#and apparently have been in this world long enough that when there were three left

[luludeluluramblings]

Neglected!Pregnant!Reader x Yandere!Bat Family Part Five

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Part One ☁️ Part Two ☁️ Part Three ☁️ Part Four

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Warnings: Pregnancy, Yandere themes, Fem!Reader, made up lore, Guns (Rubber bullets), mentions of termination, Bruce being really delusional, Conner being a bit of a creep, 3.2k words oops

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You can feel your heart rate rising and the blood rushing to your head so fast that you nearly grow lightheaded once again.

Multiple things happen after Bruce says those words, but you don’t care. Too focused on not launching yourself out of Conner’s arms and tearing into Bruce with your teeth. An effort you know would be futile, but how goddamn satisfying would it feel for his skin to break under those blunt teeth of yours? Very.

“Excuse me?” The words leave your lips before anyone else can utter a word.

“Bruce.” You’d even beaten Superman with your rage, but you shot him a glare of your own. Making his pause his attempt at playing peacemaker in this situation.

“Stay out of this, Kent.” You'd almost be disturbed by how much you sounded like Damian when he was annoyed with his friend. But, Clark wasn't your friend in this situation and you were willing to find out if he had a spine of steel at that moment with all the spitefulness bubbling on your tongue.

It’s a struggle, but you shove out of Conner’s arms and start to storm near Bruce. Not too close. No, you won’t get close enough for him to hurt you ever again. “Listen here you bat-mad-motherfucker—“

“Language.” The man interrupts.

The man being being Bruce fucking Wayne.

Bruce would admit he was a stubborn, but most importantly he was a paranoid and terrified person deep down. Possibly a fool with how enraged you were looking at him. But, this wasn’t pride controlling his actions. This was fear.

Memories of the stress Lois was under while pregnant with Jon. How sick she had looked. How he had been more than willing to help Clark then, but how foolish he thought the man was for putting someone he apparently loved in such a high risk situation.

All the statistical data he had memorized over the years from just regular pregnancies and their risk. Of the horror stories of mothers dying in hospital beds. Even flashes of his own mother's face when he had asked once for a sibling as a child only to see he smile with devastation hidden behind the same eyes she shared with you about how he was enough.

Later he had found the records. Ectopic pregnancy. Hysterectomy. He was lucky he had her until that luck ran out in that alleyway. She never spoke of it either. She didn't even mention it to Alfred or anyone Which made him ache and fear more.

But, now the ghost of her was standing in front of him like he was the gunman that night and glaring him down with a furry that he sometimes saw only in his darkest moments in puddles left on the Gotham pavement after long nights.

“I’ll say it in French if I have too. There is no we in this situation. Just me and my child. You are not included in this. None of the family is included in this.” As you berate into him he finds himself holding on to his fear. Clinging to it the same way he clings to the notions that your his little girl and he needs to keep you safe from the world.

“What you're carrying is partially Kryptonian fetus from an—“

“I don’t fucking care if this child was part Xenomorph. You have no say. No, God damn, say.” There's an awkward laugh from someone at the thought, but whoever it came from bites their lips and chokes it down.

“It’s dangerous.” Bruce finds himself insisting. It’s not about controlling you. He swears it isn’t.

“They��re my baby.” But, you’re his baby.

“You’re being irrational.” The argument spirals.

“You’re being an asshole.” Immature, yet true. He never claimed he wasn’t. But, he’ll bend logical to his will to protect you.

“You need to think clearly. This could jeopardize your health, your life, your safety. That thing is dangerous.” Bruce takes a step in your direction, only to watch as you take a step back.

“That thing is your fucking grandson.” Don’t say that. Don’t tell him what it is. It could hurt you, please don’t make him love it. Don’t make him remember that he didn’t get to hold you.

“I say no.”

“And I say you have no fucking say.”

“I am your father, you will-“ Wrong thing to say, because words start spilling from your mouth like a thousand little cuts. Biting insults and feelings that he suspected you had hidden, but didn’t expect you to hit him with like this.

“You’re just an asshole that fucked my mother. And, newsflash, you ain’t the only one that did that. Hell, I bet you weren’t even the best one at it. You’re just the only one that left something stuck inside her and nine months later I popped out for you to ignore.”

Each word of your anger feels justified in your mind . Nothing was off limits as the libel escaped your lips. Bubbling out of you chest was harsh words that you’d bottled up, but hormones fucked with your control and they slid off your tongue with ungodly ease as tears bubbled in your eyes.

"You chose Batman and Gotham over me.” You murmur. The sick realization you had that day he appeared into your life. He had known. Known about you existence. But, he left you. He had all the resources available to just... check on you. To let you know he at least somewhat cared. And, he didn’t.

“You think I didn't realize that when you showed up at Momma and Daddy's funeral to whisky me away to your haunted mansion? You could have come for me at any point in time. You can't say you didn't know I existed. You've just been really damn good at ignoring me."

Your own heart aching as you practically shout at him. Feeling like a little girl waiting for her dad to give her attention even though you’re not. Not anymore.

"But, I accepted that less than five months after moving into this empty house you keep on top of your real goddamn home." You remind yourself, you’re not a little girl. Even as you spin in that gave to show off what he had picked over you.

You already had a father. And, it wasn’t Bruce Wayne even if blood said otherwise.

"You didn't get to act like you have a say in my life now, if ever again. I'm grown. And, I will pick my son over you. Every. Single. Time. I want to be this child's mother more than I have ever wanted to be your daughter." The words true and concrete as you let your feeling pour out of you like a faucet. And, you look up, meeting the his gaze and you see…

He has that same stupid stoic expression.

And, that fills you with rage.

“You have a whole life ahead of you. Why are you risking it for a mis—“

“Don’t you dare fucking finish that sentence!” You snarl, moving to grab one of Jason’s guns from his thigh hostler in a surprising show of speed. Startling him and the rest of the family observing the absolute shit show going on in stunned silence.

There’s a few gasp and intakes of breath. But, everyone, including you, know it’s loaded with rubber bullets.

“If you dare call them that! Not unless you're willing to admit I was one too!” You hold it pointed at him. But, he doesn’t flinch. Doesn't even rise to your challenge.

Bruce, strangely, feels proud in this moment. Your conviction reminds him of his own. Reminds him of his mother. Reminds him of your mother. He knows he’s not going to change your mind. He knows he’s going to have to accept that.

But, he has to try one last time. You just don’t understand how dangerous this is.

“It’s too—“

You don’t let him finish, you lower the gun. Look him dead in the eyes and fire.

Normally, Bruce could handle a rubber bullet. He’s fought unpredictable criminals that play dirty all the time. He was prepared to expect anything from his children even.

He didn’t expect you to shoot him in the dick though.

“Oh, my god…”

“She shot the Batpole!”

“Jason, how strong are those bullet?!”

“She didn’t even aim!”

“Pregnant women are terrifying…”

Bruce can barely keep his composure as he feels his knees weaken. He may have been wearing his suit, armor and cup sewn in. But, that still hurt like a bitch.

But, it didn’t hurt as much as the way you looked at him before your next words made his world fall apart.

“I will be moving out soon.” You said, loudly. Announcing a fact, one that you refused to let anyone object too. The only sound after was Jason’s gun clattering to the floor as you carelessly let it drop from your hands and left. Without looking back.

Bruce swore, for all his screw ups, for all his miscalculations and fears that made him human, he’d get you back and keep you safe. And, if it meant you had your son in your arms, so be it. Besides, a baby might be good for the family.

Though as his eyes met Clark's he realized, this was going to be a new kind of battle all together.

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You made it back to your room and collapsed in exhaustion as the intense emotions started to wear off and leave you feeling empty. Only for that to last for six minutes before Stephanie was in your room.

You hadn’t even heard her knock. But, you weren’t surprised.

“You’re leaving?” Her shock over the matter was more astonishing to you. After all that, that was her concern?

"Honestly Steph, are you really that surprised I want to leave the manor?" You ask in disbelief as you slowly sit up on the mattress as look at her. Your hoodie has done well at covering your bump, but as you adjusted it was more noticeable. Though there was no point in hiding it now.

"Yes. Alright, maybe not. I just thought we were friends now." She tries to find the right way to describe the thoughts running through her mind. She doesn’t want to lose you. She just got you.

"We are. But, do we really have to be housemates for that?"

"No, but I'm just worried about you and the baby." It’s ease to come up with the explanation. Gotham is dangerous. Living alone would be dangerous. You need help. You need her.

"We'll be fine."

"But--"

"We will be fine." You interrupt, more firmly. Giving her a glare. The emotions from your confrontation with Bruce still apparent. Words still desperately wanting to be said.

"Look, I'm gonna be honest here. As a family, y'all are… unreliable. As Gotham vigilantes, y'all have actually done more for me." You try to reign in your temper. Stephanie really had become your friend and support in this place. But, it was too late for you to want to stay.

"Asking me to stay and raise my son in an empty house… That's too much. Plus you heard Bruce. He wants be to just get rid of my son. Like-- Like he doesn't matter. Like he's a thing. He's mine. My baby. I don't care what you say, but I can't forgive that."

"He didn't mean that you know." Even as Stephanie said the words, she could tell you have no faith in them.

"It doesn't mater that he didn't mean that. What matters is that he thought it so strongly that he still said it out loud. And, considering how few words the man has said to my in my entire life, I'm taking that to heart." Your words echo with finality, like that was the end of the argument.

For Stephanie though, it wasn’t. She knew that it wasn’t the end. She knew they’d pull you back. And, they would. It was inevitable. She knew Bruce wouldn’t let you go and that if you were this vulnerable everyone would do whatever it took to keep you safe.

After sending Stephanie away with the excuse you needed a nap, you were more than ready to fall into a fitful sleep and drool into your pillow without care when you got a knock at the door.

You gave it a sharp look. Considering how pissed you were at everything, you would’ve have torn anyone apart for disturbing you.

It just so happened that the person disturbing you was some one you physically could tear apart because they were part fucking Kryptonian and appearing in your door way with a stupid fucking apologetic smile.

“So… We should probably—“ Conner starts in that stupid voice of his. Everything about him stupid to you right now. His hair. His eyes. The way he’s bicep is flexing as he scratches the back of his head in a self-conscious manner. That doesn’t make your mouth water. Not at all. Pregnancy did that. You swear.

“What makes you think I have anything to say to you?” You quickly snap at him. Not wanting to hear his excuses.

Already he’s bringing out those stupid puppy eyes that make you want to bend over— no. Bad thought.

“I—“

“Wipe that damn pitiful expression off your face. You aren’t gonna give me some bullshit excuses about you being drunk—“ You know he couldn’t get drunk. And, if he somehow miraculously did, he’d do it with his team or with people he trusted. Not show up at some Gotham party. You didn’t need to be Batman’s spawn to deduce that.

“You’re right. You’re right…” Conner sighs, rubbing his hands over his face as he steps towards you trying to hide the way he shakes.

It’s so subtle that you miss it. But, he’s so fucking satisfied right now. So ecstatic about you carrying his baby. The fact that it’s a boy. The fact that you literally shot Batman for his son.

The way you look so good lying there in front of him with that sleepy pissed off expression makes him want to fall to his knees and kiss his way up from your legs to your lips. Let him feel how soft you’ve become. Let him feel what he did to you.

“I just… I was there. I heard you complaining and I thought I’d check on you. And, you— You are a very clingy drunk.” He does attempt to explain, honestly. But, he’s too enthralled right now.

“And, let me guess, you just couldn’t resist.”

“No. I couldn’t.” Conner wouldn’t lie to you. Not if he could help it. “Even if I had the willpower of a Green Lantern or the discipline of a damn monk, I couldn’t have.” He murmurs with rough honesty as he inches towards you.

“You have no idea how deeply you make me feel. I know it was wrong. I gave myself a million excuses. That you weren’t that drunk. That we’re good enough friends that we wouldn’t regret it. That you might— Feel the same about me…” God, the way your eyes widen and your breath hitches has him feeling lightheaded. Your heart speeds up and he can hear it.

“You’re talking like you’re in love with me.” Your tone is spiteful, even though the emotions in your chest are mixed.

“Yeah, I am. And?” Fuck, this is not how he ever wanted to confess. But, it’s not like he can contain it much longer. Not when he’s so close to having everything he wanted right in his grasp.

“I’m not scared of saying it. I’m scared of scaring you. Of being kept away from you. Of not being about to hear your heartbeat every day, letting me know you’re alive. That you’re somewhere in this word giving me a reason to exist.” He pleads, he grovels. He knows it was wrong.

He didn’t mean to take advantage of you. He’d thought you’d remember. Remember how he made love to you. How he had spent that entire night leaving gentle bites across your skin and holding you so close he nearly bruised your skin.

You can feel your eye’s prickling with tears again. Seeing his stupid face. Hearing his stupid voice.

“Just— Just get out!” You snap, unable to handle the mixture of feelings. The way your heart is aching, breaking, and repairing itself.

“Out! Out!” You yell, throwing one of your pillows at him.

“Okay. Okay. We’ll talk later. Just rest, please. You need it. For you and our baby, sweetheart.” He murmurs, clutching the pillow in his hand as he steps back and lets you have your space.

You grumble and glare as he leaves. Wondering if you offended him by wanting to be alone as you angrily curl in your bed.

You don’t see him standing outside your door. Shoving his face into the pillow you’d thrown at him and inhaling your scent. Noting the subtle ways it’s changed in his absence and how he can’t wait to bury his nose in the crook of your neck again.

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You had woken from your nap, feeling the frustrating urge to pee. A common feeling you were growing uncomfortably familiar with as you moved further along in your pregnancy. You gently rubbed your bump as you grumbled to the bathroom. Quickly finishing so you could go back to bed. Only, you heard another knock on the door.

Instantly your ire is spiked as you march towards it expecting to tear into Bruce or Conner, only to be taken aback when you see Dick. Standing there with a soft look. Not unlike Conner’s stupid look earlier.

"Hey…"

"What do you want, Dick?" You’re half tempted to shut the door in his face.

"Easy now." Now you’re seventy-five percent tempted to shut the door in his face.

"I really don't want a big brother lecture from you or anyone right now. So disappear or whatever. You just as bad as—"

"I'm not here to lecture you." He quickly interrupts, knowing that your next words would hurt. Which, he'd let you hurt him. Not because you were special or anything. He's let anyone in this family hurt him to make themselves feel better. But, you had never tried and he could tell you were aching. Making it a little easier for him to want to take every bit of damage from you.

"Well, that's nice." Was you dry response before you looked back at him with suspicion. "Did Bruce send you?"

"No." He answered, technically honest. Dick may have suggested the idea to Bruce on the premise that you needed a space to cool off before you did end up in some shady apartment on the other side of Gotham. And, Bruce may have approved of his plan. But, he was already going to go through with it regardless.

"I'm here to make you an offer."

"And, what sort of thing could you offer me? You don't exactly have a lot of experience with this sorta thing last I checked." Comes your sharp retort, expecting some fake concern or him trying to play peacemaker.

But, when you hear his actually offer, you’re stunned.

"Come stay at my apartment in Bludhaven."

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Taglist:

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A/N: I think the taglist is getting kinda long, I don't know if I should close it.

A/N: So, yeah. I've been letting this marinate for a while because I felt like words weren't enough to make Bruce pay. We needed action consistent with Reader's character. (I laughed for two days after the idea of shooting Bruce in the dick struck me.) Also, we really getting into the creepy bits now. Been mentally playing with my spidersona and the Batfam while trying to my energy levels back up post treatment. Plus, May is just a really busy month for me.

Ko-fI Link

[moonmaiden1996]

The Monster Maomao Created

Slight Yandere Jinshi X Reader- Slight spoilers mentioned. Part two/three now out

Maomao would never describe herself as malicious or mean. She was not particularly nice, either. She didn’t find herself feeling many emotions—she felt them, of course—but she approached life with a pragmatic detachment.

For example, being kidnapped and sold to the rear palace had been more of an annoyance than a tragedy. Mildly inconveniencing, yes, but at the end of the day, it could have been much worse. The cold, gilded halls of the inner court had become just another backdrop to her daily life, the scent of expensive incense and silk-wrapped bodies blending into the clinical sterility of her world.

Regret was a rare visitor in her mind. She only ever felt it when a particularly sumptuous poison was snatched from her grasp, usually by Jinshi, Gaoshun, or Basen. The lost opportunities to study those delicate toxins still haunted her but now, she felt regret deeply, like a sharp knife pressing against her ribs, unrelenting and suffocating.

She had done this to you. She had put you in the path of an oddly obsessive man-child.

In her mind, she had been right to divert Master Jinshi’s fixation away from herself onto someone more suitable. It was far too dangerous for her to have such an attachment with someone like him. His current position would not remain the same forever. There would be an heir, and Jinshi would gain more freedom—within limits, of course. Maomao wanted to be nowhere near him when that happened. She was perfectly content in the doctor’s office, surrounded by the comforting scent of crushed herbs and aged parchment. With any luck, she might even gain enough favor to begin making medicine herself. After all, the Emperor was always changing the old rules., why should she benefit?

So, she had needed to find a suitable replacement for herself in Jinshi’s heart.

Love was fickle. She had seen for herself how quickly affections could change within the Verdigris House. But love could also be stubborn, clinging on despite adversity. If Jinshi was going to fixate on someone, they had to be capable of enduring his whims. They had to be intelligent—cunningly so. Beauty was a bonus but not essential. Body type seemed unimportant to the man. But there was something that was essential—they had to look at Jinshi in a way that, as Gaoshun had so eloquently put it, resembled looking at a slug.

And, of course, they had to fit his particular inclinations. Maomao knew all too well that Jinshi was a masochist. He delighted in the challenge, in the rejection, in the sting of disdain. It was part of his peculiar set of kinks and fetishes, his deep-rooted craving for resistance that made him all the more insufferable. If he had been the type to be satisfied with adoration, he would have long since picked a consort from the dozens of women who threw themselves at his feet. But no, he wanted the chase, the suffering, the thrill of unattainability. 

Obviously, the women of the rear palace were out of the question. Jinshi was still seen as a eunuch, and the Emperor would not take kindly to him stealing one of his consorts or concubines. The outer palace was also unsuitable—servants fawned over him too easily. Most of the women there were of too low a rank.

That left the imperial palace and the guest residences surrounding it. Visiting royalty, honored guests, and members of the Emperor’s council stayed there. A limited pool, much to Maomao’s relief.

From there, it became a process of elimination. Any woman who took an immediate interest in Jinshi was crossed off her list. Unfortunately, it soon became apparent that his unearthly beauty made him irresistible. Maomao had all but given up hope. She had already started flipping through the books she had given to the high-ranking consorts, mentally preparing herself for the inevitable.

And then it happened.

Jinshi’s encounter with you.

The apothecary could have wept with joy at your apparent disinterest in the Overseer of the Inner Court and Rear Palace. Your eyes barely lingered on his angelic features before shifting to the two young boys running around the garden. The sunlight caught the stray wisps of your hair, giving you an almost ethereal glow, but instead of focusing on the man before you, your gaze softened only when following your younger brother’s laughter. More concerned with your family than a man whose beauty could literally start a war.

That had hurt him.

And that was enough. Maomao could use that.

Slowly but surely, Jinshi became obsessed, and Maomao had helped every step of the way. She had been so happy to be free that she hadn’t realized the monster she was creating.

With her, he had been playful—flirtatious, yes, but in a way that treated her like an amusing pet, a source of entertainment when he was bored. With you, it was different. It was devotion. A consuming obsession.

He found any excuse to be in your presence. Any opportunity to gift you something. He even went so far as to have the absent Moon Prince himself present you with a birthday gift, reveling in the look of barely concealed disgust you tried so hard to mask at the sight of the hairpin, its delicate silver filigree catching the candlelight.

Maomao’s father had warned her not to toy with emotions—they were as unpredictable as poisons, capable of causing unforeseen damage. She was painfully aware of that now, watching as Jinshi’s besotted eyes followed you, his usually composed mask slipping whenever you so much as moved. The intensity of his fixation was suffocating, like a snake coiling tightly around its prey, biding its time while its prey slowly succumbed to the vice like grip.

You sat with your family, the warm glow of the lanterns reflecting off your skin as you softly chastised your unruly brothers, your father watching on with quiet amusement. Jinshi stood in the shadows, a predator watching its prey.

It would not be long before he had you. If Gyokuyou bore a son, there would be very few obstacles left to prevent him from claiming you. Maomao knew there had been several secret meetings between Jinshi and the Emperor. Even your father would be helpless against the Emperor and the Moon Prince's will.

The apothecary frown deepened. Yes, it would happen soon.

And for the life of her, the apothecary couldn’t figure out how to fix what she had done.

Had to get this out my mind. Maybe a smutty one shot coming...

[demon-at-peace]

DC + DP Danny/Dick

Danny and Dick are protectors. Both would destory the world for the people they love. They need someone to talk too, aka I found this ship again and wrote a long thing.

Danny met Dick outside the library. Babs hadn't been there and they'd recently had a fight. He was walking out when he met Danny. Danny was honest, painfully so, they'd been friends for not even sixth months when he'd revealed his identity as a former vigilante.

Dick didn't tell him about Nightwing. Not yet, maybe though, eventually. Maybe not, they were just friends after all. Danny would get him coffee, or more accurately cream with caramel sauce. He's laugh at his puns.

Dick after showing of his acrobatic tricks one time became Silly Bird. Danny said it was "because you fly idiot, literally, like a Birdy, and your silly of course." Dick was once again a bird, but the name wasn't what his vigilante name was, it was light loving, like how his mother would call him robin.

But meeting up became an issue. Dick couldn't help but feel guilty really, he canceled constantly, because of patrol, or a fight or some other issue.

Danny would wave it of, he'd laugh, and say "Silly bird, I don't care, your my friend, you have other commitments, and I know it's not just you cancelling, because you always apologize and reschedule, plus it means I don't have to pay for my coffee." So Dick relaxed, Danny had other stuff too, he'd cancel plans, apologize and reschedule.

It was two years after they met that Dick told Danny he was Nightwing. He was ready, he liked Danny, they were close, but Danny would be mad, and it would be the end. Danny's face had been shocked, absolutely stunned. He'd left the apartment. And Dick cried. He wished he hadn't told Danny. It was three hours later when there was a knock at the door, and Danny dripping stepped in.

He said sorry, he apologized for panicking, and through rushed apologizes they forgave each other.

They started dating three long years after they met, they were at a circus, Dick loved them, he loved the tricks and the familiar noises, besides he would never see the acrobatics shows, or the clowns. Danny made sure of that. They'd been walking home, Danny clutching a Nightwing Plushie when Danny had stopped and stared at Dick.

"I think I like you, as more than friends." It was simple, a statement, and Danny looks ready for rejection. But Dick, he felt the exact same way. Because Danny never asked for anything, nothing but time spent with him. The time with Danny was easy, fun, and when they had arguments, they always talked through them.

So like a soldier going to war he said "I do too," and Danny beamed. Suddenly they were kissing, and Dick was barely thinking as he kissed Danny back. Later curled up on Danny's couch they watched a show together. Almost like nothing changed, but something had.

Danny still cuddled with him, he still laughed, he still talked with him. He also brought him roses, and heart shaped chocolate. He left love notes about. Danny also kissed him. Dick decided Danny gave the best kisses in the world. He did the same, he put in his all, and Danny returned his affection just as eagerly.

It had been two years since they started dating, they kept it under lock and key. Dick liked that too, he'd thought Danny would demand to meet the family, but he'd simply laughed and said, "you didn't want them in our friendship, if you don't want them in our relationship that's up to you Silly bird."

Except now their anniversary was coming up their three years together, and apparently everyone was having issues. It was tomorrow, they had plans. Yet so far it had been all hands on deck. Or all available hands. And they didn't know about Danny, because he hadn't wanted them too. But he wanted out, he had stuff to do, roses to buy, presents to wrap.

His phone rang, the familiar ringtone of California Girls echoing throughout the cave. He grabbed it in an instant checking the caller, and sure enough it was Danny. Normally he wouldn't take Danny's calls in the cave, he'd leave, and then they'd talk. But he was too tired for that.

"Hi," Dick greeted as he picked it up.

"Who is it?" Jason called out curiously looking up from the files. Yeah Jason was here too, it really was an all hands on deck thing.

"None of your business!" Dick screeched at him. Before turning back to the phone as he heard Danny's laughter.

"Silly bird, how are you doing?" Danny asks softly, dick groans he can practically hear his smile.

"Fine, I mean i'm tired, but Danny I'll probably be here late," he sighed, he could hear the sadness in his voice.

"Do you want to be? You know you can ditch them, Silly bird, you're far too sacrificing, I can pick you up if you want?" Danny chides. Dick groans.

"Sure," the answer chocks himself, but he doesn't regret it. It's their anniversary, he doesn't care about keeping Danny a secret, it's been due to tell them for a while anyhow.

"Be their in five sweetheart," Danny chirps and Dick can't help but smile.

"I'm leaving B! Got plans!" he calls out. He stretches his back cracking, and he runs a hand through his hair. "Hey Babs how do I look?"

"Terrible, and why exactly are you leaving?" she answers dryly.

"Danny would kill me if I didn't get a good night's sleep before our anniversary, anyhow gotta go!" he slips out of the cave before anyone can say something.

He reaches the front easily , and as always Danny is early, griinign at Dick as he sticks his head out of the car, "Silly bird ya ready?" he asks, ignoring the bats that followed Dick out.

"Who are you?" Jason demands and Dick buckles his seatbelt.

"His boyfriend," Danny answers with a Midwestern smile, "BYE!" he screams as he spins the car out of the driveways o quickly even Dick is shocked.

"How are you doing Birdy?" Danny asks as he drives out of the manor like a bat out of hell. (pun intended)

"Great," Dick grins, "How are you doing?"

"Never better," Danny smiles happily.

--------

idk what that is, I like it tho, anyhow yeah fell back down that ship, cause I ship too much stuff. Actually writing this actually made me less of a ball of angst so yay!!! Anyway I hate daylights saving stuff, like I woke up too early. I was supposed to have more sleep!!!

Edit: hi I wrote a second part and it's here

[starcurtain]

What in the World is Going on With Mydei's Backstory?

One thing I noticed while playing through the story is that there appears to be something very strange going on with Mydei's backstory. Namely: It's almost like he's got two different backstories going on at once.

And I wonder if that's on accident... or on purpose. On the one hand, Amphoreus's plot has my brain spinning wild conspiracy theories about time loops and multiple lives and even the whole world possibly being some sort of simulation, which would make "two simultaneous timelines" make perfect sense.

(On the other hand... Hoyo doesn't have the best track record for character timelines. Remember how Sunday and Robin's mother was killed when the stellaron fell on Penacony... the same stellaron that fell before the Astral Express crash landed... centuries ago... 😂)

But anyway, here's what I mean:

In 3.0, Mydei makes statements that suggest he lived in Castrum Kremnos:

Phainon also says that Mydei is "homesick" for Kremnos, implying this was his home at some point.

The Chryseus Leo in Castrum Kremnos recognizes him by the sound of his voice, and Mydei responds as if reuniting with a well-loved mentor:

This suggests Mydei spent long enough in Kremnos to be affectionate with Chryseus Leo (he even calls him just "Leo" like a nickname) and have learned from him as a teacher.

In 3.1, Mydei speaks about the Kremnoan royal library as if he has personal knowledge of what scrolls/slates are available there. He also calls it "my library" with a possessive but especially fond feeling, as if he's spent a decent amount of time there and loves it.

And, during Trailblazer and Castorice's visit to past Castrum Kremnos, which supposedly takes place before Eurypon's fall, an NPC on the street curses Mydei as a traitor and claims that all the Kremnoans who went with him to Okhema are "deserters."

Castorice and the Trailblazer even have a discussion about whether Mydei's choice to leave Castrum Kremnos was brave or cowardly. This indicates that Mydei's whereabouts were well-known to the people of Castrum Kremnos before the city met its downfall.

However... there's a big problem with all this: None of this actually make sense with the backstory Mydei himself states in 3.1.

According to the flashback we experience in 3.1, Mydei was thrown into the Sea of Souls as an infant.

This correlates with what we know from his leaked voicelines (skip the image below if you want to avoid the leak!)

His earliest memory is in the Sea of Souls. He himself states he has no memory of living in Kremnos before his father threw him into the sea. He lived nine years in the Sea of Souls before returning to land.

Then, he states that he met his five friends directly after returning from the Sea of Souls:

And he states that they lived together "in exile" for ten years.

But... uh... who exiled them?

It literally can't have been Eurypon, given that Eurypon doesn't recognize Mydei at all and explicitly had no idea Mydei was still alive the whole time:

A few lines later, Mydei also states:

"When we left Kremnos."

So Mydei... went back to Kremnos after leaving the Sea of Souls and meeting his friends...? And he lived in the inner city and had access to the royal library, apparently, but nobody loyal to the king ever noticed him? And then he was somehow exiled after that? For... some other crime entirely (since it wouldn't be for being the missing crown prince, given Eurypon didn't know he was back)? Or just decided to self-exile at some point, despite living presumably relatively peacefully in his home nation?

When could this even have fit in the timeline?

We're told that by "the fifth year" of Mydei returning from the Sea of Souls (Mydei would have been 14 years old) three of his five friends were already dead, and he'd already waged war with at least two different countries (Ladon and Aidonia).

We're never remotely given an indication here that there is room in the timeline for Mydei to have returned to Kremnos and just lived there as an undercover citizen. He instead specifically states that he and his friends lived in the wilds of Amphoreus, roaming the land for ten years.

He even notes that all of his friends died before he ever had a chance to bring the detachment to join up with Okhema:

There's also the entire aspect of Mydei's situation being paralleled to the children he meets in Okhema. When he asks them "How can you consider Kremnos your home when you never lived there?" we, as the players, are supposed to recognize that Mydei feels this way too: Castrum Kremnos was not his home--because theoretically the timeline is telling us he never actually lived here.

This is reinforced by the "As I've Written" chapter, where Okhema is once again posited as Mydei's only home:

So... Something is really not adding up here, especially if you think to the NPC in past Castrum Kremnos who describes Mydei word-for-word as both the "crown prince" and a "Chrysos Heir" who has already deserted for Okhema with his army before Eurypon's death.

In the Kremnos ruins, there's this memory fragment where Krateros confirms that Mydei and the detachment are already working with Okhema before Eurypon's death:

Except that this definitely conflicts with the timeline Mydei gives for his own joining up with Okhema. He says all of his friends died before the detachment went to Okhema, and explicitly that Hephaestion died after Eurypon:

So this is Schroedinger's detachment, both allied to Okhema and not at the same time. 😂

We also know that Mydei didn't live in Kremnos after killing his father, since he explicitly states:

Why would the people need to be led back into Kremnos... if they hadn't left yet...

Furthermore, some of Hepaestion's dialogue also makes it sound like Mydei already had the Kremnoan people with him at this time, and that the migrant Kremnoans were already waiting for Mydei to lead them back to Kremnos:

Theoretically, Mydei could have been traveling around Amphoreus just picking up random Kremnoan exiles and formed the detachment out of those random Kremnoans he picked up... maybe? I guess? Since it definitely doesn't make sense that he absconded from Castrum Kremnos with a whole army and his dad never even noticed!

And the icing on the cake even. During his confrontation with Eurypon, Mydei says:

He knew about Nikador's soul being split?! He knew about what had been done to make Nikador immortal way back then? And then he just... FORGOT before 3.0?! Whattttt is even happening herreeee?

The only way even part of this works as a single timeline is if the events are:

Mydei is thrown into the Sea of Souls as an infant.

Mydei lives 9 years as a feral siren child in the Sea of Souls.

Mydei finally returns to land, meets his five friends.

Mydei, despite knowing his father is out to kill him, sneaks back into Castrum Kremnos and somehow manages to find a place to live as an undercover citizen (under a fake name too, presumably?!) in the inner city even though he would theoretically be perceived as a penniless, nameless orphan at this point. Maybe he couch surfs at his five bros' houses, I don't know lol.

In some relatively short period of time (less than five years for sure), he manages to build an entire detachment army under his father's nose with no one giving away his identity to anyone loyal to the king (despite the fact that we see many Kremnoan citizens still loyal to Eurypon all the way to the end), then he exiles himself and his entire army from Kremnos, still without the king even noticing?

Mydei and his army pillage randomly for ten years, then Mydei returns and kills his father.

He leads the Kremnoan detachment to Okhema to join Aglaea's cause.

However, this still can't resolve the continuity error of the random people of Castrum Kremnos knowing he's 1) alive, 2) the crown prince, and 3) assisting Okhema all before Eurypon, the literal king, even learned Mydei was still alive, plus knowing about the plot to break Nikador's soul up and then somehow just flat out forgetting that lol.

Even Castrum Kremnos's timeline itself is confusing

There's also the weird stuff going on with Castrum Kremnos's timeline.

We know that Castrum Kremnos's last Kremnos Festival took place at the end of the Chrysos War. In 3.0, Phainon talks about this war and the tales of the Chrysos heirs involved with it as if it is something that took place long enough ago to have become the stuff of legends:

When being exposed to the present Kremnos, Gnaeus implies that a significant amount of time must have passed between Eurypon's death and the Trailblazer and Castorice's mission:

And Gnaeus also confirms that supposedly thousands of years have passed between Castrum Kremnos's last Kremnos Festival and the present:

Mydei implies that the people of Castrum Kremnos have been away from their homeland long enough for their traditions to have faded:

Aelius, who is a grown-ish looking NPC from the "Love in the Time of Black Tide" questline, notes that when he came with Mydei to Okhema, he was just a child:

All of this suggested that Castrum Kremnos's downfall actually happened years and years ago, some of it suggesting possibly decades or even centuries of lying in ruin.

The fact that an NPC aged to adulthood or near to it while Mydei didn't change at all definitely had people convinced in 3.0 that Mydei was literally "immortal" in that he did not age, suggesting he could be centuries old.

However, that... also doesn't make sense.

We have Damionis who managed to take a picture at the last Kremnos Festival, suggesting it wasn't very many years ago, given that he's clearly not an older NPC:

And Krateros, who clearly does age, is shown as an already grown man in the flashbacks with Eurypon and Gorgo.

To complicate matters even further, we have two Gorgos--one in the past and one who was Mydei's mother, but both of whom achieved the same feat. The devs even deliberately obfuscate on the original Gorgo's identity through the readables to further link the Gorgo of the past with the Gorgo of the present by refusing to state the gender of the Gorgo of the past:

It's not on accident. They want players to conflate the two Gorgos.

Andddd another edit, because I keep finding things that don't add up. When Phainon and the Trailblazer go to Kremnos to fight Flame Reaver, they run into a bunch of Kremnoans fighting the black tide. Phainon speculates that Aglaea must have rallied them, except...

That guy definitely has no idea why Aglaea would be giving him any commands, and, more than that--he doesn't even know who Phainon is. Could there really be any of the Kremnoan detachment that don't at least know of Okhema's Chrysos Heirs? And why would he imply that their "king will deal with you" if Mydei is aligned with Okhema?

I don't think these Kremnoans came from the time period we think they did...

How can we reconcile this?

We could just handwave this and say "Classic Hoyo, not great with keeping track of their own writing." We have evidence they've made mistakes (and retcons) before.

But with timelines being so central to Amphoreus's plot... I'm suspicious, enough so to suggest that there may be enough conflicting information here that this could be on purpose.

In fact, if you separate out the events that don't make sense together, it almost appears as if there could be two completely different timelines, or as if events from two different timelines have become stitched together, trying to create one coherent story and yet, like mismatched puzzle pieces, not quite adding up.

In one timeline, the one that seems most prevalent, Mydei (who ages normally) was tossed into the Sea of Souls as an infant despite his mother's protests, lived (and died) in the sea nine years, then was discovered by a band of five Kremnoan exiles who became his friends, wandered with them for ten years, and eventually returned to Castrum Kremnos to kill his father at around 19 years old. From there, he led any Kremnoans who were willing to follow him to Okhema as refugees and as a detachment army, and they've served in Okhema for no more than a few years--enough that Aglaea still calls him a youth and Mydei hasn't noticeably aged since he killed his father, and enough that Damionis, who visited Castrum Kremnos during the last festival, is still a young man.

In the other timeline, we have a much more ancient Castrum Kremnos, one which had already fallen into ruin long enough ago for its final king to turn to dust and the Chrysos War to become the stuff of legends, according to Phainon. In this timeline, a version of Mydeimos who was much more familiar with the city, one who apparently had access to the royal library and lived in the inner city of Castrum Kremnos (which Phainon says matches him having the status of a prince), suddenly decides to betray his country, possibly due to seeing his father decline into madness. He becomes a "traitor of a crown prince" according to the regular Kremnoans, but manages to assemble an army of his own loyal followers, which becomes the Kremnoan detachment that lays waste to enemy countries for years. At some point, he is recognized as a Chrysos Heir during the Chrysos War era and allies himself with Okhema, and then only after that returns to kill his father.

And the biggest hint we have to support this "alternate timelines" theory?

The game itself.

When Mydei returns to Castrum Kremnos, we actually see two different scenarios weaving together--the "truth" as we know it, with a destroyed Castrum Kremnos, and the other where the nation is whole and happy.

The assumption the game leaves players with on the surface is that Mydei is simply imagining things, envisioning a "dream" scenario where he reunites with his lost friends and gets to live in a flourishing Castrum Kremnos with his people.

However... I feel the need to point out that every time the scene cuts between the "dream" and "reality"... We actually hear the exact same sound effect that plays whenever you activate Oronyx's miracles to travel between timelines.

For comparison, Mydei's "dream":

And Oronyx's miracles sound effect:

In fact, the visual effect of swapping timelines (darkening on the edges of the screen, a flash of blue geometric shapes) is actually also perfectly identical, and you can even hear Oronyx's voice as Mydei shifts between "reality" and his supposed "dream."

If it were just the repeated sound effect, it might be easy to say it's just Hoyo reusing resources. But... why play Oronyx's animation and voice over the scene if this isn't a time shift?

Unless... all the confusion is on purpose.

Is it possible that what we're seeing unfold in Amphoreus isn't the truth? That the stories we're hearing and seeing might not be whole stories and are instead just scattered pieces? Different timelines stitched together, like someone telling stories about the past but misremembering the details? With memories overlapping, or overwriting each other, or being altered by timelines or time loops collapsing in on themselves? (Something similar happens with Tribios's story, by the way--Tribbie insists that in the ancient timeline, Tribios was completely alone and that we as time travelers with Oronyx's power are in fact only witnessing a memory, and yet Phainon notes several times that it's not possible for Tribios to have made it through without outside assistance, suggesting the two timelines are in fact overlapping, and what Tribbie remembers in her memory isn't actually accurate.)

Is it possible that the events of Mydei's backstory don't quite add up because they're not supposed to?

Is Mydei really imagining things as he returns to Kremnos... or are we actually seeing entirely different timelines or lives "resonate" with each other, collapsing into each other to create a single jumbled story that not even Mydei realizes isn't true?

Or... Maybe Hoyo just goofed again. I guess we'll just have to wait and see! 😂

[star-5truck]

A letter to you

Sypnosis:The final letter Dabi Touya sent you before the final battle.

Pairing :T. Todoroki x Reader

Two posts in a day? Its a miracle lowk

Dear [Name],

    By the time this letter reaches you, I’ll probably be dead. I plan on making sure this arrives unscathed at your side, since I’m aware you’d still be in a coma when it arrives. I’m a little disappointed I won’t get to see your pretty face on the battlefield, but it’s better than you getting hurt. To start off, I ask you to forgive me for everything. I know I wasn’t the one who put you in your state, but I still apologize for that nonetheless.

Now, this letter isn’t for me to apologize like some beggar. I just want you to know my thoughts. I’d rather I not die without giving you a clear conscience. I know when I left that night without a word it hurt you. You really shouldn’t forgive an asshole like me, I hurt you in ways words can’t describe when you’ve been nothing but understanding towards me. So, I hope that through this letter, you get to understand me more. Because in the one hundred thirty-six days, three minutes, and five seconds we’ve known each other, I never really opened up to you.

The first time I met you, I thought you were a lunatic. I was injured, on the brink of death, and about to pass in peace but then I saw you. I thought that ‘this is it; I die to the hands of some hero without putting up a fight.’ Yet my demise never came. You took care of my injuries, brought me to your home and treated me like a human being.

What hero tries to talk it out with a villain? Newsflash, you, apparently. I’d like to inform you that you have not changed my views on heroes at all. I still believe they are all self-serving assholes that don’t care about anything other than themselves. I loathe them all… except you. If anyone is going to make the hero society a better place, it’s going to be you.

I don’t think the hero commission took it well when they found out we were having rendezvous’, eh? I always told ya we’d get caught one day. I knew that if I stayed, you’d be in bigger trouble than you already were. I truly believe it was for the better good when I left you that night. Yet with that being said, I’ll never regret meeting up with you every now and then.

You were definitely one of the good things in this hell. I haven’t found myself enjoying someone’s company in a long time. You’re some sort of blessing- to me and the world. I’m not super religious myself, but if there is some God out there, I’m real grateful they made you a part of my life. I haven’t been good enough for the God’s to respond to me, but for some reason they sent me you and I don’t plan on letting you go.

But that’s a lie and we both know it. Technically- I am letting you go. I’ve done it multiple times, actually. Kept pushing you away again and again but you kept coming back. Why is that?

I don’t deserve a soul as kind as yours. You were my light in the darkness, or however the saying goes. I think somewhere along the way I dimmed that light. There are times where not even the brightest of lights work. It’s not your fault, anyway. Because you did get rid of the emptiness I’ve always felt. I ruined myself on my own terms. I’ve always been fucked from the start.

You almost succeeded with your goal on changing me. When you told me to hide away with you? I almost caved in. To tell you the truth, I could never say no to you. You’re everything to me, minus the L.O.V, but they aren’t important right now. You are the one place I’d call home.

It is incredibly selfish for me to say that I’d like to keep you at my side forever. I bring pain wherever I go, and you- dear hero, are too kind to be treating a villain like this. I’d rather you hate me than going off and trying to save me. We both know I’m too far gone. Nonetheless, I appreciate the fact you thought I was capable of change. At some point, you made me believe it, too.

You’ll be the only thing I’m going to miss after I’m gone- that and crashing at your place. The time I’ve spent with you is something I’ll cherish, which we know is rare coming from me. You’d be the seven minutes before my death. I would’ve loved to run away and hide with you, [Name]. You saved me in every way possible. But I am driven by hate that even I can’t escape. I will do anything it takes to take down Endeavor, even if it means bringing down myself with him.

So, for the first and the last time, I love you, [Name].

Love, Touya Todoroki.

[jackoquako]

Burning from the Inside

Yan! Batfamily x neglected! male! meta! Reader

Chapter three: All Your Fault

I do look through the interactions with my fic and block profiles that only use she/her or say “cis girl”.

Summary: Jason dies, and you don't have anyone to blame but yourself. Word Count: 2239 Reading Time: 9:25 (mins:secs) Notes: Ughhhh. I promise i did mean for this to go up sooner, but writer's block kicked my ass to the moon and back and this chapter went through a couple different direction changes before i could finish it. If it sounds clunky, it's because it is. No beta we die like men. In spite of the state of the world, we preserve. This is just the few months after Jason's death. Warnings: Grief, and yn blaming themselves for the death of a loved one, descriptions of yn acting violently (destroying furniture), descriptions of adults screaming at each other. Writer is putting yn through the gauntlet.

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Things had been looking positive too long, apparently. As the summer months bled into autumn and winter, Jason began slowly pulling away. It wasn’t that noticeable at first, just him acting distracted as you two talked and occasionally he’d zone out, his mind wandering away from him. Something was clearly wrong, but you didn’t have the tools to help him. You were just a kid, after all, and only 11 at that. You’d gone to Alfred for help, but he’d only frowned slightly and sighed.

“Master Jason is.. dealing with some unfortunate decisions.” That was all he said.

Sure you understood Alfred trying to keep Jason’s private matters.. Well, private, but you just wanted something, any indicator of how to help or if your friend would be okay on his own. Something had descended upon the manor, a ghost or something akin to it, and everyone else could see it but you. Infuriating was one word for it. Hurtful was another.

You’d done your best, trying to open conversations with Jason but no matter what you did, he just kept pulling away. Though you knew it wasn’t really about you, it still hurt, a lot. One day, Jason came back to himself, being all cheerful once again, and he’d walked side by side with you in the gardens. You didn’t know what exactly caused this snap back to his original personality, but if you were being honest, you were just happy to have your friend back. Maybe it was selfish, but weren’t you allowed to be selfish sometimes?

“My biological mom contacted me.” Jason blurted out as soon as the two of you were under the shade of a tree. He didn’t look over to you.

“Are… you gonna go to her?” You asked awkwardly, the words stumbling out of your mouth. You didn’t exactly want Jason to go, but you wouldn’t stop him. If you had the option to go back to your mom you’d take it, so why couldn’t you be okay with him taking that option. A heavy weight dragged on your heart.

He smiled, eyes fixed on a piece of the horizon. “I don’t know yet.”

But eventually, Jason did have an answer to his issue, and he disappeared. On the first day, you just assumed he was taking time to himself and chose not to bother him. You’d pace around the library, waiting for him and hiding away from Bruce when he came around. But then you woke up with a pit in your stomach on the second day. You hoped you were just being anxious for no reason, as you often were, but Jason didn’t answer when you knocked and Bruce looked stressed out every time he saw you, his eyes staring past you like you didn’t even exist. You knew something was terribly wrong when Bruce left suddenly. You’d watched him for long enough; you knew his schedule, he only took private flights to business meetings on Wednesdays; it was Friday. You went to Alfred immediately. 

He’d been in the living room when you walked in, his attention solely on dusting an already cleaned bookshelf. His eyes shared that same glazed-over look that Bruce had.

“Alfred?” Your voice was quiet, unsure. “Where’s Jason?”

Alfred turned on his heel and looked at you with an expression of some mix of sorrow, hope, and desperation. His eyes were wide and you’d never forget the shake in his even tone even if you tried.

“I don’t know.”

Your stomach turned. The next day was a blur of red. You’d broken the mirror in your room, the blood on your knuckles dripping onto the floor, forever staining it. You screamed and begged for Jason to come home. Had he run away? Had he been taken? Your mind spiraled further and further until Bruce came home. You’d seen the car pull into the driveway from your window. Hoping Bruce would bring Jason in with him, you’d dashed down the stairs and stopped at the bottom step, only for your heart to sink as Bruce walked in alone. Alfred emerged from the doorway that led to the living room, looking at Bruce with the same hopeful expression you’d had on your face only minutes ago.

Bruce spoke first, addressing only Alfred. You doubted the billionaire even knew you were here.

“He’s gone.”

You shattered. Slumping down, you sat on the stair and hugged a banister leg. Anger and sorrow and disbelief fought for dominance in your head. It was dizzying. Among the chaotic mess of thoughts and feelings, you could only think one thing- you were cursed. It seemed that the people you loved were always taken. 

The rest of the day passed in a haze- well that would be an understatement. The following days passed by in a furious blur. Your anger came back. That blinding righteous anger that you’d only just forgotten- how foolish you’d been to forget it. You sat alone in your room for days on end, the door locked with a chair braced against it. Not that it mattered, since nobody came to talk to you.

You understood. Alfred was grieving too. And why would he want to talk to the thing that caused his favorite child to die? You caused this. You were the one who didn’t stop him. Why didn’t you stop him? The perfect wood of the dresser cracked when you pulled a drawer out and threw it across the room. The wood of the bed frame cracked the same way when you slammed your fists into it. The glass of the mirror cut your hands when you smashed it.

The brief satisfaction you’d gained from your destruction was extinguished rather quickly by the same crushing fact that Jason was gone. Nobody was coming to help you, and you were left in the aftermath of your anger, all alone, again.

Something in you had snapped after that day. Your anger stopped coming in deadly tsunamis and instead changed to an ever-present tide, ebbing and flowing with each hour. With your anger in check, you began to observe everyone around you again, just like you did after arriving. 

Alfred was grieving, clearly, but it seemed like he didn’t want that to show. You watched as he stood in the study, dusting the bookshelves slowly. He was reading the title of each book before carefully wiping away the dust on top of the books. If you looked close enough, you’d see the tear tracks still drying on his cheeks. When you shifted your position, he caught sight of you and collected himself. Painting a smile on his face, Alfred turned to you.

“My apologies Master (Y/N), would you like something for lunch?” He asked like he’d always done at noon. But his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. Nowadays he looked at you with this indescribable expression, like something you’d seen on your mom’s face sometimes. It was somewhere between guilt and sadness.

You knew it was because he blamed you for this. You were the one who didn’t stoop Jason and he knew.

Alfred seemed to hold it together the best. He would do the things that he’d always done, he’d keep functioning as the blood of the manor, keeping this hellish place alive in spite of the heart of it dying. You tried to not hate him for that. But where Alfred persevered, Wayne crumbled. You watched from the shadows as he crawled from the study to his room every other day. He’d disappear for days at a time, probably losing himself in his next business venture or hookup, you assumed. He’d all but disappeared from the manor entirely. You assumed it was the grief that made him do this, but you couldn’t help but feel disgusted by it anyway. Your mom would never act like that. 

You missed her.

Dick was the one to change the most. He came by even less than before, but when he did he always acted like you were brothers. He’d seek you out like a missile and scoop you up into a crushing hug- this habit you broke by kneeing him in the stomach and scrambling away. He respected your space more after that. When he interacted with Wayne, Dick seemed hollow. His smile would drop, in the opposite way of how Alfred would put his smile on, and Dick would get cold in the way he spoke.

You’d been walking to the library- you did this every wednesday now, as if thinking hard enough would bring your brother back- when you heard it. Yelling. Coming from the private study that Bruce used. You were never allowed in there, and the door was locked when Wayne himself wasn’t in there. As you passed by the closed door, you tried to block out the noise of the shouting, but a mention of Jason caught your attention. Pausing outside the door, you leaned against the wall, and listened.

“Bruce- don’t turn your back on me.” Dick’s voice was stern, angry, and hoarse. He’d been the one shouting. 

You could picture it: Bruce turned towards a window or his desk, ignoring Dick as he’d ignored you. You only felt a little guilty at the flicker of satisfaction that came from Dick being treated as you’d been treated. It was probably the only revenge you could get. 

Bruce’s voice broke through your thoughts.

“You were lucky.”

He sounded tired. Whatever feelings you had about that were hard to decipher. Would your mom sound the same way if she knew you’d caused your sibling to die? Your stomach twisted and your throat closed up, your eyes stinging.

“When you didn’t listen to me, your injuries weren’t fatal.” Bruce paused and you’d imagine he’d be pinching the bridge of his nose like dads in movies did when they were upset.

“Of course-” he started to sound angry, it made your skin crawl. “By the time I properly trained you-”

Trained?

“Are you, of all people, blaming me?” You flinched at the volume. Even through the wall, Dick was loud.

“I left, so Jason replaced me,” Replaced? “And because I left, he died?”

The terms they kept using- trained, replaced- made you nauseous. Jason wasn’t a toy. He was your brother. Why were they talking like that? Tears welled up in your eyes. Why were they talking about your brother like he was nothing? Your brain could just barely grasp the concept of someone being so dehumanising to the brother who helped you so much. It was as if Dick and Bruce were talking in another language, implying things your brain didn’t have the knowledge to express.

“Jason wasn’t me! I was a trained acrobat. I could think quickly in dangerous situations.” 

Don’t say that. Jason was the smartest of everyone here.

Dick was shouting still. “But why’d you let him become Robin before he was ready?!”

Robin.

The tears in your eyes fell. When you looked up, Alfred was standing across from you, his expression distraught as he stared back at you. He must’ve known before you did. Your tears ran down your cheeks and landed on the carpet. Alfred didn’t move.

“Don’t you dare blame me for Jason’s death!” Bruce was screaming at Dick. Something in the sound must’ve alerted Alfred. As you stumbled away from the study, you heard Alfred leap into action, running into the study and breaking up the argument. 

You walked aimlessly until you were in the library. Mind swimming, you sobbed in the dark, quiet room. You’d never missed Jason so much before. You missed your brother. You missed your mom, and the way she’d hug you when you cried. Robin. The name echoed in your head as you cried harder. You weren’t stupid, you paid attention to your classmates when they talked, even if they ignored you. You knew what Batman and Robin were. And now you knew who they were. And Jason didn’t tell you. You collapsed onto the wooden floor, sobbing hysterically. Did he feel like he couldn’t? You would’ve loved him regardless. 

That angry voice in your head, the one that came and went with the tide, whispered so softly in the shadows. Or he was told not to tell you.

Like a puppet being pulled by its strings, you stood. Your blood ran hot in your veins, so hot it nearly hurt. You weren’t the reason Jason died. In a trance, you walked towards the window along the far wall, staring out at the smog-choked sky that always hung above Gotham. 

Bruce Wayne, Batman, is the reason your brother, the only person who truly saw and helped you, is dead. 

Your vision blurred, but not with tears. No, your tears felt like they had dried to your face, the water evaporating. There was fire under your skin and it wanted out. Looking around- for what, you didn’t know- your gaze fell on the stupid grandfather cloak that was always broken. The hands never pointed at the correct time. It was so fucking stupid- to have a clock that didn’t tell the time, let alone such an expensive one. You walked over to it. You would’ve laughed if you weren’t so angry. It was such an obvious tell of how little the adults in this hell cared about anything. They couldn’t even fix a clock.

The glass broke under your fist, and you didn’t even bleed this time.

[matchpointfaist]

you’re screwed up and brilliant, look like a million dollar man

dads best friend! art x reader

tw for large age gap but reader is 18!!!, smut, questionable morals! :) this is just filthy yall idk

growing up, your dad had told you all about his childhood best friend, art donaldson. he’d told you how they’d met in middle school and become completely inseparable, always together until the day art left for mrta, flying off to florida and leaving him behind. he’d made him out to be some sort of legend, rambling on with stories about how incredible he was at tennis, how funny he was, how no one in his small town was really as interesting as art had been. by the time your dad got your mom pregnant in high school, young and terrified, art was long gone, halfway across the country learning to become one of the greats.

they’d kept in touch through the years, always over text, always too busy to actually see each other. art was, apparently, traipsing all over the world winning tournaments, checking in with your dad weekly for brief phone calls or text exchanges. when your parents divorced, art had utmost sympathy, having recently separated from his wife as well. a few phone calls and an impulsively purchased plane ticket later, art was knocking at your front door, duffel bag in hand. you’d come home from classes that evening, surprised to see another man in your living room, laughing over a glass of scotch with your father. “dad?” you asked, brows furrowed, “who’s this?”

“oh!” art was off the couch in an instant, extending a hand in greeting, clearing his throat, “art donaldson! it’s so great to meet you, your dads told me all about you,” oh god, he was fucking gorgeous. you shook his hand, eyeing him still, trying to ignore the way your cheeks reddened the second your skin made contact with his. “oh, it’s good to meet you as well,” you smiled up at him, “he’s talked about you a ton, too,” he sat back down on the edge of the couch, watching idly as you hugged your dad’s neck, telling him you were going to clean up and then you’d start supper. his gaze followed you all the way out of the living room and up the stairs, mentally cursing at himself all the way along. you were his best friends daughter, for gods sake. it didn’t matter if you were pretty or not, he was sure you were hardly old enough for him to be giving a second glance.

an hour later, you’d returned with your hair up and yoga pants on, busying yourself in the kitchen as the men caught up in the living room. “she’s been such a big help since the divorce,” your dad was saying, prying him from his thoughts, “i mean, she’s only 18 and she’s taken on so many responsibilities, keeping this house together while i’m working. i couldn’t have asked for a better daughter,” god, he had to push the image of your hips swaying as you skipped up the steps out of his mind. “yeah, she seems great,” he nodded, clearing his throat again, “i’m glad you’ve got such a good family, man,”

right after the three of you sat down for dinner- pasta, art’s favorite cheat meal- your dads cell rang, disturbing the quiet conversation. “shit, this is work. i’ll be right back,” he sighed, leaving the room with the phone pressed to his ear. “this is really good,” art said between bites, hoping to ease the tension that he was sure he’d fabricated, “do you cook a lot?” “thanks,” you smiled around the rim of your glass, “yeah, i do. dad doesn’t really know how to do much, so i’ve been in charge of the cooking and tidying up since my mom left,” “i’m sorry about that, by the way,” he offered you a sympathetic frown, “it must be hard,” you shrugged, averting your eyes, “its fine, dad says its for the best anyway,” “divorce is tough,” he nodded, “i know how it is first hand,” your eyes met his across the table at that, an almost curious undertone in your gaze. “i’m sorry,” you finally said, “my dad told me about your wife,” “ex wife,” he corrected quickly, running a hand over his face like it stressed him just to talk about her, “but it’s alright. these things happen,”

your dad returned a few minutes later, looking irritated and stressed. “i need to go into work for a bit, we have an emergency surgery waiting and there’s no one to cover. art, feel free to make yourself at home in the guest room, please. and honey, will you just make sure he’s settled? i’ll be home as soon as i’m finished, but it may take a few hours,” you’d gotten used to this, the last minute leaving. “sure, dad,” you nodded, standing to clear his spot at the table, “be careful, love you,” “love you too,” he gave you a quick side-hug, “art, i’ll see you in the morning, yeah?” “yeah, of course, man,” he nodded, “go save the world,” he joked, trying not to watch you as you leaned over the sink, scrubbing at a plate. your dad was gone moments later, leaving a stagnant silence in the room, save for the sound of scraping dishes and running water. “do you need help?” he asked after a moment, scratching the back of his neck, “i can dry them, if you want,” “no, it’s okay,” you shook your head, glancing at him over your shoulder, “just relax, i’ll come set out some blankets for you when i’m done,”

he hovered by the door, unsure if he should make himself useful or if you truly wanted to be alone. he finally settled on the former, coming just beside you to dry the dishes as you washed them, ignoring your quiet protests. “so what do you study in school?” he asked after a bit of silence, hopeful to start some semblance of a conversation. “english,” you replied, sounding a little pleased, “i’m gonna be a teacher,” “yeah? that’s a great career,” he smiled over at you, “i’m sure you’ll do great at that,”

the small talk continued here and there until you were yawning, rubbing your eyes. “i’m gonna get your room ready and then go to bed,” you said, leading him up the stairs to a little spare room just beside yours, “the bathrooms down the hall, if you need to shower,” “yeah, i feel like i have airport germs all over me,” he laughed, “i’ll be right out,” he must have been tired, because as soon as he stepped out of the water, he realized he forgot his pajamas. he sighed, ran a hand over his face, and tied a towel around his hips. you’d probably be in bed, anyway. he’d just be quick back to his room. when he stepped into the room, though, you were still there, making the bed with such care that he nearly forgot he was half naked in front of you. “oh!” you look up, eyes all wide, and he flushed immediately. “god, i’m so sorry, i forgot my bag-“ he grabbed the duffel from the end of the bed, quickly turning to head back to the bathroom and get fully dressed. he told himself he must’ve imagined you biting your lip, your cheeks tinged pink as you looked him over. you were just surprised, that’s all!

by the time he returned from getting dressed, you were gone, an extra blanket folded on the bed and the smell of your perfume lingering in the air, the door next to his shut tight. he sighed, running a hand over his face and climbing into bed, scrolling through his phone to pass time until sleep came. he was restless, unused to sleeping in a bed that wasn’t his own or some overpriced hotel, the sounds of your house settling keeping him up. he’d finally adjusted to the noises, the creaking of old wood, the wind tapping limbs against the window, when he heard a new, softer sound. quiet moans and whimpers, coming through the wall. he sat up, slightly concerned that you were hurt, or having a nightmare. he quietly got out of bed, pressing against the wall to the source of the noise. that’s when he heard it, a quiet, almost imperceptible, “oh, art,”

blood rushed in his veins, nearly dizzying him with the intensity, and he was straining against his flannel pants in seconds. “right there,” you whimpered, and he nearly fainted. he knew he shouldn’t think any harder on it, knew he should just put in earbuds until he fell asleep, but then his hand was on the doorknob and he was out in the hallway, just a pace away from your bedroom, from you. he waited, contemplated, but your sounds continued, only increasing in frequency, paired with the sounds of rippling sheets. before he could stop himself, he was twisting open the door, stepping into your dimly lit room. you gasped, yanking the blanket up to your chest, face flushed in the glow of your nightstand candle. “art, i-“ “i heard you,” his voice was hoarse, shaky, “you said my name,”

“i’m so sorry,” there were tears welling in your eyes, your voice wobbly, “i shouldn’t have,” “don’t apologize,” he sat just at the edge of your bed, hands trembling, “come here, alright?” you hesitated, pulling the blanket down just enough to reveal your skimpy pink pajamas, crawling towards him. he was a goner, a dead man, if your dad ever found out about this. he knew it in the back of his mind, knew this wrong wrong, he was 16 years older than you for god’s sake. some small part of him didn’t care, was reckless enough to pull you into his lap, “what were you doing, baby? show me,” your face flushed even darker, and you shook your head, eyes shining, “i can’t, we can’t-“

“you wanted it so badly a few minutes ago, what happened? hm?” it was so unlike him to be so forward, so demanding, but you’d taken over his mind, making him flush and greedy with want, “show me how you like to be touched, sweet girl,” your hands trembled as they slowly slipped beneath your shorts, your thighs spread against his own, and he nearly snapped as a soft sigh left your lips, your eyes falling closed. “oh,” it was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard, and he was indescribably desperate to pull more from you, to make you cry for him. you gasped softly, and all his restraint broke, his own hand replacing yours, cool against your feverish skin. “oh, baby,” he nearly groaned, “you’re drippin’, you know that? what did this, huh? what got you so worked up?” you shook your head, whimpering incessantly as his fingers worked you open. “come on, tell me,” he dragged his lips across your jaw, “be a good girl,” “you,” you finally managed, voice cracking, “it was you, art, god,” “atta girl,” he grinned, satisfied, “you’re shakin, baby. you gonna come for me? gonna put on a show?” “art!” it came out half gasp, half moan, your thighs falling closed as you came around his fingers, body shuddering, “oh, oh my god,” he worked you through it, fingers slowing until he pulled out of you, bringing his fingers to your lips, “open up, baby,”

you were so greedy for it, opening your mouth instantly, sucking his fingers in like they belonged there. your tongue swirled around the digits, lapping your wetness off of his skin with a contented hum, the sound going straight to his cock. “greedy thing,” he murmured, pulling his fingers from your mouth only to grab your jaw, pulling you into a messy, hot kiss. you moaned against his lips as he bit at your bottom lip, your hands resting on his shoulders. “you wanna do something for me, pretty?” he asked, trailing his lips down your neck, “wanna make me feel good, hm?” “yes, please,” you sounded so eager, so sweet, it nearly made him rethink this entire thing. maybe he could’ve turned around and left, packed his duffel and apologized to your dad in the morning, if you hadn’t looked so fucking beautiful. maybe if you didn’t feel so good, so natural, in his arms, he could’ve run away, back to his normal life with his normal desires. but you were calling to him like a siren, your eyes wide and shining as you sank to your knees on your carpeted floor, pulling his flannel pants down with you. “oh, god,” he clenched his jaw, watching as your hand wrapped around him, slow and tender, like you were nervous, “there you go, baby, good god,”

if the view, or your the feeling of your hands, was good, then your mouth was fucking heaven. you were hot and wet and everywhere, taking him like you’d practiced, like you needed to impress him. you looked up at him with teary eyes as he fucked into your mouth, down your throat just enough to have you gagging, his hand holding your hair in a makeshift ponytail. “god, best fuckin’ mouth i’ve ever had,” he panted, thighs tight as he held his orgasm back, “takin’ me like a little slut, baby,” he pulled your hair just hard enough to get your attention, grinning at the whine of protest as he slid out of your mouth, leaving a shining trail of spit from your lips to the tip of his cock. “come up here, sweet girl. let me fuck you,”

you laid out on the bed before him like a signet of damnation, a culmination of all his repressed desire, your pajamas long gone, thighs spread and cunt gleaming in the candlelight. “prettiest thing i’ve ever seen,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your thigh, tracing a finger over your clit just light enough to make you shiver, “bet you’re gonna feel so good,” you just made a soft, preening sound, a lazy smile on your lips at the praise. he kissed you, soft and slow, taking his time as he pushed your thighs further apart, making room for himself. he had to choke back a groan at the feeling of you stretched around him, kissing you harder just to busy his mouth, his hips bucking. “oh!” you pulled away to bury your face in his neck, biting at the skin, needy and incessant, “oh, art, you’re so big,” “you’re takin’ it so good,” he choked out, thrusting deeper, one hand coming to cradle the back of your head as he pulled you up to meet his chest, “oh, baby, like you were made for me,” you were a mess, babbling and incoherent with lust, alternating between kissing over his shoulders and biting just enough to have him groaning. “the college boys fuck you like this, huh?” he pulled your hair back, tipping your head up to face him, “tell me, sweet girl,”

“no,” you shook your head, eyes wide, “no, nobody does,” “good girl,” he pulled you back into his neck, holding you tight as he fucked you harder, leaving you breathless with each snap of his hips, “letting me fuck you like a whore,” he was nearing the edge, dangerously close to filling you up, fucking you full. “art, please,” you didn’t even know what you were begging for, nails digging into his back as he fucked you senseless. “go on, come on my cock,” he panted, holding your hips tight enough to leave bruises, “let me feel you, baby,” one hand slipped between your bodies, pressing against your clit just right, and you came with a gasp, clenching around him tight enough to have him filling you up, moaning breathlessly as he fucked you through it.

you shook slightly as he pulled out, whimpering at the emptiness, a soft moan leaving you when he ran his fingers over your clit soothingly, “did so good for me,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, “you alright?” “mhm,” you nodded, resting your head on his chest, “just sleepy,” the reality of your situation crossed his mind-him, in your childhood bedroom, in his best friends house- and he laid you back down, covering you with your blanket. “gonna run out and get you a plan b,” he ran a hand over his face with a sigh, “wasn’t thinking,” “i’m on birth control,” you yawned, “it’s okay, art,” his shoulders relaxed slightly and he nodded, tucking the blanket around you, “need to get back to my room before your dad comes home,” “right,” you nodded, eyes shifting, “goodnight, then,” “goodnight, sweet girl,” he pressed a kiss to your forehead, clumsily pulling on his pants, unable to locate his shirt, before returning to his room next to yours, laying across the bed with a huff. he was so fucked, wasn’t he? he was an idiot, completely reckless.

the next morning, he woke to the smell of coffee and chatter downstairs. he pulled on day clothes, descending the steps, his eyes landing on you and your dad at the kitchen table. art’s abandoned sleep shirt hung over your frame, paired with shorts, a lazy smile on your lips. “oh, good morning,” you smiled up at him, waving him over, “i made you a cup,” he sat down across from his best friend in the world, and all he could think of was the way you looked when you came undone for him. god, he was screwed.

[writinginatree]

This Wasn't Supposed to be About Horses

Relationship(s): Xaden Riorson & teen!sister!reader, Bodhi Durran & Garrick Tavis & teen!Riorson!reader

Summary: Finally being back home in Aretia is a lot lonelier than you thought it would be, but at least you have your horse.

Warnings: Swearing, loneliness, mentions of parental death, minor spoilers for Onyx Storm (Garrick's signet), reader is a total horse girl™. Set during Iron Flame.

Anonymous requested: I'd love to maybe see a Xaden X Sister Reader where, in a similar vein to him in 'Jealous Little Puppy' he doesn't spend time with her. Maybe he misses quite a few of her milestones where she really 'wanted' him there but he just wasn't, please?

For three days — the whole duration of the ride so far — you've been pestering the soldier babysitting you with questions, but there isn't much he will — or can — tell you.

The man had shown up at the estate where you've been fostered since the apostasy to spirit you away in the dead of night, scaring the hell out of you. The only reason you'd even trusted him enough to go with him was the letter in Xaden's handwriting he showed you, proving your brother had sent the man to collect you. But he either hadn't told him why, or given him instructions not to tell you. All he would say was that, apparently, Xaden was up to something that might anger leadership and wanted you out of their reach.

You're not even allowed to know where you're going until you get there, because knowing would endanger the whole revolution should you be captured on the way — whatever the hell that is supposed to mean.

It's on the tip of your tongue to ask What revolution? but you know you won't get an answer, so you simply add it to your mental pile of unanswered questions. A pile that is starting to get decidedly too big. Where are you going? Why are you going there? How angry will leadership be when they find out you disappeared? Won't this get the other marked kids in trouble? Or are they being taken to safety too? And why didn't Xaden come get you himself if having you out of Navarre's reach is so important?

So many questions, and so few answers.

It's not like being left out of the loop is new to you — during your father's rebellion, you'd been too young to be told much about any of what was happening, and since then, you had only twice been allowed to see your brother. You wrote letters back and forth, but since there was no knowing who might read those, Xaden diligently avoided telling you anything interesting in them. Never a single word about Navarre's lies, nothing about his goals or what he was doing beyond basic stuff about his experience at the war college. He couldn't even tell you more about those venin monster things. That those are apparently real is one of the few things you'd learned during the rebellion, thanks to eavesdropping on Xaden and Garrick.

Unfortunately, eavesdropping isn't currently an option. You hate not knowing where you're going. Aside from the prospect of getting to see your brother again, it feels a lot like you're being kidnapped.

It's only the hope to see Xaden, and the fact you're finally sitting your horse again that make this journey bearable. It's been way too long since you were allowed to simply take Gaoth for a ride, without having to worry about staying in sight of the estate, without worrying about being back in time for whatever nonsense curfew they gave you, without fear of being punished for the abundance of mud on your boots when you return. Finally, a small taste of the freedom you've longed for.

Just you, your loyal black steed, and the mountainous range of Tyrrendor.

Well — and the soldier babysitting you.

But if you look the other way, you can almost pretend he isn't there, that you're riding home after an adventurous day of playing in the woods with Xaden, like you'd done so often until Dad's rebellion threw your whole world into upheaval. Those had been good times. You had rarely been allowed to hang out with the bigger kids, but sometimes Xaden would ditch his friends to spend some time just with you. Sometimes Bodhi would tag along, too, but more often it was just the two of you and your horses, and thanks to Xaden being the big responsible brother, you had always been allowed to stay out long past sundown, bringing sandwiches or fruit for lunch and dinner and eating by a fresh mountain stream or in some cave you'd explored. He always knew the best places to go for anything; where the best trees for climbing were, which mountain lake was the best for swimming, or where some fallen trees made the perfect obstacle course to race with the horses.

You wonder if you'll ever get to go riding together again. Are dragon riders even allowed to ride horses in their off-time, or would that be insulting to his dragon? You grin when you realize you might actually get to ask him that yourself soon. Sure, your babysitter hasn't explicitly said that Xaden will be present wherever you're going, but since it was his idea to get you there, surely that means it's somewhere he has access to.

By the third day of traveling gods-know-where, the soldier is officially sick of your pestering, urging his horse into a canter to escape your questions every time you open your mouth.

"We'll be there soon," he deflects when you try to insist on being told where you're going. "Then you'll see for yourself."

But when you ask when exactly soon is, he refuses to answer again. Eventually, night falls, and you make camp under the shelter of a copse of trees. Clearly, soon does not mean today.

"When will we get there?" you ask for the thousandth time while scarfing down the stew your companion made from the provisions he carries in his saddlebags. He's decidedly better at cooking than at answering your questions. "You said soon, and yet we're still not there, so when is soon? Tomorrow? In a week? It can't be that far, right?"

Your babysitter heaves a sigh, like escorting you is the worst task he's ever been given and he's wishing he were outside the wards fighting monsters instead. You almost think that'll be the only answer you get, but he relents and gives you a tiny piece of information after all. "Tomorrow," he confirms. "Now shut up and go to sleep."

Sure enough, the area becomes more and more familiar with each hour you travel the next day. There, the river you used to swim in, and, there, Xaden's favorite hill. That tree, that's the one you climbed too high into and were too scared to come back down without Xaden's help.

Despite all the signs of nearing your home, it's not until late afternoon, when you actually see Riorson House in the distance, that you let yourself believe that's where you're going. Seeing Aretia before you — smaller than you remember, but bustling with life — has you so slack with shock you almost topple from Gaoth's back. It only lasts a second. Then you tighten your knees and adjust your grip on the reins, leaning low over your mare's neck to gallop straight for the fortress, leaving your babysitter in the dust, forgotten about. You don't care about him and his stupid secrecy anymore, don't care how what you're seeing is possible, that Aretia should be ash and rubble, nothing but scorched ruins. You're home.

People jump out of your path with startled yelps as you race straight through the town. Gaoth doesn't need any directions, as familiar with the way home as you are, so you give her free rein, merely urging her to go faster occasionally while you stare at the new houses flying past you. Some are still under construction, while others look like they might have been standing for a couple years already.

It's Aretia, and yet it's not. Some landmarks you remember from your childhood days are still there, but many are not, replaced by new buildings or simply vacant space. Gaoth finds her way through town all the same, straight toward Riorson House.

Your heart beats faster the closer you get to the fortress, pounding in time with Gaoth's hoofbeats. Only minutes later you're past the last of the houses. Almost there. The ground flies past as Riorson House grows bigger and bigger, until it's all you can see.

Gravel sprays under Gaoth's hooves as you skid into the courtyard. Coming to a halt in front of the stables, you leap to the ground and look around, feeling like you're in a dream. Home. You're actually home after all this time. It's almost too good to believe. And then you spot Xaden. You recognize him instantly, despite all the time that has passed since you last were allowed to see him. Descending the steps from the main entrance and striding across the courtyard toward you, he looks every bit the fearsome warrior. The years at Basgiath have hardened him, but you barely see the scar on his face or the swords strapped to his back. You only see your big brother.

You drop the reins — Gaoth will stay put, anyway, she's a good horse — and run at him, not slowing the slightest until you literally collide with your brother's strong frame.

He doesn't even waver under the impact, just looks down at you with a amused glint in his eyes as you wrap your arms around him. He hugs back for a moment, then pushes you back to look you over with his hands on your shoulders. Then he grins. "You still haven't learned how to live without being constantly covered in mud, huh?"

"I've been traveling for four days!" you defend yourself, though he isn't entirely wrong. You've gotten in trouble for trailing in dirt after sneaking into the stables countless times in the last month alone. As if it's your fault you're more cut out for the stables and the outdoors rather than the fancy parties the nobles who fostered you are so fond of.

"Speaking of, where'd you leave the guy who was supposed to bring you?"

"I kinda didn't wait for him when I saw Aretia. 'm sure he'll be here soon." You rub your neck, a little embarrassed of your own rashness. "His horse can't be that slow. Besides, if he'd just told me where we were headed, I could have prepared myself and maybe wouldn't have raced the rest of the way like that."

"No trouble on the way?"

"Nope."

Though you try to focus on the conversation, your eyes keep drifting. It's hard to decide what sight to focus on. Your brother, so much older and tougher and tired-looking, and actually here in front of you!; or the buildings all around you that you'd thought you'd never see again, somehow still here despite everything.

"You're staring as if you've never seen the place before," Xaden chuckles.

"I just can't believe it's still here. I thought there was nothing left of Aretia."

"There wasn't much left of the city itself," Xaden agrees. "Most of the houses are newly rebuilt. But as for Riorson House..." He shrugs. "Stone doesn't burn."

"I know that, smartass. But somehow I thought they just, you know, smashed everything they couldn't burn to rubble with their dragons."

"I guess they didn't think it worth the effort." Someone calls to him from the doorway, and Xaden nods in acknowledgement. Turning back to you he says, "Listen, I'm running late for a meeting. Your room is just as you left it. I take it you remember how to get there?"

"Duh."

"Good. Then we'll talk later, okay?"

He's already backing away, turning his back as soon as you nod.

Watching him disappear inside the house, you suddenly feel like crying. Finding out your home still exists, that Aretia has been rebuilt — or is in the process of it, anyway —, finally seeing your brother again and him just leaving you standing in the courtyard; it's all too much.

You take a deep breath and swallow the tears, turning back to Gaoth. As eager as you are to run into the house and see if everything is as you remember, to find out if Bodhi is here, too, to flop down on your bed and cry with relief — your horse comes first. It's not until she's in her stall, thoroughly groomed and happily munching on a huge portion of hay, that you give in to the wish to head inside.

When Xaden said your room was just as you had left it, you thought he simply meant your things were still there, but as it turns out, he meant it's literally as you'd left it — a fucking mess. In the hurry to evacuate before the Battle of Aretia, you'd left clothes, toys, and books strewn all over the floor, forced to take only the most essential things. The sheets hang down the side of the bed in a tangled mess, a single stuffed animal you'd left behind looking terribly lonely in it's place beside the crumpled pillow. The closet doors are open, its contents spilling out onto a drawer lying turned over on the floor. And on top of it all, a thick layer of dust.

Clearly, no one has entered the room since the rebellion.

You're not sure what you expected. Not for someone else to have cleaned up your mess, no, but you would have thought some preparations would have been made for your return at least.

You slide off your rucksack, letting it thump to the floor by the door. A cloud of dust flies up from the carpet and makes you sneeze.

Tidying all this up is going to be a pain in the ass, so you decide it will have to wait until you've had dinner. But before you head back downstairs to eat, you cross to the window, opening it in hopes the wind will take care of some of the dust in the meantime. Unlikely, but it's worth a try. A faint smell of smoke lingers in the curtains, so you make a mental note to take them down and wash them later.

You cross to your bathing chamber — kicking up more dust with every step — to at least wash your hands. The chaos isn't as bad in there, but the dust seems even thicker, and cobwebs hang from the bathtub's faucet.

Later. You'll deal with all of that later.

On the stairs, you run into Garrick and Bodhi, talking to some other riders. Garrick spots you first, and nudges your cousin. "Look who's here."

A smile lights up Bodhi's face at the sight of you. He pulls you into a hug, and you instantly feel a little more welcome. So what if Xaden barely had time to greet you and no one bothered to check what state your room is in? They can't think of everything.

While you bask in Bodhi's warmth, Garrick takes it upon himself to introduce you to their friends. "Everybody meet the little mud-monster, otherwise known as Y/N Riorson."

"I'm not little anymore," you grouse as you step back from Bodhi's hug, though standing between this bunch of black-clad, muscle-packed fighters sure makes it feel like you are.

"No?" Garrick taunts, and steps closer, propping his elbow up on your head to show off how much taller he is. "Should we start calling you the big mud-monster, then?"

"No! Fuck you!"

Garrick pretends he didn't hear, and Bodhi grins. "Want to come have dinner with us, little mud-monster?" he asks.

You sigh in defeat. There's no getting rid of that childhood nickname the boys had assigned you after a much younger and wilder Gaoth had thrown you off in a field and you'd returned home covered in mud from head to foot. "Yes. I'm starving."

Bodhi chuckles. "We can't have that. Come on, let's get some food into you."

Xaden is late for dinner, but eventually, he does come to sit beside you and joins Bodhi and Garrick in telling you about everything that's happened — though you suspect them of leaving out some details they deem too scary for you. Still, it's nice to just sit and talk with them again instead of only communicating through letters, in which they had to carefully weigh every word and could never tell you about anything that's actually happening in case the wrong person read them.

When you've all finished eating and they're about to leave to do whatever it is that riders spend their evenings doing, you remember you still need to do something about the state of your room.

"Soo, you guys have magic now, right? You, uh, couldn't maybe use it to help me clean my room? Please?"

Xaden looks torn between annoyance and amusement. "I wield shadows, Y/N, not brooms."

"Right..." You turn to Garrick. "But you control air, don't you?"

"Yeah. And?"

"And that means you could totally make some wind to blow the dust from my room."

"Seriously? You want me to use my signet to dust off your stuff?"

"Pleeease?"

"Fine," Garrick groans, "but only because I have nothing better to do right now."

"Thank you!"

When you get to your room, Garrick stops in the doorway and whistles. "Damn," he says. "What the hell happened in here?"

You shrug. "I had to pack up in a hurry the last time I was here."

"Ah, right. I forgot you haven't been back since the apostasy. I can see why you wanted help with all that dust."

You nod, glad he understands and doesn't think you're just lazy.

Garrick lifts his hands, and the air starts to move, lifting clouds of dust and blowing them out the already open window.

You stare in wide-eyed wonder, well aware how silly your fascination must seem to Garrick, but unable to hide it. It's one thing to know that the boys you grew up with are now dragon riders with magic abilities, and quite another to actually see one of them using that magic.

Done clearing the dust from the room, Garrick leans against the door frame with his arms crossed and smirks down at you. "Cool, huh?"

You can't even be annoyed by his bragging, because he's right — that was cool as fuck.

"Yeah," you say, because you know that's what he wants to hear. Then, "Can you do the bath too?"

"Sure."

He repeats the process in your bathing chamber, and just like that, not a speck of dust remains, gone in a fraction of the time it would have taken you to dust everything off by hand.

"Have fun picking your shit off the floor," Garrick says and pats you on the back as he leaves.

You grimace, wishing getting rid of the remaining chaos were as easy as clearing the dust was for Garrick. So much of it is stuff you don't need anymore — toys you're too old for, clothes you've long outgrown. For a second you imagine hurling it all out the window after the dust. It would probably feel very satisfying, but wouldn't solve the problem, so you resign to putting the things you want to keep back into their places and piling all the things you don't need anymore into a heap by the door. Surely there are some families with kids living in town. You'll go and see if any of them have use for your old things tomorrow.

The elation of being back home and reunited with what remains of your family wears off much faster than you would have ever expected.

The whole house is stuffed to the brim with riders and fliers, and as far as any of them are concerned, you're just an annoying kid constantly getting in everyone's way; nevermind that it's your damn home they've been allowed to take refuge in.

Worse, even Xaden doesn't seem to care for your presence. He has hardly spoken to you at all since you got here.

Left entirely to your own devices, you spend most of your time with the only being who is always happy to see you — Gaoth. When you're not riding, you're helping out in the stables. There aren't as many horses at Riorson House as there were in your childhood, but plenty enough that there's always something to do.

You don't know if a school is part of what's been rebuilt of Aretia, and you don't ask. No one says anything about the way you spend your days, either, so you suppose they agree there's no need to further your education.

Sometimes when you've led the horses to their pasture to graze, you sit on the fence, watching the cadets practice flight maneuvers up in the snow-heavy clouds, and think about the future. Now that the older marked ones have deserted Basgiath and are openly rebelling, you suppose you won't have to attend the war college after all when you come of age. You're not sure if you should be relieved or disappointed about that. As terrifying as the thought of riding a dragon is, it also holds a certain adventurous appeal. But when you lower your gaze from the dragons in the sky to Gaoth, grazing a few feet away, the relief definitely wins out. In the end, you'd much rather ride your horse than a dragon.

There are more pressing things to worry about than the distant possibility of whether or not you'll have to become a rider in a few years. The unusually high number of dragons in the area makes the horses nervous. Even inside the safety of the stable, most of them are jumpy, and outside, they're prone to shy and bolt.

Even Gaoth, calm and even-tempered as she normally tends to be, panics whenever she sees them, and outright refuses to go anywhere near the valley where they reside.

Maybe she senses your own unease about the scaly beasts. Because even though you don't like to admit it, it's not just the horses that are frightened by the proximity of so many dragons. The damn things are not just huge and terrifying, they also don't keep nearly as much distance to the fortress and surrounding pastures as you would like. You wouldn't mind seeing them fly far overhead, but when they're close enough to make out their sharp claws and gleaming teeth, that's when things get uncomfortable. The only time you've seen a dragon from that close before was the Calldyr executions, when Codagh set fire to your father and the other separatist officers, which is not something you like to be reminded of. Not that you could ever forget. The sight of the flames erupting from the dragon's maw and the stink of sulfur and burning flesh are etched forever into your memory, despite Xaden's best efforts to shield you from it.

Knowing that these dragons are not your enemies, that they probably won't kill you or anyone you care about, doesn't make having them around any less unsettling. And unlike you, the horses do not know that. All they know is that there are giant flying predators roaming the area, and that they do not wish to get eaten.

After a dragon sweeping down to devour a sheep right next to the horses' pasture frightens a chestnut colt so badly he ends up breaking a leg in his panic, you decide something needs to be done. You understand why the dragons are here, and that they need a lot of space, that it's not in their nature to care for the feelings of lesser creatures than themselves, but enough is enough.

Assembly meetings are open to whoever wants to attend, that's what Bodhi had told you when he explained the concept to you. Well, you do want to attend. Someone has to advocate for the poor horses, after all, and apparently, that someone will have to be you, so when the Assembly holds their next meeting, you square your shoulders and step into the chamber.

Seven heads turn to stare at you, all frowning.

You glare back, refusing to be made to feel like an intruder. You're allowed to be here.

"What do you want, girl?" asks an old man with an eye patch.

Not having had anything to do with the Assembly until now, you're not sure if they're aware of who you are. You don't care. You don't know their names, either, and intend to solve this matter so quickly you won't have to learn them.

"I have a complaint."

"A complaint," Mr. Eye-patch echoes.

"Yes. Your dragons are scaring the horses. You shouldn't let them so close to them."

One of the women scoffs at your audacity, someone else laughs.

Glancing at your brother, he gives you a disapproving look like you should have come straight to him with the problem. As if you hadn't wanted to do that! You'd meant to ask Xaden to do something about the dragons first, but every time you see him, he's too busy to talk. Bringing the issue before the Assembly seemed like the best way to get something done about it quickly.

"Let me get this straight. You're wasting our time," the older of the women says slowly, like she finds it hard to believe, "because a few horses are scared of the dragons?"

"Yes. Something needs to be done about it, preferably before one of them hurts someone in their panic."

"If it's such a big deal to you, why don't you do something about it?"

"This is me doing something about it. They're your dragons, so it's your job to make them behave."

The woman gives you an indignant look and starts to say something that will probably be along the lines of Listen here you little shit, but the other, dark-skinned old man interrupts her.

"We can't help that the horse pasture is so close to the nearest flock of sheep," he says, not unkindly. "The dragons have to eat."

"They don't have to it so close to the horses, though."

Xaden sighs. "We'll ask them to be more considerate of the horses. But it'll be up to them whether or not they listen. Dragons don't take orders from humans."

"Yes, and when they hear about this complaint they might just decide to eat one of your precious horses out of spite," the hostile woman says, a mean glint in her eyes like she's hoping for that to happen.

Your heart speeds up. Did you really make everything worse, or is she just making empty threats to be mean?

"No, they won't," Xaden interjects, leveling a murderous glare on the woman. "Stop scaring my sister."

She huffs, muttering something about kids these days under her breath, but doesn't interrupt when you dare to suggest, "Maybe you could make some kind of schedule so they only take sheep from near the horses when none are outside? And when the horses are there they get sheep from further up the mountain?"

Judging by the looks the Assembly members give each other, that's too much to ask.

"We'll consider it," the slightly younger man says. "But I'm not sure the dragons will be agreeable. They like to do what they want, when they want, where they want."

"Right. It's just—"

"Maybe," Xaden interrupts, "you could train with the horses to be less scared when they see a dragon, hm? Might come in handy, not just because of the pasture situation but in general."

The look he gives you makes clear what remains unsaid: unlike them, you have nothing better to do anyway.

You nod. You'd thought about that yourself already, but the truth is, the horses' fear of the dragons is a convenient excuse to hide your own fear behind. Looks like you'll have to work on that along with the horses.

"Sure."

"This meeting was not supposed to be about horses," Mr. Eye-patch snaps before you can say anything else. "So if that was all, we have real problems to discuss here."

You leave, taking with you the impression that most riders are just as unpleasant as their dragons.

Waking up on the morning of your birthday, a smile spreads over your face at the sight of your room. Home. For the first time in six years, you are home and will get to spend this day with your family. Okay, maybe not the whole day. Bodhi can't just ditch classes just because it's your birthday, and Xaden always has lots of stuff to do, too, but getting to see them at all is gift enough.

You jump out of bed, so eager to start the day you only throw a jacket over your pajamas and slip into your boots. Getting changed can wait until after you've feed Gaoth. Then you'll have breakfast with the guys, and—

Your smile falls when you open the door and see the plate of cake waiting for you, a piece of paper folded into a card beside it. You open it and read.

Happy Birthday, little mud-monster! I'm sorry I can't be there — something came up, and I have to leave without delay. I'll be back soon. In the meantime, there's a surprise for you in the stables. Love, X.

The paper crumples in your fist, its edges digging into your skin, but you barely feel it, too focused on keeping the tears at bay. You refuse to let them fall. This will not become the sixth time in a row you spend your birthday crying your eyes out. Every year since the apostasy the sadness had won and turned what was supposed to be a happy day into one spent in misery. Year after year you'd hidden in Gaoth's box and cried, missing your father, your brother, your cousin, even the mother you could barely remember. No matter how hard you tried to have a good day in spite of that, or to simply ignore what day it was altogether, you'd succumbed to the tears every time. But not again. You refuse. There will be no tears today, no matter what the day brings.

And really, what does it matter that Xaden can't spend the day with you? You're home; that alone should be reason enough to be happy.

But it does matter. Coming home was supposed to put an end to your loneliness; instead, it has only made it more noticeable. Before, being alone equated being safe. It was your best option, surrounded by enemies as you were at all times. But now you're back with your family. Xaden and Bodhi are right there, you get to see them every day, and yet, you still spend the majority of your time as alone as you had in your foster home. It isn't fair.

Taking a step back, you shut the door, telling yourself you should be glad Xaden remembered your birthday at all, that he took the time to write you a note and leave cake, presumably in the middle of the night, despite being in a hurry to get to wherever it was he'd had to go.

It doesn't make you feel better.

You set the plate on your desk and try a bite of the cake. It's your favorite. You haven't had cake like this in years, made just the way you remember from childhood. If you weren't so disappointed by Xaden's absence, you would devour the slice and run to the kitchen to see if there is more of it. But the enthusiasm you'd woken up with has left you, drained away as quickly as it came. You decide you should get dressed before leaving your room after all — you're too old to run around in your pajamas, really, no matter how early it is.

You dress slow and listlessly, in between bites of cake. Disappointed or not, you savor the taste of it nonetheless. Maybe you really can get another slice later. There has to be more of it, right?

As you head out to the stable to feed Gaoth and muck her box, you keep thinking about the note your brother wrote you. He's always coming and going, trying to be everywhere at once, but as far as you're aware, it's rarely this sudden when he gets called somewhere. You wonder what happened, if maybe Tyrrendor is being attacked by Venin or the riders loyal to Navarre. Xaden's note isn't very informative. Something came up. Could he be any more vague?

Gaoth stops you from overthinking by being especially affectionate. She greets you by nosing at your hair and keeps abandoning her breakfast to rub her head against your shoulder while you go about changing the straw in her box. She always knows when you're sad, no matter how well you hide it from everyone else.

Outside her stall lays Xaden's surprise for you: A new pair of riding pants, with extra warm lining for the winter. Your favorite color, too, matching Gaoth's saddle pad. They're lying on top of a small crate. When you open it, you see that it contains a set of new grooming tools — brushes and combs and a hoof pick, everything you need for Gaoth. You'd had to leave your old set behind, and have been using those of an old horse who'd died recently. Part of you is surprised Xaden paid enough attention to know that, considering he's not exactly present in your day to day life.

You'll try them out later, after both Gaoth and you are fed.

Back inside the house, Bodhi waves you over to sit with him at breakfast. He's already halfway done — you've spent longer in the stable than you'd thought.

"Good morning, birthday girl," your cousin cheerfully greets as you slide into the seat next to him, and you find your mood improving a little, as it usually does around him. He doesn't even need to try; somehow his presence alone has a soothing effect already.

"Hi, Bodhi."

He reaches into his bag, which sits by his feet, and produces a book he hands to you. "Sorry, I didn't have time to wrap it."

"That's fine," you assure him, thumbing through the book. "Thank you."

It's a collection of short stories — all centered around horses, naturally. Bodhi knows exactly what a book needs to make you like it, and he even got a pocket-sized edition that you can comfortably take with you to read in the stable or when taking a break during a ride. Gaoth will love it, too. She might not understand the words when you read to her, but you always get the impression she enjoys it nonetheless.

"Do you know where Xaden is?" you ask, putting the book aside to start on your breakfast. "He wrote a note that he had to leave, but it didn't say why."

"They need him at the border, I think. Don't worry. He'll be back in a few days." Bodhi sounds like he's reassuring himself more than you, and adds, "Garrick is with him, too."

You nod, forcing a smile. Truth be told, it hadn't even occurred to you to worry about Xaden until now. He's so powerful, his dragon so big and scary, that it seems impossible anything could happen to him. A stupid way to think, naive. He is strong, but not undefeatable. No one is; your father's death taught you that. He, too, had always seemed invincible to you, until he lost the fight against Navarre and your world went up in flames.

A moment ago, you were merely disappointed that Xaden isn't there to spend your birthday with you, but now that Bodhi unwittingly put the idea into your head, you're scared something might happen to him, too.

Your cousin seems the sense the shift in your mood, because he throws his arm around your shoulder and brings up the one topic that always cheers you up. "Did Gaoth wish you a happy birthday yet?"

You snort. "So far I haven't had any luck teaching her how to talk, but I went out to feed her before getting my own breakfast, if that's what you mean."

Bodhi smiles, shaking his head. "Really? Even on your birthday?"

"Of course! Gaoth always comes first. Besides, to her it's a day like any other. If I fed her later than usual, she'd just think I forgot her."

You don't add that you know exactly how much feeling forgotten hurts, because it is something you've become very familiar with as of late. Bodhi would only feel guilty if he knew, and that's the last thing you want. It's not his fault. Not really Xaden's, either, though he is the one who most makes you feel so left behind. There's no one you can blame for your loneliness, except maybe the gods. It's the circumstances causing it, you know, and not malice or uncaringness. Your brother and cousin are grownups with grown-up responsibilities that demand their time, while you're just a teenager dedicating your days to your horse. There's not much the both of them have in common with you anymore. A depressing thought. You used to be pretty close when you were younger, despite the big age difference, bonded by your shared love for horses and adventure. Looking at Xaden nowadays, it's strange to think he used to be just as crazy about horses as you are. Did he really outgrow that love, or has he merely shoved it aside out of necessity? When you're as old as he is now, will you be such different a person from who you are now, too?

You shake your head. Pondering nonsense like that isn't how you want to spend your birthday.

Chatting with Bodhi about this and that is a good diversion, but after a while he checks his pocket watch and gives you an apologetic smile. "I really have to go now. See you later, yeah?"

"Sure." You already knew he can't just skip classes, so why are you so disappointed? "I was going to take Gaoth for a ride anyway. I'll try to be back for dinner, but don't count on it."

"Alright," Bodhi laughs, and ruffles your hair. "Enjoy your day."

Left alone once again, you take the rest of your breakfast out to the stable to finish it in Gaoth's company. When you're done, you stuff your new book and some food for later into a saddlebag and get to work with your new brushes, grooming Gaoth until her black fur is so clean it gleams in the bright morning light. Then you saddle up, and leave all your worries behind as you ride out into the snow dusted landscape.

It's late at night when Bodhi finds you sitting in front of the wall with family portraits.

You rode far up into the mountains with Gaoth, and only returned a few moments ago, long after the moon had risen. After a long day of riding and fresh mountain air, you should have fallen into bed and slept like a baby, but restlessness and a deep longing for the way things used to be keep you awake. You know you should at least try to get some sleep. You'll have to be up as early as always tomorrow, or Gaoth will be very unhappy. You just can't bring yourself to get up.

You're not even sure why it was that your feet had carried you here, of all places. Staring at your father's face on a portrait isn't going to bring him back. Still, you don't have it in you to look away, even when you hear footsteps and notice Bodhi in your peripherals.

He wordlessly sits down beside you, leaning his head back against the wall to look up at the same painting you're fixating.

It shows a much younger version of him sitting beside a much younger Xaden, who holds a tiny toddler you on his lap. Your dad and Bodhi's mom stand behind the plush armchair the three of you are squeezed into, and everyone is smiling. There are other pictures; just your dad, just your aunt, two more of the whole family — one from before you were born, another from when you were seven or eight, your mother notably absent in all of them. But you like this one the best.

After a few minutes of looking at the painting in companionable silence, you finally make yourself look away, and lean your head against Bodhi's shoulder.

Wrapping his arm around you, he scrunches his nose. "You smell like horse."

"I was out riding. Just got back like half an hour ago," you answer in the same quiet tone Bodhi used. You glance up at him from the corner of your eye without moving your head. "You smell like dragon."

The corner of his mouth twitches up. "I was out riding, too."

"Aren't your flight lessons in the afternoon? You could have showered."

Bodhi shrugs, chuckling softly. "I guess I could have. I saved you some cake from dinner, by the way."

"Yeah?"

You totally forgot about the cake. It makes sense they offered it at dinner, since you hadn't shown up for more, but you're glad Bodhi saved you another piece. He just is the best.

"Yeah. Want to go have a midnight snack?"

"Fuck yeah."

Today is the day. After weeks of practicing with Gaoth to be less scared of the dragons, you want to try riding right past them, closer than ever before. Not so close as to anger them, of course. You're no fool. You don't like getting too close to them, and they don't like it either, which is just fine by you. You'll get only close enough to comfortably ignore each other.

At least that's the theory. While Gaoth has gotten pretty good at ignoring them while you gradually reduced the distance you kept to the dragons, a risk will always remain. It isn't easy for a horse to fight the instinct telling it to flee from predators.

But you believe in her.

Setting out along the path that leads from the fortress up into the mountains, you make sure not to look at the two dragons standing somewhere to the left with their riders, doing gods know what. Even without looking it is a conscious effort to keep your posture relaxed. But you have to. If Gaoth feels you tensing up, she'll mirror you and you'll make each other more and more nervous until one of you spirals into full-blown panic. You can't have that.

From your peripherals, you note one of the dragons stretching its wings, getting ready to fly. Gaoth's ears twitch at the sound of its wingbeats when it takes off, but she doesn't balk. Pride flares in your chest. Weeks ago, she would have reared and fled. Now she just keeps walking, despite the other dragon looming a little to the side of the path further up ahead.

You really wish Xaden were there to see your success, but he's stuck in some meeting or other, and had impatiently waved you away when you'd tried to ask if he had time to show him the progress you made in getting over Gaoth's fear of dragons.

You do tell him about it later, though. He nods along and tells you "Good job", but it sounds halfhearted.

"Challenges are about to start. Why don't you go watch?" he suggests as soon as you finish talking. "I'm sure you could learn a thing or two."

He's been making comments like this for weeks now, ever since you accidentally reminded him that you were among those of the marked kids who hadn't received any combat training by the families who fostered them. It doesn't matter to him that you don't want to be a fighter, that you're perfectly happy just working in the stables. No, just because he likes to fight, he thinks you would too, if you only gave it a try.

You pull a face and stare down at your boots. They could really use some cleaning. "I dunno what's supposed to be so interesting about people beating the shit out of each other."

Xaden heaves a sigh. "There's more to it than that. You could learn a lot about the techniques behind it by watching."

"I don't care about fighting techniques."

That was the wrong thing to say. His face darkens. "You should."

"What's the point?" you argue, just like you do every time you have this conversation. Usually, he doesn't have the time to listen to you list the reasons why you don't feel the need to learn about combat, but this time, he lets you go on. "It's not like I'll have to attend Basgiath, now that you guys are doing your own thing. And even if that wasn't the case, I have years—"

"You need to able to defend yourself, even if you don't end up becoming a rider. We're at war, and nowhere is truly safe. Knowing how to dodge a blade could make the difference between being killed or getting away in case Aretia gets attacked." He folds his arms over his chest, a hard look on his face that tells you he's made up his mind even before he continues. "You are going to train, Y/N. I tried to be nice and convince you to learn willingly, but since you won't, you can consider this a fucking order. Be in the gym at six tomorrow morning."

Out of all the protests that come to mind, the one that comes out of your mouth is, "But that's the time I usually feed Gaoth!"

"She'll survive it if you feed her a little earlier."

With that, he walks away. It would be no use to run after him to argue further. Once Xaden has made a decision about something, it's practically impossible to change his mind, so you might as well accept that starting tomorrow, you'll have a new hobby.

The next morning, you make sure to be in the gym five minutes early to avoid giving Xaden a reason to scold you before the training even starts, but he is nowhere to be seen. Instead, it's Garrick who walks in. Watching him approach, it dawns on you that Xaden hadn't specified who would be instructing you. Foolishly, you had assumed he would do it himself. It stings a little that he won't, even though you know how many other, more important things he has to do.

Garrick beckons you to an unoccupied mat in the corner. The gym is still relatively empty at this time, which is fortunate — you're sure you'll be making a fool of yourself in no time. You're not normally clumsy, have good balance and strong muscles from riding and tending to the horses, but you're not sure how much good that'll do you. This is all completely new. Even the mat beneath your feet feels foreign. You have no clue how to hit someone, or stop them from hitting you, and knowing Garrick, he won't take it easy on you. He'll expect you to learn fast, to double your efforts for every mistake you make, which there will certainly be a lot of.

Sure enough, he throws you right in the deep end. "Alright, punch me. Come on."

You eye him with a healthy dose of trepidation. "You're not going to punch back when I do, right?"

"Nope. For now I'm just taking the role of the punching bag we're lacking."

That would have been a lot more reassuring if it wasn't for the two little words for now. He can't really expect you to handle yourself in a fight against him in the very first lesson, can he?

"Come on," he urges again. "Just try it."

"Shouldn't you show me how to do it first?"

You can tell you're already getting on his nerves by being so hesitant. It's beyond you why Xaden picked Garrick for this. You love the guy like another brother, you really do, but in your humble opinion he's not a good choice for teaching anyone anything. Maybe you're a little biased. You remember all too well being five or six years old and struggling to learn how to tie your shoes on your own. Xaden and Garrick had made it their mission to teach you, but all their well-meant tips had only confused you more. When you'd misunderstood their instructions for the umpteenth time, one of them — you're almost certain it was Garrick — had started yelling, you had started crying, which led to more yelling from both of them, this time at each other, which made you cry even more. You had run off to hide in your father's office for the rest of the day, and in the end, Bodhi's mom had been the one to teach you to tie your shoes.

So while you might not know anything about combat, you do know that it takes patience to teach someone something, no matter what it is. And though you have no doubt that Garrick is a brilliant fighter, patience is something he has always lacked.

"You telling me you don't know how to make a fist?" he challenges now.

"Of course I know how to make a fist, but—"

"Great, then do it and hit me. Today, if you don't mind."

Okay, fine. You're starting to want to hit him, even if you know damn well it will probably hurt you more than him. You ball your hand into a fist, draw back your arm, and punch him right into the middle of his broad chest.

Garrick doesn't even blink. You punched him as hard as you could, and he fucking stands there like he didn't feel anything.

You shake your hand, glaring up at him. This is bullshit.

"You held your hand at the wrong angle," Garrick explains. "Try again, but this time make sure your middle knuckles take the brunt of the impact. And don't bend your wrist."

He holds his fist against the palm of his other hand to demonstrate it, then gives you an expectant look.

You obey, and it continues like that for a while. Garrick tells you to do something, you do it wrong, he shows you the proper way to do it and makes you do it again and again until you get it right.

Only you keep getting everything wrong, and Garrick's meager patience is quickly exhausted.

"Whoa, no!" He stops you from completing the move he just demonstrated for the third time. "Not like that you fucking idiot! You'll hurt yourself that way. Do it like I showed you."

"I'm trying!" you yell back, fighting tears of frustration. Idiot is far from the worst insult anyone ever called you, and you know Garrick doesn't even mean it, that he's just annoyed because you're not catching on as fast as he would like, but that doesn't make the words hurt any less.

"Really?" he scoffs. "This is really the best you can do?"

"Yes!"

"Gods, you really know nothing about hand-to-hand combat, do you?" he groans.

"Yeah, no shit," you snap. "That's exactly what I've been telling you for the past hour!"

You're not sure if it really has been an hour already, but that's how long this session was supposed to go on for, and you're fucking done.

"No need to be a brat about it," Garrick growls back, just as frustrated by how badly the lesson went as you are. "I didn't think that just because you've never fought before you'd be this fucking clueless. Did you never at least watch a fight?"

"No."

"Why the hell not?!" Garrick asks, completely exasperated. It seems the idea that anyone could not be interested in fights is too absurd for him to believe.

"Because I don't like it."

"I'm getting the feeling you don't like anything besides Gaoth." When you don't contradict him, he shakes his head, saying "There's more to life than horses, you know."

"To you, maybe. Are we done now?"

To your relief, Garrick nods.

Without another word, you turn on your heel and storm from the gym and then the house. You'll probably get sick, going out into the cold without a jacket and soaked in sweat like this, but you don't care. Quickly bridling Gaoth, you swing yourself onto her bare back and urge her outside, too desperate to get away to bother with a saddle.

You're never doing that again, you think as you gallop away from Riorson House, the wind driving the tears you've been fighting from your eyes. Not in a thousand years. You don't care what Xaden says, if knowing self-defense is important. You're not a fighter, and you never will be. He can't change that. Garrick definitely can't. Deep down you know you're overreacting, but you don't care. You hadn't wanted to learn how to fight in the first place, and your failure to follow Garrick's instructions only solidified that. Fuck hand-to-hand combat. If you ever need to defend yourself, you can always let Gaoth kick the foe in the head.

When you return — shivering and numb from the cold, but calmer inside — Bodhi is waiting for you in the stable with your jacket. Shouldn't he be in class?

"I take it your lesson with Garrick didn't go well?" he asks, holding it up for you to slip into.

"He can shove his stupid fighting lessons up his ass."

"Who?" Bodhi asks, buttoning the jacket for you, since your own fingers are practically frozen stiff. "Garrick? Or Xaden?"

"Both of them."

Bodhi sighs. "I could have told him Garrick isn't a good choice as your instructor. I think he wanted to teach you himself at first, and when he realized he doesn't have the time he just picked the first person who came to mind. It's not your fault. Garrick just doesn't have the patience for this kind of thing."

"I don't care. I don't want to learn how to fight."

"Which certainly didn't help matters."

"I tried!"

"Of course. I'm not doubting that. I'm just saying you probably weren't in a good mood to begin with, so it's no wonder you and Garrick clashed. You know that just because you're not good at it right from the start doesn't mean you can't learn, right? You just have to keep trying."

You grab a carrot from the grain room, taking two angry bites before giving the rest of it to Gaoth. "I don't want to."

"It's for your own good—"

"Not you too!"

"I know you don't want to hear it, but Xaden is right. Just imagine if Aretia gets invaded!"

"That won't happen. And if it did, I'd just get on Gaoth and hide somewhere until one of you comes to tell me it's safe."

"And if the enemy blocks the way to the stable before you can get there? What then, huh?"

"Then... Then I would... Uhh..."

"Then it'd be very helpful if you knew how to fight, don't you think?"

"I guess..."

"So how about you give it another try with that in mind, hm?"

Bodhi says it so gently, the way you would talk to a skittish horse. You don't like that thought, but it's true you're still agitated, even now that the worst of your frustration is gone. You understand his point, but that doesn't change the way you feel.

"No."

"Y/N—"

"No! I don't want to fight!"

"I don't want you to have to fight, either. And you'll hopefully never have to do so for real. But, as we just established, you need to know how to do it just in case. Sparring can actually be pretty fun once you get the hang of it, you know." He rubs his hand over his face, sighing when you don't reply. "What if I train with you? Will you give another try then?"

You're about to say no, that you won't try again no matter with whom, but then it occurs to you that letting Bodhi give you fighting lessons would mean you'd get to spend more time with him. And he would definitely be more patient with you than Garrick was, kinder about all the mistakes you're bound to continue making.

Realizing something else, it's your turn to sigh. "I don't really get a say anyway, do I? I'll have to try again, whether I want to or not."

Xaden is so set on making you learn how to fight, there's no way he'll let you off the hook just because the first lesson didn't go well. But if Bodhi could convince him to let him teach you, maybe it would be bearable.

Bodhi nods, smiling apologetically. "It's for your own good."

"Fine. You can try if you can teach me how to fight. But only you. And only if there's cake after lessons."

"Deal."

You just got back from practicing with the throwing knives Xaden had gotten you upon Violet's suggestion. As sceptical as you had been of the idea at first, you find yourself enjoying it, much more so than the hand-to-hand fighting moves you begrudgingly practice with Bodhi thrice a week now. You can even do it on horseback! Well — theoretically. Your aim is not yet good enough to hit the target even with both feet on the ground, nevermind while riding. Nonetheless, it's fun to try.

You've almost reached your room when Xaden's door opens, and he and Violet come out, dressed for flying and strapped with weapons.

"Are you going to one of the outposts again?" you ask. If he's taking Violet with him, he must be expecting to stay away longer than usual this time.

But he shakes his head. "We're flying for Basgiath."

Oh. Right. You've heard about Melgren's prediction of the Navarrian outposts being overrun by Venin, and Violet's theory that the real battle has to happen at Basgiath. It hadn't sounded like the Assembly wanted to do anything about it, though.

"I thought the vote went against helping them?"

"Yeah, but we're going to do it anyway. Some of us, at least. Stay out of the Assembly's hair while I'm gone, yeah?"

"Sure." You push down the fear of knowing he's headed for battle; there's no way he'll listen if you ask him not to go. "Be careful."

"Always am."

That doesn't seem likely, but you've never seen him fight except for practice, so you can't argue.

With a last look at his and Violet's retreating forms, you slip into your room and send a prayer to Dunne that they'll make it back in one piece.

[emmiesoverthemoon]

⭑ come back to me

Pairing: g-dragon/ kwon jiyong x reader

Word Count: 4,550

Summary: Three years after you left your ex-boyfriend after he insulted your small modelling career, you reunite at a prestigious annual fashion gala.

Tags: second chance, hurt/comfort, slight angst, happy ending, exes-to-soon-to-be-lovers

cross posted on ao3 here

Today, you are one of the biggest names in the fashion industry, known for your beautifully authentic and original image that deserves the largest frame in an art gallery, the centre point on a stage, the brightest on a runway. Your confidence is effortless, your alluring demeanour sparked inspiration in many brands, designers, and agencies. You are the world’s muse, and clothing garments are their medium, created perfectly for you with intentions of highlighting and enhancing your natural elegance and grace.

No matter how dim a room’s lighting scheme could be, Jiyong could always spot you in a crowd. To him, your spectacular warm, inviting glow reflected upon any surroundings and ensured that any space you were to enter became infinitely more beautiful. Selfishly, all he wanted to do was bask in your luminescence and indulge himself into you, worshipping you as if you were a deity, deeming him fortunate enough for you to call his very name. He once did indulge himself, and held this to be his most favoured hobby, but he had ripped himself away from participating. He had some regrets, but some much, much larger than others.

The one that lay the heaviest on his conscious was you.

You, the one he once had the honour of calling his, and if he didn’t screw it up, he still would hold it close. You both had been an item for three years, the public being blissfully unaware of your relationship, as Jiyong knew how ruthlessly critical a portion the internet could be toward his potential suitors. He strove to keep you to himself; his sweet sweet little secret.

Of course, knowing the circumstances of his fame and career, you were okay with this. Naturally, however, you did yearn to be able to be a ‘normal’ couple; to be able to go out to dates, to hold hands in public, hell, even to just be able to leave the house together. But you never held him as responsible for your animosity towards the prying eyes of the media. You knew it was not his choice.

What was his choice, on the other hand, was how tightly he held the reins of his pride. Jiyong was a prideful man, he had every right to be, considering his achievements and successes. When you both were together, you were building yourself into the famous model you are today—attending as many castings as your manager could book you, walking as many shows varying in size as your heels could carry you, etc.—and obviously you were not as globally recognised as Jiyong. And on one evening, he made it apparent that he knew it well.

“Because you aren’t enough out there, unlike me. To them, I am leagues beyond you. I can’t have my image tainted with that."

The words sliced through your mind, each syllable lingering, replaying over and over. The weight of them felt suffocating, a stark contrast to the pleasant evening you had just shared moments ago. Not long ago, the two of you were laughing over dinner in his expansive, dimly lit home, talking about an upcoming gala. Jiyong had been invited for yet another year to one of the most exclusive fashion industry events, a cocktail affair where the names everyone recognizes congregate like icons in their own right. Your manager had miraculously secured you an invite—your first time attending. Your excitement was palpable, but so were your nerves.

This wasn’t just another party. This was your debut among the greats—the designers, the supermodels, the editors, all the ones whose names spark a fire in every aspirant’s chest. Your chance to cement yourself amongst your idols as someone who deserves their place alongside them. You were already second-guessing your wardrobe choice, wondering if your impression would hold up among legends. And the thought of possibly being seen with him, Jiyong, the elusive industry titan who you had been quietly involved with, made the evening feel like a balancing act. A part of you wanted to break the silence, make things public, even if just with a casual greeting, so that you could stop pretending in front of the world. But when you brought it up, Jiyong immediately dismissed the idea, his tone heavy with disdain.

A simple suggestion from you, one that felt innocent enough—a “meeting for the first time” in front of the cameras—was met with cold, condescending logic. “It would raise suspicions,” he had said dismissively. You tried to explain, to assure him that it would be harmless, a natural first step toward unveiling your relationship. But he wouldn’t hear it. “You” weren’t ready, “he” wasn’t ready—“the world” wasn’t ready, according to him.

And then, the words tumbled out of his mouth like a heavy, painful truth: “Because you aren’t enough out there unlike me. To them, I am leagues beyond you. I can’t have my image tainted with that."

The sting of his declaration hit you like a physical blow. You could feel your chest tighten, the air in your lungs suddenly too thick to inhale. In an instant, you stood up from the table, your chair scraping loudly against the floor, the echoes of the sudden movement cutting through the thick, glossy silence of the room. You didn’t look back. You grabbed your purse, hands trembling slightly as you made for the door. Every step you took toward the exit was a battle against the burning, threatening tears that hovered just behind your eyes. But you would not let him see you break—not now, not ever. His words had revealed something you couldn’t ignore: he had made his opinion clear, and it wasn’t one you could reconcile. You were beneath him. And you refused to let that stand.

Jiyong called after you, his voice rising, a mixture of immediate regret and desperation. "I didn’t mean it that way," he tried, but the excuses came too late. "I didn’t word it right." He sounded pitiful, but you weren’t interested in his explanation. You had heard everything you needed to.

The door slammed behind you, cutting off his voice.

You didn’t hesitate. The last words you spoke to him echoed in the cool night air: “I’m sorry that I’m not good enough for your pathetic ego. Go find someone more famous than me who can knock you down a peg.”

That was the last time you saw or heard Jiyong. And for three years, you pushed the memory of him away. But tonight, as the gala approaches again, you find yourself standing on the cusp of another year, another invitation, another flight from Korea to Paris in anticipation. The past feels so distant now, but the thoughts of him, of that night, have a strange way of creeping back into your mind.

The gala is everything you’ve come to expect from a night like this—elegance woven into every moment, a sense of timeless luxury that settles over the room like a soft velvet curtain. The ballroom is vast, the ceiling high, adorned with grand crystal chandeliers that catch the light and scatter it in soft, sparkling patterns across the polished marble floors. There’s a gentle hum of conversations, laced with laughter, punctuated by the clink of champagne glasses. The air is fragrant with an intoxicating mix of expensive perfumes, floral arrangements, and the ever-present scent of Parisian sophistication. Soft jazz plays in the background, its notes curling through the air, blending perfectly with the low murmur of voices. The walls are draped in opulent fabric, gold accents framing the large windows that offer a glimpse of the twinkling stars against the night sky draped as a veil, casting cool night air over the city.

As you glide through the room, it’s as though the very space parts for you. Your presence is magnetic, not because of a need for attention but because it’s undeniable. You've been here before, after all—many times now. You’ve grown accustomed to this world, not as an outsider, but as one of its beloved stars. Fashion knows you well, adores you, and respects you. You are a staple at these events, not just because of your work but because of the way you carry yourself: effortlessly divine and poised. There's a sense of ease about you tonight, a calm under the bright lights and all the eyes that flicker toward you as you pass. Your gown, a delicate yet striking creation of silk, catching the light with every step. It moves with you, flowing like liquid metal, the intricate beading of the fabric shimmering like constellations scattered across the dress. You look flawless—radiant, understated, yet undeniably captivating.

The whispers of admiration follow you as you walk, but there’s no need for words to validate your presence; your confidence speaks volumes. Designers, photographers, models, and influencers all acknowledge you, whether with a simple nod or a quiet compliment. To them, you are more than just a face—they know the hard work, the hours of preparation, the dedication you pour into your craft. You’ve earned your place here, not by chance, but by sheer, unmatched talent and authenticity. And as you move further into the crowd, you are greeted by those who have become familiar faces—the editors, the stylists, the creatives who have watched your journey unfold and who continue to champion you. Tonight, as always, you are the epitome of elegance, the pulse of this glamorous world that thrives on beauty, ambition, and artistry. There’s a quiet power that radiates from you, a reminder that in a room full of luminaries, it is your presence that lingers longest in their minds.

Your heart skips a moment when you catch the sound of a strikingly familiar laugh from across the room. A sweet jingle the back of your mind yearned to hear over and over again, despite the hurt. Although it had been approximately three years since you left Jiyong’s home that night, a small part of you still missed him. You were unsure if you truly missed him, or if it was the idea of what your relationship was; his effect on you, the way he spoke to you, the way he knew exactly where to touch to have your eyes widening and your heart racing. You often wondered if your mind was trapped in a prison cell of nostalgic wonder, constantly torturing you with flashbacks to moments you once held dear.

You let your eyes gracefully and subtly wander across the room, trying to spot the source of the laugh. Once you spotted him, you subconsciously let out a small flinch; you caught him staring back at you. An unreadable expression was scrawled across his smooth complexion, trailing across your face, your neck, and down your figure as he soaked in the view he yearned to see the moment you left that night.

Your heart began to race—not pleasantly, no, alarmingly, the heightened walls of the ballroom begun to constrict around you, suddenly envisioning everything becoming a whole lot warmer, tighter. Once over yonder you would dream for this warm, cozy feeling, for caterpillars to deem your stomach a safe haven for them to cocoon into beautiful butterflies, fluttering and fuelling the blood to rush to your cheeks, creating a beautiful crimson hue that he adored seeing you clad in, knowing he was the reason for its existence in the first place. But now, the warmth was smothering, asphyxiating.

You were the first to break eye contact, your eyes nervous—no; anxious and stressed. The weight of his focus on you was too suffocating, too overwhelming, just too much to handle for even a second longer. You needed an escape, a sanctuary where you can breathe freely for god’s sake. The lurching of your heart into your trachea, the trembling travelling from inside your bones through to your intrinsic muscles of the hand, which expressed exteriorly through the rattle of your fingertips, were symptoms of him—his charisma and magnetism, ones that you needed to experience not a single moment more.

You huffed, a futile attempt to alleviate some of the discomfort in your chest and lungs. You needed to get out of this room before it closed in and swallowed you whole.

You found yourself drawn to the balcony which was situated across a restaurant, playing melodic jazz music, as you gaze to the stars, a melodic saxophone is there to provide a tune rich with passion and humanity to sway along to. You had expected Jiyong to be present once again, he was the G-Dragon, you were just foolish in assuming that the ballroom would be full enough to avoid his attention.

Unfortunately, this balcony-made-haven was not as safe as you might have assumed. Your trance of relaxation with the woodwind instrument snapped, your bubble burst by the sound of a door sliding open and closed. Damn you for assuming you’d be safe.

Jiyong steps out onto the balcony, his presence immediate, like a gust of wind before the storm. You decide to give him a glance over your shoulder, and suddenly you can’t help but feel the familiar heat return, the way his eyes have a way of pulling you in despite your best efforts. Jiyong’s small grin is knowing, enticing, a familiar curve of his lips that used to be your favorite sight in the world, and your favourite place to touch with your own cheesy smile. Used to be.

“I knew you’d love the view from here,” he says, his voice like a silk thread that winds around you, pulling tighter with every word. “You would always tell me that a clear view of the night’s sky could draw you out of anywhere.”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you turn to gaze at the bustling townspeople below, feeling the weight of the moment. Your chest tightens. You want to breathe in the night air, let it fill you and wash away the old memories, the ones of warmth and tenderness that feel so distant now. But he won’t let you have that peace.

“Still alive up there?” Although his words are light and hold no room for depth, his words drift toward you like his old cigarette smoke, curling, adhesive, and insistent. An invitation for conversation you did not want to open.

You force yourself to focus on the glow of the Eiffel Tower, the steady pulse of the lights from across the Seine. It’s easier than meeting his gaze, easier than acknowledging the quiet storm stirring between the two of you. You couldn’t believe your ears; after all this time with no attempt to contact you with an apology, he opened your first conversation with him with fallacious teasing.

“I’m silent for a reason, take a hint,” you say, intending to remain sharp, but the words are too soft, too hesitant. You don’t want to give him that satisfaction, but your heart betrays you in the quietest of ways.

Jiyong steps closer, the heat of his body seeping into the cool night, his scent—familiar and dangerous—wrapping itself around you. The tension crackles in the air like static before a lightning strike.

“Don’t do that,” he murmurs, his voice lowering to a dangerous level, the kind that still sends a shiver down your spine. “Don’t pretend you’re unaffected by me.”

His fingers brush against your arm, just enough to remind you of how well he knows the geography of your body. You swallow, biting your lip to keep the words in check. You feel your heart beating, begging you to fall back into him, but you know better. You cannot betray yourself like this.

“I’m not pretending,” you say again, but this time the words are hollow, thin, as if the very act of saying them is a lie.

He moves closer still, the space between you shrinking until you can feel the warmth of his breath on your neck, stirring the tendrils of your hair you spent so long to perfect. You can almost hear the beat of your pulse in your ears, the thrum of your blood, and you hate how it betrays you.

“I don’t want this,” you say, the words carrying edge now, cutting through the fog of memories that cloud your thoughts. “I don’t want that... pain from us.”

The words hang in the air, heavy, like the scent of rain before the downpour. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink, his eyes fixed on you as though he’s searching for something. A crack. A softening. A moment when he can slip back in.

“You don’t mean that,” he says, and it’s not a question. It’s a statement, as if he knows you better than you know yourself.

You turn away, arms folding across your chest as though that could shield you from him. But it doesn’t. It never has. The tightness in your throat threatens to spill over, but you won’t let him see. You won’t let him win.

The balcony creaks underfoot as he steps closer again, his hand brushing against the railing as if searching for something solid to hold onto. You know the feeling. You’re both teetering on the edge, balanced precariously between what was and what will never be again.

“You’re still angry,” he says, his voice a low hum now, vibrating in the space between you. “You’re still upset that I... said that to you. That I caused us to fall apart.”

You choose not to indulge him with your gaze, but you can feel his gaze like a weight on your back, pulling you toward him. You don’t want to talk about it. Not now, not here, not with him. But you can’t ignore the truth in his words.

“I’m angry because you didn’t care,” you finally say, your voice barely above a whisper, as though the confession would break you if it were louder. “You didn’t bother to try to reach out to me; I would’ve answered my phone, you should’ve known be better than that. You let me go without a fight.”

His breath hitches, a moment of surprise before he steps even closer, too close now, his body pressing into yours like an immovable force.

“I’m still fighting,” he murmurs, the words brushing the shell of your ear, trying to engrave a promise in your eardrum.

You shake your head, pulling away, forcing space between you. But the crack in your voice betrays you. “It’s too late for that.”

And for a moment, the world seems to still. The city below, the hum of voices inside, the thrum of the night—it all fades into the distance. All that’s left is you and him, tangled in the past, standing on a precipice, neither one of you willing to take the step toward what might come next.

He watches you closely, his eyes darkened by something unspoken, a regret buried beneath the surface, and for a split second, you almost think he’s not the man you left behind. But then he smiles, a slow, arc of his lips that makes your stomach twist.

He says nothing, but slowly raises his arm to brush against your waist. Slowly enough so that if you so pleased, you could move away, move him away. He would respect that.

But you let it happen.

“Tell me to stop, and I will.” He whispered, he’s close enough that you can feel the teasing, sensual tone licking against the slope of your neck where it meets with the base of your ear, reverberating through your head. He chuckles, his voice lowering, dripping with seductive teasing, forming a warm pit form in your stomach, “That is, if you want me to.”

You want to, oh god, you want to give in. You know he’s right, you were always one to give in to him; you were melting to fall right back into in his hands, and you knew it, he knew it. But instead, you don’t respond. You look out over the city once more, the lights shimmering beneath the weight of your silence. You wonder how much longer you can pretend that you’re not still tangled in the wreckage of everything you once had.

Juxtaposing your desires, you are a stubborn woman, and you need him to be aware of the pain he inflicted before he can be let in so easily. You suck in a deep breath, and your heels take one small, rushed step away.

“You know what?” you say, your voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “I’m tired of you pretending like you didn’t hurt me. You really think you can just waltz back into my life because you flash that damn grin and speak like that to me in that damn voice? Well, guess what, it’s not working anymore.”

He opens his mouth, but you don’t let him get a word in. You’re not finished.

“You said I wasn’t enough for you. And you didn’t just insult me verbally—you destroyed everything I thought we had. You invalidated and belittled everything I had worked toward at that point. Every single thing you said, every promise you made? It faded to nothing. You think you can apologize your way back in with some pitiful little look in your eyes? I’m not buying it.”

The words pour out of you, each one drenched in the venom of old wounds. You can feel the heat in your chest, the fire that’s been simmering for so long now rising to your throat. It’s so much easier to be angry than to be hurt, so much easier to tear him down than let him see how much he’s broken you.

“You don’t get to walk in here, after how high I have built myself, acting like I’m just supposed to forgive you, to fall for your charm. Do you think I’m naïve?”

There’s a moment of silence, and you take a second step back, finally meeting his eyes. But you see something you didn’t expect—something like regret, something deeper than just his usual smugness. And it stops you in your tracks.

“I’m not done,” you say, more quietly now, the edge of your anger still sharp but softer. “But I’ll tell you one thing—you don’t get me back with your words. Not with any of…” You wave your arms around, gesturing to the air between you. “This. You have to earn me back. You have to earn my trust again. And I don’t even know if I’ll let you. So, no, you don’t get to come back into my life that easily.”

You’re not prepared for the way your voice falters then, how it cracks and slips as you finish the last sentence. You hadn’t meant to break, not like this, but now that the anger is gone, the sadness rushes in. You don’t even try to hide it as the tears start to fall, hot and furious, blurring your vision. Your chest tightens, the lump in your throat suffocating you.

And there he is, standing in front of you—his eyes no longer filled with that arrogant glint, but something more raw, something that makes your heart stutter in a way you haven’t felt in months. Small tears brimming his eyes as well, he reaches out, his hand tentative at first, like he’s afraid you’ll pull away.

You don’t.

Jiyong’s hand lands on your arm, and the sensation of it feels like a remedy on a burn. He offers an embrace to soothe you, and you impulsively fall into him, not allowing your mind a chance take the wheel. You despise yourself for needing him like this.

“I was an idiot,” he says, his voice low, not the usual playful tone but something real, something genuine. “I know I hurt you. I know I hurt us. I wasn’t fair to you, and I can’t change that. I can’t take back the things I did, the things I said, but I am sorry. More than I could ever say. And I’ll keep saying it until you believe me, if that’s what it takes.”

You blink, a part of you wanting to reject it, to slap away the apology and keep holding onto your anger. But another part of you—the part that’s still so so tired—wants to believe him.

“You broke me. I trusted you, and you just let me leave. A single call would have been better than silence. I felt like you quickly moved on without even caring what your words did to me,” you softly cried, the words tasting bitter on your tongue.

He steps closer, his hand still warm on your arm, and you don’t pull away, “I know. And I’m so, so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I was a coward. I was selfish. And I hurt the one person I never should’ve hurt.”

You swallow, another sob catching in your throat. You didn’t expect this. You didn’t expect him to apologise like this, so carefully, so thoughtfully. You didn’t expect him to look at you like he was the one who needed to heal. It does something to you, something you don’t know how to handle.

“I don’t know if I can ever trust you again,” you whisper, shaking your head. “I don’t know if I can forget how easily you let me go, after such a long time.”

He nods, his gaze unwavering. “I don’t deserve that trust, not yet. But I will work every single day to earn it. I’ll show you, if you’ll let me. I’ll earn your heart again. Not because I think I deserve it, but because I want to. Because I’m sorry—and I’ll show you that I can be the man you deserve.”

You sniff, gently wiling at your face, angry at yourself for letting your guard down, for feeling even the smallest glimmer of hope. But that’s the thing with him—he has a way of making you believe in something, even when you were sure you’ve shut that door and thrown away the key.

“You’ve got a long way to go,” you say, voice hoarse, but there’s something in it that feels like forgiveness. Not full forgiveness, not yet. But maybe—just maybe maybe it’s a start.

“I know, my love. I know,” his voice was no louder than a whisper, allowing you to fill space with your thoughts over his. He presses his lips against your forehead, which sends nostalgic sparks from the crown of your head, all the way through your torso and limbs, then inside your chest, electrifying your heart.

You remain in his arms for a moment longer, the weight of it all pressing in. You don’t say anything more. You don’t have to. The words, the apology, the admission—they hang between you like a fragile thread, and for the first time in a long time, you feel a sliver of something you thought was long gone.

Maybe you can forgive him. Maybe you can let him back in. But not now. Not yet. That is not something that can happen in just one night.

And for the first time in three years, you feel something more than anger. You feel hope—faint, fragile, but still there.

hey everyone! this is my first fic here! so i hope you like it! i was a bit nervous to post this :)

if there is anything specific youd like from me please don’t hesitate to let me know and i’ll do my best! :3

[httpuckdrop]

ashes – day 1

series masterlist

his eyes were stuck on you from the second you entered the club.

it wasn't a completely uncommon thing for you to have men staring at you in public places, especially not when you were out with your hot girlfriends, all wearing tiny dresses with hair fixed to perfection. nonetheless, you were more used to the men only ever entertaining the most gorgeous members of your friend group, and men losing interest after an hour of you not giving a shit about their longing gazes.

this specific one, however, didn't seem to understand the meaning behind your actions. nearing three hours after you first stepped into the room, you still caught him eyeing you up whenever you accidentally looked his way. could he not take a hint?

it wasn't like he wasn't hot enough for you – quite the opposite, to be honest. with his defined jaw speckled with just a faint hint of stubble, a smile that made something tighten in your stomach without him even trying, and those baby blue eyes (so bright they could blind you across the room), he could probably bag any girl in the world. he probably has, too, judging by the way he and his friend seem to think that they own not just the club but the rest of the world as well.

you're familiar with the type; likely some type of spoiled sports guys, celebrating a good game or season or whatever. caps on their heads, beer glasses in their hands, top buttons of their shirts undone. you truly couldn't care less.

the guy left your brain for a few moments when it was suddenly your turn to get your group a new round of drinks. you waited by the bar for a minute or two, and when the bartender was done mixing your round, he calculated the price for you before running off to get the card machine.

you really shouldn't have been surprised by the figure appearing by your side. you definitely should have figured out that he would see this as his chance.

"let me pay for the round." you hadn't heard his voice before, but you didn't need to – or want to, for that matter – look at him to know who it was. a mere shake of your head should've been enough, you thought. apparently not. "you're a group of like, what, six people? can't be too expensive, i'll handle it."

"i can handle it, too," you countered.

"i'm sure you can," he started with a chuckle. "but you shouldn't have to."

taking a deep breath, you finally turned to him, feeling the frustration building up in the pit of your stomach when your eyes met his because who allowed him to be this breathtaking up close? "i'm not looking for some sugar daddy, so you can leave."

his jaw dropped slightly at this, eyes widening and cheeks growing pink – or were they always that color? was it due to the alcohol or just the proximity to you? – but then he shook his head slightly to recover. "that's not what i meant," he said, and you almost believed the genuine glimmer in his gaze. "i just wanted to do something good, i don't know. i'm sorry if that came out wrong."

you couldn't help but nod at this, the corners of your lips curling up at the sight of his hand scratching the back of his neck. "don't worry about it," you assured him, wanting- needing to look away, but not finding yourself able to. he looked young, probably around your age instead of the typical nasty old men who liked to pick up pretty girls and brag about their wallets. his eyes were kind, gentle, the different shades of blue swirling around like a rough sea; easy to get lost in. the brown curls that poked out at the back of his cap were unruly yet soft, and in a weak moment, you found yourself wondering how it would feel to pull your fingers through them.

the bartender interrupted your moment – you weren't sure if only seconds had passed or if it had been minutes, hours – and a breath of relief escaped from you at the beep from the card machine after you tapped your phone against it. at the same time, you really didn't want to go back to your friends. you could spend your whole lifetime just staring at the man in front of you without being bored for even a second. you hadn't yet realized the spell you were under, or just how willing you'd be to agree to anything for him.

after making sure that the drinks were safely transported to your table, the man managed to lure you with him to his own table instead. most of his friends were gone by now, searching for single girls on the dance floor, and the three that were still sat there were too invested in a heated discussion about football to care even the slightest about you two.

he introduced himself as jack, 23 years old but turning 24 in the spring, the middle of three brothers. when you questioned him about sports, wanting to confirm your premature suspicions, he laughed and confirmed that he indeed "works with hockey", but never went any further than that. instead, he asked for your name, told you that it was beautiful and asked where you got it from. he asked to hear about your studies, seemingly authentically curious about your boring homework and annoying lecturers. he asked about your family, your childhood, your dreams.

no matter what story you told, he listened with great intent, that boyish grin permanent on his lips and a laugh never far away. jack looked at you like he was already in love with you; a look you're sure he has practiced for ages.

but at this point, you honestly didn't care.

after this, everything went by in a blur. one second, you were still just sitting on that couch in the club, chatting about anything and everything. the next, you were making out in the back of an uber, his calloused palms searching every inch of skin they could reach under your shirt. the next, your back met the covers of the bed in his apartment, dazed eyes watching as this masterpiece of a man climbed on top of you and leaned down to seal his lips against yours yet again.

his fingers left imaginary traces along your skin, his lips then following the path they'd drawn. you'd been in this position before, sure, but this sensation was new – something about him made it so different from anything you'd felt before. his touch drew out shallow breaths and sweet noises from you as he discovered your body, helping him understand how to please you the way you wanted.

the time spent with jack went on for hours, yet it was over in mere seconds. when he held you against his chest, you wanted nothing more than to stay there forever, to rest your head against him until the world collapsed under your feet, to feel his skin against yours until the end of time.

but you knew that couldn't happen.

so as soon as his low snores filled the air, when his breath became steady and you were sure he was asleep, you swiftly fled from his grasp.

getting dressed in a tight dress and your previously discarded underwear after a night like this was always awkward, and leaving a gorgeous man alone in his big bed always sucked. but you had no other option.

after closing his front door behind you quietly, you let out a deep sigh, as if to let go of what had just happened. you couldn't afford to let it stay on your mind, you couldn't obsess over it. there was no point. if you were lucky, you would never have to see him again.

unfortunately, luck has never really been on your side.

[highonmarvel]

Heyy love your work. I wanted to make a request for Bucky Barne was thinking something like reader goes to his house for Christmas but then he forcefully drugs her with a syringe and she's held captive. But he's overal nice enough. He'd let her kick or scream or fight back. But then one day he lets her out of the basement or wherever he keeps her and she tries to escape and succeeds to some degree He manages to catch her and he snaps, gets angry and punishes her and she's scared cuz he snapped.

Winter

i love this! i’m sorry this isn’t proofread—i’m late as is and needed to get this out into the world so at least some people can read this as they lie in bed and have it be relevant. also, i’m so sorry, i left out the syringe bit because i got too into the plot i conjured up with the food coma here, sorry, sweetheart, but please, send another request if you really want to see it get done. let me know your thoughts, also to my sister @thehydraethereal. with that out of the way:

Bucky Barnes: A Christmas dinner opens your eyes to a new type of Winter.

additional content warnings here!

CONTENT WARNING, PLEASE READ: This piece includes graphic depictions of torture. Seriously, this is really dark; do not proceed if you are not comfortable with explicit descriptions of physical violence. This is your warning. This is fucking dark. I can not stress this enough. I am fucked up.

It wasn’t that you were technically averse to relationships or had commitment issues, you just feel like at this point in your life a solid relationship wasn’t really going to work. You had been travelling to the other side of the country quite a bit to take care of your sister, but this Christmas, your parents went down, so you didn’t really have an excuse to bail when Bucky invited you to dinner.

You don’t think you’re technically dating him–you don’t ever recall you or him asking the other to be their partner–but you’ve at least been going out with him for a few months. Guess you’d have to face him at some point; it’s been nearly three weeks since he had suggested you live together, which had caught you completely off-guard. You had managed to side-step the conversation at the time before making up some bullshit excuse to leave, and you haven’t had the courage to face him since.

Pulling into Bucky’s driveway always makes you feel a little uneasy; he doesn’t live like a hermit or overly secluded, but for some reason the houses in this suburb seem just a little too far apart for comfort–no one really has ‘neighbours.’

The scent of a very well-cooked meal carries right up to the front door, making you take a deep whiff before knocking.

“Hi, honey,” Bucky answers the door, leaning down to give you a kiss on the cheek.

“God, I’m practically drooling out here,” you say, and Bucky laughs as he steps out of the way and allows you in. “How long have you been standing?”

“Ah, a few hours,” he admits, sheepishly, watching you hang your coat up and rubbing the back of his neck when you raise your eyebrows at him.

“But it’s just the two of us, no?” you question as you lead him into the kitchen (maybe you being so casual in his home gave him the impression you’d like to move in with him).

“Yeah,” he replies, tailing you. “But I realised I don’t really know what you like and I panicked a bit.”

You giggle and that seems to ease his apparent embarrassment, allowing him to let out a breathless laugh as he moves into the kitchen, standing on the other side of the island as you settle on a stool.

“How have you been?” he inquires as he pours you a glass of wine, not making eye contact.

“Alright,” you reply, watching the red liquid slosh into the glass. “Glad to have some time off.”

“How’s your sister?”

You sigh and mouth a thank you to him as he slides the glass towards you. After a sip, you look up at him. “Better, I think, and she’s only allowed two visitors at a time–my parents really wanted to see her so I let them for Christmas, they don’t really get a chance otherwise.”

He hums in understanding as he puts on pink oven mitts and crouches down.

“Are you disappointed?” he asks loudly as he pulls a dish out of the oven.

You shrug. “I’d have liked to go, but I’m not all that sad about it. I don’t have much going for me in New York, so I was worried I’d be bored, but I’m having a good time.

“You just got here!” He laughs as he rises with a turkey.

“I know, but wine.” You raise your glass to him and peer into the ceramic dish. “Turkey?” you ask, which he responds to with a hum of affirmation.

“I don’t really like it, not sure if you do.”

“I like it. I would have thought you patriots like Thanksgiving stuff, though.”

You help him set up a few dishes across a small dining table and sit down.

“This was really sweet, Bucky.” You smile, tone sincere and nearly sappy as he cuts you a large leg of turkey. “Doesn’t this stuff make you sleepy?” you joke, and it takes him just a beat too long to chuckle.

“I think that’s a myth, actually,” he responds as he sits back down across from you.

“Really?” you raise your eyebrows as you dig your knife and fork into the leg. “I could have sworn...”

“Is it good?” he asks, watching you carefully, and with a kind of interest that makes you slightly uneasy, but you can’t deny it’s heavenly. You nod enthusiastically and point to the meat.

“God, this is great! You’d swear there was cocaine in here or something.”

Something lights in his eyes for a second, a spark you mistake for happiness. Bucky has always loved nothing more than to see you happy and relaxed: one of the reasons you were so drawn to him was his genuine desire to not only make you as happy as possible, but to appreciate that joy. Sometimes you got the impression making you happy pleased him almost as much as it pleased you, if not more. And it was times like these you felt bad you weren’t really able to make a commitment to him. He never seemed to mind it all too much, but you can tell it’s something he wants, and you almost feel like you’re taking advantage of his affection–but he knows, and you know, and if he isn’t happy with this arrangement, surely he’d say something.

But Bucky has to bite back the retort, “Well, not that drug.”

After a hearty meal you only put down when you feel you’re genuinely on the verge of passing out, you push away your plate. “Woo! I don’t know how I’m ever gonna work that off. I think I’ve gained, like, 10.”

“You're perfect the way you are,” Bucky says, leaning down to press his lips to your cheek as he clears the table.

You close your eyes and hum in delight, but you find it a little hard to open them again. When you manage to pry your eyes open again, it’s not much, still looking at the table through droopy lids. You stand and sway, rattling your chair as you grapple the table for support.

“Are you okay?” Bucky asks as he reappears in your line of sight, brows furrowed in concern.

“Yeah,” you respond, squeezing your eyes shut and ripping them open again. “But I really should get going.”

“Get going?” he repeats, moving to your side for support as you stumble forward. “I don’t think you should drive right now.”

But you dismiss him with a wave of your hand, pushing off of him to stand up straight. You think you say, “I’m fine. I’ll call you.” but you can’t really make out the words through the slight slurring.

“Lie down,” he offers gently, taking a step towards his bedroom.

“No…” you tear your arm free of his grasp. You had spent the night with him before, but for a reason you can’t figure out, this time, something is screaming at you to decline.

“Really, darling, you need to,” he insists, his voice having dropped to a low murmur. He takes a step forward and you instinctively take a step back, feeling a little guilty when he stops dead in his tracks and something like hurt flashes across his features. You know something that makes Bucky wince is when he feels someone is afraid of him, and you can only imagine how he must feel now if you’re the one displaying apprehension.

You shake your head and turn away from him to the doorway.

“Hey...” You startle as you feel his grip on your forearm, gentle, but firm. “You’re not leaving.” The words are said in a sincerely concerned way, but the fact the statement came off as more of a command than a suggestion really triggers something in you.

“Bucky...” you groan as you uselessly try to pull away, feeling weaker than you otherwise would, even against him.

He doesn’t have to give too sharp of a tug to make you stumble into his arms, his hold on you steady, and, at any other time, safe, but now it feels more certain, somehow, almost possessive. You try to protest but you’re practically babbling incoherently under him, head lolled to the side as he adjusts his grip from under your arms to pick you up bridal style.

“Just lie down for a second...”

And you’re too out of it to notice he’s passed his bedroom door.

***

It’s difficult to open your eyes again, your lashes stuck together as you turn your head over. When vision slowly comes back to you, you’re met with a midcentury wooden bedside table you don’t recognise. You prop yourself up on your forearm and squint into the room, looking for any signs of familiarity, and the only thing you recognise is the thing you dread.

“What…” you begin to mutter, and Bucky looks up from the book he’s reading with a smile.

“You’re up.” He stands from the chair positioned by ‘your’ (this isn’t your bed) beside and moves to sit on the edge, placing a hand to your forehead. “How’re you feeling?”

You weakly slap his hand away as you start to really wake up and realise what’s going on.

“I’m not… this isn’t… what…” you can’t really find the words to ask the questions you need answers to.

“It’s your Christmas present!” he says with a grin, standing to make a grand gesture with his arms, out to the room. I’ve got your favourite books here, I remember you telling me you used to want a four poster princess bed.” He points to the ceiling and sure enough, pretty curtains hang over your head. “But if you don’t like it I can change it.” He shrugs and stands somewhat nervously as he waits for you to react.

“What… the fuck.”

He tsks and swings his arms back and forth, rocking on his heels.

“I set it up for you a few weeks ago, I didn’t know if you’d be comfortable sleeping with me every night, I know you like your space.”

“Are you out of your mind!?” You throw the sheets off of you and manage to stand, even though your head feels a little heavy.

He sighs and steps forward. “I know it feels like–”

“Oh, you know what it feels like? You know what it feels like to be ostensibly kidnapped by your boyfriend?”

He blushes. “So I am your boyfriend.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you!?” You throw a pillow at him (ineffective but it was the nearest thing) which he catches with ease and turns over to reveal an embroidered flower. “I made this,” he says, proudly.

“What the fuck!?” you shriek as you throw another pillow at him, this one he dodges easily.

You’ve never seen him like this, nearly giddy and, in this context, borderline delusional. It makes you grip onto your hair and bunch your fingers into the locks. “Oh, my god, you’re insane!”

“I’m not the one yelling and throwing things,” he mutters, and your eyes snap up to his.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you begin, exasperated. “I’m so fucking sorry I don’t react well to crimes committed against me.”

“You came into my house.”

“Yes, but I didn’t come into this room! Do you really expect me to believe I can just leave anytime? That that door isn’t locked. You think I’m fucking stupid?”

He gently tosses the pillow back onto the bed and winces. “I was hoping you wouldn’t.”

“Bucky,” you begin, carefully, voice dangerously low as you step up to him. “I don’t know what in god’s name has gotten into you, but I’m not having it. I’m leaving.”

“Sweetheart, you really don’t intimidate me.” And the way he says it with such sincere pity makes you shove at his chest. He doesn’t stumble, but he takes a step back for your benefit.

You match his step and poke your finger in his chest, glaring up at him with more fury than you thought you had and trying your hardest not to wrap your hand around his throat. What really pisses you off is his patronising speech; you can tell he genuinely thinks he’s doing good, and that he honestly feels bad that you can’t appreciate it, that you’re weaker than him, and it boils your blood. Apathy or even mockery would be better than this condescending way he’s deluded himself into believing this is for your benefit.

“Don’t call me sweetheart, you piece of shit. If that door is locked, you’re gonna unlock it, and you’re going to leave me the fuck alone.” You practically spit the words at him through gritted teeth, seething to the point you can feel heat radiating from your body and wouldn’t be surprised if there was literal steam coming out of your ears.

“Sit down, angel.”

“Talk to me like that again and there will be nothing angelic about what I do to you.”

“Your mother called.”

That gets your attention and your anger dissipates for a moment. “Really? What did she say?”

When he guides you to sit down, you’re not really in the space to fight him off, waiting to hear any news from your family.

“They’re coming down in a few days, for New Year’s, and, they’re bringing your sister–they say she’s stable enough for travel.”

You feel your eyes begin to water at the thought of your sister being that strong, of being able to talk to her like you used to, before she got sick. But you snap out of it, and that swelling in your heart turns to something close to anxiety, but closer to suspicion. “Why are you telling me this?”

He scoffs as if you’re asking him if the sky is blue. “Because I know you want to see them. I told them they could stay with us for a few days.”

“With us?”

He just blinks. “Yes, with us.”

“You must be out of your fucking mind if you think…” And the next few hours are spent with you screaming in his face, swinging punches which he easily dodges, but sometimes he humours you and allows you a hit–not like it hurts anyway. His calm demeanour and ‘care’ makes you infuriated beyond belief, and by the end of the night the room has been trashed, there are scratches on the door from your desperate clawing and pounding, your voice is hoarse from all the yelling, and you’re exhausted while Bucky is no more beaten than when you first woke up.

Eventually, you’ve physically exhausted yourself so much you can’t even push him away when he climbs into bed next to you and holds you in his arms, placing your head against his chest and caressing your hair, which he knows always relaxes you and helps you fall asleep.

***

You only know it’s morning when you wake up because Bucky greets you with it, but it doesn’t take long for your attention to fall to the walls, noticing there aren’t any windows.

“We’re in the basement, you know.” Bucky comments, watching your eyes dart around the room and catching on to what you’re doing. “I don’t have a spare room, you know that.”

You’re nearly tired of glaring daggers at him seeing as he doesn’t really feel it–if anything, it seems to spur him on, like he doesn’t really care what you do as long as he gets some kind of reaction out of you. If you remained as stoic as he did, maybe that would give him pause for thought, but you really can’t resist the urge to attack him, and he somehow sees it as endearing, like any attention you give him makes his heart swell.

Initially, you refuse his invitation for breakfast upstairs, but when that morning grumpiness subsides, you let your stubbornness fall away in favour of opportunity. This really solidifies in your mind Bucky is so convinced you’ll stay that he doesn’t really worry about turning his back on you as he flips an egg.

“Where’re you going?”

You stop dead in your tracks, shocked he had heard you get up when you were practically sneaking like a cartoonish villain.

“To the bathroom,” you lie, to which he responds with a simple, “Okay.”

It’s too easy, but you’d rather take your chances than wonder if this is some kind of setup. You have to get out of here as soon as possible, so you don’t have time to look for your car keys, but you hesitate at the door. It’s beginning to snow, and you’re not dressed anywhere near enough to make it to a neighbour–the only thing that had kept you warm before coming up to see him was that nice coat, but it’s not on the rack anymore.

There’re only a few locks you have to turn to quietly open the door, your teeth chattering as a cold breeze hits you so hard it’s painful, like your skin is literally freezing onto your bones. You’re barefoot, no less. You can’t kid yourself into thinking you won’t lose a toe or some extremities in the process, but you can not stay. It really has only been one night, but something you’ve never liked in your life is being trapped, makes your skin crawl to the point you’d rather shed it than be deprived of freedom, especially when you’ve got the chance to see your family soon. And besides, it’s really not that long of a walk to the next house, you won’t die out there, but you can only vaguely make it out through the snow, and if you scream, it’ll surely be drowned by the harsh winds. With one last glance behind you, you step into the snow, and instantly regret it, your feet set close to frozen in just a few seconds, and goosebumps rising so quickly across your skin it feels like you’ve suddenly broken out in hives. And just as you consider turning back, you’re shoved forward, and you shriek as you land face first in the snow, afraid of crying at the impact lest your tears turn to ice right on your cheeks.

You’re gripped by the arm and pulled upright, before being again pushed further away from the house you can feel radiating warmth just through the open door. You gasp for air as you manage to bring yourself to your hands and knees, fingers curling into the snow and slowly becoming numb. A harsh gust blows, nearly knocking you off balance, and you squint to look up at the door, Bucky standing before you in little more than a long-sleeved t-shirt (he’s more underdressed than you) and sweatpants, hair still a little messy with sleep, but the look in his eyes, it’s a look you’ve never been on the receiving end of–in fact, you’ve never even seen it, but you can recognise it immediately.

“You forget I’m the Winter Soldier.” You’re not sure how his deep growl manages to carry across the howling of the winds, but you don’t have time to figure it out before a metal hand grips a fistful of your hair and you’re dragged through the snow, instinctively trying to plant your feet in the ground to stop him but even if you could match his strength, the cold is unbearable, and your legs are starting to feel numb, yet still stiff.

You don’t have time to be grateful that you’ve been thrown back into warmth as you slide across the floor and Bucky kicks the door shut behind him. From a hallway table, he pulls out a wrench, and you struggle to get your arms and legs to move away from him as he approaches you, menacingly.

You don’t know how such slow and heavy footsteps manage to catch up to you so quickly, but soon he’s got his boot pressing down on your ankle, preventing you from doing more than thrashing around. He leans down and grips your face roughly, forcibly pulling you up to meet him, and his eyes are so void of emotion he nearly looks dead. He doesn’t look angry, he looks like he just can’t feel.

“I do all this for you, and you can’t even offer me a pretty little smile.” His large fingers reach into your mouth, pulling your lips and teeth apart wide, wide enough for him to shove the wrench into your mouth and attach it to one of your teeth. “You don’t know what you have until it’s gone. Maybe you’ll appreciate it more if it just wasn’t the same.” You feel your gum twist and let out a cry, gurgling through your throat. Your frail fingers grasp onto his wrist as you desperately try to shake your head, but his strong hold prevents you from it. He twists a little more and you squeeze your eyes shut, holding your breath, before he eventually pulls out and you gasp for dear life, tears stinging your vision.

He roughly tugs you up and practically throws you into a nearby chair, before taking your hand with surprising gentleness, caressing your hurting fingers with the back of his for a moment before adjusting his grip to bring the wrench back forward.

“Now this is no good…” he remarks, moving his head to see more of your frostbitten marks you’re sure will leave scars. “You know what happens to these?” The wrench attacks itself to your index finger and Bucky adjusts its width so it’s threatening to chop your finger right off.

You scream at him to let go, kicking at his legs gets no reaction out of him, but don’t dare to move the hand he’s still holding.

“What if I just…” He twists only slightly and your skin breaks, blood seeping down from your frayed skin and dripping onto your thigh.

Just as you’re about to let out an unstoppable shriek of pain, Bucky’s metal hand presses to your mouth, stopping the sound going any further than echoing off his palm for only you to hear again. He twists more and you move your wrist with it, trying anything to stop him from twisting your finger off. He notices this and removes his other hand from your mouth to hold your wrist firmly in place.

“Bucky, please–”

“Shut up!” he shouts, his hold on you tightening even further. He lowers his face to yours with wide eyes, jaw clenched impossibly tight, and speaks in a dangerously low register, his voice trembling with fury as he tries to hold it together, at least in demeanour if not in action. “You really fucked up, and if you don’t have any fingers, you won’t be able to open my door ever again.”

✪

[my beloved taglist: @cowboysnbugs, @keito-123, @vogueprincess, @cjand10, @mybabygirllove]

[minlighted]

💡 Secrets, Stares & Sibling Instincts

Bang Chan × 9th Member!Reader (Hyunjin's twin sister) 👀 Secret Relationship · Fluff · Light Angst · Group Dynamic 📏 ±1900 words

Masterlist

Requests are open!

There was an unwritten rule in Stray Kids: “No dating in the group.”

Not because anyone forbade it, but… it felt like a risky leap. Too close, too vulnerable. Too much room for drama or hurt feelings.

But you and Chan had fallen before you knew it.

First glances. Then late-night conversations on the rooftop of the dorm. Then his hand on yours, and you not letting go.

You weren’t just any member.

You were Hyunjin’s twin sister. Same age. Same intensity on stage. But where he was dramatic and poetic, you were more… down-to-earth. Quiet when you had to be, fierce when you could be.

And Chan? He saw in you exactly what he needed when the world got to be too much.

So it happened.

Secretly. Softly. Seriously yet playfully.

The relationship had been going on for three months now. No one knew. Or… you thought so.

Because that morning, Hyunjin stared at you a little too long during breakfast.

“Why are you suddenly sitting on the other side of the dorm table?” he asked suddenly.

You almost choked on your yogurt.

Chan looked up from his coffee, perfectly neutral.

“Excuse me?” you said, deliberately slow.

Hyunjin narrowed his eyes. “I can feel things.”

Jeongin whispered to Felix, “What is he feeling now?”

“Betrayal,” Hyunjin answered serious.

You rolled your eyes. “Maybe you’re just hungry.”

But Hyunjin really felt things. He saw the little things.

Like how Chan touched your back for a moment when you left the dance studio. Or how you lowered your voice when you spoke to him. Or how you and Chan were always paired up for games, like it was a coincidence.

It was a regular Tuesday night. Everyone was in the dorm. You were sitting on the couch with a blanket. Chan was sitting diagonally next to you — not next to you, of course not. But just close enough to touch your pinky with his, hidden under the blanket.

You thought no one was watching.

But Hyunjin was always watching.

“Chan?”

Chan looked up. “Hm?”

“If you hurt her, I’ll ruin your career. Get it?”

Silence.

Chan’s eyebrow rose. “What… do you mean?”

Hyunjin pointed his chopsticks at you. “My. Twin. Sister.”

You were shocked. “Wait a minute—”

“You guys are so bad at sneaking around,” Hyunjin sighed. “I literally grew up with her. I can tell by her eyebrows.”

Felix: “What can you tell by someone’s eyebrows?”

Jisung mumbled, “When they're in love, apparently.”

You felt your heart pound. But Hyunjin looked straight at you, serious but calm.

“I’m not angry,” he said softly. “I just want you to be happy. And for him to respect you.”

You looked at Chan, who was now sitting right next to you. His hand found yours under the blanket — openly.

“I do,” he said. “Always.”

Hyunjin nodded slowly. “Then it’s okay. But still, one mistake and I’ll publish your old rap lyrics from 2013.”

Chan groaned. “Why are you so creepy?”

“Family instinct” Hyunjin said proudly.

You were sitting alone on the balcony when Chan joined you. No words, just the sound of the city.

“He’s not as scary as he acts,” you said.

Chan leaned against you. “You can be, if you have to.”

You smiled.

“We don’t have to do it secretly anymore.”

Chan looked at you, serious and soft at the same time.

“No. But I thought the secret thing was exciting too.”

“Then we’ll have to find new ways to make your heart race.”

“Easy,” he said. “All you have to do is smile.”

[squackfablio]

After the Frost comes the Flowers ☬✿♡☆❥

☬✿♡☆❥ synopsis: After only being married to Chris for a year, things already feel strained. His job keeps him out of the house a lot, but it also pays enough for you to stay at home. With nothing to do, you begin to go stir crazy. One day in winter, as you gaze out at your barren yard, the urge to create a beautiful garden hits you so hard you can't resist. The following pursuit finally brings your husband back to you.

☬✿♡☆❥ tags: marriage, fluff, angst, light angst, gardening, no use of Y/N, older Chris, one shot, happy ending, Resident Evil village spoilers kinda (?)

☬✿♡☆❥ AO3 link here

☬✿♡☆❥ 2.1k words

enjoy! (⁠人⁠*⁠´⁠∀⁠｀⁠)⁠｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+

In the dead of winter, it’s silent. But it had been silent long before the snow had settled in all those months ago. It was silent before the frost laid in the trees and the wind blew flurries of snow on the pavement. It was silent because you were alone.

You married Chris for convenience, but it soon blossomed into love. Those few months felt like summer as the affection between you lit a warm flame in your soul and danced in the sunlight of reciprocity.

Then the leaves began to fall, crispen, and crumble to dust.

He was gone often on missions, and it seemed he took the warmth with him. When he finally came home, the warmth returned, but it was diminishing until it felt like just a dying candle cradled in your shaking hands.

Somewhere along the way the affection you once shared had burrowed away deep in the earth, but it wasn’t a mystery why. Chris was tired. He loved his job, yes, but it was sucking the life out of him. What made it worse was that it was necessary. He was saving lives, not reviewing tax returns.

It didn’t make it any easier to deal with.

So you sit in the house he bought you and rot in the silence he left behind.

On this particular day, about three weeks after Chris had left for Romania, you sat in the small breakfast nook next to the kitchen. The three windows that arched around you gave a nice view of the backyard. A thick layer of wet and heavy snow sat on the trees and their extended branches, bowing them down towards the ground.

You swirled a mug in your hand, watching a tree branch fly skyward when the weight of the snow it carried became too heavy. All that remained in your mug was a shallow pool of cold tea that herded the small pieces of rogue tea leaves towards the middle as it was lightly circulated.

The silence was creeping up on you again. This cold morning after a large snow storm was exceptionally quiet. The snow was dampening the noise of the world and it felt like the walls of a padded cell confining you to this house that was too new to creak.

The sound of blood rushing in your ears began to scare you when you unintentionally strained your hearing on finding any sound you could possibly identify. You snapped up in your chair, the rubber feet skidding on the waxed hardwood and mug hitting the table. You must be going insane.

You stood quickly, mug in hand as you hurried to the kitchen sink- trying to forget about the silence that closed around you when you paid it too much mind.

When the sink finally sputtered to life, you washed out the mug slowly, swirling the water and rubbing it with your hands as you thought about Chris. You suppose that you were disappointed, in a way. You knew this was how it was going to be long before you stood at the altar saying your vows.

Maybe you just thought it would be easier to deal with than this. Of course you couldn’t have fathomed just how crushing your solitude would be when it felt like your time with Chris was going to last forever.

As you flipped the mug upside down on the drying mat, your eyes drifted out the garden window above your sink and to the yard once more. A house as big as this needed an equally big yard, but apparently nothing to fill said yard but two big elm trees and a flat manicured lawn. It was nice enough in the summer- Chris had a grill on the small deck, and dinner with the mosquitos was nice- but now that snow came once a week to crush the grass, it looked emptier than ever.

Your eyes began scanning the expanse of the lawn, suddenly planning out rows of garden beds and flowers sprouting in lines on the border of the fence. The tall, fringed leaves of carrots would sprout from moist soil- bees would buzz, flying through the foliage and landing on stray weeds- a small fountain would bubble quietly in the middle- birds would dip into a small bird bath and chirp as they displaced dried leaves floating on the surface-

This… this was something… something big, something to dream about, something to plan out and toil over- something you had to do-

-or there’d be nothing to do at all.

. . .

The rest of the day passed in a blur as you hunched over your computer in the home office, furiously researching how you could achieve this garden. There was so much to look into that you had never considered before, and every article led you further down a rabbit hole that consumed you long after the sun had already set.

You had your mind made up as you finally stood from your chair in the now dark office, clutching the stack of notes scribbled hastily on miscellaneous papers. Once the last frost ended, you were making this garden.

. . .

Chris returned from Romania in late March. He looked more stressed than you had ever seen before. You didn’t have to talk to him to know that he had been through something awful, but it was clear he wasn’t going to talk about it.

You hugged him tight when he came through the door. He sighed as he dropped his bags and wrapped his arms around you, slumping over and exhaling like it was the first time he’d had a breath in weeks. At least he felt safe.

He barely talked all evening, and you gave him his space to breathe. At night, just before you fell asleep, Chris quietly crawled under the covers and curled his chest into your back, holding you to him like you were the only thing tethering him to the present. He nuzzled into your neck and sat there, breathing quietly, for several seconds before finally speaking in a hushed voice.

“I’m going to be busy these next few weeks.”

You turn your head slightly and he leans back to look at you.

“I know.” You say quietly.

He swallows, “Someone… important died, and now we- I- have to assume the care of his infant daughter.”

You turn to face him fully, trying to find his eyes in the darkness. “Oh, Chris…” you sigh, “I’m so sorry.”

He shakes his head, kissing your temple. “It’s okay, I'll work through it- I always do.”

“I'm here for you, Chris.”

“I know.”

. . .

In the following weeks he was gone in the mornings before you woke, and returned long after you were asleep- but it left you the day to shop. You were careful to not overspend on the household needs budget, and stored anything you bought out in the yard where you knew Chris wouldn’t be going.

By the end of April, the yard was filled with bags of dirt, planks of wood for garden beds, packets of seeds, and assorted decorative rocks.

In the last week of April on one of the warmest afternoons to date, you decided to begin building the garden boxes out in the yard. Apparently you couldn’t hear the back door opening over the sound of your drill, because the hand on your shoulder made you spill your box of screws all over the grass.

“Jesus!” You turn quickly, finding Chris looming over your sitting form.

“You having fun out here?” His lips twitch into a small smile.

“I- well,” You struggle to find the words.

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice the growing pile of dirt bags in the backyard?” He folds his arms across his torso, chest accentuated by his biceps as he squeezes them together. “I may be tired, but I'm not blind.”

You swallow, afraid he was mad at your excessive spending, but instead he squatted down next to you, eyes now focused on the boards of wood you had just been screwing together.

“Need my help?”

. . .

He tells you that he got off work early today while he carries four bags of dirt on his broad shoulders - you guess the pile of paperwork was finally surmountable after so many weeks. It wasn’t the end of his work- especially not with that infant- but he promised that the worst of it was over.

Chris finally felt like your husband again after all those months of being a shell– a distant dream off somewhere you weren’t allowed to know. But now that he was laughing at the spilled dirt on your pants, there was no way to deny the warmth blossoming in your chest in his presence.

This is what you dreamed of when you stared out at this frozen yard all those months ago, and you weren’t going to let it slip away.

. . .

Of course those little moments weren’t going to last forever, but his absences were beginning to shorten as the weather warmed. He had recuperated and become his lively self again, laughing and cooking dinner with you like he used to. The loneliness that once plagued you dissipated before your eyes- planting itself in the dirt and re-emerging as budding geraniums and dandelions.

Each morning that you looked out the back window and saw the garden you built together, a gentle appreciation washed over you. All that soil and water had filled the gap that once separated you, and the roots that now connected you only grew stronger with each passing day.

The last frost had come and gone, and Chris was ever happier with each passing day. Some evenings he was eager to get on his knees in the dirt and plant tomato seedlings with you despite his age, and some evenings he was content to watch you offer the spout of your watering can to a thirsty radish.

On one such night where he found himself just content to watch, you had set up a speaker on the deck railing while you attempted some rather tedious landscaping with small colored stones. Chris was leaning over the railing next to the speaker, a lit cigarette in one hand and a whiskey neat in the other as he watched you.

You had been hunched over the dirt, clutching the stones in your free hand while you tried to create a concentric pattern around the rose bushes growing by the fence. When your store of pebbles ran out you finally stood, groaning as you bent backwards and cracked your back. Stepping back, you squinted, trying to discern what you had created in the dimming light.

“Chris, come look.” You called.

He put out the butt of his cigarette in a gifted ash tray and joined you in the garden, also squinting at the dirt.

“You know I can’t see anything in the dark.”

You laugh as he brings a hand up to your shoulder and massages it, “Right- I'm sorry… old man.”

“Old man?” He asks incredulously, your smile only spreading further.

Just as he’s about to say something, a particularly loved song of yours begins to play on the speaker, and your gasp of excitement cuts him off. You quickly take hold of his shirt and pull him to face you. Your hips wag back and forth to the beat, hands now making a lazy attempt at dancing. He only gives you an amused look.

“C’mon Chris, I know you like this song too.”

He chuckles, slowly putting his hands up to mimic yours, but the laugh you let out immediately stops him.

“It’s not funny!” He laughs, gently nudging you.

“It’s very funny!” You smile.

He picks you up quickly, kissing you through the giggles as he carries you to bed, whiskey and speaker long forgotten outside.

. . .

There was finally love in your life again. The kind of love you thought had disappeared. But the candle whose flame once dwindled in your hands now burned brightly with the passion that creating this garden gave you. After Romania, Chris took several weeks off to spend with you at home both working on the garden and enjoying your company. Chris fired up his grill again when his sister came to visit, and you laughed as you glasses clinked together in cheers.

In the middle of summer, it’s noisy. If there’s no thunder from an afternoon storm, then there’s the laughter of a party in the yard over. If there’s no party, then there’s chirping crickets and fireworks. When the rain takes over your job of watering, you’ll sit inside at the breakfast nook looking out at the yard- not to escape the crippling silence- but to plan the next bed of October vegetables with Chris.

You knew you’d never fully escape the silence that permeated the air when Chris wasn’t there, but if the silent hours spent in the garden had taught you anything, it was that the silence wasn’t something to be scared of anymore. The silence was no longer the walls of a room keeping you in, it was the air that circulated the trees and pushed the blades of grass against one another. It was your bedroom at night while Chris slept next to you, safe and relaxed. It was a home, not a prison.

And when the leaves made their gentle descent towards the yellowed grass, and when the last squash was plucked from its curling vine, the silence of winter would creep in again. What once plagued you as a permanent force now became a temporary moment between the fall and spring. So when the first spring buds unfurled and stretched towards the heavens, you’d know that the summer wind would soon blow through your hair.

After all, flowers come after the frost.

☬✿♡☆❥

I hope you liked it, because I had fun writing it! Next fic will be someone new, so stay tuned!

[callalillywrites]

Your Eyes Brought It All Back

Written for @steverogersbingo. E3 - Amnesia.

Steve Rogers Masterlist | Steve Rogers Bingo | Main Masterlist

Pairing: Steve Rogers x F!Reader

Word Count: 1616

Summary: Steve and you took some nasty hits. While you're stuck in a coma, Steve's healing but having a hard time remembering you. All he knows is that you deserve better than an absent fiancé as he watches over you.

Warnings: Medical setting; injured Steve; injured reader (coma); head injuries; grumpy Steve; protective Steve; memory gaps; happy ending; fluff; hurt/comfort

A/N: Since this an amnesia story, I went a little crazy with the cliches. I regret nothing.

I do not give permission to have my works copied, translated, reposted, or fed into an AI machine.

****

Steve wanted to pummel your fiancé.

The man had some nerve to leave you alone at a time like this.

All Steve knew was the man had a lot to answer for if he ever dared show his face.

Three days.

Three goddamn days.

That's how long you've been asleep in the bed next to him within the medical ward of the Tower.

Well, sleep wasn't quite right.

Coma would be more appropriate.

The doctors had ordered it to better help you heal your injuries, especially the nasty knock you'd taken to your head. They've been monitoring your progress ever since, and they're all relatively optimistic you'll make a full recovery. You just needed time to recover, and that's what they were giving you.

Having taken a heavy knock in the same incident that's led to your current predicament, Steve hadn't needed to be induced. His serum would take care of any healing his body needed, and it has for the most part.

The only hiccup had occurred when he woke up and couldn't recall the past couple of years.

It'd been a real shock to learn that not only had they won against Loki in New York, but his best friend hadn't died that day on the train as he'd thought for so long. He'd also made friends with another guy, who'd been sitting at his bedside as much as the others. That same man had been an integral part in assisting him and Nat to get Bucky back.

Steve found he really liked Sam, who seemed to always have a knack to lighten the mood. Sam also had a special knack for driving Bucky crazy, which was equal parts exasperating and amusing.

He'd also met Sharon Carter, another who'd helped to save Bucky from Hydra and taking Hydra down after they'd infiltrated SHIELD at all levels. She was definitely nice enough, and he really liked the spark he saw within her that reminded him so much of Peggy.

While she had checked in to see how he was doing, it was actually you that had drawn her to the room.

You were apparently good friends with Sharon, having served as an agent alongside her for a few years before you joined the ranks of the Avengers. She quickly filled Steve in on how you'd gained psychic powers after exposure to the Mind Stone. With some help from the others, you'd quickly risen into their ranks and helped them on several missions.

Hearing Sharon talk about you really made Steve sad that he couldn't remember you.

You seemed like someone who cared about the team and them for you in return.

He wanted to remember you. He really did.

Before Sharon left, he couldn't help asking, "Why hasn't her fiancé visited her? What's got him so hung up that he can't be here when she clearly needs him?"

"Well, it seems he's a little lost at the moment. I'm sure he'll come as soon as he can," Sharon said with a not-unkind smirk spreading across her features. It softens into a genuine smile when she glanced at you again, still sleeping so peacefully. "He really loves her. I've seen it firsthand just how much. They're both so lucky to have someone who cares so much about them. I know he'd never leave her alone unless something kept him from being at her side."

Steve wasn't so sure about that.

He couldn't be.

From what the others had told him, he'd been ready and willing to burn the world down to get Bucky back. He'd done everything he could to keep his other friends safe. He'd almost died doing so, but then, that sounded like him.

Something seemed off about this fiancé of yours.

If it was him, he knew he'd never let anyone or anything keep him from your side.

Even if he couldn't recall who you were, something about your presence calmed him. It made him want to stay at your side and keep you safe. Your fiancé was a lucky guy alright, but did he really deserve you? Steve couldn't keep that question from repeating itself as the days wore on.

The only other thing bothering him were a pair of eyes that haunted him in the few hours of sleep he got. He never saw more than those eyes, no other defining features, but they were so distinct that he doubted he could focus on anything but them. They were so distinctive and lovely. He'd seen them through a myriad of different emotions, too, as though he knew them.

But he couldn't ever place them.

He tried, too. He really did.

Every new person that came into his room, he studied their eyes in the hopes of finding the pair that haunted him.

The notebook Bucky had brought him quickly filled with every iteration of those eyes. He couldn't stop drawing them, hoping they'd spark something. Anything.

When the doctors tried to release him after his first day, Steve refused to leave.

Your fiancé still hadn't shown up, and he couldn't let you stay in this room by yourself. It wouldn't be right. You deserved to have someone watch over you and keep you safe, even if you couldn't be safer than in the Tower's medical ward.

"Hey, man, she'll be fine," Sam had said, but Steve had shaken his head.

Nat and Bucky tried to back Sam's assertion up with Bucky adding, "You could use a real shower, punk. It's not like we can't visit her later."

"I'll use the shower here. Just bring me some things from my quarters, please," Steve said softly, his gaze remaining on you. "She shouldn't be alone. She doesn't like it."

"How do you know that?" Nat asked, her curiosity piquing. "Are you remembering?"

Steve shook his head.

How he wished he was, but no, he just simply knew. It wasn't something he could explain; it was instinctual, almost like knowing the sun rose in the mornings and set in the evenings. He just knew that you hated waking up alone, and he couldn't let you do that when the time came.

The doctors said it could be any time after they'd weaned you off all the medications that kept you in the coma. Your signs remained stable, so it really was just a matter of when you would come back to them.

Over the next few minutes, they finally convinced him to take an hour. Get some of the food Tony had ordered in, take a shower in his quarters, and then he could come back. Bucky had even set an alarm on his watch while Nat promised not to let to your side until Steve returned.

To his credit, he did take the shower, insisting on it first. The shower did actually help him feel better as he wiped away the last couple of days from his skin. What wounds he'd had already healed up, leaving it easier to clean up fast.

Sam and Bucky, having waited on him in his little sitting area, followed him to the common areas where they loaded up their own plates. Whenever Steve would try and bypass something else from the massive amounts of food, they'd redirect him until his plate practically overflowed. In fact, they made sure he had enough food that it required a tray, which Bucky insisted on carrying for him while Sam handled both his and Bucky's plates.

"You know she's not going anywhere," Sam teased even as he quickened his steps to keep up with Steve's purposeful stride. "Your hour is definitely not up yet, man. Just relax a little."

While he knew Sam had a point, Steve couldn't shake the thought of you. He definitely couldn't shake his desire to sit beside you. It didn't matter that no memories had stirred in the last couple of days. All he knew deep down is that your presence soothed him even as his ire had risen at your absent fiancé.

Low voices and the occasional giggle reached his enhanced hearing as he neared your medical room.

Figuring Nat was probably on the phone, Steve wasn't anywhere near ready to see you actually awake and interacting with Nat.

When your face slid his way, he nearly fell to his knees.

Your eyes.

He knew those eyes.

They'd been the exact same ones that had haunted him these past few days. The ones he hadn't seen you open yet had seen so clearly in his dreams.

The longer your gaze synced with his, the more everything started coming back to him.

The total cliche of a B-rated rom-com that you enjoyed watching.

"Ah, there it is," Nat said, clearly thrilled at seeing recognition lighting up his features once more as he stared at you. "Was wondering when he'd finally remember. He's been sitting in his bed next to you, ready to beat up your fiancé. No idea at all that he was that fiancé or that he'd been here with you the entire time."

Maybe he should've felt a little silly for not realizing it sooner, but he couldn't care at that moment.

No, all that mattered was he remembered you. That you were awake and seemed just fine, too. That he hadn't lost out of his future because the two of you would pull through.

"Morning, beautiful," he said softly, finally closing the distance between you. He placed a gentle kiss against your wrapped forehead. "I trust you slept well."

Your smile, always so beautiful, beamed up at him as you came back with your usual reply. "I always do with you around. Thank you for being here with me."

"Nowhere else I'd rather be."

[iamnotoriginalphil]

Request: some jealous Rebecca Welton x oblivious reader where reader just cannot tell when someone is flirting with her one of the many reasons also why it took so long for Rebecca and reader to officially start dating

Jealousy

Words: 2.8k

Warnings: some swearing

Rebecca’s fingers tightened around the pen in her hand, the plastic groaning from the pressure. She ignored it, eyes trained on your figure. Your laugh made her heart thump hard behind her rib cage, the bruise left in its wake due to not being the one to coax that laugh from you. You flipped your hair over your shoulder, listening to Isaac as you lent closer.

His arm slid over your shoulders, leading you further down the hallway. Something ugly gnawed at Rebecca’s stomach. She had to turn away or risk hurting someone. Taking some deep breaths, she peeked over her shoulder. You were looking back at her, not realising the way Isaac’s eyes were sweeping down your body.

The smile you gave her was brighter than any you’d given Isaac. Her own lips curled up, an unconscious response, never able to not give in to the impulse when it came to you.

Extracting yourself from Isaac, you said something quietly before making your way to Rebecca’s side. Isaac’s eyes lingered on your retreating back, dipping down to follow the sway of your hips. She bit back her growl, that ugly feeling sink its teeth into her stomach again.

“Hi,” you said, looking up into her face, your smile broad.

“What did Isaac want?” she asked, knowing her voice was harsher than she intended.

“Oh, he was inviting me to the party tonight. Why didn’t you tell me about it? Apparently all of the guys want me there,” you said, “you’re going right?”

“Of course I am,” she replied, despite having previously declined an invitation. A groups of sweaty football players in a darkened room with loud music was hardly her idea of an enjoyable evening. You in a darkened room, however, was a different matter altogether. Especially if that room was full of sweaty football players with testicles bigger than the size of their brains.

Your smile widened and your eyes sparkled. You reached out, hand landing against her forearm, burning through the silk of her blouse. You bounced onto your toes, face drawing just a bit closer to hers.

“You’ll really come?” you asked.

“For you, I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she said, just waiting for the words to hit your brain. She could see the moment it did. Your teeth sunk into your lower lip as you tried to contain your grin and you were looking at her like she hung the moon.

“Tonight is going to be ace,” you said, letting her arm go, “I’m going to go buy something to wear. I’ll see you later tonight.”

She felt bereft as you stepped back, taking one then another away from her. You waved to the guys before pushing out of the door into the sunlight that swallowed you up. You glanced back, just long enough to meet her eye, flashing her another one of your bright smiles. The way it warmed her, you could have been the sun that flooded into her club.

She was distracted the rest of the day, the image of the boys flirting with you distracting her from her work. Who could focus on contracts when those very men were trying to steal you from her? Your bright smile was meant to be turned in her direction, not laughing at one of the boys dirty jokes.

“Hey good looking,” Keeley said, strutting into the room, “why are you wearing ‘someone’s going to die but I’ll look fit while doing it’ face?”

“I’ll give you three guesses,” she said.

“The boys invited her to the party?” she asked.

“Yes, and now I have to go or wonder which of them are putting their dirty mitts on her,” she replied, lips pursing.

“You know she’s crazy about you. You don’t have to worry,” Keeley said, nudging her.

“I’m not worried about her. It’s them I’m not happy with. I don’t like them… thinking they have a shot with her,” she said, hands flapping as she tried to put into words her anger.

“So you need to look hot tonight. Show them there’s no competition. A bunch of sweaty hairy guys? They’ve got nothing on you,” she said, “you’re well fit.”

“Thanks,” she said, a small chuckle on her lips, “you really think I have nothing to worry about?”

“Come on, Rebecca. She looks at you like you’re the greatest thing she’s ever seen. There’s literally not even a competition going on,” Keeley replied.

“You’re right. Of course your right,” she said, “I should wear the red dress, shouldn’t I?”

“Fuck yes!”

Rebecca laughed, head tipping back, the vestiges of her jealousy seeping away. Of course she had nothing to worry about. It’s not as if you were going to the party with Isaac. You’d asked her if she was going. It mattered to you.

So why, when she arrived, did Isaac have his stupid hairy arm around your shoulder, passing you a drink while you smiled up at him?

She did her best to ignore it, striding past to find her own drink, missing the way your eyes lingered on her. Something not in a plastic cup if she could avoid it. She hadn’t done that since her university days. She wasn’t about to start doing that again, just to be like the boys.

She rifled through the cupboards to find a glass to pour some of the cheap wine into. With a sigh, she took a long drink from it, just able to see you through the door. The moment your gaze landed on her it was like electricity struck. Your eyes lit up and you ducked out from under Isaac’s arm, practically tripping over yourself to reach her side.

“You came,” you said, beaming up at her.

“Of course. I told you I would,” she said.

“Yeah, but I mean this isn’t really your scene,” you said, glancing over your shoulder at the dim living room. You snorted when you saw the boys.

“Anywhere you are is my scene,” she said.

Your smile brightened, “aw, that’s really sweet. Thank you.”

You hauled yourself up onto the counter, legs swinging, heels kicking against the wooden doors. The skirt of your dress lifted, skin on display making her feel crazy. She longed to touch it, to feel your skin against her fingertips as she dragged them upwards until you moaned her name.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” you said, “it’s nice not being the only girl. Keeley said she was coming later but when she does Jamie is going to up the idiocy and then Roy will growl and Keeley will be distracted. It’s nice to have someone bring a bit of class to this thing. Plus, you’re like my favourite person so know I won’t have to leave early to see you.”

“You don’t want all those boys to yourself?” she asked, sidling up to you, arm brushing your leg.

“Them?” you scoffed, “you’re clearly the best one here.”

“Well, after you,” she said.

Your smile was so pretty when you looked at her. Sitting on the counter, your were face to face with her, something she didn’t often get to enjoy. You shifted closer, leaning into her. She did her best not feel flustered at the feeling of your arm pressing against hers. Even after all this time, she still felt like a girl in the grips of her first crush.

“You know, if you wanted to, we could-“

“There you are,” Sam interrupted, walking into the kitchen, “I was hoping to see you here.”

“Sam,” you said, turning that smile on the young football player.

You reached over, pulling him into a hug. She didn’t want to focus on how easy it was for you, doling out your affection.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he said, drawing back as his eyes slid over your body.

“Oh this old thing,” you giggled.

“You really do. You’re lighting up the room,” he said.

“Thanks Sam,” you said, teeth sinking down into your lower lip.

“Come, there is dancing. Someone as beautiful as you should be shown off.” He held out his hand to you.

“Oh, I don’t know,” you said, “I might just stay here and talk to Rebecca.”

“We need your radiance to remind us to be civilised. A pretty girl like you should be dancing,” he said.

“Really. I’m okay,” you said, “but you go have fun for me.”

“I must insist. You dance with an elegance the rest of us can only dream of,” he said.

“Well, if you’re insisting.”

You took his hand, letting him help you down from the counter. Rebecca opened her mouth to say something then snapped it shut, not wanting to ruin your fun. She lingered in the doorway, watching as Sam’s hands landed on your hips and your head tipped back as you laughed. Her fingers continued to tighten on the glass in her hand. She downed the wine in one swig.

You spun from Sam’s arms, straight into Dani’s. You were laughing and he was holding you closer and Montclaur was eyeing you up. She turned, leaving you be, needing another drink. Scooping up the bottle of wine she’d poured from earlier, she left her glass in the sink and slipped out the back door.

The garden was small, just a bit of grass and a few chairs. She sunk into one, not bothering to think about the dirt she’d be getting on her dress by sitting. Bringing the bottle to her lips, she let herself have a moment to wallow. She wanted that attention on her, to be in your atmosphere.

She tipped her head back, looking up at the night sky. A few stars winked down at her, just seen through a small gap in the clouds. Sighing, she took another drink. She knew it wasn’t the same as with Rupert, that you weren’t the one going around hitting on anything that moved. But the old insecurities were rising again.

She knew all the reasons you shouldn’t be with her. She’d been on cloud nine since the first time you’d kissed her but even then she’d known that she didn’t deserve you. She was no better than Rupert, going after a younger woman. A young woman who shone so brightly of course everyone else was drawn to you. She took another long drink.

“There you are.”

You were standing just outside the door, your arms curled around your body. Given your dress was skin tight, she could see the way you were shivering. You walked towards her, your smile bright despite how cold you looked.

“Why are you out here?” you asked.

She held out a hand to you, drawing you closer. You didn’t hesitate to settle yourself on her lap, curling an arm around her neck. Her own hand rested on your hip, the other gentle as it rested on your thigh. Skin on bare skin was enough to make her crave you with every fibre of her being.

“Baby?” you asked.

“You seemed busy so I decided to get some air,” she replied, not wanting to admit just how much she couldn’t bare to watch you dance with those men.

“Aren’t you cold?” you asked, snuggling closer to her.

“Not with you here,” she replied, “you’re warming me up.”

Your lips pressed to her cheek, soft and chaste. Her fingers tightened on your thigh, a reflex to the feeling. You hummed, your lips ghosting over her skin, pressing to spot under her jaw that you knew drove her wild. Her sharp inhalation of breath was a surprise to her and yet she was melting under your touch.

“I love this dress on you,” you murmured into her skin, “you look so hot.”

She flushed from the compliment.

“Are you going to tell me why you’re really out here?” you asked, “did the boys make you feel unwelcome since you’re the boss?”

“No,” she sighed, tipping her head back, giving you better access.

“Please, Rebecca,” you pleaded, drawing back, looking at her with those big eyes, swimming with concern. She cursed under her breath, knowing she couldn’t say no to you, not when you were looking at her like that.

“I don’t like the way the boys flirt with you,” she admitted.

“They boys? They’re not flirting,” you said, shaking your head.

“Of course they are. Isaac can’t keep his hands off you. Sam was drooling over you in the kitchen. Montclaur was leering at you. I heard Dani asking you on a date. They’re not even hiding it from me, the fuckers,” she said, looking back up at the night sky.

“They’re just being nice,” you brushed off.

“They’re fucking not,” she snapped.

You drew away from her and guilt curdled in her stomach. There was no point getting angry at you. It wasn’t your fault. You were so gorgeous it was no wonder everyone you met wanted you. She had. It would be hypocritical to not understand why other people would want you.

“Baby, are you jealous?” you asked.

“No,” slipped from her too fast to convince anyone, “yes. It’s not important.”

“Of course it’s important,” you said, “I don’t want you feeling like this over nothing. You know I have no interest in any of those boys, right? They’re all hairy and sweaty and gross.”

“Really?” she asked, hating that she needed the reassurance.

“No one even comes close to comparing with you. You’re the greatest person I’ve ever met. And the most beautiful. Like, if I could I’d be with you all the time. I don’t want to be with anyone but you.” You gently cupped her cheek in your warm palm, “I love you, Rebecca. No one is going to change that.”

“You love me?” Those words were branded into her brain, none of the rest of it penetrating after that.

“I was planning on telling you at a nicer place than this but yeah. I love you. I thought you might have figured it out already. I don’t think I’m very good at hiding it.” You gave a little self conscious chuckle, “but I love you so much and so I don’t want you to worry that one of those boys could ever steal me away. You’re the only one for me.”

She stared down at you, not able to comprehend that you loved her. That you were choosing her. That you wanted her. You were smiling, so close to her, looking so beautiful, loving her. Your smile dimmed a little and she realised she hadn’t said anything for too long.

“I love you too,” she breathed.

Your grin returned as you lent forward. Your lips brushed hers, and she couldn’t stop herself from pulling you in further, her tongue running along your bottom lip. You moaned into her mouth and she knew she could spend the rest of her life listening to that noise.

Someone wolf-whistled and you drew away, ignoring the way she tried to pull you closer again. Looking over your shoulder, she was ready to tell off whichever of the boys was interrupting her time with you. Keeley was grinning at the two of you, sparkling like the amazing woman she was, leaning in the doorway.

“Keep it in your pants, Welton,” she called, making her way towards the two of you, “leave some for the rest of us.”

“Very funny,” she called back.

You giggled, pressing your face into her shoulder, doing your best to stifle them. She pressed a kiss to the top of your head. She wasn’t ever going to get tired of this.

“Looks like you two are having fun,” she said, perching on one of the other chairs.

“We are,” you said, emerging from your hidden spot. She tightened her arm around your waist, making you press closer.

“We could get out of here, if you want to,” she murmured into your ear.

“Okay,” you said, “but can we get some ice cream on the way back to your place?”

“Of course.”

You climbed off her lap, holding out a hand for her. You tangled your fingers together, tugging her away from the chairs. Rebecca passed the wine bottle over to Keeley, leading you towards the gate to let you out of the backyard.

“Have fun you two,” Keeley said, giving a salacious wink as she passed you to re-eneter the house.

Having you leave with her, sliding into her car, smiling at her like she was the greatest thing you’d ever seen, it was enough to make her not even able to remember why she’d been so jealous earlier. Of course you’d choose her. You loved her.

There was absolutely no one to be jealous of.

[athenagc94]

Dear Daddy Long Legs - Chapter 16

Jason Todd x Fem!Reader

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Chapter 16

Two hours to midnight.

Two hours and nine minutes to be exact, but who was counting?

Certainly not Jason.

That left at least three hours until he saw you.

Jason knew he didn’t have to fill that time with crime or vigilante work, but the thought of sitting at one of his safehouses—alone—with his thoughts sounded as appealing as chewing on glass.

So, work it was.

He arrived outside the well-maintained townhome located east of Gotham Heights fashionably late. The homes on this block weren’t quite Wayne-level with their extensive grounds and sculpture gardens, but pretty damn close. He felt like a regular Nick Carraway rolling up to a Gatsby party which he hadn’t felt since living with Bruce.  

Inside, a New Year’s Eve party was already in full swing. It made slipping inside unnoticed easier now that champagne and liquor had softened the senses. He grabbed a flute from the tray placed near the door and wove through the partygoers, each of them dressed in similar shades of beige and white. The symbolism wrote itself. He clocked every face and gun-shaped lump hidden beneath their suit coats.

Most of the guests were members of prominent mob families from across Gotham. Of course, they’d be armed to the teeth. He expected this and planned accordingly with his guns hidden beneath his ratty sports coat. No one even looked his way.

He spent the last three weeks memorizing the layout of the Riviera home for this moment. Every exit for quick getaways and every alcove for hiding. He took two laps around the first floor to ensure he had it right. A lot of planning went into the night. A lot of patience too. All that work would finally come to fruition if things ran smoothly.

Normally, he wouldn’t give two shits about the Rivieras who for the most part kept to themselves. Their dirty money came from rigging casinos to play in their favor, so Red Hood ignored them. Or at least that was the case until he learned they had intimate ties to Roman Sionis. His contacts pointed him toward the family because they apparently knew where he was and why he’d gone underground.

With the sudden rise in unsanctioned drugs on his streets, Jason had his hands full. He would prefer to be off with the Outlaws, but he had to settle things in Gotham first if he wanted a business to come back to in a few months. It was easy enough to bully Sionis into submission, but he needed to find him first.

Jason decided to drop by the party and see what he could glean off its guests. Alcohol loosened lips. Secrets were bound to come to light as the night wore on, but he knew his best chances lay with Aldo Riviera’s eldest son, Luca.

The Riviera family owned several casinos on Park Row. Hanging at Luca’s usual haunts put Jason on his radar. He took a page from Bruce’s book and played it dumb and docile at the poker table. Jason, who loved a good game of poker and was pretty good at it, had to swallow his pride and throw his hands until Luca took notice. He was the type of guy who needed to surround himself with losers to feel good about himself.

Shocker.

He knew he wouldn’t be able to pull off the pretty boy schtick like Dick or Damian, but with his slightly crooked glasses and the awkward hunch of his shoulders, Jason played the part of non-threatening lackey to perfection. Luca made nice with him and that’s how he found himself invited tonight which was… the only party he’d been invited to. Not that he didn’t have friends. They were just busy or off-world or—

Whatever.

Jason didn’t have to explain himself to anyone.

Parties were boring anyway.

He just had to make it an hour or two before Luca got too shit-faced to have a filter. It happened often enough when they hung out. Luca liked to hear himself talk. With a few pointed questions, he’d have him rambling about Sionis in no time.

“Jacob!”

Jason sighed. It would have been smarter to give Luca a different name than the one he gave you, but he already teetered on the cusp of an identity crisis without adding another fake name to his roster.

So, Jacob, it was.

He donned a timid smile and turned toward Luca. His brown hair swooped down like a stroke of ink, falling just above his eyebrows where an old scar bisected the left one. Handsome, Jason supposed, if not for his rancid personality and a smarmy smile. He sat with three other men in leather armchairs near fire in the sitting room. A pretty, young woman sat on the arm of his chair with a vacant smile that didn’t reach her eyes, his hand resting on her bare thigh.

Luca waved him over with the hand holding a flute of champagne. Jason obliged and settled in the chair closest to him. He nodded to the other three, their faces vaguely familiar, but not their names.

“Bout time you showed up. I was wonderin’ if ya would come or not.” Inebriation made his Jersey accent more pronounced.

Good, Jason thought. That would make this easier.

He let his accent deepen and said, “And miss out on all the fun? Not a chance.”

“If ya wanted real fun, we shoulda met at the casino instead. I’m itchin’ for a few games of poker to ring in the new year. My old man likes to pretend he’s distinguished with the bubblies and fancy canapes that make you hungrier than you were before ya ate them.” His lip curled as he downed his champagne like a shot. “What I’d give for a little fun. I just got back from my holiday in Spain and let me tell ya—”

And he was off.

Jason settled back in his seat while Luca went on and on about his trip and how much he didn’t want to be back in Gotham. Yeah, well, Gotham would probably be better off without him anyway.

His date stayed perched on the arm of his chair, not that Luca acknowledged her beyond that ever-present hand on her thigh. Jason stared at the Persian rug under his boots to avoid looking at them.

It wasn’t the first time Luca had used a woman as a prop, but it boiled his blood every time. Jason couldn’t wait until this was over so he could punch him into the next county for deigning to lay his hands on a woman.

Every so often, Jason pressed his flute to his lips and pretended to drink his champagne. He couldn’t remember the last time he drank for real, but now wasn’t the time to start.

Jason knew plenty of yappers. Steph was one of them, but her inane chatter was regrettably endearing and personable. Surprisingly, Damian was another, but at least his predisposition to monologue like a Bond villain was somewhat entertaining. Luca was neither endearing nor entertaining. His anecdotes quickly spiraled until they lost the plot. Jason was forced to sit back and listen as if he was some great weaver of tales.

A glass of gin quickly replaced Luca’s empty glass. When that was gone, another glass quickly replaced followed thanks to his lackeys.

His mind wandered while Luca talked. Mostly to you. Exclusively to you. Asking about your plans tonight had been spur of the moment. He figured you already had plans with Steph, and he could pretend that he wasn’t the loser with nothing going on.

But his innocent question led him to leaving you apartment with your number. You texted him an hour after he left—just to make sure it was legit. It seemed rude not to text back despite his insistence to use his number sparingly. And maybe that text turned into a handful scattered over the next few days.

Damn it. He couldn’t even follow his own rules.

Allowing himself to see you regularly should have made this wanton ache in his chest go away.

That’s what he kept telling himself, isn’t it?

First it was the letters. When the letters grew stale it was catching a glimpse of you in the crowd. Now that merely existing in your presence wasn’t scratching the itch anymore, Jason was afraid to learn what came next.

Deep down, he knew what came next. You two had already toed the line with increasingly frequent touches that left him tingly and hot, but he was hesitant to take the plunge into absolutes. You enticed him. Your feel, your smell, your taste. Jason could easily lose himself in you and that frightened him.

What happened if—when that stopped being enough too.

What you had was fine, he tried to reason with himself.

It had to fine. Jason didn’t want to rush things simply because he was too pitifully touch-starved to control himself. But that didn’t stop his mind from imagining what could be if he threw caution to the wind and went for it.

Your fingers combing through his hair, knotting in his curls.

How your lips would feel peppering along his jaw and down his neck until you reached the pulse-point and just—

His groin tightened.

Shit.

Nothing more than a slight stirring between the belt line, but it had him sitting a little straighter. Jason shifted his legs to hide whatever the fuck was going on down there, shoving thoughts of you from his mind as he tried to refocus on Luca.

Focus, he told himself, Get the information and leave.

“I can’t wait for somethin’ interestin’ to happen,” Luca continued as he swirled the contents of his glass, “Things have been quiet since I got back, and quiet ain’t cuttin’ it anymore. My old man said to be patient. Things will be gettin’ interestin’ once the new year starts.”

Jason curbed his anticipation. “Oh?”

“An old friend is makin’ a big comeback.”

Finally.

“Cobblepot?” one of his friends provided, looking quite proud of himself.

“No, dumbass. Cobblepot ain’t no friend of my old man’s,” Luca snapped. His fingers dug into his date’s thigh. She hid her discomfort with another placid smile. Jason fisted his glass, resisting the urge to break it over Luca’s head. “You didn’t hear it from me, but Sionis is planning his comeback. What with Hood bullyin’ him all the time, he decided to work from the shadows for a few months, offerin’ a breadcrumb here or there to keep the fucker off his track.”

Jason chewed the inside of his cheek. “Did he?”

“Yeah, and the sucker fell for it. Hook, line, and sinker.” Luca took a sip of his gin with a triumphant smile. He acted as if he’d been the one to best Red Hood. If only he knew the company kept, he might not look so smug.

The warehouse, the cartel, the threads that all seemed to lead to dead ends had been purposeful. Jason had been pulling his hair out trying to connect them to something relevant, and now he knew why nothing made sense.

Black Mask was fucking with him.

Pretty ballsy for a man who wasn’t immune to bullet holes.

“Hood’s going to find out,” another guy said, clearly put off by the prospect of getting on his shit list.

“And when he does, he’ll be pissed. No offense but Sionis gets his ass handed to him when Hood decides to—”

Luca threw his gin on the ground, silencing the contrarians with shattered glass and the stink of liquor. The others sank back in their seats, quaking while Jason stared at his feet with a frown.

“Hood can’t be everywhere at once. Not even his connections can help him here. Hell, I don’t even think the Bats know what he has up his sleeve. He’ll be the terror that sweeps through Crime Alley, through all of Gotham.”

Jason snorted.

“Somethin’ funny ‘bout that, Jacob?”

He quickly masked it with a cough. “N-Not at all.”

“Didn’t think so.” His attention fell to the shattered remains of his glass. “Look what you fuckers made me do. Now, I need another drink.”

So, close, and yet so far.

Black Mask was on the move, but Jason needed more than that before he could plan. If Sionis wanted to play games, he was more than happy to do the same. Jason loved a good game, especially if it meant he could be petty. Spite was the only thing that kept him going some days.

Jason shoved out of his chair before he ripped off the hand that remained steadfast on his date's thigh. He’d like to see Luca try to use a woman with bloody stumps for hands.

“I’ll grab you something. Gotta piss anyway.”

There was a bathroom down the hall, second door on the right. He blew past it, flexing his fingers to expel the pent-up rage that simmered beneath his skin. This was why he hated going undercover. It was easier to point a gun in someone’s face until they pissed themselves with fear.

No one noticed as he slipped into the drawing room where Aldo Riviera entertained more prominent members of Gotham’s underbelly near the large bay window that overlooked the street. Luca resembled the patriarch with his square jaw and hooded eyes, albeit a lot younger and without the potbelly hanging over the waist of his jeans. Aldo puffed on a cigar, filling the room with a smoky haze that softened his vision.

Jason decided to take a lap or two to see if someone else knew something before he headed back for another round of meandering story time.

“...operation ruined thanks to the Bat...”

“...the one with the sword...clean off...”

“...fuckers are out during the day now too...”

He ground his teeth and moved on. So much for that plan. He left the drawing room and ducked between two large curio cabinets in the narrow corridor to steel himself for another chance at teasing information from Luca.

Midnight could not come soon enough.

From the corner of his eye, he registered a figure as they passed, paused, and doubled back. A platter of delicately crafted canapes came into his line of sight “Did you want one?”

He startled, rattling the items in the cabinet. he managed to catch to steady it before something broke.

That voice.

It couldn’t be...

You said you had to work.

Oh, God, you were a server for a catering company.

His stomach flipped as he looked up to meet your gaze. The faint quirk to your lips betrayed what he already suspected.

“Well, if it isn’t the elusive Mr. Darcy.”

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A/N: Let the chaos begin! I am very excited about sharing this next arc with you guys. I think you will (hopefully) leave it with more than crumbs :)

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