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dr-trafalgar-law · 7 months ago

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Trafalgar Law X CisFem Reader

Law laid on his back, eyes locked on the ceiling, his brain too overworked from the last few days. A sigh pushed passed his parted lips for the millionth time since he'd returned to the apartment. The sun would be up soon and the tv could still be heard in the living room, he assumed you hadn't been to bed either. Sleeplessness would only bring on the possibility of more anxiety attacks. You needed rest and this situation wasn't helping.

It bothered him that he was even thinking about how you were sitting up at night worrying about him coming home while also knowing things would still be tense when he did.

Why did he have to be in this situation?

His tired mind drifted back to the night you spent with him after first witnessing your attack. You were so vulnerable, all of the walls of sass and attitude you'd built to keep him out had temporarily crumbled down.

He'd watched your sleeping face with a sinking sensation in his stomach. This wasn't what he wanted.

How did this sneak up on him?

The sun had finally risen and you decided to move your sleep deprived self into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. You'd spent the entire night awake on the sofa terrified of whatever conversation was going to take place. A chill shot down your spine when you heard his door finally open.

"Coffee?" you weakly offered when Law entered the room with a yawn.

Without a word Law made his way to the coffee maker taking his preferred mug from the hook below the kitchen cabinets. After getting his coffee he dropped down into the seat across from you, his tattooed hand sliding a small piece of paper across the table to you.

It was a very worn wallet sized photograph, just by the looks it had to have been taken when you were a kid. The photo was a young girl with brunette piggy tails, big bright eyes and a grin to match. There was something eerily familiar about her that you couldn't quite place.

Law's piercing gaze swept over you observing every aspect of the photo with a confused pout.

"That's Lami," he murmured, "my younger sister."

Younger sister?!

You had no idea the man you were engaged to had siblings. Something terrible must've happened if he never spoke of her.

Suddenly it felt like you'd swallowed a boulder.

"Despite the laws, my parents loved each other and us very much. We were lucky. Forced families are often resented, that's why I don't agree with it." he'd closed his eyes trying to keep himself together, "When I was ten I was at a sleepover at a friend's house down the street when we woke up to sirens at my house. Apparently an outlet in the kitchen sparked. Lami ... Was the only person who left the house alive."

Though his eyes remained closed the pain was evident on his face. You couldn't bring yourself to speak, patiently waiting for him to continue.

"She was in intensive care for three days before her little body finally gave up."

Your eyes began to burn. No wonder he was so drained and upset when he came home after that accident. His reluctance to work in pediatrics made more sense. Reliving the pain of losing his sister, his family must've been awful.

"Rosinante was a friend of the family who couldn't have children of his own, so the adoption was quick." his stormy eyes opened slowly falling over you.

He was impressed with himself for making it down that painful path without breaking. You, on the other hand were a crying hiccuping mess. For the first time you really connected and felt Law's emotions, he finally wasn't holding back and even though he didn't cry you could definitely sense his despair and heart break as he spoke.

"Cora-ya - er - Rosinante, is a couples therapist appointed by the WG." Law glanced uncomfortably at his now cold coffee, "Corazon is his nickname, I suppose someone thought it was cheeky. He suggested we have moments of vulnerability to help us understand each other." a slight embarrassed blush painted his cheeks, "This is a safe place to speak about painful things and insecurities."

You tried to catch your breath as you dried your face with a paper towel he'd handed you.

A safe space? You definitely needed that and felt he was being truthful. Law had never lied, he was usually painfully blunt, so you knew he meant what he said.

"Look, I just wanted you to know why... it was so hard the other day." his voice was starting to shake, "I may have overreacted."

"No," you finally rasped, "if anything you under-reacted. I-I was being honest when I said nothing happened that night. Marco wanted to talk. He had hugged me though so I guess that's where the cologne came from. I was scared and I didn't want you to jump to conclusions."

"What about that night in November?" his eyes watched your every movement, "you came home with that same scent."

He could see you choking up.

Instantly his stomach dropped, but his cool façade remained as he brought the coffee mug to his lips attempting to wash away the bitterness on his tongue.

Your face burned while a painful knot formed in your throat.

"I didn't want to tell you in case we were found out." you lowered your gaze to your fidgety hands.

"Bullshit." he muttered drawing your attention back.

"I-if someone finds out, I don't want you going down with me." you strained.

"Your unwillingness to trust me is unnerving, F/N."

"It's not that..." you paused, "ok, maybe at first it was. B-but I didn't know you."

"And you still don't." he murmured, "Tell me what happened."

You held your breath for a few beats and exhaled, "He showed up at the shop after his bachelor outting with the boys...we hadn't seen each other in six months - since the day they were assigned to each other. He - hum - he wanted to properly say goodbye. I should have stopped it."

"But you couldn't." he guessed.

You shook your head, "We cut off all communication after that. Even the next day at the wedding I had Usopp and Vivi deliver the cake and collect the final payment from Ms.Charlotte."

Law hummed taking in your explanation. He wasn't sure why all of this made him so uncomfortable and...angry? Normally this sort of nonsense didn't bother him. Plenty of women had come and gone. It didn't matter. For some reason he was disappointed in you for turning out like everyone else. Perhaps he expected the government to match him with someone who would respect the relationship. It was forced and he didn't want to marry a stranger but at least he was trying.

"So, the other night?" he pressed you to continue.

"Ugh... He wanted to tell me she's pregnant." you sighed again, "I don't know why he called me out in the middle of the night. Maybe he thought it'd be like last time. But... I don't want that."

"What does it matter to you if she's pregnant?" he sounded genuinely interested.

"It's complicated, but I guess they think she's cheating on him and the kid might be proof of that. It's ridiculous and I told them I want nothing to do with it." you explained feeling a bit more comfortable.

"Them?" he rested his chin in his palm as he leaned his elbow against the kitchen table.

"His stupid brothers." you avoided eye contact again, "They're planning something."

"Planning? Why does it have to involve you?"

"They want to catch her or something, and they think if that happens they can petition for Marco and I to be together. But I know it doesn't work that easily and I don't think... I don't think it's something I want anymore."

Law lost his composure for such a brief moment you didn't even notice. That galloping feeling struck his chest again as he carefully gulped down a breath.

"Meaning?"

"I've made it this far trying to get over a relationship that can't be, and even if there is a small chance for this stupid plan to work, chances of it all falling apart are even greater. I can't get my hopes up just to go through it all over again." you ran a shaky hand through your messy hair, "More importantly, you're my partner now. I should be focusing on building a relationship with you."

Law was a bit shocked, he hadn't expected those words to leave your lips. He was suddenly overwhelmed, this feeling was new and he wasn't sure he was ready to accept it.

"I know it might be hard, but I hope you can forgive me."

He stood abruptly, the sound of the chair scraping against the linoleum startled you.

"I," he cleared his throat, "I need a moment."

Before you could react he brushed passed you and slammed his bedroom door.

"Shit." you slouched back.

Had any of this actually helped at all?

#closure #lyndsyh24 #one piece #slow burn #trafalgar d law x reader #trafalgar law #x reader #18+ mdni #marco the phoenix #fem reader

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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 · 9 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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studiocapturelife · 3 months ago

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Expert Tips for Baby Photoshoot

As a parent, you want to capture the precious moments of your baby's life, and a professional photoshoot is an excellent way to do so. At Studio Capture Life, we understand the importance of preserving these memories, and we're here to guide you through the process of creating an unforgettable baby photoshoot.

Why Professional Photography Matters

As a mother of four and a photographer of over 15 years, I've learned that what looks like a hassle to some can be a great opportunity for others. Having a professional photographer capture your baby's first year is a chance to create beautiful, lasting memories. It's not just about the photos; it's about the experience, the joy, and the love that's shared during the photoshoot.

Setting the Stage for Beautiful Moments

To create an unforgettable baby photoshoot, it's essential to set the stage for beautiful moments. This means choosing a comfortable and relaxing environment, like our studio at Studio Capture Life, where you and your baby can feel at ease. Our studio is designed to be a happy place, where joyful, picture-perfect moments happen. We'll take care of your hair, makeup, and wardrobe, so you can focus on enjoying the experience with your baby.

Preserving Memories Well

Preserving memories well is crucial to creating an unforgettable baby photoshoot. This means capturing the perfect tiny features of your new baby, from swaddled poses to close-ups on hands, feet, and lips. We'll also capture the big smiles, giggles, and coos that are abundant during this stage. Our photographers are experts in creating situations and scenes to capture naturally, using beautiful wooden toys, soft comfy furniture, and lovely children's books to spark true joy.

Reveling in the Memories Afterward

Reveling in the memories afterward is just as important as capturing them. We'll provide you with gorgeous photo prints in frames, so you can hang them on your walls and cherish the memories every day. You'll also receive a beautiful handcrafted photo album to place on your coffee table, where you can flip through the pages and relive the joy of the photoshoot.

Tips for an Unforgettable Baby Photoshoot

Here are some tips to make your baby photoshoot unforgettable:

Maternity: Capture your growing baby bump at 32 weeks, a perfect opportunity to soak in your last weeks as a family before the new addition.

Newborn: Welcome Baby into the world with a photoshoot that captures the perfect tiny features, swaddled poses, and lots of snuggles.

At three months old: Capture the "enchanted months" with tummy time, sleeping, and eating, making them relatively happy, smiley, and predictable.

At six months old: Celebrate Baby's first sitting photos, with adorable baby-bum shots, and capture them reaching for toys, Mom's arms, or sitting in a chair.

At nine months old: Watch out world, Baby is on the move! Capture them in motion, crawling, climbing, and playing with toys.

At one-year-old: Happy first birthday, Baby! Celebrate with a cake smash, and capture the achievements you've seen in this first year of their life.

Conclusion

At Studio Capture Life, we're dedicated to creating unforgettable baby photoshoots that you'll treasure for a lifetime. Our expert photographers, comfortable studio, and beautiful props will help you capture the precious moments of your baby's life. Contact us today to schedule your photoshoot and start creating memories that will last a lifetime.

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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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MiracleWatt: A Balanced Review of the Pros and Cons!

Home remodeling projects may be hard, especially when you have no inkling of how to do them. If you do not even know where to start your project, get some good advice first. Then learn how each part should be done so that you will achieve beautiful, professional results.

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Cleaning your decanter can be made quite easy with the following steps. Fill up your decanter up with hot water halfway and add several drops of dishwashing liquid inside. Add two or three tablespoons of vinegar and one cup of raw rice (doesn't matter what type). Swirl the concoction in your decanter until clean. The rice helps rub off the excess dirt while you're swirling the liquid.

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If you are a handy person and can understand plans, consider doing some home improvement jobs yourself. Small and simple projects can improve the overall look of your home. By doing it yourself, you save money and avoid the aggravation of researching a contractor for minor jobs. You will feel more confident and much prouder of your home.

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kitchencountertopsinlivoniami · 2 years ago

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

In a convention for Kmart workers on January 22, Conaway accepted "comprehensive blame" for that economic disaster. As Kmart emerged from individual bankruptcy, Conaway was pressured to stage down and was asked to pay again every one of the loans he experienced taken.

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Attempt not to stay in your home whilst the function is going on Except if you have a 2nd kitchen in your home. You won't manage to cook or consume in there for three–eight weeks if the remodel is a giant one in particular.

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A small kitchen can continue to pack a huge amount of color and elegance. Below, Dani Dazey produced a sunny-hued ombre look to her pegboard kitchen cupboards that adds a happy, retro vibe to her household.

Even though it experienced an open format, this kitchen felt dim and closed-in. Deep brown walls in addition to a black tile backsplash produced a weighty, dated look. Simple golden oak cabinetry is extra to the list of unattractive capabilities.

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Producing attractive timeless Areas inside funds and programs. Exceeding expectations and producing lifetime extensive friendships along the best way.

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If you are all set to shake items up a bit and check out something unique than a white kitchen, matte black is a wonderful alternative particularly when your property allows in a good amount of all-natural gentle.

This builder-quality kitchen was ample, but it surely experienced the prospect of being so far more. The broad lengths of cabinetry and economical structure did not want main updates. A couple of beauty tweaks as well as the addition of island seating aided this kitchen to seem and execute its very best.

#kitchen remodeling in west bloomfield mi #kitchen remodeling

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realestatecalendars101 · 2 years ago

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2023 Shop Developments Dateworks Horror Assortment Wall Calendar

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Be transported again to the heady world of the Nineties, when Art Nouveau or the Modern Style was all the craze. In this fabulous mini calendar are 12 Art Nouveau patterns taken from the V&A’s in depth collections. The motion affected many types of design and this iconic type shortly unfold around the globe. Informative text accompanies each work and the datepad options previous and next month’s views. Are you prepared to begin out your annual planning for 2023?

To obtain a picture, right-click on the picture and select "Save Picture As..." or "Save Image As..." and then select a location in your laptop to save lots of the image . Red-hot romances, poolside fiction, and blockbuster picks, oh my! Press the area key then arrow keys to choose. Importing from nations wall calendar 2023 so far as Japan & shipping worldwide has extra of an influence than we want. That is why we plant a tree for every order + we plant an extra 2 trees every day. Enjoy exclusive Design Store reductions and entry to MoMA daily.

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From heart-pounding thrillers to poignant memoirs and every thing in between, take a look at what's new this month. A selection of these climate initiatives are shown here. To see this collection in person, please visit our retailer in Amsterdam. Beyond the galleries awaits a world of special member-only applications. Your account has been efficiently created, click the button below to login. If for any purpose you are not glad with your purchase, you might return the merchandise inside ninety days for an trade or refund within the form of the original fee.

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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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