#I just need to remember that I said that lmao

[winisayswhat]

What habits do people find cute about you?

This isn’t a prediction. It’s not therapy. It’s just a mirror,meant to help you pause and listen to yourself. If something resonates, hold it close. If it doesn’t, let it go. You’re the one in charge. Always.

God Bless !

Masterlist

Paid read

Customized moodboard

Customized moodboard part 2

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Like , reblog and comments , raises my spirits to do more !

PILE 1 Do consider tipping me , if you can ! TIPJAR Like , reblog and comments , raises my spirits to do more !

You mess up compliments and laugh it off like nothing matters.

You walk around during calls like you’re planning something big.

You talk to random objects like they owe you rent.LOL

You pretend nothing gets to you, but your face betrays you.

You treat a paper cut like it needs an ambulance.

You act distant, but hate being left out.

You dance alone like you’re in a cheesy music video.

You remember one tiny thing someone said 7 months ago, word to word.

You celebrate silly stuff like it’s New Year.

You dress like you closed your eyes and picked ,and it still works.

You switch topics mid-sentence like “btw I miss my old lunchbox.”

You sniff old books like they’re photo albums.

You pull hoodie strings when lost in thought.

You act cool but get awkward real quick when complimented.

You mumble stuff like “ugh idiot” at yourself when you trip , it’s weirdly soft.

You pretend memes are jokes but send them like love letters.

Your laugh comes out fastest, loud, and real when something hits.

You fight for your your playlists like it's national treasures.

You flip between loud chaos and complete silence, depending on your people and surroundings.

You zone out, smiling at memories. It shows. People notice. It stays.

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You tilt your head when you’re thinking ,like a confused cat.

You don’t just listen , you’re fully there. Head nods, “mmhm's”, soft eyes.

You laugh with your whole face before a sound even comes out.

You say “ow” or “oopsie” like you’re in a cartoon.Powerpuff girls bubbles?

You quietly disappear to corners in noisy places.

Your random “just checking on you” texts feel like a warm blanket.

You doodle on everything. Sometimes on skin. Sometimes on people.Any space on book.

You stare off like you're watching something only you can see.

You throw in awkward jokes to kill heavy moods,and then go LOL ,LMAO.

You hug your coffee mug like it’s emotionally supporting you.More like an old woman holding onto her mug after retirement ?

You whisper to yourself ,“don’t drop it, don’t drop it” ,like it helps.(Emotions,sarcasm,objects,glares,farts?)

You fix your hair ,rings or sleeves when you’re overthinking/worried.

You curl up in weird poses in public, like a comfy little gremlin/Daffy the duck.

You peek over your phone like a squirrel.

You correct people , no ego, just care.

You keep broken stuff because “it still means something.”

You light candles or fairy lights for no reason. Just because?

You press your lips tight when about to say something real.

You turn routines into rituals. Quiet, private unpaid magic show.

You love in small ways. People don’t always notice ,until it’s missing.

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You gasp at pretty things ,like it’s national news.

You hum in public ,fully in your own little movie.

You have a system for toast, coffee, everything. It’s personal.

Your texts feel like diary entries, but raw.

You make eye contact with animals like you’re cousins.

You take 43 photos of one flower. For the “vibe.”

You match your clothes to your mood like it’s therapy.

You cry over fictional people like they were real friends.

Your birthday wishes feel like poetry on accident.Awwie.

You live like everything deserves to be felt.

You wave to birds. DrAmAtIcAlLy.

You tell stories with voices, accents, the whole drama.

You touch your heart when something moves you.

You treat dreams like signs, not just sleep.

Your voice notes are 40% sighs and laughs.

You talk fast when nervous and then go, “ugh sorry” ,it’s real.

You exit rooms like a curtain should drop behind you.

You keep petals, coins, notes , little leftovers of emotion.

You stare at people you love like they’re art. They remember it forever.

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You act like nothing gets to you , but your eyes? Way too honest.

You say “whatever” but your clenched hands say otherwise.

You act like you forgot .But you remember the exact sentence.

You send love through memes, snacks, or “did you eat?” texts.

You don’t laugh often, but when you do, it’s loud and real.

You bite the inside of your cheek when you’re not okay.

You quietly fix people’s collars, bags, zips , no words.

You grow attached in silence, but play it cool.

You care by doing things ,fixing chargers, saving snacks, handing over water.

You leave cold, come back soft.

You sit like you’re always ready to bolt.

You rub your neck when you're holding stuff in.

You smirk instead of showing it , but it leaks out anyway.

You open up one night, then vanish emotionally for two days.

You scan rooms like a radar , always watching.

You roll your eyes when helped but secretly want to be taken care of.

You fix broken things when no one’s watching.

You freeze someone mid-laugh in your mind , like a mental photo.

You leave chaos but remember everything.

You pretend to be tough , but you’re just tired of being dropped.

[jungkoode]

FUCK ME UP | FRAGMENTS

˗ˏˋ polaroid memories ˎˊ˗

"It’s not like Taehyung meant to go looking for ghosts—he just wanted his damn charger back. Funny how the past never waits for an invitation."

⋆｡°✩ story details ✩°｡⋆

collection: HIDDEN MOMENTS (FMU)

wordcount: 3k

content: slice of life / character study, emotional intimacy, bittersweet nostalgia, found family undertones, quiet vulnerability, heavy emotional themes (childhood trauma, parental emotional neglect, implied domestic violence, implied emotional abuse and manipulation in past relationship), non-linear memory recall through photographs, friendship depth, character study on Taehyung’s perspective of Jungkook’s history, swearing, accidental emotional exposure, post-Mia timeline, roommate and found family references, charger theft as a plot device (lmao), soft but heavy tone with moments of reluctant humor

✧ author's note ✧

Hi hi hi!

Random drop of the week! I had this half-finished for a while now and I decided to sit my ass down and finally give it the closure it deserved. So here we are! I know I just made the public PSA about the unfortunate unvoting wave that took place recently, and how that pushed us into having to patiently rebuild towards Chapter 21’s original vote goals on WP again and Chapter 22’s current vote goal. I meant what I said when I promised I wouldn’t leave Kikizens hanging while that happens. I do have a few drabbles and smaller pieces planned while we climb our way back—this is the first of them. Consider it a little something to hold you over while we get back on track.

As always, Fuck Me Up isn’t an easy story to read, and it was never meant to be. It’s messy. It’s quiet when you want it to be loud, and loud when you wish it would just shut up. It sits in your chest in a way that’s hard to swallow sometimes, because that’s what trauma does. It doesn’t scream all the time. Sometimes it lingers in small things—a shoebox under a bed, a picture you didn’t mean to find, a moment when you realize you’ve known someone for so long that their past feels heavier in your hands than it does in theirs.

This is one of those pieces. It doesn’t give you the big emotional breakdown. It doesn’t solve anything. It doesn’t even really explain itself. Because that’s how memory works. It’s fragmented, it’s incomplete, and it rarely comes with all the context you wish you had.

So please read carefully. This one is soft in tone but heavy in weight. It’s not graphic, but it is deeply uncomfortable if you sit with it long enough—and that’s exactly the point. It’s meant to make you sit. To notice the silences. To feel the weight of the things Jungkook never says.

Thread carefully, take breaks if you need them, and remember: FMU has never been about rushing to the answers. It’s about sitting in the questions long enough to feel them for real.

⋆｡°✩ read more ✩°｡⋆

main story: fuck me up

read on ao3

read on wattpad

The box wasn't supposed to be there.

Taehyung glared at the battered shoebox tucked beneath Jungkook's bed, unearthed only because he was searching for that stupid charger his friend had ‘borrowed’ three weeks ago and never returned. 

Just like Jungkook to take his shit without asking. 

It shouldn't have caught his attention—just another cardboard casualty in Jungkook's chaotic unpacking system—but the faded marker on its side made his breath catch: ‘Before.’

He shouldn't touch it. Definitely shouldn't. 

But his fingers were already tracing the edge of the lid, that instinct from fifteen years of friendship telling him exactly what lay inside. Polaroids. The physical evidence of a childhood shared, preserved in chemical development rather than filtered Instagram perfection.

Whatever, he thought, sliding the box from its hiding place.

Jungkook had been living in his apartment for seven months—invading his space, eating his food, leaving windows open—so Taehyung had absolutely zero qualms about invading his privacy now that he'd finally moved out. 

Plus, Jungkook wouldn't be back for hours anyway��Thursday meant dominoes with that old lady downstairs he'd randomly befriended, which meant Taehyung had plenty of time to snoop before he'd hear footsteps in the hallway.

The lid came off with a soft scrape of cardboard. Inside, messily scattered (because of course Jungkook would never organize anything), lay dozens of polaroids. Different sizes, different eras, different cameras—but all carrying fragments of history.

He picked up the first one, sneering slightly at their younger selves. Two boys with chocolate-smeared faces, arms thrown around each other's shoulders. 

Taehyung remembered that day. 

His mom had taken them for ice cream after Jungkook's piano recital, the one where he'd played that Mozart piece perfectly but still looked like he might throw up from nerves.

"Such a neurotic kid," Taehyung muttered, tossing it aside to pick up another.

This one made him snort—thirteen-year-old Jungkook with that ridiculous bowl cut his mom had insisted on, looking ready to commit murder while Taehyung posed beside him with an exaggerated thumbs-up. They'd been at summer camp, three weeks of mosquito bites and midnight raids on the counselors' cabin and swimming in that lake that always smelled like something had died in it.

Taehyung sorted through them quickly, impatience mixed with reluctant nostalgia. There they were with their first skateboards, knees already scraped raw from failed attempts. There was Jungkook passed out on Taehyung's family couch, drooling onto the cushion during one of their weekend movie marathons.

Some polaroids were less innocent—sixteen-year-old versions of themselves flipping off the camera at that punk show they'd snuck into with fake IDs. Seventeen, passing a joint between them on Taehyung's roof, Jungkook's eyes squinted nearly shut as he laughed at something now forgotten.

"We were such little shits," Taehyung muttered, fighting the smile tugging at his lips.

But then his fingers closed around a polaroid shoved deep into the corner of the box, partially hidden beneath the others as if intentionally buried. 

It was older, definitely older—the colors slightly faded, its edges more worn than the rest. 

Eight-year-old Jungkook stood stiffly in what Taehyung recognized as the living room of the old Madison Avenue apartment. 

That pristine white couch. Those gleaming hardwood floors.

Unlike the others, there was no smile on young Jungkook's face. His expression was blank, controlled in that unnatural way children only adopt when they've been told very specifically to behave. 

Standing behind him, his father's hand rested heavily on his shoulder, fingers visibly digging in. The man's smile was perfect—white teeth, successful businessman, Upper East Side perfection—but there was something in his eyes that made Taehyung's stomach clench even now.

Mrs. Jeon stood slightly apart, smile equally practiced but eyes focused somewhere off-camera. 

The sleeve of her cashmere sweater rode up just enough to reveal the edge of what might have been a bruise on her wrist.

Taehyung's throat tightened. He remembered visiting that apartment exactly once. 

The way Jungkook had shown him around with rehearsed politeness, like a museum docent rather than a child in his own home. 

The hushed way they'd played, Jungkook constantly glancing toward the hallway whenever footsteps approached. 

The way Mrs. Jeon had flinched when Mr. Jeon came home early, the sound of his heavy shoes on the hardwood announcing his arrival.

He turned the polaroid over. On the back, in a child's careful handwriting: Family portrait, 2008.

Beneath it, in ink that looked more recent: Before.

"Fuck," Taehyung whispered, something heavy settling in his chest.

He set the photo aside and continued digging, finding more from that era. 

Nine-year-old Jungkook at Taehyung's house for a sleepover, wearing pajamas that were slightly too large—borrowing Taehyung's clothes because he'd arrived with nothing but the outfit he was wearing. Ten-year-old Jungkook with a black eye that his mother had explained away as a baseball accident, though Taehyung couldn't remember Jungkook ever playing baseball.

Then, a polaroid that made his breath catch. 

The two of them, maybe eight years old, sitting on Taehyung's bed. 

Normal enough, except for what was happening in the image. 

Jungkook was crying—not the dramatic tears of a child's tantrum, but the silent, shaking sobs of someone trying desperately not to be heard. Taehyung had his arm around him, looking young and scared and completely out of his depth.

Taehyung remembered that night with painful clarity. It was the first time Jungkook had told him, in halting, confused words, what was happening at home. 

‘Daddy hurt Mommy again. He said it was my fault for making noise during his meeting call.’

He hadn't known what to do except hold his friend and promise not to tell anyone because Jungkook had made him swear. 

‘Daddy says nobody would believe us anyway. He says everyone knows he's an important man and Mommy's just emotional.’

Who had taken this photo? 

Taehyung frowned, trying to remember. His own mother, probably, thinking she was capturing a sweet moment of childhood friendship without realizing what was actually happening. She'd always been annoying with that old polaroid camera.

The next few photos tracked the subtle changes as they approached adolescence. 

Jungkook after the divorce, the relief evident in his looser posture, his more genuine smiles. 

The day they'd painted Jungkook's new bedroom in the downtown apartment his mother had rented—both of them splattered with blue paint, grinning like idiots. 

The new skateboard Jungkook had saved up for, the first major purchase that was entirely his own choice.

There were gaps, of course. No photos of those months when Jungkook had withdrawn completely, refusing to answer texts or phone calls. Nothing from the year his mother had considered moving them to Seattle, a plan Jungkook had fought with uncharacteristic ferocity until she agreed he could stay in New York to finish high school, living with his aunt.

Taehyung set aside another image—sixteen-year-old Jungkook playing guitar for the first time, fingers awkwardly positioned on borrowed strings—and paused at what lay beneath it. 

This polaroid was different, taken with one of those newer instant cameras that tried to mimic the vintage look.

College-aged Jungkook in the early days with Mia. Her arm was wrapped around his waist, her smile dazzling as always. 

Jungkook looked...happy? 

No, that wasn't quite right. 

He looked pleased to be photographed with her, definitely, but there was something weird about it.

Taehyung hadn't noticed it then. Too caught up in his own freshman year chaos, too impressed by Mia's confidence and beauty, her senior status and the way she seemed to know everyone worth knowing on campus.

But looking at it now, he could see the warning signs. The way Jungkook's body angled slightly away from hers even as she pulled him close; the way his eyes sought the camera—sought Taehyung behind it—as if looking for reassurance.

More photos from that period followed, documenting the slow erosion of his friend. 

Jungkook getting thinner, shadows appearing beneath his eyes. Jungkook with Griffin for the first time, the tiny orange kitten cradled carefully in his hands, Mia's manicured fingers visible at the edge of the frame. Jungkook at some party, Mia kissing his cheek while he stared at something off-camera, his expression unreadable.

Then the photos stopped. 

A gap of nearly two years—the belly of the Mia era—before picking up again with what Taehyung recognized as the aftermath.

Jungkook on Taehyung's couch, Griffin curled on his chest, both of them asleep in the gray February light. 

The healing cut on Jungkook's cheekbone visible, a souvenir from that night they never discussed directly. 

Jungkook in the kitchen of Taehyung's apartment, attempting to make sourdough for the first time, flour dusting his black t-shirt. 

Jungkook and Yoongi in the campus recording studio, heads bent together over some project.

The newest photos were from the move to the current apartment. Jungkook and Yoongi hauling furniture up three flights of stairs, both red-faced and sweating. Jungkook assembling IKEA furniture with an expression of intense concentration. Griffin exploring the empty living room, his orange tail held high like a flag.

Nothing with you; the new roommate—sharp-tongued English major with the surprisingly good taste in music that Jungkook had been complaining about non-stop for the past month. The one who apparently gave as good as she got, based on the brief encounters you two had had. 

Taehyung sat back on his heels, looking at the scattered timeline of his best friend's life. 

The before. The during. The after. 

And now, whatever unnamed period they were in currently.

He picked up the family portrait again, studying the stiff posture of that eight-year-old boy. The same boy who had grown into the man who spent seven months sleeping on Taehyung's couch, who still sometimes woke up gasping from nightmares he refused to discuss, who used charm and physical attraction as shields against anything that might actually matter.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Taehyung's head snapped up. 

Jungkook stood in the doorway, his expression shifting from surprise to annoyance as he took in the scene: Taehyung surrounded by scattered polaroids, the family portrait still in his hand.

"Looking for my charger, asshole," Taehyung replied, making no attempt to hide the evidence. "The one you stole. Found these instead."

Jungkook's eyes darted from the photos to Taehyung's face, then back again. 

For a moment, Taehyung thought he might explode—might demand he put everything back, might refuse to acknowledge what Taehyung had seen.

Instead, Jungkook just exhaled heavily, dropping his backpack by the door and crossing to sit on the edge of the bed.

"You're back early," Taehyung said, more to fill the silence than anything else.

"Dona wasn't feeling well." Jungkook's voice was flat.

Taehyung nodded, filing away the name of this mysterious old lady Jungkook had apparently adopted. 

Another stray, like Griffin. 

His friend had a habit of collecting the vulnerable, though he'd deny it if confronted.

"I haven't looked at these in years," Jungkook continued, reaching down to pick up one of the polaroids—the one of them at the punk show, middle fingers raised defiantly. A small smile tugged at his lips. "Remember how that bouncer almost caught us?"

Taehyung snorted, relief washing through him. "You pulled some parkour shit over that fence. I thought for sure I was getting arrested while you escaped."

"But I came back for you," Jungkook reminded him, his smile growing a fraction.

"Yeah, after letting me panic for ten minutes," Taehyung shot back. "Asshole."

Jungkook's eyes drifted to the family portrait still in Taehyung's hand. His expression shuttered again, but he didn't look away.

"You know," Taehyung said, trying to sound casual, "you should get a new camera. One of those instant ones. Start filling in the gaps."

Jungkook raised an eyebrow. "Gaps?"

Taehyung gestured to the photos. "You've got nothing recent. Nothing with the roommie."

"Why would I want photos of her?" he snorted. "She would probably throw the camera at my head."

Taehyung rolled his eyes. "Yeah, right after calling you something in Shakespeare-speak that you'd have to Google later."

A reluctant smile tugged at Jungkook's lips. "She does that thing where she takes off her glasses first. Like she's preparing for battle."

"Wait, she wears glasses?" Taehyung perked up, filing this new information away. 

Jungkook rarely shared details about people unless they'd made an impression.

"Only for reading. Or when she's trying to look extra judgmental." 

"So basically all the time," Taehyung quipped.

"Pretty much." Jungkook started gathering the scattered photos. "She was reading something the other day—some poetry book—and I swear she quoted the entire thing from memory just to prove me wrong about a line."

"Sounds like she keeps you on your toes."

"More like keeps me from getting any peace in my own apartment," Jungkook paused, holding a photo of them as teenagers, all gangly limbs and bad haircuts. "You know what she did yesterday? Used the last of my coffee. The expensive stuff from that place on 6th. Then left a note that just said 'thanks for the donation to the cause.'"

Taehyung snorted. "What did you do?"

"Hid the coffee grinder, obviously."

"Mature."

"She started it," Jungkook said, sounding so much like his twelve-year-old self that Taehyung couldn't help laughing.

"What's her deal anyway?" Taehyung asked, trying to sound casual. "You've been texting complaints about her for a month but I still don't know anything except that she's an English major with—what did you call it?—'a vocabulary that could flay a man alive.'"

Jungkook shrugged, but Taehyung noticed he took a moment too long to answer. "I don't know much about her. She keeps to herself when she's not arguing with me about the thermostat or the dishes or Griffin sitting on her books."

"Griffin likes her?" 

Oh. That was interesting. The orange menace was notoriously selective.

"Traitor sleeps on her bed when I'm not home." Jungkook's tone suggested this was a personal betrayal of the highest order. "She denies it, but I find his fur on her comforter."

"You've been in her room?" Taehyung raised an eyebrow.

"To get Griffin," Jungkook replied too quickly. "She’s a freak, sometimes gets home late because she’s been studying or something, so. I have to rescue him when she's not home."

"Mmhmm." Taehyung didn't bother hiding his skepticism.

"It's not like that," Jungkook insisted, shooting him a warning look. "She's just temporarily living in the same space. Sharing a bathroom. Touching all my stuff. Using my coffee."

"Sounds terrible," Taehyung deadpanned.

"It is!” Jungkook tossed a balled-up sock at him, which Taehyung dodged easily. "It's just weird, that's all. Living with someone who's not you or Yoongi."

"Does she know?" Taehyung asked, gesturing toward the box of polaroids, particularly the ones from the darker periods.

Jungkook's expression closed off immediately. "Why would she? It's none of her business."

"Just asking."

"Well, don't."

They sat in silence for a moment. Taehyung knew better than to push when Jungkook put up those walls. More than fifteen years of friendship had taught him when to back off.

"You're good, though?" he asked finally. "Living there? With her and Yoongi?"

Something in Jungkook's posture relaxed slightly. 

"Yeah, it's fine. Yoongi's barely around between classes and studio time. And Phoenix—" He caught himself using the nickname, looking momentarily annoyed with himself. "She keeps to herself most of the time. Except when she's stealing my coffee or lecturing me about leaving wet towels on the bathroom floor."

"The horror," Taehyung said flatly. "How do you survive such trauma?"

"Fuck off." Jungkook's mouth quirked up. "Not everyone can be as perfect a roommate as you, with your extreme gratitude of allowing me to sleep on your couch."

"I was a delight to live with and you know it."

"Not even an inflatable mattress? Seriously?”

“You literally said you’d be crashing for two weeks max!”

Jungkook snorted, carefully placing the last of the photos back in the box. 

Taehyung watched as Jungkook slid the box back under his bed, noting that he didn't push it quite as far back as it had been before—leaving it just visible enough that someone might notice it was there. 

A small change, but potentially significant.

"Hey," Taehyung said, suddenly remembering. "We're still on for Saturday, right? That show at Mercury Lounge?"

Jungkook nodded. "Yeah, I'll be there. Might be a little late though—got a project due for Film Production."

"Cool." Taehyung hesitated, then added casually, "You should bring her."

Jungkook looked up sharply. "Who?"

"Y/N. Unless you're afraid she'd actually have fun and ruin your whole 'she's the bane of my existence' narrative."

"She wouldn't want to come," Jungkook said dismissively. "Besides, she's probably working or has some literary thing or whatever."

"So ask her." Taehyung shrugged, trying to appear indifferent. "Or don't. But she’s somewhat fun to be around, and I like seeing someone apparently capable of driving you even crazier than I can."

Jungkook rolled his eyes. "No one drives me crazier than you. You've had too many years of practice."

"And I'm very proud of my accomplishments." Taehyung grinned, tucking the recovered charger into his pocket. "So bring her Saturday. What's the worst that could happen?"

"She could murder me in my sleep after I make her listen to your terrible taste in music."

"Please, my taste is impeccable." Taehyung stood, stretching dramatically. "And if she murderers you, at least Yoongi and I can split your vinyl collection."

"Touch my records and die," Jungkook threatened. "And get out of my room."

"This is the thanks I get for letting you crash on my couch for half a year?"

"I brought you food. And cleaned your disgusting bathroom. We're even."

Taehyung flipped him off as he left, but there was affection in the gesture. 

Some things never changed, even after more than a decade. 

index

⋆｡°✩ taglist✩°｡⋆

@cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @jimineepaboya @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @jkrailme @rpwprpwprpwprw @mar-lo-pap @jeontae @whothefuckisthishoe @mikrokookiex @minniejim @btstrology @vialattea00 @curse-of-art @cristy-101 @mellyyyyyyx @mimi1097

© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[magicwhiskers29]

^ @potatoattorney ‘s tags

ABSOLUTELY correct here. Touching base on pretty much all the points I made that one time I wrote Flora propaganda for the canon misogyny victims tournament… The thing is, the reason everyone is quite so misogynistic towards Flora, especially with those ‘jokes’ in UF about her not being able to cook (“a woman that can’t cook?” the writers say, how hilarious!) , and the whole “haha she’d angry that we keep abandoning her, how silly”/“lmao woman complaining get a load of this Luke”, is because of the writers’ biases, yes, but like you say, that doesn’t mean we should just dismiss them as existing purely outside of canon, because no, Layton still said and did those things in canon.

If we want to examine his character on a deeper level, then we have to take into consideration his misogynistic attitudes in the same way we have to consider the dissonance of Flora sneaking out to follow Layton and Luke multiple times and Flora getting kidnapped multiple times. Layton is a man who cares deeply for others, but he is also someone who uses his trauma to justify misogynistic treatment of the women in his life. It’s not malicious, but there’s a reason so many of his “It’s the duty of a true gentleman to help a lady in need” type statements often come across as very disrespectful. Why do you specific only women, Layton? I know you want to protect people in general, Layton, so why do you so often only speak out about it being duty when it’s a woman in trouble? Why is it personal for other men, but duty for women? Rhetorical questions of course, because once again, yes, it is written around the writers’ attitudes, but Layton as a character still does hold these views. He views women as people who it’s his duty to protect, and thus feels responsible for Claire and Aurora in a way that carries through to his treatment of Flora.

Both Baron Reinhold and Layton did mean well for Flora, and I don’t doubt that they both genuinely cared for her and wanted to protect her, but they both objectified her and saw her as a representation of the women they’d lost in their pasts, and in doing so, hurt her. Keeping Flora locked at home, whether that be in her tower or in Layton’s home, just makes her even more susceptible to the kinds of harm that both of them are afraid of coming to her, because it both fosters the kinds of attitudes which encourage Flora to behave recklessly and more in line with the kinds of behaviours that led to Claire and Aurora’s deaths (curiosity and the pursuit of learning in Claire’s case, and a desire to see and help the world she was isolated from in Aurora’s) as well as keeping her naive to the actual dangers that those behaviours bring. The difference between Claire and Aurora and Flora is that Claire knew the machine was dangerous but wanted to test it anway because she cared about her work, and Aurora knew that bargaining with the Azran would cost her life but did it anyway because she loved humanity and the new world, whilst Flora very genuinely does not understand the sorts of dangers she could be in until she’s directly confronted with them because the authority figures in her life never thought she ought to know about them.

Misogyny runs through the treatment of Flora in universe, because the male authority figures she has looked at her and only saw other women that they used to know. They were often fundamentally incapable of seeing her as her own person as opposed to the manifestations of those who they had lost. Baron Reinhold potentially just wanted a good life for her, but for someone whose parallels to her mother are so frequently highlighted, I have no doubt that he remembered Lady Viola just looking at and that he locked her in her box of a tower like a fairytale princess because if she never faces the outside non-idealistic world, she never faces the kinds of dangers that killed her mother. Does anyone ever think how she lives in a village full of robots who can’t get actually sick whilst both her parents died of illness? And Layton meets her, a mysterious girl with an affinity for puzzles, surrounded by robots, and left as a prize in a treasure hunt, fresh after losing Aurora (and only months before losing Claire again) and reacts out fear of Azran Legacy repeating itself. He refuses her agency so she can’t have agency to die like the other women he sees her as.

But as many people have pointed out, Layton’s not like this with Luke. Luke surely does still remind him of Aurora and Emmy, but his reaction to needing to keep Luke safe is to keep him at his side where he can do that personally, by the time of the original trilogy. Luke and Emmy start by not taking “stay away” as an answer, and then Layton never updates his behaviour towards Luke to accommodate for new fears because he sees Luke as his own person that he wants to spend time with in a way I don’t think he quite does with Flora.

I do think he cares for her, but more… in an object kind of way. In the sense that he can feel pride for her, but like a particularly special possession, like a shaped piece of gold, he’d rather take care of her by locking her back up in a box. He can’t disconnect his sense of duty or his trauma over the losses of prominent women in his life from Flora, who’s entirely disconnected from any of that and likely doesn’t even know about it because he never told her, and even in UF, no one bothers to keep her up to date, and so she suffers for it. So he just leaves her. He feels awkward trying to connect with her, so he just leaves her be where she’s safe and he’s not in a position to have to. Where he doesn’t have to see her get mad and actually challenge his views on her and why he’s doing her harm.

I can’t entirely remember if I have seen people dismissing Layton’s misogyny as simply Level5’s or not, but regardless, I absolutely agree with you and think that the text is much more interesting when you exactly take into account what the characters come out looking like when still considering the writers’ biases being put into them. I’m quite sure I’ve had a few conversations to this effect with River before, and well… Yeah, I clearly still have thoughts. (They might have just festered a little as I’ve gotten further and further down the Flora rabbit hole. I swear I do like Hershel; I just struggle to really take his side, even if I understand it, when it comes to Flora)

(And ahhhh, hello??? My fics mentioned?? Funnily enough, I think I might have touched on the the Aurora stuff specifically in the fic you mentioned :p Been a couple of years but the idea’s still on my mind. Or, well, since writing ghost au, Flora and Aurora have never really left my mind, but I digress. This isn’t technically a ghost au post.)

I know I’ve certainly thought about who Flora reminds them both of and I know I’m not alone in that… Happy Flora Friday!

[1425fivefive]

thank you anon bc you just reminded me how oscar used to ask to get read car magazines and used to yell out car names/brand while they drove around as a kid…😭😭 also how he comes from a long line of mechanics. He really is just car

Also remembered how his mom said at 5 years old, he told her he didn't need her to walk him to school lmao—so he forced her to walk behind him and the moment they got there he turned to her and went "alright i'm here you can go now.” Why is he actually so fascinating

i'm so obsessed with his brain it's not even funny anymore. like do you know how many hundreds of thousands of words i've written from his pov just because i want to crack open his skull and root around his brain? i need to understand what's going on up there so bad

[tiny-minecraft-rabbit]

If I had a nickel for every time I've made a fic based on a Jimmy imposter win,,,

cw: ship content, slight blood and gore, third imposter-ing lmao

Tango practically squeezed himself through the door the moment the pressure was released, the panels moving at a snails pace compared to the racing of his heart. He was quickly checking down each hall of the intersection as Skizz and Jimmy followed him through. It was just five of them left and one more imposter– one more flesh-eating, shapeshifting, lie-ificating imposter on this god-forsaken Skeld.

He trusted Skizz about as much as he could trust any of the crew left in this situation; and that was about zero. If at any point they split this group and he was alone with him, well, he’d be screaming his head off.

Jimmy, however, he trusted with his life. His Rancher Buddy was a friend and much more after these long nights in space. Tango would sleep easy if, at the end of the day, it was him and Jimmy that survived this whole mess.

“Okay,” He backed away from the hall, “Looks clear, are you two–”

He turned and Jimmy had a knife in Skizz’s heart.

Metal tore flesh and Skizz slumped, Jimmy had his hands around him as he lowered him to the floor, gentle like. His space suit shifted and scrunched, unlike the ortho-fabric it was supposed to be. There was just a giant maw that was opening wider and wider–

Tango blinked and Jimmy was taking slow breaths as he stepped away from the body—the body that was now missing an entire upper half, blood pouring and dripping and organs slipping out of its abdomen. It was just how the other bodies were found, half-devoured. He- He had to report this– He had–

“Tango, don’t,” Jimmy said, standing in front of Tango, stopping him from taking any more steps, “Tango, you don’t need to report it.”

His eyes flicked away from the body and up to Jimmy. He shouldn’t fall for it. This was a shapeshifter, the human expression was fake. The reassuring tilt of his head was a sham– a farce! Jimmy didn’t even naturally have a human face and had probably stolen this one long before he stepped on the ship. He had pretended to be their friend, getting on this ship, and betrayed them.

“Don’t?”

Jimmy smiled, soft, hands grabbing Tango’s and holding them tightly, “You’re my Rancher. We’re getting out of here together.”

“Together? Really?” Tango asked, “You won’t murder-ficate my face the moment your stomach is empty again?”

“Nope. We’re buddies, Tango, honest. Don’t report it. Just follow me and we’ll get home together, okay?” Jimmy reassured, slowly pulling Tango away from Skizz.

“Okay,” Tango followed, one step at a time, “Okay. We’re doing this. Together.”

Jimmy leaned forward, pecking a kiss to Tango’s cheek, “Love you, Rancher.”

Tango sighed, “Love you, Rancher Buddy.”

The meeting came and went. He had watched Etho float away in space, feeling much less conflicted then he thought he would. Throwing him out had been easy, it only took his and Jimmy’s vote to secure it. He couldn’t even remember what Pearl had voted for, but it didn’t matter in the end, there was still anxiety coming off her in waves. She wasn’t sure they had made the right decision.

Maybe they hadn’t for her, but Tango was pretty happy with his choice.

They kept her around for a day, and then Jimmy had his first full meal on the ship, not having to settle for a quick bite and dash.

The two of them found themselves in a single bed in the quarters, folded into each other. It was familiar, even if the ship was silent around them instead of the usual bustle of crew.

“Still not going to eat me?” Tango asked, and he was almost surprised by how light his tone was. He wasn’t scared.

Jimmy giggled, and the sound was a never-ending comfort, “Nah. I like you too much, Rancher.”

[skittzdaskittle]

WL Soup Group. ... thoughts....

I was gonna say, "i wish they collabed more," buy then just remembered, I can just watch their hermitcraft povs 💀

I know i said I'm taking a break, I am, it's just that I've been thinking about Soup Group a lot for the past week LMAO

So I guess what I mean by "i wish they collabed more" was that i neeeeed a Soup Group life series team up

I need a Gem or Impulse win

Hopefully, impulse first because, holy shit he needs to win

My guy just be losing

Mans can win mcc, but not the Life Series 😔

Of course, a Gem Life Series win would also be epic

Though I feel like the reason they each should win are vastly different XD

Wet cat luckless man who's been losing since the beginning deserves to win, and girlboss woman who's newer and is really good at killing people deserves to win, are two sentiments that can be true at the same time

Also, the reason I left Pearl out is obviously because she won, but that doesn't mean she doesn't deserve to win again, it's just the other two need to win one

Also i just realized Impulse and Gem were both betrayed right at the end by a close ally, who could've teamed up with them and would've had a better chance of winning

And also, Scar was there on the side of the betrayer during the betrayal, and then killed that betrayer

Just wanted to note

[dark-drawssss]

Technically, it seems like both Leo and Danny die in the bad ending.

Something that's quite obvious is that the bad ending section is one of the more poorly written parts of Manhunt 2 (ironically a fitting punishment for the player for deciding to be violent, lmao), from Dr. Whyte randomly saying that Leo should be locked up instead of killed despite being very educated on how the brain works, the cell itself being something so easy to escape, to the ending cutscene itself. The ending cutscene doesn't make a lot of sense because "Why would Whyte ask Daniel to come back into the Project after everything that happened despite the huge change of what the Project is now?" (with it now focusing on fixing everything that it destroyed) and such. But then (about more than a year ago from now on) I thought of something:

What if Dr. Laura Whyte was "testing the waters"?

What I mean is that she was potentially checking who survived after the removal of the bridge, Danny or Leo, so she decided to ask "Daniel" questions and tell him specific things to see how he would react.

Whyte and Danny were clearly friends in the past, not to mention that the way she acted towards him was motherly/warm through any interaction they've had, so she knew how Daniel would react in that situation. And she was more than aware of what Leo was like, and knew that although he would lie and play along, he wouldn't properly pretend to be Danny as Leo "ignores the past" (unless it suits his own needs, what a hypocrite) so he wouldn't care to remember how Whyte and Danny interact.

She doesn't refer to him by his nickname at all during this ending despite previously doing so, only calling him "Daniel" and even "Dr. Lamb". Stating that she "followed the protocols exactly as [he] left them" despite the fact that it was never established that Danny had left any instructions, even if he was involved in the making of the bridge he is still a lab technician, and they're never involved with actual patients so he couldn't of have know the full "protocol" (not to mention that she was involved with placing the bridge inside of Danny's head, so she would already have an idea of how it works). After she states that she made the decision to remove the bridge, she pauses before stating "We're very kin to resume the work on the Project, shall I gather the staff?" and after Leo responds she leaves while keeping her eyes on him, and she out of all people left would know that after everything that had happened Daniel would not want to work with the Project.

So my theory is that she's intentionally behaving "formally" knowing how Daniel would at least react in some way and knowing that Leo would just "play along with what she said". She lies about "following the protocols he left" knowing that they didn't exist, if it was Daniel he would be quick to question the said protocols, while Leo would assume that it did happen and brush it off. This would already make it clear on which personality survived, the realization could even be why she pauses as she tries to keep her cool, but just to confirm it she says the next line. "We're very kin to resume the work on the Project" she most definitely knew that after everything that had happened Danny wouldn't even think of working with them again, regardless of the fact that she's the head now and intends to right the wrongs Pickman made (at best it would take convincing, but it's the first reaction that matters), at best she expects Daniel to just refuse, at worst he'd probably go on about everything, it's no rocket science, and expects Leo to just go along with it which would be why she asked "shall I gather the staff?", so that she could prepare to kill Leo if her worry is proven to be 100% true. It ends up being proven true since he says to do so and dismisses her, and there she takes one last look at her ex-coworker.

Didn't mean to imply that she'd kill him herself I just thought of this and had to sketch it (funny thing I was gonna sketch the regular auto-shotgun from the game but then I saw the beta version which reminded me of the one I use in L4D2 and I've been playing that game more recently so.)

[eyelessfaces]

finals era is starting soon and HHHHELP but once it's over and I'm free from uni I'll organize a lil sleepover to celebrate<33

[blondeaxolotl]

It's pretty easy for Vil to hide the fact Eric is their father from the public, especially since no one would suspect a high mighty angel like Vil to be raised by a simple human.

That's probably for the best as well, when Vil found out as a child about how short a humans life span is compared to an angels, thanks to their peers (compared to a humans, an angels life span can be considered immortal with how long they live, there's never been news of an angel dying from old age, unlike for humans which is very common). And since then, Vil made sure to cherish every small moment they have with their father, even with their busy schedule, any small amount was worth it.

Which is funny because it all made Vil feel like they only grew more attached, is it because Eric is their only parent? Or is it because of the thought that sooner or later Eric might not be here anymore with how fast time flies. If only Vil was a human, perhaps this might be easier to handle. Oh well, can't do anything about it now.

Man that was saddening, anyways here's a doodle of baby Vil and Eric

Vil fell asleep the fastest when Eric carried them, dad was Vil's favourite spot to take big fat naps on, didn't care if Eric had meetings they WILL sleep and drool on him and throw a tantrum if they were taken off him.

[miriamnox]

“he would kill for her” WERRRRRK BITCH

it’s right after “you terrify me” on my list

felling sorry for blake tbh

his common sense FINALLY making an entrance at the worst possible time lmao

bruce wouldn’t let her kiss him like that and not tell her the truth girl what the hell i love the postponed conscience

i remember him saying that he didn’t have time for feelings in earlier chapters and like,,,,,,,, do you have your feelings scheduled babygirl??????? well too bad bc now ALL of it is your problem RIGHT now this minute

curious about the inner workings of the syndicate and the logistics of hacking and breaking into the tower. did they have someone on the inside? or did they threaten more people? unclear but would love to know

the order of emotions bruce predicts is exactly what i was thinking

and i think it would be funny if she wouldn’t react like that at all bc he’s like “i know her better that i know myself” and the she uppercuts him with overwhelmed silence instead of yelling or smth

but his predictions being correct would be more narratively satisfying and make more sense for the character ofc

he DOES know her and there IS a connection despite everything

ohhhhhhhh the breakdown that will follow is gonna be one to write home about

full disclosure when i read the heartbreak words he had the GALL to utter i thought about them a lot bc i remembered them

i think i cried a little after that chapter or smth but i had to put my phone down and stare at the wall when i read these fucking lines because if ANYONE said that to me i would be absolutely destroyed let alone if it was my best friend and my love

we’re talking ego, self-image, trust, belief in my own intuition and character judgement, emotional availability GONE with just a few bitchass words

she’s stronger than me fr she is joking with him LOOKS HIM IN THE EYE and gas cordial conversation from time to time. like i would be seething and betrayed and couldn’t even for a SECOND have normal chill interaction

“yes hello bruce /SIRENS BLARING THE LAST THING HE SAID ON REPEAT WITH CRYSTAL CLARITY REMEMBERED AS IF IT WAS TODAY HEARTBREAK HERATBREAK HEARTBREAK EGO DEATH TRUST ISSUES GRIEF/ thanks for letting me stay at your place i’ll leave when the coast is clear”

i remember grovelling promises don’t think i forgot!!!!!!!!!!!!

girl needs a cigarette

also. myrphy needs to slap someone’s teeth out 🫶 just saying

thank you for cumming on my ted talk x 💋

hollandorks darling precious PLEASE release the next chapter in this calendar year i can’t

haven

battinson! bruce wayne x f! reader

chapter sixteen

Summary: After the sudden deaths of her mother and grandmother, y/n is forced to return home to Gotham…and to the man who broke her heart three years ago. Back in Bruce Wayne’s inescapable orbit, she vows to get to the bottom of her former best friend’s new cold personality. But Bruce’s secrets aren’t what she’s expecting.

a/n: listen I don't wanna talk about the fact that it's been a year since I updated this. And hilariously the last chapter was me being like "maybe I'll keep updating regularly!" IN MY DEFENSE there's not really a defense. But most of the last year has been me working on getting Middle of the Night ready to publish this year (eee!!) Anyways here's a delicious Bruce POV chapter (that's right, not an interlude) for you! And bonus, I have the next chapter written already! Hopefully I can keep the momentum going but as you know well by now...there's no telling what the update schedule will be. Enjoy! Mwah!

Series Masterlist

word count: 2.4k

“I’m so sorry–” he said, the words choked. “I’m so sorry. They have my sister.” 

That’s when she saw the glint of a needle in his hand.

Bruce’s POV

The moment y/n disappeared inside the lobby of Wayne Tower, Bruce made a decision. 

His lips still ached with the memory of hers, his entire body buzzing with a type of adrenaline he’d never experienced before, and he knew what he had to do. 

He had to tell her the truth. All of it. Every gory detail. He had to tell her about Batman, and the Riddler, and the truth of their argument three years ago when he had all but destroyed her. 

He couldn’t let her kiss him like that and not know the truth. It wasn’t fair to her. None of it was fair to her, not really, but she had an image of him in her head that was blatantly untrue and he couldn’t stand the deception any longer. Alfred was right–which Bruce had known, but now it was finally sinking in. 

She would be angry. That much he knew. He knew her almost better than he knew himself, despite the three year separation. She would be angry first by the deception. Then at herself for not being able to figure it out. Then she would be angry, possibly even betrayed, by the fact that he had broken her heart on purpose three years earlier. 

She would be angry, and she would yell, and she might even cry, but he hoped she would forgive him quickly. 

And then maybe, maybe, they could finally put everything behind them. Bruce wanted, more than anything, to simply be her friend again. The rest could come later. 

The way to the entrance tunnel was long, about as far out of the way from Wayne Tower as it could be. Bruce sped through the dark city streets like he was being pursued. The quicker he could catch her, the quicker he could tell her, the quicker he could kiss her again. 

He mentally shook himself. 

No, the quicker they could at the very least get back to being friends. He didn't want to assume that telling her the truth about his feelings meant she would immediately fall into his arms. They had a lot to work out first. 

He knew it wouldn't be that simple once his secrets were out in the open. Both secrets–the fact that he was Batman and the fact that he had broken her heart on purpose three years before, every word out of his mouth designed to effectively push her away. To hurt her. That secret would be much harder to admit to. That one would hurt her the most. 

But he knew her. He knew her. She would be angry, yes, but she would forgive him. Because, despite her prickly exterior and her adeptness at deflecting with humor, she had a big heart and she loved fiercely. 

Bruce barely stopped once he was inside the Wayne Terminus station, only long enough to park the motorcycle and take off his helmet. He tossed the mask onto a table and left the rest of the suit on as he strode towards the elevator. 

If he focused too much on what he was about to do he would chicken out. All he had to do was tell her the truth in the simplest terms possible. The suit would do that part for him, really. Y/n would look at him and know the first of his deepest secrets. 

The second he would have to lay bare for her despite his instincts telling him it would hurt too much. He had to tell her the truth, every bit of it, like lancing an infected wound to drain out the poison. 

His booted foot tapped nervously as the elevator rose slowly, slowly up to the penthouse. Usually the armor brought him to stillness, like he was settling into his bones in the way that he was meant to. But now, helmet off, ready to reveal his secrets to the woman he had loved for half his life, he was an uncomfortable mix of both Bruce Wayne and the Batman. It was like his body wasn't sure how to act with the usually sharply defined lines so blurred. 

The elevator opened and Bruce's pulse leapt. 

This was it. 

The moment of truth, in more ways than one. 

He didn't see her in any of the shared spaces of the kitchen, library, or foyer so he aimed for her room. 

Empty. 

The covers on her bed were tangled into a knot, papers strewn over half the sheets. Her laptop lay closed on top of it all, the only bare space indicating where she slept. Her bathroom door was wide open so he could see at a glance that it, too, was empty. 

Bruce frowned. 

Maybe she was in her grandmother's room? Personally,  he hated even passing his parents' room but y/n had indicated that she was sorting through Dory's things. 

That, too, was empty. 

Bruce's heart started to pound before he could even really parse why. He'd seen her go into the lobby, into the elevator with their night security guard. Ben? No, Blake, that was his name. Maybe she'd finally figured it out, then, after their kiss. Maybe she was waiting in his room to confront him. 

Bruce rushed down the hallway, almost knocking over Alfred as he emerged from the study. 

"Wh–Bruce?" 

Bruce didn't pause. He burst through his bedroom door out of breath like he'd run the whole way home. Alfred followed behind him, calling his name again as he went. 

Empty. 

Bruce spun, cape whirling around him, the panic finally taking root within him, suffocating him. 

"Alfred, where is she?" he demanded, already shoving back out into the hallway. "Where's y/n?" 

"Bruce, what on earth is going on? Where's your mask?" Alfred was hot on his heels as he flew down the hallway to the foyer. 

The elevator was stopped on the third floor. 

The third floor had access to the parking garage. 

Bruce couldn't breathe. 

There was no reason, at this time of night, that the elevator should be stopped on the third floor. 

"Alfred, I dropped y/n off and she got on the elevator nearly fifteen minutes ago. Where is she?" He turned in a tight circle, half expecting her to pop out with a cup of coffee in one hand and a smartass comment ready to tear him a new one. 

Alfred blinked slowly. Bruce saw the realization hit him and sucked in a sharp breath of anguish before Alfred even spoke. "I was in the study the whole time. The elevator never arrived." 

They both burst into action without another word. 

Alfred grabbed his arm to stop him, to make him think through the panic they were both now feeling. "Bruce. Your mask. I'll go downstairs and make inquiries. Meet me down there. I'm sure she's okay. Her cop friend, Martinez, usually works nights." 

But something was wrong. Bruce could feel it, like the charge in the air right before a storm, a pit in his gut that grew with each passing second. He was sure Alfred could sense it too. They locked eyes for a split second and Bruce cursed. Alfred was right. He either needed to go downstairs as Bruce or as Batman, not both. 

And Batman was the only one who could do what needed to be done. 

Bruce took off for the other elevator this time, the one that would take him to the station where his mask was, fully running this time. It was if he was running through syrup, the air thick around him, making him more slow than usual. Like he was trapped in a nightmare. His footsteps thundered across the empty penthouse with a series of echoing booms like his heartbeat played on surround sound. 

His brain kept a constant loop, panic settling into his very bones. 

Where is she where is she where is she where is she where is she 

Twenty minutes. That was about how long it had been since he'd watched her enter that elevator. And with each passing second, her chances of survival grew lower and lower. The Gallos knew who she was. Knew where she lived. And somehow, they'd gotten to her within Wayne Tower. 

It was his fault. All his fault. 

If she had known the truth about Batman, he could have taken her in through the secret tunnels on the back of his motorcycle, like the old days when he was still just Bruce and the station was just a garage full of fun toys and experiments on car engines. There would have been no need for all of the covert machinations to get her into and out of the tower. Instead of disguising herself to get Gordon and meet him on the signal tower, she could have simply gone downstairs. But she didn't know the truth, and it had lured her out of the tower, away from safety. He had lured her away from safety. And in the breach, they had gotten to her. 

And if he had only figured out how someone had gotten in to put that photo in the elevator…none of this would have mattered. Despite the hours spent digging through security cameras and personnel files, he couldn't figure it out. Another failing to add to the list. 

Even amidst the gunfire that night, he had never been so afraid for her. In that situation at least he knew where she was. At least he had been there to save her. Now she was gone, and whoever had her had a twenty minute headstart. Bruce thought he might be sick. The thought that he might already be too late sent bile up his throat. He swallowed hard. 

No, he couldn't think like that. She was smart. She could survive. She would survive, and he would find her. 

He would tear the city apart brick by brick to find her. 

Another thought sobered him as he stepped back into Wayne Tower. 

He would kill for her. 

The thought may have frightened him before, the idea of so easily tossing aside his moral compass. 

But for y/n he would do it without a second thought. 

The realization made his spine straighten as he rode the main elevator down to the lobby. He would stop at nothing–absolutely nothing–to save y/n. 

And then he would make the Gallo family pay. 

When the doors downstairs opened, the lobby was chaos. There were cops everywhere. Gordon was on the phone, right as Bruce felt a vibration from one of the pockets in his belt. Alfred was gesticulating wildly. Martinez burst inside the front doors and shook his head at Gordon. 

No one noticed Bruce come off of the elevator until he stood right next to Gordon. 

"That was fast," Gordon said when he noticed him, hanging up the phone. 

"Saw the commotion," Bruce said, the words a growl, his jaw so tight with tension it threatened to snap. 

"Y/n's missing–and so is the night guard, Blake. No one saw them leave." Gordon pointed at Martinez and opened his mouth to speak again, but Bruce was striding back towards the elevator. 

He pressed the button for the third floor, where the elevator had been paused before Alfred came downstairs. Right before the doors closed, Gordon, Alfred, Martinez, and a female detective all piled inside with him. Bruce stepped back to make room and his boot crunched on something. 

He bent to pick it up, everyone scrambling to make room for him. 

A syringe. 

Bile burned its way up his throat again. 

"Shit," Gordon said. 

Martinez peered around him. "Oh no." 

Alfred met Bruce's gaze and neither of them had to say a word. The syringe in Bruce's hand began to shake. He clenched his fist tightly to stop it. 

The doors opened to the third floor. The exit to the parking garage was right next to it. 

They didn't even have to search. Blake huddled on the floor against the door, his teeth chattering audibly. He looked up when the group surrounded him. His eyes sought Alfred first, the face most familiar to him, then Gordon and finally to Bruce. 

He gulped and all of the blood drained from his face at the sight of the Batman before him. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. They have my sister. They told me to grab her and bring her here. I'm sorry." The last apology was a broken sob. 

Bruce had no patience for it. 

He dragged the boy up by the scruff of his neck and slammed him into the concrete wall with single minded focus. He ignored the commotion around him, the hands grabbing at his forearm to drag him away. He was immovable as the concrete surrounding him. 

The boy before him choked, more from fear than any pressure actually on his windpipe. Bruce was angry and panicked, but he had never been more clear headed. He wouldn't kill the boy, not when the Gallos had so expertly intimidated him.

But that did not mean Bruce had to be gentle. 

"Where did they take her?" He sounded more animal than man, his voice low and deadly. 

"I don't know, I don't know!" The words were a panicked shriek. "They just gave me the drugs said to bring her in here! They threw her in the trunk!" 

Bruce shook him a little. The boy was crying. In any other situation, Bruce might have felt bad. But all he had space for now was y/n, saving her, getting her back in one piece. "What kind of car?" The boy's nails scrabbled uselessly at Bruce's forearm, his eyes darting around wildly for help. 

"A gray Honda, an old one, they faked an employee sticker. They had me cut all the security cameras I have access too. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. They told me they'd kill my sister!" At least he was giving up all the information Bruce needed. 

But it wasn't enough.

Bruce snarled wordlessly and knocked the boy out with one punch. It didn't lessen the pressure in his veins. He needed to hit something. Needed to feel flesh and bone give way under his fists. Needed to let the anger out until y/n was safe in his arms. 

"What the hell, man?!" Gordon demanded as he scrambled for the now-unconscious boy. Bruce barely spared Alfred a glance but knew the man wasn't protesting his methods like everyone else. Gordon continued, voice angry, "We need more information from him! We need to see about rescuing his sister too, dammit!" 

"I'll start to go over the footage and see if we can get a license plate," Alfred said. 

"The kid might have had that!" Gordon was furious, his hand resting on his gun. 

All Bruce said was, "Put out a BOLO." And then he was gone into the night.

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[clumsypuppy]

i like him

[mildarka]

please I'm begging you, do you have anything more about your reverted au that you can share. I'm honestly obsessed with it

is this anything??? idk???

[shadesoftheshield]

[thatonecrazysidekick]

@sunfloweraro I'm sorry it took so long to respond to you on this post, but I needed to draw this before any further action could be taken.

Yippee, Ravio will get comfort!! My sanity is safe (for now). Hilda and Zelda appearances would be cool, and a Sheerow POV would be quite interesting indeed!! I wonder what that bird is thinking behind those blank little eyes...

[localguy2]

I hate that this is genuinely something I'm writing rn, but nothing has more RATTLED my faith in the writing team's ability to write a Zane story then him calliNG ARIN CRINGE-

[54625]

Sometimes I'll just be going about my day and then I'll remember how drastically my brain chemistry changed when Fit said "if I had to choose between the two it'd be a dad" and how I've never been the same since