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sonotpattismith · 2 days ago

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gee willikers, batman!

pairing: boxer!choso x nurse!reader word count: 11k content: fluff, always a lil angsty w/ me, commitment issues, mentions of toxic relationship dynamics, for my girlies w/ a fearful-avoidant attachment style, big brother choso, mentions of abuse and domestic violence, smut, 18+ a/n: not sure if I like how this turned out but alas we shall persevere :')

You desperately needed to develop a better taste in men. Or a therapist. Whichever came to you faster would be best.

In reality, it should have been a sign early on into your career when you were so drawn toward the Emergency Department specifically that perhaps you had a certain… affinity for the more chaotic things in life. It was evident in your job, and it was evident in your disaster ex-boyfriend who you’d just broken up with a mere week shy of your one year anniversary.

He, like the many other men you’ve let waltz into your life, might as well have had ‘RED FLAG’ tattooed across his forehead, but it seemed you were never satisfied unless you were on the brink of a complete crash out— at least that was how you’d always felt until now. Maybe you were getting too old for it, all the bad boy types who had you clinging onto your phone in a furious rage most nights arguing over god knows what. It was never simple, but you seemed to enjoy the thrill of the ‘shoot first, ask questions later’ types of attitudes.

Again, at least until your latest wannabe edge lord candidate had had you so fed up with his overbearing possessiveness that you were sure your nervous system was completely fried. It wasn’t until that last fight though, that ended with your phone screen shattered after he’d tossed it across the room in a child-like tantrum that was just so like him— the one after which you found yourself having to practice the very same fucking grounding techniques you’d show your patients when experiencing panic attacks prior to procedures— you thought perhaps it was time for a change.

Which was precisely why you couldn’t for the life of you understand why your coworker insisted on taking you here of all places. Ierie had been working with you for a few years now, so she had already heard about every argument, block, and makeup between you and that disaster of an ex-boyfriend of yours. Though she tried (not very hard but tried nonetheless) to conceal her unbridled excitement when you told you that you had ended things, she was practically bursting at the seams.

After the poorly concealed praise to a higher being she performed following the news, she did still want to be there for you. That was why she insisted on hanging out tonight so you wouldn’t have to be alone on what was supposed to be your one year anniversary. The catch was though, she seemed to have forgotten that she had already promised one of her long time friends from highschool that she’d be at his fight that same night.

Which led you to the very predicament you were in now, damn near overstimulated by the hollering and sweaty bodies pushing against you in the overcrowded, modestly sized arena that looked like it hadn’t been maintenanced in at least ten years. Ierie’s cold hand was dragging you by the wrist to assure you didn’t get swallowed up by the crowd, claiming that her friend had already reserved two spots toward the front.

“I know I came here to support him, but I don’t think Suguru is winning this thing.” She shouted over the crowd once you two found your spots, watching as a burly man stalked around the area taking bets for the fight.

“Geez, some friend you are.” You snorted with an amused shake of your head. “Does he suck or something?”

Truthfully, you knew nothing about boxing. It was never really your thing, even though you seemed to have quite a few mutual friends involved in the local boxing scene. You weren’t sure of the big names that everyone threw around, who was good and who was mediocre. Despite the fact that you’d much rather be rotting in bed, wallowing in your own self-pity right about now, you figured you should at least try to enjoy yourself and understand what you were watching.

“No, it’s not that.” She shook her head, her neck craning up to watch as the boxers began making their way out. “The guy he’s going up against is like a fucking machine. He never loses— at least I’ve never seen it.”

“Crazy strong?” You assumed, watching as the man you recognized as her friend hopped into the ring, his long hair pulled back into a neat bun out of his face. Shoko hummed unconvincingly.

“Nah, I heard he’s got a kid or something. So, I think he’s just crazy determined is all.”

You hummed, suddenly intrigued to see someone going against Geto— who was already scarily large in your book— with nothing but pure motivation to provide under his belt. As they announced his name— Choso— and he ducked into the ring across from his opponent, you realized that he definitely had more on his side than Shoko let on.

“Holy shit.” You muttered under your breath, lips parting as you watched him shed his jacket. He looked fairly young for a father, but the dark circles under his eyes surely fit the bill. Maybe you shouldn’t have been so shocked given his line of work, but the man was built like a tank, insanely broad shoulders to carry around those down right dangerous biceps of his.

“Eh? Didn’t I say this would take your mind off of what’s his face?” Your friend grinned knowingly with a teasing nudge of her elbow. She jutted her chin toward the ring. “Think his kid needs a step-mom?”

“Ierie,” You flushed with a breathless laugh. Suguru and Choso met in the middle of the ring, touching their gloved fists together as they awaited the match to begin. “Did you not hear me when I said I need a little bit of peace in my life for once?”

She didn’t respond to your rhetorical question though, because the opening bell was ringing and the boxers began dancing around the ring faster than you could process, administering and dodging blows so fluidly it almost looked choreographed. You noticed how Choso protected his face the majority of the match, ducking and dodging far more than actually swinging. When he did swing though, he swung hard. You wondered with your limited knowledge of the sport if his strategy was just tiring his opponent out.

A few minutes in, you found yourself flinching back with each punch that was thrown his way, but Geto rarely landed one on his opponent.

“I knew you’d go gaga for this!” Shoko shouted with a delighted laugh. “You love the dangerous ones!”

“Shut up!” You grumbled back at her, chewing at the side of your thumb anxiously as the two grew closer to the side of the ring you and Shoko were stationed at.

Of course, they likely knew what they were doing, but you couldn’t help but think of worst case scenario where these two two-hundred plus pound fighters toppled over the ring and onto your unsuspecting and unprepared body. You abruptly stood from your seat as Geto was cornered against the ring, his back facing you just a mere couple feet away.

From up close as Choso was landing calculated blows on his trapped opponent, you were able to see that subtle pout in his lips that contrasted against the big and scary vibe every other part of him emanated. The mark across his nose scrunched up in sheer focus, stray bangs from his haphazard bun falling across his forehead.

It only took a second, your abrupt movement shifting in his peripheral. His dark eyes drifted up just over Geto’s shoulder and met yours. The gloved fists that had been raised and shielding his face for nearly the entire match slowly faltered, drifting down in hopes of getting a better look at your wide eyed expression.

Those glossy eyes were locked on him, and perhaps he was too awestruck to note that— yeah, everyone was looking at him right now— because it truly did feel as though you were the only one in the room for even just a moment. The whiplash hit him straight in the ribs harder than any opponent could land, knocking the air from his lungs as he watched your face morph in horror. It was just milliseconds following the abrupt change that Geto’s glove was hitting him smack-dab in the center of his face.

You yelled out in surprise as Choso was instantly knocked back, falling onto the unforgiving ground below him while the arena erupted in hollers, because shit, everyone had bet on him. Even Suguru looked taken aback by how quickly his opponent dropped, because he’d fought with him before and definitely knew that he usually kept his stance stiff enough so that blows like that didn’t take him down so easily— and they certainly never kept him down.

The referee had knelt down beside him to count him down, but you were more concerned by the way blood had begun to trickle out of his nose and even the corner of his mouth. His eyes were barely open, squinting blearily at the blinding lights above him.

“He’s gonna aspirate if they don’t move him off his back.” You shouted desperately at Shoko, clutching anxiously onto her elbow.

“They have to count him down— rules are rules.” She stated absentmindedly, getting on her tiptoes to get a better look. “You’re off the clock.”

Ten seconds. He could get through it, you tried to convince yourself as you bounced on your heels. Time was moving too slow though, and you watched in dread as his chest heaved with a cough, the blood that had gathered in his mouth sputtering up to paint his chin and cheeks.

“They’re gonna kill him.” Your frantic declaration had barely processed in your friend's mind before you were hopping through the ropes and hoisting yourself into the ring. She was yelling out to you, and one of the boxer’s cornermen shot forward to stop you, but you had already slid onto your knees beside the referee, who was also trying to push you back. “He’s choking on his blood!”

They paused at your sudden, furied response, too startled to do anything as you grabbed his shoulder and mustered all your strength to roll him onto his side. Finally on his side, you reached over to pull the guard from his mouth. At once, Choso began sputtering up and coughing, coating the floor with the blood that he had been drowning in.

As he continued clearing his airway, your fingers carefully dug into the back of his head, threading through his hair to check for blood. With the sudden movements, he was slowly beginning to come to, though all he could hear through the ringing in his ears was the muffled uproar from the crowd. Blinking back his delirium, he lazily shifted onto his back once again, eyes drifting back shut.

“No, no, no— sit up for me.” Your voice instructed him through the haze of his attempted slumber.

Even Geto had shed his gloves and was kneeling down to help you get him upright.

“I didn’t even hit him that hard.” He explained in bafflement, the most subtle layer of guilt twinging his tone. “It’s like he completely ragdolled for a second.”

It took all the energy Choso had remaining to blink up at you. The sight of you— the same girl who had thrown him out of his zone for likely the first time ever in his career— his consciousness seemed to come flooding back to him. Sitting up quickly with your’s and Geto’s urging hands under his back, he looked around frantically in an attempt to grasp what had happened.

“Do you feel nauseous?” You asked him as he watched your lips form in a frenzy around the words.

Blood was beginning to pour from his quickly bruising nose into his lips, and the thus far useless cornermen bounded over with a small towel. Bunching it up, you carefully placed it onto his nose before tilting his head forward to allow it to flow out.

“I-I don’t—” Choso was stammering, as was so very common for him, but never in the ring, and he was coming to the mortifying revelation that the insanely gorgeous girl just watched him get the lights knocked out of him with a single blow.

Your brows furrowed as you tried to make sense of his words. You moved the towel aside to hear him better.

“I don’t usually, uh—” He gulped, face flushing embarrassingly dark for someone who was on the brink of a possible concussion. You tilted your head at him. “Y’know, lose that easy— hah.”

His attempted nonchalant laughter sounded more like a nervous sigh, but his slurred explanation had an amused smile curling through the concerned pout of your lips. He found himself smiling along with you, blood coating his teeth.

“So I’ve heard, hot-shot.” You quipped with a shake of your head, pressing the towel back into his nose just as the medic finally hopped into the ring. Your eyes remained on his dopey expression as you tilted your head to the side to address them in a hushed tone. “Check him for a concussion, he’s looking crazy.”

Choso did not, in fact, have a concussion. At least that’s what the medic deduced in the back after having assessed him. Given that there, for some god forsaken reason, only seemed to be one medic present, you aided in transporting him to the back where you stuck around for support. Shoko was rolling her eyes in exasperation, mumbling something incoherent about your never taking a day off. She was however thoroughly entertained by the notion that the Choso Kamo got knocked onto his ass for the first time solely because he got a glimpse of you. Despite the evidence that was pointing there, you vehemently continued to disagree with her on what caused his little hiccup in the ring.

The medic was packing his things up as you were not-so-subtly re-checking his pupil reactions, because you seriously were questioning the credentials of the supposed medical professional that was about to let the man aspirate right in the ring. Choso didn’t question your insistence on double-checking, his wide, chocolate eyes following your pen light obediently— any excuse to be at the center of your attention for a little longer, right?

“So you’re, um—” His gaze fluttered as you clicked the light off before switching it to your other hand and turning it back on. “You’re a doctor?”

You smiled fondly and shook your head.

“An ER nurse— my friend over there’s a doctor though.” You explained, nodding your head back to where Shoko was speaking to Geto. She shouted something about being off the clock before continuing her conversation.

Choso hummed, blinking away the spots in his eyes left behind by the light. Upon closer inspection, you noted that the mark running jaggedly across his nose and cheeks was a scar, and not an oddly placed tattoo as you had assumed when first seeing it. If he noticed you staring, he made no indication of it— not with the puppy-dog like gaze he still had on you, a small smile on his blood-stained lips.

His attention was pulled away from you as a ping rang from his dufflebag. Tearing his eyes from yours, he quickly fumbled through his clothes before procuring his cellphone. In a last-ditch effort to make it seem like you weren’t just staring at the man, you busied yourself with cleaning up the blood-soaked towels and tissues that had begun surrounding him.

“Is everything okay?” Choso had barely glanced at the screen before quickly taking the call. “He’s still not asleep?”

You watched his brows furrow from your peripheral, and you desperately tried to mind your own business. In the louder corners of your mind though, Shoko’s words rang in your mind about his having a child. Despite only having spoken a few words to him, you just couldn’t see how this young, gentle-giant of a man was a father.

“Yeah,” His voice had become lighter suddenly, an amused smile painting his face so affectionately it damn near gave you baby fever. “Tell him I’m fine— I should be home in a little bit.”

You quickly averted your sidelong glance once he hung up the phone, moving to wash your blood stained hands in the dingy sink that sat in the corner. From the mirror, you could see him digging through his bag to grab a shirt.

“Sorry— my babysitter called.” He explained as he tugged a baggy, graphic tee over his head. As if it took him a moment to realize how that sounded, his frantic face was quickly popping out the neck of the shirt to clarify. “I take care of my little brother, I mean. I’m not um— y’know, his… dad.”

With a soft hum of acknowledgement, you could have cursed yourself for the subtle excitement brewing in your stomach at the fact that this man was likely single— and he wanted you to know it, too. Reaching down to grab your bag from the bench, you slung it over your shoulder. Jumping into action, Choso was quickly picking up his own bag to walk beside you.

“Big brother’s a boxer, huh? He must think you’re a god.”

“Oh, he doesn’t know, actually.” He corrected with a subtle flush, his hand fiddling with the strap of his bag. Noting the way your brows rose in surprise, he offered a meek smile. “I just don’t want him getting caught up in all this.”

“And how does he suppose you get all those bruises then?” You teased, but you were quickly putting two and two together that keeping his job a secret from his little brother was likely the reason for his oddly calculated boxing approach. He never seemed to make risky moves, always preferring to protect himself above all else and only striking when he was sure to land it.

Suddenly, a bashful expression overtook his face, his hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck sheepishly as his eyes darted away from you. It was undeniably endearing to see such a tall and muscular man so easily flustered, especially considering how solemnly terrifying he appeared in the ring.

“Well, he…” He scratched at his head before huffing out a chuckle. “He kind of thinks I’m Batman.”

A choked laugh attempted to hide itself within your throat, but it, of course, failed miserably. Choso turned away from you in hopes that you wouldn’t see the maroon color that painted his neck and cheeks.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh. That’s just really cute.” You explained through uncontrolled giggles, not missing the way Shoko rose a knowing brow at you as the two of you drew closer. “Well, uh… good luck with that bruise then, Batman.”

“Y-You should let me grab you dinner— y’know to… thank you for not letting me choke.” You turned as Choso chuckled nervously, the hand you had placed on your friend’s arm to head out with her falling.

Your gaze fluttered as you looked back at his hopeful expression, but all you could think about was the fact that you’d just broken up with your boyfriend just a week prior because he was no good for you. Staring back at the crusted blood at the corner of his mouth, along with the way his nose was blossoming with a vibrant black and blue hue, you shook your head with an apologetic smile.

“I’ve got a shift in the morning.” You explained, having to turn away lest your heart break at the way his face seemed to fall ever-so-slightly. “But I hope you feel better!”

As you and Shoko left, she was whisper-shouting over her shoulder an apology to him about your only liking assholes with a feigned subtlety. It was the subdued goodnight that he still called out to you even in the midst of his rejection that had you staring up at your ceiling that night wondering if you’d always be hard-wired to make things difficult for yourself.

You wished you had had the opportunity to forget about the interaction altogether the following morning at the start of your shift. Typically, working in the ER meant fast-paced, constantly needing to be on edge, and certainly not having the time to think about anything else other than what might be walking through those doors at any moment. As fate would have it though, today was one of the rare instances that your shift was absolutely dragging.

It was already nearly a quarter of the way into your shift, and all you had triaged so far was an elderly woman with a mild cough, a kid trying to get out of his school’s testing day with a feigned stomach ache, and a hungover college student in desperate need of IV fluids. Needless to say, you were beginning to grow restless.

You were a mere ten minutes away from throwing in the towel and taking your lunch break early, a luxury you were almost never privileged to, when your pager pinged alerting a new patient. Sitting up with a start, you quickly clicked at your computer to wake it up and check the chart.

Possible head injury; rule out TBI

Maybe if you hadn’t been so eager to just get up and do something, you would have read into their chart more. For now though, you were avidly collecting your things to check in the first patient you’ve had in the last two hours. Lugging the vitals machine behind you, you offered a soft knock on the wall as you glanced over the chart one more time and slid the curtain open. Your mouth popped open as your eyes finally landed on the name.

“Choso?” You muttered under your breath, brows furrowing as you looked up from the chart to see the very man you suspected perched upon the sterile bed.

He almost looked surprised to see you at first, those dewey eyes of his widening ever-so-slightly at the sight of you before a smile spread across his lips. Upon first glance, he looked to be the picture of health (save for the now diabolical bruise spread across the center of his face), smiling and bright eyed with no visible reason for why he’d be complaining of a head injury. As if noting the way your eyes began to narrow doubtfully at him, he quickly attempted to wipe the smile from his face.

“Um— I was… I was starting to feel symptoms of a concussion.” The burly man stammered out as though rehearsed.

Barely able to bite back your own amused grin, you tucked the chart under your arm before leaning against the wall expectantly. You made a go on motion with a wave of your hand, but Choso hadn’t expected to be so distracted by the sight of you in your scrubs. Rolling his bottom lip between his thumb and pointer finger, he gulped nervously.

“Y’know, like a… headache a-and uh…” An anxious smile graced his face as you raised a skeptical brow at him. He couldn’t help it though— not with the way your jogger-style scrub bottoms hugged at your curves so tantalizingly, and you looked so cute with your stethoscope hanging around your neck, the one that would surely catch the way his traitorous heart was racing against his rib cage.

“How did you know which hospital I worked at, Choso?” You finally interrogated once he’d been stammering a little too long to come up with other relevant symptoms.

He cast his eyes to the side as you moved to pull the sleeve of his t-shirt up to wrap the blood pressure cuff around his bulging bicep. Though you had already deduced that he was likely fine, he had still been registered as a patient, and now you needed to go through the typical procedures. You wondered if he was even aware of how attractive he was, because the way he remained oblivious to the manner in which you ran a hand unnecessarily down his arm on your way to the pump told you that he had no clue.

“Lucky guess.” He tried to come off as cool, hoping you wouldn’t see through the fact that this was the third emergency room he’d been to today. It wouldn’t let him rest though— the memory of you hovering above him as he came to, the thought that you had jumped into a boxing ring for a stranger and essentially saved his life. “You didn’t let me thank you yesterday. You saved my life.”

“Don’t you have a kid to be taking care of?” You quipped teasingly, a bit flustered at his gratitude as you undid the cuff from his arm. This time around, he did notice the way you rubbed soothingly at the mark left behind by the cuff, and whether conscious or not, he found himself flexing his arm ever-so-slightly just for you.

“Yuji? He’s at school.” Choso explained dismissively before quickly veering back on topic. “I wanted to make sure you were coming to the rematch, but I didn’t have your number.”

He opened his mouth obediently as you nudged the thermometer against his lips, lifting his tongue for you to rest it underneath. The way his pretty, pink lips wrapped around the thermometer made your breath hitch, and you forced yourself to tear your eyes from his as they bore intently into you. You hummed once it beeped, shedding the sterile cover into the bin by the bed.

“Rematch, huh?” He nodded, fervent eyes following each of your movements as you turned to confirm his vitals into the machine before turning back to face him once again. “I hate to disappoint, but I’m not actually into boxing.”

“You were front row at the match last night.” He rationalized, and his shoulders were slowly falling in disappointment. After a moment, he shook his head before continuing his pursuit. “Then let me take you to dinner at least.”

“Listen, I’m just not really—”

Your excuse was cut off when, after barely a moment of contemplation, Choso grabbed the chart from your hand and tossed it to the floor. A few owlish blinks were sent his way.

“Your friend said you like assholes.” The man explained simply, but it was clearly eating him alive, evident in the way his determined eyes darted between you and the clipboard that had just got done clattering on the floor. A couple, painfully silent seconds passed before he kissed his teeth quietly, sliding off the bed to pick it back up for you anyway.

Fortunately for him, and unfortunately for your sanity, that little failed stunt worked on you, and Choso bounded out of the ER that afternoon with your contact in his phone. Still, you made it clear to him that you’d reach out to him when you were ready. He nodded along intently as you explained that you had only just gotten out of a relationship, and you didn’t exactly feel that you trusted your ability to pick a man right now.

It didn’t matter to him though, because you had saved his number under Batman on your phone, and he had never been so proud of the silly persona his baby brother had assigned to him. So, he assured you not to worry, that there was no rush, and that he owed you a dinner whenever it was that you felt like having him. Sure, the next few days may have been spent glued to his phone in hopes that you’d get over your idiot of an ex-boyfriend sooner rather than later, but he could be patient, right?

It wasn’t until nearly a month later that he began to worry that perhaps you had only taken his number with the hopes that he’d leave you alone. Perhaps you were just letting him down easy. After all, he had shown up to your job after already having gotten a no from you. Choso had never been great with women— he’d never had the opportunity to, what with his taking over care for Yuji so early on into what were supposed to be his prime bachelor days.

Up until now though, it didn’t matter that he hadn’t had the chance to grow out of his awkward, teenage boy cadence, he’d never thought much of it. Sure, he was a man, and he had needs too, but there were always more important things to worry about— like putting food on the table and keeping a roof over the head of his baby brother. His job certainly didn’t require him to be a smooth talker, or a talker at all for that matter. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t read the body language or social cues that women threw at him— not until it was you that he couldn’t get a read on.

What he didn’t know was that you had spent the month waging war on yourself. The battle consisted of the you that wanted to remain in the familiar arms of men who your commitment fearing heart was sure to see no future with and the you that wondered if taking the hot, kind-eyed boxer’s offer of taking you to dinner and treating you like an adult human being was such a bad thing.

The decision was proving to be more difficult than you could have ever anticipated, because it was as if your man-child of an ex-boyfriend could smell that you were contemplating doing better for yourself once, and he had been texting you for weeks now. There were apologies, paragraphs sent about how your constant arguments only meant that you two were passionate about one another— ones that had you rolling your eyes while simultaneously thinking that this was the safe option.

You had come to a fork in the road though, as you stared down at his text asking if you’d meet him at the place you two met— some dingy arcade where you always had to hold your breath in because it seemed none of the men in attendance knew what soap or deodorant were. It was the same place where you remember finding it charming how heated he’d get over losing a game— it was quirky and hot and you couldn’t possibly see how that short-temper might pose a challenge to your relationship.

Chewing on your bottom lip, your thumbs hovered over the cracked screen that had lain witness to just how un-charming that temper could get. Glancing up at your carefully placed makeup in the mirror, you realized that you had missed getting all done up— missed going out instead of sulking in your apartment and contemplating where your abysmal attachment style could have possibly manifested from. With a shake of your head, you decided that you had put far too much effort into yourself to end up in that cesspool of a joint by the end of the night.

The cool wind nipped at your cheeks as you tried to borrow yourself deeper into the collar of your coat. You thought that perhaps you should have just waited in the car, but, then again, you weren’t exactly familiar with the protocol for proper dates. The dim lighting offered by the awning outside of the quietly buzzing restaurant cast a soft glow onto the wooden bench you were sitting on as you anxiously peered at the parking lot.

Just as you were on the brink of losing a toe to hyperthermia, an older looking, black cat peeled into the parking lot, barely coming to a stop before the driver’s door was swinging open. Choso’s frantic gaze caught yours almost instantly, and he almost appeared relieved that you hadn’t left.

“I’m so sorry, I know I’m late.” He babbled, shutting his door firmly before glancing into the back of his car. “Look, I um… I understand if you’re not cool with this, but my babysitter canceled on me last minute.”

In the midst of his hesitant explanation, he was tugging the backseat open, offering you one last apprehensive glance before ducking his head in. When he emerged once again, it was with a pink-haired, bright-eyed toddler in his arms. You stood up as Choso walked your way, whispering something that, by the look of the softly stern expression on his face, looked to be a warning to behave to his little brother before setting him down.

“I’m really sorry about this. If you want to go I—”

“Aren’t you gonna introduce me to my date, Choso?” Your mockingly stern tone halted his mortified rambling.

The boy, barely reaching his brother’s mid-thigh, was looking up at you with that fiercely curious expression that only a toddler assessing your danger level could pull off. His small, gloved hand was clutching onto Choso’s pointer and middle finger as the fake fur on his tiger beanie swayed with the gust of wind that whipped his way.

It certainly wasn’t how you had expected to spend your night off, but something about that exasperated guilt in Choso’s tone made your heart clench. All these years you had spent worrying about which douchebag you’d be picking yourself back up over, and this man, who couldn’t have been much older than you at all, had never had that stupid privilege. Such a miniscule act as not raising a fuss over his bringing his baby brother to dinner with him had him staring at you as though you’d hung the stars in the sky, and you suddenly decided that you had made the right decision that night.

A small, delighted smile tugged at his lips, and he quickly looked down to nudge the boy forward.

“This is Yuji, and he promised he was going to be on his best behavior for our friend tonight, right?” Choso urged with a subtle desperation hidden in his eyes. Your heart nearly melted as he nodded ardently with a soft sneeze.

“Niichan never has girl friends—”

“Okay, Yuji! Why don’t you show her how you open the door like a gentleman?” He eagerly cut off his brother’s innocent confession with a rapidly flushing face, scooping him up so that he could reach the handle. You offered a knowing, sidelong glance at the flustered man, unable to bite back your tickled smile as you nodded to Yuji in thanks as he held the door open for you with a prideful beam.

Choso had just about jumped out of his skin when your name randomly popped onto his phone. He must have re-read your text twenty times to assure he was understanding correctly, because the girl who had been radio silent for nearly a month was asking if tonight was a good night for her to cash in on the dinner he owed her.

Truthfully, it wasn’t a good night. He had been expecting to stay home with Yuji tonight given he didn’t have a match, and his brother didn’t have school the next morning. Because of that, he really didn’t have anyone lined up to babysit tonight. He frantically called his usual babysitter, practically begging her to come on such short notice, and he nearly did a backflip when she agreed.

Yuji was following him around the house with that lighthearted laugh, the kind that made Choso think that maybe he wasn’t doing such a bad job at taking care of him after all, asking him why he was practically bouncing around the house as he rushed to shower and dug recklessly through his closet for something decent to wear.

It had all come crashing down on him just ten minutes before he was supposed to leave, already having explained to his little brother that his babysitter would be coming tonight, when the woman in question called to let him know that her shift at her full-time job had gone over schedule. He sat hunched over his phone on the couch for what seemed like eternity as he contemplated what to do.

It had taken you an entire month to finally agree to a date with him. Would you change your mind if he canceled on you with such short notice? Chewing on the inside of his cheek, he noted that he was already going to be late, and the thought of leaving you waiting for him at the restaurant had him making the executive decision to bundle his little brother up in his winter clothes and pack him in the car with him.

Halfway to the restaurant was when it hit him that perhaps this wasn’t the best idea, but it was too late now. He wasn’t sure anything could have prepared him for how quickly you’d let it slide off your shoulders, and certainly not for how easily you’d work Yuji into what was meant to be a date with just you two.

Here he was though, lips parted stupidly as he watched you allow the boy to steal bites off of your plate (despite how many times he’d already swatted his hand away in mortification) and follow along with all the longwinded stories that toddlers were so good at telling with no real conclusion in sight. It seemed impossible for him to have found you anymore beautiful than he already did, but you were proving him wrong with every affectionate smile sent his way each time Yuji would innocently reveal another humiliating detail about his older brother to you.

“If I had known he was going to woo you so hard I would have left him in the car.” Choso joked with a timid smile, already having had his fill of embarrassment for one night following Yuji’s announcement that he cried everytime he watched Brother Bear with him.

You thought having the five-year-old around helped lessen what typically would have been a painfully awkward first date. Additionally, the seemingly tight-knit relationship they had made you wonder how Choso had found himself with such a responsibility so young in the first place. Of course, with Yuji around, it was hard to veer onto the topic.

“And how else would I have found out so much about the big, bad Choso Kamo?” You teased as Yuji busied himself with a coloring page the waitress had brought over (much to his brother’s relief). “Brother Bear, huh? Can’t blame you, that one used to get me too.”

“I don’t cry everytime.”

“Mhmm,” With an unconvinced hum, you peered up at him through the rim of your cup as you took a sip. “So, what turned you into a bear then, hm?”

The fond smile on his face slowly dissipated, leading you to believe that what you thought was a harmlessly joking question held more depth than you gave it credit for. Soon, your smile was quickly falling too as you sat up a little straighter.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay.” He reassured, attempting to bring that same lighthearted nature back around, but his eyes were heavier as he regarded you kindly. “I just… had to be.”

It was the only explanation he offered you, and somehow it was enough for you to understand the gravity of whatever their situation must have been— at least for now.

“So,” Your gaze fluttered about his chiseled face as you tried to rectify the now solemn energy at the table. Glancing toward Yuji, you noted that he was still concentrated on his coloring, a crayon clutched in one hand and a fry in the other. Still, you lowered your voice a bit as you leaned in closer to Choso. “How did your rematch go?”

“Thought you said you weren’t into it.”

“Didn’t say I wasn’t into you.”

This caught him off guard, whatever fleeting confidence he had to banter back and forth with you flying out the window just as your own words processed back to you. For a fleeting moment, you almost allowed yourself to be embarrassed by your own forwardness. Something about how easily he could be rendered speechless made it worth it though. After a moment, his lips twitched up nervously as he tried to reign in control of the conversation once again.

“Thought you liked assholes.” Choso whispered, praying his little brother wasn’t going to absorb that word into his subconscious to spring on him later.

Pursing your lips, you looked down at the cracked phone screen that had pulled you out of your stupor just hours prior. The man followed your eyes, taking note of the way you ran your finger absentmindedly down the shattered glass. You didn’t say anything, but he seemed to have heard it all, his face falling in quiet recognition. He had seen it before— that look of silent defeat in your eyes fighting against a cycle all too familiar to him.

“The rematch was good.” He offered with a soft, knowing smile, hoping to pull you from wherever your thoughts had wandered to. You peered back up at him. “Kicked his ass. I can be an asshole too— just… not to you, yeah?”

Choso couldn’t have known how deep his words burrowed themselves into your mind, replaying on repeat that entire drive home as your heart pounded against your chest. He had walked you to your car after dinner, Yuji clinging onto his back as he drifted off into what looked to be a nasty food coma. The look on his face said that he wasn’t sure what to do next, but you could certainly guess what was on his mind.

So, you were grateful when his little brother stirred away and tugged at his hair, pouting about it being too cold and wanting to go home. The man’s shoulder’s deflated ever-so-slightly, and he offered an apologetic smile and a promise that he’d text you.

You weren’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.

Choso Kamo scared you unlike any other raging hot-head had ever managed to in the past. At least with your past… distasteful selections, you could predict their moves, you knew it would only go so far. With him though, you could feel yourself wanting more, because he was sweet and genuine, and he was the type of guy that would make a nest in your heart so as not to disturb your peace rather than shatter it with an attempt to mold it to accommodate the jagged edges he refused to file down.

Without the expected downfalls of the disasters you set yourself up for, how could you prepare yourself if he disappointed you in a way you hadn’t already premeditated? Other men filtered in and out of your life, never leaving an impact heavier than a break of routine in their wake— but Choso? If you allowed him to stay, you knew it would ache in ways you’d never known if Choso left.

Despite your fear of falling, you couldn’t bring yourself to ignore him when he texted you later that night asking if you'd made it home, or even the next morning when he wished you a good shift. With each affectionate-smiled reply, you could feel your stomach twisting in fear as you hoped you’d snap out of this haze before the shoe dropped.

It was the very reason that you hesitated when your phone rang just two days later, his name lighting up your phone at an hour far too late at night to be considered friendly. Blinking back the tired haze in your eyes from staring at your television for too long, you felt that familiar anxiety swimming in your throat. Your thumb trembled nervously as it hovered over the button to accept the call. Shaking off your nerves, you swiped to answer the call.

“Hey, Cho—”

“Hello?” His voice was panicked on the other line, making you sit up from where you had been vegetating on your couch. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I know it’s late— I need your help.”

Muffled in the background, you could hear the distinct wailing of a child you assumed to be his little brother. The sound made you kick the blanket off your lap, already breaking out into a nervous cold-sweat.

“What’s going on?”

“It’s Yuji— he’s sick, and his fever won’t go down, and he’s not keeping down any of his medicine, and—”

“Okay, calm down.” You cut off his nervous rambling as you shoved your boots on under your fleece pajama pants. “How high is his fever? You should take him to urgent care.”

“I’m trying, h-he has a thing with hospitals.” The man sounded as though he was on the brink of tears, panting subtly in a manner that had you wondering how long he had been wrestling with the boy in order to get him to an urgent care before he gave up and called you. “Please, I don’t know what to do.”

Choso could barely hear your knocking over his brother’s incessant crying, and had he been more alert of his surroundings he would have wondered how in the hell his neighbors hadn’t sent in a noise complaint yet. After nearly a minute with no response, you knocked again, more forcefully this time.

When he finally opened the door, you would have assumed that he was the one battling a flu— what with his flushed face, disheveled locks, and red waterline. Having to endure his brother’s suffering alone was killing him, and he’d never felt more useless than he did tonight.

“Choso…” You sighed regretfully, nearly reaching up to pull him into a hug, but he was quickly latching onto your wrist to pull you into the living room where Yuji was bundled up on the couch, his little face flaming with a mix of the exertion from his pained wails and the fever that was still ravaging his system.

Kneeling down beside the couch, you touched your hand against his forehead. Even with the frigidness that still nipped at your hands from the chill outside, it was clear that he was practically scorching.

“He’s burning up, Choso.” You muttered frantically, making quick work to pull the countless blankets off of him. He was kicking out in protest with each layer you removed, and his brother was quickly moving to push his legs down lest you get kicked in the face. “You need to cool him down.”

“He— he kept shivering…” The man was gulping down tears of frustration, because all he was trying to do was to get him to stop crying. It was breaking his heart with each octave he reached, and he was sure that he’d find a way to make the sun rise early if it meant he could have stopped whatever it was that was making Yuji so uncomfortable.

“It’s okay,” You reassured, taking note of the fragile emotional state this situation had put him in. It was becoming clearer by the minute that Choso was new to doing this on his own. “We need to put him in a cold bath.”

The man nodded in a haze, reaching down to scoop the flailing boy into his arms as he cried out in protest. You followed closely behind him as he made his way to the bathroom and flipped the light on.

“I’m cold!” Yuji choked out, only making his brother feel that much more guilty as he pried his clothes off of him. You stepped around him to fill the tub with cool water.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry.” Choso mumbled despondently, dodging each of his kicks with stunning precision. “We’re trying to help you, buddy, okay?”

“What have you given him?” You questioned, finally shedding your puffer jacket you began to sweat with the frantic movements.

“Nothing, he’s spitting everything out.” Choso’s voice raised in exasperation, though you knew better than to think it was directed at you.

You paced out the restroom as he lowered Yuji into the frigid water, and you thought surely his throat would start to bleed soon from the way his screams were scratching it raw. It didn’t take long for you to find the medicine cabinet after rummaging through the kitchen, and you made quick work to toss a fever reducer into a plastic bag to begin crushing it. Peeking your head into the refrigerator, you grabbed the carton of apple juice that was sitting on the shelf. Once your child-proof cocktail was thoroughly mixed, you made your way back down the hall.

“Please, Yuji, just sit still.” You heard Choso pleading desperately, followed by the frantic splashes of the attempted escapee.

“Let me go!”

“It’ll make you feel better—”

“I want Mom!”

You paused in the doorway at Yuji’s sobbed request, unsure whether or not to intrude. Clutching the cup to your constricting chest, you leaned against the wall just beside the bathroom door as you heard Choso sigh despairingly.

“Mom’s not here, Yuji. We’ve talked about this, please. Don’t do this to me.” His tone wavered notably, and it was clear that the dam holding up the strongest parts of him was weakening by the second, but his younger brother only repeated his request.

“Yuji,” You called out, finally stepping in to kneel beside Choso. He quickly cast his gaze down, but not before you caught the tears slipping down his face. Brushing back the pink hair that clung to the boy’s forehead as he panted up at you through choked cries, you showed him the cup. “Look, if you drink all your juice then we’ll get your bed nice and ready for you, okay?”

He sniffled messily as his blubbering slowed, eyeing you skeptically.

“It’s apple juice, see?” You tilted the cup closer toward him so he could see the familiar yellow color. Noting his apprehension, you leaned in closer to whisper to him in feigned secrecy. “Niichan can’t protect the city if you don’t get better.”

Through dewy hiccups, he slowly released the grip his little hands had on Choso’s wrists to take the cup from you. Beside you, his brother heaved out a sigh of relief watching as he quickly downed the cup, eager to get into his bed and under the covers as promised. The both of you held your breaths until the last drop was sucked up.

After running a few more handfuls of cold water over his head for good measure, you nodded at Choso to take him out once his skin was finally a bit cooler to the touch. As he dried and dressed his brother back up to prepare him for bed, you busied yourself with cleaning up the puddles of water Yuji’s thrashing had created on the floor of the bathroom. A good couple of minutes had passed before apprehensive footsteps finally made their way back to the bathroom where you remained kneeled on the floor.

“I’m sorry.” Choso whispered, slowly lowering himself down beside you.

You peered over at him as he buried his head into his hands. The t-shirt he wore was clinging to his chest as it still dripped with leftover bath water along with the ends of his loose, tousled hair. His shoulders shook every so often with the sniffles he was trying so desperately to conceal, but it had all been too much for him.

“I know the last thing you wanted to be doing on your day off was working.” He continued as he finally looked up at you, tears of frustration swimming in his dark, tired eyes. “I just— I didn’t know—”

“Choso?” You whispered, resting a careful hand on his raised knee. He blinked at you in question, swiping furiously at the tear that raced down his flushed cheek at the motion. “How… how did you end up with Yuji?”

His eyes quickly fell, observing the way his knuckles whitened as he clenched and unclenched his hands pensively.

“He’s my half-brother.” He began quietly. A bitter smile tugged at his lips as he looked back up at you. “Wanna talk assholes? My step-dad— Yuji’s dad— was just…”

You gulped, watching the way his jaw seemed to clench unconsciously at the memory of him. A gradual sense of dread twisted in your stomach as you began to guess where his story would go.

“We fought all the time. Our mom hated it, but I couldn’t stand the way he treated her, and it—” Taking a deep breath, he looked up at the ceiling to calm the way his tears seemed to continue to betray him. “It killed me that she let him.”

Your gaze fluttered with their own misty haze as his words sunk in, an unnecessary guilt clawing at your chest. Shuddering away the tremble in his tone, he finally looked back down at you. Swiping at his nose with a quick sniffle, he continued.

“We got into a huge fight a while after I finished school. He was mad about— god, I can’t even remember what had him so heated, but h-he threw a bottle at our mom.”

“Choso…” You sighed shakily, shifting forward to grasp at his hand. Though he made no attempt to halt his story, he accepted your hand, fiddling with your fingers absentmindedly as another tear raced down his face.

“I told him that if he wanted to throw shit to throw it at me.” With red-splotched eyes, he offered a humorless laugh and gestured toward the jagged scar that ran across his face. It was now you who was failing to hold back stinging tears. “I thought after— I don’t know, twenty stitches that she’d leave, but she didn’t. So, I did.”

His head dropped down toward his chest, shaking side to side regretfully.

“I left. I wasn’t there for her when she died— I wasn’t there for Yuji.” You quickly climbed over to wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling his face into your chest as you allowed yourself to cry silently along with him. “I left him. He was only three. I left him, I—”

“You came back for him, Choso.” You quickly interjected.

“I should’ve never left in the first place.” His fingers drifted up to dig into your back as you settled onto his lap. “I thought if I learned how to fight— y’know, got bigger and stronger that he couldn’t hurt me anymore, he couldn’t hurt my mom anymore cause I would finally be able to do something about it, but I was just scared. I was scared, and I left.”

“You were just a kid.” You clarified, sliding your hands down to grip his face and force him to look at you. “And you’re here now.”

The grip you had on his cheeks forced his lips into a smushed pout, his wet lashes emphasizing the dark circles that surrounded his irises. Your thumb grazed gently over the scar on his face, and it broke your heart even more as you pictured it on a smaller, more defenseless version of him. You could see that Choso still ever-present in the fear that lingered in his eyes, in the doubt that clung to his frown that told him that nothing he could do for Yuji would ever be enough.

“And I’d like to see someone try to lay a finger on Yuji now.” You encouraged with a soft laugh. The tiniest of smiles cracked through his solemn gaze, but he was still searching your eyes with an intensity that nearly knocked you on your ass.

“Why do you do it?” He questioned, his voice barely above a whisper. You tilted your head at him curiously. “I mean, you have a good job, you’re smart, and pretty, and you’re kind— why give it to people who don’t deserve you?”

His hands dug firmly into your waist as you attempted to lean away from his raw stare. You felt naked— humiliatingly exposed as though you had just been the one to air your dirty laundry out. The hands on your sides drew you in closer and closer with each pathetic open and close of your stammering lips.

“I think I came to terms a long time ago with the fact that I’d never get to understand why my mom stayed. I had to be okay with it.” Choso’s brows were furrowing as his gaze drifted down your face before meeting yours once again. “Then I met you, and… I feel that same frustration I felt when I was a teenager.”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” The scarred bridge of his nose grazed against yours as the two of you drew closer. With a strained gulp, you shook your head. “Do you—” He paused as his face flushed, but he fought to push past his timid nature. “Do you want someone to be mean to you? Is that what it is?”

“Choso—”

“Because if that’s the case then let it be me, okay?” His plea had you biting back a wanton whine, because his lips were brushing against yours with all the anticipation of a building promise. Your fingers tangled into the drying hair on his nape. “I’ll be rough with you, and I’ll make you want to cry.”

Leaning forward, he slotted his mouth around your pouted bottom lip, pressing you closer against him as you two pulled at one another despairingly.

“I’ll be an asshole, but I’ll never hurt you— it’ll always be for you. Is that what you want?”

You could only nod hazily, too lost in the desperation in his tone and the craving he’d instilled in you for the lips you’d only come to know just minutes prior. Without so much as a grunt of effort, he was lifting himself off the ground with you in tow, stumbling toward the hallway in a craven pursuit of his bedroom. The hand holding you up against him squeezed vigorously at your ass, pinching at it until you yelped out into his lips.

“Shh, Yuji’s sleeping.” He still had the nerve to chastise you lowly, using your back to press the door shut.

With you squeezed between him and the door behind you, he allowed his hand to dance up and grip your jaw, hooking his thumb into the corner of it as his forefinger dug into your bottom lip and pried your mouth ajar. You panted against him, eyes half-lidded as you awaited his next move with baited breath, but as he’d promised, it felt as though he wanted you to cry for him, his lips exploring your neck and jaw at an agonizing pace.

“Choso—” Your plea was cut short by your gasp as he sunk his teeth into your shoulder that had been left exposed in the flimsy tank you had been wearing to bed prior to his call. He moaned against your skin, digging his canines ever-so-slightly deeper into the flesh to feel the way you jolted at the sting. “Ah— ahh!”

The man only hummed contentedly, arm hooking under your thighs once again to pry you from the wall and drop you onto the disheveled covers of his bed and pull the damp shirt from his back. He surveyed the way your eyes ran down his body, your reddened lips parted and your brows drawn softly together, and he deduced that he couldn’t possibly look at you if he was to ravage you like he hated you.

Dipping down, he flipped you easily onto your stomach, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your pajama pants. Pausing for a moment, he leaned down, and you shuddered at the feeling of his warm chest pressing you against the bed.

“Is this what you wanted?” He whispered into your ear, knowing it would only take a shake of your head for his resolve to crumble.

Your ribcage expanded and deflated beneath him in tandem with your anticipatory panting, and you could only nod through your flushed face, too embarrassed to confirm your desires aloud, yet your senses too lit ablaze by every inch of muscle you could feel on him to deny yourself the pleasure. There was a longing kiss pressed against your temple— an unspoken promise that he meant it when he said he wouldn’t hurt you— before he slowly pulled away from you to yank your bottoms down.

Choso bit down on his bottom lip, rough enough to draw blood as he fought to maintain his composure. Running his hands up your thighs until they met the swell of your ass, he raised a knee to rest beside your hip before hiking your ass up.

“Make me understand it.” He pleaded, a subtle growl laced into his tone as he drew teasingly close to where you were throbbing for him.

“I don’t know, Choso—” Your voice had raised to an embarrassing pitch as you fisted his sheets between your fingers. They smelled just like him, and it was by no means aiding in your coherent thought process.

“Do you need someone to tell you you’re worth more?” At once, his fingers plunged into your incandescent center, twisting mercilessly as he continued to ration with you. “Because I’ll do it, I’ll remind you every fucking day if I have to.”

But his words were quickly becoming background noise that harmonized sweetly with each of your slack-jawed moans. Reaching back, your fingers barely grazed his wrist in an attempt to gain any semblance of control over his pace, but he quickly collected both your hands in his free one to pin them at the small of your back.

“Is that what you need?” He asked again, and his fingers curled up with a striking precision, drawing a pathetically pitched squeak from the depths of your throat.

You buried your face into the sheets to conceal the way your eyes began to water at the growing warmth pooling overwhelmingly fast in your stomach. After a moment of your whimpering silence, his fingers abandoned you in favor of a resounding smack against your sensitive core. Your legs seemed to snap shut involuntarily, but it didn’t last long before he pried them open once again.

“Answer me.” Choso demanded. His tone was barely stern— the fervent desperation to understand more present than anything. He threaded his fingers into your hair to pull your head to the side and reveal your face. “I said is this what you needed?”

“Yes!” You gasped, your hearing feeling as though it had increased tenfold as you listened to his sweatpants rusting while they hit the ground. “Please, please, Choso.”

Despite his insistence that he’d be rough with you as you so pleased, he couldn’t bring himself to stop the gentle way in which he eased into you, savoring each hitch in your breath. Hooking his arm under your neck, he pulled you up to press flush against his perspiring chest, the slow descent up aiding in burying the last few inches of him into you.

There was a crack in his resolve, evident in the broken moan that his lips pressed right against your flushed ear. The tears that he had promised you finally slipped down your cheeks. His eyes tracked it with a sharp vigilance, the sight making him pull you in that much closer. With a hand gentler than what he had planned for you, he swiped at the salty stream before allowing his fingers to settle around the column of your throat.

“Keep crying for me.”

And he made sure you did, his pace relentless as his sculpted hips slapped against your ass. For each overwhelmed tear of pleasure that escaped you, Choso chased it with a kiss; to your cheek and your jaw, to your helplessly parted lips and temple until there wasn’t an inch of you within his reach that his lips hadn’t become acquainted with. You thought your back would snap in two as you arched against him through your high, yet his furious pace didn’t slow until you slumped back against him, only held up by the hand at your throat and his will.

The man watched as your head fell back onto his shoulders, eyes half-lidded as they stared at the way his gaze never seemed to falter. Only then did he pause, carefully lowering you to lay on your back against his cool pillows. Crawling over you, it was clear that his intent had shifted with the fulfillment of his goal.

His hair tickled your cheeks as he leaned down to capture your lips tenderly. Reaching down, he caressed the side of your neck with the same hand he had used to restrain it as he entered you once again, this time with the intent of proving that it didn’t always have to be so merciless. With each purposeful roll of his hips into you he proved that you too were worthy of being handled with all the gentleness he had never been on the receiving end of.

Choso clung onto you as he finished, and he didn’t leave when you allowed yourself to wrap your arms under his shoulders and press your cheek against his heaving chest. Instead, he pulled the covers up and assured they reached your shoulders that had since broken out into goosebumps— though you weren’t sure you could blame them on the cold.

He brought your hands up to kiss the parts of your wrists that had been locked in his fierce grip. For the first time in years you weren’t itching to leave before he had the chance to leave you, because all the weight and muscle he’d worked so hard for in order to protect that scared, teenage boy in him were enveloping you with a crushing safety while his faint snores into your ear lulled you to sleep.

Perhaps Yuji wasn’t so naive in believing his big brother was a superhero.

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the-clock-of-the-time-dragon · 3 days ago

Text

[Wicked Act II spoilers]

[edited for tone and clarity of purpose, apologies for initial crudeness and frustration]

Okay, obviously I'm biased, but I'm gonna need the Fiyeraba shippers to please set a lot of your people straight about some things. I've seen way too many people trying to say that Glinda is just a selfish bimbo and that Fiyero is a virtuous and selfless figure more worthy of Elphaba's love. I'll set aside for now the idea of "worthiness" in this context. But let's start off with Fiyero joining the Wizard. Hoo boy...

Yes, he was initially somewhat less tolerant of the propaganda against Elphaba than Glinda was; yes, he was secretly trying to find her so he could run away with her or whatever. But honey: those facts DO NOT fully absolve his actions as the Wizard's top officer, or selfish recklessness throughout Act II. I see so many popular threads and posts romanticizing and whitewashing with "oh but he didn't REALLY join the Wizard, he just pretended so he could try to get to Elphie! It's all for love, and he sacrificed everything for her!" As if the literal captain of the literally fascist forces responsible for the oppression of Animals wasn't equally responsible for said oppression?? Hello? Fiyero really didn't think of seeking out Elphaba in ANY other way that DIDN'T involve becoming *checks notes*... the trusted leader of the troops committing all the abuses she's fighting against in the first place???? Like it's cool and all that he helped with Brrr, and it's all well and good that he planned on betraying the Wizard as soon as he found Elphaba (which took literal years, so I guess we're left to assume he was prepared to just keep doing fascism indefinitely if she didn't show up????), but uh... it's kind of concerning to how eager some of you are to make excuses for this dude volunteering as the head of the Ozian Gestapo??? smdh

He didn't accomplish anything from it either, by the way — like yeah, we get it, he did everything he did whilst silently fantasizing about running away with the Witch he was being paid to hunt. Fine. But I can't be the only one who doesn't buy that as an actual excuse???? Like, guys: nobody forced him to join the fascist army — even with crazy ulterior motives. He wasn't coerced into it; it wasn't his only choice or anything. Searching for Elphaba did not somehow compel him to go and volunteer to follow (or to give!) orders in the name of the dictator who was trying to have her assassinated the entire time. He could have just not done all that. (Genuinely so curious how the second film plans on covering that material tbh)

Glinda made several questionable decisions that can be (and have been) debated, but she is still very unambiguously a victim. Her position in the Wizard's regime was foisted upon her. There are things we can discuss, but I find that many folks need reminding that Glinda would undoubtedly have been disposed of (or worse) if she failed to make herself useful. I mean hell: she wasn't even supposed to meet the Wizard in the first place — she was only there because of Elphie. If she'd tried to resist, it would have immediately gotten her labeled the Witch's accomplice. As soon as she'd chosen not to get on the broom, her fate was out of her hands, and all available options were varying degrees of horrible.

That's not the case with Fiyero. He went to the Wizard all on his own; no one ever cornered or forced him into it. Thinking Animals are people, and having a crush on Elphaba, simply did not stop him from carrying out the regime's orders — for years. It's not clear exactly how long he's been captain at the start of Act II, but the clear implication is that he's been a soldier for most of the time skip. I've seen Fiyeraba accounts with headcanons about him acting as a double agent, secretly doing stuff to help Animals — and that's a great idea, it would indeed serve to make a lot of his actions way more palatable — but until we actually get to SEE some of that (maybe they'll add it for the movie version of Act II; we'll have to see), there is nothing in the story to suggest that. He certainly didn't do a damn thing for all those Animals who were enslaved and caged in the Wizard's palace — and we don't see a single other Animal outside of there in Act II, so as far as we know Fiyero has participated over those years in the near-total removal of Animals from Ozian society. In the name of "finding Elphaba". Not fighting for her cause. Just finding HER. For HIMSELF.

It's fine to have a ship you like, obviously — and there is genuinely a lot to like about Fiyeraba, I don't dislike the idea of them as a couple or as friends — but come on guys: please stop those out there idealizing Fiyero as somehow a clear "morally-superior" alternative to Glinda, lol. The dude had power, access, and opportunities, for years, that he could have wielded in any number of really selfless, revolutionary ways. He didn't. And I propose (apparently controversially): he simply didn't want to. And that — at the end of the day — is (much as some would like to deny it) true to his character. He always WANTED to be self-absorbed and shallow, and all his actions are consistent with that. Elphaba saw depth and discontentment in him, yes: but (and I cannot stress this enough) when given the chance, he channeled that in the wrong direction. He didn't confront that and become a better person — for the most part he just displaced and projected it onto Elphaba as an object of obsession, and put on an even thicker pretense than before.

All his actions — regardless of the complexity he has deep down — are those of a man who never gives one fuck about anything or anyone, except (kinda sorta) Elphaba. But even then: at no time does the care he has for her seem to extend to caring about any of her wants or needs outside of sexual validation from him, or how she might feel about his actions, or indeed the impacts of those actions upon her, her cause, or anyone or anything else. I don't think it should be all that controversial to say: he doesn't think through the wider repercussions of anything he does — thoughtlessness is just one of his core character traits. He doesn't think ahead or see meaning in anything outside of what can temporarily excite him, in the moment. I think people place a little too much weight on Elphaba clocking him with regard to his internal pain, and seem to expect (understandably of course) that she is not only right, but moreover that he will grow from that in a positive direction, based on her influence.

But he doesn't. If anything, we get a surprising inverse: he pretty much proves her wrong. Not to say he didn't have hidden depth and all that, like she said: but his hypothetical heart of gold proves not to really amount to much in practice. He doesn't grow out of his shallowness and his self-centeredness: he grows into it in a way that he hadn't quite yet in school. Where once he was only masking an internal listlessness, after he's been cracked open by Elphaba he decides to be genuinely self-absorbed and deeply shallow, not just coasting by. He performs in new ways — as a soldier, eventually as a "fiancé", etc. — but by Act II we meet a Fiyero who has staked the last remaining shred of humanity in him on the vain pursuit of the only object of his desire that has ever been unavailable to him, and firmly chosen to say to hell with everyone and everything else.

When put to the test, Fiyero sacrifices Glinda, the Animals, and all else that Elphaba actually cared about, to pursue his own unresolved crush from college. Mostly to get in her pants, really — as harsh as I'm sure that sounds. But let me be frank: that is literally all he ever accomplishes in the show. He gives her dick one time, and one of his castles, and that's it. That's the culmination of his years trying to find her — years in which he actively worked as one of the stormtroopers (or even the one commanding them) committing untold crimes against Animalkind (who, again, it seems have been all but erased from Oz by Act II): y'know, the very crimes Elphaba sacrificed her life to try and stop????? He spent the most important time of his life — of his own free will — being a fascist soldier, but he "did it for her" somehow, so according to some, it's perfectly fine. Heroic, even. Yikes??

But let's make something very clear (since my original version of this post caught a lot of flak, including slurs and other rudeness):

I like Fiyero. I find his role extremely interesting (I could do a whole dissertation on him, but I'm especially a fan of the way his proving Elphaba's assessment of him wrong presents a fascinating parallel and contrast with Glinda, which I think is lost on a lot of people). But PLEASE stop with all the misguided Glinda slander and idealization of Fiyero. By all means, thirst! But don't give me all this bullshit about him deserving Elphaba more, or being super deep, or being really principled or noble or whatever else. He does have layers, and quite intriguing ones, but his insides are straw — he isn't meant to have some deep, overwrought emotional core or motivations; he has passions that he acts upon when given the chance. That's it. And that's fine. Actually kind of refreshing in a story rooted in simple children's fantasy but rife with intensely complicated personalities. Fiyero makes it his mission to represent denial of depth and embrace of raw, spontaneous desire — and I for one love that, and wish others appreciated it.

And in all seriousness, shipping wars aside: by the end of the story, it's Glinda who is ultimately vindicated, and has — for all her faults — made the necessary choices to fulfill Elphaba's wishes, bring down the regime, etc. And all that despite herself. She's miserable: not just because of the mistakes she made, but because of her correct moves as well. Fiyero is simply not — and could never be — that person. And that's okay! Like I said: I am not anti-Fiyero. Fiyero's willingness to throw it all away for the sake of sheer, overriding passion is a huge part of what people like about him, of course — and it's an obvious factor in the attraction between him and Elphaba, because she has her own flavor of that impulse as well — but I'd actually argue that it's not romantic, it's his fatal flaw. And thematically that's fantastic! But I just don't believe that it somehow means he "deserves Elphaba more" because he "gave up his life for her" or whatever. In part because NOBODY truly "deserves" Elphie tbh, not 100% (and I question anybody who claims otherwise), but ultimately because I don't accept the idea that his fleeting acts of passion make up for all the shit leading up to them (or even proceeding after them tbh). At least Glinda managed to do what Elphaba always wanted in the end — but I would die on this hill even if Gelphie didn't exist.

You don't have to agree with my analysis of Fiyero and his choices, relationships, etc. — that's fine. What isn't fine is trying to portray Glinda as some kind of spineless traitor whore for the Wizard and Fiyero as a conscientious hero who earned Elphie through self-sacrifice. That's just not the story that was written. It's WAY messier and more interesting than that.

#wicked #gelphie #elphaba thropp #elphaba #glinda x elphaba #glinda upland #wicked movie #elphaba x glinda #glinda #fiyeraba #fiyero #fiyero tigelaar #elphiyero #gliyeraba

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depravitycentral · 3 days ago

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Just a few small nsfw thoughts about the yandere haikyuu cast

Tw: stalking, kidnapping, non-consensual photography/involvement in masurbation, foot stuff in Noya's, spitting, overall just real unfortunate habits they have

Thinking about Daichi Sawamura who is the natural option for you to run to when mysterious packages start showing up at your door. It’s all sorts of intimate items – pretty lingerie that somehow fits you perfectly, all in your favorite colors (and his, too, of course). Then it shifts towards just single items, no longer the pretty babydoll sets – silk thongs with an initial stitched in, collars with your name engraved in the metal tag, vibrators that slowly get longer and thicker. It’s only when one comes that’s much too realistic, leaning slightly to the left and with veins lining the top that you finally confide in Daichi. It all comes tumbling out, and it’s only when you show him the handwritten note with the most recent dildo – reading it’s modeled after my own, let me know how it fits - that Daichi softly sighs, throwing you a look and telling you that you know there’s nothing we can do about it. Creeps like that always get away with it, unfortunately. Just ignore the way his uniform pants are straining at seeing you all teary-eyed and dependent on him – cute. Maybe you’d like another gag – he’s noticed you haven’t used the last one yet.

Thinking about Koushi Sugawara who feels bad about installing the bug on your phone, but not bad enough to disconnect it. It’s not visual, is what he tells himself – it’s not creepy if it’s not looking at you, after all. It only picks up on sound when he activates it – which has let him into a whole other side of you. You bring your phone with you everywhere, he’s realized, and he’s always keeping his headphones on at any given time, playing the live feed and letting his cheeks turn red and his pants grow tight at the sound of you. Your voice, your laugh, your humming, your moans and whimpers and hell, even the sound of you peeing is enough to make him feel light-headed, connected to you in a way that gets his heart racing and his cock swelling. Maybe one day he’ll install the visual one, too, but for now the sound is enough – the audio recordings he takes of you is more than enough fodder should he ever need it.

Thinking about Asahi Azumane, whose apartment is basically your second home. You come over and spend the night often – often enough to have your own toothbrush permanently living at his place, set off to the side and out of the mainly used area of the bathroom counter. It’s a common brand, one that Asahi can find at the corner market – which he does, keeping a constant supply around so that he can replace it each time you use it. He keeps them all stacked nicely in a Ziploc bag, dating each in permanent marker so he can recount and remember all the times you’ve slept under the same roof as him, only a room away. And of course, this makes it much easier to slip the it between his lips and against his tongue, teeth grinding down against the bristles and his eyes fluttering closed because it just feels so very intimate. It’s embarrassing and he keeps everything well hidden from you, but the way he stares as he brushes his teeth beside you is a bit of a give-away that there’s something going on.

Thinking about Ryunosuke Tanaka who keeps a running list of the insults you throw at him. They’re never truly mean, always just jokes or digs at some niche thing about him and his Loverboy attitude, but Ryunosuke notices. He’s transcribing them into his Notes app on his phone, and when he gets home each evening he repeats the insult to himself out loud, saying the word over and over in a mimic of your own voice, letting his hands run down the length of his body as he closes his eyes and melts into memories of your expression, your tone, the way you’d been looking at him. He’s got something of a degradation kink, and he’s training himself to become aroused at the mere mention of a derogatory nickname – it's for the future, he’ll tell himself, so that when he’s got you straddling him, tying him up and keeping him pinned underneath you, he can preform exactly how you want him to. He’ll be good for you – just call him a freak again, please.

Thinking about Yuu Nishinoya always making jokes about feet because he knows it makes you squirm in discomfort, but soon it stops being a joke. He’s always tickling your feet, making exaggerating sucking sounds when you slip your shoes off, even snatching your socks and running around with them, the adrenaline of you chasing him and yelling his name and looking at him him him making him giddy. But then he’s managing to keep the sock one day, curiously rubbing a finger over it as he palms himself, running his leaking, bright red tip against the material and cursing. He’ll wind up using it as a sort of cocksleeve, fucking into it and leaving it so riddled with cum that it’s hard, and suddenly the next time he jokes about you letting him give just one suck, c’mon is less teasing and much more serious.

Thinking of Shoyou Hinata who doesn’t understand why you get so angry when he suggests switching underwear. He thinks it’s sweet – a sign of love and comfort with each other, really. He’ll step into the cute, flimsy panties he buys for you, pulling them up and face twisting up slightly as he adjusts himself, trying his best to get the thong to hold as much of his cock and balls as he can. He feels naughty, wearing them under his shorts when he runs to the store to pick up groceries, and with each step he can feel the lacey material – the very material he’d forced you to strip out of that morning, the material still warm. And of course, you were forced into his boxers – the same ones he'd slept in, smelling musky and feeling wet with something you don’t want to name.

Thinking about Tobio Kageyama who has a full body reaction when he hears you say his name. It’s not subtle, either – he’s going stiff as a board, eyes blowing wide and pupils dilating, visible goosebumps erupting all over his skin. His breathing gets a bit heavier, and every muscle in his body is flexed, clenched so tightly that he can hardly move. He’ll stare at you, lips focused entirely on your lips, murmurs leaving his own that sound vaguely like your name, vaguely like fuck. You’ll have to pull him out of the moment yourself, with a touch to his shoulder or waving your hand in front of his face, and it’s only then that he’ll clear his throat, shifting in his pants and realizing much too late that he’s visibly hard, a bit of sweat visibly staining his exercise shirt under the armpits. He’ll make some lame excuse and run away, but as he fists his cock and replays the moment over in his head, he’ll be whining your name and your name only.

Thinking about Kei Tsukishima who feels so, so very stupid but can’t help but bite his lip as he scrolls through Spotify. There’s a separate, private folder of playlists he’s curated, each lasting easily two hours, all with different, single word titles. Doggy, cowgirl, lotus, 69. There’s ten or so, and they get updated at least once a day. It’s music that he can almost too easily imagine touching you to – slowed, passionate, your favorite songs, almost all of them coming from recommendations you yourself gave him. He just can’t help the mental imagery that fills him the moment he hears the chords and the singer’s voice – immediately you’re perched in his lap, tits pressed against his own chest and grinding on him so slowly that he’s near tears, desperation filling him and suddenly his finger’s tapping before he knows it, the little ‘saved to edging’ notification popping up at the bottom of his screen. It’s mortifying, really, but so is the silence only interrupted by the bassy thump thump that would otherwise fill up his bedroom every night.

Thinking about Tadashi Yamaguchi who splurges for his birthday and buys himself a customized life-sized body pillow with you printed on it. He’d been bright red the whole time he’d been ordering, the prized photo of you – scantily clad in your cute, revealing pajamas with your breasts just barely contained by the top – uploaded to the cute little Etsy shop. The package had arrived not soon enough, and he’s both flushed and breathing erratically the moment he rips open the packaging, wide eyes nearly tearing up at the sight of you – well, almost you. He’d paid extra to have the little audio insert sent alongside it, and as he records an audio he’d saved of you teasingly telling him goodnight ‘Dashi, love you, he’s shivering in excitement. It’s a shame that he stains the fabric with cum the first night, but a quick wash leaves it good as new – leaves you good as new.

Thinking about Tooru Oikawa and the pretty dildo he’s got buried away in his closet. It’s smooth, a pale pink color that reminds him of Sakura blossoms – that reminds him of you. He doesn’t use it often; only when he’s been on long, long stints away from home, tournaments and games making his muscles sore, his eyes sag, his heart ache in his chest. But as he sprits your perfume on it and whines your name as he sits down on it, his eyes roll to the back of his head and he remembers how he snatched this from your own closet after having watched you fuck yourself on it through your bedroom window.

Thinking about Hajime Iwaizumi who absolutely loves the big, pretty mirror you have in your bedroom. It’s the first thing he notices when he walks in for the first time, and it’s also the first thing he looks up when he gets home that night. And when he’s got you spread out on his cock a few months later, the locks on the doors numerous with passcodes he’ll never tell you, he’s sure you’ll be a bit relieved to see something familiar on your new bedroom’s walls. And he’ll tell you as much, gruff voice in your ear as he bounces you in his lap like some kind of toy, telling you to look at the mirror, baby, lookin’ so pretty… And when you cry he’ll wince, but the way his cock throbs inside you is telling.

Thinking about Kotarou Bokuto who calls you when he’s touching himself, narrating to you exactly what he’s doing. Of course, it’s not from his own phone – he likes to think it’s more exciting if it’s an unknown number. Maybe he’s seen too many TikTok thirsts about men in masks and Scream, but he thinks you’ll like the mystery. So when you stop picking up, he’ll just leave voicemails – always groaning and moaning your name, putting the microphone on the phone right up next to his fist, the wet schlock schlock sounds loud and clear. It’s risky and dirty, and when you bring it up the next time he sees you, complaining and confiding in him that some fucking creep is leaving horrible messages for you, he’ll only play along, convinced you’re hiding your true feelings to avoid looking like a pervert. But that’s okay, he likes that you’re a pervert! So pick up next time, yeah?

Thinking about Keiji Akaashi who, when the late hours and pages upon pages of editing the same manga get to him, will switch over to edit the more lewd, more explicit series he’d recently been assigned. Yeah, maybe it’s illegal to be photocopying the pages when there’s particular scenes that appeal to him, and maybe there’s something ever so slightly creepy about printing your photos and cutting out your face, pasting them onto the hentai’s protagonist and doing the same with his own photos, but it’s not a big deal. At least, it’s not a big deal until you find the volumes upon volumes of different almost collaged panels with your photos, all strung together in Keiji’s own personal fantasies of exactly what he wants to do to you, fit with his own handwriting covering the neatly White-outted text bubbles.

Thinking about Tetsurou Kuroo who purposefully gets a desk at work that can be raised to standing height. It’s not often, but when his mind is wandering and he can’t sit still while thoughts of you become unbearable, he’ll bring the desk up slightly. Standing up, he’ll align the wood right below his groin, shuffling forward and gently resting his clothed erection against the surface, sighing and rolling his head back as he lightly thrusts forwards and back. The fantasy of having you bent over the desk is too strong to ignore, and when you – his oh so sexy little assistant – come knocking at his door, he’s thanking anything that’s listening that you can’t see the way wet spreads across the front of his slacks.

Thinking about Kenma Kozume who only plays Sims because he has characters for the two of you. There’s no other avatars, solely and only the two of you. He’s curated your character to have your hair, your eyes, your body proportions, even buying special packages and programming his own mods to make it happen. The house you’re both living in is, he’ll admit, a bit excessive – there’s beds in every room, and the very first thing he’ll do each time he opens the game is immediately press the WooHoo button, zooming in on the monitor to get as close to your pixelated forms as possible. He’ll gulp and palm himself, eyes unblinking and repeating the command until he’s panting and gasping and staring at the sticky mess he’s left behind.

Thinking about Lev Haiba who’s not good at the up-skirt photos he tries to take. He’s not subtle, the camera flash going off and making you stiffen up. It’s easy to brush off with him though, his little laugh and scratching the back of his neck, telling you that he’s just supposed to be taking ‘candid photos of myself, something my new agency’s been wanting! Hey, look at that bird over there, so cute right?’ The flash as you turn around is less noticeable, but the way he audibly groans at the sight of your pretty panties certainly isn’t.

Thinking of Wakatoshi Ushijima who can’t quite understand why you’re uncomfortable when he stands so close to you. He’s always creeping up behind you, unnaturally quiet for someone so large, and suddenly you’ll feel this looming, overwhelming presence behind you, his breath hitting the crown of your head and making your hair tickle your neck and throat. He’s standing nearly flush with you, his cock mere centimeters from your ass, the smell of his cologne invading every one of your senses. He’ll only stare, stonefaced when you yelp and whirl around, only swallowing when you lightly swat his chest, irritation rippling through your tone when you tell him don’t sneak up on me like that! He doesn’t mean to scare you, really, but there’s something about being so close to you that makes his heart race, and he’s heard from all his teammates in the locker rooms about how women ‘love it from behind’, and he can only assume this is what they mean. He doesn’t want to make you uncomfortable, but he’s convinced that with enough time, you’ll grow to enjoy him standing behind you like a shadow, breathing down your neck and audibly inhaling at the juncture of your neck – television tells him as much, so why do you always shy away when he tells you that you smell heavenly?

Thinking of Eita Semi who, despite his best efforts, can’t find it in himself to reject a band admirer when she approaches him after a show. It’s not you and he’s not initially interested in her at all, but as she stays persistent and his numerous texts to you remain unanswered, Eita finds himself noticing that you have similar lips, similar hair, similar hips. It’s not actually cheating if he pretends it’s you, right? It feels sacrilegious to touch another woman, sure, but he’s actively moaning out your name, telling her to shut up when she says something he doesn’t think you would. And it starts a troubling pattern – you won’t sleep with him and he doesn’t want to pressure you, but the sexual frustration of desperately wanting to touch you and being unable to makes him crazy, willing to do anything to get even a phantom taste of you. He’ll apologize profusely if you ever find out, getting to his knees and begging you to forgive him, claiming he did it for you, but it’s a temporary solution for now. Just until you give him a taste of what he’s been dreaming of for months.

Thinking of Satori Tendou who picked up photography as a hobby once his feelings for you formed. He’s still a bit unsure about photographing you without your consent, but then you go and do something that makes his throat dry up, his fingers unable to stay still because you’re just so damn cute and he can’t help himself. He keeps all the photos in a special box, placed neatly and gently in the corner of his closet. They’re all labeled on the back with the date, time, and location, even a few jots of what he was thinking at the time of the photo capture. They’re by and large mostly innocent, but there’s a few that he’d been rash with, snapping the photo and feeling guilt away at him. Writing down the fantasies he’d had with each time he uses the photo to masturbate had been embarrassing at first, but each time he rifles through the photos – which are perfectly pristine, not a drop of cum or even spit anywhere to be seen – he’s poring through his notes, biting his lip and curling his toes as he remembers particularly vivid fantasies, all driven forward by your smiling face or your unaware figure. And while he’ll never offer to show them to you, should you ask he’d reluctantly agree, watching with baited breath to see which ones you like – which fantasies you want to try out.

Thinking of Tsutomu Goshiki who still, even as a young adult, finds himself getting flustered when he watches porn. He’s consuming as many videos as he can find, but he often finds himself clicking off of the video almost as soon as the actual sex starts – he’s interested in the lead up, rather than the act itself. He’s diligently studying the scripts, the scenarios placed forward, the way the women seem to go crazy for a few common, simple lines. He’s noting everything down and practicing the lines, looking at himself in the mirror and adding in your name just to get used to saying it without blushing. He’s convinced that because the women in porn would like these lines, so would you – of course, you would not enjoy being told that he’s the delivery pizza guy and that you’ll need to pay with your body, but Tsutomu doesn’t quite understand that. Surely it’s real – it’s porn, and he’s sure that he’ll be able to fuck you just the way he sees on his screen. He’ll make you scream just like all the women do – he promises.

Thinking of Shinsuke Kita who will let you bathe on your own, but never alone. He’s pulling up a stool beside the bathtub before you can protest, those eyes unblinking as he gets nice and settled in. He’s smiling gently at you, asking you if the water is the right temperature, if you’d like to a use a bathbomb, if you want any help shampooing or scrubbing your body. It’s unnerving if only because the nonchalance is infuriating, but his hands stay perfectly still on his lap, palms flat against the material of his trousers. He’s visibly growing hard as you quickly wash your body, still staring, but he makes no move to act on it. It’s only once he’s watched you settle into bed, promising he’ll be up soon, that he makes his move. The water’s cold by now, but he still sinks into the porcelain with a stifled grown, letting the bath water slip past his lips and cover his face, enjoying every bit of residue of you.

Thinking of Atsumu Miya who’s notorious for PDA with you long before you’ve accepted your fate. He’s always inviting you to his games, getting you special seating so that you’re as close to the court as possible, and after each win he’s pulling you into a searing, bruising, loud kiss. It’s dramatic and it’s entirely too much, but the cameras flash and the headlines spur with details of his supposed relationship with you. It’s all for publicity, he’ll tell you, apologizing but telling you that y’understand, right? It’s for his career, he promises, to make himself look better for the media, but the way he’ll slowly pull away and whimper your name so that only you can hear isn’t quite as publicity-driven as he claims. At least, when he groans and lets his eyes flutter closed afterwards, it sure doesn’t feel that way.

Thinking of Osamu Miya who, of course, has a rather nasty habit of infusing his cooking for you with something salty, bitter, and off-white, but he’s got yet another secret hidden up his sleeve. It takes him a while to work up to coming in your food, desperation driving him mad with the urge to somehow stake a claim on you, but letting his lips pucker and spitting into the frying, sizzling meal he’s whipping up for you? Well, that’s much less sinister, isn’t it? It’s less creepy, he thinks, and it’s easier – he can spit once, twice, five times in a single dish, watching with hawk eyes when you groan and praise his cooking after the first bite. It’s a secret, and the only tell he has is that he’ll bite his lips, Adam’s apple harshly bobbing, his fist clenching and his pants getting tight because oh, you think it tastes good?

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gwydionmisha · 2 days ago

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Medieval women general carried drop spindles so they could spin whenever they had a hand free and a moment. They spun while walking. Spinning is a forever task because you always need more thread. It was a thing an older woman could do if she wasn't up to the more back breaking bits of work, but still was able to do lighter tasks. Most of the was sold on, so it was a source of income.

Then there's sewing and mending and taking bits of old clothes too damaged to wear into other clothes. There is embroidery and the making of assorted types of trim. Weaving on tended to be professional, but even if you weren't buying silk, a woman's hands were likely somewhere involved in the process.

Peasant women would tend the garden, which could be a lot of labour. Excess to be sold. Women kept chickens and sometimes bees or sheep. The term "egg money" in English comes from the selling on of excess eggs. Honey, wool, milk, eggs, etc. are all part of the family income.

Lots of small things (se the candles, etc. mentioned above) need making or mending and those hands were seldom still.

Then there's the brewing. In English villages it was the women making ale. The product would go stale pretty quickly, so the alewives would take it in turn to brew and people would go to whichever house had a fresh batch to buy theirs.

You can look at the surviving English court rolls and find the names of the women who brewed that year and get an idea of who did the most by how much they had to pay on to their lord or abbot.

Women were an essential part of the household's economy and their activities were essential and various.

This doesn't even get into things like fine work and tapestries at the upper levels or all the women running or helping run businesses in town

a phrase that kinda bothers me when talking about women's historical roles in europe is "cooking, cleaning, and taking care of the children." you hear it so often, those exact words in the same order even. and once you learn a little more you realize that the massive gaping hole in that list is fiberwork. im not an expert and have no hard numbers, but i wouldnt be surprised if fiberwork took up nearly as much time as the other three tasks combined, so it's not a trivial omission.

it's not a hot take to say that the mass amnesia about fiberwork is linked to the belittlement of women's work in geneal, but i do think there's a special kind of illusion that is cast by "cooking, cleaning, and taking care of the children." you hear that and think "well i cook and clean and take care of children (or i know someone who does) and i have a sense of how much work that is" and you know of course that cooking and cleaning were more laborious before modern technology, but still, you have a ballpark estimate you think, when in fact you are drastically underestimating the work load.

i also think that this just micharacterizes the role of women's work in livelihoods? cooking, cleaning, and taking care of the children are all sisyphean tasks that have to be repeated the next day. these are important, but not the whole picture. when we include all kinds of fiberwork—and other things, such as making candles or soap—women's work looks much more like manufacturing, a sphere we now associate more with men's work. i feel like women's connection to making and craftsmanship is often elided.

#Middle ages #Medieval women #Women in history

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kentsjohnson91 · 20 hours ago

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𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐄𝐖𝐒 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃

in which you (or your friend, rather) called, so luke came.

warnings; mention of car accidents, hospitals, losing a parent, ex-relationships, alcohol poisoning

this series was started before the awful tragedy involving johnny and matthew gaudreau. please do not read if you do not feel comfortable. as always, i am always here for you guys to reach out to if you need to talk!

part one here

part two here

part three here

You stood in the sterile hospital hallway, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself as you tried to breathe through the rising panic. The smell of disinfectant clung to the air, a scent that instantly transported you back to a year ago—back to the night you lost your dad.

You hated hospitals. Every part of you wanted to run, to get out of there before the walls closed in on you. But Y/B/F/N had had too much to drink, winding up in the emergency room with alcohol poisoning, and you knew you couldn’t leave. Not when your friend needed you the most.

You swallowed hard, shifting on your feet, forcing air into your lungs even as your ribs tightened with the pressure of memory, a ghost of that night a year ago swirling around you. The beeping machines. The frantic doctors. The way time had slowed as you watched the life drain from the man who had raised you. The way Luke had held you when the news finally shattered you.

Your best friend was fine, though. She had just drunk too much, reckless and carefree the way she always was, but she would be okay. She would walk out of this place alive.

Your dad didn’t.

Y/B/F/N knew that, quietly observing as you paced the floor of the hallway outside of her room. So, when you were out of view, she quickly pulled out her phone and dialed the one person she knew you needed.

Luke groaned as his phone vibrated against his nightstand, the obnoxious buzzing cutting through the silence of his dimly lit room. He barely glanced at the screen before swiping to answer, recognizing the name immediately.

"Hello?" His voice was rough with exhaustion.

"You need to get down here. Now."

Luke sat up instantly, his heart pounding at the urgency in your best friend’s voice. "What? Where are you?"

"The hospital," she rushed out. "I—it's not me, it's her.”

Everything inside him went still. Your name was on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it. "What happened?" His voice was sharp now, all traces of sleep gone.

"I'm fine," she assured him quickly. "I just…”There was a pause, like she was trying to find the right words, "I drank too much. Alcohol poisoning or whatever. I’m okay, but she’s here, and Luke, she’s…she’s freaking out."

Luke’s throat tightened.

Of course you were.

Hospitals had never been easy for you, not after what happened. He could still remember the way you’d collapsed into his arms the night your dad died, the way you’d trembled against him as if your body couldn’t contain the grief. And now you were back in that same place, reliving it all over again.

And he wasn’t there.

His grip on the phone tightened. "Where is she?"

"Down the hall from my room. She won’t come in here, won’t sit down, won’t—won’t do anything except stand there, looking like she’s about to pass out. She won’t leave, either. I know she’s trying to be here for me, but she’s barely holding it together."

Luke was already on his feet, pulling on a plain black hoodie with one hand while shoving his sneakers on with the other. "Did she ask for me?"

Your best friend went silent on the other end.

"No."

His stomach dropped.

"I didn’t think she would," your best friend added softly, "But that’s why I’m calling. She’s not going to ask for you, Luke. But she needs you."

He exhaled shakily, running a hand down his face. He knew that. Hell, he knew it better than anyone. But things were different now. He wasn’t your person anymore. He had no right to show up like he still was.

And yet, there was no hesitation when he said, "I’m on my way."

Luke was out the door before he could think twice.

His keys jingled in his grip as he yanked on his coat, barely bothering to shove his arms through the sleeves as he rushed down the apartment stairs. His mind was moving too fast, spinning with one thought and one thought only—you.

You were at the hospital.

You were panicking.

And you were alone.

The second he hit the parking garage, he unlocked his car and yanked the door open, throwing himself inside before jamming the key into the ignition. The engine rumbled to life, but the momentary delay as it turned over made his chest tighten with frustration. He didn’t have time for this.

He needed to be there now.

As he finally hit the road, the streets blurred past him in a mess of headlights and dark pavement, but he barely registered any of it. His hands were tight on the wheel, knuckles white, his foot pressing just a little harder on the gas than it should’ve been. He wasn’t reckless - he never had been - but right now, he couldn’t bring himself to care about speed limits or stoplights that took too long to change.

His mind wasn’t here. It was back at that hospital, with you.

Luke’s grip tightened, jaw clenching as he exhaled sharply through his nose. He wasn’t supposed to be the one you called anymore. That’s what he’d told himself a year ago when you’d finally ended things, both of you breaking under the weight of grief and unsaid words. It had been messy. It had been painful. But it had been final.

Or so he thought. You had told him just a few months ago that you both needed to move on.

But now, here he was, flying down the highway in the middle of the night like no time had passed at all, like he hadn’t spent the last year pretending he didn’t miss you.

Because he did.

And the fact that your best friend called him - not your other friends, not someone else, but him - told him everything he needed to know.

You still needed him.

Maybe not in the way you used to, maybe not in the way he wanted you to, but in this moment? Right now?

He was still the person you fell apart with.

And if that was all he got, if this was the only way he could still be something to you, then he’d take it.

Luke took the exit for the hospital, his heart hammering as the familiar structure came into view. The last time he’d been here, he had held you in his arms as your world collapsed. And if you needed him to do it again tonight, he would, without a second thought. Without any hesitation at all.

Because no matter how much time passed, how much distance you put between each other, to Luke, it was still you. It would always be you.

When he pulled into the parking lot, Luke moved fast - too fast. His chest burned from sprinting through along the pavement, his pulse hammering harder than it should have been, but he didn’t care. He pushed through the heavy glass doors, barely registering the sterile hospital air that hit him. He knew this place too well, knew what it had taken from you, knew what it meant that you were here.

And then he saw you.

You were curled into yourself on one of the plastic waiting room chairs, arms wrapped around your middle like you were trying to hold yourself together. Seeing Y/B/F/N’s door after continually pacing the hallway must have been too much for you. Your legs bounced restlessly, your gaze fixed on the scuffed tile floor, lost somewhere far away from here.

Luke swallowed hard, the ache in his chest deepening. You looked so small. So fragile in a way you never let yourself be.

And the worst part? You were alone.

Luke didn’t think. He never did when it came to you, “Hey.”

His voice was soft, careful—like he was afraid you might shatter if he spoke too loud. But the second it hit your ears, your entire body stiffened. Your head snapped up, your wide, red-rimmed eyes locking onto his. For a moment, you just stared, like you weren’t sure if he was real. Then, “What are you doing here?”

Luke ran a hand through his messy hair, still catching his breath. “She called me.”

You blinked, confusion flickering across your face before realization dawned. “Of course she did,” you muttered, shaking your head with something caught between frustration and exhaustion, “I told her I was fine.”

Luke desperately furrowed a brow, his hazel eyes flashing with the type of concern he only ever showed for you, “You’re not fine.”

Your jaw tightened, “I can handle it.”

He sighed, speaking again, “You shouldn’t have to.”

Something in your expression wavered then, like a hairline fracture forming in a carefully built wall. You opened your mouth - probably to argue, because that’s what you did when you didn’t want anyone to worry about you - but no words came. Instead, you exhaled shakily and turned away, blinking rapidly.

Luke felt the sting in his own chest at the sight. Slowly, he stepped closer, giving you space to pull away if you wanted to.

You didn’t.

So he did the only thing he knew how to do - he sat beside you. Close enough for you to feel his presence, but not close enough to push you.

“She’s okay,” he murmured after a moment, “The doctors are keeping an eye on her, but she’ll be fine. I promise you.”

You nodded absently, like that wasn’t what was keeping you here. Luke watched you carefully, searching for the right thing to say. The right way to pull you out of whatever dark place your mind was taking you.

But he already knew.

“It’s not the same, you know.”

Your head turned slightly, just enough for him to see the way your brows pinched together.

Luke swallowed, his hazel eyes peering into your Y/E/C ones, “This night. This hospital. It’s not the same as last time.”

Your breath hitched.

“You’re not losing anyone tonight,” his voice was quiet, steady, meant only for you, “She’s going to walk out of here, and you are too. And I’m-” he hesitated, flames of the type of love he reserved for you and only you dancing in his tone, “I’ll be right here.”

Your eyes met his again, something breaking in your gaze, something raw and vulnerable and so painfully familiar. Luke didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t dare to hope that maybe, just maybe, you still needed him the way he still needed you.

Then, finally, after what felt like an eternity, you did the one thing he never expected. You leaned into him.

Not much, just a small shift, but it was enough. Enough for Luke to take a quiet, steadying breath before tilting his body ever so slightly toward you, just like he used to. Just like he always would.

The silence between you and Luke stretched, thick with unspoken words and everything you’d both avoided for the past year.

He was still close - close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him, close enough that if you leaned just a little further, you’d be in his arms the way you had been that night. The night your world fell apart.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his black hoodie as you stared at your lap, trying to block out the memories clawing their way back to the surface. Even the color of his clothing reminded you of the sky that night, the darkness enveloping you in more ways than one.

Luke didn’t push. He never did. But he was watching you - he always watched you, like he could see straight through you, past every wall, every carefully constructed defense. And then he spoke, his words carefully chosen as to not upset you further, “You looked just like your father as the news was delivered.”

Your breath caught in your throat. You turned to him sharply, your heart pounding, “What?”

Luke’s gaze was unreadable, his lips pressed together like he wasn’t sure if he should’ve said it. But it was already out there now, hanging in the air between you, “You looked just like him,” he repeated, quieter this time, like he was recalling the exact moment with excruciating clarity, “The way your face fell. The way your brow furrowed and the way you slightly smiled as if the doctor was joking. The way you didn’t move at first, like you hadn’t fully processed what they were saying.”

He exhaled shakily, his hazel eyes filled with something too heavy to name, “And then you did. And it wrecked you.”

A lump formed in your throat. “You saw that?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Luke’s lips twitched with something sad, “Of course I did, Y/N/N. I saw everything.”

Luke half-expected you to flinch when he used that nickname. After all, when you stood outside his apartment door at 2:00 in the morning, your tone was venomous as you told him not to call you that. Tonight, it didn’t happen. Instead, you blinked rapidly, trying to keep the burning in your eyes at bay, “I don’t even remember what I looked like. I just remember… the feeling.”

The words barely made it past your lips, but Luke heard them. He always did. He didn’t say anything, didn’t push for you to elaborate, but maybe that’s why you kept going.

“It was like everything in me shattered at once. Like I wasn’t even in my body anymore. I kept thinking…” you inhaled sharply, “no, this isn’t real. This isn’t happening. But it was. It was, and I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t bring him back.”

Luke’s jaw clenched. He shifted then, his arm moving as if he was going to reach for you but stopping himself at the last second.

You let out a shaky breath, “I don’t know how long I stood there. But then I felt you.”

Luke’s eyes snapped to yours.

“You held me before I even knew I needed it,” you whispered, your fingers tightening into your sleeves, “Before I even realized I was falling.”

Luke swallowed hard, his throat tightening. He could’ve cried right then and there, but he held it together for you, “I couldn’t let you break alone.”

You shut your eyes for a moment, trying to keep yourself together. But there was something about being here, in this hospital, with him, that made all the cracks in you feel too wide to ignore.

You turned slightly toward him, studying his face in the dim hospital lighting. He looked different than he had back then - tired, older in a way that had nothing to do with age - but at the same time, he still looked like Luke. The boy who had been yours for so long. The boy who had held you together even after you’d broken apart.

“I don’t know how to be in hospitals anymore,” you admitted, barely above a whisper.

Luke hesitated, then murmured, “You don’t have to know how.” He finally let himself reach for your hand, his fingers brushing over yours in a cautious, familiar touch, “You just have to let yourself be in them.”

You stared down at where your hands nearly met, your chest tightening, “And what if I can’t?”

His fingers curled around yours, warm and steady. “Then I’ll be here.”

Your throat closed up. You should’ve pulled away. You should’ve reminded yourself that he wasn’t yours anymore, that you weren’t his to hold like this. But you didn’t. Instead, you let your hand slip fully into his, gripping onto him like an anchor. The moment your fingers laced together, something inside you cracked wide open.

Luke’s hand was warm, steady - the same way it had always been. His thumb brushed against your knuckles, a soft, barely-there touch, but it sent a shiver down your spine nonetheless. You wondered if it was instinct for him, if he even realized he was doing it, or if his body just remembered the way it used to fit against yours.

You gripped him tighter, your breath shaky, your free hand curling into your lap as if bracing yourself for something. Maybe for him to let go. Maybe for yourself to.

But neither of you did.

Luke stayed silent, watching you carefully, waiting to see if you’d push him away. You didn’t. Because for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like you were drowning.

It didn’t feel like the walls were closing in, or like the weight in your chest was pressing you deeper into the past. Instead, with his hand wrapped around yours, fingers locking like a lifeline, it felt like a revival of some sort.

You let out a slow, unsteady exhale, your gaze flickering to where your hands were tangled together. It was stupid, really, how something so small could make you feel like you weren’t completely falling apart. But it wasn’t just something. It was him.

That terrified you. You knew, deep down, that if you let yourself lean into him now, if you let yourself take whatever comfort he was willing to give, you’d never want to let go.

And the worst part?

You weren’t sure he would either.

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cybergoth1 · 2 days ago

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the evil eye | dick grayson x fem!yandere reader

synopsis: ❛❛detective (and vigilant by night) dick grayson turns to you as a last resort to solve a case involving a new serial killer terrorizing blüdhaven. after years paying for your crimes in the depths of arkham asylum, the last thing you expected was the police showing up at your door, desperate for your help. even more surprising is the overwhelming, unsettling and obsessive pull you start to feel toward him as you two work side by side❞.

warnings/tags: 18+, major dark themes, fem!reader, yandere tendencies, yandere!reader, reader's a ex criminal, ex serial killer, reader is the hannibal to dick's will graham. detective dick grayson is a warning. sexual content. mentions of killing, mentions of psychopathy and narcissism. mentions of time in arkham. gaslighting. reader literally killed people, be aware. inspired by hannibal and silence of the lambs. obsessive behavior. stalker!reader. batfamily hates you.

— ❛❛THE EVIL EYE'S CONTENT:

PROLOGUE: but you belong to me.

CHAPTER 01: you set my soul alight.

CHAPTER 02: she ate my heart and then she eat my brain.

UNLIKE MOST OF your fellow prisoners, you’d never actually been involved in a mass breakout. You’d usually overhear their elaborate escape plans over the awful prison food, nodding with a bored expression. Then, you’d simply be escorted back to your cell, spending the rest of your free time before lights out reading a dog-eared copy of Pride and Prejudice. You vaguely remembered when Harley Quinn’s voice suddenly grew unbearably loud, and the tempers of the other prisoners began flaring far beyond their usual levels. The unbearable noise seemed to slither through your brain like a slippery snake, making you roll your eyes. You saw them as little monkeys — unpolished and uneducated — acting impulsively with the few brain cells they had left in their heads. Good thing they don’t like you either. Most of them just saw you as a snobby bitch, looking down on them as if you weren’t just another miserable soul trapped in the abuses and horrors of Arkham Asylum.

“Hey, is it true that you killed a guy just because he stepped on your foot on the subway?” you heard Harley’s annoying voice again, this time interrupting your beloved sunbath. You sighed loudly and made the foolish decision to glance at her curious figure.

"That's fucking stupid" you said, closing your eyes again to feel the sun on your cold skin.

"Yes! That's what I told Ivy," she said cheerfully, her high pitched voice growing louder as she come closer to your body. You felt a persistent, almost irrational urge to strike her "you never killed for shallow reasons!" this makes you open your eyes and examine her closely. How could she possibly understand your motivations? Sometimes it was hard for you to wrapped your head around it. Harley felt your questioning gaze and shrugged.

"Oh, come on, I'm a psychiatrist. I have a Phd, for godsake".

"Yeah, I know".

"You always choose victims who offend your morals and your personal sense of justice. We should totally be friends".

You sigh loudly again. You wouldn’t call them victims — but none of it mattered anymore. Harley keeps rambling about your personality traits and psychological evaluations, like a true psychiatrist would, while you let your mind wander, staring at the other prisoners. They all look as beaten down as you did. You could still feel your busted lips aching after a guard punched you in the face for not taking your meds — you run your tongue over the wound, savoring the metallic taste.

"Hey, Quinn?"

"Hm?"

“When we’re out of here, look me up. We could go out for a drink.”

Twelve years, eight months, and twenty days. That's the total time you spent locked up, basically rooting, in Arkham Asylum since your pre-trial detention, watching the sun rise through a small square window while trying not to kill your annoying cellmates by suffocating them with pillows and dirty sheets. The guards were well aware of your tendencies and unpredictable behavior, making sure to threaten you at every possible moment.

"I killed people for less, you know that, right?" that was always enough to earn you a new torture session at the hands of the guards, you usually just call them dogs, and sometimes even the nurses when they were having a bad day. But, in the end, you always considered yourself strong, capable, and with an impenetrable mind. And you were, in fact, all of that and more — so much more that you endured the horrors of that place for over a decade as if it were a walk in the park. A long, agonizing, shitty walk in the park. And now you’re walking as a free woman after twelve years, feeling the wind on your face while clenching the cheap cigarette between your teeth. Almost free, at least. You're serving the rest of your sentence in a parole due to your impressive good behaviour.

Under certain negotiation and strict conditions, you were released two weeks ago, seizing the opportunity to finally disappear into anonymity in another city — unfortunately still close to Arkham. You had to settle for Blüdhaven during the legal arrangement, since you couldn’t leave New Jersey during your parole and you’d rather eat your own feet than spending another day in Gotham. You got yourself a small apartment in a horrible neighborhood, cheap enough to cover the rent with your new part-time job as a cashier. No one there cared enough to check your criminal record or ask why you always had to be home early, or why you occasionally had to report to the police station just to confirm you hadn’t left the state. That's the life.

“To new beginnings,” you said quietly, raising your glass to the empty living room before immediately downing the whiskey. It taste like dog piss — better than anything you had in prision.

The first four months of your newfound freedom were tainted by the bitter taste of mediocrity and a gnawing sense of inferiority every time your eyes fell on the crumbling walls of your apartment or the stack of papers from your public defender, detailing the suffocating limitations of your parole. The justice system had reduced you to a chained dog —muzzled, restrained, and stripped of dignity.

But you were destined for greatness — you felt it every time you looked in the mirror, every time you saw your own perfection. You were intelligent, strategic, and able to perceive what others could not. Those fortunate enough to be part of your life should be grateful for your words, your brilliant ideas, and the sheer privilege of your presence.

Thanks to your sharp intellect and keen observation, it didn’t take long for you to identify the patterns in your part-time job. Your boss, the supermarket manager, was a disgusting man who took pleasure in belittling his employees, particularly the young women. He exploited his position to satisfy his vile desires, acting as a reprehensible predator. Throughout your shift, you spent much of your time thinking of ways to rid the world of his vile presence. You believed you would be doing everyone a favor, even if they couldn’t understand it — few had the courage or capacity to do what was necessary for the greater good. That's why you existed. You were the necessary evil.

But since you needed the money, you chose a more effective approach than simply eliminating him. You manipulated him, exploiting his own immorality to gain what you desired — more perks and less work. You allowed him to believe that one day, if he keeps helping you out, you would let him take you to a cheap motel, or his car, and fuck you like a brainless fleshlight, just the way he wanted.

You kept him on edge, making him believe he was in control while portraying yourself as a vulnerable girl who needed an older man to take care of her — both emotionally and physically. You told countless lies, fabricating an abusive ex and a negligent father, allowing him to revel in his foolish fantasy of being needed by you — while he was nothing but a fun game to play. Now that you had your boss on a leash, desperate for you, he stopped bothering the other girls, too busy looking at your ass and tits every time you passed in front of him. You made a point to wear tighter pants and unbutton a few extra buttons on your uniform.

That's the necessary evil you belived so much.

Unfortunately, your peace of mind was short-lived. Just as you were beginning to earn enough money to continue your life in a less humiliating way, a knock at your door ushered in a reality you would have preferred to avoid. You rose from the couch, the cigarette still lit and clamped between your lips.

“I didn’t order anything,” you said, looking at the five cops crowded at your door. Two of them weren’t in uniform, only the large, shiny badges identifying them as part of the Blüdhaven Police Department. The only woman in the group looked at you with a blank expression, calling you by your last name before taking a step closer.

"I'm detective Montoya, this is my partner detective Grayson" she said pointing to the tall figure on her left side. When you finally looked at her partner, you felt the cigarette between your lips become flat under your force as you clenched your teeth tighter, struggling to suppress a sicking smile. Those were the bluest eyes you had ever seen, watching you warily, his black hair falling gracefully over his forehead. He stood behind Montoya, carefully analyzing your posture and movements. Smart, but you were smarter.

Montoya mentioned something about the police and FBI wanting to talk to you. You were too consumed by the overwhelming, nauseating feeling rising within you as you stared at the stunning man in front of you — it’s happening again. You fought to suppress a wild smirk, your pupils dilating as shivers ran up your spine. He looked back at you with those beautiful eyes, like a piece of the sky or even the ocean.

You already knew what to do.

“I guess one talk won’t hurt,” you said, then opened the door for them.

get in the mood: I. monster, II. bad romance, III. judas, IV. toxic, V. supermassive black hole, VI. teeth, VII. criminal, VIII. radar, IX. gimme more.

author's note: well, reader is fucking insane, but she's slaying ok. please let me know if you want to join the taglist.

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gotham-daydreams · 2 days ago

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Writhing

Day 4 {Challenge Masterlist}

A day away. The end is near, but they get closer. Too close.

[Yandere Batfam x Gender Neutral! Cop Reader]

[Warnings: Mentions of suicide (only mentioned in dialog), cult, occult like activities, rituals, implied human sacrifice (in dialog), sort of implied gore?, body horror, violence, blood (minor), bodily fluids (minor), flesh, general mild gore, gross description (?).] (Note: Unless otherwise specified, it's to be believed that actions involved with harming, hurting, or heavily injuring the self are not talking about the Batfamily or the reader. Still, you have been warned.)

Oops! A little late on this one, my bad! Body horror elements come in at the end of the chapter, when Selina says something to Bruce. It's over when Jason says "Thank god, he finally shut up-"

If there is such things as 'partial'/'soft' dead dove, that's how I would describe the end of this day.

-------------------------------

The day is hotter than it’s ever been for fall in Gotham, and nearly everyone could feel it. Yet, strangely enough, a noticeable amount of people seem perfectly fine with it – even if some are practically sweating in their clothes, they still go about their lives almost scarily unbothered.

Most would think that Duke would be complaining, or at the very least breaking a sweat with how long he’s been in his suit, but strangely enough, he feels comfortable like this. Almost content, but he couldn’t be – not while being so far away from you. A window was the only thing truly separating you from him, but he couldn’t bring himself to open it and slip in. Almost like something deep inside of him was telling him you wouldn’t like it if he did, and Duke couldn’t understand why. You’ve been so nice to him up until this point, so welcoming – so you wouldn’t mind if he popped in extra early, would you? Sure you wouldn’t, Duke couldn’t imagine if you did, but he’s sure you’d understand anyway. If only he could explain it to you. Explain how he’s been feeling and that he had to be inside. Then you’d understand, forgive him, and everything would be okay.

Yet, something was still keeping him out, and it was honestly getting on his last nerve.

How Duke managed to slip out of the Batcave didn’t matter – not like he remembered, anyway. What mattered was figuring what was keeping him out so he could get in-

The young vigilante watches as you slowly, almost painstakingly begin to rise from your bed to sit up. For a moment, he holds his breath, hoping and nearly pleading with all his heart that you’re awake – only to see that your eyes are still closed, and it’s still hours away from when you’d usually be up. The only difference being is that your body moved in accordance to the sun, and you rose as it did. Almost as if you two were in sync somehow, and Duke couldn’t help but find that endlessly interesting instead of strange.

Even so, he had hoped you would have actually been awake – but he could be polite, so he waited. It wasn’t very comfortable being perched on the fire escape like this, but for something like this? Duke didn’t mind, especially not when he got to spend so much time with you. When it was just the two of you, alone, together.

Duke couldn’t even feel himself sweating in his suit, but even if he could – he didn’t care. He couldn’t. Not with you in his sights.

Time passed by like sand slipping through his hands, with only the smallest bits remaining under Duke’s nails and in the lines of his palm. Since he could feel it pass, albeit faintly, and could acknowledge its passing as well, but the actual length was lost on him – as if only minutes or seconds had flown by in the place of the few hours that escaped his memory.

Not that it mattered, as once Duke saw you begin to stir and wake up, he couldn’t help but feel all giddy as he practically jumped to your window sill, and tapped on the window despite the nagging feeling that tried to stop him. He watches as you rub your eyes before glancing over to him.

Another feeling washes over Duke, one of denial – and he finds himself panicking. You had to let him in. You would, right? You wouldn’t turn him away, would you? You couldn’t leave him out in the heat like this, you had come here for you. You can’t turn him away. No. No Duke can’t accept this – who are you? Where did you go? Did someone replace you? Was this a fake? Just what was going on-

The young vigilante’s thoughts are cut off as you open the window. “What’re you doing here, kid? I don’t remember making a call… unless there’s some trouble nearby?” Duke almost forgot he was in the suit, and he almost wanted to rip it off now, but he managed to keep it on… even if he suddenly felt like he couldn’t breathe despite how his own cowl was designed. Thank god, you were fine. Normal.

“I was just on patrol and, uh, decided to swing by? See how things are going, especially with all the activity around in the city as of late–” Duke is quick to reply, clearing his throat before admitting. “And I just wanted to see how you’re doing, y’know? Can’t imagine that things have been exactly easy these past few nights.”

You raise a brow, but just sigh and shake your head at his words. “Well, I appreciate the thought, but I got to get on with my morning, Signal.”

“I- I know! I just wanted to… do a search.”

“A… search?”

“Yeah, like- do you have any plants or anything around here?”

“Well, yes-”

“Perfect! Gotta check them and make sure they’re all good and healthy. It shouldn’t take long, and I won’t get in the way of anything, I promise!”

You can only raise a brow, but eventually relent and give a tired but amused, “Fine, do what you have to, then.”

So, you go on with your morning. Just getting ready, and keeping an eye on Duke – especially as he tries to make conversation. Nothing too out of the ordinary, but considering where you’re supposed to be standing, it is odd. Though, it only made you feel better as you decided to entertain him a little. Answering his questions, holding the position you’ve managed to maintain for the past few days, and keeping up appearances. It was easier during the day for countless reasons, a good night’s rest being one of them. Staying up was really taking a toll, and you needed your energy for what’s to come.

Nevertheless, it quickly comes to a point where Duke is obviously trying to stay, and you can’t figure out why. You feel like you’ve dropped enough hints at this rate, and so you try to confront him about it gently… only for him to stumble over his words and struggle to speak for whatever reason. It’s honestly a little frustrating, but you can work with this. You’ve dealt with worse than a clingy kid in a costume.

So, putting on a more natural smile as you remember to compose yourself, you make the same offer that’s always worked for you time and time again.

“Say, why don’t we have a bit of breakfast?”

— — — – — – — — — — — —

Barbara was beginning to regret taking Dick’s advice on getting some air, especially now that she was a few ways away from the only useful computer they could use at the moment. She appreciated the effort, but given the countdown and the list of questions they still have to answer – well, they didn’t exactly have a lot of time for a break.

Still, it was nice getting out of the clock tower for a bit. That much Barbara could agree with, even if it was strangely hot for fall… it couldn’t be the work of another villain, could it? They had their hands full enough as it is, and this cult wasn’t helping with that – not to mention the fact they didn’t know if it was just that.

“Ugh, why’s it so warm? I don’t remember fall being this hot.. did the news even mention something like this?”

Dick hums for a moment, and gives a shrug as they continue down the street, “Hm, I don’t think so! Just said something about today being nice?” He snickers slightly, “A little ironic, huh? It’s almost like they’re trying to downplay it! But who knows? Maybe they don’t even notice!”

Barbara can only huff in response, “How can they not? It’s almost like spring out here, or even summer, honestly-”

[“Oracle, focus.” Bruce’s voice so rudely pierces through the moment.]

“I would be if someone hadn’t taken me out.”

“Hey! It’s not a crime to get some fresh air every once in a while! Especially when on a tough, grueling case like this… you know that if we keep going at it with no breaks, we’ll all drop before that countdown even finishes.” Dick tries to defend himself, and Bruce at least acknowledges his point by staying silent – the only sign of him still being on the line being a gruff exhale he lets out.

Barbara just shakes her head and rolls her eyes, not bothering with a response as she waves off Dick’s words and usual antics. Though, it was a nice change of pace compared to how the last few nights have been – even if they somehow managed to avoid any more deaths last night. Tragedy was to be expected in their line of work, and Gotham’s reputation only made that more apparent, but this was… something else. It didn’t feel like they were any closer to figuring out the answers to questions they had even at the start of all this, or only had half of a possible answer. Like how they knew the other groups Clark was able to track are heading towards major cities, but they still didn’t know why aside from the Red Dawn you had mentioned.

At this point, it almost felt like a goose chase! And if they didn’t get anything concrete fast, who knows what could happen-?

“... Hey, what’s with all the people in front of that book store?” Barbara points out as she taps Dick’s shoulder, grabbing the officer’s attention.

Humming, he looks over to where Barbara was gesturing towards, and shrugs. “Who knows? Maybe there’s a sale or something? Some famous person released a new volume?” The very idea nearly makes her laugh, and as much as Barbara wants to – she’s getting a weird feeling about it. Like something important was going on over there, and that she had to check it out now.

“Well, it couldn’t hurt to check it out, right?” She suggests, only for Dick to remain where he was, which only now she realizes that they’ve stopped moving all together. Huh, when did that happen?

Nevertheless, Dick gives the shop a once over, his eyes narrowing slightly at the crowd that’s formed in front of it, and is continuing to grow as the seconds pass. Some still walk past, and seem to mind their own business – but for some reason, others seem drawn to it like a moth to a flame, and there could be only one explanation for it.

“Nah, I think we’ll be fine right here.” He says, sounding almost a little too sure of himself.

Barbara raises a brow and looks over to Dick, curious but also a bit annoyed for reasons even she can’t place. “Why do you think that-?”

Before she can even finish, you come strolling out from the alley just a few inches ahead of them, and Barbara blinks in slight surprise. What were you doing awake-?

“Hey, [Last Name]!” Dick greets without missing a beat, an odd sort of smile making its way across his face. “Where were you last night?”

You look over to him, blinking as well before straightening yourself out. “Oh! Officer Grayson, what a surprise… and Ms. Gordon? What are you both doing out?”

Barbara’s brows furrow, but before she could speak up, Dick spoke up again. “I asked you first, [Last Name]. Where have you been? I can’t imagine you’d take the night off in the middle of a serious situation.”

“I’m… sorry, but something had come up- and I apologize, but I don’t remember anyone mentioning you looking for me?”

“So you were on duty last night-?”

Barbara nudges Dick’s arm, “I’m sorry for my friend here, you’re one of the officers that came in from Metropolis, right?" She interrupts, surprising you a little more. Though, you take the opportunity and give a nod, offering a hand - one that Dick eyes before looking back at you.

Not once does he even attempt to glance at his supposed ally.

"Yes! Officer [Last Name] at your service, ma'am. It's been an honor working with your father."

Barbara nods, taking your hand... which gives her an oddly tingly feeling. One that makes the hairs on her arm stand, but she hardly notices. "Really? Well, I wouldn't get too used to that - wouldn't want to stay in Gotham for longer then you'd have to, right?" She laughs lightly, "I hope the city hasn't been too much of a handful, Officer."

"Oh, there's no need for that, Gordon! Everything's gone... well, as good as it can. We're doing all we can to resolve things as quickly as possible- I assure you." You try to reassure, and while Barbara appreciates the effort - she was still getting the funniest feeling that you were down playing the situation too much. To say you were calm felt like an understatement, you're more laid-back then anything, and for a case like this? That didn't feel like a good thing.

Still, she plays along as well. "Is that so? Then is there anything you know about the case?"

"Well, I don't think we know more then the commissioner's friend per say, but the detective's coming in later and-"

"Wait, the detective-?"

It's only then that you notice something, and already try to take your leave.

"I really wish we had more time to discuss! But I must be going now, please forgive me, Gordon- ah, and of course you, Grayson."

"[Last Name]-!"

Dick's plea is swallowed by the sizable crowd that passes them, and almost seems to go in the direction you were headed in. Yet, when trying to catch a glimpse of you - you're nowhere to be found.

Folding his hands into fists, Dick's nails dig into his palms - something he doesn't even seem to notice or feel. "Damn it." He curses under his breath. So much for that, now he'll have to-

"What was that about?" Barbara can't help but ask out loud, looking at the crowd that was already disappearing before glancing up at Dick. The expression he wore making her worried, and she reached out a hand. "Hey, you okay?"

He shakes it off, and just gives a nod, smile strained. "Just peachy, Babs."

Again, before Barbara could another word out - her phone buzzes, and it's only then that she realizes her commlink was disconnected for... whatever reason? Nevertheless, she picks it up, and tries to gesture to Dick that they should go, which... takes a while. Almost too long, considering how they've got less then twenty-four hours left on that countdown.

Selina's on the line, and she and Barbara try to figure out what they can - and Barbara can't exactly place it, but it feels like only her and Selina are even somewhat level headed. It makes no sense, and she doesn't have time to dwell on it, so Barbara just pushes it to the side for now.

Somehow, they're still having trouble getting the Batcomputer up and running, so Tim and the samples are going to be at the clock tower for the time being so they can continue to work despite the 'hiccup'. Until nightfall comes, Bruce is looking into what he can while trying to get the Batcomputer even semi-functional, and is talking with everyone he can, sharing all the information they have at the moment - trying to see if anyone else knows something they don't.

Meanwhile the other's seem to be doing... something. What exactly? No one's totally sure, but considering the time they've got left? Well, they can only assume it's something useful.

Which... made Barbara remember something just as the call ended. Sighing, she just sits back as her wheelchair continues down the sidewalk. "Where even is Duke, anyway? I can't believe he managed to slip past everyone before his patrol... and before we could come up with a plan too." She can't help but grumble, but really only hoped the kid was okay.

Dick, who had been quiet even since they turned back around - let his silence linger for a moment longer, as if thinking before responding. "Something tells me he's on patrol."

Barbara glances at Dick once more, "Oh yeah? And how can you figure that out when he left without his phone and commlink somehow?"

Dick only gives a smile, one that Barbara had never seen before that gives her... mixed emotions at best. His eyes closed, and though the rays of sun only made him look better, Barbara couldn't deny the way his heart paused at the sight. What kind of smile even is that-?

"I've just got a really good feeling. So let's go back to the tower, m'kay?"

For once, the chirp in Dick's tone did little to ease Barbara's sudden feeling of dread. One that all too quickly turned into something similar to comfort, and she couldn't even fathom why.

— — — — — — — — — —

Before the moon even has the chance to fully rise, a certain mishmash family of vigilantes is still hard at work. Whatever a few of the others were working on in the batcave, Duke joined them the moment he got home - but after his suit was put aside, and practically put on quarantine with how much of the red stuff it had on it. It was like sand and had gotten into every small crevasse it could - and not just in the suit.

When asked about it, Duke just didn't know. Claiming he didn't remember even losing the suit, but knew he had it on this morning because - well, why wouldn't he? The questioning seemed to confuse him as much as everyone else, and Dick eventually put a stop to it... strangely enough.

Nevertheless, Tim was able to find a bit more information, and when asked he simply said, "Well, I don't think it'll help us right now but... these guys- the group, at least- has been around for a while now. Not like Ancient Egyptians or anything, but they've definitely been around longer than just a few months. It's hard to pinpoint when they were exactly formed or founded, but I'll give it a few years. Maybe even decades."

Chipping in, Barbara adds, "They've got their hands in just about anything you can imagine. It's hard to tie them to politics, but they've got banks, industries, and so on that have supported various churches that are around some of the areas Clark marked before... well, the black out last night. Thank god a backup was sent to the Clock Tower's database."

Tim hums in agreement, "Exactly. And, to add on to that- but even some businesses have given to a few of these churches or groups, but most seem to have their own way of spreading... whatever this is. Though, if only certain banks from these companies support the 'cause', or the company itself supports it is harder to figure out."

"Again, not super helpful, but definitely gives a better idea of who these guys are. Wouldn't be surprised if for most, this is a legitimate religion disguised as another."

Well, Tim was right - it didn't help them immediately, but it gave a bit of insight. These guys have been around for a while, but now the question is why they're popping up now, and if it's because of this 'Red Dawn', then they absolutely have to find out what that means before time is up. However, amongst the investigation, another question eventually pops up, and one that almost feels foolish to skip over.

Where are the bodies from the people who were involved with this cult, but ended up killing themselves when caught-?

Then, Bruce's phone rings just as he's about to contact Gordon. It's not a number he recognizes, but something, for some reason not even he can explain, compels him to pick it up.

Before Bruce himself can even try to resist, the button is already pressed.

[The person on the other end clears their throat before speaking. “Hello? This is Detective Greenwood, and to my understanding, this is Batman’s number?”]

Of course, naturally, Bruce doesn’t say anything. More or less just… confused. Was this even real? How could anyone expect him to believe that the detective that’s been absent for nearly four days, maybe even longer, is only now trying to show up? Talk about convenience. Not to mention priorities and dedication.

[The man on the other end sighs. “Well, if this is the right number or not, I’ll find out soon enough. I’ve heard you're not exactly a patient man, so I’ll keep this short- just for you. Meet me at the diner on fifth. It’s getting late, I know. Place is about to close, but I’ll be here until it does. If it’s closed when you decide to come by? I’ll be at the station, cleaning up the mess.” A beat of silence passes, and a small clinking sound could be heard before he adds, “I’m sure you’re aware we don’t have much time, but hey. The choice is yours.”]

With that, the call ends, and Bruce is momentarily left in silence. Everyone else is doing their own thing and trying to figure out a plan of action they all agree upon but this… this could change things – but that all depends on what this detective knows. The timing itself is a little more than suspicious, and while you had apparently mentioned the detective’s arrival earlier, being gone for so long, and during a time like this no less… almost nothing could make Bruce any less trusting of this. While he trusted your credibility somewhat – and that’s mostly due to Clark being able to back up the information you’ve been able to provide thus far – there’s no telling if this detective had any new information they haven’t figured out already.

… Yet with the time they have, and their lack of knowledge of what it even means, they didn’t exactly have the time to be nitpicky – and though it was highly unlikely, having someone explain or give a clue as to what this ‘Red Dawn’ even is would also be useful.

A rough sigh escapes Bruce, and from that alone, the room goes quiet. Glancing at the timer on the holographic screen of the Batcomputer, he takes a second or so before getting to work. “Dick, you’re coming with me to see this… detective. Selina, go with Damian to see where the bodies are. Jason and Cassandra? …Don’t follow too close behind.” They didn’t exactly have time to argue, and with Duke, Stephanie, and Tim doing something else? This’ll have to do.

Regardless, even if some disagreements and such are made, they all set out, and into the unforgiving city once again.

Knowing the area like the back of your hand certainly had its perks, and finding the diner itself isn’t very hard. Though before they can even think about stepping inside, the sheer emptiness inside the establishment is… not one any of them are familiar with. Not during a time like this, and especially not when there’s a bar inside the establishment. To say they’d stand out would be putting it nicely, but the invitation is already given once the single patron in the diner notices the only two visible figures outside and for them to come in.

Playing along never feels good, but what choice do they have? Besides, as if knowing something, Dick is the one that takes the first step forward. Bruce slides into the booth last.

Conversation sparks up, and it goes about as well as one would expect. The obvious questions are asked, but nothing notable or of any real importance is given. Greenwood only apologizes for his absence, gives little reasoning for it aside from ‘being caught up with something’ – as that’s something noteworthy, and yet not even Bruce has been informed of it. So, things are off to a great start.

Almost seemingly out of habit, Greenwood offers anything he can, only to be declined – something he just shrugs off before taking a stip of his coffee, or what looks to be something like it, as despite the hint of color Bruce swears he can see in the mug, it’s too dark to be much else. Still, all too aware of the time limit they’re working on, Bruce gets straight to the point, and Greenwood follows right along. As if to ease things, he even offers for the pair to call him John. Hm. That’s the first name he’s gotten out of the new batch without looking through records.

Strangely enough, Greenwood takes the time to even reassure them, saying of the waiter – the only employee visible at the moment, is blind. So they won’t have to worry about anyone spreading any rumors about seeing the Big Bat and Nightwing themselves in a diner late at night. When Dick remarks about passerbys, Greenwood only says, “A friend of mine’s got that handled.”

When Bruce understandably asks, “And who is this ‘friend’ of yours.”

Greenwood strangely responds with, “Well, I can’t say much for a list of reasons. But they’ve got a way with people, and even got me your number. That’s all you’ve got to know.” Pushing up the shades he wore all the while. There was no need for him, but the detective never made a move to take them off. Like they were a part of him.

To say the conversation got any more useful from there would be a lie. Greenwood treats it too casually, almost infuriatingly so considering the situation they’re in, but Bruce is able to remain patient despite it all, and Dick looks like he’s biting his tongue. Though, as if catching wind of this, the detective decides to finally move things in a meaningful direction, and offers for them to head to the station – which is conveniently when the diner was about a minute or so away from closing. Which, Bruce takes notice of how Greenwood pays as they move to stand. A Rose Bank card, huh? That’s… new.

Even as both vigilantes readily take the opportunity to meet the detective at the station, and in his office, the quietness at the city gnaws at Bruce.

Of course it bothers him more than he’ll ever let on, but it gets to him all the same. It doesn’t help that Bruce can’t explain it, but the silence itself feels like a taunt of sorts. Like a jab at him specifically – a show of how in all his years of being Batman and trying to look after this city for as long as he has, it’s only now, under mysterious circumstances and in the midst of this disaster of a situation, is the city finally quiet. Even if it’s not in the way Bruce wants it to be. Especially since it’s not the way Bruce would have wanted it to be.

Whoever’s behind this has got a real funny sense of humor, Bruce will give them that.

… Eventually, Greenwood reappears and greets the pair – seemingly unfazed by the fact that they’re already in his office, even if he does make a show of acting a little shocked. Hm.

“I assume you’ve gone through the files I’ve had out already?” It’s a promising start, at least. Especially when compared to being offered coffee just moments before.

Still, Bruce just narrows his eyes, and Dick remains… oddly quiet – something that’s starting to make Bruce question if he made the right choice with bringing him along. Though, there’s no time for regrets now, is there? “Among other things. Your investigation has been…”

“Confusing? Nonsensical? Well… I can’t really blame you there. Everything dealing with them seems odd at best. Alien, perhaps, at worst.”

Bruce raises a brow under the cowl, only for them to furrow a second after. “Alien?”

Greenwood nods, “Put simply, yes. Some of the rituals performed by this group in the past have made little to no sense, and can vary in… well, intensity, so to speak. I’m sure you’ve heard about what happened the other day? It’s unfortunate and upsetting, yes- but it does tie into a theme this group seems to exhibit with everything they do.” Opening a file, he lays it out on the table, and the pictures shown are not for the faint of heart. To even say they were grotesque is putting it lightly. “Sacrifice.”

“... The human sacrifice kind?” Dick asks, but for a strange reason, Bruce already gets the feeling his son knows the answer – something that only makes him more unsure of all this, even if, strangely enough, a part of him is starting to almost accept it?

Regardless, Greenwood shakes his head. “Not quite, even if I don’t blame you for jumping to that straight away. Their version of sacrifice seems more… personal, or at least to differ greatly depending on the ritual. It’s hard to say what people are making these sacrifices for- but if you’ve talked with anyone who may be in this group, their reasons tend to differ. Like they were all promised something that caters to them specifically, and thus whatever it is, through these rituals- they are making the necessary sacrifice for it. Such as their eyes, legs, arms, heart, soul-”

“Life.” Bruce finishes, and Greenwood nods. Though, with all of this, only one question seems obvious. “How does the head of the group even know what someone would be willing to make such big sacrifices for? Especially if they’re all personalized.”

“That’s where the weird part comes in, since… well, in all my time as a detective working on this case- I haven’t been able to figure that out. At a certain point, they seem to just know.”

Bruce’s brows further knit together, and his eyes narrow further, “That doesn’t make any sense-”

[“Hey~ Bats? Yeah… you know those bodies you had me and the kid snoop around for-? Which, you owe me big time for this, just fyi.” Selina’s voice rings through the commlink.]

Bruce pauses, left staring at Greenwood while Dick glances at him. The detective raises a brow.

[“Well, we’ve only got a couple of empty caskets from the couple of thugs that were from Gotham, just a bunch of that weird powder you’ve been obsessing over.” There’s a brief pause before she adds, “Kid thinks this is how they make the stuff. If so, with all the followers they have, and assuming they’re just as ‘devoted’ as the one’s we’re looking for? I think we’re way in over our heads here, B.”]

The vigilante didn’t even get a chance to respond, as an odd smirk grew on Greenwood’s face. “That’s the signal, huh? Damn, and here I thought I’d get a few more minutes in. Such a shame, you folk are really on top of things. Reminds me a bit of myself in my earlier days, honestly.” A sickening pop sounds, followed by the sickening echo of cracks and grinding bones as John’s arm extends unnaturally long.

His fingers become as thin as pencil tips, only to get filled as some sort of mass builds from the inside, and grows so large it strains the skin until it pops. Strings of nerves try to reconnect where they shouldn’t, muscle moves to almost reconstruct a stronger, larger arm - with bits of left over skin and flesh moving with it. Nothing ever stops moving, like it can’t ever settle in one spot, and the sheer mass of it all can be seen moving and writhing under John’s skin. Trying to spread itself over parts of his body with its gift.

Finally, he removes his shades, and reveals irises with a pale star pattern that shouldn’t be possible. Something that flickers and moves, with the sclera pulsating with prominent, red veins that only seem to be itching their way closer to the iris with each growth of flesh his body manages to create and sustain. Like a parasite itching to feed, and having been left to starve, it latches onto the side of his face, and practically devours his eye lid - revealing the muscle underneath, and using the mass of the skin to add to the muscular arm – which can hardly hold itself at the end, and comes undone in a pile of fleshy, squelching tendrils that wiggle and inch towards the heroes.

“Well, it’s as they say.” John chuckles, voice already breaking apart, and already beginning to sound wrong in every way. “It’s parents who make the ultimate sacrifice for their children.”

With that, the amalgamation of flesh in human form vaults over the desk, and grins as it launches itself forward, ”IT'S TIME FOR ME TO SEE MY LITTLE GIRL! You surely understand, don’t you, Man of BATS?!” A giggle in too high of a pitch escapes it, and more teeth could be seen peeking out from its gums.

Bruce and Dick are quick to dodge out of the way, and Cassandra is quick to use her cloak to cut all the lights in the station, but the office itself is left in a darkness only the blackness of space could replicate. Jason quickly jumps in, and the four get to work to subdue the creature.

The fight itself is a gross sight for numerous reasons. Acid is spit from the bellows of the organism's stomach, and yet sticks to any surface like a thick layer of pus. The flesh that makes up its arm travels along the body it now puppets, and tries to grab and become a part of all who come into contact with it. Even as shots and countless blows are done to it, all it does is laugh as it continuously launches itself forward haphazardly – as if chasing some sort of high. The fat of the torso is taken for tendrils that shoot out of its back and more flesh to enhance its own combat ability. The muscle and bone of the legs is consumed to enlarge the ribs and spine - making a whole other mouth that’s all bone and made vertically come out of it, and where the organs have moved to? Who’s to say.

Even as it’s thrown through the glass of the office, and the scratches make the thing bleed, it moves to stand and continue the fight – as if it can’t feel anything else, or, rather, it’s so focused on chasing that it’s able to ignore the pain? It’s hard to say, but laughs begin to mix with shrieking screams that ripped its throat and ruptured the stomach.

It was all messy, sloppy, and at some point, most were rushing to find a means to light it on fire – and when the opportunity came in the boiler room, and the most unlikely of them flicked the match as he tried to catch his breath? The nightmare refused to go down without the last say, despite never being given such a luxury.

“IT’S TOO LATE! THE NEW DAWN IS BOUND TO RISE, AND ONCE IT DOES WE WILL ALL BE REWARDED!! THE SUN, DRESSED IN RED SEES ALL, AND NOTHING CAN STOP IT! ALL PREPARATIONS HAVE ALREADY BEEN MADE! THE WATERS ARE BOILING! THOSE NOT AWAKENED WILL SEE! THE CHILDREN WILL SING ONCE AGAIN! AHAHA! THE EARTH COULD STOP ON ITS AXIS AND IT WOULDN’T STOP THE RE-”

Only for its violating, cries of praise to its lord and religion to swiftly be cut off by nothing but a bullet to its melting head that's flesh was tearing away at the skull of the human that once remained underneath.

“Thank god, he finally shut up-” Jason scoffed, only to cough as the smoke began to rise and he rushed out – following the others.

Outside of the station, they all tried to catch their breath. Beaten one way or another, but alive, and untouched. Still human, in spite of everything, and breathing through their own healthy lungs that weren’t nearly pulsating out of their chests.

The quiet streets remain, leaving only them. Yet, it didn’t seem to bother them now. They almost don’t notice it, and despite no words being spoken, they all come to a collective understanding.

When the commlink crackles to life, Bruce hardly reacts, and when he hears his youngest son’s voice – he feels like he knows everything just before he speaks.

[“Father?”]

“Yes… we understand now, too.” So, with this new information, and more being fed to them, they all head back home together. Now knowing what must be done, even without all the pieces put together. Almost as if, in a way, they just know now. Like something is telling them, and the more it gives. The more they need it.

The waters of the Earth begin to boil as it prepares to cry, one last time.

#yandere batfam #yandere batfam x reader #yandere dc #yandere dc x reader #gn reader #yandere x gn reader #yandere duke thomas #yandere batfamily #yandere batfamily x reader #yandere dick grayson #the red dawn

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