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jangofctts · 2 years

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Surely, You’d Burn the Same (Batman/Bruce Wayne x fem!reader)

PART TWO PART THREE PART FOUR

Rated: Mature, Explicit 18+

Word Count: 6.2k

Warnings: smut, sexpollen (dubcon), explicit language, handjobs, oral (both male and female), vaginal fingering, multiple orgasms, mentions of violence, brief mention of an IV/needle, Bruce is touch starved lmfao (lmk if I missed anything please!!)

a/n: ok while consent is given on both parties, it’s has sex pollen-esque features so it is dubious consent!! just be aware of that! ANNYWAY PLEASE ENJOY (also thank u sm to the lovely @jango-fettish for helping me come up with this idea)

Fuck Lieutenant James Gordon.

Fuck him and his stupid penchant for glorifying vigilante justice. And fuck yourself for coming back here in this shithole of a city called Gotham. You’re a goddamn forensic analyst. You’re not supposed to be involving yourself with shit like this.

But alas, trouble always has a way of finding you.

It nears six months into your job when you start to hear the rumors. Missing money from evidence, smudged fingerprints, evidence destroyed. Staff meetings about bribery, pay-offs to cover up the ferocious criminal underbelly of Gotham. The list goes on and on. Half the CSI staff eats out of the hand of some crime figurehead. The Penguin mostly—dude’s got a thumb in every pie scattered across the city. You don’t entirely blame them—the pay is shit and the job shittier. If you didn’t have the familial ties that you do, you’d be in the same bind as them.

You keep your head down. You don’t want any part of it.

It still doesn’t stop the nicely folded manilla envelopes from finding their way into your desk. Encoded notes, promising pay if you jack up some idiot official’s incriminating evidence. You just sweep them into the shredder and say not a word. It’s one of the reasons you’ve risen through the ranks so quickly—the captain's favorite—squeaky clean and determined. Always on scene for the high profile cases, sidestepping the dangerous undertow that nips at your ankles.

Like you said, trouble always finds you.

James Gordon is lucky he’s a family friend or else you’d have blocked his number ages ago. He has a bad habit of calling in the middle of the night, hyped up on crappy coffee and a lead he needs followed. You figure he supersedes your captain with these sorts of things because she too has been corrupted—or maybe Gordon just wants you to succeed. Both are plausible options.

And so, when you get the jarring phone call in the buttfuck middle of the night that scares that absolute bejesus out of you, you’re not surprised. The context of the call, though, that’s a little different—

“I gotta show you something, kiddo.”

Puffy eyed from sleep and a tick away from strangling him, you throw on a light coat and lo and behold, Gordon is there to pick you up. He reveals nothing once you get into the car. You watch the darkened city roll past, the buildings gleaming and hazy in the light drizzle. Streetlamp reflections churn golden swirls onto the concrete streets—the only constellations that have learned how to shine through the light pollution.

The place he brings you is an abandoned tower. Construction litters the surrounding area. You shiver when you exit his warm car. “Jesus, Gordon. Is this where you’re gonna dump my body?”

He shoves his glasses up the bridge of his nose and punches the buttons to the elevator. Who the fuck pays for electricity here? “Shut up, kid.”

“Touchy.”

Your curiosities are soon put to an end.

Gordon is the caretaker of the so-called Bat-Signal. You should’ve known. You’re a bit peeved to be quite honest, that you were never close to even finding out his secret. Whatever.

Even more startling is the fact the Batman himself pays you a little visit atop that windy tower.

Like a shadow he melts into view. You don’t know any better than to draw your gun and point at the dark mass of muscle and a walking armory. Gordo slaps his hand over the barrel, forcing you to lower the weapon. “Woah, woah, woah—he’s on our side, Blue.”

Striking blue eyes bore into yours as your heart hammers away inside your chest. He takes a heavy step forward, then another, and another until he stands nearly toe to toe with you. Christ, he’s tall.

“Why is she here?”

His voice is rough as stone, soft in cadence but powerful nonetheless. He breathes authority and power—alluring.

Gordon grasps your shoulder in support. To be quite frank, you don’t follow the rest of the conversation nor remember the reason why Gordon introduced you—something along the lines of another ally in case something goes wrong. Another familiar face to rely upon. Or maybe it’s for your sake—another line of determent to convince you from straying too close into the hands of bribery.

All you do is stare, and Vengeance stares back.

It works.

Or at least, Vengeance allows you to tag along as Gordon’s sidekick. The months go on like this. The bribes increase and instead of shredding them you pass them off to Vengeance—a trail he can follow to find those responsible. You and Gordon help as much as you can, because fuck. No one else is doing anything about it—crime keeps surging and corruption runs rampant. It’s a tragedy that only The Batman dares challenge.

And that tragedy bites back.

It’s another one of those frantic, midnight calls. It’s different this time—urgent.

“Get your ass to the crime lab—we got a situation."

Dutifully you rush to dress and haul ass to the labs. You go around back, swipe your keycard and fly down the emergency lit stairs. You heart leaps into your throat as your foot skips a step—

You tear through the dark office and beeline towards the captain’s office. The door is already open—Gordon is throwing a half-lucid Batman onto the tiny couch shoved on the side wall. He looses conciseness the minute his back hits the cushions. “The fuck happened?”

You fly over and shove your fingers under Batman’s sharp jaw to find a pulse. It races under your fingers. Gordon shakes his head. “No clue—found him close to the station, so I brought him down here.”

You pull out a pocket light from your coat, lift up his eyelid and shine it over his eyes. Doesn’t look like he has a concussion. “I told you, Gordon. I’m not a doctor, the closest thing I got to a medical degree is my EMT.”

“He’s not bleeding,” Gordon relays. “We just need to watch him and get him outta here before anyone sees.”

Fine. Fine. You can deal with that.

You sit up and tear through your bag of pilfered medical supplies. You slide on a set of gloves, grab an IV line and reach for Batsy’s limp arm. Gordon helps wrestle off his glove. You slide the needle into his battered hand, and lay the baggie onto the back of the couch. You sigh and peel off your gloves and throw them into the wastebasket under the captain’s desk. “You’re lucky no one’s down here.”

“I know,” Gordon says. “We’d both get the boot, huh?”

You snort. “You wouldn’t.”

You stand and peruse the lab in search for a vitals monitor. Perks of sharing the building with the morgue, you suppose. You wheel the machine into the office, peel off the sticky parts and attach them to the insides of his wrist. They’re new, no wires—like a blue tooth sort of deal. The machine flips on—the beep of Bats’ pulse fills the room.

When Bats shows no signs of waking in the coming moments Gordon bails. You don’t blame him. This is boring. “You alright if I head out, kiddo?”

You wave your hand in dismissal. “Yeah, yeah—get outta here, old man.”

Gordon chuckles at this, ruffles your hair and swiftly exits. “Call if you need anything!”

The next time you’ll be calling him will probably be in jail. Can you go to jail for helping a vigilante? Is that a thing? Y’know what, doesn’t matter. Precisely why you never went to law school. Fuck that noise.

Even so, you wait for Vengeance to wake.

An hour ticks by—your boredom grows rampant. With a sigh you pull out your pocket light and waddle over to the couch. You peel open his eyelids and curl your lip at the greasy, black residue that comes away from his eye. It reminds you of that shitty Halloween store makeup. Hm…

Suddenly, his hand shoots up and wrenches your arm away—throwing himself off the couch and narrowly punching the living daylights out of you. “Fuck, man—chill! It’s me!”

His lips are drawn in a snarl, fists clenched. Though once he sees you, takes account of his surroundings he drops back onto the couch like deadweight. You scramble over, readjust his IV and recheck his vitals. His heart races—not entirely alarming just yet.

“Blue,” he rasps, throwing out your name to assure that it really is you and that he’s safe. It’s not your real name (he knows that too), it’s just a label you coined over the years that began in middle school. Little Crybaby Blue—got too over zealous with the crappy hair die and went to school covered in it. You were tinged blue for weeks. He doesn’t know that though. Hopefully…

“Yeah, it’s me, Bats,” you assure. “Gordon called me.”

Leather creaks as he nods. He squeezes his eyes shut and grunts as he shifts into a more comfortable position. “Only place I could get to.”

You bite your tongue before you can offer your place as a haven if he ever needs. That would be brushing elbows with unknown territory. Dangerous.

He tries to sit up again. Your hand whips out. “Nuh-uh. Just rest for now. Gotham can go a few hours without her Batboy.”

For the first time since meeting him he listens without a fight. He only clenches his jaw and glares up at the water stained sealing. “How long?”

You frown. You rub the bridge of your nose and sigh. “Until the IV is finished, deal?”

It’s half empty. Bats agrees solemnly.

Boredom weighs heavy on your shoulders once again. His silence has never bothered you, but even so, it’s a little awkward just sitting here, kneeling on the floor. Your fingers find his tattered cape that spills onto the floor, thumbing the rough fabric. Fireproof probably—

Batty makes a noise low in his chest. You bite you cheek, scrambling for an excuse. “Haven’y you heard Batboy? No capes,” you quote, tugging on the ends of the tattered cloth. You’re met with a blank, glacial stare. You roll your eyes. “Y’know, like Edna Mode? The Incredibles?”

Still nothing.

You tut. “You’re no fun.”

His breath is stuttered as he inhales, readjusting himself to better ignore you. Ok, yeah, maybe that joke was stupid, but it doesn’t warrant a cold shoulder. Irritation pricks at your insides. Fucker—is it really that hard to humor someone and their dumb pop culture references? “You look like shit, by the way.”

“You have terrible bedside manner.”

Your lips purse. “Bummer.”

And then it all crumbles into disaster.

His heart rate continues to spike, a terrifying crescendo of rapid electronic beeps that pushes your own adrenaline into overdrive. Fuck, you are not prepared to deal with this at all. The fuck are you supposed to do with Batman’s dead body? Throw it in the dumpster?

You scramble through the office’s supply of bottled drugs. Most of it is useless—embalming fluid, isopropyl alcohol—like you said, useless shit. You flit over to your boss’s desk and tear through the bottom drawers. A big black binder resides in the left one—score. You fling it open and find the vial of clear liquid that’ll stop him from having a fucking heart attack. You rush over, syringe in hand and grab for his IV—you startle as his hand launches out to stop you.

“No.”

You grimace and wrench your wrist free. You make a grab for it again—he swats you away. The syringe tumbles to the square of carpet under the couch, the vial rolls beneath it. “Dude—I’m trying to save your life! You’re gonna have a goddamn heart attack.”

“No,” he snarls again. He grits his teeth, and rips the IV line out of his hand. What the fuck. At least the fucking heart monitor is still attached. “You’re wrong.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Batboy,” you sneer, throwing your hands up. “I didn’t know you were also a doctor.”

His mouth dips into a grim line. He curls into himself and dips his shoulder, the cushions creak as he turns to face the back of the couch. It doesn’t really work—the couch is small and Batboy is fucking massive—like cramming a G.I. Joe doll onto Polly Pocket furniture. It’s a little funny.

A low groan reverberates through his wide chest, legs pulling closer to his middle. You worry your lip between your teeth—dude is clearly in pain, you just have to figure out a way to get him to accept your help. You sigh and kneel onto the carpet. This is exactly why you vowed never to go into the caretaker side of things—it’s frustrating. Nonetheless, you hover a hand over the plated armor lining the space between his shoulder and upper arm. Batboy flinches.

“C’mon, Bats,” you urge, softening the edge of your voice to dull the bite of your irascibility. “Let me help you.”

The silence is deafened by the beeping heart monitor and accompanied by his terse, staccato, breathing. You whisper your hand down to the crease of his elbow. Even through the thick fabric, the heat of his skin is scorching. He’s running a fever. Batboy grunts and pulls his elbow closer to his middle. You don’t let go.

“You can’t,” he presses. “Not with this, Blue.”

You clench your jaw. “You don’t know that.”

He’s holding his breath like he’s scared of it leaving his frayed lungs. And you…you’re biting your tongue—you cannot take a crowbar to his jaw and pry the answers you want out of him. That’s not how it works—not with him. People will never understand the true essence of what this man is—fuck—you barely know either. But what you do know, is that there’s a tragedy hidden beneath his tongue and broken promises that are stapled to his martyr red heart. He’s blind to his own ambitions, in search for payment without realizing that the aftermath of revenge will bury him alive. He’ll never change and you never expect him to do so.

It’s just the way things are.

Much to his chagrin, however, you will not be letting Batboy die on your boss’s office couch tonight. You prod him a second time. He’s divulged that he knows exactly what’s got him in this state, you just need to coax it from him. “Tell me. Please.”

Something akin to desperation lining your words, cracks his resolve. He grunts and turns his head. His eyes are a small ring of blue, blotted out by his dilated pupils—shit. That can’t be good. Bat’s tongue rolls out to wet his chapped lips, inhales—his heart rate spikes again. Jesus, that’s too fucking fast—

“Iceberg Lounge,” he says. He’s starting to pant. “I got dosed with something.”

Your brows furrow. A list of substances scroll through your brain—how to treat them, what the symptoms are that matches his. “Like cyanide? I have—”

“No,” Batty shakes his head and lifts his gaze to stare at the water stained ceiling. The muscles in his sharp jaw flex. He shifts. “Pheromone based.”

Your face twists. The hell does that mean? You’re about to ask him to clarify when the pieces click together. Oh.

Rapid heart rate, dilated pupils, skin feverish—

Batty’s been drugged with an aphrodisiac.

The seriousness of the situation rams into you like a freight train. You’ve been on three cases already that involved this shit. High up political players dosed with the mystery aphrodisiac after hiring escort services from the Iceberg Lounge. Each one of them found dead, hearts all but exploded from the effects of the drug. No matter how much they tried, bringing themself to their own end never worked. You press your palms into your face, bitter panic welling inside your chest.

Oh fuck—fuck, fuck, fuck—

Calloused fingers gently curl around your wrist. They pry your hand free from your face. “Blue.”

“Don’t say it like that,” you hiss. You’re sure his fingertips can pinpoint your raging pulse—just as fast as his thrums. “Shut up.”

His chin tilts down, a question swimming in his gaze.

“And don’t try and convince me you’ll end up ok,” you say. “Because you won’t—not this time. Not unless…”

Not unless you give him that relief. It’s not…it’s not like you aren’t attracted to him. Christ, the minute you met him you were smitten. You’d jump Bats’ bones if he offered, but not like this. Not something tarnished and born out of necessity. You stare at the wine red rug under your knees and bite your lip. Your skin itches from where Bats still holds your wrist.

“Blue,” he whispers, wheezy and suffering. “I’m not afraid to die.”

He’s bleeding forgiveness, keeping your hands clean from his choice to go out this way. You can’t—your conscious would never be free of the guilt. The black stain of knowing you could’ve remedied this with ease but instead chose to end the reign of Vengeance, based on what? Your stubborn propriety and a guessing game covered in a glass floor of eggshells? That’s not fair—not fair to him or whatever legacy he’s trying to build in Gotham.

You suck in a deep breath of air and muster your courage. Carefully, and without haste, you roll your wrist out of his hand and slowly bring it to cup his stubbled jaw. He inhales sharply. “I’m not gonna let you die, Batboy.”

His eyes flutter as you smooth your thumb up the sharp line of cheek. Fuck, he’s sensitive. The leather on his singular glove creaks as his fists clench, the heart monitor races away. You’re running out of time. “I didn’t want it this way.”

Yeah. You didn’t either. “When you don't get what you want, you start forgetting what you need, Batty.” Bats lips pull into a deep frown—he hates when you call him that. He wants to argue. You don’t let him. “It’s ok—trust me.”

His eyes bore into yours, striking against the blackness of his mask and the dark grease paint he wears beneath it. It feels as though an eternity passes before he’s nodding. He’s found whatever he was looking for in your eyes and deemed it enough. An inkling of your desire maybe—

The rapid-fire beeping distracts you once again. Cursing, you jump to your feet and silence the damn machine. When you return Bats has arranged himself into a hunched sitting position, leaving enough room for you to sit and be within viewing range of his vitals displayed on the screen.

You gingerly sit. You swallow and turn to him. His chest heaves like he’s just run forty miles, bare hands clenched at his sides to dispel the shaking—a tightly wound mess at the mercy of your salvation. You scoot closer and risk skirting your hand over his armored knee. You bite the inside of your cheek to quell your racing nerves. This is so fucked up. You offer him a weak smile. “We’ll start small and go from there, ok?”

He grunts his affirmation. You nod and lean over his broad chest, running your fingers over the pockmarks in his armor and all the way down to his belt. His eyes are glued to your face, unwavering as you wrestle his heavy utility belt free from his waist. His thigh jumps under your hand. You slide your palm up and inward towards the bulge pressing against the front of his pants.

Batty sits up, ramrod straight as your hand squeezes him through his pants. A rush of arousal surges in the pit of you abdomen—he’s not a small man in any way, shape, or form. You bite the inside of your cheek and press onward, pawing at the waistband of his pants. Bats lifts his hips as you tug both his pants and boxers down far enough his muscled legs that it won’t hinder your goals. If you had it your way, there’d be a lot more teasing involved.

Fuck—not like he needs it.

His cock is well past hard, flushed an angry red at the tip and leaking precum against the base of his abdomen, straining towards his navel. Fuck—you want him bad. You look up at him, he’s already staring. In a flash of movement, Bats captures your hand and guides you to his throbbing cock. It’s a knee-jerk reaction—he folds into you as you grab a hold of his length, his rapid pulse reminding you that you’re on a time crunch here. Internally you despair over the fact you can’t enjoy this—him—for longer.

This is about him—not you.

You huff at the added weight draped onto your body, armor and all. His masked face tucks itself into the crux of your shoulder. He mumbles a gruff apology that tapers off as you squeeze his cock, searing and heavy in your hand. You wiggle closer and breathe against his neck, moisture collecting onto the black leather. He smells like rain. “Does it hurt?”

“No.”

You remain like this for a few moments as he pants onto your skin, his left hand clenching the back of the couch so hard it might rip. Your palm, slick with his dribbling precum, glides easily up and down his thick length. Shit, your fingers barely meet—

His head lifts, two digits press on the underside of your chin, tilting up—

Vengeance kisses like he’s won the war. Brutal, devouring, victorious, grateful. He’s spent years fighting and it’s as if only now he’s stopped long enough to catch his breath. Even though he’s actively racing towards death. His hands grab at your arms, your clothes, your hair. It’s like you are the spoils of battle and he fears losing you to the enemies that snap at his heels. He kisses like a man afraid that this will be fleeting, insubstantial and will abandon him. The desperation you think, is a side effect, but it excites you anyhow.

You part for air. “Everything’s gonna be alright,” you whisper, voice gentle. Tonight you are his tether. And he the disbelieving survivor, jittery and wounded but safe. “Let go like this. It’s ok.”

He abandons your lips in favor of latching his teeth to the tender flesh above your collarbone—it stings. You whimper and pump your hand faster, the obscene wet sounds of it filling the room. You rub your thumb under the tip then back down to fondle his balls.

Bats groans weakly. “Blue—”

And then quite abruptly—so abruptly that it surprises him more than it does you—he lets go.

Batty cums hard into your hand, right here at your place of work, armor half ripped off, leaning the entirety of his weight onto you. A ragged gasp tears through his clenched teeth and he stiffens against you, balls pulling up tight under your palm. Sticky warmth immediately coats your fingers and the inside of your wrist in throbbing spurts. He slams a wild fist into the couch, growling your name, your true name, before his voice trapezes into a gritty, wordless snarl.

You mouth wet kisses over the exposed skin of his jaw, caressing the swollen head of his cock as it pulses in your grip. His orgasm is long and achingly drawn out, draining his body of his rapidly expending energy with every thick rope of cum you’re able to milk out of him. He swears and shudders his way through his release, until finally the exhaustion wins him over, slumped onto you as you struggle not to collapse under his weight. Fuck—it’s been a long time for him. You release his half hard cock and rub gentle circles into his protruding hipbone, your other hand smoothing down the back of his helmet to cup his neck. A dark thrum of pride runs through you veins—how many could say they could get Batman himself to submit like this—flash his colors of vulnerability.

You’re betting on zero.

Your eyes slide past the dark mass of him and onto the heart monitor. It seems to have done the trick. His pulse drops to a near normal level. “Good?”

His warm, wet tongue, laves over the teethmarks he’s left. His fingers gripping the back of the couch unlatch and float around your waist, drawing you into a loose semblance of a hug. You feel his lips move as he mumbles a hushed; “Thank you.”

The cadence of his gravel rough timbre causes your heart to ache for him. You’d never name whatever this is as love because love has a twin sister named power—and when you give somebody one, then you give them the other. You understand that it’s in Batman’s best interest to keep both. There’s no part of him that can be torn apart, no soft spot, no cavity—it’ll get in the way.

But he’s still learning.

Batty groans and finds your hand that’s still coated in his sticky cum. “M’sorry.”

His breathing kicks up a second time, the firm line of his body curling curling into himself. Hot puffs of air scorch your skin as Bats feebly raises his head. His chapped lips tickle your cheek, a request lodged in his throat. He needs to cum again—it’s written plain as day on the heart monitor and the way his body holds itself like a tightened spring. He won’t ask, so you press your lips to his and bridge the gap between you once more.

Batman moans into your open mouth, allowing you to slide your tongue over his. His cock is rock hard again, twitching in your hand. A wicked idea twists through your mind as his hips roll into your fist. “Do you want my mouth, Batboy?”

He startles at the offer. If not for the pulse of his cock and the way it leaks over your hand and onto his pants, you’d think you had offended him. He pulls back far enough to meet your eyes. They find the wall, the corner of your mouth then back to you. He works his jaw and clasps a hand over your arm.

“I can’t—you—you don’t have to,” Batty stutters. “Fuck, Blue. I can’t…ask you for that.”

“I’m offering,” you say, a little smile playing across your lips. “It’ll feel better than my hand.”

Quicker than before, he gives in. He slumps into the couch as you slide to the rug between his knees. You reach up to hook your fingertips in his hem of his trousers and pull them as far as they go before they catch on his armor. He’s zeroed in on your face again as he widens his legs for you to scoot in close, knees cradling your ribcage. Fuck—being this close to his cock sends shockwaves of achey arousal to your cunt. It’s torture not to just shove your hand between your legs and take care of the wicked need.

Your mouth is watering—you bend down and part your lips to gently drag your tongue along the smooth skin of his balls, licking him clean of his previous orgasm. His whole body jumps at the hot, velvety slick sensation—you let out a low hum in response. Batty swears when you trail your way up, slowly trailing your tongue up the length of his cock and pressing your plush lips to his flushed tip.

Bats exhales a shaky breath while you run your tongue along him, memorizing his taste. You wrap your lips around the head of his cock and roll your tongue up underneath the little crease here. The smooth skin pulses on your tongue, you slide your fingers around the pale protrusions of his hips, and work your mouth wider to take his thick length deeper. Drool and his precum pool at the base of his cock—probably gonna stain the leather below.

Holy shit your jaw aches—

His fingers bury themselves into your hair, the sharp pricks encouraging you to continue. He never once guides you or pushes you down his cock—it’s just a way to anchor himself. The heat of your mouth is overwhelming—soft and willing to please him. “S’good.”

Your pride swells.

You pull up to make room for your slick hand to wrap around his cock, beginning to jerk him off. You lave your tongue over his tip and cradle him here within the soft pallet of your mouth, your touch gliding strong and wet along his entire length. His skin is sizzling as he hardens even more—the tension in his body about the burst and snap like a cut wire. “I’m close—”

You hum in acknowledgment. You don’t stray from your course of suckling on the tip of his cock, slowly swirling your tongue around him, continuing to use your hand to firmly pump the length of his cock. Bats’ fingers twist into your hair as his hips unconsciously seek your mouth each time you pull up to catch a breath of cool air. His moans, while still low and rough, border on airy.

Shit—you clench your thighs together. You can’t help yourself—the discomfort is too much. You drop a hand and wedge it between your thighs to press hard against your clit to relive some of that pressure that threatens to swallow you whole. The sight of you touching yourself excites him—that paired with the way you gaze up at him through your lashes, shoves him over the edge in a dizzying display of pure lust.

He whispers your name and hunches over you like you’ve punched him in the gut. He trembles, white-knuckling your hair and the armrest and once again cumming with force into your mouth. You greedily accept him. The first taste of his release spreads over the flat of your tongue right as you dig your nails into the exposed flesh of his hips. His hips buck, gasping raggedly as he empties himself down your throat—expelling the aphrodisiac meant to kill him from his veins the only way he can.

You swallow all of what he gives to you, grasping his hips and locking him place as he rides out his high. You don’t let go until his firm frame relaxes, cock softening upon your tongue. A soft pop sounds in your ears as he slips from your mouth. His fingers untangle from your hair and delicately brush over the matted area. Wetness stains your mouth but before you can you wipe the mess from your lips and chin, his bare hand curls around your jaw and guides you into a devastating kiss.

A familiar ache ignites in your chest—twisting, blazing, raw. The roaring in your ears becomes a thousand times louder. Like thunder, the fury of a storm, waves crashing against a gloomy cliff side. He’s an electrical surge that lights you up from the inside out. You can barely breathe but you feel so alive.

Bats nips at your bottom lip, mumbling his thanks like a prayer into your ear. His teeth tenderly nip at your earlobe, crowding you into the corner of the couch. “Can I return the favor?”

You choke. “You don’t have to. I told you—”

“I want to taste you,” he interrupts gently. The fingers around your jaw slide to your chin. His thumb pulls down your bottom lip.

You’ll never understand how he’s able to touch you as if you are fine china. It doesn’t make sense with what he does, how he appears to the public all dark and violent. Before your conscious mind can agree, your head is nodding on its own. “Fuck yeah.”

The ends of his mouth ever so slightly quirk up at that. Bats moves in closer. Shit. “Wait—wait,” you sputter, flattening your palms against his chest plate. You push, he backs up. “Your vitals—I need to make sure you’re ok first.”

He grunts and pinches your chin, moving your head to the side. His vitals seem…normal, you suppose. They’ve plateaued. For now. “I’m fine, Blue.”

Bats slides off the couch and onto his knees, hands finding the swell of your hips. You think he’s going to eat you out like this, the same as you’ve done for him. But nope. No—he drags you to the floor and herds you onto all fours. Fuck—it makes sense. He can’t risk the chance of revealing his identity if you were to knock or grab his mask. Bats presses into your shoulder until you’re ass up, face resting on the carpet. You fingers dig into the red fibers, excitement thrumming through your core.

He wrestles your pants and underwear down your legs, shuddering as he knocks your knees apart. You know how wet you must be based on the curse that tumbles sweetly past his lips. His ungloved hand runs down the slope of your ass and cuts inward, his thumb sliding through your wet slit. You hear him shuffle and then feel his breath fanning over the base of your spine a moment later.

Bats hooks his other hand, the leather a sensory buffer, around your thigh and yanks your hips closer to his mouth. All thoughts fizzle out at the hot glide of his tongue through your pussy from behind. Oh, shit—you arch your spine and whine the only name you have for him. His tongue languidly swirls over your clit, each pass like an electric shock splitting through your cells. You want more. You cry and cant your hips back as he lightly sucks on the bundle of nerves. You nearly cry when he flattens his tongue and follows the curve of your cunt all the way up to your entrance.

You tense then immediately relax as the tips of his fingers, press at your entrance, teasing the clenching ring of soft muscle before sinking in. The two digits slip in with ease—all the way up to the second knuckle. When he draws them back out, they're no doubt coated with your wetness. He thrusts them back in, then out—setting a slow but strong pace that makes everything ache with need. It leaves you just hovering over the sharp edge of ecstasy, the catch of his knuckles and the heat of his calloused skin torture.

You fist the rug under you, biting your lip to quiet the louder moans. You know for a fact that there’s still people lurking around somewhere in this building. “Gonna cum—keep going.”

Bats’ mouth dips down a second time, sucks on your clit and hums around you. That does it.

A few more curls and thrusts of his fingers inside of your clenching walls has your body seizing up tight. You're flying off that edge, faster than the speed of light. You cum onto his tongue and fingers with a strangled cry, sparks of blurry white alighting behind your eyelids as your back arches. Batty continues to lick you through your orgasm, even as you squirm and shake in his firm hold. Ecstasy implodes behind your eyelids as heat, hotter than wildfire spreads from your center all the way up your stomach and down to your toes. You're quivering, and over the roaring in your ears you hear Bats murmur his praise—feeling the vibration of his groan, as he licks up the flood of your wetness over his tongue.

When he pulls away you groan at the loss and melt onto your side, jittery from the aftershocks. “Goddamn.”

Batman tickles his fingers over your bare thigh and run all the way down to the bend of your knee. Goosebumps follow in the wake of his touch. He drags his fingertips over them curiously—your turn your head. He retracts his hand like you’ve burned him and busies himself with getting redressed. The monitor flatlines as he tears off the remaining sticky patches. Your hands shake as they weakly tug your pants back up.

Nothing is said in the minutes following. You lead him from the office, up the emergency stairwell and out through the backdoor. It’s raining—steam from a nearby vent clouds the chilly air, the exit sign painting the blackness of his suit a bloody, neon red. You wipe the rain off your brow.

You crane your neck to look at him. His mouth is still set in a rigid frown—maybe a bit more relaxed. You can’t tell in the darkness.

“Thank you,” he says, all jagged and raw like ripped stitches.

You hug your middle. Fuck, this rain is colder than balls. You smile. “Anytime, Batboy.”

That, you can tell, bothers him still. He takes a heavy step forward, gear chinking as he moves. His movements are sluggish as he brings his hand, now fully gloved, to touch under your chin. He dips his head to reach you, lips barely skimming yours. You hold your breath and close your eyes. “Goodbye, Blue.”

The touch of his lips is faint. Like a shadow. When you open your eyes, he’s gone.

“See you around, Vengeance,” you whisper to the darkness.

#batman x reader #bruce wayne x reader #battison #the batman #the batman 2022 #dc comics #dc #robpat #rob pattison batman

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seitjun · 5 years

Note

Fluff 13 with freewood pleaseee😊

13.) “Are you flirting with me?” “You finally noticed?”

wc: 3500+ // freewood // college au

extra notes: didn’t mean to write this much, but here we are. i hope you enjoy though, and lemme know of any mistakes! my eyes are aching since i did this in two big sittings oops. pasted under a read more due to length.

“Do any of you guys know a bloke called Ryan? Ryan, er…Haywood?”

Gavin poses the question with a furrowed lilt of his brow, looking almost genuinely worried over his question. He doesn’t catch how the other two lads exchange glances between each other, lifting his head to look at them curiously too late.

“Ryan? Yeah, I know him, he’s a guy in my computer programming class,” Jeremy exclaims with a full mouth, cheeks poking out from his lunch and ignoring Gavin’s disgusted looks. “Super smart and creative dude, I get help from him for my work sometimes. Friendly too, but he kinda keeps to himself? Like, he’s actually serious about college.”

“I mean, if he’s gonna go in debt for college, might as well make the most of it,” Michael reasons with a shrug. He snatches a fry from Jeremy’s plate and makes a face at the sogginess of it. “Besides, why’re you askin’, Gav? You tryna’ make a move or something?” He waggles his eyebrows, nudging Gavin with a smirk.

Gavin scoffs, his cheeks flushing at the thought of it. Sure he’s been out for a while now to the people that mattered, but pursuing a guy had seemed still too much for him; he doesn’t call it an issue because it really isn’t, but Gavin knows he gets hung up on things like these too easily.

“No, Michael, I’m not trying to shag. It’s just…” He trails off with a frustrated look as the words get lost in transit; he doesn’t know how to explain the situation, so he just reaches for something in his pocket and presents a wrinkled paper to his friends.

There’s a section of admittedly smudged and illegible writing, but clearer and more coherent is the bottom of the paper – there, written in blue-penned chicken scratch is the name Ryan Haywood, followed by a series of digits and what seems to be a crude attempt at drawing a heart.

Another brief look is shared between Michael and Jeremy, and a silent conversation occurs; one where Michael smiles victoriously afterwards, and Jeremy slumps over himself with a groan.

“I think…he’s trying to make a move on you, Gav,” Jeremy points out with a sigh, still slumping. He actually looks exasperated after saying that, as if he can’t believe Gavin is dense enough to ignore the signs in the closing. “I mean, the guy’s literally handing you his number. Plus there’s a heart too! I didn’t even get a heart when Michael asked me out.”

Gavin raises a brow. Peering at the note he laid on the table, he can’t really conjure any reasons why Jeremy would think those factors made it seem like flirting. Hearts and numbers are common enough things to hand out, aren’t they? Hell, Gavin signs his own texts with x’s and o’s, no matter who it’s being sent out to, and those seem on a level similar to hearts.

So, he shakes his head, taking the paper back and returning it to his pocket. He makes a note to input the number in his phone, lets himself pray that Ryan’s not a creepy dude. “I don’t think he’s making a move on me. Maybe he just wants a friend? Especially since you said he’s pretty quiet, so maybe he’s lonely too!”

Gavin looks proud of himself of that analysis, especially stubborn too, and the two other lads aren’t ready to handle that whole situation. They just leave Gavin be for now, let him handle whatever happens.

ii.

Gavin learns, after a month of awkward conversations and slightly intimidated meetings, that the number and the guy don’t end up being creepy – at least not seriously, the jokes Ryan makes actually funny – and Gavin is absolutely thankful for it. He’s had his fair share of sketchy guys already, and he wants to move far, far away from them.

“Ryan!” Gavin calls out after his film technology class let out late, sprinting to catch the attention of the older student. He stops clumsily in front of Ryan, almost tripping over his unlaced shoes, but he grins in relief when the other manages to stop him from making a fool of himself. “Thanks for that and waiting up for me! I know you could’ve just headed off to lunch already.”

Ryan just shakes his head, as if what Gavin’s saying is something implausible for him to do. He pockets his phone to focus wholeheartedly on Gavin, casually slinging an arm around his shoulders and starting to head towards the campus lunch halls. “What, and then deal with you whining at me ‘bout leaving you behind? I don’t hate myself enough to do that, Gavin.”

Gavin rolls his eyes. With a slight jab to Ryan’s side, courtesy of his elbow, he revels in the soft wheeze that escapes the other man; serves him right for that comment, honestly, even if it’s more truthful than false. “Hey! I don’t whine, and even if I did, you probably deserved to have me whining to you, you prick,” he huffs, crossing his arms with a pout. His cheeks puff out in indignation.

“Hey, no, don’t pull that face on me!” Ryan laughs through his words as he pulls Gavin closer. Their sides are pressed up together, and it’s enough for Ryan to manage to tuck Gavin’s head against the crook of his neck. “And ‘prick’, huh? No more ‘love’ for me?” His words take on a mocking, British accent on the nicknames.

Gavin shakes his head, but he can’t help tucking himself further against Ryan’s side, almost cozying up to him, even as he gently whacks Ryan’s shoulder. “Oh, sod off! I might as well leave if you’re gonna be a git like that!”

Ryan snorts at the threat, just bringing Gavin in to give him a noogie to the background music of a squawking man. And if they find themselves walking a little closer than most friends do afterwards, one part Gavin’s clinginess and two parts Ryan’s initiation, they don’t say anything about it.

iii.

Considering their interest in video games is definitely more than the average person, it’s almost unbelievable how it takes them another month to finally get each other’s gamertags with all their discussion around it. But maybe it had been a sign the world was telling them to turn back now, do not pass go, do not collect $200, because they’re absolute hell in video games.

“Fuck off, Gavin, Ryan! I’m just trying to fuckin’– agh!” Michael’s enraged voice sounds out loudly through Gavin’s headphones, only mildly blocked out with Gavin’s giggling. “I just wanna get to my car, please.”

Anger melts into defeat easily by his and Ryan’s antics, and Gavin coos softly at Michael, quieter giggles following afterward. “Alright, let’s let Michael get into his car now. Or else, he and Jeremy are gonna mug me even more next time we play,” he concedes. He hears Michael let out a whoop of relieved joy as he gets into his personal vehicle, hears Ryan’s amused chuckling.

“That was fun while it lasted. We should see how long we can get away with doing that to Jeremy next time,” Ryan suggests. He’s already driving off and away from the sight of Michael’s torment, casually as if he isn’t talking about how to torment Jeremy as well.

“You don’t even know Jeremy that well yet, but you’re attacking him already? You’re being a lot more evil than usual, Ry, y’know,” Gavin points out as his game model whips out a gun to point at something random. He laughs bubbly at the twisted model’s arms only for his attention to be taken away by the sight of a cyclist on the highway in front of them. “Oh! Ryan, Ryan, Ryan! Look!”

“H-Huh, what!?” Ryan startles, the car jerking slightly. “What? The cyclist?”

“Yeah, that guy! Run him over, Ry, please?” Gavin pleads with a grin, acting as if he’s not requesting for Ryan to mow down an innocent character. “It’d be so funny, yeah?”

Thing is – Gavin’s not exactly wrong. They find humor in a lot of the same things, and Ryan does like the whole violence and unbidden by law thing of GTAV. Ryan also has an awful habit of indulging Gavin, but that doesn’t need to be said. It’d just be an awful disservice to the game and them both if he didn’t take the opportunity presented to him, wouldn’t it?

Besides, the reward of hearing Gavin’s laughter – the kind where he’s somehow squeaking and wheezing because he’s laughing too hard – and Michael’s quiet ‘Jesus fucking Christ’ more than makes up for the bloodied windshield he has to drive with now.

Ryan doesn’t mention anything about how he takes to running over every motorcyclist he sees now, just to hear Gavin squeal in joy again. How he always does it with a quiet but giddy, ‘Just for you’.

“Whatever Gavin wants, I don’t mind doing it for him,” Ryan shrugs when Michael questions him about it later, and he chuckles at hearing the flustered squeak from Gavin’s end.

iv.

“Thanks for willing to help me out with this, Rye-bread.”

Gavin’s face is graced with a tired, but grateful smile as he throws himself into the seat across Ryan. Tucked away in a corner of the spacious library, the two of them settle as much as they can before they start their impromptu tutoring lesson; pleaded to by a near-wailing Gavin, Ryan finds himself surrounded by familiar mathematical textbooks and not-as-familiar math concepts.

“No worries, you know that I don’t mind helping you out at all,” Ryan smiles kindly. It seems to work, taking off a little of the exhaustion from Gavin’s slumped shoulders. The other man looks older, weary without his usual exuberance; it’s an unsettling sight, and Ryan silently resolves to help Gavin as best he can. “Do you know what you want to work on specifically?”

Gavin hesitates. He scratches at his chin, asking with a sheepish smile, “Is all of the above an answer?” He fiddles with his hands as he flushes red and ducks his head down from Ryan. “Math just…never was my thing. And midterms are coming up, so I need to be good at math for just one day, at least! So, please help?”

Ryan rolls his eyes, flicking Gavin’s forehead. “Calm down, or you might get us kicked out. And I’m already here, so it’d be dumb if I just left right now, didn’t I?”

“I guess…” Gavin shifts awkwardly, almost as if unaware of Ryan’s genuinity. “When I say I’m bad at math, I’m absolutely shite at it. Jeremy and Michael always get frustrated trying to explain stuff to me, even though I know they’re trying not to. I’m just awful dumb at it,” he mumbles. He hazards a glance at Ryan, wondering if he’d leave after that admission.

“Gav…” Ryan sighs. He moves his chair closer to the table, leans forward to bring his face near Gavin’s, noses near touching. “I don’t care if you’re horrible at math as long as you try to learn. I said I’d help, and I’ll try to without getting mad. And don’t talk ‘bout yourself like that. You’re actually not a dumb idiot, even if I call you that a lot, Gav,” Ryan murmurs to him.

Gavin’s eyes widen. He can’t help staring into Ryan’s eyes and the intensity of them, blue shade glinting with a seriousness Gavin only saw when Ryan was coding or performing. It makes his cheeks turn redder for a completely different reason, and it sends his heart thrumming with a giddiness that surprises him.

It wrenches a grin from him, wide and crooked but utterly genuine. He wonders if his eyes are shining brightly, his emotions peeking through at how touched he is by Ryan’s words. “Thanks, Rye,” he whispers softly but as kindly in return.

His arms move on their own automatically, wrapping around Ryan with no hesitation as a token of his appreciation. And Ryan – easily, he returns the hug, but he does curse himself on how close their faces were, how close he was to finally spilling the truth about his intentions to a still clueless Gavin.

“No problem, Gav,” Ryan settles on saying. “There’s no one else I’d be happier to help with than you,” he grins.

Gavin is thrumming with excitement.

He rocks back and forth – heels to his toes – as he waits, a small bouquet he bought just a few hour ago in hand, right by the stage for Ryan to appear. He’s even made Jeremy and Michael wait with him, and he ignores the looks they throw each other around him, far too focused on Ryan.

It’s with a giddy cheer that he squeals out ‘Ryan!’ when he spots him climbing down the stairs to the floor in his outfit still. He launches himself at the older man without a second thought, limbs hooked around him like a koala clinging onto a tree branch for life.

“You were absolutely fantastic, Rye! I didn’t think I’d enjoy a play so much, but you made it easy to be interested. No wonder you got the lead role,” Gavin praises with ease, squeezing Ryan in an imitation of a hug in their odd position. “Oh, and I even got you some flowers! Lil’ J said that’s a nice thing to do after a show, yeah?”

A puff of laughter escapes Ryan as he takes the flowers gingerly, arm tightening around Gavin to return the hug and make sure he doesn’t slip off. His cheeks are warm and red with the adrenaline from performing, the embarrassment from being praised so much by Gavin of all people.

“Jeremy’s right, yes. I appreciate the flowers, Gavin, and I’m glad you liked me being the lead so much. Theatre’s something I love with all my heart,” Ryan explains casually as he shifts Gavin’s weight to hold him up better. “How’d you like the rest of the show? Like, besides me?”

Ryan earns a delighted trill as Gavin throws himself into a rambling commentary about the play. From the set design to the costumes to the story, Gavin compliments kindly and criticizes fairly about everything and everyone. He does his best to spread his comments, but Ryan feels his chest puff in pride when Gavin automatically finds a way to include him with each compliment.

“You know how to blow a guy’s ego up, huh?” Ryan chuckles before squeezing Gavin in another hug. “Glad you liked it though, since I tried to give the best show of our run so far. Just for you, Gav.”

Gavin flushes a pretty shade of pink, and he sticks his tongue out at Ryan, but it’s done with a giggly fondness that he’s absolutely weak for. It takes all of his will to not just pepper Gavin in kisses on the spot as Gavin rambles on about something, looking excited as all hell.

He can listen to Gavin forever, and he knows he must have some dumb, lovestruck expression in his face, because he catches the looks that Gavin’s two friends gift him; a mix of confused but understanding, protective and wary, he can feel their stare boring into him. With it, carrying the weight of the fact that they know. What Ryan knows and what Gavin doesn’t, they’ve been privy all along to this dance happening between them.

It’s unsettling, but he promises them silently that he’s already been working his way to tell Gavin. Soon, he concedes; it’s difficult with how unaware Gavin is, honestly, but he just listens to Gavin ramble earnestly with a wanting heart.

Soon, Ryan tells himself.

+ vi.

“Ryan!”

Reminiscent to their meeting months ago, Gavin sprints to get to Ryan faster and nearly stumbles over his own, two feet. It’s only with an exasperated familiarity with Gavin that Ryan catches the other in time, arms wrapped tightly around a small waist and hands clutching intensely onto broad shoulders. Their faces share almost the same space, noses grazing.

“You need to stop tripping so much, or at least running since you always almost fall afterwards,” Ryan chides with a click of his tongue as he helps Gavin stabilize himself on the ground again. “Who’s going to catch you if I’m not here?” Ryan says it teasingly, and it earns him a gentle sock to the shoulder; flatly, he responds with an ‘ouch’, much to Gavin’s chagrin.

“I’m actually just fine on my feet, Ry! I don’t even run a lot, not for others usually,” Gavin grumbles, toeing the concrete with his foot. A silent ‘just for you’ hangs in the air long enough for Ryan to blush and for Gavin to huff. “C’mon now, I thought we were going to lunch?”

“We are, just slow down! The place isn’t gonna disappear if we take our time walking,” Ryan points out. He earns a groan from Gavin who tugs at his hand to go faster without much success. “Today’s a nice day to walk. The place is gonna be crowded when we get there, and I like it when it’s just us two.”

“You can’t just say stuff like that! People are gonna think we’re dating or something,” Gavin mumbles. His cheek are dusted pink, and Ryan raises a brow at the shyness.

“You say that like I don’t want people to think that. We’d be a pretty damn good couple, don’t you think?”

And that gives Gavin pause, freezing him in his steps, because that’s the boldest thing Ryan’s ever said to him. He knows about the nice stuff that the older man says and does for him, always makes him giddy to be friends with such a kind person, albeit creepy and dangerous at times with his humor.

That statement though – Gavin is reeling.

“Are you flirting with me?”

The question is barely squeezed out of his mouth, surprise laced in the words. Gavin stares up at Ryan and tries to search for any hint of a joke in his eyes, but he’s only rendered speechless when Ryan just snorts and slings an arm around him. He’s in utter disbelief.

“You finally noticed? I’ve been flirting the last few months, but thanks for noticing just now.” He doesn’t sound bitter or annoyed at Gavin’s obliviousness, moreso amused and even proud. “Why’d you think I gave you my number in the first place?”

Gavin splutters, because he can’t believe Michael and Jeremy called out Ryan’s intentions so quickly, all those months ago. “I thought you just wanted a friend! Jeremy said you were pretty quiet, and maybe you were shite at making friends, so I…y’know!”

It sounds so indignant, his reply, that Ryan can’t help but throw his head back with the loudest laugh he’s ever had. His cheeks are painted red from how hard he’s laughing, because of course, he’d get stuck in this sort of situation with the idiot, attractive guy he’s been onion over for months now. Let it be known that Ryan either has the most clueless taste or the most clueless flirting skills; there’s a high chance of it being both.

“I didn’t mind if we stayed just friends, since I do like hanging out with you. But I thought you were attractive, and I’m not dumb enough to pass up at least trying,” Ryan explains through the last dregs of his laughter. He moves his arm from Gavin’s shoulder to around his waist, looping it around and bringing him close in front of him. Chests pressed together, he rests his forehead on Gavin’s own. “Didn’t really plan for this to be how you’d find out, but…if it maybe scores me a date with you?”

Gavin’s heart is in his throat, peering up at Ryan with wide eyes at their proximity, the weight behind the older man’s words. Rejection is a thought in his mind, but it passes quickly when he sees how Ryan’s eyes are glittering with a patient hope, an earnest genuineness in his affection; it makes Gavin’s heart flutter, unused to a look like that aimed at him.

“I…I don’t know?” He answers honestly, licking his suddenly dry lips. He doesn’t want to say yes in fear of lying to Ryan, because he’s not given how he feels towards him much thought, but saying no is too…abrupt. He doesn’t want to close off the opportunity to explore his own feelings.

“It sounds like there’s a ‘but’ there, Gav,” Ryan prods gently, tries not to push, but curiosity is a powerful thing.

Gavin takes a deep breath and figures out his words for a moment. He doesn’t want to mess it up, not right now. “I don’t know how I feel about you exactly, but…I want to explore it, and I want to go on a date with you.”

And when Ryan grins, bright and shining and affectionate – Gavin can’t help but mirror it, excited for what their future holds for them.

#rtah #ragehappy #freewood #seiju writes

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valhallamercury · 5 years

Text

bassist | boh rhap!john deacon x female!reader

Summary: Ever since you’ve met John, you’ve happily thrown yourself down the rabbit hole of falling in love with him. And honestly, how could you resist? He was kind, sweet, and not to mention handsome. Now the only problem: getting to go on a date with A/N: The requested part two of secretary, so make sure you read that before reading this! This was so much fun to write, tell me if you’d guys would like a part three! :) Warnings: none, except that this is unedited. Tag list: @lizgarxo @josephhmazzello @tv-saved-the-teenage-girl Word count: 1,994

After your first encounter with the dark-haired man, you had practically thrown yourself into a pit labeled “in love with John Richard Deacon.” Could anyone blame you though? Every time John came in with his friends to record their album, he always made sure to stop by and talk to you. He would tell you about the album and the boys, and you would tell him about how work was going and your pride and joy, which was your cat named Fleur. On bad days, he would make you smile. On some days, he brought you flowers, on others he brought you tea with compliments written on the cup. You dreamed of the day John would ask you out, and each day you would be let down when he didn’t. But you wouldn’t give up.

You sat at the front desk, organizing papers for Mr. Foster that needed to be done before noon. You checked the clock again. 10:34. You’ve got this, Y/N, why are you even worrying about it? You know you’ll have these done in 10 minutes, You thought to yourself. You knew the real reason behind your stress, though you wouldn’t admit it. You hadn’t seen John’s sunshine face in three days, making you worry that you had said something to upset him. A tap tap tap against your desk made your thoughts end.

You looked up, seeing a familiar smiling face. You’re little sunshine was back.

“John!” You exclaimed happily, his fond smile becoming contagious against your lips. “I haven’t seen you in a while, I was starting to worry something had happened.” You admitted, resting your head against the palm of your hand. Y/N, your papers, a voice in the back of your head nagged. You decided to ignore it.

“No, no, I’m perfectly fine. Really. We’ve just been so busy with the album, haven’t had much time to chat.” He explained shyly, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand.

“Well, I’m glad to see your pretty face again. I’ve missed our little talks.” You smiled fondly at John, seeing his face light up to a bright pink color. It was a fun little game you liked to play: see how many times you could get John to blush. It definitely wasn’t one-sided though, for there were many occasions where Mr. Deacon had made your face go hot.

“I’ve missed them too.” John returned your smile, leaning his elbows against your desk as he conversed with you. You could tell something was off though; he looked as though he was trying to tell you something, but just couldn’t find the words. Finally, he spoke again.

“Hey, Y/N, I was wondering, what time do you get off?”

Your heart skipped a beat. Was this finally your moment?

“I’m actually off tomorrow.” You replied, trying to remain ‘nonchalant sounding’ but you could tell that it hadn’t been too convincing.

“Well, what a coincidence! The boys and I have a day off tomorrow as well from pumping out songs for the album,” His signature dorky smile and pink cheeks returned, “I was wondering... well, I was wondering since we’re both conveniently off, if maybe you’d like to hang out tomorrow. Like, well, a date.”

It took all the strength in you not to jump up and down in excitement in that very moment. But, you controlled yourself. That didn’t stop the big smile stretching across your face though.

“I would love to go on a date with you tomorrow, Deaky.” You cooed. He grinned, a soft chuckle escaping through his lips.

“Great! Great.” He coughed, trying to calm his enthusiasm. “There’s this great tea shop I know that we can meet at,” He began, pulling a sticky note from your desk and writing down the address of the shop. He handed it to you, a bright smile across his features. You happily took the sticky note, folding it up and putting it in your jacket pocket.

“I’ll meet you there around 10-ish?” You asked, practically bubbling over with excitement. He nodded quickly, checking the time on his watch.

“I must be going, but I guess, I guess I’ll see you around?” He guessed giddily, slowly backing up as he walked backwards down the hall. You nodded, giving him a small wave.

“See you tomorrow, Deaks.”

He grinned, turning around completely as he ran down the hall. You watched him run, seeing him pump his fist up in delight. You saw his three friends come out from behind some furniture of the main lobby, congratulating him. You giggled behind your hand before looking back down at your paperwork once more.

☆━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━☆

Tap, tap, tap, tap

You blended your base in with your fingers, making sure everything was smooth and even across your face. Even in the most stressful of times, doing makeup had always calmed your nerves. However, you couldn’t stop the butterflies fluttering across your stomach or the way your face would heat up at the thought of John and the date that was in less than an hour.

You tapped a soft powder across your face, setting the base. You smudged a shimmery eyeshadow across the lids of your eyes, brushed mascara through your top and bottom lashes, and ran a clear mascara through your brows to hold them down. You applied a thick clear gloss across your lips, swiping some off your skin when you went a bit over the lines.

Now the only problem you were faced with: what to wear. Everything you tried on just seemed to either be too much or not enough. You finally decided on denim overalls that were embroidered with elegant pink flowers, a long-sleeved pink and red striped shirt, and red Chuck Taylor All Stars.

“How do I look?” You turned, looking at your cat Fleur, who laid sprawled out across the bed. She lifted her head up, letting out a soft meow, before laying back down. You took that as a sign of approval.

You only had fifteen minutes or so to get to the tea shop, so you decided to head out early.

You made your way through the bustling streets of Britain, before finally stopping in front of the quaint little shop. With five minutes to spare, might you add.

You looked around before spotting John’s familiar long locks. The man had his head in a book, tapping his finger along to the beat of some song as he read. You smiled a bit to yourself, shaking his head. You walked over, standing in front of his booth.

“Is this seat taken?” You asked playfully. John looked up at you, a fond look appearing across his face.

“It’s all yours.” He joked back, making you giggle. You sat down across from him, crossing your ankles out of habit. Your Gran had made sure that you always remembered to cross your ankles, not your legs. That was the proper way to do it, you could practically hear her remark.

“This place is lovely, the scenery is so quaint and cute.” You remarked, smiling as you looked around. The shop was decorated like some sort of Woodstock-esque design. There were posters of the Beatles, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, and many more artists. It had flowers of all sorts of varieties hanging from pots and vases across the store, giving it a lovely dash of color in all the right places. The room smelled of different variations of tea, all of which smelled exceptional.

“Well, I remembered you telling me so much about how much you loved tea and flowers, so I thought this might be a good place to go.” He said softly, looking back at you shyly through his lashes. You felt your face heat up. No one you had ever been with had been this considerate.

“You’re sweet, Johnny.” You smiled, resting your hand on your chin as you looked at the flower vase in front of you. “They really should switch the dandelions with those pink asters. The pink would compliment the goldenrods better.” You said, looking at the flowers in front of you. John raised his brows, but his smile never leaving.

“You really know your stuff, huh?”

You looked down at your feet for a moment, letting out a chuckle. “I guess you could say that. I’ve been wanting to be a florist since I was young because my Gran was a florist. She taught me all about different flowers and the way things would compliment each other and all sorts of things. My parents didn’t really think I should become a florist, they said there was no money in it and that people don’t buy flowers anymore.” You shrugged, looking back up at the dark-haired man who had been listening intently. “Besides, if I had been a florist, I would’ve never met you.”

He smiled at you warmly, glancing at the vase. “Well, I think you should go for it. There’s no shame in trying.” He appealed, looking at you with his soft brown eyes that made you melt. “You’d be perfect at it. You have a cat named Fleur, for God’s sake.” He teased, a playful grin tugging at his lips. You giggled, rolling your eyes playfully and gently tapping his foot with your own.

“Do not make fun of my cat, Deacon.” You scolded jokingly, a laugh escaping from the two of you. Once the laughter settled down, it was your turn to listen intently. “Well, since you know everything about me, why don’t you tell me things about you?” You asked, arching one of your brows.

He raised a brow in return, his chin resting on the palm of his hand. “Well, what would you like to know?”

You tapped your chin, thinking for a moment. “Favorite color? Favorite music artist? Hell, you haven’t even told me what instrument you play in your band.”

“Well, my favorite color is black. Favorite musical artist? Probably Hendrix or the Beatles. And I play bass.” He spoke softly, looking into your eyes as he spoke.

“That’s all?” You said as you looked at him, gently tapping his foot with your own. “C’mon, Deaks, there’s gotta be more to you than long hair and a pretty face.”

His cheeks turned pink, tapping your foot with his in return. “Pretty face, huh?” He blushed, your feet now in an all right war with each other. “I was born August 19th, 1951. I have a band with my best mates, Freddie, Brian, and Roger. I like electronics. I love soul and funk music. I love to tinker. Doesn’t really matter with what, but I’m always fiddling with something around the studio. I also know that I’m on a date with the girl of my dreams and talking to her makes me nervous and giddy at the same time.”

You felt your face heat up, you knew immediately you were giving the man heart-eyes. “You truly are wonderful, Deaky.” You smiled, reaching over and timidly placing your hand over his. He smiled, interlocking your fingers as he returned your fond gaze.

You turned to face the window, seeing the rain pour down against the window. You took a deep breath, turning back to John with a sad gaze. “I should be going soon, before the rain gets any worse.”

John frowned, glancing outside. “I’m not letting you walk home in the storm. It’s too awful.” He began, glancing down at your interlocked hands, before looking at you once more. His cheeks had turned an even deeper shade of pink. “My place isn’t far, if you’d like to stay there for the night. Only if you’d like though. Otherwise I could surely walk you home.” He added quickly, looking down at your hands.

You smiled a bit at him, reaching over with your free hand and grabbing his other. He looked up at you, and you gave him a loving look. “What are we waiting for, Deaks? Let’s go.”

#john deacon x reader #John Deacon #john deacon imagine #boh rhap!john deacon #joe mazzello #joe mazzello x reader #Queen #queen band #queen imagines #queen band imagine #bohemian rhapsody #boh rhap #roger taylor x reader #brian may x reader #freddie mercury x reader

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bloodpacks-archive · 6 years

Text

Don’t Let Go (iv)

Word Count: 1.5k

Summary: Peter knows, and he feels like someone, somewhere, made a huge mistake.

Warnings: None! Just some self-doubt from Peter :(

Note: THEY FINALLY MADE PROGRESS LOOK AT THAT WOW also this is unedited and unread so there very well could be spelling errors in this but here we are and i’m posting or so help me

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4

Peter sees her in the halls now. Pretty laughs fall from her lips, upturned and pink. He can’t take his eyes off of her, and he’s positive that Flash and Ned both catch the way he’s looking at her, different intentions and questions brewing in each of their minds.

It’s this odd mix of emotions. He wants to just reach out and tell her his name, say that he’s her soulmate. He wants to roll up his sleeve, show her the traces of her handwriting left on his arm, worn but still entirely there. And yet, he’s terrified. Terrified that this whole soulmate thing messed up somehow and she’s supposed to be with someone who’s so much better than him. Because really, how would he ever end up with someone as beautiful as her, who could make him laugh and blush all the same, even if it’s just through the writing on their skin.

He’s finally able to put a name to the face, and it doesn’t seem real for quite a while. He’s known his soulmate’s name from the moment he could read, but having a face there that’s entirely hers, it changes its meaning. Her name doesn’t seem like some far off fantasy, too far in the distance for it to possibly seem real. Now, it echoes in his mind. Her name means the way her laugh is so unbelievably gorgeous, or the way her hands move animatedly as she talks, or the way her eyes look so bright, even if Peter hasn’t seen her up close.

Then she turns, and for a second, her eyes lock with his. His heart stutters, and he has trouble looking away. Then Ned walks over, elbowing him in his side with a mischievous grin on his face.

“So, what’s with the lovestruck look?” Ned asks, he’s smiling, books in hand as his eyes glance over to where Peter had been previously looking, trying to find whatever he was so interested in.

“L-lovestruck? I don’t know what you- I’m not lovestruck!” Peter stumbles out, and now he’s blushing and trying to keep his eyes off of the girl, or rather, his soulmate, from across the hall.

Ned gives him a look, and of course he knows. Peter’s entirely aware of the fact that Ned is internally freaking out because, god, Peter found his soulmate. And Peter should be freaking out in the same way that Ned is, should be urging himself to walk across the hall, sleeve rolled up and confident smile on his face. But the system is wrong, it has to be. Maybe this absolutely beautiful girl, with the pretty smile and confident laugh, the girl who furrows her eyebrows so delicately, maybe she could fall in love with Spider-Man, but Peter knows that she could never fall in love with him. Peter Parker just wasn’t meant to fall in love.

—————

He never realized she was in his chemistry class. She sits across the room, and really, Peter never would have noticed her if it weren’t for her writing lacing his arm. He’s looking over at her from his lab table, and her hair is falling in her face as she writes down the information from the lab. Her friend says something to her, and she shakes her head as a soft smile graces her lips.

He’s tracing his name again. Suddenly, it’s become much more of a habit than he originally intended it to be. But whenever he looks at her, his heart speeds up, and the only way he can remind himself that he’s okay is by remembering that she was the one who put his name there.

It’s all too cliche. He knows that he’s entirely too irrational, he knows that he’s just scared. He also knows that this girl is amazing, and the idea of her ever falling in love with him is insane. So he’s scared. Too scared to trace her name on his arm, too scared to simply write I know who you are. The likelihood of her rejecting him is too great, and the idea of Peter being left with a broken heart is something he fears he can’t take.

—————

She’s sitting at home, in her room to avoid the heat from the outside. Her fan is on, blowing sheets of paper as she tries to do her homework. She’s writing with pen, the ink smudging on her hand. There’s a ghost of a smile on her face, knowing that her soulmate will have to deal with the same ink smudges.

You’re really bad at writing with pens

She lets out a light laugh as the words form on her forearm. The handwriting is a little shakier than usual, almost like he’s unsure of himself.

Tell my english teacher to not have us write essays in pen, then

Her writing is curvy and delicate, quickly done but clearly with the intent of caring. His words start to form again, slowly and carefully.

I guess I’ll have to talk to them, then

He starts writing something else, just the beginnings of a thought, before it’s quickly crossed out.

Something wrong, Peter?

It’s quiet for a while, her room is silent, and Peter doesn’t write anything back to her. She turns back to her essay, scolding herself for prying. He never responds when she asks that. She should’ve known.

—————

Fate’s standing next to Peter, Coincidence at her side. She brushes a curl out of her face, trying to get a closer look at what Peter’s writing down on a piece of paper.

“Is there any way we can force him to write?” Coincidence jokes, smirk on his face.

“I’m sure we could find a way,” Fate quips back, and Coincidence raises his eyebrows at that.

“Why’s he even practicing what he’s writing anyway?” Coincidence asks, trying to look around Fate to get a look at what Peter’s writing.

“To make sure he doesn’t mess it up? He’s a teenage boy, Coincidence,” Fate looks over at Coincidence, who’s still trying to read what Peter’s writing.

“I wouldn’t have to do this,” Coincidence mumbles, and Fate has to restrain a laugh.

“Are you even capable of love?” Coincidence stumbles for a moment, allowing Fate to laugh and shake her head at him. Then she looks over at Peter, who’s now pressing the pen to his arm, beginning to write out his message. Coincidence rushes over when he sees what Peter’s doing, pressing his hands into Fate’s shoulder to try to get a closer look. Fate decides that this room is entirely too small for three people, even if Peter thinks he’s the only one there. Peter finishes his message and puts his pen down, hands shaking slightly, and now he’s taking deep breaths to try and steady every nerve in his body.

I think I know who you are

—————

Peter doesn’t get a response that night, and admittedly, he hadn’t expected one. He’s at school the next day, in the same situation as yesterday. He’s standing across the hall, Ned talking about something that Peter’s trying to listen to, but instead his eyes are wandering to the girl who’s talking to her friend. Pretty laugh and bright eyes practically defining her image.

Then the bell rings, and Peter and Ned start walking to their class. It’s quick, Peter’s pushed just barely, and then he hits someone. He mumbles out an apology, looking over his shoulder to see just who bumped into him. He doesn’t see anyone, the hallway seems empty, almost. When he turns back to who’s in front of him, she standing there, looking down at the writing on his arm, just barely exposed by his rolled up sleeves. Her eyes travel down to his hand, where smudges of pen rest, and- Peter’s amazed. The way her eyebrows furrow, looking at his arm with a wonder he can’t even begin to imagine. The little smile that starts to form on her face, realization crossing it so quickly. And she’s so smart, and Peter stumbling over words without even beginning to say anything.

She finally looks at him, her eyes crossing over his face quickly. And then she’s looking over him again, slowly trying to make sense of it all. It doesn’t seem real, and he’s perfectly aware of the fact. God, he ran away when he found out, and she’s taking it better than he ever could have. Finally, her eyes settle on his.

“So,” She begins, and then she stops, smile taking over her face as she looks back down at the ground.

“I’m your soulmate,” Peter says, and she lets out a breathy laugh, looking up at him again.

“I guess you are,” She replies, smile on her face. And Peter’s so grateful for whoever decided that they were going to push him at that second. Maybe it was fate who had walked past him, or maybe it was simply a coincidence, but Peter’s standing in front of this girl, and he’s having trouble wiping the smile off of his face.

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septic-dr-schneep · 6 years

Text

JSE Fanfiction - In Time of Need (Part 20: Aberration)

Summary: Schneep and Marvin recover from the emotional turmoil after their reconciliation and, in the process, they decide they ought to check in with Jameson.

Schneep returned to the waking world with a start, groaning as soon as his aching eyes were open and flinging an arm over his face. He didn’t have a clock accessible near his little cot in the side room off his lab, but he could sense that it had only been a short time since his conversation with Marvin.

Crying hard always took a lot out of him and when Marvin had finally felt okay enough to pull away and had gotten a good look at him, he’d sniffed, rubbed his face and advised the doctor to go lie down for a while. He’d promised to wake Schneep after an hour or two but as usual, Schneep’s caffeine-fueled body would never perform properly to others’ standards.

He knew he wouldn’t be getting back to sleep any time soon, no matter how his mind craved it and despite the fact that he’d gotten hardly any sleep yesterday night after his panic attack upon finding the doll in his cot. Thus he opted to kick his blanket onto the floor, inelegantly smudge his glasses as he slid them onto his nose and rise.

As he stumbled back out into the main room, his attention naturally gravitated back to Jack. “It’s about time you got a change for some fresh IV bags, isn’t it?” he mused, coughing to clear his throat as his voice broke. It was a habit his body had when he’d just woken up that was quite exasperating; a good doctor was supposed to speak with prestige and clarity!

A good doctor…

His anguished words to Marvin easily came back to him then and he pursed his lips, grimacing as he pulled the IV bags down from their rack and the upward motion made the stitches in his arms and shoulders protest. He had to be a good doctor. He may not have made anything better for Jack and Jackieboy…He may have made everything worse for them, in fact, but he still had to be a good doctor.

“I can start by cleaning up after messes I made and taking tender, loving care of you while you are sleeping,” he concluded to Jack, as if his creator could have heard his thoughts. “Is least I can do for you, Jack, after everything you’ve done for me.”

Once the bags had been changed, antidepressants and all, Schneep drifted over to his coffee machine. Upon returning with his #1 Doctor mug filled to the brim, he sank down into the chair by Jack’s bedside, sipping on the coffee before the steam had even subsided. It was hot enough to make his toes curl in his loafers but the taste of cinnamon and peppermint more than made up for it. Thoughtfully he paused, leaning forward and blowing some of the steam gently in Jack’s direction. Perhaps he imagined that Jack’s breathing deepened as it reached him, but it was a comforting thought.

“This is the closest we get to sharing coffee again,” he remarked softly. The comment didn’t stir as much pain in him as it usually did, to his vague surprise. The future for Jack was still just as uncertain as it had been yesterday and there were still no signs other than Chase’s word that he was anything close to responsive, but Schneep must have simply cried himself out earlier. There were no more tears to shed for Jack, at least not for today. They wouldn’t change anything.

In a way, it was even more important that he had spent those tears for the noble cause of reconciling with Marvin. He’d even gotten the magician to open up with him, which was more of a rarity that Schneep cared to admit. They had never clicked with each other the way they had with Jackieboy and more often than not, he was the one who dragged them onto neutral ground and forced them to face their differences when they surfaced as arguments.

Somehow or another they had managed to make their way through it on their own and Schneep genuinely hoped that it would be a good starting point for the future, proving that they could get through everything else on their own until Jackieboy woke.

He was going to wake up; he and Jack both were. Right now, with the state of mind he was in, Schneep refused to face any other alternative.

After sitting in silence and sipping his way halfway down the mug for a while, he returned to his feet, promising, “I’ll be back soon, Jack. I just need to go check on the others, alright?” and then shuffling out of the lab, dimming the lights slightly as he went.

“Hey, what are you doing up?” Marvin scolded. “It’s only been forty-five minutes, Schneep, you’re supposed to—oh, well, the coffee explains it. You really need to start going lighter on that stuff if you ever want to sleep well again.”

“Are you really going to give another speech about how unhealthy it is for me every time you see me with a coffee mug?!” Schneep exclaimed, to which Marvin simply huffed and turned down the volume on the TV. As soon as Schneep shuffled in his direction to join him on the couch, however, he switched the channel, earning a suspicious look that lingered until he finally glanced sideways to meet it.

“Before you ask, yes, it was a Disney movie,” he admitted grudgingly.

“Of course it was. You give me the grief and the nagging for my vices—” He lifted the coffee mug indicatively. “—at the very same minute you’re indulging yours!”

“Y’know, now that my magic is returning, I could perform a spell that would make you see stars and put you to sleep for hours.”

“As long as you caught my coffee mug before it fell,” Schneep countered with a petty little smile. “Otherwise you’d have to perform quite the disappearing act when I woke up and started hunting you down to avenge it.”

Marvin waved him off at that, clearly not appreciating the weight of the threat, and Schneep was forced to resist the urge to elbow him before taking a stoic, lingering slurp of his drink. Judging by how quickly Marvin threw himself off the couch, the noise aggravated him just as it was meant to, Schneep noted, stifling a giggle and then stopping up short as realization dawned.

When was the last time he’d found anything funny? He couldn’t even remember. Why had this of all things been the reason for him to crack a smile again? Perhaps it was just childish enough, just relaxed enough that he felt free to.

“I’m going to pick up Jameson from the ABOP,” Marvin announced, cracking each knuckle individually as he centered himself in the hallway to open the portal.

“You left him there overnight?” Schneep scolded, setting his mug on the coffee table.

“Well, he said he wasn’t in any hurry to come back. Hopefully he’ll have calmed down after a good night’s sleep. You should come with me, by the way, to get an update on Sam,” Marvin offered, magic stirring between his outstretched hands. “Let’s hope he’ll be doing a little better too.”

It had been a while since Schneep had traveled by portal; it took him a moment to find his feet and let the dizziness subside but once it had, he looked up. Jameson didn’t come running to meet them and he wasn’t on the cot in the corner, so he couldn’t still be asleep. Where was he?

“Jamie?” he called, moving ahead of Marvin and scanning the darkness. “Jamie, come on out now. We’re here to bring you—”

“Whoa, what’s going on with Sam?” Marvin cut him off in astonishment, drawing Schneep’s gaze to the tank where their mascot was repetitively slamming himself against the backside of the glass.

“Sam?” Schneep’s voice managed to catch the eye’s attention. He whirled around, drawing gasps from the both of them before Schneep hurried toward him, admonishing worriedly, “Oh, Sammy, you’ve given yourself a black eye! What have you been doing?!”

Despite the way his pupil was dilated in obvious pain from the bruises, Sam refused to stop, surging against the side of the tank closest to them and then charging at the backside, striking it three more times before rushing back to them and whipping his tail frantically to and fro. Marvin soon joined Schneep at his side, trying to puzzle out whatever Sam may be communicating. He didn’t have long, for moments later Sam shook himself and hit the back of the tank yet again, so hard that they could hear the thunk reverberate back to them before he spiraled down to the bottom of the tank, rather dazed.

“Stop for a moment, little one, you’re hurting yourself! Why are you hitting the glass like that?” Schneep demanded, blinking in bewilderment as Sam sluggishly turned away from them and stared off in the direction of the debris dump. Now that he was actively following his gaze, the doctor leaned sideways, commenting, “Is it me or is some light coming from there?”

“Well, yeah, but some of the machines like to flicker on and off,” Marvin answered, extending an arm to bar Schneep’s path as he tried to shift toward it. “I’ll check it out. You take a look at Sam.”

Opting not to argue, Schneep lowered himself to a crouch and clicked his fingers invitingly. “Here, Sammy. Here!”

Sam usually listened to him more than the others so he had honestly expected him to obey immediately, but instead he remained fixated on the direction Marvin was going. Tsking in bewilderment, Schneep snapped again, more insistently, finally earning a halfhearted wag of Sam’s tail and a glance back at him.

“Come here,” the doctor urged again, his worry and confusion lingering even as Sam backed slowly away from that side of the tank and wandered toward him. Sam himself looked far more upset than Schneep was, so he put a hand against the glass which Sam promptly swam to, nuzzling against it for comfort as the Ego crooned, “There’s my Sam, there he is. You’re very swollen and bruised, little friend…How long were you hitting the glass? Tell the good doctor what is bothering you, hmm? What made you do this?”

“Jameson!”

Marvin’s bark of alarm broke both Schneep’s concentration and the progress he had made at calming Sam down. The mascot flew back toward the other side, bouncing up and down in front of it urgently as Schneep scrambled to his feet and jogged after the sound of Marvin’s voice.

“Jamie?” he called again. “Marvin, what’s going—?”

Before he could finish, Marvin was barreling into him, shoving him back the way he had come and paying no heed to his yelps of pain as he spat, “Back, get back!” and clamped a hand over his face, blinding him.

“What?! M-Marvin, what are you—? Get off! Oof!” The stunned grunt was forced out of him as his back was planted forcefully against Sam’s tank. Only when Schneep had stopped struggling against the new position did Marvin take a moment to still, one arm pressed against Schneep’s chest to keep him where he was. Why was he panting so heavily, so panically? Schneep wondered, too nervous to ask.

“Don’t…look,” Marvin growled lowly, to which Schneep helplessly shook his head.

“Your hand is over my eyes,” he reminded him apprehensively. “I can’t look.”

At that Marvin heaved a deeper breath, muttering something that Schneep couldn’t quite catch before raising his voice again. “Okay. Okay, I need you to listen to me very carefully. Can you do that?” At Schneep’s wordless nod, he continued cautiously, “Jameson is over there.”

“Then why doesn’t he come to us? Why don’t we go to him?”

“He can’t and you can’t. I can go to him, but you can’t come with me.”

His face contorting under Marvin’s hand, Schneep allowed some of his frustration to blend into his voice as he protested, “Why not? It’s the debris dump! Nothing special, I’ve been there hundreds of times—”

“Not for the past nine months, you haven’t,” Marvin interrupted pointedly, his fingertips digging into the skin under Schneep’s temple. “There’s been an…addition since you’ve been gone. It was back in December. There was something new, something we’ve never seen before, that wasn’t like anything else we’d experienced. We put it there because it was just too dangerous to have in the house.”

“What?” Schneep breathed, both taken aback and increasingly uneasy at this news. Because their faces were mere inches apart, he could hear Marvin swallow hard. He could practically hear him thinking about whatever the outcome could have been before getting his mind back to the moment at hand.

“You need to wait here,” he instructed, shushing the younger Ego before he could protest. “Wait, Schneep. I’m going to get Jameson and bring him back here. When I do, he’s going to need you, but while I’m over there, this is what you need to do: you stay right here and keep your eyes shut no matter what you’re hearing. Do you understand? When I take my hand away, you keep your eyes shut and you don’t open them again until I tell you it’s safe. Are you hearing me?”

“What is this danger?” Schneep couldn’t resist asking, to which Marvin simply repeated his question. “Yes, I—I understand.” As the pressure of Marvin’s hand eased on his face, he hurriedly ducked his head and closed his eyes, straining his ears to follow the magician’s footsteps as they receded in the opposite direction.

It took entirely too long for them to grow louder again; by the time they did, Schneep was fidgeting, his lashes flickering ever so slightly as the temptation to peek grew. He could feel Sam pressed against the glass immediately behind him, tapping it restlessly, which just fueled his own nervous tension. At long last, Marvin relented, though his voice was quiet and pained as he did so.

“…You can look now, doc.”

Schneep’s eyes flew open. As soon as they did, his mouth dropped open with them and he lunged forward, forgetting all about how he had planned to look in the direction of the debris to see how Marvin had dealt with the unknown menace.

“No…No, no!” Nearly knocking heads with Marvin as he bent over the gentleman cradled in his arms, Schneep burst out frantically, “Jamie! Oh, Jamie, what’s happened to you?! Jameson?” Sliding his hands underneath the youngest Ego’s head, he gingerly lifted it from where it had fallen against Marvin’s shoulder, tightly cupping his ashen cheeks and peering into his glazed, distant eyes. He was staring right through him. “Can you hear me?! Can you—? Marvin, bring him to the cot and lie him down!”

Releasing Jameson and letting his head fall, he rushed ahead of them, his mind racing as he turned on the old lamp nearby, frenziedly wiping the dust off on his coat as his heart throbbed to keep up. This couldn’t happen. This couldn’t be happening.

“Be a good doctor,” he murmured hoarsely as the fear that had become all too familiar now created a tremble in his fingers. “Be a good doctor, be a good doctor, be a good doctor…He needs you…We’re—we’re not losing him too…”

We can’t lose him too.

#youtube #jacksepticeye #fanfiction #youtube fanfiction #dr schneeplestein #marvin the magnificent #jameson jackson #dapper jack #angst #hurt comfort #overnight watch #best kept secret #in time of need

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valamerys · 7 years

Text

{fic} Sing Down The Skies ch 2/?

Part 2 of the ‘Elain comes to the Spring Court post-acomaf’ + fake dating, sort of + extreme angst elucien fic! rated T for being really sad. like, I’M dying, and I’m the one willfully inflicting this on us all.

part 1 • ao3

“I’m going to pretend to fall in love with you.”

All the air goes out of the room. Lucien is so uncomprehending he’s sure he must have misheard her. “What?”

III.

The designated meeting spot is a clearing near the border, a vague approximation of neutral territory. Tamlin stocks it so full of guards, some Hybern’s men, some their own (is there a difference anymore?) that the whole field glints with weapons, like they’re launching into battle. Rhys brings the shadowsinger and the blonde woman, three figures in black against an army of gold. Lucien gets the distinct impression it’s still not a fight the spring court would win.

The emissary assigned to the task approaches the High Lord of Night and exchanges a few words of formality, Tamlin standing stoic behind a line of soldiers—the word coward flashes hot through Lucien’s mind, and he tries half-heartedly to crush the thought. Next to him, Feyre’s eyes are locked on Rhysand, her expression unreadable. Tamlin shifts to put an arm around her and for a moment, it looks like she might break, tear the arm off and run to Rhys and end the whole charade right there, but she doesn’t. She recovers and gives him a weak smile.

Lucien can’t make out the words of the emissary, but Rhys nods, makes a gesture to the blonde, who winnows away. Lucien feels his heart jump into his throat against his will. There’s a moment where nothing happens—the trees rustle far above their heads, Rhysand looks cold and imperious, there is the faintest sound of shifting armor from the ranks around them as they wait.

And then the woman returns, holding his mate by the arm.

Lucien stops breathing, a rush of Elain consuming his senses even from this distance. It is only with three hundred odd years of practice that he’s able to school himself into stillness, into apparent indifference, as relief and panic and dissatisfaction and fear war in his throat.

She’s plainly dressed, a little dirty—like she actually was a prisoner; the thought makes a growl build in his throat—but looks unharmed. It’s not good enough; Lucien feels the overwhelming instinct to winnow to her, to shield her from Night and Spring both, to ask her very intently if she’s alright, to hold her until he’s convinced. To take her somewhere far away from all of this and not ever bring her back.

The woman releases her, and Elain takes an unsure step forward. Lucien’s fingernails dig into the flesh of his palms. The spring court Emissary says something to her, extends a hand, and she takes it quickly, follows him away from her “captors” without looking back.

Someone lets out a tiny, strangled sound, and for a moment Lucien thinks it’s him—but Feyre is pushing through the soldiers, ignoring Tamlin’s murmured command to stay here, and almost stumbles in her haste to embrace her sister. They cry and laugh all at once, Elain’s thin arms going around Feyre. Tamlin looks at Lucien, expecting some reaction, no doubt, but Lucien doesn’t move, keeps his face a mask of perfect blankness. He dimly notes that Rhys and his associates have vanished behind them, the transaction complete.

When the sisters break apart, teary, Feyre does what Lucien wants to do and wipes a smudge of dirt from Elain’s cheek, assessing her breathlessly. “Are you alright?”

He can sense Elain’s emotions like holding a bird in his palm—small, fluttering, alive: anxiety, bone-deep fear, determination.

“I’m fine,” Elain says, giving her a brave smile.

It’s the first time he’s heard his mate’s voice. His composure cracks, the breath he draws shuddering as Feyre takes Elain’s hand and draws her towards Tamlin. Towards him.

“Elain, this is Tamlin,” Feyre has remembered herself, her free hand caressing Tamlin’s arm. “My fiance.”

Elain bobs into a curtsy. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, High Lord. Thank you for everything you’ve done. For all of us,” she says sweetly, if a little shakily. She’s playing a role too, Lucien realizes, one of grateful prisoner freed, to corroborate Feyre’s thin story of her own “kidnapping,” to maintain the polish on the version of the Night Court they’re feeding Tamlin. The more he looks, the more holes he sees in her costume. She’s dirty, but there’s no grime under her nails; her hair is tangled but not greasy. It doesn’t make him feel better.

Tamlin nods, clasps her hand in some show of paternal comfort. “Welcome to the Spring Court, Elain.” He’s a little awkward, a little gruff about it, but it’s clear he’s pleased.

“And… Feyre nods at him, says gently, “You’ve met Lucien.”

Elain seems to hesitate before meeting his gaze, and Lucien wonders if she’s been avoiding looking at him—but then she does. She’s exactly as he remembers her, her features burned into his memory.

“Hello, Lord Lucien.”

His heart twists. “Hello, Elain.”

It feels strange and perfunctory and totally inadequate. He needs to tell her everything. There is nothing else to say. He’s suddenly once again claustrophobic with the need to spirit her away, to hide them both from the hundred unwelcome eyes that watch their meeting.

Thank the cauldron for Feyre, who takes Elain’s arms and breaks the moment, begins fussing over her and assuring her they’ll get her cleaned up. She steers Elain towards the manor, prompting their entourage to follow.

Lucien hangs back, trying to stop his mind from reeling. He shrugs off Tamlin’s supportive clap on the shoulder as he passes.

IV.

There’s been a lovely dinner prepared for the four of them, and Lucien does not think he could possibly bear it. He tells Tamlin he’s going to skip supper and retire early, feels Tamlin’s irritation gather like storm clouds.

“Elain will be there.” It’s not an order, but it sounds like one.

“I’m aware,” Lucien says. “But I’m not feeling well.” By which he means I would rather have the attor gnaw my arm off than my first real conversation with my mate be a performance for you to scrutinize. He supposes he could circumvent that—talk to Feyre, steal Elain for the half hour before the dinner, show her the gardens, perhaps. But something about that feels wrong. Doubtless she needs her sister’s company more than she needs his.

Tamlin and Lucien hold each other’s gaze for a moment, the push and pull of power tangible between them as Tamlin decides whether or not he’ll insist upon this.

“Very well,” he grunts, and Lucien tries not to exhale in relief too obviously. “I’m sure she’ll be disappointed.”

Alis is helping Feyre, of course, and now, by extension, Elain too. Elain asked to see you, she whispers to him later that night.

After dinner, Tamlin, mood dramatically improved (by Feyre’s wheedling, no doubt), had told him where Elain’s room was. It might have been innocent, a simple encouragement to get out of the way an inevitable conversation—but Tamlin had said it with a tone that suggested things other than conversation. As if Lucien didn’t feel sick enough about this entire situation already.

The manor feels like enemy territory now, something to sneak around in. There are too many guards, too many unfamiliar faces he passes on his way upstairs, too many eyes following him—but mercifully, the hallway in question is empty.

He knocks on the door, feeling like his hand moves of its own accord. He can hear her on the other side, can feel her nervousness spike at his knock, can anticipate the exact moment she cracks the door open. Is it going to be like this every time they make eye contact for the rest of eternity? A lightning bolt to Lucien’s chest?

She’s bathed, and now wears a soft white dressing gown; her dark gold hair gleams in the dim light. He doesn’t say anything, and neither does she. Instead she just retreats to sit on the bed, leaving the door open for him. Lucien lingers there after he closes it, unsure where it’s appropriate for him to go.

Elain tugs a blanket half on to her lap, her hands twisting it. She won’t quite look at him again—if he’s not mistaken, her eyes are a touch red, face just a little swollen. Her gaze darts here and there, and finally to a chair near the fireplace that she gestures to. “You can sit, if you like.”

He does, with slow, measured movements. He still doesn’t speak—there’s a thousand things he needs to ask her, but he wants her to go first. There is so little he can do for her, nothing that can possibly balance out the horrors she’s been thrust into, but he can give her this, he can surrender the power, the control, when they’re together.

“You weren’t at dinner,” she says finally. It’s not an accusation, just an observation. An acknowledgement that he was clearly meant to be and chose otherwise.

“Should I apologize?”

She plays with the edge of the blanket. “I was relieved, actually.”

It’s not an insult—just a confirmation that she thinks as he does. That this, this meeting, should belong to them, and them only. The bond throbs between them like a fresh wound; Lucien feels it the way you can feel a heartbeat in your own damaged flesh.

“How are you?” He asks. A clumsy question if there ever was one, ridiculously mundane given their circumstances. But they have to start somewhere.

She hesitates. Her fingers pick and pluck at the blanket. Is that a nervous habit? Every tiny motion, every detail, is magnified between them, and he wants to know everything about all of it. He wants to understand her, devour her in ways he hardly even understands.

She lets out a long breath, eyes half-lidded. There is something in her that is still a thousand miles away, or perhaps locked within her, behind a thousand layers of loss. “I’m… sad. That sounds silly, I know, but—“

“It doesn’t,” he says, softly, fiercely.

It falls quiet between them. The sounds of the spring court soften it, the crickets and frogs in the distance a reminder of life outside of this building that may as well be their prison.

“And how are you?” Elain says finally. His instinct is something flippant, something deflective. But he owes her more than that.

“I’m scared,” he says. It’s true in a dozen different ways, let her take her pick. He presses on haltingly, a prompt. “Feyre told me that you asked to come here.”

Something draws in around her eyes. “They wanted to send Nesta. they thought…” There’s a stray thread in the blanket, and she pulls at it, unravels it. “They thought I wasn’t strong enough. But I knew it should be me. I’m worth more, since I’m your mate; Rhys could drive a harder bargain with Tamlin.” She says it emotionlessly, like it’s not completely horrifying that Lucien has inadvertently turned her into a bargaining chip.

“And Nesta should stay in the Night Court,” she goes on. “They’ll teach her to fight. Cassian is there. She’ll be happy there, eventually, I think.”

And what about you? Lucien wants to ask.

“Lucien, I—“ Elain pauses. “There’s something I need you to know, about my being here. About my helping Feyre.”

Whatever Lucien expects her to tell him, it’s not what she does. Her hand goes to the necklace she’s wearing, which is half-hidden below the neckline of her nightgown.

“I’m going to pretend to fall in love with you.”

All the air goes out of the room. Lucien is so uncomprehending he’s sure he must have misheard her. “What?”

“I’m going to pretend to fall in love with you.” She’s looking at the floor, not at him; clearly it’s hard for her to say. But her voice is steady, older than her years. “We needs Tamlin thinking he’s winning, that he’s taken care of everything and it’s all falling into place. We need him relaxed and smug and stupid.”

Her eyes fasten on his, finally, and they both know he knows he understands her. The manor has become a dollhouse, and Feyre is arranging them all just so, to entertain a dangerous blonde child.

Elain’s voice is very quiet as she says “He got me for you.”

As though Elain is some kind of thing, like it’s Lucien who is a petulant child and Elain is a shiny toy that was purchased to placate him. It’s a repulsive thought, and the most painful part is that Lucien can’t deny it: of course that’s how Tamlin sees this. The parts of him that do it on instinct now grapple for some excuse, some lifeline to cling to, but the excuses for his behavior—for his mentality—slip further from Lucien’s grasp day by day.

“Or he thinks he did, anyway,” Elain goes on. If she “But Feyre and I need to let him keep thinking it. So I’m going to pretend to be happy and I’m going to pretend to fall in love with you.”

Lucien doesn’t have the faintest idea how to respond to that. It… makes sense, on a certain level; maybe he should have anticipated it, after seeing her play into Feyre’s facade this afternoon.

“More than anything, I hate to… ask you to play along. I know, Feyre told me, how much Tamlin means to you, how loyal you are to him..." She trails off, at a loss. "It's abominable of me to ask you to deceive him, but I—"

"But there's no other way," Lucien fills in softly.

“I’m sorry,” she says, so quiet that they’re less actual words than the suggestion of them, and Lucien is shaking his head—

“Don’t you dare be sorry,” he says. It comes out broken, a mess of all the things he needs to say to her. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I am sorry. About everything. About the bond, about how I’ve put you in danger because of it, about whatever part of me could have stopped all of this from happening and didn’t. About everything that’s happened to you and everything you feel like you have to do now because of it.”

Elain looks caught off guard by the sudden confession, her hand frozen gripping the charm of her necklace. The expression on her face is pain, but it’s not her own, it’s pain for him and that’s so much worse.

“I don’t blame you for anything, Lucien,” it’s pure compassion, raw and strained. “You know that, don’t you?”

He does. And it’s all but killing him. Anything, anything would be better than this. If she loathed and despised him it would still be better than this… resignation to her own misery, this gentle despair. Elain is as kind in suffering as she must be in joy: she does not blame anyone, her pain has not grown sharp edges and lashed out the way his would, the way most people’s would. It is just the opposite. In the gaping absence of her own happiness, she is still concerned with others’. With his, even though she does not know him, has every reason to resent him.

The bond lets him see Elain’s anguish and her goodness with such searing clarity it’s unbearable.

“Of course I’ll help you, Elain. Of course,” is all he says by way of answer.

Elain blinks rapidly, and Lucien realizes with a sickening lurch she’s teary-eyed again, and trying to hide it from him. There’s a matching rush of stifled embarrassment from the bond—does she even know he can feel her? Her mental shields don’t seem to be up; surely Rhysand taught her how to use them.

“It’s late,” he says, standing. There are still so many things he would ask her; he’s more confused than when he came, rather than less, but he’ll spare her what embarrassment he can. “I should go.”

Elain just nods, not looking at him again.

The bond crawls up his spine in dissatisfaction as he makes to leave rather than comfort her, rather than obliterate whatever made his mate upset. He ignores the instincts as best he can, but he has to pause at the door, ask her the one thing he cannot go another night without knowing.

“Elain, what…” He looks back at her. “What is it that you feel, of the bond?”

She sniffs slightly, her brow creasing. “Nothing… strong. Just something like a thread, I suppose. I can feel that it’s tied to you.” He remembers the way she stared at him, wet hair stuck to her forehead. “But nothing else.”

Lucien grips the door handle almost hard enough to break it, flush with simultaneous relief and terror. She doesn’t feel him with the raw, painful intensity that he does her, thank the cauldron, the bond has not snapped into place for her yet, but oh gods, it will, it will if they keep being around each other, she should never have come here, he shouldn’t be here right now—

“Goodnight, Elain,” he manages, before leaving her to her tears.

#acotar #acomaf #elucien #elain #lucien #WHEW #THIS IS #A THING THAT I MADE #THAT HURTS ME #mine

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