#dressing for pure functionality and happiness

[amfstargirl]

Yandere batfam x neglected reader

Standing in the yard, dressed like a kid, the house is white and the lawn is dead ⋆·˚ ༘ *

You stood firm on the ground, eyes stern and unwavering. In front of you was a place all too familiar—the "shelter" where you grew up, the house that had been your home for five years of your childhood. As you stood there, memories flooded your mind, both the happy ones and the melancholy ones. Your eyes roamed around the place, taking in every detail before you finally decided to enter, lest anyone mistake you for some kind of lunatic loitering outside someone's house.

As your feet mindlessly carried you into the room, a heavy, shaky sigh escaped your quivering lips. It hadn't even been five seconds since you entered, yet you already felt the urge to cry. Oh well, that's what memories do to you. You gently caressed the dirty white wall adorned with your old, fading doodles. Most of them were pink—your favorite color then and even now as an adult. You smiled sadly as the memories of your time in the house flooded back, making you nostalgic. You scoffed sarcastically at the irony that you missed this place more than the manor where you'd spent a longer time.

Perhaps it was because the old you—the innocent, sweet, and pure one—was still within these thin walls that had sheltered them through all the bad times. You could feel their giggles and laughter lingering in the air. Tears streamed down your face as you stared at every sticker, doodle, and writing spread across the walls. Somehow, you cried out of joy, relishing the fact that the child you left behind in this house was still here in some way. Still innocent, still unaware of the harm the world could do.

In the manor, all the love you ever knew came from the man who introduced himself as the family butler but whom you soon came to know as your father. He was the love you craved and begged for at Bruce's feet. He fed you, took care of you, and taught you the things you needed to know. He attended family days, PTA meetings, and other events that your biological father should have been at. Under Alfred's shelter, you did everything you could to try to level with your siblings' talents—learning acrobatics, martial arts, drawing, baking, and more.

Yet it was Alfred who, in the dead of night, under the whispers of the cold wind whipping past your teary face, assured you that you would never need any of those skills to truly earn your family's love. All you needed was to be yourself. You allowed yourself to believe his words and lived them as your truth for a short time, but soon gave up on the idea, accepting that they wouldn't truly see you.

Now, dwelling on your lingering past and memories outside the manor, you remembered those you knew before coming to live with them. You reminisced on the thought of your mother. You remembered her.

You remembered how poverty ate your mother away and that she couldn't provide necessary needs for you but you, sweet, beautiful, angel you never complained.

You remembered how much you loved those barbie shows and movies but couldn't afford the dvds and even a proper functioning television so you sometimes watched it from your window across your neighbors, and while watching you saw a glimpse of their life. Their happy, perfect family life. How they cuddled their daughter and watched those silly barbie movies together. Your eyes softened as you thought "I wanted that" the little you hoped that maybe one day momma will get better and finally love me. Your tears poured from your eyes at the thought.

You remembered while you were doing your homework alone, you heard a whimper outside your window near the alley. As you peeked your tiny head outside, your hair flowing with the cold, harsh wind, your eyes searching for the source of noise. As you let your gaze travel through every corner of the alley, you saw a dirty, poor puppy whimpering, alone, calling out for its mother, its father, anyone. You ran hastily outside and collected its tiny and fragile form gently in your arms. "I'm here, I'm okay, you're safe," you whispered softly to the creature. And from. That very day you fed it and kept it sheltered secretly from your mother. You named her Amara. It suited her. You didn't have much play mates so you sometimes play with her by the yard where you and her would either run together or lay down. You never really got to say goodbye to her. From "that" moment on, you never got to go back to your house. You wondered how she was. Was she well fed? Did she think you abandoned her? Does she miss you? The guilt of living her ate you up the longer you dwelt on the past. You shook your head and sighed, trying to forget about all of it. You mourned every version of you. And this was your most treasured one. Thinking back on all the memories you had of the old you, of her. You thanked them for being so forgiving, for being so brave, for being so content with what she had, and for never trading anything for it.

They Were such a kind soul. And you're glad that they gets to stay where they were the happiest despite the nightmare they endured those days. You will always look up to them. They were and will always be a part of you. You took one last look at the house, the drawings, the dirty corners of the room, and released a breath as you closed your eyes. This was it. You'll finally get to say goodbye-

Whimper

You froze as you heard a familiar whimper. You turned around and slowly walked towards the opened door, and you saw her. Amara, your friend. You can't help but let the tears fall as her once brown fluffy appearance is now old and grey. You wondered how even in the light of old age she somehow still seems so youthful. She was still your baby. With a shaky voice, you tested the name. "Amara...?" she wags her tail in delight as a response to the familiar name she's been waiting to be called for so many years. You kneeled down and gently caressed her. "Oh, baby. You've been waiting for me, haven't you?" she whimpered as if answering you. You noticed her trying to catch her breath and her body growing weaker. You glance at her tail and see its wagging has become more frail and slow. You glance at your eyes, and you know. You smiled at her and whispered, "It's okay, baby. You can rest now." Her face weakly lit up, and she slowly closed her eyes, calm and loved, finally in your embrace.

After some time, you tenderly wrapped her body in a blanket. You carried her to the yard where you both used to play together as kids, a place where you ran freely without a care in the world. Borrowing a shovel from a tenant in the apartment, you buried her there, in the spot where you both were the happiest.

You whispered silent prayers for your companion and left with the memories. This was it. You've made your peace with the old you. Almost. There was one more thing you have to do.

You used believed that your mother could have been so much more. She was a beautiful woman. Smart, even if other would beg to disagree. But, you knew that she knew how to play her cards right to get what she desired for. She would have been so powerful if she used her sharp mind to something much more.. Productive. Yet she chose to sleep with men, abandon her child, and let herself be eaten by poverty and lust. Well, you didn't really mind if she abandoned you. You've always felt like you were the burden, the barrier to her way of succeeding and the chain locked onto her feet, keeping her from truly running away to what she has become. You've seen it in her eyes, the thought of running away and living a new life, but when she looks at you.. She saw a mistake she could never be freed of. A mistake. If only you weren't born, she would have been so happy.

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

Blink. "Ma'am?" the nurse asked. Suddenly, you were back to reality. You blinked again, processing her words. You glanced at her expectant expression and blurted out, "Y-yes, yes, uhm. Yeah. I'm ready." She smiled and said, "Great. Let's go this way, ma'am." You followed her hurriedly, not wanting to test her patience. As you walked, dissociating and thinking of all the possible outcomes, the nurse suddenly stopped in front of a room and said, "We're here. You can enter now." You nodded and thanked her silently.

Facing the door, you chanted in your mind, "You can do this," with a mix of determination and uncertainty. Taking a deep breath, you exhaled and opened the door. There she was—your mother, in all her glory. Bare-faced and vulnerable in her comfy hospital gown. You almost choked on your saliva, seeing her this... bare. You had always seen her so filtered, her face adorned with colors, her clothes tight and bright. Awkwardly, you shifted in your place and slowly sat beside her bed as her gaze followed your every move. You cleared your throat, preparing to speak, but she beat you to it.

“I know you.” you widen your eyes at her as she continues “you're my child.” you weren't shocked at the fact that she acknowledged you but the fact that she called you Her child, and the softness in her eyes. You were starting to think that maybe this isn't your mother, because she never looked at you like that. Never in years of living together has she even glance at you.

She chuckled at the sight of your confused and shocked state, bringing you out of your thoughts. "What? Shocked? Of course, I still remember you, Y/n," she weakly said, her voice small and quite different from the harsh tone she used to yell at you with. You inhaled sharply, trying to stop your tears from falling. What the heck? Were you about to cry again?

"I thought with how much resentment you harbor for me, you would have forgotten about me by now," you smiled sadly at her, watching her face drop slightly but still smiling weakly.

"Oh, Y/n," you almost crumbled right then and there. Oh, how much you had longed to be called so sweetly by your mother's voice. "I never hated you... that much," she said bitterly, and you stayed quiet, waiting for her to continue. "I just wasn't born to be a mother, no—at least not in this life. I'm a mess and I always will be. And I'm sorry I couldn't change for you because nothing can and nothing will change me anymore."

Your lips frowned at her words. "I always thought that maybe you could have been better without me," you said. You miss her, and you will always miss her. She was your whole world, but now seeing her and talking to her made you realize her world was clearly much different from yours. Her world was something one could not escape. You knew you couldn't live like that, and it seems that she cannot live any other way. They said that a mother and children exist as wretched mirrors of each other. You were all she could have been and she was all you might have been.

She closed the distance between you and embraced you for the first time. "You never were. It was me. I was the problem. You were just a child. In another life, I would've been able to care for you." You didn't question her on why she couldn't do it in this life because you knew. You knew she didn't have the capability to be a good mother and a morally good person now, and that was okay. You couldn't live with The fact that she will never truly care for you and will always hold secret animosity towards you if you force her to be a mother to you. You closed your eyes for a minute and silently took in the feeling of a mother's embrace for the first and last time.

"This is the last time you're ever gonna see me again," you said. Your mother chuckled bitterly and replied, "I know. Good for you, kid. Leave everything behind and start anew. You deserve it."

You soon moved out of her arms and held her hands tightly, looking into her eyes. With a deep exhale, you walked out of the hospital. This was it—you were finally free from your past. You had made your peace with it, and now it was time for you to move forward. You knew that if you didn't confront the horrors of your past, they would haunt you for the rest of your life. You had made a good choice.

As you stepped outside, the cool breeze greeted you, and you felt a sense of liberation wash over you. The sun was beginning to set, casting a warm, golden glow over everything. It was as if the universe itself was acknowledging your newfound freedom. You took a moment to breathe in the fresh air, savoring the feeling of lightness that now enveloped you. Walking down the street, you felt a renewed sense of purpose. The city seemed different somehow—brighter, more alive. You noticed the little things that you had overlooked before: the vibrant colors of the flowers in the park, the laughter of children playing, the distant hum of traffic. It was as if you were seeing the world with fresh eyes, unburdened by the weight of your past.

For the first time in a long time, you felt at peace. The past no longer held you captive. You were free to live your life, to pursue your passions, and to surround yourself with people who truly cared for you. It was the beginning of a new chapter. You get home to your apartment and sit at your couch grabbing some blankets and making hot cocoa. You thought to yourself that this is what you exactly needed. Watching barbie movies in your new cozy apartment without any burden past onto your shoulders, the little you would have been so proud, making you smile at the thought. This was it. Nothing was going to stop you now.

That's what you thought.

It has been 2 weeks since you've moved in your apartment and you're getting ready for your ballet rehearsal. You were especially excited about this as you were going to perform swan lake when you got to enact one of the most important and famous characters, how cool was that? As you were about to grab your pink bowed pointe shoes a sudden “ping!” notification was heard from your phone. You turned your head and went to grab it expecting a message from one of your close friends or even your ballet mates but all you were met with was a message from a person you least wanted a one from.

Dick. Your supposed older brother is asking you to hang out with him. At this very moment. You dropped your phone and stared at nothing while breathing heavily. You feel your heartbeat rapidly breathing, the knot in your stomach growing more tighter and tighter each minute you let the thought sink into your brain. You almost tripped at your foot as a result of your vision disfigured, as if you were looking through a fish-eye lens. This wasn't right, this wasn't supposed to happen. When-how?-why?! Why was this happening now? You were only starting to feel like everything in your life was finally starting to go your way. Why did this have to happen? It was as if the universe was mocking you. You bit your lips until it bled but you couldn't care less. You were numb. You hadn't even realized that you were nowate for today's rehearsals. With trembling hands you reached for your phone and shakily pressed the button “block” as you silently prayed that he-they would never come in contact with you ever again.

Of Course that wouldn't happen though. The universe was never really on your side.

Dick? What's happening here?

A sudden deep voice spoke, bringing Dick out of his deep trance. He turned around and saw his father standing outside the door, looking suspiciously at him. He stared at his father and saw the look on his face—full of confusion and unfamiliarity, not towards him but the room he was in. "I-it's Y/n," he stuttered, the name tasting so sweet on his tongue. He wanted to roll around in the scent of you. Was that weird? No—he just missed you, that's all.

"What about them?" Bruce's voice carried a nonchalance that almost made Dick angry. How could he be so indifferent about his precious sibling? With a hard voice, Dick replied, "They're gone." Bruce's eyes widened slightly at the response. What did he mean you were gone? You were just here when... Wait, when? He worriedly glanced at Dick, and as if understanding, Dick answered, "I know."

Bruce inhaled sharply and stepped inside the room, your lingering scent greeting him. Your trophies adorned the walls. This was your room? No, it couldn't be. This was too little. This was just... not it. The difference between his other childrens bedrooms and yours was so noticeable. You didn't have any fancy chandelier decorating yours. You didn't have your own bathroom.

Bruce's eyes scanned the room, taking in every detail. The neatly arranged trophies, the faded posters on the walls, and the small bed that seemed too empty now. He walked over to the desk and picked up a framed photo of you, when was this? You look so.. Grown? How old were you? Were you old enough to live alone? How come he didn't know? Did you have a job-were you even allowed to have one? he clenches his fist as he stares at the sight of your image and sees your bright smile. His heart ached at the sight. How had he missed this? How had he not noticed the signs?

Dick watched his father, a mix of emotions swirling within him. He wanted to scream, to demand why Bruce hadn't paid more attention, why he hadn't been there for you. But he knew he wasn't any better than his adoptive father was. Besides, it wouldn't change anything. The damage was done.

Bruce set the photo back down and turned to Dick, his expression a mix of regret and determination. He saw the tiny diary and other papers scattered across the floor and picked them up, reading them one by one as he slowly spiraled into regret and guilt. Dick watched as he knew this was going to make him understand. Today made it all clear to him. Why there was a nagging feeling inside of him saying that there was something missing in the manor. It was why the sweet muffled music of the orchestra haunted the manor, the same kind of music haunting their bedroom. Like it was a reminder, a warning. That something special was lost. The soothing sound of humming, light footsteps around the manor now gone. The pink bows tied around the handles of the stairs, the love that the plants receive now nowhere to be found. It was because you took that love with you.

"We need to find them," Bruce spoke, his voice steady but filled with urgency. His knees bounce as his Jaws tighten anxiously.

Dick nodded, his resolve matching his father's. "We'll find them," he replied, his voice firm. "And we'll make things right."

As they left the room, Bruce carrying the framed image of you tightly, almost as if he was paranoid that something would take it from him, and dick gently running his thumb through the texture of your pink, bowed, bright diary, the weight of their mission settled on their shoulders. They knew it wouldn't be easy, but they were determined to bring you back. The silence of the manor was a stark reminder of what they had lost, and they were ready to do whatever it took to make amends.

Bruce was anxious. He didn't have a plan. Ironic, because Batman always had a plan. It was an unspoken rule—Batman was always prepared. But now, he found himself at a loss, his mind racing with uncertainty. Perhaps it was because he knew every single person in Gotham. As the guardian of Lady Gotham, he prided himself on understanding the intricate web of connections and motives that defined the city's inhabitants. He calculated every person's actions, paid attention to every detail, and watched from the heart of Gotham.

He paid extensive attention to everyone... except you.

It wasn't intentional. He had always been consumed by the weight of his responsibilities, the never-ending battle against crime, and the need to protect the city. But now, standing in your room, surrounded by the remnants of your presence, he realized his failure. The irony of it all struck him—Batman, the meticulous planner, had overlooked the most important person in his life.

Now he was desperate, he may not have a plan but he was desperate. He'll do anything to get you back. Any possible way to get back all the times he failed you, when he failed to be a father to you. He swore to protect you and never let you out of his sight ever again.

Dick wasn't any better. As he walked, his thoughts played tricks on him, but in a way he almost relished. His mind insisted that you must be so scared without him, without your older brother to protect you. He didn't even consider the possibility that you could be an independent, fully functioning individual on your own, or the fact that you had grown and most likely abandoned the thought of "bonding" with him. In this moment, his mind was consumed by the image of you and the curiosity of what more you had within yourself that he had neglected. His anxiousness grew, causing him to bite his nails and run his hands through his hair in frustration. His breathing became ragged, and his heart pounded in his chest. It was as if he had turned feral, his bloodshot blue eyes itching to be blessed with a vision of your face.

The more he thought about it, the more his mind played tricks on him. He imagined you scared and alone, wondering why your older brother wasn't there to protect you. He couldn't bear the thought of you suffering because of his neglect. His thoughts raced, each one more frantic than the last. What if you were hurt? What if you were in danger? What if you had given up on ever reconnecting with him?

The guilt gnawed at him, making it hard to focus on anything else. He couldn't shake the feeling that he had failed you, that he had missed so many opportunities to be there for you. His heart ached at the thought of all the moments you had spent alone, craving the attention and love that he hadn't given.

As he continued to walk, his thoughts became more erratic. He imagined you thriving without him, having found your own path and your own sense of independence. The possibility that you no longer needed him stung, but it also filled him with a strange sense of pride. You had grown, despite everything, and that was something to be admired.

Still, his mind couldn't rest. He needed to see you, to know that you were okay. The uncertainty was driving him to the brink of madness. His hands trembled as he clenched them into fists, determined to find you and make amends.

he wouldn't rest until he saw you again.

Both Bruce and Dick disregarded everything around them, unaware of the curious look Tim gave them. He followed quietly behind their backs, raising an eyebrow as he wondered why they hadn't noticed his presence yet. Normally, these two were incredibly guarded, so Tim was shocked by their lack of awareness. What could have made them so unfocused?

Bruce—the Batman—and Dick—the first Robin and now Nightwing—were both engrossed in a particular object. They seemed to be completely absorbed, their usual vigilance overshadowed by their intense fixation. Tim watched as Bruce's eyes remained glued to a framed photo on the desk, his expression a mix of regret and determination. Meanwhile, Dick's gaze was fixed on the pink notebook in his hands, his fingers gently tracing the glittery cover.

Tim couldn't help but wonder what was so important about these items that it made two of the most vigilant people he knew drop their guard. The framed photo of you, smiling brightly, seemed to hold Bruce in a trance, while the pink notebook, adorned with bows and glitters, seemed to capture all of Dick's attention. They were so consumed by these objects that they had let down the walls they had built through years of vigilantism.

It had to be something incredibly significant—something better yet, special.

“What are you two doing?” asked Tim, suddenly breaking the silence between the three of them as he watched the father and son duo flinch, obviously flabbergasted at his sudden interruption at their deep trance. He observed as their face turned from shock to going back to their frowning faces making him mirror the same expression. Dick clenches his jaw and exhales sharply preparing himself to speak when he is suddenly interrupted by a familiar voice he would always recognize.

"What is going on here?" a figure with deep forest-green eyes asked, standing tall in the shadows, his cold demeanor unwavering. Dick's eyes met his, and he said his name. "Damian. Wha—"

"You have deliberately abandoned your promise to train with me today. Why?" Damian's voice was sharp, full of accusation. Shoot. That was right. Dick had forgotten to train with his younger brother today. But it didn't matter now; his other sibling needed him, and it was about time they knew about them too. He glanced at Bruce's unfocused state, feral and restless.

"It's about Y/n," Dick said firmly.

Tim stood still for a moment, trying to figure out who "Y/n" was, while Damian immediately sneered at the mention of his "rival." He couldn't pinpoint why your presence angered him so much. Maybe it was because he had to share the title of being the Wayne heir with someone so... normal, someone so far below his level. You both were so different. Perhaps he was jealous of you for being so normal, for not having to worry about tainting your hands with blood and painting others black and blue. What did you even do? He didn't know, but he bet it was something a normal civilian would.

Meanwhile, his peripheral vision caught Tim standing still, deep in thought. Damian saw him processing quickly, his mind running fast as he tried to figure out who you were and why you were so relevant at the moment. Then suddenly—aha! Tim remembered now! You were the kid who had pestered him non-stop about some game.

Tim's eyes widened as he recalled the memory. The realization hit him like a wave. He had been so dismissive back then, but now he understood the significance. Guilt washed over him, mixing with curiosity and concern. What had happened to you? Why were you so important now?

Damian's sneer softened slightly, replaced with a look of contemplation. “What about them?” asked damian. While Tim wondered the same. Suddenly Bruce's cold and deep voice said “they're gone.” Damian raising an eyebrow of his response, and Tim answering “gone? Gone how?” switching his gaze from dick and Bruce's form awaiting for one of them to answer his question as the tension in the room thickens. “I mean that they're gone. All their things not found in their room, no trace of them not in the mansion, and not even a goodbye.” Tim and Damian frowned at the same time. Damian scoffed and thought you were probably just making a big scene so the attention would be on you. Bruce said “we need to find them. Now.” his voice left no choice for them to abide by his command.

Now alone in the CCTV room, Tim let his bored gaze wander over the footage from a long time ago, his palm supporting his head. Suddenly, something caught his attention. He watched as you sat, his fingers tapping the keyboard to increase the volume. You hummed lightly at the footage, a simple gesture but not to him. Your voice was so familiar to him. His eyes dilated as you continued humming, your voice sweet as honey, as light as a mother's touch trying to lull her baby to sleep.

He zoomed the footage closer and closer, almost as if he wanted to go through the screen just to hear your sweet, angelic, melancholic voice. Your voice was like a soft fur blanket to him. He didn't know if he was hallucinating from sleep deprivation, but he swore you were covered by a soft light, hugging your form and kissing your skin gently.

Tim sat in your "presence" for a bit, soaking in your voice. As he listened, memories flooded back. He recalled distant muffled sounds within the thin walls, lulling him to sleep, chasing away the demons that kept him awake at night. He had so desperately wanted to close his eyes and rest, and he remembered thinking maybe it was just a voice in his head, or maybe a real-life angel offering him salvation from suffering and the sweet pleasure of sleep. Now he knew, the angel was called "Y/n."

His fingers tightened around the edge of the desk as he leaned in closer, his breathing steadying as he watched the footage. The realization hit him hard. How had he missed this before? How had he not recognized that comforting voice? The gentle humming, the presence that had brought him solace on sleepless nights—it was all you.

Tears welled up in his eyes as he continued to watch, his heart aching with a mix of regret and longing. He remembered the nights he had spent tormented by nightmares, the countless times he had struggled to find peace. Your voice had been his lifeline, a beacon of hope in the darkness.

He couldn't shake the feeling of guilt. How had he been so blind? How had he not seen the importance of your presence in the manor? Tim's thoughts spiraled as he recalled the moments he had dismissed you, the times he had been too wrapped up in his own world to notice you reaching out. He needed to see you. To hear your voice, to take you back, to get on his knees and beg for forgiveness as his forehead kisses the cold, dirty floor, or to maybe steal you back without a word. He didn't know, he just had to see you.

The footage continued to play, your voice a soothing balm to his troubled mind. He sat there, never unwavering, always in awe of your voice and never taking his attention off you. He sat there,Unaware that he had been playing the same footage for hours and hours. His dilated eyes worshipping you as if you were a god.

He felt a deep sense of loss, realizing that you were gone, and he hadn't even had the chance to thank you for all the nights you had unknowingly saved him. Determined, he knew he had to find you. He had to make things right.

After some time, finally. Tim's resolve hardened as he stood up, his eyes never leaving the screen. He would find you, and he would make sure you knew how much you meant to him. With renewed purpose, he left the CCTV room, ready to join Bruce and Dick in their search. Together, they would bring you back and rebuild the bond that had been neglected for far too long.

With much focus on the object of his obsession attention, he failed to notice a tall figure in the shadows, watchin. Thinking after all these years they have finally come to their senses, realizing the greatest gift of all was right under their noses.

Damian was a dangerous person. To be fair, he was raised to be an assassin and an heir to the throne from the moment he was born. Not even a moment out of the womb did he catch a glimpse of the normal life he so desperately wanted. He trained day and night, month after month, year after year, to become the perfect product of the world's greatest detective and the daughter of the king of assassins. Imagine the inner turmoil within him when he didn't meet the expectations set upon his shoulders. All his life, all he knew was to fight. In any situation, his first instinct was to fight and guard himself for his life.

Sometimes, he wondered how they expected a child to lead thousands of assassins to create a bloodbath. Behind his pride and arrogance was a deep-seated anger towards those in charge of his fate. He was furious that his innocence had been stripped away, clawing its way back to him, but ultimately, they succeeded in giving him a future burdened with the weight of guilt for painting the young and innocent red.

Damian's upbringing left him with a constant battle within himself. The expectations placed upon him were immense, and he often felt like he was suffocating under the pressure. The relentless training, the unyielding discipline, and the need to prove himself consumed his every waking moment. The anger he felt was not just directed at those who shaped his fate but also at himself for not being able to escape it. Many didn't know of it but he found it hard to be Robin. The conflict between leaning to your instincts or “your- now- morals” was hard. To kill and to save was wrong and somehow to save and to forgive was right.

Despite his impressive skills and abilities, there was a part of him that longed for something more—something normal. He envied those who lived ordinary lives, free from the burden of bloodshed and violence. He wondered what it would have been like to have a childhood filled with laughter and innocence rather than combat and survival. As to why he wonders what more could you possibly want? He was so sure that you had so much wonderful time living such a luxurious life in the manor and never having to prove yourself to be worthy of something in being able to get the object of your desire. How could you run away from this life? From your life? You were so unfair, so selfish.

As he continued to grapple with these conflicting emotions, Damian's exterior remained cold and guarded. He rarely allowed anyone to see the vulnerable side of him, the side that yearned for a different life. But deep down, the scars of his past lingered, a constant reminder of the life he was forced into and the innocence that was stolen from him.

He shut his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, and released a heavy sigh. What a bother. Making his way to every corner of the manor to "inspect" and see if you had left any trace of yourself there. As he walked down the path, letting his bored state guide him, he glanced at the thick walls and noticed some unfamiliar works of art. His gaze roamed around the room, settling on various paintings he had never noticed before. It was as if the paintings spoke for themselves, screaming out for anyone to notice and appreciate them. The different textures, colors, shapes, and stories behind the art captivated him.

Damian liked to think that he noticed everything and had the ability to be highly aware of his surroundings, whether he was familiar with them or not. But at this moment, he paused, questioning himself. If he was truly aware, how had he managed to overlook these breathtaking canvases filled with bright colors that made him... feel things? He took a step forward and saw a tiny signature on the left side of one of the canvases. He brought his hand up to softly caress the painting, gently and carefully, as if he were afraid that a mere touch could destroy it.

Engrossed in admiring the paintings, he failed to notice the tall figure beside him. It was only when the man spoke, "Master Damian," addressing him, that he flinched slightly.

"Ah, Alfred. My apologies, I was a bit distracted by the art adorning the walls, which seems to be... unfamiliar to me. Would you mind telling me where my father keeps buying these paintings? I must say I'm quite... impressed."

Alfred frowned and smiled sadly at the youngest Wayne. "Well, Master Damian, these paintings are actually not your father's doing. Rather, they are Master Y/n's work of art."

Damian's eyes widened in surprise. He turned back to the paintings and said "Y/n did these?" he asked, almost incredulous. The realization that you had created such beautiful and meaningful art struck him deeply. He didn't even know that you could draw much less create such.. Beautiful art. While he was thinking about it he realize that he had complimented you, you!

"Indeed, Master Damian," Alfred confirmed. "Y/n spent countless hours creating these pieces. Each one holds a story, a piece of their heart."

Damian felt a pang of emotion through his chest, he couldn't pinpoint what it was but it was somehow nagging him about something, or rather someone. His fingers traced the brushstrokes with a newfound reverence, as if trying to understand the emotions you had captured on canvas.

"I never knew..." Damian whispered, more to himself than to Alfred. The layers of vibrant colors, the delicate details, and the raw emotions conveyed through your art were all a testament to the depth of your soul. He felt a connection to you that he hadn't realized before, a sense of camaraderie and understanding. And he was totally not dissing you just minutes ago.

Alfred placed a comforting hand on Damian's shoulder. "Art has a way of speaking to us, Master Damian. It reveals truths that words often cannot. Y/n's art is a reflection of their experiences, their joys, and their sorrows. It is a part of them that they have shared with the world."

Damian nodded, taking a step back to fully appreciate the entirety of your work. Your art had opened a door to a deeper connection, and he was willing to walk through it. He didn't know why but in a way this was proof that you had always had some kind of connection to him.

As Damian and Alfred stood there, surrounded by the masterpieces you had created, a sense of resolve settled over Damian. He frowns and takes a look around all the work of your art. His style doesn't differ much from yours. the caress of brush ever so slightly seen, and the emotions behind the soul of your paintings, like his. What made you so similar to him? And that, he will not know until he finds you.

He knew that finding you and bringing you back was not just about making amends—it was about recognizing and celebrating the unique and irreplaceable person you were.

Y/n considered themselves a keen observer, attuned to the delicate nuances of the world around them. They noticed the gentle yet sometimes harsh swaying of the wind as it danced with the leaves, creating a symphony of nature's whispers. They noticed the lady sitting on the park bench, quietly absorbing the view of the home she once grew up in, her memories interwoven with the present. They noticed the ducks by the pond, gracefully gliding through the water alongside their mother, a portrait of serene tranquility.

Y/n noticed everything, yet no one noticed them. And it was fine. They had long accepted this reality, enduring the loneliness of being invisible in a world where they saw so much. The weight of being unnoticed had become a familiar companion, a constant presence that shaped their existence. In the silent spaces between moments, Y/n found solace in their observations, finding beauty in the overlooked and meaning in the mundane.

So why were they just noticing you just now? Why? When you have just started to accept and move on. Why must they bring the horrors of the past when your current life is filled with hope arraying a new journey, now destroyed.

Why couldn’t Dick just let you be, drifting away in the silence you’d crafted? Why couldn’t he leave you to fade quietly, just as you had promised yourself you would, a ghost of your former self, untouched and unbothered? Yet there he was, an ever-present weight, his hands—rough, calloused, scarred by years of untold burdens—forcing your face into the past, as if his touch could rewrite history. His fingers dug into your skin, twisted into the soft contours of your face, tearing through the years of numbness, of denial, dragging you back to a place you had sworn you’d never return.

And then, Tim. Oh, Tim. The boy who once didn’t even see you, who barely even remembered your name when it lingered in the air of the manor. Now, he’s relentless, his fingers tapping into your phone with the same quiet insistence that his presence once had in the dark halls of that place you used to call home. You want to scream, to rip the silence apart, to do anything but feel what you’re feeling now—this suffocating pull to return to them, to face them, even when you know you never should have to again.

The ache swells, the lump in your throat is a tangible thing now, a choking presence you can’t swallow down. It’s the same searing pain that’s lingered, festering, hidden beneath layers of what you pretended was healing. How cruel it is, to have spent so much time trying to break free, only to find that some things, some people, are never quite done with you.

The ghost of them lingers, burrows deeper, with every unanswered message. They still haunt you, even from afar. You hate them for it, for still holding the power to break you open, to make you bleed from places you thought had long scarred over. It feels like a thousand wounds opening up again—slow, deliberate, bleeding you dry in a way you don’t know how to stop.

You stared blankly into the emptiness, feeling numb, when suddenly a hand rested on your shoulder. You flinched instinctively and turned to see who it was. Your eyes widened as you recognized your ballet teacher standing behind you. "Miss Kavinsky! I-I... Hi! I’m—" you stammered, but she quickly cut you off with a smile.

"Y/N L/N-Wayne, I know," she said with a warm tone. "It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you."

You winced slightly, the sound barely audible, but Miss Kavinsky didn’t seem to notice. "Come on, let’s meet the other dancers. I’m sure they’re eager to meet you."

The surprise hit you hard, and you stuttered, "M-me?" You couldn’t help but feel like an idiot.

She grinned, a playful mix of amusement and mild disbelief on her face. "Yes, you. You're kind of a celebrity here, Wayne. Not surprised with a talent like yours."

Her words lingered in the air, but you went quiet, caught off guard by the compliment. You couldn’t fully process it, the idea of anyone looking up to you seemed so foreign, so distant. And somewhere in the haze, you barely registered the way she had called you "Wayne.”

As you and the other dancers gathered at the stage, a wave of anxiety washed over you. The weight of thoughts about Tim and Dick pressed heavily on your mind, and the pressure of the moment only made it worse. Just as your mind started to spiral, a voice cut through the chaos.

"Hey! You're Y/N, right? I'm Desiree, but you can just call me Des."

You forced a smile, barely hearing Miss Kavinsky as her voice faded into the background, announcing something about attendance. Your attention was now solely focused on Des, who had just broken the ice. You shook her hand and smiled more genuinely, the tension in your body loosening up a bit.

"Hi, Des. Yeah, you already know who I am. Nice to meet you."

You both exchanged a quiet laugh, and the chatter around you faded as you continued talking. For a moment, you felt like you could breathe again. You asked the usual questions: "How old are you?" "What's your favorite ballet?" The conversation flowed easily, but when your name was suddenly called for attendance, you were snapped back to reality.

"Here!" you called out, your voice getting lost in the sea of dancers.

But then Des said something that made you freeze.

"So, are you excited that both of you are here?" she asked with a playful giggle, her smile sweet and innocent.

You blinked, confused, but smiled through it. "Both of us...?" you repeated, trying to follow along.

Des chuckled softly at your puzzled expression. "You and your sister, silly! It must be so nice to perform together. My brother wouldn't even try to get into ballet, you know?"

Her words, lighthearted as they were, suddenly made your world feel like it was crashing down around you. You felt a cold panic begin to rise. Your fingers instinctively dug into your palms, almost drawing blood. Your smile wavered, barely holding on, while your eyes fluttered, teetering on the edge of tears. Des’s voice became distant, her words fading into a muffled blur as your thoughts spiraled out of control, bloodshot eyes starting to sting with unshed tears. Your heart raced, and the chaos inside you was too much to contain.

In that very moment, her name echoed through the air, sharp and clear. Without thinking, your gaze shifted, and you locked eyes with her. Her wide, unblinking stare pierced through the noise, anchoring you in place. For a fleeting second, you wondered if she had been watching you all along—since the instant your name was called, or perhaps even before. You couldn't be sure.

What you did know, however, was that the weight of her gaze felt like a force, pulling you into a quiet abyss. It made you feel small, fragile—as if you were prey beneath the steady, unyielding gaze of a predator. A shiver ran through you, and suddenly, all you wanted was to escape, to flee from the suffocating intensity of her eyes, which seemed to strip away every layer of protection you had left.

The fates were clearly playing with you now.

Cassandra was an exceptionally gifted individual, much like her siblings, each of whom possessed their own unique abilities. From the moment she first pursued ballet, her family showered her with unwavering love and support. She had access to training that most could only dream of—privileges afforded to her not because of her wealth, but because she was no ordinary person. She was Batgirl, the daughter of Batman by choice, a mantle she wore with pride. So, when an invitation arrived for her to join the prestigious Swan Lake performance alongside other top-tier dancers, it hardly came as a surprise. After all, excellence was something she had always embraced, both on the stage and off.

As she gets ready for her first rehearsal she can't help but notice that some of her siblings are missing. She shook it off and ate her food but also not abandoning the thought of asking about the absence of her siblings and father, to a familiar companion of their family:Alfred. As where Alfred only replies with them being busy about.. Something, yet said to her to fret not and just worry her mind about her ballet play, quickly chasing away her concerns for her family with a smile that made her feel lighthearted. With a chuckle she got up and made her way to the location of where the dancers were told to meet.

Cass had always believed she was the only one in her family who truly appreciated the delicate artistry of ballet. Her passion for the graceful movements, the precision of each step, and the beauty of the performances had always felt like a private world to her, a world she inhabited alone. She couldn’t recall a single moment where anyone in her family shared even the slightest interest in it. So, when she entered the crowded theater that evening, expecting to be surrounded only by fellow ballet enthusiasts, she was taken aback by something unexpected.

Amidst the sea of unfamiliar faces, she spotted you. For a fleeting moment, her heart skipped a beat, not from the rush of seeing someone in the crowd, but from an overwhelming sense of familiarity that washed over her. There you were, standing like a ghost from a forgotten past, an unexplainable connection sparking between you both. Cass couldn’t place it, but it was as though she had known you forever, even though your paths had never crossed before.

Her mind wandered, replaying the memories that had been buried deep within her. A distant image flashed across her thoughts: she was standing in a room filled with soft, pastel-colored fabrics, the scent of leather and polish hanging in the air. Two pairs of pointe shoes rested beside one another on the floor—one was familiar, worn and well-loved, the other brand new, the laces still fresh and untangled. The second pair, the one that felt entirely foreign, immediately piqued her curiosity. She was certain it wasn’t hers, yet the connection to it lingered, something so subtle but undeniable.

The realization hit her like a wave. She didn’t know you, not consciously, but somehow she felt bound to you, as if fate had woven your lives together in some strange, invisible thread long before either of you had even been aware of it.

The entire day she watched and observed you. She paid extra attention to every detail of your expressions, body language, and posture. She didn't know why but you seemed to be very clear–in her case, in distress, like you were panicking over something. And she didn't know why she somehow hated seeing you that way. As the minutes passed, she found herself simply just staring at you. Not even for a fleeting moment had she taken her gaze of you. She watched and observed tensely at every person who looks at you, who talks to you, who breathes near you. Almost as if she was guarding you. As they were told to gather she followed silently after the crowd and placed herself purposely in front of the other side from you. She scoffs in amusement as you barely notice her, too focused on your own little world. As minutes continued to pass, suddenly a girl broke you out of her thoughts with her voice making you flinch. Her breath hitched as irritation started to crawl their way through her chest. Why couldn't the girl be more gentle with you? Can't she see that you were clearly stressed? She frowns slightly at the girl, surprising herself by the sudden change of mood. She holds her breath and watches you like a hawk would at its prey. Her vision was filled with your now loosen frame, giggling with the girl who approached you earlier. A new feeling started to claw its way through her chest, now bigger and stronger. The green monster eating her up when suddenly the call of her voice brought her out of her thoughts as she, for a moment took her eyes off of you to answer quietly to her name and as she bring back her gaze to you, quickly to not miss anything she might take the pleasure in seeing, suddenly your eyes are on her too. Her eyes couldn't leave the sight of your gaze who held such horror in them, as if seeing her was too much for you. As she was your living nightmare sitting right in front of you.

The remaining time the dancers practiced, you avoided her gaze and her presence. The more you avoided her, the more she itched to be in your presence alone, to be near you. The whole time at the practice she was, for the first time, distracted. Her thoughts are consumed by you. Her thoughts came up with every question she could ask about her and your current situation. What were you doing here? Why didn't she know? Were you at the manor? No, if you were she would've known.. Right? Okay if you weren't, then why weren't you? Those questions alone made her uneasy and frustrated. As it was time to go home, she watched as you hurriedly got out and quickly went home to wherever your home was. The nagging feeling screamed at her to follow you but decided against it and thought that going home and bringing the news to her family might help more. After all, they were stronger together.

She stormed into the manor, urgency in her every step, and sought out Alfred with a single, breathless demand: "Boys. Where?" Without hesitation, he led her to them. Her gaze fell upon them, intense and unyielding, her pupils trembling with an unspoken storm. She whispered a single name, a breathless, haunting utterance: "Y/N." The boys, in unison, responded, "We know."

A deep breath escaped her, the weight of their actions—venturing after you without so much as a word—forgotten for the moment. She snatched a laptop, her fingers flying over the keys in a frantic dance of their own. The screen flickered to life, revealing a video that stole the breath from the room. There you were, dancing—each movement a testament to grace, each step more captivating than the last.

The world had already fallen under your spell. The internet buzzed with adoration, praising the way your every turn, every leap, every pause held the audience in thrall. Under the stage lights, you seemed more than human—a celestial being, your form bathed in soft light, glowing like an ethereal angel, kissed by the very air around you. The boys stood frozen, their gaze fixed upon you, entranced.

Your presence was no illusion. You were a goddess of their own making, and in that moment, they knew: they were already devoted, bound by the silent understanding that they would worship you, body and soul.

As the video played, the room fell into a hushed reverence. The boys, once brimming with urgency and tension, now stood motionless, their eyes locked onto the screen, as if spellbound. Every fluid movement you made seemed to breathe life into the very air around them. They couldn’t look away; they didn’t want to. Your every step, every pirouette, was poetry in motion, a delicate balance of strength and grace that made their hearts race.

The way you arched your back mid-spin, the soft brush of your fingertips against your skin, the quiet breath you took before every leap—it all drew them in, slowly, methodically, as though they were witnessing something far beyond the ordinary. Each turn of your body mirrored the very rhythm of their own hearts, synchronized with the ethereal pulse of the music, and they couldn’t help but feel as if the entire world had narrowed down to this one sacred moment.

Your eyes, though focused on the stage, seemed to flicker with a spark of something far deeper, something they couldn't quite place but could almost taste. It was like watching a dream unfold, where every movement became a metaphor—each glide across the stage spoke to something eternal, something untouchable. They found themselves lost in the elegance of your form, the way your body seemed to move with a natural fluidity that defied the laws of physics.

The lights above you softened, caressing your silhouette, painting you in a divine glow. And in that moment, they felt small, insignificant even, as if you had been carved out of stardust itself, too perfect to comprehend, yet impossible to ignore. It wasn’t just the skill of your dance—it was your presence, your essence that held them captive.

They felt an almost primal pull, as though your every movement was speaking directly to their souls. The way your body spoke without words—your elegance and power blending seamlessly—rendered them speechless. They were entranced by the aura you carried, intoxicated by your beauty and the mystery you exuded, a beauty that wasn’t merely skin-deep but radiated from within, a force of nature.

For a fleeting moment, they could almost believe that you were more than human, that you were something higher, something divine. They stood there, wide-eyed and breathless, as if they had been granted a glimpse of something sacred—something that no one else could understand. And in that moment, they knew that they would follow you, worship you, in a devotion that transcended mere admiration. You weren’t just captivating; you were everything. They couldn't believe that someone like you had been overlooked by then.

Bruce now understands that with no plan in mind he would still follow you till the end of the earth. Oh his little baby. He would do anything to earn your love and affection for him. To see you and to bask under the ray of sunshine your smile brings. To feel your presence alone.

Dick now understands that he owes you more than a few dinners or dates as siblings. No. He owes you the world. As guilt eats his flesh up one by one, mourning all the versions of you that he could have witnessed right before his eyes are now long gone. But that's okay, he'll make it up to you.

Tim now understands that you were surely his angel. His savior. His form of salvation. He could watch you all day and never get bored. He could listen to you all day until his ears bled but never say a word.

Damian now understands that the disbelief he felt when looking at your paintings full of emotions overflowing with a sense of overwhelming feel, was now long gone because he knew that only such being like you, almost like a supernatural being, could be the only one who has the ability to capture such deep emotions in one painting, to be able to create such beautiful, breathtaking object.

Cassandra now understands why she felt like she somehow had a connection to you and that was because she was your sister. And as she was a daughter to batman by choice, that she will also be a sister by choice to you. She was an observer, someone who guards-and she will guard you with her life for all eternity.

As the overwhelming tension fills the room Alfred stands at the corner with a small smile. “apologies master y/n had I done this sooner, you would have not slipped through my grasp dear child. Do not fret for your family is coming to get you.”

Ah, Alfred, the mastermind. He knew this would happen. He just needed to intertwine a little. He did not worry because he knew. He knew that leaving your bedroom door open the moment he knew Dick was coming over to the manor while the others were busy, and knowing Dick's tendency to wander off in the vast expanse of Wayne Manor, the chances of him finding your room were high. He knew that rearranging your trophies inside your room (which you had told him to get rid of) would pique the interest of your family even more. He knew that decorating your hidden paintings around the minimalist and empty walls of the house would catch the attention of the youngest Wayne. He knew that playing those soft melodies of your voice through the small TV in the kitchen would enchant a certain sleep-deprived boy, making him miss the sweet sound of your voice.

Alfred knew that when Cassandra was called for the big ballet play, you would be at the same play too, as you had told him over the phone, giggling and excited with a high-pitched voice. He didn't bother to tell you about your sister's similar invitation, nor did he inform your sister about yours. He knew every single detail, every thread that needed to be woven together to create this intricate tapestry of reconnection.

Alfred's wisdom was like a silent symphony, orchestrating events with a delicate touch. He understood the nuances of each family member, their strengths, their weaknesses, and their desires. He knew that Dick's curiosity would lead him to your room, where the trophies would spark memories and questions. He knew that Damian's keen eye for detail would be drawn to the vibrant paintings, each brushstroke a testament to your hidden talents. He knew that Tim, in his sleep-deprived state, would be captivated by the melodies of your voice, a soothing balm to his restless mind.

Alfred's heart ached with the knowledge of your absence, but he also held hope. Hope that these carefully placed breadcrumbs would lead your family back to you, to the realization of what they had lost and the determination to make amends. He knew that the path to reconciliation was not an easy one, but it was a journey worth taking.

As the days passed, Alfred watched with a knowing smile as the pieces began to fall into place. He saw the flicker of recognition in Dick's eyes, the softening of Damian's demeanor, and the spark of determination in Tim's gaze. He knew that the seeds he had planted were beginning to grow, and soon, the family would be whole again.

Alfred was getting old and he couldn't bare the vision of his children Bruce and you, drifting away from each other, and you from him. Maybe it was his own selfish reason but he couldn't help it. He raised you from the moment you got to the manor. Teached you everything he knew and gave you all the love he could. He watched you grew up and maybe it was a moment of rush that he allowed himself to be selfish and turn the tables around.

In the quiet moments, Alfred allowed himself a moment of reflection. He thought of you, the child who had brought so much light into his life. He knew that you deserved to be seen, to be cherished, and to be loved. And he would do everything in his power to ensure that you found your way back to the family that needed you just as much as you needed them.

Authors note: I'm sorry I took so long in writing this! I hope yall enjoy the 10k+ words I wrote. One tip tho is to read and observe the details very carefully! Dw I'm gonna explain it soon tho. Hope yall enjoy this cuz imma take a break after this.

[the-librarby]

FANCY SEEING YOU HERE II

- DANTE SPARDA (DMC)

Thanks for all the love on part one, much appreciated. FSYH is not finished but it’s also not fleshed out (pure brainrot) so if you have ideas you would like to see here, you’re more than welcome to comment or send an ask my way.

Happy reading!

Part one Part three Part four

6:57pm.

You were waiting at the front doors of a grand hotel lobby. Enzo assured that this was an intel only mission, however the heavily armed security posted on every corner had you thinking otherwise. Whoever was in there was considered a risk, and while you hadn’t known Dante for long, you doubted his ability to act tactfully.

As another man held the hotel door open for you, you politely waved your and in rejection, “Just waiting for someone, thank you.”

The man looked down your figure once more, sending you a wink before disappearing inside. You fought the urge to cringe in disgust, and looked around once more into the dark street. It was bustling with traffic as cars pulled into the valet parking, you hoped Dante would be here soon. You were starting to freeze you ass off in this thin dress, although floor length, the fabric did nothing to warm you.

A low whistle called from behind you, “Damn sweetheart, holding out on me earlier were you?”

As you turn around you can blatantly see Dante staring you down, his eyes glued to the way the dress highlights your curves. It’s not really the low cut of the dress that gets him going though (although it certainly helps) it’s the deep red colour you’ve purposely chosen to wear. The symbol alone, the idea that you’re an item is enough to make his mind jump off the deep end into his fantasies.

“Can’t show all my cards now can I?”

“Guess not,” he mutters absently, watching the way your heels clack against the stone pavement.

Once you’re close enough, you lean in, “Did Enzo send you the target details?”

Naturally, Dante reaches forth to place a hand on your waist. To outsiders you look like a couple getting comfortable, and he’s fighting to keep the act up. “Yeah, some hotshot boss man right? Has information on some demon hoard,”

“Not just a demon hoard, rumours have it that he has access to his own portal, did you read all of the report?”

Dante hums dismissively, his thumb circling your hipbone, “I was thinking about other things,”

“Like what?” You scoff.

“What’s our backstory?” He questions, eyes peering up at you.

You frown, tilting your head, “Sorry? I didn’t see a backstory in the plans,”

The man laughs, gently tugging you closer as he watches another couple walk through the doors of the hotel lobby. They nod towards each other out of curtesy, “I’m thinking we met through work friends, everyone said you were too good for me, but I, ever persistent, refused to back down,”

You laugh out of disbelief, “Are you forming our dating history? I don’t think that’s necessary, no one is going to pick up on that,”

Dante looks down at you, his expression shifting into a tense furrow, “They are going to catch us in an instant if we can’t blend in, I’m not risking that.”

This makes you pause, the break in his usual flirty character makes you second guess yourself. When you look over your shoulder into the hotel lobby you can see multiple partners chatting and drinking. Had Enzo set you up for failure? This didn’t seem like a usual business gathering. The fancy dress code, affluent crowd, and security made it seem more like a private gala.

“How long were you chasing me before I agreed to a date?”

Dante smirks, “Three and a half failed attempts over two months,”

Your eyebrow quirks, “Half attempt?”

The man sighs, waving his hand in distant memory, “You were drunk, I drove you home, and you kept spouting on about how handsome I was—”

You raise your hand with a scoff, “Not likely,” you tap your chin in though, “How about, I agreed to a fake date at a work function to avoid an ex boyfriend?”

Dante hummed, “A jilted lover huh?” He shuffles closer, in the name of keeping up appearances, he justifies, “Seems likely, poor guy I’d almost pity him.”

You shake your head in disbelief, you’re almost tempted to break out of his grasp but the thunk of car doors behind you signals that people are still walking past into the building. Instead of shying away you lean forward, tilting your head and completely invading his space.

You raise your hand, a manicured finger gently tracing his cheek, “Well, he was a disappointment. His ego couldn’t keep up with his performance, if you know what I mean,”

Dante feels a spark crackle down his spine, he’s pleasantly surprised by your adaptability. Most people like wouldn’t humour him for this long, and he’s starting to mourn that he’ll never experience this again.

His eyebrows furrow together in confusion. You roll your eyes, “Don’t make me spell it out for you Dante, have a little bit of taste,”

His sly smile gives him away, “I’d never disappoint you darling, promise,”

You hum, “We done now? I know I’m getting paid overtime, but I have got to get to my bed at some point tonight,”

“Can I join?” The quick response makes you slap his arm. Not wanting to humour him longer, you grab his hand and turn around. Dante falls in step with you as you walk towards the lobby doors, he props the door open, ushering you in with his other arm around your waist.

A door man greets you instantly, offering to take your coat. You smile warmly, turning your back towards him but before he can step forward, Dante intervenes by placing his body between your back and the doorman.

“Allow me, sweetheart. Why don’t you go ahead and find our table?” Dante murmurs.

You can see the doorman back off instantly from the corner of your eye. When you look over your shoulder at Dante, you can see why. His gaze looks murderous as he slips your coat off, you mentally applaud his dedication to the role.

Following his lead, you nod both to him and politely at the doorman, “Sure, don’t take too long,”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmurs, gently dropping a kiss on your shoulder before backing up. The slight feel of it makes you pause, a tingle remains in the spot but you refuse to make a deal of it. Instead, you look over at him once more to see him walking towards the coat room before making your way into the venue.

The person of interest tonight it Marcus Wicks, a man with some very deep pockets, and interesting ties with some unorthodox scientists. Information on him is limited, as he has done a good job sticking close to the shadows or having other informants do his work for him.

You catch sight of the man as you walk over to your table, he’s standing near the corner, surrounded by what you assume is associates chatting around him and security behind him. He looks over his shoulder to ensure they’re there before being pulled into a conversation.

Paranoid much? You look over the name plates on the table, stopping when you see yours and Dante’s. You’re not sure how Enzo managed to get you both into this venue, but you’ve learnt not to question it if it’ll save you the headache. You’ve barely just sat before the lady to your left turns to you.

“My, my that gown is gorgeous, what a beautiful colour,” she gushes.

You smile politely. “Oh, thank you, you’re too kind. I could say the same about you,”

The lady waves her hand, “Oh, this old thing. I didn’t even bother buying a new dress, I’ve been to so many of these things by now, they’re starting to get boring. I’m glad to see a new face,” she grins, “Are here with someone?”

You lean in closer in an act of interest, if she’s been here for a while she could offer some insight about Marcus. You’re about to ask but she cuts you off with a wide flourish of her hands, “Wait! I’ve got the perfect guy for you! He recently moved here, tall, good looking,” she leans in a closer with a whisper, “Rich too,”

A hand drops on your shoulder, “Goodness sweetheart, trading me in already?” You look up to see Dante had made his way over, “I know I was in the doghouse but I didn’t think you’d get rid of me that fast. What can I do to make it up to you, my love?”

You laugh, placing your hand over you chest and on his, “Don’t be dramatic, I was just about to introduce you,”

The lady in front of you gasps, “I’m so sorry! I just assumed because you had no ring, my husband is always telling me to think before I speak, oh god how embarrassing,”

You smile in reassurance, “Please, don’t apologise, it’s not a big deal,” you pat Dante’s hand, “This is Dante, my partner,” the sentence rolls off your tongue smoothly.

Dante squeezes your shoulder, “Pleasure to meet you…” he draws out.

“How rude of me, I don’t believe we introduced each other. Vivian,”

You introduce yourself in turn. The first thing you learn about Vivian is that she is one nosy lady, she has gossip on just about every person present in the building. Dante stands as a steady shadow behind you, thumb rubbing the juncture of your shoulder and collarbone gently as he half listens, half surveys the room.

“Mr.Wicks, or Marcus, is a new addition to our little events. I can’t remember who invited him, he just showed up one day and quickly became a popular patron,” Vivian takes a sip of her wine, “Probably because he has all the money in the world to burn,”

Your eyes widen, “He really has that much?”

“That much, and more darling. He’s got a very successful data broker company that keeps his hobbies afloat.”

Dante leans over your shoulder, “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to introduce myself to the others,”

You look over at him, “Sure, I’ll see you soon,”

You watch as Dante walks over to a group of men nearby the open bar. He bumps his elbow into one of the men in a friendly gesture, shaking his hand with a broad grin. He’s a natural at this. You almost shake your head in disbelief, it’s like he has a pull that draws people in. One that you’re starting to fall victim to.

Vivian chimes in, “You two are gorgeous together,”

To save yourself from an embarrassing flush, you reach for your drink, “Thank you,”

“No, really, I’ve never seen a man so enamoured,” is that jealousy you hear? “It’s like you fit in each others shadows, a complete match,”

You take a sip of your drink before responding. Pondering how you should go about this conversation, “We’re not perfect,” you laugh, “We’ve had our fair share of fights, that I can assure you of,”

Vivian hums thoughtfully, “What’s your secret then? What keeps you two together?”

At this, you grin, “Stubbornness.”

After a few moments you manage to get out of Vivian’s spotlight and steer the conversation back to Marcus. You lean that his hobbies include everything about demonology, and portals.

“Gateways to other dimensions, he calls it,” she waves her hand dismissively, “I couldn’t tell you anything else I tuned out after that. Honestly, what a load of garbage right? Who believes in any of that?”

You nod and take it all in while Vivian has another sip of her drink. Heavy drinker. While what she has told you isn’t anything new, it’s good to have your information solidified by another person.

Before your conversation can continue, a man walks up on stage, “Ladies and gentlemen if you could please make your way to your seats. The event will start soon.”

You watch as every begins to weave between tables to their seat, whispering to each other. It’s not long before Dante drops himself down beside you, he places his hand on your thigh and leans over to whisper in your ear.

“How was your gossip session?”

You hum, “Information was confirmed, nothing new though. What about you and your gentlemen club?”

You can hear Dante inhale, his hand gently rubbing up and down your thigh, “Afraid the club brings bad news,” this makes you frown, “Apparently Marcus is unveiling a project tonight for his loyal followers,”

You tense, rigid enough that Dante squeezes your thigh in reassurance, but that alone is clarification enough of your suspicion.

“He has a demon. Here?” You murmur, trying to keep your breathing even but your heart rate has picked up.

“Yes,” he exhales, “You should sneak out now, I can meet you—”

The lights abruptly cut out, you can make out a screen being lowered as a projector clicks on. When you look over your shoulder you can see Dante is already seeing the same thing. Security closes the door and swiftly locks everyone inside.

“So much for plan A,” Dante mutters.

You don’t know how he can be so calm. Well, you do know, demon hunter and all, but you’re freaking out. Heart rate elevated, your breathing gets heavier, and you think you’re getting dizzy but that could either be the alcohol or paranoia talking.

“I’m not going to let anything happen to you,”

You whip your head around, facing him directly, “You can’t promise that,” you hiss hysterically, “We don’t even know what we’re up against,”

Vivian looks over at you quizzically, concerned about your rising tone. You smile pleasantly, and pat Dante’s chest patronisingly. She smiles knowingly before turning back to her husband.

Dante leans closer, talking lowly, “Have some faith in me please, sweetheart, this is my job we’re talking about,”

You search his eyes, in the light of the projection screen you see nothing but confidence. Everything from his expression to his body language suggests he has nothing to fear.

You close your eyes and breathe in deeply, when you look back at him, he has an unreadable expression on his face, “I swear Dante, if I come out of this with even a scratch, I’ll be pissed off,”

Marcus makes his unassuming entrance onto the stage. There’s nothing out of the usual with his appearance, just an average looking business man if you didn’t know any better.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining me tonight. As you may know, all your efforts and contribution to my project has come to fruition,” he raises his wine glass, “Please join me in a drink, for this is a celebration of our hard work.”

Applause erupts around the room, you hesitantly join in but Dante remains still with his arm draped across the back of your chair. The rooms becomes quieter as security rolls out a large cage, the contents are covered— typical— by a white sheet.

Marcus goes on, with what you honestly think, is a tangent about his passion for otherworldly dimensions and demons from hell. You can’t find yourself tuning in as much as you should, far too distracted by the cage that sits quietly on stage. Why is it quiet? You would have thought the demon inside would be kicking up a storm in its captivity, but not even the sheet is moving. Is it sedated? Who has their hands on demon grade sedative?

You tense when Marcus walks over to the cage, “And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for,” his hands grasp the sheet, “Feast your eyes, on what is only the beginning of our journey.”

The sheet flies off with a flourish, falling to the ground below the stage, gasps sound from around the room including your own.

The cage is empty.

“Oh, fuck,” you panic.

“Fuck.” Dante sighs.

A strange shadow crosses the projector lens, cause the screen to flicker. You look up at the ceiling, in the darkness of the room you can see a bulking shadow. Hovering right above you.

You clench Dante’s thigh, “Dante—”

“I see it.”

Through your peripheral you can see him gazing up at the ceiling, “Get under the table.” He demands.

You don’t really want to let go of him, it feels more dangerous separating from him than finding cover. Hesitantly, you start to shuffle off your chair slowly to not cause suspicion.

Vivian looks confused as you go, “What are you doing?”

You’re already sitting on the floor when she asks, you make a shushing motion, “Follow me,” you whisper, taking her by the wrist and not taking no for an answer.

Once you’re under the table, she asks again, “What on earth is going on?”

You can hear a chair dragging across the floor beside you, “Where is it then?” Dante calls out. You cringe at his brash attitude.

“Where’s what?” Vivian she asks quietly.

You don’t answer, but Dante does, “The demon? I was promised I would see one tonight.”

You can’t see Marcus’ expression but you assume it’s not a friendly one. You can hear footsteps closing in, security probably, trying to search the perimeter. A unearthly growl reverberates across the room, silencing everyone.

You can see Vivian open her mouth but you slap your hand across it before she can speak. She’s frowning, you’re about to try and placate her when something heavy drops onto the table about your head. It rattles the cutlery and you can see wine glasses fall off the edge.

“Wow,” Dante whistles, “Now that’s what you call an entrance.”

The room erupts with screams, people frantically getting out of their seats and dashing for the exit. You stay perfectly still, even as the table worryingly starts to rattle and tip.

“What is that?” Vivian cries.

“A demon,” you try to say as evenly as possible. You can hear Dante in the background trying to lure the demon off the table.

“What?” Suddenly she looks around frantically, “My husband, what about—”

“I really wouldn’t suggest leaving here right now,” you whisper, “Wait for Dante to lead the demon off the table,”

She stares at you for a moment, “You’re being serious,”

Sounds of cutlery falling crashes around, “Yes,”

“And just what does you partner do?”

You look away, “He’s a demon hunter,”

“A demon hunter,” she frowns, “How did you get in tonight? Who do you know here?”

You sigh, looking at Vivian squarely, “Now is not the time for the full story but I think you’re smart enough to piece it together anyway,”

Vivian looks at you for a long moment, “I want to get out of this alive,” she says finally.

You nod, “Me too.”

You both agree to stick together in solidarity, holding each other’s hand tightly. You hear the demon screech terribly above you.

“That one hurt big guy? Why don’t you come do something about it?” Dante taunts.

Heavy footsteps crack the table, causing splinters to rain down on you. They reach the end of the table, slowly you shuffle back, bringing Vivian with you. When you reach the opposite end, you hesitantly peek out from under the cloth, you can see the stage, now empty, but surprisingly no blood spilt. You hope it stays that way.

You can see an emergency exit door beside the stage, you could make it if you dashed for it. The tablecloth drops as you slip back under, you tug your dress up and reach for your heels.

“What are you doing?” Vivian whispers.

“Take them off,” you respond, “We have to make a run for it.”

Vivian quickly follows your direction. With heels abandoned, you wait for Dante’s signal. Listening carefully you can hear something being thrown before landing with a thunk, the demon responds with a resounding roar.

“I have enough knives to throw to last me all night,” is he being serious? “Are you gonna make the first move? Or do I?”

The table creeks once more, you grab Vivian’s hand. “Get ready.”

The table tips with the demons weight, exposing your place of hiding. You take your chance as the demon launches itself at Dante. Keeping low you dash for the emergency exit door, Vivian close behind you. Vivian lets out a terrified gasp, alerting the demon. Its head whips in your direction but you keep going, dragging Vivian even closer.

The demon is about to turn around when Dante runs for it, you only catch a glimpse of it but you swear you see him summon a sword out of nowhere.

“Oh no, I’m not done with you yet.”

You shoulder the exit door open, shoving Vivian through and then slamming it closed again as if that would be enough. Once it’s closed, you grab her hand again and leap down the stairs until you see the doors leading outside.

You gasp, breathing heavily. It’s not safe yet but at least you’re out of the perimeter. It’s raining heavily now, and you’re getting soaked to the bone.

You glance over at Vivian in her deep purple dress, she wraps her arms around herself. “What do I do? My husband…is he alive?”

You swallow, “I don’t know,” you whisper, “But Dante is doing all he can, don’t lose hope yet.”

She nods absently. You can hear police sirens in the distance.

Not long after, you were ushered away from the lobby doors by paramedics begrudgingly, despite explaining you weren’t hurt. But they insisted you get out of the rain to avoid hypothermia, so now you sit increasingly anxious in the back of an ambulance with a blanket over your shoulders. You can hear gunshots, even a few windows shatter.

It felt like forever before it finally went silent. Moments passed before you saw police securing civilians out of the building. You leap out of the ambulance, despite the worried shouts of paramedics you run for the doors. Staying behind the parked police but looking anxiously.

Familiar white hair can be spotted easily amongst the crowd, “Dante!”

You can see him more clearly now, his clothes are torn from what looks like claw marks. And there’s bloodstains, of either his or the demon’s you can’t be certain. His head turns in the direction of his name, spotting you instantly. He walks over, mid-conversation with the police, which irks them you can see but they don’t try to follow him.

“Missed me?” He smirks.

You exhale, relieved to see him okay, “All pieces of you accounted for?”

“All the important ones anyway,”

He smiles, tucking your drenched hair behind your ear, “I told you, you’d be okay. Look you even made it out with no scratches. Damn, I am good at my job,”

“You scared me half to death,” you exasperate.

Dante looks at you for a moment, “You care about me, sweetheart?”

Your eyes widen at the insinuation, you look down at your bare feet to avoid his gaze. You were just put through an intense situation, one that you were nowhere near prepared for. And you don’t appreciate that being downplayed.

“Yes, I do care, for you wellbeing,” you hiss, “You are one of my hunters, and what you did in there was reckless at best! Taunting a demon like that, are you fucking stupid?”

“I like it when you call me yours,”

“Don’t deflect the conversation—”

He steps closer into your space, you’re practically chest to chest, and the height difference causes you to look up.

“I am fine,” he emphasises, “Renowned demon hunter, remember? I know my limit, and I don’t need you to worry about me,”

“You’re impossible,”

Dante shrugs, “Get used to it angel, because you’re going to see a lot more of it.”

You can head Vivian in the background shouting her husband’s name, when you look over you can see her leaping into his arms. You let out a sigh of relief, you’re glad they got reunited. Her husband hugs her tight as she sobs into his arms.

“Saw what you did in there, brave of you,”

You look away, “Kinda stupid separating them though, worried her for nothing,”

Dante hums, “He was lucky this time that I was there, you though, you saved her. Sure we can’t make a hunter out of you?”

You look up at him, eyebrow raised. “Maybe not,” he second guesses, “Then who would greet me after my missions?”

“Enzo?” You guess.

Dante scrunches his nose, “Nah, he’s no way near as hot as you,”

You roll your eyes, “Walk me home?”

Dante nods, removing his damaged jacket and draping it over your shoulders.

[sammigrll]

gryffindor characters modern! AU

according to me….

description: silly modern! AU head canons of the main gryffindor characters :)

pairing: harry, ron, fred, george, ginny and hermione x reader

contains: mentions of substances, alcohol and weed. mentions sexual acts (i think…)

|an: bored and decided i’d made something a little silly. literally just my thoughts lolll don’t take this too seriously

modern AU! harry potter who…

— definitely has a flip phone and refuses to be on any form of social media bc he thinks it’s awful for you

— i think being around his friends who do have social media would give him the spiel on most things tho

— oh he loveeesss house of dragon omg

— only listens to 70s 80s 90s music and some jazz tbh

— i feel like he’s just very old fashioned and he’s happy that way

— such a loving and caring bf since he’s hardly ever even touched the internet he’s pure lol

— def a lil goofball he’d say a little slang term the twins taught him and repeat it back to you…”harry who taught you that…”

— don’t ask him to do no substances i think he’d be kinda against them..not a smoker…occasional drinker.

modern AU! ron weasley who…

— is a stoner! thru and thru. i think he’s a bong rip typa fellow but a blunt or a joint would do it too. doesn’t strike me as a cart of eddie guy.

— big female rap supporter imo…def into latto and maybe dabbles into some meg that’s his girlll lol

— definitely a twea/seltzer guy oml cannot take shots is my hc

— heavy on the lowk himbo boyfriend

— not stupid at all but not super street smart i fear, more of a book smart type of guy.

— super cute and adorable bf overall, he’s a big boy. for sure.

—armmmmssss…. gymrat imo he loves to blow off steam at the gym

—i feel like isn’t a social media person as well…has an insta but doesn’t post on it nor have a lot of followers..no tiktok maybe twitter

—luv him but he was def on drakes side of the beef…definitely a champagne papi

—kinda a video game nerd imo but he’s definitely into the sports ones like FIFA

— buys you n him the crumbl cookie lineup every week and you review them tg in the car pretending to be those tiktok crumbl reviewers😭🫶 (he’s so cute)

modern AU! hermione granger who…

— is 100% on booktok

— do not ask her about the summer i turned pretty or bridgerton unless you wanna listen to her talk for hours.

— don’t play with her and noah kahan…

—or taylor swift

— or chappell roan..

—she’ll have a cute little mixed drink or perhaps a seltzer but do not give this girl no shots she don’t want none!

— her and colleen hoover….

— brings her digital camera everywhere and is most def the camera girl friend….”hermione pls send me the pics from last night”

modern AU! ginny weasley who...

— does not play about female wnba players at all.

— don’t even mention paige bueckers…that’s her girl.

— is a party animal just like her brother.

— loves her chappell roan too.

— always on social media u cannot get this girl off her phone. she’s like an ipad kid u couldn’t rip it out of her cold head hands.

— such a good girlfriend, definitely so protective over her s/o, especially on social media.

— “ginny why’d you respond to every comment under my post complimenting me with ‘& she/he mine..so’…”

modern AU! fred weasley who…

— definitely asks u “english or spanish?”

—definitely goes to too many parties…like at a function every weekend he loves the party scene.

—treats his girl RIGHTT i would compare the relationship to don toliver and kali uchis, flowers all the time, handsy. posting/supporting his girl allll the time

—“i❤️mygf” typa fellow, all his posts on socials are her! all his stories, his highlights and his posts.

— also a weed demon, doesn’t strike me as a beer or seltzer guy but ooooo that liqah….

— dress to impress demon. his gf definitely got him to play it and he got hooked and now he’s a fashion maven.

modern AU! george weasley who…

— is every girls dream man…im talking flowers, boo baskets, burr baskets, easter baskets, omg you say the word and he’s massaging your feet and feeding you grapes.

— always posting his girl just like his brother she’s on his absolutely everything and he has a highlight for her.

— type of guy to post those tiktoks of his girl on his account appreciating her all the time and the comments are like “omg on his account too!” and it’s so cute and adorable.

—isn’t much of a party guy like his brother…will go to a few but i feel like it’s not his thing at all and he’d rather be hanging out with friends instead of at a big function with strangers.

—literally the ken to your barbie and yes he took you to see the movie and yes he got into costume with you. and he did it happily.

— always hanging out with his girlfriend and wouldn’t want it any other way.

[ranticore]

is there shit like cultural modesty standards anywhere on siren?

From the cultures I've put time into, we have the Spiral pelagic villagers who value emotional modesty/reservedness - expressions of emotion are strongly curtailed, and it's gauche to even be openly happy about something. They have strong superstitions which dictate how people should behave, as would be expected in such a dangerous place to live, where survival is often a function of good luck rather than skill. The sea can kill instantly if you're in the wrong place and wrong time, so it's thought that pride and foolhardiness go hand in hand, and showing too much of any emotion (especially positive emotions) will tempt the sea to prove you wrong, punishing you for daring to be prideful

But I know you meant modesty as in dressing modest so on the other side of the world we have the royal coastal phocids of the eastern coast of the eastern continent. Some of them appear in the short piece of writing I did about Huarvaa - their heirs, and future rulers, must cover their entire bodies, faces included. In a world where drag is a significant factor in how easily someone can move (by flying or swimming), it's an expression of extreme privilege to wear bulky or obstructing clothing - essentially a statement that you don't need to swim or fly like common labourers. For these royal phocids, they don't even swim long distances - they use aquatic pack animals to pull their vehicles and barges, and it's considered unseemly for anyone of a certain high class to be seen going anywhere quickly. It also manifests in a kind of sexual conservatism among the upper classes - only a future sworn partner should ever see a veiled phocid's face, so showing/not showing face becomes a construct similar to virginity for them, and if someone else has seen your face before, you're not Pure anymore. And it multiple people have seen it? Slut.

I'd need to read back on my notes & I'm out of the house rn but I'm pretty sure the heirs (who hide their faces) are supposed to be the physical and spiritual successor to whoever came before them, so them wearing a veil is to aid in the illusion of a single being essentially reborn over and over. They have a Court of about 100 royals who get reborn over and over, and marriages are made at birth between sworn partners (aka the same married pair who've been continually reborn for centuries). Those who are considered the same person (an older royal and their direct heir) have no modesty boundaries between them as they are the same person in the eyes of the law so they can be undressed or at least show face around one another. To make matters more complicated these "two same people" phocids are usually not parent and offspring (but are usually related because this entire royal court is, by necessity, a closed studbook. To put it lightly)

[colourstreakgryffin]

Hey there, fellow writer! How are you doing? :) I just wanted to request a platonic Angel Dust x Nephew (or Niece) reader who is the son/daughter of Molly from when they were alive. Angel hadn’t really got to know them as he had died when they were little, so now that he's reconnected with them in hell, he's trying to bond with his niece/nephew as they are older now

Oh, Hello, fellow writer! I have returned from being dead and this is quite fun! Awww. Another Angel request and of course, it’s hella wholesome. I love it! Can do so! Have a great day, loves!

Angel Dust- Little Spiderling

You know, right away, Angel drags you back to the Hotel when he finds out you’re his niece/nephew by pure accident. You aren’t the little one he remembered once seeing his beloved Molly having but you’re still a minor, not eighteen yet! So, he must protect you! And he will!

Angel has a barely functional life down here and is really struggling through it but the one thing he knows how to do is express his love for people so he does it a lot to you

He tries SO hard to let his walls down to bond with you, to let you know you matter to him and he won’t shut you out. You are really the only person he doesn’t act like a sarcastic prick to but he will not tell you his problems since you’re his family, not his therapist

He really wishes he got to know you when you were both alive, he was so wrapped up in his own life, he didn’t acknowledge you. He barely remembered your name and he is clueless on what you like so he just tries to bond with you by trying to seem like that ‘cool Uncle’

Angel asks for advice all the time. He asks Husk, Charlie, even Vaggie. Advice for how he can try bond with you better and how to talk to you better. He already became your guardian… at his own word, so he needs to know how to connect with you

Angel often gets you gifts, it’s how he sees making you happy with him. Like, he’ll buy something whilst he’s out than he’ll offer it to you when he’s back at the Hotel, smiling so nervously and hoping you’ll like it. He is that one awkward but loving Uncle!

Angel basically dies again, of pure joy, when you express love or appreciation. He already has so much guilt for how little he knows you and how little he paid attention to you back on Earth but now, he wants to try again and he really wants to rekindle so he believes all his effort is always rewarded with the way you smile at him and say ‘thank you’ or ‘I love you’ or ‘I’m glad you want to join’

Angel is also that uncle who goes ‘aww, you’re so pretty. I remember when you were so little! Now, you’re big!’. If he had pictures of you, he’d be admiring them whilst crying

Angel does seem like a selfish man but he’s really only selfish with… everybody else. When it comes to you, he spoils you. He kinds parents you. He doesn’t know how to tell you your mom’s in Heaven so he distracts you with other stuff and he even shows off his beloved Fat Nuggets, to make you smile

Angel has a habit of picking you up, since he is much taller than you, and putting you on his back when it is time to go. He only does this when you escape the Hotel or leave against his wishes, and he can always keep his eyes on you this way

He also puts you on his back if you’re tired or want a nap or even miss him. You weigh nothing to him, and he can handle it well

Angel also loves taking you out to shopping trips with him and Cherri. He loves dressing you up in feminine/masculine clothing and praises you so you feel confident. You look great, and in-fact, he’ll buy that outfit so he can see you in it again and boost you up like a good Uncle does!

Angel actually trusts Cherri with you. He is very protective over you so really, only Charlie and Cherri have the permission to take care of you when he is busy

Sinners often confuse you for Angel’s son/daughter, mainly for the way he treats you, and even Valentino has called you ‘Angel’s kid’ before but he doesn’t take that shit from anybody and sets it straight. You’re his beloved sister’s baby and whilst he loves you, he’d never act as if he is your parent. He is your guardian, get it right

Angel teaches you how to cook the meals of the family. He loves cooking and he’s happy to be a mentor so he’ll ensure you know how to take care of yourself if you’re ever without him and know how to whip up a fine Italian cuisine. Cooking together is one of his personal made bonding methods

As well as baking. Angel knows you like baking so he tries to bake with you. Four arms are very useful and yes, he messes up a lot but the way you laugh at his attempt makes it feel like his eggy crispy frosting mess of a cake was totally worth it. You’re growing to like him more and not be annoyed with the fact he didn’t really care for you much in your past life

I will say now. Angel apologises a lot for the past but you take it maturely and understand his point of view. Though, your acceptance doesn’t remove Angel’s guilt and he takes a long time to feel better about himself, even when you two grow closer and you become more and more fine with him being your guardian

Angel doesn’t understand why he didn’t acknowledge you all those years ago… you’re so cute. What is there to not like?

Angel always sees his twin sister in you. You even look like her, so it means you look… more than a bit like Angel too, and he’s glad. It reminds him that he’ll always have a piece of his beloved sister with him as well as a family member who doesn’t dislike him

Angel’s kinda clingy, straight up. He cries whenever you do something he considers ‘cute’ and mews and calls you ‘Spiderling’ whilst hugging you. Angel is also THAT type of Uncle but it’s pretty cute how attached to you he is

Once more, he does get jealous of Arckaniss. He wants to be your favourite! Not his older brother so he sweeps in and steals you away from when you were talking to Arckaniss too much for his comfort. He is soooooo much better!

Really. Angel, in this entire situation with you, is trying and always trying. He tries to be the best guardian for you, he tries to be the best best friend for you, he tries to be the coolest best uncle for you! He tries and he hopes it works

He is actually fine with you calling him ‘Anthony’ over ‘Angel Dust’ and to make it fair, he calls you your real name over your demon name too!

“Spiderling? Hey! Hey! You’ve been out all day! How come? I thought you liked our shopping trip together! I’m your coolest uncle, aren’t I? You liked that scarf I got you! Should I get another? Yeah? Yeah? What do you think?”

[lilithrosexoxo]

Ch. 3 Meal

Sunlight gleamed through the parted curtains painting the room in a warm glow. You pull off your cashmere weighted blanket with a yawn and a stretch moving your stiff muscles. After Jinwoo left you quickly passed out after taking another bath and changing your clothes since your previous ones were soaked in your slick. Your face heats up at the thought of last night and you feel a wave of embarrassment wash over you. You still can’t believe that you came from just being licked on your scent gland but it shouldn’t surprise you. You were still a virgin and haven’t even so much as kissed another person. As prime omega your parents were insistent on keeping you pure for your future alpha. Not to mention with the connection between you two all of your senses were heightened around him. His smell, his touch, his voice, his eyes, everything about him was simply perfect to you. As you imagine his tongue on you, your thoughts become inappropriate as you imagine his tongue in other places and you immediately feel slick start to pool in your panties. You groan at the feeling and your scent permeates the air. How on earth were you going to function around the man if the thought of him has you creaming your panties.

“By the goddess I’m insatiable”, you think to yourself, “maybe I should take care of myself before going down for breakfast”, and with that you retreat to your bed to handle your problem.

xoxo

After 3 orgasms you finally feel satiated enough to get ready. You allow your handmaidens into your nest and dress you in a simple but elegant gold gown while they braided your hair into a fishtail braid. Finally ready, you decide to head downstairs and join your family for breakfast. You head into the dining room to see your family and Jinwoo already seated. To your displeasure Elowen has taken a seat across from Jinwoo and was attempting to flirt with him but she was being completely ignored. Your brother Aldwin sat by Jinwoo’s right side and his left side was empty as it was reserved for you. He was engrossed in a deep conversation which brought joy to you. Out of all your siblings you and Aldwin had the closest bond and knowing that your alpha was having a good conversation based on his chuckle had your omega purring in contenment. 

Jinwoo’s eyes looked around as he felt another presence in the room and his eyes lit up as he saw you.

“Wow she’s beautiful”, he thought to himself. While you looked stunning in the moonlight you looked absolutely radiant in the sunlight, “the lunar goddess has truly blessed me”, he thought. He quickly gets up and pulls out your chair for you.

Your face heats and you look down as you take your seat finding it hard to make eye contact when he is looking at you with such an intense gaze.

“Princess Y/N it is a pleasure to see you in the sunlight, you look divine”, Jinwoo says as he takes your hand and kisses the back of it.

You feel lightheaded from feeling his soft lips against your skin but quickly regain your composure and finally look him in the eyes and by the lunar goddess you don’t think you’ll ever be able to get over how such a perfect being was your fated mate. 

“It’s good to see you as well my alpha”, you say silkily.

Jinwoo feels himself throb in the confines of his pants at hearing you call him your alpha. His eyes begin to glow lilac and you think you’ve done something to offend him but he simply chuckles and returns to his seat.

“Y/N, are you and Apha Sung really fated mates?”, the baby of the family, Reign asks with round eyes. Even though he’s only 15 he’s already found his mate a strong alpha that spoils him rotten. 

“We are fated mates, the feeling was just as mother described it all these years. I would’ve never imagined it would be Jinwoo”, you say as you look down.

“I think you found the perfect alpha Y/N and I’m so happy for you. I told you, you weren’t cursed”, says Aldwin with a smug grin on his face. You often vented to your brother about how you swore you were cursed to live a lonely life but he always reassured you that you would find your mate. You feel immensely grateful that his words were true.

“Can we please have this conversation over breakfast? Mother I’m starving, we spent forever waiting for Y/N. What were you doing that took so long?”, your sister Liza asks, eyeing you up and down. You didn’t look that much different then your usual get up so she can’t imagine what took so long.

Jinwoo chuckles and you look at him confused. He laughed like he knew exactly what you were up to that morning and oh shit knowing him he probably did. Then the realization dawns on you, Jinwoo can implant his soldiers into peoples shadows and view them directly from their eyes. You looked at him eyes widening as he just looked at you with a knowing smirk.

You bury your head in your hands. You can’t believe you forgot one of Jinwoo's key abilities. You can’t believe he saw that you were riding your toy like a bitch in heat and moaning his name the entire time.

“Th-There’s no reason to discuss what took me so long. I just wanted to look good enough for my alpha”, you say pretending like you’re not drowning in a pool of your own embarrassment but the scent wafting from you betrays you. Thankfully your family decides to not question you further and your mother rings in the chefs.

A grand feast is laid before your family which is reasonable, your parents did have six omegas and that size doesn’t include your mother or Jinwoo making it a party of 8. You’re pretty sure the chefs are trying to impress Jinwoo as there are a variety of meats laid before the alpha. You take in the spread there are pancakes, waffles, toast, eggs, blueberry muffins, fresh fruit which includes dianach, redamia, salal, and thorny peaches, fresh orange, pineapple, and grape juice and even a large pitcher of ambrose wine. There are typical meats such as bacon, sausage, and ham but you can also smell the more exotic meats the chefs must have brought out for this occasion such as griffon meat, ice bear meat, and even filet steaks from a wyvern dragon. The room smells heavenly and your family wastes no time digging in. 

The twins Ifrit and Shiva are fighting over who had claim to the muffins which you found amusing considering that there were a dozen that were baked but meal times were often like this. Even though you were all omegas you had a healthy appetite however, your appetites dwarfed in comparison to Jinwoo. You saw him load plate after plate of meat, eggs, and cheese and you kept in mind to reach out to the chefs later for more cooking lessons involving meat. While you excelled at vegetarian dishes your skills with meat were subpar at best.

“So Jinwoo do you think you could want any concubines?” Elowen asks without a hint of shame.

You choke on the waffle you were eating. While concubines were common in the royal kingdoms, if an omega couldn’t keep up with her alpha’s sex drive it was uncommon for prime alphas and omegas as the connection was so deep that the bond prevented them from wanting to have sex with anyone else.

You felt a low growl emanating from you before you could even stop it. You felt like you were seeing red. Your omega was furious and you slowly felt yourself losing control. Your claws and canines lengthened and sharpened, your eyes began to glow, the smell of burnt rubber danced in the air.

“Oh you’ve done it now Elowen, don’t expect me to bail you out”, Aldwin deadpannes as he continues to chow down on his meal. 

How dare she!? Was it not enough that she had her own mate and now she’s trying to move in on yours? You just found your fated mate after all these years alone. Watching your friends and family find their mates while you sat on the sidelines. Jinwoo was YOURS. You feel your control over your omega slipping as the seconds go by. You were about to lunge across the table and gouge out her eyes until you felt an arm drape around you and squeeze you to a firm chest.

“Calm yourself princess Y/N”, Jinwoo whispered in your ear as he caressed your face lovingly before addressing Elowen, “That’s Alpha Sung to you and I have no intention of having anyone else from now on other than princess Y/N”, he spoke in a calm but stern voice.

At that you felt yourself relax but took note of that he said now. That means Jinwoo must have experience right? Then a realization hits you. You were about to attack your sister and from the looks of it everyone would’ve allowed it if Jinwoo didn’t stop you. You don’t know what came over you but the thought of your alpha with another drove you up the wall and had jealousy coursing through you. Were all fated mates like this or was it different since you were a prime omega? By the look in your mothers eye you knew that to be true.

With that breakfast thankfully concludes and the servants come in to clean up.

“Alpha Sung, Y/N I think a trip to the garden would do you both well. Get some fresh air, take in the scenery, it’s important for you to get to know one another before your lunar union” your mother states as your siblings get up to leave the room except for Elowen who is still shooting heart eyes at YOUR alpha but you know there’s nothing to worry about. Jinwoo is loyal to you and no one else and that soothed your omega and anger at your sister.

“Come with me Jinwoo I’ll take you to the garden”, you say as you take his hands in yours.

[punkypiscesell-writes]

Like a sun, shining late at night

Frankie Morales x f!reader

Summary: Frankie works in a coffee shop where you have been coming for the last few months. The crush from the first time he ever saw you is bubbling over on the hottest day of the summer.

warnings: Frankie and reader are in their twenties, small town vibes, pining, fluff, kissing, no use of y/n, reader has no pronouns and wears a dress, the picture in the header is just for the visual and isn't an indication of the reader's skin color. Not beta read.

word count: 9.3k

notes: Happy Frankie Friday! I wrote this for @secretelephanttattoo 's secret springs creative challenge and it's purely self indulgent. I'm graduating from university next month and the idea for this fic came from that. This also falls more in to the first week's theme, but I didn't have time to finish this until now. I hope you'll enjoy!

Dividers by saradika

”Frankie, can we switch, I need a break,” his coworker whines in a hushed tone, leaning against the wall. She has the gift of puppy dog eyes that she has perfected over time and uses only when absolutely necessary. No one can say no to her.

Frankie dries his hands on a too wet hand towel; the break doesn’t come a moment too late. He just finished cleaning the cabinets in the kitchen that’s more like a shoebox than an actual kitchen.

Their boss was right. Times like these, when waves of customers aren’t pushing in through the door, is the perfect time to clean. The narrow space of the shoebox-kitchen in a heatwave is an experience Frankie wouldn’t mind skipping though.

His skin is sticky and little droplets of sweat have formed into big splotches of wet fabric on his t-shirt, stretched across his shoulders and upper back. The electric fan in the cramped corner is barely functioning and begs to be replaced in a weather like this.  

“The kitchen is all yours,” Frankie gives the damp rag to the younger coworker and sees her eyes light up when he relieves her from the front of the coffee shop. She might handle the humidity a bit better, at least she has enthusiasm to immediately push the damp cloth against the fridge door and find something to furiously scratch off.

Only a couple of tables are taken under the exhausted ceiling fan circling warm air in the cozy café. More people are sitting outside by small round tables under pastel striped umbrellas.

The pink lemonade they make daily from the boss’ recipe is sweating with ice in most customer’s cups, easing the effects of a seemingly endless spell of sweltering heat. The town center has fallen quieter as people are either enjoying their summer holidays by travelling or spending their time at the beach not too far away.

Frankie can’t blame them. Anyone would escape the temperatures in this weather. The ones who are brave enough to stand the scorch from the concrete and minimal shade from any dry trees lining the streets have made their way to cafes with cold drinks and ice creams. The amount of different fresh baked goods, bread and pastries, that are delivered daily have been cut in half just because people are more interested in something light and cold.

The sounds from the street flow into the coffee shop in waves through the open windows and door. Frankie says pleasantries to the few people who come and go and leave their tables for him to empty. He does a few turns outside to bring a straw for a child who dropped his to the ground and to wipe the artisan gelato off the table when someone accidentally knocked over their bowl.

There’s easy music playing from the speakers. They lull him into staring outside, at the people in their airy clothes and sun on their skins. There’s nothing else for him to do other than wait for someone to come in or leave.

The sweat that pushed through earlier sits against his temples and back like a second skin. It’s not going to dry until the sun has set and the night sweeps through the town with cooler air. He listens to the laughter from people sitting outside and the screech of seagulls somewhere nearby.

Some kids skateboard past the café, a few on rollerblades. Few cars drive towards the coast at a crawling pace, pumping out music that shakes the glasses on the shelves lining the walls, turning people’s heads, while some nod to the beat.

This morning, when Frankie got out of the shower with his hair still dripping wet and his skin too stubborn to dry even after toweling, he looked at a t-shirt hanging on the back of a chair. It’s still newly crisp and in need of a few washes. The neckline isn’t worn and stretched from overuse yet, like his usual clothes he wears to work. He has his t-shirts and jeans, and sometimes a cap that his boss always reminds him to take off.

That isn’t the case anymore. He pulled the new t-shirt over his head and decided today would be the day. If you were to come by the coffee shop, that is.

He leans against the counter, doodling on a piece of old receipt; another order of pink lemonade and a sundae. The customer is enjoying them under the shade of one of the pastel umbrellas while reading a book.

Frankie’s curls are enjoying the heat and humidity, the salty air blowing in from the coast making him look like he shouldn’t be standing behind a register in a coffee shop but at the beach by a lifeguard station overlooking the waves. They fluff every time the ceiling fan manages to flutter the air with something that resembles a cooler breeze. A strand tickles his temple, immediately remembering your fingers against his forehead. It was just a simple touch.

“There’s a dandelion seed…” you mumbled last week, when you reached for him over the counter. He was making your drink, focused on pouring the milk into the mug, when like you would’ve done it a hundred times before, your fingers caught the fluff and stayed against his temple a second longer.

“All gone,” you said and continued your story about painting a wall in your childhood home deep green, like nothing had happened.

Frankie drops the pen against the stone counter and touches his fingers against the spot where yours had been. His heart gives a thump and another, the thought of you like cotton candy in his mind.

Everything changed when you walked into the coffee shop with a canvas bag flung over your shoulder.

It was the end of March. The day was grey and windy and people were looking for comfort inside the warmth of the café. It looked like it would rain at any moment, the air even smelled like it. The first time this spring.

You unraveled a thick scarf from around your neck and stopped by the door to take in the café. You took note of the few empty seats and tables, most taken by people working or by those who were on their lunch breaks.

Frankie could only stare at you, with his head going blank, until you took a step forward and you smiled at him. A joyful, eye crinkling smile that comes out easily and stays on your cheeks for a long time.

There was something else to it as well. It wasn’t just the smile that left him dumbfounded. It was the way you lit up from inside first, your skin glowing, your eyes sparkling even on the grayest of days like you held stars in your soul. It was enigmatic, electric, magnetic. Frankie immediately wished to experience it again.

You made your way to the counter and asked Frankie what he’d recommend for lunch.

“You new here?” He asked when he had written down your order and given it to someone working in the kitchen that day. He got to making your drink, a mocha that you gracefully asked to be made with more milk and sugar.

“Oh no, I’m from here but I moved away for college. I don’t get to visit as often anymore as I’d like. But now my last couple of courses are online and I could come back home to finish my thesis.” You took a deep breath and laughed out of nowhere. “That must’ve been exciting for you to hear.”

Your brow arched with the edge of your mouth. He could’ve listened to you read the ten different tea options they had and then he would’ve asked you to repeat them. He would’ve still been hungry to hear your voice more.

“It’s okay,” he said and turned awkwardly from you to steam the milk to hide the blush that crept up to his cheeks. The heat of it burst in waves that showed up across his skin in red splotches.

The milk got done too fast. He thought of anything cold, anything mundane, that would make his blood stream calm down. Just another customer, just another damn customer, he repeated to himself.

He poured the milk gently on top of the chocolate syrup and espresso, folding the foam in on itself to make a pattern on top of the drink. He had made it hundreds of times before, a skill he was proud of, yet now his hand was trembling, and the lines got muddled.

The mug barely made a noise when he set it on the counter, even though his attention was on you eyeing the fat cookies on top of the display cases. You read each label of the options carefully; chocolate chip, white chocolate and cranberry, macadamia and walnut, raisin, triple chocolate, salted caramel, cinnamon and brown sugar, –

“I’ll take one of those lemon and blueberry cookies as well, please.” Your smile got softer when you turned back to him.

“I hope you enjoy it,” he could only say, unsure if he meant the café or the lunch you were about to eat. The cookie looked massive on the small plate he placed next to the coffee mug, reaching high with blue swirls. He was mesmerized by the spark in your eyes and the unsaid mischief in your voice.

You stood in front of him, quiet. Your brows rose slowly and the longer the silence stretched, the more you looked confused. 

“Should I wait for the sandwich and pay after or…?” You finally asked and it got Frankie to shake back into action.

“Fu –,” he caught himself just in time to not swear in front of you, even though it made that beautiful smile spill onto your lips again, this time accompanied with a light giggle. His wish came true. Your laugh was just a tip he didn’t expect to get, much more valuable than money in that moment.

“You can pay now, I’ll bring the sandwich to you,” his mouth barely kept up with the words and the moment was over so fast that he wasn’t sure what he had actually told you. But you dug out your wallet and your card and he was tapping on the register to get the right amount charged which he checked twice before you paid.

You accompanied your generous tip with a soft thank you before you collected your drink and cookie off the counter. There was another customer behind you already, forcing Frankie to focus. From the corner of his eye, he saw you sitting by the windows, peeling your coat off and hanging it on the back of your chair.

You sat down and for a fleeting moment he could’ve sworn that you were watching him, still with that smile on your face. When he was done with the customer who came after you, you were already typing on your laptop.

You stayed for hours. So long in fact that Frankie’s shift ended, and other people came in for their evening shifts. You ate your lunch, got another coffee and the same cookie after a few hours, and then kept on sipping on the drink even when it had gone cold long ago.

Your brows were pulled together and at times you leaned closer to read something on the screen of your laptop. You wrote fast. Your fingers flew against the keyboard and at times you stopped just to keep your fingertips hovered over the letters before you kept on going. The sound got drowned out in the steady ambient chatter of the café.

You had a notebook next to you where you wrote a few words here and there. When the café was fairly quiet, he could hear you clicking your pen a few times, then tap it against the half-filled page. A soft, muffled rhythm against the paper.

You rolled your shoulders back and bent your neck from side to side. Every once in a while, you looked out the window, at the darkening day, and the first drops of rain against the glass.

After that day you became a regular at the coffee shop. Every Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday Frankie could expect you to come by. Sometimes you came in early and spent the whole day there. Some other days you came in later and left early, but every time you had lunch and then typed away on your laptop.

Some days you looked more tired than some other days, and some other times your smile was a little dimmer than the others. It still fell on your face easily, but it wasn’t as wide or as energized as he had seen on you usually.

When the days were getting warmer and the sun stayed hung on the sky a little longer, you didn’t come to the coffee shop for two weeks. Frankie was doing his shift, waiting to see you that Tuesday like he normally would. To hear you tell him about your weekend, to hear your voice at all.

His shift ended and you didn’t show up. It left him empty, like something was missing. You had become such a constant at the café that when you broke the pattern, the day seemed off. Maybe you were sick, down with a cold that everyone seemed to have as winter shook from the trees and sunshine forced leaves to bud on the branches.

Then you didn’t come by the next day either. With his coworker Frankie tended to the constant stream of customers who came and went steadily in and out the door. When there was a break, he could only watch the cookies that managed to stay crispy on the outside and fluffy on the inside. There weren’t many left anymore and your chances at choosing one were getting slimmer every time the door opened, and it wasn’t you who walked in. You didn’t.

When the weekend rolled around, there was a hollowness in Frankie’s chest. He was missing you, as terrifying as that was to admit to himself. He missed seeing you sit at one of the tables by the window where you could watch people as an escape from your work. He had never asked what your thesis was about, how it was going or what made you choose the topic. In that moment he regretted it.

Frankie missed the way you paid attention to what was happening around you. You listened to others, and you started to say hi to some of the other regular customers. Until he noticed you weren’t only paying attention to them but also him.

Sometimes he caught you staring, watching him do his job, follow his moves as he made drinks for customers, wrote down orders and listened to answers for his polite questions about how their day was going. In the beginning, you hastily turned from him in an attempt to not get caught even though he always already had.

He could see you smile when he entertained a toddler by making faces at her while her parents were choosing what to eat. Your brow furrowed and you shook your head when he listened to an older lady shamelessly hit on him.

And then one day you didn’t turn from him when he caught you staring. You stopped hiding your interest in what he was doing. Your cheeks caught the smile on your face and then you got back to your own work.

All those looks, all those smiles, made him want to say he was done for the day and come sit and people watch with you even if you wouldn’t have watched other people, only him.

The next Friday, after another whole week of not seeing you, Frankie didn’t have high hopes for you to show up that day either. It was possible that you had grown tired of the place, of the same sandwich you took every time, the mocha that you usually ordered twice, or the one or two cookies that you always got after careful consideration. Or maybe you were finished with your thesis. Maybe you had left the town again and he was wasting his days daydreaming about you.

The line was long, and the kitchen was overflowing with orders. Frankie had just finished typing one more and had it register in the kitchen when he lifted his gaze to find you standing in front of him.

You didn’t look like yourself. You held your canvas bag in a death grip on your shoulder and you were inhaling through your nose and exhaling through your mouth, steadying your breath as best you could. You avoided looking at him and you hid under your clothes.

Your voice was sunken and without your usual animation, the fall and rise of your tone was gone. You didn’t make conversation. You didn’t ask how Frankie’s day had been or if anything unexpected had happened, like you normally did.

“I’ve just had a bit of a hard time lately,” you dropped the façade completely without actually saying anything. You only had to see Frankie’s face once to read the worry from the furrowed brow and the seriousness in his eyes.

His mouth was in a tight line, and he tried to understand you without asking you a serious question. He never had; he didn’t think it was his place even after weeks of friendly banter.

As he was preparing your order, your distress crawled under his skin as well. You opened the light jacket you wore over your sweatshirt, you flinched from the hiss of the espresso machine, and you stood there making yourself as small as you could.

In that moment he decided to get to know you better, to do something about the thump in his chest when you opened the door to the café and to the shivers that ran up and down his back when you stood close enough and he could smell your perfume.

So far, Frankie was harboring a crush across the café, a stolen glance here and a playful look there, an attempted flirty tone in his voice on questions that were too basic to incite any interest or a spark in the corner of his eye. You had captured him without you knowing it, and without him knowing what to do with the swell of happiness every time you were around.  

You tried so hard to seem like yourself, but you were on autopilot. You ordered your usual coffee and sandwich. You stared at the foamy milk on top of your mocha. He put too much effort into his attempt at making the leafy shape perfect, only to mess it up and then mess it up even more when he wanted to fix it.

You didn’t say a word about it like you would have if it was like any other normal day. He noticed the short-bitten nails and cuticles on your hand when you paid for your order.

“I’ll bring it to the table,” Frankie told you, watched you nod once and drag your feet against the floor to your usual table. You sat there, staring out the window, your head tilted, and your mind elsewhere. Frankie took heavier steps than usual to alert you, but placing the sandwich in front of you still spooked you out of your head. You tucked your hands between your thighs and let the last bit of steam evaporate from your coffee and the grilled sandwich sit untouched until the fillings looked sad and undesirable.

There was finally a break in the flow of customers. Frankie’s head was buzzing, and his feet were tired. The breather couldn’t have come any later. Yet he didn’t take his break. Instead, he was drawn to observe you like you were a magnet to him. Whatever he was doing, he always made note of you. Something was missing.

“Could I get one of those big cookies?” A customer asked and it clicked instantly in what else was off.

“I didn’t order this,” you told him when he placed the thick chocolate chip cookie next to your laptop that you had managed to get out of your bag. He saw the screen; a text editor open with a margin full of notes and different parts of the text highlighted with red.

“it’s on the house,” he gave you a soft smile, hoping it would ease at least some of the anxiety that had made you look ill while reading through the document on your laptop. He wouldn’t have been surprised to see you burst into tears at any moment.

You thanked him without any sound actually leaving your throat before you got back to reading. He was bothered by the state of you. It made him turn on his heels and take those two steps back that he had put between the two of you.

“Can I ask you something?” He didn’t stop himself to consider before he asked the question, but it got you interested. You looked at him straight in the eyes for the first time the whole day and waited for him to continue.

“Why haven’t you ordered the chocolate chip cookie before?” The cakey cookie draws both of your attention to it and the question takes you by surprise.

“Because I knew I’d like it the most and wanted to save it for something special.” You picked it up and cracked a piece from it. Even Frankie could smell the buttery richness laced with the caramelly sweetness from the brown sugar the baker had once told she uses.

The chocolate was in big chunks, some broken, some sticking out from the piece between your fingers. Instead of taking a bite, like Frankie thought you would, you set the piece down on the small white plate and fixed your attention on him.

“I didn’t know you had noticed, or kept book of what I ordered.” The words came out like a question, but there was nothing for you to ask. You just stated the obvious.

It made the peaks of his cheeks blush instantly. How much more of a creep could he even sound like, asking you about your order. “No one’s ever noticed,” you said a little quieter. Your tone made it sound like you weren’t talking about the cookie anymore. The words held much more weight to them.

“I hope I didn’t overstep any lines, it’s just that you’ve become a regular here, orders are easy to remember after a while.” Frankie watched you break the cookie into even smaller pieces, some of the chocolate falling on the plate.

“It’s okay,” you assured, and a hint of your smile faded across your face. He would’ve missed it if he blinked but he couldn’t take his eyes off you. He never can.

“Tell me if you need anything else.”

You ordered one more coffee that day. You didn’t stay as long as you normally would, but when you closed your laptop, you looked a bit calmer. Your shoulders weren’t pulled to your ears anymore and you seemed to be able to breathe without much effort again. You seemed relieved. You waved him bye from the door when you left and the corner of your mouth rose just the slightest, telling him that you’d be okay.

The next time you came in, the next Tuesday, you opened the door and immediately when your gaze landed on Frankie, you glowed. You gave him a chipper, “Hello!” and ordered your usual mocha and sandwich, this time with the salted caramel cookie.

“So, how long have you worked here?” You asked him while he was pouring milk into the steaming jug. After that he gave you pieces of himself to you, answers that were insignificant in context, but they created an image of what he was like.

He told you that he hadn’t worked at the café for that long, but it was a job that he enjoyed. He took care of his mom, which made you ask if she needed to be taken care of. “She’s just getting older,” Frankie smiled to you. He valued his time with his mom, especially after his dad left when he was still young.

At the same time he gently asked you questions too, usually over the counter when he was carefully making your drink and hoping it would last a little longer every time so you’d have more time to answer.

When you came in, he continued the puzzle of you, collecting your words into his memory. How you moved out of the town when you felt the time was right, nothing really holding you back. You went far, but still came back to see old friends and family every few weeks. How you ended up wanting to come back for the rest of your studies, knowing this would be the last time before you’d need to properly start a career and wouldn’t have time to visit as often as you normally would.

There were moments when you would’ve probably spoken for a long time. About your plans for when you were done with your thesis, what festival you were going later this summer, what you still wanted to experience before becoming a full blown adult. “I don’t know why, but I want to go to the beach and have someone cover me in sand.” You laughed when you said that, shook your head and continued, “The problem is that I don’t want to be washing sand off me for a week after that.” It made Frankie crack up as well.

You would’ve told him anything. But then the mocha was ready and he had to set it on the counter and it cut you off immediately. It was like an axe to your words, cutting them short and making you laugh before you collected your thoughts and said, “We’ll continue from here the next time.”

As spring turned into warm early summer, the sun stayed up a little longer and the birds started to sing more as a sign of their little nests getting full, you smiled even more. There was levity in your steps, almost like you could’ve taken one last one and then flown away without looking back. You swapped your long sleeved shirts and jeans to tops and flowy, lighter pants and dresses. There was a glow on your face from the sun and when it rained, you welcomed it with open arms to enjoy the smell of summer arriving.

Every time you came to the café, you brightened Frankie’s day. Seeing you brought a smile on his face, warm richness to his voice, and his eyes always glinted when they found your brightness. You started to call him by his name and every time you said it out loud, he wanted to hear you say it more.

“Frankie!” You exclaimed when you reached the counter after standing in line for a moment. He had already seen you and you had given him a wave of your hand before you got back to tapping on your phone.

“Frankie!” You approached him when there was a break in the stream of customers coming in. You switched in which hand you held your empty water glass in every few seconds. He reached for it but you pulled it back.

“I wanted to ask you something,” you began and cleared your throat. “I have these tickets…”

“Hi, could I ask for something to be changed in my sandwich order?” A middle aged man wearing a pressed suit cut in and pushed you from the counter. You took a step back and gave him all the room he needed. Your shoulders deflated and you stood awkwardly, shuffling from one foot to the other. Frankie listened to the customer while his attention slipped to you.

“Thank you, and sorry,” the man apologized to you before he went back to his table by the corner where he had spread all his stuff.

“He was in a rush,” you joked flatly, staring at the glass in your hand.

“What did you want to ask me?” Frankie took in the nerves on your face and softened his voice. You avoided his attention as he tried to ease the strained energy between the two of you. Instead, you offered him your glass.

“Could I get some more of the raspberry and lime water, the container over there is empty,” you waved your hand towards the water station. Your voice was flat, admitting defeat.

Frankie wanted to know what you had in mind, what tickets you were talking about, he would’ve pushed for it. There was no chance for it though, the moment was over. You took your glass with a quiet, “Thanks,” and returned to your seat, burrowing your head in your work.

“Frankie, are you serious?” You once asked, when you saw the new cookie flavors.  White chocolate and strawberry, lemon and raspberry, coconut and ginger, and one that you wanted to save.

“Frankie?” You asked with a lower voice when there weren’t many customers around. He leaned forward instinctively. “Can you watch my stuff for a moment? I have to go make a call.” You waved your phone in the air. He nodded, all words lost when he was lost in your eyes in the closer proximity. He came to collect your empty plate and wipe the few crumbs off the table, and then stood by all your stuff like that was his job.

“Hi Frankie,” you said with mischief in your voice when you leaned against the counter. You didn’t have to tell him your order anymore. He knew it like he was the one ordering it.

“The carnival’s this weekend.” You swallowed after stating the fact.

“That’s what I’ve heard.” Everyone knew the carnival season was starting, information about it was plastered all over the town.

He could see the question on your lips, how they opened and closed like you were about to say something. You wet them with the tip of your tongue. Your eyes flicked to the shelves and machines behind Frankie, too nervous to look him in the eyes.

“Are you going?” You tapped your fingers against the speckled stone counter.

“Yeah, with some friends.” Immediately the hopefulness drained from your eyes even though the smile remained.

“That sounds fun. I hope you have a good time.” Whatever you had really wanted to say, or ask, drifted from reach. He wanted to believe you had planned to ask him out but chickened out at the last second.

“Are you going?” He rushed to ask when you refilled your water.

“Maybe.” You bravely held onto the smile even though it was slipping, cracking to show the disappointment that was already lacing your voice. You still waved him goodbye before you left, but you rushed off in a way that he hadn’t seen before.

Frankie straightens his t-shirt against his shoulders and sips at his water bottle. There’s only a couple of people left in the café and closing time is ticking closer. His coworker clatters something in the kitchen, but soon she’s whistling again to the music that she can hear through the speakers.

You would’ve come already, if you were to come to the café today. A sweltering day like this, wasted in a café, didn’t seem like something you’d do. “I can’t wait to hang out at the beach and do nothing all day,” you once said and even the thought made relief flood your smile.

“Frankie, can you come and help me a bit?” His coworker calls. Even though she was only supposed to clean the fridge, she has extended her task to include the cardboard boxes on the top shelves, with different types of napkins inside them. One is balanced against her chest, the other she’s barely able to hold on the shelf.

“I tried to wipe the shelf behind them but didn’t think how heavy they are,” she grunts as Frankie secures the box from her hand. “Thanks,” she sighs.  

“And you cleaned the fridge already?” He asks, expecting to see the stuff inside it organized. The door opens to a fridge that looks incredibly like it hasn’t even been touched.

“I’ll get to it right away!” His coworker pushes the door back closed, and him out of the kitchen. “Thanks Frankie!” She hollers but doesn’t get an answer.

“Hi Frankie,” you say, in your strappy short sundress, sunglasses pushed on top of your head. Sweat beads against your forehead. Your skin glistens from the heat and the sun cream he can smell from far away. Sweet peaches.

You have a flower-patterned fan in your hand which you wave towards your face. The space between where your collarbones meet under your neck is wet with sweat trailing towards the neckline of your dress.

“Hi.” He combs his fingers through his hair and takes the necessary steps to meet you by the counter. The question he had on his mind for you this morning drains out of him. He can’t ask you out. He’s convinced it would be weird, it wouldn’t be appropriate. You would probably run away without a second thought.

“I’ve never seen this place this quiet before,” you wonder out loud. The cooler air that you fan against your skin wafts towards him with every push of your wrist. At the same time he can smell you more, that sweet sunscreen that takes him back to his childhood. The hot days when the sand under his feet was too hot, the sunscreen sticky on his skin and the salty water slipping into his mouth with every push of his arms.

“What can I get you?” Frankie asks, not wanting to assume you’ll go for your usual this time.

“Lemonade and…” You look at the cookies and stop in front of the one that you still haven’t tasted. “One of those triple chocolate brownie cookies, thanks.” You fidget with your dress while he pours plenty of ice into a takeout cup and drenches them in the tart lemonade. He chooses a cookie that looks the biggest and fattest.

“You’re not working today?” Frankie asks when he sees a smaller canvas bag on your shoulder and how it’s not bulging with contents as your usual canvas bag does.

“I actually finished my thesis.” You focus on digging out a couple crinkled five dollar bills and push them into the tip jar.

“Congrats.” What else is he supposed to say? His chest fills with disappointment. You said it long ago. You were here to finish your studies and now you’ve done it.

“Thanks.” The silence between the two of you stretches and teases the lines of discomfort. The look on your face matches the bittersweetness on Frankie’s face.

“You’re probably leaving soon then?”

You turn to look at the sweating cup on the counter and swirl your straw through the ice. You nod before you open your mouth, “Yeah, in a couple of weeks. I’m on holiday until then.”

“I’m happy for you,” and Frankie truly is. He saw how much you worked in the past few months. You’ve earned to have a breather before you’re thrown into work. “I hope you’ll come and visit again.”

“Of course.” You smile that genuine smile that is nothing but you. It’s the first thing that lights up your presence and the last thing he has seen in the past months when you’ve left through the door to go back home.

You take your lemonade and wrap your cookie in a napkin, leaving the plate on the counter, and head outside, under the shade of the sun umbrella. You watch people pass by and bask in the heat while slowly fanning your face and chest. The sun is finally sinking lower and the lower it gets, the faster the temperature seems to ease up. Frankie’s coworker finally emerges from the kitchen, just as it’s time to start closing up. You’re still sitting at the front while Frankie sweeps the floors.

“Hi!” He hears your cheerful voice say to someone. The edge of the broom clatters against one of the table legs, his attention on you and the small child you’re talking with.

Your muted voice carries into the café, the rise and fall of your excitement clear in your tone. You’re showing him something while his mom stands next to you, they’re both listening to your words intently.  

Frankie continues sweeping, wanting to be done with work and get out of the sweaty cafe. The child’s high pitched inhale is clear and demands Frankie to look outside again. The air is full of rainbow colored soap bubbles. Some are smaller than the others but they all gleam in the golden sunshine.

The warm breeze carries them easily away from you before you blow on the soap bubble wand again and a burst of new bubbles escape into the air. The child follows the bubbles until they burst in the air. You offer the dripping wand to him, which he takes carefully into his small fist. He blows on it and the bubbles burst straight against your face. You pull back in laughter, wiping soap off your face.

“Frankie?” His boss calls for him, forcing him to meet her in the back.

The back alley is scorching hot, the sun trapped between the brick walls. Frankie drops the trash in the dumpster and takes his bike, the seat hot under his palm. This is the worst time to have his truck at the mechanics, and the only thing on his mind is driving with the windows down.

The air gets immediately cooler when he steps out on the street, the sun umbrellas closed and drooping in the light breeze. One of the seats isn’t empty.

“Don’t tell your coworker I stayed here even though she told me to leave.” You stand up and take slow steps to him. You take your sunglasses off and fidget with them, bathed in gold. You stop right in front of him and your smile pulls crows feet to appear next to your eyes.

Frankie is lost for words. Seeing you here, while he’s not in the café, is different, even though nothing has changed. Your closeness, the shy glances that you try to hide in the sun shining in your eyes while you don’t cover them with your sunglasses awakes those deep thumps in Frankie’s chest again. He’s even more confused when you put them in their case, and the case in your bag, no intention of shielding your eyes.

“Did you forget something?” Frankie’s voice is unsure, full of doubt on why you would’ve stayed after the closing time.

“I wanted to ask if you’re busy?” You swing your canvas bag next to your leg and wet your lips with the tip of your tongue. As he stands in front of you, he could swear it’s just the two of you on that street, bathed in the dark rays and the refreshing breeze that the day has been craving for hours. There’s salt in the air, blowing in from the coast.

“No?”

“Would you like to go to the beach with me?” Your voice shakes gently in a way that someone might mistake it for you being cold. Frankie’s heart flies heavily in his chest, the sound in his ears dizzying him into questioning if he heard you right. You beat him to it.

You switch your weight from one sandalled foot to the other and grab your bag with both of your hands. The uncertainty is back. You try to keep on smiling, but it falters the longer he doesn’t answer.

“Forget it—” You raise your hand in the air and are ready to wave it in the air to dismiss your question completely.

“Yeah, I’d love to,” Frankie snaps out of his reeling head, shutting you up in an instant. His hands sweat against the seat and handle of his bike. His mouth is dry and the pit of his stomach is filled with butterflies.

How long he has contained them, but you broke the jar with one question, filling him with the good kind of anxiety. He knows that whenever he gets nervous, he shuts down. Just like the first time he saw you, the first time you visited the café, his shyness takes center stage in how he acts. He gets quiet, his brain short circuits. No one else has been able to do that in a long time, no one else but you.

This time, seeing you standing in front of him practically radiant in the setting sun and by your happiness, he doesn’t want to lose any second of that to his reserved being.

“Hop on,” Frankie tells you gently.

“What?”

“I’ll ride us there.” He emphasizes the words by climbing on his bike, the seat still too warm even through his shorts.

“Okay,” you laugh and push your bag on your shoulder. Frankie offers you his hand, yours slotting with it like it has always belonged there. What he doesn’t expect is your other hand to land on his shoulder, holding on dependently as you swing your leg over the rear rack. You squeeze the muscle there, your fingertips digging into the tightness under his skin.

“Wait,” you say, and pull your hand back from his. Frankie misses the contact immediately, the imprint raising moisture from his palm. Your sandals scuff against the ground and the bike sways just a little as you find at least somewhat comfortable seat.

Your both hands are pressed against his shoulders, hanging from him awkwardly. Your hands are hot, gripping to him, and it makes his head spiral.

“Ready?”

“Mhm,” but you don’t sound sure at all. Immediately when the bike bumps on a crack in the pavement, no matter how much he tries to avoid them, you let out a sound somewhere between a screech and a yelp, your hands shaking and your balance flailing. Frankie’s feet are against the ground immediately.

“Okay, this won’t work. Wrap your arms around my middle, it’s more secure.” You don’t say anything for a beat, he only hears a light chuckle.

“More secure you say?” The meaning isn’t lost on him. You could understand his words in many ways, what wrapping yourself around him would imply, and apparently you stuck with exactly the one that suggests something else than riding a bike.

“You know what I mean,” his voice cracks with unintentional humor.

“Do I?”

“Yes, now just trust me.” You fix your chuckles and sigh out. Your breath fans against his back. You lower your hand from his shoulder, drag it against the muscle closest to his spine, and leave a trail of sparks that burst into goosebumps all over his body, every nerve ending awake and alert. Your hand rounds against the softness of his side, and over to his middle.

“Is this okay?” The question is full of uncertainty even though you’re trying to hide it under the smile he can hear in your voice. His confirmation gives you enough confidence to bring your other hand on him as well, tightly wrapping around him, securing you against him.

“You want to try again?” Frankie hears the drop in his voice and the slight tremble that your closeness causes. He can’t trust his voice at all, when you squeeze closer to him, your chest glued to his back.

“Yes.” You lift your feet off the ground and Frankie gets to pedaling.

You let out a squeak as the bike twitches into movement but relax against the broadness of Frankie’s back. The blowing breeze cools your skin and brings much needed relief for Frankie to keep his focus on the street and not in your hands that twine together around him in such confidence that it makes his stomach drop.

In the traffic lights you drop your feet against the ground at the same time as Frankie does and pull them back up when the light turns green. The salty water gets closer with every turn of the wheels. Streetlights flicker on and a deep blue mass swells across the sky behind you.

The sun colors the horizon in rusty yellows and oranges, the deepest parts already red that fade into the nearing night. Seagulls laugh somewhere up above, and the breeze turns cooler towards the sands that you’re already waiting to have under your feet.

You squeeze Frankie’s t-shirt into your palm, to hold onto him and to keep him close. There’s not much traffic around, some cars here and there, and the quieter it gets the more Frankie can hear the nerves talking to him in his head. For all he knows this could be a dream, after months of pining after you.

You gasp out loud when you see the sea. The horizon bathes in the last sunlight, wispy, blue and purple clouds swirled in like in the cookies you’ve been eating. Your hands untangle around Frankie and rest softly against his back. You’re pulling back, letting go, and the emptiness is already settling in with how he misses your touch.  

Your feet brush up against the sandy ground and you’re off his bike, off him, drawn to the ocean. The metal chain clangs against a railing as Frankie locks his bike to it, eager to follow after you.

You stand in the ocean, the waves splash against your ankles, and you look like a vision. Frankie sits further back in the warm sand. His toes bury deeper in, and the remnants of the heat keep him grounded. He doesn’t care if it gets under his clothes and if he’ll find it for days to come. It’ll be a reminder of this night.

There’s a bonfire that crackles and sparks embers into the air, some people around it laughing. They’re making smores, the burnt smell of sugar wafting through the salt for a second. You point out a boat in the distance, the lights clear against the darkening sky. The waves crash in mellow waves against the sand, leaving white fine froth on it.

A fancy restaurant by the beach has a live band playing easy jazz, the sounds from the soft saxophone and the piano drifting towards the water. You stand in the foamy waves, watching your feet get devoured by the dark that ebbs and flows.

Frankie holds on to your bag and sandals and watches you against the rusty sky. He could watch you until it was completely dark and even then, he could make out the silhouette of you against the night sky.

 “I’ve always loved the sea,” you say with your voice somewhere between a whisper and a soft sigh when you make your way back to dry land, like you were dreaming and wouldn’t want to break the spell or wake up. You don’t hesitate to sit next to Frankie, your thigh brushes against his.

“Thanks for coming here with me, I didn’t know if you’d want to.” It’s easy to lose himself in you. In the gentleness of your voice. Now in the warmth that pulls him in closer to you, searching for more contact with you.

“Why do you say that?”

“I don’t know, I guess… I guess I’ve been scared that I’ve read you wrong.” You swallow and lick your lower lip between your teeth. He might not be the only one who has been shy this whole time. Your confidence comes and goes, sparks every few moments and then gets replaced by a timidness that holds you back. You can’t face him. You can barely let your voice be heard over the lapping waves and the music from the restaurant.

“How do you think you’ve read me then?”

“That maybe…” You stop yourself. You play with the hem of your dress. The fabric bunched against your bare thighs. “I’ve been a bit scared to be forward, maybe, just because I wasn’t sure what you thought of me. That maybe I was reading the signs wrong, it wouldn’t be the first time, you know. That maybe, possibly, you might… I don’t know…”

Listening to you try to wade your way to the point through the waves of your nerves is endearing, while it’s also pushing Frankie to smile. His crush for you is pulling it out of him with the heat that spreads from his chest up to his neck and cheeks.

“I mean I’ve been wanting to ask you out for a while,” You finally admit and the crush he has been holding onto blooms into a garden. “And I wasn’t sure if you’d say yes but I had to ask. I had to know if maybe… you would’ve wanted to ask me out as well.” The words are out. You drop your hands and everything you wanted to say is now out in the open. It doesn’t erase the butterflies that flutter somewhere between the two of you, but finally having the truth out does bring out a safe peacefulness, something he can lean on.

“Hmm,” he hums out a breath. Words have left him completely. The warmth of your skin close to his is reminder enough for him to keep his head focused, his eyes on you and his heart from flying from him. He moves his leg just a little to get it pressed against yours. You’re waiting, your eyes on him, your body turned towards his.

“I wanted to ask you out the first time you came to the shop.”

The words take you by surprise. A smile spills on your lips. You try so hard to contain it, but hardly manage to keep yourself from laughing out loud.

“Why didn’t you?” Your eyes are tearing up, either from the breeze or the release of nerves. One lands on your cheek. Frankie is quick to reach his thumb out and catch it. The tear rolls down to his palm, heavy and beautiful, leaving behind a streak that gleams in the last rays of the sun. He closes it into his hand and spreads it onto his skin with his fingers.

“I’ve never been good at seizing the moment or being brave. I didn’t want to be a creep.”

“So, you’ve let me be a creep? Watching you work, coming in every other day?”

“But you’ve been working.”

“My thesis has been done for a while. If I was there only for that, I would’ve stopped coming about six weeks ago.” Laughter bursts from you and Frankie in disbelief. The more you laugh, the more the indifference he convinced you were feeling reveals to be plain blindness.

You press your forehead against his shoulder, a gesture he doesn’t expect but also isn’t surprised by. You’re in his space, on him, never breaking a boundary, but wanting to absorb him as much as you can.

“What have you been doing then?”

“Applying for jobs, reading different forums and articles, sometimes nothing.” He holds his hand out and like earlier, yours fits against it like it belongs there. It’s not just a simple touch anymore though. It’s revelation of what you’ve been hiding. It’s hope for something to come out of it. Whatever will happen might just be a short fling. Or maybe it’ll be the beginning of something Frankie hasn’t had before.

Frankie takes you home. The energy is different as the night has fallen above the town. The air has turned balmy promising a mighty thunderstorm in the coming days. It doesn’t stop you from pressing yourself against his back, sticking to him with your arms around him. He doesn’t mind it, neither do you. You only push in closer and hold on tighter.

“Thanks for the ride home.” You fix your dress and stand in front of him. Your eyes drift to his lips, and you wet yours.

“Sorry for the uncomfortable seat, I’ll have my truck back next time.” Your reaction is worth every word. The soft smile, the drop of your gaze, the hand that reaches for his and twines with his fingers loosely swaying back and forth.

“Next time,” you repeat back to him, the words hanging as a promise in the air. They’re wings to his heart that soars into a fast beat, excited for whatever’s to come and nervous of the same prospect.

“I better get going.” Your eyes still flit to stare at his lips.

“I’ll wait here, make sure you get home safe.”

“The door is right there.”

“I’ll still wait.” You reluctantly let go of his fingers and take a step back, then another before you turn from him. Frankie rests his hands on his thighs and waits. You dig your keys out and stop. Maybe you don’t want to say goodbye just yet.

The sound of your sandals against the concrete is loud in the quiet. You have a new kind of bravery in your steps when you come back.

“Would it be completely inappropriate if I kissed you?” Frankie’s heart is in his throat. He shakes his head, giving you permission to step even closer.

You lean in but you don’t rush into it. You bring your hot palm against his cheek, and further in to tangle your fingers into the hairs at the base his neck. Your first move is to press your forehead against his and take a breath.

Your chest rises and falls steadily when you close your eyes. He presses all the details of your face into his memory from such close proximity. Your lashes, the faint lines next to your eyes, the plumpness of your cheeks, the curve of your mouth which you breathe a heavy sigh from. Your nose nudges against his, as a final sign for him to throw away his insecurities.

Your lips press against his slowly, so soft it leaves room for so much more. Your kiss is a breath and Frankie needs to chase it to keep his lungs filled. It’s easy to deepen the kiss, to have your lips slot with his, to feel the tip of your tongue tease his bottom lip just to test how he reacts.

You press in closer, just to get Frankie to pull you in even more. The bike under him wobbles as he moves to hold you closer, from you pressing your weight against him, yet somehow, he’s the most secure he’s ever felt in anyone’s embrace. A sighed out moan vibrates in your throat and your hand tugs at the curls on his head. And then it’s over.

Too soon, yet just at the right moment. He wants more, his body craves you, and the blown out pupils in your eyes under the orange street lights is enough to tell him that he’s not the only one. You lick the moisture from your lips, the signs of his mouth from around them, and pull your hands back. The smile that he has learned to want to see appears again, this time with the heaviness of unadulterated lust on your skin. You’re an ember in front of him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” you pledge and give him one more soft touch of your lips against his. Frankie doesn’t want to let your lips go and chases after them with the kiss still on his lips. You giggle and pull away.

Frankie’s hand slides from the back of your thigh, right under the hem of your skirt and slips off your skin with heat etched onto it. His fingertips are sensitive from holding onto you so tightly, from wanting to have you.

You give him one last look from the door, and you fix your dress on the thigh he was holding. Your own fingertips brush against where his hand was resting, excited and like it was his place to touch. He hears your tender laugh accompany the wave of your hand, before you disappear from view. He brushes his fingers through his hair with the hand he held you with, the scent of your sunscreen tattooed on his palm now forever etched to his memory.

[leighsartworks216]

Prompt for whenever you want it: the reader grew up in a household where she wasn't allowed to be very feminine/like cute things. Her family was adamant that she be tough and that anything remotely feminine or pretty would be wasted on her. So she secretly likes cute and pretty things, but has internalized all the things her family told her so she never let's it show. I would love to see astarion pick up on it and how he would react? I just imagined one day he presents her with a delicate handkerchief with her initials (he embroidered them himself) and I practically bawled my eyes out 😭😭😭

Idk why I really struggled to write this one. I just had a hard time starting it. So I'd write an opening, hate it, leave it for a bit, come back, leave it again. But I finally got it to a point that I am happy with it

Astarion x fem!Tav/Reader

Warnings: vague references to trauma, self-doubt, swearing

Word Count: 1,041

Main Masterlist

Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist

AO3

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One gets quite good at reading people when that’s all you did for 200 years. Someone would twitch and Astarion could know exactly what they were thinking. Reading you was as easy as opening a book.

Every time you passed a market or merchant, Astarion could see the way your eyes flit longingly over jewelry or dresses. It was always brief. If the vendor noticed, they’d try pitching the item to you; the same old lines: “A beautiful necklace for a beautiful lady!” But you just smiled politely and shook your head, muttering how it wasn’t your style.

It was curious. Throughout your journey so far, he’d noticed other things, too. How you’d save the most beautiful, feminine dresses for your female companions. At first he just thought you wanted to give them something nice, but it was odd when you’d provide them an item much more suited to your strengths than their own. How your eyes would linger a little longer on flowers and lace gloves. But the moment you felt eyes on you, you’d turn away, the distant longing gleam in your eye replaced with a set determination.

He’d even caught you staring at the embroidery on his clothes once or twice.

(“Distracted, are we?”

“I was only wondering what it says. An odd poem for a shirt.”

“Hmph. Clearly it’s meaning is lost on you, darling.”)

So, with 200 years of experience, Astarion came to the only conclusion he could plausibly find. He accounted for your own attire - masculine or purely functional - your steadfast avoidance of anything feminine, the sorrow that visibly washed over you when you came across something particularly beautiful.

You didn’t allow yourself these things, because you couldn’t.

Well, you could, he supposed. But you weren’t. Perhaps, like him, you felt you didn’t deserve it. Or perhaps, like him, it had been ingrained into your very being that you couldn’t have it. Either way, the result was the same.

He wasn’t honestly sure what came over him when he realized. And it had taken him a few days to think about the idea that formulated unbidden, itching at the back of his mind in a way that put the tadpole to shame. But one night, after feeding (on you and a boar), he sat within his tent and got to work. He threaded the eyes of needles with practiced ease, steadily guided it back and forth through the material in his hands, creating elegant shapes. If he was being honest, it was some of his best work.

It took him even longer to gather the nerves to give it to you. You handed out gifts freely - armor, weapons, trinkets, blood. But he’d… well, he’d never really given anyone a gift before. Nothing as genuine as this, certainly. His mind, his own worst enemy aside from Cazador, kept plaguing him with thoughts of how you’d hate it. How you’d take one look at it, struggle through a smile, and tuck it away at the bottom of your bag. And so it remained in his belongings, safely hidden.

And then you just had to go and be so damn good. You just had to stand up to Araj Oblodra when she kept insisting he drink from her. You just had to quietly tell him that he could, if he wanted to, but only if he wanted to. And you just had to respect his choice. He’d never been so overwhelmed with emotion before. Nobody had ever done that for him. His choices didn’t matter, his comfort didn’t matter. But you didn’t even hesitate.

When you sought him out at camp later that night, you even told him he was free. No longer a slave who had to get on his back for mere breadcrumbs. Too many emotions - relief, fear, euphoria, worry, gratefulness - flooded his chest.

He cleared his throat. “There’s actually something I’ve been meaning to give you,” he admits with a nervous chuckle. “Consider it a… thanks, for what you did for me back there.”

He pulled the neat, white handkerchief from his pocket and presented it to you. Red eyes flit over your face, trying to read every little expression that passed, as you stared at the cloth. On the corner, embroidered in the same golden thread as he used on his shirt, were your initials. Immaculate and shiny.

Your mouth opened. Your eyes were wide, your brow furrowed and then raised. You struggled for words. You met his eyes with shock. “A-Are you sure? I mean, this is much too fine for me - I was happy to stand up for you - Not that you needed any help! I mean-”

“Darling,” he hushed. So you did enjoy it, after all. “It’s a gift. Consider it repayment for all the nights you’ve bared your neck for me, if nothing else. A simple exchange.”

A dying sound left your throat with a breath as you looked back down at the handkerchief. With shaky hands, you took it from him. You held it as though it was a religious artifact from the gods, not a folded square of soft silk with lace borders. It had the same smooth feel as running your fingers over the surface of still water. Tears welled at the corner of your eyes as you ran a thumb over the letters.

“I…” You took a shaky breath, looking up at him again through the building water in your eyes. “Thank you. I can’t tell you how much it means to me.”

He smirked, though your blatant joy made his lips twitch into the start of a genuine smile. “You… deserve something nice. Something more than, well,” he gestured vaguely at your worn cotton attire, “this.”

You laughed and brushed away the tears beginning to slip down your cheeks with the back of your hands. “You’re still a bastard.”

“Oh, undoubtedly.”

“But a nice bastard.”

“Careful, darling.” He leaned forward with an even wider smirk, fangs peeking out as a mischievous twinkle glinted in his eye. “We wouldn’t want word getting out.”

And if he caught sight of that little cloth poking out from a pocket or resting at the top of your bag, well maybe he let himself enjoy that warmth in his chest.

---

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[mogamuncher]

“You're on a path in the woods. And at the end of that path, is a cabin. And in the basement of that cabin, is a knight. You are here to slay him. If you don't, it will be the end of the world.”

Please accept my meager shitty art as we come back for part three of the "Moga fuses her hyperfixations together" saga! Aka: Slay the Knight AU!

Here's what I think Emilia and Subaru would look like, in true STP fashion I imagine both would never be referred to by name, instead being The Knight and The Frozen Bond (hah, get it?)

I made Emilia a little scary (and kinda Satella-esque), but that's mainly because from what we see in The Princess and The Dragon route, The Long Quiet is just actually fucking scary, so having Emilia be similarly intimidating would be fun.

Though I do think her personality would remain the same in this au, mainly because she's nice enough that she would naturally play mediator to the the voices, but malleable enough that she could just end up going with their whims when pushed enough.

Now for Subaru, I actually wanted to give him a definitive outfit that would kinda function like the Princess's dress, something that is a constant in every design but changed to fit the theme, the recognizable trait that showcases that no matter how fucked up these forms get they're still the same person

That's kinda why the little cape is there, it's supposed to be a significant design choice that can be warped with future forms

For the official lore, I like to think that it's still actually very similar:

The Frozen Bond, the manifestation/god of stasis, consistency, the chilling frozen in time allure of stagnation

While Subaru would be something like The Returning Cycle, the manifestation/god if constant change, perspective and identities splitting depending on choices, the constant cycle of time

Together they'd make the cycle of life and death, in a sense, and since Echidna in canon was trying to find a way to reach immortality, it is only fitting that she would split them apart and attempt to pit them against the other, as to goad Emilia into killing Subaru, this ending the concept of change, making it so that there is no means of which others can die.

But that's what I have for the moment, now, let's talk about some more ideas I have for the IF Barus

The Prisoner, my beloved

I rewatched someone playing her route and it dawned on me when The Shifting Mound described her as a vessel, but she's oddly a lot like Slothbaru

The idea of someone cautious to the point of stagnation, content to let the world pass her and remain in inaction, I mean, that's literally what Sloth is shown to be in the og series. That's also inherently what Slothbaru did when he took Rem's hand and ran away, leaving everyone else to die, but gaining a happy life for himself

Prisoner is like an Slothbaru that can't take Rem's hand, content to let the world pass him by for the sake of self preservation, but stuck in one place without the chance of running away, he can only wait and see because he's inherently passive, as he thinks he has no other choice

The Adversary, however, is the funniest one I think

Someone mentioned in the last post in the tags that Adversary is kinda Smolbaru coded, so I went back to read the arena fights in arc 7 and y'know what? They're correct, they're absolutely right, The Adversary is very much just Smolbaru

Which is funny, because The Adversary is supposed to be bigger and stronger than usual, though maybe it's either just that his personality is Smolbaru and his appearance is still intimidating, or we go all in and have Smolbaru just absolutely kick Emilia's ass with his bare hands in this one

Either way, I love it, also this is the route where Priscilla (Voice of the Proud) would show up, so having an Arc 7 Baru here would be a nice touch

Ok so I'm about to sound unhinged, but the Grey's

What if they were Natsumi.

Now, look, I have no evidence to back me up on this, I'm going off from pure vibes alone, but like what if

Honestly, it would be fun to have most of the Deadbarus be in some way or another Natsumi coded, though that would be fused with the Baru that lead to their routes in the first place (like Arc 1 Baru for the Burned Grey and Slothbaru for the Drowned Grey)

I mean, look at The Wraith and The Spectre

Imagine if the Spectre was more akin to Natsumi in her purest form, since the Spectre is actually surprisingly chill and nice about this whole thing, and then if you attempt to leave him there, you get the Wraith

A withered rotten version of Natsumi, falling apart at the seams and determined to hitch a ride and finally leave

In more confirmed Barus; Wrathbaru as The Witch and The Thorn, Greedbaru as Happily Ever After and Arc 1-2 Baru as The Damsel, The Nightmare would be Gluttonybaru and A Moment Of Clarity would still be Gluttonybaru but with more Louis/Rui elements

Again, I accept suggestions, and tell me if you want me to make more art for this AU, maybe I can draw more Barus and also the voices, who knows?

Edit: good news gang, I actually did in fact write this! The first chapter of this au is out here!

[bubbles-for-all-of-us]

I couldn’t get enough of Drunk Az being all baby and clingy with his mate … plzz write something about this 😭❤️

This is slightly suggestive but there's no full smut here. Also, I am in desperate need for Azriel after this.

One horny mate

Oh, he so rarely lets go fully. Azriel loves being in control too much to let a silly thing like alcohol take over his senses. Make him clumsy, awfully unaware of his surroundings. Not to mention that he keeps his feelings close to his chest and alcohol, as tested on Cassian multiple times, made one say things that absolutely shouldn't see the daylight.

So when he's ordered his fifth drink of the night, you can't help but raise an eyebrow. The past couple of weeks have been hectic. Azriel barely functioned. All he did was work and sleep. Sleep if work wasn't keeping him up and that was rare. And now that everything was sorted. Taken care of. You couldn't blame him for wanting to take the edge off.

Azriel's arm was loosely draped over your shoulders for the majority of the night. But now you gazed at him from the bar and oh the thought were far from pure. His black button-up was rather open against his chest. The sleeves were messily rolled to his elbows. Legs slightly parted as he nursed a glass of whiskey in one of his of his hands. Mother, was he a sight for sore eyes when he was like this. If not for the slight ache between your legs - a little gift from Azriel before you had entered Rita's. You would probably be dragging him to the closest pleasure room so you could sink to your knees in front of him.

"You're brooding, my love", you purr through the loud music as you make your way back to your mate. His hand instantly moves to rest on your lower back more like your bum but you don't say anything about that. "Yet, you love it. Gets you going doesn't it?", he says, so casually that you can't help but gasp. "Rude of you to go through my head",' you gasp, moving to sit down on Azriel's lap. "You weren't complaining about that when I...", he starts but you quickly put your finger to his lips. Azriel stills, before he's throwing his head back with a laugh. A teasing smirk on his lips.

He leans in pressing a tender kiss behind your ear, before leaving a couple more kisses down your neck. "You smell really good today", he hums against your skin. "Oh, so I usually stink?", you snicker, moving your fingers to comb through Azriel's messy curls. "I did not say that. You just smell exceptionally good tonight. New perfume?", he continues to nibble at your skin. Hand squeezing your hips. "Mhm...", you purr, "It's called one horny mate", you tease him, making Azriel pull his gaze back to your eyes, smirking.

"You think you're funny?", he asks you, drink long forgotten as his hand kneads your thighs. Fingers brushing way beneath your dress. "I think I'm hilarious, sweetie", you beam at him. Squeezing his cheeks as you pull him closer to your lips. It's rather messy. Eager and wild. To the point where your teethes are clacking together, but Azriel's palm is cradling the back of your neck as he deepens the make out sensation even more.

You're brushing your red lipstick off him once you two pull apart. Just now Azriel is leaning closer to you. Head on your shoulder as he nuzzles closer. "I wish I could lay on your breasts", he whines. His hand brushed the cup of your dress. "Azriel", you hiss before laughing, "You're turning into a baby". But the shadow singer only hums, "Your baby, though". You just shake your head, letting him nuzzle onto you. Going back to brushing your fingers through his hair. After a moment of silence Azriel says, "Can I at least hold your bum if the breast is unavailable, not that you usually complain about it. Cause I do it a lot. Don't I? To...", but you just take his hand resting it on your butt, earning a light squeeze almost immediately. "Happy?", you ask, "Sure, as hell not complaining", Azriel mutters.

[beekneelsformommy]

Open Windows

Emma Swan x Regina Mills

Summary: On a warm June day, Emma tries and fails at folding the sheets, but her effort is all Regina needs to feel loved. With ABBA playing on Vinyl, lemonade shared, and rain falling like a quiet exhale, the two of them find a calm in the neverending chaos including each other.

CW: 18+, Domestic setting, slice-of-life, Light swearing, Mild sexual references (humorous, not explicit), Mentions of mess/anxiety (cleaning stress), Cat-related mischief, Emotionally supportive queer marriage energy, Pure sapphic softness and marital fluff, Pride Month, Open windows, Summers day, SwanQueen, Married SwanQueen.

Word Count: 1.2k

A/N: This drabble contains: ABBA on vinyl, lesbian flag panties, Regina folding love into linen like the high-functioning wife that we all know she is, and one single shared glass of lemonade because romance is not dead. If you ever wondered what it feels like to be loved quietly and completely? This is it, never settle for less.

It was laundry day in the SwanMills household, on a warms summer day in the middle of June, temperatures were beginning to rise and Emma SwanMills was taking advantage of the warm weather by opening all the windows, blinds blowing in the air as she folded the laundry in her bare feet wearing nothing but a tank top and lesbian flag panties.

The air smelt of fresh meadows and burnt toast from where Emma had attempted a batch of toast for herself and Regina that morning—as usual she had managed to almost destroy the toaster and charcoaled bread, ABBA was playing on their old record player, and the smell of the vanilla and apple scented laundry wafted through the air taking over the smell of the burned toast.

Emma stood in their bedroom dancing as she refolded Regina’s blue dress for the tenth time, smelling it again—because it smelled like her wife and that always made her happy. There was a basket of clean clothes tipped over in the corner, the dishwasher from the kitchen was beeping, the noise carrying upstairs to the bedroom. Their new black cat called Midnight had just jumped out the window after knocking books and Regina’s perfume off the shelf, all landing on the pile of clean laundry.

Emma was now onto the sheets, and attempting to fold them—badly. It was not going well, she was shaking them out, trying to grab the corners, and by the time Regina walked in with their breakfast from Granny’s, Emma fell onto her ass with the sheet over her head and a loud grunt.

Regina stood leaning against the door frame placing the bag at her feet and folding her arms. She pressed her lips together, holding back her laugh, watching the disaster—seeing the disaster that had evolved since she’s been out the house.

“Emma.” Regina said, a smirk firmly on her lips.

“Hi…” Emma’s voice was muffled under the sheet, her breath blowing out an exhausted sigh into the sheets.

“Need some help?”

“No.”

Regina could hear the pout underneath the fresh sheet. Emma’s feet poking out as she stayed still, not quite sure what to do from here.

“Mmhh, okay,” Regina walked forward, crouched down still wearing her heels and black dress. She peeled the sheet slowly from Emma’s body and could now see the dishevelled woman that is her wife.

“I had it, you know.” Emma huffed, folding her arms like a child being scolded.

“Is that so?” Regina raised an eyebrow watching her wife sit there with a frown some how crossing her whole face. “Listen, I bought you back the egg and sausage sandwich for breakfast after the disaster from this morning,”

Emma tried to speak, to interrupt—to argue but Regina was quick, placing an index finger over her lips to keep Emma quiet “Did I say you could speak? No? The keep this,” Regina motioned to her lips, zipping them, “shut. Now, darling, if you want your breakfast, these sheets need to be folded which I do not think will happen if you do it on your own, or if you are involved at all,” Regina’s hand cupped just on of Emma’s cheeks, flushed with warmth as a sudden breeze of the hot summer’s day blew through the cool room “let me do them and whilst I am, you can go dish up breakfast.”

Emma nodded. Her hands reaching for Regina who pulled her up into a standing positioning and then almost combusted from laughter.

“What in gods name are you wearing? You look like—”

“Go on. Say it.”

“You look…hot.” Regina’s lip twitched as she looked her wife up and down, like a wife watching it’s prey.

“We’ve been married for ten years and you’re only now telling me this is what turns you on? Me in my lesbian panties and a tank top with no bra.”

Regina rolled her eyes, taking her jaw clip from the side behind Emma. She twirled her hair and clasped her hair back behind her head, grabbing the sheet from the floor. Regina grumbles about the mess in the corner but Emma, wholly lovingly steps in reassuringly. Emma stepped forward, air circling her bare legs, hands gripping Regina’s shoulders. “Gina breathe. It’s just a little mess, it can be sorted out, anyway this is what open window days are for, let a little air in, and a little mess. Don’t freak out okay?”

“I’m not freaking—it’s just—Emma this is not little.”

“Not to you maybe, but I promise it is.” Emma’s voice was gentle and reassuring ans she leaning in kissing the warm skin of her wife’s forehead.

Emma slowly walked away, picking up the bag of food by the door, pausing, one hand on the door frame, her head turned towards Regina who was folding the sheet with practised ease and like she had done it a thousand times before—she had. Emma was gawping at her like a love sick teenager, and Regina? She was trying not to do the same to Emma and they both knew it.

Emma left the room, smug as hell.

Regina continued folding, humming along to Bumblebee by ABBA that was playing on vinyl. Sunlight on her hands, the summer breeze clinging to the air in the room, the smell of clean sheets, freshly cut grass flowing through the room, keeping Regina at ease as she waited for Emma to bring up the food as she knew she would, despite her saying on countless occasions no eating in the bedroom—but just this once, Regina was going to ignore that rule she had. As long as Emma ate on a plate like a human and not a fucking chimpanzee.

Regina continued, and by the time Emma was back—Regina had folded all the sheets, clothes. She picked up the fallen clean laundry, along with her newly folded sheets, putting put everything neatly away after folding her love into that linen.

She knew Emma had tried her best and despite it ending with a wife on her ass, being strangled by a sheet, she had tried and that was more important to Regina than anything else.

“Hungry?” Emma asked, standing in the doorway, holding one plate and one bowl. The holding the egg and sausage sandwich the bowl with fruit and yogurt in.

“Yes,” Regina smiled, she grabbed the glass of freshly squeezed lemonade from earlier and went and sat in the nook under the window ledge, legs pulled up until Emma sat next to her and she lay her feet over Emma’s lap.

Regina set down her glass and took the bowl and plate from Emma—who then slipped Regina’s shoes off and placed them on the floor as they took in the midday summers air.

Emma took back her plate and the two of them settled. Both eating their food, drinking from the same glass of lemonade and breathing out.

Then the smell of rain came, light droplets followed, the rain it self felt like the exhales they both took—peaceful and the air around them was calm and fresh, just like the laundry that was now tucked away no longer in the chaos—and neither were they.

They only thing the stayed—their love.

[th-compl-x]

An Exploration of Function

So, I'm certain my system started with trauma.

I've seen a lot of silly discourse over endo stuff, and I just think people need to mind their own business and be more accepting, but - in my personal case - we definitely started with trauma, probably around 3rd grade (or possibly even younger).

Childhood trauma seems to be relatively accepted as the spark for DID/OSDD, etc. I can agree with this, at least in my own experiences and with other systems I've met and talked to. Still, while I personally think that makes sense for the START of a system (the psyche fracturing under immense pressure), I don't agree with it when it comes to the Alters themselves.

Again, I'm speaking from personal experience, but I really don't believe an Alter MUST be formed from some kind of traumatic experience. A system as a whole? Yeah, probably. I can believe that. But each and every individual fragment or Alter? Uuuh... no. Just no.

Honestly speaking, I don't even like that idea. It breaks my heart to think that a person's only option could ever be formulating from purely pain and suffering. That's... disgustingly sad. It makes me want to hug every headmate and make sure they're okay, which would probably confuse a lot of them because they weren't formulated that way. Yes, they've each suffered their own pain and suffering in their own lives and experiences, whatever lives those are that they've led, but they're not BORN from it: From MY suffering, at least. I think my brain just shattered one day, and now they are those pieces.

But all my Alters write their own stories.

A lot of them were born in happiness or built up from my own fascinations with particular sources of media, hence my immense amount of fictives/introjects/etc. But I don't think trauma = Alter. I think trauma can SOMETIMES = System, and then the brain does as it pleases. In my case? I think (in some cases, certainly not all!) I have nameless, faceless entities meandering in the backdrop like actors waiting for an audition, until I get hooked heavily on something like - let's say - Genshin, and then someone steps forward to try out for a role. Maybe they've played another "character" previously, like... Roxas, from Kingdom Hearts, or were an original concept now needing a new face to stay relevant. A Shifter from the Facility needing to be someone new to fulfill a job they've been assigned. Protector, caretaker, etc.

Maybe they don't do very well in that role and fade back into obscurity until a newer, better role comes along... Or, they do SO WELL that they simply become that person. Crast. Zhongli. He's the same person, just wiggling a little to fit into the mold. Maybe, even before that, he was Raphael, who even transitioned into The King in Yellow, Hastur. New names, new faces, new bodies, and lives and lovers. But, at their core, they're the same. Or, it's as I originally thought, they're all just themselves, and I happen to have a lot of them! 300+, in fact! (If not more now...) But, regardless, I know my boys aren't built from pain.

My Alters are crafting themselves from love.

So, to answer the question of, "How does my System work?" I'm still not 100% certain, but I think it's somewhere in that zone: I had trauma, that trauma broke me mentally, those pieces became people to help me stabilize, those people slowly integrated into my life via creative writing & roleplay throughout my formative years, "announced" themselves when they & I were ready, and now there's either a TON of people waddling around up here being silly and making my life a better place to be, or they're the same 50-something individuals just in a dressing room frantically putting on their next "costume" to keep up with what I'm entranced by. (Lol! What a visual 😂) Some remain the same no matter what, some age-slide, some change drastically! But, in the end, it's really all up to them who they want to be, and not me.

I don't have control over who is brought forward when or why, and I'm okay with that.

I'm just happy they're here at all and that my life is so much better with their additions to it.

And that's about that. 🤷‍♀️

PS: If anyone wants any further clarification or has any other questions, send an Ask! Even if it's not about this, send an Ask! We love chatting, so don't be a stranger, and don't be afraid to Ask the strange. 😘💕👍 Hope you have a beautiful day! 😊❤️

— The Complex

[tendertendrils1]

Hytopia Ball? for WIPs

This, I will freely admit, came about purely as an excuse to dress all of my favorites up in the most elaborate, modern couture I can find. They would look so good. Link would be wearing so many toys and nefarious BDSM devices under that dress. The sexual tension between him and Ravio would be off the charts. If I ever start up an R&R Pinterest board, a portion of it's going to be dedicated purely to this.

For the vague plot to hang the porn off of: Hilda and Zelda are both invited to attend a ball in Hytopia at some future date. Link certainly wouldn't be happy letting Zelda attend such a function without him around to be her guard, but it's Hytopia; if he's going to attend, he has to dress up, and if that's the case then he wants to be wearing something that will make his husband's jaw hit the floor. (Because of course Ravio's going too!)

[amazingmsme]

I'm curious, are Macawla's wings attached to her arms or are they separate appendages? And are they functional? Could she use them to fly, or are they purely decorative? I love her design by the way.

I was hoping someone would ask! It’s a bit of both? Let me explain!

So the wings start at her shoulder blades & form from her skin & blend into the dress & connect to the red wrist gloves she has on. She can take those off, but they’ll just dangle by her sides from her wings. She’d rather just keep them on, but there’s times when it’s useful to be able to tuck them away

& yes, they are practical! She can fly & glide around the circus, but she has to flap her arms to keep going, so she kinda flies like Wendy in Peter Pan 😂 it can be tiring after a while, so she’d rather just stick to playing around on her aerial hoop & silks

Thank you for the questions, I’m so happy you like her design! I feel the need to draw her again, she’s just so pretty 😍

[dialpforpomni]

January 2nd, 1987

New Digiyork. Wow. What a disaster. Not the epic, cinematic kind, either—just a straight-up, faceplant-into-a-pile-of-glitchy-junk sort of day. I seriously thought being a detective would mean, you know, actual detecting. Cool hats, dramatic chases, mysterious clues, all the stuff they promise on TV. Hah. Here? “Detective” just means “the person who gets the weird jobs nobody else wants.”

So, today was Day One at Precinct 4. The building? Looks like someone built it out of corrupted files and hope. The walls kept flickering like a busted old TV, and the floor tiles—swear to God—rearranged themselves every time I blinked. My brain’s still spinning.

Chief Gummigoo introduced himself with all the warmth of a tax audit. Picture a massive gummy alligator, always looking like he just chewed through a lemon. He’s got this whole “I will eat your soul if you annoy me” vibe. I’m just trying to stay off his radar. The guy is intense.

Then there’s Officer Chad. Another gummy gator, but he’s tall and skinny, and—get this—he actually shook my hand like a normal cop. Super serious, all business, and somehow makes this circus feel like a real police station. Honestly, I’m clinging to the hope that I’ll get to work with him. He might be the only one here with a functional brain cell.

Oh, but wait—Max. The third gummy gator. This one’s basically a bouncy ball in a badge. Short, round, and I swear he vibrates with energy. Big goofy grin, like he’s just happy to be here, which… why? He’s definitely the office clown. I’ve seen cartoons with more chill.

And then—Gangle. I don’t even know where to start. Imagine a bunch of red ribbons got tangled up in a Halloween mask, and someone said, “Yeah, that’s a cop now.” She—or maybe he?—looked like she was seconds away from a full-on meltdown. Twitchy, muttering, the works. Gummigoo swears she’s a genius at something, but what? No clue. I’m keeping my distance for now.

Officer Ribbit. He’s a frog. Like, a literal frog. And the nervous energy on this guy? Off the charts. Couldn’t look me in the eye, kept glancing around like the ceiling was gonna fall. I’m calling it now—he’s hiding something. Or maybe he just needs a nap.

Last but not least, the Mannequin Receptionist. Not a nickname. Actually a mannequin. Dressed like it lost a bet at a thrift store. It’s not even programmed right—just spits out canned sass and insults. I asked for the break room, and it told me, “Honey, with that outfit, you should break out.” Honestly, I’m still mad about it.

After all that, Gummigoo drops my first assignment on me like a ton of bricks: meter maid duty. Yup. Queen of Parking Enforcement. All that detective training, and I’m out here chalking tires because “we’re short-staffed.” Great. Living the dream.

So I spent my afternoon in downtown Digiyork, marking up tires and getting yelled at by… well, everything. A living mannequin shrieked at me for ticketing her and started ranting about “the futility of modern existence.” A giant candy guy threatened to melt me if I didn’t let him park wherever he wanted. Then some ghost lady whined about the lack of “spectral parking.” Oh, and the cherry on top? A Jack-in-the-Box shot out of nowhere and tried to bite my face off, shouting about oppression. I wish I was making this up.

It’s been one day. ONE. And I’ve already been yelled at, threatened, nearly squished by a homicidal toy, and insulted by a plastic receptionist. Digiyork is absolutely bonkers.

Detective work, my butt. This is chaos. Pure, digitized chaos. Honestly, I’m starting to wonder if I should’ve just stayed home.

I need a drink. Or like, twelve.

[judgeyyycadavre]

ITS EVIL TIME. POST ELTINGVILLE OC TIME >:o)

IM NOT GOOD AT REPLICATING ARTSTYLES, so i drew her in mine :o3

yes, my friends, this is dex!!!! peep the offbrand radiohead i made up on epilogue dex's shirt. and yes i know, a lot of my designs have similar outfits (red hair and converse and striped tights/socks), shut up-

duck and youll find out more about her!!!!!!

offbrand gorillaz too? wowie!!!!!! also, shes only happy cause her cd didn't get broken (or so she thinks..,.,...)

fun dex facts!!!!!!!!!!!

every year for halloween without fail she dresses as postal dude.

shes a stoner.

she collects knives, plushies, cds, and random rocks (mostly shiny rocks!!!!!).

she works at some rando pizza shop nearby.

in the epilogue, she still works at a pizza shop, but now makes her own music on the internet on the side (it does NOT get much traction but she enjoys it LOL).

she needs to listen to music every waking moment or she won't function properly.

she pirates most of the music she has on her ipod lol.

she does all her piercings herself pre epilogue, hence why the eyebrow is rejecting. somewhere between then and epilogue she retired it til it healed, then got it done professionally.

she is an only child

dyes her hair red and her eyebrows black. she was originally blonde! also yes, in pre epilogue version thats supposed to be a short side ponytail.

i cant think of much else to talk about..,..,... :o/

ALSO i dont have a picture for how she interacts with the others but i will say this

Bill: pure enemies. doesn't remember why he even let her join in the first place, but is mad that she wont leave.

Josh: neutral. sort of friends. he lets her rant about her favorite robots and stuff. she kind of sees him as an older brother type figure, but she would never let him know that.

Jerry: theyre pretty good friends, easy to talk to, honestly. does not like being dragged along for horror movie nights tho. :o/

Pete: the friend ever!!!!!! they both have similar interest, therefore get along pretty well. they have horror movie nights sometimes and drag Jerry along for funsies. i ship them only in epilogue lol.