#sheepish archives

[sheepisharchives]

I just caught up with one of my fave webtoons “cinderella boy” and oh my god. just OH MY GOD

The emotions…. that i have gone through and it’s only season one. I NEED MORE!!!!!

[sheepisharchives]

this is difficult but i think aiden thomas he really has become my favorite author right now

You can only read books by one author for the rest of your life. Who do you pick?

The ultimate bookworm dilemma.

[iceunhie]

— KISSES OR KISSES? : honkai star rail

premise. testing out your new lipstick is no fun (normally), so what better way to make use of it by kissing your lover senseless? not to mention, leaving a little something behind.... (aka, lipstick kisses with them.)

ft. blade, dan heng, boothill, dr. ratio, aventurine !

warnings: feminine reader! reader is ultimately genderless but you may interpret this as fem!reader if you want, reader wears lipstick. nicknames hehe, boothill is his own warning, mid writing tbh, unedited

a/n. the lipstick trend does not escape me at all 😞😞 but this consumed me so now i write about it ijbol

MAIN MASTERLIST || PART 2 (sunday, jing yuan, gallagher, sampo, gepard.)

“what are you doing?”

BLADE ceases all functions. like, immediately.

you'd think he'd even stopped breathing once he'd felt the soft sensation of your lips on his, and the pretty sight of the normally aloof stellaron hunter covered in multiple lipstick kisses all over his face to his neck nearly makes the rest of his other comrades keel over from laughter. his silence is indicative of his rather unusual state of shock, the only indication a menacing furrow of his brows (to an outsider, they'd think he's plotting a murder spree, but you know him too well for that) that twitch and simultaneously react the more you kiss him everywhere on the face.

silverwolf will then relay to you that blade walked around for nearly 5 system hours covered in your... marks of ownership, kafka helpfully supplies, and was only made aware when firefly accidentally bumped into him, face exploding in red when she saw the audacious sight of blade covered in your lipstick. “er, blade.... your face is...”

—

blade has never known mortification quite like today, but the intense feeling of something akin to shame is vivid as he stares at himself in the mirror, glaring.

his face is a mess, to put it simply. trailing a hand on the red stains your lips left on to him leaves him with a smudged countenance, furthering the utter chaos that is his kiss-ridden face.

“...ridiculous girl.” avoiding the uncharacteristic way his fingertips feel hot, blade reckons this is probably why firefly stopped dead in her tracks and gaped, stared, and flustered.

clever as you were, and with your equal penchant for mischief, blade, the ever unsuspecting lover he is (he doesn't normally allow anyone to touch him, but you're not just anyone) had easily become the target of your new tricks.

“pfft, nice get-up, old man. got yourself a good day?”

....so that's what silverwolf meant.

DANHENG immediately scolds you, but not in the serious way he normally does whenever stelle wants to eat an origami bird or dives into trashcans or when march accidentally destroys one of the archive books, but in a way that only dan heng ever shows you. he's red, painfully red, and is struggling to face you because he knows that the smug grin you're holding has to do with the sight he'd glimpsed himself to be in moments prior.

unfortunately for him, for all his ways of trying fervently to remove the lipstick stains plastered all over his face, it only took march one look and a melodramatic gasp before the entire express knew, the conductor included.

—

“dan heng and [name], sitting on a tree-”

“k-i-s-s-i-n-g~”

my friends are all senile, dan heng thinks, rolling his eyes while avoiding himeko's friendly (read: eerie) smile. and he's already given up on trying to meet welt's eyes. (read: concerned but not surprised)

the reason? the rouge tinted matte lipstick generously spread all over dan heng's face, slightly smudged and spanning from his cheeks to his lips, nearing his neck.

he'd never tell, but a part of him—one that was reptilian in nature, a primal need of possessiveness—adored the show of affection you showered upon him. it was only right—he was yours, and you were his.

welt is sheepish, coughing lightly that all five heads of the express members turn to him (pom-pom included) “dan heng, is that your tail wagging?”

“....”

“....”

“....”

(a resounding click! can be heard afrerwards. oh, dan heng is so going to steal march's camera.)

the loud whir of BOOTHILL’s cooling system can't even keep up with how fast he's overheating, because one thing led to another and one look you gave made him weak in the knees and now his body is covered in your kisses, scarlet against the metal gray of his limbs. he no longer has a heart, but the rapid feeling of heat emitted by his body speaks more about his current mental state in more ways than one—he can't even form words because his brain chip is practically glitching itself up into overdrive, because your lips were so warm, soft and gentle and—

“...oothill? boothill? your circuits are—”

a startling sound that sounds just like a mini explosion reverberates somewhere in the tangle of wires near boothill's power source.

oh dear.

( p.s: no warp trotters were harmed, rest assured )

“[name]...” AVENTURINE’s voice falters when you press a soft kiss near his forehead, your lover closing his eyes as he lets out a soft sigh of joy — a bit like a peacock preening... but in any case! he certainly sees no argument being swayed by you, his dignity in shambles, yes, but when you were showering him with affection like this (which, in all honesty, aventurine did not think he deserved) leaves in in a flushed and tattered mess of a man, whose strings are wholly puppeteered by you and you alone.

you are everything; and aventurine certainly can't get enough. (he doubts if enough will even be enough someday) he's the lover who'd proudly want to flaunt such salacious marks everywhere, though his craftily built reputation as a stoneheart—blood sweat and commodity code and all—leaves him to hide your marks on him, as much as he'd like them to stay. (you are a weakness that aventurine keeps like an oath, and an existence that he'd do anything to keep.)

that doesn't, however, stop him from getting you to leave a kiss near his collar, discreet enough to signal his status as irrevocably, undeniably yours.

DR. VERITAS RATIO is actually the most calm and most normal (read: boring) of all the men above when barraged by your kiss attack. letting out a tsk that's more chiding and speeachless than actually annoyed, he casually pulls you away from his face, nevermind his rapidly heating cheeks, which is only made more humorous given his lipstick stained face.

“stop that. you're making too much of a mess of me, fool.” <- is visibly leaning to your face to allow said actions. you're not fooling anyone here, doctor. smh.

however, he does get pretty flustered when a certain blond gambler notes the new addition of a ‘tattoo’ right near his lower lip. “wow, doctor. seems you woke up on the good side of the bed today.”

he spends a whole day scolding you hoarse afterwards, whatever that may entail ;).

(as a way of petty revenge, he will make sure to kiss you senseless right after, until he's sure his own lips are swollen and covered in the warm red of your chosen shade.)

a/n: blog is running on queue as of today, so this post will probably come wayyy overdue lol but hope u enjoy nonetheless!

@ ICEUNHIE: do not repost translate or plagiarize my works.

[lovebugism]

how abt eddie x shy reader , she meet’s wayne accidentally & she brings like sm food for the week he LOVES HER but shes so shy

a request deep from the archives that i haven't stopped thinking about since i got it hahah please enjoy xoxo — you spend a fluffy morning in with the munsons (established relationship, fluff, 1.2k)

bug's one year celebration ♡

Eddie rouses from his sleep like a king on a sunken-in couch. 

Saturday morning cartoons play on the TV just ahead of him, mostly on mute ‘cause you’ve got the radio going in the kitchen. Something soft and soulful and too low for him to hear. The trailer swells with the scent of something sweet, of syrup and cooked sugar. 

Speaking of sweet…

His flushed cheek rubs against the arm of the couch when he looks up to find you. He can see you just over the top of the counter, like a scene from a movie. You’ve got a bowl of something wedged in your elbow, and you stir at it with your free hand — half-distracted because your nose is stuck in an open recipe book on the counter. Your glasses fall slowly down your nose. You try to push them up again with your shoulder, but they slip back down a second later.

Your gentle humming fills his ears, and Eddie figures this is what heaven must be like. There’s no greater nirvana than this.

He rises and stretches and walks the very short distance to the kitchen. Still warm with sleep, he wraps himself around you, chest flush to the expanse of your back. “Whatcha doin’?” he lilts, muffled into your sweater.

“Cookin’,” you answer in the same tone, only softer and a little more sheepish.

Eddie breathes hard once. You think you feel him smiling. “Dumb question, huh?”

“Did you sleep good?” 

“Too good to be passed out on the couch for an hour.” He lifts his head to prop his chin on your shoulder. It bobs against you with every word. “You were supposed to be sleeping with me, by the way.”

“I tried. But then I wanted to make you breakfast.”

“Correction. You wanted to make Wayne breakfast.”

Your giggling is as soft and sweet as the cinnamon concoction you’re stirring at. “Well, I don’t want either of you to starve, actually. So sorry for making sure the Munson’s are taken care of.”

Eddie’s chest swells. His heart starts to warm so much he’s scared it might burst. He tucks his face back into your neck and holds you tighter. “Don’t apologize, sweet thing. ‘M just being stupid.”

“That nickname’s not gonna stick, Eds,” you tease, tilting your head until your cheek meets his wild hair. “You can stop trying now.”

He scoffs and pulls back from you. His eyes, still softly swollen with sleep, are wide and glittering. “Why not?” he shouts, a bit too loudly to be so close to your ear. “You’re sweet and you’re my thing— it’s literally the perfect nickname.”

“You’re thing?” you echo with a distant laugh. “I’m not a toy, Eds.”

“Not all the time—” His boyish giggling is followed by a scoffed breath when you elbow him with your free arm. You shove him away halfheartedly, pushing him out of the tiny kitchen. “What?!” he exclaims, laughing loudly.

“Get out of the kitchen!”

“What’d I do?”

“My french toast tastes good ‘cause it’s made with love, and you’re tainting it.”

“How? I love you more than anything in the whole wide world.” He gravitates back to you despite your efforts to keep him away. He plants a smacking kiss to your lips and grins wide when he pulls away. “See? Now it’ll taste extra sweet.”

You’re glaring at him one moment, then happily accepting another one of his kisses the next.

The front door opens, squealing in protest and rushing in the cool morning air. It’s unsurprisingly Wayne. His work boots stomp heavy on the carpet. He holds a greased hand over his forehead. “My eyes are still closed,” he jokes, voice deep and gravelly. “You two have about three seconds to stop touchin’ each other.”

Eddie scoffs but steps back from you anyway. “That was one time!” he argues boyishly. “And we weren’t even doing anything!”

Wayne laughs a sharp breath, just like Eddie had, but a little bit gruffer. He forgoes the petty banter and shoots you a smile — tightlipped, barely-there, and weighed down by the exhaustion of the graveyard shift. “How ya doin’, sweetpea?”

“Good,” you answer, shrinking into your shyness. “I’m makin’ french toast.”

“That’s my favorite,” the older man grins. “How’d you know?”

“‘Cause it’s my favorite,” Eddie insists.

“It’ll be done soon,” you tell him, all quiet in your sheepishness. “If you wanna get changed or whatever.”

Wayne heads to the hallway, stopping short in the kitchen to muss at Eddie’s curls and pat you gently on the shoulder. “Thank ya, sweetpea,” he murmurs, voice dripping with fatigue. His accent always gets real heavy when he’s tired.

“You’re welcome…”

Eddie doesn’t say anything until he hears the bathroom door shut. “So Wayne can call you sweetpea, but I can call you sweet thing?” he asks, features swirled with offense.

“It’s different!”

The boy follows you to the cabinets like a lost puppy. Then, when you have trouble reaching the vanilla extract on the top shelf, he leans over you to grab it. “No, you just have favorites,” he argues, passing you the small container.

“That’s not true!”

“Whatever,” he grumbles, still pouting as he leans against the counter beside you. He mourns the lack of your attention when you give it all to the french toast mixture on the counter. You spoon in the vanilla with a practiced touch. “…Are you staying over again tonight?” he mutters, shier than you are now.

“I don’t know,” you shrug. “If it’s okay with Wayne, then—”

“Wayne! Sweet thing’s staying the night— is that okay?” Eddie shouts before you can blink. The trailer rings with the volume of his voice.

“Eddie,” you scold quietly.

The bathroom door squeaks open. A grunt sounds from the hallway, a nonverbal answer you’re not totally sure what to make of. The man returns in the pajamas he pulled from the hall closet — a thin t-shirt older than Eddie is and a pair of plaid pants.

“I’ll make dinner before your shift tonight,” you tell him with a soft grin that neither of the Munsons can say no to. “I promise.”

Wayne makes another scoffing sound. A laugh, maybe. A smile hints at the corner of his bearded mouth as he pours himself a coffee across the counter — in the painted mug Eddie made him for Father’s Day, several years ago now. 

“Well— In that case, I’m afraid I have to insist on you stayin’, sweet pea.”

“Thanks, Mr. Munson.”

“Call me Wayne,” he tells you, playfully chiding in a parental sort of way. He gives you a pointed look over the cup he sips from and heads back towards the living room. “You’re feedin’ us too good to be so polite all the time.”

You smile to yourself and laugh a quiet, slightly forced laugh.

The sofa squeaks when Wayne settles onto it, sprawling out the same way Eddie had before. Too tired to reach for the remote on the coffee table, he watches He-Man re-runs with heavy eyelids.

“Alright, sweet thing— what do you need me to do?” Eddie asks with a clap of his hands, making a very pointed effort not to drop the nickname. You get all flustered when he calls you that — smiling softly to yourself and then ducking your gaze to hide it from him. You’ll have to pry the name from his cold, dead hands.

You turn to peer at him from beneath your lashes. “You dip the bread, and I’ll fry ‘em?”

“Sounds like a plan, sweet thing.”

“Eddie.”

[st6rly]

❛ love me like how only you do. ❜

synopsis : 　 through every universe, every cycle of rebirth, he will always find you. in which kazuha loves all versions of you; in every timeline, every universe, every breath or non-breath he takes. 　 ╱ 　 word count : 　 1.7k

characters : 　 kazuha x gn!reader

categories : 　 fluff. mild angst. yearning. royalty au. country x city trope. hospital au. modern au. apocalypse & post-apocalypse aus. idol au. inanimate object / nature au?? lot's of aus. 8 + 1 fic.

warnings : 　rusty writing (it's been a hot minute my bad-). brief major character deaths. mention of blood / injury / violence / drowning. illness in characters + family members. fire. zombies. mentions / vague descriptions of death in general.

dedicated to : 　 @yuomizuu, from your stellaronhvnter secret santa :3c when i saw kazuha on your list, i jumped for joy; he’s one of my top genshin characters & im so happy to have an excuse to write for him! // playlist i was listening to while writing // art by @.mayu_mey on twt

In one universe, Kazuha bumps into you on the street. 

Bundles of scrolls and parchment spill from your arms, delicate writing muddied with dirt as the commotion on the street barely comes to a halt. Onlookers scowl and grumble, moving past without a second thought as you scramble to collect your things from the footpath, movements hastened by the spear-tips aiming your way. 

Cape a deep crimson with delicate fur trim, the Kaedehara family crest is embroidered on the back in gold thread. Kazuha always thought it was unnecessary to flaunt his status, preferring respect of the family name over awe of his wealth. But being a gift from a dear friend, he wears it more often than not. In cases like these, he wishes he hadn’t. Your eyes catch the glint of his garments, and you freeze, petrified.  

Lowering to a crouch, Kazuha waves away his guards with dimmissive hand, gloved hands working to collect fallen sheets. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, voice kind and with a smile. He holds out a scroll for you to take back. Your fingers brush his. 

“Yes…” you mutter back, somewhat sheepish. You quickly rise to your feet and offer him a bow. “My apologies, Your Highness.” 

“No need for it.” 

He offers to walk you to your destination. You decline. He insists. The two of you both make it to the library in quick succession, the others on the road making way the minute the red of his cape is seen. 

“This is quite unnecessary, Your Highness.” Kazuha looks over at you. You smile when he meets your eyes. “It was I who bumped into you. There was no need to escort me back.”

“Ah, but I wanted to.” 

It’s when you’re inside, the door closed behind you, that Kazuha stops to stare at where you’d once stood. His cheeks are rosy with warmth.  

“Are you alright, Your Highness?” one of the guards prods, hesitant. “You seem a bit… flushed.” 

“I’m more than alright.” 

The kingdom falls before he can see you again. 

Flames engulf houses and shops; fire starved and ravenous, it becomes a glutton as it licks up the side of the library. His horse whinnies and backs away when the heat gets to be too much, but Kazuha can’t seem to pull himself away from the sight. He needs to leave. He needs to leave. Run. Run. Run. Run—

Some part of him hopes you made it out unscathed, heart heavy as the shouts of enemy troops chase after him. You would’ve liked the palace archives, he thinks, salt trailing down ash-stained cheeks as the ruins disappear in the distance. 

—

In one universe, you’ve just moved from the city to the countryside. 

As your new neighbour, Kazuha took it upon himself to welcome you. The rest of the area had heard about your reasonings: a relative of yours who owned the house you’d be staying in has fallen ill. You’re here to keep things in order while they receive treatment. 

Basket full of fresh fruit from his own farm, he stands outside your door with a nervous frown. His heart beats erratically in his chest, pulse ricocheting off the bones of his ribs. It’s never like him to be so jittery when greeting others. Readjusting his grip, Kazuha sucks in a breath and knocks. 

You shout back, “Just a sec!” 

There’s a brief moment where Kazuha debates leaving, dropping the basket and running. He digs his heels into the ground. The door opens with a click. You smile and— 

Oh. 

He’s been here before, hasn't he? 

Cheeks turning a soft pink, he grins back, holding out the basket. 

“A little welcome gift,” he says, “from your new neighbour.” 

You take the basket from him; your fingers don’t touch his. Is it weird that he wishes they did? Kazuha comes back the next day, handing you a bunch of mail and a package. You invite him to stay this time. 

Kazuha swears he’s seen you before, that you moving wasn’t a coincidence judging by the butterflies that eat at his stomach lining. Whatever it is, you don’t remember him like how he thinks of you. 

You return to the city months later, leaving the confession on the tip of his tongue. 

—

In one universe, you are the wind that greets him every morning. 

The hospital room is stuffy, void of colour except for the stack of “Get well soon!” cards and deflating balloons shoved by his bedside. He misses the farm, he decides, the vast openness of the trees and fields. The smell of medicine had stung his nose at first; now it’s barely there. Kazuha stares out at the sunrise, smiling to himself when a familiar breeze slips through the crack of his window. Bathed in gold with the sun speckled in his hair, he strains an arm and grasps onto a well-loved notepad and pen. 

“One day,” he murmurs, voice airy as he jots down the date, “I’ll be out there too.” 

—

In one universe, you’re a birdhouse and he’s the bird. 

The seeds are kept well stocked; the shelter you provide is always dry. You both get swept away in a windstorm. 

—

In one universe, he is a star. 

Rubble and debris from what were once towering builds block any type of path you may have been able to venture. Despite the lack of them, the stench of walking death still permeates the air.  

“Shouldn’t have taken that shortcut,” you mumble, grunting when your foot catches on another root. 

The trees grow thicker and you swear you’ve passed this part of the woods already. You grumble a string of profanities, plopping down to the forest floor and leaning against the bark. You look up. 

“You’re here at least.” The words are soft, much too gentle for the atmosphere. Kazuha doesn’t respond. Can’t respond. “You’d scold me for scavenging this late. I know it.” 

The star grows brighter, as if laughing. 

— 

In one universe, Kazuha’s flesh can be tasted on your tongue. 

Tied up in the corner, your arms pinned behind your back, he sits about two metres away in front of you on a broken crate. The gun lays loaded in his lap. Eyes closed with his head down, fingers resting on the cool metal, Kazuha’s lips stretch into a thin line. 

“It’s not right,” he mutters, mainly to himself as you thrash in the corner, desperate to reach him. “It’s not my right to rob you of life.” 

You snarl in response. Eyes bloodshot and crazed, he wonders if you can still understand him. Would you plead for him to shoot you? Would you beg to be spared? Could he bear to do either? He’s going to be sick. 

“It’s not right,” he repeats, shaky hands curling in his lap. “It’s you and me. We haven’t come all this way just to end.” 

The world has taken enough from him. Kazuha refuses to let it take you too; not without him.  

He stands in front of you. The gun lays off to the side. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice screams at him not to fold. They wouldn’t want this, it wails, clawing at the walls of his skull. Another tells him, Do it. And so Kazuha undoes your binds, kisses you, smiles tearfully when your nails claw into his skin. Blood runs down his back, stains his tattered clothing. He hugs you. Your jaws clamp down on the junction of his neck and shoulder. His nose brushes against your jaw. 

“It’s ok,” he whispers to ears that cannot hear reason, hold tightening, “we’ll be ok.” 

—

In one universe, you two never meet. Not face-to-face at least. 

Kazuha smiles at the camera, holding up a peace-sign, before the view switches to another member on stage. The clip goes viral very shortly after its creation. You come across it one day. 

“An idol, huh…” you mutter. 

 You scroll away. 

— 

In one universe, he’s stuck behind a screen, a watcher to your world as you go through the motions of life. 

Fate isn’t his, but he can’t seem to mind. When his splash art first coloured your screen, when he first witnessed that giddy look in your eyes, Kazuha knew he was smitten. 

Even if you ult at the wrong times, run out of stamina in the middle of climbing, skip dialogue, Kazuha is there beside you. For every beginning, end, every plotline in between, he’s a staple of your team. 

One day, you stop logging in. It was gradual at first; daily tasks, some resin here and there, you’d skip a day then come back the next. A day turned into two. Then three. A week. A month. Kazuha still waits. It’s funny how his world comes to a standstill when you do. He hopes you’re doing well. 

—

In one universe, he is a leaf and you are a river cutting through the forest. 

He drowns in your embrace, waterlogged and swept away as you carry him down stream. If he had a conscience, Kazuha would do it again. 

—

In this universe, it’s finally Kazuha and you. (There is no need to say he loves you when his name is already beside yours.)

Kazuha watches as you pack up your things. He stands from his spot next to you, bag slung over his shoulder as he waits. Other students are already leaving the lecture hall, milling about as he admires you from this short distance. 

In this universe, it’s been Kazuha and you since birth. Friends since forever, it surprised no one when both of you confessed. It would be nice if every universe were like this. 

“You’re staring.” 

He blinks, hand finding yours automatically. You squeeze back. 

“It’s hard not to when you look like that,” he teases back. 

“C’mon, the winter festival is starting soon.” You roll your eyes. 

Foot catching on the chair, Kazuha steadies you before your books can fall out of your hands, giggling when you’re quick to apologize. 

“I had a weird dream last night,” he blurts out once you’re back to standing. 

“About me falling?” 

“More than that.” He traces your skin with his thumb, lost in thought before speaking again. “I’ll walk you back to your dorm. Drop off your stuff and all.” 

“Nah, I can just meet up with you.” 

Would it be nice if every universe were like this? That’s silly, he thinks with a smile. No world could make me love you less. 

“I insist.” 

notes : 　inspired by multiverse concepts, including “everything, everywhere, all at once,” arcane, the "do you think we're together in every universe?" trend, and this one poem i read that i can’t remember. this ended up being shorter than i thought it would be, but there are a lot of parallels between scenes and such so i hope those were caught! apologies if the prose doesn't flow too well TwT

[aventurineswife]

Could I request the Astral Express trio (you can choose Stelle or Caelus) with a reader (GN) who is also a member of the Express who is like an older sibling? Reprimanding them when they get hurt, or comforting them when they're upset?

No One is Alone

Summary: Life aboard the Astral Express isn't just about fighting enemies or exploring new worlds—it's also about looking out for each other. As the team's older sibling figure, you take it upon yourself to reprimand Dan Heng and Stelle after they return from a mission injured. Through scolding, comforting, and heartfelt conversations, you remind them that they're part of a team and don't have to face their struggles alone.

Tags: Astral Express Trio x Reader, Platonic, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Sibling Dynamics, GN!Reader, Protective!Reader, Team Bonding, Angst with a Happy Ending.

Warnings: Mentions of injuries (non-graphic), Mild guilt/self-blame themes, Emotional vulnerability and introspection.

The hum of the Astral Express filled the air, a comforting backdrop to life aboard the interstellar train. You sat in the lounge, scanning over a datapad while keeping half an ear tuned to the faint commotion from the infirmary. It was a sound you'd become all too familiar with since joining the crew.

Dan Heng and Stelle—recovering from yet another scrape they shouldn't have gotten into.

The infirmary door swished open, and March peeked out, her expression torn between amusement and sympathy. "They're ready for the scolding..." she chirped.

You sighed, setting your datapad aside. Rising to your feet, you felt the weight of your role—neither a fighter nor a strategist, but the de facto big sibling of this unconventional family.

The scene in the infirmary was almost comical. Stelle sat on one of the cots, a bandage around her upper arm, her usual unbothered expression firmly in place. Dan Heng stood nearby, his arms crossed over his chest, looking stoic despite the gash on his shoulder that hadn't been there when the mission started.

"Care to explain?" you began, arms crossed and gaze level.

"It was just a minor miscalculation." Dan Heng replied calmly.

"A 'minor miscalculation' doesn't leave you bleeding, Dan Heng," you said pointedly, turning to Stelle. "And you—didn't I tell you to call for backup if things went south?"

Stelle gave a sheepish shrug. "I thought we could handle it."

"You thought wrong." You sighed, your tone softening as you crossed the room. Grabbing a chair, you sat between them, your expression gentler now. "I know you're both incredibly capable. But even the best make mistakes. You're part of a team—you don't have to shoulder everything alone."

Dan Heng's gaze flickered to the floor, and Stelle's shoulders slumped slightly.

"You don’t need to push yourself to the point of breaking to prove anything," you added, standing to place a reassuring hand on each of their shoulders. "We're in this together. If something happened to either of you, we’d all feel it. And you’d feel the same if it were March, right?"

Both nodded, though they didn’t meet your gaze.

"Good. Now, promise me you’ll call for help next time."

"Promise." Stelle said, a small smile tugging at her lips. Dan Heng gave a slight nod, his stoic mask cracking just enough for you to catch the faintest hint of guilt.

Later, in the privacy of the archive, you found Dan Heng surrounded by stacks of books. He looked up as you entered, his expression as composed as ever.

"You didn't just come here to read, did you?" you asked, pulling up a chair.

"...No," he admitted after a moment, his voice quiet. "I thought I could avoid putting others at risk by keeping things to myself. I didn’t think about how that might affect the team."

You smiled softly, resting a hand on his. "Dan Heng, you're not a burden. You're not just running from your past anymore—you’re building a future with all of us. And we need you to trust us enough to let us help."

He hesitated, then gave a small nod. "I'll try."

Later that evening, Stelle found you in the lounge, sitting with a warm drink. She plopped down beside you, her usual confidence dimmed by something you couldn’t quite place.

"You were right," she said, uncharacteristically subdued.

"About what?" you asked, setting your drink down.

"About asking for help." She stared at the floor for a moment before meeting your eyes. "I’m used to going it alone. But... it’s different with you guys. It’s like, I know you’ve got my back, and that’s scary because now I care. You know?"

You smiled, ruffling her hair like a younger sibling. "That’s not a bad thing, Stelle. Caring means you’re not just surviving anymore—you’re living."

She leaned into your side, her head on your shoulder. "Thanks, big sibling."

"Anytime," you said, wrapping an arm around her. "Just stop scaring me with the near-death experiences, okay?"

"I’ll try." she mumbled, and for now, that was enough.

(yonagi on X)

[saintbleeding]

[ID: A four page comic of Jon Sims, Sam Khalid, Celia Ripley, and Martin Blackwood, set loosely in the Magnus Protocol universe. Jon is a tall, thin, brown-skinned man, wearing business-casual clothes, an ace ring, gold earrings, and glasses, with noticeably unscarred skin and only minor greying in his chin length curly hair. Sam is shorter and fat, wearing a blue business shirt and glasses. He has brown skin and short, black, curly hair. Celia is a tall, fat woman wearing casual clothing and an evil-eye pendant, with straight hair in a bob with bleached ends and light brown skin. Martin is a short, fat, white man with wavy ginger hair, wearing a green three piece suit and glasses.

Page one: Jon sits at a cafe table, hands laced together, wearing business-casual clothes, an ace ring, gold earrings, and glasses, with noticeably unscarred skin. He says “Well, I'm sorry it hasn't been more instructive." We see Sam and Celia sitting side-by-side, with Sam's arm casually around Celia's shoulders. Celia replies "It's fine!" and Sam adds "Yeah. Georgie mentioned your experience was a long time ago." Jon stands up and continues "Mm. Good luck, regardless. With your--research." Sam says "Ah, thanks! We haven't exhausted [caps] every [end caps] avenue yet." Celia adds "Yeah! We've even got someone else coming to chat today. Oh, actually--" she pauses and stands up, lifting a hand in greeting, and says "Hi Martin!"

Page two: Jon looks quizzically offscreen as Celia turns back towards Sam. Sam's expression is shocked as he says "You arranged the interviews with the Chester guy *and* the Norris guy on the same day?" and Celia replies "I thought it might be fun." We cut to Martin, who is walking gloomily down the street with his hands in his pockets. He hears Celia's greeting, looks up, and begins to smile. A moment later, Jon and Martin stand facing one another, beaming with recognition.

Page three: Jon and Martin exchange sheepish "hi"s, and Sam--still perturbed--watches on and asks "Do they, like, know each other?" to which Celia replies "Not exactly :3c"

Page four: The Protocol-universe Jon and Martin stand more closely to one another, and in the sudden, heavy glitch effect surrounding them, their season-five Archives-universe counterparts are faintly visible, standing in the same positions. Archives-Martin has darker, greying hair and a beard, with more pallid skin, and Archives-Jon has patchy, white hair, a beard, and numerous scars across his body. Both of them wear filthy, practical clothing. End ID.]

ok listen i straight up started this comic after magp episode 8 aired!!! your heart occurrence and bicycle overdose mean NOTHING to me

[dark-and-kawaii]

Daughters

Raphael x F!Tav/Reader

Haarlep x F!Tav/Reader

⋆˙⟡♡ Summary: Two separate little stories for Raphael & Haarlep being parents!!

⋆˙⟡♡ Notes: Purely self indulgent!! I just really love the thought of them both being parents okay! Especially Haarlep!!! I brought back Impsy from a previous story as well for Haarlep’s story!! Enjoy xoxo

⋆˙⟡♡ Parenthood | Dadphael | Fluff | Haarlep As A Parent ♡

Prt 2. - Prt 3.

Raphael

Raphael tended to his duties amidst the solemn quietude of his archive. Engrossed in the scrutiny of a newly inked contract, the rustle of hurried steps reached his ears. With a practiced motion, and without a glance away from his script, he caught hold of his daughter's tail as she attempted to dart past.

The abrupt interruption of her sprint sent her tumbling, "gah!"

"Pray tell, to what urgent destination are you racing?" Raphael inquired, his attention steadfast upon the curling letters of the contract.

"Nooowhere..." came the sheepish, drawn-out reply.

Raphael's voice, still calm and measured, carried a note of paternal admonishment, "Venture not too far, and refrain from such reckless haste within the archive. These relics are delicate, their histories irreplaceable.”

The little devil, a mischievous glint in her eyes, nodded slowly, her tail now still in her father's firm but gentle grasp. With a reluctant sigh, she straightened up, her posture mimicking the elegance she so often saw in her father.

"Sorry, father," she said, her voice a mix of feigned contrition and lingering excitement. "I'll be more careful. But, um, can I ask you something?"

Raphael finally lifted his gaze, his eyes meeting hers with an intensity that belied his calm exterior. "Of course, child. You know you may always speak freely."

She shuffled her feet, the earlier urgency replaced with a sudden shyness. "Yoooou are going to meet with a client later, and I... I was wondering if maybe I could watch? I promise I'll be silent and still as a statue!"

A small, knowing smile crept onto Raphael's lips. "A client, you say? Very well. You may observe, but under two conditions: You shall not interrupt, and you shall learn. There is much to be gained from understanding the art of negotiation and the binding of contracts."

Her face lit up, a beaming smile cutting through her attempts at decorum. "Yes, father! Thank you! I'll be the best statue you've ever seen!"

Raphael released her tail, and with a gentle push, he encouraged her toward the door. "Go then, prepare yourself. But remember, should you break your promise, there will be consequences. We are, after all, a family of our word."

The Apple of his eyes nodded vigorously before darting off, this time with a skip rather than a sprint, her excitement barely contained as she vanished from the archive.

Raphael's eyes returned to the contract before him, the smile lingering a moment longer before the mask of the composed dealmaker settled back into place. He placed it down on the table so he could focus on you, the mother of his heir who slept soundly at his side on the opulent sofa, your head resting upon his lap as he stroked your head. His gaze shifted to the crown of karsus, the brown irises tracking its form, “A family of our word, indeed."

Haarlep

The day arrived when the cries of a newborn half demon echoed through the halls. Haarlep approached the cradle, where a tiny creature with horns just sprouting from its head and a mischievous glint in its eyes lay. The tiny creature a perfect mix of you both. The incubus's heart, though not often given to warmth, swelled a tad with a strange pride.

"Ah, my little impling," Haarlep mused aloud, a smirk playing across their lips. "How I long to see the chaos you'll unleash."

It didn’t take long, Haarlep could barely believe their child was growing so fast…

"Come now, offspring," Haarlep spoke with a softness no one would believe they possessed. The incubus opened the curtains to your room, the moon casting down upon the city, "You see this world? It's yours to play with, to bend and to shape. I will teach you the art of emotional manipulation, to dance with the hearts of mortals as one plays the lyre." The child clung to their parents leg, its tiny tail giving an excited twitch, Haarlep could only grin.

“Haarlep~” You sung their name, catching your lovers attention.

“Hm?”

You crossed your arms, your infamous imp, Impsy, standing next you, doing the same with an arched brow. A subtle smile crossing your features, “…She’s 3…”

“You are just no fun, are you?”

As the child grew, it became clear that she was indeed Haarlep's progeny, causing minor chaos with a mere giggle, and using her innate powers to toy with the emotions of those around her. But Haarlep's teachings were not yet complete.

"One must never be alone, my little tyrant," Haarlep instructed one evening. "Tonight, you will summon Impsy. A loyal playmate for all your days."

Their child, eager and wide-eyed, nodded and began to chant under Haarlep's careful guidance. The air shimmered, and with a pop, a small imp appeared, its face unamused with its little foot tapping on the ground.

"Hells…” Impsy held the bridge of its nose, “I can’t believe there’s two of you now.” The imp shook its head, “But I mean look at her!“ Impsy’s eyes sparkled wide as it walked up to the tiny little halfbreed, pinching her cheek, “Awh she looks perfect as always! Let’s thank the gods for Tavy’s good genes-“ Impsy smirked at Haarlep, “would’ve been a shame if she got your looks!”

Haarlep watched, a proud smirk etched on their face, as their child and Impsy ran off to pull their first prank together. The bond between them was immediate since her birth, and the imp proved to be a fitting companion for the young thing.

Time passed, and the little half demon grew bolder, often attempting to slip away to explore or cause mischief beyond Haarlep's or your watchful eye. On one such occasion, the child tried to race out of the room, her tiny tail swishing excitedly behind her. With a swift movement, Haarlep's foot came down upon the tail, causing the little demon to tumble onto her rump.

"And where do you think you're going?" Haarlep asked, his tone playful yet stern, the smirk on his face belying his true delight in the little one's antics.

The child pouted, looking up at her father with a mix of annoyance and admiration.

"To explore, to play!" She exclaimed, her eyes shining with the promise of trouble.

Haarlep chuckled, lifting their foot. "Tut, tut. Patience my little one." Haarlep’s mind reflects back to when they were gifted to Mephistopheles… Then Raphael… The incubus’s features twisting at the memories. They wouldn’t allow such a fate for their offspring, “I shall join you, we’ll play a little game! Together! In the city with all those fools.”

[strungnews]

Sometimes I like to think in a modern au, Mark and his other alternates are just some kind of fucked up family where they all look alike cause Nolan's genes are just that strong.

You're up at only god knows how late, scrolling through Mark's instagram and it kind of just looks like he's a self-centered asshole posting pictures of himself with different hairstyles that come and go at a suspiciously fast rate, and clothes that seem to cross ugly and fashionable territory. But no, those are his siblings. You don't like any of the photos as to not seem like a big fuckin’ creep, you’re already too far back in Mark’s gallery to the point where you can see the trends of the time.

The shitty filters, edits and overall vibe documented and archived beautifully all in one account, and all you can think about while looking through the page, is 'Smash.' "You're ridiculous, you know that? And absolutely gross!" William looks over your shoulder to see what the hell you've been up to in the past hour, only to put on a face of what you assume to be of judgement.

You shrug, reaching the end of his profile. "What? Come on, out of all of these guys you're telling me you didn't fancy at least one?" "They all look the same! What is there to to look at?" "You just don't get it." "Clearly I don't. And i'm very thankful for that." He rolls over and away from you, choosing to be done with the ridiculous conversation he's suddenly been sucked into. You scoff quietly.

Oh poor Debbie, she truly is a trooper. You can only imagine the family reunions the Grayson's have and the amount of food to be served for so many growing boys. How do they manage to keep afloat?

You scroll up, but not before stopping at a photo of Mark. Just Mark. You can tell it's him by the way he dresses and presents himself in photos. He barely looks comfortable in them, always striking that same peace sign pose with a sheepish smile on his face. What a dork. In the sea of their families' 'Mark look-alikes', you only really had eyes for one.

"Go to bed already!" William shouts from his side when he hears you sighing over your phone like a love sick idiot.

"Fine." You chuck a pillow at him before hiding under the covers.

Somewhere in the Grayson household, they all simultaneously sneeze, Mark being the loudest one of them all.

"Is everyone getting sick all of a sudden? You boys better not infect one another. We just got done from allergy season, and lets just say-i'd rather we don't have to go through that again."

[staybabblingbaby]

Soulmate Garden AU Ch.2 (Anemone) a3d2

[Caution: These are not full fics, or even full parts of fics for some, these are part of my writing progress archive!]

Concept: Growing up, you knew Soulmates weren't all that they cracked up to be. So when, on your 18th birthday, your skin is painted with a garden of flower buds, you resolve to hide it from everyone. Who had ever heard of someone with 8 soulmates, anyway?

Or; Reader has 8 soulmates and no issue avoiding all of them. It's up to SKZ to show her that while every soulbond might not be made of fairy tales, theirs certainly could be.

Word Count: 4,218

Notes: I don't feel like the summary completely matches this story anymore. I'm also not really satisfied with this chapter, but I'm too tired to really get into a whole bunch of drafts and edits, I've just really been feeling poorly lately. The archive is for writing progress anyways, it's fine. I'll probably rewrite this whole chapter if I ever get to where I'd be comfortable posting finished versions to Ao3. I'm also just not fond of my writing style somehow. It feels too formal, doesn't flow enough. Problem is that I really talk like that lmao. Idk, I'll figure it out.

Dividers by @saradika

Warnings: She/Her Reader

Leave me comments or questions or anything! Love hearing from folks <3

Masterlist <3 | Prev Part | Next Part

Bangchan clambered into the van behind Felix, Minho and Jisung loading into the row in front of them. It always felt a bit weird to not spend some time swapping seatmates around based on who was clinging to who at the moment, but on days like today it was easier to just board the vehicles as quick as possible.

He's ended up with a relatively quite combination of their cluster today, and Chan was grateful for it as he settled into his seat with a pained grimace.

He wasn’t sure when it had started, but a persistent on-and-off pain had been roaming around his back for the last twenty minutes as they’d said goodbye to Stays and prepared to leave the venue. He’d be more worried about it, except the sharp, needle-like, pains would settle into a gentler ache before kicking back up again.

As it was, Chan was pretty sure he’d pinched a nerve or strained something and would simply rest when he got back to the hotel. Maybe call up the PT. For now, as three of his soulmates settled in around him, Chan was content to leave it be.

Well, almost. Another twinge of pain makes him wince as he twists to buckle in, and Chan decides that maybe it’d be a good idea to know what he was working with. For comfort’s sake, if nothing else.

“Felix,” He prods the blond next to him, “Can you look at my back for me? I think I pinched something.” He motions toward his lower back, where the majority of the pain had been accumulating.

Felix immediately nods his acceptance, their group’s resident massage expert always willing to lend a hand. Especially if it let him lay hands on his very well built soulmates.

Chan scooches forward and rotates around, balancing with his hand on the headrest of the seat in front of him. He helps Felix shimmy his shirt upwards, struggling with it where it gets caught in the seat-belt.

Chan ends up stuck struggling on his own as Felix chooses that moment to direct his eyes and hands to the afflicted area.

“There’s your first issue,” Felix tuts, “You’ve left your concealment tape on. You’ll give yourself a rash one of these days, hyung.”

Chan gives a sheepish smile from where he’s managed to trap himself in a cloth prison. His head is free, and the shirt his appropriately bunched up over his shoulders and around his neck. Unfortunately, he hadn’t managed to free his hands, so he’s got a bit of a t-Rex thing going on right now. It’s fine.

“I forget it’s there,” he confesses with a whine, “I can’t see my own back, y���know?”

Felix rolls his eyes at their oh-so-glorious leader, carefully peeling the thin material away from Chan’s skin as he scolds, “You still need to take it off. We sweat way too much to not at least change it after a performance.”

He’s bunching up the extra-strength tape to maybe toss at Jisung in the front seat (maybe Minho, if he’s feeling very brave), when he spots something off.

More than half a decade into having found each other, the members of Stray Kids were intimately familiar with each other’s soulmarks. Every drop of color, every line, every curve.

So when Felix looks at the freshly uncovered canvas on Chan’s back, familiar trees, bushes, and rocks painting a forested landscape that describes their impact on their eldest, something new immediately catches his eye.

There, on the fallen log that bridged two banks of a crystal-clear creek, was a moss blanket and a cluster little shelf mushrooms. They added life to the previously defunct object, a little bit of color that couldn’t have been said to be missing until it wasn’t.

The closer Felix looked, the more he saw. A mushroom here, a mossy patch there. Little signs of life and decay that he could have sworn weren’t there the last time he looked.

He looks to Jisung, who’s blissfully unaware.

As the first of their cluster to paint Chan’s skin with color, he was the most familiar with their leader’s mark. Jisung had been too young for his own mark to have appeared when he’d met Chan, but that didn’t stop him from influencing their eldest’s. They all knew he’d spent a lot of time studying Chan’s mark (and Changbin’s when it had appeared, already partially colored in) while waiting for his own.

If there was anyone who’d be more than certain of a change in their soulmarks, it’d be Jisung.

Felix swiftly removes his hands from Chan’s back, earning him a little noise of confusion from the prone man, and reaches over to poke Jisung harshly in the side.

Jisung immediately flinches away from the offending fingers with a loud yelp, attracting the attention of Minho, who’d been peacefully scrolling on his phone. Jisung swiftly fixes Felix with an offended glare, ready to retaliate, but is cut off before he can even try.

“Look at Chan’s mark for me.” Felix demands.

“My mark?” Chan echoes, baffled and alarmed. “What’s wrong with my mark?”

“Nothing, hyung,” Felix assures, “I just need to check I’m not seeing things.”

A series of furtive, silent, and, on Felix’s part, urgent, gestures are exchanged before Jisung finally relents and leans around the back of his seat, grabbing Minho’s for balance as the van departs.

Jisung lazily traces his eyes over Chan’s soulmark. All of Stray Kids had huge marks, but Jisung privately thought that Chan had them all beat. His mark spanned his entire back, not an inch untouched by the image. From shoulder to hip was an oil painting of a mark, filled in from what used to be a desolate landscape to what was now a thriving forest.

Jisung used to think it was so overwhelming to be part of such a mark. To be loved so much, and so deeply. It was evident in every brushstroke of the image on Chan’s skin, and in every action of the man himself.

These days, he found great comfort in it.

He’d gotten so lost in thought as he studied his soulmate’s mark that Jisung had almost missed what had caught Felix’s attention in the first place. But sure enough, his eyes catch on the same log that Felix’s had.

“Oh.” He whispers to himself. “Oh.” He says again, as Minho shoves his head under Jisung’s arm to look himself.

“No, yeah, that’s different.” He confirms, Minho nodding against him, having already spotted it for himself. The two of them find their eyes glued to tiny mushrooms, only sparing a moment to glance at each other before returning their gaze to Chan’s skin, each with their own racing thoughts.

“I thought so.” Felix nods to himself.

“What?” Chan questions, becoming more alarmed by the second, “What’s going on? What’s happened? What’s wrong with my mark?”

Felix lays his palms flat on Chan’s back and begins to rub gentle, soothing, circles. Any changes to a soulmark were stressful at the best of times, and they all knew how much Chan treasured his.

“There’s nothing wrong,” Felix soothes, letting the warmth of Chan’s mark resonating with his touch calm them both as he searches for gentle words.

“It’s just,” He begins hesitantly, “Well, the good news is that you haven’t pinched or strained anything.”

“Good news?” Chan echoes, “Is there bad news?” He lets a nervous giggle fall from his lips even as he relaxes into Felix’s hands.

“Not necessarily?” Felix says uncertainly, “It’s just. Well. Your mark has changed.” He pauses a second and pulls out his phone, quickly snapping a picture and then passing it around so Chan can see. “Something’s been added.”

Felix lets the implication of his words sit untouched in the air as the three of them wait for Chan to process what this means.

Ironically, Chan was the least familiar with his own mark out of all of them. His and Minho’s both resided on their backs so it stood to reason that the two of them didn’t see their marks very often. So it was no surprise that it took Chan several, very long, moments to spot the tiny changes.

When he does, Chan pulls in a deep, stuttering breath. The pain is already fading out to an ache now that it’s been acknowledged and Chan isn’t sure how he feels about the extra confirmation.

He carefully pulls his shirt back down, breaking his soulmate’s line of sight like they hadn’t already burned the image onto their retinas. He doesn’t remove his eyes from Felix’s phone.

“I...” He trails off, “I have another soulmate?” His voice is filled with wonder as he marvels at the picture of his mark. He looks up at the rest of his soulmates currently in the van with awe. “We have another soulmate?”

“Yeah,” Minho whispers, voice choked with emotion, “Yeah it looks like it.”

Felix doesn’t wait for Chan to fully turn around before he’s pulling their leader into a bone-crushing hug, giddy, disbelieving, laughter spilling out of him even as tears prick at his eyes.

“Oh my god!” Felix celebrates quietly as Chan wiggles to return his hug just as tightly. “Oh my god.” The other man agrees.

Even as his soulmates celebrate around him, each feeling their own storm of emotions, Chan can’t quite grasp the reality of the situation.

Stray Kids was a uniquely large soul cluster. From the beginning, when it had become evident that Hannie wasn’t his only soulmate, it had caused issues. Then came Bin, and the rest had followed like dominos. Each time their circle expanded he’d thought “this has to be it, right?” and each time there was a little voice in the back of his mind saying, “No, not yet.”

The issue was that that feeling, that little voice saying ”not yet”, the knowledge that they weren’t complete, had never gone away.

By the time they had all met, none of them could spot anything obviously missing from their marks. All of them were completely colored, lines drawn, images complete. And yet, every one of them felt that hollowness of an incomplete bond.

They’d talked about it a lot. Individually, as a group, in pairs and in quartets and seemingly endless combinations. It was hard, as the years went by, to ignore that nagging feeling.

Chan would always remember Jeongin crawling into his bed in the middle of the night, crying and apologizing for not being enough. Could never forget taking Jisung to a rage room so they could both break down their feelings or drinking with Changbin and wondering if it was wrong for them to be so greedy as to want more when they already had so much.

After so many years, they’d begun to wonder if they were just broken. If they didn’t have another soulmate out there after all, and it was all in their heads.

It had been hard. It was hard.

And now that little blank space in his soul was painted with someone else’s colors and Chan felt whole in a way he wasn’t sure he’d ever experience.

It kind of made him want to cry.

He wanted to cry even more when Felix innocently asks, “So what were they like?” An unmatched eagerness in his eyes as Chan pulled away.

That one guileless question triggers a realization in Chan that has his groaning in despair and slumping forward back onto Felix’s shoulder.

“I don’t know.” Chan mumbles into the shoulder of the slighter man.

“What was that?” Jisung questions from where he and Minho were still turned toward him, obviously as curious as Felix.

“I said I don’t know!” Chan wails, wilting further into Felix’s frame.

“How do you not know?” Minho questions incredulously. Felix gasps as he connects dots he’d been too excited to before.

“I didn’t even know my mark had changed before now,” Chan explains miserably, “I don’t even know exactly when the pain started.”

Jisung sucks in a hiss of air, sympathy splashed across his face. “Oh geeze,” he breathes out, “How many people have we met today alone?”

“Ok, well,” Felix interjects, “Not ideal, but we’ll figure it out!”

Minho turns his incredulous stare onto the optimistic man.

"How are we going to figure it out?" He demands, "Because there were tens of thousands of people in that stadium and I know every single one of us shook dozens of hands tonight."

Felix wilts a little bit even as Jisung comes to his defense, "We kind of have to figure it out, hyung," he points out, "And soon. We're back to Seoul soon."

"Okay but how?" Minho challenges, "And don't give me any 'with the power of love and fate' crap."

"We might have to rely on fate." Chan shrugs, dejected. "It's not like I have a description or anything to give out."

"It'll be okay Channie hyung," Felix pats Chan's back lightly from where they're still entangled together, "It'll have to be."

The van descends into silence as the four of them contemplate their new situation. After a few minutes Chan leverages himself up and out of Felix's embrace to frown aimlessly at his knees.

"Well," Felix breaks the silence, "We don’t have any more shows after this, and we have some days of break time, right?”

“Right,” Chan confirms, “We have tomorrow off and then we’re returning to Seoul to start working on the next album.”

“But officially,” Felix hedges, “We have, like, an entire week off, don’t we?”

“Not quite, but sure,” Chan hesitantly agrees.

“Well, we know they were in town for the concert at least,” Felix continues, “So as long as they didn’t leave the city immediately after, I mean, there's seven more first contacts to go, right?”

“Are you saying we should spend our break wandering around trying for first contacts?” Jisung asks, “Because I’m all for searching for them, but I don’t know that aimless wandering is gonna help.”

Chan holds up his hands to halt that conversation before it could devolve into a bigger debate.

“Let’s shelve that for now, and meet up with the others at the hotel,” He suggests, “We should discuss this as a group anyways.”

He receives a variety of agreements and the four of them settle in for the short remaining drive back to their hotel. He absently hands Felix’s phone back to him and retrieves his own from his pocket to ask the others to meet them in his room.

Chan looks out the window, post-concert fatigue all but a memory. As the buildings pass by, he can’t help but hope that their mystery soulmate was looking for them too.

You reaffirm your decision to never ever meet your soulmates as Taylor loads you into the car, arm wrapped protectively around your shoulder the whole way.

It was one thing when your stupidly large soul cluster was just an idea. Knowledge you held, but unactionable in any way.

It was another when you had evidence, in the form of little white flowers burning with warmth on your skin, that they were real, physical, people.

Even worse when you knew that they were a group of very famous musicians.

You hadn’t actually been sick when you’d texted Taylor, who’d thankfully managed to get all of the autographs he’d wanted before he’d checked his phone to try to find you, but you were getting there. Anxiety had nausea creeping up your throat like molasses.

You’re beyond grateful when your roommate doesn’t question your sudden illness, the both of you well aware that you were hale and hearty when you’d left the house.

Taylor just buckles you in like you’re something precious and fragile and takes the wheel.

The two of you drive in silence the entire way home. It’s not awkward, but you can’t deny the weight of something heavy in the air. The buzz of the concert still lingered between the two of you, and it only made the silence stifling and itchy.

When you pull into your apartment complex neither of you speak for a long moment.

“Sorry for ruining the day.” You murmur to the air in front of you. Taylor just reaches over to pat your thigh and unclip your seatbelt.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” He assures, “Don’t sweat it.” He hesitates a moment before continuing.

“I’m not gonna push,” Taylor begins gently, “But you know you can talk to me, right? Whatever happened, I’m not gonna judge. I just wanna be here for you.”

“What makes you think something happened?” You mutter mulishly. Taylor just gives you a look that has you sinking into your seat.

“It’s nothing. I’m just being dramatic.” You admit. He bumps your shoulder with his and climbs out of the car.

“It’s not nothing if it makes you feel something.” He tells you as he goes. The two of you walk up to the apartment in silence, contemplative this time.

You think about telling him as the two of you separate to wash the concert off of yourselves. You think about it as you take turns using the bathroom and as you make dinner side by side. You think about it as you settle in front of the couch at his feet as his hands automatically pull your head to his knees, his fingers digging into your hair just how you like.

You want to tell him, you decide. You do. It's just that. Well...

Your sister was right, in a way. You’d known Taylor for over a year now, but the two of you didn’t really know much about each other. You really were just roommates.

You didn’t know what his favorite color was. You didn’t know the names of his parents, or if he had any siblings. You barely knew what he did for a living. He’d only ended up your roommate by virtue of you responding to his “roommate wanted” ad with full willingness to be murdered on the spot.

At the same time, the two of you knew everything about each other. You knew how he took his coffee in the morning, that he preferred his eggs dry and over-seasoned. You knew the bands he liked and the games he played. You knew his hobbies better than you knew your own sometimes, and more about his friend’s drama that you ever wanted to.

You know the important things, you think.

You know that every word you tell him in confidence will be clutched tightly all the way to the grave.

“I met my soulmate today.” You confess, your cheek pressed to his knee, half-asleep.

The words somehow feel like they were snatched from the darkest depths of your soul as they spill from your lips. You make no move to take them back.

Taylor’s hand, to his credit, only pauses for a moment. Then he treats your hushed admission like any other comment made while you nod off to dramas the both of you know you only watch for him, resuming the soothing movement of his hand and humming lightly to acknowledge you.

You think it’s that casual treatment that lets you find the courage to continue.

“Well, one of them anyway.” You mumble. Taylor hums his interest, but doesn't take his eyes off of the screen and doesn’t stop petting your hair.

“I don’t want to meet them. There’s so many of them and only one of me, y'know? I don’t even know how to love myself, how am I supposed to love eight other people?” Taylor says nothing still, his eyes glued to an episode of a drama you know the two of you have already finished three times over.

“I’m scared I’ll fuck it up. I’m scared they’ll fuck me up.” Your voice cracks as you breathe life into one of your deepest fears. You realize as you say it that you’ve never voiced these thoughts aloud before, even to yourself.

Tears prick at the back of your eyes when you admit, “I’m not ready for them. I don’t think I can be.”

Taylor finally gives in to the seriousness of the conversation and hauls you bodily up onto the couch. You go willingly, but with rag-doll limpness. He rearranges you to his liking and you find yourself in Gossip Position, sitting criss-cross facing him.

“First of all,” He starts in, his usual levity giving way to a seriousness you rarely see from him, “Don’t be mean to my best friend. I’ll hit you.” You ignore his threat in favor of the warm feeling in chest at hearing him call you his best friend.

Take THAT Ma! No friends your glorious behind.

“Secondly, you are literally the most loving person I have ever met in my life. You would fit the entire world in there if you could,” He pokes your chest, right above your heart, for emphasis, “So I’m not that surprised you have more than one soulmate.”

“I have eight though,” You argue, “Isn’t that weird?”

Taylor just shrugs. “I mean, yeah. But weird is basically your brand, so...” He trails off with a teasing smirk.

You shove him a bit in retaliation, but he just grabs your wrists to still you and continues speaking before you can argue.

“I don’t think eight soulmates is enough for you, honestly,” He muses, “I mean it when I say you’re the most loving person I know. I think you’d even try to take care of Danny if he needed you to.” The mention of Taylor’s very creepy second cousin sends a shiver down both of your spines.

The worst part is that you can’t even argue with him.

“But you know, even with eight soulmates, you don’t have to be with them.” Taylor suddenly switches tracks to reassure you, “They’re your soulmates sure, but you’re your own person. They’re for you, it’s not like they are you. You can live without, if you really want to.”

The two of you let that statement settle for a moment. He’s right, you know all too well. Still, the thought leaves a wad of uncomfortable and complicated feelings lodged in your throat.

After a moment’s pause, you break the silence.

“I have too many years of trauma and not enough therapy money to unpack everything I’m feeling right now.”

Taylor cracks first, and giggles come pouring out of the two of you. The joke wasn’t even funny, but you guessed the two of you had been serious for far too long.

Some minutes later, when the giggles finally die down and you return to watching Taylor’s show, you find yourself with your head on his shoulder.

“Whatever you decide, you know I’m here for you, right?” Taylor quietly picks up where the conversation had left off.

“Sure,” you agree, “Like I was there for you when you cried over a boy I told you wasn’t shit.” You completely deserve the elbow to the side you receive for that comment.

“Shut up, I’m being cheesy!” Taylor scolds with a laugh.

“I’m lactose intolerant!” You complain, but obligingly fall silent.

“Seriously,” Taylor insists, “I’ll be here every step of the way. Whatever you need.”

You wrap your arms around the one of his that you’re leaning on and give a gentle squeeze to show your appreciation. “Thanks Tay.” you murmur.

“Of course. You got me front row tickets to a SKZ concert, we’re ride or die whether you like it for not!” You poke his side to scold him for not being serious after just insisting that you be, but end up having to fight for your life when he immediately retaliates by trying to tickle you.

It takes the two of you quite a while to calm down again, Taylor smug in his victory. He holds your ankles in his lap like trophies of war as you stare at the ceiling. The quiet creeps back in quickly, so you speak.

“I’m just not sure what I want, I think.” You tell him, “I don’t want to meet them. But at the same time, I really do, y’know?”

Taylor nods, “Just let the universe do its thing.” he suggests, “If you’re meant to meet them now, you’ll meet them regardless of what you want. But after you meet them, it’s all up to you.”

You nod along, humming your acceptance of his advice. He’s right, again. You can’t really fight fate, even if you desperately want to. But even within that large restraint, you’re a human being with free will. The world is your oyster and all that.

You let your thoughts fade out and just listen to Taylor yap about the drama on the TV as he finally tunes back into it.

It’s nearly dawn when the two of you decide to turn in, post-concert jitters having deserted you and heavy conversations having taken their toll.

“Did you manage to get their name before you bolted?” Taylor asks out of nowhere as you’re walking to your respective rooms. “Your soulmate’s” He clarifies at your confused look.

“Oh, I didn’t need to.” You answer absentmindedly, already opening your door and dreaming of your cozy sheets. “It was Bangchan.”

You close your door on his gawping face, blissfully unaware of the crisis you’d just sent him into.

Perma Tag List: @Mbioooo0000

[sheepisharchives]

I just finished reading the song of achilles…

MY BABIES MY POOR BABIES .

[ellesthots]

Fateful Beginnings

XLV. “cellophane”

read on AO3 🦇

parts: previous / next

plot: you go on your first mission with Bruce, and everything isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, YEARNING!, angst

words: 9.8k

a/n: Bruce is in loveeee, they are in loveeee, and the plot thickens (also: the chapter title has nothing to do with the song lol). have a lot more to say, but I’ll let y’all read <3

“When you said you had a mission for me, I thought it’d be in some seedy club.” 

Wind had picked up in the city over the weekend, rendering the cement more slippery than usual with wet leaves acting like banana peels beneath your soles. The contacts felt dry and thick behind your eyelids, and the earpieces had evidently been precisely fit for Bruce’s ears and no one else’s. 

“Too dangerous.”

You winced and clutched your ear as you hurried under the awning of the Gotham Public Library. A horde of children gathered just inside, headed by what looked like a newly minted teacher. “Any way to turn these things down?” 

“Better?”

“Yeah.” 

In two years, you’d never been to Gotham’s library; it was just far enough from campus it would’ve been a hassle, and the university’s library had more than sufficed. Everything was fairly neutral; if someone had beamed you directly from out of town to here, one might be convinced Gotham was entirely normal. Tan walls, the occasional large stuffed bear in the kid’s section, same weathered wood bookshelves and metal pushcarts as anywhere else in the nation. 

You got in line behind a pair of tweens and listened to Bruce relay the plans again. Even if it wouldn’t be weird to interrupt him and talk to yourself in public, there was something wonderfully scandalous about having his voice in your ear. He could talk gobbledegook and you would’ve swooned at the surround-sound rumble of his voice rattling your thoughts.

“Request the physical Gazette archives. Should be publicly available.”

He’d been more specific on the phone the night before; somewhere in his research over the weekend he’d found an old newspaper subheading titled: ‘Head of Journalism at Local University Found Dead, more on page 13.’ Bruce had repeated it approximately thirteen billion times over the phone as he mulled over various digital archives. He’d traveled to page thirteen, and there was no ‘more’. The entire article was clipped. 

So here you were on his behalf; it looked less suspicious to have someone from the Gazette digging into the archives, not getting into how many paparazzi would swarm the place if Bruce Wayne were to show up. Sometimes you forgot how famous he was; whenever you remembered, you became a tad sheepish—a far cry from how brazen you’d been the night you’d officially ‘met’. So much had changed since then. 

Anxious about finding some answers and keen to spend time with him before leaving, you’d sidestepped the guilt and found yourself in an Uber earlier that morning. After a few block’s walk, you’d ducked into an alley to meet Bruce for the gear. As desperate as you’d been for him to help with the prehistorically clunky contacts, when he’d leaned over you to do so, you thought your heart would give out from the closeness and abruptly left, muttering about ‘learning to do it yourself’.

The tweens ahead of you giggled as they’d successfully checked out their young adult romance, laughing their way out the double doors. You stepped up and gave a thoughtful smile to the librarian, acutely aware that everywhere you looked, Bruce did too. “Can you help me find the Gotham Gazette archives?” 

Mushroom-brown eyes framed by thin, silver-rimmed glasses blinked back at you. She paused her stamping of DUE BY onto new books, her stare scrutinizing. Had she noticed the gold rimming of the tech? “They’re not here.” 

You laid your palm flat to the counter and leaned forward, sweetening your tone. “I work at the Gazette. I was told the physical archives are stored here.”

The lady shot you an incredulous look, almost wary, like you were trying to pull off a heist. Were you really that terrible at playing nice? “Who told you that?”

“A colleague.” It didn’t feel right to name-drop Dr. Vry without clearance; it was already suspicious enough to dig around the archives with less than a week left of employment. 

“Sure you didn’t mishear which library, ma’am?” You watched as she slowly shut the book, expression unreadable. “The university stores them.” 

“Not what I heard.”

You barely contained your startle at hearing Bruce speak again, realizing the difficulty of tracking both conversations. “Not what I heard.” 

She gave you a strange sort of look. Bruce laughed under his breath and you fought the heat rising to your cheeks. If you’d known this would be such entertainment for him… 

“Check Gotham University’s library. Have a good day.”

You held your breath as you walked out, waiting until you were alone on the sidewalk to speak through gritted teeth. “What am I supposed to do when you say things? Repeat them? Ignore them?”

“How about waiting for the word ‘ask’?” 

If his tone had been any less teasing, you might’ve torn into him. It felt strangely like he was taking over your body with this tech, able to see and hear exactly what you did. Extremely intrusive, extremely intimate. “Are you driving to GU or should I get an Uber?” 

“It’s the beginning of the workweek. Students will be everywhere.”

“Better pay for it then, billionaire.” 

The ride was fine—nothing like sitting with him in his car, but you tried to understand. Every second away from him felt like an hour with the clock’s incessant ticking in your mind. Your phone vibrated twice, indicating an email, and you caught yourself before checking. Bruce couldn’t know you were leaving yet, and here you were walking right into Dr. Vry’s landscape… what if she talked about leaving or confirmed when to return your things? Dear god.

You put your phone to your ear, pretending to call someone. You needed to set the stage for if Dr. Vry intercepted. It hurt to be so evasive with him, and was a bit scary. Trying to get under his nose was a tedious balancing act; the man was born with a built-in magnifying glass. “These things are hurting my eyes…” you feigned a rub. “Can I take them out and put them back in if I need to?”

“Yeah. Won’t interrupt anything.”

“Good.” Normally you’d try to gather your breath before going into a situation like this, before saying another white lie, but he could hear everything. You pretended to hang up, tossed your phone in your purse, and wrung your hands together, failing to offset the nerves without giving them away. It wore on you to keep up this facade; it was torturous to feel like he was in your psyche while you kept a white-knuckled grip on such a world-shattering lie. 

The driver wished you a good day, and you stepped onto campus. You headed straight for the library, wishing Bruce would talk you through the walk. Instead, he was probably messing with the lens focus, doing something with a bajillion different buttons, and otherwise embodying a rich vigilante. Despite literally acting as a tool, you’d never felt less important. 

Moving into the library was eerily familiar; it didn’t bring comfort like it should. An alma mater that hadn’t been kind, a time best forgotten. Your hips skimmed a chair you’d sat in your first week here. The first study session you’d had with Mar, paired up on the first day of Sociology 302. It was like walking through a morgue, or a cemetery. Awful. 

You didn’t have to bother with the front desk; if you had a student or employee ID, you could buzz yourself into the exclusive section of library on the third floor. It housed rare books, newspaper archives, and various other historical artifacts. A short elevator ride later, you saw no one was in there. 

You’d never been in this room, too intimidated by its exclusivity to ever venture in it. Bruce hadn’t either, or he would’ve directed you, you were sure of it. It took a few minutes of sifting and checking to find a giant locked box labeled: Gazette. 

A note stretched atop it: Please See Front Desk.

“Trying to cover something up. Keep it close to their chest.”

You grabbed the box, groaning under its weight. Multiple decades of papers had been stacked into this, and you quickly realized you wouldn’t be able to support it all the way to the first floor. You ditched it, much to Bruce’s questioning. 

“I can get someone from the front desk to scan it in.” You requested the elevator that began a crawl from the top floor. Figured. He didn’t respond. Also figured. 

The front desk was all but abandoned; a single student manned it, their ID swinging around their neck as they fiddled with it. The lanyard was unmarred, matching their fresh-faced glow. A freshman. “Hi. I was just in the archive room and wanted to look through the Gazette papers, but it’s locked.”

“I can help you.” They ducked their head toward the back, calling for a station replacement. A collection of keys jingled in their hand, their skipping, jubilant pace making you hyperaware of how jaded you were. The elevator came swiftly, mocking your previous request, and the ride was silent. You wished Bruce would talk your ear off. You didn’t have long to memorize his voice; just two more days, two final events.

They led the way to the archival room, threading through the maze of shelves with ease. “Which volumes would you like?”

Bruce answered, swarming your stomach with butterflies. He stated a two-month section, and you repeated it. The worker shuffled through an enormous chunk of files, then handed you a stack of papers after scanning your ID. You moved toward a table in the corner, thanking them.

“Check them. Make sure every week is included.”

“Something wrong?” The student eyed you while you sorted. First week of March, second, third, not the fourth, the first week of April, second, third, fourth…

“It looks like you missed the last week of March.” You grinned and showed them the missing article, but they didn’t lean in. They stared at you, pulling their keys closer to the chest. Could’ve sworn their face dropped. 

“We can’t give that to you.”

You paused, in case Bruce wanted to choose-his-own-adventure here. “I work for the Gazette.”

The grin you received was tight, an effort to placate. “We don’t give it out.”

You swallowed thickly. Though he didn’t speak, Bruce’s presence was loud. “Can you call Dr. Vry?”

They pulled out a pager, pressing some yellowed buttons. 

“Sure she’ll let you have it?”

It had to be that he enjoyed teasing you; between the echoing silence and skittish student standing between you and the door, you couldn’t respond. They gave you a watery grin and pressed some more buttons, then a noise sounded. “She’s on her way.”

Did you remove the contacts now? Would it be more suspicious to remove them the second she was mentioned, or remove them the second she started talking about how you had to leave? Your pulse raced when you realized he’d still hear you no matter what through the earbuds. You were wrapped in cellophane, trapped in a fishbowl. 

You stood there in awkward silence until a shadow appeared in the doorway. Dr. Vry waltzed in, quintessential bun tightly controlled atop her head. Her glasses looked different, or maybe you’d paid little attention before. Everything felt more important now; noticing every blade of grass, every shred of the world around you before it all ended. Weren’t you glad to be headed home? Wouldn’t it feel good not to put up with Bruce anymore? When had tolerating him become yearning for him?

“Miss Y/N!” 

You gazed at Dr. Vry with tears brimming. If she said anything, so be it. Let the colors run. Bruce deserved the truth, and how karmic would it be to get it on video straight from the eyes of the goddamn liar themselves? “Hey.”

“Looking for final inspiration?” 

“I just wanted to check on something, but I can’t get that volume.” You handed her the short stack, watching her emerald eyes scan it. Biting your lip. Waiting for the last shoe to drop. Waiting for Bruce to find you out.

Rain had begun to spatter against the windows of his Chevy, dampening the sound filtering through the speakers. The sky was an angry gray, and he hoped the signal wouldn’t cut out. He turned up the volume to better hear Vry. “Melissa, fetch the article, please.”

There was a persistent feeling in his gut, almost like an ache; it began when he first started up the contacts and buds, seeing and hearing through you. It persisted now, ebbing through every interaction, twisting and flipping whenever you spoke. So this was what it was like to be you. Your height, your voice sounding straight from your head. Sometimes the ache got buzzy, like when you spoke directly to him, or when he heard the small breath that escaped before you spoke. He was rarely this close to you. It felt sacred.

And the article was in your hands. He blinked a few times and captured the screen, eyes already skimming the text to look for a name. He caught it, wrote it down, gnawing at his lip the second he looked away from you. He couldn’t stop watching. If someone laid a hand on you, if anything happened…

He flinched when a metal lid flew off a trashcan to his left, overstuffed and abandoned. It was the only place free of students in the quarter mile around campus; he needed to be close enough to sprint to you if needed, rumors and scandal be damned. 

He hoped his nerves weren’t bleeding into his tone. Sending you to do anything felt like a sin; any bruise or bump would be his fault, like he’d placed them on you himself. Until you were safely beside him he couldn’t breathe.

An adjacent ache only intensified over the weekend. His patrols had become a search for you in every building he entered, a silent prayer that you were safe in bed. He resisted the impulse to text you when he went back to his car, because his nights would become absolutely unbearable if he gave in every time. Every person with your hair color or skin tone caught his eye, a wave of panic surging through him without fail. 

It was so much easier just being around you. He could know you were safe with his own two eyes. He could make sure you felt okay, that you weren’t left wanting. He wished there were more days in a week so he’d be able to do both without compromise. If only he’d known the consequences of going to City Hall that day.

Except… he probably would’ve gone, even knowing. How could he deny himself the privilege of knowing you? Maybe he would’ve stayed on the ground a while longer, held your arm a little tighter. He was too selfish. 

But what he wouldn’t give for another first impression.

“—tragedy for his family.” Jesus, he’d missed the first half of what she’d said. Vry had pursed lips, staring forlornly at the paper in your hands. 

He couldn’t slip like this anymore. 

“Is that why you didn’t want it out?” Your voice was as silky as ever. His heart pattered. 

“You know how journalism students can be. Looking for leads, unfinished stories.” She was unconvincing, eyes shifting from you to the paper like she was gauging your reaction, shifting her words to keep you off her track. 

“Keep her talking.”

“Mr. Morrison’s story is unfinished?”

He wished he could see you. How was your face set? Were you giving anything away? All he had was your tone, which you kept a tight rein on with everyone but him. 

“A life taken too soon is always unfinished.”

Too terse. She didn’t want to be pushed, but you had to keep on her. “Taken by who?”

“Taken?” 

He turned the dial louder as the rain picked up. Her voice filled the cabin. 

“The river.” Vry choked on fake tears and caressed the paper with her thumb by his name. “Went out with his kids too early in the Spring. The faculty warned him the water was too high; boat flipped, and all he could do was…” a tear slipped down her cheek, and Bruce scoffed. You weren’t buying this scheme, were you? “Flip the boat over for his kids.”

“Don’t buy it. Keep her talking. Look over the whole page.”

Immediately, your eyes looked over the page. Your voice was softer, and he hoped it was just to keep her unsuspecting. “Did you know him?”

Vry sighed. Putting on quite the show. “I was his trainee. He planned to retire in a few years.” How long had she rehearsed this? How many students had she relayed this to? Did she think this farce genuinely effective at stopping investigation? 

“I’m so sorry.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. She was playing you. Retire in a few years? With young children? Refusing to wear a lifejacket, though he was an educated family man? She hadn’t run her script past an editor.

“I locked it up after growing tired of the conspiracy. Every few months a student would dig through these and come to me, and I couldn’t stomach it.”

“Makes sense.” You handed her the papers and she tucked it into a special compartment of the case. Were there other things in there? 

“I want him to rest.”

Like hell she did. Maybe she torched him herself. You didn’t actually believe that, did you? He’d feel a bit offended if you read into everything he did, but let this woman go scot-free. It didn’t seem in your nature to let things slide… but then again, were your interactions with him applicable to the greater population? When he was such a freak?

“I’m sorry I pried.” You spoke as Vry locked the case up. Bruce scanned her hands, zooming in to see if there was anything on any rings—no. He zoomed out, drumming his fingers on his thigh. He couldn’t give in to those thoughts. 

More importantly, right now, why the hell were you saying sorry?

“Why are you apologizing?” 

Another sigh from Vry. Did she think you were dumb? Was a sigh the only thing she could come up with to detail such immense grief? “Dearest, it’s alright. You’ve come so far. We’ll miss you. Did you receive my email?”

The election was more than a month out, and they were already anticipating your leaving. It wasn’t a wonder why you’d wanted to investigate this; it seemed to be a piece of your home. Probably why you were being soft on her. Had some sort of misplaced familiarity for the professor. 

All the same, it wasn’t good. 

You excused yourself and slipped out the door, opting for the stairs rather than the elevator. Blowing off steam? “I’m parked behind the east entrance. We can research at my place.”

A student walked past you as they ascended the stairs. Your foot skipped the bottom step and you stumbled; his arm instinctively reached out to catch you, knocking hard into the dash instead. His cheeks tinged pink. You didn’t fall, instead slamming out the exit with a crunch of the push bar.

“It’s cruel, Bruce.” Your voice was low, though he couldn’t see anyone around. 

“What is?”

“She was crying, and you’re laughing at her.”

“Crocodile tears.” He mumbled, hoping you’d get the point. So it hadn’t been strategic; you’d genuinely felt bad for the woman who was keeping locked up the mysterious circumstances of her superior’s death? 

“Did I not just say it was cruel?” 

He heard the stomp of your footsteps, the grate in your voice. The ache heavied, but he wouldn’t give in so easily. You had to learn not to trust every tear if you were going to stay safe here. If you were going to stay safe at all. “Everything about that was convenient.” 

“She was the head of the journalism department for a decade, and it’s weird she’s around the archives? Suspicious that she doesn’t repeatedly want to hear stories about her dead mentor?”

“Pulling you aside to lead the sob story. Something she’s not telling you.” 

“I think your detective work has made you cynical.”

“Can’t let anything go uninterrogated.” He shifted in the leather seat, the car feeling more cramped than usual. 

“But that doesn’t mean…” you scoffed, sounding irked. “You can still be nice. We got the information, didn’t we?”

“We’ll look into it.” It took everything in him not to blurt out a lesson about not conflating kindness and naivety, but he figured it would be lost on you. He gathered himself with some breaths.

The ache; it was like he was morphing into a different person. Like Alfred had handmade you to make right his more unforgiving tendencies. Your voice rang so clearly over the speakers, and it was still making him melt, and he didn’t know if he’d ever get used to this feeling. 

It was only a few minutes before you made it to him. By that point, most of the adrenaline of wanting to keep you safe and micro-analyzing every small piece of your surroundings had worn to a dull throb, and his body was overcome by having you safe beside him. It loosened his resolve. 

“I’m sorry. Didn’t want anything to pass by.”

You clicked your seatbelt, tossing your wet hair over your shoulder. Your outfit was speckled with the rain, drenched atop the shoulders. Did you own an umbrella? Maybe he should get you one. “Let’s go research.”

He shifted again, feeling your tension like a puncture. “You did nothing wrong.”

You shrugged. 

Speak. It was excruciating not knowing what happened in your head. How mad at him were you? Did you personalize it, generalize his sentiments to assume he wouldn’t care if you were crying? That he was heartless? The thought of you seeing him that way was a bright, pulsing bruise. He tried to form clarifying words, but nothing came out. 

You’d already removed the supplies, placing the contacts and buds one by one into your palm. He stared at you like a scared cat, nervous about any unanticipated moves. Though he’d been watching you with wide, consuming eyes, he jumped when your hand touched his to plunk the items back. 

“All this tech just to look at one article in a library?”

He’d follow your lead, let the conversation move along. “Now we can rewatch it. Print any info we need.” He revved the engine, checking once more that you were successfully buckled before peeking out. You glared at the steering wheel and he clicked the car into ‘park’. When did he become so docile? 

“So that was it?”

“We got what we came for.”

“Don’t you do fancier stuff? Clubs, mobs, secret rooms, or…?” 

Here he’d thought you were mad at him and not wanting to go to Wayne Tower; that there was something else you’d rather be doing, with someone else, no less. Sometimes he forgot that he’d met you in a gunfire-laden club, that you’d chased him down an alley at a crime scene to get a little interview. You seemed to think you were the exception to danger, and that attaining information required it; but not every night of his was spent at gunpoint, and he certainly wasn’t bringing you anywhere near that. That was a hill he’d die on. 

“I do. Like I said. Too dangerous.”

Your expression soured to a pout. “Only you? No one else has ever helped you with more ‘dangerous’ missions?”

You always asked the questions he didn’t want to answer; it was probably why you asked them—could sense his pinch points. Bruce kept his eyes to the dash and mulled over how to respond, feeling your gaze like a physical force.

“You said Oz owns some clubs. Why don’t I go down there?” 

“No.” His response was swift and immediate, requiring no conscious thought. Not an option.

Spoken through grit teeth, heat penetrating your stare. “You don’t control me, remember?” 

“Doesn’t mean I have to help.” Testing his patience again. Hadn’t he made himself clear you weren’t to go within a mile of Oz, let alone waltz into his hunting ground? Why the hell would you think he’d help you on a suicide mission? 

“Other people can help, but not me?”

“Y/N,”

Tapping your foot and rustling in the seat, your voice wavered. “You don’t think I’m capable?”

No, no. “It’s not that.”

“What is it then?” The edge slipped out of your voice, amber coils cooling to silver. Like butter on a July sidewalk, he softened. If only he could touch your cheek, hold your hand, even hug you to let you know how he felt. Communicating had never been his strong suit; unless it was to an empty page, spoken through a metal nib. 

How could he explain that his sole other accomplice had been a criminal? Or begin to express the complexity of his relationship to Selina Kyle?

Was it… even that complex anymore? It seemed scarily simple in comparison to you.

“Met under different pretenses.”

“They didn't know your identity?”

“She was already a part of that world.” Your radar was off today. Hopefully you’d leave it at that. 

“Your girlfriend’s a mobster?” 

His head snapped to you, his heart racing. “What?”

“She’s not a part of the mob?” You peered at him inquisitively, a hard crease appearing between your brows. 

He tried not to stutter. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“What about graduation?”

He searched your face for any idea of what you meant. Graduation?

 “‘Already spoken for’?”

He could’ve passed out, grateful he hadn’t forgotten something atrocious. For a second, he wondered if he’d forgotten something else in the caverns of his mangled brain; that he’d hooked up with someone (or even established a full-blown relationship), told you about it, and promptly erased it from all memory. 

It was dangerous, the hold you had on him. He believed you too easily. 

“That was a joke.” His relief brought an easy grin. The steering wheel drew his focus, eyes squinting a little at the memory of Selina leaving. For months he’d thought about her daily; for an even longer time, she pressed the back of his mind after rough patrols. It was those nights where he nursed a particularly gnarly injury that he almost regretted not taking her offer. Upstate could've been nice. Being around her would’ve been nicer. 

He caught himself, realizing quite plainly that he didn’t feel that way anymore. He figured he’d always wonder what might’ve been if he’d left with Selina. It would’ve been just fine, even pleasant, but that no longer felt like enough. If he’d never been here to meet you, he never would’ve felt such a consuming desire to know someone and be known, in equal measure. Everything else fell away in your presence. Every need, every obligation, every desire channeled into you. How terrifying was it such romantic thoughts felt increasingly normal.

“Sorry. I don’t like feeling like you don’t trust me.” His peripheral vision caught your wince, and the way your knuckles stretched taut as you viciously gripped your hands. Your pain melted him into a puddle. 

He unbuckled and fully turned toward the passenger side. You didn’t look up, which made the words form more concretely. “If it was only about trust, I’d fit you for a cowl tomorrow.”

Something flickered across your face and found a home in your eyes. Pain. The car was silent, his words hanging. He wished you would say something, so he didn’t have to keep replaying his sensitivities over and over. 

You finally released him, a flood of relief in the crack of your smile. “Sure yours wouldn’t fit me?”

“Could try.” 

You’d thought he was taken. Was that why you’d teased him with the boyfriend ploy last week? Why you’d hesitated to spend the night, thinking he had someone who might object? Was that why you hesitated to hug him, though he felt how much you lingered once you finally did? Was this the wall he felt between you? Talking was actually… liberating. It clicked everything into place. 

“You thought I had a girlfriend this whole time?” The more he was around you, the more his thoughts verbalized. He worried that soon there might not be a filter at all.

“You said you were spoken for. What else is that supposed to mean?”

He nodded. It made sense; it made perfect sense. You weren’t someone who pulled things out of nothing, he just hadn’t been clear. An overwhelming urge to clarify, no, ultra-clarify he was single burned at the back of his throat. Maybe hoping you’d catch his drift and fill that opening, though the thought made him feel like he might scream, or sprint around in circles, or pass out. “I’m not. And I don’t have one.”

“Do you want one?” 

You thought of what his life could be once you left; once he got over the lie, once he could learn to trust people again. You could see how he might make a doting partner; the little blanket he’d put over you, his endless check-ins that were mostly nonverbal searches of your face he thought you couldn’t read.

His stare was intense, attention vacillating between your lips, eyes, and off of you altogether, like he couldn’t make up his mind about something. Did he not want a companion? Had the question been triggering? It was crucial you stopped assuming that just because he had sex appeal meant that he wanted it. He appeared to have been alone his entire adult life, and maybe that was by choice. 

Still. It felt like a waste for such a warm, lovely embrace as his to go unused. He was so sweet when he wanted to be, so enchanting; whether that was inciting anger or affection, he was unmistakably engrossing. You almost began to imagine coming home to him every day, but it was too cutting. How beautiful of a partner he could be if he really wanted it. If he stopped being Batman and risking his life every night, he could make someone terrifically happy. 

Bruce rubbed his thumb along the edge of his opposite pointer finger, eyes flitting smoothly between the dash and you. Every catch of his gaze on yours was a bolt of lightning that was progressively difficult to ignore, and you wondered if he hadn’t heard you. 

“Why not?”

You could think of a few reasons. “Have to explain where you went every night.” 

"Not if she already knew."

Was he being too obvious? 

Your face scrunched, gears turning in your head. His heart pounded against his ribs until it bruised. He couldn’t toe this line with you, it was horribly irresponsible. When he thought to backtrack, that you’d excavated the meaning from subtext, you opened your mouth; he burned to know if you’d accept it, if you’d like it, if you’d want him even a fraction of how much he needed you. The only thing that kept deflections from vomiting out was the devastating ache to know if you felt the same. 

“Are you gonna be Batman forever?”

He swallowed hard and looked away. His limbs tingled, floaty. “As long as I can.” 

You internalized you wouldn’t be around if he did; you wouldn’t be privy to any of his future that existed beyond the next seventy-two hours. For how greatly you yearned to know him, you wouldn’t know much at all. Would his life always be spent alone? What would happen the day he called up the stairs for Alfred to stitch him up, and no voice answered? Would that be the day he broke? 

You were unaware of how weak you sounded before you spoke, unable to look him in the face. “Because you deserve to live a life that isn’t in a basement.”

Yet another familiar, acrid phrase sweetened on your tongue. He responded on impulse, the same refrain he gave when he was too drained to fully fight with Alfred; but for the first time, it held no defensiveness whatsoever. Instead, he inched closer, letting your shoulders touch, needing to communicate that he was here, he was open, and he was listening. “What if this is the life I want to live?”

“Is it?” Surely that wasn’t true. Who wanted to live a life in total isolation? 

To an outsider, Bruce was sitting in the front seat of a Corvette; as far as he knew, he was suspended in freezing water, kicked off the edge of a cliff. As he took you in, grateful for the lack of reciprocal eye contact, an avalanche of the week’s patrols fell over him at warp speed. 

Whenever a call was in a location you could’ve been—whether that be a bar, a restaurant, or park—he’d scanned the environment at every entry. It didn’t mean anything that it added seconds to his emergency response; it didn’t matter how imminent the danger to civilians, or if another shot, blow, or cut would occur during that time. He’d begun to shy away from gunfire, even second-guessed his footing in combat. A simple weapon had evolved into something dangerous. What would happen if he got hurt, or worse? What would that mean for helping you? Slowly but surely, and it didn’t feel all that slowly, you were taking over his life.

Your eyes glittered on his, tugging him out of his reverie. This was a sensation he’d never felt, a kind of hypnotism that grew stronger every time you looked at him, every time you touched him, with every syllable you spoke. He wrapped around your finger with a knot he couldn’t, wouldn’t, didn’t want to undo. He wanted to let you in. He wanted it to be you. “I don’t know anymore.” 

Without effort you inched closer, pulled toward him by a magnet. How fun it was to poke around his brain, make up stories about who he wanted, filling in the blanks with your name. He’d make such a perfect lover… bliss hid in every line you dared not cross, and the thought of touching everywhere you’d never been allowed made you woozy. 

Your lips had never looked more inviting, persuading him to move nearer, to see them just a little better… his hand slid lower on his thigh, waiting for you to grab it, begging you to touch him. Couldn’t you see how you unraveled him? Couldn’t you see him falling all over himself? The windows began to steam, frosting at the edges. 

His lower lip trembled, body surging with adrenaline. He wouldn’t.

Such a pretty, pretty boy… your eyes glazed over, picturing you both intertwined.

The center console creaked under the weight as you both crept closer, unaware of the space being bridged and inhibitions loosening.

Was it about to happen? What did he eat for breakfast? Had he showered this morning? He said he wouldn’t do this. His hands went numb. Oh, fuck, this was happening, wasn’t it? 

He bit his lip for a brief moment, and your mouth flooded with saliva. You let yourself wonder what might happen if you leaned in, your body prepping for what your mind wouldn’t allow. You couldn’t…

Sense careened into him at the last second. Would anyone see? He broke the trance for just a breath, his eyes darkening on something beyond the windshield. His eager heart throbbed as it died. “Students.”

The engine roaring to life was the soundtrack to a cluster of people with their phones out. You glanced at how close you’d been, realizing the compromising position this was. How embarrassing were the photos, ogling alone at the city billionaire? 

“Well, you have a girlfriend now.” The tires skid as they gripped the unkempt back road, Bruce struggling to resist the urge to peel out of there, praying he was safe enough to drive. 

He considered stopping a few blocks down and running back to pay them off, crafting a persuasive speech if they didn’t comply. Anything to protect you. You searched for something on your phone, a heavy sigh filling the cabin. He feared the worst, all but strangling the steering wheel. “What?”

“At least they won’t make any money on these.” You analyzed the hastily posted photos of you through a rainy, foggy windshield, intimidated by how close you two had been without knowing. You and he leaned in, shoulder to shoulder—actually, a bit closer—faces absorbed on the other. The student had made a typo in his attempt to leak the breaking news: girlfriend had one L, not two. “If only they thought to sell this to fucking paps.”

“I’m sorry. I should’ve been watching.” His head thrummed on contingency plans. “I’ll talk to Alfred, he’ll get them taken down.”

The likes doubled and tripled with each passing second. You refreshed the SEARCH to see others had already screenshot it, quoted it, reposted it on their own accounts like they’d been the nosy leech. “That won’t do anything. They’re already spreading.” Why had he let you get that close? 

“I’m sorry.”

“What can you do?” You uncrossed your legs, not realizing you’d been squeezing them. 

He knew you meant it rhetorically, but it didn’t stop his thoughts from tunneling through a dozen different options. He cut the lights and ducked through a narrow one-way. “They know my car. I can’t take you to your apartment yet.”

How long until Mar hyperanalyzed the photos and texted a spread of excited emojis? How long until they reached your dad, and he began questioning you about why you’d kept a relationship from the both of them? You let your body sink into the chair. Would Dr. Crane call and berate you for being so reckless? For being so weak and easily won by a pair of blue eyes?

“I shouldn’t have roped you into this.”

“It’s okay.” 

“No, it’s not.” His stare was spacey, slowly shaking his head. “It’s disproportionate.”

“So it would be okay if the rumors hurt both of us.”

“You don’t have to joke.”

“Do you think I’m placating you?” If anything, you were the one who needed to apologize. When he finally saw these, how your lips parted so close to his, would he think you just wanted what everyone else did? Would he be the one to sever things? 

“You’re downplaying it.”

Until he sees the photos. “You think another grad student’s gonna kidnap me for tuition?”

“Don’t joke about that.”

You sat straighter, interrupting the silence before it festered. “The fun part about trauma is I get to decide those things, not you.”

“I need to come up with a statement.”

“You get to comment on our relationship, but not me?”

He bristled, flustered. “I really don’t like how you’re acting.”

“Maybe I’ll repost them myself, double down.”

He almost stopped the car and lectured you, but he paused before tapping the brakes and grit his teeth. “Great strategy.”

“We can talk about it at your place.”

“I’ll work with Alfred to make a plan.”

You loathed being sidelined; the only emotion more consuming than guilt was indignance. “You’re seriously shutting me out of this?”

“It’s my responsibility.”

“You’ll deny it?”

“Of course I’ll deny it.” He side-eyed you. Did you… not want him to? His hands went clammy.

Pain spread across your stomach, somewhere between nausea and butterflies, though it felt like he’d just shot one of them. “You think anyone’s gonna believe that?”

“If it stops one creep from stalking you.”

“So this is about me?”

“Who else?”

You laughed, dryly, as the first headline swept in, emphasizing your status as his former journalist. A freshly graduated one at that. “Pretty scandalous to sleep with your interviewer. Thought you might be concerned with your rep.”

“I don’t care about that.”

“Sure you don’t.” 

“Can you stop mischaracterizing me?” His handle on annoyance was sneaking away, his mind too clouded and zigzagged to properly think. 

“You’re the one who fought me about going playboy.”

“That’s different.”

“You’re right, this is worse.”

“Let’s stop arguing.”

“Because it’s inconvenient for you?”

“Will you stop it? Please?”

“It helps your playboy angle.”

“Stop.” He hit the brakes then, and you glared at him. He shook his head, the world spinning. “I’ll keep driving in a minute, I need to think.”

The rain pattered against the window with dense, loud droplets. Deja vu disoriented you, serving up memories of driving pothole-riddled, bumpy back roads while you counted the rain streams against the window. You couldn’t understand why your parents were arguing then, and were just as overwhelmed now. “Why does this bother you so much?”

“This shouldn’t have happened.” His outstretched arms rested by the wrist atop the steering wheel, stretching his black jacket at the shoulders. Raindrops and crinkled fabric emphasized the widening canyon between you. It was so easy to argue with him, and even easier to hate it.

“It’s another dumb rumor,”

“I can’t do this to you. You can’t live like this.”

Your anger washed away at the break in his voice. “Bruce,”

“They will rip every shred of normalcy from your life. They will follow you to every coffee shop, they will wait outside of your apartment, stalk your family, plaster your fucking face everywhere, they won’t take you seriously in your career,”

It was kind of cute how concerned he was about your little journalism job, and your life—something so plain you didn’t think it worth preserving, but he did. “Have you done this before?”

“I’ve been avoiding them my whole life.” Once again you forgot that his reclusiveness also served a purpose. He wasn’t just Bruce, he was Mr. Wayne.

“You could comment on it tomorrow. At the rally.”

“And say what?”

You couldn’t resist a gentle tease, desperate to undress the tension wearing his frame. “That we’ve been married for months now.”

“Stop.”

“I’m trying to cheer you up.”

“I know.” His head thudded against the headrest. He mumbled. “Thanks.”

“I don’t care about my career, by the way.”

He glanced at you.

“I was a sociology major. Didn’t even minor in journalism.” 

His eyes on you were a hazard. You didn’t notice his chest was heaving until he spoke and the edge gave it away. “Do you not know how much risk—”

“I know. I just don’t care.”

“You should.”

“I don’t think you’re one to preach about risk.” You rolled your shoulders back, physically bracing yourself for another biting speech, but it didn’t come. He rolled his eyes, shoving his head in his hands. 

“I know I piss you off.”

Bruce struggled to respond without an immediate yes, yes you do. The world was about to bring you chaos and hell, and the only thing he wanted was to make the rumors real. “You exasperate me.”

“Shoot straight: I don’t listen to you and it pisses you off.”

“Because I’ve been in these situations before.”

“And I’m allowed to make my own decisions. I’m allowed to make mistakes.” 

The rise and fall of his chest threatened to split the zipper on his coat. “Not ones this big.” 

“Having a long leash is still being kept.”

He shut his eyes, counting to ten; he tried to listen to the rain, but it was pouring, running his mind faster. What were they saying about you? How would everyone treat you tomorrow? Thursday? He could make another announcement, but what? What could possibly make everyone stop judging you? 

“Just stop deciding for me. Stop pretending you’re doing it for my sake.” 

God, you lit a fire in him. His eyes snapped to yours that tentatively eyed him. “You think I’m lying to you?”

“I think you dress up your opinions and try to project it on everything else.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because it’s less vulnerable. You get to stay in control.”

He bit his cheek. “I don’t want you to accept that risk.” 

“You think not liking something means you have the authority to change it.” 

Steam was surely swirling cartoonishly above his head. “I do when it’s dangerous.” 

“You don’t, because it’s my life, my decisions, and what I want to do with it.”

“So I should let you get killed in Penguin’s club? I should be perfectly happy about that?”

You examined his withdrawn, stiff body, namely the clench of his shoulders toward each other; physically tensing to unleash a bomb. “You don’t have to be happy about it, but you have to accept I can do whatever the hell I want.” 

“That’s fucked up.”

There he is. That clench of his jaw, the steely way his eyes drilled into you. “It pisses you off, huh?”

“Yeah, it does.”

“Too bad.” 

He glowered at you, but you kept pursuit. “What do you want to do about the photos? For you?”

“It’s not just about me.” 

“I don’t care about getting them taken down. I don’t care about a fucking statement. I don’t give a shit about my ‘career’.”

Were you trying to get him to break his promise? Testing to see if he’d break? Should he have promised something like that to someone so… so… vexing? 

“Do you care about a statement? Do you care about getting the photos removed?”

“It doesn’t work like that.” One, two, three, four… 

“Why doesn’t it? Because my life could change? I could be at risk?”

Bruce stared with a strained, flighty expression. “I wouldn’t forgive myself.”

There was something else in the car with you now, but it wasn’t quite placeable. “You’re allowed to put yourself first sometimes, Bruce.” 

“Not with you.” 

“Why not?”

“I care about you.”

Earnestness? Whatever it was, it was stifling, choking out the oxygen in the car. The blue in his eyes had never looked softer. “You care about everyone in Gotham.” 

“I want to keep you safe.”

It never looked softer now. The tightness in your shoulders released. Suddenly you felt very, very frail, but he didn’t need to treat you with gloves. “If this is about Batman…” You bit your lip to feel pain, a life raft to dissuade the pull of his ocean. “I won’t tell.”

“I trust you.” 

“Not enough to make my own decisions.” It was a pitiful attempt to bring back the argument; it was unbearable holding this culpability when he acted like an angel. 

“I worry about you.”

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. “Don’t.”

“I can’t help it.” And he didn’t really want to stop, either. The worry kept you with him. 

A shred of skin yanked from your cuticle feathered blood along the side of your nail, diverting your attention and snapping the tourniquet. Four words, only four, and he would listen, because he had to, because you always made his life hell when he didn’t comply, and he knew it; he knew you were a scorpion, even if only by the sting of your bite. “Can we go research?”

As he put the car back in gear, he felt his chest sore with a strange rejection, though he hadn’t posited anything. He soothed it by focusing on your wanting to research, not go home.  

The brick morphed to sparse trees as he turned into the underground tunnel, not wanting to ask you to move back, not wanting you to do anything you didn’t absolutely have to. He prayed he hadn’t broken anything beyond repair. Prayed you didn’t hate him.

Embarrassment threatened to snap your neck as you watched the likes turn from hundreds to thousands, at being the only one to have their fawning over Bruce publicized for all to see. Yeah, Alfred can’t do shit about this now.

He didn’t waste any time, striding right to his monitor after parking. He plopped the contacts on a makeshift scanner, transmitting the footage onscreen. You followed in tow, watching him move like a well-oiled machine. A hard copy was in front of him within seconds, with pen in hand to look through the text. You hardly had time to situate before he announced his findings. 

“Gary Morrison. Declared dead at the south end of the river. Body found, but no autopsy.” He pulled up another window and software out of the masses, while you sat with your head reeling, too overwhelmed to contribute. You weren’t used to him dropping arguments so quickly, so fully, and your phone was a brick in your pocket, a physical reminder of the clock’s spiteful forward drum. 

“Gotham Times interviewed his wife. Said she wanted his body to rest.” He wrote something on another sticky note.

Everything was too foggy, too painful. You wanted the softness back, and you were the last person who deserved it. Your contribution barely choked out. “Check the journalist who did it.” 

He worked his magic. “Left the Times a month later.” 

“Left, or got booted?” You had no concept of how the words formed against the buzzing in your skull; you didn’t feel real. You’d actually felt like he cared about you back there; actually, truly felt it. 

“Says he retired. Age thirty-five.”

“On a reporter’s salary? Where was he found next?” Maybe there was something to osmosis, your mind engaging with the environment by some miracle though you swore you were entirely offline. 

Mere moments of silence punctuated by keyboard clicks. “No other sightings. I can reference the cameras off his Times photo, but it’ll be a few minutes.” 

You nodded and tucked your hands under your thighs, the chill in the room pricking goosebumps. While he plugged in the details, you noticed a bag with a tiny piece of metal inside. “What’s in the bag?”

He followed your stare, his shoulders slumping slightly. He hit ENTER on the keyboard and stood, pushing in his stool. “Metal alloy. ‘Electrum’. Can’t find anything on it.”

“Electrum?” Impossible that you heard him right.

“Found in victim’s mouth.”

“What victim?”

“A John Doe.” He walked toward the elevator, unbothered. “Want something to eat?”

“I’m good.” 

“Drink?”

“No, thanks.”

“Be right back.” 

Bruce left upstairs. You waited for the elevator to climb before checking your phone, pausing before unlocking to ensure the contacts were out. They glowed on the scanner, and the elevator was long gone. You stared at your home screen, waiting.

Seconds rolled to minutes, avoiding opening the long-awaited email. Wanting to avoid the tick of the bomb, hoping that would dismantle it. 

The crunch of the elevator’s descent hurried you. 

Good morning Y/N,

I am sorry to hear about your impending absence. The department will miss a great journalist. Please turn in your supplies by Thursday at 5pm; there is an art gallery requiring extra space in this week’s paper, so we will not be needing your attendance at this week’s city hall meeting. Per usual, your article needs to be submitted via email prior to end of day Friday. Please connect with Bridgit before next week to catch her up on city hall proceedings, as she will take your position in the interim. The meeting can be virtual.

Best,

Dr. Vry

You went still. 

The basement was gray, the seat was freezing. A draft floated through from the old train station opening. On the desk, sloping letters you’d never see again haunted you. Was it your heartbeat or blood pulsing through your ears? You barely felt alive, and a pressure point erupted at your temple in the shape of a muzzle. The nightmares hadn’t stopped. You couldn’t tell him that. 

Bruce poured the last of Alfred’s morning coffee from the pot directly into his mouth. Bitter, stale, and cold, he let it dry out his tongue and looked through the fridge for a snack. Your tentativeness wasn’t lost on him, and he was steadily collecting ways to improve your mood. He didn’t want to try a hug under current circumstances, so food would have to do. 

He paused at the elevator doors. Chewing on a honeycrisp, he pulled up the browser on his phone and searched his name. TMZ was the loudest as of yet, and at least they were touting it as a relationship rumor. He hesitated before zooming in, bringing the screen close to examine the photos. They were blurry at best; unmistakably him, but not unmistakably you. The reports citing your name were unconfirmed, though he knew it wouldn’t take long. Some student would corroborate that you’d been there, some dash camera in the parking lot would pick up your face more clearly than they had, and you’d be slaughtered to the media’s full extent.

He zoomed into the photo again. He knew he’d been close, but not that close; only an inch sat between your lips and his, but he hadn’t even felt your breath. He stepped into the elevator, tearing his focus off the article. The right thing to do was take accountability. Own up to what he’d wanted to do, what desires of his created that climate and pushed your bodies that close. It was his fault, and the least he could do. 

He shook out his cold hands as he worked up the nerve to press DOWN. 

He’d open with saying he needed to apologize. He slammed the heel of his palm on the arrow, starting the descent. “I overstepped,” he spoke to himself. “I wasn’t being safe. I wasn’t thinking about anything at all, outside of…” kissing you, but he couldn’t get the words out. 

The doors opened, and all it took was one step to know he wasn’t strong enough. The fall of your hair from the back, god, your presence alone disproved every shred of his ego. You deserved better. 

“Solve the case yet?” He crunched on an apple, almost to the core. At least he’s eating. You worried you’d never be hungry again. 

Bruce was comfortable with you—much too comfortable, and it wasn’t right. Dr. Crane had been correct to consider his background, and you should’ve been more thoughtful about the severing. Only one more day? 

Twenty-four hours before you no longer had an excuse to be around him. Countless selfish decisions made at his disadvantage reached a peak; every minute you dawdled was another he’d have to grieve. Look what happened last time. Look what he did. Look at what I’m willing to risk for just a little more time. 

“I’m glad I could get the information for you.” But please take me home. Take me back right now and never talk to me again. Block my number on your phone. Look up Jonathan Crane. Dig into Arkham. Check the call logs, find my name, find every time I betrayed you. 

“What are friends for?” He drew a deep breath and queued the next software; you breathed in the frigid air of imminent character assassination. He was trying, again. 

His knee brushed yours, and it all seemed so selfish now. Every rationalization left you for why you’d dragged him along so closely, every kindness twisting sinister; you were nothing but a rotten mole. 

The computer dinged. He bent toward the screen. “What the hell?”

You struggled to focus on what he said next, swimming in unshed tears. He scribbled something. Clicked something. A curious thoughtfulness took him over. “He was last seen entering the Rimmel building.”

Was it some prized Gotham landmark? He said it with an air of significance. “I don’t know where that is.” 

“Where I went the night you left the note on the window.” He turned on a second monitor, suddenly singularly focused. 

You scooted forward on the stool, squinting at the security footage. “Wouldn’t he be near the docks?”

“You’d think.”

Dr. Vry had made a big deal in her classes about reaching a decade in the department. The number in the corner confused you. “Wouldn’t it also have been like ten years ago?” 

Bruce clicked away from the tab and followed your finger to Wednesday, August 7th, 2024. He shot to the second monitor with a speed you’d never seen; fingers flying across keys, face tightening, creases deepening. “Look away.” 

Your eyes widened as fisheye footage of a murder scene draped you both in echoes of red. He zoomed in on a man more knife than flesh. Wait… “Holy shit.”

The screen was off in an instant. “I told you not to look.” 

“Is that the guy?” Is this what he sees every night? 

“I need to tell Gordon.” He grabbed the Electrum and ran to his suit. Did the DNA sampling only pull from open cases? Had they disposed of the body yet?

Light flooding from behind interrupted his suiting; you scanned through the footage, sharpening the view of the knife handles. He tossed his cowl on a nearby bench and made a beeline to interrupt. “I told you, don’t look at that—” You didn’t need more nightmares, you didn’t need your life more difficult than he’d already made it. 

You held out a hand behind you, signifying him to stop. You thought you’d seen… owls. 

He squinted, and a chill shot down his spine. “What are you looking at?”

Just two more days and he’d be in the clear. You dragged the mouse to zoom out, turned the computer off, and avoided the violent clench in your stomach that told you lying was very, very wrong, because he needed to be more important than a rotting conscience.

“I just can’t believe how gruesome it is.” You tried to hide the deep breaths you took, hoping you’d misinterpreted his question. 

“Do you see them?” 

Fuck. There was a shake of hope in his voice that made this excruciating. He read you so well that it forced you to face him, a cruel innocence cocking your head and quirking a brow. Bile filled your mouth, and you swallowed it happily. You needed to make this conversation a complete dead end—one more question and you’d fold. “I have no idea what you mean.” 

Your breath went stale in your chest as he visibly deflated. An image of you driving one of the knives into his chest made your body inhospitable. Two more days.

“Sorry.” He broke eye contact, lashes fluttering, and you screamed without sound. “Do you, uh, feel okay going home?”

Staying with him and hoarding the last hours like precious gold was all you wanted in the world. A night spent crying alone would be welcome karma. “Sure.”  

Pulling out of the basement for the last time, you focused on a scuff in the rubber mat of his work car. You didn’t have the heart to look back. You’d need to order some Phish Food for delivery when you got home, hoping it showed up before Grange’s rally.

[dronebiscuitbat]

Oil is Thicker Then Blood (Part 105)

Every drone present in the nest stared at the intruder with hollowed eyes, Uzi hersef frozen in shock.

There, wearing a puffy, fur lined black coat and a black hard hat… was Nori Doorman.

Purple eyelights blinking and mouth upturned in a sheepish, awkward smile, her tail free for all to see, and wings matching her daughters- though they were soon put away in favor of having more room.

“Didn't know how else to say hello. Uh… hello.” She waved awkwardly.

Everyone took a glance at each other, all in a unique brand of unease, this… should be impossible right? Nori was dead.

Her mom was… dead.

But… here she was.

Uzi broke the silence.

“I-I. How? How are you… here?” Her voice was shaky, nervous, unsure. Tera looked back at her, confusion written all over her face as she looked between the two.

“I flew…?” Nori replied. Like she hadn't been gone for so long Uzi had forgotten what she looked like, like her voice hadn't been warped by time to the point Uzi barely recognized it.

“You died.” Uzi's limbs were trembling. The audacity of that answer. “Dad- Dad finished you off.” N's hand clasping over hers while his own body tensed in unease was the only thing keeping her grounded.

Nori's face fell, looking to the side. smile wiping, rubbing her arm, shoulders slumping.

“Y-yeah. He did. My body was… fucked. Heh.” She explained slowly, sounding so much like her daughter it was unreal. “But it takes a little more then that to stop me!”

“My core was unharmed so… I came back.” She shrugged, eyes floating to each member, Thad, Lizzy, V, N, back to Uzi, down to the kits curled between their parents.

She smiles again, Uzi's breath hitches, it's just like she remembered… the only thing she remembered.

She breaks.

She launches herself at her mother, wings helping her along as her still-healing legs gave out on the way. Crushing her in a hug that Nori returns in equal measure.

“You're so big now… so grown up.” Nori has tears in her eyes; and so does Uzi- a second body collides with her and nearly knocks all three of then down

“Thad! It's so good to see you buddy…” She tangles her fingers in his hair affectionately, even as he hugs her tight, leaving N and V and Lizzy to still look dumbstruck.

“Oh both of you…” Nori squeezes them both tight, tail wrapping around Uzi. “I missed you…”

“Mom…what t-took you so long?” Uzi asks, stammering. Sounding much younger now than ever.

“a mixture of having to rebuild a body and being trapped underground…” She explained, holding the side of her daughters face. “I'm so sorry I took so long, my little bat.”

The three held each other in a moment of silence, Tera crawled over, squinting at the newcomer suspiciously.

Nori's gaze flickers to her and she lights up with a smile.

“Oh! Look at you!”

She bends down to try and pick Tera up, only for the solver kit to growl threateningly- and then bite into her hand hard enough for it to splinter and crack. Nori yelped and pulled back.

“Ter! No! We've talked about this!” Uzi picks her up, Tera continues to growl.

“I-I'm so sorry! She's really picky about people sometimes…”

Nori looks down at her hand, which quickly stitches itself up without much fanfare, before dissolving in a belly laugh.

“Hahaha! She's a Doorman alright! Just as bitey as you were!” Uzi sighed in relief, and smiled.

V recovered enough to move. For once she looked nervous, like she didn't exactly know what to do with herself. She glanced at Lizzy, who gave her an equally confused shrug.

N, holding Bishop, couldn't help but smile. Even so… instinct demanded he remain where he was. Bishop had fallen asleep and N still felt incredibly protective.

It didn't matter though. Because Uzi nearly dragged her over to him. Thad behind her looking like he was going to tear up too.

“M-mom. This is N, my boyfriend… and our Son. Bishop.”

Nori and N locked eyes.

“You look… familiar. You got wings?” She asked, cocking her head as she examined him. N felt his core drop.

“Y-yeah!”

“Huh…”

She went silent for a moment in thought before her eyelights rested on the sleeping Bishop.

“Hm. Never thought my grandkids would be part murder drone…or my son in law.” N felt sweat appear on the inside of his visor as he smiled nervously.

“It's… nice to meet you Mrs. Doorman…” He uttered, shifting the newborn in his arms.

Nori looked back at Uzi, who was looking between them, hoping inwardly, that she wouldn't have to get into a fight immediately with her mother.

“Heh. You too kid.”

Relief. For now.

Though Tera was still growling quietly, Nori's oil still dripping from her mouth while Uzi tried to wipe it off. “Dangit Ter…”

…

A bit later…

They landed in front of the bunker, Khan already looking for them after they'd been gone so long.

“There you two ar-” He stopped abruptly as Nori landed, dusting herself off before locking eyes and both drones eyelights went hollow.

Khan trembled, mouth stuck in a state of shock as he dropped his wrench with a clatter.

“Nori…?”

Said drone looked incredibly guilty.

“H-Hey…”

Khan approached her slowly. Like he was in a dream. She stepped back a little. “I-I know, you're upset. You were the one I asked to-to… I shouldn't have-”

He closed the distance, holding her face and thumbing over the visor, tears in his eyes. “You're alive….”

“Thats all I care about…”

He presses their visors together with a smile- making a soft clink.

Next ->

[bears-ao3-blog]

“Heavy shot the man an apologetic look, seeming a bit sheepish. Medic spoke once more, a pleasant smile on his face.”

Yayyy it’s Medic and Heavy my favorite married couple <3 This is from chapter 8! I’m really super happy with their faces, especially Heavy’s considering how…interesting he looked in the first drawing. I feel like I really did him justice this time lol

[xxnashiraxx]

With Stars to Fill My Dream (12) - You Know How Much You Broke Me Apart

LOOK!!! I CAN FINALLY SHARE THIS!!! ❤❤❤ I commissioned this absolutely BEAUTIFUL art from @ritzeldraws of the dance scene in this chapter! It's so beautiful- it captures their expressions and feelings perfectly and it's been my iPad background for months waiting to be unveiled! It's so lovely and I'm beyond happy that I got the opportunity to request this. :") Thank you again!! (They're dancing to Duvet by Boa btw, just in case you thought it was a happy dance)

Prepare your tissues for this chapter 💕 It's sad, and my song choice is awful (sarcasm) but you'll recognize it if you've watched Cyberpunk Edgerunners. No happy endings in Night City 💔

Please enjoy!

Chapter Summary: A brush with death leads to denied realizations from Astarion when Ofelia suffers a fatal wound. After she recovers, the party takes a group photo with Ofelia's revived phone- courtesy of Gale- and they all dance the night away trying to forget about their next objective: taking down the goblin leaders. The unlikely pair's slow dance leads to a drunken confession, and further torment appears in the form of a dream visitor wearing the visage of a former friend from Ofelia's past...

Pairing: Astarion x female!Tav

Warnings: 18+. Mentions of past abuse and trauma. Canon-typical violence and gore.

Word Count: 7,811

Have some dance pics below the link!!! ❤ (peep the accidental cursor lol)

✧˖Tag List: @khywren

Opening under the cut!

Astarion tries not to think too hard about the way her eyes had been so sweet one moment, and the next had snapped like someone had wrung a child’s neck in front of her. She’d been very successful hiding her tone, but the eyes never lie, and hers were like cold dead stars. Empty and black.

He watches her come out of the broken mill, face impassive, before her brows twitch and a sheepish frown pulls at her lips.

“Lae’zel… I’m really sorry. I should have listened… you know way more about any of these things than me.” 

“No matter. It is normal for warriors to exchange furried words in the heat of battle. Apologies are not necessary, but I will offer mine as well. What were you retrieving?” Ofelia lights up and holds out the little rectangle she’d pried off the goblin.

“My phone! I found it! It plays music!” She grins at Lae’zel earnestly and the gith looks at her a moment before turning away.

“I take it back.” Ofelia sticks her tongue out at Lae’zel’s retreating back before gathering the rest of them close. They disclose the identity of the gnome they’d pulled off the mill, the man walking away towards the treacherous temple ahead- nothing they could do to stop him.

“Okay, we’ve got what? A bugbear behind that building?” She asks, keen eyes darting to the left. Gale nods. “Three trolls in that building there, another four goblins around the back of the old apothecary. Then it’s the road down to the temple. And that sounds like way too many for us to tackle with sunset so close…” She presses a finger to her lips, deep in thought.

“We could break into groups, at least take out the rest here a little at a time?” Karlach asks, her eyes flashing towards the trolls.

“Okay… let’s balance the teams. Karlach, Gale? Trolls?” The two specified nod, though the wizard with less enthusiasm. “The bugbear… Lae’zel and I.” Astarion tuts.

“What about me, darling? I hope you’re not considering pairing me with these two?” He jerks his chin at Wyll and Shadowheart and the latter rolls her eyes at him and graces him with a rude hand gesture. Ofelia flicks her eyes up to him, darkness flaring in them, before she turns her chin away.

“Okay. Come with Lae’zel and me.” He grins, and though they can do without the wet blanket, he’ll trust Ofelia’s judgment. He slides next to her, brows creasing when she stiffens, but she flashes a warm smile at him and his concern ebbs. She’s started behaving like a timid little thing around him and it’s sweet, almost as sweet as her usual red cheeks and tender warmth. What a lovely thing she’ll be to indulge in when she finally lets him devour her whole.

Ofelia lets him pounce on the passed-out bugbear and he preens at the opportunity to show off, lodging his dagger into the neck of the beast as it roars in anguish. He dances out of range of its angry swipes, leaping away gracefully thanks to the meal she’d provided him this morning. Ofelia strums a little tune to embolden Lae’zel and with a final cleave of the githyanki’s greatsword, the creature collapses into a puddle of blood and sour ale. Vile smelling, at that.

“There are lots of supplies lying around, would be good to take them back to camp after we’re done here.” Ofelia murmurs to Lae’zel and the other woman grunts in acknowledgement.

“Ahh yes, moldy cheese wheels and old brandy. Hardly a feast,” He drops said bottle, her eyes meeting his again and he can see that razor-thin edge beneath like a yawning abyss, void and unseeing. He blinks and it’s gone, replaced by dry humor. When she looks away towards an old barn, he frowns. She’s behaving strangely. At least something useful had come from his centuries of torment- the power of observation. And he’s very good at it.

Had it been what he’d said? Perhaps it was a little… cold. Not that it matters, really. But it does now, and he’ll need to remedy it once the opportunity arises. He rolls his eyes inwardly, breathing out a sigh. Why is it so hard to win her affections? She’d even admitted the first time he’d drank from her how much she likes vampires, that should have won him some points, surely? All he needs is for her to agree to a gods damned night with him and he can take the rest from there. It’d be easy to pretend to care at that point. Clinical, even.

[orderforbrian]

jonathan sims routinely steals his boyfriends clothes, and no, this does not exclude stealing his boyfriends magic selkie pelt 🦭❌

shameless selklie au fic plug we're gonna update it i swear I SWEAR

[Start ID: Multiple drawings of Jon and Martin from The Magnus Archives in an AU where Martin is a selkie. Jon is a thin, Persian man with short, dark curly hair that has a single white streak, wears glasses, and has a mustache/beard. Martin is a fat, mixed Korean/Polish man with dark, shaggy hair, glasses, and a beauty mark by his lip. Top left: Jon lays in bed with Martin's seal pelt pulled snug around him, his glasses lie beside him. One eye peeks open at Martin chastising him off panel, "Jon! Why would you steal my pelt when you're literally on top of the blanket!!". Jon mumbles sleepily, "Yours is warmer...". Top middle: Jon and Martin lie in bed together. Martin is hogging his pelt, gripping onto it tightly even when Jon sadly tugs at it. Top right: Jon sits next to Martin, who's in his seal form and looking angry. An arrow points to a sheepish Jon that says: pelt stealing privileges REVOKED. Small text nearby says: his ass cannot be seal anymore. Bottom left: Jon stands with Martin's pelt over his pajamas, looking much like a robe. Martin has a conniption off-panel, a tiny angry expression by the speech bubble, and says, "You're treating my pelt like some - some - magic snuggie!". Jon says, "It kind of is tho?" and an arrow points to him that says: slept in it all night. Maybe he won the tug of war from the previous image. Top right: Jon has the selkie pelt wrapped tightly around him. Martin stands behind Jon and pushes the seal pelt's head over his face with a smirk, "UM - correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe I'm the only selkie in this household?". Jon, obviously caught for the thief he is, only groans, "Mm." End ID.]