be back as swiftly as possible, flexing his fists on the way down until he burst through the door, sprinting toward the alleyway.

At first he didn't know if you were still there or not. The car was completely black, unable to even be seen until he was about ten feet away. The tinting on the windows was more severe than he'd thought, but it was highly effective. Even peering into the window with cupped hands proved futile. After opening the driver's side door and lowering the partition, he felt stuck. Where the hell were you?

This was the worst part of Gotham—an uphill walk so steep that regular patrons of the various businesses in the area made sure to rent apartments at the top of the hill; if you moved into one of the businesses at the bottom of it, you were financially doomed. This was why, though you could see Mora's sign glowing ahead, it would be another seven or eight minutes until you were able to heave yourself through the doors.

Bruce was at a standstill as he stood at the alley in front of his abandoned car. He sleuthed for evidence of a fight or unusually quick getaway—the dust pattern outside both back doors was consistent with a normal walking pace for one individual, and he was left puzzled. Had you gotten bored? Tried to prank him? He couldn't track you; after the argument about how invasive his previous searching efforts were, it would be treasonous to do so again. Though he couldn't see the building from here, he looked in its direction with utmost longing. The first owl in months had shown up, now readily accessible and able to be viewed by a trusted source. Maybe he could feel less crazy, or maybe he would feel absolutely insane if Gordon said he saw nothing there. Bruce tolerated fear well, but this was a slippery one, one that involved more than circumstances and threatened his psyche. As he changed back into his previous suit, he told himself he was leaving to find a citizen in danger, not being willfully ignorant of his own mental decline. He swung around to open the driver door when he caught a patterned glint off the back window. A dust devil danced in the background as a gentle accompaniment to the barely legible prose. Had 2 leave, am safe. He tossed his blazer atop his car and rested his hands over his head. He paced through the dust cloud that then dissipated around his ankles. Sloppy. I'm being sloppy. He couldn't change back into the suit, could he? Working protocol was to never change out of the suit in the same public location, but was this public enough to qualify? Could he go back in to follow up with Gordon? Would he drive around all night trying to see if you were honest, and not in danger? Would that be too intrusive? Probably. In a city this big, and this dark, that required facial recognition technology he promised he wouldn't use on you. Christ.

"Y/N." Mar usually greeted you excitedly, but now she stood with her arms crossed around a neon green blazer. Quite honestly it was the last thing your eyes needed to see after bland, gray concrete. She tapped her foot and glared at you, then gestured toward your phone. "Why were you being so fuckin' secretive?"

You had only barely begun to catch your breath, and followed her gesture with one towards the bar. "I need some water, Mar, that was fucking steep," She groaned but followed you in. The bouncer stared at your ID a little too long, which was usual—there weren't many IDs from other parts of the country here. Gotham was the city that people left, never a destination.

The bar was pretty busy, about the usual suspects for a Thursday night. Gotham's strong population decline apparently had not hit the partiers, because Friday through Sunday every bar and club was packed like sardines. Mora's was better on Thursdays, when it was still lively but not crawling with women and their straight boyfriends; whenever you or Mar walked past them they'd ask to watch you kiss. Thursdays were mellower, with synth pop or indie music floating from the speakers instead of EDM. On the first Thursday of every month there was a themed event, and you couldn't remember the last time you'd been here for one of them. Your favorite drink here was "The Sinnamon", a tongue-in-cheek drink consisting of cinnamon Fireball whisky, pulverized blackberries, and ginger ale. Mar liked "Hot Shot", a shot of tequila mixed with jalapeño brine. You thought hers was disgusting, and she thought yours was basic; whenever a game of truth or dare started, at some point both of you would dare the other to switch drinks.

"Wanna get our usual?" You tried to be chipper and distract from how you'd been in the back of Bruce/Batman's car, wanting so badly to avoid a conversation about him altogether and to forget that the richest, most powerful man in the city might have just bribed you into silence. You wondered when Bruce would be done, and if he would freak seeing you weren't there. Would he stalk you? Go back to his supercomputer to track the city cameras? Were you being a paranoid freak and he was simply a burgeoning philanthropist in unfortunately suspicious circumstances?

"Y/N." Mar was being short with you, and you started feeling tense. What was the line between care and surveillance? When did vigilance become paranoia? You cast your eyes to the floor and told her to find a seat while you ordered drinks. She stared at you without saying a word or making a sound, her eyes shooting daggers. You felt like a little kid. Thankfully a bartender had been walking to the back to get some supplies and happened past you. "Have you two been helped yet?"

Five minutes later you two sat in the upper lounge area on pink vinyl benches. Your thighs were sweaty from the walk and immediately stuck to the seat, painting swathes of red on the back of your legs where it peeled. Starting to remember why I stopped coming. The green walls were familiar, the same octagonal mirror loud against its backdrop. It felt oddly eerie.

Mar refused to touch her drink until the both of you talked, her stubborn nature both frustrating and soothing you. After taking a few gulps (honestly, half the drink or more) you set yours down as well, shaking your shoulders to rid tension. "Look,"

"You're keeping something from me." Mar was decidedly blunt, and it immediately made you feel caged. You shook your head at her gently, trying to avoid giving away specific information. What if she keeps up with Batman tracking and sees he was at that location, near me?

"I promise, it's nothing you need to know."

She shook her head back, refusing to entertain not being informed. "You were in an alley, you turned your location off, what the fuck? And you wouldn't speak loud to me?" Her voice was starting to raise, only slightly, but enough for you to worry about others hearing.

Your instinct was to soothe and reassure, hoping it would put out the fire brewing in her eyes. "I know it seems weird, but I'm fine. I was fine. I am fine." You topped it off with a grin and she rolled her eyes. She saw right through you, knew there were words unsaid, but couldn't quite make them out.

"I don't like you lying to me."

This struck a chord, but you knew you couldn't show it or she'd fight harder. "I'm not lying, I just don't need to tell you this."

"Like fuck you don't!"

Oh, we're being demanding now? "We barely talked before I moved back here. The whole last year of school you've just been partying, I didn't know you really gave a shit about me."

"Y/N. You're my closest friend here." Her tone was flatter, and her hands were now sitting together in her lap. Your brow furrowed. "I knew I was your friend, but,"

"Close friends don't hide things from each other."

Anxiety bubbled in your chest. This felt... manipulative? "I promise this was nothing dangerous, or sketchy, I just, want some things to be mine." Her glare hardened, so you continued speaking. "So you're not close with the people you see every day?"

She rolled her eyes again. You were starting to get a bit pissed off—that, or the alcohol was starting to hit and fuck with your emotions. "I can't talk to them, you know that."

"I don't know that. Because I wouldn't be spending most of my time with people I couldn't talk to."

"Girl... you really don't get the city." Another eye roll. Smoke was starting to come out of your ears.

"I don't. At all. It's fucking weird." You picked up your drink and had another sip, the cinnamon warming your tongue and edging off the sting of this conversation's undertone. Rumination percolated in the back of your mind about how you wished you'd never came back.

She held out her hand and counted to two, exploding her hands at the end of her sentence for added effect. "You have your going out crew, then you have your separate friends to talk to. People with substance."

The disdain was now apparent on your face, the alcohol relaxing your inhibition. "I hate it when you say stuff like that. Acting like you're better than them."

Mar laughed and sat back on the seat. "That's 'cus I am."

"These people are your friends, dude. They tag you in every photo, you go out for brunch, bars, didn't you even go to one of their weddings a few months ago?" Her smugness was infuriating.

"I don't need a lecture."

You paused. The conversation was devolving into something reminiscent of the one you'd had back home, right before the big blow-up, sans lies about your sex life. Am I the common denominator? "It just... it makes me think you talk about me like that." You clammed up, sifting through more thoughts of Is it me? and but she IS acting like a helicopter parent, not really respecting my boundaries...

"I'd never talk about you like that,"

"Why do you hang around people you don't like?" It puzzled you. It sucked being alone, but at least then you didn't have to be fake. It exhausted you picturing her smiling and laughing with people only to disrespect them in their absence. How much could you trust that she wasn't already doing that?

"The city caters to a certain type of person, okay? They'd say the same about me." At this point Mar picked up her shot and downed it. Loneliness had painted a fluffy pink cloud around your friendship with her, distracting from the reality of why you both had mostly fizzled out over the past year.

She'd always had flighty tendencies, running from one group to the next, and never quite shit talked anyone to you; she instead made small comments like that one, subtly positioning herself as better or more important than the people she spent all her time with. While the two of you had disagreements, it was more circumstantial that the both of you had fallen out of everyday contact; she had been a sociology major with you the first year, but after a particularly exciting political science course she'd moved more towards public speaking and general policy courses—she was into leading people and you were into knowing them. This was out of character however—Mar was all over the place, sure, but she was never so immovably standoffish.

"So what were you doing?"

She wasn't letting up. To cave or not cave... What would be gained if you stayed silent? What would be gained if you said you'd been with Bruce? If you were being honest with your feelings, you wanted her to know so you had someone else to bounce your fears off of, akin to a reality check. However, adding another person to the mix would only further complicate things—it was best not to act in haste. After a second of deliberation that she appeared peeved over, you decided to restate your inability to share, asserting the boundary before you became deliriously inebriated. If I truly wanted to share, I’d share it, not feel peer-pressured into it. "It didn't concern you, and I don't appreciate being forced to tell you. Everything's fine." What if I'd been buying her a gift? What if I'd gone into the alley to cry away my troubles?

"It makes me really suspicious, Y/N." She slammed the glass down on the small gold table and threw her head in her hands, like you'd just told her to go fuck herself.

"Not telling you doesn't mean I did something bad." She still sat facing the floor, exasperated. You sighed. "I know you want me to be safe, I appreciate that." You touched her back, and realized she was shaking. When she uncovered her eyes you saw her mascara was smudged, and her cheeks were wet.

"I feel fucking guilty about fucking inviting you to the fucking club." She hiccuped after trying to speak through stifled sobs. "You didn't respond after and it fucked me up, Y/N, I thought you fucking died and it was my fucking fault." She threw her hands over her face again and curled inward toward her stomach.

"Hey, hey," You pulled her into a hug and pressed your cheek to her shoulder. Her body wracked with sobs muffled by her shirt, and you only made out bits of what she said through it, one of them being a strained, pitchy "I'm sorry" followed by a volcano of tears. You very nearly cried with her, white-knuckling away the hot tears prickling your eyelashes.

"Here, I'll get napkins." You jogged to the bar and grabbed a heap, a heap she went through almost instantaneously. "I know I'm fucking weird right now, god." Her sniff was thick and hard. "You don't have to tell me."

Five minutes passed of more casual conversations. The alcohol had hit both of you at this point, leaving you both tipsy but not drunk. Bruce floated out of your mind. Mar, who could handle her alcohol about a thousand times better than you could, ended up going to the bar and ordering another round for you both. You sat alone on the sticky seat letting your eyes roam and people-watch. There was a woman sitting diagonally from you across the room surrounded by a gaggle of women, all admiring her (likely) new ring; you caught some of its sparkle, which rendered you a bit sad. They belong. I don't.

She came with the drinks faster than the first time, and downed the second shot before your glass had even reached your lips. "Ah. I need to piss and fix my mascara. Can you watch the drinks?" You nodded, and off she went. That was another good thing about this bar: the bathrooms weren't backed into a weird corner down a long hallway, they were able to be seen from across the room if someone tried to follow anyone. You watched her and the door like a hawk, clutching your drink in your cold fingers as you sipped at it absentmindedly.

Over the next hour you both sat in the haze of alcohol's glow, talking at length about any major events that had happened since the list time you'd been here (Mar had hooked up with ten different people, one of which, she reported, was the love of her life that she planned to ask to officially be her girlfriend on Halloween night; you briefly mentioned your mother's cancer, but kept the conversation in the land of hopes and dreams as for her prognosis) and by that time the bar was making you both quite dizzy. Mar had already ordered an Uber while the both of you giggled over random posts on Scypher, and before you had fully registered you'd even left the bar you were opening your apartment with Mar at your side. Exhausted, you popped an ibuprofen (Mar had taught you this—taking an ibuprofen with a couple large glasses of water took the bite out of hangovers) and nearly drowned yourself in hydration before taking a quick pee and jumping into bed. This place, though your eyes were admittedly hazy, still didn't quite feel real. The last thought before you both crashed was an eerie feeling you might never feel at home anywhere again.

BRRT. BRRT. BRRT. The alarm you'd set for yourself on Monday saved you from missing call time at Dr. Vry's office—9:45am. She'd told you to come with a 'spiked' hot chocolate every morning from the cafe a block from campus. Cafes don't put liquor in their coffee, right? Is it even legal to sell alcohol this early? But when you'd said goodbye to Mar and found yourself in line at 9:30, you realized it was nothing more than a hot chocolate with four shots of espresso. No wonder she's so talkative.

While you waited in line, now with the soothing wash of alcohol out of your system, your mind wandered round and round about the implications of Bruce having paid your parents debt, and the circumstances surrounding his payment. You knew a secret that would destroy him, and possibly land him in jail for the rest of his life—you distinctly remembered being in the police car realizing the cops hated Batman. He was a barely contained vigilante, only not caught because he left as quickly as he arrived; you figured his life would effectively end if you were to let anything slip. You vowed to do more research when you got home on if Batman had ever killed anyone, even by accident, or if there were any clues pointing toward suspicious 'disappearances' that could be in any capacity traced back to the bat. When the barista handed you the coffee, the heat in your hand brought you out of your head and back to the day's responsibilities.

"Ah hello hello!" Dr. Vry smiled at the coffee before she addressed you. Once you handed off the drink you smoothed down your trousers, to which she gave you a concerned once-over before tsk-ing. "Let's get you set up."

You were placed down the hall and to the left, in the room right next to the elevator; it was a small space that looked like it used to be a computer room. Frayed electrical wires jutted out from the stark white walls, and the thunking of the elevator was intermittent but so loud it never failed to scare you. The top of the singular student desk in the middle of the otherwise barren wasteland had a sticky film on it, like someone had spilled a caramel latte over it and left it for the summer just to fuck with the campus custodians. When you got out your computer and stared at the empty page, you worried about having enough to say; all that had happened was an introduction of the various people at the table, an overview of the candidates for mayoral election, and a few other small announcements you felt not entirely relevant to the city. Who cares if Little Me, Big Dreams was temporarily adding a dance class for toddlers that was already full, with no waitlist?

Three hours later you escaped the lull of your computer screen when Dr. Vry motioned for you to come to her office. She cleared her throat and had a smile so wide it felt like a dentist commercial. "Please, sit." You sat in the rickety chair that strained against your thighs for air, your eyes noticing the cobwebs in each corner of the ceiling. "What happened at the City Hall meeting last night?"

"Oh uh," You were a bit taken aback, but quickly summarized the draft you'd written. "Well, there are a few mayoral candidates that will be coming to the meetings, which I want to get an interview for each, and there was a lot of introducing everyone so, it honestly took up a bulk of the time, and then just some miscellaneous information from businesses across the city." Her smile had faded considerably. "I had a question about the latter too, would you like if I listed them in a bullet format, or—"

Disdain flooded her tone. "Did Bruce Wayne not make an appearance?" She sat back in her chair and stared at you with unblinking pale blue eyes.

The mention of his name was like a hot branding iron down your throat. "He did, but he really just introduced himself and listened to everyone else for—"

"You managed to get into a room with Mr. Wayne, the sole survivor of a family so illustrious, so prestigious, and did not so much as speak a word to him?"

You stammered. "I thought I was supposed to report on the content of the meeting,"

"Mr. Wayne is the content." She slammed her hands down on the table and stood up. Your chest hurt and you hid a wince. "The journalism department in this establishment is doomed. We must speak to what the people want if we are to rise from the ashes."

"And people want Bruce Wayne." You spoke flatly, your throat cinching. She nodded, heaving a sigh of relief. She blinked up a storm, then placed a hand on your shoulder. "Dearest. We must give the people what they want."

Was this just a column about Bruce? If so, you were quitting right now. "Should I include the other pieces,"

"If there's room." She moved to her filing cabinet to thumb through nondescript folders. "Did you even make contact with Mr. Wayne at last night's meeting?"

"Yeah." Your voice was small, defeat sunk you back into the chair.

"And what was the topic of conversation?"

"He showed me some notes he had. Talked a bit about Bella Reál and the candidates for mayor."

She paused for a few seconds with her fingers hovered above the cabinet drawer. "Hmm."

"I," Dr. Vry was deeply intimidating, but you felt a sore spot in your chest at the thought of abandoning the sprit of journalism in favor of a celebrity blog post. "I don't want to exclusively write about him."

"You'll do as you're instructed."

"No, I won't actually." You pushed your chair back, and she spun to glower at you. "I'm not putting my name on celebrity gossip."

She balked when you said 'my name', which made you want to curl up and cry, but you held your ground.

"Anyone else would die for your position."

"If Bruce Wayne contributes to the meeting, I'll add his contributions, but I'm not going out of my way to make him the focus."

"The audacity is striking!"

"With all due respect, this wasn't what was advertised."

"You're suspended without pay until further notice." She shoved the cabinet shut and wiped her hands of the dust. "The department will hold a meeting about your future at GU."

You bit back a million retorts and equally as many tears as you left her office, grabbed your things, and set off for The Moore.

Fateful Beginnings

XXI. “belonging”

parts: previous / next

plot: somehow, you always find your way back home. Batman gets an intriguing lead on John Doe.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, dead body, cancer, confrontation, depression

words: 3.2k

Tears studded your cheeks as you vented to Mar about the morning's happenings. She'd never liked Dr. Vry, and at some point the conversation had exploded into a rant about the subpar character of the woman. "Remember when she accidentally input my A as a C and told me 'fate' must have guided her grade input? Then didn't fucking change it because of fucking, written in the stars bullshit? Fucking tanked my GPA."

"I just don't get it. The email said nothing about him, she said nothing about reporting on him besides being excited he would be there." You collapsed flat on your back in a starfish pose. "It was like she expected me to be starstruck by him or something. Like that was the only course of action." Like everyone else seems to be. The world caters to flashy, superficial things.

"Fuck her! You don't need her!"

You stared at her blankly for a moment. "Except for my housing, my food, my plane tickets back home?"

"How much an hour is it? Like $15?"

"$43."

"Oh fuck, in this economy you should've said you'd suck his dick, too."

Maybe you were spending a little too much time with her. "I feel like alluding to me doing anything with that man should be a crime." You flopped back on your bed and checked the time--it was barely past noon. You hadn't even managed to be at the job until the afternoon... shame threatened to cocoon you faced with such obvious failure. At this point you remembered the check Dr. Vry had sent would arrive today, and a few minutes later you sat inputting the code you'd been mailed to your digital check.

You spent the next twenty minutes listening to Mar continue to rant while you ordered some groceries. By that point she'd gotten a text from one of her friends for their Friday night bar hangout and had dismissed herself, leaving you tethered to your house as you waited to stock your fridge. You watched out the window as she got into an Uber, and after she was gone for sure, and just as the check deposited, you called your mom. Moreso even than the likely imminent firing, the stress of her health threatened to spiral you off the deep end. She picked up on the third ring. She sounded tired.

"Hey, hun." She cleared her throat, then yawned. You heard a small buzzing sound in the background, then heard a small meow. Another night he spent purring and cuddling her. Thanks, Walter. God, you were so glad she had him. "Everything alright? The photos you sent of your apartment were really good, I showed them to Debbie and she couldn't believe it! 'In GOTHAM?' is what she told me!"

To tell or not to tell about the troubles this week held? She yawned again. Not the time. "You sound tired." Your grip tightened around the phone.

She sighed. "My doctors moved my appointment to six thirty in the morning, can you believe that?" She tsk-d.

"How'd the appointment go?"

"Oh just fine. I had to sign a bunch of paperwork and talk to practically everyone in the place." She sounded bored and vaguely annoyed, which she hadn't been before. Irritability a potential side effect?

"Did the shot hurt?" Small talk, but what else was there to discuss? Your likely firing?

"Nope." She began cooing to Walter, who became exponentially louder with his purr.

"How's your arm? Any side effects yet?" God, why did things feel so dry today? Did Gotham really create so much distance already between you and your family? Were you just anxious and overthinking? Was she annoyed?

"My my, they must have you busy with interviewing skills."

You opened your mouth to respond, but she questioned you instead. "When are you coming back hon?"

This question confused you. "Uh, whenever you need me to, but I thought starting next month? For the injections?" You twirled with a frayed end on your blanket. Can I still return this? It's been like a week and it's already tearing apart... she snapped you out of your wandering with her next sentence.

"Sure, your dad and I are going on a cruise this week."

A cruise? Right after her first dose of an experimental cancer drug? With unknown side effects? "Mom, your treatment,"

"Oh we'll only be gone a week. Won't interfere with my next appointment." Walter meowed again. Who would be taking care of him?

"I mean, okay. I just think with not knowing the side effects of your first dose,"

"The way I see it dear is this might be the best I ever get to feel."

That sentence hit like a ton of bricks atop bruised ribs. "Couldn't you wait a week, just see the side effects?"

"The cruise leaves the port tomorrow."

"Mom,"

"We still can't believe that donor. Whoever they are, they really opened our finances up. Your father's been saving for years to try and make that initial bulk payment,"

You recalled the argument they'd had when your mother's cancer was initially found. Your mom wanted to start a payment plan immediately, but your dad thought if he put it into deferment for a few years and made payments to a high yield savings account every month their money would 'go exponentially further'. You hadn't cared much at the time, mostly because money stressed you the hell out, and at the time you were trying to avoid thinking about your mother's prognosis. Before you could decide what to say next, your dad had walked into the room and starting shouting loud enough for you to hear on the phone.

"Hey sweets, how are you and that Wayne guy doing?"

"I don't know how else to tell you guys I don't like him. We don't talk." This conversation was going nowhere, and you could smell an impending argument if you stayed on even another minute. You needed to check on one last thing before hanging up. "Who's looking after Walter?"

"Oh don't worry about that,"

"I am worried. Do you need me to come back to watch him?"

"Debbie will be stopping in throughout the week to check on him."

Walter was never very fond of Debbie; whenever she came over, in fact, he ran and hid. If you knew Debbie any less you might think Walter was placing judgment on her character, but no: she was just very loud, her laugh sounding a bit like a stampede. Walter was never very skittish, but after enough startles, he'd come to hide whenever he heard her come around. His discomfort was all you needed. "Tell her not to come, I'm coming home for the week."

"Hon," your mom began to chastise you, but you refused to let her finish. "No, no, I'm coming home tomorrow and I will stay with him. Case closed." After saying goodbye and lying about having already bought a nonrefundable ticket, you hung up and bought the earliest flight for tomorrow: 11am. You did your best to avoid thoughts of how the thousand Dr. Vry had sent was already disappearing, and filled the rest of your evening (sans figuring out what to do with fresh bags of perishable groceries) packing to head back the next day.

The bat signal hadn't lit since Thursday night. Bruce had been left reeling, kicking himself for not following up with Gordon on the owl debacle. He went out every night, and every few hours would move to the usual meeting place with Gordon to find an empty sky. It was Wednesday night before the signal lit again, and by that point Bruce had nearly gaslit himself into thinking the owls hadn't been there in the first place.

Gordon looked morose, but resolved. "We have the autopsy back for our John Doe." He held up a graphic photo of the man, gray and laid out on stainless steel. His chest and abdominal cavities were peeled open and pinned to keep tension, revealing a normal—yet punctured—chest and abdomen. Gordon confirmed its complete lack of novelty. "Nothing. Couldn't even trace back a name. No one posting about a missing husband, child, brother, nephew, friend." He paused to clear his throat. "However, we did find something unusual in one of his fillings."

"Unusual? How?"

"The coroner said he almost didn't catch it, but he runs the deceased through an MRI machine after especially gruesome cases. Normally fillings don't show up on magnets, but these ones did." He held out his other hand, revealing a few small pieces of chipped silvery metal. The metal was extremely slick and had a mirror finish to its shine. "It's a metallic alloy of sorts. I'll send it to the lab for processing."

He nearly asked to take it back to his own lab, but that would pressure the boundaries. Gordon was in a tight spot being seen with Batman. He couldn't push it. "How long until it's processed?"

Gordon shrugged, his nose scrunched like he was still smelling formaldehyde's stench. Bruce thought he might've caught a whiff off his jacket. "Not more than a coupla days. I'll signal for you." If the city was in a better place, if Gordon was in a better mood, he might have winked.

The pause gave Bruce just enough time to speak. He said it casually, without much fuss, as if it were a rolling breeze. "Did you see what was on the knives' handles?"

Gordon sighed. A good one? A bad one? Bruce's eyes trained on him like a hawk. The cowl felt tight. "Chicken scratch, most of 'em."

"Most?" Say more.

"No traceable logo."

Frustration bled into his tone. "Looked like an owl."

Gordon's eyes focused on no particular point on the back wall, his eyes narrowing. What? He saw it too, right? pounded against his ribs to be heard. After what felt like hours Gordon shook his head. "Maybe."

"Maybe?" Was this an elaborate scheme? Did Gordon not see it? Was his, was his mind failing him? It glinted off the light perfectly, the etching was transparent in its shape, the beak, the feathers, the claws...

"You alright?" The Bat was lost in thought, breathing thick and heavy. Bruce nodded. To push, or not to push? Silence hung like smog between them. It was crucial to push it, imperative to reality check his mental faculties. "It didn't resemble an owl to you?"

Gordon shrugged. It gave no information to Bruce, who was close to running out of the room and laying face-down in his pillow the rest of the night while he actively avoided looking further into the death of his great-grandfather. Was his time coming sooner than his had? Was it due to his lack of sociability? Had he been concussed one too many times? His neuronal pathways seized up, the myelin sheaths disintegrated?

"Do you know anything about owls?"

Did Gordon know? Was this a trick question? Wait, he wasn't Bruce. He considered saying he'd seen them in peculiar position throughout town, but moreso than Gordon's rocky relationship with the police force, the man had no idea who Batman was; Bruce had to keep exclusively to formidable behavior due to the weakness of the knot tying them together. A kooky moment, or a Freudian slip could force Gordon to take out some scissors and sever their relationship. Bruce shook his head, and left.

Uber. TSA. Flight. Baggage. Uber. Key. Door. Lock. Walter. Eat. Sleep. Walter. Eat. Sleep. Walter. Eat. Sleep. Walter. The past few days had passed in such inconsequential monotony you resisted the conclusion you weren't alive at all. The only moments of reprieve you gathered were when Walter walked up and jumped into bed beside you, tucking his fluffy back against your stomach. He was the only reason you were able to sleep with the anxiety of your job being in limbo, and your mom having fled the town after her first shot. Your mom had left a note saying that the connection would be spotty on the cruise, but they would be back no later than 5pm the following Friday. Now it was Wednesday, and the food your parents had left was starting to dwindle. Your muscles ached to be moved further than the walk from your bed to the bathroom, your bed to the kitchen, or your bed to the living room couch. You put another ice cube into Walter's bowl, grabbed your helmet that was thankfully still in the hallway closet, and took off for a ride to the grocery store on your mom's old bike.

The air was warm, and the sun threatened to burn every centimeter of exposed skin. You'd forgotten just long enough that the stinging sensation was of hot sun piercing onto skin to where you decided against going back for SPF. You didn't have to worry about such basic, human things in Gotham; the sun barely came out, and when it did it was covered by such dense clouds and thick smog you couldn't begin to feel heat against your skin whatsoever. The buildings were hard and cold, the dense metal keeping you chilled no matter the season. Now the sun accosted you, the wheels of the bike running over fresh leaves and the occasional string of hay. You swerved past clumps of clay dirt that lay in the middle of the road, shut your eyes for a few seconds as you coasted, not having to look out for a pedestrian or car every five feet. This was living, this was where you wanted to be. Tears prickled your eyes as you coasted into the dusty parking lot of WinCo, a local grocery store chain to the PNW. You forgot a bike lock, but the city was small and trusted enough that you never heard about bikes getting stolen, anyway. The initial panic was immediately eased, as well as the tight knot in your chest. Maybe you belonged... here?

You walked into the grocery and went straight for the fruit aisle. As you placed apples and oranges and pears in your basket, you absentmindedly flipped through the past. When you were growing up here, it was too boring. You'd wanted nothing more than to leave. You wanted to see skyscrapers, and big cities, and always have something happening around you. Now that you had experienced the worst of what a city could give, this town with its penetrating sun and lofty trees felt like paradise. A paradise that was quickly interrupted, when you accidentally knocked baskets with Lara. "Oh shit,"

"Y/N?" She pulled her basket in and glanced to her left, at someone who you presumed was her exchange boyfriend. She stared at your shoes, you noticed her cheeks going pink. Tension yanked on your shoulders and your stomach flipped. "Hi. I'm watching Walter while my parents are on a cruise."

"No longer in Gotham?" Her boyfriend turned around when she mentioned The Most Feared City, and walked over. "Gotham? That shitshow? I don't know how anyone can live there."

Fucking prick. A strange defensiveness overtook you. "It's not as bad as people make it out to be." Yes it was. "I'm just visiting home, I have a journalism job back there."

"How's Bruce Wayne?" Her tone was mocking, quite unlike Lara, and you figured it had to be Rose and Gabbi's bitter influence in the time you'd been gone that brought this upon her. Mystery Man's eyes lit up, one of the buttons on his shirt threatened to pop like the bulgy vein in his forehead. "You know Bruce Wayne? The Bruce Wayne?"

"She knows him, alright." She side-eyed the guy and giggled. He laughed, which was startling, and shame bolted through your body like a sticky, sharp rod. He leaned into her ear and said, still loud enough for you to hear and likely purposely so, "Her?"

Before shame could fully envelope you, you righted the wrong; in part because the idea of someone believing Bruce had been inside you made you want to sink into the floor, in another wanting to assuage yourself of guilt. "We haven't fucked. Sorry. I was just trying to get back at losers I thought were my friends."

Lara gasped. "I can't believe you!" It rung hollow in your ear just as Dr. Vry had. If someone put their hand over your head they'd feel steam. "You didn't used to be like this, it's fucking disappointing." You spun around and ignored what she was saying behind you, shoving your feet against the ground, making your calves burn with each grief-consumed footstep. It doesn't matter what they think. It doesn't matter what she's saying. Soon enough you made it across the store to the pantry aisle, pretending to inspect some cavatappi noodles in your quivering hands. The cardboard soaked up your bulleted tears, and you tossed it in your basket after catching a glimpse of your reflection in the boxes' plastic window. You fell to your knees and covered it up pretending to inspect the marinara, not trusting your thighs or knees to keep you steady. Everything hit you all at once, panic rising in your chest and narrowing your esophagus. You grabbed a random sauce and ran to the self checkout, ringing up your two items, grabbing a bag, and taking off for home.

The ride home wasn't as quaint as the one there. The sun wasn't at your backside, now it seared into your bleary eyes as it set, making you unable to see a rock in the road, sending you flying overtop the handlebars. When you touched your knees and elbows, they stung and stained your fingertips red. The last ten minutes of the walk was utter misery, as blood dribbled slowly down your knees and down to your wrists. Walter meowed when you came back, but you couldn't pet him. You turned the water as cold as you could manage to wash away the cakey blood and dirt. Your hands hesitated before lathering the shampoo, and when they scrubbed the back of your head you began to cry again. Your face was hot and your body ice cold. You sat on the floor, pulled your knees up, and wrapped your hands around your chest as sobs shrieked out of you. The water ran pink, then pastel, then clear. Being alive hurt. The thought pounded at the back of your corneas, chafed blisters between your thighs, and spiked the ridges in your throat, that you might never, ever, feel "home". Walter meowed at the door, you turned off the shower, and toweled off to open another can of Friskies.

Fateful Beginnings

XXIII. “desperation”

parts: previous / next

plot: you receive a suspicious phone call. Bruce meets with your boss, and runs into a psychiatrist from Arkham.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, panic attack, gaslighting

words: 3.2k

Bruce awoke the next day to Alfred opening his blinds, accosting him with the sun. "The university president called. You have a meeting in an hour." He had to make sure he wasn't still dreaming, but the only word that found him was: "Why?"

Alfred flicked on the overhead light, which always drove the boy mad—he needed a force to jolt him into quicker action than his usual sloth speed in the A.M.. "Something about the university's journalism department. It's 11:02, you're set to meet her no later than noon." As he left the room to allow Bruce to ready himself, he called out some details. "Dr. Janay Vry, she said you'd met at graduation." If Alfred had lingered in the room a moment longer he would've seen his eyes widen, and Bruce jump out of bed to rush to his closet. Not even stopping to grab the toast the butler had made for him, no sooner than Alfred had readied a single scrambled egg for himself, Bruce had climbed into his vehicle and started off for GU.

The route given to him at graduation allowed him to take a back road to campus; there were very few in Gotham that weren't filled with pedestrians during the light of day, but he tempted the law by speeding and having increased his window tint beyond the legal limit. The route would lead him to an employee parking garage on the Northeastern side of campus. If he took the stairs to floor five, shot across a hallway to the right, then another hallway to the left, he could find himself at the admin office. He assumed her office would remain in the same location, and he was correct. After peeking to see if she was in the vicinity, he stepped inside and a screeching alarm sounded. It only ceased when he'd fully stepped out of the room, out of the doorframe, and into the hallway.

Dr. Vry showed up not thirty seconds later, but with enough time between for Bruce to catch his breath, rapid blinks reorienting him to the present setting. He didn't think he'd ever clawed his way anywhere as fast as he just had. "Mr. Wayne, you're early." She held a black card to the placard beneath her name on the door. A small Ding! sounded and she walked in with Bruce in tow.

The chair was the same, and the cobwebs remained. His thighs stretched against the wood and the webs swayed gently from the air conditioning. Even though it was overcast and dreary, it was still a sweltering August. His stomach grumbled, and he daydreamed fondly about the Mulligatawny in the fridge back home. Thankfully, she wasted no time getting to the point. "Mr. Wayne. I wanted to talk with you about your aversion to speaking with our journalists here."

Damn. He should've brainstormed answers on the drive. He was too consumed with hearing potentially devastating news of a local journalist's murder that he hadn't thought of a single thing relevant to what she might ask otherwise. "My apologies, I've been unexpectedly busy the past few weeks with the election coming up." Where are you? What does she know? Does she know anything?

"If you were busy with the election, wouldn't you want to speak with the candidates?" God this was frustrating. He needed to figure out what had happened with you yet here she was, refusing to divulge information as the only other person in Gotham who knew you existed. He cleared his throat to cover another stomach grumble and tried to stave off an interrogation.

"They should be coming to the next meeting."

Dr. Vry wasted no time interrogating him anyway. "Ms. Langley was our journalist last week, and she said you refused to speak with her."

"Doctor," Bruce was quite pleased when she interrupted him because he had no idea how he would've finished the sentence.

"You didn't mingle longer than a minute or so with Mr. March, either."

Who gave her the play-by-play? Bridgit? Did they train their journalism students to be hawkeyed? "As I said, I was unexpectedly busy." Be pleasant. He wrung his hands together under the desk, not entirely sure she didn't have super vision which allowed her retinas to pierce through mahogany.

She sighed, which made her peppered gray bangs flutter. Her lipstick was feathered around her lip line, a visceral reminder of the sour note you'd both left on the night you disappeared. Could one be tracked by lip print alone? "Did Ms. Langley do something inappropriate, Mr. Wayne?"

"No." He grit his teeth, then hoped she wouldn't notice. "She was pleasant." He hated how well he could lie. It was never comfortable, but he was able to grin and grit his way through any turn in conversation with unsuspecting ease.

"She said you asked for our former employee by name. Ms. Y/L/N." FINALLY! He tried not to visibly sink into the seat with relief. His ears had a pavlovian response to your name, interrupted by echoes of the word 'former'. As much as he wanted to follow that thread, he hoped she might extend it on her own grounds.

"I was under the impression it would be the same journalist every week." He paused, and she didn't take the space. "It appears I was too assumptive."

It was like he hadn't spoken at all. "Ms. Langley said you told Mr. March you were set to be interviewed by Ms. Y/L/N."

He paused, the both of them making uneasy, penetrating eye contact. "I was." So where were you? Home? Dead?

"Peculiar." She looked down and sighed. "I fired her under the pretense she refused to interview you. Yet you say you had one set."

Bruce wanted to sink into the floor making such a faux paus. He also stifled a jump and high-five because now he knew with confidence you were at the very least, alive. The dueling emotions threatened to spin out his vision. "I must have misheard, or misread something."

"She didn't seem keen on talking to you whatsoever. She refused to write about you in our column." She shrugged and sighed again, sinking dramatically into her thick leather seat. Bruce didn't care that you weren't going to write about him, even though you'd apparently denied the prospect so thoroughly it had led to unemployment. He no longer had to lug lifelong guilt at not having done anything to save you, because you didn't need saving. His body was light and tingly, and it was only when he felt the weight lifted that he realized how heavy it had been weighing him down.

"I didn't know the column included me." He didn't much care to humor Dr. Vry any longer, his brain going into autopilot now that his most pressing concerns were assuaged.

"You do not need to perform humbly here."

He stifled an eyeroll. "I assumed she was there to report on the meeting's content."

Dr. Vry laughed. It startled him. "It's as if you rehearsed it together."

"I do not understand."

"Must I remind you that you are Bruce Wayne?" She mimed handing him a piece of paper he could only imagine was intended to be a birth certificate. "Bruce Wayne taking on an active role in the community is the news. What do people want to read more than that?" She threw her hands in the air and leaned back again, the leather squeaking.

He began to speak when Dr. Vry questioned him more deeply. "What happened with the interview last spring?"

The one-sided rapport she'd developed seemed to be fraying at the edges. Keep responses benign. "It didn't work out."

"Will it ever, Mr. Wayne? Or should I pull the plug on the department before we get into more debt?" Her voice was raising and getting shrill. He was close to walking out—the only thing tethering him was the weight of his family name.

"I was unaware of the financial strain the university was under." Good. Basic. It was the first time in his life he hoped someone would ask him for money. A check was easy to write, easy to talk about, easy to segue from to a quick exit. His mask was threatening to slip.

"One exclusive interview, the first of its kind will sell. The credibility it would lend this university... priceless."

Bruce watched on as Dr. Vry became teary and fidgeted in her seat. She wrung her hands together palm-up, which exposed a hammered-silver ring with the tiniest of owls etched into the metal. Seeing the same symbol that had been on the knife handle, the same symbol that had been on her pin, it rung hollowly and deeply in his chest. One was gold, one silver, one etched into a knife. This couldn't be coincidence. His brow furrowed and he leaned inward. "Is that an owl?"

She stared at him, not once glancing down to the ring. "What could you mean?"

He pointed at the ring and leaned so forward in his chair he had to palm the wood to catch himself. "Your ring. Is that an owl design?" He hoped she was more of a fool at spotting his mounting anxiety than you were. It was beginning to take every crumb of energy from last night's dinner to regulate his breathing.

She followed his finger down to hers. "I have no idea of what you mean."

Bruce saw it clearly, like peering at the bottom of a sparkling, transparent lake. Defiance snuck into his tone. "What would you call that symbol, then?"

"What symbol?" She spun the ring around her finger, befuddled. His anxiety was melting into desperation. "There's a symbol etched into it." His stare bore into her, and he wished he could grab the ring off her finger and show her. She gazed down at it, moving it back and forth between her thumb and forefinger, fully exposing the owl icon. It even glinted off the light. She shrugged. "This is the wedding band my husband got me thirty years ago. I'd know if something had been 'etched' into it."

Bruce sank back into the chair, realizing he'd leaned until only an inch of ass remained on the seat. He let his face fall into frustration, and he didn't conceal his shaking head. What had been defiance drowned itself under his shame. His faculties were indeed failing him. It was so clear. So vivid. It made his chest ache and his soul bristle.

"Would you rather her or Ms. Langley?"

His eyes flicked to hers again, which stared at him expectantly. He paused so long she reiterated herself with further clarification. "Would you rather speak with Ms. Langley or Ms. Y/L/N?"

He blinked. He spoke slightly above a mumble. "I don't think it's appropriate for me to make your employment decisions."

"Very well then." She stood up and walked around Bruce to the doorway, and called out for Bridgit. She came careening around the corner like a dog whistled to at a park. It was peculiar, but he didn't have the capacity to follow that lead any longer. He didn't know what his capacity was currently, and how quickly it would be stolen from him entirely.

Dr. Vry and Bridgit stood at the inside of the doorway. "Have a good day, Mr. Wayne."

Silently he removed himself from the room. Dr. Vry was swift to shut the door, and Bruce lingered just long enough to catch a phrase. "We don't have all the time in the world and seeing as he wouldn't even speak to you,"

"Mr. Wayne! Fancy seeing you here."

A shorter, slim man with dark, ruffled hair spoke from across the hall. As he drew closer his light blue eyes shone behind sterile rectangular glasses. He wore a deep gray suit and tie with a plush sweater vest atop the usual white button-up. He vaguely recognized the man, but not enough for name recall. Bruce grinned. "Turns out getting more involved in Gotham means meetings with the president." Keep up the playboy facade. He stuck out his hand and the man took it, firmly.

"Dr. Jonathan Crane. I'm sure this will not be the last time our paths will cross, especially with your new venture to save the city."

He wanted to dig his own grave. "Ah, yes. You work at Arkham, correct?" Information was coming to him now, loose memories of seeing his name in court records, and seeing him coming out of the GCPD offices every now and then. As a psychiatrist he floated between the jail and the courts, but his home base was Arkham Asylum. There he would counsel, treat, and refer the patients to whatever outside services they needed. But what did it matter? He'd forget him soon anyway. Imagine him in some other form. Maybe in a few year's time everyone's heads would morph into an owl's.

"Correct. But today my services also require a meeting with Dr. Vry." He emphasized the salutation which Bruce could only fathom was due to his own educational background. His nerves were shot from the life-ruining confirmation of him hallucinating, and he quickly bid the man adieu. He went back down the hallways and stairways, and stepped out into the employee parking lot. It was empty, as it was when he arrived.

Suddenly a trembling, tingly feeling arose in his chest, bursting out to his fingers and down his legs; when his knee rendered unsteady he began to panic, his heart thundering profoundly in his chest. He struggled to breathe, to gulp breaths, but he couldn't find air. Tears erupted from their ducts and streamed down his face automatically, and he fell to his knees heaving toward the cement. He feared he might never stand up.

You awoke to the blaring sound of your ringtone assaulting your ear. DR. VRY lit up in pulsing green text. You cleared your throat and dove for the water at your side table to take a sip before picking up on the last ring. "Hey, Dr. Vry." It was the first time you'd spoken in days other than to call for Walter, which rarely happened as he never left your side. Your fingers shook a bit thinking on how this could be the start of immediate unemployment. You'd been telling yourself since you'd come home to expect the worst, and you'd begun to feel relieved at the prospect of being fired instead of having to quit. This would be good, splendid even; it would open up your horizons and give you a guilt-free escape. You'd break the news to your parents when they got back—but only after a few hours when they'd napped, showered, eaten, and had settled in for the evening. You hadn't thought seriously of how you'd break the news of the reasoning, but you knew that whatever you said you couldn't say the whole truth. There wasn't a single fantasy in where they did not have a very specific, and specifically annoying response to knowing Bruce Wayne was the reason you were fired, and that really, the only reason you'd been fired in the first place was being a stickler about wanting to engage with the man as little as possible. They'd think it petty, and immature, but they didn't know the whole story; they didn't know what it felt like to truly see Bruce Wayne, they only saw him gussied up to public satisfaction. They didn't know that he was Batman, they didn't know the dire straits you were put in every minute you rotted in Gotham—

"Y/N." Dr. Vry sounded impatient, exasperated even.

Oh. "What?"

"As I was saying, the board... and I... have decided against firing you. You may remain in your position until renewal applications open in the end of Spring. You shall take your post immediately." The words rushed out of her mouth. You briefly imagined her being held at gunpoint to re-hire you, and your immediate assumption was that the billionaire had something to do with it. Was he meddling again, after explicitly promising the opposite? The thoughts couldn't linger long, as all the color swiftly left your face and you fell back on the bed, dizzy. You felt it in your heart of hearts that you could not go back to Gotham, and little would work to convince you otherwise. Oh god. Telling the biggest Bruce Wayne fangirl in the city you weren't going to be her puppet wasn't going to be pretty. "Dr. Vry, I can't,"

"Ah ah." You visualized her wagging her finger. It was the same tone she used in class when someone who had spoken up too often raised their hand yet again. "The stipulations of your duties has changed. You no longer need to interview him once per week, but biweekly." The silence that followed her was thick. Before remembering she couldn't see you, you shook your head, your heartbeat quickening. "I'm sorry, but I can't, I really can't," She chimed in as quickly as she ever had. "Once per month. Only once."

She had you in a pickle. Before your resolve could loosen and you gave in, you declared yourself. "I'm not coming back."

Dr. Vry didn't speak for almost a full minute. She was absent from the line so long you had to check the screen to see if the call had dropped. "Hello?" Another minute passed and your finger hovered above END CALL.

"What would bring you back?"

"I don't think anything could." You huffed into the phone, letting it out. "The city is not mine. I don't enjoy it, I graduated, and I would like to be home."

"So nothing can convince you? Not even an increase in base pay?"

"I'm sorry,"

"A better apartment, perhaps?"

"Give it to someone who needs it. Thank you, but I am not going back to Gotham." You pulled the phone back from your ear and tapped the screen to wake it. A split second before you successfully ended the call, Dr. Vry spoke yearnfully. "One interview. Next week. Then you can be finished."

She was beginning to truly frustrate you. "Let Bridgit do it. I'm sure anyone else would jump at the opportunity."

"I'll be very clear. The department has until the end of this month before we're cut. If a student of this program was able to secure the first interview with Bruce Wayne, the combination of sales from the Gazette and credibility it lends the department at GU... it's our last chance."

"There are no journalism graduates?"

"He'll only speak with you.”