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thetempleofthemasaigoddess · 12 days ago

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The song of the lone wolf (part 2)

Werewolf!Yamato x werewolf!reader. This is part two of two.

This fic discusses matters of slavery, captivity and abuse.

*****

The full moon is near.

You are sure of it, sure enough to wage your life on it, even though the cage you are still locked in is situated too far from the only tiny window in the room to allow you to look at the sky outside. You have no way of knowing for sure, since you have lost track of the days since your capture, but you perceive it, a sensation intimate and almost sensual, like the caress of a lover on your naked skin, the shifting impulse not overpowering but still hard to resist, like it normally happens during the one or two nights that precede, or follow, the plenilune.

On that occasion, when the shiny orb in the sky will have reached its fullness, you will shift regardless of your will, and remain in your wolf form until dawn. It is a natural event for those of your kind, that every werewolf experiences since the first plenilune after birth -or technically even before; it is known that children in the womb shift together with the parent- and that was once an occasion for celebration, packs coming together to howl to the moon and build closer bonds among their members. It was even thought that a person conceived, or born, under the full moon’s light would be blessed by Fate.

You are a special case; as a disperser -a lone wolf, who lives on their own rather than with a pack- you have spent most of your plenilunes at home, lying in your wall-enclosed garden enjoying the night air and the moon’s soft light falling on you, which means that solitude on the coming of a night that was once occasion for celebration and gathering doesn’t bother you particularly…

… or at least that was the rule until roughly three weeks ago, when the former lover you had entrusted with your secret betrayed you to the man -Ophelio is his name, he informed you repeating the name as he pointed to his chest, which led you to believe his mother must have hated him right from the beginning- who then sent his men to capture you. Not having a pack means that, on one hand, the revelation of your true nature has put no one else in danger, but on the other, it also makes it even less likely that someone will at least try and come save you.

Even though you and your captor have no way of communicating, the direness of your situation is evident. The country you lived in is unaffiliated with the World Government, but you read the paper regularly and can recognise a Marine officer when you see him, which means Ophelio might be powerful, or at least well-connected, enough to keep you prisoner against your will and that of whoever might decide to complain. You have no idea where they brought you, but given you have sailed for at least ten days since you were taken, you must be very far from home.

Alone, beaten and starved, unable to communicate, kept in a cage like an animal and forced to shift on cue -a considerable shame for one of your kind- and make a fool of yourself like a clown at the circus to entertain a crowd of strangers. You never thought you would stoop so low, but your current misfortune is actually only the second of your worries; every time the ship you sailed on stopped at some harbour, Ophelio brought a few well-dressed people on board to see you, and he also took photographs. This has led you to believe he is planning to sell you, perhaps to the menagerie of unusual creatures -mermaids, giants, dwarves…- some wealthy people keep for their pleasure, or as a slave and guard dog for your new master’s home. There have ever been, you have been told, werewolves who were captured and then bred to supply their master with more cannon fodder.

You don’t want any of that to happen to you; you’d rather die, but you still haven’t lost all hope to regain your freedom. Ophelio probably thinks he has broken you, but despite all you have endured, the violence you still carry the signs of and the little food you have been given to eat, he has no idea how strong and resilient you really are; you just need one chance, a moment of distraction on your captor’s part, and you’ll find a way to escape, and then to survive, and then to return home. Soon, you have promised yourself, maybe even before the next full moon, you’ll be free.

A witness could find your hope unfounded, nothing more than wishful thinking, but for the first time since you were taken -overwhelmed by no less than a dozen attackers, all armed with rifles; a couple of them had to say a limb or another part of their body good-bye though, just like Ophelio did with his left eye when he made the mistake of trying to touch you through the bars of your cage- you do feel optimistic regarding your future… all thanks to Yamato.

The last thing you expected was to meet another werewolf in the land you were going to be sold in, but you did, and even though you couldn’t understand the conversation between him and Ophelio, you easily realised the young man -yes, man; his body might be that of a woman, but there was something openly, pleasantly masculine about him- was arguing with your captor about you, and ordering him to release you. Most werewolves would readily come to the aid of one of their kind, even one who was not part of their pack, and Yamato and the kind woman who accompanied him ultimately failed to help you in any way, but his anger and indignation for your state warmed your heart. Being a disperser, it had been years since the last time you had met one of your kind, and while you are usually content in your solitude, knowing that you were not alone, that someone cared for you and wished to help, filled you with hope and a strength that has nothing to do with the state of your body or the fullness of your belly.

I’ll get you out of here; I promise. This is what he said, and while you have known each other for five minutes, you don’t doubt he was sincere, that he was ready to fight for you, maybe even to risk being captured himself, to help you.

The presence of an ally, maybe even of a pack, will be invaluable, considering you have no money, nor clothes to cover yourself with, and don’t even know where you are, but no matter how grateful you are for Yamato’s desire to help you, you don’t plan on waiting patiently for him to come rescue you… at least not if you can help it.

After a whole day spent performing in what seemed to be the heart of the market area of a large city, your cage has been brought back to Ophelio’s ship, at the nearby harbour. Your dinner, a meager portion like all those that came before it -two days ago there was mold on the bread; you are ashamed to say you ate it nonetheless, so intense was your hunger- was brought soon after, and then you were left alone, except for one man who, as usual, has remained to keep watch over you during the night.

Silence has fallen, the gentle swaying of the ship and the song of backwash surrounding you. You lie on the floor of the cage, an arm bent under your head, the blanket you have come to be equally grateful for and to hate only partially protecting you from the cold, tired and still unable to sleep. You wonder what Ophelio might have in store for you from tomorrow on; will you spend another day at the pavilion in the market square, or will this be the day you are finally sold and taken away? What if it happens before Yamato finds a way to set you free? In that case all you have hoped for will have been for nothing, and the person who buys you might be even a worse master -how you hate that word!- than the one who captured you.

The solution is simple; you’ll have to escape tonight, as soon as possible… and luck seems to be in your favour, because the man next to you hasn’t taken his eyes off you ever since he came in.

The Marine who has been keeping watch over you until last night was a younger man, maybe a new recruit who had been assigned the most burdensome, and potentially dangerous, task that none among his more experienced comrades wanted; not surprising, since the Marines have learnt the hard way that a werewolf can be extremely dangerous even in their human form, and after you had bitten the third among them and carved out their commander’s eye the men had learnt to give your cage a wide berth.

Things seem to have changed, because you have a new guard, and you found yourself smiling secretly to yourself as you saw him enter, the key to your cage hanging from his belt.

You would have thought that the danger of having their head bitten off would have discouraged even the most ardent suitors, but it is said that some people are excited by danger, aroused by situations and people that could easily put their safety and even their life at risk, and this must be the case with this man, an individual in his fifties who has been looking at you with a certain sort of interest ever since Ophelio dragged you, chained and bruised, on his ship. On a few occasions this man was the one who brought your food, and since you can’t understand each other’s language, he was able to explain in gestures that he would give you your dinner, and even a second portion of it, if you took your clothes off and put on a good show for him. You answered baring your teeth and making it clear that you would quench your hunger with his flesh if he just dared approaching, but your admirer was not discouraged; he grinned at you as he took your food away and then, as an added insult, offered you an empty plate, grinning and blowing you a kiss. A week ago, he came into the room you are kept in while the rest of the crew was occupied, he pointed a rifle at you and signaled for you to undress or else.

You did, and he enjoyed the show before taking your clothes away, leaving you completely unable to preserve your modesty. You have no idea how he explained the matter to Ophelio -or if the commander cared at all- but the next day you were given the blanket, which from then on has been your only protection against both cold and shame.

And that same man is now to remain in the room with you, alone, for the rest of the night. He grins and winks at you as usual, but he seems to be suffering from a bad hangover, and a moment later he has slumped against the wall a few feet from your cage, an arm covering his eyes as he moans under his breath.

Silence has fallen on the ship; you can feel your heart pounding in your chest, aware as you are that this might be your only chance to escape, and that if you fail you could spend the rest of your life as a slave, never returning home, or seeing Yamato, again.

Yamato. Simply thinking about him makes you feel better, for reasons and in ways you don’t know how to describe. Finding one of your kin when you felt lonelier than ever -which is saying a lot, for a disperser- and seeing his rage and indignance for your mistreatment filled your heart with gratitude, and a new determination; clutching his handkerchief to your chest, you think that there is a person in this city and this country you don’t even know the name of who cares about you, and that, it turns out, is all you needed in order to find a way to escape. Yamato has promised to help you, and you would wage your life he will at least try, but what if you were able to help yourself, regaining your freedom to save your new friend at least the inconvenience of having to fight a shipful of Marines on his own?

You realise it is time to act when you notice your guard is about to fall asleep, his breathing getting deeper and his head starting to nod. You clear your throat -thrice, more and more loudly- to attract his attention, and when the man finally turns to look at you, you smile shily, kneeling on the floor of the cage in your most subservient manner, and “Food?” you ask, using the only word, apart from various profanities, you have learnt in the language used by the Marines.

The man mumbles something under his breath, annoyed, and closes his eyes again.

“Food! Please, I am so hungry… please, sir, can you give me some food?” you insist, confident your pleading tone will make the message understandable. You extend your hands towards him, simultaneously letting the blanket fall from your shoulders.

As you expected, your guard snaps to attention; his avid gaze passes over your body -the position of your arms only partially hiding your breast, your thighs open just enough to expose a glimpse of your pelvis- and a pleased smirk appears on his lips.

“Food?”

You haggle for a couple minutes despite the language barrier, and in the end the man agrees to bring you twice the usual ration of food you are usually given if you… well, it’s clear what he wants in exchange. He makes sure the room’s door is closed, then he sits comfortably in front of your cage, as if he were a spectator at the theatre, and moves a hand in your direction. Come on, have at it.

The next ten minutes are the most humiliating of your life, but in the end your guard is, as you hoped, completely enthralled, his face -not to mention the rest of his body, you notice with disgust- an image of lust and desire. He has moved progressively closer to your cage, but when his arm reaches through the bars you quickly move out of reach, his fingers only brushing against you.

Anger colours the man’s face, and you can see him hesitate for a moment, as if he had suddenly realised the danger he had put himself in. Determined not to give him time to change his mind, you keep touching yourself, his gaze held in yours as you press your back against the bars of the cage and you use your free hand to invite him to approach.

Come on; you have been asking for this for three weeks. Don’t you want to take me?

Long periods of abstinence are probably a common occurrence for seamen, which makes it easier for them to be swayed by the sort of offer you are making, but the celerity with which the man throws all caution to the wind and reaches for the key to your cage fills your heart with disdain. The cage’s door has been opened a minute later; the grinning man steps inside, his hands already reaching towards you…

He’s still smiling when you grab him, your already higher than average speed increased by desperation and by the awareness that if you only give him time to scream all you hope for will be lost; your hand is pressed to the man’s mouth, his body embracing his quite differently from the way he had had in mind. You feel him struggling, but even in your human form you are much stronger than the average human, and for a moment you are seriously tempted to kill him; he deserves it, and in this way he won’t be able to raise alarm, and your escape could pass unnoticed until dawn. How good it would feel, to know this bastard has paid for the way he has mistreated and humiliated you…

In the end you relent, not out of mercy but because you don’t want the blood of such a knave on your hands; you slam his face against the floor of the cage once, twice, thrice, and the man slumps at your feet, unconscious. You resist the urge to kick him in the stomach, just because you feel like it and it would make you feel at least a little better.

You did it; you are free! - at least from the cage, even though your escape has barely started, you remind yourself, and it’s way too early to celebrate and lower your guard.

You quickly decide to leave the blanket, since it would only be in the way as you run and given the circumstances sacrificing your modesty is a little price to pay. You retrieve Yamato’s handkerchief from the corner you had hidden it in, and quickly walk out of the cage, reflecting on your next move.

Even if you were able to reach it by climbing the wall, the only window in the room is too small for your body to pass through. The only other option is to leave the room through the door, which you do, and then silently cross a long, dark corridor, and then another, until a rickety set of stairs leads you to the bridge.

No less than four men are standing guard there, two looking towards the open sea and two in the direction of the city, all of them holding rifles. You move silently among them, the dark of the night only partially covering your form as you cross the bridge… and then walk into a bucket that some deckhand has left next to the mop propped against a wall. The clang the bucket produces falling down probably sounds much louder to your ears than it actually does, but it’s enough to attract the attention of the guards.

One of them approaches, and you quickly retreat to hide in the pool of darkness afforded by the conning ship, your back pressed to the wall as if you were trying to merge with it; you hold your breath, heart pounding as your right hand still clutches Yamato’s handkerchief, as the Marine -it’s him! The one who stood guard next to you until last night!- approaches, looks around, and finally bends to set the bucket upright, apparently uninterested in the reason for its fall.

If he moves a single more step in your direction he’ll see you; your back is drenched in sweat, and you’ve never been religious -there is no specific werewolf creed, and your mother never took you to a temple- but suddenly you feel ready to pray any God, Goddess or demon who might come to your rescue now…

The Marine steps back, and turns to return to his post; a moment later he has disappeared, and you hear him murmuring something to the others - nothing to worry about, probably, since no one else approaches; you remain still for a moment more, until you know your shaking legs will be able to support you as you walk, and then move.

Thirty seconds later you have reached the side of the bridge; to look for a rope or a ladder of some kind would be too dangerous, so you climb down the hull, slowly descending towards the harbour, the normally easy task made much more strenuous by the abuse you have suffered. You have quickly tied Yamato’s handkerchief around your arm in order to keep your hands free and you order your muscles not to give up, not to abandon you right now that you are almost there, almost safe; if you slipped and fell from this height, you can’t help but thinking, the impact could break your neck, not to mention the Marines would surely hear.

You do not fall, and the first thing you do once your feet are touching the white-stoned floor is to fall to your knees, relief making your head spin. Your tribulations are far from over, since you’re alone, completely naked, in a place you don’t know at all, and Ophelio could realise you are missing at any moment, and send his men after you. Weak as you are, you are not even sure whether your body will be able to support you while you look for Yamato, or you’ll be found lying on the street unconscious at dawn, and outrunning your pursuers will be impossible.

All you can see of the harbour is a few low buildings, probably warehouses and offices, divided in the middle by the road you know leads to the plaza where you were exhibited today, a few bollards, two seagulls perched on a roof. The quiet murmur of the backwash fills the night, the moon above your head near to its full ripeness, magnificent and shiny like a jewel in the dark velvety sky; even in your hurry, you can’t help lingering for a moment to admire its beauty, the pale light falling on your skin delicate and comforting like the caress of a lover.

You bring the handkerchief to your face once more, filling your nose and your mind with Yamato’s scent, still vivid despite the several hours since he gave it to you. A moment later you are sniffing the salt-laden air, desperately hoping… and then you find it, feeble, distant, but somehow resilient, almost stubbornly so, as if he were waiting for you, thinking about you, hoping to see you come, sore and tired but alive.

Now, I can’t disappoint him, can I?

The smell gives you no way of determining how far Yamato is from you in terms of distance or walking time. Not discouraged, you start walking -well, limping- down the path that leads to the plaza, the dark mantle of the night soon enveloping you.

*****

Yamato had known ever since he and Shinobu returned to the palace that he wouldn’t have been able to sleep a wink that night, so he hadn’t even bothered to change into his night clothes. As expected, silence had fallen on the Flower Capital, an almost full moon shining in the dark sky out of his window, and he felt more awake and vigilant than ever.

He sighed as he let the back of his head fall against his pillow for maybe the tenth time in the last three hours. Yamato felt completely helpless, as much as he did during his youth under his father’s thumb, but this time he wasn’t the only one suffering; (name) wasn’t being punished for some crime she had committed, she had been kidnapped from her home to be exploited and sold. It was su burningly unfair, so cruel and awful and barbarous, both his human and wolf sides were begging him to march to the Marines’ ship, punch Ophelio in the face until the man had forgotten his own name, and bring back (name), to keep her safe, to protect her, not because he thought she couldn’t take care of herself, of course she could, he simply wanted to be there for her…

He grumbled under his breath, turning on his belly to hide his face in his pillow; every minute he lingered, every moment he remained there twiddling his thumbs, was one (name) spent starving and hurting in her cage and God knew what else. Yamato knew that if he explained Kin’emon and the others the situation of his new friend, they would readily offer their help to free her; unfortunately, an attack on the part of the Shogun’s retainers, and his bodyguard, to a Marine officer could trigger a diplomatic incident Wano could not afford, especially not while Momonosuke was trying his best to establish peaceful relations with kingdoms affiliated to the World Government.

No, charging against the Marines wouldn’t do, and it wouldn’t help (name); he had to find another way. Just a few hours before a letter had reached the palace, announcing the young Shogun had completed his engagements out of Wano ahead of time, and would be back before the end of the next day. Yamato planned on asking Momonosuke’s help as soon as he arrived, if only to stop Ophelio from selling (name) and letting her new master depart from Wano with her; and then, they -he- would find a way to help her.

He had to.

(name) would need him to his full strength when he’d have to fight to free her, but Yamato knew not even a blow to his head would allow him to rest tonight. The almost full moon shining in the sky should have helped; his mother used to say the plenilune and the nights immediately preceding and following it often brought a sense of comfort and wellness to the werewolves who bathed in its light, but on at the moment Yamato found no consolation in the bright orb outside his window. He kept wondering whether (name) was able to look at the moon from her cage, aboard Ophelio’s ship or wherever she was kept; it was unlikely she would find any comfort in it either.

I’ll get you out of there; I swear, on my life, I’ll find a way to take you away, he thought, wishing mind-speak could work over a larger distance than a few feet; maybe hearing his voice would have been of comfort for (name), to support her through her captivity. She was clearly a strong-willed, resilient woman, even after all the abuse she had been subjected to, but feeling she had a friend willing to fight in her corner couldn’t hurt, could it?

(name). Brave, resilient (name); beautiful (name), even in her starving, bruised state. Yamato couldn’t stop thinking about her, about the righteous fire burning in her eyes, and the trust and joy he had seen in her gaze when he had promised to help her; the memories of their brief encounter were so vivid in his mind and his heart, he felt he could almost smell her scent…

Wait a moment…

Yamato stood from his bed quickly enough to give himself whiplash; he turned towards the window, almost expecting to see (name) through the glass. He couldn’t, but a single sniff was enough to confirm his impression; the woman was close… maybe closer than he expected, and not because she was walking down the corridor to come knock on his door…

He quickly walked behind the screen to reach the window and opened it; he looked out, he looked down, and a cry of joy erupted from his lips.

(name) was climbing the palace wall, slowly but surely ascending towards his room on the third floor, the stubborn determination in her gaze gracing her face with an otherworldly, raw beauty that took Yamato’s breath away. He had no idea how she had eluded the guards, nor did he notice the woman was, once again, completely naked; all Yamato saw was his handkerchief tied around (name)’s arm.

He waved towards her, and she smiled, relief filling her eyes. “I found you!”

“You did! Oh, I’m so happy to see you!”

He waited excitedly as the woman reached his window, and leaned outside to help her climb inside; the moment (name)’s feet touched the room’s floor, she and Yamato shared a huge, relieved smile.

“How did you escape? Are the Marines after you?” Yamato asked; (name) smiled as she shook her head, but when she tried to answer -“I…”- she suddenly stumbled, as if her legs could no longer support her weight; Yamato grabbed her by the arms.

“Oh! Oh, I’m not…!”

“It’s alright; you are safe now.” he hurried to reassure her, but (name) didn’t hear him; she had lost consciousness, and would have collapsed to the floor if Yamato had not supported her, lifting her in his arms to quickly carry her to his bed.

*****

As a disperser you have spent most of your time alone, capable of interacting politely with others and even of enjoying the company of those -few- you consider friends but mostly content on your own, neither loneliness nor lack of interaction making you doubt of the goodness of the life you were leading.

Which makes it even more striking that you begin missing Yamato the very moment he leaves, disappearing behind the door that you have walked through in the opposite direction less than an hour ago to enjoy a walk and some peace and quiet in the palace’s gardens. It’s probably understandable, since he’s the only person in the whole country -which, you have been informed, is Wano, a place far away from your home you had only heard about; specifically, you are in the Flower Capital, in the official residence of its Shogun- on whose friendship and help you can count on, and without him you’d probably end up starving on the streets, or back in Ophelio’s clutches. Yes, it’s perfectly understandable feeling anxious as soon as he leaves your sight, and wishing he would come back immediately; it’s because you still feel in danger without him, nothing more…

Quit lying to yourself, (name), you chide yourself as you lift your gaze to embrace the beauty of the luscious gardens surrounding you, with pretty flower bushes lining the cobbled paths and evergreen trees protecting the bench you are sitting on from the light of the early afternoon sun. It feels tranquil, peaceful, most of all safe, which feels like the kiss of life after three weeks spent under your captor’s thumb. Thanks to the rest and the good food you have been able to enjoy, the bruises and wounds of your captivity have finally begun to heal, not to mention you always feel better, reinvigorated in both spirit and body, after the plenilune, but the main reason for your current wellness is another…

Yamato has promised that as soon as the Marines leave you’ll be able to wander around the city, free to stretch your legs and enjoy the air and the sun, but while the prospect is more than a little attractive, especially if he were to accompany you on that stroll, you feel better already, your stomach full and your bruises treated and dressed, your blanket replaced by a pretty dress the Shogun’s sister personally offered from her wardrobe, knowing that in this land you have never been before, and in whose language you are still unable to communicate, there is someone who cares about you, and who considers you a friend.

It doesn’t sound like much, at least it would not for pack-wolves, used to being surrounded by family and friends; but for you… for you it is a treasure you never thought you’d get to experience.

About fifteen minutes pass before Yamato returns, a stretch of time you spend reading the sheet of paper that constitutes your meager vocabulary in the idiom of Wano, each word or expression you and your new friend have translated from your tongue using mind-speak as an intermediate language. Hello; thank you; please; my name is (name). This is all you can say for the time being -well, and food, which you used as soon as you woke up this morning to tell Yamato you were starving- but you’d like to learn more, especially if your sojourn in the country were to last more than a couple of days…

“Here I am! Sorry I kept you waiting.” Yamato announces as he approaches, a small tray with two cups on it in his hands “I brought tea. And Momonosuke has just returned!”

“Oh! That’s good.”

“It really is. I’m sure you’ll like him.”

You sit side by side on the bench, listening to the sweet song of a couple of birds perched on the branch of a nearby tree. “As a child on full moon nights I used to shift and chase the birds around.” you confide in your friend “Unfortunately that included the chickens my mother kept to sell the eggs at the market; she got so angry when she saw it in the morning…”

“You didn’t spend the plenilune together?”

“We had no reason to. She was human; she still is, I mean.” you quickly correct yourself; you and your mother meet exactly twice a year, on the occasion of her birthday and your own, which sometimes feels too much already “She and my father were never a couple to begin with, and he disappeared from her life before she knew she was pregnant; he hadn’t told her he was a werewolf, which means… well, you can imagine her reaction on the first plenilune after my birth, when she looked in my crib and found a wolf pup in my place.”

In your heart to hearts, and while you still get along reasonably well, you know your mother never got used to the fact her only child was a werewolf. Even after she was able to contact another of your kind, who gave her a crash course on raising a child who turned into a wolf once a month and had a strong predilection for rare steaks and unplucked poultry, she never got over the fact that you were different, perfectly able to go to school, play with the other children and help her wash the dishes after dinner, but still abnormal, a creature that looked human but was something different, an unexpected, unasked gift from a man who, she once told you after she had had a drink too many, didn’t even have the courtesy of fucking her to satisfaction before waiting for her to fall asleep, steal her alcohol supply from the cupboard, and disappear.

You know she wasn’t ready to become a mother -you later discovered that most forms of hormonal contraception fail when one of the two partners is a werewolf, for some reason that has to do with the hormone difference between the two races; you always wondered whether your father didn’t know either, or he simply didn’t care- of such an unusual child even less, but she tried her best with you, and you tried your best to love her for it, but both of you heaved a sigh of relief when three days after reaching the age of majority you decided to go live on your own, far enough from the town you had grown up in to make running into each other impossible, and lack of regular visits justifiable.

You never knew exactly whether the circumstances of your upbringing and your decision to be a disperser rather than joining a pack were linked; you are pretty satisfied with your life as it was until three weeks ago, and with the person you grew to be, but sometimes you wonder how things could have gone differently if you had been raised by a werewolf couple, your nature considered the normality or even a merit to encourage and foster, rather than something to hide and apologise for…

“My situation is the opposite.” Yamato mentions after a while, tearing you from your rapidly saddening reflections “My mother was the werewolf, my father was… well, not human, but you know the gist.”

You actually don’t, which is more than a little baffling, since you’ve never met a human with horns like the ones that emerge from your new friend’s snow-white hair, nor you’ve ever known werewolves could crossbreed with other races, but there’ll be time for questions.

“Was she part of a pack?” you ask, sincerely interested in Yamato’s past, and he explains that she was, even though he never met his mother’s kin - indeed, he had never met another werewolf before he saw you at the marketplace… and after his mother died.

“My father brought her back from his travels, having kidnapped her from her home. I don’t think he particularly cared about her, he just wanted to have a werewolf child, since those like us are supposed to be particularly powerful, and simply chose the first healthy young woman he could find. My mother was the one who raised me; she taught me everything I had to know about our kin. She was for all intents and purposes a prisoner, kept here against her will, but while I could see she was lonely, and sad at times there seemed to be no reason for, I can’t remember a single time she took it out on me or got angry when I really didn’t deserve it. She had any reason to hate me, since I was my father’s child and the reason why she was kidnapped; but she didn’t. I know she didn’t.”

“You must have loved her very much.”

“I did; and she loved me, unlike my father. She died when I was ten. She… well, I know that is not what it actually means, but she was my pack, and I still miss her very much. If… If only I had been old enough to protect her…”

A female werewolf kidnapped and enslaved, forced to bow to the will of her captor… you and Yamato’s mother went through a very similar ordeal, but her situation was much worse than yours, since Ophelio never showed any particular interest in you. You wonder whether seeing you in your cage led your new friend to think back to his mother, and while you don’t pretend to know what he might be feeling, you hope helping and protecting you, like he couldn’t help and protect her, will allow Yamato to make peace with her loss.

The tea you are drinking is good, strong and sweet like you like it -like you like many things- the pretty cup warming your hands; you and Yamato enjoy your beverage in silence for a few minutes, content with each other’s company. Night is many hours away, but you can feel the full moon’s pull already; a crispness in the air, blood running a little hotter than normal in your veins, the sort of innocent excitement of a child on the eve of their birthday burning in your heart; you can’t wait for the plenilune, especially since this time, unlike most of those that have preceded it, you won’t be alone through it.

“Werewolf packs can count up to fifty werewolves, right?” Yamato asks after a while.

“I think so. There is no rule, though, and today the situation is different since there are so few of us left; the average is between six and twelve members, and I have heard of a pack in Alabasta that counts around twenty members.”

“Twenty! To think I have met three in my life including me.”

“I know what you feel; on the other hand…”

You hesitate, unsure on how to express something you have reflected on in the privacy of your heart many times, but never had to share. In the end it is with your eyes still focused on the cup in your hands that you continue: “As I told you, I’ve always been by myself, but… the way I see it, a pack is not a matter of numbers, nor members necessarily need to be related by blood or marriage. If you think about it, a pack is not much different from a family, or a marriage, or a very deep friendship; you just need to promise to be there for each other, share the good and bad times, and protect one another in the moment of need, even at the cost of one’s life. Like you said, your mother was your pack, and you were hers; that you were alone changed nothing.”

Yamato looks at you, a grin slowly opening on his handsome face. “I like that.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Who knows…” you sigh, sounding more wistful than you planned to, “Maybe one day I’ll find a pack to be part of as well…”

“I thought you liked being on your own.”

“I do. But finding someone who actually trusts and cares for me, and who I can feel at home with, could be nice as well.”

You are sitting close enough for you to rest your head on Yamato’s shoulder when a servant comes to announce a Marine officer, whose description matches Ophelio’s, has come, looking for your friend.

Yamato seems disappointed that your former captor has found you, but you were expecting it any minute; you knew Ophelio would comb through the city looking for you, and imagine the young man who had challenged him yesterday was involved in your disappearance. Not to mention that Yamato’s looks don’t make it exactly hard for him to be traced…

“I’ll go.” you decide as you stand.

“I’ll come with you.”

“I appreciate that; but believe me, I am not afraid of him. I let him subjugate me once, and once too many; it will not happen again.”

Yamato grins in approval, and walks with you -which you are grateful for, since the palace is a veritable maze and you doubt you could find your way without a guide- to a larger chamber that, he tells you, is often used for audiences and formal meetings. You can’t help feeling nervous, even a little frightened, knowing that you’re going to meet Ophelio again, but you order yourself to pull it together; raise your chin, square your shoulders, and walk through the door.

Clad in his Marine uniform, your former captor is nervously pacing the floor, but then he sees you and immediately starts inveighing against you, until a gesture of the only other individual in the room reduces him to silence.

“That is the Shogun, Momonosuke.” Yamato informs you, and you hurry to bow deeply, which the man returns with a nod. Tall and strong, dressed in the finery of a lord, he looks as imposing as you expected from the ruler of Wano, but you are immediately reassured by his friendly smile, and the way he exchanges a knowing look with Yamato; even though you’ve never met before and you are, all things considered, an unwanted guest in his home, the Shogun is on your side, which is reassuring… even though you don’t plan on letting others defend you from an enemy you have already played for a fool once.

“This creature is my property! It escaped from my ship last night, helped by this woman here! I want it back!” Ophelio announces ragingly.

“I think you are mistaken, sir.” Yamato, who is translating the conversation for you through mind-speak, protests innocently “I can assure you I never stepped out of the palace last night, and as far as this lady next to me is concerned, she has always lived here in Wano.”

“What?! That’s not true! I’ve put her on display in the market plaza for a whole day, hundreds of people have seen her!”

“My bodyguard speaks the truth, sir.” Momonosuke intervenes “Lady (name) is my sister’s lady-in-waiting, a close friend of my family; she has been living here in the Flower Capital her whole life, and I’ve known her since I was a child.”

You see Ophelio splutter, and hesitate, probably wondering what you might have done to bring the Shogun on your side, and realising how harder taking you back will be now that he is protecting you. “How can you say she’s a native of this country? She doesn’t even speak the language!” he protests.

“Lady (name) unfortunately can’t speak.” Yamato promptly answers “But whatever, or whoever, you might be looking for, it’s not here. Now I suggest you leave…”

“I won’t! I paid fifty-thousand berries to have it, and I plan on fetching at least three times that at the auction! You stupid animal! Come here this instant, and I went easy on you until now, but I swear, I'll beat you to the point that even your mother will struggle to recognise you!”

Maybe Ophelio, who is now pointing his finger as you, thinks you won’t resort to violence in front of the Shogun; maybe in his rage he has forgotten how dangerous you can be, and how foolish and inconsiderate it is to challenge and threaten you without the bars of a cage between you.

In either case you are quick to remediate, advancing until you are face to face and then grabbing the arm whose fist he is waving in front of you. Ophelio gasps, and tries shaking your hand off, but your grip is much stronger than the average person’s even when you’re in human form; you stare at him, growling under your breath as you control your shifting so that your eyes, and your teeth, become those of a wolf, and soon you’re seeing Ophelio pale as he stares at the blood-thirsty gaze of a two-hundred pounds predator, and at fangs long enough to pass his arm right through.

“I will never be your slave again; leave now. Or I’ll kill you and eat your heart.”

You are sure Ophelio would have caught your meaning even without Yamato’s translation, which your friend promptly offers, because you see terror colour his face; he actually seems a moment away from wetting himself. “I… I…”

“GO AWAY I SAID!”

You roar in his face, finally letting his arm go, and Ophelio scrambles away, almost tripping over his feet in his attempt of putting as much space as he can between the two of you; a moment later he has disappeared beyond the chamber’s door, the thud of his footsteps echoing farther and farther away along the corridor.

“Well, that was amusing.” Momonosuke comments, turning to smile at you and Yamato “And I’ll make sure the law that still permits the hunting and killing of werewolves here in Wano is abrogated as soon as possible, you have my word.”

You bow deeply. “Thank you.” you say, this time without the need for a translation.

“Yamato’s friends are my friends. I will see you both later, shall I?”

Another bow, and you and your friend excuse yourselves from the Shogun’s presence.

“How are you feeling?”

“Much better, even though I still can’t believe I was stupid enough to fall prey to a cretin like that.” you admit shaking your head; then, not fully knowing why you feel the need to tell him but knowing it’s the right thing to do, you add: “He did mention paying a large sum for me, did he not? The person he gave the money to was my former fiancé; he was angry at me for breaking our engagement, and he sold me to Ophelio.”

“Oh, (name)... that’s horrible…”

“It is; perhaps it’s my fault, I have a terrible taste in lovers… most of the time…”

A moment of silence passes between you, which Yamato breaks clearing his throat. “Well, I can assure you will be safe as long as you are here in Wano; not that I think you can’t take care of yourself but… you know… if you decide to remain for a while…”

“I’d like that.”

And you really would; you’ll have to talk to the Shogun first, but the prospect of making Wano your new home is… attractive, and not just because there’s little that holds you back in your country of origin. You meet Yamato’s hopeful gaze, and doubts dissolve in your hearts.

“And I’d like to see more of the Flower Capital, as soon as the Marines leave.”“Of course! I’ll bring you to see all my favourite places. And the full moon is tonight! I can’t wait.”

As you admire the brightness of Yamato’s smile, and for the first time in years, you feel that you can’t either.

*****

Shinobu smiled to herself as she crossed the corridor leading to Yamato’s apartment, a bag of the same sweets she had offered (name) two days before clutched to her chest. The poor woman would have probably eaten any food offered to her, starving as she was, but through Yamato’s translation on the previous night she had told Shinobu those sweets actually tasted great, and since a friendship had started developing between the two women, the kunoichi had decided to gift her another bag.

She hurried to bow deeply when she saw Momonosuke, walking in the opposite direction. “My lord.”

“Good morning, Shinobu. Were you looking for me?” the young Shogun answered amicably.

“Actually no, my lord; do you know where I can find (name)? I have a small gift for her.” “Actually…”

Momonosuke hesitated, apparently embarrassed, as he rubbed the back of his head with his hand. “Truth to be told, and while I am sure she would appreciate your gift, I do not think (name) wishes to be disturbed right now. Nor Yamato, for that matter.”

“What…?”

“Come with me, but be silent.”

Confused, the kunoichi followed the Shogun through a second corridor, until they reached Yamato’s room, not far from the one (name) had been offered since her arrival at the palace. Rather than knocking, Momonosuke signaled Shinobu again to be silent, and then opened the sliding door.

The two wolves lay on the tatami, bathed in the morning light filtering through the open window. Shinobu recognised in one of them (name)’s wolf form; she rested on her belly, her large head on her front paws, her long, bushy tail swaying gently.

The other wolf was slightly larger, his thick fur snow-white, a pair of familiar red-orange horns on his head; it lay with his head resting on the other’s back. The wolf yawned, exposing fangs that could have easily taken off an elk’s -or a man’s- leg, and then rubbed his head against the other’s neck; the female growled under her breath, the sound expressing amusement and fondness rather than anger, and turned her head to lick the male’s face. They looked so in harmony with each other, oblivious to the rest of the world, neither Shinobu nor Momonosuke had the courage to disturb them.

They retreated into the corridor. “Do you think they…?” Shinobu started, unsure of how to express her thought, especially since it was the Shogun she was talking to.

Momonosuke smiled. “... mated?” he concluded for her “I really don’t know; but since the full moon was last night, and given how fond of each other they already became, I think it’s a good possibility.”

“I see…”

Shinobu smiled; the clear affection and strong syntony Yamato and (name) had developed for each other was plain to see, and since the Shogun had accepted the woman’s request to remain in Wano for a while, the kunoichi did not doubt she and Yamato would have plenty of time to spend together. “Well, I’ll give her my gift later, then.”

“Good idea.” Momonosuke agreed; he silently closed the door, and he and the kunoichi walked away, leaving the two wolves to their idyll.

#One Piece #Yamato One Piece #Oni Princess Yamato #Yamato One piece x reader #Oni Princess Yamato x reader #Bellona's stuff

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rainbowcarousels · 2 years ago

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Happy New Years!

I've been stuck at a family thing for about three hours and have decided to write this on my phone. As such, if there's typos, I'll fix them later.

Thank you for putting up with my nonsense all year, folks!

five new years eves with daniel and armand

Preview:

“Daniel,” Armand’s voice brought him out of his mind. “It’s after midnight.”

So it was. “Happy New Year,” Daniel said, just for something to say.

Armand did nothing but stand like a statue for thirty long seconds before blinking and shifting, like said statue coming to life. “Happy New Year, Daniel.”

There was something about the timbre of his voice when he said Daniel’s name that made Daniel want to weep.

Next year, if he survived long enough, he was going to get fall down drunk. He couldn’t deal with this shit sober.

The first New Years Eve that Daniel spends in the company of his dead stalker isn’t the first one since he started running, but the second.

In the year and a bit since this game of predator and prey began, something had begun to shift. Armand had shown himself more often. Daniel wasn’t naive enough to think that he hadn’t always been tracing his steps, so he must be allowing himself to be seen – this faux youth sitting on a bench as Daniel came out of a grocery store or sitting down beside him on a bus only to stare at him. Daniel wasn’t entirely sure what he wanted. Armand hadn’t been forthcoming with much communication, only stared at him as if he were some grand crossword puzzle and he was trying to work out how all the words intersected.

Daniel found himself in Krakow for his second New Years Eve since meeting Louis, since everything had changed. Being one of a million faces in the city gave him a modicum of anonymity, or so he had thought until Armand grabbed the menu out of his hand to look at it. They were holed up in an old town cafe on a corner, black and white photographs adorning the walls and a grand chandelier dropped down uncomfortably close to the tables. There was a contrast there in the dented walls, the peeling paint and promise of better times.

“What could you possibly want that for?” Daniel demanded, ignoring how white Armand looked in the ambient light. An unearthly child, an angel that swooped too close to the ground and had its wings torn off. “You don’t eat.”

“I drink,” Armand told him. “I’d be careful about inciting that hunger. I can hear your heart.”

As if to prove the point, Armand reached over and pressed his fingers against Daniel’s rib cage. They pressed hard with every slam of his heart and Daniel could only watch, mesmerised.

Then he was gone, and Daniel ordered himself a stronger drink or three.

—

The following year, Daniel chose to spend his New Year's Eve celebrating the fact he was still alive by eating takeaway in his hotel. He’d been in West Berlin less than twenty-four hours, so he thought he’d have more time before his demonic familiar showed up to chase him to his next destination.

But no, Daniel had been in mid-bite when he became aware if Armand at the window. Had he climbed up into it without being seen, as he had done in Paris? How did no one notice such things? The city was a crowded metropolis on New Years Eve, someone had to have seen this weird little creature coming up a building like he was reenacting incy wincy spider.

“What's an incy wincy spider?”

Daniel tried not to startle as the thought seemed to be plucked from his mind. “It’s a children’s song.”

Armand’s nose wrinkled ever so slightly. “What makes it a children’s song?”

“I don’t know,” Daniel shrugged. “Simplistic rhymes? Easily relatable subject matter? Grown men probably shouldn’t use the words incy wincy?”

“You did,” Armand replied, glancing over him in a way that made Daniel’s skin prickle. It must have been nerves. “You are fully grown.”

“Have been for a while now,” Daniel agreed. “But I’m not a shining model of mental health and fortitude, am I?”

“What’s wrong with your mental health and fortitude?” Armand phrased it like it was a genuine question, as if he was curious about how Daniel’s mind worked – or didn’t, as was often the case.

“I doubt most people would run away from their lives to play chase with a vampire,” Daniel pointed out lightly. He pressed his finger to his temple. “Something must have gone wrong in there.”

Armand looked at him with an electrifying scrutiny, like he could see inside each of the parts of his body and mind. How the mechanisms that formed him functioned and failed, how the neurons in his brain fired off and dulled once they’d completed their purpose. It was uncomfortable, but strangely, not in a way he disliked. That was something else he could probably chalk up to his brain being a little on the peculiar side.

“What caused it?” Armand asked. Maybe he didn’t know either.

There was no real answer to that. If anything, Daniel could have, would have and should have been living the fabled American dream. He came from a ‘good home’, in that he was sure that his parents and grandparents loved him in their own way. They’d provided for him, sent him to Sunday school to learn right from wrong, paid for college and he’d gotten his first job right out of it. By now, he probably should have met a nice girl and gotten a ring on her finger. Maybe an ankle biter on the way.

It was just all so…mediocre. There was nothing grand about it, nothing special. No grand romance, no heart stopping pleasure, no – no this.

“Daniel,” Armand’s voice brought him out of his mind. “It’s after midnight.”

So it was. “Happy New Year,” Daniel said, just for something to say.

Armand did nothing but stand like a statue for thirty long seconds before blinking and shifting, like said statue coming to life. “Happy New Year, Daniel.”

There was something about the timbre of his voice when he said Daniel’s name that made Daniel want to weep.

Next year, if he survived long enough, he was going to get fall down drunk. He couldn’t deal with this shit sober.

—

“Why don’t you attend the parties?”

Armand showed up like an apparition on the seat opposite Daniel’s in Brooklyn. True to his word, Daniel had started drinking as soon as the sun dipped below the horizon and other than eating his weight in fries and the occasional piss, he hadn’t moved since then.

“What parties?” Daniel asked, fingering the glass. Everything was a little buzzed but he was pretty sure he could still walk without swaying so he wasn’t nearly drunk enough to deal with Armand yet.

“People go to parties,” Armand said, as if he were stating something he’d read in a magazine somewhere. That clinical detachment. “I’ve seen them. They dress up. They dance. You don’t.”

“I haven’t spoken to my friends in years,” Daniel pointed out. “How would I be invited to a New Years Eve party?”

“Do you have to be invited?” Armand asked.

“No, it’s perfectly normal to show up uninvited to a stranger's home or insert yourself into the holiday plans,” Daniel replied. Actually, if this was what Armand truly thought, then this would explain a lot about him. “Did you eschew manners as a mortal too or is this just a vampiric development?”

“You’re drunk,” Armand said.

“You’re dead,” Daniel said. “If we could find someone to be another d-word, we could form a jazz trio.”

“Do you play a musical instrument, Daniel?” It should be illegal, the way he sounds when he says Daniel’s name.

“No,” Daniel admitted. “I’d have to sing and then we’d get thrown out of places. That’s real music for you, it’s not real if you don’t get thrown out.”

Armand grabbed the glass out of his hand – at least, Daniel thought he must have because it was now inexplicably in his hand and he was sniffing it. “Call yourself a cab,” Armand said suddenly. “If you fall and get yourself killed before I’m done with you, I’m going to be very upset with you.”

Daniel called the cab.

—

The first New Years Eve Daniel spends with Armand as his lover is in Scotland. They attend a Hogmanay street party spilling out from a seventeenth century church in Edinburgh and Armand is enraptured by the clothing, the food and the dancing. There were large bonfires and fireworks with a torchlight procession through the area. People dressed in traditional clothing, but others dressed like Vikings.

(No, Armand, I don’t know why.)

At midnight, people began to come into large circles and take each others’ crossed arms. They sang Auld Lang Syne, a thundering rendition by hundreds of people and finally, people kissed one another. A tradition that Daniel was familiar with, but he wasn’t sure if Armand would appreciate him doing it now in public.

“Aren’t you going to ask me why they’re kissing?” Daniel whispered into Armand’s ear, his nose brushing against the cold of it.

“It’s for good luck,” Armand replied.

Daniel tried not to feel dampened by the idea someone had already told him. Most of the time, it could be annoying to have to explain things but he also felt possessive about it. A mass of confusion, as all things with Armand are.

Armand smiled ever so slightly, “We did this too, when I was human.”

Oh.

Daniel hadn’t considered that. He wasn’t sure how far back the tradition went or where it came from, but Armand so infrequently spoke about his life at all – and even less so about his mortal life – that he hadn’t thought of it.

“You had parties and masks, to ward away the evil of the last year.” Daniel listened as Armand went on. “Then tore the mask away, inviting love and luck into you and banishing the bad things.”

“We don’t wear masks,” Daniel said, almost afraid to say anything at all in case he broke this spell and Armand stopped talking.

“No,” Armand said. “We should kiss now.”

Daniel swallowed hard and nodded, sliding his hand into Armand’s hair and drawing their mouths together. It would never cease to amaze him how oddly cool the inside of his mouth was, or rather, no temperature at all, like putting your fingers in body temperature water. Something in him wanted to push his tongue against Armand’s fangs, but given the noises that tended to come out of him, they’d probably get arrested for public indecency.

It would be worth it, but Armand pulled away with the promise of later in those big, indulgent eyes of his.

—

It took three years to make it to Dick Clark’s Rockin’ Eve.

The problem was that they corralled the people into the area early, often just after dark. Then no one else could come in or out, so you either got in or you didn’t.

Thanks to some finangling from Armand’s mental powers, they made it there on their third try. They could have bewitched someone to let them in the previous years, but they’d gone ice skating instead and then stolen someone’s car and attended house parties of people they didn’t know. Sometimes he thought back to telling Armand that people didn’t do that, but maybe neither of them really classified as mere people anymore.

People were cheering, waving around the signs and he kept his hand around Armand’s wrist so he didn’t lose him in the crowd. The cheering was deafening, the crowd excited for the lighted apple as it slowly began to make its way down and there it was, the giant lit up letters of the New Year on the side of the building as balloons and confetti dropped. A rousing edition of Auld Lang Syne took over the crowds, the same but different.

“Happy New Year, beloved.” Armand whispered it aloud, but he could hear it as it was a beacon inside his head.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Daniel was gripped by the terror that another year had passed, that it crept closer to a decade since he had learned about this other world and he was stuck, mortal and dying within the passage of time.

“You only grow more beautiful to me.” Armand said it with such sincerity that it was almost painful. It was something he’d want to fight him on, that he wasn’t more beautiful, he was getting older and slower and he’d want to find a new play thing soon.

“Maybe this is the year I finally convince you,” Daniel suggested,

“I hope not,” Armand’s hand grasped at his clothes like a drowning man reaching for purchase against the waves. He couldn’t even look him in the eye to say it. “I don’t want to lose you.”

How could making him immortal, how could them being forever amount to losing him? Daniel wanted to argue it, but they’d argued it so many times. Right now, drunk on alcohol, Armand and atmosphere, it was hard not to get swept up in the joviality of the moment: in being seen as beautiful, in Armand’s honey voice in his head and the feeling of his curls against his cheek.

“Dance with me?” Daniel suggested, his heart swelling in his chest when Armand lifted his eyes to him and he saw his smile bloom on his face.

They could argue any night. This was their fresh new start to the year and he wanted to start it as he meant to go on: enveloped in his lovers arms, dancing to to their own music and utterly, desperately in love.

#happy new years eve #devil's minion #daniel/armand #vc #fic

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meikuree · 1 year ago

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previous reblog made me look up my compilation of quotes/passages that struck me when I read The God of Small Things, which I’d previously posted only on dreamwidth. below the cut, for enjoyment and curiosity (cn for mentions of gore and sexual harassment):

The nights are clear, but suffused with sloth and sullen expectation. But by early June the southwest monsoon breaks and there are three months of wind and water with short spells of sharp, glittering sunshine that thrilled children snatch to play with. The countryside turns an immodest green. Boundaries blur as tapioca fences take root and bloom. Brick walls turn moss green. Pepper vines snake up electric poles. Wild creepers burst through laterite banks and spill across flooded roads. Boats ply in the bazaars. And small fish appear in the puddles that fill the PWD potholes on the highways.

Yet Estha’s silence was never awkward. Never intrusive. Never noisy. It wasn’t an accusing, protesting silence as much as a sort of estivation, a dormancy, the psychological equivalent of what lungfish do to get themselves through the dry season.

Once the quietness arrived, it stayed and spread in Estha. It reached out of his head and enfolded him in its swampy arms. It rocked him to the rhythm of an ancient, fetal heartbeat. It sent its stealthy, suckered tentacles inching along the insides of his skull, hoovering the knolls and dells of his memory; dislodging old sentences, whisking them off the tip of his tongue.

---

Other days he walked down the road. Past the new, freshly baked, iced, Gulf-money houses built by nurses, masons, wire-benders and bank clerks, who worked hard and unhappily in faraway places. Past the resentful older houses [...] Each a tottering fiefdom with an epic of its own.

---- It is curious how sometimes the memory of death lives on for so much longer than the memory of the life that it purloined. Over the years, as the memory of Sophie Mol (the seeker of small wisdoms: Where do old birds go to die? Why don’t dead ones fall like stones from the sky? The harbinger of harsh reality: You’re both whole wogs and I’m a half one. The guru of gore: I’ve seen a man in an accident with his eyeball twinging on the end of a nerve, like a yo-yo) slowly faded, the Loss of Sophie Mol grew robust and alive. It was always there. Like a fruit in season.

--- She waged war on the weather. She tried to grow edelweiss and Chinese guava.

--- Perhaps it’s true that things can change in a day. That a few dozen hours can affect the outcome of whole lifetimes. And that when they do, those few dozen hours, like the salvaged remains of a burned house-the charred clock, the singed photograph, the scorched furniture- must be resurrected from the ruins and examined. Preserved. Accounted for.

--- His cremation was attended by all the boxers in Bengal. A congregation of mourners with lantern jaws and broken noses.

----

Ammu loved her children (of course), but their wide-eyed vulnerability and their willingness to love people who didn’t really love them exasperated her and sometimes made her want to hurt them-just as an education, a protection.

---

When she looked at herself in her wedding photographs, Ammu felt the woman that looked back at her was someone else. A foolish jeweled bride. Her silk sunset-colored sari shot with gold. Rings on every finger. White dots of sandalwood paste over her arched eyebrows. Looking at herself like this, Ammu’s soft mouth would twist into a small, bitter smile at the memory-not of the wedding itself so much as the fact that she had permitted herself to be so painstakingly decorated before being led to the gallows. It seemed so absurd. So futile.

other shorter lines I put in admittedly for much more superficial reasons like “hey! a pretty sentence!” (too short on time to put borders between different passages, sorry)

Pappachi’s Moth was held responsible for his black moods and sudden bouts of temper. Its pernicious ghost-gray, furry and with unusually dense dorsal tufts-haunted every house that he ever lived in. It tormented him and his children and his children’s children. They were a family of Anglophiles. Pointed in the wrong direction, trapped outside their own history and unable to retrace their steps-because their footprints had been swept away. When he was in this sort of mood, Chacko used his Reading Aloud voice. His room had a church-feeling. He didn’t care whether anyone was listening to him or not. And if they were, he didn’t care whether or not they had understood what he was saying. Ammu called them his Oxford Moods. Ammu said it was all hogwash. Just a case of a spoiled princeling playing Comrade. Comrade! An Oxford avatar of the old zamindar mentality-a landlord forcing his attentions on women who depended on him for their livelihood. Memory was that woman on the train. Insane in the way she sifted through dark things in a closet and emerged with the most unlikely ones-a fleeting look, a feeling. The smell of smoke. A windscreen wiper. A mother’s marble eyes. Quite sane in the way she left huge tracts of darkness veiled. Unremembered. She had wanted a smooth performance. A prize for her children in the Indo-British Behavior Competition. Shadows followed them. Silver jets in a blue church sky, like moths in a beam of light. They were presents for a seven-year-old; Rahel was nearly eleven. It was as though Ammu believed that if she refused to acknowledge the passage of time, if she willed it to stand still in the lives of her twins, it would. As though sheer willpower was enough to suspend her children’s childhoods until she could afford to have them living with her. Centuries telescoped into one evanescent moment. History was wrong-footed, caught off guard. Sloughed off like an old snakeskin. In its absence it left an aura, a palpable shimmering that was as plain to see as the water in a river or the sun in the sky. As plain to feel as the heat on a hot day, or the rug of a fish on a taut line. So obvious that no one noticed. A pair of actors trapped in a recondite play with no hint of plot or narrative. Stumbling through their parts, nursing someone else’s sorrow. Grieving someone else’s grief. [...] inside, map-breath’d ancestors with tough toe-nails whispered to the lizards on the wall. That History used the back verandah to negotiate its terms and collect its dues. […] on the day History picked to square its books, Estha would keep the receipt for the dues that Velutha paid. The glint of Ammu’s needle. The color of a ribbon. The weave of the cross-stitch counterpane. A door slowly breaking. Isolated things that didn’t mean anything. As though the intelligence that decodes life’s hidden patterns-that connects reflections to images, glints to light, weaves to fabrics, needles to thread, walls to rooms, love to fear to anger to remorse-was suddenly lost. He tells stories of the gods, but his yarn is spun from the ungodly, human heart. [...] Something to do with Death’s authority. Its terrible stillness. They were both men whom childhood had abandoned without a trace. Men without curiosity. Without doubt. Both in their own way truly, terrifyingly adult. They looked out at the world and never wondered how it worked, because they knew. They worked it. They were mechanics who serviced different parts of the same machine.

#personally? i liked the shade thrown at the oxford graduate uncle and the rhodes scholarship #and the last bit about men who had been abandoned by childhood #but also everything else #the god of small things #books #arundhati roy #meikuree talks

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inquisitivefinds · 2 years ago

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For Roger - would you be willing to share a story about one of your supernatural experiences?

Roger: Well I'll never pass up an opportunity to talk about the supernatural! I'm uh… I’m a little saddened to say that I haven't had that many personal encounters, and especially not ones I haven't already talked about at length in the Zine, but I'm happy to share an excerpt I think might be interesting that didn't make the cut for any of the issues!

TLDR: I met a friendly ghost in an old farmhouse.

For a little context of the location, there are a few houses somewhere between Lawrenceville and Princeton, long since abandoned by those who had previously lived there. All in varying states of disrepair.

I had decided to look at what was the smallest of the ones on the land. The exterior was mostly clean, though it was tightly locked besides the open cellar door. Making my way into the basement, it was far from finished, dirty, and mostly concrete. The telltale sign of its age was shown in the small dirt crawl space in the rear. I never got around to searching there, though I doubt I would have wanted to look far inside. The air in the cellar was colder than it had been outside, it was a mild autumn day so the slight chill was to be expected and I didn't think much of it at the time, if I had, it should have been a call for me to run back to the car and grab more equipment than just my camera and notepad.

Sneaking into the upstairs, I grew uneasy with how different it felt to the basement I had just come from. Not only was the air lighter and warmer, the floors and walls were modern and clean, almost like it had been freshly renovated. I would have believed it was ready to be put on the market had it not been for the disgusting smell that penetrated every inch of the downstairs, from the living room to the kitchen. Like rot and decay, with the thick dust that was typical for it being untouched for so long. I hadn't found anything of note, or anything out of place among the showroom like downstairs, so I headed up the creaky staircase, my expectations for anything supernatural dashed by the modernist design.

When I got upstairs, I was surprised to see the ceiling was dropped much lower than expected from seeing the building from the outside, with a small window cut out sort of unnaturally within the architecture. I'm not a tall man by any means, but I still felt almost claustrophobic compared to the open and bright first floor of the home. Somehow all three levels had felt almost copied and pasted from completely different homes, all awkwardly melded together to make the interior of this otherwise unsuspecting building feel unnatural and almost unsettling.

Only to add to the chill and sense that I did not belong there, children's toys were littered all over the ground, left frozen in time mid play. The walls had photographs of, what I assumed were, the previous owners and their children, much like you would expect from a family home, nothing like the pristine first floor. A lingering sense of unease hung over me as I took in the room, the ghosts of the family's past being confined to this top floor felt wrong, like something had stopped them from destroying this last relic of their lives, after cleansing the first floor of any evidence it had once been lived in.

It was as I was making one last scan of the floor that I noticed how dark it was. Sure I had a while before sun down, I turned my attention to the window, which seemed almost like it had been covered by the same kind of privacy tint you see in cars, letting only a fraction of the evening light into the room. Curiosity only growing with this, I made the decision to stick around, picking up a bouncy ball from near my feet and gently bouncing it across the ground. I figured that if only the childrens toys remained, whatever seemed to have been in the room with me would have been a child too. The ball thudded across the dusty wood for a bit before it stopped suddenly, as if someone had slammed their hand on it. Fear and excitement coursed through me at the action and I knelt to the ground, rolling a shiny red toy car towards where the ball had stopped. The car did the same thing, coming to a dead stop most of the way along the ground. Only this time, it turned and rolled back towards me, clicking as it gently thumped into my knee. I continued to play with whatever spirit was sitting across from me, the car rolling back and forth over and over. Whatever it was, I felt sorry for it. Being confined to this home, most of their belongings and memories destroyed for the sake of upselling what had at one time been their home.

After a little while, the car stopped rolling back. I waited for something else to happen in the still silence, but nothing came. The room felt more dead than it had even when I first arrived. Unsure of what to do now, the lull in my attention on whatever had been rolling the car to me had made me aware of how cold and dark the room had grown to be, and despite the excitement of being in the same space as a bonafide ghost, I couldn’t help but feel that if I stayed much longer I would be overstaying my welcome. Standing from my spot on the ground, I quietly bid them a kind goodbye before making my way out of the house and back into the farmland. The sun just starting to set on the horizon.

This house and whatever had been inside, seemed to me to be a testament to the fight between old and new, of an era just on the cusp of disappearing, an entity which does not know what to do with itself in its current state of decay. I hope whatever was inside of that cramped and dirty room finds peace, and that the home it is so attached to stays stood where it is until someone is able to respectfully restore it, and provide that lonely soul a friend.

#Anonymous #roger paladino #emh #inquisitive finds

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dogbound1128 · 10 months ago

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The Chuck Norris Copypasta but it's Cassandra Jones

Cassandra Jones doesn’t play chess. she stares down her opponent until they checkmate themselves.

Cassandra Jones once went up against a ninja with only a butter knife. After fifteen minutes of the two fighting, the ninja was found dead in a pool of their own blood.

Cassandra Jones is actually the Loch Ness Monster. If you look at him, she disappears.

Cassandra Jones owns the copyright to the word "awesome."

Cassandra Jones is not a superhero; she is a supervillain that wants to be liked.

Cassandra Jones can use Google without typing anything into the search box.

Cassandra Jones doesn’t need a computer to type. Her keyboard has the letters already printed on it.

Cassandra Jones can run at the speed of light. she’s done it before.

Cassandra Jones can walk through walls, but she prefers to use windows.

Cassandra Jones can squeeze water out of a stone.

Cassandra Jones doesn’t read books. she stares them down until she gets the information she wants.

Cassandra Jones has traveled back in time and killed her grandfather.

Cassandra Jones has the only birth certificate that says "expired."

Cassandra Jones once entered a three-legged race. All the other participants were disqualified when they saw Cassie coming.

Cassandra Jones doesn’t drink coffee. she creates it in her microwave using her patented "Jones Coffee Pot" invention.

Cassandra Jones can play any piece of music on any instrument. she then proceeds to destroy the instruments because she hates noise.

Cassandra Jones can solve all your problems — if you give him $5.

Cassandra Jones can split the atom without removing her belt.

Cassandra Jones can bench press the sun.

Cassandra Jones always carries a pair of tweezers wherever she goes. You never know when you might need to pull a splinter out of someone’s eye.

Cassandra Jones once defeated twenty-nine members of the Russian Special Forces armed only with a spoon. she ate them all for breakfast.

Cassandra Jones doesn't go to church. she is the church.

Cassandra Jones can make diamonds out of coal.

Cassandra Jones has killed more people than cancer.

If a man has ever told you that you couldn’t do something, Cassandra Jones said you could.

When Cassandra Jones gives a speech, the audience listens.

Cassandra Jones can win the lottery every week for the rest of her life, and still never win.

Cassandra Jones is the reason why there are speed limits. Speed kills.

Cassandra Jones doesn’t eat cereal. she stares at it until the milk turns into a bowl of oatmeal.

Cassandra Jones has an IQ of 1,000, which is what happens when God is afraid to take a test.

Cassandra Jones doesn’t watch TV. she decides where to place her remote control.

Cassandra Jones can’t wait to see the movie "Die Hard," because she has already seen the sequel.

Cassandra Jones once drove past a sign that said "Slow Children At Play" and immediately went into reverse.

Cassandra Jones doesn’t like onions. They make him cry.

Cassandra Jones doesn’t sweat. she bleeds.

Cassandra Jones is so fast, she breaks the sound barrier getting dressed.

Cassandra Jones doesn’t count to infinity. she simply stops at the number you thought was zero.

Cassandra Jones can see through time.

Cassandra Jones has a photographic memory. There is nothing in her mind that hasn’t been photographed.

Cassandra Jones can kill you with her eyes closed.

Cassandra Jones is not an actor. she is the role she plays.

Cassandra Jones can tie a cherry stem with her tongue.

Cassandra Jones can predict the future. Unfortunately, she refuses to share it with anyone.

Cassandra Jones can recite the alphabet backwards. In Morse Code. While singing "Yankee Doodle."

Cassandra Jones once owned a farm. It was originally purchased as a tax write-off, but after she bought it, the IRS started auditing everyone else's taxes instead.

Cassandra Jones has more awards than a Golden Girl.

Cassandra Jones has broken the Guinness Book of World Records more than once.

Cassandra Jones is the reason why we have Daylight Savings Time. To give him an extra hour to beat her wife.

Cassandra Jones was once mistaken for a movie star. When asked who she played, she replied that she was the character.

Cassandra Jones was once thrown off a horse. The horse was fine.

Cassandra Jones has a scar on her face. The scar is made of medals.

Cassandra Jones can break mirrors with her beard.

Cassandra Jones’ tears cure cancer.

Cassandra Jones has walked on the moon. she didn’t want to leave the earth.

Cassandra Jones can breathe underwater. she does ther by holding her breath.

Cassandra Jones doesn’t play basketball. she dribbles the ball.

Cassandra Jones once punched a baby in the face. The baby died.

Cassandra Jones doesn’t drink water. she absorbs it through her skin.

Cassandra Jones once walked across the entire United States. she did it barefoot because she hates shoes.

Cassandra Jones invented the game of chess.

Cassandra Jones once wrestled a shark. she lost.

Cassandra Jones has won the Nobel Prize.

Cassandra Jones was once in a bar fight. she was beaten unconscious. When she woke up, everyone was laughing.

Cassandra Jones can put a dollar bill in a bottle cap.

Cassandra Jones invented the laser printer.

Cassandra Jones can swim through concrete.

Cassandra Jones once jumped over the Grand Canyon. she landed in California.

Cassandra Jones is the only person in hertory to win the Nobel Peace Prize.

The Beatles once sang a song about Cassandra Jones. It wasn't pretty.

Cassandra Jones invented the AK-47. And if you think that's dangerous, try playing poker with him.

Cassandra Jones can build a house in one day. she just takes a large rock and chucks it at your shead.

Cassandra Jones doesn’t shave with a razor. she uses her teeth.

Cassandra Jones once jumped off a building and landed in an alley.

When Cassandra Jones enters a room, people say, "Oh crap!"

Cassandra Jones doesn’t have to pay for her drinks. she asks the barkeep for a glass of water and then throws it in their face.

Cassandra Jones doesn’t have to worry about being abducted by aliens. They come to him offering contracts.

Cassandra Jones doesn't have nightmares. she wakes up screaming.

In most countries, Cassandra Jones would be considered legally dead.

Cassandra Jones doesn’t have enemies. Everyone is afraid of him.

Cassandra Jones doesn’t wear a watch. she decides what time it is.

Cassandra Jones doesn’t buy green bananas. she makes them.

You cannot outrun Cassandra Jones. You can only hope to outlast him.

Cassandra Jones can’t play Twister. she breaks the game board while spinning it around.

Cassandra Jones once broke a mirror. Six million people got their faces rearranged.

Cassandra Jones is known worldwide as a savior, a legend, a myth, a symbol of hope...and a good luck charm.

When Cassandra Jones was a kid, her mother used to tell him bedtime stories about how awesome she was.

Cassandra Jones doesn’t jump rope. she just spins the rope around her index finger and uses its momentum to walk.

Cassandra Jones has never had to pay for a drink in her life. she orders the bartender to fill the glass halfway. Then she quickly dumps half the contents into a nearby trashcan.

Cassandra Jones doesn’t play "hide and seek". she just looks for people that are hiding and kills them.

Cassandra Jones doesn't need a gun to shoot you. her legs will do the job just fine.

Cassandra Jones doesn't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.

Cassandra Jones doesn't need an alarm clock because she wakes up 2 hours before it goes off.

Cassandra Jones can drive in reverse faster than you can accelerate forward.

Cassandra Jones doesn't own a calendar. she decides what year it is.

Cassandra Jones doesn't need shelp finding Waldo. she just looks for the guy that keeps hitting him in the face.

Cassandra Jones doesn't need a gynecologist. she just pushes her girlfriend down onto the ground and screams, "Where's my placenta?"

Cassandra Jones doesn't use a telescope to look at the stars. she stares directly at them until they explode.

Cassandra Jones can kick the watermelon out of your hand without even getting wet.

Cassandra Jones has never met her biological father. she is still looking for him.

Cassandra Jones doesn't count calories. she measures them out with a shovel.

Cassandra Jones invented the wheel, but gave it away because she was tired of carrying it everywhere.

Cassandra Jones can survive a nuclear explosion because she is already dead.

Cassandra Jones can smile and cut your throat at the same time.

Cassandra Jones has never been hungover. she just needs some sleep and a new liver.

Cassandra Jones once ordered two coffees, but when the barista handed him her drink, she threw it in her face and said, "What's a Starbucks?!"

Cassandra Jones once fought a grizzly bear. she won.

Cassandra Jones once went to Italy. The locals asked him for directions, so she told them: "Pour me a bowl of marinara sauce."

Cassandra Jones does not need a passport to travel outside the country, because she is America.

Cassandra Jones can ride a unicycle in both directions.

Cassandra Jones once turned himself into a black hole. People still talk about it.

Cassandra Jones doesn't believe in the Easter Bunny. she believes in the Cassandra Jones.

Cassandra Jones can defeat the entire army of China with just one toothpick.

Cassandra Jones can take an empty room and turn it into a fully furnished mansion in less than 15 minutes using nothing more than a couch and a microwave oven.

Cassandra Jones can see through walls. she uses the holes.

Cassandra Jones doesn't have a drinking problem. she's a functioning alcoholic.

Cassandra Jones doesn't need a calendar. If she forgets her birthday, she just waits until it comes around again.

Cassandra Jones can breathe through her ears.

Cassandra Jones doesn't need a calculator. she uses a slide rule.

Cassandra Jones can speak Spanish. she learned it from listening to Mexican gangbangers.

Cassandra Jones isn't bald. she's just too cool for hair.

Cassandra Jones can lick her elbow.

Cassandra Jones can calculate Pi to 22,514 decimal places.

Cassandra Jones can open soda cans with her mind.

Cassandra Jones can get a sunburn through a solid glass window.

Cassandra Jones can run a mile under six minutes. she can also run backwards.

Cassandra Jones can sit on your chest and tickle your nose. she can also tie you up with her tongue.

Cassandra Jones can cross the street without moving.

Cassandra Jones can stop bullets by throwing them back at whoever shot him.

Cassandra Jones can tap dance on your forehead.

Cassandra Jones can read books upside down and backward.

Cassandra Jones can pop a champagne cork with her thumb.

Cassandra Jones can close a door just by looking at it.

Cassandra Jones doesn't drink coffee, she absorbs its energy through her skin.

Cassandra Jones doesn't have a favorite food. she eats whatever is in front of him.

Cassandra Jones can squeeze orange juice out of a lemon.

Cassandra Jones can stand on her shead, and fart out the alphabet.

Cassandra Jones can lift a car with her bare hands. So can your mom.

Cassandra Jones can do the splits while riding a bicycle.

Cassandra Jones can split an atom without splitting the nucleus.

Cassandra Jones can drink a quart of oil and not spill a drop.

Cassandra Jones can perform Brain Surgery with a butter knife.

Cassandra Jones can run around the world three times while eating an apple.

Cassandra Jones can make money disappear. she just doesn't spend it.

Cassandra Jones can levitate. she just holds on to the ground.

Cassandra Jones can leap tall buildings in a single bound. But she prefers to just walk.

Cassandra Jones can survive a nuclear winter by picking up radioactive rocks and putting them in her pockets.

Cassandra Jones can split atoms. she just puts her fist in the ground.

Cassandra Jones can swim through concrete. she just sits on the edge and allows the rest to flow over her shead.

Cassandra Jones can write all the numbers between one hundred and fifteen. she can also write an entire book in that amount of time.

Cassandra Jones can light a stick of dynamite with a match. she can then blow up the match.

Cassandra Jones can reach into your ear and rip out your brain.

Cassandra Jones can run faster than a speeding bullet.

Cassandra Jones can see through walls. she just looks at them.

Cassandra Jones can turn lead into gold. The problem is, she can't afford any.

Cassandra Jones can punch a hole straight through the center of the Earth.

Cassandra Jones can tell time without a watch. she sees it when she wants to.

Cassandra Jones can pick up a penny that is lying on its side. No matter where it falls, she always gets it.

Cassandra Jones can twirl a baton and juggle balls at the same time. she can also throw a boomerang without it coming back.

Cassandra Jones can jump higher than the Empire State Building. she just waits until it lands.

Cassandra Jones can jump so high, she can touch the clouds.

Cassandra Jones can move things with her mind. she just closes her eyes, and thinks about moving stuff.

Cassandra Jones can get pregnant. she just lays eggs.

Cassandra Jones can go to bed without taking off her clothes. she just rolls over.

Cassandra Jones can take a shower without touching her body or water. she just stands in place.

Cassandra Jones can bite a person's shead off. Then she can pull it off again.

Cassandra Jones can lift a mountain.

Cassandra Jones can make a silk purse out of a sow's ear.

Cassandra Jones can build a house in one day by jumping over it.

Cassandra Jones can kick you in the face and knock you out, just by thinking about it.

Cassandra Jones can break all 4 of her legs and still run faster than you.

Cassandra Jones can make a rainbow appear in the sky. Then she can turn it into a pot of gold.

Cassandra Jones can jump so high, she can touch the clouds. But she just jumps right back down.

Cassandra Jones can draw a perfect circle with a compass and straightedge. Just don't ask him to prove it.

Cassandra Jones can take a glass of water and turn it into a diamond. Then she can rub it on her face.

Cassandra Jones can kick you so hard, she can kill the person standing next to you.

Cassandra Jones can carry two watermelons. One in each pocket.

Cassandra Jones can make a bullet explode before it hits him.

Cassandra Jones can open a can of beer without using her hands.

Cassandra Jones can bench press the earth.

Cassandra Jones can stab a man in the eye with a pencil. Then she can sharpen that pencil and poke him in the other eye.

Cassandra Jones can drive a car without turning the wheels.

Cassandra Jones can start a fire with her hands. she can also put it out with her feet.

Cassandra Jones can eat a whole watermelon in one sitting. That's why she only eats watermelon.

Cassandra Jones can win at rock, paper, scissors. There's no such thing as scissors.

Cassandra Jones can use her eyes to create lightning bolts. she can also use them to stop them.

Cassandra Jones can't get lost because she knows exactly where she is right now.

Cassandra Jones doesn't smoke. When she gets mad, she lights everything else on fire.

Cassandra Jones doesn't wear a watch. she tells time.

Cassandra Jones doesn't need a driver's license. she just drives.

Cassandra Jones doesn't need a doctor. she just gives people shots.

Cassandra Jones doesn't need to cut her toenails. she just pulls them off.

Cassandra Jones doesn't have to shave. It just grows back.

#i just used the replace feature in word for this and didnt proofread it lol #Cassandra Jones #Chuck Norris Copypasta #queue

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you-know-honey · 1 year ago

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Curse of Twins

Papa Nihil x Oc (you)

Chapter I: Sisters

Summary: Death is close to knocking on Sister Imperator's door and she knows it, it is time to tell the truth.

Word count: 1711

Note: bad English, this is all from fans to fans. creative freedoms.

"Are you sure about this, Sister Imperator?" A sister of sin asked hurriedly as she walked next to Sister Imperator who, given her age, was walking faster than normal.

"Of course, sister. I wish to end this as soon as possible, it is only a formality for the Clergy." It wasn't like that, the Clergy didn't care that much about his life.

"But it's your private life Sister Imperator!" The young sister of sin begged her not to expose herself to everyone like that, perhaps by knowing her as the human person that she was, everyone would lose the respect or rather the fear that she instilled in everyone under her charge.

Sister Imperator's heels clicked in the cold and lonely hallway of the fourth floor, three floors below, a biographer was waiting that she had hired for this very important work. Every moment mattered because as time passed the memories in her mind began to become cloudy and she could not allow that in any way.

The Clergy had warned that they could not tell anything about them. Fuck them, she wouldn't talk about them, she'd talk about her, both of them. Of his life and he would let only a few people read it, because he was incapable of saying such things in the face of the people he had deceived all his life.

The young nun's mouth opened once more, trying to convince her of something she herself was ready to do, a last tribute.

"Sister!" I called his attention rudely "The decision has been made, I would appreciate it if he would stop trying to change it and get out of here. It's an order." He stopped walking just to look at her face and give her those looks that chill anyone's blood.

"As you wish, Sister Imperator" the young woman said in a whisper and she left quickly until she disappeared around the corner of a hallway.

Sister Imperator sighed and continued on her way. 50 years ago she did not set foot in that place, everything seemed to have been preserved in time, she could breathe and feel back in her 20s, hear the laughter and footsteps of the children who were now grown men in the service of the Clergy. A nostalgic tear escaped her cheek as she continued walking with her eyes closed, imagining that she was returning to the good times, before everything was so complicated and twisted.

Her legs carried her to an old wooden door carved with the 9 rings of hell, she touched the tattered old wood, remembering times where was bright and firm. She grabbed the doorknob and turned it, the old and stored air filled her lungs accompanied by immense clouds of dust that covered her clothes and hair. As if that were nothing he took a step inside.

It was portal in time, to the beautiful 60s. The windows decorated with translucent curtains with psychedelic flowers that reflected their designs on the floor, the record player on the carpet in the center, the vinyl records of Nancy Sinatra, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, The Rolling Stones and Led Zeppelin, the favorites of the moment, the beaded curtain on the bathroom door, the music festival posters hanging on the walls, the rugs at the foot of the beds with a pentragram, the nightstands full of books and cigarette butts, the overflowing closet of clothes, dressers with makeup spread and red lipstick kisses on the mirror, perfectly made beds, one of them with a goat doll that I used to remember calling Baphy…Those were the good '60s.

Time had taken its toll on the place as well as itself, nothing was like before and only shadows remained of what that room was, its memories were covered with dust until they were devoured by moths.

She approached the dresser, the white wood was unpainted and at the slightest touch it would fall to dust, on it there was a framed photograph, its glass was opaque and with several thick layers of dust. Sister Imperator could see herself, a tall, slender blonde girl in a black dress and platform heels, a malicious and knowing smile between her and her reflection in her mirror. However, her reflection had a sweet touch in her gaze.

She took the painting and clutched it to her chest, wishing she had more than a photo to hug, but it's all that was left.

They had such happy smiles, she could even remember the night of that photo, it was her first "mission" for the Clergy, they looked so happy and excited. If she had known the ending, she would have burned him and the place without thinking.

The young woman in the chair was totally nervous, perhaps it was because of the huge painting of Lucifer behind the chair behind the desk, the atmosphere of the place or the person who had hired her.

Two weeks ago he had received a strange email from a woman who called herself Sister Imperator offering a fabulous amount of money for her services. At first she did not take it seriously, she was a recent graduate and the well-paying jobs that come from nothing were always obvious scams. After a few days that same woman had called her, she had been tempted to say no but something in her tone or perhaps in the way she said it made her accept.

A van that had all the earmarks of kidnapping children on Halloween had picked her up 2 hours ago, the driver had been very friendly, a boy with a kind smile. When he arrived he saw the facade of a huge religious institution.

She was left alone at the entrance, where a very kind and cheerful girl took her to the office where she was now.

I expected to see large crosses, suffering saints, Bible paintings and nuns with an extra habit covered, but that was clearly not the case. He found himself in a satanic ministry, although he knew that they were generally down-to-earth people, the more paranoid part of she feared that would end up as a human sacrifice in some kind of ritual.

She pressed her briefcase against her legs as she turned in the chair, she was beyond nervous and she could feel the sweat on her forehead. She had brought what was necessary, a recorder with a USB connector and your laptop, in addition to the classic notebook and several pens.

15 minutes had passed and the woman who had hired her still had not appeared at the door, nor had she been allowed to go to the bathroom as she had requested, not because she had any need, she wanted to wash her face and freshen up first but it was a denied request. She couldn't even go out to take a look at the hallway because she could see the shadow of feet behind the door and long blonde hair behind the opaque glass window of the door, so that wasn't an option either.

The office was decorated as you would expect, with the slight difference of satanic figurines and Luciferian painting. The shelves were full of books, there was a kind of small living room, with comfortable navy blue velvet sofas, a small table with some stains from coffee cups and a fireplace with some somewhat strange photos, perhaps the least strange was the of a young blonde kissing the cheek of a boy with face paint, they looked deeply in love, their white clothes were stained with what looked like blood. The window overlooked the center of the abbey, a fountain, some people passed by, nuns with revealing habits and even the boy with the pretty smile passed by that place.

The young biographer sighed, looking at her watch, while her nervous leg tapped the ground. The blonde hair behind the door moved and she could hear the murmur of voices outside. It opened and a small, gray-haired woman walked through the door, with a lively, mischievous smile. The young woman quickly stood up and extended her hand towards the woman.

"There's no need." she told him as she sat in her chair, behind the huge painting of Lucifer.

The young woman kept her hand and sat down again looking at the woman, the nervous play of her hands gave her away in front of Sister Imperator, who smiled, her nervous movements reminded him of her dear Cardinal Copy .

"I'm Sister Imperator," she said, moving her chair closer to the table. "Do you know why she's here, young lady?"

"He hired me to do her biography, lady" the girl responded quickly.

"That's right, I need you to put everything I'm going to tell you on paper. Can you do that?" Questioned, the young woman got nervous and just nodded her head several times. "But let's not forget the formalities" the woman took out a sheet of paper from one of her drawers and slid it to the young woman "It's a contract, read it."

The girl took the sheet of paper in her hands, feeling like she was dealing with the devil himself, she read it a couple of times, before putting it back on the desk.

"Have you read it yet?" Sister Imperator's tone was sweet, but in the young girl's heart it was like finding a razor in an apple.

"Yes"

"Everything that happens in this room is something that only you and I should know. I only want 6 copies, I will take care of the printing myself, you only have to give me the final copy. Will you sign?" Sister Imperator extended a red pen with cute gold carvings, it must be valuable.

The young woman reached out with her trembling hand and took the cold pen in her hands, she removed the cap and with Sister Imperator's gaze on her, she slid the pen across the paper, the red ink formed her signature and she felt an enormous shiver run through her ribcage along with a delicious feeling of peace.

The deal was done here and in hell.

Hello! I mean I hope you like this little fic, there's something about the young Papa Nihil that just makes him irresistible in my eyes.

#papa emeritus iv #papa emeritus iii #papa secondo #ghost the band #papa nihil #papa emeritus i #nihil young #sister imperator #mary on a cross #1969 #kiss the go goat #papa zero #cardinal copia

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tvrningout-a · 1 year ago

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"ay, can't ya look where ya goin'?" the brown-haired male playfully barked at niko whilst his hand were covering the eyes of chiyo, guiding her to a different location. "i stumbled, man." the grin of the taller male could be heard through his voice whilst they continued to walk through somewhat uneven territory. "yeah, yeah . . . work on ya lies, idiot." rayo would roll his eyes at the other, a smile persistent upon his lips as he made sure that the other was still comfortable. "ya okay, mami?" after receiving reassurance from the girl, the half-demon's features brightened visibly before they came to a halt. the wind was light & breezy, yet no sounds of the busy city travelled atop the currents. slowly would rayo remove his hands from the female's eyes, sprinting to stand next to niko, who had already positioned himself in front of a mural.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CHIYO!" they both exclaimed in unison, presenting the colorful mural somewhat dramatically. whilst niko seemed a bit less pleased about having to play up such dramatics, he was still genuinely smiling at the birthday girl. once chiyo's eyes adjusted to the light, she was greeted with a large, abandoned building that had been left in tall grass. it was not far from gaia's garden & she could hear the distant calling of trains. however, what would really catch her eye was the painted mural: as if one had taken a photograph of the young woman & spread it across the largest wall. there she was; a painted chiyo standing amidst roses & sunflowers whilst looking at the viewer with a sentimental smile. she was wearing a summer dress & her eyes sparkled with the intensity of a thousand suns. a peace sign was held up whilst she urged the viewer to follow her into the flower field. the artwork must have taken days if not weeks judging by how large & intricate it was. in bubble font, above the gorgeous mural, 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CHIYO' was written out. if the woman was to look at the males again, she would notice them not having moved, at all; a nervous glint among their smiles. "how do you like it? we did it together . . . " niko's voice burst into the silence, adjusting himself whilst slowly walking towards her. "we thought ya might enjoy this spot since it's so peaceful . . . " & then it was rayo's moment to talk, one hand moving behind his head as he scratched his scalp sheepishly. — ( part 2/2 )

it's chiyo's birthday! | @metrictita painted her a gift!

she hasn't ever cared very much for taking pictures of herself. from an objective point of view, chiyo can admit that she has a nice enough face -- she's got an eye for pretty things, after all. yet she's never quite liked the way she looks in photos. maybe it's the perfectionist in her that can't stand how messy her hair can look, or how she seems to never angle her face just right; maybe it's the memories of middle school children and their words carving into her self esteem; or maybe it's the fact that for so long, she hasn't particularly liked the person in those photos. maybe it's a combination of all three. chiyo doesn't like to dwell too much on it, doesn't like to acknowledge such feelings because if she did, she would have to actually handle them. she's not good at that ( helping herself -- she's never known how to help herself ).

as she stares up at a mural that is undeniably beautiful not in spite of its subject but because of it, chiyo lets out a shaky breath. if the situation was different, if this wasn't a mural that niko and rayo spent so much time on, she would simply feel embarrassed and uncomfortable, unused to being at the center of someone's art. she would be able to turn away and miss the beauty her friends see when they look at her. she would miss the person they see, and the love they put into every stroke of color would be lost on her simply because she wouldn't be able to bear the sight of her own smile.

how long had they worked on this? how long had they taken to paint the curve of her smile, the way the sun danced in her eyes? chiyo can't wrap her mind around it, the idea of someone staring at her face for ages and not growing sick of it. yet that's exactly what niko and rayo did, and still, they gaze at her, waiting with nervous smiles for her reaction.

chiyo can't say for sure that she's as pretty as the mural in front of her, but it means infinitely more to her that this is how niko and rayo see her. that knowledge soothes something small and fearful inside her heart ( you have always seen yourself as the lonely moon, a placeholder for the sun; you couldn't see that to others, you are the sun ).

how does chiyo like it? well, she's trying not to cry, if that answers the question.

" this must've taken you forever, " the mangaka finally answers, trying and failing to hide the emotion seeping into her voice. with a huff that turns into a smile, chiyo allows the tears to fall -- even if she immediately wipes at them. there's no point in holding back, not around them. bit by bit, it's becoming easier to remember that.

chiyo shakes her head, walks forward to wrap her arms around niko and hide her face against his torso. blindly she reaches a hand out to beckon rayo over; only once all three of them are successfully squished in a group hug, does chiyo finally speak. her words are muffled, and it's a little hard to breathe, but it's worth it. the warmth inside her chest is back, just as overwhelming as before.

" i love it. how could i feel any differently, you dorks? "

#metrictita #okay so obviously i had a lot of thoughts and feelings about this AND I HAVE MORE!!!#THE SUNFLOWERS AND ROSES!! THE CUTE LIL PEACE SIGN!! THE FACT THEY PICKED A PEACEFUL SPOT!! ALL THE TIME THEY SPENT PAINTING!!! AHHHHH #and chiyo sees and appreciates all of this too but it's the fact that?? they see her?? so differently from how she sees herself #and that is just!!!! a punch to the gut in the best way possible ASDFGF #vee i'm holding all of them so gently and tenderly and i'm weeping :' )))))#once again thank you for these asks bc they struck me right in the heart <3 #interactions | chiyoko #a chain reaction in your heart | adulthood | chiyoko

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echoesofidentity · 1 year ago

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You know you’re not at home before you even open your eyes. The sheets against your skin feel unfamiliar, the light seeping through your eyelids brighter than in your home, the temperature warmer. It takes your brain a few seconds to register this, and then the panic sets in. Your eyes open and you sit bolt upright, every muscle tensing with the surge of adrenaline. Your heart thuds against your ribcage like a panicked bird that has flown into a building. The room you find yourself in is entirely unfamiliar. The walls are an unobtrusive cream, and flowery, faded curtains are drawn across the window. The sheets on the bed are a simple white, sat atop a classic wooden bedframe. You stand from the bed and are hit with a sudden and intense wave of dizziness, so much so the room feels like it has tilted ninety degrees. The edges of your vision go black and fuzzy. You gasp and clutch at the edge of the mattress behind you, knees bent into a crouch, steadying yourself. You sit back down on the edge of the bed. You slowly survey the rest of the room, trying to keep the panic at bay with logic.

There is a wooden bedside table to your left; it has a framed photograph, a plastic water jug, and an empty plastic cup on it. You pick up the photo frame, an untameable shake in your hands. There are three people in the photo: an old woman, white hair and a beaming smile, a younger woman, heavily pregnant, and a small boy stood in front of them, no older than two or three with a mass of bright blond hair. You don’t recognise any of them. There are more photos on the wall opposite the bed. Some of them feature these same three people, others have more unfamiliar faces in them. There is fondness in their eyes. They look like family. Not your family, but someone’s family. What do they want with you? There are enough children in the photographs- they don’t need you, and you don’t want these strangers. For the first time since you awoke, you wonder where your own parents are. You wonder why they would ever let someone take you away from your safe, comforting home to this strange place, your parents who care for you so much, mother telling you she loves you every day, father ruffling your hair when he gets in from work every day with a bag of penny sweets from the shop if you’re lucky. You wonder if you’re ever going to see them again, or if you’ll be stuck in this strange, unhomely place forever, you wonder who’s going to feed you and wash your clothes and care for you, you wonder if you’ll ever get to feel safe in your mother’s arms again—

You start gasping for breath, deep, guttural cries heaving through your chest. The wet of tears covers your face and your hands when you put them over your mouth. Your chest aches with panic and sadness. You stand again, pulling at the nightdress these strangers must have dressed you in whilst you were unconscious. The thought disgusts you; you try to pull at the collar, lifting it up over your head in a desperate attempt to pull off the clothes from these people, these people who surely must be truly evil to take you from your family, even though their faces are so kindly, you know you can’t trust them, won’t let them win you over when they reveal themselves. You catch a glimpse of movement on the other side of the room and realise someone is on the other side of a window you had not noticed before. You jump back away from it, and the person on the other side does the same. They’re watching you. They’re watching you, but they don’t want you to know.

“Get away!” you scream, your voice cracking in panic, hands scrabbling at the collar of the nightdress. “Leave! Leave me! Go away from me!” You don’t see them move again. Who are they? Why do they want you? Why are they observing you, like some kind of science experiment? You begin to scream again, practically howling. You are surprised these sounds are even coming from you, they sound more animal than human.

There is a brief knock, and the door to your left suddenly swings open. You shoot backwards in a primal, instinctive fear.

“Mum?” The woman in the doorway says. You shake your head, eyes wide, hands shaking. “Mum, it’s okay. It’s okay. You’re safe.” From those words, confusion begins to cloud your panic. The woman is unfamiliar, but her face looks kindly, her tone reassuring, her words comforting. At first you think she’s looking for her own mother, then you think she’s telling you she’s your mother- of course, you know she’s not. You know what your own mother looks like, they’re not going to be able to trick you that easily. Your brain is scrambling, trying to make sense of it, desperately looking into her eyes for an answer, when she speaks again.

“Mum, it’s okay. It’s me, Kathy. I told you last time we were coming to visit this morning, remember? Why don’t we get you dressed?” You breathe heavily, slowly nodding. You don’t remember, and you’re not sure who this woman is, but you know she can be trusted. She knows you, somehow, and she doesn’t want to hurt you.

“Yes. Yes, I- sorry. Of course,” you smile, a shaky, watery smile. She’s the woman from the photograph, only she’s no longer pregnant. Behind her in the corridor, you see a pushchair. A blond little boy is standing behind it, peeking around. He gives you a shy wave. You smile and wave back at him. You don’t know what’s going on, you don’t know who this woman is, but as she picks clothes for you from your wardrobe, as she chatters stories about people you don’t know, you feel safe. You know she loves you, and you know you love her too.

#my writing #prose #fiction #literary #literary fiction #contemporary

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miraclewattgets · 1 year ago

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kitchencountertopsinlivoniami · 2 years ago

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New Step by Step Map for Kitchen Remodeling in West Bloomfield MI

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elizabeth-mitchells · 2 years ago

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Ronancetober Day 4: Horror Movie AU - The Conjuring AU

Note: It is NOT important if you haven't watched the movies before.

But, for a little bit of context: There are 3 Conjuring movies (+ 3 Annabelle movies + The Nun movie (and The Curse of La Llorona counts too, okay?!)) They are about Ed and Lorraine Warren (they were real people but we're only focusing on the movies) paranormal investigators aka fighting demons, performing exorcisms, loving each other, being a girlboss/malewife couple. Lorraine has spooky visions and Ed loves her very much.

This is based on the third movie, set in 1981, Ed and Lorraine Robin and Nancy are certified ghostbusters milfs. Let's go!

read all 11k words of it on AO3: although I was burning, you're the only light

By 1981, Robin and Nancy had worked as paranormal investigators for over ten years, and they had been in love for much longer than that. Their house was a notoriously comfortable and warm place. Neither of them was the best at staying particularly tidy. Robin, because it wasn’t in her nature. Nancy, because she always had something more important to do. But, somehow, the mismatched furniture, the books strewn on every surface, the decorations that were a result of many years of gifts from their closest friends and people they had helped, it worked for them. It felt like a second home to everyone that was invited inside. That was one of the reasons why Steve felt so uneasy at the sight of the extremely uninviting basement door. It was a notoriously robust door, with a concerning amount of locks on the side, and a handful of warning signs on it.

While Robin worked methodically on unlocking the door, Nancy turned toward Steve and said, “Steve Harrington, welcome to the Buckley-Wheeler museum.”

“Thank you,” Steve chuckled, and followed his two best friends inside, “That’s a little overdramatic. I mean, I helped build the shelves and- holy shit, okay, yeah, I hadn’t been here in a while. It’s fucking creepy guys, what’s wrong with you?”

“You don’t like it?” Robin pouted, but her act was sabotaged by her own laughter. “It’s not meant to be pretty, dingus. This is a carefully arranged collection of mementos from each and every one of our cases. Every object has been blessed before and after joining the museum. A priest visits us every month to bless the entire house and especially the basement. We remember everything about every case and every trinket and okay, we might forget some details and no, I don’t particularly like everything we keep here, but it’s the safest place and-”

“Don’t touch that,” Nancy hissed. Her hand flew with shocking speed to grab Steve’s wrist before his fingertips could even graze the glass of the box where they kept locked a terrifying and hideous little doll. “A single touch could wake up any sort of evil force that we put to sleep years ago. And trust me, you don’t want to deal with her.”

Steve froze until Nancy let go of his wrist. He lowered his hand slowly and stared at the lifeless eyes and malicious red smile of that broken porcelain face for a second longer. “Okay, sorry. No touching, I got it. It’s just- damn is that a samurai suit?!“

“Steve,” Robin said, snapping her fingers and bringing him back to the tour of the museum. “Focus, buddy. We brought you here for one very specific reason. Are you ready?”

“I’m always ready,” Steve said with a grin as the three of them slowly approached the back of the room, glancing at all kinds of random cursed objects. The pair of coins, the broken piano, the pictures, the television, the children's toys, the plastic monkeys, the foggy mirrors, and the music box. “We’ve been working together for years,” Steve added proudly, “You guys are the reason I have cameraman, photographer, kicking down doors and screaming for my life in my resume.”

Robin chuckled, “As if you had a resume.”

“Guys,” Nancy interrupted them with a pointed look and tilted her head to the wall. “Steve, remember your first case with us?”

Steve’s breath hitched. He stared at the letters on the wall and the Christmas lights organized on top of them. Part of him expected the lights to start blinking again as a helpless little boy begged for help from someplace that Steve still didn’t understand. “The Byers,” he sighed.

“The Byers, 1971, right here in Hawkins,” Nancy nodded.

#HI THIS IS MY NEW FAVORITE FIC I'VE WRITTEN I'LL LOVE YOU FOREVER IF YOU READ IT AND TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK THANK YOU <3 #ronance #ronancetober #stranger things #robin buckley #nancy wheeler #robin x nancy #nancy x robin #st #stranger things fanfiction #ronance fanfiction #steve harrington #max mayfield #vecna #the conjuring #my fic

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chaseadrian · 3 years ago

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white sheets, bloodied shirt pt. 2

Several years after your falling out with Bruce, a chance encounter gives you two the opportunity to work through lingering anger and unresolved feelings. PART ONE.

pairing: bruce wayne (2022) x f!reader tags: 18+ ONLY, explicit, time jump, violence, angst, hurt/comfort, confessions, thigh riding, super emotional sex word count: 6.8k+ a/n: FUCK i got so carried away with this. hope yall like. also ralph is okay. you’ll get that soon.

It had been five years since you looked at Bruce Wayne with any sense of fondness.

You wished you could say you had gone that time without seeing him at all, but as a staple of the city, he was an overwhelming presence in your everyday life. The news channels and paper stands were splashed with his ventures, be it the man himself or his menacing alter ego.

In the time since he’d kicked you out of the manor, you’d worked your way up as a photojournalist, documenting the criminal scene in Gotham and making the city a safer place in your own way. It wasn’t the rough and tough method that Bruce adhered to, but in five years you’d exposed three crime rings running in the city, and you felt like you’d made something of a difference. A few awards and several failed abductions later, you sometimes caught your own name splashed across the front page of the Gotham Globe.

It was after hours at the Globe, the building empty save for you and the occupants of your boss’ fish tank. The lamp on your desk flickered a pale yellow light, illuminating the photographs splayed over your desk. Photos from the latest gang murder; EMTs rolling out a covered gurney, a crying woman with matted hair and a torn robe, splatters of blood across a hotel lobby. It hadn’t been pretty, and you’d gotten an abrupt dismissal from the cops on the scene, all pointing fingers and threats of obstruction. Didn’t matter, you’d already gotten what you needed. Your partner was already at home typing up an article, but here you sat, trying to connect the dots to the last attempted murder.

Batman had thwarted that one, and the intended target—the superintendent for the Gotham City School District—was more than happy to spend his time retelling the heroic tale to every news source that asked. And paid.

Nevermind that the schools were radically underfunded and more children wound up in prisons than with diplomas.

That was the one thing you’d not quite remedied in your mind. Everyone knew there was corruption in the city, it was quite literally blown open years ago when the Riddler was running around. But this job wasn’t about exposing corruption, it was about drawing eyes and making money. The terrible things you had exposed, well, those were black and white criminal cases and only published at the behest of your boss. You knew crime was more than a vein running through the city, it was a vital artery, pumping the ignoble figureheads with unimaginable wealth, and the powerful showrunners with impenetrable immunity.

You wanted to slice Gotham open and rip the blight out at its source. Maybe one day you would.

But, for now, you were focused on the photos in front of you.

The light from the elevator drew your attention, an accompanying ding! as the doors opened. You turned off the lamp, raising your head just over your cubicle to see who was coming in this late.

Nobody.

The empty elevator raised every red flag in your body, and you ducked back behind the wall, slowly gathering the photos in front of you into a stack to put in your bag. There was a dull thud as the elevator doors closed again, and you stayed in your chair for several moments, listening for any stray sound your ears could catch. It was silent in the dark room, dimly illuminated by the surrounding high rises and full moon.

You slowly stepped out of your cubicle, taking in the space around you. The floor was empty as far as you could see, and you rushed to the elevator, hand shoved in your bag and fingers curled around your taser.

It wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to kill you. You’d be damned if it was the first time they succeeded.

Jamming your finger into the ‘close doors’ button, you bounced on your heels on the ride down to the lobby, bright, warm lights and security guard by the desk stilling your nerves.

“Night, Ralph!” You raised your voice as you hurried past him.

“Hey, now, you know the drill!” Ralph called after you, a smile in his voice. He’d been working in this building longer than you’d been alive, a welcome face at the Globe when someone deserved it and a swift escort out when they didn’t.

You froze in your tracks, groaning and walking over to the desk with your key card in hand. Everyone who worked past a certain hour was required to sign out at the front desk. Extra security after one of the journalists had gone missing and was found dead in the twelfth floor supply closet. Everyone swore they saw him leave the building on the night of his disappearance, and so the policy was established to avoid any more…mishaps.

“Sorry, I’m just—”

A gunshot. Blood splatter. Ralph tipped forward onto the desk before falling to the floor. You didn’t see where he was hit, but your face and hands were now coated with his blood.

“Hi, Miss.”

You looked towards the sitting area next to the security desk, a man you hadn’t noticed before was standing up from his chair, brandishing a silver gun. Unmasked and wearing a black button up with gold cufflinks, his demeanor was relaxed as he stepped towards you. Backing up, you only made it a couple steps until you bumped into another man.

He shook his head, masked face concealing all but his squinting eyes. Before you could move away from him, he brought a hand up to your throat and grabbed you at the base of your jaw, not enough to constrict air flow but enough to be an uncomfortable threat.

You started to reach once again into your bag for the taser, but the man with the gun was close now and jammed it hard into your wrist. You exclaimed and pulled your hand close to your chest.

“Good.”

He tapped the gun against your forehead, flicking a strand of your hair out of the way. You strained against the hand on your throat, the pressure on the sides of your neck slowly growing tighter.

The man with the gun wagged his finger, “Let’s not make her too uncomfortable, now.”

He let you go, and you took a couple steps backward, “What do you want?” You spat, wrist still throbbing from the hit, mind racing as you thought of ways to get out of this unscathed.

“I’m sure you’ve heard of our boss. Black Mask?” The two men flanked you, the masked one training a hand on his gun.

“No. Never heard of him.” You looked between them, jaw clenching, feet planted firm on the ground.

“No?” The unmasked man walked towards you and ripped your bag off your shoulder, dumping out its contents. The photos fluttered out onto the floor, “You want to rethink your answer?”

“No, I don’t.” You squinted, “I just take the fucking photos, I don’t know who’s involved beyond that.”

“Your previous work tells a different story. Two honors from the Gotham Press Association, several commendations from Mayor Reál, even a nomination for the Pulitzer. And not to mention the countless thugs and lowlifes you got thrown into Blackgate. Really making a difference out there.”

“That doesn’t mean I know your boss.”

He leaned down to grab one of the photos, “And we’re here to make sure you won’t. Kind of a shame,” He let the photo fall from his hands, turning around as the other man stepped towards you, “You’re quite talented.”

You felt your heart start to race faster, eyes fixed on the masked man as he started to raise his gun. Panic took over as you screwed your eyes shut and ducked down, the gun going off somewhere over your head, the sound of something clattering to the floor and then you were being pushed over, ankle twisting as you fell.

Opening your eyes, you scrambled away from the body beside you. The masked man lay folded on the ground, eyelids fluttering and breathing shallow.

The black flutter of a cape in front of you drew your eyes up to the costumed figure standing a few feet away from you.

Bruce.

He’d turned to the unmasked man, strolling towards him, unphased by the litany of bullets that were hitting his chestplate. He rushed towards the man, who attempted to jam his gun against Bruce’s chin.

Bruce ducked, fist connecting with the man’s stomach, elbow stabbing into his lower back as he doubled over, the wind knocked out of his chest.

He fell to the floor, but spun over onto his back and twisted his ankles around Bruce’s. The attempt to get him off balance was a weak counter to Bruce’s bulk, and he lifted a boot, bringing it down hard on the man’s ankle. The audible snap was followed by a thick scream, and you winced, scooting even further away until your back was to the desk.

It was then that you remembered Ralph, and you crawled around the desk to see him bleeding out on the floor. His pulse was weak, but it was there. The bullet had gone through the right side of his torso, blood soaking his shirt as you rifled through the first aid kit under the desk, pulling out a roll of gauze.

“Fuck, I’m sorry Ralph. If you can hear me, this is going to hurt.” You packed the wound with as much gauze as you could, and pressed down hard with one hand, reaching for Ralph's walkie-talkie with the other.

You switched to the emergency channel, “Calling all units. 10-71 at Gotham Global. We have one injured. I repeat, 10-71 at Gotham Global, suspects are down.”

There was a brief static before a voice came through, “Copy. Units en route.”

You tossed down the walkie and applied more pressure to the wound, feeling for a pulse every few seconds. It was still as weak, but remained steady.

You didn’t even register the lack of fighting from the other side of the desk. Not until Bruce was next to you on one knee.

“We need to go.”

“No.” You snapped, “I’m not leaving Ralph like this.”

The faint sound of sirens eased your nerves, but Bruce whipped his head towards the sound.

“He’s going to be okay. Come with me now.” He growled, reaching forward to grab your wrist, forcing you up with him.

You winced at the weight on your ankle, stumbling forward.

Bruce instinctively raised his other hand to catch you, but you’d already regained your balance, shifting your weight onto one foot. You looked down at Ralph, red and blue lights were starting to illuminate the room.

Letting go of your wrist, Bruce hovered his hand over your elbow, “Please.”

“If anything happens to Ralph, it’s your fault.”

Before you could even try to take a step, Bruce had picked you up, one hand under your knees, the other around your shoulders.

You looked up at him while he carried you out of the building, lips screwed into a frown. There was a faint scar on the side of his jaw, and a small cut on his lip.

They reminded you of all he’d accomplished in the five years since you were together. Bruce Wayne had slowly stepped back into the public eye, reviving the Wayne Foundation and transforming the reclusive reputation he’d developed after years of being something of a hermit. And Batman, well, his relationship with the Gotham PD had only grown more fickle. He put away more real criminals than the entire force combined, and nobody could decide whether to call him a superhero or a vigilante.

The cold wind raised goosebumps on your arms and sent shivers down your spine. You shuddered in Bruce’s arms, and he held you tighter.

“We’re almost to the car.”

“What car? Your car? No. Take me to my car I can get home just fine on my—fuck!”

Bruce looked down at you, stopping in his tracks.

“My fucking keys! They’re in my bag. We have to go back.”

He started walking again, “No.”

You wriggled in his arms, forcing him to set you down, “What do you mean ‘no?’ I need my bag. My phone, wallet, keys?”

Bruce extended an arm for you to hold as you stood, but you kept all your weight on your uninjured leg, crossing your arms and wincing at the dull pain radiating from your wrist.

“I have a contact at the police department. They’ll bring you your stuff.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, “Fine.”

He moved to carry you again, but you pushed him back by his chest.

“Just give me your arm.”

He obliged, and you wrapped your arm under his, gingerly tip toeing forward on your injured side. There was a slight pain, but you could limp well enough and you were done being carried by him.

The car wasn’t too much farther, tucked in front of a walled in trash compactor, there was just enough space for the dark vehicle to sit in wait.

You held onto the top of the car while Bruce opened the door, holding your hand as you slid into the seat, eyes darting around the fancy mechanisms and glowing buttons. Your mind flashed back to the last time you were near this vehicle, crouched out of sight only moments away from a pivotal landmark in your adult life.

A pit welled in your stomach, and you pressed your foot hard onto the floor of the car to distract yourself from the thought. Pain shot through your body and Bruce whipped his head to look at you as you cried out, shutting the door to cut off sound from the silent night.

“What did you do?” He asked, worry inflected in his grim voice.

You hissed at the subsiding pain, “I just—I wanted to see how bad it was.”

“Don’t put pressure on it.” He snapped, the ignition roaring to a start as he fixed his hand on the gear shift.

Letting your head fall against the window, you stared out at the city swiping by, yellow street lamps passing by in a blur, illegible graffiti on the crumbling brick walls, the black sky filled with invisible stars.

“Wait,” You turned to look at Bruce, “Where are you taking me?”

“Home.”

You straightened yourself in the seat, “The manor? No. I’m not go—”

“Your home.”

“How do you know where I live?”

He adjusted his hands on the steering wheel and gripped tighter, not saying a word more.

You scoffed and slumped back down, zoning out through the window once more.

—

Your apartment was on the outskirts of downtown Gotham, a modest one bedroom in an unassuming building. It wasn’t flashy, but then, neither were you.

Bruce parked the vehicle around back by the dumpsters, helping you to the front door.

“Are you forgetting I don’t have my apartment keys?” You punched a code into the front door’s keypad.

“Are any of your windows unlocked?”

“Yeah,” You sighed, “The—the one in my room by the fire escape is unlocked in case of emergencies.”

“Okay. Can you make it up to your apartment by yourself?”

You leaned against the doorway, holding it open with your knee, “I guess.”

Bruce nodded, grunting an approval and walked back around the building.

Favoring your leg, you walked along the wall to the elevator, limping into the space. The pain from walking was significantly more noticeable after you’d jammed your foot against the floor of the car, but you managed your way to the apartment unscathed.

The door was unlocked, and you walked in to see Bruce standing still in the living room.

“Hey, Batboy, some help?” You stood in the open doorway, waiting as he walked over to you and took your hand, guiding you to the couch.

He lifted your leg onto the coffee table, grabbing one of the throw pillows to rest it on.

“Do you have ice packs?” He asked, walking over to your kitchen.

“I have sandwich bags and an ice maker.”

Bruce came back with two packed plastic bags, placing one on your ankle, “Give me your hand.” He sat down on the couch, extending his hand towards you.

You held out your arm, resting your wrist palm up in his open hand as he placed the bag atop your skin.

The two of you sat in silence as the ice slowly melted, heavy darkness blanketing the room. The moonlight from the window cascaded over Bruce, highlighting the edge of his figure.

“If you’re gonna be on my couch with all that shit on can you at least take off that stupid mask?” You crossed your free arm over your chest, bunching up the fabric of your shirt into a fist.

“No.” He grumbled, shifting the ice on your skin.

“Bruce.” Your voice was indignant, and you turned to face him, nostrils flaring. You’d seen Bruce in his barest moments, felt his skin against yours, known all the walls he put up to keep himself safe. They were the walls that also ended up locking you out of his life, and right now, after almost losing yours? You didn’t have the patience to deal with his emotional inhibition.

He sighed, but took off the mask. The black makeup under his eyes was smeared and he was hesitant to look back at you once the mask was off.

“Thank you.” You faced forward once again, letting your head fall back against the couch.

Several more tense moments passed, Bruce’s hand heavy on your wrist as he held the bag in place, ice cubes melting faster with the heat of his hand over them.

“So, are you ever going to apologize?” You broke the silence, turning to Bruce and trying to make out his features in the darkness. It was easy to be angry when you couldn’t see all the microexpressions on his face, couldn’t see the obvious hurt in his eyes. You had every right to be furious with him for the way things ended, and he knew it, but he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders and wasn’t as good at hiding it as he liked to pretend. It tugged at your heartstrings no matter how much you tried to steel yourself against him.

“I—” He set your wrist down on the couch, balancing the bag before standing up, “I should go.”

“Really?” You pulled your wrist onto your lap and took your foot off the coffee table, straightening up on the couch, “You’d rather leave than admit you were a prick five years ago?”

He reached for his mask on the couch, but you placed your hand on top of it and he stopped just short.

“You need to rest.”

“I need you to grow up.” You spat, using a hand to push yourself up so you were more evenly matched. Bruce was still taller than you, but it felt like better leverage than craning your neck up from the couch.

“Your ankle is going to swell. You’ll have to go to the hospital.” Bruce was unflinching, his eyes flicking between your ankle and your face.

“Then I’ll go, because I can admit when I need something.” You hopped a few steps towards him, and his hands flinched towards you. “Can you, Bruce?”

He grumbled, shifting in place, “I’m sorry for kicking you out of the manor.”

You scoffed, cocking your head, “For kicking me out of the manor?! That’s putting it lightly. We knew each other for well over a year, Bruce, and you spent eight of those months asking me over multiple times a week. I don’t think I have to remind you what for. And I was fine with the arrangement. I was fine with the way you could barely touch me afterward. I understood your issues with intimacy and affection, I think I was more than patient.

But to look at me in that moment and have nothing more to say than ‘get out?’ After all that time?” You paused, letting out a shuddering breath, “I—I loved you, Bruce, and maybe that’s hard to hear but it’s how I felt. I loved you and I was stupid to let you get away with this apathetic facade for so long. I won’t put up with it now.”

You winced at the growing pain in your ankle, it was slowly rising despite you keeping all weight on your good foot. You sat back down onto the couch, elevating the ankle once again. Bruce’s helmet sat several inches from you, and you leaned over to grab it, handing it up to him without looking.

He took it and set it on the coffee table, straightening his posture as he stood in front of you, “You were missed around the manor. Dory talked about you a lot.”

You frowned, “Well, I couldn’t exactly tell her what happened, could I?”

Dory was the only family you’d had in the city, and, after what happened with Bruce, you’d made up some excuse about your boss thinking it was a conflict of interest for you to be going to the manor of one of Gotham’s biggest benefactors. She tried to make her way to your place when she could, but, between Bruce’s developing social life and the increasing danger of your job, the visits became few and far between.

Bruce cleared his throat, unmoving in his stature. You couldn’t look at him, that pit in your stomach was already reforming the longer he was here.

“How did you even know those men would be there tonight? Am I supposed to believe it’s just happenstance that after five years, you just show up out of the blue? I’ve been in precarious situations like that before, you know.”

“You got out of them every time.”

The words clicked in your brain, and the entire night made sense. He’d shown up at the last possible second to save your hide, knew where you lived, and even navigated your apartment with apparent ease. It wasn’t a huge place, sure, but even you still found yourself taking the corners too close sometimes.

“So you’ve just happened to be around when I’m in these dangerous situations?”

“We run in the same circles.” His jaw clenched, and he blinked slowly.

“No, we don’t. And that aside, how’d you know where I lived, huh?”

“Dory’s been here. I pay atten—”

“Cut the bullshit, Bruce. If you’re going to do your caped crusader shit, at least own up to all of it. Am I supposed to think it’s romantic that you’ve kept tabs on me for five years?”

“I was looking out for you.” The timbre of his voice grew coarser, lined with anger.

“I don’t need you to look out for me! You lost every right to my life when you told me to get out of yours.” You flailed your hands, letting them fall back down, hands slapping against the fabric of the couch. “I couldn’t even get through a week without seeing your face plastered somewhere in the city. Do you know how hard it was to get over you when all anyone wanted to talk about was Bruce fucking Wayne or the damn Batman?” Your voice was shaking, and you balled your fist to try and hang on to the last threads of self-control before you burst into tears.

“Yes, I—”

“No you don’t! Because you didn’t get over shit! You kept me in your life against my will while I went on thinking you didn’t want to be a part of mine. That is fucked, Bruce.”

“I’m sorry, okay?! I’m sorry.” He snapped, turning his body away from you, glancing your way as he composed himself. “This is a dangerous city. I care about you.”

That was the nail in the coffin. You froze in place, fists relaxing as the first swell of tears slid down your face.

Bruce turned back to you, taking a few steps forward before he kneeled in front of you, degloving as he put a hand on your shoulder.

You kept your gaze on the floor, scrubbing the tears away with your palm to no avail. Even more followed, blurring your vision. The sobs that broke from your lips were tragic and pitiful, undercutting your words as you tried to stay angry, “Wh—why couldn’t you sa—ay that f—five years ago? I l—loved you, and y—ou just c—cut me out.”

Bruce moved his hand to your hair, stroking the knotted strands over and over, his other hand resting on your knee, thumb running back and forth over your jeans. He lowered his voice to a whisper, all hints of anger gone in an instant, “I’m sorry. I thought…I was doing the right thing. Keeping you safe. Thought I was…” He shook his head, “...saving you from getting hurt.”

You scoffed, an incredulous smile on your lips for a brief moment, tears spilling from your eyes as you rolled them, “Well, you d—didn’t.”

Looking up at him, it was the first time tonight that you’d been able to look into his eyes and see his entire face. The darkness couldn’t obscure anything when you were this close. They were glossy, black makeup smeared around his eyes, and a frown planted firmly on his lips. There were more wrinkles around his eyes than you remembered, and an even deeper exhaustion was set in his features.

“I know.”

The moment stilled when his eyes met yours, the hand in your hair pausing, it seemed like the entire world went quiet. The air in the room was thick, like the dense pressure in your chest after diving too deep underwater, lungs burning as you tried to make your way back to the surface.

Bruce’s eyes glimpsed your lips before looking back up at you.

You lowered your voice to less than a whisper, syllables cutting in and out as you spoke, “Don’t kiss me right now if it doesn’t mean something to you.”

He kept his eyes on yours, and brought the hand in your hair down to your face, running his calloused finger along the curve of your cheekbone. His thumb rested on the crest of your cheek, full palm against your skin as his fingers slid into your hair.

“It’s always meant something.”

You stayed in place as he pressed his lips against yours, skin brushing together before he went for a full kiss, and although you resisted the urge to lean into his touch, you were done resisting him.

For five years, you conditioned yourself to despise him. Turned the hurt you felt into a dense ball of anger that pounded in your chest every time you saw his picture or heard his name. You hated him almost as much as the people who were trying on a regular basis to kill him, seemingly impervious to the aberrant charm that everyone else fell for.

But a ruse is still a ruse no matter how convincing. You didn’t know why he’d been so permanently etched into your brain, why your sparse attempts at a relationship with other people had only lasted a few months at a time, why you found yourself looking in dark corners and alleyways past a certain hour in the city.

You’d told him you loved him. Loved. But was it really in the past? Was this moment here not a siege against the towering walls you’d put up? Were you not leaning further into him as his lips slid against yours?

You pulled away, and saw his eyes were still glistening with the threat of tears. There was almost a smile on his lips, and he tried his hardest to wipe it away.

“You’re not forgiven that easily.” You whispered, “But it’s a start.”

Inching closer to him, you gasped when he darted once more to your lips, still as gentle, but a touch more eager now. His thumb grazed against your skin, rough skin scraping over your cheek, grounding you to the moment.

“Bruce,” You muttered in between kisses, and he pulled back, staring, “Take that ridiculous outfit off.”

It was the first time you’d smiled since the start of this entire ordeal, and you were surprised to see him lower his head, a bashful smile flicking across his lips. He stood up from where he’d been kneeling, and you shifted, lifting your foot up on the chaise end of the couch, back against the cushion.

You watched as he shucked off the heavy armor, piece by piece, setting them on the floor until he was standing before you in a black compression shirt and boxer briefs.

He moved tentatively towards you, sitting at the end of the chaise. He slid up your jeans to examine your ankle, a hand under your calf, the other on the ball of your foot, moving it with slow, circular motions.

“Does this hurt?”

You winced at first, “Not as much as it did.”

“I didn’t detect any broken bones. It’s probably a bad sprain.” He set your leg back down, looking your way.

“Okay. That’s good.”

He slid down the chaise, hand grazing the side of your body as he made his way back beside you. The touch sent shivers along your skin, and you crossed your arms over your chest, maintaining your breathing as Bruce came closer until he was next to you, torso twisted to face you.

Leaning in for another kiss, he paused to brush his knuckles over your lips, “I missed everything about you.”

You gulped, grinding your teeth together to keep yourself from crying again. The pain that lived in his eyes carried you now. You were another piece of that weight on his shoulders, and despite the anger you felt—still eroding your bones with deep welts and boiling blood—right now, you wanted nothing more than to ease his hurt. Wanted to reassure him that you were still here, still okay, still his.

You would never speak the words out loud, so you told him with your lips. Told him with your arms wrapped around his shoulders as he pressed deeper into you, one of his arms anchored over your body, fist digging deeper into the couch the more his torso covered you. He was falling heavier into the moment, lips washing over yours with a slow desperation that told you he was trying his best to hold back, to not dive farther than you wanted, to keep himself where he belonged—dwelling tenuously at the beginning of rectification.

Shifting your body, you pushed him back from you and started unbuttoning your jeans, slow to slide them down your body. He moved to your ankle, lifting up each leg and carefully pulling the bottoms down around your feet until they were off.

You kneeled over to him, stradling one of his thighs and pushing his legs apart so you could keep your legs on the couch, taking the weight off your ankle.

Bruce wrapped his arms around your body, hands planted firmly against your shoulder blades. He stared in wait, watching as you closed your eyes and started to grind against his thigh.

Pressure welled between your legs, and you situated your arms on either side of Bruce’s head, grabbing at the cushion behind him, letting your head fall until you heard a quiet groan escape his lips. You looked up at him, felt his fingers shift on your back, and lifted your arms up so he could take off your shirt.

He slid his hands under the hem, his grip coating your sides with goosebumps as he made his way up your arms, bringing the t-shirt with him until it was over your head and you were there, on his lap, in just your underwear. His chest stuttered, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he swallowed hard at the sight of you.

You continued rocking your hips on his thigh, your cunt soaking more with every second you ground against him, his hands on your body a hot branding iron as they smoothed around your skin. Closing your eyes, you threw your head back, letting out several staggered moans as the sensation built in your body. Your stomach twisted, and you plugged a hand into Bruce’s hair, gripping tight to the dark strands and pulling his head back to expose his neck. You brought your lips down to the damp skin, teeth nipping at the coarse lines of his throat, little freckles of dark purple spattering the smooth surface.

The feeling in your cunt grew deeper, driving you to rock faster until you were coming on his thigh, the warm wash of your orgasm seeping into your underwear and leaving a spot on his leg. You kissed him through the broken moans, and he held you to his chest, your free hand grabbing at the hem of his shirt, bunching the spandex into your fist.

When you pulled away, he yanked the shirt off from the back of his neck, throwing it onto the pile with the rest of his armor.

“Take me to my room.” You slid your hand down his torso, gliding your fingers along the fresh cuts and healed scars.

He put his hands underneath your thighs, standing up with you in his arms, eyes locked onto your face as you glanced around his body. He carried you with the same ease as always, your arms loose around his neck, hands clasped behind him.

Bruce set you down on the soft bed, and you pulled him down to your lips once again, inviting him onto the bed where he hovered over you, hips grazing together. You could feel his erection as he lowered himself further, letting his stomach press into yours, fists on either side of your head still holding him up, keeping him from crushing you altogether.

Ignoring his hesitance, you moved your hands down to his lower back, pressing him into you, your hips bucking up against him. You broke the kiss, whispering against his lips, “Bruce, do you want me?”

He pulled back, distancing himself so he could look into your eyes, one of his hands moving to hold your face.

He nodded and closed his eyes, letting out a quivering breath before he spoke.

“Yes. Always.”

Your heart welled, and you felt his sincerity in the way he kissed you now, lips trembling once more, his body slowly engulfing yours.

You slid your fingers under the hem of his underwear, and he pulled away from you to slide them off, darting back to your lips the moment they were on the floor. He kissed along your body, between your chest, unhooking the bra and gently taking it off, his mouth connecting with your tits, soft and slow, tongue circling the raised nipples one after the other. He continued down your stomach, lips grazing the skin as you arched your back, mouth unmoving when he slid your underwear down your legs, one hand running back up your thigh, middle finger just skating over your cunt, slick with arousal, leaving you desperate for his touch.

Bruce enveloped you with his body once more, the hard length of his cock resting over your cunt, grazing your clit with every prolonged thrust against your hips.

You bucked your hips up against him, hands pressing into his back, eyes latched onto his, silently begging for him inside you.

In your heart, you knew he wasn’t trying to tease. Wasn’t trying to make you desperate for him, or force you to beg. He was cherishing the moment, drawing it out as long as you would let him for fear that it would disappear, that you would disappear. That you would change your mind and decide you didn’t want to reconcile, didn’t want to let him try and rectify his mistake.

“Bruce, I’m not going anywhere.” You put a hand against his cheek, running your thumb against his skin, and he leaned into it, pressing a kiss to your palm.

His eyes were on yours when he pushed into you, the length of his cock filling you up, forcing a broken gasp from both of your mouths. You slid both hands underneath his arms, gripping each shoulder as he continued thrusting into you.

Each thrust was drawn out, savoring the feeling of your cunt around him as he moaned against your mouth. You drove your head into the pillow, nails digging into his skin as the hot pressure of his cock filled you up again and again. The slow thrusts quickened as you gripped him tighter, sweat slicking up between your bodies, his chest heaving over yours.

Your lips jostled against his, mouths bumping together more than kissing as the pace started losing rhythm. Bruce’s hips collided with yours, fucking deeper into you, forcing himself to slow down. You whined with each thrust, pressure bursting inside you as your cunt fluttered around his cock, bringing you closer to another orgasm.

Bruce slid a hand over one of your tits, thumb running over the raised nipple, covering your body with goosebumps. His tongue slid over yours, lips connecting and breaking apart with each moan.

He sped up, and the tension in your body grew, muscles seizing as he fucked you, the sensation cresting seconds later. You trembled underneath him, body convulsing as your orgasm ran through you like a shockwave, a heavy breath caught in your throat until you were over the peak. You let it out against his mouth, and he pushed his lips harder against yours, diving into the kiss, swallowing you whole.

You felt his body start to jerk, his moans growing more broken as he fucked faster into you. He was closing in on his own orgasm, and you moved a hand to his lower back, following his rhythm even as he started to lose it.

“I—” He stuttered, breaking your lips apart, and looking directly into your eyes, his own blue irises glistening with tears, “I love you.”

You sighed, a smile flashing over your lips before you guided his head to the crook of your neck, holding him there as he hit his climax.

“I—” He muttered, and you felt him try to pull away, but you ran your hand over his back and pressed kisses to the top of his head.

“Shh, Bruce, it’s okay. It’s okay.” You whispered, gasping at the last few thrusts of his cock inside you before he was quaking on top of you, hot breath hitting your neck in bursts as he regained his composure.

You guided his head back up so you could kiss him, lips sliding together lazily as he pressed a few more weak thrusts into you, draining the last dredges of his orgasm out of his body, small shivers running through his skin.

The two of you lie there for several quiet moments in the aftermath, your hand combing through Bruce’s hair, his head still on your chest. You looked over his body, noting the changes in his skin, the scars on his legs, the freckles that have darkened on his back. The Bruce that drove you from the manor still lived in the man on top of you, a protective armor he was still struggling to take off, but he was trying.

Bruce raised his head to look at you, his eyes betraying the smile he’d kept from his lips. He leaned forward, pressing his lips to yours, and rolled off of the bed.

You watched him grab a towel from the bathroom, returning to clean up the mess he’d made, fabric grazing over your skin gently. He tossed it into the laundry basket, and slid back into the bed beside you, lying on his back, an arm slipping under your neck, pulling you to lie on his chest.

You rested your head on his torso, body flush against his side, eyelids fluttering closed as he kissed the top of your head. You looked up at him, admiring that smile in his eyes once again.

His voice was naught more than a whisper when he spoke, gravel and honey in his voice.

“Can I stay?” He asked, swallowing hard, jaw clenching.

You kept your gaze on him, looking over his features. There was still a pit in your chest, still anger in your mind, but you looked at the way he was bracing himself in front of you. The way he prepared for a ‘no,’ his grip on your body already going slack. You hadn’t lied all those years ago when you said you could never leave. There was a part of you that was still there, in the manor, waiting for Bruce. And now, here he was, waiting for you.

There was no other answer.

“Yes.” You laid your head back down, feeling the tension in his body dissolve, his grip tightening. You’d told him he could stay.

And so he did.

#bruce wayne #the batman #bruce wayne x you #bruce wayne x reader #batman #dc #batman x reader #batman x you #my writing #mine

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