#but there are so many questions about mold??

[marvelstoriesepic]

Like a Phoenix (9)

Pairing: Mercenary!Bucky x Princess!Reader

Series Summary: An attack on your palace thrusts your only hope for survival into the hands of a mercenary who is forced to protect you, all due to a vow he made many years before. Though, those are circumstances neither of you have chosen.

Word Count: 6.7k

Warnings: mentions of dead parents, betrayal; arrogance and ignorance of mankind; sexism; talk of arranged marriage

Author’s Note: Next part for y'all. Hope you enjoy! ♡

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

Lying in a bed feels different now.

The mattress underneath you is impossibly soft. It sinks under your weight as if meant to cradle you into dreams like a cloud. The cool silken sheets glide over your skin in a way meant to be soothing but it merely leaves your skin itchy.

The blankets are thick and warm, layered with care for a comfort that borders on indulgence. Lavender lingers faintly on the fabric, intentional yet in one breath so very subtle, crafted solely to lull royalty into ease.

It’s everything a princess should have - a sanctuary of opulence, security, and rest.

But you hate it.

You loathe the softness. Hate that it yields and molds itself to your body instead of standing against it, as if the wilderness that grew within your bones on the journey needs to be tamed now. The sheets feel like chains because they suffocate you with their plushness, weighted with all the memories of who you used to be.

And the warmth is all wrong.

Bucky’s fires were wild, flickering, unpredictable, crackling under a starlit sky. Their heat was honest and real, earned with careful tending and cold nights that made you appreciate the blaze all the more.

The warmth in your new chambers now feels artificial, orchestrated by servants who stoked it before you could even realize you’re cold.

It is insufferable.

You roll onto your back, fixedly gazing at the canopied ceiling above you. It is decorated with golden-threaded patterns spiraling and weaving into meaningless flourishes.

Your chambers back at the palace had looked so much the same.

The walls were thick with privilege and the air perfumed by fresh-cut lilies brought in by servants each morning. You remember sprawling across your bed without a care in the world, lulled by the soft rustle of silk curtains drawn against the daylight. You lived encased in velvet luxury. One of your biggest burdens once was which gown to wear to court or what pleasantries to exchange with noble suitors you never cared for.

This castle, such a reflection of the life you abandoned weeks ago - a life of pompous splendor and ignorance.

How did that life ever fit you?

You think of the palace halls, the wide ceilings. The footsteps of knights and guards walking around and shadowing your steps. The way you never questioned where the food on your golden plates came from or why your wardrobe was endless. Servants slinked in and out of your days, assisting you, and you took that for granted and never really saw them too clearly.

But now, after the forest, after Bucky, after everything - you cannot unsee it.

You’ve walked through a town where women bartered over bread with smiles despite knowing it might be their only meal for the day. Where men bore calloused hands from labor that ensured someone else’s comfort - your comfort

They had so little, yet there was joy in the way they lived. Real joy, the kind that doesn’t come from silken sheets or golden chandeliers but from togetherness and resilience.

Shame threads through you, sliding through your veins so smoothly but making your muscles twitch.

Bucky would hate this bed.

The thought is so unexpected, your breath stutters. But you linger on it.

He would have scoffed at the unnecessary extravagance, muttering something gruff about practicality while tossing down a rough fabric over hard earth without complaint. You recall how he would brush the twigs and leaves aside that got stuck on his clothes over the night.

The forest was harsh, but it was real. You earned every night’s sleep there, even if it was fitful and cold. The ache in your muscles was proof that you had lived through the day, not simply existed within a cocoon of simplicity.

This bed is a lie.

It is trying to lull you back into a world where comfort was abundant and hardship was for other people - the townsfolk whose existence has been so distant to you.

You had seen the hollow-eyed hunger of some and the contentment of others in this kind of life. Children ran barefoot through those dusty streets, with laughter bright and untrained, unbound by the rigid decorum that had ruled your own childhood.

They hadn’t cared about courtly manners - not showing too much teeth, not letting your laugh carry - or straight postures.

They cared about playing with one another, chasing each other through the streets, petting the dogs of others, and feeling the warmth of the community.

It has shaken you.

And those truths are crushing you lying here in this bed that cradles your body but not your spirit.

Your father’s lies. The lies that had propped up your kingdom. His image of a realm prosperous and just, all but shattered by the reality of its struggling people. And you were blind to it all.

Bucky’s past as a soldier in that same kingdom's army, forced to serve under a king who cared more for appearances than for the lives beneath his rule. The scars Bucky bears have been engraved by your father - a debt paid in blood and pain.

You spent your life with the preparations to rule one day. And that made sense. Because you are the damn princess.

But you no longer feel like it.

How are you supposed to step back into that role, knowing what you know now? How can you sit on a throne draped in opulence when the people beyond this castle scrape by with so little?

You press your palms against your eyes. The warm air stumbles in your throat.

You no longer are a princess surrounded by the finest things this country has to offer. You are someone who has walked through hardship, who has seen the fractures of your kingdom and felt the twinge of guilt for not knowing sooner.

You have tasted the freedom of the wild and the wailing ache of loss.

Nothing in this world, not even the smoothest silks nor the softest pillow, will make you forget what you have seen and learned.

Harshly, you toss the covers aside and sit up. The warmth of the bed will never be able to comfort you - it hasn’t the whole night, and it probably won’t ever again.

Your feet swing over the side, feet brushing against the lush rug beneath you.

The bath you were practically forced to take the evening before has been warm. Too warm. Scalding against skin that grew accustomed to the cool bite of stream water and hurried scrubs with rough cloths and soap under moonlight.

The strong smell of lavender and rose petals overwhelmed your senses. The maids who attended to you poured oils into the water, softly explaining how it would restore your softness and soothe away the dirt from your travels.

You sunk into it because you were expected to. But it worked too well. The water had softened your skin but it also scrubbed away something else. The grime of the journey, the smoke from countless fires, and the roughness of the forest floor were stripped from your skin. But instead of renewed you felt hollowed out.

Clean, yes. But in a painful way. As if you had been peeled open and laid bare, filed down to fit into this polished, perfect world you no longer feel you belong to.

The cloying oils only stayed sticking to your skin.

And the maids insisted on brushing your hair out until it gleamed like mahogany.

Now, golden morning light trickles through tall windows, brushing tiny swirls across your untouched breakfast tray.

You keep sitting on the edge of the bed, fingers digging into the silken nightgown piled across your knees, heart filled with foreboding.

Despite the warmth of the bed and the comfort it should provide, rest has evaded you entirely. Your thoughts were too loud. Too much. Circling endlessly in a maze without exists.

There is a knock at the doors and then they come.

The three maids from yesterday evening enter in hushed formation with polite smiles on their faces. Their steps are light. They bow slightly, greeting you with carefully measured tones. Like they know nothing else but say those words.

You do not greet them back.

The maids must see the dark shadows under your eyes, the pallor of your skin, but their smiles never waver.

They only descend upon you with gentle hands, guiding you toward the vanity without a word about your state. They move as though choreographed.

It makes you want to scream.

You stare into the mirror, catching sight of your reflection. A stranger looks back at you. A girl with dull and sunken eyes, with likes on her forehead and lips pressed to a frown.

Your maids see a princess in need of restoration, a figurehead who must be embellished until she is flawlessly shining.

But all you see is a fraud.

Nausea curls in your stomach as they begin to brush and tame your hair, pinning it into place, fingers deft but impersonal. One smooths a fine powder over your face and another sorts out a gown for you.

The way they move without complaint, without hesitation, their entire existence seemingly dedicated to making you presentable makes you wring your hands in your lap in unease.

They smile politely, but those smiles never really touch their eyes. They are so composed and respectful. Standing there and moving so practiced, smoothing creams onto your face and fastening delicate pins into your hair, all while you feel like you are going to lose it.

You stare at them. They are not people here. Not in the way that matters. You think about their will, their hopes, their dreams - all stuffed out by duty, extinguished in favor of caring for others. For you.

The gown a brunette girl has selected is extravagant. Layers of silk and brocade in hues of deep indigo and gold shimmering under the morning light. They lace you into it tightly, the bodice cinching your ribs until your breath comes shallow.

You forgot how restricting these dresses were, how they demanded perfect posture and composure. You miss your blue dress. It’s still ruined and dirty, but god, do you want to step into it.

You grip the edge of the vanity as they finish their work, your nails pressing into the glossy wood. You glance down at your hands - clean, soft, and manicured now. The dirt under your nails, the callouses that had begun to form from days of travel, are gone. Erased.

But you refuse to forget what you learned there. It hums beneath your skin.

Another brunette maid steps back, folding her hands neatly in front of her. You believe her name is Lady Maximoff.

“You look lovely, your Highness,” she says, voice gentle and deferential.

Lovely.

The word is sour as you swallow it down.

You do not feel lovely. You feel like the only thing left of you is the husk. Like the one of a fruit. Dusty and bitter. And inside is a nasty wound of something rampant that can’t break free with all the excessive embellishments you are dressed in.

They have prepared you for something. But no one has told you what awaits you now that you are here. For what you have been dressed up like this.

You had been sent here immediately upon your arrival, ordered to get cleaned up and ensure that no one saw you in your disheveled, dirty state.

God forbid anyone witness you as a human being.

The princess must be immaculate. Flawless. A symbol. A shining representation of what you only ever felt like in the forest - a real woman.

You have been scrubbed, and dressed to meet expectations you no longer want to fulfill.

The room is filled with the rustle of silk as they continue to fuss around you. Your hair just pinned so, gown cinched to perfection, shoes soft against the floor but lined with elegance. You only listen halfway to their murmurs - until their conversation breaks through your restive thoughts.

“He will fall for you in an instant,” a maid with dark blond waves says with a wistful sigh, pausing as she smooths the delicate sleeves of your gown.

“Truly,” the first brunette agrees, her lips curving into a small, knowing smile. “He will not stand a chance.”

You blink, caught off guard by their words. A spark of confusion vibrates through you. He? Who is he?

Before you can voice your question, Lady Maximoff speaks up, her voice softer than the others but not less certain. “Indeed, my lady.” Her tone is dipped in honeyed courtesy. “And who wouldn’t? You are radiant, your Highness. He will see it plainly.”

He.

Your mind stumbles over the pronoun. You don’t know who they are speaking of but the implication deeply unnerves you. The warmth in their voices feels misplaced, like praise bestowed too early upon a battle yet to be fought.

“Who are you talking about?”

The room falls into a sudden, stifling silence.

The maids freeze, hands hovering mid-air. They exchange wide-eyed glances.

Lady Maximoff flushes, color blooming high on her cheeks. The other two avert their eyes, their hands growing fidgety as they return to fussing over folds of fabric that need no further adjustment.

“I- I misspoke, your Highness,” the first brunette stammers, her voice unsure. She grows a little pale in the bright light.

The blonde fumbles with a silk ribbon, suddenly engrossed in tying it into a bow.

The sudden shift in their demeanor - the slight panic in the air, the flustered silence - tightens something deep within your stomach.

Your pulse quickens. The unease that hasn’t left you since your arrival sends a shiver crawling along your spine, dragging it out so painstakingly slowly.

“Who is he?” you press, firmer this time. “Who are you speaking of?”

But the maids refuse to meet your eyes. They avoid them with such determination - or perhaps fear - a prickling tension grips your throat.

Possibilities race through your mind, none of them comforting. They know something you don’t, and it plagues your nerves like a hushed murmur you can’t quite understand.

You force your voice softer, but the edge of demand remains. “Please. Tell me.”

But the three girls are already moving, gathering up their tools and fabric swatches briskly.

“Forgive us, your Highness,” Lady Maximoff voices, but her tone is marked by her nervousness. “We have lingered too long in idle talk.”

Their refusal to answer only makes the implications of their words so much for dreadful. Who is he? And why would he care for your appearance, your supposed radiance?

Is this some courtly nonsense you’ve been removed from for too long? Or something worse - a scheme in the dark shapes of politics and power, hidden even from you?

“The time presses,” the blond girl rushes, briefly meeting your eyes. The brunette reaches for the door handle, her knuckles pale against the wood.

The other two guide you gently but firmly forward, herding you like a lamb to some unknown fate. They stay silent now, their gazes fixed elsewhere, as though avoiding your eyes will erase the guilt of their loose tongues.

The maids only curtsy hastily, stepping back, their duty done. Lips pressed into polite, impenetrable smiles. They leave you standing there, alone with your frightful premonition.

They know something you don’t. Something you are not meant to know yet. And that ignorance feels dangerous.

Whatever they know, it concerns you.

And it isn’t good.

At least, not for you.

****

Each step you take echoes through the ornate corridors. Their paths are winding and bright and gleaming under the soft glow of scones and you feel like squeezing your eyes shut to escape the sight.

But you could not get rid of the smell of wax and polished wood, including the faint metallic tang of dread that keeps your shoulders stiff and your hands clammy.

Two guards flank you, their boots heavy against the floor and their faces so utterly impassive.

You’ve asked them where you are being led, demanded to know who awaits you. But each question was met with cold silence. They neither acknowledge you nor spare you a glance, despite your rank.

And with a shiver that creeps along your spine, you come to the conclusion that they aren’t ignoring you out of insolence but out of duty - because they were instructed not to answer.

Your fists clench at your side, heart pounding erratically.

Your nerves coil tighter with each step. The soft rustle of your gown feels constricting and oppressive against your skin. You want nothing more than to claw it off and return to the freedom of simple tunics and sturdy boots that had carried you through the forest. But that was snatched away the moment you crossed through the castle gates and were swept back into this world of titles, propriety, and veiled threats.

Anxiety clutches onto your chest, making you take in a harsh breath through the tight corset.

You pass through a towering archway flanked by more guards who straighten at your approach.

Chandeliers gleam overhead, casting fractured light across a grand hall teeming with courtiers, nobles, and officials. Conversation dulls to a hush as all eyes turn to you.

This is not just about courtly pleasantries or some ceremonial welcome. You are being presented.

Your skin prickles at their assessing gazes. They are so mixed. Some full of curiosity, pity, and sympathy, others filled with suspicion, contempt, disregard, and a few handful of inscrutable expressions.

You detest them all the same.

At the far end of the hall stands a dais, draped in rich velvet, where a throne rises. Seated beside it is a man who must be the king of this domain, his bearing regal but rigid. An elder advisor beside him whispers something into his ear. His expression is stony.

There is a figure standing before the dais, sharp eyes staring you down. He is tall and lean-muscled in formal attire. There is a certain air of arrogance surrounding this man.

His face is handsome in a polished way, his strong nose crooked slightly, dark and thick brows lining his forehead. But there is a detachment in his eyes that has you swallow hard. He watches you intensely, weighing your worth.

And something hits you then. A metaphorical punch to the gut. A thought in your mind. Maybe he is the man those maids have spoken of.

You keep your expression composed but your skin is boiling in panic. It’s so hot and ferocious, but you grip it with trembling fingers and shove it down where it can’t break free yet.

A herald steps forward. His voice booms through the hall. He sounds ceremonious and impersonal, stripping you bare with each syllable. “Her Royal Highness, the princess of the Western Realm, presented before His Majesty and the Court.”

Your title feels foreign in your ears and you keep yourself from grimacing. Those words do not belong to you. At least, not anymore. They are relics of a life fractured by survival and grief, paraded for spectacle.

The man who has been watching you so intently descends the dais gracefully and moves towards you. He stops at a respectful distance. His face is striking indeed. Sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, and eyes that glint with intent. And you don’t like any of it.

He bows slightly, but there is no warmth in that gesture. It’s for mere formality.

“Your Highness,” he greets, his voice smooth but devoid of true feeling.

You bring yourself to curtsy, though your legs tremble beneath you. “My Lord,” you manage. But it sounds detached.

He does not take his eyes off you. Studying you keenly. “You must be wondering why you’ve been summoned.”

“I would appreciate some clarity, my Lord,” you reply, keeping your tone measured.

“This arrangement was decreed long ago, in the event of” - his lips curl faintly - “unforeseen circumstances.”

Your skin crawls at the way he says it. Your blood turns to ice. “What arrangement?”

“Our marriage.”

Your next inhale fractures, broken by shock. Every nerve in your body stiffens with resistance.

“I was not informed of this arrangement,” you grit out but manage to sound calmer than you feel.

“There was no need for you to be informed,” he replies evenly and you just feel like throwing a dagger at him. “The matter was decided long ago.”

Before you can answer, the king's voice sounds out. “This union was ordained by the late king, your father, as a safeguard for the realm. We honor his wisdom today.”

Your breath leaves your lungs in a harsh exhale. So it is true. Your father had orchestrated this. Even in his death, his will reached out to bind you to a fate you had no say in.

This man standing before you is not a person but a sentence. The embodiment of your father’s final decree.

Even in death, you are bound to the legacy he built. A legacy of lies and cover-ups and manipulation.

Your mother could not possibly have known about this arrangement. She fought for you in her own ways. They were quiet at times but fierce. Always seeking to preserve the humanity that the crown sought to crush.

Beside the king, the elder advisor nods solemnly. “It was a measure of great prudence, your Highness. One that ensures stability in these uncertain times.”

Prudence. Stability. Cold words to mask the truth. That you are a pawn moved across a board without giving you the decency of knowledge.

Again, your life is being bartered like a mere commodity. You’ve come to expect it but not this way. This is so much worse than anything you conjured up in your head.

Desperation settles in your chest. “This was my fathers doing?” You don’t even know why you ask. Why you let it confirm to yourself another godforsaken time, but you don’t know what to do.

“His foresight ensured the survival of the realm. You should take pride in fulfilling his legacy.” The tone of the king is hard.

You almost scoff.

Your chest burns with the urge to let out your rage. But there is that familiar chokehold keeping you silent. The one forged in your childhood.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch sight of a few nobles exchanging glances.

The court is a stage and you are the unwilling actor thrust into the spotlight.

How come you are shoved back into this duty so quickly without a single blink after all that had happened?

You crave the shelter of the woods, the trees around you that would hide you from the rest of the world. The taste of freedom you barely begun to savor. Bucky as the only companion you need. Bucky as the only man you need.

But you’re back and instantly choked by your crown.

You cannot let this be your end - a fate dictated by a man who is no longer even alive.

“Your Highness?” the man in front of you prompts, tone measuredly polite but firm.

You lift your chin and gaze to the king, forcing steel into your voice. “I wish to speak with the Lord privately, your Majesty,” you declare, ignoring the murmurs rippling through the hall.

The king's brows furrow, but he inclines his head curtly. “Very well. Lord Ward, see to it.”

So that is his name. Lord Ward. The name of the man your father had chosen for you without your consent.

He extends his arm toward a side passage. “This way, your Highness.”

Briefly glancing back at the court where eyes still linger on you, you follow Lord Ward.

Guards follow you at a distance.

****

The castle gardens aren’t as extensive as the palace gardens had been.

But they are verdant under a sky tinted by the light of the sun.

Vines tangle up trellises, and roses bloom in bursts of crimson and gold.

Neatly pruned hedges line the paths.

A shallow breeze tugs at your skirts. The air is filled with floral sweetness.

The forest smelled of damp earth, pine, and wildflowers. This place is pristine, but it feels so lifeless. So unreal. So fake.

Just like the man walking beside you - your apparent betrothed.

He let you choose the path to the castle grounds, but he does not offer his hand, not incline his head with true respect.

He seems to try and mark his authority with every brisk stride, making it seem that this entire charade is an inconvenience he means to see through as swiftly as possible.

You refrain from rolling your eyes.

His name is not unfamiliar to you. Grant Ward, Lord Commander of the Northern Territories. You know of his self-importance and immodesty in council chambers, the firm clutch he maintains on treaties and taxation.

He is not the kind of man you take to feed the ducks by the pond.

You have not imagined your father would bargain your future to him. Although you might as well have guessed it after the things you found out about the man.

Lord Ward gestures toward a secluded alcove where a marble bench waits, its surface cold and white. “Sit, your Highness.” There is stiffness in his voice. A command.

You ignore it and the bench altogether. “I prefer to stand.”

His brow twitches, but he keeps his dissatisfaction composed. “As you wish.”

He turns his head slightly and allows his gaze to sweep over you. He is scrutinizing you as if you are a document in need of review.

“I suppose you find this arrangement disagreeable.” His voice is controlled. There is a low hum of amusement in his tone. But it’s nothing like Bucky’s has been. It’s darker.

You keep your expression a wall, though your shoulders draw tighter. “You suppose correctly, my lord.”

He huffs out a laugh, though the sound lacks warmth. As does his thin smile. “Honest. I can appreciate that.”

You don’t care if he does.

But you know better than to say that out loud.

The path bends toward a fountain, water glistening in the light.

This moment feels sterile. The rustling leaves around you seem louder than they should be.

You don’t care to fill the silence. So he does. But you'd rather he doesn’t.

“You have lived a sheltered life, I imagine,” he continues with a silky voice, but it is underlined with something colder, something displeased. “I will have to assume you grew over beyond such frippery, have you?”

You clench your jaw. Your spine stiffens. Your pulse races in anger and indignation.

“Do not believe me to fall into whatever role this arrangement demands of me.”

Lord Ward's expression hardens. He narrows his eyes ever so slightly at you. “Your duty is to your husband. To your kingdom. To your people.”

Your breath grows sharper; each inhale slicing through your ribs, fueling the heat that builds behind your sternum.

“And yet, I see none of my people here,” you counter.

He steps closer to you, the space between you shrinking until the scent of leather and fabric mingles with the floral air. His voice drops lower.

“I was under the impression you were a pliable princess, content to do as you were told.”

A flush rises to your skin, painting your neck and cheeks in a fever of fury. However, the hurt that weaves in cannot be tempered as easily. But you manage to mask it, keeping your voice strong.

“Then you were misinformed.”

His eyes gleam with something fierce. You have to crane your neck to meet his gaze, but don’t take it away.

Did your father truly believe this man could safeguard the realm? Or had this been about control - ensuring that even in death, his hand guides your future?

You know your father did not trust you to lead, to forge your own path. He handed you over just like that, a sacrifice for the sake of strategy.

Lord Ward tightens his jaw, and for a moment, you think he might bite back with something venomous. But he only lets out a sharp and measured breath.

“You will learn. I am here to mold you into what this kingdom needs.”

You don’t wait a second with your answer. “This kingdom needs compassion. Hope. Something to believe in and hold onto.”

You will not be molded into anything. You will not be the pawn of a chessboard, for Lord Ward to move you into place. You will not be moved so easily. No, not anymore.

You can no longer be the girl who has once accepted her role without question.

Long hands wrap around your wrist with a force that makes your breath hitch. His grasp sends a jostle of shock through you.

He only stares at you unapologetically at your attempt to wrench yourself free. Your heart thunders. “Unhand me now,” you demand, tugging at his grasp.

He doesn’t stop staring at you. He doesn’t stop gripping you. “Let me go!” you repeat, but it comes out weaker. Fear starts to rise like bile in your throat.

Lord Ward does not relent. If anything, his fingers tighten. The fine leather of his gloves punctures your skin.

A rather cunning sneer curls the corners of his mouth. “I’ve been patient with you, but I will not tolerate-”

“Get the fuck off her!”

You startle in shock at the voice that sounds out. Or rather the unflinching command. It is spoken by a voice you never thought, but kept on hoping you would hear again. It hangs in midair, and your mouth drops open as Bucky Barnes steps out from beneath an archway.

His rigid posture coils with energy, and he takes a step forward with the grace of a predator. There is murder in his eyes. But he is not looking at you. His threatening eyes are fixed on Lord Ward.

The grip on your arm slackens just slightly as Lord Ward turns incredulously. His confident expression dissolves into disbelief.

You manage to wrench your arm free at his distraction, cradling the aching limb. But you can’t focus on the pain. All you can focus on is him in all his intense and lethal glory standing mere feet away. You blink, and he is still there.

“Barnes?” Lord Ward’s voice shifts. “You are not meant to be here. This is no place for you.” He sounds angered, but there is uncertainty in his tone.

“Ah, I think I'm quite right where I am, Ward,” Bucky drawls, but his voice is chilling.

“As far as I am aware, you are a dead man, Barnes.”

Bucky’s lips twitch into something that is not quite a smile. “Close enough. Now, if you don’t take a step away from her, you are gonna be dead.”

You can only stand there, rooted to the spot, feelings somewhere between utter perplexity and wild relief.

Ward’s eyes narrow, and he does take a step from you, only to move toward Bucky. “You forget your place, soldat-”

Bucky cuts him off, voice deadly calm. “You don‘t wanna test me right now, Ward,” he warns. His tone drops to a guttural rumble. “I’ll assure you that.”

The tension in the air is thick enough to choke you.

“You think you can threaten me?-”

“Oh, I think I can do more than that.” Bucky’s voice is so cold, a shiver whacks through you.

You don’t know if your shock droned out some more parts of their conversation, but Lord Ward then strides away, the gravel path choking down his agitated gate. His back is stiff with rage, shoulders up.

Bucky doesn’t spare him another glance. His attention is on you now. His jaw is taut, a muscle feathering near his temple.

“Are you okay?” Concern leads his tone, still followed by the tension that has rattled Lord Ward's composure.

You glance down at your wrist, the faint imprint of Ward’s grip marring your skin. Your skin pulses. “I am alright,” you assure, though your voice lacks any heat, still trying to comprehend what just occurred.

Bucky’s brows are tightly knit together. His gaze sharpens on the reddening marks against your skin. His stoicism gives way to a simmering outrage that makes the air in your lungs falter on its way out.

“Bucky, what are you- you shouldn’t be here,” you press in an urgent whisper, as if that would make this tall man invisible.

“Well, too bad that I am,” he replies flatly.

“You don’t understand,” you urge, anxiousness creeping into your tone. “Lord Ward now knows that you are here. He will report it. You will get in-”

“Trouble?” Bucky scoffs, arching a brow. His tone softens, but his voice stays entirely unfazed. “Been in trouble before, doll. This ain’t any different.”

You want to shake him. Actually, you want to hug and kiss him and never let him move out of your sight, but throttling the man right now seems more rational. Demanding that he care for his own safety as much as he does for yours.

“They will come-”

“Let ‘em.”

You open your mouth to argue further, but then Bucky gently takes your hand in his, calloused fingers brushing against the tender skin of your wrist. His touch is careful and precise.

“C’mon,” he says softly, guiding you toward the stone fountain nestled beneath a canopy of ivy. Water trickles over the stone.

He leads you to the edge, his warm hand in yours. He kneels first, tugging you down with him. With his hand cradling yours, he dibs your wrist into the cool water.

The water is icy, but it feels soothing on your flushed skin, numbing the ache.

You watch the water bead on your wrist and drip into the basin below.

For a moment, neither of you speaks, the only sound the water splashing against stone.

“How do you know Lord Ward?” you ask quietly, not knowing if he will answer.

Bucky lets out a tired breath. But he answers after a beat. “Your father.” His voice is clipped but not unkind. “Ward was one of his men. Same as me.”

Your stomach turns. “He was a soldier?”

“Not exactly.” Bucky’s voice turns bitter. “He handled logistics, let’s say. Wasn’t on the frontlines, but he was real good at managin’ supply lines and keepin’ nobles happy.”

So basically, he is just a man representing everything you despise about court politics.

You let his words and his honesty sink in, looking down at where his hand is intertwined with yours, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin as though to erase the bruises Ward has left.

He touches you so carefully, so tenderly. But it is not just the sensation of his touch that stirs you. It’s the sight of him. He just kneels there beside you like he walked right out of a dream you had not dared to hope for.

You felt so lost the whole night, felt so empty, as if you were unraveling completely. And now, somehow, he’s just fixed that by simply being here.

Relief is a heavy feeling. It’s nearly dizzying, clutching you so intensely.

You take a breath and look at him properly. The parts of him you seared to your memory are still there. Brilliant and powerful. The sharp jawline marked by stubble. The wild mess of dark hair that always looks like it has been tousled by the wind. Those eyes, blue as forget-me-nots, blue as a winter morning, and just as cold when he chooses them to be. Those plump lips pressed into a faintly stubborn frown even when he isn’t trying to look fierce.

Those parts of him are unchanged. But there are new things too. Things you didn’t vividly remember.

There is a faint scar at his temple, pale and thin that you don’t remember noticing before. There is a new tension lingering around his eyes, shadows hollowing them out. His shoulders seem strained, poised in a way that makes you feel like he prepared for something that was rather mental than physical. The fine lines that bracket his mouth. The faint scent of cedar on his clothes.

It is strange noticing these small things now, all the details that paint the canvas of him. The things you would not have known without taking the time to look. The things you would not have known if your goodbye was forever. You shudder.

God, you missed him.

It should not feel this monumental. This significant. You said goodbye not even a day ago. But your chest has been tight since the moment you had to walk away, as seeing him again is the breath you weren’t able to let out.

Your fingertips buzz with a joy you know you should probably not feel to this extent, but it only makes the sting of your wrist fade into irrelevance. He’s here. He is really, truly here.

And he risked himself for you by being here. It makes your heart clench painfully.

You study the curve of his brow, the scar beneath his jaw that catches light when he tilts his head slightly to get a better look at the bruising on your wrist.

There is always something new to notice about Bucky Barnes, it seems. Always another layer hidden underneath that stoic exterior.

“I thought you would be over the mountains by now,” you say, the words slipping out in a voice barely above a whisper, almost too vehement despite their softness. There is a tiny glimpse of frustration manifesting in your chest. Not for him. It is born from your own swirling confusion, from the hit of emotions that bombarded you the moment you saw him standing there.

Bucky’s eyes lift to yours. And just like that, the air shifts. His eyes soften with something warmer. The blue of his eyes just turned a shade richer.

A twinkle returns to his expression. “Definitely woulda moved faster without you, darlin',” he drawls. His mouth tilts into something that almost resembles a grin. A tease.

But before you can retort, he lets out a small huffed laugh and shakes his head, almost in amusing disbelief. “Couldn’t, though,” he adds, quieter, voice dipping lower with meaning.

Your lips part at his admission.

You guessed that he mistrusted the world you were forced to reenter. It was in the way he hesitated, in his stoic silence, when he let you go at the gate.

But you did not believe him to stay.

Because that’s what he did. He stayed near the castle, and he didn’t stay out of duty.

You know because he tells you with his eyes.

They are so unflinchingly vulnerable, it leaves you totally shocked.

He stayed because he didn’t want to leave you alone here. Because the thought of walking away while you were locked inside this castle of rules and regulations hadn’t sat right with him. But there seems to have been something selfish, too. It wasn’t just the concern that kept him nearby. He didn’t seem to have trusted himself to walk away from you, either.

Your thoughts are uncontrollable. Thoughts of what it means that he has chosen to stay near the castle all night, forgoing the freedom of the road and the safety of distance just to be here. For you.

His gaze doesn’t waver.

And there is a longing in his eyes you sure is there to end you.

It’s too heavy for you, making you light-headed and your knees wobbly. The feeling of being too close to the edge of something cavernous and uncharted.

Like his eyes.

You don’t know if you are foolish for wanting him here - or foolish for wishing you didn’t need him at all.

There is something terrifying in knowing that if he had left and you weren’t to see him again, it would have shattered something inside you. But even more terrifying might be knowing that he didn’t.

Because you are afraid that you won’t let him go another time that easily. So, where does that leave you now?

“Some people think that the truth can be hidden with a little cover-up and decoration. But as time goes by, what is true is revealed, and what is fake fades away.”

- Ismail Haniyeh

Taglist: @cjand10 @unaxv @bellamoret @singsosworld @mrsnikstan @melsunshine @hawkinsavclub1983 @homiesexual-or-homosexual @vvs-dlxodyd @winterassassin1804

[clarab45]

RE8 has some of the most beautiful visuals in the franchise and some really memorable characters, but the story left a lot to be desired. It seemed like they had incredible ideas for each lord, but they ended up rushing things too much.

Questions that are always on my mind when I see something about the game:

•Who was Miranda before Eva's death? To me, it would make perfect sense that she would have been a doctor during the Spanish flu period

•How did Miranda meet Alcina, given that she was a jazz singer, probably from the new world? Miranda met her while traveling or was Alcina visiting a relative in the village?

•Who were Alcina's daughters before the transformation? Were they her glorified maids or simple orphan girls?

•Who was Claudia Beneviento? Was Claudia Donna's older or younger sister? Did Donna's parents kill themselves out of grief/despair or were they influenced by Miranda?

•Who was Salvatore? Was he an adult sailor or a child of sailors? How did he meet Miranda and why didn't she kill him if he proved so useless as an experiment and researcher?

•What was the true order of the lords? Alcina was the first, but the order of the others is unknown. We can assume that Donna was the last from the gardener's diaries, but what about Moreau and Heisenberg?

•How did Miranda meet Spencer and how the hell did he get to that village???

•How the hell were there so many dead bodies in Heisenberg's factory, Dimitrescu Castle, Beneviento Mansion Forest, and the reservoir if the village was tiny? Even if every woman there started having children at 14 and had about 12 children, there would be no way there would be enough people to work in those places.

•Did Miranda teach her adorable little pests about biology? Because they would obviously need to have knowledge on the subject to do experiments and try to have some success.

•How did Miranda's cult work? Did her lord children, except Heisenberg, really believe she was a deity sent by God or did they know the truth? I think even Miranda started to believe the lies she told

•Why the hell did Chris kill Ethan and Mia to live in the fucking danger? They were sleeping next to the devil (well Ethan did it literally)

•How could Miranda, with all her glorious intelligence acquired from mold, not think of changing her physical form and impregnating the women of the cult? She is brave enough to dismember a child she considers special (Rose) but not brave enough to implant an idea about a baby messiah in her occult cult that looks very much like a little Catholic church in the end of the world? Ethan, who was 100% mold, managed to get Mia, who was also mold, pregnant. Why couldn't Miranda get the women there pregnant? Seriously, those people were being torn apart and killed and yet they kept praying for her to save them. What would a pregnancy be? And besides, she could simply turn into those women's husbands and then take the babies for testing. If she could already alter DNA and create mutations, fertilizing a villager would have been much simpler than waiting for a special child to be born.

•The issue of Rose being dismembered was also very poorly explained. How could Miranda, a woman who spent an entire century obsessed with bringing Eva back, think this was a good idea?

I love RE Village, it's one of my favorite games, but I also feel like it's disconnected from the main franchise. RE8's more supernatural tone is strange within the franchise. In the other games, monsters always had a scientific explanation—viruses, parasites, bioweapons—but here we have vampires, lycanthropes, a scary ghost (Beneviento), and it's all kind of vague. Megamycete tries to justify it, but it's a very shallow solution.

[beauspot]

so…i really enjoyed episode 7

Though we didn’t get confirmed autistic Mel, we did get her interacting with an autistic adult which is great! I just wish more shows would have working autistic adults, especially that are women. Dr. Langdon doesn’t understand why being autistic affects his patient because he—like many medical professionals—really only understand those with high support needs or those who are savants. It’s not malicious but it certainly makes it hard for them to interact with autistic people who don’t fit these molds. This episode really just proves to me Mel is autistic, like…she’s very similar to her patient, idk if the show is going to reveal this later? or what…

Also Trinity is an abuse survivor, and an angry one at that. I understand her a lot more now. Of course she’s hyper independent, of course she has a problem blindly following authority. She’s still a dick, but I don’t hate her anymore. I will always be there for the traumatized characters who lash out.

Dr. Robby & Dr. Collins? Oh boy lotta tension this episode. Him immediately going to see if Collins is ok after being pushed by that mom, her undermining him as an attending and Robby being pissed about it, “Dr. Robinavitch”. Too good. But the miscarriage due to stress was heartbreaking. I can’t remember exactly, but I believe she said she’s had miscarriages before. I hope Heather is ok.

It does beg the question…whose baby was that? I mean duh Heather’s, but it’s implied she’s single by Robby thinking she and the cop were flirting. She could have done it artificially, but like the only viable person right now if it wasn’t done artificially is Robby.

Lastly does anyone have any news on that incel? I am becoming concerned.

[umi-adxhira]

ᝰ.ᐟ SERENITY | 024

NOVEL: TWTPTFLOB

WARNINGS: Sword fighting RAAAAHHH

AUTHOR'S NOTES: I literally had no idea what to write for this chapter ask @orngbananaa 🫵

Also this is a slightly new format since I'm quirky like that 🤪

TAGLIST: @evaxmisu , @00hellohello00, @welpthisisboring, @hsrvl264, @flyingpansaurus

◄ PREVIOUS CHAPTER NEXT CHAPTER ►

The weight of the sword is almost unbearable, the tip dragging against the floor when you hesitate. You try to raise it again, hands trembling slightly, fingers stiff from gripping too tight. HOW does he even wield this thing like it’s weightless? This thing must be like 100 kilograms or something.

The room is in complete disarray - sheets shredded, walls scarred with wild swings. It was harder than you expected, controlling something so unwieldy. You’re just about to try another move when a voice cuts through your concentration.

“What are you doing?”

You freeze. Dion stands in the doorway of your shared bathroom, arms crossed, crimson eyes assessing the situation with unreadable intensity. You can tell he just came fresh from a mission, the slight scent of metal and earth clinging to him, his shirt slightly untucked from his belt. His hair, normally immaculate, not IMMACULATE… just… shiny, is tousled like he ran a hand through it one too many times. He steps forward, gaze flickering over your figure. His cloak hood falls slightly as you turn to face him, the oversized hood slipping down to partially obscure your vision. You reach up to fix it with one hand - and that’s your mistake.

The sword tips precariously, your balance shifting with it. You try to steady yourself, but the sheer weight of the weapon betrays you. It slips from your grasp, falling fast-

Dion moves before you can even process what’s happening. A blur of motion, then the distinct clink of metal against stone as his boot stops the blade’s descent, just before it meets your foot.

Silence stretches between you, thick and charged.

His hands, cold against your overheated skin, capture your own, cradling them gently. His fingers are long, firm but careful, tracing the raw redness of your palms. A flicker of concern crosses his face. His hands are a lot colder than I thought it’d be… considering how the rest of his body is warm.

“Why?” he asks, voice softer now, curiosity laced with something else.

You exhale, still catching your breath. “It’s the first time I’ve seen a sword fully unsheathed.”

His brows lift slightly, his grip on your hands not loosening. “Your world doesn’t use swords anymore.”

You nod, biting your lip. “People just fight with their hands. Or guns.” You glance at the weapon between you, silver catching the dim light. “I wanted to see what the hype was about.”

Dion hums thoughtfully, gaze shifting briefly to your ankle. The chain remains intact, metal gleaming cruelly. There are no scratch marks - no evidence of any escape attempts. His expression flickers with something unreadable before he meets your eyes again.

“You had a weapon. You could have tried.”

“I did.” You pause, shifting slightly under his scrutiny. “But not because I wanted to leave. I just…” You trail off, gripping his cloak tighter around you. “I wanted to see if anything would happen. It’s probably protected with some sort of magic or something,”

“It’s not,”

“Oh,”

Dion watches you for a long moment before he sighs, bending down to retrieve the sword. But instead of taking it away from you, he steps behind you, his warmth pressing against your back. Before you can question him, his hands slide over yours, coaxing your grip back onto the hilt.

The weight of the sword shifts, but this time, it doesn’t feel as impossible to hold.

“Like this,” he murmurs, his breath fanning against your ear. His stance molds against yours, guiding your arms into position. His fingers adjust your grip slightly before he moves, pulling you into a smooth, deliberate swing. The blade cuts through the air with a satisfying whoosh.

Oh.

Another swing, this time in a different direction. The control, the ease - it makes sense now. You straighten slightly, an excited “Oooohhh” escaping you as the movement clicks into place.

Dion chuckles behind you, the sound deep and amused. “See?”

You nod, determination igniting in your chest. You try to take control, pushing the sword forward with your own force - but his hands tighten over yours. Not harshly, but firm enough that your control is an illusion. The blade moves, but only with his guidance.

You whine in frustration. “Let me go,”

His chuckle turns into a full smirk, his lips brushing against your temple as he leans in slightly. His voice is lower now, teasing yet serious.

“I will never let you go.”

Your breath catches. The words, spoken so simply, send something dangerous and thrilling rushing through you. You try to ignore the way your heart pounds, but you can feel him - solid, unwavering, his hands, his presence, him.

And when he doesn’t pull away, you wonder if he can feel it too.

His breath lingers near your ear, the sensation sending shivers down your spine. He doesn’t move, his presence consuming, intoxicating. The sword is long forgotten between you as his hands remain over yours, his grip firm, protective.

You turn to glare at him, but in his eyes, you look cute. He stares at you emotionlessly, but you know he feels a lot for you. Determined, you jump up slightly and with all your force, slam both of your feet down on his, attempting not to hurt him, but to shock him enough so that when he moves, you can slip away.

You both stand there for a few moments, and you realize it didn’t work. He lets out a sigh before asking if that was your attempt at hurting him.

“Would you believe me if I said no?” you reply, mischief glinting in your eyes.

He sighs once more before pulling you even closer, his grip tightening around you. The air between you crackles, tension thick and palpable.

Then, after a few moments, he speaks, his voice steady but tinged with something deeper. “I’ll let you go once Cassis gets kidnapped.” His fingers brush against your wrist in a way that sends warmth seeping through your skin. “You have a future you’d like to set, and I’ll be there to ensure it happens.”

You inhale sharply, trying to process his words. Your heart hammers in your chest.

“But you have to realize,” he continues, his lips dangerously close to your ear, “you belong to me. In life and in death.”

[littledeathdove]

Aah not enough content on crow wife out there :[ Maybe could you write Miranda and Donna (separately) general headcanons on how they would be like in a relationship?? please and thank you x3

AYYY got me a good ass request to yap on, love you for this anon 😙

Also i have to agree, my lovely wife Miranda just doesn’t have enough content on here. But I can’t complain at all since back in 2021-2023 there was barely even crumbs on both A03 and Tumblr, hell I had to go on wattpad at one point to satisfy my hunger on some content of her.

But anyway let’s get into this headcanons people 😈🙏🏾

WARNING; this isn’t read over yet since I wanted to post this already before I go to sleep, so there might be grammar errors, spelling mistakes. Honestly anything you’ll find in a non read over post 😅 I’ll check over it in the morning tho!

𝐌𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐌𝐢𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐚

(My favorite woman right here, UGH THE OBSESSION IS COMING BACK 😞 she so beautiful I need that crazy cookie BADLY)

Miranda in a relationship is obsessive, no questions or buts, that woman can and will know everything about you. I only make sense, there was only two occurrences in her life that made her love or gave her it. Eva and now you.

Miranda’s obsessiveness can be a inconvenience in your life sometimes, an examples are when she insists on knowing your every move — even though she refuses to skip out on her daily hours in the laboratory — which makes her have her crows follow you. Which wouldn’t be a problem if her crows wasn’t as playful as they are and if villagers didn’t act the way they did towards you just because of the many crows

Miranda in a relationship is spoiling, Miranda loves to spoil you endlessly, not that it’s surprising though I mean just look at how luxurious her whole outfit is. Plus Miranda’s crow ways makes her a default gift giver when it comes to love languages.

Your jewelry collection would go sky rocket, clothes? Oh don’t even need to ask twice because she’ll have Donna on speed call these days to tell her new requests of customized clothing. You’re a villager in the village and you always wanted to try some of that expensive Dimitrescu wine? It’s there just in time for dinner. So in summary, Miranda doesn’t play when it comes to fulfilling your wants

Don’t even get me started on how much it boasts Miranda’s ego when she comes out of her laboratory after long tiring hours and she sees her pretty little lover in the items she gifted them over time, one you haven’t seen dotting until you experienced that situation and two that sight is why she alwaysss willing to any amount of lei to get you what you want, you always look the prettiest in the things you wished for anyways

Speaking of that, Miranda in a relationship is a clingy lover. LISTEN, HEAR ME OUT PEOPLE

Miranda hasn’t had any romantic affection for a long time, so when you come around you are quite literally filling in an empty void so deep it can reach the mold spiritual underworld. At first it wouldn’t seem like Miranda would end up clingy, especially since she still does those simple physical touches like caressing your cheek or lingering touches. But after a few months (more likely weeks) and with the right opportunity, Miranda would just randomly hug you one day after dinner

Nothing too worrying since this is usual, but it quickly becomes unusual when she holds you in a tight and strong hug for at least a hour. And if you were to fall asleep like that, even worser since Miranda is the worst to try to get out of bed once she’s clingy

She doesn’t do much PDA unless she is trying to make out the point that you are hers to somebody around, but as I said that woman turns from a crow to a koala quickly

Miranda in a relationship is stubborn, she is used to being obeyed with little to no questioning so when you point out some harmful habits of hers that you noticed over time she is quick to silence you. She already knows what this recognization can lead to and that’s what she’s been dreading ever since the relationship started.

Miranda knows her poor habits but she also knows if she was to fix them it could lead to a set back in getting Eva back. So if you were to constantly mention these bad habits such as her refusing to give herself a break during research sessions, Miranda wouldn’t think of it as you worrying over her well being but instead you being ignorant to her life mission.

Even though it might seem impossible, getting Miranda to come around and finally take slow action into fixing her habits can happen. But it will take patience and an equal amount of stubbornness to help her do so. (And trust she will secretly thank you later on, specifically when she gets Eva back)

Miranda’s stubbornness can also show up in more lighter notes of your relationship, for example if she believed you needed to be more protected or watch after more she would take action of making sure that is done. And no, you won’t easily sway her to ease up on said actions thanks to her stubbornness.

Some little side thing(s); Once you’re in a relationship with Miranda you will notice changes in village cult. One being an uprising of pictures/portraits of you inside of the churches or really anywhere where pictures of Miranda or the lords are. The village folk are more adoring of you and kinder (if they weren’t before), simply because of your new found status of being the true lover of Mother Miranda. But the most major out of all of them is the change of Miranda’s priestess clothing. To cut to the case, Miranda now wears something symbolic to you or has embroidered a customized crest of your own along side the lords crest’s.

Some little side thing(s); Miranda never loved the whole pretty house wife thing since she was a mortal who likely had to experience it first hand in not the aesthetically pleasing way. Though this changed drastically once you came around. The first time Miranda saw you cooking her food after dragging her vocally out of her lab out of worry, Miranda knew she had found a new favorite thing and that was you looking/doing actions just like those pretty house wives.

Miranda isn’t afraid to share this to you, and she evens proposes that you do more actions to a house wife more. Hell it’s not like she was going to let you work anyway. After the talk, if you were to start do such things you would notice some differences in your routine. Aka, Miranda now actually comes out of her laboratory more throughout the day. Not to talk or anything, but instead to watch you cooking, cleaning, really doing anything around the house. Miranda always has a blank stare while she is watching you so you wouldn’t even be able to know for sure if she was satisfied or judging you. But behind that stare she is just imagining a full complete picture of you being just like this but instead taking care of Eva.

That scenario just pushes her to work even harder to get her Eva back.

Oh! Also if you weren’t to agree with the proposal at first, Miranda would likely just slowly ease you into agreement through some light manipulation tactics or something. Don’t forget that woman is still the calculating cold woman she was before. She’ll make sure to keep it almost fully to your will but if she must guide you to do what she wants to see done, trust she will.

𝐃𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐁𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐨

(Now this one right here, my ideal type fr fr. I’m not even joking she quiet, she tall, she got an odd fixation on dolls, AND SHE LIL COO COO. Not to mention those hands and that voice?? yk let me stop before this becomes a rant on all the things I love about Donna here)

Donna in a relationship is cautious, well at the beginning of the relationship. I do believe Donna has her secret insecurities which makes her very slow to let down her walls and show vulnerability at first. Donna does have the belief that you will up and leave her somewhere in the near future, or even worse that you will slowly fall out of love with her if she shows one wrong trait.

Another worry of Donna’s is that you are taking advantage of her love just so you can take the in the benefits that might come with Donna. For example her riches? The fact people will respect you more since you’re with a lord. Honestly in general it’s basically any benefits from her being a lord of the village

These beliefs and worries makes her keep most of her secrets hidden, and puts her in a mind space where she believes she must keep a mask on. She will purposely be more quiet around you though she will still act on the want to be constantly around you. If your conversations were to be heading in the direction of a soft spot that could crack this mask, Donna would carefully vaguely answer the question before quickly guiding it away from the subject with her own question/words.

And back to the whole taking advantage of. If Donna had a thought about this during the day you will notice Angie asking you questions a lot more. And they’re particularly over your relationship with Donna and what made you even want one with her or what you enjoy about being with quiet lord. 

On worser days, Donna would go as far into only speaking through Angie…as she did before your relationship. And if you were to get more persistent in getting questions out of her or simply trying to get her to be more open with you, Donna wouldn’t be hesitant to put you under a peaceful delusion that would lure you to sleep. (Sometimes if she is feeling a lot of strong emotions from your questions she could accidentally put a bad delusion over you)

Don’t worry it isn’t always like this, after a few months and loving affection from you Donna does come around and starts to let her guard down around you. This also marks the true lover out of her. Because after those doubts and worries leave it’s just like a barrier being removed from a waterfall, and all that’s coming down for the future in this relationship is just love. So much of it

Donna in a relationship is possessive, I don’t know what your beliefs are but truly I believe that Donna’s possessive behavior can be 10x worser than Miranda’s. Miranda knows she has no challenge when it comes to your heart, I mean who will actually challenge her? Try to taker her lover or even yearn after them in her village? No one. And this can also apply to Donna since she is quite the feared lord in the village who is known for killing anyone who even steps foot on her property. With that said, no one would truly be trying to actively make you fall in love with them or claim your heart, but somehow Donna doesn’t see this and does believe someone would try.

Donna’s possessive can be quite a fucking situation. For one her possessiveness doesn’t go up in levels, no no it just immediately rises to the top level especially in the beginning of the relationship. The top of the level is her basically putting you on house arrest in her mansion. She’ll give you many excuses if she isn’t in the mood to explain her true reasoning, and if you constantly ask her to go outside she’ll let you.

Well you’ll make it to the edge of the front yard and then there you are put under a delusion of maybe monsters like the lycans charging around and maybe even chasing you back to her property where she can place you in her arms to comfort you. Whispering in your ear how she’s got you and why this is a reason of why your not allowed outside for “now”

Donna in a relationship is VERYYY romantic, don’t get me started on my headcanon that she is or at least was the biggest book worm during her time of isolation after her parents died. That girl was not only rich but she was adopted by Miranda, who I wouldn’t doubt used this love of Donna’s to make her more comfortable with her (which will make it easier to make her a vessel later on).

Anyway I do believe Donna would’ve put herself deeply in romantic books when she hit the age of a teenager. Donna obviously wouldn’t have been able to experience romance during isolation, but Donna would allow herself to place herself in the main characters shoes and feel the experience of romance through that outlet. Donna would daydream of creative dates, gifts she would make and give, giving her lover princess treatment and receiving it 10x more back.

Oh, and you better believe that Donna does all of what she wanted to do for so long with you. When I’m saying that woman will having you truly believing that romance have never been died but you just haven’t met her yet, I’m being so honest. For some dates Donna would quite literally kick you out of the house and make you spend time in the garden as she cooks the most best meal she finds ideal for a date. She loves dates where it ends in you both laughing up a storm, it’s her favorite thing of a date honestly.

Some little side thing(s); Donna isn’t good at communication with you know the whole toxic “family” dynamic she’s in and her trauma. But Donna does understand that communication is necessary since she has read stories where she noticed a character complaining about the lack of it within their relationship or simply noticing herself once she had the skills to see the bad flaw causing a distance between lovers in stories.

Donna doesn’t want that to happen between you and her at all! She will absolutely abandon all her morals and power before she loses the love of her life over something so preventable.

So Donna decided one day that she will make a monthly habit of her cooking up some sweet small deserts and making some tea so then you both could sit down and talk to each other about anything you want over your relationship. Donna might not always have a good reaction to your words especially if you say words that could hint at you falling out of love with her or wanting to leave her. But she does try! And she’ll constantly do so as long as she can keep the treasure she calls a lover.

I apologize for how long this took! I usually try to fulfill requests as soon as I get them but I’ve been busy these past weeks.

Please don’t let this discourage you from requesting though because I’ll absolutely fulfill any requests I get over resident evil village no matter how long it takes!

Anyway I hope this post satisfied the requester! Honestly I believe I could’ve made better headcanons but I truly didn’t want to overthink it and procrastinate. Donna’s is shorter then Miranda’s, shows who I’m more used to writing lol 💀 Thank you to anon for this request, believe this is like my first ever Miranda/Donna headcanon request ever so I was too excited to see it 🫶🏾

Umm that’s it little dove out ✌🏾

[afusionoffandoms]

ver

[gay-fordeath]

.

[taviokapudding]

I was told to go kill myself on my old but permanently banned twitter account when I pointed out that ARMY should be allowed to choose not to stream Idol featuring Nicki Minaj due to her history with defending pedophiles a couple years ago

I just wanna say the universe came to collect and it will get exponentially worse for Mrs. Minaj each time she & her supporters talk nonsense and make poor choices moving forward now that things are really aired out to the public

Let this be a reminder to never mess with those of us born & raised in Texas, doubly if you're someone who's willingly prostrating to a penis who prefers preteens & pacifiers

[ilibelle]

Imagine that your uniform is made up of several layers of different types of fabric and bulletproof shields. In addition to the extra fabric, you wear a mask and helmet that cover your entire face. Your costume makes it impossible to identify whether you are a woman or a man, and to top it off, you never speak. This leads people who aren't part of your squad to believe that you're just a short man who never speaks.

You work for the squad led by Colonel König. Recently, there were some situations that resulted in Kortac temporarily joining Task Force 141, two squads united to capture a terrorist.

You are not and have never been a sociable person. You don't talk to people you don't know and you always let someone else do the talking for you. As much as you are an adult woman, mature enough to make decisions on your own, you are shy. Very shy.

It's not unusual for other people to ask your teammates about you, always wondering why you don't speak up. They ask about the many layers of fabric that make up your outfit, whether you don't suffocate from the excess cloth and pockets.

And these people always refer to you in the masculine.

Always.

Soap is a bit of a curiosity when it comes to mysterious people who don't interact much with others in the room and who just stand in a quiet corner, far away from any living thing in the room. No wonder he made Ghost his best friend.

So believe me when I say that he's intrigued by you. The mysterious, masked guy in the dark corner of the room, who so far hasn't interacted with anyone since he arrived. You've caught his attention, but he won't talk to you because something inside him tells him not to come up to you out of the blue.

Something inside him tells him to take it easy this time, because that something inside him thinks that the outside of that guy should be molded slowly to reveal the inside. Does that make sense?

The first person Soap will ask about you is König, because them strangely hit it off, much to the unhappiness of Ghost, who didn't like König. Perhaps it's because he's taller and has stolen the role of being the tallest in the room from Ghost.

And also because he saw König talking to you about something, but you didn't use your voice and just nodded. Which led him to think that maybe you were mute.

Soap approached König with a smile, bringing up some other subject before starting to ask questions about you. He doesn't want to sound weird.

"Hm... You know, I keep asking myself..." Soap begins, waiting for a signal to continue.

"What is it?" König asks, crossing his arms and smiling beneath his mask.

"That guy in the corner... Why doesn't he join the others?"

"Oh." König straightens his posture and looks at you, standing in the corner of the room and staring at an interesting spot on the floor. "She's a bit shy, don't worry."

The gears turned slowly in Soap's head after this information.

"IT'S A WOMAN?!!??!!!!?"

It wasn't Soap's intention to draw the attention of everyone in the room, Including you, to him and König. But it just happened.

Hello:)) it's my first time posting something written by me and my English is terrible, but I tried my best with a translator 😞

[tightwadspoonies]

How to Shop at an Asian (or other ethnic) Grocery Store

Do you live in or near a city in the US?

Need to save some money on groceries?

Might I introduce you to... shopping at the local Asian grocery?

Asian grocery stores aimed at an Asian-American customer base almost always beat the prices of their western (or for-western) counterparts. Often by a significant amount, especially in categories like produce, meat, rice, and spices. Plus in addition to lower prices, you get the satisfaction of supporting a small, local business instead of a larger chain store.

(Note that a lot of this information applies to other ethnic grocery stores as well, but we're using Asian because they're common in many cities, and have particularly good prices on produce.)

But it can be a little bit of a learning curve when you first start to shop at them. This post will give you the information you need to navigate them.

So how do you find a good Asian grocery store?

First, go on google maps and search "grocery".

Note that you are NOT googling "Asian Grocery" or "Cheap Grocery". If you search "Asian Grocery" you will get results for Asian stores marketing toward a western audience, and because of this, will be neat, shiny, and very pricey. If you search "Cheap Grocery" you will get stores marketing themselves as cheap, which generally are only slightly less expensive than their "expensive" counterparts (think Aldi). Okay in a pinch, but you can do better.

Second, look at the pictures of all the stores you can easily get to.

Here's what you want: not a lot of printed ads, pictures of hand-written signs (especially in languages other than English), food in cardboard bins, and you want it to look kind of "junky". Bonus points if you can see prices listed in the pictures or the people shopping there are mostly older, ethnic women.

Third, If you couldn't find anything like this, go on your city's subreddit.

Search "cheap", "cheap grocery" and "expensive grocery". Why "expensive grocery"? Because you want to find people complaining about grocery prices, and you want to see the advice they get. Many times, that advice is Asian or ethnic grocery stores.

If you're still not getting anything, google "[city name] cheap grocery" and "[city name] expensive grocery" (see above). Scroll until you get to FORUMS discussing groceries in your city. You DO NOT want blogs or articles. Again, you're looking at the advice people are given when they complain about grocery prices.

One of the first questions people ask upon walking into an Asian grocery store of the type discussed in this post is:

"Is the food I'm getting here safe to eat?"

The answer is just as safe as anywhere else you might shop.

You're probably used to very clean, pretty, well-lit, well-organized stores. This will probably not be that, but it will be regulated by the same health department that regulates those stores. They are held to the same standards.

It's a lot of work to keep a store looking like a western consumer expects. It's a lot less work (and thus less money) to keep a store looking like an ethnic career housewife or grandmother expects. That is largely where the savings comes from.

What's a good deal at an Asian grocery?

Produce. You're probably used to things like onions and carrots being the cheapest per pound. Here it's going to be greens, apples, pears, radish, cabbage and maybe squash and sweet potatoes. Check unit prices and prepare to try some new things. Also a pound of greens is a LOT of greens. Keep that in mind. Also keep in mind that you might see a few pieces of produce that are bruised or have mold on them. That's okay. Just don't buy those pieces. The rest of the batch is probably fine. Wash produce when you get home if you're concerned, though you should be doing that anyway.

Rice and dry beans. If you like to buy in bulk, you're in luck. Don't expect to walk away with a pound or two of these. They come in 40lb packages. But if you tailor most of your meals around them, those meals will be cheap af. There are also lots of different types of specialty rice if you want to make your own sushi or mochi. Learn how to soak and sprout beans.

Tofu. Tofu is expensive when you buy it at a health food store. It is not when you buy it at an Asian grocery. It probably won't be in pretty packages, but again, cheap is not going to be super pretty.

Meat and fish. Meat is generally going to be cheaper here, though maybe not by as much as the produce is. Pork will probably be your cheapest option. You may also see cuts you don't normally see, like tongue, intestine, liver, kidneys, blood, etc... "Weird," however, does not automatically mean cheap in this context. Check unit prices and prepare to be adventurous. If you don't know what else to do with them, dried fish and animal organs make fantastic stock when boiled.

Spices. Again with the extremely large quantities here. But very inexpensive compared with their western counterparts.

Candy. This makes a great inexpensive gift if you need one, since the candy sold at these stores is fairly exotic for a western audience.

What isn't a good deal at an Asian grocery?

Dairy. This includes fresh milk, butter, cheese, etc... If they have it, it will be very expensive. Consider buying elsewhere.

Eggs. Again, this will probably be as expensive or more than the eggs you could get at a western supermarket.

Snacks. Pre-made items will be expensive in general, even though they may be tempting because they are different from what you are used to and you don't need to learn to cook a new thing. Do your best to avoid these and make your own if you can. If you can't, frozen pork or vegetable dumplings are probably your best bet for a quick meal.

Bread. It's pricey. A lot of Asian cuisines use rice, noodles, or buns for their starch instead of western-style bread. So if you can find it it will often be a novelty item.

What else do I need to know?

It's okay to be overwhelmed by new ingredients. Look up some YouTube videos on how to cook certain ingredients if you're not familiar with them.

These are not supermarkets. They sell food and sometimes the kitchenware (steamers, woks, chopsticks, etc...) needed to cook it. You will probably need to get your soap and household items somewhere else.

Pay in cash if you can. Most of these are very small businesses and paying them cash makes it so they don't need to pay credit card fees. At the very least, make the minimum purchase before paying with a card.

[gravegoer]

i humbly suggest pirate sevika in small letters

thank you for your service

Sail the Seven Seas ☠︎︎

i had this in the works ! you read my mind, we have cowboy sevika, but we absolutely need pirate sevika, i did a little "how you met" before the hcs ! also ill greatfully take any other requests for pirate sevika i love her sm (i hope you appreciate the pirate hat i edited on her lol)

She found you when her crew was raiding a ship, you were kept prisoner in the dark dungeons below deck after the pirates robbed a bar.

Sevika was inclined to leave you there, as she was in a rush. But your pleading eyes convinced her.

She told you to back up and pulled the flimsy metal door right off the hinges. Your only experience with pirates was your former kidnappers.

They were ruthless and had not a care in the world. They were greedy enough to pat you down even though you cried and insisted you had no form of money on you other than the jewelry they had ripped from your limbs.

But after she ripped the door off, she simply walked away, not sparing you a second glance. She set you free, but now what? Were you supposed to swim to land?

You hesitated before running up the old wooden stairs, the faint moonlight beamed on your face. It smelled fresh on deck, no longer having the musky odor of mold and wood filling your nose.

You were also greeted with the sight of the woman that freed you, her back facing you and pointing to crew members, yelling orders. She must be the captain, signified by her detailed hat and especially the way the crew listened to her.

People scurried under her gaze almost cowardly. Boxes were being hauled onto a much bigger ship (which you assumed was hers) over a wooden plank.

She was tall and obviously built. You could tell even though she was adorned with many layers, straps, and belts accentuated her curves and edges. She had a metal prosthetic that looked dangerous. Not only that, but a gun and two swords hung from her waist.

You approached her timidly, the floorboards squeaking under your bare feet. When you sat a hand on her arm, urging her to turn around, she put a larger hand on the hilt of her sword defensively and spun to face you.

At just the force of it, you stumbled back. She was strong. Your eyes widened at her hands, hovering over the holster of her weapon. She spoke, "What are you trying to do?"

Her voice was gruff and demanding, leaving no room for questions. "I don't have anywhere to go," you stated honestly.

"And what do you expect me to do about that."

Although she put on the front of a rough demeanor, her eyes scanned your frame in curiosity. Worn clothes hung from your body, hair a mess, and despite it all, you were quite pretty.

She knew she couldn't take you on a ship with a bunch of men. In her eyes, it was almost as dangerous as leaving you on the ship to fend for yourself.

Almost.

She took you onto her ship with the promise that at the next stop they had, she would drop you off there. Whether or not you knew where you were.

Having no better option, you opted to go with her. She didn't shackle you up or restrain you, knowing you could do little to no harm to her or her crew.

She refused to put you in the berth with other pirates. It was stuffy and cramped, and all in all, no place for you.

So you had a room next to her (and an odd blue haired girl). She said it was fine because it's temporary anyway.

She gave you some clothes that fit, and a pair of shoes to put on your feet. And the room was more than you could ask for. It was spacious and contained a lavish bed.

You assumed it was someone else's room previously as it was already decorated. (Plus, she told you not to meddle in any of the stuff)

Sevika didnt expect you to do anything, thinking you werent fit to operate on a ship so, you were not asked to do any work. In all your boredom you found yourself roaming around the ship, looking at the stuff that was collected in each corner. Some trinkets, belts, broken weapons, etc.

Sevika watched you closely, making sure you didn't have any ulterior motives. Eventually, she realized that you were nothing but curious.

Then she watched you closely to make sure you didn't fall overboard.

At meals, you stuck close by her side, not really knowing anyone on board yet. She gave you things off her plate, saying you looked starved. And you didn't complain. You weren't really fed in the dungeons.

She started to show you around the deck, answering your questions about the sea and her ship. When you started to ask too many questions, she sighed and shook her head, wandering off to attend to her duties.

She was truly a mystery to you, not being able to read her gaze or body language. But what you did know is that she was a ruthless captian. Always having something for her crew to do and ordering them around with her loud, booming voice.

She was intimidating in theory, yes. But towards you, she seemed a bit more.. lenient?

Nontheless, in a few days, you finally arrived at their next destination, and you stepped off the ship with everyone. Taking in the way the ground felt against your feet, no longer swaying from side to side.

You had no idea where you were, and even though it didn't seem like a bad place, you couldn't just start anew again. I mean, how were you supposed to rebuild your whole life?

Sevika sensed your anxiety as you wandered through the streets with her crew. She saw your eyes flick side to side, looking at the buildings and people.

She might regret it, but she couldn't just leave you here.

You were growing more worried by the hour, and when night fell and everyone started back to the docks, you felt lost. You stayed behind, watching them load back onto the ship when you felt a warm hand on your shoulder. "You coming?"

Looking up, you locked eyes with Sevika, her brow was cocked and her lips slightly upturned. "You're letting me stay?" You questioned, in shock.

"Well, the ship is leaving soon, so only if you can make it." She teased.

You hugged her tight, wrapping your arms around her large frame. Her eyes widened in shock, not returning the hug before you ran off to the ship.

HC time !!

Now that you were deemed officially a part of the crew you had work to do, scrubbing the deck was a daily task. Even though other crew members seemed to dread it, you enjoyed smelling the fresh ocean air and feeling the wind on your back.

Sometimes you could feel Sevika's eyes on you as you cleaned, she sat at the helm, supposedly watching everyone. But when you turned around you would lock eyes with her and she would smirk.

When she sent the crew out on missions you grew to never be afraid, picking up on how to use weapons easily and fight alongside other people.

She almost admired this about you, it was like you were a natural. Like you belonged on her ship.

You didn't know what was on her mind most of the time. She was always closed off and didn't converse with anyone on ship except for Jinx, who was obviously closer to her than the rest of the crew.

But one fateful night you ran into her when you couldn't seem to get to sleep

You approached the bow of the ship, watching the moonlight reflect off the waves, and the clouds move with the wind. It was quite beautiful at night even though there wasn't much to look at other than water.

Hearing footsteps behind you, you put a hand to your holster but spun around to see Sevika. Seeing her in this light reminded you of the day you met her, but now you were in front of her, compared to the day she found you.

"Up so late?" She questioned, her voice indicated she had waken up recently.

"Yeah, I couldn't fall asleep," You let your guard down again and leaned against the wood, hand cradling your face as you stared back into the sea.

"Y'know.. I didn't think you had it in you." She commented.

"Had what in me?" You chuckled, "The guts to be a pirate?"

You talked for a long while after that, the sun hit the horizon by the time you said your goodbyes. You had a feeling that Sevika wouldn't be a mystery to you for much longer.

Eventually, she would come around to teach you how to fight properly, as you mostly fought based off of what you saw others do. She held your body close to hers, helping you mimic her movements. Feeling the buckles of her belts on your back, the coldness of her metal arm on your waist.

As a matter of fact she taught you a lot of things, like how to steer the ship: putting her hands over yours, pointing in the direction of where to go. Teasing you when your hands got tired, and taking over for you, letting you stand between her and the wheel.

She joined you in the crows nest, sitting beside you on the railing with a hand on your back, making sure you didn't fall. She would direct your telescope to look at nearby land or into the horizon.

You had a lot of talks up there.

Sometimes, the crew wondered what was going on between you two, as you were practically always together. (She denies all allegations.. for now)

She taught you how to wield a sword and fought with you for fun. Letting you win from time-to-time, you knew she let you. I mean, there's no way you'd be able to pin Sevika to the wooden deck without a struggle.

You would catch her sleeping on the helm, her feet kicked up on a chair and her hat on her face. As punishment, you would take her hat and keep it until morning. Then, prancing around the next day with it on, commanding the crew jokingly, pretending to be her.

When she finally caught you, she would sweep you up and take the hat right off your head, chuckling at your mischievousness. Sometimes, she would let you wear her hat, only if you promised not to lose it.

After particularly stressful missions, the crew would throw a small party for their winnings, needing time to wind down. You grew accustomed to the crew, even making a few friends with unlikely people.

You and Jinx drank a bit together and danced around on the table, singing sea shanties loudly. But eventually, Sevika would catch you all. And make you clean up. (But not before having a drink herself)

And it was almost a nightly routine to go up to the deck and talk once everyone was asleep, gazing into the moon with her. It felt natural. You felt like you belonged.

God i love her, i dream about her I swear. I love pirates... and I love sevika, pls send in more pirate sevika asks i wanna do a siren one too ngl maybe how Sevika isnt drawn in by your siren call because the captain is a woman AUGHHHHH

[crimsonspring]

sylus was his own protector, always has been. growing up in such a way has made him become a capable and dependable man. but at the same time, over time, it had naturally built a wall of defence around him. always on guard, always strong.

but it feels like sylus has ran out of his strength today. it's barely midnight (and that's practically morning for him) yet both his mind, body and soul are begging him for some rest. it's been an exhausting week full of deals and meetings (some successful, some not - the latter taking the bulk of the percentage). he was tired, disappointed and truth to be told, upset.

she senses something is wrong immediately when sylus wordlessly slips into bed next to her, immediately nuzzling her back against his own broad chest. there was no quip about her wearing the same sleep shirt two days in a row, nor was there a snicker about how her glasses were resting too low on the bridge of her nose as she scrolls through her phone. like clockwork, she presses herself even closer against him, his warmth immediately coaxing a contented sigh out of her.

she hears him sigh too, yet his was laced with some unsettledness, most definitely contrasting her blissful one. locking her phone, she shifts her neck a little to face him, a quiet yet simple question lingering in the air as she whispers, "you okay?"

he barely responds, a low hum all that he could muster. he was awfully quiet today, and she knew exactly what that meant. and he didn't have to explain further. she knew he felt a responsibility to constantly play the part of the fearless provider - he'd never share with her his own worries and troubles. ask him, and he'll agree. she was already burdened with so much of her own life events and bothers, many of those he oathed to carry off her shoulders. why would he let her learn even a glimpse of his troubles - why would he tarnish the reputation and image she has of him. he was her protector, her confidante, her rock - not her burden.

but she knows him better than he thinks she does. throughout the time she's known him, she's learned about his little quirks that to her, are a tell all. when a man full off snide comments suddenly falls silent, she knows it's a man in need of some love.

she hums back in response and a second later, she's turning in his arms to face him. she watches the wrinkle in between his forehead, signalling his deep in thought, stressed, despite his eyes shut. ever so gently, she presses a kiss to said crease before pressing one to his lips. "can i try something?" she asks.

his crimson orbs finally come into view, though very a limited one at that, as his eyelids open halfway. curious, he raises a brow. "try what, kitten?" he asks, bulky arm still draped across her waist. she meets his eye, and shoots him a small smile before using her hands to push his forearms off her. she then pushes his shoulders away, resulting a displeased grunt to escape his lips. "trust me." she reassures him.

his body molds against the movement of her hands, and soon enough, their positions were switched. sylus's brows are furrowed even deeper, his mouth gaping slightly at the very foreign position. (well, foreign to him.) "sweetie, what are you doing?" he grumbles out, body stiffening as he cranes his neck to meet her eyes.

like carrying a scared cat in your arms for the first time, she hushes gently into his ear, but holds him firmly. "just relax, sy." bewildered, sylus is still unable to settle in this new position. with a hand over his chest, she rubs the area soothingly. she decides not to make a comment about the rapidness she feels. "i just want to hold you like this tonight, my love." not exactly a lie, she truly does. but she knows she's doing it more for him, than she is for herself. and knowing sylus, he'd never admit that he'd need his girlfriend to baby and spoon him like this.

though not immediately, sylus slowly (and very slowly) relaxes, though the confusion on his face remains. he's confused indeed. confused as to why she wants to hold him this way. confused as to why this feels so nice.

sighing grumpily (he thinks) he eases his body into her and feeling him slowly but surely melt into her arms brings a smile to her face. she wonders if he can feel the smile playing on her lips as she presses a kisses to the back of his neck. her hand continues to rub his chest soothingly, and sylus swallows the lump that begun to form in his throat. this feeling was so foreign. to be held, to be comforted - he was sure he had never felt this way ever before. grappled with emotion that he tries to lock away, his large palm reaches back to hold onto the back of her thigh, squeezing it in silent gratitude.

so this is intimacy, he wonders to himself. it wasn't as though the fear and stress for tomorrow's troubles have dissipated completely, yet he knows that this was exactly what he needed to calm his racing mind. even if it was just for tonight. tomorrow, he'll take care of the matters. tonight, he's getting taken care of.

"i'll bring you shopping tomorrow, how about that, hm sweetie?" he suggests. it almost felt like he had to return the favour, taking care of big bad sylus - surely it came with a price right? it felt like this angel's kindness for him must be repaid. chuckling, she shakes her head, pressing another chaste kiss against the warm skin of his neck. "we don't have to, sy. how about we cook dinner together tomorrow, hm? you said you'd teach me how to make that pasta thing you made the other week."

"i'd like that, sweetie." he responds, fully relaxed now in the safety of his lover's arms. "i'll make sure to remind the twins to get the fire extinguisher ready this time." he chuckles, and while she'd usually smack his arm in annoyance, she simply smiles in response, grateful she senses that he's feeling a little better now that he has it in her to tease her.

"hmmm.. i'm going to put extra chillies in your food." she playfully threatens, but the squeeze her arms give around his body tells him that she loves him. and if it doesn't, she tells him anyway.

"go to sleep, sylus. we'll do tomorrow together when we wake up, okay?" she whispers quietly, pressing one last kiss against his shoulder. "i love you very much."

she hears him sigh once more, but this time it mirrors her contented one earlier. wordlessly, she grabs onto one of her hands, bringing it to his lips as he kisses her each one of he knuckles in thanks. "okay. i love you, kitten."

sylus thinks he is determined to change his sleep schedule if this is how safe falling asleep at midnight was going to be like.

[after-witch]

Check Out Time is Eleven [Yandere Chrollo x Reader]

Title: Check Out Time is 11 [Yandere Chrollo x Reader]

Synopsis: You're invited to a hotel for a warm meal and a place to sleep by a mysterious stranger. Soulmate AU.

Word count: 7100ish

notes: yandere, kidnapping, mentions of drugging, a really useless and non-philosophical reference to My Dinner with Andre

The red thread on his finger loses slack for the very first time in his life, and for the smallest of moments, Chrollo Lucilfer forgets himself. His steps falter, expensive, stolen shoes nearly scuffing on the sidewalk, and a startled breath quivers through his chest. His mouth gapes, ever so slightly. 

In surprise.

In trepidation. 

In realization.

The red thread was, had always been, attached to you. His soulmate. Whoever you were. The gentle tugging of the thread meant that after years of fruitless searching, you were finally somewhere nearby, close enough to reach. Probably, given the tautness of the thread, even within walking distance. 

How lucky for him. 

How unfortunate for you. 

You were finally discovered. You were finally within his grasp, fingers itching, warm satisfaction blooming through his skin. How often had he ruminated over the fact that you had yet to belong to him? How often had he wondered what you would look like, how you would feel under his touch? And what you might do to him when he had you in person? Would he find himself changed, however slightly, as the others in the Troupe had been? Or would he mold you with his own presence, looming over you like a shadow?

The mere thought of you is enough to get his heart racing, bring a bead of sweat to his neck. It was so unlike him, and wasn’t that a thrill? 

And then, just like that, the moment is over. He recollects himself and his mouth closes and his mind whirs back into focused gear. 

He needed to find you, first thing. The rest of the logistics could come later. 

His eyes track the movements of the thread, and without missing a beat, he turns on his heels to follow the direction of the movement. It was possible--no, highly probable--that you were close enough to reach on foot. Within the city, certainly, and he didn’t mind the exercise. 

As he continues to walk, the cold gleam of the business district turning into rows of glitzy restaurants and downtown attractions, he’s glad that you weren’t too close. It gives him more time to think about what he wants to do with you. 

The Troupe members that had already found their soulmates--and Chrollo feels a surge of pride in his chest, counting himself among them now, fulfilled in that goal--had taken on different approaches. 

Some merely kidnapped their soulmates and kept them in secure locations. Simple, effective in terms of security, but that would ensure it would take him a long time to win you over. And he knows that he will do just that, eventually, no matter how he decides to keep you. Others took their time, attempting to strike up something of an ordinary relationship before revealing their knowledge of the red thread, and persuading their soul mates to come with them for safety (and romance)’s sake. Surely the more appealing of the two options, but it did come with the downside of expended time and energy. 

What he would do with you depended on so many factors. Did you live in some stationary location, or were you prone to travel? What did you do for a living? Were you already in a relationship, some inferior partnership with someone who could never appreciate you the way that he could, as your only soulmate? 

All of these questions circle heavily in his mind as he walks, following the thread that was becoming tighter and tighter between the pair of you. The ritzy downtown buildings were now gone, replaced by rows of old buildings that had seen better days. In place of fine dining were small cafes and diners that practically exuded grease, laundromats with blinking signs, and the occasional busted out window. The scores of people walking, gabbing, waving around fancy handbags were replaced by only the occasional person walking with clear destinations in mind, eyes in front. 

As the thread becomes even tighter, it leads him down an alley that most people would have surely avoided. But he doesn’t worry about the glances of the people leaning up against heavy exit doors, or the people crouching on the ground with needles against their arms. He thinks about you. Will he find you here, perhaps, curled up in the arms of a drug dealer pumping you full of toxic chemicals that flushed you with endorphins and heat? Or you might be on the other side of the needle, pocketing cash and going on your merry way? 

But, no. Perhaps not. Instead of leading him further into the den of seedy dealings, the thread brings him away, feet crunching on broken bottles, towards some type of fenced-in parking lot. Or it had been a parking lot, once

From a short distance through the metal fence, he can see burning barrels, tents, carts. The smells of cooking grills waft over, greasy foods, easy to cook outdoors. It wasn’t a new sight, in this city or otherwise. Chrollo had seen worse. Had lived worse.

And then, there--at the end of the red thread that weaved in between one of the fence’s metal honeycombs: you.

He sees you for the first time and knows, with a burning intensity that threatens to knock him over, that he needs you. He needs you now. He needs you always. You have something that he lacks and perhaps possessing you will give it to him. 

Is this what the others felt, when they first saw their soulmates? Or is it something unique to you and him? Some unfathomable bond that has shaken him to his core? Not for long, of course, never for long. He regains his senses within moments and catalogs the feeling away for later analysis. 

It’s you that he focuses on, now.  And the fact he will have you, as soon as he decides on the where, when, and how. He wouldn’t be the leader of the Phantom Troupe if he wasn’t skilled at taking what he wanted. 

Today what he wants is not a gallery of paintings or a rare gruesome artifact, but a person. 

You.

What to make of you? 

You’re standing in front of one of the burning barrels, rubbing your hands together. They look red and chapped, even from his vintage point. Behind you is a shopping cart filled with odds and ends. On the side nearest the fire, you had clearly laid out clothes over the edge of the cart--wet ones, from rain or maybe you’d had the opportunity to wash them. Your current ensemble is a simple hodgepodge. Clearly, you wore whatever was cleanest, whatever was warmest, whatever you could find. 

He remembers such a living. 

You appear to be on the outskirts, avoiding the groups scattered around the encampment. No one approaches you and you don’t approach them. A loner… by choice, or not? You wouldn’t be alone for long, if it wasn’t by choice, and in time you might be grateful for it. If it was by choice, well, there were ways to tame feral cats. 

It doesn’t take much analysis to decide what to do with you, to decide how best to approach things. He’s glad that he wore something casual today. Just some simple slacks and a nice sweater. If he was overdressed, it might be more difficult. Not that he couldn’t manage it, but he enjoys advantages when he can get them. 

With no hesitation, he walks through one of the ragged gaps in the metal fence and begins to approach you. 

Your head jerks towards him the moment that his steps become even remotely close. He doesn’t mind. It’s only natural, especially for someone who has been living the way you surely have. There’s a tugging somewhere inside him--memory of himself and connection with you.

He smiles, not broadly, but in a way meant to disarm. 

“Hello,” he says, stopping a few feet away from you. 

You stiffen. 

“I’m Chrollo,” he continues. His voice is undisturbed and calm. As if he was meeting you on a sunny afternoon in the park while you were both buying ice cream from the same cart. That might have been a more charming meeting, he muses, but this one can work to his advantage just as easily. “Won’t you tell me your name?”

You snatch your hands back from the barrel and step, refusing to turn your back to him, behind your cart.

“None of your business,” you say. 

And oh, he thinks, it would be heaven if he could somehow bottle the first time he hears your voice and listen to it on demand. But he supposes, he has the rest of his life--and yours--to hear you speak.

“That’s all right.”  He gestures towards you, the cart, your life. “I see you are in need.” You frown at him, but he continues. “How would you like to go somewhere warm?”

Your lip pulls back in a sneer and you move yourself on the other side of the cart.

“I don’t do that. Fuck off.”

Ah. You thought he wanted you to--well. It wouldn’t be the first time people took advantage of others in less fortunate situations. There had been enough of that in Meteor City. 

“No, nothing like that,” he says, voice going soft. “I should have clarified. I’m a… missionary of sorts. I look for people in need and offer what help I can give. I’d like to buy you a hotel room for the week.” He notices your wary expression. “Or even the day, if that would be more comfortable for you. Somewhere you can get some safe sleep, a shower, something to eat. I wouldn’t even be there.” 

He recognizes the look on your face all too well. Wariness. Suspicion. The face of someone who knows that people are tricky and greedy and cruel. That people will take things that they haven’t earned. Oh, yes-- he knows all of that so well, from both sides.

And he also knows how to get your guard to drop enough for him to accomplish his goal. Sure, mistrust is essential in an environment like this. But mistrust can always be overpowered when there’s something essential within reach. Like comfort. Or food. A warm place to stay, even if it’s just for a few hours. A private bathroom, a toilet, a tub.

“I don’t know,” you say, finally, having given him the appropriate stare down.

He nods his head.

“I understand. I would feel wary myself, in your position. It’s perfectly reasonable.” It is more than reasonable, he thinks, but you don’t need to know that. You just need to believe that coming with him will be worth your while, worth ignoring what he’s sure is a growing pit in your stomach. 

“What I would like to do is accompany you to a hotel where I often book rooms for those in need. It’s a private room, of course. And I will pay for your meals.” He sees the gears turning in your mind at the promise of a bed. The promise of food. “I have my own room in the hotel, but it’s on a different floor, and I won’t have to see you at all,” he adds, and this is how he will make you step over that cautionary line. “I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable. Everything is pre-paid on my card, of course, and you’re free to order whatever you’d like. What do you say?”

He lets his words hang in the air, wafting like smoke from the nearby barrels. 

You wet your lips. You glance around at the people around you. A few of them have taken notice of Chrollo, perhaps as a mark, perhaps more; but he pays them no mind. He could kill them in a fraction of a second and whisk you out of here just as easily, if he needs to… But he hopes it will not come to that. 

“All right,” you say suddenly, softly. “If… you’re just going to give me a room and feed me, then all right.”

Chrollo smiles. It is, he thinks, perhaps close to a genuine one.

“Wonderful. Follow me, if you please.”

--

The hotel is expensive, but thankfully not terribly ostentatious. Chrollo would hate to put you off by throwing you into some gilded lion’s den. But the hotel is more reserved, classy. Comfort and luxury without any of the ridiculous trappings that often come with them. 

Chrollo does bring you with him to the front desk, if only to reduce the chances that the security will kick you out for looking out of place. And you do look out of place, but perhaps that’s for the better. It will make you appreciate what he’s going to do for you more, won’t it? 

You’re quiet all the while, but that’s to be expected. You only hold tight to your backpack, where everything you hold dear has been crammed, and let him do the talking. A reservation is easily made under the guise that only you are to know the room number--you certainly don’t need to know that he’ll swing back and reserve the connected room next door--and the key is given without fanfare from the polite desk clerk who gives you curious glances but nothing more. 

Chrollo walks you to the elevator, ever the gentleman, and hands you the key. You stare at it. The uncertain expression on your face is unbelievably precious, he thinks. He hopes he can see more of it before it inevitably morphs into shock and anger and fear. 

“Would you like some new clothing?” Chrollo asks, after he pushes the button on the elevator for you. “I can have some sent up from the hotel’s boutique. I’ll tell the front desk, so they can give the concierge the room number. Ah, and I’ll need to know your size, if you’re willing to give it.” 

“You want to buy me clothes?”

You almost splutter out the words, and he has to restrain himself from kissing you right then and there. You are terribly cute, and there’s a slight disturbing tinge to how much he finds everything about you enticing so quickly. The way you furrow your eyebrows at his question. The slight look of embarrassment, the twitch of your lips. 

He needs you so much, and he’s only known you for a few moments.

You tell him your size, then glance at him before staring at the glossy metallic doors. “Um, I need something warm. No useless stuff.” Your head gestures back towards the hotel lobby, where a few women are walking on the arm of male companions, dressed in sleeveless dresses and likely heading for the restaurant. 

“Of course.” Chrollo does not tell you that he can envision you wearing all sorts of useless things in the future his mind is creating, brick by brick. You would look heavenly in something strapless, something slinky. Something that hangs off your shoulders. He would drape a fine wrap over them, were you behaving enough to go out with him--no one else but him will be privy to such delicacies. 

For now, though, he resolves to send you the clothes he knows you want. Things will be a little more seamless if your guard isn’t entirely raised. 

The elevator doors open.

Chrollo steps aside, and gestures for you to enter. 

“This is where I take my leave. I will let the restaurant host know your name, and you can order whatever you’d like. It’s on my card. Please, don’t feel the need to hold back.”

You take a step inside the elevator and ah, there it is. Just the slightest hesitation. The slightest jerk of your head as you look back at him. Do you feel bad, leaving him in a lurch when he’s giving you charity? Do you feel beholden to him in some way?

“I guess it’s okay if we share a meal. You’re paying for it, anyway. It’d be awkward otherwise.” You stare down at the elevator carpet as you say the words, and Chrollo realizes that he’s perhaps misjudged the gesture. Your sense of shame, maybe, outweighs your desire to be rid of him and his potential alternative motives for assisting you.

That might come in handy.

He nods, as you turn around and make brief eye contact with him. 

“Well, then. How about we meet here in 5 hours for dinner? I can send something dressy to your room, if you’d like.” 

You shrug your shoulders as the doors close, which is as good as assent in his view. The string on his finger rises with the elevator, but now there is no fear that he’ll lose you. The string, something which had been maddening in its slackness for so long, is now something of a treasure itself. A little leash, keeping you to him, wherever you go.

Which, for now, is your hotel room--meaning he needs to get moving. He won’t pick anything too flashy out from the boutique; something modest, something simple. There are delicate steps to take to avoid making you feel ashamed without offending your sense of dignity all in one go.

Thankfully--for you and himself--he’s attuned to such needs. 

5 hours. That would give you enough time to take a shower or bath, to change into the fresh clothing he’ll send up, to take a nap. Perhaps you’ll stare out the hotel window at the view or curl up in the bed, rolling on the fresh sheets. 

Five hours would give you time to freshen up and relax, yes. And it would give him enough time to get hold of Shalnark and procure anything he needs to make your removal from the hotel as smooth as possible.

--

The shower is running again. He doesn’t blame you. He remembers days where a hot shower was a luxury beyond imagining. 

He keeps his side pressed against the door connecting your rooms--not that you know he is on the other side with a key to yours, of course--and holds back a contended sigh as he watches the red string on his finger twirl and shift with your every movement. 

What are you thinking about? He wonders. Are you thinking about how long it’s been since you had a hot shower? Are you thinking about slipping the shampoo bottles into your backpack?

Perhaps more inviting… are you thinking about him?

He knows what’s on his mind, and has been for the last few hours now. You. 

What were you like, deep down, underneath your layers and justifiably guarded stance? Maybe you liked to read, maybe you once had a dream of being a dancer before life went to hell, maybe you were shy, maybe you liked to get drunk and sing your favorite songs at full volume. 

What would  you be like, once you were fully his? 

What do you look like, underneath all of your clothing? What has nature and nurture shown fit to bestow upon you, your skin, all those secret places you keep hidden? 

The thread bobbles again. Are you stepping out of the shower soon, or still scrubbing yourself? You’re so vulnerable, naked and unawares, just a few feet away from him. The water running is a delicious sound to his ears, because he knows that you’re underneath it. 

He imagines what you might look like naked. He imagines what sounds you might make, underneath him, gasping and--

Oh, but he’s getting ahead of himself. He smiles and shakes his head at the rush. He should slow down, yes. Slow down and savor it all.

He clenches both of his hands. In one is the duplicate key, in the other is a syringe. Both go into opposite pockets, awaiting their respective time to shine.

--

The dress that arrives at your door with a prim knock from a porter is not quite what you expected--which is a relief. You expected the stranger to send up something ridiculous. Something slinky and glittering, maybe with only a half shoulder. 

But instead it’s a simple dress with a flared skirt, all made from dark blue fabric. The sleeves are elbow length, the neckline isn’t too low, and there’s a matching black belt to go with it. He’s even sent up a pair of nylons, which are something you haven’t worn since you were a little kid, desperately trying to mimic your mother’s fancy outfits. 

He also--and maybe this is overkill--sent up a few pairs of shoes in different sizes, along with a transcribed note instructing you to call the front desk if none of them fit, or simply wear your own shoes if you are uncomfortable with it. 

This stranger--Chrollo--is awfully accommodating. And kind. And considerate. 

Which is exactly why, when the dress is on and your nylon-clad feet are resting in the shoes easiest to run in, you tuck your switchblade into one of the dress pockets for safekeeping. 

Maybe he is just kind. Or he’s one of those people that makes themselves feel better by occasionally being charitable; he’s harboring some sort of guilt that can be alleviated, however temporarily, by buying a person a sandwich or two. 

But maybe he’s not. You’ve known people who have been hurt or killed or sometimes worse by so-called charitable people. People that lure you in with showers and hotels, meals and clothing. People that slit your throat before or after they have their way with you.

Life was dark and life was shit, and you weren’t born yesterday. If this stranger had any nefarious intentions, you certainly weren’t going to walk into them like a bleating lamb. 

And yet, and yet… some part of you wanted to believe he had good intentions. You’re not sure why, exactly. You weren’t the type to look on the bright side or always see the good in people--or at least,  you hadn’t been that way since childhood. Yet something about this Chrollo made you hope that he was a good person. That you’d have a nice conversation and he wouldn’t do anything more than give you a nice afternoon and a place to sleep comfortably for a bit. 

It was an almost primal feeling, which made it all the more stranger. Your gut feelings usually told you something like: this place is dangerous, this guy’s probably got a gun, that alley’s too notorious to use as a shortcut. 

Your gut didn’t give you silly notions, like wanting to trust someone, hoping they would talk to you during dinner, wondering if they’d be pleasant to be around for longer. 

--

At least, not before today.

“And the lady will have the cailles aux raisins.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Quail,” Chrollo says, allowing the waiter to take the leather-bound menu from his hands. As if your issue was with the choice of food--okay, you didn’t know what it meant, but still--and not that he ordered for you. “Stuffed with shallots, grapes, liver, and ah, I believe, some cognac, if I’m not mistaken.”

“That’s correct, sir,” the waiter says, not giving you a second glance--you didn’t even get a menu, which irked you, but considering you had nothing to pay with and perhaps the hotel staff knew it, it was a practical snub.

Your lips twist into a frown, although you suppose you can’t complain. The dish does sound good.  Not that you’ve ever had quail. But it can’t be that different from chicken. Or duck. You had duck, once, as a kid. Your mother brought you to a hotel just like this for a Mother’s Day brunch and you sat at a table with an embroidered cloth and wore a pair of your mother’s white gloves, so that you would look extra fancy.

“I apologize,” Chrollo tells you. “I should have asked your preference first.” The strangest part is how sincere he sounds, like he really didn’t want to offend you. Like he actually might be interested in what you want to eat. Part of you can appreciate that, and part of you wants to finger the handle of your knife inside your pocket.

“It’s fine.” You shrug it all off. Because you can, and you choose to--but also because you’re famished and the smells wafting from the other tables is enough to make your stomach growl. “People usually don’t order things like this for me, anyway. If they do give me anything.”

Chrollo tilts his head slightly, looking at you like a particularly interesting painting on a wall. “No?” 

You smile thinly. “Nope. I’m lucky if I get someone’s leftover fries from a fast food shop.” 

“What a shame.” He places both hands on the table, clasping his fingers together. His gaze bores into yours. You look away, briefly, but find yourself wanting to look back. How odd. “I’m sure,” he begins, talking slowly, measuring out his words, “that must be demoralizing--to be treated as lesser-than.”

You can’t help the snort that comes out your nose, or the quick words that follow. “Yeah? And what would you know about that?” Your eyes rake over his outfit, your mind whirls over how much money he’s spent on you alone, as if it was nothing. A drop in the bucket. Some rich man playing with his money. Or daddy’s money, depending on the circumstance.

Of course, you expect him to get offended. You expect him to call you ungrateful and cancel the order and ship you out of here like yesterday’s trash. It wouldn’t be the first time someone has gotten angry that you didn’t play into their savior fantasies. Your muscles even prep to stand, your face goes stony, ready to block the anger that he’ll throw your way.

Only... none of that happens.

His face looks--it’s hard to describe, really. It’s almost like it glitches for a moment, and you see something you weren’t meant to see. You’re not even sure if he realizes it. And then his expression gets so remote and so quiet. He looks away from you for perhaps the first time, looking instead, at his hands.

“I know a lot about that, actually.”

It’s not offense in his expression but… sympathy? No, that’s not it either. You know “sympathy face” like the back of your hand, for all the good it does you. 

It’s empathy. Trace, but there. A shared experience between you. Maybe that’s why you’ve felt inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt all day. Why you went with him in the first place, hunger pangs aside. 

“So you’ve been…” You begin, but is there a need to finish. He’s been homeless, or something like it. Downtrodden. On the bottom. 

He nods.

“Sorry.” The word comes out blurted but soft. Well, I’m an asshole, you think. 

He smiles at you, a soft, thin thing--almost like a gloss that covers up his previous expression. “No, don’t be. You had no way of knowing, dear.” 

Dear.

The word hangs between you silently, as if it’s being dangled on some sort of invisible string. He opens his mouth slightly--maybe to apologize--but shuts it when you don’t say anything. Instead, he simply blinks, and watches you.

Perhaps a minute ago you might have bristled at the nickname, might have sought to cut it right down, in fact. But for now, you brush it aside. He’s being nice--he knows what you’re going through. And sure, there’s some sort of guilt relief in his actions, but it’s not coming from the place of a rich man making himself feel better. It’s coming, you think, from a place of not just knowing where you’ve been but having been there himself. 

Before either of you can speak, the waiter returns with your appetizer and despite the guilt in your gut, your hunger practically sings at the sight of the plate of bread and butter. It’s fancy bread, already cut, gleaming with what smells like garlic butter spread over the top. 

The flavored butter is shaped like a rose and it’s only after you childishly dip your bread right into it and take a loud, chewy bite of the delicious goodness that you realize you’ve committed a faux-pas. There’s a tiny butter knife on the plate, obviously meant to delicately smear the butter onto your bread. And here you are, gnawing on the piece like some sort of medieval peasant during a bad harvest. 

A pang of shame tingles over you. It’s a silly kind of shame--inconsequential, really. Who cares how you eat bread at some hotel you’ll never step foot in again in your life? But it lingers terribly. Until Chrollo picks up a piece of brand and dips it right into the butter, too, taking a chewy bite with far less graciousness than you imagined with his sophisticated appearance.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” He asks, not even bothering to cover his mouth.

You smile. You almost-snort. And the shame dissipates like ice crystals on a sunny day, as you and Chrollo both finish off the appetizer. He lets you eat more without saying a word, which you appreciate.

There’s a lot to appreciate about him, really. He’s been kind. He hasn’t been terribly condescending, dinner order notwithstanding. And he seems to know how to approach you with actual empathy and not just the sticky, coddling sympathy that most people do.

And you won’t lie--he is nice to look at. He even smells nice, but with the amount of money he had to spend on the clothing he sent up to your room, he can likely afford to buy expensive cologne.

If he notices you staring, he says nothing. Instead, he half-closes his eyes and appears to be deep in thought. Over… you? Or dinner? 

He hums a bit under his breath, and you realize: it’s the music. It’s a delicate song being played by a small group of musicians set up on a stage in the corner. It’s familiar… your brain strives to catch up with your ears. 

“You like this song?” You ask, because the silence has stretched too long, and the bread is now gone.

Chrollo opens his eyes and regards you with a sober smile. “Yes.” He pauses, then. “It’s--”

“Elgar's Chanson de matin,” you blurt, before he can. “I know it.”

His eyes widen, just a tad. Enough to show that he’s curious. A funny bit of pride thrums through you. It can be retribution for the quail earlier, you decide.

“You’re familiar with his work?”

You feel your cheeks heat up, even though you don’t get the sense that he asked to be cruel. He seems actually interested. Like he wants to know you. It’s nice, and confusing, and a little startling. 

You nod, wishing there was more bread to break up the conversation. “What, you think someone like me can’t be interested in classical music?

“Of course not.” He answers swiftly, resolutely.

 He reaches his hand towards yours and grasps it before you can think to pull away. It seems silly to yank your hand out of his, so you don’t. Even if the way he looks down at your interlocked fingers makes goosebumps dance up your arm. 

His expression is so strange. He looks… lonely. And desperate. And relieved. But why? 

Both of your gazes meet for one electric moment and for that moment, you feel like he sees you. And you see him. Not as clearly. But you see something inside him that is not quite on the surface. Something which does make you pull away, but not with distaste. You withdraw your hand from his slowly, like he’s a wild animal that you don’t want to startle.

The waiter, impeccable timing as ever, arrives with the main courses just as your hand makes its way into your lap. 

And just like that, the spell is broken. Ripples of water dash whatever it was between you, and he’s speaking charmingly to the waiter, who appears swiftly again with a glass of champagne for each of you. You weren’t intending to drink, but maybe it wouldn’t hurt. It could calm your nerves.

Neither of you talk much for the rest of dinner. It’s not tense, exactly, but you can tell there’s something in the air. Questions unspoken, maybe, or just an awkwardness between two strangers who seem to both understand and misunderstand each other in equal measure.

The hotel’s restaurant begins to thin out after your main courses are taken away. A dessert menu is brought, and Chrollo orders a simple slice of cake for both of you. 

Real vanilla bean frosting is on your lips when you ask your question. Quiet, but with most of the other guests gone, he has no trouble hearing it.

“So you were… homeless, before?”

You’re not sure why you need to know this. To confirm that he’s not some rich boy playing with his father’s money? To see how much he can really understand you? Maybe the champagne went to your head. You don’t normally drink, it wouldn’t be impossible.

His fork stalls as the question comes out. He glances up at you and there’s nothing offended or hurt in his eyes. He seems to weigh his answer before he gives it. It doesn’t really surprise you; he could be just as mistrustful of you as you are of him, couldn’t he?

“Something like that.” He rests his fork on his plate. “I suppose you are trying to decide just how much I can sympathize with your… situation.”

Heat floods your cheeks, and you’re grateful the water brought another glass of champagne that you can sip from to loosen the tightness in your chest.

If he notices your flushed countenance, he doesn’t remark on it. You like him better for it. He continues speaking, looking at you with a measured expression. Like before, his words come slowly and carefully, given to you with something akin to grace.

“Our situations were not exactly similar. I don’t find it terribly useful to compare them. Better in some ways, worse in others. Like anything.”

“Better?” You dab at your mouth with a napkin. 

“Ah.” He seems to weigh his next words with even more scrutiny before he decides on them. “I had something you didn’t, which surely benefited me.”

“Which was?”

There’s something wistful in his voice now. It makes you lean forward over the table. With most of the other guests gone, it feels strange to talk so openly about clearly delicate matters. Chrollo mimics your lean, and while he doesn’t take your hands across the table into his, you get the feeling he’d like to, if you let him.

“Companionship,” he says simply. The word settles in the air like a brick that seems to land right on your chest. You blink and feel the beginnings of tears in your eyes. You really did have too much champagne, and this is all getting to be a lot. You start to lean backward when he speaks again.

“Aren’t you lonely?”

“No,” you lie. The shock of the question does make you lean back fully. Then, to be spiteful. “Are you?”

He doesn’t answer. He only looks down at his hands and the empty spot where yours used to be, and then back at you. 

Nothing more is said on the matter. He pays for the meal and leaves a nice fat tip for the waiter--who has, you think, been lurking nearby either to witness your drama or to make sure no one swipes his tip from the table--before escorting you back to the elevators.

Shame slams back into you while you’re standing in front of the elevator doors.

“I’m sorry.” Sure, he asked it first, but fuck--you hate being rude. If you were rude. It was hard to tell how Chrollo felt about anything. The champagne making your head fuzzy doesn’t help. Not at all.  

He tilts his head a little. “What for?”

Your eyebrows furrow together. “You know, for asking… for being…” You wave your hands around a little. It’s too hard to put into words. You’re tired, you feel out of sorts, and you’re tipsy bordering on drunk. You can give yourself some forgiveness in a lack of coherency in this matter, at least.

Chrollo regards you for a moment before he shakes his head, scoffing a little as he smiles.

“For being yourself? Or at least showing some small part of it to me? I don’t mind.” He holds out his arm and you, unsteady champagne fuzz in your head, take it. “I’ll escort you to your room, if that’s all right. I don’t feel comfortable letting you go there alone.”

You should tell him that you’ll be fine. You should. But the champagne in your brain and the way you feel drawn to him--however slightly--makes “should” fly out the window. So you nod and let him lead you into the elevator, where the ride up makes you dizzy enough that Chrollo has to steady you carefully, and you mumble out another apology. 

He only chuckles a little and helps you walk out of the elevator without stumbling over the threshold. Your room is just down the hall and he keeps a steady grip on you the whole way, even though you’ve told yourself that you won’t stumble anymore. It feels weird, to have someone so close to you; to smell his cologne and feel the warmth of his skin.

It feels weird, yes, but giddy too. He is handsome. And he did buy you dinner. And clothes. And he’s not as shitty as you thought he might be at first. The way he ate the bread in solidarity with you earlier--you can’t forget that, can you? It was… cute, even. If someone like Chrollo could be called cute.

Is it the champagne, the newness of this stranger-but-not-entirely, the rich disarmament that comes with a full stomach and freshly washed face? All of the above? Whatever it is, it’s got you thinking too much about Chrollo as he gently takes the key from your hand and opens your hotel room door.

A gentleman, he only sees you just inside before taking his leave, promising to meet you for breakfast in the morning--if you’d like.

You would like, you tell him, and the door shuts and locks swiftly afterwards. Chrollo’s cologne lingers in the air, or maybe it rubbed off on you from all the steadying he had to do. 

The hotel room is just as you left it. Clean and pristine, smelling vaguely of lemon. Your duffel bags and personal belongings are shoved in the corner. Maybe you’ll try to read one of your books tonight, before you sleep? It would be the first time you read on an actual bed in ages. Maybe you could even call for room service? A little midnight snack? It’s not like Chrollo would mind, or at least, he probably wouldn’t. It’d be something small anyway, nothing wild. 

Unless you wanted a bubbly nightcap. 

Full of ideas, you take your giddy champagne self back to the bathroom to change into pajamas that he sent up earlier, humming Elgar’s Chanson, thinking about bread and quail and… Chrollo. The knife in your dress pocket gets left on the bathroom counter. It was silly to bring it, now that you think about it. 

Still humming, you flop on the bed and grab the menu for room service. It wouldn’t hurt to order some extra dessert. And another glass of champagne. Maybe two… 

You’re so out of sorts that at no point for the rest of the night, before your weary head hits the soft pillow, do you stop to wonder how Chrollo knew your room number.

--

There are few things Chrollo truly regrets in his life. One of them, he knows, will be that he couldn’t plant himself in this town for a few months in order to properly court you; to introduce you, gradually, to the concept of nen. To the knowledge that you were his soul mate.

But it can’t be helped. He has to leave tomorrow night, come hell or high water. And he certainly won’t let you drown here a moment longer. It’s for your sake. You’ll come to realize that eventually, just as you will--in time--come to forgive him for what he must do.

You’ll no doubt regret letting down your barriers in the morning. But if you hadn’t been so keen to trust in someone, to trust in him, then he wouldn’t have gotten to see something of the real you underneath all of that built-up survival instinct. And didn’t you see something of him, too? He thinks you did. Just a moment, a spark, but it was there. 

You sweet thing. He could hear you humming through the door earlier; heard you order room service (champagne and desserts) and he regretted not having Shalnark swoop in during dinner to set up some security cameras. 

The key to your room feels heavy in his hand. On this side, he is simply himself, staring ahead as the red thread of his soulmate leads away from him. But once he turns it into the lock and quietly opens the door, there will be nothing between you but sleep.

He opens the door and relishes in the way the thread sags even further downward. If only you could have seen how beautiful the thread looked during dinner, all tangled up as he clasped your hand in his. That’s how the thread was meant to look. Not tight and taut and unforgiving.

You’re fast asleep when he silently enters the room and unlocks the deadbolt so that Shalnark can help him remove you from the premises. Curled up underneath the covers, you look like you’re in bliss. It’s likely the first restful sleep you’ve had in a long time. Months? Years? 

How awful for you, to wake up tomorrow and realize that you’re no longer in the hotel bed. And that he’s the one to blame for it. How awful for him, too, to lose his grasp on the tentatively pleasant and revealing evening you had together. But he doesn’t think you’ll be empathetic on that matter. Not for a while, anyway.

He sits down on the bed next to you and it takes a considerable amount of self-control not to curl up against you. It’s not worth the risk of you waking, although the tranquilizer in his pocket could be jabbed into your thigh early, if need be. 

Besides… you’ll have a lifetime of nights together after this. 

There’s no need to rush what is finally his to keep forever. 

[fuckingrecipes]

Cooking question I'm too embarrassed to ask someone IRL: how easy or hard is it to accidentally poison yourself?

I know not to eat things that are too old (past the best-by date, changed color etc), I know not to eat things that were burned. I know to be careful about handling raw meat. I know how to store leftovers. I know to pay attention to instructions on the package and to check if the package is damaged etc.

But at the same time... well, a lot of cooking advice I've seen over the years includes some variation of "try things out, see what you like!" and I'd kind of like to do that. But if the results turn out inedible, I'd like them to be "inedible" as in "tastes very bad" and not "inedible" as in "going to upset your stomach" or "send you to the hospital"

If I try to cook/bake/roast/fry/whatever a food that can be eaten raw, like fruit, what are the odds that the result will be safe to eat?

What about lettuce? I'm aware it would probably taste bad, but would it be safe to try?

If I mix random liquid-y things from my pantry to make a sauce for whatever vegetables&meat I'm frying, what are the odds the result would be safe to eat? (Assuming all the components are edible by themself, I'm NOT talking about cleaning solutions or dish soap or whatever)

What might be some questions I don't even know I should check?

If I try to cook/bake/roast/fry/whatever a food that can be eaten raw, like fruit, what are the odds that the result will be safe to eat? If I mix random liquid-y things from my pantry to make a sauce for whatever vegetables&meat I'm frying, what are the odds the result would be safe to eat?

100% safe. There is a ZERO (0%) percent chance of accidentally creating a poison when cooking a safe-to-eat-raw food item.

You're not going to accidentally create a poison when you mix spices, sauces, or various edible ingredients together.

It's just not how chemistry works. With no exception I can think of, you can't take one safe-to-eat plant or animal and cook it or mix it with another in a way that will create a toxic substance.

Cooking lettuce to eat is safe. Cooking whole fruit is safe. Mixing a hundred sauces together is safe. Go for it.

I could take a sample of every single individually edible item in my fridge, pantry, and spice cabinet, blend it all into a big slurry, cook it & eat a portion of that concoction with confidence that I won't die from it. While it may be gross and taste bad, it won't actually harm me. It won't be a poison, no matter how many different types of food ingredients are tossed into the pot.

I cannot guarantee that you will never upset your stomach, because you could be sensitive to or allergic to an ingredient that I don't know about. It's not a poison to all humans, but it'd be uncomfortable to you. You can only learn about that through experience.

What CAN be dangerous:

Improper sterilization and improper technique can accidentally leave poison-producing bacteria or mold to breed when canning or fermenting foods.

Eating large amounts of a couple specific foods can be risky. There's not a lot of these, so here's a list of the big names to keep an eye on:

Cassia (common) cinnamon has a chemical that is toxic in larger quantities, but harmless in small quantities. If you eat 2 teaspoons a day, every day, you'll run into trouble. If you use Ceylon cinnamon instead, you can eat pretty much as much as you want.

Don't eat a whole nutmeg. It's wonderful when used sparingly, but can be poisonous in large amounts. Same rule as Cassia cinnamon: 2 teaspoons a day, every day, will get you into trouble. Eat less or less often.

Eating too much Liver (the organ) can cause copper toxicity and Vitamin A toxicity. It's great for you when added to a meal once a week, or a couple times a month, but shouldn't be eaten daily or in huge amounts.

Don't swallow cherry pits. They're generally harmless when swallowed whole, because they pass through digestion unscathed, but if they're crushed or cracked open first they release a compound that turns into cyanide when digested. Our body handles cyanide pretty well, but 4-5 cracked pits can become harmful. So: Don't chew them, and don't swallow them on purpose.

There are some foods which need special preparation to be made safe. They're safe COOKED, but not RAW.

Cooked beans & legumes are safe to eat. But if you're starting from a totally DRY bean or lentil (canned are pre-cooked) make sure to soak them in water for several hours and boil until they're FULLY COOKED before you eat. (Fully cooked is when you can crush them easily with a fork, with no gritty or hard center) Undercooked or uncooked beans & legumes can fuck up your guts real good. Very painful, horribly unpleasant, but probably won't kill you.

Cassava (the root vegetable that tapioca is made from) MUST be thoroughly cooked before eating. Raw cassava can be toxic. It's another cyanide bro.

Don't eat raw potatoes - always cook them. If your potatoes have sprouted, don't eat the sprouts & peel any green skin off. Tbh tho, an adult would need to eat at least a pound of green potatoes to get sick. Be reasonably cautious about it. Don't feed green potatoes to small children.

--

Note: This advice is intended for someone who shops at a grocery for their food, not someone who is foraging for ingredients or is growing their own. There's a lot more opportunities to poison yourself when working with whole plants in the wild, and not the prepared-for-sale ones at a store.

[thesecondhandwoman]

I have so many thoughts and your writing is amazing so I’ve got another one for ya. I bet you can tell I’m obsessed with this women. Ambessa x f or nb!reader where the reader is from Zaun and is good at fighting but Ambessa doesn’t know, so when their house is raided Ambessa is really worried but finds out the reader can take care of her/themself. remember to drink some water and take care of yourself. ps. If these get annoying or are to much feel free to ignore me

-🧚‍♂️

HIDDEN STRENGTH

Ambessa x f!reader

Synopsis: You were Ambessa’s assistant, but also her secret lover beneath close quarters, and somehow, people who opposed Ambessa’s rule had found out, raiding the house when she was gone in hopes of using you for leverage.

Request: Anon 🤍

The sprawling Noxian estate was unusually quiet that day. Ambessa Medarda had left for an important meeting with her daughter, Mel, and while the weight of Noxian politics consumed her mind, you remained behind in her shadowed domain—a secret presence in her life that no one could quite place. To most, you were merely her loyal assistant, managing her demanding schedule and household with an unmatched precision.

But the truth ran deeper than anyone suspected. You were her lover, her hidden solace amidst the chaos of her public life. A woman from Zaun, soft-spoken and kind, you seemed an unlikely match for the indomitable Ambessa Medarda. Yet, behind closed doors, your relationship blossomed, a secret love forged in stolen glances, whispered words, and the unyielding loyalty you showed her.

Ambessa never questioned your strength. She saw you as her balance, a calming presence to temper her relentless ambition. What she didn’t know, however, was that beneath your gentle demeanor lay a fierceness born of necessity. The streets of Zaun had molded you into someone who could survive, someone who could fight. You had simply chosen not to share that part of yourself with her.

Until now.

It started with a knock.

The estate guards were usually diligent, but something about the sound sent a chill down your spine. You moved to investigate, leaving behind the stack of reports you’d been organizing for Ambessa. The second you opened the door, you knew something was wrong.

The man standing there didn’t belong. Dressed in rough, practical leather, his expression turned from false politeness to something much darker as he shoved his way inside. Behind him, more figures emerged—armed, purposeful, their gazes scanning the opulent interior with hungry intent.

Raiders.

Your heart sank as they advanced, slamming the door on the man’s face, locking it quickly while hearing their leader barking orders to seize the house and “find the assistant.” The plan was obvious: they intended to use you as leverage against Ambessa. But you had no intention of being anyone’s bargaining chip.

The dagger hidden beneath your blouse was in your hand before you even realized it. A relic of your past life in Zaun, it was something you’d carried with you out of habit, though it had gone unused for years. You took a steadying breath. The skills you’d buried deep were about to surface again, and you hoped they were just as good.

The fight was chaos.

The first man lunged at you, and you sidestepped with practiced ease, driving the hilt of your dagger into his temple. He crumpled to the floor as another attacker rushed you, his sword gleaming in the dim light. You ducked beneath his swing, sliding behind him and delivering a swift kick to the back of his knee. He stumbled, and you followed up with a sharp jab to his throat, leaving him gasping for air.

Another raider fired a gun, a rare weapon to be used in Noxus, the deafening crack echoing through the hall. The bullet grazed your thigh, a hot, searing pain ripping through your leg. You hissed in pain but didn’t falter. The injury slowed you, but you pressed on, using the estate’s layout to your advantage, ducking behind furniture, using the shadows to stay one step ahead.

By the time the dust settled, the house was a wreck. Broken furniture littered the floor, and the walls bore the scars of the battle. The raiders lay unconscious or groaning in defeat, scattered around the grand hall. You stood in the center of it all, blood dripping from the cut on your thigh, your chest heaving with exertion.

You had won. But the cost was clear. Your dress was torn, revealing bruises and scrapes, and your hands trembled as adrenaline coursed through your veins. You barely noticed the pain; your only thought was ensuring the house was secure before Ambessa returned.

When the news reached her, Ambessa was in the middle of discussing strategy with Mel. A guard interrupted, his expression grim, and Ambessa’s heart froze as he relayed the report: her estate had been raided. You had been there, alone.

Ambessa didn’t wait for details. She was on her feet in an instant, her expression darkening as she barked orders for her carriage to be readied. Mel, though concerned, didn’t press. She knew better than to interfere when her mother’s mind was set.

The ride back to the estate was a blur for Ambessa. Her mind raced with possibilities, each one more dreadful than the last. Were you alive? Hurt? Taken? The thought of losing you, of never being able to hold you again, clawed at her heart.

By the time the carriage pulled up to the estate, she was already moving, her long strides carrying her through the broken doors and into the grand hall.

Her breath caught at the sight of you.

You were still standing, albeit barely, your weight braced against the back of a chair. Blood stained the fabric of your dress where the cut on your thigh bled sluggishly, and bruises bloomed across your arms and face. But what struck Ambessa most was your expression, a mix of exhaustion and relief as your eyes met hers.

“Ambessa,” you rasped, your voice weak but steady.

She crossed the room in an instant, her hands reaching for you as though to confirm you were real. “You’re hurt,” she said, her voice trembling. “Gods, look at you. I should have been here. I should have—”

“Ambessa,” you interrupted, your tone soft despite your exhaustion. “I’m fine.”

“Fine?” she repeated, incredulous. Her hands gently cupped your face, her thumb brushing against the bruise on your cheek. “You’re bleeding, little one. You’re not fine.”

You let out a weak chuckle, the sound barely audible. “It’s just a scratch.”

Ambessa’s gaze dropped to the wound on your thigh, her jaw tightening. “A scratch? That’s a deep cut, and it’s still bleeding.” She knelt in front of you, her hands surprisingly gentle as she inspected the injury. “Why didn’t you call for help?”

“There wasn’t time,” you admitted, wincing as her fingers brushed the edge of the wound. “They were after me, Ambessa. They wanted to use me to get to you.”

Her hands stilled, and when she looked up at you, her expression was a storm of emotions—anger, guilt, fear, and something softer. “You shouldn’t have had to fight them alone.”

“I’m not as helpless as I look,” you said with a small smile, trying to lighten the mood. “Zaun taught me how to take care of myself.”

Ambessa exhaled sharply, her hands moving to cradle your face again. “I know you’re strong,” she murmured, her voice softening. “But seeing you like this, knowing what could have happened, I can’t bear it.”

You leaned into her touch, your own hands coming to rest on hers. “I’m okay,” you whispered. “I promise.”

Ambessa’s resolve cracked, and she leaned forward, pressing her lips to yours in a kiss that was both desperate and tender. It wasn’t just a kiss—it was a reassurance, a promise that she would never let anything like this happen again. Her hands slid to your waist, holding you close as though afraid you might disappear if she let go.

When she finally pulled back, her forehead rested against yours. “I’ll have the medic tend to your wounds,” she said softly, already signaling to her guards. “And then we’ll talk about why you never told me you could fight like that.”

You chuckled weakly. “Didn’t think it would ever come up.”

Ambessa shook her head, a small, fond smile tugging at her lips despite the situation. “You’re full of surprises.”

“And you love me for it,” you teased, your voice barely above a whisper.

Her smile softened. “I do. More than anything.”

Sighing, Ambessa rose to her feet, gently pulling you upright with her. Her strong arms wrapped around your waist, supporting your weight as you winced at the sharp pain in your thigh. Her face was etched with worry, but she kept her touch tender, guiding you slowly toward one of the quieter, undisturbed rooms in the estate.

“We need to get you somewhere comfortable,” she murmured, her voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “The medic will be here soon. You’re not staying in this mess.”

You nodded weakly, leaning against her as she helped you walk. Despite the pain and exhaustion coursing through your body, you couldn’t help but feel comforted by her presence. Ambessa, ever the warrior, was rarely so openly vulnerable, but here she was—her brows furrowed with worry, her lips pressed into a thin line as though she blamed herself for everything.

When you reached one of the guest rooms, she carefully lowered you onto the plush couch. The room smelled faintly of lavender, the heavy drapes muting the noise of the chaos outside. She knelt in front of you, her eyes scanning your body for any other injuries she might have missed.

“Are you comfortable?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

You offered a small smile, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I’m fine, Ambessa. Really.”

Her jaw tightened, and she reached for a throw blanket draped over the back of the couch. Gently, she tucked it around you, her hands lingering on your shoulders as though afraid you might slip away. “You don’t have to act so strong all the time, little one,” she said, her voice tinged with a rare vulnerability. “You’ve been through enough for one day.”

“Coming from you?” you teased lightly, though your voice wavered from exhaustion. “That’s rich.”

Ambessa let out a soft chuckle, her shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “Fair enough,” she admitted, her hand brushing against your cheek. Her thumb traced the edge of the bruise there, her expression darkening again. “I should’ve been here. I should’ve protected you.”

“Ambessa,” you said gently, reaching for her hand. “You couldn’t have known this would happen. And besides,” You gestured vaguely to the wreckage you’d left behind. “I handled it.”

She exhaled sharply, her fingers tightening around yours. “You shouldn’t have had to handle it. You shouldn’t have been put in that position.”

Before you could respond, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed down the hall. The medic entered the room, a wiry Noxian man with a leather satchel slung over his shoulder. He froze briefly upon seeing Ambessa’s towering form but quickly regained his composure, bowing his head in respect.

“My lady,” he said. “I came as soon as I was informed.”

Ambessa stepped aside, though her gaze remained fixed on you. “Take care of her,” she said firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument. “And if anything seems worse than it looks, you’ll tell me immediately.”

The medic nodded, setting his bag down on the floor. He pulled out bandages, salves, and a small vial of antiseptic. “Let me take a look at that leg first,” he said to you, gesturing to the bloodied tear in your dress.

You hesitated, glancing at Ambessa. She gave you a reassuring nod, her hand resting on your shoulder. “It’s okay,” she murmured. “Let him help.”

With her encouragement, you relaxed, allowing the medic to carefully examine the cut on your thigh. He worked quickly but thoroughly, cleaning the wound with antiseptic and applying a numbing salve before beginning to stitch it. You bit down on your lip to stifle a hiss of pain, your fingers gripping the edge of the couch.

Ambessa knelt beside you, her hand wrapping around yours. “Squeeze as hard as you need to,” she said softly, her thumb brushing soothing circles over your knuckles. Her touch, firm and steady, grounded you as the medic worked.

When the stitching was done, the medic wrapped your thigh in clean bandages, then moved on to tend to the smaller scrapes and bruises on your arms and face. Ambessa remained by your side the entire time, her presence a constant comfort.

Finally, the medic packed up his supplies and stood. “The wound should heal well if it’s kept clean and undisturbed,” he said. “I’ll leave additional supplies in case any of the dressings need to be changed.”

“Thank you,” Ambessa said, her voice clipped but polite. She stood, towering over the medic, and gestured toward the door. “Leave us.”

The medic bowed again and exited the room, leaving you and Ambessa alone. She turned back to you, her eyes softening as she took in your tired form. Carefully, she sat on the couch beside you, her arm slipping around your shoulders.

“How do you feel?” she asked, her voice low and full of concern.

“Tired,” you admitted, leaning into her. The warmth of her body was a welcome relief after the ordeal. “But safe.”

Ambessa pressed a kiss to the top of your head, her lips lingering there for a moment. “You scared me,” she confessed quietly. “When they told me what happened, I thought,” Her voice trailed off, and she tightened her hold on you. “I can’t lose you, Y/N.”

“You won’t,” you said softly, turning to rest your forehead against her shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Ambessa’s hand gently stroked your back, her touch steady and reassuring. The weight of the day began to fade, replaced by the quiet comfort of being in her arms.

“I’m going to double the security around the estate,” she said finally, her voice tinged with steel. “And I’ll make sure everyone in Noxus knows what happens when they threaten me and ones closest.”

You smiled faintly, your eyes growing heavy. “Ever the warrior.”

She tilted your chin up, her gaze locking with yours. “For you, always.”

Leaning down, she kissed you again, this time slower, softer, as though trying to pour every ounce of her love and relief into the gesture. When she pulled back, she rested her forehead against yours, her breath warm against your skin.

“Rest now,” she murmured. “You need your rest after everything you’ve been through, little one.”

You nodded against her chest, letting out a soft sigh as you closed your eyes and softened into her touch. The last thing you heard before you were taken by a deep sleep was “I’ll be here when you wake.”

A/N: I absolutely loved writing this (hope it’s not too repetitive), and hope you guys enjoy reading it.

[sitepathos]

From Gold to Mold

Chapter 11: The Interview

Note: Didn’t really plan on making a chapter like this, but I thought we were overdue some filler before we got into some real drama. Enjoy!

You let out a loud agitated sigh as you power down your computer and slouch in your office chair.

Since you got back from Metropolis, you’ve been working on a free update to thank all your players for their support and voting to make Salvage Rights the Indie Game of the Year; working on an update that’ll satisfy the players and be easy to develop and implement was difficult enough, but all the drama with the Waynes made it even harder.

It’s been four fucking years since you left Gotham! Even when you moved back to Goodsprings, you couldn’t help but think about all they’d done to you, from Bruce acting like you’re an intruder in his “perfect” house to Damian being your personal demon. You’d managed to put hundreds of miles between yourself and them, but they still managed to have a hold on you. Sure, you knew you were in a home you owned fair and square, not Wayne Manor, but there were still instances where you caught yourself looking over your shoulder to make sure no one was behind you or peeking around corners to make sure a room was empty before you walked in.

Even with the Megamycete constantly reminding you, it took you the better part of a year to get it through your head that you no longer needed the survival tactics that had kept you alive in Wayne Manor as you’re the only one in your house.

It’s taken the last three years, but you were finally ready to move on with your life, look towards the future and leave Gotham, Bruce Wayne, and his merry band of bastards behind. You published your game, people loved it almost immediately, and you had been rewarded for your efforts with fame and fortune.

You finally free and could actually be happy for the first time in years.

Now, he and his children come and plague you, trying to drag you back to the place you hated from day one.

He made it clear that he never considered you his son (hell, what he said the night those three bastards kidnapped you proved that), always showering Dick, Jason, Tim, and Damian with a fatherly love you had slowly realized would never be meant for you and shoved you aside in favor of showcasing the children he was proud of. Eventually, you were forgotten by both Bruce Wayne and the larger world as no one in Gotham’s media class ever asked where you were, why weren’t you with them at this party, or when was he planning on throwing you your own introductory gala like his other kids.

As time went on, you took steps to separate yourself from him, never telling anyone who your father was and only accepting Gould as your proper last name (although if you ever found some guy to marry you, you’d definitely be open to changing your last name).

Then, that son of a bitch shows up and ruins everything, your face plastered all over the news, primarily in Gotham and Metropolis, and you can’t go anywhere without people staring, whispering, and bombarding you with several questions (many of them being if you could set them up with your “siblings”).

You were finally living the life you’d dreamed about and he had to go and ruin it! You’d known that Bruce Wayne is a miserable motherfucker who can’t stand to see anyone around him to be happy (you’d listened in on plenty of arguments between him and the others whenever one of them tried to strike out on their own to figure that out), but you never thought that he’d be so petty he’d try to drag you, the son he never wanted, back when he saw you happy for once in your life.

You look down at your hands and imagine what it’d feel like to have them wrapped around his neck, squeezing the life out of him and seeing him realize that despite his strength as Batman, he was powerless compared to you; the relief you would feel as you saw the life leave his eyes as he accepted that the son he never wanted was the instrument of his destruction.

You revel in the brief sensation of satisfaction that passes through you from your daydream.

(You may get your wish,) the Megamycete says, bringing you out for your fantasy.

“How do you figure?”

It doesn’t answer, but you feel sensations of anxiety and apprehension radiate from it.

“What’s wrong,” you say, getting a little afraid.

Over the last four years, you’d never known the Megamycete to be afraid of anything.

So, seems like things are about to go from bad to worse in your life.

(We reached out to the Bats. They know of both our existence and our bond with you.)

“What,” you exclaim, standing up from your chair. “You told them? Why?”

(We thought we could reason with them for you. They—)

“How could you do that? Now they know about you! They weren’t going to stop coming and my only ace in the hole is you! I’ve lost that advantage thanks to you! For a sentient mushroom that has the knowledge of thousands of people, that was a pretty stupid thing to do!”

You’re pissed. Really pissed.

You had a feeling that the night with Bruce at the Gala wasn’t the end of things and all of his children visiting you proved it. The Bats have made it clear they’ll do whatever they must to accomplish their goals and for whatever reason, they’ve decided you’re their goal.

Sure, you went overboard a little demonstating your strength when dealing with Jason and Damian, but that they had no idea your strength came from the Megamycete and that was only the surface what you were capable of. If they decided to come at you in force, they were in one hell of a surprise when you fabricated hardened mold armor right in front of them and do to them what you did to Joker. You know they’ve fought plenty of villains with powers, but the mold is stronger than all of them combined and you’d make them regret ever meeting you as you tear them apart and scatter their intestines across the ground.

But now, thanks to the Megamycete, they know that you’re not alone and who knows what else?

(We are sorry,) it says, its tone remorseful. (We thought we could persuade them to leave you alone. We were wrong.)

“Yeah, no shit! If they weren’t listening to me, what made you think they would listen to you? Hell, you know how Bruce feels about metas, knowing I’m one probably made things worse! He’s probably making some cage to hold me right now!”

You tap into the roots scattered around Gotham and focus on Wayne Manor, but are surprised to find you’re unable to connect.

(They have started removing our roots. We have accelerated the growth of the surrounding roots, but they are taking steps to prevent their regrowth.)

“So, we have no idea what they’re planning. Great, that’s just great. Terrific job, man. Really, just superb.”

(We thought we could help.)

You exhale a sigh and wave a hand through your hair, trying to come up with a plan on where to go next.

“How did it go down, exactly? What happened?”

The Megamycete uploads its meeting with them into your brain and it flashes before your eyes, from the Megamycete torturing some of them by turning into their dead ones to them learning about you killing your would-be murderers and Joker and Harley.

You thought you hated Bruce Wayne enough, but apparently you don’t hate that man enough.

How someone can be so delusional is astounding to say the least. Honestly, he deserves to be thrown in Arkham and studied, along with all the others.

They ignore you for most of your life and treat you like shit and now that you’re finally happy, they want to drag you back to Gotham.

And why?

Because they “love you?”

Bullshit.

They feel guilty and they just want to feel better. You know no one in that damn house is capable of feeling real love and once they feel better about themselves, they’ll go right back to ignoring you.

(They are truly delusional. They think their past behavior does not matter and you should be brought back to their fold.)

Yeah, you got that from Jason. The bastard wasn’t able to get away from Bruce and Gotham (because despite all his bluster, all he wants is that man’s approval) and because he couldn’t do it, he thinks you shouldn’t be able to.

Selfish, all of them.

“You fucked up. They were going to find out eventually, but thanks to you, we’re gonna have to deal with them sooner than we expected.”

(We know. We overestimated our abilities and brought trouble upon you. We apologize. Truly, we do.)

You understand where its heart was in the right place, but it still doesn’t change the fact that the Bats are probably going to be breaking down your door any day now.

Just then, there’s a knock at your door, making you freeze.

Shit, are they already here? Are they in regular clothes or are they in their capes and cowls? Are they really that desperate to bring you back to Gotham that they’d really raid your house in the middle of the day for anyone walking by to see?

You tap into the roots surrounding your house and see not Bruce Wayne or any of his kids darkening your door. Instead, you see a black haired woman dressed professionally standing on your porch.

“Who the hell is she?”

(We do not know. She is definitely not a resident of Gotham as we do not recognize her.)

That certainly doesn’t make you feel better. You know Bruce is resourceful as hell and isn’t afraid to use any dirty trick in the book to get what he wants.

(She does not appear to have ill intents. She is too delicate-looking to pose a threat to you, nor is her purse large enough to hold a weapon large enough to harm you.)

Looks can be deceiving. After all, Bruce is a member of the Justice League, where Martian Manhunter is and you can see Bruce using the alien to transform and trick you into lowering your guard. When that man gets obsessed over something, he doesn’t know when to leave well enough alone.

Still, you can speculate to the moon and back, but until you open the door and talk to the woman, you’ll never know for certain. Sure, it could be related to your current Bat problem, or it could be something else.

So, you walk through your house and up to your door.

“Who is it,” you call out.

“Lois Lane, Daily Planet,” she responds. “I’m here to ask Y/N Gould for an interview.”

Lois Lane? You’ve heard Bruce and the others say that name when talking about Metropolis and Superman and you’ve seen the name when reading a few news articles for school assignments, but you’ve never seen any pictures of her, so you had no idea the woman standing on your doorstep is the very woman famous for being one of the very few reputable journalists left in the world.

You unlock the door and open it just enough to stick your head out to see her face to face. You look into her eyes and see no ill intent or hidden motives.

“Mr. Gould, I presume,” she asks, a gentle smile on her face.

“You want an interview with me? What for?”

“Your relation with Bruce Wayne. As I’m sure you know, he’s the most famous man in Gotham, if he so much as sneezes in public, several news articles are written to publish it. Gotham’s media has always covered whenever he adopted another child, but out of nowhere, he appears at a video game awards ceremony and claims you’re his son and you call him a sperm donor. No one can forget when Damian Wayne appeared at a gala and was declared Bruce Wayne’s biological son. It made quite the stir when you pushed him and made it clear you had nothing but animosity towards him.”

Oh yes, you can remember the many days of fawning Damian got when he moved into the manor, leaving you bitter since all you got was a few minutes of people asking about your mother before forgetting about you in favor of all the others.

“What is it you want,” you say, trying to remain polite. “I lost years thanks to Gotham and Bruce Wayne and I’m not eager to lose any more dwelling in the past.”

“I want to hear your side of the story,” she says with a determination that surprises you. “You clearly suffered due to him and I want to help you tell your story to the world.”

You’re actually speechless at that. You know pretty much all of Gotham worships at the Alter of Wayne and his influence expands far beyond the city’s borders, leaving very few people willing to hear anything that would portray him in a negative light. It’s very safe to say Gotham is a cathedral dedicated to both Bruce Wayne and Batman.

To hear that someone with a reputation and influence like Lois Lane would want to listen to you and help you tell others your life’s story is nothing less of a shocker.

“I can’t say you’ll like what I have to say, Ms. Lane,” you say as you open the door wide and stand in the doorway. “I know Bruce Wayne is an institution of Gotham, but I can tell you that wasn’t my experience.”

“This isn’t about my opinion on Bruce Wayne or any of his children. This is about what you experienced during your stay in Wayne Manor.”

“And how much are you wanting to know?”

“Everything. Or, as much or as little you’re willing to tell me.”

Her words strike you to your core. It’s been years since you’ve had anyone really interested in what you have to say. Sure, Alfred was always willing to listen to you, but you learned early on that you had to hold back on how you really felt about Bruce Wayne and his children as any criticism you had about them was a failure on his part.

The poor man did the best he could, but those people are clearly beyond any form of help outside of being locked in padded cells.

“Come in, please,” you say, steeping aside so she could enter your home. Once she’s in, you close the door and lead her to the living room. “Can I get you anything? Coffee, water, soda?”

“Anything’s fine, thank you.”

She sits on the couch while you rush to the kitchen and prepare two glasses of ice water, a crystal pitcher full of more water, and a small bowl full of grapes and load it all onto a tray and carry it back to the living room. This is the first time you’ve ever had a guest and you want to make a good impression.

“So, where would you like to start,” you ask as you sit in your favorite chair, your glass of water in hand.

“I’d like to ask about your mother, if that’s alright,” she answers, pulling out a writing pad and pen from her purse. “I managed to find newspapers relating to you around the time you moved to Gotham, but they were very few and none of them had anything regarding your mother or your past.”

You stifle a chuckle at the thought of being one the front page of a few newspapers no doubt rotting in the Gotham Gazette’s archives. You were probably the center of news for all a week before Bruce adopted Tim and stole the spotlight, leading to the tradition of you being pushed further and further back whenever Bruce collected another troubled kid.

“My mom was Maria Gould, a famous writer known for romance novels set during the Age of Sail.”

“That Maria Gould,” she asks, looking up from her notepad in shock. “I didn’t know you were related to her?”

“You know her?”

“I was an avid reader of her books.” She gives a small chuckle. “I actually use to daydream of interviewing her when I first started at the Daily Planet.” He smile then shifts into a sympathetic frown. “I remember reading about her death in the paper. I knew it said she had a son, but I didn’t see the connection until now.”

“She died on my sixth birthday. It’s been sixteen years since that day and I can still remember it so clearly.”

That day haunts you to this day. You got to school so happy and excited for Momma to come pick you up after school, thinking about how much pizza you’d eat and what presents you’d get.

You had no idea that when you told her bye that day, it would be for the last time.

(Your grief is still so profound, even after all this time.)

That day ended in the loss of your Momma and your life went from bad to worse when Alfred picked you up and brought you to Gotham to live with that bastard.

“I can tell you loved you very much,” she responds, her expression sympathetic.

“Yeah,” you say, suppressing a tear. “Yeah, I did.”

“So, did you have any idea who your father was? Did she ever tell you or did you ever ask?”

“Yeah, I did ask when all my friends were celebrating Father’s Day and I realized I didn’t have a Daddy like my friends. She said that she didn’t know who he was. She didn’t say it, but when she said she was “young and dumb,” I later found out that meant she got drunk and had sex with a guy she didn’t know.” A ghost of a smile graces your face. “She said when I came along, I set her on the right path.”

“I say you did,” she responds, returning your smile. “Being a parent often makes people turn their lives around.” She jots something down in her pad before looking back at you. “So, when did you move to Gotham?”

“Immediately after the funeral. The sheriff drove me back home to pack up most of my stuff and when we got to the house, Alfred was waiting for me.”

“Wait, Bruce Wayne didn’t pick you up himself?”

“No, Alfred said he was too busy with work and couldn’t come.”

“His firstborn son loses his son and he couldn’t even make the time to get you,” she angrily mutters to herself as she writes. “And how did he react when he saw you?”

“It was almost like he was staring at a stranger in his home.”

You can still remember how you felt when you met Bruce Wayne for the first time; it was the first time you’d ever felt like someone didn’t like you and it really hurt.

“He barely said a word to me before telling Alfred he was going out.”

“Doing what,” she asks, clearly getting angrier and angrier by the second.

For a brief moment, you entertain the idea on ousting Bruce’s dirty little secret and telling the world that he’s Batman. He’d be drowning in so much attention and legal battles that he wouldn’t be able to bother you ever again.

But then, the rational part of your brain convinces you that by telling everyone Batman’s secret identity would invite a lot of trouble your way. After all, all of Bruce’s kids are vigilantes, so many would automatically assume you were one as well, leading you to being dragged into Bruce’s legal and publicity quagmire.

Also, there’s the very real possibility that all of Bruce’s enemies would come after you seeking revenge and while you were more than capable of dealing with whatever came your way, you’d really rather not deal with it altogether.

“I don’t know,” you say. “He said he had work to do, but this is Bruce Wayne we’re talking about. Chances are he was in some sleazy club with a girl on each side and one on her knees if you know what I mean.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” she agrees. “Now, a week after you moved to Wayne Manor, Bruce adopted Tim Drake. Did you two get along?”

You bark a bitter laugh. “He took one look at me and decided I wasn’t worth his attention. If you ask me, there’s always been something wrong with him. He’s always watching people, taking note of everything they do and obsessing over finding out his secrets. If you ask me, he’s not right and his parents knew it. That’s why they were always leaving him behind when they went to dig sites or parties.”

She’s definitely interested in that as she seemingly writes down everything you said, word for word.

She stifle a chuckle at the thought of Tim Drake being asked what the fuck’s wrong with him every time he goes anywhere.

“What about Dick Grayson? Everyone in Gotham says he’s everything a good big brother should be.”

Yes, you remember the celebration he got when the Gotham Gazette named him the World’s Best Big Brother for the tenth year in a row.

A celebration you weren’t invited to.

“He was a brother to me. When I first moved in, he always carved out time for Tim, but couldn’t give me the time of day. After being blown off a few dozen times in favor for of his other siblings, I eventually stopped asking him.”

“What about Jason Todd?”

“He gave me a black eye when we met.” She gasps at that. “Yeah, he’s a brute. He’s always going on about Jane Austen, but underneath that veneer of an intellectual, he’s Crime Alley trash. Honestly, Bruce should’ve just left him in that part of Gotham. With his poor anger management and proclivity for violence, he’d fit right in. Animals belong in the wild.”

“What about your half brother, Damian Wayne?”

“That little shit pulled a sword on me and nearly tried to take my head off.”

“He what?”

“Yeah, an actual sword. I was able to get out of the way, but he gave me a scar on my cheek. It took me a few years, but I was able to find a way to make it invisible, especially when I looked in the mirror. Every time I saw it, it reminded me of how little I mattered in that house.”

“What did Bruce Wayne do? Surely he knew about it?”

“He was in the room when it happened. All he did was carry him out while he was yelling insults about me and my Momma. And Dick said he had a difficult upbringing and I should forgive him.”

“Forgive him for almost killing you,” she exclaims, her eyes wide as saucers and a look of disgust on her face. “You can’t be serious!”

“I wish I was, Ms. Lane, but Dick’s made it clear that Damian’s his favorite and had he managed to kill me, I’m sure Dick would’ve just taken him out for ice cream and told him that he can’t go around killing people.” You let out a bitter laugh. “You know, he had some nerve calling my Momma a ‘whore’ when I know the secret about his mother.”

“You do,” she asks, leaning forward, her pen and pad ready, indicating you have her full and undivided attention. “Everyone’s asked Bruce about the identity of Damian’s mother and the details relating to the birth, but he’s told us nothing. Are you willing to shed some light on this?”

For a brief moment, you actually ask yourself if this is right. With all the things Damian’s done to you, is it really acceptable to tell the dirty little secret regarding his conception? After all, if you were in his shoes, you’d kill to ensure your secret never saw the light of day.

(But he would not hesitate to tell the world your secret if your situations were reversed,) the Megamycete chimes in. (And does he not deserve some comeuppance for his many transgressions against you?)

You have to admit, it has a point. And besides, this’ll give the Wayne Family a massive shitstorm they’ll have to deal with and your mind’s immediately made up.

“I know her name, but I don’t want her coming after me, so I’m afraid that part of the secret stays with me.” Lois nods, so you continue. “His mother raped him.”

She gasps and you know you’ve passed a point of no return now.

Then again, daring to defy the “great” Bruce Wayne was a point of no return, so this is just adding fuel to the fire.

“She drugged his drink and got him to agree to sleep with her, all for the sole purpose of getting pregnant because she believed him to be of a superior quality.” You lower your voice to mutter, “I can tell you she was greatly misled.”

After that, the interview breezed by, asking about how Steph and Cass treated you to the conditions you were kept in. You told her everything, about how Damian would go out of his way to make you miserable to how Bruce couldn’t be bothered to do anything for you and it was Alfred that kept you alive. In fact, it was only the poor butler that seemed to care about you and you were confident that had you died, Bruce would just be pissed about the inconvenience your death caused him, from having to find a place to bury you to making up a story to tell the media.

It was only when you told her the story involving Damian and your Momma’s pen did you realize that not only was she crying, but so were you.

You knew how that memory made you feel, but had forgotten how much it pained you until you told her every detail. Funny how the brain tries so hard to suppress the worst moments of your life.

“Why do you think they treated you like this,” she asks, trying to keep her voice even to disguise the fact she’s obviously upset. “From everything you’ve told me, it sounds like they really didn’t see you as a Wayne.”

“Because I was the consequence of Bruce’s stupidity. He got drunk and did something stupid, leading to me, and he didn’t like that he was forced to live with him and ruin his family’s image. And because I was normal.”

“Normal?”

“Yes, normal. I had a normal life with Momma while all of the have colorful backgrounds. And I’d like to think that I’m average looking and averagely intelligent with nothing special about me, compared to everyone in the Wayne Family, who always thing their the best looking and smartest people in the room. Plus, I wasn’t damaged goods until Bruce Wayne came into my life. I guess the tragic death of my Momma wasn’t enough for him to make him love me.”

Those words cause you to let out a choked sob as more and more memories of your time in Wayne Manor start surfacing, memories you’d prefer to keep buried.

“I think that’s enough reminiscing for one day,” you say, wiping your eyes and standing up.

“Yes, I think I have everything I need,” she says, doing the same thing.

“Is there anything I can get you before you go, Ms. Lane,” you ask as you lead her to the front door. “Maybe a drink or a snack for the road?”

One of Alfred’s many lessons was how to be a good host and he’d flip out if you didn’t offer her something.

“No, thank you, Mr. Gould, you’ve given me more than enough.” She hesitates for a moment before getting close to you, her arms at both your sides. You freeze up, thinking the worst is about to happen when you realize she’s hugging you. “I’m so sorry for your loss and what you had to go through growing up. No one should ever have to experience such neglect.”

Outside of Alfred, it’s been years since anyone’s hugged you. Last time you were hugged by anyone not the butler was when Momma first died; Goodsprings is the type of where everyone knows everyone and you’re pretty sure you had the entire town giving you hugs before and during the funeral.

“Thank you,” you whisper, returning the hug.

“I know it doesn’t undo the damage he’s done, but I promise this story will make everyone see who Bruce Wayne truly is.”

And with that, you two separate and you wave goodbye as she gets in her car and drives off.

(You made the right decision to tell her everything,) the Megamycete says as you close and lock your door. (We must say, we are surprised you chose not to tell her their roles as Gotham’s vigilantes. Surely the benefits of exposing them outweigh the projected consequences. Or at least balance out.)

“Believe me, I was plenty tempted, but having the enemies of Batman knocking down my door would be more trouble than it was worth. Sure, I could kill them all, but it would only be a matter of time until I was put in a situation where too many people would ask too many questions.”

“We see your point. Besides, her story will no doubt cause more than enough trouble for him and his band of misfits.”

A part of you makes you wish you were back in Gotham so you could see the backlash Bruce is about to be hit with.

Granted, it’s a small part, practically microscopic, but it’s still there.

“I understand, but—“ Bruce says before hearing a click, indicating the call has been ended.

“Another bad phone call, Master Bruce,” Alfred says as holds out a cup of tea.

“Yes,” he sighs, putting his phone in his pocket and taking the cup with one hand and rubbing his temples with the other. “The Humanitarian Ball. The event organizers said they didn’t want ‘cruel and heartless monsters’ bringing a bad name on their event.”

Ever since Lois Lane’s article titled The Forsaken Gould of the Wayne Family came out two days ago, he’s experienced set back after set back; in less than forty-eight hours, Wayne Enterprises’ stock has lost half its value, many large companies have dropped out of their business deals, and more than a few people have withdrawn their invitations for high-profile events.

But none of that compares to the massive gap between you and him getting even larger. He knew that he’d wronged you, but being able to read it in black and white just drives the point even further.

He just wishes that it could’ve stayed between you, him, and your siblings. His family may be celebrities in Gotham, but he prefers to handle the family’s drama behind closed doors.

He’s held his family together through thick and thin and he’ll continue to do so.

And he’s had a hard time doing that over the past two days.

He’s read and reread that article ever since it came out, unable to go a single day without looking at it. He had no idea that he made you feel like you were a mistake he felt embarrassed over or that because you weren’t anything like them, you weren’t worthy of his love.

He knows he’s failed you, but he wants to fix all of it! He wants to embrace you and never let go and to put you up on a pedestal for all of Gotham to bask in and know that you’re the most treasured member of the Wayne Family.

But until they find a way to rid that mushroom in your body and bring you back home, they can’t start fixing their mistakes.

The media’s had a field day with the article ever since it came out, hounding them every time they go out in public, asking them how they could sleep at night knowing they kept you in tiny guest room on the other side of the manor or about how Bruce could treat the son born from Talia drugging him with such love while treating the son born from a drunken one-night stand with such disdain.

He was shocked to learn that you knew of them being the Bats, but to learn you knew the truth regarding Damian’s birth…

Just how much did you know? Did he ignore you so much that he didn’t know you were nearby whenever he talked about anything, even sensitive information that he only talked to Alfred about.

Were you practically invisible to him the entire time you lived here?

Of course, Damian’s pissed that people are calling Talia a rapist and asking if he knew. All this made him a powder keg ready to go off, but what made him really go off was when one of his more elitist classmates made the snide remark that Damian was right to treat you like he did because you came from “some low class author” and simply weren’t worthy of being a member of high society, his son broke the boy’s nose and said he wasn’t worthy of saying your name.

He really wished Damian would’ve let him handle it by framing his parents for tax evasion and illegal business dealings (of course, he still did it, that little shit should’ve known better than to think he had the right to even think about you). They already have enough problems on their plate, they don’t need to add assault to it.

Dick really took it hard when he read that you didn’t think of him as a big brother and Lois Lane had called for him to be stripped of his status of Gotham’s Best Big Brother.

If there’s one thing Dick holds dear in this world, it’s his status as the family’s big brother and would bend over backwards for any of his siblings, be it driving them to the other side of Gotham or helping them with a case.

Dick already felt bad when he realized he’s always ignored you in favor of his other siblings, but that article pushed him over the edge, making his oldest son lose his trademark energetic behavior, choosing to spend all his time in your old room. And if Bruce is very quiet and he creeps close to the door, he can hear Dick’s muffled weeping and apologies.

His heart breaks for his oldest. If he could, he’d undo his and his children’s wrongdoings towards you and bare the memory of it if it meant you being here, where you belong, and not hating them.

Jason also took it hard; Jason knows that he has a problem with his temper and has tried everything under the sun to keep it under control, but his upbringing in Crime Alley and his torture and death at Joker’s hands have left marks on him that he’ll be dealing with for the rest of his life (and Bruce would pay any price to undo them). Jason regrets taking his anger for him out on you when he returned, thinking you were another “replacement” like Tim when he sees you and him had so much in common, you’re practically related.

Tim’s sequestered himself in his room, glued to his computer desk; he’d been in your old room almost everyday ever since they learned of their neglect towards you, thinking the almost bare room would provide some glimpse into your mind that he can use to get into your good graces and make you return home. After the article, many of them tried to rationalize that this Megamycete was twisting your mind and make you hate them so much, but that’s when Tim admitted that he found an old journal of yours, going back to when you first moved in and detailing everything they’d done to you, the last entry detailing Damian throwing your mother’s pen into the yard while it was raining.

He hates how he handled that situation; at the time, he thought you were just making a big deal over some silly little pen (fuck, that was how he really saw it back then), but you were just protecting the only thing you had of your mother, uncaring what it would cost you. He’d like to think he’s do the same thing had someone tried to take his mother’s pearls (you really are his son, aren’t you).

When Tim said he had your journal, they all tried to get it from him, Damian going as far as to bring out his sword and threaten to take it by force (Bruce really needs to consider confiscating that sword due to all the trouble it’s caused). Hell, Jason actually begged to be able to read your journal, but his son would not surrender the book and has been hoarding all the information for himself.

The girls have been silent since reading it, which is never a good sign since Steph is always making noise. He tried to comfort Cass when she read that you don’t consider her a person because of the way she looks at people, like she’s trying to find strengths and weaknesses before attacking them (apparently you also know of her upbringing as a weapon), but his second daughter wouldn’t accept his gestures, signing that you had a point and that she’d never break free of her origins as a living weapon.

And Damian… His youngest has been eerily quiet, but it doesn’t take his detective training to realize he’s fuming on the inside (it seems to be a prerequisite in this family to deal with emotions in unhealthy ways). Bruce had asked him if he was angry that you had exposed the secret of his birth and all his youngest said was that it was his penance for his transgressions against you (his heart breaks that his youngest thinks he deserves this as some sort of punishment).

He was already having a hard time containing the fallout of the world finding out his firstborn son is you, not Damian, and that he’s basically not acknowledged you at all in the last decade, but this article has made it next to impossible to find a convincing lie to tell the media that you came back willingly when they ultimately bring you back home.

“This fucking Megamycete,” he growls, setting the teacup on a nearby table not so gently. “It’s ruined everything.”

“How do you figure, Master Bruce,” the man responds, an eyebrow raised.

“It’s making him lash out, do these things. I know we wronged Y/N and he has every right to hate us, but he shouldn’t be capable of this, should he? There’s no way he’d ever say these things willingly.”

“Do you think you know Master Y/N to make such an assessment?”

That makes him pause.

He has no illusion that he never took the time to sit down with you to have an actual conversation, but his blood still courses through your veins; he’d never do something like this, nor would Damian or any of his other children.

Did your hate for them… for him run that strong? That you despise them so much that you’d expose and put them all on display for the world to see?

Would you go as far as exposing their secret identities?

“What do you think, Alfred,” he says after a moment of silence. “You obviously know him better than all of us. Would he ever do something like this?”

“I think that he wishes to exact revenge for the many years of neglect you all inflicted upon him and that this is his opening volley,” the man says with no hesitation or restraint.

That makes him flinch.

“So, you’re saying he hates us,” he asks, afraid of the answer the butler will give him.

He knows you have every right to hate him, god knows he’s made his children hate him on several occasions, but if you hate him… hate them enough to do something like this…

He knows he’s not strong enough to handle it.

“I think he’s dreamed of making all of you pay for what you’ve done to him for years. And with this Megamycete within him, I say he’s more than a match for you and the children.”

“You’d think he’d attack us?”

“When I held Master Y/N in my arms, I could see the fury beneath his tears. Master Damian use to take delight in giving Master Y/N a demonstration in his combat prowess. There’s no doubt in my mind that Master y/N wishes to return the favor.”

He won’t allow that. He’s hurt his children in multiple ways and his children have hurt one another in multiple ways over the years and every time it happened it created a rift that was never truly repaired, merely covered over. There’s been enough pain and misery in this family to last several lifetimes.

He’s fought tooth and nail to keep his children together and he’s not about to let one slip away.

He understands you want nothing to do with him or your siblings, but like it or not, you’re his son and his children belong in Gotham, under his roof.

“Have the tests on the root samples finished yet?”

“Yes, they were finished just a little while ago. I’m afraid to say that none of the toxins you have in stock had any noticeable effect on them.”

He curses at the news. He had hoped the toxins he keeps so deal with Poison Ivy would be as effective on the Megamycete, but that is unfortunately not the case.

“What about the in-depth analysis on the blood sample?”

“From what the analyzer could tell, the Megamycete seems to behave like a benign cancer, slowly eradicating Master Y/N’s native cells in order to replace them with unstable mold versions, which are able to be manipulated and altered into whatever he desires.”

That certainly makes coming up with a strategy on how to counter your abilities; sure, he has a few ideas based on a few villains and heroes that have similar abilities to you, but until he sees what you’re capable of firsthand, he won’t have anything concrete.

The thought then leads to him having an idea, one he’s eager to act on.

“I’m going out, Alfred.”

“And where are we off to, Master Bruce?”

“I’m going to see my son.”

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