#HOPE IS ONLY A STEP BEHIND A CLEAR CONSCIENCE

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Just finished Strohl's follower line

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Fateful Beginnings

XXXII. “superglue”

parts: previous / next

plot: rumors spread about the circumstances of your interview with Bruce Wayne. You might have been more partial to each other than you realized…

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, depression, passive suicidality

words: 8.3k

a/n: it’s getting warmer in hereeee !! ahhh!!! this might be my favorite chapter yet!! as always I LOVE hearing what you think, please tell me everything!! <3

Watching the door close behind Bruce again, you felt a bruise forming.

All you’d done was check in on him, and he’d shunned you for it. Shut the door. Threw away the key. It was evident he wanted nothing to do with you.

Maybe it was all in your head—he hadn’t said he was done with you, he’d just… acted exasperated and absolutely finished with any semblance of your concern. How were you supposed to navigate that with only a week separating him and his attempt?

The phone buzzed in your hand. Dr. Crane. How were you going to navigate that while having to answer to someone else?

“Hey!”

Dr. Crane cleared his throat. “Ms. Y/L/N! Wanted to check in. Have you made contact with Mr. Wayne since we last spoke?”

“Yes.”

“And how is he?”

“Well, he said he was feeling bad. But he didn’t want to talk about it further.” It sounded worse than it was (at least you hoped it wasn’t so bad) so you pivoted. “He thanked me for helping him. He came over and cooked me some food a few days ago. We visited. Asked if I was okay. After seeing it.” You set the phone on the counter, taking a few steps back from it. Maybe if you spoke further away from the receiver, it would make the lie less painful. Make your conscience a little quieter.

“Hmm… anything since then?”

“Yeah, today. He visited again. To check in, I uh, I got in a tussle last night.” You winced at how it came out. Tussle? Really? You didn’t want him thinking he’d visited just to say ‘bad’ and then left. “That’s when he said he was feeling bad. But thanked me.” Your breath caught on the last sentence. You didn’t know if you’d ever be able to reveal it to Bruce, and you didn’t want to think about what he might do if he found out you’d been lying.

“I see a city hall meeting slated for this evening. Do you know if he’ll be in attendance?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Let me know after. We’re in the sweet spot for another issue.” He said it like the ‘issue’ was something as trivial and inconsequential as traffic on the way to the grocery store. You heard him typing on a keyboard in the background. “Are you aware of the side effects for the class of medication Mr. Wayne is on?”

“No.”

“In addition to assessing the state of his nervous system, I have a few more symptoms I want you to be on the lookout for. Rashes, fever, trouble breathing, fast heartbeat, seizures, uncontrolled movement of any part of his body, fainting, heat intolerance. Some of these are relatively benign, but I want to be kept informed if you gather any of that happening. Alright?”

You’d taken as many notes as you could while he spoke, and had zero concept of how you would know about most of those. Bruce could probably make fainting look intentional, or play it off before anyone could notice.

It was a short call, and he prompted you to trust your gut before signing off.

Showering was annoying; the Tylenol had taken the brunt of the pain away, though your head still ached when you delicately massaged shampoo against it. You had your phone in a baggie sitting on a ledge of the shower in case you slipped. You wished Mar could’ve stayed for you to shower, to make sure you were alright. Part of you was surprised she had stayed until you woke up. If you’d slept another hour, would she have left with Gianna? Would she even have left a note?

While you toweled off you tried to boil down the last 24 hours to something tangible. Mar had nearly been assaulted. You’d both gotten fucked up. Bruce had saved you. Mar had seen Bruce. Mar knew Bruce. Mar thought you and Bruce were together. Bruce knew she knew that, as far as you knew. The phone sat in the baggie on the bathroom counter, holding all of its secrets. You got out your blow dryer and started in on your soaked hair with one hand while the other scanned the video.

At 4:18 in the morning, Mar had emerged from your room. You turned up the volume, barely edging out the roar of the dryer.

“Hey.” She rubbed her eyes and walked to the medicine cabinet. You could only see her back from this POV. Bruce stood up to help, but waited. She pulled something out of a cabinet and he spoke. “Tylenol is better.” Bruce left frame for only a second, and returned with the bottle of it from where you laid on the couch. They exchanged bottles and you heard the sink run for a second.

You couldn’t see either of their faces, just their torsos, only hearing their voices. Mar was situated by the sink on the opposite side of the island. Bruce stood on the other by the middle stool. She didn’t let there be much silence.

“Where did you meet Y/N?”

“City Hall. She asked me for an interview.”

Oh, it felt strange hearing someone talk to him about you. To hear him talking about you. Couldn’t tell if you liked it or hated it.

“Why’d you accept her interview?”

He waited a few seconds, and from knowing her, you knew she was about to drill him if he didn’t speak. You wondered if he sensed it too, and that was why he was being forthright. “The timing aligned. I declined them for so long, people stopped asking. Worked out with the graduation speech.”

Mar’s tone was cold, investigative. She sounded a lot like she had back at Mora’s. Not wanting to deal with nonsense. You figured they were cut out for each other, if Bruce was cut out for anyone. They both didn’t give a fuck what anyone thought. If they had a goal, they didn’t mind being pegged an asshole on the way to meeting it. “All the way back in Spring, huh? Interesting.” You heard a slurp of some water.

“How did you and Y/N meet?” It was so fucking weird to have him talking conversationally. Lightly. Politely. Couldn’t be more out of character. You had an itch to start a spreadsheet of all his different personas.

“College. We took some sociology classes together. When did you ask her out?”

AH! She was so nosy. Your stomach clenched. “I haven’t.”

“She’s just gonna tell me tomorrow if you don’t.”

“We’re not together.”

“Whatever pact you guys made, I respect it, but I’m not a fucking fool.” Pact. At least she was making it seem like you were saying the same things he was.

“There must have been a miscommunication.” He sighed.

“What are your intentions? None of that bullshit stands here. I have a really good radar.” Her face moved slightly into frame, a glare set as she gave him a once-over. “If it’s just to fuck she needs to know that, man.”

You could’ve wrung her neck.

“It’s business.” If he was exasperated, his voice didn’t give him away. He was getting better at this.

“Fine. Keep your fuckin secrets. But if you mess her up, I don’t give a fuck who you are, or how many lawyers you have. I know who you are, Bruce Wayne, and I will not hesitate to use my voice to send you into the darkest pits of hell.”

“Noted.” Spoken genuinely, without sass. You mused on how he might’ve said it to you, and smirked.

“I won’t hesitate to fuck you up. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to fucking sleep.”

Bruce sat at the table, far enough away from the lens that you couldn’t make out his expression. He sat there on his phone for the next few hours until Mar entered again. It was hard to scrub while heat stung the back of your head, but you were forced to multitask.

“Did you even sleep?” It was like she was talking to someone completely normal; no worry about if he might hurt her, yell at her, no dancing around it like he was a stranger. The same framing situation: only able to hear their voices and see their torsos.

“I stay up late.”

Mar muttered something you couldn’t make out. He spoke again. “How are you doing? Y/N said you might have been drugged.” You hadn’t gotten used to him saying your name.

“You don’t have to act concerned because you’re fucking my friend.”

You nearly dropped the hair dryer, the hot metal grazing between your fingers as it slacked in your grip. Jesus fucking fuck. You wished more than anything you could crawl into his thoughts. “I wanted to check in. It’s a fucked up thing to go through.”

She paused. She actually paused. When she spoke again, her tone was gentler. “Not the first time it’s happened. And this time nothing actually happened.” She scoffed. “Piece of shit. He was acting so fucking nice at the bar, I should’ve known something was up.”

“You took his behavior at face-value. No blame in that.” Damn, an actually nice sentiment.

“Thanks for last night.” She uncrossed her arms and started rummaging by the phone, which was by the pantry. Bruce spoke unprompted. “Someone from the GCPD should be in contact within the next 48 hours. For your statement.”

Mar scowled. “Love doing those.” She’d done one before? She sighed. “Have you eaten?”

“I’m good. Thanks.”

“Well, I’m gonna make pancakes.”

“I can help, if you’d like.”

“Trying to impress me?”

Bruce didn’t respond. They didn’t speak again until you heard a rustle by the couch; probably you adjusting. “How is she?”

Bruce’s voice was dryer now, and you watched him reach for the dregs of his energy drink. “Seems fine. Pupils are reactive, she’s oriented to time and place.”

“What are you, a doctor or something?”

“Special interest.”

You grinned knowing the real reason. Nah, he’s just Batman. You’re not only talking to Bruce Wayne right now, you’re talking to a vigilante. She’d probably shit herself.

As soon as she had finished making breakfast and sat at the table opposite him, she started asking the frivolous questions. You felt a bit jealous of her. Getting to talk to someone she perceived as a celebrity without all the baggage, without all the fear. It might have been interesting, cool, fun. Regardless of if you thought he deserved it, or any ideological ick you got from his upbringing and social status, he lived a life entirely out of reach, kept exclusively behind a locked curtain. His life was the carrot on a stick dangling in front of every American chasing The Dream. He didn’t make it seem very fun. “What’s it like to be a billionaire?”

“I don’t think about it much. Lots of financial meetings.”

“You grew up in it so of course you don’t think about it.” A pause. You almost laughed thinking about what she was probably… “You wouldn’t miss a couple thousand, would you?” … yup. A laugh actually did escape you. As frustrating as it was to be on the receiving end of her questioning, it was decidedly enthralling to watch her do it to someone else. She took another bite and prattled more. “Nice disguise. Is it weird to have paparazzi follow you? It sounds annoying as fuck.”

“Certainly makes things more difficult.”

“What do you even do? Up in your tower, I mean. I don’t ever hear of any parties there.”

“Mostly keep to myself. Travel some. Prying eyes only got worse after my parents. Didn’t want to deal with it.”

“Damn, that’s right. Makes sense.” She finished her plate in thoughtful silence.

She put her plate away and offered some food to Bruce. At this point you looked at the recording and saw the time was one in the afternoon, just two hours before you’d woken up. He walked to the kitchen and grabbed a few pancakes, dry. In less than a minute his plate was clean.

Mar had gone back to your bedroom, telling him she was taking a nap. “Let me know when she wakes up.”

The next time you saw any movement was when Mar had made a slice of toast before speaking to you. You stopped the video when you heard her calling your name. You finished your hair, mindlessly combing through the strands, fretful about if she would ever put the pieces together herself. Black paint around his eyes. Good at fighting. Hell, she’d even said the word disguise! Why was it so clear to you, and no one else?

Between skincare steps, you’d perused Scypher, where you by far had the most notifications. It was soon evident why Mar hadn’t put two and two together: the people of Gotham thought Bruce Wayne no more than a reclusive drug addict. Maybe Bruce hadn’t had to put on the playboy show at all; everyone was already thrown off his scent.

He probably shoots heroin up in his ivory tower

swear i saw him buy on the east side

another rich scumsucker off his rocker

Then came conversations you were mentioned in. Your eyes widened at the sheer mass of them, and how cruelly they painted you. A particular thread stood out, having garnered tens of thousands of likes.

No one has talked about this STUDENT JOURNALIST — to me there’s no way someone like that would get the first pick. My sister works in editing and says people have been trying to get an interview with him for twenty years. What are we thinking, chat?

There was a poll attached that had thousands of hits. ‘See Results’ showed you that between Fucked Him, Scripted, or Both, most people had chosen… both.

The replies were especially heinous.

Is ‘sucked off his limp cock’ an option ? cant imagine the man has any stamina anymore with all that fucking dope. The man had an NFT profile picture and ‘your mom’ in his bio. Stellar. You’d been tagged right below it. what does @youruser think about this?

Someone had answered in place of you, coming off so high and mighty you had to put the phone down before reading more responses to it.

She got bought off. Scripted responses and interview. Wayne Enterprises didn't want stocks to go down. That's why they couldn't get a real journalist, no one would agree to that unethical mess. Screams litigious. Probably signed an NDA anyway with his fuckass company

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this tracks. aint pretty enough to bargain that way. less then mid if were being honest. females only care about $$$ anyway, he could pull any one if that was it

You put the phone down. It didn’t matter. You had a life to get back to.

You couldn’t be bothered to wear heels tonight, but you needed to wear something dressy; you stared a little too long at the mirror before tugging on your dress, a haze of insecurity swooping over you. You forced yourself to walk away.

You had to stay off your phone, save calls. You turned off notifications for everything besides, noting Dr. Vry had called you earlier. She’d left a voicemail detailing that there were another hundred-fifty School of Journalism applicants. Apparently, before your interview, they’d only gotten around forty-eight a year.

Outfitted in a pair of old loafers and your same dress, hoping it didn’t look too haphazard a combination, you grabbed your PRESS badge, notepad, pen, and recorder. You tucked your ID and other personal things under your dress and into your shorts pocket. If you didn’t feel like total ass, you could’ve imagined you were a spy. Jetting off to the Meeting of the Elite to uncover clues and inquire between the lines. A resentful, anxious, overwhelmed, stubborn spy. It couldn’t have felt less magical.

You shook off the past week, the past summer, the past year. Bruce Wayne wasn’t your life, he was a minuscule part of it. No longer would you let him take over your brain space—his life was his, yours was yours. As massive a secret you held, as bizarre as it was to be on a first-name basis with a modern Kennedy, you had your own life to attend to. Interviews to conduct, business to get to, truth to find. For the first time in months, you began to feel a bit hopeful as you left your apartment. If Bruce showed up tonight. If not you would literally panic. You willfully ignored the contradiction, just as you ignored the nagging thought that this newfound hope was a fleeting attempt at coping.

Gotham was normal. Cloudy, smoggy skies. It was easy on your aching head. Flickering street lamps as the evening light got ready to wane were not, however. The bustle of the people on the sidewalks, the cracked concrete, the glimmering potholes that had every other driver making a face as they slammed into them. Everything was the same as it had always been. You walked past the same people on their same commute. Saw the same taxis pass. The walking sign on the left was still out of order, murdered by kids sticking their gum into the crevices.

You kept to your usual space, the furthest to the right you could possibly get without scraping your arms against the jagged—sometimes bloody—brick, or stepping in someone’s vomit. You recalled your first month here when you’d had to hold your breath for most of your walks. Breathing ‘fresh’ air here was like gulping someone’s rancid morning breath.

The walk to City Hall wasn’t long, but it was annoying. Cobbled streets, men who wouldn’t move out of the way even if they took up the entire sidewalk. Most of your shirt sleeves had snags from being squeezed against the sides of buildings on walks like these. You had half a mind to kick a dirty puddle at them whenever they forced you to the margins. You didn’t want to double your concussion.

The air was teasing you with autumn; a few excited trees plopped leaves for your feet to crunch, though there weren’t many of them in the area. The city was mechanical, industrial. Something as sensitive and nurturing as foliage didn’t have a place here. One time you’d seen a dandelion growing out of a concrete mound and you’d cried. Maybe you’d been unhappy here longer than you’d thought. That had been in the second month.

As you walked the last stretch of blocks, your destination sitting just in the distance, that hopeful, determined version of you dwindled. You thought about if he didn’t show up, and if he did. You thought about how unfairly singular your life was. You thought about that a lot lately.

On Tuesday, to pass the time, you’d read through Bruce’s interview responses again. This time had been a lot more painful. You’d forgotten about it in the flurry of the attack, but you’d sat with your notebook for hours. Looking at the way he wrote his letters, the Gs in particular, written with a long tail that folded in on itself, seeing the grains of the paper indented in black streaks. It made you feel better holding his writing. It made his being alive feel more real. You wanted to know more about his family camping trip. Where had he gone? Where had he traveled to? Where did he want to go that he hadn’t yet?

It was his loneliness. You smelled the burning sting of it on every page and it attracted you like a moth to flame. It was never written outright, but it was strong subtext, as clear to you as him candidly naming his nerves. It felt exceedingly intimate reading back even his most playboy responses, the hindsight of his desire to die blanching every pen stroke.

This city was brutally lonely, and everyone was so desperate not to feel it. People clustered to fragile friend groups full of superficial conversation, filled their bodies with substances, stayed out all night not daring to slow down otherwise the world might fall apart. All you were was slow. All you did was think, and feel, and think again.

You’d had a lot of time on Tuesday to think about his attempt. You had a horrifying feeling of jealousy about it. You never let your mind sit there too long. It wasn’t normal to feel that way. Reminiscing on the places depression had taken you always made you feel incredible shame. Its vice grip in the middle of the night, three in the morning, when the world was quiet and asleep, but you were so painfully, entirely awake. It was why you’d come to Gotham in the first place. This city never slept.

A masochistic part of you, as you carefully labeled it, thought that Bruce might be the only person in your life who truly understood despair. He’d come face to face with it. It had nearly won out he’d let it come so close. He was willing to show his sadness. Willing to sit in it. Willing to marinate in it, really.

“He doesn’t like to show it, but compassion comes easily to him.” Alfred’s voice punctuated your contemplation. Even if it was out of guilt, Bruce had stayed with you all night; and by the looks of the video, he’d stayed fully awake for it, even with nothing to hold his attention save whatever the hell he had on his phone. Mar had left before asking you how you were—Bruce made sure to ask. Possibly because he could handle it. Probably because he’d acclimated to pain. Your mind wandered to more projections.

Gabbi, Lara, and Rose hadn’t been able to handle the good you, the best behavior you. Your dad never wanted to talk about the reality of your mother’s sickness. Couldn’t even say the word cancer. Your mom didn’t want to dwell, either, and Debbie… she was an emotional wreck. If you stepped on a crack in the sidewalk she might burst into tears, lamenting on how she missed her mother, her father, her old pair of shoes. You’d always been the one to calm her down growing up. The one to hold it when no one could. Bruce seemed like he might be able to hold it. Engage with it. When you argued, he argued back. It wasn’t lost on you how he’d asked about your mom last Thursday when you’d started crying. You felt a lump forming in your throat. He couldn’t actually give a fuck, could he?

Perhaps you were propping him up on a pedestal, delirious from being forced to orbit around him for the past 168 hours. You weren’t exactly comparing him to the world’s finest communicators. His version of handling things was to storm off, deflect. His version of handling things was to argue. His handling things was violent, aggressive, impulsive. And, you thought wistfully, you were actively in the throes of suicide watch. He was everything and nothing all at once.

The steps were easier to climb in loafers, each step jolting you back to time and place. Why the hell had you ever tried to fit in and wear anything different? You tallied how much money you had left, wondering if you could afford a trip to Target for some slacks and a sweater. City Hall was exceptionally busy, even for being only five minutes early. Conversation appeared buzzier tonight; caterers were already handing out dozens of drinks. People were usually more subdued at this point. What had happened?

When you fully stepped inside (instead of just peering through the side window like a dork), every head snapped to you, the din going calm. A few people rolled their eyes, or sighed, and went back to their conversations, but some people continued to stare, leaning in to whoever was nearby to mutter something. You struggled not to squint as the lights pouring from the chandeliers bored a hole into your skull.

You went to your usual place of refuge, near the middle of the back wall, opposite the appetizers and wine where most clustered. Except… there was a group standing now, with PRESS badges in varying fonts, sizes, pins and lanyards. Some had beautiful cameras with lenses that begged to be inspected, adored. As far as you knew, the Gazette only had one Canon you could rent out, limited to once per term per person. Stingy.

“Y/N Y/L/N, is that right?” A gorgeous blonde woman with gleaming veneers and impeccably styled 70s curls held out a manicured hand for you to take. You took it, your hand threatening to go limp when you noticed the VOGUE logo braided into her lanyard. “Eva Reveé, chief staff writer. I read your interview with Mr. Wayne, it was such a pleasure.” You swallowed hard. You felt supremely underdressed. Understood why people had rolled their eyes at your entry. A mousey small-town wannabe student journalist scoring one of the most sought-after jobs in the industry. You wanted to sink into the floor and disappear.

“Yes. Y/N.” You smiled and did a small laugh, trying to act like you weren’t talking to someone who worked at fucking Vogue. She flashed another smile at you. “You are just the cutest.” Patronizing. “Get a chance to read my email yet? I am sure your inbox is positively flooded right now.”

You turned red. You needed to remember to upgrade foundation when you came to events, a tint wasn’t nearly enough to camouflage your nerves. “I haven’t, I’m so sorry.”

“You’re perfectly fine. I was only wanting to chat about your experience interviewing him! Potentially get some ins for other journalists like myself. We were all chatting before you arrived and were so impressed you were able to score a high-profile case for your first publishing.”

You didn’t like her tone, but you were probably just irritable after the concussion. To play up the awe, or play up the professionalism? Shortchange yourself or prop yourself up? You opened your mouth to speak, but then everyone gasped, hushedly. Before turning your head, you knew Bruce Wayne had just entered the building.

“Mr. Wayne!”

“Are you alright?”

“Your accident looked horrible.”

“What caused it?”

“Didn’t think you’d be here.”

Eva and the other journalists all inched toward him, eyes bright and ravenous. Glancing at him was a bit painful, more than it had been earlier when you were already desperate to escape his gaze, but you needed to assess—you quickly realized this was, in fact, the very worst type of event for you to get any true read on him. He’d never been more on than in this room every week. How were you ever supposed to assess his mental state when he was putting on a show between these four walls?

Last night was far from written on him, not even smudged. He had no bags under his eyes, they were clear and engaged, his posture was tall and at ease. Even his voice, when he spoke, had been relieved of its crackles. It was like the past 24 hours had been a ghost. The only evidence of his attempt were some scratches on his neck and jaw, and scabs on his hand. They already looked better than they had a few hours ago. You imagined a team coming to Wayne Tower to do some fancy makeup over his injuries. The image was hilarious, but faded faster than it ever had before. Usually you adored watching Bruce squirm, even if it was relegated to your imagination, but you saw through it. I feel nervous before every event, he’d written. I don’t like crowds.

“Folks,” Bruce walked toward the center of the room and clapped his hands together, holding them tightly at his waist. The room orbited around him, the audience going still listening to his words. It was eerie. You’d never seen him have this much control over a group. “I’ve heard a lot of discussion surrounding my accident this past Friday.” He seemed to make eye contact with everyone at the same time. “I want to reassure everyone that I am okay. By the grace of God and the incredible team at Gotham General, I’ve been healing wonderfully.” He paused and looked around the perimeter of the room again. His eyes flit onto yours, and held for a second too long. He blinked and continued, and you exhaled when he released you.

“Many people are speculating that substances were involved. I want to assure everyone in here—and outside of it—” He gestured toward you and the throng of press. “That is not the case. I take the safety of my fellow citizens very seriously.” He let that sit. “I have a penchant for fixing up old cars.” He did a dry chuckle. “On a test drive around Tower grounds, my steering went out. Thus, the tree.” He was referring to the viral photo of his car nearly entirely wrapped around a thick oak tree. You gulped.

Some people mumbled, a few grumbled. Bruce stood taller, straightening the last few discs in his spine. “I was disappointed to see how far I have left to go with the residents of this city, though I understand it. I hardly leave my parent’s estate for twenty years, and now I’m in campaigns, given a voice in the election for Gotham’s mayor, and it’s only been a few months.” People’s shoulders were beginning to drop. “I’ve forgotten that though I’ve been in the public psyche, that doesn’t mean we know each other, and it certainly does not foster trust. The reactions to my accident this week have been eye-opening. I’m excited to start working with you all, and the city, to build that trust in the first place. Being Thomas and Martha Wayne’s son is a ticket into a lot of rooms, let me tell you.” Leaning a bit more playboy rich kid. “But I realized you don’t really know me, and I don’t really know you. I want to bridge that gap with this campaign season, and beyond.”

Some people nodded, less grumbles. You were absolutely mesmerized by this version of Bruce. He commanded the room flawlessly, like every syllable was a meticulous sculpture, but made everything also seem casual, off the cuff. Alfred had to have given him public speaking lessons. This was jarring. Somehow knowing precisely what to say and how to say it to lend public favor, but making it look humble, unassuming. Without a lick of nervousness.

Right then, you remembered you hadn’t turned on your recorder. This was a part of the meeting, and a massive conversation right now. You’d have to report on it. You looked down to start fiddling with it, but the REC button was stuck.

“Hopefully, that began with the publishing of Ms. Y/L/N’s interview with me last Sunday.” He both looked at and gestured toward you, the room following his hand like a cat to a laser. You went still, frozen, with your hands clutching the plastic, as a hundred or more eyes, elite eyes, powerful eyes, fixed on you. Analyzed you. Judged you. It took all your power to grin and not faint. It felt like the entire world was in this room, and in a way, it was.

“It was a great honor, and I want to publicly thank Ms. Y/L/N for handling it with utmost tact, integrity, and humor. She could not have provided a more professional, comfortable experience. We are truly indebted to the hardworking, prodigious talent of our university graduates.” He turned back to the room, consequently removing his grip on your neck. “Now, enough about me.” He held his hands up. “Let’s all enjoy tonight.”

You felt like you were buzzing; the room quieted, noise fading to the background. The sensitivity in his eyes before he’d looked away, the firmness of his words, he must have been briefed on the conversations online. You headed into the conference room when Mr. Convoy propped open the doors.

As Bruce walked away, he hoped he had stilled the criticisms hurtling toward you. Alfred had informed him upon his very late arrival back at Wayne Tower that the internet was lit up after the accident, and that it had catapulted the critique of you (and him) from the fringes into the forefront. He’d gone on the Wayne Enterprises account to see some of the conversation, but quickly had to abandon it before typing something that would’ve made everything catastrophically worse. He hadn’t been in any mood to think about you, or to think about anything, but he couldn’t stop himself fuming until the very second the words had left his mouth in front of the group. Even now, as he followed after your lead into the conference room, every step was straddling a mine. His contact lenses irritated his dry eyes after staying up so long, and it didn’t help that this was the first time wearing them to City Hall. He wasn’t looking forward to having to replay that speech later.

The first thing he did after sitting down was scan the room for you. His eyes moved to the righthand corner, where you always stood with your notebook and pen. The lurch of panic cinched his chest until he saw you nestled in with the other reporters in the back left, just barely out of peripheral view.

Convoy started the meeting the usual way, sprinkling in some good vibrations toward Bruce and his continued healing. As he explained why the candidates had not come this evening (“They are getting ready for their first respective rallies. At the meeeting’s end, we will go over the election calendar.”), Bruce fought the urge to shift his chair toward you. He wanted to check your face and see if you were okay. He was shocked you’d shown up tonight; you’d barely been able to look out the curtained window at the filtered, low light without visceral wincing. Had you only come to check on him? He wanted to dead that. How could he do that without talking to you? Was he not going to talk to you anymore?

His mind argued with itself the rest of the meeting, distracting him entirely from its content. An innocent, passing thought interrupted his ruminations and the pros and cons lists he’d drawn up to interrogate himself: he’d just talk to you after the meeting and you’d bring him up to speed about what happened. That thought felt like the first nail in the coffin; his body was already instinctively reaching toward you, trusting you.

By the time Convoy had started listing the tentative schedule for the campaign rallies, he knew he had to lock in. This… fondness he felt toward you…

He visibly grimaced. He was tired, no, exhausted. Coming up on thirty-six hours without sleep, on new meds… gah! He felt the exasperation in his bones. It wasn’t fondness, it was illusive familiarity, when in reality: he didn’t know you, even if he felt like he did, and you didn’t know him, even if you felt like you did. You’d blackmailed him. You’d done an interview. You’d saved him. You’d visited him. You’d argued, caretaken, whined, and promised, and threatened, and talked to him. That was all.

He was crushed by guilt. He’d traumatized someone. He told himself he’d feel the same way if it had happened to anyone else. He felt responsible for cleaning up the mess he’d made of you. But as he glanced behind him to see you nonchalantly scrawling something between college-ruled lines, he couldn’t read any distress in you at all. Still, the need to save you remained.

You looked at him right then. Your eyes explored the injuries on his hands, then traveled to his chest. Still vigilant. Still worried. He didn’t know if you knew he was watching you. He considered having a final conversation about it all; express his thanks, reassure you he was—he suppressed a groan— prioritizing safety, and be done with it, but exploring the guilt with you would only keep it in the present. He’d just have to grit his teeth and bear it. Let the time pass without fiddling with it. Let your wound scab over. He wouldn’t be doing you a service picking at it.

He focused instead on how he’d handle Batman going forward. He could plan well into the night, concentrate this energy toward something useful. He’d need new protocol; he’d have to talk to Alfred about developing a second distress signal; one that was for mental things, not about to bleed out, come rescue. His throat threatened to close whenever he thought about it. How his brain wasn’t reliable. The fabric of reality would fall apart around him if he thought too much about it right then. If he thought about it at all, ever.

“Didn’t think you were the religious type.”

Bruce turned to the left again and saw you closing your notebook. You looked normal; loafers instead of heels, though. Smart. Wouldn’t want to risk falling again. Tiny glance about the immediate area, and he leaned in ever so slightly. “Gotta get on their good side somehow.”

Why did he lean in? Why did he listen to his body pulling closer to you? You’d caused this. You’d decided to talk to him, after he’d made himself clear. You rolled your eyes. When you looked back up at him, you squinted. Christ, if you were able to see his lenses too… You squeezed your eyes shut and brought your fingers up to massage your temple. It didn’t relieve his worry. “Just wanted to touch base. Surprised you came tonight.”

“Couldn’t not.” He led the both of you toward the door, stopped right before the doorway, and leaned down to ‘fix’ his shoe. He lowered his voice, pretending to wrangle a knot out of his shoelace. “I saw what they’re saying online. You and I can’t be seen together.”

“I didn’t know it would be so… aggressive. I’ve only seen a bit of it.”

He was surprised you were. Always a pessimist, and you seemed to know much more about the social landscape than he did. Every single reaction you had eluded him, further solidifying you as a lock he couldn’t pick. He stood up and pretended to fix his hair. You weren’t looking at him, instead eyeing the ground as if wanting to speak. “What?” It wasn’t a conscious decision to egg you on, but, he’d done it.

“You don’t want it.”

“Pity?”

“Concern.” You tucked the notebook into your armpit and flipped your hair over your shoulder to get it out of your face. You got quieter, barely audible. Your eyes were all over the place, everywhere except him. “Are you sure you’re safe?”

His heart began to pound. The time to have the conversation had been thrust upon him, opportunity presenting itself on a silver platter. Maybe this wasn’t picking the scab, but applying ointment. His eyes latched onto the room you’d used last week, and he hid his next sentence under a cough. “Go to the bathroom.” He yawned. “Room from last week in five minutes.”

You left, your dress flouncing behind you, and he set out to find Convoy. After a seconds-long conversation about needing to make a ‘private call’, he’d gotten the man to open the room. “Make sure to lock it on your way out, Mr. Wayne.”

Now that he was alone in the room, he felt unsettled. This decision was impulsive, but necessary. The playing field needed to be leveled, in whatever way possible. The record set straight. A million other phrases and idioms whizzed around his thoughts, trying to come up with an itinerary. He needed to be grateful for what you’d done. What you’d witnessed. Sure, it was fucked up that you’d initially blackmailed him to get the interview, but the interview was assisting his public persona. He had to do one sometime. As much as he hated to admit it due to how uncomfortable it was to be known, it wasn’t your fault that you’d noticed it was him. He’d met a few people as both Bruce and Batman, in passing—as much or more than you had, and you’d deduced it.

You probably wouldn’t have stayed in his house if the flooding hadn’t happened. You’d seemed horrified at the prospect, remembering your gasp from across the table as he’d slammed himself out of the chair. You’d been rude, and intrusive, but you hadn’t committed any cardinal sins. And the elephant in the room: you’d watched him attempt to end his life. You’d seen him hit the ground. You’d gotten him help. He was sure that was etched into your memory like a scar. He had to be appreciative of that, and for calling Alfred in the alley, or he’d ruminate on it for the rest of his fucking life. Whatever guilt was eating him up, he needed to excise it to get back on his way. He needed to be the scalpel, detangling all the gluey tissue and muscle joining the both of you. So your thoughts wouldn’t ever wander back to him. So his thoughts wouldn’t ever wander back to you.

A crucial aspect of that was setting up expectations for future interaction. Unless you were leaving tomorrow, he’d have to see you again, here, every week, indefinitely. With public scrutiny at an all-time high, and you both getting wrapped up in vigilance for one another, everything was getting too complicated. You’d become entangled in his life, and his yours, to a lesser degree. Unless you were also a vigilante in your respective hometown, he didn’t think he could get caught up with you the same way. He needed to make you free of him. You were worried. He needed to soothe that worry, firmly, thoroughly, so that you might start keeping to yourself. You’d meant to leave last week, anyway. It appeared safe to assume the only reason you’d stayed was because of him.

Five minutes. He did a quick scan of the room with the watch on his wrist. The exterior was luxury, but he’d swapped all the internal components to check for bugs. The room was cleared in about five seconds. He let his shoulders drop.

When you entered the room his thoughts exited. The door clicked shut. The only light Bruce could chance keeping on was a lamp in the corner by a stray podium. He was being risky enough talking with you here, he didn’t need to draw more attention, but it was hard to see your face clearly. Also elusive: that his night-oriented vision served him in every other circumstance, but not with you. He gestured for you to sit down, and you did. He cleared his throat. “I wanted to talk with you.”

You looked afraid again. You looked like you were expecting him to lay out an imminent plan of taking his own life. Appreciation. Reassurance. Goodbye. “I left abruptly earlier. I wanted to reassure you I am safe, and I have no plans to take my own life or anyone else’s.”

He realized he’d been looking slightly above you, not at you, and dropped his gaze to your eye-level. You were squirming. Breathing too fast. He continued, choking back the grief that suddenly threatened to annihilate his body. The words came out of him with robotic monotony. “I promise that I am prioritizing safety. I’m adding a new distress signal into my suit. Keeping up on medication. Checking in with Alfred. I promise I will keep doing that.”

It was the lenses. He didn’t want to relive this. “Thank you for helping me. I mean it. From the bottom of my heart.” His jaw was starting to tremble, and he prayed you wouldn’t notice. He watched helplessly as your eyes glazed over. Fuck. Why did this feel so distressing? Grueling? Why was he starting to sweat? Long stakeouts, heated fights, he’d never been stricken by such apprehension. But you were shaking. And it stamped an ache onto his heart in a shape he’d never felt before.

You were so fucking close to blurting it out. You were trembling in an attempt to contain the lie clawing its way out of you, tooth and nail. I didn’t see it. I only said so so you might stay alive one more day. The words wouldn’t come, yet they couldn’t remain. It was a fucking prison.

Outside of him thanking you for effectively lying, it was evident this was the last time he wanted to talk to you. It was clear he was annoyed by you. That your concern and care wasn’t warm or cozy, it was sharp and inhospitable. A strange sensation settled into you. It was your first year of undergrad. Your boyfriend of three months had packed his car to head home with you for the holidays. You’d gone about four miles until you stopped in front of Lara’s house. He handed you a note. “I want you to read this.” He hadn’t even been able to say it to your face, speeding off right after he handed you a backpack of your things.

At least Bruce was looking you in the eye while he shed you.

You rid the comparison from your mind. You’d thought you were falling in love with that guy. You’d been infatuated with him from the moment you’d met. Bruce was just… Bruce. The only feelings you felt toward him were frustration, guilt, anxiety, and all of it was flooding you now. The mind was simple sometimes. Trying to find patterns even if they weren’t there, overlaying memories. Trying to make meaning out of a meaningless life.

You and him had formed a strange, flimsy, temporary camaraderie, if you could even call it that. He’d helped you, you’d helped him. He’d hurt you, you’d hurt him. He worried about you. You worried about him. Becoming intertwined in each other’s lives in secret, specific ways; suddenly, without asking. Moreso than camaraderie, you’d been in cahoots. Knowing something no one else knew was intimate, but not inherently special. Like a dollar store superglue. It got the job done of sticking things together, but the bond was easily broken apart, leaving a bunch of residue no one wanted. Whatever weird fairytale of connection sat dying in the pit of your stomach shouldn’t have existed in the first place. Before today, it hadn’t even reared its ugly, confused head.

You hadn’t realized he’d gotten a call until you heard his voice lower to a gravelly hue. You moved your eyes to look at him, unblurring your vision by focusing on the phone pressed to his ear. “Can they give it to him?” A pause. Whoever he was talking to, they knew him as Batman. It was uncanny seeing him speak like that dressed in polished Dior. You instinctively spun your chair around to look at the door, making sure it was closed. On the swivel back, you noticed his gaze slip away from you as you scooted back to the table’s edge.

“I’ll check it out.” Click. He got up and pushed his chair in. You followed suit. “What is it?”

“Miller made bail. Said something on the way out about security footage.” He was already nearing the door. It took you longer than you liked to recognize the name. Your brain was mush.

“I thought you said you were taking a break this week,” There you were, going right back to abandoned houses, bitter friends, empty fields.

He pushed past you, but stalled right after. “Tell your friend to stay away from the neighborhood until his trial. You too.”

“Bruce.”

He adjusted to face you and you took a stuttered step back, way too close for comfort. So close you could smell the detergent on his clothes, see the setting shine in his hair as it dried from a recent shower. The microscopic speck of black he’d missed by his tear duct. “We don’t need to do this anymore.”

You opened your mouth to protest but nothing came out; his eyes dropped to it for a half second before resuming domineering eye contact. You felt faint. “Don’t make this difficult.” His biting enunciation made your eyes narrow. So heartless, and for what? But it didn’t hold. I see right through you. His sensitivities were scrawled on the walls of your mind in sloping, hurried letters.

You both drew a deep breath at the same time, forcing the both of you to turn your head and avert your gaze. The only sound in the room was too fast, too shallow breathing. He turned around abruptly, whacking you with his cologne.

The room’s oxygen had been replaced with smoke. At last, facing the door he could gulp down a breath. He kept a tight rein on his tone so the ebbs of adrenaline rushing through him wouldn’t taint it. “Stay in here for a few minutes, lock it on your way out. Get a ride.” He grabbed the doorknob and walked out calmly, every muscle in his legs frenzied for him to sprint off. He smiled his way through the foyer and out to the valet. His sweaty palms left prints on the steering wheel as he drove off.

He needed to sleep. Staying awake so long had made him hysterical.

[taestarii]

hello! i was wondering if you could write a part 2 for your moonjo fic “admirer”, i really enjoyed reading it, especially your portrayal of the reader and how she didn’t let herself be a victim and gained the upper hand on him. would love to see how a second part will turn out and if they’ll reveal their true intentions to one another and end up together or not. and it would be interesting to read how moonjo reacts to that last part of the fic as well. perhaps, you could make the reader have a dark character just like him? only if it’s not too much trouble ofc. also i hope that you have nice day or night :)

thank you so much for the request! i'm so glad you liked the fic, i need more moonjo lovers

i apologize in advance because i struggled trying to figure out how to continue it 😭

☽ admirer pt. 2 - seo moonjo

[seo moonjo x reader]

synopsis - after y/n catches moonjo, he sees her darkside

warning! blood, slightly spicy content, moonjo

link to request

"How did you figure it out, admirer?"

Moonjo was surprised, but not as much as he was turned on. He liked this dark side, the twist on the sweet, ordinary girl he spent his days pining for.

"You learn a lot from months of watching someone." You slid off the pristine white counter and set the scalpel down. "Now, mind telling me why you were about to kill me?" The atmosphere seemed to grow thicker as Moonjo thought about his answer. The anesthetic in his hand was weighing on his conscience, the question still remained.

Why? Why was he about to kill her? Was it because she was a detriment to the Eden Residence, or a detriment to him?

"I- I don't know." Moonjo muttered.

"Do it."

His head shot up in surprise as you stood leaning against the counter.

"What?"

You stood up and walked toward him. Leaning up, you got close to his ear. "If you were heart set on killing me, do it."

"Fuck." Moonjo groaned. He smashed his lips against yours in a needy, passionate kiss. You had waited so long for this moment, the love of your life with his lips against yours. There wasn't anyone else you wanted, and there wasn't anything you wouldn't do to get it.

Your hands slid up his torso while his dipped under your shirt. You finally had what you so desperately wanted, what you both so desperately wanted.

He pulled away and leaned into your ear. “Jump, jagiya." He whispered. He kissed and bit at your neck, catching you mid jump and placing you on the countertop, your hands roamed everywhere, longing to feel him as much as you could. Your knee lightly brushed against him, making him let out a whimper as he buried his face in your neck.

"Mr. Seo?"

Moonjo quickly pulled away and adjusted his shirt before opening the door. "Is it important?" He bluntly asked before she could talk. "Patients have been waiting for a while, are you done with this client?" She moved to peek behind him as he moved to block her view. "I'm sure Ms. L/n was just leaving." Moonjo cleared his throat as you stepped out. Turning back, you waved with a smile, which he returned. The glare and attitude from his receptionist didn't go unnoticed.

---

The night had fallen and Moonjo was finally done with his shift. He desperately wanted to talk about what had happened earlier and get to know more about you.

"Hello, Moonjo!“ He whipped around at the sound of your voice, caught off guard. You ran up to him and wrapped your arms around his torso. The colorful Seoul lights illuminated him beautifully, complimenting his tired features as he gave in and rested his chin on your head

Moonjo's attention was caught by something glittering on the side of your neck in the lights. He tilted your chin.

..blood?

"Did you hurt yourself?" He asked. "Did I-? Oh! No, I didn't. It was just an accident.“ You reassured with a smile, using your sleeve to wipe it off.

"I've been meaning to tell you about what happened." Moonjo lowered his head and you knew exactly what he was talking about. You wanted to forget about it, but you also wanted to know the reason why the man you loved wanted you dead.

"The truth is, I was scared, Y/n. You scare me." That definitely wasn't the answer you were expecting. You were expecting him to say he hated you, or that you did something to offend him. But scare him?

"You make me feel things I've never felt before. You make me feel wanted and happy, you make me feel warm inside and I can't explain it. But you felt like a threat. These feelings felt like they would endanger my family and everything I've ever lived for, and the people in Eden mean so much to me. I knew it was a mistake when I brought it out because YOU mean so much to me. I couldn't lose you."

He was being so open and genuine with you, you loved this side of him. You just loved him.

"I love you so much, Moonjo." You laughed, bringing him into another kiss. ---

You were at breakfast the next morning with Moonjo, laughing and sharing food together when he got a call.

"Hello? This is Seo Moonjo.

Oh?

Oh, she did. That's a shame.

Ah, yes. Thank you, goodbye."

You looked up at him curiously. "What's wrong?"

"My boss called to tell me my receptionist just quit. They found a letter." He said, placing his phone down.

"Really? How strange."

[muzzlemouths]

They told you that you were special. That you were born to do great things. And you know what? They were right.

I am thrilled to announce the Bioshock AU, Always a Lighthouse — a collaborative effort between myself and @robinette-green!

This story takes place within the war-torn world of Rapture, years after an uprising that left the city in shambles and saw you narrowly escaping with your life.

Now you're back... and on a warpath to make things right.

Always a Lighthouse follows the story of a y/n who returns to Rapture after swearing to never step foot in that dreaded city again, for the sake of both their own conscience, and the lives of those they left behind.

Their family is dead. Their friends aren't any better off. The only solace they found before making their escape was that of Rapture's kindly caretakers; two individuals with unmatched patience and a natural talent for making friends with even the snottiest of children, they were more human than anyone...until they weren't.

Until the city took that from them.

And you? Well, in years past you wouldn't have batted an eye at the treatments, much too young to understand what was really going on in the world around you. Life was velvet carpets and silky, white curtains. Elegant banisters, rose petals, shining lights—

and dancing angels. Then one day, when their lights went out, all became clear. All at once you were forced to reckon with the damage that had been done.

Returning to this city means taking up the mantle of Splicer, if only to keep your true identity hidden - and finish the job you started so many years ago.

If that's what it takes, you'll gladly accept this blood on your hands.

The fic for this au is already in the process of being written, and we hope to drop it on Ao3 in the near future. Until then, keep an eye out for updates and more information, as Robin and I are both ecstatic to show it off!

Now then... would you kindly hand me that wrench? 😏🐟🧬

-

[The brilliant art of the boys was done by @robinette-green while the y/n art was drawn by myself. If you have any questions about this AU, either of us would love to hear them!]

[ask-alsius-vafer]

The path to the Hospital Wing seemed to stretch endlessly before him. The throbbing ache on the side of his head matched the pulse of each beat of his heart. Every step on the stone floors sent a jolt of pain, a hurtful reminder of the morning's misadventure in Herbology. His hand pressed against the spot where his ear should have been, the phantom pain still gnawing at him. The sharp bite of the Tentacula Vorax' teeth still echoed in his mind, the memory almost as painful as the wound it left behind.

It was a foolish mistake, Felix chastised himself. He should have been more careful, more gentle. Perhaps a kinder touch when pruning the plant might have spared him this torment. Professor Garlick had certainly thought so, lecturing him quite thoroughly before handing him two pieces of cloth - one to stem the bleeding, the other to transport the unfortunate remains of his ear.

The Ravenclaw shook his head, a motion he instantly regretted as dizziness washed over him. There was no time for a bad conscience, no room for self-recrimination. He needed to reach the Hospital Wing. He needed Als.

Als would know what to do. He always did.

Had he been feeling less queasy, he might have opted for the Floo Powder system. But the thought of spinning through the network of fireplaces only made his stomach churn further. So it had to be the long way - the very, very long way, with its many, many stairs.

A sigh escaped Felix as he leaned against the cool stone wall, allowing himself to take a small break. A few passing students glanced his way, their expressions a mix of curiosity and concern. With a forced smile, the Swede assured them that everything was fine. Or at least, it would be once he got to Alsius. He just hoped his friend wouldn’t be too annoyed with his clumsiness, but deep down, he knew he was in the best hands.

"Take a deep breath. In and out. You're almost there," he muttered to himself, trying to steady his breathing, the words a small comfort as he pushed off the wall. The stairs seemed never-ending, each one a cruel reminder of how much further he had to go.

"Just a little bit more..." The words were barely a whisper as he forced himself to keep moving. The trek was taking its toll, beads of sweat dotted Felix' forehead, and the sick feeling in his stomach grew worse with each step. The wound throbbed in time with his heartbeat, the cloth already soaked through with blood.

“Finally,” Felix breathed, both exhausted and relieved as the door to the Hospital Wing came into view. He paused at the door, peeking inside cautiously, his heart lifting slightly at the sight of the young healer, who was quietly tending to his duties. A weak smile tugged at Felix’s lips, a small flicker of relief and gratitude amidst the pain. Just seeing his friend was enough to make him feel safer.

Clearing his throat softly, Felix hesitated. He didn’t want to disturb Alsius if he was in the middle of something important, and the last thing he wanted was to wake any of the other patients. But the urgency of his situation couldn't be ignored.

“Als, um,” he began, his voice a little shaky, “how good are you at reattaching body parts?”

Two freshly corked phials in hand, Alsius crouched before the medicinal cupboard by the infirmary entrance. The beds were unusually vacant today, prompting the rest of the Hospital wing staff to indulge in an impromptu excursion around the grounds for some exercise. Since Professor Sharp had delivered fresh batches of healing potions earlier that afternoon, Alsius volunteered to stay and he took advantage of the rare quiet and solitude to steadily restock the ever-dwindling stores.

He ducked his head and tucked the last phials in with the others, the faint tinkling of glass against glass floating in the stillness as he ensured all labels were neatly aligned for easy readability in an emergency. After an unfortunate incident involving a nurse and a swarm of magimedical-grade leeches (not to mention the Coffee Bean Barrage), the use of Accio was indefinitely banned in the infirmary and the last thing any reasonable healer wished to do in time-sensitive situations was frantically rummage through wilfully neglected shelves. It was a personal pet hate of his, so he made a point of leaving the cupboard the way he always wished to find it.

Clean, tidy, and methodically organised.

The creak of the Hospital Wing door opening echoed that of the cupboard door closing. He hadn’t the chance to look up before he heard Felix’s voice, and the weak, nervous warble immediately drew his attention and concern.

“…reattaching body parts…”

Alsius turned and caught sight of Felix slumped against the doorway, his focus immediately pulled to his friend’s rapid breathing and sickly pallor. Despite the attempt to inject a certain nonchalance into his question, exhaustion etched Felix’s sweaty brow, his expression drawn painfully taut as he cradled a blood-soaked cloth against his head.

A sudden, leadened pit in Alsius’s stomach tipped the scales for haste. Fearing Felix would collapse to the floor, he rushed to the entrance and caught Felix’s weight against his side. He quickly ushered him to the nearest bed, and if the tall blond baulked at being unceremoniously laid out in such fumbling earnest, Alsius couldn’t hear it over the torrential roar of his racing thoughts.

“Sorry,” he whispered, somewhat amazed he had the presence of mind to apologise for such a brutish bedside manner. “With the bleeding, it’s better to lie down.”

Despite his relative youth, Alsius was generally cool and collected and not prone to dramatic mood swings, but when his gaze tracked the crimson rivulets steadily slipping down Felix’s wrist, something in him critically failed. He was no stranger to gruesome illness and injury, but Alsius was woefully unprepared for the visceral impact of seeing someone so dear to him in such a state.

As he stood and hovered over Felix, his chest tightened, heartbeat keeping time with the breakneck pace of all the grim possibilities reeling through his mind. Felix managed all the way here, he frantically reminded himself. It can’t be that serious. It was a paltry reassurance. He pinched his eyes shut against the unsettling swells in his emotions.

Set them aside. Heal. Reconcile the rest later. That was what his parents taught him in his early youth. That’s what Hogwarts more or less taught him in the infirmary. Yet his mind – his heart, still screamed: it’s Felix.

He turned and snapped the privacy curtains closed. Unnecessary considering they were alone, but the guise afforded him the barest moment to try to regain some semblance of composure.

The steadying breath he drew was audibly shaky.

After what felt like an age mustering his courage, Alsius returned to Felix’s side, lowering to sit at the edge of the bed. “Don’t worry, I’ll sort you out,” he murmured softly, though he was unsure if the reassurance for Felix’s benefit or his own.

He leaned forward to remove Felix’s hand and assess the damage, however just as his shaky fingertips brushed the back of Felix’s – he hesitated. He blinked and reached out again, only for his fingers to once again twitch away and curl defiantly into his palm.

There was more than a hint of frustration in Alsius’s sigh when he grudgingly compromised with himself. He rested his palm against the back of Felix’s hand as his gaze slowly surveyed the familiar topography of his friend’s face for all traces of primary and secondary injury. He murmured another apology when he lightly pressed his thumb into the side of Felix’s chin and carefully tilted his head to the side. Their hands remained protectively pressed over the wound, but Alsius still thoroughly searched the visible area for residual scorch damage from curses.

Any sort of evidence to restore the cool rationale upon which he so heavily relied.

A useless pursuit, like trying to capture vapour in his hands. The harder he focussed on ticking off a diagnostic checklist, the more each step dispersed into nothingness.

Alsius should just properly inspect the injury.

Alsius should just ask what happened.

It was the standard course of action no matter who found themselves in his care, but his faculties failed him. He shook his head against the internal contradictions: the spine-tingling fear and uncertainty, gut-wrenching anxiety, and the most alarming – the raw, hot sparks of anger that threatened his veins like flame at a fuse. At some point between his runaway thoughts and terrible excuse for a medical assessment, Alsius truly understood what Sebastian described feeling in the catacombs: cold, uncompromising protectiveness that overrode everything else. The ruthless sense of purpose that defied all rational thought was downright unnerving, and for someone as even-tempered as Alsius, its effect was so unsettling that he robbed him of his ability to function normally.

Nothing about it made sense, and it was maddening, but through the haze of it all there was one thing Alsius knew with unwavering certainty.

Felix would be fine because he would do absolutely everything in his power to ensure it.

Still, one question wrapped around his heart like a vice. It was the very first that crossed his mind in the emotional turmoil and the constant catalyst to whatever breakdown he actively tried to stave off.

It was an unrelenting, suffocating pressure that refused to be ignored. There was always the chance that it had been just an accident. Felix was unfortunately clumsy at times, but if this was maliciously inflicted on him…

Alsius didn’t need to know where or why, or what or how. He needed to know who.

And he would deal with that after.

Finally finding some sense of clarity once again, Alsius slowly exhaled into the heavy, ponderous silence as he gently tilted Felix’s face back to centre. When he finally spoke, the calm and even softness of his voice directly contradicted the steely intensity behind his eyes.

“Did someone do this to you?”

[thedepthsoffandomminds]

Maze runner chapter twenty

Previous chapter

Masterlist

"Hello, Thomas. I'm glad you're safe.” Ava Paige walked out of the burg in her signature white coat. Teresa walked behind her.

“What the hell?

Teresa?

“Wait, what's going on?” Newt asked.

“She's with them.” Thomas sighed.

“Since when?”

“Teresa always had an evolved appreciation of the greater good. Once we restored her memories, it was only a matter of time.” Janson explained with a triumphant grin.

“Where's y/n?” Newt asked.

“She's safe, don't worry.” Ava smiled, but it did little to reassure Newt, his heart felt like.it might burst from his chest.

“I'm sorry. I had no choice. This is the only way. We have to find a cure.” Teresa said. Newt fought against his restraints but one of the soldiers forced him back to the floor and held a gun to his back.

“She's right. This is all just a means to an end.You used to understand that, Thomas. No matter what you think of me, I am not a monster. I'm a doctor. I swore an oath to find a cure! No matter the cost. I just need more time.”

“More blood.” The doc walked through the crowd.

“Hello, Mary. I hoped we'd meet again. I'm sorry it had to be under these circumstances.” Ava said.

“I'm sorry about a lot of things, too But not this. At least my conscience is clear.” The Doc said.

“So is mine.” Ava smiled. Janson fired his pistol, hitting Mary in her chest.

“Mary? Mary?” Vince grabbed her as she dropped.

It was as if the world stopped for a moment as the doctor took her last breaths.

“Come on, Janson. Don't forget the tiger.” Ava turned and walked on to the burg, guiding Teresa alongside her, “Load them up. Let's go. All these people. Get rid of them.” Janson started shouting orders to the soldiers.

“Let go of me!” Vince huffed.

“Sonya! Aris!”

“Let's go!” Too many Voices spoke at once.

“Get back!” Thomas jumped to his feet, pulling Jorge's bomb from his coat. “Everyone, stand back! Stand back!” He shouted, flicking open the detonator.

“Hold your fire!” Janson called out.

“Stand back. Let 'em go.” Thomas demanded.

“Thomas, put it down.” Janson warned.

“Let 'em all go!”

“You know I can't do that!” Ava says to him.

“Thomas, please stop. I made a deal with them. They promised we'd be safe. All of us.” Teresa comes back down the ramp on the Burg.

“And I'm supposed to trust you now?” Thomas growls.

“It's true. It was her only condition.” Ava says.

“Shut up!”

“Everything can go back to the way it was. Thomas, do you really want all of them to die? For y/n to die?” Ava stepped closer to him.

“Listen to her, Thomas.” Teresa begged. “Think about what you're doing.” Ava implores him.

“We're with you, Thomas.” Newt, stands at Thomas's back.

“Do it, Thomas.” Minho says.

“We're ready.” Frypan agrees.

“We're not going back there.” Thomas shakes his head.

“Thomas?” They see the fear in Ava’s eyes.

“It's the only way.” Thomas closes his eyes and braces himself

In that exact moment a car horn blares through the silence.

Jorge sped in through the crowd

The distraction gives Vince and the other adults of the right arm a chance to get back to their weapons.

“Get her out of here!” Ava shouts shoving Teresa back toward the burg.

“Get out of here! Go!” Janson shouts at his.men. They grab as many of the immune children as they can and retreat to their ships.

In the chaos, they don't notice Minho being shot by the taser rounds. He falls to the ground as electricity surges through his body. The soldiers drag him back with them.

“Minho! Minho!” Thomas sees him but it is too late. The burgers take off. Newt runs out below them, he can't think what to do, his best friend and girlfriend were taken, out of his reach.

Mai Mai l, who had now awoken leapt out in front of him, knocking him back so a stray bullet narrowly misses them both.

“No, no.” The tiger shoves her whole body against him. In her way she tries to comfort him as Newt cries.

“Come on, come on, Newt. Get up” Frypan pulls his friend up his shoulder and drags him away with the others.

Newt wanted to wallow in his sadness but there was too much to do. Bodies were laid flat and fires put out. Equipment was checked through and all around people salvaged what they could. What was once a peaceful place now was tainted with despair. Thomas filled his backpack with tinned food.

“What do we do now?” Frypan asks, he sat close to Newt and Mai Mai, neither of you had moved for sometime.

“Well, we pick up what's left of us. We stick to the plan. We get you kids to the safe haven. Then we start over, I guess.” Vince explained.

“I'm not going with you.” Thomas said.

“What?” Vince narrowed his eyes on the dark haired boy.

“I made a promise to Minho. I wouldn't leave him or y/n behind. I have to go after them.”

“Hey, kid, look around you. All right? WICKED just kicked our ass.You think about where you're headed.” Vince tried to argue.

“I'm not asking anyone to come with me.” Thomas continued.

“Thomas, listen to me. I've known Minho and y/n for Well, as long as I can remember. So, if there was any way that we could help him, trust me, I would be up there standing next to you. This, what you're talking about, is impossible. More like suicide.” Newt said, a tear dropping from his eye. The tiger let out a low growl deep from within her chest. She shoved her shoulder into Newt's hip and stepped over to Thomas.

“Maybe, but I know what I'm supposed to do now. It's not just about Minho or y/n. It's about all of us. It's about everyone WICKED's ever taken, everyone they will take. They'll never stop. They'll never stop,

so I'm gonna stop them. I'm gonna kill Ava Paige.” Thomas said with sheer determination radiating from him, beside him Mai Mai stamped her foot and huffed out a breath through her nose, her eyes locked on Newt's. He nods to her.

“Yeah, yeah you're right. Let's do it.” He agreed.

“I have to admit,” Harriet agreed, “I'd like some revenge.

Well, that's a good speech, kid. So what's your plan?”

You wake in a bed, a white room surrounded you with bright yellow.lights blurring your vision. There is a low beeping of machines close by and you can hear people talking.

“Do you think this is enough?” Teresa says, you turn your head towards her and see her with Ava. The older woman holds up a tray filled with vials of blood.

“For now, we can start testing these straight away.”

A doctor approaches your other side and you feel him touching your arm. You lash out at him knocking him to the ground and you throw your legs off the bed.

“Y/n!” Teresa shouts.

“Y/n, stop. Just listen to us! You're about to save the world.” Ava implores you to calm down but you yanked the needles from your arms and stumbled away from them. Ava darted across the room, hitting a large green button on the wall. A soldier came running in and instantly hit you with the buy of his gun. You fall to the floor and he grabs you, restraining your arms behind your back with cuffs.

“Take her to the others. We have enough for now.” Ava orders him.

Next chapter

@fandomfan-102 @deanstolemydragon @afalls14universe @akilaporu001 @green-which

[shonenkun309]

A/N : hooo boy, 6 MONTHS, Shonen, 6 DAMN MONTHS!! No, complete the remaining 6 months, dear! Not like there are people who are waiting for the updates to see the end of this damn fanfic! 😡😡😡😡 Aaaaaanyway... things are going interesting I swear!!

𝑯𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝑭𝒖𝒏 ~𝑺𝒉𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒏~

WC : 3078

Tags : @just-somehuman @the-bird-and-the-flute @kogasimp1 @colourless-hydrangeas @randomf2p @blackmond11 @girlinthetardis04

Chapters : 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

Futaba heaved a long sigh as she sat on the steps of the Shrine of Hidden God. The sky was turning orange and red as if it had been set ablaze by the setting sun. Her mind was filled with thoughts of the sleeping man inside. Hoping to catch the slightest movement from him, she was met with disappointment once again. She couldn't shake the image of Kuya's upset face when he realized that what he thought was true turned out not to be. He swore up and down that he had seen it with his own eyes, only to calm down in an instant and return to his usual self as if nothing had happened.

ᑕᕼᗩᑭTEᖇ 21

"Verily, 'tis a good omen." Futaba turned around, still deep in thought, when she heard a voice echoing behind her. She was surprised to see Yura and Gaku approaching, armed with taiyaki. "'Tis a welcome sight indeed, to see Sir Kuya's comrade beginning to wake from his slumber." He picked up the taiyaki and started eating it, "I do believe what Kuya said, of course, but...there's something about seeing it with my own eyes that makes it real to me. I long to experience it first-hand, to have my conscience freed and my hope renewed. The thought of it drives me on through each day." Futaba spoke, her gaze fixed ahead, staring out onto the horizon.

Futaba was certain that Koga would soon awake. The anticipation was palpable, and the more she pondered the circumstances, the more her chest tightened. She was determined to be by his side when he opened his eyes, and the anticipation was almost too much to bear. As her thoughts raced, Futaba was desperate for answers, desperate to understand who or what was responsible for his state. "I had another dream," Futaba uttered, a hint of hesitation in her voice. Yura's hand, which was holding another taiyaki came to a sudden stop as he looked up, his eyes fixed on Futaba, his expression serious. Meanwhile, Gaku's head also tilted slightly to the side, his curiosity piqued by Futaba's words. "Of all the dreams I've had, this one was by far the most peculiar. For some reason, I thought I had seen the Tzuchi, but their appearance wasn't clear, nor was their intention." Her voice had dropped to a mere whisper, as if she were speaking to herself.

Gaku leaned in, clearly intrigued by Futaba's account. "There are many tales about the Tzuchi, but my brother and I have never been able to verify any of them. Through all these years spent together, we have yet to uncover the truth behind the mysterious Ayakashi." And Yura continued, "The yume no seirei, as they are known, can induce horrendous nightmares in their victims, while those of the Tzuchi's kind are said to possess the power to create a reality within the minds of those they haunt, indeed that is the tale that we've heard."

Futaba's eyes widened in surprise upon hearing the twins' explanation about the Tzuchi. "They...they can create their own reality?" she murmured, her mind racing as she recalled the strange experiences she had in recent days. "It's no wonder they seemed so real," she muttered to herself, as if coming to a sudden realization. "Hey..." But the sound of Kuya's voice rang out, startling Futaba and the twins out of their conversation. They turned to find Kuya and Nachi standing behind them, looking as if they had been eavesdropping.

Futaba watched as Kuya and Nachi joined them, sensing that the atmosphere shifted as soon as they approached. Neither man was one for idle chatter, but their demeanor left little doubt in Futaba's mind that they had something of importance to reveal. Kuya broke the silence first, his voice grave as he spoke. "Listen, I don't normally ask folks to stay with me like this, but things are getting a little hairy and it may be better for you to lay low here for a while."

Nachi added to the sentiment, "That so-called Tzuchi is targeting you, Futaba. It's not safe for you to be alone at home." Futaba was taken aback by their sudden concern, even though they had known from the beginning that she was being targeted. It seemed so unexpected for them to bring this up today of all days.

Futaba seemed to ponder the suggestion for a moment before shaking her head. "It's too sudden a decision for me to make," she said, an air of exhaustion pervading her voice. "Maybe with some time and thought I could come to a conclusion, but this is too quick." Nachi tried to offer some hopeful words, "I could speak with dad about it, I think he would see reason." Futaba gave a tired sigh, and looked up at the sky. "I'll consider it, but not right now. This is all too much to take in." As she spoke, she seemed to be lost in thought, considering the weight of the decision being placed upon her.

Futaba suddenly seemed to have made up her mind on something. "Nachi!" she exclaimed, her voice urgent. "Come with me!" Without waiting for a response, she grasped Nachi's wrist and began pulling him towards the stairs. Nachi, unsure of what was happening and where Futaba was taking him, allowed himself to be led down the stairs. Futaba's grip on his wrist tightened as they rushed towards the staircase, and Nachi found himself being pulled along at a brisk pace that left little time for questions or protests.

Gaku watched as Futaba and Nachi rushed off, his curiosity piqued. "Hey, where are you off to in such a hurry?" he asked in a half-bored, half-surprised tone. Futaba's response was quick and loud, "To the train station!" Kuya's eyebrows climbed at the declaration, a faint sense of tension entering his gaze as he watched Futaba disappear from his sight. Yura spoke up next, confusion crossing his features as he inquired, "The train station?" he echoed, "What business doth the lady have in such a hasty journey?" he asked the others. His words were met with eerie silence, as if no one knew the answer to his question.

The two of them continued to rush towards the train station, Nachi trying his best to keep pace with Futaba, who was pulling him along with a vice grip on his wrist. After a few minutes of running, Nachi was starting to flag, his breath coming in short gasps as his legs threatened to give out beneath him. "Hey, Futaba! Slow down!" he finally managed to rasp out, gesturing to indicate that he needed a break. Futaba stopped abruptly, allowing Nachi to lean against a nearby wall while they both caught their breath.

"What's going on?" Nachi asked, still trying to understand why Futaba had been acting so strangely.

"We have to hurry before the train leaves," Futaba finally replied, her voice sounding somewhat urgent.

"Leaves?" Nachi said, raising his head in surprise as he realized their destination. With renewed urgency, the two of them set off towards the train station once more.

Futaba and Nachi arrived at the train station just in time to witness the train pulling away from the platform. They watched it speed off into the distance, their hopes of catching it shattered. Futaba looked at Nachi and let out a small sigh. "We're too late," she said, her voice tinged with sadness.

Nachi was confused. "What's going on?" he asked her. "Why did you come here?"

Futaba shook her head. "Fukajiro…" she said under her breath, as if the name itself was a curse. "She was on that train, leaving us behind." Her voice was barely audible, her gaze fixed on the departing train.

Nachi's eyes widened as he realized what Futaba was telling him. "Fukajiro left?" he asked, a slight shock evident in his voice.

"So she came to your house just to tell you this?" he asked. Futaba nodded slowly, a deep sense of regret settling over her. "My mind was distracted, I couldn't even say goodbye properly," she said, a sigh escaping her lips, "She keeps saying I'm her best friend, some friend I am..." Nachi placed a comforting hand on Futaba's shoulder as she spoke, trying his best to ease her pain. "It's not your fault," he said softly. "You were distracted. I'm sure Fukajiro will understand."

Futaba smiled a little, grateful for Nachi's words. "At least I wanted you to come with me. Thought she'll be more happy to see you one last time, since she likes you," she said with a small smile.

Nachi was surprised by the revelation and began to stutter, "Huh? She only likes me because I'm a cat! You know how she's fond of cats!"

Futaba laughed at his reaction, the sound of her voice filling the air before she sighed again.

"I have to go home...it's already dark," she said, staring up at the cloudy sky. The moon wasn't present tonight, and for some reason, the fact made her feel uneasy.

Futaba turned to Nachi, a determined look on her face. "You'll come with me, right?" she asked, and Nachi blinked a few times in surprise before answering her. "Huh...?" He paused for a moment to process the request, "Sure, I'll go with you. I can't let you go home alone after what we discussed, and I'll also say hello to dad too." Futaba nodded, a sense of relief washing over her. The two of them started walking back to her house, the weight of their conversation weighing heavily on their shoulders.

As they walked through the empty streets, Nachi expressed his surprise. "They wrote this in the newspapers?" he asked, and Futaba nodded. "I had a panic attack when I saw it. Toichiro, Shizuki, and Tatsu were there to console me," she said, recalling the overwhelming fear she had felt when she learned about the possible return of the mysterious phenomenon. "Otherwise, I don't know what I would have done," she trailed off, the memory of that day still fresh in her mind.

Nachi crossed his arms, his expression serious. "I was afraid this would happen. Another reason not to stay home alone," he said, his tone firm. "What if...what if I asked the Tengu to drop by every now and then?" he suggested, a hint of pride in his voice. But Futaba shook her head, concern etched across her face. "I don't want to burden Kuya any more than he already is. Koga's issue has already taken a toll on him; I don't want to add to his stress." Nachi seemed to consider her words for a moment, then nodded reluctantly. "Yeah, but..."

But before he continued, a feeling of foreboding washed over them. Suddenly, Futaba's hair stood on end and Nachi's ears perked up. They stopped in their tracks and looked around, searching for the source of the ominous presence. "Futaba," Nachi whispered, his voice low so that only she could hear. Futaba nodded, fully aware of what Nachi was trying to convey. She quickly withdrew the bell wand from her sleeve, preparing for whatever might come next. Her heart raced with anticipation, wondering what lay ahead. The air felt heavy and stagnant, as though something sinister was lurking just beyond their sight. As they both stood alert, ready to face whatever challenges might come their way, the silence was broken only by the sound of their own breathing.

As the two stood in silence, their senses on high alert, a familiar voice suddenly broke the stillness. "There you are!" The voice echoed in their ears, causing their eyes to widen as they turned to see their friend, standing alarmingly close. They hadn't seen her since they'd stepped onto the street, as if she had suddenly appeared out of nowhere. Her familiar figure was running towards them, her eyes glinting like emeralds in the dim light. "Fuka?" both Nachi and Futaba said at the same time, shocked to see her there, wondering how she had gotten so close without them noticing.

Futaba had been under the impression that Fukajiro had left on the train earlier in the day, while Nachi had assumed the same based on Futaba's words. So to see her here now, at this late hour, felt strange, suspicious, and completely unexpected. They had forgotten the ominous presence they had sensed a moment earlier in their surprise.

As Fukajiro approached, she suddenly stumbled, her face hitting the pavement with a loud thud. The two quickly rushed to her aid, taking her hands and pulling her up. "Are you okay?" Futaba asked, the worry in her voice evident, and Fukajiro responded with a familiar smile. "Hehe, I'm just clumsy." Nachi chimed in with a tired exhale, "Mhm, she's okay."

As Fukajiro cleaned herself up after tripping, Futaba raised an eyebrow. "Aren't you supposed to leave today?" The little girl looked up, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "Oh, you want me to go?" she asked, pretending to look sad. Futaba shook her head firmly. "No, don't avoid the question. Why are you still here?" Fukajiro smiled, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "I missed the train," she said, shrugging her shoulders nonchalantly.

“...”

“...”

The silence that followed was deafening, as Fukajiro seemed to expect some sort of response from the two. Nachi finally broke the tension with a frustrated sigh. "Seriously?" he muttered, his tone bordering on annoyance. Futaba chimed in, her voice sharp, "How do you miss the train when you know the exact time it's leaving?" Fukajiro lowered her head, interlacing her fingers in a manner that almost suggested she was being scolded by her mother. "I went to buy some snacks before the train arrived... and you know how much I love taiyaki..." Nachi facepalmed, while Futaba sighed, growing more annoyed at Fukajiro's childish behavior. "I'm sure your parents are worried about you now," she said, her voice dripping with contempt for the little girl's irresponsibility.

Suddenly, a somber expression spread across Fukajiro's face, and she stopped laughing. Her eyes darkened as she fixed her gaze on Futaba. "Don't worry, they won't," she said, her voice soft but devoid of the playfulness she usually exuded. The two felt a sudden chill run down their spine. But before they could respond, Fukajiro's face split into a wide smile, and she reached out to hold their hands. "Why are you here?" she asked, looking back and forth between the two. Nachi began to speak, but she interrupted him. "Little Nach! Where have you been all this time? I missed you so much!" she exclaimed, nuzzling his arm and making him shift uncomfortably.

Futaba tried to get Fukajiro's attention, attempting to distract her from her embrace of Nachi. "Fukajiro, we thought you were leaving today," Futaba stated matter-of-factly, and the little girl finally turned to her.

Fukajiro's entire expression brightened, and she squeezed their arms even tighter. "That's why you were at the station? To bid me farewell, right? Aww, I could never ask for such a great friends!" she exclaimed, her voice tinged with exaggerated happiness. The strength of her grip sent a mild pain shooting through Futaba's arms, but she ignored it and took in her surroundings. "Fukajiro, seriously, this place isn't safe, especially now," she said, scanning left and right, reminded of the ominous presence they had sensed just moments ago.

"Look, I'll have Nachi take you to my place while I make sure the area is safe--" Suddenly, the words froze in Futaba's throat as she recalled a similar situation that had led to a disastrous result in the past. Her eyes glazed over, staring into nothingness, as if she were trying to recall some long-forgotten memory. "Futaba...?" Nachi's voice broke the sudden silence, calling out to her, but there was no response.

"Eh? No need to worry, I'll stay put and won't 'disappear' like before." Fukajiro's young and sweet voice interrupted them, leaving Futaba with a mildly surprised expression, as if the little girl had somehow read her thoughts. She received nothing but a playful wink from Fukajiro, but as she thought about it, Futaba realized that she had never received an answer to her question about Fukajiro's whereabouts on that fateful day. Since then, she had never mentioned the subject to Fukajiro, and the little girl had never opened up about it either.

"Hey, Fuka..." As Futaba calls out to Fukajiro, Nachi also speaks up, his voice filled with surprise. "Tengu?" he says, attracting the attention of the two girls. They turn around and are taken aback to see the person standing behind them, neither too far nor too close. Futaba was taken aback to see her Tengu friend in this unexpected place, his eyes gleaming like gold in the darkness and his face as cold and impassive as ever. But what truly caught their attention and left the two speechless was the sight of Kuya, with his wings spread wide against the black backdrop of the night, his true form now exposed to the public.

The three of them stood there in silence, each waiting for the other to say something, but the only sound that filled the air was the distant howling of the wind. Suddenly, Fukajiro spoke up, her childish voice breaking the tension. "Kuya, right?" she asked, her eyes fixed on the man standing before them. In response, Kuya slowly lifted his hand and the fan in his grasp unfolded with a flourish. The blades of the fan suddenly sprang to life, cutting through the air as they sped towards the three.

As the blades of Kuya's fan hurtled towards them, Futaba let out a startled cry. "Kuya!" she screamed, instinctively wrapping her arms around Fukajiro and pulling the other girl to her. Nachi, on the other hand, stood in front of them with his eyes closed, determined to protect them. It seemed as though time had stood still, with each of them frozen in fear as they awaited the inevitable impact.

...

...

...

Futaba felt her heart skip a beat as she waited for Kuya's attack to hit, but to her surprise, nothing happened. She mustered the courage to open her eyes and was taken aback to see Nachi sitting in a state of shock, staring in horror at the figure in front of him. The figure was tall, carrying a long, sharp spear, all dressed in brown from head to toe. As the three of them took in this terrifying sight, they all recognized the same person...

𝑻𝒐 𝑩𝒆 𝑪𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒖𝒆𝒅>>>>>>>>>>>

[odessa-castle]

For the 500 words thing, apologies if it's longer than 500, feel free to cut off wherever

At last, Ravengard raises his arm. Astarion turns to the side out of reflex, shielding his face with his hand. All these years, Cazador sneers in his head, and still you cannot muzzle that mouth of yours. Must I do it for you?

Ravengard doesn’t strike him. He brings his hand nearer to Astarion’s face, the tips of his fingers an inch away from one of Astarion’s stray curls. “Perhaps I have been foolish,” he says. The heat is back in his voice, but it’s contained, simmering below the surface. “I was too quick to assign fault to Wyll himself for his conduct. But the source of this sickness – this madness – comes not from within him, but within you.”

Dread curls in Astarion’s gut.

“I should have known from the moment you were paraded in front of me,” Ravengard continues. His hateful eyes rake up and down Astarion’s body. “Yours is a dangerous beauty.”

A familiar, flat buzz builds in Astarion’s ears. He remembers that Ravengard had – not seemed immune to Astarion’s particular appeal, that night. The thought produced no sickening lurch in him then. Well, nothing beyond the usual, at least. It does now. Each passing second crawls across his skin. He feels himself begin to step halfway out of his body.

Ravengard’s fingers brush that loose curl of hair now, toying with it. “I can see how Wyll might have been…so taken in.”

Astarion slaps Ravengard’s hand away before his mind catches up with him. He – gods. He’s not permitted to refuse this. Not under any circumstances. Cazador would flay him open for it. For all he knows, Ravengard might do the same. He searches, desperately, for some trace of Wyll in his father, the smallest scrap of that man he’s come to – to admire. To –

“Whatever you’re thinking, whatever you’re imagining right now –” he begins. He stops. Swallows. “It would be rape. No amount of coin could change that.”

And at that, Ravengard retreats. He inhales sharply, shaking his head as though to clear it. “No, I – no.” He props his clenched fist on the table, refuses to meet Astarion’s gaze. “I would not do such a thing.”

Astarion doesn’t know which of them he’s trying to convince. He’s not inclined to salve Ravengard’s conscience, either way. He affects an air of aloof dignity, studying his nails, but can’t fully ignore the tremors in his hand.

Oh boy. This is arguably Ulder’s lowest moment in NLTS thus far — “arguably” because, well, that whole thing where he banishes Wyll, but there were principles behind his decision there. Not the right ones, and despite what he might have been telling himself, not the only and/or most merciful choice he could make under the circumstances! But Ulder’s treatment of Astarion here is pretty skin-crawling! Yes, Ulder backs off once Astarion makes it clear that he doesn't consent, but it says a lot about how Ulder views Astarion that Ulder...assumes Astarion's body is for sale under these circumstances. This isn't the most violent objectification Astarion experiences over the course of NLTS (that would be Chapter 14), but it's still violating.

I spent a while thinking about whether I wanted the scene between Ulder and Astarion to take this particular turn, because while NLTS doesn't paint the most flattering picture of Ulder, I've never wanted him to come across as beyond any hope of redemption in the way that, say, Cazador is. Ulder is abusing his power here in a way he doesn't recognize until it's pointed out to him, because well, a lot of men in power (and I will say men here specifically because irl this behavior is very much a Patriarchy Thing, and the dynamics of masculinity are a significant part of NLTS) don’t question the social rules that prop them up in the first place.

And Ulder is definitely trying to put Astarion in his place here. A prostitute doesn’t get to weigh in on how a duke treats his heir, or how a father treats his son. Astarion is, at the end of the day, a thing to be bought and sold, and Ulder is concerned that Wyll doesn’t recognize this obvious truth.

To Ulder’s (perhaps limited) credit, he’s genuinely ashamed of his behavior here, and ultimately takes Astarion’s point to heart that he’s grown distant from his son — the same way his own father grew distant from him. But as a lot of people pointed out, “I would not do such a thing” is a lot more about Ulder's self-image than it is about Astarion's personhood. This commenter summed up the scene so well:

It’s giving Promising Young Woman. It’s giving a man whose image of himself is more important than whether he does fucking anything to be like that image. It’s giving “if you needed someone to fucking spell it out for you, you absolutely fucking WOULD have done such a thing.”

And yeah -- if Astarion hadn't spoken up (and he was taking a huge gamble by even doing so in the first place), Ulder likely wouldn't have stopped. And it's real fucked up that preventing his own rape ends up falling on Astarion's shoulders here. I think this is also the first time in NLTS that Astarion directly acknowledges, either to himself or others, that what happens to him on a regular basis is, in fact, rape. He's just that used to not even thinking about his own capacity to consent, or that his consent is a thing that matters and needs to be asked for. In a way, the fact that Astarion says no to Ulder here makes it all the more meaningful that he says yes to Wyll later in the chapter; he is, in that moment, genuinely declaring what he wants.

A fair number of folks said that this scene had them worried, and well, that's what I was going for. The threat to Astarion is real here, and it's not quite the same experience of threat that he constantly lives under with Cazador. Cazador is a flagrantly immoral sadist. Ulder thinks that everything he's doing here is morally justifiable, until Astarion tells him as bluntly as possible that it isn't. There's a certain kind of danger that comes about when people in power assume that they are just people, and that their actions must therefore also be just. A lot of evil comes from people who think they're doing good.

[ten-cent-sleuth]

A Galling Yoke, Part 4

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for the “Where did you get this?” square on my July Break Bingo card

See this post for main info, including a masterlist and synopsis. See this post for warnings.

Word Count: 2.8k

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x f!Reader

Rating: Teen

Plagued by thoughts of Sherlock, you did not find the peace you thought you would once he stopped coming around to Voss House every day. Fortunately, Rogers had kept the calling card from his first visit. As you made your way down London’s bustling streets to the address on that card, you replayed the arching of your butler’s eyebrow at your request for Sherlock’s information and cringed for the impression you must have left.

But it wasn’t how it looked. You didn’t miss Sherlock, at least not so strongly you couldn’t last a sennight without seeing him. No. That wasn’t what was happening here. Only, you couldn’t stop thinking about how lovely that conversation in the guest bedroom had been; with a few days’ distance, you could even appreciate the first half of it, the serious half.

You pressed your lips together to not break into a mad-looking smile in public. Talking to Sherlock had been…had been… Oh, who cared what the word was? The material point was that upon reflection, you would retract your decision to keep to yourself your suspicions of Edmund’s infidelity. Getting them off of your chest was an appealing prospect, and getting them off of your chest to Sherlock could only be a relief.

Right?

You paused on the doorstep of 221 Baker Street. Yes…what if he wasn’t as supportive or as understanding as he had been when hearing about your injury? What if—

The sharp clack of a hackney wheel knocking a cobblestone loose behind you made you jump. Watching the groom slow and calm down the horses as he argued with his passenger about where he was supposed to stop, you chuckled away your doubts. The last few days had shown you that you would not get anything done until you’d cleared your conscience of keeping something from Sherlock, and if he didn’t care after that, it wouldn’t matter. Your heart didn’t rely on his steadfastness.

At least, not anymore.

You knocked on the door and waited. If nobody was in now, you could come back in an hour, but surely—

“Hello!”

Turning, you recognised after a moment the passenger that had just been gesticulating at that hackney driver. You frowned now that you had a closer, better look; with her light curls and rosy cheeks, she looked entirely too young to be taking a cab by herself.

“Hello,” you returned with a healthy dose of hesitation. A glance around easily told you that there was nobody who could properly perform introductions for you two, and you had never been made to introduce yourself before. “Do you… Do you live here?”

With a flourish, the girl pulled out a key and squeezed around you. “No, but my brother gave me a key in case I ever needed to stop by. Which I do today. Well, clearly.”

She laughed, and you found your wariness seeping away. “You would trust a stranger to let her into your brother’s flat, then?” you teased.

“Certainly not,” she retorted as she pushed the door open. “I’m simply letting you into the building, see. And if you’ve nefarious business for anyone else, that shall only increase business for my brother—or, even better, for me. So as long as you’re not to rob 221b, then feel free to…”

You gasped and took the old calling card out of your pocket. “But that is— You are—?” Regathering your wits as you followed her up the stairs, you said, “Miss Holmes, I presume?”

The girl whirled around on the top step, her eyes wide. After giving you a once-over, she guessed your name and title, though a grin was spreading across her face even before you confirmed her deduction. “Oh, I had hoped to meet you!” she exclaimed, unlocking 221b and ushering you inside. “Sherlock’s told me all about your case—well, okay, not really. Sherlock’s told me all about you and how you were the best of friends at Ferndell and how he’s been helping you recently. He was quite eager to seize this opportunity to renew his acquaintance with you, you know. Fifteen years apart! How horrible! Is it true you were married within months of your coming-out?”

You smiled wanly. “Unhappily, yes. I had not realised that was my father’s plan, else I would not have come to London with such little protest.”

Miss Holmes returned your smile with sympathy. “Sherlock told me that you both thought you would return to Shropshire within a six-month, and that was all that soothed the pain of separating at all.”

“Indeed?” You paused to raise your brow at her. “He certainly tells you a lot, Miss Holmes.”

Reddening, she waved away your words. “Well, he told me the first part; I could deduce the second. In any case, you must call me Enola! No one calls me ‘Miss Holmes’, even that nincompoop Tewkesbury.”

Your brow rose higher, but she paid no mind as she went on—

“It is splendid you two have reunited. You are here to visit with Sherlock, then? Oh, I am pleased—no one should be alone all the time. A friend would do him well.”

“Enola, I am happy to see him today, but…,” you chuckled awkwardly. “We are only working together on a case, see, and, well…”

You shrugged, and with a thoughtful hum, she disappeared into the kitchen asking how you liked your tea. After answering her, you took the chance to take in Sherlock’s living space. You brushed your palm across the back of a chair and smiled, endeared by the familiar atmosphere of the refined comfort and organised chaos that had always clung to Sherlock at Ferndell and that had evidently followed him to London. The only difference that left an impression on you was the addition of a heady masculine scent, still entirely Sherlock in quality but a facet that had been underdeveloped when you had left Shropshire all those years ago. Breathing it in, you lowered yourself onto the chair and dispelled the heartache that Enola had unwittingly brought back to the fore. You had not yet forgiven your father for his deception, but that was no reason to be gloomy in such cheerful company.

Re-entering with a tea tray, Enola resumed the discussion of her brother’s isolation: “Sherlock does not even like to talk to me about his concerns, although he is frustratingly ready to discuss anything troubling me. Well, anything professional troubling me, of course—surely I do not need to tell you that he avoids talk of feelings and personal thoughts as one avoids the plague.”

You stifled a chuckle with a sip of your tea. “No, indeed, you do not. Is that all your sibling relationship comprises, then? Crime and mystery?”

“I’m working on it,” sighed the poor girl. “I came today to ask him for advice about an issue that is not exactly a crime or a mystery. See, at the market I overheard Mr Ramsbury of Marylebone Road talking about his daughter’s broken engagement with a Mr Gibbon, and I could not resist looking into it when he sounded so vexed. Unfortunately, now I am in quite the pickle, as I do not know whether to share my findings with him. Mr Ramsbury did not hire me—I’m still having trouble getting somebody to, I confess—but perhaps he would want to know. He is quite exasperated with Miss Ramsbury at the moment, but if he knew that Mr Gibbon used to strike her, surely he would not blame her anymore.”

“Has Mr Gibbon interfered with Miss Ramsbury?” you asked.

“No,” she answered with a set to her jaw that you had never seen before in someone her age. “Apparently, he was only interested in her for her dowry, and he recently came into an inheritance that can take care of him for life; he has made it clear to his acquaintances that he desires no woman encumbering him at all now.”

You nodded. “Has breaking off the engagement harmed Miss Ramsbury’s prospects?”

“Oh, not a whit,” said Enola, her countenance lightening. “I had plans to check in on her main current suitors after seeing Sherlock—” She broke off with a blush. “Er, only perfunctorily, of course; I wouldn’t want to violate anyone’s privacy.”

“I am certain Miss Ramsbury would be grateful to have a guardian angel, if she were to know,” you said. “Though I do not think the family need know. If she has not told Mr Ramsbury, she does not want him to be aware; if the only problem that telling him would solve is his frustration with her, doing so is not necessary for her safety and happiness. Should he find out, he may exacerbate the situation by quarrelling or brawling with Mr Gibbon. Fathers, and brothers for that matter, tend to do that, do they not? In this affair, I would follow Miss Ramsbury’s lead—she knows her father’s character and their familial dynamic, not to mention her own needs, best.”

Enola’s eyes were round and bright as she listened to you think aloud, and once you concluded, she pried open her reticule and pulled out an ivory pocket notebook. “That is excellent advice,” she muttered. “I shall do as you instruct.”

You leapt to your feet and hurried to her side. “That was by no means an instruction!” you cried. “I was merely thinking through the problem. You have yet to ask your brother, you recall, and—” You froze as you saw the embroidered ribbon threaded into the notebook’s hinge. Your sense of propriety overcome by awed surprise, you lifted the ribbon. “Where did you get this? This notebook?”

Enola furrowed her brow for an instant before realisation smoothed it back. “Oh! I had forgotten this was originally yours.”

“Yes,” you said, wading through memories you had not thought of in a very long time. “Your mother gave it to me as a birthday gift one year, as a matter of fact. I did not think to bring it with me when I came to London. This ribbon though, it was Sherlock’s. I was trying a new pattern, and while it turned out well, I did not quite like the look of it. Your brother offered to take it so it would not be wasted. I never knew what he did with it.”

Enola shrugged. “Perhaps he used it as a book-marker originally? I know not; by the time he gave the notebook to me, these two were attached. He said you carried it around with you everywhere, so I might find it useful for my investigations. I have, by the way,” she added. “Being able to erase my notes after I’ve transferred them to a permanent journal or no longer need them so I can reuse the same pages over and over is rather handy for a detective with a minimised budget. Oh,” she gasped, “should I give it back to you?”

“No, no, that is quite all right,” you reassured her, letting go of the ribbon and stepping back to carry your point. “I am glad it serves you well. I am only surprised that Sherlock had them!”

“From what I have gleaned from Mrs Lane’s and Mother’s stories of the time before Sherlock and Mycroft left, your brother—Lord Pashbroke, is it?—ensured any of your effects that he did not want getting lost or ruined in your absence were spirited away to Ferndell. Sherlock must have decided what to keep at home and what to bring with him here.” Her eyes flashed with a certain glint that you had not witnessed since you fared the Holmeses well for the last time; that spark of mischief must run in the family. “You know, I suspect I know where he hides that box of keepsakes here, for I glimpsed it when he gave me the notebook. Would you like me to—”

The squeal of door hinges cut her off.

“Enola, I know you are here. What have I told you about being in my rooms when I am not—”

You had shot to your feet at the sound of his voice, and now that he finally noticed you, you curtsied. “Mr Holmes, I apologise for—”

“No, I— You are welcome here, of course, my lady.” He blinked. “That is, so is my—so are you, Enola. I only meant that I trust you, my lady, to not move everything.”

His eyes cut to his sister, who scoffed in outrage.

“I do not move ev—”

“How are you?” he asked you, his soft gaze entirely at odds with how he pointedly ignored Enola’s grumbles. “Is your”—he paused to glance at your knee—“all right?”

You smiled, hoping he would understand your gratitude for his discretion. “The weather has been warm enough recently for the walk from Voss House to 221 Baker Street.” You, perhaps, should not have stood up so sharply at his entrance, but you need not worry him with that knowledge…though you did not begrudge yourself a gentle return to your seat once he had also claimed a chair. “Enola and I have been discussing you and your…field of work, sir.”

The girl giggled at how Sherlock’s face fell. “We’ve enjoyed each other’s company very well!” she told him. “I’ve only been in London with you for a few months, Sherlock, but it’s lovely how our circle is already growing. The three of us shall be a merry group, shall we not?”

You looked away from watching him closely, unprepared to see how he would take that question.

“Isn’t it amusing?” she went on. “For a whole year, we lived quite closely, yet this is the first time we’ve been in the same room after such a separation that I don’t even recall the last time.” 

“I do,” you couldn’t help but laugh. “You were sick all over my dress. Eudoria said it was salvageable, but I elected to consign it to the fire anyway.”

Enola flushed. “I…feel as though I should apologise?”

“All is forgiven. After all, you were a very dear girl even at that age. I regret not having witnessed your childhood and adolescence.”

“I as well,” interjected Sherlock.

She beamed. “Well, we can be the best of companions now.” Her smile turned sly as she glanced between you and her brother. “I’m happy you’re even sharing your workload with someone, Sherlock.”

“I work alone,” he reminded her with a frown.

You opened your mouth, some inexplicable instinct compelling you to argue against that, but you paused—what argument did you actually have?

Enola jumped over your hesitation: “Oh, come now, Sherlock! She may not have the sensory processing and extended reasoning skills that you do, but she is quite proficient at understanding social implications and personal consequences.”

“And how, pray tell, have you come to be so certain of that?” he griped.

“Why?” she demanded. “Do you disagree?”

“No, but—”

“Excellent!” she said, clasping her hands. “Perfect, even, since she came here to discuss her case with you…yes?”

You nodded at her inquiring look. “Yes. I… I had a thought about what might have factored into Mr Sulyard’s murder, if he did indeed die as my father believes.”

“I suppose that is fortuitous timing,” sighed Sherlock. “I have just received the report from the coroner, anyhow—he was quite put out by my request for papers so old and took his time finding them for me. We may discuss both developments.” He glanced at Enola. “Later, that is.”

Waving a hand, she climbed to her feet. “No, no, you see that I am off now, so you may discuss sensitive information at leisure,” she said as she shut her reticule and adjusted her clothes. “It has been a pleasure to meet you once more”—she smiled and nodded at you—“and an absolute delight to see you again, Brother, as always.”

He rolled his eyes. “Good day, Enola.”

“Wait,” you said, “did you not have your own business with Sherlock?”

His gaze darted to you, and you realised—too late—that you had let his Christian name slip out in his hearing for the first time in a decade and a half.

Enola grinned. “No, I have gotten precisely what I was looking for.”

With that, she was gone, and you and Sherlock were left alone in his flat. He huffed and shook his head, but the corners of his eyes and of his mouth were soft with fondness.

Perhaps…it would not be such an unthinkable thing, being Sherlock’s friend again. Perhaps he had changed—grown—more than you thought.

“Shall we begin, my lady?”

For once, you allowed your smile to be without constraint. Shall we begin, indeed. “Yes, I believe I would like that, Sherlock.”

Thank you for reading. Please let me know if you would like to be tagged for updates. :) I hope I didn’t screw up my first attempt at characterising Enola haha. Feedback is always welcome!

[bellelvrs]

XXX / GHOSTFACE X READER

summary - ghostface decides this particular memory is worth being recorded.

warnings - filthy smut, dub/non con, abuse and violence, cursing, fingering, gagging, dom/sub, wounds, indication of kidnapping, possessive behavior, edging, stockholm syndrome.

a/n - sorry I literally died for a few months there lmfao. thought I should feed y’all with a classic for my return. 2k words, afab reader, no cohesive plot pure filth.

The darkness of a silent conscience was peaceful. Weightless, completely unaware of the happenings in real time. It was therapeutic to sit in nothingness and just…float. Although, in a sudden jolt, you awoke to a dim-lit, muggy cell of a room that made you wish you could bask in that vast darkness for eternity.

Time and place was irrelevant, as you could only focus on the ache pulsing through your entire body. Blurred vision could only discern a weak lightbulb hanging from the concrete ceiling.

Everything was concrete. Except for the thin cushion, possibly weathered mattress, that engulfed you whole.

Attempting to hold yourself up on your elbows, you produced a raspy groan and found yourself falling back into the helpless position you were in prior.

Your mouth is dry, tasting metallic. Now, your mind begins to clear and your heart shatters at the rusted punctures in your thighs and the less vulnerable sections of your stomach.

Whoever kept you here kept you practically naked. Vulnerable. Accessible. The murder scene covering your body insinuated that your captor had expelled all their rage onto you.

What had you done?

At this point, whatever happened between you and your captor had no importance in pursuing survival. The wounds were near infection, you were barely clothed, you were concussed to confusion and dizziness. The state you found yourself in showed that you had become this monsters toy. Defiled and destroyed. It would foolish to wait for death to come knocking upon the door.

…There’s a door.

If there’s a door, there’s a hall, and a hall leads to a room which could lead to somewhere outside. Away. Far, far away.

You utilized that pain and fear and disgust to pull yourself away from the bed. The surrounding room was barren.

As soon as you had crawled off the mattress you pushed the side of your head to the floor and tried to look as far as you could underneath the door.

A glint of light gave you an unbreakable hope.

Until you heard steps coming down the hall. Slow, plodding steps of a heavy boot made deliberately to intimidate.

Scattering back into a corner, you held your knees back as far as you could to your heaving chest. Body cramped and folded, overwhelming panic numbed the pain of the stab wounds.

In this room of filth and shadow, there was no god near. No one to protect or save you. The bruised knuckles of your pathetic fist were your only weapons. Even then, what was behind the door was much more threatening.

The door creaked open and a monster stepped through.

He had expected to see you sprawled on the mattress, but showed no surprise when he saw his balled up in the corner.

A low chuckle left his lifeless face. Seeing you bloody and petrified warmed his cold body.

‘Ghostie’s back.’ He shut the door gingerly and locked it, shoving the keys into his pant pocket. He held an old camcorder beside him.

You scooted farther back into the corner as Ghostface slinked towards you.

‘Don’t come near me.’ It felt as if you hadn’t spoken in years as the words spilt out of your mouth, ‘Don’t come fucking near me.’

‘Oohh, tsk tsk, having a bad day are we?’

His presence loomed over you although he wasn’t as close as he could be. There was nowhere to run, but you still tried. Lunging forward, attempting to slip past him, he grabs you by your lower torso and tosses you back onto the mattress with harsh force. That hope you had before dissipated by the second.

A raspy groan leaves your arid throat and Ghostface waltz back in front of the mattress. He laughed again at how weak you were.

Your gaze did not leave the voids of his eyes. You couldn’t even tell if he was human. Nonetheless, you felt something stare right back into you.

‘What-‘ you clutched your side and glared at the ghost, ‘what do you want..from me?’ You questioned sharply.

‘What do I want? Baby, don’t you remember me?’

Ghostface dug into one of his many pockets and took out a stack of Polaroids held together with a rubber band. He took a knife and slit the band, throwing the pile carelessly onto the foot of the bed.

You reached forward, a trembling hand gathering only a few of the small prints. Displaying them in front of you, you closely examined the photos, your eyes widening and mouth left slightly agape.

Each Polaroid presented you completely disheveled, being fucked senselessly by the figure standing over you at that very moment.

‘Earlier I had a fun idea for the two of us, but you refused to comply.’ Ghostface mentioned as you ogled at the images.

‘What did you do to me…’ your voice cracked, on the verge of an angered sob.

‘The day I found you I had to have you,’ There was a faint cheeriness in his voice, as if he was reminiscing fond memories.

‘But of course, being the stubborn bitch you are, you tried to run. So I had to remind you of how small and useless you are.’

You looked back up, and he had leaned in closer.

‘How much of a whore you are to me.’

‘Fuck you!’ You cried, scooting back away from him.

Ghostface, with a swift move toward you, grabbed your leg and pulled you underneath him. Pinning you body down as he straddled you, you seethed through your teeth.

‘I’m not your fucking whore! I would never fuck you! Never!’ You hissed.

Ghostface exhaled a wolfish laugh,

‘You want to know the best part?’ Ghostface pried your legs open and pressed his erection against your throbbing core,

‘You like it. You’ve always liked it.’

You screamed and struggled in his clutch, kicking your legs and contorting your body to escape. Adrenaline fueled your fear and you begged, pleaded, that what little strength you had could overcome him. You muttered your hate for him, i hate you, but his touch calmed that brewing storm within you. He was poison, and you were to die by him. Every bit of morality you had faded as your mind only could feel and focus o him.

‘Tell me you hate me all you want, but you always end up screaming my name, baby.’

He holds you down into the mattress with a hand to your throat. Life drains from your face as the pressure of his grasp presses down on your windpipe.

A blade is unsheathed, foggy from continuous use. The reflection of the lightbulb on his knife blinds you as he lowers it to your skin. He glides the tip of the blade on your stomach, drawing shapes, relishing the fact that he could impale you on impulse at any second and you wouldn’t be able to revolt.

Leading the knife down to your underwear, he slices down the center of them and tears them away.

Ghostface cocks his head to the side. Amused, he tosses the knife to the side and creeps his hand into your cunt. The smooth, thick fabric of his gloved fingers slide through your folds. His thumb pressed circles onto your clit, changing directions every so often. Even held down to the point of suffocation, a pitiful, hoarse moan bubbled out of your mouth.

As your cunt slicked, he teased a pair of fingers around your entrance. Your body took over your mind, and in these blurred moments your entire being yearned to be touched.

Then, he pulled his hand away.

Bastard.

‘You liked that, didn’t you?’ Ghostface released your throat and you gasped in relief. That same hand reached back to grab the cam corder. Now preparing the tape, his soulless gaze had left you, but his thumb, glazed with your wetness, reached up and dipped into your mouth.

‘C’mon baby, tell me about it.’

A light blinked at you, and you felt nausea accumulate inside. Under heavy breath, you whimpered. It was a contradicting fight within your mind, what you wanted versus what needed to be done. Had it not been from a blend of fear and pleasure, you would’ve had your entire sensibility. You could’ve found an opportunity to run. And yet, you didn’t.

In all of that resentment and fear, there was a possibility that you let him do this to you.

His thumb withdraws, and he hurriedly unbuckles and tugs his pants down. The overhead light outlines the shifting outline of his deprived cock. It practically leaps out of his boxers when he begins to jerk himself steadily.

There’s no need to release his arousal so soon, though. The very sight of your terrorized eyes had his cock hard, dripping pre-cum onto your stomach.

‘God, I’ll thank myself later for this.’ He breathed, trying to jest, but he too had succumbed to his overbearing lust, unable to stall any longer.

His hand returns and rounds around your throat, grasping it tightly, but not dangerously. He positions the camera so it can record both his abdomen and cock and your entire naked body. As his cock rubbed against your entrance, wiping itself on your folds, your mind clouded.

The world surrounding you dissolved into a darkness, that same darkness from before. Yet, Ghostface did not disappear, he was merely blurred in your line of sight. And that blinking light.

That fucking light.

Reminding you, forcing reality back into your head, one flash at a time. Those flutters in your stomach unveiled a feeling you began to remember. A feeling you only had felt with him.

Not love, not fright.

A strange, undefinable feeling.

This state you had been left in turned you completely dependent. You needed connection in this dreary prison. He was all you had. And if he was going to use you, you were going to use him back.

With a jerk of his hip, he thrusted his thick cock inside of your cunt. You and Ghostface moaned in unison. He drew back and forth, watching your walls stretch against and wet his length.

Every thrust sent your body back, shadows dancing on your breasts as they recoil, now glistened with sweat. Ghostface leaned back as he plowed into your cunt so the camera could capture all of it.

‘Fuck me..’ he muttered, admiring your scared little face with it’s little furrowed brow. Eyes tired, pillowy lips forming an O as you moan desperately.

And so, he fastens his pace. Pushing and pulling himself in and out of you at a rapid pace. He bends his abdomen towards you, leaning in with the camera to capture your face and breathing. He doesn’t even hide his labored panting, making sure to do it loud enough so you can hear how much he is enjoying himself.

Your hand darts up and grab onto his bicep, digging your nails deep into his muscle.

‘When we’re done,’ You whisper in his ear, white sparks beginning to fill your vision; His pelvis grinds against your clit, and you jolt against his weight, ‘I-I’m going to fucking kill you.’

Ghostface breathed out in pleasure, watching your exhausted face stretch into a smile.

You spill all over his cock, a moan drawing from your lips. Your hand falls from his arm and the room starts to darken and shake through your view.

All the wounds he had left you, the scabbed gashes and green bruises painted on your limbs, meant nothing in this brief moment. You weren’t afraid, you begged to continue. This wasn’t your first time and it surely wasn’t your last with the monster. You loved the way he made you feel, in pain and in pleasure. Then it comes to you, that vague memory, in a moment of pure bliss,

Danny.

Throughout all the sloppy and reckless thrusts of his body, it only took one hard push and the sound of his name from your quivering voice to have him fall limp. As he cums deep inside of your cunt, he lets himself sit inside of you for a time. Reveling in his seed rushing inside of your pussy. When he pulls his cock out of you, he barely is able to hold himself up on his knees. Fidgeting with the cam corder, he stopped the recording and studied the screen for a few seconds.

‘Even if I kill you,’

He sits atop you, cupping your cheek and turning your head side to side, admiring the extent of his damage.

His gaze flickers back between your face and the screen.

With a long sigh, he moves in closer, cool breath tickling the heat of your skin,

‘I’ll still have a part of you forever.’ He gestures the camera in his hand.

You couldn’t faint. Fall asleep. Die.

Realization flushed your wearied mind like a raging flood as he gathered himself, standing up and heading toward the door. Before he left, he stared at you for a long minute. The lightbulb flickered and threatened to burn out.

The darkness couldn’t protect you anymore.

[brick-a-doodle-do]

Please just give me anything from your tiny workers au!! Literally anything and I will absolutely cherish it :D

*ahem*

would you like the first chapter? would you cherish that?

(also fuck scheduling, have it now. >:D its not proofread tho fyi)

tiny workers (i)

words: 4069

cw: vague description of depression, swearing

—–—

Knocking wakes him up. Loud and repetitive knocking. 

Wilbur blinks, trying to adjust to the golden sun that filters through his blinds, even as closed as they are. 

The knocking still hasn’t stopped. His nerves flare up at the continuous noise and he sits up, blinking a few more times to adjust to being awake before he finds his way out of bed. The hardwood under his floor has never felt more neutral, which makes him unusually aware of the surrounding air that feels so invisible that it’s suffocating.

Knocking.

He tries to ignore it and leaves his room, traces the length of the hallway and continues the beeline to the door, where he can faintly hear  a muffled conversation from behind.

Wilbur stops, standing at the front door. Through the agitating knocking sound, he holds his head in his hands for a moment before swiping his hands through his bed-ruined hair.

“Wil, mate!” Phil says, loud and clear through the door. Wilbur groans.

Quietly, he listens as Phil murmurs something to Techno, who in return whispers an ingenuine apology.

Right there, he considers walking away. They can’t knock forever.

But, his conscience figures he owes it to his family to at least make an effort. And so, taking the cool doorknob in his hand, he opens the door and puts on a fake, strained smile. “Yes?” 

“Good mornin’,” Techno butts in before Phil can. Wilbur raises his eyebrows at him tiredly.

“D’ya mind if we come in, Wil? We have something for you,” Phil explains, and Wilbur tries to find the courage to decline. And despite how much he told himself to promptly shut the door on his father and brother’s face, he found himself instead nodding along. 

“Yeah, go for it,” Wilbur agrees and steps aside.

Phil leads, brushing past him, where Techno lingers in the doorway for a moment. “I’ll admit, he’s stretchin’ this a little bit,” Techno warns, and before Wilbur can question what he meant, his vision is obscured as Techno walks past him. 

He shuts the door and settles in on an armchair, which sits across from the couch Phil and Techno have found a seat on.

“Are you here for what I think you’re here for?” Wilbur asks, an explanation hung between them.

“It depends on what you’re thinking, Wil,” Phil hums, laughing to try and break the tension. It doesn’t work, and in the end it’s only him finding amusement. His father sighs. “We don’t care about you not replying to us, or making an effort to be social, we just care about you actually getting outside,” Phil starts, glancing at Techno, whose  expression is nothing but curious at Phil’s particular wording, “so, see, we found something.” 

He can’t say he enjoys the sound of that, and especially not as Phil pulls his phone out and taps at his screen, only to hand it to Wilbur. A long article catches his vision as he’s handed the phone. “Here ya’ go,” his fathers says, trying his best to  smile.

Wilbur stares, face wooden as his finger slowly scrolls down his father’s phone.

Impending outlines of familiar figures and silenced commotion of bated breath keeps his flat quiet.

His eyes are hung heavy as he scrolls, skimming impatiently through the articles’ pre-advertisements. Something unintelligible of promised family fun and worthy relaxation flies past his eyes until he finally reaches it, an overdue title with a cheesy caption.

COLONY PARKS

“Tiny adventures await! Explore small worlds of wonder with tiny people, big fun!”

Wilbur squints at the screen, his doomful eyes blending in with his uncertain frown. “An amusement park? Are you fucking— fucking come again?” he scoffs. He had to ask; lingering in the back of his mind is hope that he isn’t sent to this hellhole.

His father lets out a sad sigh. “It’s for a few hours, Wil, that’s nothing compared to the things we could do.”

Handing the phone back, he shakes his head. “I think anything could be better than this. I thought your goal was to get me out of the house to have a good time. This is just—fucking childish!”

“I think one could pretty easily argue that you’re being childish right now,” Techno remarks. Phil elbows him, but Wilbur see’s the way he struggles to keep a smile down. “Heh? You know I’m right, but excuse me for putting a mark on your ‘good-parent’ facade.”

Phil stares at Techno, struggling down a smile. Wilbur shrinks into himself.

Eventually, Phil sighs. “He’s right,” Phil starts, and he watches as Techno smiles, “Wil, you gotta give it a try. One shot. If you don’t like it you know we won’t force you into it and we’ll find something better for you,” he finishes, and Wilbur solemnly nods. He knows better than to pick a fight with his father or Techno.

“Fine,” he murmurs. 

–

When a day had passed after the conversation, Wilbur couldn’t say the passing time with the absence of people had let him think, because he honestly had to answer and say he had continued with his musty routine. The only thing different was he was wallowing with slight agitation with his father. 

The sudden announcement had been a spring that he wasn’t exactly ready to release. He’d much prefer to ease into a “recovery”, but he can’t get everything he wants.

And now, with his phone vibrating loudly under his hand, he found his sore eyes opening, unadjusted to the sunlight that strung into his room, the sun high in the sky. He’d nearly drifted off again when his phone disturbed him. 

He pulled himself up, propping his upper body up with his arm and unlocking his phone. Rushing notifications from Techno continuously layered until he had the decency to open them. 

A long string of “urgent” messages. 

From what he could gather with his five-hours-of-sleep brain, Techno was parked outside. 

Begrudgingly, he tapped at Techno’s contact until the phone was ringing. Techno picked up immediately.

“You wakin’ up at twelve now?” Techno asks. 

Wilbur sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, what little energy he has murmuring out a quiet response. “Techno what are you doing downstairs?”

“I recall Phil ‘n you coming to an agreement with the theme park.”

Wilbur groans. “Now? Today? He never told me that,” Wilbur complains. Groggily, he pulls himself up and swings his legs over the side of the bed. The air is uncomfortably warm, but somehow the feeling of the heavy blanket over him still felt lovely.

“I’m only waitin’ ten more minutes before I go up ‘n get you myself, just so you know, Will-I-am,” Techno says.

“I’ll be down.”

And he was, with a fresh set of clothes and tamed hair, more than anything he’d been able to put together the past few days. He tried not to pay attention to how gross he felt, considering the greasy streaks of hair he felt just by trying to make it look presentable. 

And his laundry was growing scarce, it was only a matter of time before he’d start rewearing things from his pile of filth in the corner.

Never mind that, though, he had one free day of being outdoors where everything was covered for him. But the thought of it still made him feel unnerved. Alone in an unfamiliar place that was probably packed with people. He’d heard of the place, probably one too many times over the years.

It was unconventional for Phil to think he would come out of his shell there of all places.

But, he did, and Techno was there, already walking around his car to seemingly come and find him. “That took you so long,” Techno murmured, turning back around at the sight of Wilbur. The brunet hummed in response, trying to sound amused. He got in the car, feeling out of place in such a tidy and unusually vibrant place. But he’d been in Techno’s car year after year, so he couldn’t say it didn’t feel familiar. 

Techno drove off quickly without a word, and Wilbur buckled his seatbelt in and slumped against the window. “How far is it?” he asks on a whim.

“Nothin’ convenient,” Techno mutters, glancing at the GPS on his phone. “But it can’t be longer than two hours,” he quickly reassures.

Wilbur groans. “He wants me to be happy but can’t pick a convenient place for me to be happy at.”

“At least he’s trying,” Techno quickly butts in. “Not a lot of parents do that, bad parents ‘n all. That’s why there’s a lot of orphans.”

“I don’t think that’s what orphan means, Techno,” Wilbur muses.

“Don’t avoid the topic. And orphan can mean what I want it to mean ‘cause I’m the one killin’ them.”

“I’m not fuc—that’s still not how it works!” Wilbur argues, smiling ever-so-slightly. 

It was like that the rest of the ride, brotherly banter between them while Techno still tried to drill into his head that Phil meant good. And Wilbur considered it, which was pointless because he knows Techno is right.

He watched as the time on the GPS went down slowly, until eventually it announced that they’d arrived. Which wasn’t entirely true, because even as Techno made a right-hand turn, down onto the path with a road sign announcing the park in big black letters: “COLONY PARKS”. A thick arrow pointed right, down the road that they were currently pulling onto.

 In the distance, Wilbur spotted an overhead bridge with a big overhanging sign that decorates the entire side of said bridge. A dull brown background, the name of the park in what he recognizes as oversized shoelaces, suitably on-brand. 

There’s strands of large, fake grass that obscures some of the words, and other giant versions of everyday things: buttons, bugs, probably other things had he been paying attention. It was interesting how all-out they went, but it didn’t excuse the fact that he wanted no part in this.

Fucking Phil and his need for him to be fine.

From that point forward, the scenery had changed drastically—there were towering blades of glass that gave the intended shrunken effect (where, if he was being honest, it made his mood lighten a bit). Certain sculptures of oversized shoes or again, bugs and old trinkets of the “nearby humans” lay in the “fields of grass”. He could certainly see the appeal, speaking for the children he knows passing by this very place with a much more exasperated and fulfilled face, while his dull and unamused; trying to hide how eager he was to look at the detail in everything.

“Honestly, I can see why you don’t wanna go here,” Techno chimes in after a moment, himself looking around at the scenery. 

“Don’t say that unless you’re turning us around,” Wilbur deadpans. When Techno huffs, he shrinks deeper into the seat and tightens his arms around his torso.

(*)

“Woah—fucking shit!” Tubbo chants from afar, where Tommy can just barely hear him over the gust of air as a golf ball flies past him, narrowly missing his body. He thought he had that.

The human above him chuckles, and Tommy holds back a rant with a sour “I’ll fucking sue you”. 

“Yeah, yeah,” the human murmurs, walking past him with ease to the next hole.

Tommy stays put, looking back at Tubbo, who’s sitting in the crevice of one of the fake rocks. “I’ve lost my pep, Tubbo,” he starts, and Tubbo’s already giving him a knowing look, but Tommy continues, “I’ll steal you a free thing—just please cover for me, my lungs are dying and I think if this person fuckin’ taunts me one more time I’ll probably get fired.”

Tubbo hums and shuffles up from his spot on the ledge. “I got you, bossman. Cut yourself off, or whatever. Go take a break,” he agrees. 

Tommy’s offer slipped through Tubbo’s finger and he hurried off before he could remember. He bids a ‘thank you’ and speeds across the fake grass of the course, following along the left-hand side of the previous hole then hoisting over the low bricks that line the sides. 

As he lands in the dirt, Tommy slows his pace and basks in his unofficial break.

He approaches the small hut for mini-golf booking, where Karl was leant against the counter with his phone in front of him. Lucky bastard, getting to use a phone with such ease.

Briefly, the worker noticed the tiny and Tommy nodded at him solemnly, and Karl offered a small smile and returned to the device.

Tommy ignores his jealousy (and his impulsive desire to steal it) and carries on, ducking under the tiny-worker entrance and slumping his shoulders as a gust of air-conditioned room hits him instantly.. 

Quiet feedback from his earpiece-turned-radio breaks the quiet silence, and Karl looks down at him. Tommy in return pauses, looking up at him. 

There’s only a beat of passing silence before Karl chimes in with, “Hey, Tommy.”

“Hi Karl,” Tommy greets, wavering his previous path to cut across the floor; closer to the human. “You giving me a boost up? All the newcomers that are gonna have their mind fuckin’ blown when they come in here,” Tommy grins, “You know I just gotta see that.”

“Why should I help you?” Karl asks, and Tommy scowls at the question. “Will you put in a good word for me?”

“Oi! Come on Karl, don’t be a dick,” he yells up, scoffing.

Karl stares down at him, hand cupping his chin.

Fuck this. “Fine, dickhead. Who to, fuckin’ Big Q again?”

“Actually–yeah.”

Tommy makes a gagging noise, shaking his head. “You fucking romantic,” Tommy jokes—though he can’t say there wasn’t sincerity to it; he never saw the appeal of romance. But, the longer Karl stares at him with an expression even Tommy can quite literally not say no to, he shrugs. “I’ll try again, then, but I won’t accept assholery against me when he rejects you. Again.”

Karl nods, satisfied, then crouches down with his hand extended. With practised ease, Tommy steps on and adjusts his footing. 

The human stands, and Tommy watches greedily as a view of the opening-hour crowds start fumbling in. Amusingly enough, Tommy also has a view of the human he was up against earlier. 

He steps off of Karl’s hand and rushes across the counter. Karl returns to his phone, and Tommy takes a seat near the edge closest to the crowd.

There are the usual: families of three or four with giddy smiles as they ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ at the decor as they try to ignore the inconvenient rush of people, and the couples that look too happy to be there. There’re grandparents with their kids, large groups of teenagers and large groups of adults, kids—everything. 

But, one person in particular stands out to Tommy. There’s no kid clung to his side or running off, not a partner at his shoulder. He doesn’t look particularly invested; his shoulders are shrunk in on himself and his lanky torso, and frankly Tommy can’t say anyone has stood out quite like that in such an unordinary way. 

Usually, the people who catch his attention are those with colourful clothes or boisterous voices and laughter. This guy is making himself small, and he looks quiet at best. It’s funny—someone so tall and dull couldn’t blend in with a familial crowd, but he attempted it anyway, and it was amusing to watch. Simple as that.

(*)

Kill him. Right here, right now, kill him. 

Phil’s interpretation of fun and relaxation is still puzzling to him, because as eager people run from every direction and pay no mind as they brush against his still form, it doesn’t feel relaxing. He can only imagine the park stretching out for miles, and he can’t say that trudging any deeper would make this jungle of people any more coherent.

So, he looks to his left and makes a beeline over to the least crowded place he can find.

He goes sideways against the crowd, keeping his eyes narrowed to try and keep his vision straight ahead. He stumbles as he catches himself before he trips over a stroller, and just manages to find his footing on the path leading up to the attraction. 

It’s a simplistic design, holding nothing special against the initial drive up, with towering flowers that cast a shadow over some areas, fake rocks that seem to fit in like pebbles against the flowers. 

Wilbur takes a habitual look around, noticing the layout of a golf course. 

Lucky find, he muses.

The path cuts short and opens to a wider area, where a wooden (yet somehow still posh-looking) stand is built. Behind the counter, a worker who couldn’t have been older than twenty five was scrolling idly through his phone. As Wilbur approaches awkwardly, he seems to catch the worker’s attention. He looks up, flashing a genuine smile as he sets his phone down.

“Hello,” Wilbur greets.

“Hey!” The worker greets back, and Wilbur tries to compose himself to talk. “Look, let me be honest with you, I’ve never been here before and I just—I think I need something to pass the time.”

Karl (if his nameplate had a say in it) nods along, looking fairly interested for any theme park worker. “Uh, do you want to try a few rounds on the course?” 

“Yeah, that might be a better start than sitting around,” Wilbur agrees. Out of the corner of his eye, something shifts, but he can’t pay attention to it for long before Karl’s talking to him again.

“Okay, and have you been introduced to the rent-a-tiny feature?”

“Uh—oh, they may have mentioned it. I can’t say I was listening,” Wilbur explains. Karl nods. 

“Oh. Well, newer members get it free,” Karl begins, ducking behind the counter, “but that is specifically for attractions. To take them around the park it would be extra,” Karl pops back up. “And there’s a new-member discount for that as well, usually for if it was paid online. But it’s totally optional!” Karl finishes, finally, and Wilbur takes it in.

“I—my dad set this up, I wouldn’t know what features he got. Again, I wasn’t exactly listening when they read it over.”

The conversation continued, back-and-forth for another five minutes until it was squared away that Phil had opted for the rent-a-tiny feature, which he hadn’t been thrilled to discover. But it was valuable money to Phil, and in one angle it was for a good cause. And so, again, his conscience won.

Karl had fitted him for the club and left him to choose a ball, while the worker set off to find a tiny. It was startling to know he was going to see one, purely because of his uncertainty that he would manage to handle such a small thing—person—whatever. It was unnerving.

And that’s why his heart ran nervously when Karl finally emerged, something wedged between his forefinger and thumb.

A borrower. A real fucking borrower. Wilbur tries to hide his suddenly piqued interest in the being, watching as calmly as possible as the two approached and the borrower was set down onto the counter. He looked irritated, but still put on a fake, flashy smile for customer-him. 

“Hello, you’ve interrupted my break time but I can take a break for you, I saw you over there,” the borrower points to the crowd to Wilbur’s left of them, “and you looked all sad as shit,” the borrower finishes. His voice was so loud, so clear, no stutter in sight and swearing proudly. It was hard not to seem impressed.

“Good luck with him, and have a good game!” 

Wilbur tucks the club under his arm and pockets the golf ball, then stares at the borrower. 

“Uh—” Wilbur’s voice ran dry. Karl had disappeared out of sight, and that left the two standing there. 

“Dy’a want me to walk then, dick?” 

“Ah—no, I can just pick you up?”

“You’re one of those people?” The borrower asks, raising an eyebrow at him in plain frustration. Wilbur feels guilty, but he does feel an underlying irritation of his own. “Look, set your hand down. I won’t bite you,” the borrower instructs. Wilbur obliges reluctantly, slowly approaching his hand to the counter. “And while I’m at it, since you’re a bitch and got me for a day, I’m Tommy. Big T.”

Wilbur rests his hand on the surface and responds “Wilbur”. 

Tommy nods and turns his attention to his transportation, which Wilbur has been focussed on excruciatingly long to keep steady. As tiny skin brushes onto his, Wilbur’s entire body freezes. In that moment, his strength is kept in keeping his hand still. It was also at this contact that Wilbur remembered how touch starved he had been as of lately, with days of laying in bed with nothing but a blanket and his clothes stuck to him. 

And now, there was a borrower climbing into the palm of his hand, settling right in the crevice where his fingers couldn’t help but curl at the touch. 

Wilbur tries to shake away the feeling of contact against his hand and turns away, Tommy kept carefully in his palm. 

“It’s fucking stupid to be scared of something smaller than you, pussy,” Tommy says, looking up at him through Wilbur’s curled fingers. 

Wilbur furrows his brows and looks down in return, shaking his head. “I’m not scared of you, I never implied that,” he argues.

“Uhuh. You seem to be going the wrong way, I recall the first hole being back there,” Tommy says, grinning like he’s already known.

Wilbur turns on his heel and starts off in the right direction. “And you didn’t want to tell me?”

“Well, you don’t seem like the most talkative fella’,” Tommy points out. Wilbur furrows his brows.

He laughs half-heartedly. “That’s fair.”

(*)

So much for a break.

He watches as Tubbo grins at him from the last hole, while he’s sat in a palm at the very first one. Tommy wrinkles his face and flips the other off, who in return follows suit.

Then Tubbo is distracted by the other human, leaving Tommy alone again. 

Might as well be worth it to pry Wilbur out of his shell if their day was going to have any confirmation of a good ending. 

“Alright,” Tommy announces, shuffling up from his spot on Wilbur’s palm and pushing his fingers away. The human obliges, standing scarily still. “How—how uh, how do you want to play?”

“I have no fucking clue what that means,” Wilbur says.

Tommy frowns. “Okay, well, I can help you, or I can, well, not help you—which I’ll be fair, either way ends in me not helping you, unless you're really lucky. And I don’t think you’ll be lucky enough, even though you are a sad, sad guy."

“I’m not sad!”

Tommy stares at him. 

“Okay, whatever, you caught me,” Wilbur says sarcastically. “And do whatever you fucking want, I’m sure I could punt you no matter you’re advantage,” the human says, chortling. Tommy gasps. 

“Fucking try me. Bitch.”

Wilbur hums and crouches down carefully, an irritating slowness to his movements that makes Tommy’s world go by in slow-motion. He’s scrambling for purchase on the fake grass as soon as he knows he can, which happens to instantly trigger a reaction from Wilbur, who’s other hand moves to catch him. 

Tommy lands on more skin, the softness of the landing being both comforting and infuriating. 

“Oi! I can handle myself,” Tommy yells as Wilbur takes the initiative to let him down. “I value my safety, I wouldn't've jumped if I didn’t, dickhead.”

The gentle-ness continued for the remainder of the game. And despite Tommy’s request for a stronger hit, (which he did execute a couple times, until it dispersed into small and lazy hits), he never seemed to take it to heart. 

But, the game did eventually end.

There wasn’t any winner that got to celebrate, it was just a little bit of a lighter mood. Tommy, hesitant as he would be to ever admit it to the human, had taken a liking. It was rewarding to watch a more violent part of him come out the more Tommy kept pushing him.

The rest of the day was ahead of them, and Wilbur had already seemed more eager than he had been to interact with the tiny. 

—–—

EUEUEUEUEUUE IT'S REEEEEEEAAAAAL !!!!!!!!!

[waterdeep-weavemoss]

Doe pauses on the first step, bracing herself for the climb. She takes a moment to peer out the window, searching for any sign of the storm letting up. No chance, she thinks to herself. 

She’s about to make her way up the stairs when a flash of lightning strikes just outside the small, circular window. Her head snaps to look beyond the glass, just in time to see the silhouette of someone – a man – standing outside, pelted by the rain. 

Doe’s eyes go wide. She presses herself against the wall, hiding from the sightline of the double-paned glass. Her heart begins to race. I’m just seeing things, she thinks to herself. Clearing her head with a gentle shake, she turns to continue up the stairs. 

BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM 

Doe freezes at the pounding on the door. 

The banging sounds again a moment later, echoing through the small space. 

Doe considers her options. They may find their way in eventually, if she doesn’t answer. Had they seen her? Of course they’d seen her – they must’ve been only a few paces behind her when she’d gone out into the storm. Dammit, she mutters to herself, warily making her way back down the stairs. 

She hesitates, hand trembling over the handle of the door. Stomach lurching, she pulls it open. 

Thunder cracks, followed immediately by another flash of lightning as Doe peers through the narrow space between the door and the frame.  “Oh, hello,” the pale elven man says in greeting. Doe studies the delicate points of his ears, the striking shade of his eyes that she can’t quite place in the dark light. He flashes a dazzling smile, full of pristine white teeth. There’s something devious about this man, but Doe can’t help but feel entranced by his gaze.  “My apologies for the intrusion. I was hoping to come across a friendly face – but I wasn’t counting on one so stunning as yours.”

—A

Heat blooms in her cheeks at that; she so rarely sees anyone on this godsforsaken rock, let alone someone so charming.

But charming can be dangerous.

She braces herself against the door. Somehow, despite the storm, she can hear him perfectly clearly. She longs for a hot soak and her warm bed; the chill has set in and she trembles, trying to remember what warmth feels like.

If I leave him out there, he could die in the storm.

Her conscience would not allow it. Besides, she thinks, if he tries to kill me he'll have a hard job of it.

'There are pirates in these parts,' she says coolly, heaving open the door. Water streams from the frame as she does so, the ominous groan of metal going right through her bones. 'You're in luck, stranger. I'm in the habit of helping strays. Come inside before you catch your death. There's a hot meal and a warm bath into the bargain if you promise not to kill me in my sleep.'

[sachafaible]

The White Cloak Chapter 4

I've posted this on Ao3, just got some errors with Fanfic.net so I'll post it on there later! If you like my story, check out the interactive version on Faible! Thanks for reading :)

The decision to extend their stay at camp allowed Gwayne the much-needed respite his body demanded. Criston, ever vigilant, took it upon himself to scout the perimeter. The forest air was crisp, the scent of pine and earth grounding him as he moved through the trees with practiced quietude.

As he reached a secluded clearing, a rustle of wings drew his attention. Two ravens perched on a low branch, their dark eyes gleaming with intelligence. Criston approached cautiously, removing the small messages tied to their legs.

The first message bore Queen Alicent’s seal. He unfolded it with a sense of eager anticipation, his heart quickening at the sight of her familiar handwriting.

“Criston,

The castle has been bustling with preparations; the tension is thick in every corridor. There have been whispers of betrayal amongst the courtiers, and I rely on you more than ever. Your absence is deeply felt, and I trust your mission is progressing well. I look forward to your return and the security that only your presence brings.

With all my trust, Alicent.”

Criston’s eyes lingered on her words, a warm sense of affection welling up within him. Separate from the chaos of the battlefield, his love for Alicent seemed to grow clearer, more resolute. She had been his anchor, the reason behind his every action. The distance only served to magnify his feelings.

The second message, however, was marked with the unmistakable dragon sigil of Prince Aemond. Criston’s chest tightened as he read the brief but urgent text.

“Cole,

The plan is progressing. There are details that even Gwayne cannot know. I trust you understand the gravity of maintaining this secrecy. Our success depends on discretion.

-Aemond.”

Guilt gnawed at Criston’s conscience like a relentless predator. The weight of Aemond’s secret plan clashed starkly with the trust Gwayne had placed in him. Shields of duty and honor were flimsy armor against the corrosive power of secrets withheld from one so close.

Criston’s thoughts raced, tangled in a web of conflicting loyalties. His commitment to Alicent and the Greens demanded he uphold Aemond’s secrecy, yet his growing bond with Gwayne screamed for honesty. Each step back to camp felt heavier, his mind mired in a quagmire of duty and forbidden emotion.

Back at camp, the sun dipped low, casting long shadows over their makeshift settlement. Gwayne, somewhat revived, sat by the fire speaking softly to a few of their soldiers. Seeing Criston approach, he offered a tired but genuine smile.

“Good news, I hope?” Gwayne asked, nodding towards the scrolls in Criston’s hand.

Criston forced a smile, the weight of his internal conflict hidden behind a mask of composure.

“Alicent sends her regards, and there are... strategic updates from Aemond,” he said, struggling to keep his voice even.

Gwayne’s eyebrow arched slightly, curiosity piqued but restrained. “I’m glad to hear Alicent is well. And Aemond?”

Criston clenched his jaw, the words sticking to the roof of his mouth. “He’s... ensuring our paths remain coordinated.” It wasn’t a lie, but it felt like one.

Gwayne seemed to sense the undercurrent of tension but chose not to press further.

“We’ll need every advantage we can muster. Thank you, Criston, for always being dependable.”

The praise twisted like a knife in Criston’s gut, each word a reminder of the secret he now carried. He swallowed hard, forcing a reassuring nod.

“Get some rest, Gwayne. Tomorrow, we move forward.”

As the night wore on, Criston felt the crushing weight of his choices, the firelight doing little to ease the growing turmoil within. The path ahead was fraught with peril, not just from their enemies but from the battlegrounds of his own heart.

--

The first light of dawn broke gently over the horizon, casting soft, golden rays through the trees. The camp stirred to life, men and horses preparing for the day’s journey to Driftmark. Gwayne, still recovering but resolute, mounted his horse with a determined expression. Criston followed suit, his mind preoccupied with the conflicting loyalties pulling at his heart.

They set off, the sound of hooves on gravel and the quiet murmur of the men creating a soothing, rhythmic backdrop. As they navigated the rocky terrain, Gwayne edged his horse closer to Criston’s, his eyes reflecting a mix of curiosity and something more—something unspoken.

“Criston, we’ve faced many battles and shared more than a few confidences,” Gwayne began, his tone measured. “Yet there’s one matter you’ve always been guarded about—your relationship with Alicent.”

Criston’s grip tightened on the reins, his jaw clenching instinctively.

“We’ve discussed this, Gwayne. My loyalty to Alicent is unwavering, as it should be.”

Gwayne sighed, his frustration evident.

“I’m not questioning your loyalty. But it’s clear that what you feel for her extends beyond simple duty. You speak of her with such reverence, such... affection.”

Criston’s eyes remained fixed on the road ahead, avoiding Gwayne’s probing gaze.

“Alicent deserves every bit of loyalty and protection. She is the queen, and her safety is paramount.”

“That’s not an answer, Criston,” Gwayne pressed, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “Please, speak the truth. If we are to trust one another fully, there should be no secrets between us.”

Criston felt the weight of Gwayne’s words, the sincerity behind them. But the memories of his private conversations with Alicent, the stolen glances, the whispered promises—they were sacred, and revealing them felt like a betrayal of both his vows and his heart.

“It’s not that simple, Gwayne,” Criston replied, his voice strained. “There are things I must keep to myself, for the safety of everyone involved.”

Gwayne’s face hardened, a flicker of disappointment crossing his features.

“I want to trust you, Criston. But your secrecy makes it difficult. Especially when it involves someone as important to us as Alicent.”

“I cannot betray her trust,” Criston said firmly, finally meeting Gwayne’s eyes. “Not even to you.”

The road stretched on, the tension between them palpable. Gwayne’s mouth tightened into a grim line, but he nodded curtly.

“Very well. But know this—trust is fragile. Keeping secrets might protect some, but it could also shatter others.”

Silence hung heavy in the air, each of them lost in their own thoughts. The path ahead seemed more uncertain, the promises of loyalty and trust tested by the very secrets they sought to protect. Criston’s heart ached with the burden of his decisions, each beat a reminder of the vows that bound him.

As the day wore on, the rocky terrain eventually gave way to the coastal plains, the scent of salt in the air signaling their approach to Driftmark. The sprawling seat of House Velaryon loomed in the distance, a testament to the power and wealth of its lords.

Criston and Gwayne’s shared silence was interrupted by the squawk of a seabird overhead. They both looked up, the sight momentarily breaking the tension. But the unspoken words lingered, a shadow cast over their journey.

“We’re almost there,” Gwayne said, his voice resolute despite the tension. “Let’s hope our mission fares better than our conversation.”

Criston nodded, steeling himself for the negotiations to come.

The jagged rocks and turbulent sea waves announced their proximity to Driftmark. The air was thick with the scent of salt and seaweed. The towering silhouette of High Tide, the Velaryon stronghold, loomed in the distance, promising a resolute encounter. But as Criston and Gwayne rounded a bend in the coastal path, the sight of splintered wood and torn sails caught their attention.

A shipwreck lay sprawled on the rocky shore, the remains of a once-majestic vessel now splintered and scattered by the unforgiving sea. Criston’s eyes immediately scanned the wreckage for signs of life. There, struggling against the crashing waves and debris, were the survivors, their cries for help faint but unmistakable.

Gwayne pulled his horse to a halt, his sharp eyes assessing the scene.

“We can’t just leave them,” he said, urgency coloring his voice. “They need help.”

Criston felt the same pang of compassion, but the weight of their mission pressed heavily on his conscience.

“Our mission to Driftmark is critical. We can’t afford delays.”

Gwayne’s gaze turned steely, his tone resolute.

“Human lives are at stake, Criston. We can’t turn a blind eye to their suffering.”

The men exchanged a tense look, each understanding the gravity of the decision before them. Criston’s mind raced, calculating the risks and benefits. Abandoning the survivors went against his knightly code, yet delaying their mission posed a significant threat to their cause.

With a decisive nod, Criston made up his mind.

“We’ll help them. But we must be quick.”

The two knights dismounted, barking orders to their men to assist. Criston and Gwayne led the charge, diving into the wreckage with single-minded determination. The survivors, mostly sailors, clung to broken planks and jagged rocks, their faces etched with desperation and relief as the rescue unfolded.

Criston worked with an intensity born of purpose, pulling a man from beneath a heavy beam and guiding him to safety. Gwayne, never far from his side, hoisted a young sailor onto his shoulders, navigating the treacherous path to dry land.

“Thank you,” gasped the sailor, his eyes wide with fear and gratitude. “We thought we were done for.”

Gwayne offered a reassuring smile.

“You’re safe now. Rest.”

As the last of the survivors were brought to safety, Criston scanned the area, ensuring none had been left behind. The seas remained restless, but the immediate danger had passed. They had acted swiftly, but the day’s light was waning, and valuable time had been lost.

Criston turned to Gwayne, the weight of their decision pressing on him.

“We need to move quickly if we’re to reach Driftmark by nightfall.”

Gwayne nodded, his expression a mix of relief and resolve.

“Lives were saved today, Criston. We did the right thing.”

They mounted their horses once more, urging the party forward with renewed haste. The survivors, grateful and battered, were left in the care of their men, who assured them they would be safe until they could receive further aid.

The imposing edifice of Driftmark drew near as dusk settled over the coastal landscape. Criston’s mind remained focused on their mission, yet a gnawing unease persisted about the sailors they had rescued. They had seemed grateful, relieved even, but something about their demeanor struck a discordant note. Still, Gwayne’s decision to help had been the right one, and Criston chose to trust his judgment.

The party rode with a heightened sense of urgency, the delay weighing on Criston’s mind. Though they had gained moral ground, precious time had slipped away. He cast occasional glances at Gwayne, whose resolute expression reflected determination and an unspoken gratitude for aligning with compassion over expedience.

As they approached the gates of Driftmark, the sturdy wooden doors began to creak open, revealing a cadre of armored guards. A figure stepped forward, commanding a poised authority—Ser Vaemond Velaryon. His sharp eyes assessed the approaching contingent with keen interest.

“Ser Criston Cole, Ser Gwayne Hightower,” Vaemond greeted, his voice carrying a hint of skepticism. “We have been expecting you. I trust your journey was eventful?”

Criston and Gwayne dismounted, approaching Vaemond with measured steps.

“Our journey had its challenges,” Criston responded, his tone guarded. “We encountered a shipwreck along the way and rendered aid to the survivors.”

A flicker of surprise crossed Vaemond’s face, quickly replaced by a neutral expression.

“A noble deed. Our shores are treacherous, and such accidents are not uncommon. The survivors—what became of them?”

“They are being cared for by our men,” Gwayne said, his eyes meeting Vaemond’s with unflinching resolve. “We ensured they would receive further assistance.”

Vaemond nodded, though Criston detected a hint of something unspoken in his gaze.

“Very well. Lord Corlys Velaryon awaits your presence. Follow me.”

As they entered the grand halls of Driftmark, Criston’s mind continued to wrestle with the sense of unease. The corridors were filled with the opulence of House Velaryon, tapestries depicting naval conquests and artifacts from distant lands. Every step echoed with the weight of history and power.

Vaemond led them to a grand chamber where Lord Corlys Velaryon stood by a large, intricately carved table. Maps and documents lay sprawled across its surface, depicting various strategic points. Corlys’s presence exuded authority, his piercing eyes taking stock of Criston and Gwayne as they approached.

“Welcome, Ser Criston, Ser Gwayne,” Corlys greeted, his tone measured. “Your reputation precedes you. What brings the Greens to my doorstep?”

Gwayne stepped forward, his voice steady. “Lord Corlys, we come to seek your support for Queen Alicent’s cause. Your naval strength is unparalleled, and with Driftmark’s alliance, we can turn the tide in our favor.”

Corlys’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “A compelling argument. But my loyalty lies with the realm’s stability. Why should I tie Driftmark’s fate to your cause?”

Criston recognized the delicate balance of diplomacy required. He took a deep breath, preparing to offer his own insights, when a sudden commotion from outside the chamber interrupted them. Shouts and the clanging of weapons echoed through the halls.

Vaemond exchanged a quick glance with Corlys, then turned back to Criston and Gwayne.

“Stay here. We will investigate.”

As Vaemond and the guards hurried out, Criston and Gwayne were left standing in the grand chamber, the tension between them and their host palpable. The unspoken doubts about the sailors and their potential impact on this crucial meeting hung heavy in the air.

[akuaya-eng]

(Main story) Chapter 2 - Episode 8

- TO THE TOWER -

Dia

... The tower is up ahead.

Espada

It’s been a long time since I’ve been here... It’s changed quite a bit. This place has always been prone to gathering cursed energy, but now...

Fiori

The air isn't just heavy; it's like mud... It’s hard just to stand here... As expected from the place that caused the "Scarlet Wall" to go berserk.

Dia

..........

Espada

Lord Dia...

Dia

Espada, Fiori. You’ve memorized the plan and the map, right?

Espada

Of course.

Fiori

Naturally.

Dia

Good. Let’s move. Stay on your guard.

(time passes)

Espada

--Haa! (purifies)

Fiori

There! (purifies)

Dia

Haa! (purifies)

Espada

Hurry while you can!

Fiori

No, stop. They've gathered again.

Dia

It can’t be helped. We’ll focus on purification here for now. Don’t break formation, you two.

Espada

Understood, Lord Dia.

Fiori

Okay! (purifies)

Servant's Ghost

.......

Fiori

(thinking) Voices again, coming from beyond the cursed energy...

Servant's Ghost

What happened to my eyes... I... can’t see anything... I hear a voice telling me to run. But, where... What’s happening? I’m scared... terrified... Please, don’t leave me behind...

Dia

........... (purifies)

Servant's Ghost

A magical disaster? Are you kidding? This is just a small fire, right? Isn’t it? As long as we get out of the castle, we’ll be safe, right? The town is safe, right...? Tell me it’s a lie. Come on. I just had a baby...

Dia

..........

Espada

...Lord Dia... (purifies)

Child's Ghost

Did you see my mommy and big brother?

Fiori

...I’m sorry. I haven’t seen them.

Child's Ghost

The whole town is in trouble. There’s a fire. My mommy and big brother are working in the castle, so I came to find them!

Fiori

You came all by yourself... That’s brave.

Child's Ghost

The castle is burning too... Where’s mommy? Where’s my brother...? It’s hot... I’m scared... Can you hug me...?

Fiori

... (purifies) --Maybe you can meet them now. I hope... you do.

Dia

...The way is clear. Let’s move on.

----------

Espada

This is the garden you mentioned, Lord Dia. It’s my first time stepping in here.

Dia

Yes. After the magical disaster, it was left untouched.

Espada

It’s more of a forest than a garden now. It’s disorienting.

Fiori

It must have been a beautiful place once. Now, it’s unrecognizable. How many people lost their lives here...

Dia

..........

Espada

According to the plan, I will focus on the purification. Lord Dia, please search for the path to the tower.

Dia

Understood.

Fiori

I’ll handle support.

Espada

...Thank you.

Fiori

Here they come, Espada!

Espada

I know. (purifies) ...Ugh!I won’t let them reach Lord Dia!

Fiori

Over here too...! (purifies) ...You don’t have to stay here anymore.

Espada

(purifies) ..........

Fiori

Even a devil makes a face like that. Hearing such realistic voices must hurt your conscience.

Espada

...How I feel doesn’t matter. But Lord Dia... He's suffering. That’s for sure.

Fiori

...Well, he deserves it. He’s responsible for the deaths of countless innocent people. It’s about time he suffered.

Espada

...You’re wrong, Fiori. Lord Dia... He has been suffering all along.

----------

Dia

I think there’s a shortcut this way...

Vassal's Ghost

The Prince... Because of the Prince...

Dia

...Excuse me... Please let me through. (purifies)

----------

Maid's Ghost

Someone said... The "Scarlet Wall" went berserk-- I'm scared, scared... What did I do? If only that day hadn’t come. If only that hadn’t... happened... It’s because he moved the "Scarlet Wall." If he... if Dia weren’t here... I...

----------

Dia

(thinking)That’s right. If only I...

Servant's Ghost

The prince did something so horrible!? The king and queen are dead...? That’s a lie, right...? Killing his own parents... Has the prince turned into a devil!?

Dia

(thinking) If it weren't for me... (purifies)

...There it is. If I recall, this path leads to... this place...! The cursed energy is especially dense here... Where is it coming from? That is--

Gardenkeeper Christop

Did Lord Dia really cause the "Scarlet Wall" to go berserk? ...Christoph...

Dia

...Christoph...

Gardenkeeper Cristoph

Lord Dia wouldn’t do something like that. If we don’t believe in him, who will? Even though he’s a prince, he’s still just a boy. He loved watching birds bathe here. He must be scared. He must feel lonely. Where is he now... Is he safe...

Dia

I am...

Knight Ralph

We must protect Lord Dia. Has anyone seen Lord Dia!?

Dia

Ralph...

Knight Ralph

Damn it, the fire is spreading...! I’ll protect him even if it costs me my life!

Head Maid Alma

The Prince is the cause? What a stupid thing to say.

Dia

That voice... Alma...

Head Maid Alma

Lord Dia remembers each and every servant’s name and smiles at us. He wouldn’t do something so terrible. Oh, Lord Dia. You must be in so much pain right now. Please don’t blame yourself. We are here for you...

Dia

...Everyone... they... they care about me... Ugh...! I’ll release you from this pain now.

[multifandom-worlds]

Thank you so much for your kindness! I appreciate it a lot! 🧡

Fluff prompt 8, Loki, she/her ☺️

Please and thank you! ☺️

You're so welcome, sweetheart! No one deserves to feel bad! I hope this was fluffy enough for you! I do hope you feel better soon!

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

Morning Confessions

Genre: Fluff

Rating: SFW

Word Count: 889

Warnings: NA

Authors note: Prompt #8 - You're Comfy and written in Loki's POV

She was having a tough day. Everything that could go wrong has gone wrong. All she wanted was to curl up with me and sleep the night away - content in the knowledge that I would keep her safe and be that reassuring presence that she needed more than anything. The only problem; I wasn't her boyfriend at this time; I was her friend. She told me she had no idea how to ask me for what she needed, so so opted to go down to the main area of the compound and try to clear her head.

She curled up in the chair, eyes staring off into the void, not looking at anything in particular while she waited for sleep to finally overtake her. Or for me to swoop in and rescue her from her mind, whichever came first, or so she told me. Her mind trailed off, thinking about what life would be like if she didn’t have to hide her feelings from me. If the feelings she had for me were mutual, but there was no way a God could love a mortal, that was out of the question. Or so she thought. She didn’t realize how madly in love with her I was. 

I had come downstairs while she was there, planning to watch a movie quietly to help myself fall asleep, when I saw her curled in on herself, eyes closed and sleeping somewhat peacefully. I couldn’t in good conscience leave her there all night. I walked over to her, gently scooping her into my arms and holding her tight as I ascended the stairs, careful not to jostle her awake. 

Making it to her bedroom, I nudged the half-open door before I stepped in and made my way to her bed on the far side. I laid her down gently, resting her head on the pillow before covering her up, noticing her eyes starting to open.  

“Close your eyes, darling. It’s time for sleep. You have had a rough day.” I whisper, moving stray strands of hair from her perfect face. I caught myself staring at her cute little nose, the way her perfect lips curl, the colour of her eyes, so drowsy with sleep. 

She looked up at me before reaching for my hand. “Stay…please.” Her voice was so soft I couldn’t bear to say no. I smiled softly before sliding into the bed behind her getting comfortable before tempting fate and laying my arm over her waist. To my shock, she moved back, tighter against me and released a contented sigh before she fell asleep again. I fell asleep that night with a smile, finally getting a chance to have the girl I love in my arms. 

This morning I woke up with a weight on my chest that was not there when I went to bed last night. Upon further investigation, she had her head resting on my chest, her arm slung over my stomach. She looked so peaceful; I had been waiting for this for so many years that I was not about to wake her. I lay with her for hours while she slept, running my fingers through her hair and grazing gently over the soft flesh of her cheek, just enjoying the peace and quiet of the morning until she started to stir. 

I dropped my hand, afraid of her reaction should she know. “G-good morning, darling. Did I wake you?” I asked, meeting her eye as she looked up at me. She giggled as she answered my question. “I have been awake for a few hours. You’re so comfy; I didn’t want to get up yet.” She admits,  her cheeks flushing. To ease her inevitable worries, I decide now was the best time to confess to her, even if the feelings weren’t mutual. 

I took a deep breath before meeting her eye once more. “I’m glad. Last night was the best sleep I have had in years, finally living out my dream of falling asleep with you in my arms. You don’t know how many nights I lay awake, wishing you were here with me, hoping I could be your pillow one day. I want nothing more than to be here for you when you wake up from nightmares at night, rub your back when you’re sore, or keep you warm on those coldest winter days when the wind is howling, and Jack Frost is knocking on your window.” I pause to take a breath before continuing. “I want to kiss your perfect lips until you’re gasping for breath. I want to feel your skin under the touch and run my fingers through your hair.”

She looked up at me, the gears turning in her head as she processed what I said. Did…. she not feel the same as me? As I went to apologize, her lips were on mine, her hand resting on my chest, holding her up. It took me mere seconds to return the kiss as I sat up, pulling her up. She pulled away first before gently flicking my nose with a laugh. “I feel the same way, you dummy.”

The rest of that morning was spent in each other's embrace, drawing little circles on her back or thighs and smothering her with kisses, making up for all the time we’d been apart.

[tuzesdays]

TUZ I RUN AT YOU "You're not alone. You never were." FOR VIRUS COOKIE DUO

cookie duo official name now? love that, let's do it.

WORDCOUNT: 814 | 'INTO THE Y/N-VERSE' AFTON VIRUS (non-canon) | Hurt/Comfort

Viper became someone they’re not.

As soon as they’re close enough to see what’s happening to them, it’s too late. This isn’t a sickness they can look away from anymore – their coworkers, their friends, are slowly being taken over by the nightmare that swallowed them. Their roommate doesn’t sleep through the night anymore. The most paranoid people have gone a deathly quiet.

Viper has gone deathly quiet.

They begin looking away from other things, now – things they wouldn’t dream of ignoring if they were still… still the person they wanted to be. The person they were, for a time. Nervous gestures. Missing posters. Power outages. They know what causes these things now, and something in them still screeches in horror and anger at every one, but that part of them is buried under the purple tinge of their vision.

The day they meet Kori’s eyes and see recognition is the day that part finally shuts up for more than a few seconds.

He looks bad. He looks like he hasn’t slept. There’s a glaze to his eyes that should frighten them, but all they feel is relief. Whatever conscience Viper has left is silent, no doubt reeling in agony at the sight of their- their…

Kori meets their eyes once, long enough for them to see each other as they are now.

They don’t speak for a while afterward.

The two of them do their jobs, both official and not. They watch Kori’s eyes glaze over again and again. Kori watches their hands shake, unable to stop. Viper hopes that these small signs show there’s still something left of them. They don’t know what Kori thinks.

They haunt the halls of the plex together. Vanessa starts referring to them as a unit.

It takes a long time for them to speak to each other again.

It happens for the first time in weeks after wandering through the tunnels. They’re the only ones in this section of the building, and while most of Viper wishes to alleviate the boredom, there’s still a small bit dedicating itself to praying they stay bored, that nothing catches their eye, that if anyone’s lost here they would stay lost until the two of them leave.

So attentive to the silence, it’s startling when Kori speaks.

“I’m tired.”

Viper freezes, eyes flashing over to him. He looks tired. He’s looked tired for a long while. They both have.

There’s not a speck of loyalty left in Viper. Not one. The person that swore to stick by their friends’ side is dead and gone, leaving behind a husk that’s just fortunate enough, just crafty enough to avoid becoming a puppet.

“There’s a couch in one of the security rooms,” they say, voice passing through them rather than coming from them. “We can lay down. Like we used to.”

Kori swallows. “I don’t think I can do that anymore.”

“Laying down?”

He shakes his head. “Sharing.”

Something in them writhes. “I can keep watch then.”

“… Okay.”

They haven’t walked side by side in weeks, and they don’t start now. Kori trails behind them with light steps, light enough that Viper can barely hear them moving. Viper plunges ahead with a watchful eye, not wanting a single obstacle between them and their destination.

They travel together. They move as a unit.

Having a partner has never felt more lonesome.

They reach the office, and Viper immediately sets to clearing off the couch; it’s been buried under knick-knacks and memorabilia. Sometimes they see a bit of trash and knock it to the floor. Everything gets piled to one side and immediately forgotten about. Kori takes a seat.

He doesn’t lay down. “Viper?”

They give him their attention.

He’s… it feels like he’s looking for something. Waiting, maybe – waiting for them? He’s already said they can’t share the seat. Kori doesn’t let strangers touch him. He’s looking right into their eyes, there has to be something they’re missing.

The silence stretches. Kori’s eyes go glassy- why is he crying!?

“You’re still- still with me,” he breathes, “right?”

Oh.

He’s looking for them. For Viper.

“Right here,” they say, and it’s the easiest thing in the world. Viper doesn’t lie to their friends, no matter how much they lie to themselves. “I’m right here. You’re not alone. You never were.”

He nods, eyes shining in the light from the camera monitors. This isn’t relief- the air isn’t light with reunion, it’s heavy with grief. They are still here. The people that have been piloting their bodies are still them, despite wishing otherwise. The Viper and Kori that were are still alive.

If they ever make it out, they’re going to need so much therapy.

For now, having Kori take their hand when they offer it is enough. The two of them are not strangers. They work as a unit.

And even hell can’t last forever.