#but it’s in every interaction I have with anyone and I actually want to drown myself throw myself off a building etc etc

[itsanit]

Someone needs to draw and/or write about my characters bc I'm sure as shit not gonna

[pissfizz]

The mental unwellness has transferred into physical unwellness

[acid-ixx]

to you, my greatest passion (soft yandere! batfam x traumatized! reader oneshot)

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

tw: allusions to stockholm syndrome, flawed relationship (they have no concept of boundaries) and mild descriptions of injuries and torture (not by the batfam). read until the end for an author's note. happy 4k followers to me :)) uh leave comments if u like this type of analysis and want to see more. i had no direction for writing this. please don't let this flop huhu i might delete this since i don't like it

as much as i love my angst, we all need something soft at times, and moments with yan!batfam with a reader who is absolutely fucking broken from their past that the mere implication that someone could love them is enough to let them melt into whoever's chest they lay upon that night.

just, hurt/comfort. one that heals the soul in its overly possessive embrace. the same way chapped lips peck softly on your cheeks, muscled arms caress your fragile, shivering body, and legs tangle upon yours in a cacophony of warm, cozy blankets.

where as the longer time passes in the manor, the more you learn to love. to let go of the painful memories your tormenters left you. to allow past scars to heal into a mere visage of what once was streaks coated in blood. your family acts as your new abductors, yes, but how could you hold your freedom against them when it is them that comfort you from drowning through the deepest depths of your nightmares?

nightmares of the past, of the knives that break through your already gashed skin, or the ropes that burn through bruises and laceration— every time you wake up crying, with tears running down your cheeks and a pained cry; a recollection of the torture you were subject to, it is them that come running to your room not a moment after.

it's bruce's tall, domineering form that crumbles into soft, snug pillows for you. your father arms that punches criminals into prison become the shoulder you lean on. calloused fingers rub your cheeks, wiping away your tears, holding your face in his palms like you're the most fragile thing on earth— and you are. every time he looks at your dampened eyes and sniffling nose, he gets reminded of how lonely he was as a child, who lost his parent too young to the cruelty of the world, of gotham and her unyielding coldness. and when he reminisces, he begins to cage you in his arms a tad bit tighter, begins to comfort you longer and softer than he has ever done with anyone else, as if he is reassuring himself. it is with you that his vulnerability, that fear of loss becomes all too stronger. and every time you cry a bit longer, your hold on his sleeves becoming unyielding, does bruce become crueler in his pursuit of fighting crime, a lesson to himself that the people he punishes are those with hands capable enough to harm you, his precious, his pearl that glints throughout the moonlight.

whenever your father is unavailable, it's dick who runs to you, with all the intention to provide you comfort. it's him who calls you his baby bird, as he reassures you that you're no burden in his eyes every time you scream in terror as your sleep. it's him who loves to drown you in his affection, always near, always close, never far and never too much. physically, he's the most doting to a fault. tender, yet tight were his hugs. his kisses to your cheeks and your forehead always linger, as if hesitant to release itself from its rightful place. it's a testiment to how much he loves you, how he's incapable of separating himself from you. god, he loves you so much he wishes he'd just melt right into your skin, so that you actually finally realize how you're the most important thing in the world to him. you, his baby bird. if he had met you sooner, quite earlier, right after his parent's have died, then maybe he could've managed his anger better, could've learned to cope with you through the battles you both fought. it's with you that dick feel unbearably euphoric, ready to spill his love to the point where tears consume his eyes and his head laid on your chest refuses to detach itself.

jason isn't familiar with what warmth feels like, not anymore. but when he sees your hapless state, he sees a reflection of himself in that abandoned warehouse. broken, defiled, hurt. with nothing to comfort you from the cold other than the ropes that burn through your skin and the adrenaline that runs through your veins. he forgots what solace feels like, what it means, but through your shared trauma does jason learn. he learns to talk to you, with you, learns to pinpoint each and every emotion he felt at the time, what you felt inside that putrid basement. he learns to manage his grief because he doesn't want to anger himself looking at you, at just how much justice can only serve so many. the longer you talk to jason, the more he becomes softer, yet hungrier. he learns how to hold you in a way a brother learns to hold his baby sibling for the first time when conceived. he relearns the warmth he felt, like when he was finally able to be good enough to be the successor to the title of robin, when he felt you drool on his chest when you trusted him enough to sleep in his room. yet this time that feeling was accompanied with that ominous, distracting essence. one that makes jason's knuckles crack and have him prepare his guns, as he discovers that you can never truly erase the past. and even though it might take years for him to be your ideal brother, he could at least be your sole protector.

then there's tim, who never truly had the opportunity to develop that deeper sense of love he wanted to feel until he was officially adopted into the wayne family right after his parents' death. don't get him wrong, he loves his mom and dad, and so does he loves his current family— but it's obsession that drives him nonetheless. the need to prove himself, to gather information about everyone to know who they truly are; beyond that there's nothing more than shallowness, a neverending hole he can't satisfy. but with you? oh god, you. to tim, you're his everything. you devour his being whole. with you, there's always something new. the need to track every single thing about you leads him into this cycle of want and need that coagulates into desire, into drive. every time you smile, or laugh, or frown, he gains newer intel about you, one he loops into the deepest crevices of his brain at a constant, you are his constant. but staying right behind you can only do so much. and as he sits right beside you in bed, awkwardly comforting you through the ways he mirrored off from his brothers: a sloppy kiss to your knuckles, a joke cracked here and there, and wiping your eyes and nose with his sleeves; tim learns that stalking can only do so much. he learns what it feels like to be needed for emotional connection and nothing else and that only further motivates him to be perfect for you, and to be with you, his sibling, more often than to simply live right under your nose.

and damian, your baby brother, who's unsurprisingly the one who sleeps in your room, or has you sleep in his room, the most. damian tells himself he's incapable of love, of showing it or reciprocating it. but for you, he tries, and like jason, he learns. he discovers just how depraved both of you are when it comes to love. it enlightens you both and it makes damian feel a deeper sense of connection with you than anyone else. with you, he feels like a child: vulnerable, yet uncaring and free, like the true meaning of being a robin, one the soars through the skies with no grandfather or mother or league to watch your every step as their successor. all the times you cry, he silently sobs with you, holding your cheeks down to his level with scarred palms. silent, yet comforting, he'd allow his smaller form to simply become your teddy bear whilst he whispers consolations. about how strong his older sibling is, how precious you are for being comfortable with him to speak of your problems, how you're everything to damian just as he wishes to be the world for you. it makes you think you're more immature that him, it makes him grateful that he has you. even though he doesn't say it, he shows through actions just how truly important you are whenever he draws a sword towards his enemies, thinking about you and his unsaid promises.

nights where you're reminded of that solitary confinement, of the darkness that creeps into your vision and the voices that pierce through your ears. nights where you feel you've exhausted yourself of hope, where what was once warmth that hugs your heart is now that frigid, yet burning spikes that penetrates into the confidence that you'll somehow, someday, run away from that hellhole— those were nights you thought you'd never live with proper sleep. but as one or two of them holds you in their embrace whenever your nightmares consume your being, you're slowly allowing your established walls to fall apart, all for the mere implication of their love.

who would save you, if not for them? their hushed whispers of consolation, hands that wrap around your figure, and fingers that knead your cheeks provide you that deep sated comfort you always wanted. the sleeves they use to wipe away both saltine liquid and snot, to slowly silence your blubbering rambles, your inconsolable crying; it's warmer than the basement you used to be locked in as a child, with dripping faucets the only source of your water— they saved you once before, who's to say they won't save you a thousand times more?

every time you feel like crying, every time that familiar faulty tap in your eyes begins to dampen against ashen skin, it's them that asks you if you're alright. even if you grit your teeth, even if you seeth or bite or beat or punch or kick, to punish yourself, to cope through the trauma, to not feel nothing.

every time pain begins to sear through your skin, it's your grandfather, father, brothers and sisters that huddle around you and tell you 'you're safe here, in the manor, with us'.

every time they spend hours, ditching patrol nights, cooking your comfort food, reading your favorite books, watching movies for hours, ignoring your assigned sleep schedule, kissing your scarred hands gently, reverently, cuddling your form against their strong ones as a silent promise that with them, there's nothing to harm you no more— you'd feel lighter every time, a tad happier, even. slowly, but surely, melting against the confines of your adorned cage and the embrace of your loving captors.

every time they help you heal, it makes you forgive, and it makes you forget their prior kidnapping in return of building new memories with them, in a safer haven, with nobody to hurt you any longer, with nobody to bash your head against concrete walls, to punish you. you who is underserving of the circumstances bought upon you back then.

safe, a word you thought you'll never feel, a word you didn't even know existed in the crevices of your heart. but it is with them that you slowly start to associate safe with family.

the family that you've come to love and cherish in your own imperfect ways, the same way a stray dog becomes too loyal to a passerby when given bones for leftovers every day.

but you're not an animal, and you're not a pavlovian dog meant to be conditioned. no, you're their baby, their love, their treasure and their only one. the love they feed you exceeds beyond leftovers. only you can devour them wholly, the same way they cloak your world in the love that fills that neverending pit in your heart.

you're not biologically related to any of them in any way, too. yet it was all a matter of coincidence that they stumbled upon you.

but really, past is past.

then is then.

now it's just you and them.

it's you, with them.

just your family. overbearing, overprotective, overpowering.

but nothing is always over to you. their love isn't too much. how could you tell yourself it's too much? not when you were never given a basis of what is too much. how is one too much when you were never even given enough?

trust is built upon a foundation of connecting with others who can relate with you one way or another, who can see past through your flaws and mistakes— it's a bond that precedes mere acquaintanceship.

you might've met them later than everyone else, but it's you that completes them.

you're the puzzle that completes the family photographs, the goal for bruce to continue his legacy as batman and to ward off all evil, the inspiration for dick to be that aspiring hero everyone sees him to be, the reason jason begins to reform himself for your sake, the purpose for tim's endless pursuit of knowledge, the muse for damian's painting, the subject for his love he thought was no more, the ambition for steph's prolongation despite her countless of failures, the motivation for barbara to seek out all the criminals who have harmed you, the influence for cass to be stronger to protect you, the catalyst for duke to use his metahuman abilities for good, to take out those who walk in broad daylight, as if they weren't involved in your past tortures.

you're everything that they are.

their sunshine and moonlight, their companionship and loneliness, their pain and pleasure, their yin and yan.

their greatest passion.

a/n: hii guys erm. this is so sudden and also counts as a rant but yk... i feel like quitting this blog but at the same time not. it's just, i feel like writing has been more of an obligation than anything else. it doesn't help the fact that i've only been getting interaction if i were to actually produce something good. beyond that, it feels like people are expecting more of me. i get it, updates are sporadic, they appear in the blink of an eye when you least expect it, but at the same time it's just hard juggling what i want to write and what i feel like i need to write. this blog was primarily to post about my thoughts and to talk to people but lately, every time i open this app to write, i feel these plethora of thoughts and expectations telling me that if i don't do well enough then people would merely ignore whatever i post or it's just bad by standards. and yes i'm grateful for all the people supporting my writing, but at the same time i'm lead to a cycle of me losing my motivation to continue writing. ugh idk what im doing anymore help :((

tl;dr: will i stop writing? no, but at the same time i don't know. someday, i may deactivate this account out of impulse if i feel too much, or not. it depends hehe.

[rainydayathogwarts]

Open arms - Emily Prentiss

Smut - the way this fic has been sitting half written in my drafts forever. Go me for finally getting it done. Summary: Emily can't help but approach her ex in a dimly-lit bar wc: 2.1k

Emily thought that the night would be nice and relaxing for her and the team, celebrating another closed case at their favourite bar, their laughter drowning out the sounds of other people's conversations in the dim-lit restaurant. That was until her eyes locked in on a familiar figure standing near the bar, most definitely accompanied by someone. Emily froze, her hand tightly gripping her drink, and audibly gasped when you turned around, exposing your face to her.

"Y/n?" She whispered, catching Penelope and Derek's attention, who both turned to look at her. "You okay there Prentiss?" But she really wasn't. You were her only partner who ever stayed up waiting for her to come home from a case, genuinely concerned about her. You held her in your arms, letting her just sit there and open up if she wanted to. If she didn't, it didn't bother you, and you showered her with love nonetheless, always managing to pull a smile from her. And you were definitely the best in bed. Having you withering under her, relentlessly crying out her name was an image Emily would never forget.

She regretted leaving you every day, but it would keep you safe. After seeing what Hotch had to go through, she knew it was the smartest decision. Now that you were there though, in person after over a year of being apart, she wouldn't be able to stay away from you. If you would let her that was. She remembered your reaction, how you completely broke down, calling bullshit on her 'keeping you safe' excuse.

"I'm fine." She said, bringing herself out of her trance to take a long sip of her drink. "That an ex of yours?" Derek questioned, looking at you, now talking to a friend. You looked gorgeous, he thought. Your short black dress showed off your long legs and had a low cut to display your biggest weapon, the heels you wore flexing your calf muscles in the nicest way possible. Your stunning smile exposed your white teeth while a hand flipped your hair over your shoulder. He wondered how a dumbass like Emily was able to get you.

Emily's head shot back in your direction when she heard coughing, only to find out it was you, your face now going red as you choked on your drink, your friend, who Emily now realised she knew from when you dated, rubbing your back. Oh no... When the coughing stopped, you immediately looked back at her, confirming your suspicions. She returned your eye contact, awkwardly waving at you before you were suddenly facing away from her, refusing for the interaction to continue, earning a sympathetic look from your friend.

Emily heard a chorus of "Oof" and "Oh"s from the team, who were all cringing at the interaction. "Shut up." Emily groaned, stealing a shot from in front of Derek and downing it. She coughed twice, ignoring Derek's complaints, and turned to Spencer who was now telling them a statistic about exes. "It was actually found that 44% of Americans get back with their exes at some point after breaking up. And that only includes relationships post-break up instead of one night stands, so I'd say your chances are pretty high."

As much as Emily was unimpressed that Reid was giving her dating advice, she found herself walking up to you the minute your friend left, leaving you alone at the bar. Better me than anyone else shooting their shot, she thought. It was only when she stood right next to you that she realised she had no idea what to say and that the entire team was probably watching their interaction. She cleared her throat, muttering a small "Hey." You jumped slightly, rotating on the bar stool to face your ex-girlfriend. Emily expect you to frown, thrown your drink in her face even, but to her shock, you cracked a small smile at her. "Hey Em". "Can I sit?" She asked, shifting her weight from one leg to another.

You nodded, watching her as she sat. She looked different. She had cut her hair into bangs and wore her hair pin straight instead of the loose curls she'd put them in. She wore a low cut black top with black jeans as well as her go to combat boots. You assumed she came here straight from work. When you looked back up at her face, she was still staring at you, her gaze stuck on your thighs. "Um, can I get you a drink or something?" Her head shot up and she shook it "No, I've had enough to drink. Thanks." A long awkward silence followed and you looked over at the table she had come from, watching as all of her friends' heads shot in the opposite direction apart from one of them, still cluelessly observing you.

"I'm sorry - I shouldn't have-" "No!" You cut her off, cheeks going rosy. "Why don't we go for a walk or something?"

That walk led you both to the side of the road, waiting for a taxi as you made small talk, no discussion of going to either of your apartments until you were both sat in the back of the taxi on the way to your flat. Emily's hand rested on your thigh, both of your sides pressed against each other, faces mere inches apart as her free hand snaked around your waist, pulling you closer to her. You felt your desire for Emily grow, squeezing your thighs together to get any amount of friction.

Emily's eyes caught the movement, smiling slightly as she felt her own core heat up for you. She leaned towards you to look out of the window, pressing her tits up against you as she tried to see how far away you were from the apartment, making small talk while you waited. The second the taxi driver pulled the car over, she was tossing her money at him and following you out of the car, both her hands resting on your hips as you led her into your fancy building and towards the elevator. The second you were in the elevator, pressing the button to the right floor, her hands were wrapping around your waist and she was pressing her lips against the soft skin of your neck.

You grabbed her hand when the elevator doors opened, leading the way to your apartment and frantically opening and shutting the door before you turned around, throwing yourself into Emily's arms. You slammed your lips onto hers, wrapping your arms around her neck as you pressed your body against hers. Her hands were immediately under the skirt of your dress, groping the fat of your ass in her hands. You pulled away from the kiss, muttering "couch" to Emily, who complied, bending down slightly so she could wrap her arms around the back of your legs and picking you up.

You squealed as she walked you over to your big couch, having forgotten about her FBI agent strength. She dropped you on the couch, crawling over you but you pushed her back so she fell flat on her back on the large couch, throwing a leg over her hips to straddle her. She tried sitting up but you pushed her back, kissing her again so she would give in, letting you take control of the kiss. Her hands trailed up your body until they reached your tits and she tugged at the front of your dress, letting them spill out the front of it. You gasped, and she took your shock to her advantage, throwing her hips up into yours and rolling over so she was on top of you.

Her hands were instantly on your tits, pulling and twisting at your nipple, the other one in her mouth. "Em, Emily!" You begged, trying to grind your hips into hers but she wouldn't listen, taking her time kissing all over your body. When she couldn't reach any more skin due to the fabric of your dress, she fully separated from you, ordering you to turn around so she could undo the zipper. So you got up onto your knees, allowing Emily to undo your dress and pull it above your head, before her hands were wandering again, down your stomach and into the skimpy panties you wore.

She moaned into your ear, feeling how wet you were before both her hands were at your hips again and she was tugging you towards her as she fell backwards, landing you in her laps. She welcomed your kisses, tightly gripping your hips as you ground your cunt on her jean-clad skin. Eventually, you got desperate, tugging her shirt up so you could feel underneath it, hungrily reaching for her tits. At your whine, she finishes the job for you, tossing her shirt somewhere in the room before your hands were back behind her, unclasping her bra.

Before you manage to throw yourself onto Emily even further, you feel her hand under your panties, immediately searching for your clit, which she finds in mere seconds. You hear yourself begging for her, struggling to hold yourself above her. Emily's hands manhandle you so your back in pressed against hers, your legs spread in front of you. Her hands begin wandering once more, and she inserts two fingers into your warm core. You cry out, arching your back as Emily continues to suck hickeys onto your neck.

Her unoccupied hand plays with your tits, alternating which one she massages. Your head rests in the crook of her next, trying not to buck your hips into her hand as she continues fingering you. Your chest heaves with each breath you take, and you're too far into pleasure land to think of how much of a mistake you were making. You feel the familiar knot building up in your stomach and whimper, your hands reaching below you to grasp Emily's thigh. Moaning loudly with an arch of your back, you cum on Emily's hand. Emily, who is whispering praises in your ear and brushing your hair out of your face with her free hand.

With the effects of your orgasm now gone and you catching your breath, you begin to internally cringe. Why on earth did you think this was a good idea? You will yourself to turn around in Emily's arms, whispering "Your turn", fully aware that she wouldn't say yes. "No baby, it's okay. This is just about you." You nod, allowing yourself to fall onto the couch beside her. "I'm gonna go get cleaned up." Dragging yourself up from the couch, your legs still shaking, you shut the bathroom door before Emily gets the time to follow you.

You wrap a free towel around your torso, mentally cussing yourself out, thinking of a way to get Emily out of your house. The clock on the wall reads 3:28. It's late. You should go home. Repeating the words to yourself, you open the bathroom door to be met with the tall brunette. She smiles widely, a hand coming to your hip to bring you close and kiss you softly. You return her kiss but can't bring yourself to do the same with a smile. She senses the change in your behaviour and you take that as your chance to tell her: "It's late. You should go." You look down and away from her face so you can't see the way her smile drops. "Right. Um, this was fun." Your hum is enough of an answer to her and you practically chase her to the door once she's fully clothed.

Once the door is shut behind her, you peek through the peep hole to see her bring a hand up to her forehead, squeezing her eyes shut. She calls someone on the phone, someone you can only imagine was at the table with her at the bar. Listening closely through the door, you hear "No Derek, I did not win her heart back. She's really done with me."

But it's late. You should go sleep.

[gortash-did-nothing-wrong]

Feral 3

Minors Do Not Interact!!!

Warnings: pregnancy, violence, murder (but it's the Baron so yay), mentions of the Baron being a pedo, mentions of Feyd being a victim of the Barons.

Feyd had a new issue with Friz. Ever since he had begun helping Y/N with the little beast, holding him securely while Y/N clipped his nails, frimmed the fur around his paws and butt, and held him in the bath water while Y/N scrubbed the filth and loose hair off of him, the shedding had become so much less of an issue. Feyd had even found a setting on the shower head that Friz actually enjoyed against his throat. With a lot of patience, an absurd amount of chicken liver treats, and many close calls by cat claws, Friz was… somewhat tamed. The cat didn't like getting his nails trimmed, of course, but Feyd and Friz has come to an understanding. Feyd trimmed exactly one of his claws every day, and Friz got a freshly fried chicken liver with catnip sprinkles for his troubles.

Y/N had been shocked at the improvement in her pet. "I thought he was too old to be tamed properly." She admitted.

"How old is he, exactly?" Feyd asked.

"About sixteen." She said. "I got him when he was a feral kitten, I was about five. He was passed being bottle fed, so he didn't bond with me right away. It took weeks of work for him to even eat in front of me."

Feyd hummed to himself, wondering why anyone would even put that amount of time into a cat.

"Oh, by the way, I saw the doctor today." Y/N said casually. "He ran some tests, and it turns out I'm pregnant."

Feyd felt his face go blank. "What?"

--------

Y/N's pregnancy was… rough. Her cravings were for fresh fruit and cheese, things they didn't get often on Giedi Prime. Meat made her nauseous, something his uncle made constant jokes about. The bastard even hinted that Feyd's child might come out anemic and weak.

Ah, right, speaking of his uncle. Obviously the second Feyd realized his wife was pregnant, Vladimir couldn't go on living. Other than the fact Feyd hated the man, his baby might be a boy. And the idea of the Baron being on the same planet as a son of Feyd's, with his disgusting appetite for young boys was unacceptable. The Baron had a rather unfortunate accident. His normal nightly routine of smoking spice and soaking in his tub took a rather unfortunate turn. He indulged a tad bit too much, got a bit too dizzy, and drowned in his tub. The old man's body was so large it took a half dozen slaves to pull him out of the tub, even after it was drained.

Feyd inherited the throne, and life went on. Y/N looked practically ethereal with a baby bump and a crown on her head as she sat on her throne beside Feyd. The crown was only for the initial ceremony of course, neither of them could be bothered with dressing in ceremonial clothing every day.

Especially Y/N. Her pregnancy seemed to get rougher by the day. Morning sickness from the earlier months turned into near constant aches and pains in her back and legs. Feyd wasn't sure how women without servants survived their pregnancies. Who helped them tie their shoes? Their husbands? They must. Y/N's feet swelled so much, most days she didn't even bother with shoes. He came back to their newly renovated quarters (because even if Feyd wanted the bigger set of rooms his uncle had left behind after his death, he certainly didn't want any of the man's stench hanging around. Feyd had the place gutted and new floors and walls installed. Y/N had picked out the paint, of course.) to find her sitting on the couch with her feet propped up on an ottoman. Feyd tried to comfort her as best he could, but other than having the servants draw her a bath or bring in a foot tub for her feet to soak, there wasn't much to be done.

Thankfully she just seemed to want him to be close to her. And by the stars did he want to be right next to her all the time. His hand seemed to be permanently fixed to her belly, and he'd grin excitedly anytime he felt a kick from his son. Yes, his son. The doctor had confirmed it, and Feyd was both delighted and devastated. He had secretly hoped for a girl out of some misguided belief that it would be easier. Some vague idea that if his child was a girl then he wouldn't see himself reflected in her as much. So he wouldn't have some happier version of himself taunting him about what his childhood could have been.

But when he truly sat down to think about raising his son, Feyd found the idea soothing. No one would rip his son from Y/N's arms and take them away to a house of horrors. No one would mistreat him the way Feyd had been mistreated. His son would never doubt he was loved and cared for.

Y/N had commented on it over snacks one night. Nightly snacks might be his favorite part of pregnancy if he was being honest. Y/N always seemed to have a plate of something nearby and he was always offered some.

"I think it will be healing for you." She said, munching on a few strawberries. "Raising a little mini you, with all your mannerisms. And those beautiful eyes of yours."

Feyd chuckled, his face pressed against her belly as he felt his son kicking at his face. "He has strength, that's for sure. His kicks are getting stronger every day."

"Painful, too." Y/N said, wincing after a particularly strong kick from her baby.

Feyd turned back to her belly, patting it gently. "Easy now, my boy. Don't bother your mother so. She deserves rest after a long day of making you."

A little paw swatted at his nose. Ah. Right. His new problem. Friz stared at Feyd until Feyd sat up, removing himself from Y/Ns belly. The cat immediately started his nightly routine of massaging Y/Ns belly with his little paws, kneading at the baby bump for a few minutes before curling up and purring on it.

Y/N smiled, "It's like he's trying to keep them warm."

"We have blankets." Feyd said dryly, unhappy to have been chased from his wife's belly by a cat.

"It's instinct to him." His wife said, trying to soothe him by taking his face in her hands and peppering little kisses all over his cheeks. "Now, have a snack and tell me about your day."

Feyd took the bowl of strawberries from her, laying back against the headboard and sighing. "I've had such a day."

[moonlight-prose]

BLOOD ALONG THE MOON

➛ 04. ECHOES OF MADNESS

a/n: for some unknown reason, this man has decided to invade my thoughts again. between watching the batman again with @soulores and just fall making me long for this man again, this was bound to happen. i've been working on this chapter for months now, having started it well into april. but i'm actually feeling good about continuing. i've created a graphic for this story which i will add at the end of this chapter. hopefully this inspo sticks around for a bit because i'm excited for what's to come.

summary: funerals were a rarity in gotham, yet there you were at the most notable event of the year. few could truly get in...yet everyone was invited.

word count: 6.2k+

pairing: bruce wayne x f!reader

warnings: not explicit, cussing, violence, blood, angst, rescue mission, canon compliant sorta, danger, tensions running high, bruce doesn't know how to interact socially, our favorite reporter is an idiot when it comes to safety.

PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER | SERIES MASTERLIST

Death seemed to shape the city of Gotham as the currents of a river would a stone. Wherever you looked, in every alleyway and around each street corner there was the stench of it. The way it seeped up from the cracked asphalt, spilled into the gutters, and leaked into the sewer lines. Tainting what good might have remained.

You couldn't remember the last time you attended a funeral. Yet people still kept dying. The call came early in the morning; Henry informing you—with a hoarse whisper of someone suffering a hangover—that you were to attend the biggest event in Gotham. Few could truly get in, yet everyone was invited.

The irony of the situation lingered like shitty burnt coffee on the back of your tongue.

From what Bruce Wayne told you briefly in his short but right to the point interview, this city once aspired to be something great. A beacon of hope for all those who needed it. But the only hint of that you could see echoed in the symbol that hung in the sky. You watched last night, a glass of wine in front of you and a scowl painted across your face, as dawn began to rise and the signal flicked off. Bringing another night of petty crime to a close.

Of course, you believed in what The Bat was doing; what he stood for. A call of vengeance to any piece of shit who tried to go against him. But at the end of the day you still witnessed the disaster that was left behind. The tarnished cold aftermath of all that he could not save.

The madness that stirred beneath the surface.

The click of your boots on the damp pavement was drowned out by the nonsensical chatter of the crowd. Reporters, photographers, anyone to capture this moment were corralled like cattle behind varying gates of different sizes. You almost wished you had a camera to solidify this moment in Gotham's history books. There you were, standing on the steps of a cathedral, a funeral for the mayor about to occur, and all people wanted was to see who attended. Who was on his personal friends list.

The bile slid up the back of your throat, burning your esophagus on the way. There had to be some irony to this situation. Some dark humor yet to be exposed. Maybe if you dug far enough...you'd find it.

"Daywalker!" You jumped at the nickname, your body on edge after the past two nights reporting. Flicking your gaze to the side, you caught sight of Martinez waving at you with a grin plastered across his face.

He took your grin as an invitation to join you on the steps.

"Quite an event huh."

Tugging your coat closer, you did what you could to wash away the chill of the morning air. "Anyone who's anyone is here."

He chuckled, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Who'd have thought they all knew the mayor."

"I guess he had friends in low places," you muttered, the wry smile on your face seemed to be all you could muster at this point.

The idea of the mayor being involved with Gotham's crime bosses didn't surprise you. In fact you probably would have been shocked if they didn't turn up. Dressed to the nines, dripping in jewels, and wearing grief as if it were stripped right off the runway.

Citizens lined the streets, their heads bowed in respect and in your mind's eye, they were the embodiment of a Baroque painting. Except they weren't worshiping the mayor as king. No, their eyes were cast to the cars that just pulled up. Mouths gaping in awe as none other than Carmine Falcone stepped out of his car, suit pressed and glasses hiding the truth.

You almost wanted to laugh.

A sleek black car pulled up to the line of cars, the rumble of the engine familiar to your ears. You turned, the collar of your coat blocking half your face against the cold air. Only to meet the gaze of Gotham's very own Prince. Bruce Wayne was dressed in a perfectly pressed suit with not a single hair out of place. Yet you could see the way he hid beneath the facade of wealth, how his eyes refused to meet anyone else's other than yours. His lips curled into a small hint of a smile, but people were starting to block you from sight, pulling his attention away to something far more important.

"I've got to help Gordon inside," Martinez said, pressing a soft hand to your arm. "Let's get out of the cold, yeah?"

Nodding, you climbed the remainder of the steps and followed him into the cathedral. The high ceilings casted shadows amongst them of people on the balcony level. Gotham's very own ghosts attending the funeral of a man who promised to save them. The architecture reminded you of prisons, of cells built specifically to drive men insane.

Maybe that was the point of Gotham to begin with.

To drive the people within it mad.

"Miss Day," Gordon greeted you with a gruff murmur, the exhaustion painted clear across his face.

As usual the detective who had The Bat in his pocket refused to find time to sleep. Especially on days like today.

"Detective." You glanced up, eyes tracing the silhouettes of Gotham's people as they gathered to the edge. Hungry for what might happen next—for the demise of those in power. "Busy day?"

He scoffed. "You got no idea."

"Trust me. I think I do," you murmured.

"Where's the big guy?"

Your eyes caught his briefly. "Henry Goldfinch doesn't attend the funerals of men he didn't believe in."

For the first time that morning, Gordon cracked a smile. "Harsh review."

You shrugged. "Or honest."

"Henry isn't one to make brash statements unless he knows something." Gordon's eyes narrowed slightly and suddenly you felt like you were the one being interviewed. "Does he know something?"

The familiar figure of a man you couldn't seem to dispel from your mind creeped past slowly, his head bowed and eyes cast to the floor. Yet he seemed to grow in height as he heard your voice. Even completely lost within his own mind, Bruce Wayne still searched for you wherever he went. How he managed to get under your skin alluded you. But the same could surprisingly be said for him as well.

"If he knew something he wouldn't tell me." You shifted the second Bruce's head rose, blue eyes fixing directly on you. "But you can't honestly stand there and tell me The Riddler or whatever the fuck he calls himself didn't target our mayor for a reason."

"You think the mayor was dirty?"

You scoffed. "I'm not saying that, but given the audience that's accrued in this building today...it wouldn't surprise me if he was."

"Day–" Gordon's words were cut off as Martinez loudly greeted someone behind you.

"Detective."

You were nearly ashamed of yourself at how quickly you recognized his raspy voice. The time you spent in the diner together played on a loop in the back of your mind. Admitting it weighed on your heart, but denying the truth felt inconceivable.

For that small amount of time as rain pelted the windows and music played softly in the background, you felt like a person again. Not a reporter sent out into the fray of Gotham, but you. The person buried beneath the trench coat you wore; the person who only seemed to come out on days when the sun shone over this dark city.

"Mr. Wayne." Gordon's eyes widened slightly, disbelief smeared across his face. It seemed the funeral dragged out even the most reclusive of souls. "I didn't expect..."

"Could I steal Miss. Day from you for a moment?" Even you could tell he was fighting against the uncomfortable nature of being out in public.

The thought nearly made you smile.

"Of course."

Gordon's attention was called away as Bruce's hand brushed your arm. You wondered if you were in a private setting, would he act differently? Would he touch you? Lead you himself? Or would he remain detached?

"I saw you arrive," you said, clasping your hands together and glancing at the throng of people that meandered through the doors. "Sorry I didn't say hello."

His mouth curled, eyes lighter than you'd seen them. If you squinted you might have seen the small glint of delight hidden in the blue of his iris. He hid the sight of joy well—a secret you weren't allowed to view yet. But for a split second...his mask slipped. You caught what might have been the Bruce Wayne of the past; the man that could still exist to this day.

"Quite an event to run into each other again."

You bit on the inside of your cheek to stop your grin. Flirting at a funeral reeked of inappropriate behavior. And yet you couldn't find it in your heart to care much, given the audience.

"And here I thought I'd have to pry you out of your tower to see you again," you joked, wishing he might gift you another small glimpse of that smile you knew existed.

His head ducked, lips pulling up, and your heart effectively stopped. "Am I that difficult?"

"Oh no," you said, breathing out a laugh. "Difficult is too generous. Now arduous or laborious or onerous–" He laughed, his eyes crinkling and oh how you longed to kiss him, to taste him on your tongue. "Those are a better fit in your case."

"Noted." He stepped closer as people shifted behind him, squeezing through the crowd for a seat. "Some days I'm more shadow than man. I'll make sure to be more available to you."

There were no rules or regulations about dating someone you'd interviewed. Henry seemed all for it—Alfred even more so—but you felt the nausea begin to eat at your stomach. The wariness of something to come. The truth wasn't out yet about all of this, why the mayor was killed, and until you felt comfortable again in Gotham...you weren't sure you wanted to start something with Bruce Wayne.

A relationship with him would bring you into the spotlight.

For a reporter, that was dangerous enough. For the ones you loved...it was lethal.

"Bruce...I–"

His eyes went blank, body moving away as he caught the conflict that flashed across your face. You didn't want him to get hurt. Refused to be the reason that the Wayne family no longer had someone to carry the name forward. Perhaps that's why you cut off your feelings and stowed them away in your heart. Or maybe you were simply terrified of someone finally knowing you.

After all...it had been awhile.

You longed to say all of this and more out loud, but whether or not he'd listen was a different story entirely.

"Were you at the scene?"

His question caught you off guard. "What? Oh...um...yes. I was."

He nodded. "Are you okay?"

If you had to count on one hand how many times Bruce Wayne left you speechless, floundering for coherent words, you'd run out of fingers. Rather than seek information and dig out every detail from your mind as others already had. He wanted to know if what you saw, the horror that still stuck to your skin, left scars of their own.

He wanted to make sure every part of you remained safe. Not simply your ability to do your job.

"Yes," you breathed, the rip in your chest—that inconsolable ache—suddenly too much to bear. "Thank you."

The conversation came to a natural conclusion when the procession began, the soft tinkle of a piano echoing off the stone walls. His lips parted, words on the tip of his tongue, but the sound of his name caused him to stiffen. Within seconds you watched the man you'd come to know vanish. Until the recluse Gotham recognized resurfaced.

"It was nice to see you," you said softly with a smile, leaving him to speak with others as you sought your standing place beside Martinez.

People diverted their attention as Falcone stepped into the building, his aura enough to fill the cathedral with fear and the distant tang of blood. You wondered if he ever felt it on his skin. The phantom warmth of someone else's life slipping through his fingers. Did the ghosts of his past haunt him as they did others? Or was he immune to their effect?

A villain with the eyes of a friend.

"Gordon would love to put that asshole behind bars," Martinez muttered, leaning on the wall beside you. "Walks in here like he owns the fuckin' place."

You sighed, unable to ignore the way Gordon glared at the man from across the room. The promise of death—or a fate worse—alight in his eyes.

Months ago, when rumors about Falcone began to spill into the Gazette's back doors, you attempted to write a story. To put a face of truth to the man pulling all the strings. Before you could even blink, Henry killed it with ease. Practically burning your files right in front of you and barring you from returning for a whole week. 

You never understood what power Carmine Falcone held over people before that day. Only when you saw true fear in Henry's eyes at the thought of reporting your death, did you finally grasp the scope of this man's hold.

The reality of Gotham's darkness.

"Maybe he does," you mused, sipping on the coffee he brought you. "Maybe he owns every person in this room. We just don't know it yet."

"Wouldn't that be something," Martinez scoffed, tucking a hand into his front pocket. "Definitely somethin' to make the front page."

You grinned although no ounce of humor could be found in your otherwise solemn facade. The mayor was dirty. Everyone within a five foot radius could see that with a clarity that rarely befell a gloomy Gotham. But saying it out loud felt as if you were partaking in a misdeed that would get you burnt at the stake; no doubt turning you into the first killed witch in this damn city.

Of course news like that would make the front page. It would be slapped on every newspaper and magazine that was published only to seep through the streets and find the path to other cities beyond the outskirts. The blood of Gotham wouldn't merely affect the people here. It would lead to catastrophic downfalls in places you'd never been to, spots that would take this as a lesson to learn from—to do what this city could not.

You lost yourself in the chatter. The monotonous conversations of people attempting to pry at the personal life of a man no one truly knew. Although if you were the one being asked you wouldn't say that exactly.

There was only one man in this cathedral who truly knew the mayor and he was currently being regarded as the King of Gotham.

Disgust simmered low in your belly, mixing brutally with the tepid coffee you still sipped at. Carmine Falcone always knew when to stick his hand in something that might bring him power. Fucking with the mayor was a one way ticket into an office of some prestige.

Not even you would put it past him.

The choir began to sing while the remainder of the crowd shuffled inside, swarming their way to what chairs still remained. You leaned against the wall, feet crossed at the ankles and eyes tracking every slight movement over the rim of your cup. Martinez chatted with a cop to his right, giving you the space he so obviously thought you needed. Maybe he believed you were actually mourning the man in the coffin. The savior of Gotham.

You didn't have the heart to tell you were stuck in a long line of people waiting to speak their truth about who that man really was.

An alto reached a pitch that grated on your ears. The cold air from outside brushing across your face and stinging your nose. This would be a long procession. You could tell from the way people never quite sat down—ambling between rows of chairs, each of them clamoring to talk to the next. You spotted Bruce stuck in a conversation of his own, head ducked and back stiff. It wouldn't take a genius to figure that he loathed being out in the open—a feral animal who continuously looked to see if someone was attempting to back him into a corner.

One day he might snap, bite the hand of Gotham for the shitty circumstances it gave him.

For now he seemed desperate to slip away and hide in the shadows just as you were doing.

The echo of music came to an abrupt halt, people stopping instantaneously as a roar sounded from outside. You heard the screams before you saw the car. The piercing wail of someone getting hurt, of others running for their lives. Your coffee tumbled out of your hands, splattering to the ground as someone shoved past you in an attempt to get to the front of the cathedral.

The situation at hand isn't what surprised you; it was the horror on their face at the thought they might die.

How strange that you chose to fixate on something so minimal when you should have feared for your own safety too.

"Day!" Martinez shouted, his arms wrapping around your waist and body pinning you to the wall when the other shoe finally dropped.

The car breached the entrance like a bullet being fired from a pistol. With enough speed to kill those close by with a swift and executing blow. People screamed while they ran. Some heading for the entrance, others cowering in fear along the wall. You tried to suck in a breath, but the impact of too many people crowded around became a punch to your lungs with each movement.

You never thought you were claustrophobic, but suddenly you began to consider the prospect as Martinez mumbled into your shoulder asking if you were okay. His hands pressed flat to the wall to keep the others from crushing you.

"We gotta get everyone out of here," he muttered under his breath.

You sucked in a breath despite the weight. "Where's Gordon?"

"By the front."

"Get over there. I'm fine here."

Another shove and your head rammed into the stone wall, splitting pain cresting over your right eye as you clamped down hard on the inside of your cheek to stifle the groan. That would come to bite you in the ass later—destroying any sense of calm you could harbor in your body. But at this very moment worrying about a small injury was the least of your worries.

"Are you sure?" The hesitation practically bled into his voice. Which only served to piss you off despite his courteous manners of sticking close to keep you safe.

"Go," you snapped.

Through the bustle of people clamoring to get out, you made a choice. One that placed your date of death higher up on a list than you might have liked. Sliding along the wall, you crept towards the barred staircase—the balcony cleared of anyone that crammed their way in to watch the funeral procession. Gordon's voice echoed above the disarray, directing the flow of panic as you sunk into the shadows bathed along the far right side.

No one would bother to check for civilians up here. Not after everyone sprinted for the exit; safety the only thing on their minds. Your boots were silent against the stone staircase, body hunched to avoid detection from the mountain of cops spilling in through the front. A man stood by the car door, hands raised and mouth taped over to muffle the sounds of his cries for help.

"Shit," you breathed, chancing a quick moment to lean over the railing. "That's the fucking D.A."

"Everyone out!" Gordon shouted.

He was the last one through the doors. You fished the black notebook out of your pocket and scribbled down two words.

D.A.

Corrupt

The two most notable suspects in a case gone wrong stared you directly in the face. The Riddler. The man who orchestrated this entire affair was finally making his presence known to the people of this disfigured city. Whoever hid behind that mask seemed desperate enough to string along as many corrupt men as possible. Which only made your suspicions grow—the list of people you often figured were too clean, too good, now falling to the forefront of your mind.

He wanted to unearth the truth.

He wanted to bring Gotham to its knees.

You ducked into a corner of the balcony, pen scratching along the page in a stream of consciousness that you'd later dissect for the paper. Henry would demand every finite detail you were able to collect. Which made staying up here your top priority.

A familiar thump resounded in the cathedral, bouncing off stone walls and filling the large vacant space. He walked in with purpose, bleeding a tremor of dominance in the still air that rumbled at the base of your chest. You shrunk against the small pillars, eyes trained on the figure in black as he moved towards the D.A. unafraid of the contraption strapped to the man's chest.

Even you had to hand it to The Bat. He clearly didn't fear what consequences might one day befall his own being.

He wasn't scared of the one thing all humankind shared amongst themselves. Death.

The shrill ring of a phone forced terror to claw up your throat. Whatever breath existed in your lungs vanished within a second. The Bat held himself in his usual tall stature of resilience. A man who looked like he could take the blast from whatever explosion The Riddler set out for him. That didn't stop the fear from nearly crippling whatever bravery you managed to cling to.

He could die today.

You didn't want to be the only one to witness this loss.

Their voices rang in the air, riddles spewing from the phone with a rancid air of madness you tasted at the back of your throat. And you wrote down each one. You put pen to the page and let the ink bleed the truth—your job taking precedence over your life. The people of this city had to know what happened, they deserved this much given the hell they fought through day and night.

"He's asking how much it costs for you to turn your back."

The pen nearly slipped from your hand at the gruff echo of his voice spilling what everyone wanted to know. Your head shot up, attention solely focused on what might very well be the biggest story The Gotham Gazette would ever see slapped across their front page.

"Ten G's a month. Ten grand. That's my answer."

You sucked in a shaky breath, fingers clutching the pen tight enough for pain to flare up your wrist.

"Please...tell us which vermin you're paid to protect."

"Holy shit," you whispered, sweat prickling along the back of your neck.

"The rat. The informant you're all protecting from the Salvatore Maroni case," The Bat urged, his voice thick with urgency. "What's his name?"

"No."

You scrambled to your feet, The Riddler's voice counting the seconds down in glee as The Batman did what he could to save a corrupt man's life. Your chest heaved with each breath, silence flooding the space until you had to lean over the railing just to hear their voices above your own heart beat.

"You're talking to a dead man," he whispered, eyes wide with a terror you'd never seen before.

"What's the name?"

He shook his head, trembling where he stood. "It's so much bigger than you could imagine. It's the whole system."

Your pen barely scratched the surface of the crinkled paper before the time ran out. The blast ricocheted off the walls, slamming into you with a force that crushed everything inside to the very back of your body. You cried out as it flung you into the wall with a loud crack, your skull hitting stone. Pain filled every sense, a faint high pitched ring overwhelmed whatever you could hear and suddenly you were back on that street as your blood stained the sidewalk.

Gasping wetly for a steady breath, you felt warmth trickle down your forehead, spilling onto the cold skin of your cheek. You reached for it in an attempt to stop the bleeding. Only for your vision to blur—the steady beat of your heart now pounding heavily within your chest.

"No," you breathed, rolling onto your back. "Not again."

Everything else cut out—each means of escape vanishing within a moment—and suddenly...the world went dark.

"You could have at least pulled that punch, man." The squeak of the elevator broke through the smoggy air atop the building as Gordon stepped out with a wince.

"I did."

"Bock put out an APB on you." Gordon sighed, his brows furrowed and his patience wore thin. "You really think he's in on this?"

"I don't trust any of 'em. Do you?"

Gordon shook his head subtly. "I only trust you."

The information was strewn about, traded in hoarse whispers as the city lights flickered on, night taking over Gotham once more. Pain lingered in his chest from the explosion but he could ignore it for the time being. This remained the most important thing in his life. The vital piece of a puzzle that slowly unfurled before his very eyes—reasons why The Riddler felt it necessary to target certain corrupt men.

"You got hit by the blast dead on. I don't know how you're still standing," Gordon stated plainly, his eyes flickering to the center of the plated armor on his chest—the symbol of a bat staring back.

"I'll live."

He nodded. "We felt it from outside. Had people dropping to the floor from the echoes."

Something burrowed its way to the front of his mind, trickling down into fear receptors that rarely triggered the longer he remained in his position. The people there were put in danger. They were hurt by what game The Riddler chose to play. But that's not what concerned him the most.

You were there amidst the crowd, lost to a sea of madness the second that car broke through the front gates.

"There's a reporter," he said, voice catching on the back of his throat. "Goes by Daywalker."

Gordon hummed. "Yeah I saw her there. One of the only good ones in the city if I'm honest."

"Did she make it out?"

The pause of silence gripped his heart in a way he didn't like. It filled his stomach with bile, sent it careening up his throat, and suddenly he was a child again in that alleyway. His eyes fixed on the only two people who were placed on this Earth to love him. To give him a life of joy and days overflowing with laughter. Not a bitter heartache that clung to the inside of his chest—digging claws into soft tissue simply to watch him bleed.

Gordon mulled over the question, racking his mind for the answer. "I didn't see her in the crowd." Was all he could come up with.

"You know anyone who can contact her?"

"She an informant?" When he was faced with a wall of hollow air, he dug for the phone in his jacket pocket, slamming down the number of the only man in Gotham who could locate a reporter. "Henry. Need a lead on one of your reporters. Goes by Daywalker."

A mumble of information filtered through the phone's speaker, barely loud enough for him to hear through the mask, but one word caught his attention like lightning cracking across the night sky. Missing. You were gone. Unheard of. His teeth clenched, fingers curling into fists as the patter of his heart quickened the longer he stood there unable to help.

"Thanks." Gordon pocketed his phone, rubbing a hand across his face. "No one's heard from her. Henry called it into the station, but they've pushed it off for now."

"What about Martinez?" He recalled the bitterness that soured his stomach at the sight of your smile given to someone who could offer you a sense of normalcy. "They seem friendly."

"He's been with me since the attack."

Prying the memories from his mind, he tried to place where he'd last seen you. Only to come up with an image of you leaning against the wall—a coffee in your hand and a frown painted across your lips. The wall...closest to the staircase. No other person would have made that choice—put themselves in that kind of danger. But the best reporter in Gotham wouldn't hesitate—they'd barely give themselves time to mull over the consequences.

"She never left," he muttered.

"What?"

He was striding towards the elevator before a response could leave his mouth. Gordon trailed after him, yanking the keys out of his coat with an urgency that nearly dropped them to the floor. You were still trapped within the walls of that cathedral, but that's not what made a cold chill curl at the base of his spine. Wherever you were remained within the blast radius of that explosion.

Which meant you were hurt.

The car roared to life with an anger that blasted in the night air. He slammed on the gas, swerving onto the street as Gordon drove behind—their urgency bleeding into every action. The state you were in is what gnawed at him the most.

The balcony wasn't far enough away, but he would have seen you standing there when he entered the building. He would have known you were there by your presence alone, even if his eyes were unable to pinpoint where exactly that happened to be.

He sucked in a breath, stopping in the alleyway beside the cathedral, before rushing towards the side entrance. The acrid scent of burnt flesh still permeated the air when he swung open the door. It slammed into his chest like before, marring his otherwise cool exterior. Anger seared up his chest, forcing itself to be known as he took the stairs two at a time.

Only to see a limp figure curled in on itself by the wall—a pool of dried crimson beneath them.

"No," he breathed, dropping to his knees. "C'mon. Wake up."

Your face was coated in a thick layer of dried blood, matting down your hair against your forehead. The shallow rise and fall of your chest gave him an indication on how long you'd been up here. Several hours without help. Hours spent alone floating between the states of conscious and unconscious. Your body had gone into shock long before he woke up in the police station, the injuries sustained far too much for your system to handle.

"Day," he muttered, cupping your face with a gloved hand. "Day wake up. Don't do this to me."

A weak gasp slipped past your chapped lips—eyes weakly fluttering against tear stained cheeks. "V-Vengeance?"

"Gordon!" Lifting you to his chest, he rose on his knees. "I'm here. I've got you."

"He's dead," you coughed, fingers scrambling to clutch onto his cape. "T-The D.A. he's–"

"I know."

"Victim," you mumbled, eyes rolling back as he got you to the stairs.

Knocking his forehead on yours softly, he dragged in another harsh breath. "Wake up. You hear me Day? Stay awake."

"F-Falcone–" A cough rattled your chest, body shivering at the harsh physical exertion. He clutched you tighter, hand gripping the back of your neck to raise your head. "Thomas...Wayne."

He froze, boots nearly tripping on the last step. "What did you say?"

The dead weight against his arms was all you offered in response. The fatigue and blood loss finally taking its toll on a body that had endured far too much—the explosion ripping everything from you. He held you close enough to feel the beat of your heart through your back, the soft breaths you managed became a warm wash of air along his chin. If this were a different time, if he was Bruce instead of The Bat he might have chanced an embrace like this.

But that amount of luck would never remain in the cards for a man like himself.

He'd forever be the savior, the man this city needed. Never the man you wanted.

"She's lost a lot of blood," he stated, laying you in the backseat of Gordon's car with a gentleness that startled him to his very core. "Trauma to the head from the blast."

"I'll get her to the hospital."

He chanced one last look at your peaceful face—fingers trailing lightly along your chin before retreating with a sigh. "Ask for Elain."

"And you?"

"The Penguin," he replied calmly. "We need to have a talk."

Chaos erupted in the hallway of the hospital, shouts heard left and right as two men were dragged out by security, their voices loud enough to rouse you from an excruciating sleep. Jolting in the shitty bed, you felt the prick of needles against the juncture of your forearm, a cold wash of liquid spreading up into your veins. The light pierced your eyes, blinding you for a moment as you came to with a searing headache.

A soft monotonous beep echoed beside you monitoring your heart rate—the hills and bumps of your life mapped out for you to see on a screen for the first time. You hated the hospital. Loathed the antiseptic smell that burned your nose, struggled to maintain a grasp on what the fuck happened to land you here.

And only when you fought to sit up—a pained shout wrenching from your chest—did it all come rushing back to you. The explosion. The D.A. The Ridder's whole reason for striking the way he did. He wanted to know about the rat, the man who every higher up in Gotham vowed to protect with their lives. You just never thought you would be included in that list—yet another victim to the grief that plagued this godforsaken city.

"You're awake." The door shut with a soft thud, Elain clicking her pen as she flipped through the keyboard at the end of the bed. "You suffered a blow to the head. Concussion. A detective brought you in, told me a mutual friend found you in the cathedral."

"Elain–" Your voice cracked in the small attempt of words, but her fury clamped your jaw shut instantly.

"Are you fucking insane? Or are you simply trying to die?" She huffed, setting the board back in its rightful spot. "I patch you up in your apartment while your shadow glares at me the whole time. But this? Found at the very scene where the D.A. just got blown to pieces. What the fuck Day?"

"I know–"

She sucked in a breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. "No you don't know. I've got people here who would love to know why you're here. People who don't work for Gotham P.D."

"I'm sorry," you mumbled.

"I'm not about to attend a funeral for you Day. That can't happen."

Shame hung heavy atop your shoulders. "I made a mistake. I shouldn't have stayed."

"Yeah. You did a whole lot more than that." Settling in the chair propped beside your bed, she clasped her hands together tight enough to turn her knuckles white. "There were witnesses when that detective brought you in. People who are now walking the halls outside this room because of it."

"They don't know anything."

"And if they do?"

You sucked in a shaky breath. "He wouldn't let that happen."

Her eyes sunk into the depths of your soul, prying out what you weren't telling her—what you kept close to your chest. "What's going on between you two?"

"Nothing–"

She grinned, lifeless and full of mirth—her eyes echoing with a dull exhaustion that came with working long hours in a ruthless city. "He cares about you Day."

"He doesn't care–"

"Yes. He does." Rising to her feet, she dug out your phone. "He wouldn't have searched for you if he didn't care."

The brightness of your screen burned your still bleary eyes—the notifications rolling in as the power started back up. Elain mumbled about grabbing food in the cafeteria, her body hunched forward when she left—head ducked to avoid the sight of whoever paced the halls. You couldn't stay here long if that was the case. Especially given the notes housed in your small notebook tucked into your hospital gown.

A message from Gordon caught your attention, the words short and simple. Yet filled with enough to send a flutter through your chest.

Hope you're okay. With your guy. Will be in touch soon.

–Gordon

You glanced at the message beneath it. A myriad of questions from Henry asking if you were at the funeral, if you caught any good interviews, if you were alive. You swallowed thickly at the last one—fingers clenching around your phone as the words blurred in front of you.

BRUCE WAYNE: OUT OF THE SHADOWS is a front page story set for publication in two days. Congrats kid.

–Henry Goldfinch

[partycatty]

drunkenly sending oldie johnny (your boss basically) nudes⁉️⁉️

older!johnny cage > because of you

warnings: ur ass and butt are out, age gap (ur about 30), drunken goobers

[ masterlist ]

you weren't the type of person to get plastered on a tuesday, but a mission with the special forces went off with every success possible. johnny, one of the leaders and coordinators, insisted that a party was well-deserved, as was a week off (provided that any netherrealm horrors don't peek their head around the corner in that time).

a healthy serving of wine swirled in your glass as you were too entranced in the motion to notice your boss coming up to you. he had a beer in hand, and a sloppier smile than the one he typically carried himself with. he was loosened up, ready to charm anyone that'll give him the time of day. it's one of those traits you never really let go of as you age.

"there you are!" he exclaims, slamming a large hand onto your shoulder. "been looking for you since i arrived. wanted to thank you for your smart thinking on the mission."

your cheeks flare up at the sudden, very masculine attention. "thank you, lieutenant, but i just did what i had to. i didn't put much thought into it, i just —"

he shuts you up quick, pinching two fingers in front of your face with a grin.

"i'm johnny tonight," he starts with. "and don't downplay yourself. you're one incredible little firecracker." and with that, he provides another reassuring slap to the arm before pivoting and returning to the center of the party, where more people were bound to interact.

the interaction was so platonic, so casual, but your head felt fuzzy. any attention from johnny sent you reeling despite your most professional attempts to keep it under wraps. you wanted to dump your wine onto the floor, but dammit, it was actually pretty expensive courtesy of johnny.

most of the night didn't really happen in your memory, you were in and out as you enjoyed probably more alcohol than intended. perhaps you were trying to drown your embarrassment. tragically for the party, you were a quiet, sleepy drunk. and johnny of all people noticed your gentle swaying before anyone else.

"hey hun, you doing okay?" he asks, a small slur in his own voice as well. he leans down to inspect you, a strong hand holding your arm. "you look like you're ready to fall over." it took a good amount of strength to not let a little moan out at how good he smelled, even when mixed in with alcohol.

you rub your eyes with a small "mhm," not really paying much attention to your surroundings. johnny was having none of it.

"i know i told everyone to party hard, but i think you've had enough, doll," johnny admits, hands on his hips. "how about you retire to your quarters?"

you want to nod, you want to be curled up in your bed and dreaming but you honestly struggled to recall the map to your quarters. you were in a large common room, that much you knew. but when it came to stumbling your way back, it felt like traversing the jungle. johnny noticed your hesitation.

"here, come on," he holds his arm out, in that helpful fatherly way he adopted after having cassie. although he could be an egotistical pain in the ass, he still knew how to flip the switch and be a useful member of the special forces. your wrap your arms around his, drunkenly flustering yourself with the side of his bicep. you almost blurt out how much you'd like to take a bite out of it, but you thankfully hold your tongue.

the walk felt impossibly long to the both of you, the only noise being his boots and your own heeled shoes. johnny looks down at you with a weak smile.

"you look nice," he compliments, admiring your figure in your outfit. "don't think i've ever seen you in civilian clothes before." instinctively, your face slams into his arm, concealing your flushed face. he jumps, eyebrows shooting up. "oh, not great with compliments, huh?"

oh my god, dude. this is your boss. your boss is complimenting you privately. he's walking you to your room. out of all of the other members, he knows where your room is?? you feel yourself sobering up in horror, but all you can do is squeak out an "mm-mm," into the fabric of his sleeve. he chuckles lowly.

"that's alright," he reassures you with a loose grin. "can you stay upright for me?" his request feels suddenly entirely possible. yes, he's your boss, but if he asked you to jump you'd ask how high. you'd probably agree to several crimes if he asked in that sultry voice of his. your back involuntarily straightens at his minor request, and he chuckles again. "good girl, there we go."

his words feel like the world's hottest spell. it's like his voice is the only thing to come through in your screaming mind, interjecting any dirty thoughts that could possibly be conjured up inside.

after however long it might've been, you're standing at your door with johnny looming behind you. noticing you're too drunk and flustered to move on your own, he reaches around you and opens your door for you, ushering you in by the small of your back. a back that might split in two if he was any rougher.

"you need me to tuck you in?" he asks teasingly, seating you on your bed and standing over you. his hand finds its way to the top of your head, stroking with the length of your hair. your head tilts up to look at him through fluttering lashes, a harsh shake of your head telling him you were a big girl, you could do it on your own.

"good girl."

and there it was again, that heat curling into your stomach at his words. he used that phrase rarely, very rarely in training. johnny knew of the connotation of the phrase, sure he did. but your mind was so foggy, you couldn't determine if it was an intentional usage or not. you could only take it for what it was.

the silence seemed to be a response in itself. he pats your thigh, standing upright fully.

"right. well, best get to bed," he insists coolly. his tone sounds restrained, distant. like he's trying to stay calm. you can't argue or protest, just hum in response. he checks behind him one last time before shutting the door and leaving you to flail in your blankets.

are you that drunk to think he's flirting with you? is HE that drunk to flirt with you? of course, in your twisted, distorted mind, this was an indicator that not only was he flirting with you, he wanted you biblically. carnally. whatever other word you could pull from your dulled brain.

the sensations he had left behind, his lingering scent, you were starting to lose it. even sitting upright, your hand dove under your pants and lazily played with yourself, trying to relieve the part embarrassment and part lust you felt from his presence.

in the heat of your masturbation, your horniness spoke to you like a devil on your shoulder, telling you to show him how good it was feeling. so, like a fool, you snapped a shaky video of yourself. you laid on your back and continued to massage your clit in slow, tender circles, enough to hopefully send him into shock.

you find his contact easily, considering you often searched for it and debated texting him outside of work hours. but now, that anxiety was gone, and you sent the video with no shame, captioning it with as flirty of a message you could type.

"m still thinkinf of yuo" was your best attempt so you settled with it. johnny didn't open it, considering he was at a party and likely too busy to check his phone. in your imagination however, it felt like a game to see how many times you could text him and still not get a response. so, you sent another.

you pulled your shirt up, letting your breasts ripple freely with each tug and pinch of your nipple. your drunken whines were barely audible unless the volume was on full blast. you sent it without shame.

"woulf feel bettre with yhor hands."

as a final attempt to get his attention, you type out a firm and blunt confession, one that you would have never thought to type in a million years. damn his pricey wine!!

"i need you"

at this message, he finally opens it and the read receipt makes you nauseous. could you lose your job over this? probably. johnny takes a looooong time to reply, though his message is short.

"sweetheart." that's all it says, and you can't make out the tone. condescending? encouraging? your conclusion is even more vague at his next message. "you're drunk. please get some rest."

if there's anything the special forces taught you, it's that you don't back down from a fight. so, you lazily shimmy your pants further down to get a juicier view of your sloppy pussy, dragging a thin line of your fluids to snap a photo of.

"cant hepl it," you text back. "need yoy all the timr"

"do i need to come in there and put you to bed myself so you stop sending those pictures?"

you swallow dryly. shit. maybe this isn't the best approach. he seems frustrated, annoyed with your pushy behavior. or maybe, and the thought makes you grin wickedly, maybe johnny wants to put you in your place the way you dream about.

"maybe," you add a tongue out emoji for extra measures. johnny reads it, but doesn't reply.

several minutes fly by as you're lazily toying with yourself, chasing the high that might've been a bad idea in hindsight. you'll worry about it when you're sober.

boots echo down the hallway. a master key jingles in your doorknob. you don't think to remove your hand from under your pants, instead craning your neck to see what the deal was.

the door slowly swings open, and johnny's silhouette is massive in the doorway. his breathing is heavy. his fists are clenched. a sight so beautiful in your drunk mind that you can't help but widen your legs ever so slightly. he seemingly twitches in response.

"lieutenant," you breathe out, your circular motions on your clit speeding up. johnny can only shush you before making quick strides to your side, slamming your thighs together with a deep sigh.

"bed," he commands darkly, voice sounding stern, but not in the way he'd act around the trainees. "now."

"mm," you whine, trying to reopen your legs but his hands clasp your knees harshly. "i was close." he sighs again, placing his forehead on your knees.

"doll," he warns you again. "i'm not asking."

"did you like the videos?" you slur out, bringing your fingers to your lips to nervously fiddle with them. "i made them for you."

he exhales sharply, sounding more like a frustrated hiss. "that's not—"

"did you like seeing me touch myself to you?" this brazen attitude comes out of left field for you. it was like your mind and body were on autopilot.

"you're playing a dangerous game."

"i know."

johnny tries to avert his eyes from you, but they can only fall to your wetness coating your thighs.

"jesus..." he mutters, tilting his head to get a better look. "doll, you're soaked."

"because of you."

"is that so?"

slowly, tenderly, he reopens your thighs with a palm on each leg. your cunt is on full display, soaked and aching from the previous pleasure. as if it was the only logical way to approach this, johnny's hand lowers to your core, swiping a thumb across your folds and making you jump. his eyes are glassy, like he's not in control of his actions. his jaw is tense.

"god, i..." his thumb pulls away and you writhe. "i shouldn't. we can't."

"why not?" your voice is whiny, needy for more.

"i'm your boss, doll."

"that makes it more exciting."

"if anyone finds out—"

"they won't."

his inner turmoil fizzes away when he catches another glance at your pussy, shiny and slick with need for him and him only. his thumb returns, darting straight to your clit to rub circles with his calloused fingerprint.

"i'm not gonna fuck you," he mutters, transfixed on the sight below him. you feel tears prick in the corners of your eyes when you can only weakly ask why not. he takes a moment to reply. "because i wouldn't be able to control myself."

johnny's fingers pick up the pace, now creating an obscene slick noise from your cunt with his fingers. he toys with your sensitive bud, relishing in the way you squirm and flush from his hands alone. his dick twitches eagerly with each moan you spill, and he thinks to himself that he'd rather enjoy making you scream from his dick. perhaps next time.

"johnny—" you whimper, hands digging into his forearm. "please, i— 'm close." you wish you hadn't gotten yourself a head start, so maybe it would last longer.

"mm?" his voice feels far away, not really listening to your warning as his brutal pace goes unfaltered.

"johnny," you try to warn him again, needier this time. your volume increases. he holds a hand down on your stomach, flat to keep you from escaping his touch.

his fingers spread your folds apart as he gets full access to your clit. his lips part to groan at the pretty sight, and the way his motions become sloppy as he loses traction and slips across your folds. as your lips part to let out a needy cry, he leans forward from between your legs and firmly slams his lips against yours, swallowing every attempt of a moan you could make. it's his warm, wet lips that send you over the edge, one that he rubs you right through. as you throw your head back and disconnect your lips, he buries his face in your neck to take in your scent.

"good girl..." johnny gently encourages you as you ride out your orgasm. now weakly spasming and fluttering around nothing. "you're alright, i've got you."

after some time of you laying seemingly lifeless, he removes his fingers from your soaking pussy. from how hard you came with his fingers alone, you wanted to feel embarrassed, but you were instead in a dumb bliss.

johnny sits up again, wrapping his lips around his fingers to clean the mess you made on him. his eyes flutter shut at your taste. his other hand falls to his cock, shamelessly readjusting the thick tent you created to avoid suspicion. your head falls forward again to get a hazy look at his form hovering above you.

"get some rest," he quietly asks, glancing to the door to ensure nobody heard. "i'd... like to have a word with you. in my office. tomorrow."

[lookmomitsmytmblr]

It seems like we're expected to not ship Donna and the Doctor because they are individually complex and interesting characters.

Throughout their time together, their interactions are built upon giving deeper insight on who they both are individually, rather than extensive shipping fodder or teasing about the nature of their relationship.

Donna doesn't save the Doctor at the end of The Runaway Bride because she was the only person in the world who could have. She saves him because that's who she is. She is kind, and compassionate, and empathetic, and there's no way she would have left him there.

It's not so much a grand commentary on the nature of their relationship, and how they are 'just so cosmically meant to be', as it is a moment for her to show us (the audience) who she is.

It's not because he already has some kind of undying love for her, he never would have listened to anyone else, or because he's willing to live only for her, or any of that.

It's that she's the kind of person who reaches out and cares even after a really rough day, when the spaceman is scaring her by drowning spider babies.

The moment is about who she is.

And they keep being allowed to be like this, where their interactions aren't relegated to being only about their relationship with each other. If anything the way they interact with each other is used like a launching point to deepen our connection to each character individually.

(Probably because we're not supposed to ship them lol. Okay definitely.)

I have to come back and elaborate on this with further specific Doctor/Donna when I get the braincell back from Bora Bora, but basically:

I love a fictional relationship where the writing is focused on deepening my understanding of and affection for each character individually, and then letting me come to the conclusion, based on an intimate understanding of each character's deepest convictions, insecurities, fears, and values that I want these two to be together.

The thing is, there is a wealth of writing out there that spends all of the character's screen time telling you to ship the characters, all too often at the expense of our investment in the characters as whole people outside of that relationship.

In my tastes, it is far more compelling and satisfying have the chance to fall in love with both characters individually without the writer feeling the need to bathe every moment of interaction in big flashing signs telling me: THEYRE EVERYTHING TO EACH OTHER!!! GET IT? LITERALLY NOTHING ELSE MATTERS!!!

It's so literary to me. Pride and Prejudice isn't iconic because Lizzy and Darcy spend every moment together, talking about each other, pontificating on the nature of their relationship and why a hypothetical reader should totally ship them.

They actually don't have a lot screen time (or page time) together.

It's iconic because we get to see who both characters are, what they value, how their failures affect them, why we should love them both.

And for the majority of readers, loving them both is enough to convince us to love them together. Why? Because we know them well enough to know they will be good together.

[callmearcturus]

Paradise Killer is 6 dollars on Steam until May 16 and I am here to hard sell you all on it because it's one of the best games I've ever played.

I'm gonna go beyond giving you a bunch of punchy keywords and telling you it's queer as hell and making meme-y jokes, and I'm going to actually tell you what this game is.

So top-level, WHAT IS PARADISE KILLER?

Mechanically, Paradise Killer is an open-world murder mystery. There is zero combat but a lot of exploration of a very unique location. The majority of your time is going to be walking about Paradise 24, looking for people to discuss the case with and for clues that are scattered around the world.

One of the most interesting concepts in Paradise Killer that is both mechanical and narrative is deciding What Is Your Truth? What Is A Truth And What Is A Fact? From the moment you start the game proper, you can turn 180 degrees and begin the trial and decide who the killer is, before talking to anyone about the case.

For example, getting into the actual crime scene takes a lot of puzzle solving to unlock the sealed room where the victims were killed. But maybe instead of examining the crime scene, you talk to everyone on the island and think you have a good idea of what happened.

Meaning: It is perfectly valid to decide you have the answer to the mystery and just go complete the trial whenever you personally are ready. YOU decide when this ends.

Which frankly I think is a cool-as-fuck concept. Also, I fully believe if three different people find EVERY CLUE and talk to EVERY SUSPECT and hear EVERY PIECE OF EVIDENCE.... they might decide on three different truths entirely. And THAT to me is ingenious mechanical design I have not seen anywhere else in a video game.

Okay let's stop burying the lede and talk about the world of Paradise Killer.

The non-batshit version:

Paradise Killer takes place on a big, beautiful island, the 24th Paradise. The architecture is a delightful mix of black obsidian obelisks, brutalist monuments, opal crystals to slumbering alien gods, garden paths, luxury yachts, and a whole lot of gold and neon.

Neo-occultist urban residential vaporwave-core. If you are like me, you will be taking a lot of screenshots. My wallpaper on my computer is Paradise Killer.

Your interactions with the cast are done in visual novel-style, though I feel I have to shout out this isn't your stock Ren'py UI experience. Every single aspect of the way the game looks compounds the vibes even further.

And the characters are infuckingcredible.

(Notice the different font? This game has A FUCKTON OF ACCESSIBILITY OPTIONS, including dyslexic font options.)

Sammy Day Break, born under the sign of Shadow Zero, is the local distillery and bartender for the Syndicate. Talk to him about what's unique about the whiskey he's made on Paradise 24, or about the good old days of the Syndicate.

Is Doctor Doom Jazz, born under the sign of Cosmic Deceit, really that carefree about what happened? Is his willingness to rekindle his fling with Lady Love Dies just a diversion to hide something? Well, he's one of the most cooperative witnesses on the Island.

Crimson Acid has been through a helluva lot since the last time she saw Love Dies. Blessed by the gods with her stunning rack (of horns! OF HORNS!), she's become quite the idol now. So why is she also an information broker? And can you figure out what her true feelings for Love Dies are?

Between all of these conversations, you can explore the island and collect RELICS and BLOOD CRYSTALS (the local currency) and CITY POP SONGS.

Okay so the Slightly Batshit Version:

Shinji: The Syndicate worships alien gods who want to drown the world in war and blood. Lady Love Dies: I don't see how that makes us the bad guys.

You are LADY LOVE DIES, born under the sign KISS ME TO THE MOON, the INVESTIGATION FREAK. She was exiled to the Idle Lands several cycles ago for falling prey to the seduction of the god Damned Harmony and endangering the entire Syndicate. Only now, with the death of the Council on the eve of Paradise 25, is Love Dies summoned back to solve the murder.

The Syndicate are a group of functionally immortal humans from all across history who are trying to create the perfect bubble of reality, their utopic Paradise where they can safely revive their dead gods. They were granted many powers and boons by their first god, Silent Goat, and hope through rescuing more gods they will grow in power.

How do you create a bubble of reality to do all this totally ethical shit? Easy! You abduct a bunch of normie humans to live on your island to use as a mass sacrifice to generate energy to fuel the creation of each Paradise. If only the outsiders would stop getting in the way!

Paradise Killer's world is delightfully out of its goddamn mind and half of the fun of the game is just picking up little nuggets of information about each member of the Syndicate, the gods, why each Paradise failed (there was an outbreak of vampirism that took out like three of the Paradises???), and just the way this universe works.

Okay this post is already too long but I'm begging you all to give Paradise Killer a chance. It's gorgeous, it's funny, it's mechanically really interesting, it's chill as hell, it has an incredible soundtrack,

and you should try it.

I'LL SEE YOU IN A PERFECT 25 . . .

[sillyteecup]

The Wrong Way

Roman Reigns x black!o.c

Jey Uso x black!o.c

Chapter 4

Warnings:

18+

Strong language

Misogyny

Mention of sexual assault

Taglist: @wrestlingprincess80 @nbanenefrmdao @vebner37 @theninthwonder @tshepisho @lensilver2 @trentybenty @empressdede @queen-shadow22 @becauseimher @jstarr86 @jaded-human @c-sgolden

A.N: This took me too damn long😭😭in my defense though, school has been drowning me and I've barely had the time to get this done quick enough, but ke...what can be said? Anyway, here is chapter 4 of The Wrong Way. I hope you like it. Enjoy❤️

Lori did not believe in setting expectations for people. As it was, she tried to keep her social interactions with anyone she did not know or trust to a minimal. Being a certified introvert, she thought it to be unrealistic to hold people to any social standards before speaking to them. All expectations bred disappointments as life is fickle. Human beings weren't nearly as fickle as life, but they could never be the exception to the rule.

All of that to say, she didn't know what to expect from the Tribal Prince Jey, as the first they met he grinned at her as though she were a piece of meat, and then the second time he glared at her like a foe. Now they were seated opposite each other in the matte black suv that Paul assigned to them, and he still had a scowl on his face.

"Have we met perhaps?" Lori questioned, breaking the heavy silence.

Jey tilted his head, features dancing between confusion and wondering if she was just stupid. "What?" he asked.

"Well you've been glaring at me since I landed, so I couldn't help but wonder if we had crossed paths and I happened to have wronged you by chance," she said indignantly, her irritation at his current expression slowly boiling.

"You're one to talk, when you don't look like the happiest trooper yourself," Jey said evenly, trying to keep an iron grip on his temper.

"Well I'm sure you can agree that there is nothing to be happy about as it stands," Lori pointed out bitterly.

Jey's face scrunched up in mild annoyance. "Yet you asked to ride with me. And for what? So you can shit on me for not acting like everything is sunshine and rainbows?" Jey spat, getting angrier by the sexond.

"I asked for you to accompany me so that we could perhaps get to know each other and maybe figure out a way to make this work, not have you sit there pouting like some petulant child who was denied pudding after dinner!" Lori hissed, finally losing her temper.

She watched as Tribal Prince Jey sat in his seat, jaw clenching as he likely fought the urge to wrap his hands around her neck and squeeze till she was dead. If only he knew that she had the same thoughts swimming around her mind.

"Says the immature little bitch that threw a tantrum in the middle of a meeting because things weren't going her way," Jey said venomously.

"Tribal Prince Jey I assure you that while I respect your royal standing, I cannot allow you to call me out of my name. I shall hold my tongue because I was raised to be a respectable young lady, but-" she had begun to rant before being cut off by a mirthles chuckle from Jey.

"Respectable? Girl you a whole ass ho that runs around serving up pussy to every man that smiles at you," he said maliciously.

At this, Lori's heart stopped. Her hands began to tremble as tears threatened to spill form her eyes. She mentally condemned her father to hell for the way he painted the loss of her virginity as her being promiscuous. She had always rued the day she trusted him to understand and empathize with her for what actually happened that night. But now, at this very moment, she hated him for this false portrait he had sold of her to this family. He threw her trauma like a piece of raw meat into a den of lions. One day, he would pay.

"You do not know anything about me," she said, tone lowering as she seethed in rage.

There was another one of those mirthles laughs. "I don't need to. And frankly, I don't want to. Just 'cause we engaged, don't mean I need to coddle your feelings or be your friend or whatever the fuck you were hoping to achieve here!"

Lori bit the inside of her cheek to prevent herself from speaking out of line. Just because he was an insulant fool, it did not mean she had to stoop this level down in hell to defend herself. She was a woman of honor and dignity; there was no place in her mind that was reserved for engaging in petty spats with an individual such as Tribal Prince Jey.

"If that is what you so wish, then very well," she said evenly, marking him as dead to her.

No one could say she did not try.

➽──────────────❥

Roman, Paul and Sami arrived at the family mansion, or "the palace" as they usually called it, to find Miss Loreal Moore with her maidens, and Jey waiting for them. While the maidens each took in the courtyard with awe, Jey and his fiancé seemed disgruntled.

"Damnit," Roman whispered to himself. Even after the clear warning he had given Jey, his cousin did not cooperate. Roman could not let his incompetence slide as it would set a bad example to his brothers and the rest of their cousins. But he would deal with that later.

"The lady looks unhappy, my Tribal Chief," Paul pointed out, only adding to the grating of Roman's nerves.

"Wiseman, please tell me something. Do I look blind maybe?" Roman questioned him sarcastically, to which he shook his head rapidly while stammering for an answer.

"N-no, never my-my Tribal Chief. Your eyesight is absolutely perfect. 20/20 vision I would say-" Paul rambled, attempting to calm Roman down before he angered him even further.

"Then what made you feel the need to point out something that I can so obviously fucking see?" Roman said through gritted teeth. Everybody just seemed keen on trying his patience today and he couldn't understand why.

"I apologize my tribal Chief. But, may I ask, are there any plans by chance that the Tribal Chief may have to sway the lady in our favor?" Paul genuinely asked. If there was one thing Roman appreciated about his Wiseman, it was his dedication to the family. However Roman couldn't let his real plans be known, as one of the pieces to his little chess game was in the front seat.

"The best we can do right now is be hospitable. Show her that she's in the right place," Roman said before flashing a smile at Sami through the rearview mirror. "Ain't that right Sami?" he asked Sami in what has half a joke and half a threat.

Sami caught onto this and his lips curled up nervously. "Yes my Tribal Chief, definitely," he laughed nervously, earning a pat on the shoulder from Roman.

"Wiseman, get my door," Roman commanded while keeping his eyes on Sami. The moment Paul left the car, Roman leaned in to whisper into Sami's ear. "You and Miss Loreal Moore friends, Sami?" he asked in a hushed tone.

"She's been very kind to me my Tribal Chief," was all Sami said.

"I hope you've been returning the energy. After all, she might need a new friend around here," Roman whispered, sounding genuinely concerned for the lady.

"Oh, yes definitely, my Tribal Chief. I have shown Miss Loreal Moore nothing but kindness and I would be happy to be her friend if she allowed it," Sami rambled nervously. Roman moved back and smiled.

"Good, good. You're a good man Sami," he said, ending the conversation right before Paul finished announcing his presence and opened his door.

Right as he stepped out, Ms Loreal Moore's sharp gaze shot into his direction. "Miss Loreal Moore, you seem displeased-" Roman began to say, being cut off by his cousin's fiancé.

"I wish to go home. Now," she stated, her voice trembling as she struggled to hold it together.

Roman was taken aback by her demand. Her tone sounded to him like she had likely been angered or triggered by something Jey said. His neutral gaze quickly shifted into questioning glare towards Jey, who only scowled and turned away.

"I'm sure that whatever that happened to to make you wanna do that can be fixed. I don't know you well but you seem like a smart, mature and level headed woman. So let's just-" Roman began to say to calm her down only it be interrupted again. Which was beginning to get on his nerves.

"That thing you just did; attempting to soothe my ego to gaslight me into agreeing with whatever" solution" you were going to come up with? I hate it. It is an insult to my intelligence. And from what I can see, this family seems to be built on the foundation of insulting those they feel are lesser beings to them! I am by no means a fool! I know why that-" she took a breath to control herself mid-rant before continuing.

"I know why my father sold me to you people. I did not expect to be treated kindly or for this to be a fairytale of sorts, hell I did not even expect to be treated with integrity. But what I cannot take is being refferred to by obscene words, and then having my intelligence insulted less than 4 minutes later. If this is how it is to carry on going forward, then I would rather you put me on the next flight back to my home, so that I may live out the rest of my days in unmarried bliss," she finally finished before letting out a heavy exhale.

Roman clenched his jaw and nodded. He began to rethink every time he said Naomi was too stubborn for her own good. Compared to Miss Loreal Moore, Naomi was child's play. Even though she always gently kept them grounded, she had never outright called them out on their bullshit. Let alone on her first day on the island. As much as Roman appreciated this woman's strength, he also understood that she was going to be a nasty piece of work to mould into their image. Yet he found himself enticed by the challenge. Clearly he would have to break her and rebuild her in an image he saw fit. And one thing about Roman? He enjoyed playing God. But he would have to be smart about this. She had already seen through his first trick, which to be fair he hadn't even thought was one to begin with. He was just used to solving problems like that. Nevertheless, he was going to have to get far smarter than he ever had.

"I see. Wiseman, show them to their rooms. They've all had a pretty long day and are in no state to travel right now," he commanded, noticing the storm grow in Miss Loreal's eyes.

"Miss Loreal Moore, I shall speak with you tomorrow morning at 07:00 once you've had enough sleep," he added, hoping to quell her still rising temper.

Her eyes narrowed as she bit the inside of her cheek. It was as if she had realized that now that Roman had made his choice, there was no arguing. At least she held authority to a high regard to some extent.

➽──────────────❥

Skin illuminated by the sun rising, Lori took in the appearance of her room. The walls were a dull dull beige that contrasted poorly with the dark oak doors and large, arched windows. The curtains were a glaringly bright red, an irritating sight that drove Lori to open the curtains at the crack of dawn. They with the bedding sets and the velvet couch on the other end of the room. It was big, more spacious than the one back home. She hadn't bothered to check the size of the closet as she had no intentions staying long. The carpet and sheets were black, along with the blackwood vanity set. The whole room was dreadful.

And so was this family. Lori's mind had been flooded with predictions of how the Tribal Chief would try to coax her into staying. Having caught on to his tactic yesterday and with the understanding of the weight this marriage holds, she figured that Tribal Chief Roman would likely attempt slither his way into her mind to convince her that all of this was worth it in the end.

And maybe it was, but a few words dipped in caramel would not suffice in proving that to Lori. She glanced at the huge round clock on the wall next to the bathroom door, 05:30. Her maidens had insisted on making sure that they were at her side by five o'clock sharp, however Lori resisted. Insisting that she would much prefer if for the first time in a very long time, they rested. They deserved it. And her parents were not there to tell them otherwise.

After bathing and moisturising in complete solitude for the first time since she was born, she took the long-sleeved cotton sundress that. Minerva had picked out and ironed for her, and put it on. Lori then moved to sit by her vanity and frowned. She had never done her own hair before, and now with the bonnet covering her braided hair, the lack of experience had come back to bite her in the ass. From what she had observed in Willow doing her hair, her long, voluminous afro was no easy feat when it came to styling.

What if I just woke Willow up to help with my hair, then immediately after, she goes back to sleep? That would not be cruel would it?

Her pondering of her dilemma was interrupted by a knock on the door. Confused, Lori checked the time again, 06:30. Could the girls already be awake? She stood up from the stool and cautiously made her way to the door. The knock sounded again, right as her hand had touched the handle. Finally she opened, and on the other side was the last person she had expected to see.

"Sami? What are you going here so early?" she asked him. As nice as he was, and as much as she planned to utilise him if things went south, Lori was still guarded when faced with all the members of the Bloodline. After all, who was to say it wasn't an act?

He stook tall in her doorway with a boyish grin. He sported a black Nike t-shirt and sweats with sneakers to complete the ensemble. "Good morning Lori! Tribal Chief said I should swing by and check if you're ready," he explained cheerfully. His grin however faltered when he took note of the bonnet.

"What?" Lori said, noticing the change in expression. Sami grimaced in response and gestured for her to let him in. Hesitantly, Lori stepped to the side only for Sami to usher her back to the vanity. "Sami what is the meaning of this?" she demanded only for Sami to gently push her into the chair and smile at her through the mirror.

"You don't know how to do your hair do you?" he asked slyly, causing her eyebrows to furrow in confusion.

"How did you know?" she questioned, wondering what had given her ineptitude away.

"Educated guess," Sami shrugged as his hand hovered over her bonnet. "May I?" he asked, earning a nod from Lori which prompted him to remove it, revealing her hair. "Wow," Sami gasped as he felt the soft texture of her hair.

"What's wrong?" Lori asked in concern, not sure how to take Sam's reaction to her hair.

"Nothing, it's just-I've seen healthy, beautiful long hair before but this? God, your mom must love you," Sami said, still in awe of the sight before him.

Lori just wore a wry smile at the last comment. While she was sure that Sami meant no harm as he was unaware of her relationship with her family, he still struck a nerve. When speaking of her connection with her mother, Sami wasn't asking, but Lori had been for the longest time. And by the looks of it, she would never get an answer.

"Actually, Willow is the mastermind. Before that it was her mother. The two of them have been so kind to my hair in the way they have taken care of it. In fact, I would probably have cut it all off had it not been for them," Lori explained, notes of gratitude in the way she spoke. Willow and Mrs Graham had been taking care of her hair and keeping it healthy since she was born. They were the real heroes.

"Either way, they are hair goddesses," Sami chuckled as he began to braid Lori's hair.

That's when it dawned on her. "You know how to do hair?" she questioned, eyeing Sami suspiciously as his red locks were out and untamed.

"Yup, an old friend taught me," he replied, not seeing the way she looked at him.

"And where is she now?" Lori asked curiously as Sami kept unbraiding and gently detangling.

Sami glanced at her through the mirror, eyes gleaming with a hint of sorrow. "She-uh, got married," he said before clearing his throat. He was then quick to change the subject to how he barely saw the point in styling his anymore since the island's climate was never kind to it. Lori zoned out as he rambled on and on, watching as he carefully brushed and styled her hair into a simple low ponytail with a puff at the bottom, completing the look with sleek baby hairs.

A white man can do my hair better than me? I need to up my game.

Despite the huge favour he had done for her, Lori still couldn't help but be unconvinced. Apart from him, she had met two direct members of the Bloodline, and both of them have proven to be...unappealing for lack of better words. Why would she trust that Sami hadn't had the same ideals indoctrinated in him. After all, as much as he was "an outsider", he had still been there longer than her. And since he did not offer the family prospects of wealth as far as she understood, there had to be another, more sinister reason to keep him around. If only she had thought of this on the plane yesterday.

"Sami, why are you helping me?" Lori asked, her trust issues suddenly flaring up.

"Because you're cool, duh," he replied as if it were obvious.

"Cool?" Lori questioned, unsure what he implied with the term. Her father had always considered that kind of language to be juvenile and forbid it around the house, however Lori had heard it time and again at her old University and during the two years when Lord Byron had allowed her to go to a private high school to graduate instead of finishing with a home school education. Still though, she was not very familiar with the context of the word.

"Y'know, good, nice. Cool," he simply said. Although he was not clear, Lori understood just fine.

"Oh okay. Lovely." If Sami was acting, he sure was doing an amazing job at it. Either way, her oncoming talk with the Tribal Chief would determine whether or not it mattered.

➽──────────────❥

"The Tribal Chief requested that I escort you to his office."

Tribal Chief Roman's office was cold...fitting the stories she had been told of the man who inhabited it. Perhaps it was the intense air conditioning, or maybe it was the lack of a personal touch to it's decor. Either way, apart from the spread out red and black furniture pieces, it was rather dull. Lori doubted he cared to much about the aesthetics anyway.

She had been seated on the black couch situated next to the door, about 5 feet away from his desk where he sat, nose buried in his work. Her eyes followed the clock's hands as time slowly ticked by, foreshadowing her slow and agonising ego death, should she choose to stay here. It had been 3p minutes and the man hadn't said a thing aside from "Have a seat." Part of her felt like there was an angle he was playing at here. A psychological one that she couldn't quite point out. Perhaps he was asserting dominance by making her wait on his time. If that was the case, then the one he had hoped to present would not hold up too well.

Her eyes scanned the bookshelf to her left. The names on the spines of each book caught her by surprise. While some of the books were typical of what was seemingly his nature, such as The Art of War, the others were unbecoming of what she had noted about him so far. Romance novels.

The rest of the titles were in Samoan and Italian, two languages Lori had not an inkling of an idea about. Still though, the very idea that Roman likely not only spoke these languages, but also read them was somewhat attractive. An observation she mentally chastised herself from. The very reason she had let her sights roam around the office was to avoid settling her gaze on him. Lord knows how he would react to his cousin's fiancé staring at him.

Speaking of his cousins, before she slept, Lori had done everything in her power to cleanse her memory of her interaction with Jey yesterday. Better to pretend it never happened than to let it hold power over her. Her logic was faulty, but it worked. But that did not by any means imply that she would be thrilled about being in the same room as him. The last thing Lori wanted was to be executed for murdering her fiancé. Regardless of how satisfying it would be.

"I take it you slept well?" she suddenly heard Tribal Chief Roman say.

Keeping her gaze on the window behind him, she nodded. The room was ugly but the bed was comfortable. "Yes, my Tribal Chief."

"Good. As a future member of this family it is only fitting that the best is what you are offered," he said, causing her to scoff. His gaze narrowed at the action. "Why do you want to leave?" he asked her, tone completely neutral.

"I was quite clear about my feelings yesterday, my Tribal Chief. I do not appreciate being treated like a street urchin by your family," Lori responded coldly.

Tribal Chief Roman placed his forearms on his desk to lean forward. "What did he say to you?" he asked. His voice had dropped to a dangerously low octave that struck a feeling that Lori was not familiar with in her chest. It was a mix of two feelings really; fear that was all but expected, but more surprisingly, yet minimal, lust.

"Things I would rather not repeat," she said.

"Because you're afraid?" he questioned with an arched eyebrow.

"Because I am a lady who refuses to compromise herself by spewing anything unbecoming of me," she retorted with a scoff. Yes, Tribal Chief Roman himself was terrifying, but that was not a sentiment she held towards Jey.

He leaned back into his chair, firm gaze remaining on her. "Whatever it is that he said, does not reflect our views of you. He will be corrected-"

"You mean punished," she commented, cutting into his sentence. She noticed his jaw clench at her interuption and swore she choked on her breath.

"And I will make sure, that nobody else treats you like that again," he finished, patience waning with each word.

"Why go out of your way instead of allowing me to go home?" she questioned, knowing the answer but still wanting him to completely clear up his intentions.

"You said it yourself yesterday. You know why this engagement was arranged; political gain for my family in return of financial gain for yours," he explained with a shrug.

Lori slowly nodded, the sound of the clock ticking re-invading her ears. "Where is he?" she asked. She wasn't sure why she was curious, but she was.

"His house not too far from here. Sami neglected to tell you that you two will not be living together until after your wedding," he explained, causing Lori's eyebrows to shoot to the edge of her hairline.

"How come?"

"Tradition," he stated vaguely. "Some things I have no control over, although something tells me you don't mind," he said, subtly pointing out her already existing grievance with his cousin.

"Do you have control over how often we are to interact?" she asked half-jokingly.

"Don't push it," he responded in a tone similar to hers. "I would advise you not to worry too much about the personal aspects of your engagement. The moment you two are married, you can get your own place nearby and only have to interact during public appearances," he said, tone reverting back to serious.

She fought the urge to ask if that was his arrangement with his wife a she had not seen her yet. Unless of course the divorce rumor was true.

"Until then, I am to stay here with you and Sami?" she inquired.

"Are you comfortable with Sami's presence?" he asked. His omission of her comfort with his own presence did not slide past her though. But she would let it seem as if it had.

"Yes. He is good company," she acknowledged.

"Then he will stay here as well. Anything else?" he asked. An answer immediately came into mind.

"Yes, actually. Could one of your staff perhaps get an interior decorator on the phone?" she requested, taking him aback.

"I do not like how my room looks," she specified, putting him at ease.

"I'll have it arranged as soon as possible. Is that all?"

She nodded wordlessly.

"Good. I'm assuming Sami informed you about today's agenda if you stayed?" Lori shook her head 'no' in response as her features festered into a look of curiosity. Sami must have thought that there was no way in all seven variations of hell she was staying there. Never say never, they say. Tribal Chief Roman ran his hand down his face and sighed, attempting to quell his frustration at Sami omitting this information.

"Today is your welcoming ceremony. The day when you're being introduced to the entire family and our ancestors as Jey's future bride and as a future princess to the people," Roman explained.

Lori's stomach twisted into knots. If there was anything she hated nearly as much as being blindsided to marriage, it was large gatherings and parties. All of those eyes on her, perceiving her always sent her into a spiral. If the very people that conceived her saw her as inadequate, who was to say that these people who did not know her from a table spoon harboured similar sentiments. Not to mention the whispers of gossip that she found mind numbing. A fact that would be hypocritical if Lori herself was a gossip.

She preferred self-preserving journalist anyway.

Nevertheless, she had chosen to stay and become a part of this bloodline that many considered to be of high esteem. Lori had chosen to become Tribal Princess Loreal. No longer Miss Loreal Moore. She would finally be rid of the last tie to her wretched father. If anything, that just sweetens the deal. This ceremony was just the starting point, one she would overcome with poise and grace.

"Is there a specific dress code, my Tribal Chief?"

[arctophyllax]

*clears throat* why I think Larian should let us recruit Zevlor:

More people are desperate for Zevlor than I thought at first. We all want to see him happy. We all want him to get all that he deserves and more. He just has SO much potential, he’s such a well written character just for his story to get cut off so suddenly? Thinking about how badly his story was neglected by Larian after they made us so attached breaks my heart. Of all side characters we met along the acts he is undeniably one of the most important and memorable ones; we fought for him, we saved him, we helped him, hells we even get the option to reject his payment for us for helping him and his people.

We practically got nothing out of helping him, especially the ones who reject his payments and i find myself rejecting the payment every single playthrough because i can’t find it in my heart to take something away from people who have nothing left already. If you betray the tieflings you get Minthara- and yes that may cost you certain companions too, but wouldn’t it be fair to be able to have Zevlor at camp if we save his people? At least after we save him in act 2? That way it would still be optional but god I need him so badly, I need to see him happy, I need Larian to let me look after him and take care of him and make sure that he doesn’t drown in sorrow and I know everyone who reads this feels exactly the same.

He went through so much, and every time his hope returned it got shattered to bits again. And it just feels like we’re forced to “give up” on him after we let him wander away in act 2. It doesn’t feel right. It will never feel right. We saw how miserable he was in that pod, how distressed and in pain he was. Common sense would have told us to take him with us. Make sure he fucking survives the night without doing anything stupid. Clean him off the blood and clean him off his worries, all that self hatred.

God, do I so hate to see him in such distress. And while a tiny part of me believes that death might have actually been a small mercy for him I was and will never be ready to give up on him.

Every time I see him on that damned screen, every time he speaks and every time I witness him interact with someone I DON’T see an oathbreaker who failed his people and had to be saved from being consumed by the Absolute. All I see is a competent leader who carries a burden not meant to be carried by one person alone.

This has nothing to do with him being weak. This has nothing to to with him being incompetent or not careful enough. This has nothing to do with any lost faith or broken oath. This has to do with the fact that he is so selfless that he wouldn’t allow himself to share this burden with anyone.

Yes he has (had?) his fellow tieflings, he has Tilses right beside him all of the time. But did he ever open up to her? Does he ever accept any help from his own people while he knows that they are already suffering? Would he EVER allow ANY of these people to carry even a SLIVER of his burden?

No. He would not. He would NEVER let them bear any of those duties, he has seen them in way too much pain already, seen them suffer far too often.

He is the type who gives and gives and gives and he never takes. He doesn’t know how to take, take anything positive.

His past, his comrades, his Hellriders- yes he had them. They gave him as much as he gave them. But they got torn away from him, cruelly and mercilessly.

His people, the refugees, family- he had them. And they gave him the respect and admiration he deserved. But they got torn away from him. Cruelly. Mercilessly.

His saviour, us, Tav- he had us. But we left him. Because we had no choice. We watched him walk of as though it was nothing. Cruelly. Because we could do nothing else.

And yes, I will always see red at that. Because we SHOULD be able to do better. We shouldn’t be just another loss for him.

And I will personally fistfight Larian if it meant hope for just a single chance at giving Zevlor what he never allowed himself to have: stability, encouragement. Someone he can rely on and share his burden with. A rest. Peace.

(Larian do you hear me I am under your bed we are going to fight)

(Scratch would like him to stay at camp, too)

(And what Scratch wants, Scratch gets. Right?)

(No because when you talk to Scratch the second time at camp during the tiefling party he actually says that he wouldn’t mind if you kept the tieflings at camp… trust me, Scratch, i wouldn’t mind either)

…I’d honestly die for him who’s with me

[rin-fukuroi]

𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐈 𝐛𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐞? [𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐞]

Hey! This is just the beginning of a voluminous work, the full version of which can be read on my Boosty. This job was very hard for me, and I have never seen any other work that would touch on such a terrifying topic in its plausibility. I'll be glad if you want to read it in its entirety~

Fandom: Honkai: Star Rail

Pairings: yandere!Blade x fem!reader  

Warnings: NSFW, NSFL, dark content, Red Room*, captivity, illegal broadcasts and filming with scenes of cruelty and violent acts of a sexual nature, physical violence, gang rape, dry sex, rough anal and oral sex, cumshot, detailed descriptions of blood and bodily injury, mention of necrophilia and murders (both strangers and the reader), Stockholm syndrome, the reader has pronounced mental abnormalities from the beginning to the end of the work.

*Red Room — hidden sites on the darknet that host interactive live broadcasts with torture, violence and murder of people, where anyone can donate any amount in cryptocurrency and order any torture or method of murder via chat, thus telling the executioner exactly what he needs to do with the victim.

The Red Rooms, of course, are closed, and the average user will never be able to access these broadcasts.

Until now, the existence of such broadcasts is questioned, but there were also real cases that indirectly had something in common with the description of the Red Room. However, scammers mostly use such a legend, deceiving people for considerable sums, promising to give them access to a cruel event.

art by Dakotchi

Darkness, through the thickness of which a dim light occasionally breaks through, so weak that every time it loses to the darkness, dying somewhere in the distance of a spacious but empty room. The rotten smell of dampness and metal, causing nausea. Plaintive screams, begging to stop… You're not entirely sure if you're actually hearing them, or if they've already settled in your head, depriving you of sleep day after day.

Day by day… More than one day has passed behind the high metal doors, and you don't even know when the sun rises and sets again.

The darkness and the cold from the rusty metal bars scratching your cheek. Rot and screams. Then only silence and nausea. Even the outlines of your own body are gradually blurred, swallowed up in pitch darkness, in which you can't even see your own hands. It's so cold, so lonely and so scary. Even the dreams that you see when you disconnect from impotence and hunger repeat what your eyes see, your ears hear and your skin feels in a disgusting reality. Or are they not dreams at all? Have you slept at all since you got here?

The steps. Every time you hear that heavy clatter of boots on metal, it is drowned out by the frantic pulsations of the heart in your ears. When will these steps catch up with you? What will their owner do to you? Even the most heart-rending screams that reach you from somewhere far away outside the cage in which you are locked, at some point subside. They dissolve into a deafening silence that greedily swallows them, forever erasing them from the face of the Earth.

It will consume you, too, won't it?

No, no, there must be some way out of here. People are never abducted for no reason, right? If the person who locked you in here needs something, all you have to do is give it to him and everything will return to its place. Your little apartment, friends, family… Daylight. You'll see it all. It's going to be very soon.

Humans are such strange creatures. We are afraid of the unknown, but we are inevitably drawn to it. Your body shudders instinctively, and a chilling shiver runs through your skin every time you hear someone approaching this room, but you still hesitate.

«Come in here, please...»

«Let me go...»

«No, don't come in...»

«I'm hungry, I want to talk to someone, please...»

«ENOUGH!»

Your own voice in your head sounds so loud, contradicting yourself. Over and over, he whispers, screams and grates. When will he shut up, when will he leave you alone? You want silence, the very silence that carries away the voices of strangers begging for mercy. Why can't that drown out your voice? He is unbearable, so annoying that you want to crack your skull, pull it out by the roots and throw it into the dense thicknesses of darkness that slowly absorbs your feet and fingers.

«Enough… Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, please...»

— Help... someone…

Chapped lips stretch, trembling flesh tingles with burning pain from salty tears rolling down your cheeks. What have you become? Why can't you just calm down? The sharp claws of fear dig into the frantically pounding muscle in your chest, drawing blood from the throbbing flesh. Red-hot metal spreads under the skin, and a hand reaches for the wounded organ, clutching the fabric of a tear-soaked shirt in desperation. So you still have clothes on…

The disgusting vibrations of the grinding of metal on metal make your spine shiver, and bright light obscures your eyes, forcing you to squint, reflexively hiding even deeper into the corner of the cage. The sound of boots now sounds so close, driving chaotic thoughts out of your head with each new step. Has someone come to save you? Really come? Won't you be alone anymore?

You sniffle, crumpling your shirt tighter with your fingers before hesitantly opening your eyes. The unfamiliar silhouette triples and blurs in a blinding glow, and you blink several times, trying to focus your vision on the figure standing in front of you. The first thing you see are dusty black big boots and long legs in gray trousers splattered with something dark. A man, right?.. His gaze slides higher over the slightly rumpled fabric of a black shirt with sleeves rolled up on muscular scarred forearms and long fingers adjusting leather gloves on his wrist. Long dull maroon strands wave slightly at the level of the man's hips before he crouches in front of your cage. Your heart constricts in fear, and you look away, afraid to look into his eyes, but then slowly turn your head back, noticing a black mask hiding his face on the stranger's face. Even the eyes are hidden behind a thick shadow, and only the disheveled ends of the hair scatter over the matte surface when the man tilts his head to the side. You can't see his face, but you can feel his gaze with every nerve in your body. Heavy, piercing, as if seeing through you.

The mere presence of this person in the room makes your blood run cold, and the words do not add up to sentences in any way, leaving your mouth open and your lips trembling in pathetic attempts to close back. Can he... help you in any way?

— Get up, — the man's voice is even darker than the oppressive aura surrounding him as he pulls the keys out of his pants pocket with a loud ring of a bunch that makes you flinch with fright when opening the cage door.

— You... — you mumble incoherently to yourself, hugging your knees to your chest. — What do you want from me?..

How difficult it was for you to ask this short question. If this stranger has the keys to the cage, then he locked you in it. If he heard the same screams that you heard, then at least he didn't do anything about it, or worse, he was the cause of these people's suffering. If his trousers are covered in blood…

The man ignores your question by reaching into the cage and casually grabbing your shoulder. The grip is so strong that you feel the blood rush with a painful burning sensation to the place where his fingers roughly squeeze your flesh, and your body reflexively shrinks even more, tearing a dissatisfied clucking from the stranger's tongue.

— NO! PLEASE! — it's been so long since you've speak, that your voice already sounds hoarse and pathetic, as loud as the constricted lungs allow it, desperately spitting out air while the man indifferently pulls you forward. Your head hits the rusty threshold of the cage, and your screams are replaced by stifled sobs.

— Stop it, — the man spits out irritably, picking you up by the hand from the floor like a doll.

For a moment, the stranger is silent, staring intently at how a thin trail of blood slowly flows from the scratch on your forehead as you tremble in his grip, unintelligibly repeating «please» over and over again, making weak attempts to get back into the cage.

— Please… I'll give you everything you ask for.… Let me go…

How many times had he heard something like this before? Even in this state, you feel how deeply he doesn't care about your meaningless babble, but what else can you do? You are so weak that you can barely stand on your feet, keeping your balance only by a painful grip on your shoulder until it forces you to drag yourself towards the open door.

— Wait! Where are you taking me?!

The corridors outside are so narrow and stink with an even more nauseating metallic smell, which only gets worse as the stranger takes you further away from the cage, which now seems to be the safest place in this endless maze-like building. You stumble, almost falling, still hoping to escape from the grip of a man who absolutely doesn't pay the slightest attention to your pathetic attempts. No matter how hard you try to cling to the walls, you don't have enough strength to make yourself at least try to stop. The tenacious grip of a large gloved hand is so strong that it seems as if a stranger's fingers are pushing through your skin and flesh to the bone, pulling out more and more screams and sobs from your strangled throat.

Through the tears blurring your eyes, you catch the outlines of large open doors somewhere far ahead of a long corridor, and panic even more strongly engulfs the poor heart, ready to break ribs, tear flesh and fly out onto the dirty sticky floor under your feet.

— Please don't be silent… Just tell me what you need, and I'll...! — a salty-sour taste accompanies a sharp pain when you bite your tongue from a sharp blow on the cheek, forcing you to shut up instantly. The skin burns and throbs in the area of the red thumbprint that has appeared, and the lungs contract painfully, unable to take in air.

— Shut your mouth, I don't need anything from you.

«Don't need anything...?»

Are you a hostage? Is this man blackmailing someone close to you? No. He lets you see the place where he's holding you, doesn't even handcuff you, and doesn't bother to bring you at least water.

It's been so obvious all this time, but for some reason a terrifying realization is covering you with an icy shiver just now.

You'll only get out of here in a black bag.

[yuanology]

Hey, i love your writing! Could you please write for

M!reader, a seemingly innocent guy, though appearances can be deceiving. Then there's Geto, who initially dropped subtle hints about having feelings for Reader. But frustration mounts as Geto's attempts go unnoticed, with Reader simply viewing their interactions as friendly. Eventually, Geto's patience wears thin, especially since Gojo and reader have been getting along well. As jealousy and frustration brew within Geto, he unknowingly directs it at reader through snarky and bratty comments. Reader, though patient, can only take so much. They finally snap, (Geto is surprised because reader is always so soft spoken and sweet) giving Geto a piece of their mind and putting him in his place.

Can i please be 👁️ anon?

welcome 👁️ anon! i forgot to actually write smut in this! so have a really long build-up and hopefully a part two in the future, holy shit. i am so sorry. (suguru's characterisation is also a bit weird here . i can't put a finger on it but my brain is not clicking rn. i am so sorry, 👁️ anon. i'll do better next time. please forgive me for this failure just this once.)

geto suguru was not an impatient man but you were an entirely different matter. you always had been.

there was something about you that drove your existence apart from all of the others— a steadiness in your presence, a constance in your friendship with him. you kept him grounded, an anchor and a light in the darkness that came with being a jujutsu sorcerer. had it not been for you, suguru thought he might have gone rogue so many times ago in the past.

"suguru."

ah, speak of the angel (yes, he knew that wasn't how the saying went, but you weren't the devil. how could you be, with your smile and your careful hands? you were an angel, sent from above to keep him from drowning), you slid into the seat next to him. as usual, you smiled at him, the corners of your eyes crinkling as you did, before you dug into your meal.

suguru let his gaze linger on you for a few short seconds before he turned his face to eat his meal, too.

lunch was a contented affair, filled with small talk and the occasional sound of your laughter. there was something domestic, suguru would like to think, about the way you stole his chicken and he snatched your meatballs in compensation. suguru could hardly think of a time he had ever been this comfortable with anyone but you. you had him lowering his guards without ever having to ask him at all, an inane talent he doubted you even noticed. but it was there, and you were a miracle worker that never failed to hold him through his worst and his best.

so, really, it shouldn't come as a surprise that suguru would have to share you with others, too.

specifically, one fucking annoying gojo satoru.

don't misunderstand him, he loved satoru. satoru was his best friend, his one and only, his steady companion. they had been through hell and back together, shoving each other to further heights and hauling one another out of the deepest pits. he cared for satoru, loved him in every way a man could love his best friend. suguru loved his friend.

but jesus christ, could satoru get on his nerves sometimes.

because the thing is. the thing is that satoru knew—he knew the way suguru looked at you, he knew the way suguru spoke about you, he knew the way suguru's heart beat and ached for you. satoru knew all about the depths of his affections for you, every single beautiful and ugly thing, because that was what you do with your best friend, right? you trust them.

backstabber, suguru thought bitterly, shoving a now-acrid tasting meatball into his mouth.

because there satoru was, his arms thrown around you in ways that suguru could never touch you, his jokes making you laugh in a way that left suguru feeling ripped between wanting to watch your smile and punch satoru in the face hard enough that he'd be bleeding for days for stealing that sight from you and leaving suguru nothing but the left-overs to pick after.

in spite of everything, suguru was hardly ever really envious of his best friend. yes, there were moments where he wished satoru would get off his high-horse and someone would knock some sense into him (and that responsibility, more often than not, fell on suguru's shoulders), but he was never really jealous of satoru. there was never a need for it, not when he knew the worst and the lows of being gojo satoru.

however, in that moment, watching satoru cling onto you and make you grin, suguru understood what it meant to truly be seething with jealousy. that should be me.

the rest of the day passed by in a hazy blur after that. suguru vaguely recollected leaving lunch early, reciting robotically that he had somewhere to be urgently and ignoring the knowing grin satoru shot his way or the downwards curl of your lips. he thought he might have given you the cold shoulder at some point or another, the words leaving his lips a little sharp and a little cruel, but he didn’t remember what he said. you might have recoiled, you might have not. suguru couldn’t remember.

(and he didn’t want to remember— he didn’t want to remember the way he had turned his face away when he heard the sound of your voice calling out his name. he didn’t want to remember the way his shoulders had knocked against yours a little too hard as you passed each other by in the hallways. he didn’t want to remember the way your face dropped when he took a seat on a table across the room from your usual one. he didn’t want to remember because if he did, then he would have to remember all the tiny ways he hurt you. papercuts still stung like a bitch, after all.)

then, one day became another, and another became a week, and a week became a month—

and the end of the month brought you.

a beautiful, brilliant, furious apparition of you—one that stormed up to him and, without warning or another word, grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and hauled him bodily after you. his feet dragged against the floor, his toes catching onto the heels of his own choes before he could struggle to right himself.

“what are you—” he began.

“shut up,” you interrupted him.

cleverly, suguru did.

he didn’t say a damn thing even as you slammed the door to your dormroom open, shoving him inside without another word. his lips parted in confusion when you began to lock the door behind you, but he still said nothing as you grabbed him by the wrist to direct him further into your room. he didn’t say a single word until you shoved him onto your bed, his back flat on the mattress.

“what?” he tried again.

“you’ll shut up and listen to me when i talk,” you said, your voice leaving no room for arguments. suddenly, you were looming over him, straddling his waist as your open palm pressed over his chest; right above his pounding heart. “do you understand?”

suguru swallowed thickly as he nodded. this was a side of you he hadn’t even known existed; rough and unafraid, your hands on him meant to firmly rule rather than to guide gently as you usually would. even in your anger, you had never been anything else but firm—steady and stubborn.

fuck, he thought wisely to himself. i'm in deep trouble.

but when your hand found the collar of his shirt, your fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt, he finds that he didn't mind it. not in the slightest.

because you had always been beautiful, but you were damningly ephemereal now, peering down at him with something burning carved into your irises; bold and brilliant, striking and inescapable. suguru had never felt so wonderfully trapped before, caught in your stare and unable to look away.

"satoru told me everything," you began, your assessing gaze never once leaving him. "i'm disappointed, suguru."

static clogged his head immediately, all thoughts clearing from his head into an unbearable haze. dirty little traitor. his throat felt tight, his heart stopping in his chest. excuses climbed up the back of his mouth, tasting like bile and the curses that he swallows, and every single little ugly thing that had ever crossed his mind. explanations defining his inner-most thoughts, apologies creasing into the space between his teeth. nothing came out, nothing but a strangled sound; caught between a whimper and a whine. weak, pathetic.

your head tilted at the noise, your gaze sharpening into something vicious. "you should have told me yourself," you said. "i never took you for a coward, suguru."

suguru couldn't help the weak, strangled thing that escaped his throat. he thought that it might have been a piece of his heart. "i'm sorry," he whispered, before he could think better of it.

the sigh that you let out was low, almost vicious in its nature. suguru hid his wince by turning his head, the side of his face half-buried into the sheets. before he could succeed, however, your hand caught his chin, forcing him to turn his gaze to meet your eyes once again.

"look at me when i'm talking to you, suguru." your voice sent a series of goosebumps rippling up his skin. he shuddered, trying to shake it off, but he couldn't when your grip on his face was firm. he still tried to nod a bit, wanting to appease you.

"i'm sorry," suguru rasped out once again.

"stop apologising."

all of a sudden, his forehead was flicked. the motion was so familiar in the face of such an unfamiliar circumstance that suguru couldn't help but blink, startled. for a moment, suguru couldn't think, couldn't do anything—much less suppress the faint smile that appeared on his lips. perhaps not much had changed after all. perhaps you could still have him as your friend, still care for him the way you cared for him before.

"so," he started slowly, "you're not angry at me?"

"i'm pissed at you," you told him bluntly.

before he could wilt, though, your grip on his chin became a gentle caress to his jaw, and suguru felt his whole world tilting upside down once again. your face was close to his, too close, and suguru felt like he couldn't breathe at the proximity.

"i am so, so angry at you, suguru. you should have told me everything sooner. i can't believe you made me wait so long just for this. all your attitude as of late, all your snark and sass, that was just a defence mechanism, wasn't it?" your voice was cutting as you picked apart his brain, dissecting all of his secret truths with all the precision of a surgeon's knife. "you got jealous—and instead of talking to me, you decided to push me away."

your voice was a low murmur, not meant to be anything seductive but still sending a sharp thrill up to suguru's monkey brain all the same. all he could think of was the curl of your smile—secretive, knowing, like you were in on some secret joke that he wasn't—and the way you were looking at him now—like a predator who had his hunt cornered—and how suguru couldn't do anything but take anything that you doled out.

fuck, that's so hot.

"i'm sorry," he said again, dutiful and polite.

and for a moment, simply a nanosecond, he caught a fissure in your exterior; that softness bleeding out for a moment before the cracks smoothened itself out. even so, that split-second was enough for suguru to realise oh. he's not actually angry at me. because all of this, he knew now, was part of the game that you were playing with him; a theatrical dramatic act to compensate for the weeks of silence you got from his end.

your head tilted slowly, dangerously, as if you're assessing him, and the newfound knowledge that you like were made a shiver run down his spine. because you wanted this, you wanted him too, even if you haven't said those words out loud. you craved him, and that single piece of knowledge was enough for suguru to feel like he was going to break himself apart and meld himself together until he fit all and every single one of your wishes; until he became perfect just for you.

suguru's smile was small, placating in the way he knew you hated it. "forgive me?" he asked, practically simpering.

you caught onto what he was trying to do—of course, you did, you always did—and you threw your head back in a sharp laugh. "i don't know, suguru." your smile was mean, dangerous, and suguru almost fainted on the spot. fuck. "do you think you deserve my forgiveness?"

all of suguru's bravado melted in that moment as he felt like a miserably delighted pile of limbs and bones and a beating heart that thumped and echoed and lived just for youyouyou. "no," he said, his voice coarse, rough with his own admission. his hand moved to rest on your knees, not reaching higher because he knew better than to touch you more at a time like this. he didn't deserve it yet. "but let me show you." let me deserve the taste of you, let me deserve to feel what it means to worship you.

your lips curled into a smirk, and suguru felt as if he was going to die right then and there. miraculously, he managed to stay alive just long enough to watch you crawl off of him, standing by the edge of the bed, your gaze still following him like you were going to eat him alive.

"hands and knees, suguru," you said. "you better earn it."

geto suguru was not an impatient man but in order to satisfy you, no time in the world was ever enough.

[roycevelvet]

Darkness at the heart of my love

Pairings: Noah Sebastian x reader Warnings: none Notes: again, don't know where this is going, many ideas, never an ending hihi. Also, listen to this song, it was my muse for this thing/chapter whatever you wanna call it lol.

You traced the faded design on your chipped nail polish, lost in memories of a summer filled with his laughter and stolen kisses. It seemed like ages ago, those sunny days when his voice was always there, comforting and familiar. Now, as you waited for him to answer the phone, you couldn't help but feel the weight of all that had shifted.

"Hey, babe" Noah's voice finally rasped through the phone, heavy with sleep. It was the first time you'd heard from him in days.

"Hey" you forced a smile. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten about me."

He chuckled, but it lacked its usual warmth. "Sorry, busy week. Soundchecks, interviews, you know...”

You bit your lip, pushing down the familiar pang of loneliness. "Yeah, I figured," you mumbled. You weren't sure if you were more hurt by the missed calls or the casual dismissal of your absence, like he hadn't missed you at all.

The silence stretched, thick with unspoken emotions. Finally, you gathered your courage. "So, when do you think we can have a proper talk? It’s been a while since, you know, we’ve had an actual conversation that lasted longer than 5 minutes.”

"Honestly, (Y/N), it's been crazy. I don't know when things will settle down."

The truth stung. You knew it wasn't just the tour schedule anymore. He wasn't making the effort, and your once vibrant connection felt like a fading radio signal, distorted and barely there.

"Okay," you said, your voice cracking slightly. "I understand."

You ended the call quickly as you didn't want him to hear you cry. The quiet in your small apartment felt overwhelming, tears welled in your eyes. It made it hard to see as you scrolled through X.

Among the bright lights and pictures of concerts, there he was. Noah, laughing with a bunch of fans, his arm around a pretty blonde girl, her smile big and happy.

A wave of nausea washed over you. You knew, logically, that he was a celebrity, bound to interact with fans. But the sight of him so close to another woman, the intimacy of his touch, ignited a jealousy you hadn't anticipated.

It wasn't just jealousy, though. It was a deeper feeling of insecurity that had been bothering you for weeks. It ate away at your confidence, leaving you feeling empty inside. You started to wonder if you were just a temporary fix in his glamorous world when he came back home.

Every time Noah didn't respond to your messages or calls, it felt like a punch in the gut. You felt completely alone, like you were drowning in a sea of uncertainty, desperately clinging to the hope that Noah would throw you a lifeline.

But he never did. Instead, he brushed aside your attempts to share your feelings, making empty promises and offering half-hearted apologies. It felt like he didn't really care about you anymore, as if you didn't matter in the grand scheme of his busy life.

When you called, he was always laughing with someone in the background, always busy, always talking. Other times, he was tired, his voice heavy with exhaustion, or sleepy, his words slurred as he struggled to stay awake. But his attention was never one hundred percent on you. It was as if he existed in a world that never slowed down, a whirlwind that left little room for anything else, for anyone else.

One evening, as you sat alone, feeling sad and listening to music, how poetic. The lyrics of "Darkness at the Heart of My Love," the song you and Noah shared, echoed around the room. Now, the lyrics felt hollow, a cruel reminder of a love that couldn't survive the distance.

A bitter smile twisted your lips. The summer had died, taking your love with it. You finally understood Noah's silence. It wasn't just about the tour schedule; it was about him choosing a different path, a path that didn't include you.

The anger that had been simmering beneath finally boiled over. You grabbed your phone and dialed his number, your fingers trembling slightly. He answered after the first ring, his voice laced with surprise.

"Is that it, Noah?" you began, your voice surprisingly steady despite the storm raging within you. "Is this how it ends? With unanswered calls and texts and photos with girls who look like they stepped out of a magazine?"

The silence on the other end was heavy and suffocating. Noah was surprised by your sudden outburst, his usually quick response delayed as he struggled with your words. 

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Noah spoke.”I… I don't know what to say, (Y/N). It's not like that."

He sighed. Did he just fucking sigh at your words? This making you even angrier than you already were.

"Then what is it like, Noah?" you asked, raging. "Why do I feel like I'm always waiting for you, but you don’t seem to need me?”

There was a pause, a long silence again. And then, Noah's voice said “I’m sorry, (Y/N). I've been so caught up in everything... I didn't mean to make you feel this way."

His words made you feel hopeful at first. But then doubt crept in, whispering that maybe he did mean it to make you feel this way. After all, he had been practically ignoring you for weeks, so why would things suddenly change now?

"Tell me, Noah," you continued, your voice shaking slightly as you recite the lyrics of your shared song. "Does your love have a darkness? Does it run cold, deep, like the lyrics you so readily quote all the time?"

Noah's answer came quickly, his words rushing out. "No, (Y/N), it's not like that. I love you, I really do. But... I've been struggling with everything."

You listened, feeling a tug on your heart with each word he said. But even as he opened up about his struggles, you couldn't shake the lingering question: why hadn't he reached out to you sooner? Why had he left you feeling lost and alone, without any explanation?

"Goodbye, Noah," you said, the weight of the word crushing you as much as it crushed him.

You didn't wait for a response. You didn't need one. You ended the call, the silence on the other end told you everything you needed to know.

—

But the silence wouldn't last forever. Occasionally, you'd be brought back to reality by the harsh ringtone cutting through silence. Your heart would skip a beat, hoping it was Noah finally reaching out, but it was never Noah.

Everything seemed to remind you of him, yet you never felt lonelier. You couldn't help but wonder why Noah never bothered to reach out, not even once. Did you really mean that little to him? Were you really that disposable?

In the days after, you kept busy with work or watching Netflix late into the night, trying to avoid thinking about Noah. But he was always there, like a ghost in your thoughts.

You tried to find comfort in your usual daily routine, but it couldn't fill the emptiness. The coffee tasted bitter, hanging out with friends felt empty, and the nights felt long and lonely.

You tried to move on, exploring new things and even going on a few dates. But every new situationship felt like a weak copy of what you had with Noah. He had made a big impression on your heart, and no matter how much time passed or how far you went, you couldn't forget it.

Despite the hurt, there was a small shimmer of hope. You wished, deep down, that someday he would return, willing to fight for you. Though you felt really silly and stupid for even dare to think this way.

But even as you struggled with everything, life kept marching on. You started to find joy again in unexpected places, glimpses of happiness.

And slowly, ever so slowly, the ache in your heart began to simmer down. It didn't disappear entirely – you doubted it ever would – but it became more bearable, a constant companion rather than an overwhelming force.

You threw yourself into your passions, rediscovering the things that brought you joy before Noah had come crashing into your life. Music became your refuge once more, the melodies and lyrics you hadn't realized you'd been missing.

—

One evening, a couple of months later, you had a small gig at a nearby bar. It was a simple chance to share your songs with a small crowd which you really appreciated. 

The concert was fantastic, but you did feel kinda relieved when it ended. As you left the stage, still buzzing with adrenaline, you were met with cheers and applause from the small but enthusiastic crowd. Lottie and Taylor, your ever-supportive best friends, beaming with excitement.

“(Y/N), you were absolutely stunning out there!" Lottie exclaimed, pulling you into a tight hug. "I'm so proud of you!"

"Seriously, (Y/N), that was incredible," Taylor chimed in, her voice filled with genuine admiration. "You absolutely smashed it!"

You smiled at your friends, feeling grateful for their constant support. Together, you moved through the crowd, settling into a cozy booth.

The air was filled with the scent of beer and the sound of people chatting and clinking glasses. Laughter and shared memories filled the air, recalling inside jokes and cherished memories.

They skillfully avoided mentioning Noah though, as they were fuming with him for how he had broken their best friend down to a shadow of herself. 

You were thankful for them, as they had been there since the start, helping you through the heartbreak.

As the night went on and the drinks kept coming, you got lost in the fun with your friends, forgetting about time and how much you had to drink. But just when you were starting to relax and enjoy the moment, you felt someone looking at you.

You turned around and saw Noah, his expression hard to figure out but somehow familiar. And in that quick moment, it was just the two of you, silently looking at each other. Everything else around you disappearing.

To be continued.

[fleetways]

OKAY! It’s time for the Chimera Baby Lore Post!!

🌼 How did you come up with the OC's name?

In both a meta and non-meta sense, Chimera Baby’s name is probably the most notable part about them. The name Chimera Baby is a reference to m-flo and LiSA’s Tripod Baby, ft in the game Shadow the Hedgehog. For over 6 months that was her official non-official name, as I couldn’t decide on a name for her. I received over 15 name suggestions, but in July I ran a poll at which point she was dubbed Mira!

As it turns out, Mira happens to be the name of a binary star system. Two stars in a dance doomed to end in supernova—rather fitting for a chimera character, wouldn’t you say? I like to imagine Shadow was the one to name Mira something meaningful and space-themed like that, meanwhile Sonic named the other child something totally arbitrary (“His name is Mochi because he's white lol”)

On that note, I’ve also decided Sonic calls Mira “Chili” exclusively, because its silly and he would. So Mira, Chimera Baby, CB, and Chili are all names she goes by!

🌸 How old are they? (Or approximate age range)

I like to depict them anywhere from baby to teenager, but in their most recent incarnation I’d say they’re somewhere between 15-17

💖 Do they have any love interest(s)?

At the moment no. She’s generally too aloof and off putting for anyone to approach her with romantic intent, but maybe in the future….

🍓What is their favorite food?

Strawberries and Triangle Chao Fruit

⭐️ What do they do for a living?

💥 Do they have any hobbies?

Besides combat training, CB enjoys the occasional outdoor activity. Sometimes her friends goad her into a game of soccer (which she is an absolute beast at), but she generally prefers solo sports such as archery, rock climbing, or hiking. Sometimes her brother convinces her to fish with him, but she finds it pretty boring (but would never turn him down)

💃 What do they do best?

Mira excels at hand-to-hand combat. As the reigning champion of Chao Karate, Mira takes their martial arts training very seriously. They also possess exemplary control over chaos energy, and incorporates this into their technique. While they may not be as fast as their fathers, they make up for it with not just raw power, but an extremely disciplined technique.

Her skills also happen to make her an amazing breakdancer, but she’ll break your face if you ask her to demonstrate.

☀️ What is one of your OC's best memories?

A tie between making her baby brother laugh for the first time and the time she drew first blood for the first time in a fight with Shadow

🌧️ What is one of your OC's worst memories?

The aftermath of almost drowning as a child after she saved a chao friend.

✍️ Is their current design the first one?

For the most part—I did redesign their shoes because originally they were rocking some McDonalds drip.

💡What originally inspired the OC?

This post i made ^^

Basically its a mix of me poking fun at the phenomena of Sonadow fan-children all looking kinda similar, and this plush reminding me of actual chimerism in animals and wanting to create a character with that characteristic! Over the months my ironic love for her has grown into genuine fondness—so while she remains primarily as a parody, she’s also a character I’m having fun exploring concepts with <3 Much like both Shadow and Sonic the Hedgehog, you can take her as seriously or not seriously as you wish!

👾 What genre do they belong in?

PS1-era graphics Jet Set Radio game

🏳️‍🌈 What is your OC's gender identity and sexuality?

Non-binary and trans (you decide what direction). And she’s bisexual bc i love bisexuals <3

🍃How many sibling does your OC have?

One little brother Mochi—he is a perfect angel who is also her closest friend. She adores him, but you wouldn’t know from seeing them interact.

⚠️ What is the OC's relationship w/their parents like?

So I mentioned that Mira was reared in a chao garden, where her dads basically only visited once every couple days if not longer (Sonic and Shadow are not very attentive parents, go figure). However, this was honestly a perfectly fine arrangement as I headcanon mobian children don’t need the same level of parental contact as human children (Hell, Cream is kind of an outlier FOR having a present parental figure in her life).

That being said, I imagine Shadow spent more time with her when she was really young before stepping away, which made her really latch onto Shadow more than Sonic during that time. Especially seeing as Sonic is the most laissez-faire parent ever but simultaneously was the type to abandon her on a floating platform in midair with a trail of badniks so she can learn how to homing attack.

Much like her father before her, her latent Black Arms genes have caused her to develop a burning desire to destroy Shadow—a fact that Shadow seems strangely indifferent about. While this fact has pretty much wrecked their previous relationship, there are circumstances where Mira will put aside her goal and work with Shadow against a common enemy or towards a common objective (of course, this doesn’t stop her from trying to stab him in the back during these operations).

Her relationship with Sonic has remained mostly the same, with Sonic treating her much more like a friend or little sister than a daughter. They have lunch together at least once a month, and usually she’ll go to him for advice on any social interaction matter—conversations that have become much more frequent now that she’s begun to make friends.

💗 What do you like most about the OC?

I think I popped off with her design—chimerism is such an interesting concept and I loved balancing her two sets of genes without making it seem too busy. I also love her dynamic of trying to kill Shadow and how you would think her growing up in chao garden basically alone would have contributed to that, but that's not the case at all she’s just like that <3

‼️ Who is your OC's arch-nemesis or rival?

Shadow the Hedgehog is her self-proclaimed nemesis, but she makes a fair share of enemies and rivals wherever she goes due to her punch-first-ask-questions-later attitude. One notable rival is another OC of mine named Sauvik the Badger—another cold and brooding anti-hero much like her. Sauvik and Mochi are something of a team, but being a protective big sister she wants him to stay away from her brother. This generally leads to a fight that Mochi is inevitably forced to break up.

⏰ How long have you had the OC?

She was created in January of 2023!

—

That’s all! Feel free to ask any other questions and remember to vote for her here!

@sonic-oc-showdown

[thenerdofthegroup]

Analysing the Ballad of the Witches Road and I wanted to point out something. If others have figured this out then… I might be slow and just was dumbfounded by how beautiful Agatha was but here we go. The lyrics:

“Gather sisters far who water, earth and air darkest hour wake thy power, Earthly and Divine”

So this is slightly piggybacking on @trickofthelights blog (with your amazing Coven collage) but this is directly referencing the women in the coven. Later in the song it mentions ‘Familiar by thy side’ which is Billy Teen and this is purely the witches.

Agatha gathers a coven made of Alice (Fire- we see her associated with fire and red/orange a lot in the trailer), Jennifer (Water- we see her try and be drowned and she definitely fits personality wise) and Lilia (Air- we see her floating in the beautiful shot and she just gives ‘air’ vibes… so yeah we’ll go with that) to help her on her journey. The ‘far’ may reference the corners of the world they come from (Alice is linked to Homg Kong through her mother, Lilia is Sicilian).

The next line is more of a prophesy, it’s linking Agatha (divine) and Rio (Earthly) separately in being able to awaken agatha’s powers. I think this is telling us that at the end Rio will be absolutely crutial in getting agatha’s magic back. Some think it’s in a bad way, some think it’s in a good way, no one can really say. She is such an up and down character, but everything we have gotten leads us to the conclusion that she is obsessed with Agatha. Even looking back at the trailer, whenever she isn’t able to take the piss out of a situation or isn’t the centre of Agatha’s attention, she’s bored. That’s my interpretation anyway, proof here:

(i just think this photo is cute)

ANYWAY, the separation of them in the song tells us that those two are much closer and more intertwined than the others. I think that the other witches (probably won't die because I actually want to see them all together at the end, don't shoot me I know that's an unpopular opinion) will come of the road and the main three of the series, Agatha Rio and Billy will be left.

Short analysis whilst I am now on page 42 on my dissecting Agatha evidence document that I will never show anyone out of embarrassment if everything is wrong. But I am making theories every day. Only the ones I love and don't think have a chance of being bollocks do I share.

Also this is what I call them now “The Earthly and Divine” as you could probably tell by my fic title. But I’m trying to stay objective in these theory things because some people are getting quite violent over ships and shipping culture. The internet is a scary place and I don’t ever want to interact long on here because some of y’all are actually crazy and I cannot understand it…

Anyway, thanks to anyone who actually reads these theories, this was done at midnight because I can't sleep. Today your gift for reading this is this observation: The flower Rio plays with in the photo above is in most of the show (note, in the airport clips, in the solo posing that we can see because it is filmed atrociously I'm positive she's holding the same flower):

Right after this disco scene she gives it to Agatha trust I'm Jac Shaeffer-