#which i ought to update

[quaintpanic]

[frostedturquoise]

Still cant believe Waifu Bait Fandom(tm) i knew about when it was newish but all i saw was people arguing over -you guessed it- waifus or That One Guy or That One Kid Most Seemed To Have A Hate Boner For For Some Reason in the background of my internet experience Blissfully unaware times as idk a nine year old probably then for the entirety of my last two years of schooling then four years of dnd crew time after that just Blissfully unaware most were references to Same Thing due to section one. Vaguely get recommended it some time during the period of section two but forget the name and is too embarassed to ask because your cousin knows you well enough that he said in full confidence 'you will probably like it, even if not the whole thing' but recommended 'the anime not the games because they are kind of shit but wont stop me if i chose to do that' (he is woefully dyslexic so finding out they were visual novel makes a hell of a lot of sense for why he seemed allergic to them)

Accidentally use a character with the same/similar name as in one of the spin off things and your 'please dont make fin of the similarity this OC is related to one i played in a prior game' was taken as a bold faced lie to play X character but fly under the radar and my cousin after the session said i didn't have to do that because it wouldn't of been the first time someone did with an anime character.

Turns out there is TWO of them and he genuinely thought i was pulling a sneaky because of the 'no werewolf policy' The Werewolf Gene Brothers(tm) wound up just being normal people, even if my cousin admitted it was a shame because dragons were cool. Finally was confused enough to admit i had no idea what he was talking about and later admitted i was too embarrassed to ask what the name of the thing he recced like three years before was.

And then three or four years later one of my brothers exes brings it up. intend to follow up.

forgets.

another year later she brings it up again because she needeed someone to hype about something with but it wasnt anime specific this time just Character Feels(tm) so i pull a wiki out Then three months later find a thing related to one of the things related to the thing. Then a year later after all that time of one foot in the door it is officially '??????' This post brought to you in vague that the realisation ht me while sorting shit out for a future dnd game but since its vaguely related to mythos shit saying 'fate' so many times was going to make me feel like three broken records playig at once because my life feels like a joke because i recognise like 20% of all the old memes just because i was in the direct personal orbit of a group of people who lived said fandom IRL for six years and thought i knew-knew due to a accidental on point analysis moment carrying over in everyones emery meets the direct rec meets the fact that i just rolled with the punches because i was blissfully unaware 50% of the meme references were for the same thing (it was just lie browsing the internet but IRL conversation of shit your not interested in but exposed to anyway) and finding out how much was the same this was just A bit like 'hey. wait. what.' lmao

Unfortunately any of those guys i still talk to were/are Waifu Guys (yes even the ex) so hard that i feel bad when i playfully take the piss out of anything.

And just to think half of my accidential investment started with (1) crack ship and who ever thought the stupid idea i had while waiting for crumpets to cook because at the time i thought one character had 'stuck up prissy bastard cat energy' or some shit while waiting for crumpets to cook at like 3am and my brain thought it would be funny for said character as cat person to impose themselves on the others living space ala 'stray cat moves in style' while knowing jack shit outside second hand info and now i unironically think i accidentally stumbled onto something because the more i learn the more said ship Makes Fucking Sense and i feel like a disgruntled preschooler about it because 20% of my current self afflicted dilemma was to get it out of my system search the pairing up and find jack shit.

Always wild to have surprise fandoms happen when fandom engagement energy + social energy in general is at an low. Then you feel bad due to new distraction vs many unfinished fics.

this post brought to you by i need to be awake in three hours and have an eight hour long outing soon after that point and i still cannot sleep and was Consumed With Thoughts(tm) over how this chain of coincidences feels oddly like a cosmic joke.

[wilwheaton]

Hey man, I could use a few talking points to help convince a friend that Musk is horrible. I'm reading 'Think Again' by Adam Grant (good read btws) and he says to help convince people to come to your viewpoint that it can be good to have 2 or 3 strong points instead of 10 mixed points. The counter argument I get from people about Musk being good is that he did spacex and tesla, and without him we'd be decades behind. Maybe, but I don't have good ammo. Please help as I get too angry tobe critical

Well, listen, the fascism, the transphobia, the chaos, and the unwavering support for autocrats all over the planet really ought to be enough to outweigh anything else, if you ask me. It sounds like you know some people who got excited about the companies he threw money at, and they are having a tough time updating their feelings due to current events. Or maybe they share his values and don't want to admit that.

But I'll try to offer some simple facts.

He did not do engineering with Tesla or SpaceX or even PayPal. He is a fraud. He walked into these existing businesses, where people had done actual work and engineering, threw some of his Apartheid money at them, and took credit for their work. He claims, over and over again, to be a founder of these companies, and that's just straight up a lie that is easily disproved.

He literally did nothing except throw money at people and take credit for their work. Look at every Tesla up to the (chokes back laughter) Cybertruck. Those Teslas look like cars, because they were designed by engineers. Look at the Cybertruck. When you stop laughing at what a joke it is, know this: that's what happens when Elon Musk is in charge. It's like a ten year-old with some crayons drew it on a menu at Denny's.

All of the things his weird fans claim he made possible, are things that would have happened, and were in the process of happening, without him. He literally did nothing to advance the technologies or engineering. In fact, SpaceX whistleblowers have told reporters how they had to keep Musk occupied with bullshit, so they could do the real work without him fucking it up all the time with his incompetence.

But even if he were telling the truth, even if the myth were fact, it would not outweigh the damage, the pain, the chaos, and the suffering he has inflicted on millions and millions of people, all over the world with his lies, his spread of misinformation, and his incitement of angry incels.

Also, don't forget, when Ukraine was trying to defend itself, he turned off Starlink access when they could have decisively ended Russia's aggression. A lot of people have suffered and died as a direct consequence of that action, which he took to support his buddy and fellow autocrat, Vladimir Putin.

That's more information than I think your friends will be willing to hear. Studies indicate that people who are heavily invested in the myth of a person will fight hard to hold onto the myth, and reject truth and facts, because it's so jarring to them. Musk has built a cult of personality, and maybe your friends are stuck to it.

I'd gently encourage your friends to consider one key fact: he has lied about his entire origin story, he has lied about his contributions to Tesla and SpaceX. He lies about everything, except when he posts on Twitter like a 12 year-old edgelord, because that's who he is, emotionally.

Finally, and this is for you, specifically: if your friends insist on supporting a fascist, a racist, a misogynist, or a bigot, because they think rockets are cool, maybe it's time to look for new friends.

I hope this helps.

And fuck Elon Musk.

[whisperofaflame]

I have a fic idea-I don’t know how to write it but i just wanted to get it out and I’d like to hear your thoughts- so anyway R has flashbacks sometimes because of trauma and her name she uses is a nick name but her legal name brings back lots of trauma-she never told Wanda and nat because she didn’t think anything about it would come up but then the three get in a argument and one of them ends up in one of them yelling at R with there legal name-a panic trauma response ensuing angst and then some hurt comfort and then them helping R change there name to get it out of Rs life as much as they can.

Oh my god, this unleashed something within me and I just spent the last hour hammering out my interpretation of this prompt -- I really love it! It's not proofread but I'm gonna post now because it's 00:30 and I still need to get ready for bed whoops... ♡

(Also I really hope this is okay, I am slightly worried that I misinterpreted you and you just wanted my approval to write it yourself?)

By Any Other Name

Content Warning: implied past experiences of abuse

---------⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓��∘∙⊱⋅•⋅---------

When you first met Wanda and Natasha, you had introduced yourself with your nickname, and that’s all they had ever used to address you in the months since. They needed nothing else, nothing more — they had a catalogue of cutesy pet names to employ, after all. But you knew they were aware of your full name, though they had never spoken it. They’d no doubt noticed it, on the letters from the bank which they passed blithely to you after sorting through the post. It had never been discussed, not even in a teasing way. So you just assumed they’d pieced it together themselves, and it never occurred to you to explain, to be explicit about your feelings towards that haunted moniker. Until it came back to bite you.

It was a silly argument, really. You had broken the rules, failed to update them of your whereabouts and gone AWOL on a Friday evening. They had every right to be angry, and you ought to have bowed your head and offered apologies. But you were feeling emboldened by the alcohol, and a little frustrated by the events of the evening (your friend had ditched you for some guy, leaving you alone at the party searching for her for at least an hour, before someone finally informed you that she had gone). You were pissed off at her, and taking it out on your dommes. Petulant, pathetic. But you didn’t have the clarity of mind to realise it. So you just kept on pushing…

---------⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅---------

“You had us worried sick!” Wanda tells you, her concerned frown causing a pang of guilt in your chest, an ache you didn’t anticipate, and haven’t prepared for. So you bat it away, and purse your lips in an obstinate display of indifference.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” Natasha interrogates you, clearly riled by your lack of remorse.

“It’s a Friday night! I have every right to go out!”

“Honey, you know the rules…” Wanda begins, but Natasha cuts her off.

“Don’t baby her, detka, she’s being a brat.”

“Oh… fuck off,” you reply, crossing your arms initially through defiance, and then increasingly as a means to protect yourself from the flash of fury in Natasha’s eyes.

“What did you say to me?”

Your heart is almost pounding out of your chest, knowing you’ve pushed it too far, stepped well past the line of brattiness and into dangerous disrespect. But your drunken ego decides to double down. And you turn away, arms still crossed around your chest, your head slightly tilted up as you look to the corner of the room, away from their piercing, disapproving looks.

And then Natasha says it, growls it out like a dog. Your full name, the extra syllables emerging from her lips like something inedible she is forced to spit out. She continues speaking, finishing her sentence with some chastisement you can’t hear. Because all that reverberates in your head is another voice, shouting your name with unbridled fury. The sound is like a whip that cracks through your body. It splits everything in its wake, leaving only stinging, screaming pain. You can’t think, but you don’t need to. Your body responds, because your body remembers…

You stumble back, your legs recalling the need to retreat. 

Flight? 

Your hands raise, hovering in a loose stack at chest height, ready to form a fist should you need. 

Fight? 

But when a body advances towards you, you are struck with their height, and overwhelmed by their physical supremacy. Your fingers quiver as you lift them higher, splayed out in anticipation, ready to shield your cheeks. 

Flinch? 

Your back meets the wall, and the first option you clung to is suddenly no longer available; there is no chance to flee when two bodies are between you and the door. And they both approach even closer, their arms outstretched, rendering your other two options futile in such close proximity. 

So you just surrender to the last available instinct. You slide down the wall, and curl up in a ball. 

Freeze.

How long has it been? Were you lost? Were you dreaming? You continue to feel an intermittent tug in your stomach, your muscles clenching as they anticipate a blow. But nothing ever comes. No pain accompanies the images flashing through your mind. There is only silence. Only space.

“Y/N?”

A soft voice breaks through. It doesn’t belong here. Not that tone, not that name. It doesn’t match the memories replaying in your mind.

“Honey, we’re here. You’re okay.”

It sounds so foreign, so unbelievable. The strangeness of the words, of the sweetness, begins to disrupt the cacophony of fear. The images begin to blur, and the edges of your body seem to come back into focus. You can feel where the space ends, and your body begins. Even in the darkness of your tightly-shut eyelids, you can feel that you are back. Back home. Not the old one, with the old name. But the new one. With them. 

“I’m just here. I’m right by you. Wanda is too. We’re here, when you’re ready.”

You can hear how close she is now; you can almost feel her presence in the air. She doesn’t sound angry anymore, but you’ve been tricked before by others. Lured out of safe spaces, just to be met with the wrath anew. 

You clutch your knees a little tighter, trying to grip on to this reality, and avoid being swept away again. The alcohol even feels like waves, lapping at your skin from within, uprooting your sense of balance and stability as the world continues to sway. 

You open your eyes, hoping to gaze upon something stationary, to find something to anchor yourself to. When you do, the first thing you see is Natasha, kneeling before you with her hands resting on her thighs. Wanda sits cross-legged beside her, tears brimming in her eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” Natasha whispers, her voice wavering with regret. “I shouldn’t have said it. I should have known.”

You wish you could reassure her, but your mouth is so dry and there’s still a lump in your throat, like a physical lid you have somehow evolved over the years when backchat was a threat, and the stopper could save you. 

“I promise you, I will never say it again. Ever,” Natasha pledges, and she looks so serious and sad that you don’t think you could ever doubt it. 

Wanda’s tears break through, and begin to stream down her cheeks. Natasha doesn’t break her gaze from you, but her hand reaches out for her wife, and Wanda takes hold of it, accepting the small comfort while you remain unavailable for touch, for reassurance of their love for you, and yours for them. Your skin prickles, and you’re not sure if it’s from the lingering fear, or the burgeoning need. 

“Just nod when you’re ready,” Wanda suggests, wiping her tears with her free hand and giving you a wobbly smile of encouragement. We can take it slow. But I’d really love to hold you, when you’re ready.”

You try to steady your breaths, each one an effort to fully release before drawing more in. When the ache begins to ease, you give the tiniest nod of your head. 

Wanda lets go of Natasha’s hand, and opens both arms to you, scooting forwards a little on the floor, closing the gap. Your head spins a little as you lean it down to rest on her shoulder. But Wanda holds you steady, her arms enveloping you and her fingers gently stroking your spine and the hair on the back of your head.

“Shhhh…” she whispers. “I’ve got you.”

Her loving arms and tender tone break down your thorny defences, and your body begins to shake with suppressed sobs, now released in the safety of her hold. She lets you cry it out, murmuring sweet nothings, all the while stroking you and keeping your close. Natasha remains nearby. Silent but steady. Waiting for when you are ready to accept her back in. 

When you begin to wipe your eyes, Wanda knows she can release you without letting you drift away. Your eyes find Natasha’s once your head lifts from Wanda’s shoulder. And you find her eyebrows knitted with concern as she studies you, clearly trying to gauge your feelings towards her. 

“Natty?” you whisper, the first word that emerges despite her being the one who pulled the trigger. The simple call of her name tells her everything she needs to know. You forgive her, and you need her forgiveness too.

“Come here, baby,” she says gently, though she doesn’t make you move of your own accord. Instead, she pulls you to her, and hums a mixture of approval and relief when you begin to wrap your arms and legs around her, settling your full weight in her lap.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” she whispers in your ear. “Can you forgive me, milaya?”

“Mm-hm,” you murmur, from your position tucked tightly in her arms. Words are hard right now, but you try. “Forgive me?”

“Of course I do,” she assures you. “You made a mistake, but it’s okay, my love. We can talk about it tomorrow. Tonight is just for cuddles, and feeling better.”

You nod against her, your cheek brushing against the skin of Natasha’s sternum. 

“Tomorrow we’re going to sort it, honey,” Wanda says, her voice gentle but decisive. “We can get it changed properly; we can figure it out together.”

Natasha hums her agreement, and you feel your breathing slow as you process Wanda’s words. Natasha brushes back your hair, and when you glance up at her you see that she’s looking down at you with such solemnity and love.

“We’ll make sure the only name you ever need to see or hear again is your own, okay?” She tells you, echoing Wanda’s sentiment that they’ll help you heal this wound.

Your fingers find her hand, and you give it a gentle squeeze. Your name is your own. But you? You are theirs.

[solelyseeking]

AITA for trying to bag the new kid at my school? PART 3.

Due to the continued lack of progress, I am back, seeking help from the vagrant scum of this subreddit.

Dear basement dwellers and unwashed perverts: If even I, Tom Riddle, cannot get a date, then there truly is no hope for the rest of you.

Time to freshen up your cleaning charms and “lock in”.

For those of you whining about how I ought to just ‘approach him like a normal person’- I am not a normal person. I am a God, baptized in the blood of my enemies. Stop giving me meaningless platitudes, and start helping me smell his hair!

His little sycophant has been following him around everywhere, which has only made approaching him harder. Orion calls himself Harry’s ‘best friend’, but everyone knows Harry only hangs out with him because he feels so sorry for him. (Generations of inbreeding made one ugly baby lol!)

Harry’s very charitable like that. All the more reason to indoctrinate him into my cult, but he’s being weirdly stubborn about the whole thing?

“I don’t wanna learn dark magic, Tom.”

“I don’t believe in blood surpremacy, Tom.”

“Stop trying to take me into your murder dungeon, Tom.”

Isn’t that ridiculous? Anyone with half a brain would love to be invited into my murder dungeon the esteemed chamber built by my lineage!

Harry is very lucky to have so many muscles, as no one expects much brilliance from him. Still, I know he’s cleverer than he lets on. Just the other day, he noticed me cursing Grace Bell for lingering too long outside of the Quidditch changing rooms.

I was just looking out for him. And clearly I was right to do so, since I caught her creeping around while I was waiting for him to emerge, shirtless and damp, from his post game shower. Imagine the kind of obsessed weirdos he’d have to deal with if I wasn’t there to curse them all!

Still, other people would have been totally fooled- but not Harry. He gets me.

Clearly, he’s paying a lot of attention to me, so how can I capitalize on that? I tried spilling a bit of my potion on him in class the other day, so I could remove my shirt sensually and dry the liquid off of him. Only, then he started shouting at me about how I “wasn’t going to get away with this like I did with Myrtle.”

See- another example of how well he knows me! (That’s a girl I killed near my murder dungeon lol)

As you can see, this is a dire situation. Hurry up and provide me with some useful information before he kisses the incest baby.

Harry is very handsome, and I cannot afford to waste time. I have enclosed a photograph of him so that you wastes of genetic material understand the stakes.

[Harry_Potter_Riddle.Jpeg]

suziehiggins: oh, i get it. that guy is adorable

| OP: Stay away from my man, Susan.

Orion.Black: @harryjamespotterr

| OP: You will rue this day, you incestuous hellspawn.

harryjamespotter: Tom, is this some kind of prank?

| OP: Who is Tom I’ve never heard that name in my life.

| harryjamespotter: you literally posted a picture of yourself in the last update…

| ed_hardy: It’s okay, he was just catfishing

| OP: NO I WAS NOT

goonermachine: did you doodle Tom + Harry = Soulmates all over his picture?

| OP: I know you have eyes so I don’t see why you’re asking me such a stupid question. Yes

[bokettochild]

Linked Universe Enterence p.3

Okay! So I have thoughts!!!!

First off, does anyone remember when JoJo shared those first snippets? How there was a fun little detail that suddenly disappeared when the comic actually became more than doodles?

Yeah, I'm talking about this guy

(Not the grouchy old man being offended, the owl LOL)

I know there's a chance I'm wrong, a big one at that, but I think it would be really cool if, if only for a short while, JoJo brought him back, even if it's just for this era of Hyrule. Let Time have his owl buddy!

Anyways, to the actual comic!

I noticed that the boys are all still together, so I'm guessing they're waiting until they come to a cross-roads to actually split up like Four advised last time. So we have that to look forwards to in the coming updates!

I love that she's really highlighting the similarities and differences in this arc, showing us who knows what and what they've done, but also the little things; both with owls and the antifairy!

I adore the Owlan reference/appearance!

And Time immediately agreeing about the "long, drawn out lectures part" made me laugh. (His expression, my Hylia!!!)

That is the face of a man who kept accidentally asking to "hear it again" and regrets it with every bone of his being LOL

It's good to see more call backs to the last comics too! Having Hyrule be wary of the statue because he remembers seeing it before, and Warriors agreeing, but also reminding that it didn't cause harm. The fact that Hyrule keeps his sword pointed at it though, wary, does say a lot about how cautious he's being all the same (Wild ought to take notes)

And of course this whole panel

Twilight's awkwardly trying to assure the rest without spilling the secret, Sky laughing and turning to look at Legend, and the fact that the vet is just so entirely done with even just the thought of being a rabbit. (I love his face, omgosh).

Te way I screamed "anti-fairy!" when I saw this, and then was so, so delighted that Legend and I had the same thought (I am unwell about this man).

I'm equally unwell about the fact that Legend just has to say "ouch" (which you only say at inconveniences and not real, actual hurts) and immediately everyone's turning, weapons out and ready to help him face...whatever. Like, he's fine, guys, but it's sweet you care (now Legend, please take note and realize you belong, you idiot)

Love that Time hears "fairy" and immediately is all ears. All the more so at the "anti" part. Man was raised by fairies and he absolutely doesn't like the idea of something that would hurt them.

Meanwhile Legend is just being freaking Haku (Spirited Away) over here!

Tell me you don't see it!!!!!!

Also, his casual use of magic to purify something, to just make it no longer a threat, rather than hurting it. That need to save EVERYONE is really showing through here, huh?

And immediately, everyone is shocked that he did that, but also what it means about fairies. About dark magic. But Time and Wars especially!

Gosh, just Legend's little worried face and Time's offense at the idea of fairies being corrupted and harmed. Shows a bit about them here too I think. Time is maybe slightly obsessed with fairies (reasonably so) and hates them being harmed, but he shows his worry on the matter in anger. legend, meanwhile, becomes more sombre, quieter: it bothers him too (maybe reminds him of a certain predecessor?)

Get this man a tiara, he's a freaking Disney Princess over here, good grief!!!! He's carrying fairy food on what? The slim chance he has time to stop and feed them? Honestly, i know he's probably as attached to fairies as Time (although with a healthier relationship with them), but this is just too cute. this man is going to be the death of me!!!

Anyways, here's the bonuses!!!!

SUN APPEARANCE!!!!!!!! We have a canon Sun appearance!!!!! Like, sure, sleepy student Sky, but it's SUN!!!!

This smile. Oh my gosh I adore him. He's just so glad he got to help the corrupted little one become normal again.

JoJo was having fun with Four I see LOL

Man really said "hang on, let me check my purse, I think I have snacks in here"

Freaking Mom Coded

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Force in Nature | Platonic Yandere Trey Clover x Toddler Reader

Part 2

Being a child, in your experience sucked. Even with a developing mind there were constant reminders of all your faults. Short, weak, disadvantaged and constantly at the whim of adults. Most children wouldn’t mind so much, considering that the adults in their life mean well but not you. Never you.

“(Y/n) don’t give those fat brats anymore then that. They’re already eating us out of house and home.”

The drivel of your mother rings like a bell in your head. Always chastizing, always negative. It had gotten better now that she had found your father but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. In her mind she figured his children were the only obstacle left between her ‘happily ever after’ with your father. 

“Ace! Deuce! Did you break into this pantry again?!”

It didn’t help that the twins were rambunctious spitfires that were prone to trouble anyway. Which meant they were often forced to reach out their hands to suffer the wrath of the ruler. Their father was a popular man, often more focused on updating the town’s bulletin boards than disciplining his children but it was clear he loved them. 

But love was never enough to save the duo from your mother’s accusations.

At least once a day, your mother would report the twins for doing or saying something awful. It would always lead to an exhausted sigh before stomping over to the children to give another lecture and dish out some chore as punishment.

“This so unfair, we didn’t even do anything this time.”

“Well I know I didn’t. Maybe you did something Ace.”

“What!? How dare you blame me! Don’t you believe me, (Y/n)?”

You usually were a witness to their innocence, often spending your time with them anyway. But for whatever reason not being able to speak meant your written testimonies were invalid. No matter how many times you wrote in you’re book and presented it to your father it never seemed to work. 

“You’re so sweet (Y/n). Trying to save your big brothers; you know that lying doesn’t help their case anymore.”

It was fine when it was only that. Baseless accusations and then the punishment of simple chores. Every now and then a prank in return for their suffering but then the chilly warning of Autmn came around. While the likeness that the snow would pile too high was low, the scarcity of food was a guarantee. Already aware of the set portions you’d receive suddenly decreasing and the way your father didn’t dare eat with you all any more spoke volumes.Unfortunately your mother wasn’t all too fond of cutting material costs.

“Cater I’m telling you, we’ll never get to eat if we have those kids in the house.”

“But love (Y/n) would never survive the trip into town.”

“Not them you idiot! They hardly eat more than a rat! It’s those boys of yours! They’re so big they ought to be hunting for their own by now.”

“The boys…not them they are still children too.”

“Stop whining. I’m going to take them out tomorrow, to learn how to hunt.”

“You?! But you’ve never—”

“Shut-up! Maybe then I can get those kids to do something worth the wasted meal.”

Reporting to your brothers the plan for the day felt like being the espionage detail for a secret operation. It made you proud when they used their information to concoct their own plan. They deduced that she planned to ‘lose’ them during her hunting lesson. Thus Deuce’s genius-plan to leave stones leading to the house was born. It was a shame that this plan didn’t involve you in any way but you were happy to see Deuce leaving stones behind as your mother led him into the forest. 

Trying to comfort your father for a decision he didn’t protest felt odd. Of course, you wouldn’t understand the emotional struggle of his love life and the love of his trouble-causing twins. You are a kid, you aren’t supposed to know. Still, you let him hold you, mumbling curses to himself about cowardice as your mother opened the door. She huffed and puffed about him not greeting her before going off to prepare dinner. 

Unable to resist the urge you settled on the chair beneath the window. Watching the opening into the forest being led to by the stones. Sure enough, before the sun had set and the fourth time your mother had called you for dinner they were there. Appearing slightly dirty but determined they came just in time, much to your mother’s dismay.

Of course, what followed was a new plan for tomorrow.

“I’ll take them deeper in! And I’ll make sure to kick all those pebbles away”

“Please let’s just–”

“Starve!? We’ll barely have enough for dinner tomorrow! They must go!”

“But it’s so cruel.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

The silence from your father was telling and like before you reported to your brothers. They took your notes with just as much urgency as the last, instead trading their stones for crumbs from the sliver of bread they’d be given for lunch. At the time it sounded like a great idea.

But as the sun set and the critters of the forest picked at the crumbs left behind, it dawned on you. 

This was a terrible idea.

With a quickly scribbled note left on the window sill, you took a ball of yarn tying it to the bush near the forest opening. Following the disappearing trail of critters, you were walking in the direction your brothers went finding that it stopped in a clearing. From there the moon could no longer illuminate the crumbs still left and the critters weren’t leading you accurately anymore. 

It was getting colder. The woolen sweater and mitts are your only comfort. With a rumbly tummy and the heaviness on your eyelids increasing, you settled into the dirt. Promising you’ll find your brothers when you wake, staving off the fear from your shrunken spool of wool.

When the sun rose again you woke with renewed vigor. The pain of hunger leaving you for the time being you set your gaze to the ground. Of course, the crumbs were gone but vague indents in the dirt gave you enough of a guide. During your tracking you start the game of letting your smaller shoes take a fraction of their tracks following along as you replay a song your father would sing.

Eventually, the tracks stopped at a paved pathway, it smelled sweet like a candy you’d seen the twins eat. It made you curious but you trusted your judgment to ignore your hungry thoughts. The tracks didn’t continue past the pavement and knowing your brothers they’d certainly gave the brightly colored path a try.

The grumbling desires of your stomach weren’t spoiling your resolve— or that’s what you were telling yourself. Going down the hill the path led over it’s destination led you to a place you swore shouldn’t have existed. In a clearing, the candied path led to a gingerbread house, decorated with various frosting, gumdrops, and red vines. The fence around it was peppermint canes surrounding the sugary house invitingly. A perfect garnishment for an already delectable house. Your stomach agreeing you found yourself closing in on the gingerbread foundation perfectly level with your small mouth. 

Before you could dive in, you stopped. Thinking back to nicer days in the forest you remembered thanking the squirrels buried in the trees surrounding your cottage. Instead of burrowing inside your warm, inviting home they kept to their holes in the nearby trees. Of course, your young mindset wouldn’t have comprehended why animals that wanted to survive avoided the cottage. But that was beside the point. 

Your manners for the owner of the candy house would not be affected. Even though your stomach churned almost painfully at your denial. To make it easier you turned away from it crouching down to hold the grumbling organ. Repeating that you could eat when you returned with your brothers to share—no matter how little was left. 

“You are allowed to eat you know.”

The sultry voice of a man stopped your internal thoughts, peeking your head over your shoulder to look at the interruption. In the doorway of the house was a tall and handsome man, he reminded you of the young bachelor in town. Wearing a tight black long-armed shirt lined with rhinestones, your mother would envy. The dangling sparkles matched his pants which were long and wide at the ankles. His attire was interesting because you’d never seen it before, the man’s face was just as alarming. Hair as green as the surrounding trees was flowing to his waist contrasting his black outfit in a ragged but neat look. It was like a halo of green against his pale skin, golden eyes, and pink lips.

“You look hungry, why don’t you take a bite?”

The way he said it was hypnotic. An inviting and comfortable thrum of a voice that started to pinprick into your morale. You shook your head as if that would expel the greedy thoughts threatening to take hold. You hurriedly pulled out your notepad writing as neatly as you could. Holding up your notepad, you hoped he could read.

'It’s your house…that’d be mean.'

He leaned in to see what you wrote, retreating back to the arch of the gingerbread door.

“I was the one who chose a candy house. It just comes with the territory.”

He flashed a smile, white as milk. You licked your teeth beneath your mouth, feeling the plaque build-up that you’re sure makes your teeth yellow. Thinking of brushing, your memories trickled the moments you’d had with your brothers. The excitement that came with using your toothpaste for anything but. It reminded you of your real objective.

'Have you seen my brothers?'

The man tilts his head. You proceed to draw them to the best of your ability; trying to use the charcoal to detail the colors of their hair, and their height compared to your own. It’s hard to tell if he knows anything as his small smile hasn’t waivered. But as you scribble and point you worried he’d stopped listening.

“How about you come inside, have a bite, and I can help you find your brothers. That sound like a plan?”

You nodded. Standing up, you rushed to his side to grab his extended hand letting him lead you inside.

'My name’s (Y/n), what’s you’re name?'

“Trey. You can call me: Trey."

'Nice to meet you, Trey!'

“Likewise.”

______________________________________________________________

Trey Clover loved to eat children. It was in his nature to come from a long line of baking witches. It wasn’t a trade secret that children extend your life and beauty; the real secret was how to craft the potions with the children to make delicious desserts. Forest animals and pesky adults were fine ingredients but nothing was more fulfilling than a child’s soul. They were also much nicer to have as victims. They cried sure but they were dumber, more gullible, and so much easier to fatten up. But for all the children he’d consumed over the past century, there was something Trey could definitively say was the truth.

That Trey Clover loved children. His family ruled him as demented for such a thought but it was the truth. For all the fulfillment he’d have after his rejuvenating meals, there was still a resounding sorrow that nothing he could make would overshadow. Nothing but the shining presence of another child. 

Trey rationalized that he wasn’t crazy, humans had pet pigs all the time. He’s no different in that way. That every now and then the thought of keeping one crossed his mind, diminished at the thought of one thing or another. Whether it was a spark of brattiness that was hidden behind a sunny demeanor or just the undisciplined actions of a bully in the making. It reminded him why he’d never let himself feel too bad as he tossed their belongings into the basement after a satisfying meal. He figured it was natural selection. Like any other predator, he looked for the weakest, the slowest in the pack to pick off and sustain him for another ten years. 

But he’d begun to waiver with such an innocent soul in his grasp.

“How was that? Was it good?”

'But my brothers–'

He'd close the pad before the question was asked.

“Your head is so warm, I think you’re coming down with a fever.”

Cradling the young child, he settled to swaying them to sleep. His usual victims were not so young, often much older and more defiant. That is why it was such a treat to have a well-mannered impressionable little toddler to care for. With a resolve to their mission that was unavoidable, it still was nothing against the bedtime routine he’d been taught long before. He couldn’t remember if it was his mother or one that he’d eaten but she detailed the way to care for small children with such pride. In his heart of hearts, he’d admit to having eaten her out of envy. But now she proved more useful than her bones as he ran a bath for the yawning toddler.

Distracting them with talks of nothing as he gently wiped the grime off their little body. He had to refrain from frowning at the signs of a rash on their back. He was blankly staring at the untreated patch, cursing the adults who’d allow a sick toddler to run through the woods. But from their other children’s stories, they weren’t all that good to begin with.

The sound of a sneeze reminded him of his task.

“Bless you. After your bath I’m just rub a little ointment on your back before you settle down okay?”

They tiredly nodded, Trey resisted the urge to coo.

“You’re doing a good job staying awake. Let’s finish up before you fall asleep, okay?”

His parents were completely right about him. What sane witch would have a room decorated for a toddler already made, already infused with sleeping herbs that’d erase the thoughts of the past? 

“Goodnight, my sugar cube.”

The notepad had been abandoned long ago. The urge to burn it was growing.

“Tomorrow we can look for your brother.” 

The demanding sign of '2 brothers', made him laugh. Not after today you wouldn't.

“Maybe one day sugar cube, sleep tight.”

Kissing (Y/n)’s head and waving as he closed the door, Trey was elated. It was difficult to wipe the smile off his face when he unlocked the basement door.  

It wasn’t just as he left it per his instructions to the bratty boy. Ace was far too skinny to be worth a good meal and from what Trey could tell a decent worker under stress. Trey figured it’d be hard to break his spirit if the other boy was around. Of course there was a chance it'd return with his little one. Trey would bet on fear and duty overwhelming him and he’d fall right into place.

“I see you’re working extra hard. Good.”

______________________________________________________________

Ace stopped sweeping, his little knuckles white as he fought the urge to scream at the witch. He only wanted to see his brother. After the first night, he knew rebelling would get him nothing but trouble. 

“Can I see my brother now?”

Trey hummed closing the door behind him, he didn’t bother to lock it. He knew the boy wouldn’t want to leave. He took the ring of keys from his belt twirling around his lithe finger as he stepped deeper into the basement. Ace stuck close to his side, waiting anxiously to see his brother again. 

The last time he saw him, his face was wet with tears. His hands were still sticky from the treats they’d gorged on, angrily shaking the unmoving metal bars around him. Ace couldn’t sleep if he tried. 

“Before we go in, you two have a younger sibling. (Y/n) was it?”

Ace’s already sped-up heart-rate, went seconds faster. The collection of little papers in his hands with a tattered cover was far too familiar.

“They sound so determined to find you two.”

“What did you do to them!?”

When Trey turned his head over his shoulder the sneer he gave, bore into Ace's soul like a needle. Flashes of the suffocating pain the night before demanding he fix his demeanor immediately. 

“Quiet boy.” The command was like a heat rod, sweltering from such a short distance. He looked away from those golden eyes for his own sake. “I won’t be doing anything to them if you behave.”

The final warning hung in the air with the door now unlocked. The metal door swinging open was a cruel mirror of when they first accepted the invitation to eat some more. There were tables of sweets and pastries along the cracking walls of the room. A table with a checkered tablecloth and a painted chair were placed off to the right side of the room; waiting for someone to enjoy the decorative plating on its surface. But unlike the day they first arrived a metal cage was hanging from the ceiling and his brother Deuce was in it. 

“I’m glad you ate. At least hunger won’t be the last thing on your mind.”

Trey’s off-handed comment was ignored as Ace ran to clutch at the bars separating him from Deuce. As best as they could they hugged one another, the cold and rusted bars a constant reminder of their unfortunate circumstance. 

“Deuce I can’t let this happen! I have to do something!”

Deuce shook his head,” No, if you do anything bad he’ll eat you too! You’ve got to get back home and find Dad!”

Ace pulled at his orange strands, “I can’t he has (Y/n).”

Deuce’s serious face, quivered. His brave instructions became mute as he imagined their youngest sibling unknowingly falling into the same trap they did.

“You have to protect them. Please, Ace.”

The blue-haired boy couldn’t speak anymore his nose running and tears falling again. All he could do was clutch at Ace’s hands, attempting to put his forehead against the bars to feel his brother's. Ace was crying too, barely standing as he held onto his brother.

“Are you done? I’m not getting any younger over here.”

Trey's snide remark was not appreciated, nor was his giant hand pulling at the rags of his clothes, shoving him toward the oven. Ace didn’t need to ask for Trey to point at the brush and pan on the floor.

“Clean up the oven. The metal earrings from my last meal will make him taste worse.”

Ace murmured his distaste as he opened the oven door. Looking into the deep black mouth of the oven, it amazed him that whole people could fit in there. 

It also gave him a devilish idea.

“Uhm I don’t know how to.”

Trey turning towards him was frightening, the black coloring around his eyes flaring with such disgust. 

“Are you troubled? You just go in and sweep the ash at the floor of the oven.”

Ace pretended to look into the oven before jumping back, “Are you sure there’s not someone down here?”

The witch was prepared to punish the boy but he thought of the toddler upstairs. He had dreamed of the day, he would be called to check the closet for monsters. He figures if he’s keeping the defiant one, he should show some of the same care that he’ll be showing for (Y/n). 

It’s all too easy for Trey to climb inside, having done so on his own, hundreds of times before. Crawling to the back he felt the child coming up beside him, immediately making him grab the head of the boy. 

Ace felt his stomach flip. Had he figured him out?

“We can’t go in at the same time, wait ‘til I’m done.” 

“O-okay.”

As instructed Ace crawled back out, watching how the witch's body fully disappeared into the oven. Once his feet passed the threshold of the oven’s opening, he didn’t hesitate to close the oven door. Jumping up to flick the lock closed, Ace ignored the angry banging as he pulled at the red-colored lever to turn on the oven. 

The feeling of the heat flickering to light brought a successful comfort to the orange-headed boy. The frantic banging from within the oven was as frightening as the demonic screaming from within. 

“W-wait but the keys! He still has them!”

Ace assured his brother with the jingling object in his hand. Deuce pulled him into a teary hug once he’d been freed from the metal cage. The smell of sweat and burning flesh, never being so enticing. The moment between the two stopped as the banging became more and more apparent; the lock clicking as it held the oven closed.

“Let’s get out of here before he breaks out of there.”

“I agree.”

Deuce is the first to run through the door and out the basement; likely because of his time in the metal cage. Ace on the other hand faltered, snatching an armful of the pastries lining the room. He flipped the bird at the furnace and ran to lock the door to the basement door. Before he did, he took a moment to pay his respects to those before him. Bowing his head at the rows of shoes and belongings he’d organized, he apologized again before snatching a satchel. With the final locking of the basement door, Ace lets Deuce run up the stairs to search for their little sibling. 

Allowing Ace to have free reign of the upper floor that had deceived them before. He was never considered a good kid but he hardly saw the appeal when he had no qualms about breaking whatever he couldn’t take. 

“It almost makes this all worth it!”

Deuce, on the other hand, found you easily. The room had a distinct smell that almost made him feel safe. Going out on a limb he found his baby sibling curled up underneath a fluffy blanket. He easily tucked his arms underneath to carry them, he stopped to notice the spool of wool falling from their hand. Deuce put two and two together; smiling at the sleeping toddler in his arms. 

“Thanks to you, (Y/n). We’ll all get to go home.”

The trip back was like a minor stroll. The original dangers of the forest were diminished to minor nuisances in comparison to the horrors they’d endured. Of course, the two still had other things to worry about when they did return home.

“What are we supposed to do about the step-lady?”

“Hm, I don’t know maybe we should push her into the oven too.”

Ace laughed and usually, Deuce would scold him for the macabre joke. But Deuce didn’t really consider that a joke nor was he completely against it. The brothers had plenty to think about as they each took turns holding their snoozing sibling. 

It’s probably best they didn’t look back at the candy house. 

For they might be filled with dread at force they awakened.

[titanomancy]

If anything, that roadmap Krieg tease undersold how much the Death Korps would be getting in the new year. Between the existing tanks and Veteran Guardsmen, this is at least as much of an army as any of the old pewter regiments had in the '90s. Arguably more.

Starting from the top, Lord Marshal Dreir is a great alternative to the Lord Solar for the role of, "general on horse mount," and stands in his stead among any of the classic regimental heroes.

And if your gonna have one guy on a horse mount, you really ought to have an entire cavalry charge. I think they might have gone a little ham on the Krieg steeds' claws, though - I liked them better a more like goat hooves, so that they look nearly like horses be not quite. Somebody at the studio clearly decided that's insufficiently brutal.

Combat engineers are another adaptation of an existing Forge World kit that looks great. Loving the little screw drive remote mine, although it looks like it's about twice as big as it ought to be to read better on the tabletop.

Artillery emplacements are big Krieg energy and these new heavy guns certainly deliver. The quad mortar is back again, as are two flavors of cannon and a rocket battery. Wouldn't look at all out of place alongside the classic Basilisk platforms (which, who knows, may still make their way to plastic), or the next entry in the new lineup.

Classic heavy weapon carriages, once again in the 2nd Edition style. These are all a little bit more in tune with the nostalgic approach to Imperial Guard than the more modern take on the concept found in the Cadian Field Ordnance Battery, and I think helps them to fill a unique niche from the standard heavy weapons teams.

Rounding things out are a brand new command squad featuring not one but two Commissars (Lord and cadet), vox, standard and chemyst. I think adapting the quartermaster would have probably been a better pull but they seem to be leaning hard into the harsh environment specialists aspect. That combat accountancy servo skull goes hard, though.

Overall, solid. Very happy to see, and when taken alongside the many Solar Auxilia tanks now or soon to be available, represents one of the most comprehensive updates to a range yet seen.

[imagine-darksiders]

On the Ropes - ch. 27

Reunions.

Montgomery Gator x Reader

Freddy Fazbear x Reader?

This one has been a long time coming. Half the problem with updating a fic is remembering what the hell you wrote in the last chapters lol. Anyway, please let me know what you think. When I don't write for a while, I get anxious that my skills have deteriorated. :')

You can read the whole fic here on AO3

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

It’s a resounding, metallic 'SLAM!' that jumpstarts the heart of every staff member present in the locker room, wrenching them from their early-morning conversations. Someone even lets out an undignified yelp as each person turns their wide, startled eyes over to the origin of the explosive sound.

The eldest among them, Andy Flowers, with his arm held rigidly out in front of him, has his palm pressed flat to the door of his own locker, the same door that’s still quivering in the wake of being hurled shut so viciously.

Through narrowed eyes, the old mechanic glares at the cold, silvery surface, trying very hard not to pivot his vitriol to the left.

Because standing at the mechanic’s side, making a valiant attempt to sink into the floor, is that jittery kid from the day-care, Hughie, casting nervous glances between Andy’s thunderous profile and the previously slammed locker door.

“Um,” he gulps – audible enough in the deafening silence that even those at the back of the room are privy to it, “I just… thought you’d want to know… S-Sir.”

And without another word, he ducks his head down into the collar of his shirt and spins clumsily about on a heel, scurrying from the room with as much dignity as a scolded dog.

Precisely three seconds pass after he vanishes, punctuated by the ‘ticks’ of a dusty analogue clock that hangs in its spot above the entrance.

Then, slowly, somebody lets loose a long, drawn-out whistle.

“Jesus, Andy,” Devon is the first – and bravest – to pipe up, continuing with his half-finished task of tugging a pair of overalls on over his clothes and grinning curiously at the back of Andy’s head, “The Hell’d that poor bastard say to you?”

Gradually, people begin making an effort to at least pretend to resume getting ready for the day, though nobody dares murmur a word, far too nosy to let themselves talk over whatever the mechanic’s response might be.

When it comes, it’s disappointingly lacklustre for those who’d been hoping for a little excitement to spice up their tedious morning.

Wearily, Andy just heaves an almighty sigh as his hand slides from the locker, thwacking noisily against his thigh.

“Nothin’ I ain’t already heard about a thousand times in the last couple’a weeks,” he grumbles, “Damn gator’s on the prowl.”

Should he apologise to Hughie….?

Yeah… Yeah, he probably ought to. Not the kid’s fault he was picked to be Montgomery’s messenger of the day.

“Ah,” Devon’s expression opens up, comprehension dawning in the form of a knowing smirk, “He’s after you again, is he?”

Muttering something uncouth, Andy turns and tugs the brim of his hat down, hiding from the looks his colleagues shoot him as he stalks from the locker room and tries to ignore the murmurs that follow him into the hall.

It isn’t just words that trail after him.

“Can’t be bothered to find me himself, so he sends some kid to do it for ‘im,” he complains to the tapping of sneakered shoes that trot lightly up to his side.

“I think it’s sweet.”

Andy blinks, cocking a brow and swivelling his head around to eye the little blonde traipsing along beside him.

Ah, Chelsea. Sweet, candid Chelsea. Dumb as a box of rocks who can’t tell a sprocket from a spur, but a damn hard worker all the same, and likeable enough that Andy finds he’s not put out by her company. At least now she knows which end of a hammer to hit the nail with. There was a time when she first started at the Plex that nobody was really sure she did.

As her words finally break through the haze of Andy’s early-morning ruminations, he gives a start and pulls his lips into a wrinkled grimace. “S’not sweet,” he sputters on the word like it has a foul taste, “It’s weird.”

And that’s putting it mildly.

The six-week mark since your little workplace ‘accident’ is fast approaching, and the poor mechanic hasn’t known a moment of peace since it began. 

It’s bad enough having the gator pester him all over the building for updates on your condition like there isn’t a patient wire in that big, blundering frame of his, but on top of that very persistent thorn in Andy’s side, he’s also been running around after the other animatronics, most of whom seem to have unanimously decided to make this the month they let their firewalls go kaput. That it’s the same month you just so happen to be out of commission is a bitch of a coincidence.

Screwing up his face to crinkle it even further, Andy lets out a huff, glowering at the dim, red lights lining the wall as he marches past and absently grunts to himself, “All the bots have been actin’ weird.”

Still trailing along at his side, Chelsea’s lips purse and she shoots him a peculiar frown. “Like, weird how?”

How indeed.

Steering around a sharp bend, Andy throws his arms up in a half shrug, half gesture of sheer exasperation. “I don’t know! It-! It’s like they’ve all been sulkin’!” he declares gruffly, failing to note a bemused Chelsea stepping slightly out of his circumference, “Roxanne spends more and more time in her green room in front’a that mirror. The day care attendants haven’t even mentioned Y/n, which is weird, and just yesterday, I had to tell Chica to get outta the kitchen trash. Twice!”

“Chica’s always looking for leftovers,” she shrugs, trying to remember the last time she heard the mechanic talk this much. He probably just needs a holiday.

“Yeah,” he stresses, “But usually I only catch her once a week. I tell her to knock it off, and she does… Least till she ‘forgets’ what I said.”

Heaving out his tension through a brusque sigh, Andy raises his head again and sniffs, “Least Freddy’s not on the fritz.”

“Golden boy,” Chelsea hums with a sage nod.

Almost as soon as his expression relaxes however, it springs right back into a tight, puckered scowl. “But that gator, jeezus…” he hisses, scrubbing a weathered palm harshly down his face, “He’s been drivin’ me to drink. It’s like he’s… he’s-“

“Pining,” she finishes for him.

And god, he wishes there was another word for it, really he does, but she’s hit the nail on the head.

That damn gator, an animatronic with the term ‘miscreant’ written directly into his coding, is pining after his favourite cleaning lady like a schoolboy with a crush.

Lifting his hands once more, Andy buries his face into the calloused skin on his palms for a moment, pressing them against his eyes in a vain effort to try and squeeze some of the weariness out of them. “M’getting too old for this shit,” he groans.

“For what? Your job?” Chelsea asks innocently, and it’s almost enough to startle a bark of laughter out of him.

Yeah. Sure, his job. Why not?

Before he can respond, she’s already carrying on. “You know, my grandpa retired a few months ago, and he says it’s the best thing he ever did.” Pausing, she flashes Andy a sunny grin. “Maybe you could retire!”

… Charming.

Well, he did say he’s getting old…

“Thanks, Chels,” the mechanic huffs, squeezing out a thin smile of his own, eyes narrowed, “I’ll uh… keep that in mind.”

“No sweat,” she chirps, slowing to a halt at the tunnel’s junction and tossing her thumb at an adjoining stairwell, “Well, this is my stop. I’m on stage duty. See you later Mister Flowers!”

Lazily, Andy raises a hand to wave her off as she bounds up the metal stairs with far too much pep in her step for such an ungodly hour.

Alone once more, the old mechanic shakes his head and turns another corner, making for his first duty of the day – Babysitting their newest techie, Chase.

Polite enough kid, Andy supposes, kind of nosy but, hell, he’s trained up worse.

At least the new guy doesn’t ask half as many questions as that impertinent, pushy Gator…

Five weeks… It’s been five and a half, arduous weeks since your accident, and to your credit, you seem to have actually listened to medical advice and opted to stay home, letting Andy run groceries up to your apartment every week and belligerently refusing to let him pay for any of it.

Stubborn kid.

Still, at least he can take some solace in the fact that you’ve been spending some much-needed time away from the Plex and all her hazards. And while he’s certainly glad of that, he can’t deny that the unexpected side-effects of your absence have been… wearing.

Seems somebody gave Montgomery the bright idea that if he wants information on you, his best port-of-call is good ol’ Andy Flowers, apparent font of all knowledge and mechanic-turned-messenger.

Every. Single. Day. It’s been a relentless slog of questions piled up on questions, all pertaining to you.

‘How is she?’

‘She’s okay, right?’

‘You seein’ her today?’

‘You think she’s comin’ back soon?’

Andy’s running low on hair to tear out.

Well, if that gator wants to find him again and cycle through his usual rota of queries with all the tact of a fawning teenager, he’s going to have to damn well track Andy down himself instead of pestering the other staff members to do it for him.

‘Besides,’ the mechanic muses, hitching up his belt and trying not to let the fond quirk of his lips overtake his scowl, ‘there’s a particularly good reason to avoid Montgomery Gator today.’

He’d hate to spoil the surprise.

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

There are a great many things that Freddy Fazbear enjoys about his role in the Megaplex.

Among the majority; hosting birthday parties, signing the remarkable pieces of artwork children bring him, performing on stage alongside his very dear friends… But one of the rarer duties, one he doesn’t often get called up for, is perhaps his favourite due in part to its infrequence.

It isn’t every day he’s allowed to be a greeter.

“Good morning, Sir!” Freddy chimes pleasantly, no less chipper to say it now than he was an hour ago, “I hope you have a wonderful time here at Fazbear’s Mega Pizzaplex!”

A frazzled man with a five-o-clock shadow pauses at the edge of the lobby's turnstiles, glancing up at Freddy as though he’s only just clocked the bear’s presence. Just ahead of him, charging ahead with their tickets clutched in possessive fists, are a gaggle of children who careen past Freddy without sparing him so much as a passing glance. racing each other for the escalator that will take them first to the atrium, and then on towards the arcade.

Freddy’s speakers buzz with a chuckle.

Their enthusiasm is nice to see. Besides, they’re older, a few years senior of the pre-teens and tots who are typically drawn to his teddy-bear appeal.

Their father and sole guardian, one Doctor Colin Timpson, staggers after them in a daze, far less equipped to face the school holidays than his children are. He, at least, manages to offer Freddy a polite tip of his head in acknowledgement, eyes heavy lidded behind his glasses.

And, well, what kind of a frontman would he be if the face of Fazbear Inc. couldn’t lend a helping paw every once in a while?

“Sir?” he calls, popping open a small compartment hidden underneath his forearm, “Here, I insist.”

As Doctor Timpson watches curiously, Freddy reaches in with two claws and carefully pulls out a small slip of paper, no thicker than a receipt.

“Please, enjoy a complimentary caffeinated beverage from any of our fine eating establishments,” he rattles off his well-practiced spiel, holding the coveted voucher out and noticing how the man’s eyes light up at the mere sight of it.

“Oh!” he blinks, gingerly taking the paper from Freddy’s paw and peering down at it like he’s been handed a bar of gold bullion. Then, tilting his head up, he offers a real, genuine smile and nods, “Much obliged, Freddy.”

Who of course replies, “Think nothing of it,” his optics squinted happily shut.

Waving after the man’s retreating back, he resumes his usual post, turning to see who else might walk through those turnstiles today.

When Mick announced that the usual S.T.A.F.F greeter bot had experienced an unfortune and unforeseen malfunction, Freddy almost leapt at the chance to offer his assistance.

There’s nothing that quite compares to the surprise and delight he’s met with when guests enter to find The Freddy Fazbear standing there to meet them.

“Hi, Freddy,” a well-dressed lady drawls as she floats past him.

“Welcome back, Ma’am,” he returns in kind, rocking idly on his struts and sweeping an arm out towards the lobby behind him, “Have a pleasant day.”

It’s nice to have this distraction, a constant flow of familiar and unfamiliar faces keeping his processor occupied and away from… other matters.

It has been a… challenging few weeks, convincing himself to stop fretting about you.

You’re an esteemed colleague, after all, and a very capable one at that.

But every now and again, in the downtime between shows or after the metal doors to the Plex rattle shut at the end of a long, noisy day and Freddy is left alone in his recharge station, he can’t quite refrain from pulling up your employee profile in the corner of his HUD and gazing fondly at it for… perhaps a little longer than would be deemed appropriate.

Freddy likes all of the staff. He likes all of the guests too. He’d be a pretty poor face-man for the company if he didn’t endeavour to get along with everybody, after all.

And yet, for the first time in recent memory, Freddy has found himself increasingly dedicating more and more of his CPU power to one particular individual.

He’ll admit, he first came to like you by proxy, through Monty’s gruff but undeniably favourable narrative surrounding you, way back when he joined Freddy, Chica and Roxy for Jazzercise all those weeks ago.

You were good to his bandmate from the get-go.

Freddy’s programming has always left him with a predisposition to ensure the well-being of any human he’s in contact with, and he likes to think he’d be much the same even if it wasn’t hardwired into his every node - that it isn’t just simulated but natural that he’s inclined to care.

He certainly cares about you, that’s for sure.

“Hey! It’s Freddy!”

The bear is tugged once more from his musings by a gaggle of children – all of whom bound over to him with varying squeals of excitement.

He, of course, is only too happy to return their eagerness, bending down on one knee to offer high-fives, a few exceptionally gentle hugs and cheerful greetings to each tiny guest.

They, like the others before them, are quick to move on once they’ve been ushered along by their accompanying adults, unable to resist the lure of those bright, neon lights and the promise of prizes waiting for them deeper inside the Plex.

Again, Freddy doesn’t mind in the least.

Straightening back up to his full height, the bear’s ears perk forwards and his optics slip shut, content to let his processor slip into thoughts of you once more.

He has to wonder – has been wondering more and more of late – how you’re faring on your own, with your leg.

It would be remiss of him to deny the concern that’s sunk its tendrils into his chassis and refuses to budge. Mr Flowers has repeatedly reminded the bear not to fuss so much but…

Is it such a bad thing?

You, after all, demonstrated an alarming lack of self-preservation, both in climbing that ladder without the proper safety equipment and again when you came into work the day after suffering a major workplace accident.

Thousands of little scripts run rapid-fire across Freddy’s processor.

‘Are you behaving responsibly?’

‘Are you in pain? Taking care of yourself?’

And then, more latterly… ‘Do you miss the Plex?’

Well ‘the Plex’ is certainly missing you…

“Good morning, Mister Fazbear.”

Almost automatically at this point, Freddy raises a big, careful paw up to his top hat and catches the brim between his thumb and forefinger, politely lifting it from his head.

“Good morning Miss L/n!” he says with a pleasant hum before swivelling back to the turnstiles.

Yes, he concludes, things just aren’t quite the same around here in your absence. It seems… dimmer, somehow, like the walls themselves don’t hold the same lustre without you in them. He’s only sorry it had taken him as long as it did to finally introduce himself to-…

… Every single thought flitting through the animatronic’s processor comes screeching to a glitched, static halt.

Then, fast enough to send the gears in his neck spinning violently in an effort to match the speed of his motors, the bear wrenches his head towards the lobby, optics flying open to their fullest extent when they land on the back of a familiar figure.

“Y/n!?” he blurts out far too loudly, forgetting to control the output of his speakers.

All at once, his chronometer falls off-kilter, the Plex around him blurs into a mess of colour and abstract shapes, and suddenly, all Freddy can see is you, turning to face him with that stretch to your lips that he’s missed so much - friendly and amused and crooked higher on one side.

"Freddy," you return, politely holding back a laugh.

Of their own accord, the pistons in his legs thrust him into an unsteady march just before the elation and sheer, palpable relief have a chance to short-circuit his systems.

He barely notices that he’s begun to grin, not even when a small warning light tries to alert him that his jaws are under increasing strain as his smile turns into a cheek-bursting beam.

“You’re back!?” he exclaims giddily through a laugh, stampeding towards you at such a rate that your expression begins to falter.

 “Freddy?” you call, then a little more urgently, “Freddy! Woah, hey! Fre-!”

The Glamrock is on top of you before you can get the last word out.

Colossal paws – gentle but effortlessly strong – slip around your waist, and without even slowing his stride, Freddy Fazbear sweeps you clean off your feet.

“Freddy!” you protest shrilly, bracing your hands on his forearms as he belts out a hearty laugh and spins you in a wide, graceful circle, the ears atop his head springing forwards with unabashed delight.

Anyone watching the display would be hard pressed to say which of the two is giddier; Fazbear’s own mascot, or the poor cleaning lady he’s twirling around like an over-enthused child with their doll.

Colours and shapes blear past you in a haze as the animatronic continues swinging you around to complete a second circle, all the while gushing out a veritable slew of words that barely register through your shock.

“It is so wonderful to see you!” he’s announcing to the whole, damn building, “We’ve missed you terribly! Are you well!?” Blessedly for your head, the spinning slows down by a degree and he adds, “You look well. Your leg must be just – Oh! Your leg!”

No sooner does your impromptu flight begin than it comes crashing to a halt, though the room continues to tilt a little as your brain catches up with itself. Only once your vision steadies do you catch your first, proper glimpse of Freddy’s face.

If ever there was a time when an animatronic looked like it might actually be sick, this is it.

Beyond mortified, the bear sets you gently onto safe, solid ground once more, his plastic brows twisted up at the centre of his forehead.

“I am so, so very sorry, my Dear,” he rushes out, his palms still pressed securely around your waist, “I don’t know what came over me! I should have considered -! Are you alright!?”

Dizzy, but no worse for wear, you give your head a quick shake to resettle it, blinking the bear into proper focus and offering him a patient smile.

“No harm done,” you tell him kindly, easing the frantic bot back from the edge of a system reboot, “It’s nice to know I’ve been missed.”

Freddy stares at you, eyebrows still furrowed even as he opens his mouth and a startled laugh bursts from his speakers. In disbelief, he pulls the sides of his jaws up, raising the shiny, plastic apples of his cheeks until his optics are almost squeezed shut. “More than you could possibly know,” he utters softly, and it’s so, damnably genuine that you have to duck your head to break eye contact, your own smile widening to mimic his, try as you might to keep it under control.

“High praise coming from The Freddy Fazbear,” you shoot back, squirming inside your own skin at the unexpected sincerity.

Falling silent, Freddy’s lenses spin quietly as he drinks you in from the top of your head to the hem of your shirt, only stopping once his optics have reached your leg.

The cast is gone, he registers first. And that’s a good sign, he’s sure, a sign of progress, of healing.

Ears waggling eagerly, Freddy opens his mouth, prepared to bombast you with a long tirade of queries when –

“Ahem!”

Suddenly, the rest of the world comes crashing back in on you, and the pair of you recall that you’re not the only two people in the Plex.

Freddy straightens up like a shot as you both spring away from each other like a couple of teenagers caught doing something untoward in the school hallway.

There’s a lady standing at the turnstiles, her lips drawn thinly and a young girl balanced on her hip.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she begins, flicking a glance between you and the animatronic, one of her slender brows cocked. “I was hoping to get a picture of Freddy with Madison?” Knocking her head sideways towards the girl, she adds, “She’s a big fan.”

As your eyes and Freddy’s optics glance at her, the poor kid immediately blanches and buries her face in her mother’s neck.

With a mere whir of his motors, Freddy glides seamlessly back into the very model of congeniality that he’s so famous for.

It’s endearing to witness the Glamrock in his element.

Bowing slightly to be closer to the woman’s height – and by extent her charge’s – he sweeps an enormous paw out in invitation, humming, “It would be my absolute pleasure.”

The woman eyes him carefully for a moment, and you almost think she’s going to reconsider before her shoulders drop and she gives a quick, satisfied nod, then busies herself with coaxing the child out of her arms.

While she’s preoccupied, Freddy tilts his head towards you and catches your eye, his azure optics glimmering prettily under the bright overheads.

“I shall catch up with you later,” he promises, one ear swivelling about to point at you, “Ah, presuming you plan to stay for a while, that is.”

Throwing your thumb up at him, you reply, “I’m not on shift until next week, but I was going stir-crazy at home so, I think I’m gonna stick around for a bit. I’ll see you soon, okay?”

The animatronic’s grin seems to stretch his plastic casing to its limit until you nearly start to worry that he’ll pull a gear loose if he keeps it up.

“Okay,” he confirms with a hearty wave of his arm, beaming from ear to rounded ear.

Returning the gesture, you begin to pivot away from him towards the escalators when he calls after you again, stopping you in your tracks.

“Oh, and Miss L/n, if I may…”

Shooting a curious glance over your shoulder, you catch him peering back at you with a tilt to his head and hooded optics, one eyebrow slanted a little higher than the other up his forehead. It’s a knowing look, almost smug, though you don’t immediately parse its meaning, not until Freddy bobs his chin towards the upper floor and rumbles, “He’s supposed to be down in Parts and Service having some routine maintenance done. I would check there first.”

That’s enough to give you pause, and you raise an incredulous brow at the bear. “Willingly?”

If you didn’t know any better, you’d be tempted to say the look he sends you in return is borderline sly. But that’s impossible.

‘Sly’ and ‘Freddy’ are about as far apart as a shout is from a whisper.

Even so, the animatronic gives one optic a lazy wink and hums, “Voluntarily.”

You’re not an idiot, and neither, apparently, is Freddy.

You both know exactly who he’s talking about.

For all his simulated cluelessness and boy-next-door integrity, Freddy would attest that there are the odd occasions where he can surprise with how much he actually notices. But then, he’d have to actually be in recharge to miss the way you and Montgomery behave when you’re together, like twin moons in the same orbit, constantly circling each other, both just as hesitant to catch up, though one seems far more desperate for the bond to take than its counterpart.

As you send him a faux glower, softened by the lopsided smile pushing at your cheeks, Freddy chuckles warmly and makes a note to track you down again after the last stragglers arrive for the mid-morning show.

If you thought he was happy to see you, just you wait.

You have no idea what’s in store for you down in Parts and Service...

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

There’s a well-established principle in the Plex, one held by both the staff and by the animatronic himself, that Montgomery Gator is not a bot who’s easy to trust. And he, in turn, trusts so rarely that he could count on one hand the number of people he’s willing to rely upon. Hell, he could count on one finger and that number would be the same.

If there was ever anybody he’d want poking around inside his mechanisms, it certainly wouldn’t be any of the engineers or mechanics. It wouldn’t be Flowers, or Devon or even the new hire, Chase, who at this very moment, is bent over Monty’s forearm with a flathead screwdriver clutched inside a thick, rubber glove, face balled up tight as he works to loosen a stubborn screw.

Monty’s expression, by contrast, is as blank as an untouched sheet of paper, and he gazes up at the blindingly bright overheads set into the ceiling of the protective cylinder, his optics dim and bleak behind his glasses.

He doesn’t like this. Doesn’t like that the new hire has been left alone with him inside a sealed tube. Doesn’t like that there’s a boiling-hot mug of coffee perched on the workbench nearby. Doesn’t like how Chase’s palms are sweaty against his plastic casing. 

The gator is keeping his jaws locked together so tightly that his systems have begun to ping at him, warning of the sustained pressure.

He should probably ease it…

What happened with Matthews isn’t going to happen again, he reminds himself starkly. He’s not the same gator as he was when Mick was the one doing repairs. And Chase is just some poor rookie that management have saddled with the task of running diagnostics on the Plex’s most volatile animatronic…

How quickly they forget, he nearly scoffs.

He reckons he ought to be grateful that his CPU is online, at the very least, even if he is starting to feel more ghost than animatronic as the rookie blithely works around him, oblivious to his clenching hands and gritted teeth.

Still, he can only think of one person he’d willingly allow close enough to perform a routine maintenance check, but sadly, said person is on the other side of the city whilst he remains stuck on the inside of a glorified, glass jar, strapped down tight to a gurney and anxious for Chase to hurry up and remove the panel on his plastic arm.

In an attempt to take his processor off the procedure, Monty turns it instead to the birthday party he’ll be hosting in just a couple of hours.

He’s been booked in for a lot of them lately, almost as many as Chica has this month alone….

Monty might be an arrogant bot by his own admission, but he’s not about to do the disservice of pretending that you didn’t have a hand in his much-improved public image.

Blinking his optics up at the wires and hoses dangling from the ceiling, he belatedly wonders if you’d be proud.

Unnoticed by the new hire, Monty’s shoulder struts begin to droop, though it isn’t the prospect of your pride that causes him to wilt. It’s the thought of you at all.

For the umpteenth time, he’s fallen into a trap of his own making. He’s allowed his processor, however briefly, to drift towards thoughts of you.

‘Bad idea,’ a surly voice grunts in his audials, suspiciously reminiscent of a grumpy mechanic he’s acquainted with.

Grumbling to himself, Monty turns his focus outwards once more, thumping his tail absently against the side of the gurney beneath him for no other reason than to keep the appendage busy.

Damn thing has a mind of its own whenever he gets to thinking about you.

“Uhhh.. Is that meant to be happening?”

The hoarse voice of the rookie pulls his swimming CPU to the surface, and he spares a quick glance over to his pre-assigned technician to find him leaning back cautiously, his eyes staring down at Monty’s tail.

With a grimace, the gator diverts power from the motors inside it, and it falls obediently still.

“Don’t worry about it,” he grunts, “Happens sometimes.”

Without missing a beat, Chase draws his brows together and mumbles, more to himself than to the gator, “I’d better take a look at the mechanisms. Reckon I can stop it from moving around so much.”

A sudden snap of leather nearly sends him reeling over backwards as Monty lurches upright on the gurney with a snarl, his wrists snagged by the straps that keep him from lunging too far. “I'd like to see you try,” he growls venomously, straining against his binds.

Almost at once, the engineer’s hands fly up in acquiescence. “Woah, woah! Okay! Sorry, Pal!” he laughs disjointedly, “Just trying to be helpful. If you say ‘no,’ it’s no. I hear you.”

Circuits screaming in alarm, Monty glares hard at the human beside him for a moment before his optics venture down to eyeball the screwdriver still clutched between Chase’s oil-slicked fingers.

Following his stare, the man gives a thoughtful hum, then slowly turns and places the screwdriver very deliberately down on the workbench beside his mug, a move the gator watches with rapt attention.

With his back to the gurney, Chase heaves a quiet sigh, reaching up to rub a hand over the nape of his neck, smoothing down the shaved bristles of hair that have begun a gradient from mousy-brown to grey. “Pushed some kind of boundary there, huh big fella’?” he murmurs, an apology wedged between his words.

Monty blinks, surprised he’d noticed. Little by little, the animatronic eases back down onto the hard, unforgiving surface below him, drawing his lips down over his teeth. “Yeah,” he huffs uncertainly, “Somethin’ like that…”

A curious frown twitches at the man's expression and he aims it into the dark, brown liquid sitting inside his coffee mug, eyes trailing after the steam that rises from it. “You can make decisions for yourself.... Huh.” Turning around, he leans his spine against the table and, to his credit, manages to look the gator in his optic, mouth pulled back in an apologetic wince. “ They told me how advanced your AI is, but…I guess I forgot.”

“Well don’t.” Monty’s voice drips sharp and cold, ringing through the tinny room like a warning. And it is just that. A warning. But it’s also only a warning. If this idiot had any idea that only a month ago, the gator might have done something far worse in response to a threat to what little autonomy he has left, he’d likely put in his two weeks then and there.

Suddenly, Monty pauses, taken aback by his own revelation.

He’d have done something worse…

He didn’t this time though, did he? In fact, there have been a lot of times over these past few weeks where his rage has been difficult to summon. Freddy stealing the spotlight in the shows, Roxy's constant taunts and jabs that all serve to remind him that she has yet to forgive him entirely for lashing out at Chica in his unconscious rage. Even Matthews hasn't been able to get under his casing as much as he usually would, though the gator has been going out of his way to avoid the man altogether, half afraid that he'll give away how perilously close he came to being discovered in your flat.

He's been reminding himself consistently that if he slips up again, he really does have something to lose. And so, he's been making damned sure to keep his snout out of trouble.

Softly, the bot lets out a resigned chuff and sinks his head back onto the gurney.

Your influence, no doubt.

“I-I’ll try to get better,” Chase is stammering over his words, only a little, but enough that the gator’s chest cavity twinges guiltily, “I promise, I only want to do good here.”

Montgomery, however, is too busy staring into space to pay much attention.

Absently, he lowers his optics until they’re pointed right at the place on the end of his nose where, not so long ago, he’d been lucky enough to feel the press of something warmer and more delicate than anything he’s experienced since the day he was brought online.

Before every show and party, Monty has taken to sprucing himself up using the wipes and cloths he borrowed from your cleaning closet down in the maintenance tunnels. For hours, he’s content to sit in his room and polish his casing until he’s gleaming, every tooth, every claw, every inch.

Every inch… save for one.

Rumbling out a resonant hum, the gator fights against the twitch of his lips and simply sighs, releasing a hot blast of air through the vents under his nostrils. He can almost hear your voice in his audials now.

“Cut Chase some slack, Monty,” you’d probably say, “He’s new. Give him a chance.”

Yeah, that sounds like you.

Hell, didn't you give a chance to the Monster of the Plex...?

Peeling his jaws apart to let out another sigh, the gator looks to Chase and catches the nervous indent where he’s gnawing on the inside of his cheek, the twist of his brows and the flash of his throat when he swallows audibly.

And then he recalls what Andy had said to him in his green room, just before he sat the gator down and introduced him to the new guy.

“She trusts you,” he’d uttered sternly, looking Monty square in the optics. Neither of them needed clarification on who ‘she’ might have been. “So I’m gonna trust you to behave yourself while you're in that cylinder with Chase.” Which had been such a shock to hear that he’d immediately run a test to check his audio input was in working order.

“Don’t let us down, Gator.”

Montgomery isn’t easy to trust.

But Andy Flowers… the man who has put more volts through Monty’s frame than any other employee at the Plex, had just handed him an olive branch.

What the Hell was Monty supposed to do other than nod his head dumbly and utter a feeble, ‘I won’t…’

With the memory fresh in his storage banks, he bites his pride on the neck and forces it down to the ground, flicking his optics back over to Chase.

“You’re doin’ fine,” he grunts, watching the human perk up at his words, “Just… stick to regular maintenance today. A’right?”

“Yeah? Yeah!” Chase’s eyes light up as he flashes a lopsided grin, showing off his gap-toothed smile that reminds Monty of those kids who get into scraps in their schoolyard.

“I’ll get right back to it. But, uh…” Hesitantly, the engineer gestures down at Monty’s arm with the end of his screwdriver, “I’m not getting into that hatch with this thing… Dunno how you jammed it so badly, but I’m gonna need a tool kit if I wanna take a look under the hood.”

Figures. It’s never an easy fix…

The pocket of space below the panel in Monty’s arm is usually reserved for vouchers and coupons that he’ll hand out to those who impress him in his golfing challenge. As for how it got dented enough that the panel was wedged immovably shut…

Well… The next time Roxy feels like poking fun at him for ‘daydreaming about his girlfriend’, he’ll have to settle for a verbal rebuttal. Slamming his forearm into her neck and pinning her to the wall wasn’t one of his better ideas. 

Not least because Freddy hadn’t shut up about it for a week…

“Beats me how it happened,” he grumbles evasively, flapping what little he can of his hand at the cylinder door, “G’on. Go ahead. Ain’t like I got any place to be.”

Soft, brown eyes widen gratefully as Chase backs out of the protective chamber, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. “Thanks, Pal. Won’t be long, just sit tight, okay.”

“… I’ll do my best,” Monty retorts flatly, giving his wrists a gentle tug and rattling the straps indicatively. He doesn't bother reminding the man that he's about as far from a 'pal' as he could get.

Chase’s sheepish chuckle echoes around an empty Parts and Services as he dashes out through the red, double doors at the end of the room and disappears from view.

Squeaking on their hinges, the doors swing shut in his wake, and at last, Monty is left alone on a gurney with nobody but himself for company…

“Hmph. Better not take too long,” he gripes to the deserted room.

Left to stew inside his own head, it’s almost inevitable that after just a couple of minutes his thoughts would return to one subject in particular.

He wishes he’d remembered to ask Flowers how your recovery is coming along. But earlier, Andy had caught him off guard with the ‘trust’ comment, and every coherent question he’d meant to posit had promptly fled his processor.

Five weeks… How has it only been five weeks since he last saw you?

Five weeks, three days, eleven hours, twenty-five minutes, and thirty-two seconds…

Thirty-three seconds…

Thirty-

The gator bares his teeth with a snarl of vexation, wrenching his focus from the time ticking away on his HUD.

He’d been naïve in the beginning, convinced himself he’d make it through your absence without much trouble at all. He had, after all, managed to get along just fine before you stepped foot inside his green room.

He was fine. It was all fine.

.. Just fine…

But then you had to come along and spoil him, didn’t you. Yet the thing of it is, there isn’t any part of him that’s willing to resent you for it.

There’s a dopey grin tugging at the silicone of his lips, but by the time he even realises it’s there, his audials are picking up the sound of a mechanical rumble and the shrill, musical ‘ding!’ of an elevator door sliding open behind him.

Great. Someone else come to witness him in this undignified position.

Monty slumps, scowling hard at the ceiling through the purple tint of his sunglasses as a pair of shoes taps closer and closer to the protective cylinder.

Perhaps it’s only Chase, he muses. Stupid human must have gotten turned around in the maintenance tunnels and resorted to using one of the service elevators to find his way back down here.

“What’d’you get lost?” he huffs, hardly bothering to lift his head as a shadow passes by in the corner of his eye, “Took your damn time by the way.”

He’s met with silence, and the padding footsteps draw to a halt right at the door to the cylinder.

Then…

“Sorry, Big Guy. You know I’d have come sooner if I could.”

No... No way.

The gear-wheel in his neck spins frantically as Monty’s head shoots straight off the gurney. He’s almost certain that he’s hearing things, that there’s a feedback loop in his CPU playing an echo of that oh-so familiar voice in his audials.

He has to blink his shutters a few times to be sure, but when they open again, he knows there’s no mistaking his visual feed. Not even a perfect recording could adequately mirror the real thing.

Standing in the entrance to his temporary prison, haloed by the lights of Parts and Service, is a sight more heavenly than any seraphim or celestial body.

Several primary motors kick loudly into gear and the binds holding him down go taut with a ‘twang!’ as he hoists himself further up on the gurney, the corners of his jagged mouth inching higher and higher with every moment that passes him by. “Lady!?” he rasps.

You struggle not to let out an audible sigh of relief at finding him in one piece after all this time.

With a knowing smile, you fold your arms and lean a hip against the side of the entrance, one eyebrow playfully cocked. “You were expecting someone else?”

In that moment, he forgets everything he’d planned to say upon your return. He forgets that he’d meant to remain a cool, collected alligator who would greet you with a wink and a disarming smile, maybe even brandish a gift that would welcome you back without having to say the words he keeps locked safely behind his teeth.

He’s missed you. He’s missed you so much.

The tether that’s been keeping him inextricably bound to you across the vast distance of the city suddenly seems so much shorter, and without taking his sparkling optics off your face, Montgomery begins to pull at his restraints, those designed to keep a three-tonne animatronic tied down without a fuss.

He pays them no mind. They’re nothing. Not obstacles. Not even deterrents. Not when the very person he’s been waiting for for so long is standing right in front of him, just out of reach, and the only thing ricocheting around inside his processor is that he has to get to you. Now.

He’s grinning too widely, and his motors are purring too loudly for him to hear you as your face falls and you push yourself away from the open cylinder door, blurting out, “Wait, wait! Monty just a second, let me get the straps-!”

The reinforced leather squeaks for just a moment against the plastic of his wrists, then with a loud ‘Snap!’ the pieces fly apart, and Monty is suddenly lunging up from the gurney, swinging his legs down and landing on the floor with such a force that the glass windows surrounding him quiver in their frames.

He doesn’t even register that you’ve taken an instinctive step backwards as he barrels towards you like a runaway train. There’s no time for you to get far, of course.

“Lady!” he bellows again through a laugh, his speakers straining at the volume. And in the next instant, the gator is upon you.

You half expect to be hauled off your feet once more, as you had been twenty minutes ago with Freddy.

Instead, you let out a yelp as the gator throws one arm around your back and curls the other up to cup a hand over the back of your head, wrenching you into his rigid torso and trapping you in the space between his arms and his chest.

The air is knocked soundly from your lungs whilst he folds himself over you, a quaking, thundering cage of metal and plastic that clings possessively to its favourite inmate.

“You came back!” he declares unsteadily as he curves his head down to pin his lower jaw against your spine, optics squeezed shut, “You came back.”

Twisting your face sideways to get in a gulp of air, you let out a muffled laugh and pat the seam of his hatch. “Course I came back. I told you, six weeks.”

“S’only been five,” he recounts, not that he’s complaining. Not in the slightest.

“Yeah, well… They let me out early for good behaviour.”

There’s that warmth in your tone, indicative of – fondness – friendship – familiarity – that he’s been craving to hear again, not just from the recordings he’s saved of your voice.

‘Don’t stop.’ He has to choke on the words for fear of speaking them aloud, ‘Keep talking.’

After a few seconds, he notices the brush of your comparatively tiny arms sliding around his broad chest, not quite long enough to meet at the centre of his back, yet more than adequate to let him know that this moment isn’t solely for him.

“So, didn’t miss me too badly then?” you ask from somewhere within the safety of his embrace.

‘No,’ his stubborn pride grumbles, whereas everything else in him seems to howl out a resounding, ‘like you wouldn’t believe.’

“Eh,” he settles on instead, a safe enough middle-ground. At least it makes you laugh. Besides, he’s pretty sure you can read between the lines. After all, he’s still draped around you like a big, green cloak. That much is a little harder to disregard.

It’s with immense reluctance that he eventually loosens the pistons in his brutish arms and allows you to lean back so he can get a good look at you. 

He should probably say something… Something witty, something smart that’ll smooth over the blunder of being caught off guard.

Monty’s jaws part slightly as he gazes down at you, his optics raking over your face and committing this latest instance of you firmly in his memory banks.

“… Hey,” he murmurs lamely.

A flash of teeth, and you’re beaming. At him. And he realises right then and there that every second he’s spent waiting to see you again was entirely worth it.

“Hi,” you retort.

He doesn’t mean for it to happen, but the abrupt thrum of a bellow kicks out of his speakers too quickly for him to mute the feedback.

In turn, you jump under his arms, quirking a brow at the gator’s chest.

It’s all he can do to turn the sound into a gruff cough, ducking under the guise of redundantly clearing his throat as if that alone might cover the mortifying noise he’d just emitted.

It’s only then that his gaze roves southward and his brows scrunch together above his glasses, carelessly showcasing concern as openly as that damnable bear. But he resolves to reprimand himself for that later.

Right now…

“Where’s your crutch?” he demands, darting his optics about to try and find the familiar, grey stick of metal.

“Gave it back to the hospital,” you explain with a shrug, “Physio said I don’t need it anymore, so long as I take it easy.”

Of its own apparent accord, one of Monty’s protocols raises its sleepy head. You’re meant to be ‘taking it easy’ and yet you’re down here in Parts looking for him… The gator’s teeth clench unhappily.

“C’mon,” he promptly decides, placing one of his colossal paws on the small of your back and giving you a gentle nudge, guiding you around the side of the cylinder.

Letting out a bewildered hum, you have little choice except to allow yourself to be steered towards the service elevators at the back of the room. “Um, Monty?” you begin, “Aren’t you supposed to be having maintenance?”

“Forget the maintenance,” he scoffs, shooting you an uncharacteristically warm look, “I just got you back. You’n me have a lot to catch up on. And you’re gonna sit yourself down on my sofa, in my green room, and we’re just gonna talk.” As it ought to be, somewhere safe and quiet, a place he can keep an optic on you. 

“Talk?” you ask dubiously.

“Talk.” Catching the rich hum building in his chest cavity, the gator drags his optics away from you and uses his other arm to scratch at the underside of his neck. “If, uh… F’that’s cool with you, I mean…”

“Honestly?” you sigh.

Monty’s tail stiffens behind him, heavy with apprehension.

His frame nearly collapses out from underneath his weight when your expression brightens and you flash him an easy smile. “That sounds ideal.” Later, you'll broach the topic about going to see your other friends. You've waited a long time to see Music Man, Sunnydrop and Moon after all. But Monty? You owe him this much, at least.

At the base of his frame, he feels the back-and-forth movement of his tail sway in its hinges when the gears unlock, only this time, he doesn’t plan to do a damn thing to stop it. Finally, finally his existence at the Plex is getting back to the way it should be. He can show you how far he’s come, how good he’s been, how many children have drawn pictures of him since you left. His green room isn’t even a mess today, save for a few old scratches on the walls that have since been covered up with crayon colourings of his face. You’ll be pleased.

You’ll be proud.

And nothing, no endos, no unruly customers, no… no ornery alligators… will ever cause you any trouble again. That, he’ll make certain of. A private promise, one he’ll reaffirm with actions, not words. Because you're his friend and he's going to be the best one you could ever possibly need. He’s never been very good at words anyway.

The dull, muted fall of shoes on the concrete floor has Monty snapping his head around over a shoulder strut to aim a heated glare towards the doors at the rear of Parts and Services.

“Great timing,” he grouses, curling his lips, displeased.

The entrance is shoved open without much preamble, and someone muscles their way through, hauling a metal toolbox along under one arm.

Turning to follow Monty’s gaze, you catch a glimpse of the newcomer.

And just like that, the air in your lungs goes stale and dies, and all the moisture in your mouth evaporates like rain off a sun-scorched pavement.

“Alright, Montgomery. Sorry about the wait,” Chase calls, “Let’s get you -…”

Between his first spoken word and the last, the man lifts his eyes from the toolbox to find you and the gator standing side by side near the elevators, though the animatronic is disregarded entirely when he locks you in his sights and jerks to an abrupt and violent stop.

The toolbox slips from his grasp, tumbling to the floor where it lands with a deafening cacophony of noise, spilling hammers, spanners, and various screws across the room like wave of metal crashing against a concrete shore.

Later, you’ll wonder if this is what it feels like to die, with a jolt of fear so vicious that it punches the strength right out of your limbs and steals the sound from the world around you as your head swells with a faint ringing, growing louder and louder with every thump of your jack-hammer heart.

At your side, you barely register Monty’s gruff and muffled voice barking something into your ear, but you can’t bear to look at him, can’t bring yourself to tear your gaze off the nightmare unfolding right in front of you in the form of a man with mild, brown eyes and an expression of horror that mirrors your own.

Numb lips peel apart until there’s just enough space to utter a single, damning word.

“You?”

And just a microsecond later comes his echo, spoken with a hushed reverence that’s still somehow so terribly, awfully potent that it shakes the foundations of your safe little life and brings it all crumbling down on your head.

“You…”

[welcomingdisaster]

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[inkedcerulean]

an alliance in waiting | chapter 3

jacaerys velaryon x fem!frey reader

summary: your courtship continues; you spend some time with jacaerys in the courtyard and the library.

tags: fluff, hurt/comfort, mentions of war & death

general notes: this chapter took a LONG long long time, i know... going forward, i don't expect updates to take as long as i have written most of this fic during my hiatus. hope you enjoy 💗

jace taglist: @hotdhoe @chimmysoftpaws chocotorta2027 @drvcosstuff @emilly-adopted-mcmann @charlottelaffin @suniika @princessofthereach @twilightzone24 @ghizlana @yohanseyebrowmole @fairyjuhak22 @francislovergirl @viserraslawyer @ackerman0-0 @shi-toshi

In the corridor the next morning, Jacaerys reminded you of something. The hallways were long, and each of you were at opposite ends. An image from your childhood flickered through your memory, and so when Jacaerys crossed your path, you tapped him on the shoulder. And of course you could not help your smile. But when you noticed that he did not attempt to follow you, you turned your head and raised your eyebrows.

He stopped and turned towards you, his eyebrows raised. “My lady?”

“You— you will not pass it back?” When he remained silent, you asked, “You’ve never played corridor tag?”

“No,” he said.

“It’s a game I used to play. As a child.”

He nodded. “I… see.”

You flushed and cleared your throat. “Dinner’s waiting.”

The schedule these days was only arduous in the daytime. The wedding arrangements were made in long meetings, but in the evening, Jacaerys dined with you and your family. The same was true tonight.

“Do you have any siblings, Jacaerys?” Thimbus asked. 

You, Marsella, and Gunther looked at him.

He cleared his throat. “I do.”

You looked at Jacaerys, but he did not meet your eyes; he wore a pained expression that your younger siblings did not catch onto. He looked… composed, in a way that spoke to maturity. Soon, your duty would be to take care of your husband as he was. And instinctively, you thought that you ought to reach for his hand or touch his shoulder, but your courage failed you.

Thimbus’ face brightened. “Will we meet them at the wedding?”

“Yes, all of them will be there.” 

His eyes were on his plate as he carefully sliced the duck— which he had requested three days in a row— and remained there. His mannerisms told you all you needed to know. He was not to be touched.

The next day, you saw him sparring with your brother in the courtyard. Your brothers often practiced their swordsmanship here in the training area. You shifted nervously in the corner near a bush. You knew your brother to be mischievous, having learned wit well before you were aware of it, and you did not know how Jace would respond. It was an even dance, but your eyes stayed on Jace’s form, his grip on the sword, and the sway of his hair.

You stepped into the light. “Gunther,” you said, and tilted your head to the right.

Your brother bowed in front of you before taking his leave.

“You are skilled indeed,” you said.

Jacaerys nodded at you and held his sword out with both hands. “Would you…”

“Want to hold it?”

He nodded.

You took the sword from him, trying to copy the way that he held it. It was obvious that he had more practice in this than you, and you could feel your wrist and hand shake from its weight. His hands hovered inches from your own, but when you did not drop it, he backed away from you.

“Now, strike.”

You did so, thrusting it into the air. It felt silly; there was no one in front of you to match your action.

“Your grip is wrong,” Jace said. “Here.” He stood behind you, reaching an arm out to change how you held the sword. He angled your hand lower, and you felt then, a subtle change.

He removed his hand from you.

You tried it again, and now it was less awkward. 

You nodded and handed the sword back to him, which he put back in his sheath.

“Thank you,” you said.

He nodded.

Then, as you crossed the courtyard to go back inside the castle, you tapped him on the forearm.

“We are not in a hallway," he said.

You stopped, turned towards him, and smiled. "A reflex test, then.”

He shifted his stance, tilting his head with a pleased air. “When does it end?”

“It holds you in its grasp for perpetuity, yet it is invisible,” you said.

If it suits you, My Prince.

It was late into the night. The halls of the West Tower were silent, and yet your bedchambers held no interest to you. You were in the library, seated in a tufted chair, a table in front of you to rest your embroidery hoop on. Threads of red and black were the only thing that you were concerned with. The lighting in the room was dim, a fireplace ten feet away from you, which left room for error to sneak into the stitches. But it was only practice.

There was something blocking the light. You frowned and looked up. Jacaerys stood there, a hand on his sword, gesturing to the armchair beside you. You nodded, turning your attention back to your handiwork.

“What are you working on?” he asked, taking a seat.

“Just practicing," you said, thumb pressing against the underside of the cloth. Then, you looked up. “Would you like to try?” you asked, holding the hoop out.

He took it from you and held it in front of himself. You swallowed as he examined the stitches, before he picked the needle up and pierced through the fabric. His fingers, nimble in their movements, stitched the thread from below and above. After about a minute of this, he shook his head and handed the hoop back to you.

“You wield the blade steadier than I.”

You looked at his work. Indeed it was a little messy, but there was some consistency within it.

“The same cannot be said for my swordsmanship.”

Jacaerys met your eyes then, smiling.  “You enjoy the quiet?”

“Immensely.”

Jacaerys looked around the room. The maesters did not do a good job keeping up with the library’s inventory. You loved returning the old and rare books to their shelves, but there were far too many added to keep up with. Haphazard as it was, Jacaerys did not comment on it.

You placed your embroidery on the table when he spoke next.

“There are times when I miss Dragonstone. Being doted upon, and the abundance of people in the Red Keep, it can be hard to find a moment alone.”

You tilted your head to the side. “Well, I would think, as the Prince…”

“That I should expect it. I know.” Jacaerys released a small breath of air and thrummed his fingers on the velvet arm.

“You never find yourself lonesome?”

“What do you mean?”

“As of late,” you began, “Too much solitude does ill to me. Even though I often seek it.”

Jacaerys frowned, which you felt guilty for. 

The candles flushed your cheeks. You were so captivated within your own mind that you hadn’t noticed how untoward this sounded to another person. You did not mean to hand him all of your sorrows, but you could not help in testing it. He was to be the person you spent the rest of your days with.

“I have spoken too much,” you chuckled, shaking your head.

“You may tell me anything you wish.”

He did not need to say more. “I had a close circle of friends once,” you said. Your lips turn into a smile with the barest hint of melancholy. “We spent the days of our youth together, learning… a lady’s way of things.”

“And what became of them?”

“None were hurt. But they left more suddenly than I imagined, for fear of the war. I have not seen them in nearly three years. Crossings can be a lonely place when you’re the only one who stays, while the rest pass through you.”

“I am sorry,” he said,  low and softly. “But,” he continued, his voice more inquisitive. “What if I made a suggestion?”

“What kind of suggestion?”

“The wedding celebration. We could send them an invitation, and I’ll see to it that they are on the list. I am sure that they have heard the news already.”

“That… is an excellent idea,” you said as he nodded at you. “I must confess, I had thought of it before, but I willed it to the back of my mind. It’s a scary thing, seeing someone you once loved after so long.”

“I understand,” Jacaerys said. “When my family went to King’s Landing the night that King Viserys died, I saw my mother’s side of the family after several years, at the feast.”

You looked at him and swallowed. “With Aemond Targaryen?”

He nodded and looked down. “I cannot say that I love him now.”

His face was not in the light now, but you knew what he was thinking, which pained you. You could not imagine losing one of your siblings. The steel created within oneself would be irreversible. Though the Prince composed himself with the diplomacy and composure that the realm spoke of, you now saw what sorrow existed in concert. Grief, from bereavement or otherwise, could be the loneliest thing in the world. 

There was no other choice of what to do next. Love, if it was ever fortunate enough to come to that, needed your own freewill. You leaned forward and reached for his hand. He looked up slowly then, and as he did, the heat of his palm in yours grew. 

“You have a good nature to you, Jacaerys.”

He remained silent at this, parting his lips only slightly.

You widened your eyes. “Was… that not good of me to say?”

“Not at all,” he affirmed.

Jacaerys stood up and brought your hand to his lips. He kissed it, a small ambiguous warmth while you stared at him above you, half his face illuminated by the faint moonlight of the high windows.

“My lady,” he said. And with that, he let go of your hand and walked out of the room.

You looked at your embroidery by your side, while the fireplace crackled, and saw how the stitches looked like the pattern of dragon wings, coarse and scaley.

[tulipscomeinallsortsofcolors]

what is The Goddamn Door?

i worked in store that shall not be named, but rest assured it was understaffed enough that leaving the register was a struggle every time. there were two bathrooms - to the right of entrance there was a hall, and on the left was the customers' bathroom, the right the employees. both of them are clearly labelled so.

both of these bathrooms were locked, with keys that attached to a pair of spatulas to tell them apart, because they weren't interchangeable. if a customer wanted to use the bathroom, they had to ask me for the spatula.

I was new to the world, young. It was my first job working with the public. I foolishly thought this would be a simple task.

"Here's the key! The bathrooms are over there by the entrance"

People come back saying they cant find it, which, okay. I think the hallway is pretty obvious, and has a big sign over it that says restroom and both the doors are labeled but. okay. i go through several variations in this first stage.

"Here's the key! There is a hall on the right, and the door on the left"

"Here's the key. There is a hall to the right of the entrance under a red sign - red, yes, red, not yellow, that is a wet floor sign-"

"If you look over there do you see the red sign on the wall that says restroom well if you follow it-"

but finally i managed to a majority of people to at the very least, arrive at the hall. but then they come back saying the key doesnt work, because they were putting it in the employee bathroom door. which okay. i also struggle to tell my left from my right on a good day. no shame. i get it.

but you see. there is another door. just behind you. and maybe TO ME YOU SEE JUST IN MY PERSONAL OPINION it would make the most sense to try the key in the other door also yes. but no they come back and they tell me. that the key doesnt work.

and when i get the hang enough to get them to the correct bathroom door mostly further unaided, they put the.

listen.

listen.

i'm trying to be so so so zen about this but they put the key in knob and then they trun the knob. but they didnt turn the key first to engage the tumbler.

and im TRYING im trying the radical compassion thing so hard lately but okay okya its fine. its fine it was many years ago

ahem

anyway

they come back. and they tell me the the key does not work. so the spiel at this point, if you have been keeping track (because i have been keeping track because the final variance of this goddamn script has been burned into the backs of my eyelids for all of eternity until the heat death of the universe, probably)

"Here is the key. To the right of the entrance, under a red sign is a hall, and when you enter the hall to your left will be a door with the words "Public Restroom." you have to put the key in the lock and turn it to open the door"

i need you to understand i am not talking about one specific individual who was particularly struggling. this confounding riddle developed over the course of months. every single time i thought i had it down to a science, someone would come back with a new and even more inexplicable variety on conundrum with this DOOOOOOOOR. ITS A DOOOOOOOOR THERE'S BEEN DOORS IN EVERY BUILDING YOU'VE EVER BEEN IN-

hh. okay.

and i'd thing 'one person isnt enough to update the whole thing' but its never ever just one person. its sisyphean. its like theres a troupe of hundred of improv performers whose job day in and day out is to ask themselves "how many different way can we not understand how to PUT A KEY. IN A LOCK. IN A DOOR. to torment this one specific 20yo into madness."

and you'd think that's it right. you see i have no specified what way one ought to turn the key in the lock.

and you see now. you see how the ourobouros devours its tail.

because the final variation is this

"Here is the key, To the right of the entrance, under a red sign is a hall, and when you enter the hall to your left will be a door with the words "Public Restroom." you have to turn the key in the lock to the left, and the knob to the right."

and thats too many directions so no one remembered it.

you do not want to know how much money i would pay to put The Goddamn Door through a woodchipper

[cleo-fox]

As the Clock Strikes Midnight - Part VIII

Series Masterlist Chapter Summary: In which you lie to yourself. Chapter Warnings: Sex, p in v sex, dirty talk, praise kink, wall sex, semi-public sex, library sex, unrealistic refractory periods. Tag List: I don’t have a tag list for this fic, sorry! The best way to hear about updates is to follow me on Tumblr or subscribe to the fic on AO3.

You don’t know what this is and you don’t know how to navigate it. 

Every night from dusk to midnight, you are in his bed. He makes you no promises and you don’t ask him to. You tell yourself that it’s meaningless, harmless, a bit of fun.

You ignore the fact that most sensible people would not define bedding a prince as a harmless bit of fun. Especially not when you’re a servant. Especially not when there’s so much that you could lose.

You ignore the fact that the longer it goes on, the more the meaningless parts start to feel substantive, the more it nudges at something in the center of your chest.

You ignore it all because if you don’t, if you stop and think very carefully about it, that’s when you will realize that you’ve wandered too far down a path that you ought not to have taken in the first place and by that point, it will be too late.

It is getting late and you are trying very hard to keep your eyes open. Your head is resting on Loki’s chest, your ear pressed against his heartbeat. His fingers have been trailing up your spine and into your hair and back down again. It’s soothing and it also gives you chills—a pleasant contradiction, much like Loki himself.

“I must leave tomorrow,” he says suddenly. “I have business on Midgard.”

“Oh,” you say. You’re not really sure how to feel about that. You’re not really sure whether you’re supposed to feel anything about that. Probably not. “How long do you expect to be away?”

He sighs. “Two months, at least. Likely more.”

“Long enough to cause trouble, I imagine,” you say lightly. There is an unexpected lump in your throat, but you’re doing your best to ignore it. There’s no reason there should be a lump in your throat; therefore it does not exist. You repeat this to yourself confidently, like saying it more than once will make it true.

“Well, naturally.” He rolls over, pulling you with him so that you are on your back and pinned beneath him. “I am the god of mischief, after all.”

“I suppose you are.” You recognize that look in his eyes. “And what mischief are you planning now, your highness?”

He hums and presses a kiss against your collarbone. “The usual sort.” He is growing hard against your belly. “I must have you at least once more before I depart on my journey.”

Despite all your complicated and confusing feelings, your body is warming to his touch, that all too familiar aching need stirring in your hips. “Only once?” you say as you open your legs to him.

“I said at least once. Try to pay attention, darling.”

In the end, he has you twice more, though the last one is quicker than you’d like, motivated by the lateness of the hour. He helps you dress and delays you once more at the door with a long and lingering kiss that you will find yourself returning to many times over the next several weeks.

“I really must go,” you murmur against his lips. “I’ll be missed if I’m away much longer.”

“Surely another minute won’t hurt,” he says, lowering his head to nuzzle the place where your neck and shoulder meet.

“I’m afraid you underestimate the power of very nosy kitchen maids.”

“Well, we can’t have that. I shall speak to Fritjof about the staffing.”

You know he’s joking, but there’s still a flicker of fear that runs through you at the sound of Fritjof’s name. “You wouldn’t,” you say, forcing your voice to sound light and unbothered.

He laughs quietly. “You’re right. I avoid speaking to that old bat whenever I can.”

You are used to hiding your true feelings about Fritjof. “He’s particular,” you say.

“He’s abhorrent,” says Loki. “If I were king, he would be the first I’d release from service.”

You can’t help but feel a little relieved by this statement. Sometimes it’s easy to feel like Fritjof’s unpleasantness is all in your head, or even just an overreaction.

You can’t say any of this, though, so you keep your expression neutral and polite. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’m sure you do,” he says, a hint of a laugh evident in his voice. “You’re simply accustomed to being well-mannered about it.”

“I certainly wouldn’t say so if I was.”

He laughs quietly and runs a fingertip along your cheek. “I suppose not.”

There’s a beat of silence and the lateness of the hour strikes you once again. “I really must go,” you say.

“I know.” He looks at you carefully before leaning in to kiss you. It’s soft and gentle, almost tender in a way that makes you want to indulge in silly daydreams.

But the kiss ends, though his hand remains cupped against your cheek as he rests his forehead against yours. “I’ll send for you when I return,” he says.

You want to believe him, but there’s a part of you that’s afraid that this might be the end of your extraordinary little dalliance. Surely his attention will wander elsewhere once he returns. You hastily dismiss the thought and force what you hope is a believable smile.

“Safe travels, highness.”

You’re surprised by how immediately you feel Loki’s absence. 

It’s not just the sex, though you certainly miss that. You miss his company, his dry and sarcastic remarks, the way that his eyes light up when you say something sharp or clever. His smile, his quiet huff of laughter against your shoulder, the way his long fingers curl around yours. The way he listens, the way his brow furrows when he’s deep in thought.

You try very hard not to think about what any of that might mean.

You resume your clandestine trips to the library, but you find it’s hard not to think of Loki in a space that you associate so closely with him: here is a book that you know he likes, there is the chair he prefers. The memory of his kiss burns on your lips, the ghost of his touch seared into your skin like a tattoo.

Deep down, you know what this means, though you won’t admit it just yet. Not even to yourself.

The first few days are difficult, but after a few stumbling missteps, you slowly find your way back into the rhythm you found back before Loki upended your days.

You’re soon reminded, though, that these forbidden trips are not without their risks.

It’s only blind luck that saves you. You are coming back from the library, cutting across the dining hall to save time when you notice the lace on your boot has come undone. You bend down to tie it and it’s only then in the sudden silence that you hear footsteps approaching.

You draw back quickly into the shadows, pressing yourself flat against one of the large stone columns. From this vantage point, you can just see the doorway at the far end of the room.

A figure appears and your heart nearly flies out of your chest.

There in the flickering torchlight is Fritjof. 

You hold your breath as he crosses the room. It might be your imagination, but you would swear he looks more sinister in this light, with his beady eyes and the torchlight casting gloomy shadows across his face.

He’s a little past your column when he pauses, the sharp flare of his nostrils the only sign of life in his eerily still frame. Your heart is pounding so hard that you worry it might somehow give you away, impossible as it seems. He doesn’t know about the library, you tell yourself, willing it to be true. He doesn’t know I’m here.

His gaze sweeps over the room, his eyes squinting against the torchlight. The permanent line between his eyebrows deepens, almost as if he knows something is not quite right.

But finally, after a long moment, he seems to think better of it and continues on his way, footsteps echoing ominously in the large room.

You only let out your held breath when he leaves. You wait until his footsteps fade and then you make yourself count to one hundred before you tiptoe your way back to your room, your heart pounding the whole way.

If you were sensible, you would give up going to the library. You know that.

But with Loki gone, it’s the only thing you have to look forward to, and for that reason, you can’t quite convince yourself to give it up, though you do start taking a different route back.

And agonizingly slowly, those first four weeks pass.

On the first night of the fifth week, it occurs to you that you’re a little over halfway through. Assuming, of course, that it’s only two months and not longer like he thought it could be.

Assuming, of course, that he still wants you when he returns.

You decide that you’re not going to think about either possibility or the little blip of melancholy that creates strange tightness in your chest. It’s nothing. Nothing at all.

On the third night of the fifth week, you hear footsteps in the stacks.

It must be Fritjof.

You try not to panic as you set the book carefully on the shelf, listening intently. There was always part of you that knew that this was too risky to continue, that being discovered was always the inevitable conclusion. He’d nearly caught you once already, why didn’t you think this time would be different?

A voice comes from behind you. “And what business does a kitchen maid have in the palace library?”

There’s about a half second of terror before you realize that the voice is not Fritjof’s. 

It’s Loki’s.

Before you can turn around, strong arms are wrapping around your waist from behind, a broad chest pressing against your back. You relax almost instantly, your fear turning to something that you will later recognize as joy.

“You’re shaking,” he says, pressing a kiss against your neck.

“You frightened me half to death,” you say, your heart beating wildly, half from joy and half from fear. “I thought you were Fritjof.”

“Such grievous attacks on my character already?” he tuts against your neck, though you can feel him smiling. “Any sensible man would be offended by such a comparison.”

“He nearly caught me last week. And you’re much earlier than you said—I didn’t think to expect you.”

He presses a soft kiss against your neck. “Are you disappointed?”

“That depends on how churlish you intend to be,” you say.

He laughs and it only makes you ache for him. He turns you around and before you can get a proper look at him, he’s pulling you flush against him and kissing you deeply.

The restless, yearning ache that you’ve felt in your soul since he left finally stills when his lips touch yours. Kissing Loki feels like coming home—it feels so perfect, so right that it would scare you a little bit if there were room in your heart for any feeling other than joy.

It’s a minute or so later when he finally draws back just a little—only enough to speak. “Did you miss me?” he breathes against your lips.

Happy as you are, your first instinct is to deflect. You can’t be vulnerable. Not yet. “I would ask the same of you,” you say.

Instead of answering you directly, he presses his hips against yours so you can feel the hard length of him already straining at the confines of his trousers. You suck in a breath through your teeth.

“Now give me a proper answer,” he says, his voice dipping into a slight growl that awakens that familiar, aching heat low in your hips.

A shiver snakes up your spine. “Yes,” you say. “Very much.”

His eyes flash and suddenly he’s pressing you back against the shelf and kissing you deeply. Desperately. You arch against him as his hands palm your breasts before dropping to your hips to pull you closer still, close enough that you can’t help but feel the hard press of his cock against you.

He pulls away abruptly, grabbing you by the wrist and leading you deeper into the stacks.

“Where are we going?” There’s a breathy quality to your voice that you hope doesn’t reveal too much.

“You’ll see.”

His destination is a dark, secluded corner near a collection of atlases. Before you can ask more questions, he’s pressing you up against a wall and you realize with a thrill that he intends to have you right here in the library.

“We could be seen,” you say as he hitches up your skirts and hooks your leg up around his waist. But your voice lacks conviction and you can both hear it.

“It’s late and no one ever comes back here.” His hand slips between your thighs, pushing your undergarments aside. “And I need you now.”

It’s a thrilling admission made all the more compelling by his long fingers stroking your slick folds and circling your clit.

“Oh, you did miss me,” he breathes as he slides a finger inside of you. “My poor little kitchen maid, so slick and unsatisfied.”

You are aching and a whimper catches in the back of your throat as he presses the heel of his hand against your clit. You grab his shoulders as a second finger joins the first. “Please, I need—”

“What do you need?” he purrs as he curls his fingers. “Do you need to come before I fuck you into this wall?”

You nod, panting. “Please.”

He chuckles darkly. “Darling, you know that’s not good enough.”

Your clit is throbbing as you tense around his fingers. You’re so close and his time away has left you needy and desperate. “Make me come, Loki. Please.”

His grin is wicked. “Good girl.”

His eyes take on a particular kind of focus that you only ever see when he’s got you hot and bothered and chasing an orgasm. His fingers are fucking into you with a slow precision, the heel of his palm grinding against your throbbing clit, nudging you closer.

“You’re so close,” he says, looking at you hungrily. “I love it when you’re like this, all wild and wanton.” He licks his lips. “You’re going to have to be quiet, though. Can you do that, darling?”

You manage a nod, but barely. The leg that’s not hooked around his waist is trembling.

“I’ve got you, sweet,” he murmurs, his arm firmly squeezing your waist. “Let go. Come for me.”

Your breath is coming in quick, shallow bursts. The instruction to be quiet seemed doable at first, but the feeling that’s cresting inside of you is so much bigger and stronger than you thought. You’re not going to be able to keep quiet.

“Loki,” you gasp in the last few seconds. “I can’t—”

Somehow, he understands your meaning because he covers your mouth with his, muffling your cries as you come hard, your fingernails digging into his back as you shake so hard your leg threatens to give out.

He doesn’t stop kissing you until the last shudder pulses through you.

“Oh, that’s lovely,” he says reverently. “Just lovely.”

“Please—”

You don’t have to say any more. He fumbles with the fastenings on his trousers and frees his cock. There’s no teasing, no delay as he positions himself at your entrance—he wants you too badly to play his usual games, his desire heightened by your weeks apart. He slides into you easily, lifting you fully off the floor as he sheathes himself in you. You whimper and he sighs, mumbling a string of curses under his breath.

“Norns, I missed this,” he murmurs, leaning back in to kiss you.

If you’d planned things properly, you would be back in his room or somewhere private where you could be as loud as you needed to be. This reunion has awoken something primal and hungry in both of you and staying quiet is a struggle. His hips take up a quick pace, driving into you with a speed and force that speaks to the profound need that had brought you to the corner of the library in the first place. He quickly finds the angle that makes you see stars and soon enough, you’re trembling around him.

“You take my cock so well, darling,” he mumbles against your throat, teeth scraping against the tender skin. “So good for me, so tight.”

“I’m so close—”

“I know, lovely, I can feel you.” He presses his forehead against yours, emerald eyes intent. “Come with me,” he grits out.

You keep your eyes locked with his until the force of your orgasm tips your head back against the wall, your eyes fluttering shut as you clench around his cock. He is close behind, gasping out your name as he buries his face in your neck.

It’s a good minute or so before he withdraws, and he seems reluctant to do so. There is something decadent and scandalous about his spend dripping down the inside of your thigh, but you decide you rather like the feeling. It makes you feel like his in a very raw and primal way.

You try not to think about the fact that you have any desire to be his.

He takes your hands in his and a green light spreads over the two of you. When it dissipates, you find yourself in his chambers, in front of his bed.

“You couldn’t have done that earlier?” you ask.

“It requires some concentration and my mind was singularly occupied,” he says. “I can’t imagine that you would have been very pleased had we arrived in separate places.”

He is right, but you don't want to say as much.

“I’d thought that your skill with magic was too great for such silly mistakes,” you say instead.

“I see my absence has not blunted your tongue.”

You smirk. “I hope you didn’t expect it to. I could not bear for you to be disappointed.”

He chuckles. “Not at all.”

He kisses you again and it’s slow and intimate in a way you don’t expect, in a way that warms you from the inside out.

“I’ve quite forgotten what you look like in my bed,” he murmurs against your lips.

“I suppose I could remind you,” you say.

He kisses you once more. “Turn around.”

He undoes the buttons on the back of your dress with achingly slow precision, pressing soft kisses against the back of your neck and all along your shoulders and spine. Your dress and then your shift and undergarments fall to the floor until you are bare before him.

His fingertips lightly trail along your rib cage and under the curve of your breasts. You suck in a shaky breath. You’ve just had him, but you’re already aching for him again.

His thumbs brush against your nipples and a soft moan falls from your lips.

“You can’t possibly need me again so soon,” he says, but you can tell from the rasp in his voice that this is not one-sided in the slightest. “You’re still dripping with my seed.”

You arch your back so that your ass presses against the growing bulge in his trousers. “You speak as though I am the only one with such a need.”

He hums, pressing back against you. “Perhaps you’re not.”

You look over your shoulder. “Well, your highness?”

He laughs low in his throat, one hand sliding between your legs, gently circling your still sensitive clit. “And here I thought you would be too sated for such boldness.”

“Perhaps you’ll have to try harder this time.”

You’re immediately gratified by the feeling of his bare skin at your back and you barely suppress a shiver. Typically if he resorts to magic to remove his clothes, it ends quite enjoyably for you.

“Perhaps I’ll fuck the boldness right out of you,” he says, his voice growing dark in a way that makes the muscles of your cunt ache in anticipation. You bend at the waist, bracing your hands against the edge of the bed to support yourself as he drags his cock along your dripping folds. “You speak sharply now, but we both know that you turn into a whimpering mess the moment you have my cock in your tight and greedy cunt.”

Quite suddenly, he’s at your entrance and pressing into you, his passage eased by the heady combination of your slickness and his come from earlier. Your back arches and you push up on your tiptoes, trying to take him deeper.

You can’t quite help the sigh that escapes your lips, even though it causes him to chuckle because it proves his point. His fingers massage your clit and you shudder, letting out a soft moan.

“Oh, you’ll have to do better than that, darling,” he says. “It’s been weeks since I last heard you scream for me.”

You cast a glance over your shoulder. “Like I said, highness: you’ll just have to try harder.”

His eyes darken in a way that makes you shiver. “You’ve grown bolder in my absence, love.”

You smirk. “Then teach me a lesson.”

Your intention is to goad him into fucking you hard enough to make the ache of these last few weeks disappear. His wide, feral grin makes you think you might have succeeded.

“Well, darling,” he purrs, his hips snapping hard against you in a way that makes your toes curl, “if you insist.”

He slips easily into a brisk pace, his fingers rubbing languorously at your clit. The contrast between the two is enough to make you moan in a way that’s so so wanton it’s almost embarrassing. 

“Yes, I want to hear all of your lovely noises,” he purrs. “Let me hear how much you missed me.”

His slow pace on your clit is still at odds with the way he’s fucking you and it’s driving you absolutely wild. You’re only getting the added stimulation on every other thrust and while it feels good, it’s not helping you get any closer to coming.

You tolerate it for as long as you can stand, but eventually you can’t help but moan. “Please, Loki.”

“Please what, my love?” he asks and you can hear the smirk in his voice.

“More.”

He knows your body well enough at this point that he doesn’t have to ask what you mean—he simply begins massaging your clit in time with the thrust of his cock, making you keen.

“Like that?”

You can only moan in assent and he lets out a low chuckle as he continues with his new pace.

This is what you really needed, you think. His large hand firm on your hips, fingers on your clit, his movements just a little rough, his skin slapping against yours as he drives into you with hard and steady thrusts. You can feel the edge starting to approach, all of your muscles tingling and tensing in anticipation of your release. 

He knows your body well—too well, perhaps—and he recognizes how your muscles tighten and twitch around his cock right before you come undone.

And he stops, withdrawing from you completely. “Not yet,” he says.

The whine you let out is perhaps the most pathetic noise you’ve ever made in your life. “Loki, please.”

He turns you around, silencing your protests with a slow, deep kiss. “I need you closer,” he mumbles against your lips.

You let him guide you down onto the bed. While you like it when he takes you from behind, there’s an intimacy to having him on top of you. You can catalog his expressions, count the flecks of gold in his green eyes. You feel simultaneously as though you are perched on a cliff of great height and peering down, but also warm and safe.

It’s a feeling that you probably ought to interrogate; instead you push it from your mind.

He kisses you as he eases back into you and you wrap your legs around his waist, urging him closer.

He’s slow and gentle with you. You thought you wanted fast and rough, but this…this is an unexpected perfection. You can feel every inch of him stretching and stroking the velvety inner walls of your cunt and every movement is somehow better than the last.

The buildup is slow and unhurried, the opposite of the library, the opposite of how he’d been driving into you mere moments before. He looks deep into your eyes, interrupted only when your lashes or his flutter shut against the rising tides within you both. It’s stirring something in your heart and you find yourself wanting to tell him that you missed this, you missed him, but the words stick in your throat and you suppose that’s probably for the best because these sort of things shouldn’t be spoken aloud when you are a servant who is bedding a prince in secret.

You shouldn’t be thinking about this. Not now. Probably not ever. Instead, you draw your focus to the coil that is slowly winding in the pit of your stomach and roll your hips up to meet his slow thrusts. You pull him down to kiss you, hoping that his focus on taking you to your peak eclipses the fact that there’s far too much feeling in your kiss.

And moments later, your toes curl one last time and you cry out as you completely unravel. He groans deeply and gives two more sharp thrusts before he succumbs to his own bliss.

He gradually slows to a halt, dropping his head to your chest as he catches his breath. You close your eyes, relishing the feel of him on top of you, still pressed inside you, the feel of his sheets on your back. You missed this. You missed him. You—

You shouldn’t continue that thought. You shouldn’t admit to that feeling, even to yourself. It’s stupid. It’s dangerous.

Don’t say it. Don’t think it.

Loki gives a satisfied sigh, breaking you out of your thoughts. “The next time I say I need to be away for weeks at a time, tell me I’m a fool,” he mumbles.

“I’ll tell you you’re a fool regardless of your travel plans,” you say.

His laughter rumbling against your bare skin might be one of the best sounds in the world. “I would expect no less.”

He eases out of you, vanishing the mess and quickly pulling you to his side. You rest your head against his shoulder and wrap your arms around his chest, draping your leg across his stomach for good measure.

“Did it go well?” you say after a moment of quiet. “Your business on Midgard, I mean.”

He sighs. “It was tedious. I’d rather have stayed here.”

You wonder if he means here on Asgard or here in bed with you. You’re not foolish enough to ask, though you are foolish enough to hope.

“I think it sounds exciting,” you say. “I’ve never left Asgard.”

“I’ll take you, someday.”

The promise in those words—and their sheer impossibility—raises a lump in your throat. “I rather think that would be frowned upon,” you say lightly.

“All the more reason for it.” He strokes a hand along your thigh. “And how did you occupy yourself without my stimulating company?”

“Oh, nothing terribly exciting,” you say. “I started reading in the library again.”

“I suppose I have been monopolizing your evenings,” he says, fingers tickling your thigh. “Though I don’t understand why you don’t simply take a book to your quarters.”

You swat at his hand. “You know that’s not permitted.”

He catches your hand, lacing his fingers with yours. “Neither is this, technically.”

“Yes, well.” You clear your throat. “I’d rather not give anyone more reasons to look more closely at my evening activities for that reason.”

“Am I to understand that you prefer my bed to the finest Asgardian literature?”

“That may be your understanding, but that’s not what I said.”

“Well.” He presses a kiss against the top of your head. “I suppose I’ll have to make my bed more tempting, then.”

It’s the sort of offhand comment you write off as a silly flirtation—he doesn’t mean anything by it, surely. It’s entirely forgettable.

Except…the next night, there’s a stack of books for you beside his bed.

“What’s this?” you say, trying to ignore the lump in your throat.

“I told you I intended to make my bed more tempting,” he says.

His eyes are glittering with mischief, but the gesture itself is achingly sweet, one that plucks at your heartstrings and reminds you of all the feelings that you’re pretending you’re not having. He had retrieved the book you’d been reading last night, along with titles by authors you mentioned liking back in the garden so many weeks ago. 

That night, he makes you read aloud from a book of love poems while he buries his face between your thighs, his tongue moving in iambs and dactyls on your clit until you come with poetry and his name on your lips. In the afterglow, you curl up next to him and read while he does the same, until you need each other again. It’s a new part of your routine, one that you’ll repeat many times in the coming days.

It’s there in the hazy paradise between prose and the bliss of his touch that a small, secret voice inside of you begins to admit that as much as you say it’s a harmless bit of fun, the situation has spiraled out of control in the worst possible way:

You’ve fallen in love with him. And you know it’s only a matter of time before he breaks your heart.

Next chapter coming soon

[twistedheartsclub]

A Tall Monster Male X Fem Blind Reader

Content Warnings: psychological horror, sensory disorientation, gaslighting, grief and abandonment, emotional manipulation, surreal imagery, implied violence, dark themes

Inspired by Jane Austen and Frankenstein, though I’ve written something similar before on my Quotev account. Once that version is updated and polished, I’ll add the link to my masterlist.Enjoy… if you dare.

A Short Story

A soft humming could be heard coming from a small room.

“Y/N, darling, I’m almost done with dinner—please, carefully bring yourself here,” a young girl’s mother called, her voice firm but warm, as it echoed through the wooden walls of their cottage.

Soft, delicate hands reached out in front of their body, fingertips brushing against the familiar textures of their home. She moved slow, careful not to bump into anything.

“Mama, I’m coming,” Y/N replied softly, taking small steps through the narrow hallway, each one counted and cautious. Her bare feet tapped gently against the floor, the sound barely louder than her breath.

Just as she neared the dining room, her shoulder caught the edge of a low shelf tucked between the hallway and the main room.

Her father stood abruptly. “You ought to use the cane we made for you, Y/N,” he said. His tone was more tired than angry.

“Papa, I’ve almost learned the whole layout of the house. I’m more than capable,” the young woman replied with a smile, her voice light, soft like worn cotton.

The small family lived in a modest cottage tucked just outside the village gates, surrounded by tall trees and hush. It was quiet here, and her father preferred it that way. The world, he said, was far too wild for a girl like her.

Even now, his voice followed her like a shadow. “Even so, sweetness, you need to be more careful. You must take care of yourself.”

“Yes, Mama,” Y/N replied again, the phrase as natural to her as breathing.

She had always been gentle—soft-spoken, sweet, and curious in a quiet sort of way. Her parents were all she knew. They were the only two who existed in her world, which wasn’t very big, but it was all she had ever known.

Her days were simple. She would wake up with the light, help her mother with the chores to the best of her ability, and then sit on the front porch with her face tilted up toward the warmth of the sun. At least, that’s what her mother said it was.

“It’s the sun that makes you feel warm,” Mama would say as she braided her daughter’s hair or brushed dust off her shoulders.

“What does it look like?” Y/N had asked once.

“Well,” her mother said, “it doesn’t look like much. Just a blur of yellow. Some folk say it’s round, but to me, it’s just a color… far off in the sky.”

“I like the sun,” Y/N had whispered. “I can feel it. It’s like I can see it.”

“Your spoon is in your left, Y/N,” her mother called from the kitchen.

“Thank you, Mama.” She reached to her left, hands searching until her fingers wrapped around the spoon. She dipped it carefully into the bowl of soup her mother had placed before her.

Outside, rain tapped against the windows in a slow, steady rhythm. It was a rainy day—ugly, her mother called it. But Y/N didn’t know the rain the way her parents did. She couldn’t see the gray skies or the way the wind bent the trees. She only knew that when it rained, it was cold, and her sun hid behind what Mama called “a family of angry clouds.”

Slowly she slurped her soup and focused on the warmth pooling in her belly.

“You won’t go into the storm, love, will you?” her mother asked her father.

“I need to, if I’m to catch this week’s supper. But I suppose it can wait until tomorrow. Hopefully, everything’s done hiding by dawn.”

“Father, what is dawn?” Y/N asked, her head tilted toward the sound of his voice.

“It’s when the sun rises,” he said gently. “When the world starts over.”

Later that night, Y/N lay curled under her quilt, the hum of the rain still echoing in her ears. Her fingers tugged gently at the edges of the fabric, not for warmth, but for comfort. There was something hollow inside her that she couldn’t name—an ache that came and went like fog. She didn’t have a word for loneliness. But she felt it. She always had.

She’d heard her parents speak of other people. The villagers. Strangers. Folk with eyes and loud voices. She didn’t understand why they never came to the cottage, or why she was never taken to meet them. A quiet part of her wondered if they were hiding her from the world—or the world from her.

But she never asked. Not out loud.

Two days passed since the rain cleared. The sun had returned, and Y/N sat on the porch again, feeling it melt into her skin. The wind danced softly through her dress, and the world smelled clean—like pine and damp dirt and sky. Her mother had gone into the village with her father to gather supplies for the month.

She knew she wasn’t supposed to leave the porch.

But the pull was gentle… and familiar.

When she was younger, Mama used to take her hand and guide her into the meadow behind the house. There, a patch of wild grass lay thick and warm beneath the sky. Y/N had memorized the steps it took to get there. Forty-three to the edge of the porch. Seventeen more past the old oak. Then, when her cane struck the small, smooth rock—she would know. That was her place.

And so, today, alone, she followed her feet.

When the cane tapped the stone, she smiled and folded her legs beneath her. The breeze swept through the trees, and she tilted her face up, catching the sun like a secret only she could feel.

Then came the sound.

Soft. A crackle of movement from the left. A branch bending under weight. Her head snapped toward the noise.

“…Hello?” she called out, voice uncertain. “Is someone there? M-Make yourself known!”

The wind paused.

Then, from the shadows beneath the trees, a tall figure emerged. Massive. Silent. He stood eight feet tall, limbs thick and awkward with muscle, skin gray and rough like stone. His green eyes flickered with something sharp, then softened.

Franklin did not expect her to stay.

But she did.

She didn’t run. Didn’t scream. Just sat there, hands resting in her lap, her head turned slightly in his direction.

She couldn’t see him.

“H-Hello?” she said again, quieter this time.

He hesitated. Then: “Hello,” he replied. His voice was deep, low like a cave with no end. “I am Franklin.”

She reached forward carefully, and her hand touched the fabric of his pants, just above the knee. He froze.

“Why are you here, Franklin?” she asked gently. “If my father sees you, I don’t know what he’ll do. You should leave.”

Franklin blinked. She wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t even tense. Her voice was calm, like she was speaking to an old friend.

He lowered himself slowly to the grass beside her.

“I… came from hunting,” he said. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I just… saw you here.”

Her brow furrowed. “I didn’t hear a horse.”

“No. I walk.”

She turned her face toward him, and for the first time, Franklin felt the strange weight of her blindness. Not because she was weak—but because she wasn’t. She saw nothing, yet seemed to feel everything.

“Your voice is low,” she said. “But kind.”

His chest tightened. “And your voice is small,” he replied. “But bright.”

She smiled.

He couldn’t stop staring.

“Your voice is small,” he said again, slower this time. “But bright.”

She smiled softly, her fingers grazing the grass beside her. “You speak like my father does when he’s trying not to scare something off.”

Franklin let out a breath through his nose—almost a laugh, almost not. “I suppose I am.”

“You don’t have to be.”

That silence between them deepened, not uncomfortable… just full. Full of things unsaid.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Y/N.”

A pause. Then she added, “Mama says it means hope. Papa says it means nothing at all.”

“And what do you say?”

She tilted her head. “I don’t say much of anything. But I like how it sounds in someone else’s mouth.”

Franklin didn’t know what to do with that feeling. So he said nothing. Just sat there, breathing in her presence.

The wind picked up slightly, brushing the field in waves. Y/N shifted, turning her face back toward the sky. Her fingers pressed lightly to the earth. “The grass is different today.”

Franklin blinked. “Different?”

“Not the same texture as before. The air feels heavier, too. Maybe it’s going to rain again.”

He looked at the cloudless sky and said nothing. But he noticed, for the first time, how much she paid attention. Not with her eyes—but with her skin. Her breath. The way her voice wove through the air like thread through a loom.

“I should go back soon,” she said after a while. “Before they return. Mama would be upset.”

Franklin stood. Slowly. Watching her reach for her cane, steady herself.

“Will you come back?” he asked.

Y/N tilted her face toward him. “Are you going to be here?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll come.”

And that was all it took. A promise exchanged under sun and silence.

That night, Franklin sat by the river. He’d never been good at stillness, but her voice echoed in his mind, soft as moss. He didn’t know what he was doing, not really. All he knew was this: he had been alone for a long time. And now he wasn’t.

Not quite.

He leaned back and looked toward the trees, toward her cottage where a single candlelight glowed behind a window.

He didn’t need to get closer. Not yet. He would wait. He was good at waiting.

But this time, he waited for someone.

And that made all the difference.

The next morning came with birdsong and stillness.

Y/N sat at the edge of her bed, her bare feet brushing the worn wooden floor. Her cane rested against the wall where she always left it, but she didn’t reach for it yet. Instead, she pressed her hand to her chest—right where she thought her heart might be.

There was a feeling there. Not fear. Not exactly excitement. Just… a warmth that stayed even after the sun rose.

She whispered his name under her breath.

“Franklin.”

It felt strange in her mouth, like a secret not meant for sharing. But not an unpleasant one.

She found her way to the field again before noon. The sun was shy that day, tucked behind thin clouds, but she could still feel its warmth seeping through. She followed her steps just as before—forty-three to the porch edge, seventeen past the oak, and then the soft crack of her cane against the small rock.

She sat.

And waited.

The wind picked up, and somewhere in the trees, a branch snapped.

Then came the low rustle of footsteps—careful, but not hidden.

She smiled before he even spoke.

“I knew you’d come,” she said.

Franklin emerged from the trees like a shadow being born into form. He was quieter this time, as though trying to be smaller, gentler. He approached her slowly, and when he sat beside her, the grass shifted under his weight like it remembered him.

“You waited,” he said.

“Of course I did,” she replied simply. “You’re my friend.”

He stared at her, that word still new to him. Friend. Something so light, yet it rooted itself deeply in the center of his chest.

“Have you always lived in the woods?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He hesitated. “Because people don’t want me near.”

Y/N turned toward his voice. “Have you done something to deserve that?”

“…Not lately.”

She smiled. “Then maybe they’re wrong.”

Franklin didn’t know what to say to that. So he let the quiet settle again.

She reached out, and this time, her hand brushed his sleeve. She found his hand without needing help. Her fingers curled around two of his. “You’re warm today.”

“I’m always warm.”

“You feel warmer when you’re near.”

That simple sentence undid something in him.

They sat for hours, trading questions. She asked about the color green. About the shape of a mountain. About what thunder looked like.

He asked what it felt like to see the world through sound. Through memory. Through heart.

Neither had answers that made much sense. But they kept asking anyway.

And when the sun began to lower, and her mother’s voice didn’t call for her yet, Y/N leaned into his shoulder. Just a little. Just enough.

Franklin froze.

But then he let her.

He didn’t touch her back. Didn’t dare. He just sat very still and listened to her breathe.

And for the first time in years, he thought—

I don’t have to be the thing they fear.

Not with her.

It became a pattern. Not spoken, not agreed upon—just known.

Every few days, when the weather allowed and her parents went to the village, Y/N would find her way to the field. And every time, without fail, Franklin would already be there.

Waiting.

He never asked her to hurry. He never complained when she came late. He simply stood when she arrived, that enormous frame casting a shadow she could not see but somehow always felt. And then he would sit beside her, and they would talk.

About everything.

About nothing.

About the world, and about the quiet space between them.

One afternoon, the wind was colder. The kind that signaled summer was stepping back and autumn creeping in. Y/N wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders and sat with her back to the breeze. Her cheeks were pink from the chill, but she didn’t complain.

Franklin watched her closely. She had grown more confident in her movements, bolder in her questions. She asked him once what he looked like, and he’d lied.

He said, “Tall. Plain. A bit strange, maybe.”

She’d smiled. “I don’t mind strange.”

He wanted to ask what she did mind. He wanted to ask what she would do if she did see him—if she knew the shape of his teeth, the length of his limbs, the way his back curved in a way no human spine should.

But he didn’t ask. He didn’t want to know the answer.

Not yet.

“Franklin,” she said, her voice soft, “do you ever get lonely?”

His heart caught in his throat.

“Yes,” he said.

“Me too.”

She leaned into him again, and this time, her hand found his. She held it easily now, without fear, without hesitation.

He looked down at her fingers wrapped around his, and something inside him twisted.

Not pain.

Not joy.

Something older. Something dangerous, but still asleep.

For now.

The sun dipped lower, bleeding gold across the sky neither of them could see.

“I should go soon,” she whispered.

Franklin didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Y/N turned her face up to him. “Are you alright?”

“…Do you ever wish things were different?” he asked.

She thought for a moment. “No. I just wish I understood more.”

“I wish I had met you sooner.”

Her smile was slow. “But you didn’t. You met me now.”

And somehow, that made it worse.

Because now he knew what it felt like to be known, even just a little. Now he knew the sound of her laugh and the softness of her hands and the way her presence stilled the world.

And now, he knew he couldn’t go back.

The wind changed that evening. It swept through the trees not like a song, but like a warning.

Y/N didn’t know the word ominous, but she felt it. It came in the shift of the air, in the quiet way the birds fell silent. Still, she sat in the grass, her back to the trees, the curve of her shoulders relaxed, her palms open to the sky.

Franklin watched her from just beyond the line of the trees. He hadn’t moved yet—not because he was afraid, but because this time, something held him back. Something he couldn’t name. His instincts, long dormant and dulled by her voice and her softness, stirred faintly like old bones under dirt.

She wore a different dress today. Thinner. Light blue, with sleeves too short for the season. The wind lifted the hem just enough to expose her ankles. He stared longer than he meant to.

When he finally stepped into the clearing, she turned her head instantly.

“I felt you,” she said.

He didn’t answer right away. His throat was dry, and there was a kind of heaviness in his chest.

“You always do,” he said at last.

She smiled. “You’re heavier when you’re quiet.”

He sat down beside her, closer than usual. Their shoulders didn’t touch, but the space between them was smaller. Deliberate. He wasn’t sure why. Only that he wanted to be closer. To take up the same air she breathed.

“Tell me about the moon,” she asked suddenly.

Franklin blinked. “The moon?”

“Yes. Mama says it changes shape, like it’s alive. I want to know what it looks like.”

He looked up, squinting through the trees. The moon was a thin silver arc tonight—sharp, almost cruel.

“It’s a hook tonight,” he said. “Like a blade. But sometimes, it’s round. Whole.”

“Is it beautiful?”

“…It’s cold.”

She tilted her head. “But not ugly?”

“No,” he whispered. “Not ugly.”

That night, he didn’t want her to leave.

The thought came suddenly. Sharp. He looked at her as she reached for her cane, brushing grass off her skirt, and something in his chest snapped taut. Like a wire stretched too far.

“I could walk you home,” he said.

“No,” she said gently. “They’ll know.”

“They don’t have to.”

She smiled again, but it didn’t reach her voice this time. “They always know.”

She took a step. Then another. Franklin watched her leave, her hand skimming the tall grass like a farewell. He stayed there until the sky turned black, and only the moonlight made him visible at all.

Then he turned toward the woods.

And followed.

Y/N didn’t know she was being followed. She heard the night sounds—the chirp of crickets, the rustle of trees—but nothing unusual. Nothing out of place.

She reached the porch and found her step. Just as always. She was proud of how well she knew her home. Proud of how little she needed help.

But she did not hear the second set of footsteps. Not once.

Franklin didn’t approach the cottage. Not yet. He watched from the shadows, standing between the trees like one of them. She moved so delicately, her hand finding the door, her breath steady. She didn’t even glance behind her.

She didn’t know how close he was.

She didn’t know that he had memorized the way her shoulders curved when she walked. The way her fingers lingered on the doorknob like she was saying goodbye to the world outside.

He stayed there long after she went inside. Hours passed. But he didn’t move.

He was thinking.

The next time they met, she brought something for him. A scarf. Knitted loosely, uneven stitches, but warm.

“I made it,” she said shyly, holding it out. “I think the colors are brown and green. Mama helped with the yarn.”

Franklin took it, staring down at the soft weave of it. It was a terrible scarf. But it was beautiful.

He wrapped it around his neck like it was armor.

“Thank you,” he said.

“I don’t want you to be cold.”

He wanted to kiss her then. Not for desire. For closeness. For the unbearable ache of not being inside her world completely. Of being outside, watching, waiting, always just barely allowed in.

That night, Franklin stood outside her window.

He didn’t mean to. But he’d walked. And walked. And then he was there.

She was asleep. He could see the curve of her body under the quilt, the way her hand rested near her face. She looked fragile. Breakable.

But not weak.

No, never weak.

He pressed a hand to the glass. The cold seeped into his palm.

Inside, she stirred. Not awake. Just restless. Like she felt him.

His heart beat louder than it should have.

He backed away before he could do something he’d regret.

But not far.

Just far enough.

The next day, she mentioned the wind had sounded different last night.

“Like it was breathing,” she said.

He didn’t respond.

He didn’t lie, either.

She came to the field again. And again. And again. And each time, Franklin was already waiting—closer to the edge, closer to her, his presence growing heavier.

It wasn’t love. He didn’t have the word for what it was. But it lived inside him now, stitched beneath his ribs, a pressure that built each time she turned her face toward him and smiled.

That smile was a weapon. And she didn’t even know it.

“Do you think there’s someone out there like me?” she asked one afternoon, her dress pressed flat by the breeze, her hair half-loose around her shoulders.

“Blind?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “Hidden.”

He didn’t answer.

Her hand found his wrist, light as breath. “You’re quiet today.”

“I’m thinking,” he said.

“About what?”

You, he thought. You in a room with no doors. You in my arms. You not leaving.

Instead, he said, “How the days are getting shorter.”

That night, the dreams returned.

Dreams of her skin. Her voice. Her pulse. Dreams where she let him touch her face, and did not flinch. Where she leaned into his chest and stayed. Where she whispered his name and never left.

He would wake in a sweat, hands aching from how hard he clenched them in sleep. Sometimes he found himself standing near her cottage, not remembering the walk there.

Once, he left something behind—a stone from the river, smooth and dark, left on the edge of her windowsill. She would think it had always been there. She would never know it was his.

She noticed changes, though.

Tiny ones.

Twigs snapped in places they hadn’t before. The field felt warmer even on cool days. Once, she said she smelled pine on his clothes—but Franklin didn’t smell like the forest. He had no scent she could place.

“You’re different lately,” she said.

He looked at her. “Do you like me less?”

“No,” she said. “I just feel like you’re… watching me more.”

He didn’t respond.

Not then.

A week passed.

She came again, sat in the grass like always, but Franklin was not there.

She waited.

An hour.

Two.

She nearly stood to leave when she felt it—that shift in the air. He was behind her.

“Franklin?”

“I’m here.”

His voice was rougher today. He moved slower. He didn’t sit beside her.

He stood.

Close enough to feel his shadow on her skin.

“I missed you,” she said, reaching toward where she thought he’d be. “Are you alright?”

“No,” he said. “I’m not.”

She paused. Her hand hovered in the space between them, unsure.

“What’s wrong?”

“I keep thinking,” he said, “about how easy it would be to take you. Carry you away from here. Keep you where no one else could touch you.”

The air thinned.

She lowered her hand slowly. Her voice stayed soft. “You wouldn’t do that.”

Franklin stepped closer. “No?”

“No,” she whispered. “Because you’re my friend.”

That word again. Friend.

He hated it. He wanted more. And she didn’t understand what more meant.

He knelt beside her, trembling.

“Y/N…”

She turned her face toward him, and her fingers touched his jaw. A rare thing. Her hand on his face.

“You’re warm,” she said.

His breath caught. He closed his eyes. Her skin felt like a prayer.

“You should go,” she said gently. “Something feels strange today.”

“I feel strange.”

“I know.”

She pulled her hand away.

And this time—he let her.

But he didn’t leave.

Not all the way.

That night, he stood outside again. Not by her window. By her door.

He pressed his forehead to the wood.

Inside, he could hear her moving. Laughing, faintly, with her mother. A simple life. Soft and ordinary.

It didn’t belong to him.

But he would make space for himself in it.

One way or another.

It started with the bracelet.

Her mother found it folded beneath Y/N’s pillow, the yarn misshapen, uneven—but not hers. It wasn’t the color she kept in her basket, and she knew her daughter had not learned to knit.

“Where did this come from, sweetness?” her mother asked one evening, brushing Y/N’s hair in long, steady strokes.

“Oh… a friend gave it to me.”

The brush paused.

Her mother’s voice thinned. “A friend?”

“Yes, Mama. He’s kind. He talks about the moon and the trees and the shape of mountains.” Y/N smiled. “He makes the world sound bigger than I thought it was.”

The brush resumed, slower now.

Her mother didn’t ask more. Not then. But that night, she sat beside her husband in the kitchen long after Y/N had gone to bed, staring at the quiet flicker of the lantern.

“She’s been speaking differently,” she said. “There’s something new in her voice.”

Her father nodded slowly. “There’s someone new in her life.”

They didn’t say it out loud, not yet. But the word someone lingered between them like smoke.

They began to watch more closely.

Not obviously. Not cruelly. But Y/N could feel the change.

Mama stayed closer to her side, even inside the house. Papa checked the locks twice before bed. They asked about her walks, her time in the field, her routines. And always—always—there was a tension behind their eyes.

“She’s too sweet,” her father said one night. “Too trusting.”

“She’s growing,” her mother replied. “But it’s happening too fast.”

Y/N noticed the difference in Franklin, too.

He no longer asked soft questions. He answered hers with silence, or strange half-thoughts.

Once, she asked, “What color are your eyes again?”

He paused. “Green. But not the kind that feels safe.”

She didn’t know what that meant.

Another time, she asked, “Do you have a family?”

“I used to,” he said. “They didn’t keep me.”

“Why not?”

He smiled, but there was no joy in it. “I wanted too much.”

Then came the birds.

They stopped singing near the house.

At first, her parents thought it was the season. But even the field grew quiet. Not silent—but still. Wrong.

Her mother found claw marks on the tree beside the garden.

Her father stepped out one morning to find footprints too large, too deep, in the soft earth by the woodpile.

“Something’s coming too close,” he whispered, staring into the trees.

“Or someone already has,” his wife replied.

The final straw came when Y/N said, one afternoon at the table, “Franklin wants to meet you.”

Her mother dropped her spoon.

Her father looked up, eyes sharp.

“What did you say?” he asked.

Y/N hesitated. “He wants to meet you. Properly. He said he’s going to ask… if I can be his.”

The air turned to glass.

“No,” her mother said.

Y/N flinched. “Why?”

“Because,” her father said, “you’re not a thing to be given or taken.”

“But—he’s not bad,” Y/N said quietly. “He listens. He’s gentle.”

Her mother stood up. “He’s not a man, Y/N. He’s something else. I can feel it.”

Y/N’s breath caught. “You don’t know him.”

“No,” her father agreed. “But I know what kind of things live in the woods.”

That night, they barred the door. They took her cane and placed it beside their bed.

Y/N didn’t protest. She simply sat beneath her quilt, quiet, confused. Her hands curled over her stomach. She felt like something had been cut away—but she didn’t know what.

Out in the dark, Franklin stood in the trees, unmoving.

He could feel them watching. He could smell the change.

They were pulling her away.

They were closing the door.

So he began to plan.

Not out of rage.

But out of certainty.

Because she was his before they knew.

And he would take her after they forgot.

They made the decision quietly. No arguments. No panic. Just a shared glance across the table as Y/N poured tea with her careful hands, humming something soft under her breath.

“We leave at first light,” her father said that night, voice barely above a whisper. “Before she wakes.”

Her mother nodded. “We’ll tell her once we’re safe. Once we’re far enough.”

There was no need to say who they were running from.

They didn’t sleep.

The house stayed silent, save for the occasional creak of the old beams, or the wind pushing softly against the windowpanes. Outside, the forest stretched like a sleeping giant, all hush and teeth.

Inside, Y/N dreamed.

She dreamed of hands she couldn’t see, cradling her gently. She dreamed of green eyes that watched without blinking. She dreamed of a voice in her ear, whispering mine like a prayer.

She woke with a start just before dawn.

Her mother was already packing. Her father laced his boots in the corner.

“…Mama?”

Her mother flinched. “Good morning, love. Go ahead and dress quickly.”

“Why?”

“We’re visiting the village today.”

“All three of us?” Y/N asked, slowly sitting up. “We never go together.”

Her father’s voice came next, measured and calm. “We thought it was time. Just for a short while.”

Something in her chest tightened.

“But… Franklin might be waiting.”

Silence.

Then her mother said, too softly, “That’s exactly why we’re going.”

They left before the sun had fully risen. Her father held her hand tighter than usual. Her mother kept glancing over her shoulder, scanning the woods even when nothing moved.

Y/N said nothing more about Franklin.

But inside her, something was breaking.

He would come. And she wouldn’t be there.

She didn’t know what that meant—but it felt like the kind of silence that came before the scream.

Franklin arrived at the field hours later.

The grass was still bent from where she’d last sat. The stone still warm from sun. But she wasn’t there.

She wasn’t anywhere.

He circled the clearing. He walked the path she always took. He crouched and sniffed the air like an animal and—

Gone.

Her scent.

Her warmth.

Gone.

His hands curled into fists.

She had promised.

She had smiled.

He turned toward the trees, his body beginning to tremble. Not from sorrow. Not even from anger.

From resolve.

If they moved her, he would find her.

If they hid her, he would dig until the earth gave her back.

She was his. And no door, no wall, no scream would stop him now.

The walk was longer than she remembered.

Not that she had walked it often—usually her mother guided her gently along the path while her father rode ahead with the cart—but this time, they moved faster. Firmer. No breaks. No talking.

The wind was sharp through the trees, and the birds were gone again.

Y/N held tightly to her father’s arm, her other hand trailing the edge of her shawl. Her mother’s footsteps were quick and light ahead of them, crunching over old leaves and broken twigs.

“Mama,” Y/N said after some time, “where are we going, really?”

“To the village, sweetness,” her mother answered.

“But… why do you sound scared?”

A pause.

“I don’t,” her mother lied.

By the time the rooftops appeared in the distance, her legs ached, and her breath came short. The road was wide now, the woods thinning, and the scent of smoke drifted from chimneys ahead. The sound of people. Boots on cobblestone. Laughter. Life.

Y/N didn’t smile.

Something inside her whispered that they were going away from something she should have stayed with.

She turned her head as if she could see the trees shrinking behind them. “He’ll think I abandoned him,” she said.

Her father’s jaw tensed. “He’ll survive.”

“No,” she said softly. “He won’t.”

The village gates weren’t high, just a pair of carved wood doors often left open during the day. A guard nodded to her father, and they passed through without questions.

And just like that, they were among people again.

Y/N couldn’t see them, but she heard them. Chatter. A child crying. A dog barking in the distance. It was overwhelming—louder than her world had been in years.

She clung to her father’s arm.

“Why is it so loud?” she whispered.

“Because people talk,” her mother said, guiding them off the main road. “And gossip. And lie. Keep your head down, love.”

“I don’t know where my head is,” Y/N said. It was half a joke, but no one laughed.

They were taken to the far side of the village, to a place with stone walls and heavy locks. An old friend of her father’s, someone who owed him a favor, offered the space for safety.

“We’ll stay here a few days,” her mother said as she helped Y/N sit. “Just until things settle down.”

Y/N tilted her face toward the window. “He’s going to look for me.”

Her father turned sharply. “And he won’t find you.”

She frowned. “But… why are we hiding from him? I told you he’s kind. He talks about the stars. He likes when I sing. He’s never hurt me.”

Her voice broke gently on that last line.

Her mother crouched in front of her and took her hands. “There are things he wants that you don’t understand. Things you don’t know how to stop.”

Y/N shook her head. “You’re wrong.”

“You’re a child,” her father said. “And he is not a man.”

That night, Y/N sat awake in the room they gave her, knees curled to her chest beneath a heavy quilt. She didn’t cry. She didn’t sleep. She just listened.

The wind scraped the outside of the walls.

The hearth crackled low.

Somewhere, a dog barked—and then stopped.

At the edge of the woods, Franklin watched the firelight flicker in the distance. The village wasn’t far. The gate was low. The locks were old.

He could smell her.

Not as strong now—blended with people, smoke, other scents—but present. He could still trace her if he closed his eyes and focused.

She was near.

But not near enough.

He pressed one hand to the dirt.

Waited.

Felt.

And began to move.

The village never locked its gates.

It never had to. It was the kind of place that trusted its trees and its silence. People left their doors unlatched, their lanterns burning low into the night. Safety was something they wore like a second skin—until it peeled.

And tonight, something peeled it back.

Y/N sat on the edge of the narrow bed, fingers resting against the wooden frame. Her mother had gone to speak with the man who owned the house. Her father hadn’t said a word in hours.

The room smelled like unfamiliar smoke, like someone else’s past. The wind tapped gently against the glass, and she leaned her head in its direction.

“Franklin,” she whispered. Not a question. Just a sound. A longing.

Outside, the night didn’t answer.

But something was already listening.

It started with a flicker.

The lantern in the hallway dimmed—just a little, as though the flame inside had lost interest in being bright. No one noticed.

Then came the second sound: the faintest click of a back door latch easing open. Not forced. Not broken.

Just opened.

The man who owned the house—the friend—was the first to feel it. A presence behind him. A breath against his spine. He turned to say something, maybe to curse, maybe to shout—

—but no sound came.

The second lantern went out.

Y/N sat still, hands folded neatly in her lap, as her mother returned to the room.

“Nothing to worry about, love,” her mother said, brushing her fingers along Y/N’s cheek. “We’ll be home soon. Just need to stay here a bit longer.”

Y/N nodded. “It’s quiet now.”

Her mother paused. “Yes. It is.”

“Too quiet.”

Her mother’s throat tightened. She looked at the door.

Franklin moved like shadow under skin.

The hallway stretched ahead of him, lit only by the faintest orange ember from a dying fire. His steps made no sound.

He didn’t rush. He didn’t need to.

He knew exactly where she was.

He could smell the curve of her neck, the warmth of her breath, the soft pulse of her confusion.

He pressed one palm to the wall beside her room and leaned in—just for a moment—listening.

Her voice came through, low and gentle.

“Are you angry?”

He blinked.

She was talking to him.

Her mother turned sharply. “What did you say?”

Y/N stood, barefoot, her cane untouched in the corner.

“Franklin’s here,” she said. “I feel it.”

Her mother’s face drained of color.

“Stay behind me,” she whispered. She moved to the door.

But she didn’t reach it.

Because it opened on its own.

Slow. Careful. Almost polite.

And there he stood.

Broad shoulders. Green eyes shining faintly in the dark. Taller than memory. Quieter than breath.

“Hello,” he said.

And Y/N smiled.

“Hello,” he said again.

He stood in the doorway like he’d always belonged there, like it was his house, not borrowed safety. His voice was soft. His body still. But the air changed the moment he stepped inside.

Y/N smiled without hesitation. “Franklin,” she breathed.

Her mother moved in front of her instantly. “Get out.”

Franklin’s eyes didn’t shift to the woman. They stayed on Y/N.

“I missed you,” he said.

Y/N’s smile wavered slightly. “How did you find me?”

“I didn’t lose you,” he answered. “You were taken.”

Her father stepped into view behind them, holding a blade. Not sharp. Just old steel. But Franklin didn’t flinch.

“You don’t belong here,” he said quietly.

Franklin finally looked away from Y/N, just for a second. “Neither do you.”

He stepped forward. Just one step. The floor creaked under his weight.

“Back,” her father warned.

Another step.

Y/N’s voice broke through. “Franklin—what are you doing?”

He turned his eyes on her again, softer this time. Almost tender.

“They lied to you.”

“No,” she said. “They protected me.”

“They made you afraid of me.”

“They were right to.”

The silence cracked.

Franklin’s smile slipped.

And something inside him turned.

Her mother lunged first, grabbing Y/N’s wrist and pulling her backward—but Franklin was faster. His arm swept across the room, not with fury, but with ease, and her mother hit the wall with a sound like broken furniture.

Y/N screamed.

Her father shouted and swung the blade, and for a moment—just a moment—Franklin let himself feel it.

The fear. The fight. The old part of him that remembered being hunted.

He caught the man’s wrist mid-swing. Squeezed.

Bone snapped.

Y/N cried out again, louder this time.

“Stop!” she screamed, reaching out blindly. “Franklin, please!”

And just like that—he did.

He stopped.

Her father collapsed to the floor. Her mother didn’t move.

Franklin stood in the center of the room, breathing hard, eyes locked on Y/N.

His voice was ragged now. Fractured.

“They were going to take you from me.”

“You hurt them.”

“They hurt me first.”

“No,” Y/N whispered. “They didn’t.”

He knelt in front of her slowly, one massive hand rising to brush her cheek.

“You still don’t understand,” he said. “You belong to me.”

Y/N flinched.

It was the smallest thing. The barest twitch of her shoulder.

But he felt it like a slap.

She pulled back. “No,” she whispered.

And for the first time, something broke in him.

Franklin rose, too fast.

His hands shook. His chest heaved.

“You don’t mean that,” he said.

“I do.”

“You love me.”

“I trusted you,” she said, voice trembling. “That’s not the same.”

He stared at her like he didn’t know her. Like she was something ruined.

“You’ll understand soon,” he said.

Y/N backed into the wall. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” he said softly, “you’re coming with me.”

He didn’t wait for her answer.

He stepped forward, gripped her wrist—too tight, not cruel yet, but close. And before she could scream again, he pulled her close to his chest. Lifted her. Carried her like a prize.

Y/N kicked, twisted, her fists pounding uselessly against him. “Franklin, put me down—Papa’s hurt—Mama’s—”

“They’ll live,” he said. “I didn’t kill them.”

The door banged open as they left. She heard shouting behind them. Someone—a villager?—running toward the house.

Too late.

They were already in the trees.

She didn’t know how far he carried her.

She didn’t know how much time passed.

Only that the wind grew colder, and the trees thicker, and the air still. Her body ached from the way he held her, but she said nothing. Her voice had dried in her throat. Her thoughts spun like birds against glass.

She was blind. Alone.

And he was all she had.

That was the part that made her stomach twist—not that she couldn’t escape, but that she might need him now.

When he finally stopped, he set her down in what felt like a cave, or a burrow—stone beneath her, damp and cool. There was something hanging from the ceiling: beads? bones? She didn’t ask.

“I’ll make you food,” he said, almost cheerfully. “You must be hungry.”

She didn’t answer.

He knelt beside her. “Are you scared?”

Still silence.

“Do you hate me now?”

And softly, finally: “I don’t know what I feel.”

That hurt him more than a scream would’ve.

That night, she didn’t sleep.

She pretended to.

She listened to his breathing. The scrape of his claws—yes, claws—against the stone. The rustle of furs he laid over her to keep her warm.

He didn’t touch her.

But she could feel him wanting to.

He was waiting. Holding back. For now.

And she knew—if she ever wanted to escape, it wouldn’t be with force. It would be with understanding. With quiet. With the same tools she always had: her ears, her voice, her softness.

The softness he had mistaken for surrender.

The cave was colder on the second night.

Y/N couldn’t see it, but she felt it—the way the air pressed lower, the way her breath stayed closer to her face. The fire Franklin built gave off more smoke than heat. He moved around her like a restless animal: never far, never still.

She knew he was watching her as she lay curled on the furs.

He didn’t speak.

And neither did she.

Not until she heard the sound—the faint rattle of water dripping nearby. Her ears sharpened to it. A memory stirred: a stream. They had passed one when he carried her here.

And if there was a stream… there was a way out.

The next morning, she smiled.

Just once. Just enough.

He noticed.

“You’re feeling better?” he asked, hopeful.

She nodded. “A little.”

He brought her something warm—a root vegetable, boiled and salted. She ate slowly. Measured. She asked questions again, just like before. About the woods. About his life. About the stars.

He softened under her curiosity.

That was the first crack.

She waited two more days. Then three.

Then—on the fifth day—he left to hunt.

Only for an hour. Maybe two. She knew by the way the cave changed when he wasn’t in it. The air lifted. The silence opened.

And she moved.

She didn’t run.

She walked.

Slowly. Hands stretched. Feet testing the ground before each step. The way her mother taught her.

Toward the drip of water.

Toward the stream.

Toward home.

Her heart pounded with every step, but she kept her breath steady. If she panicked, she’d lose her direction.

She found the stream by sound alone. Fell to her knees beside it. Let the cold water pass over her fingers.

She turned downstream.

And started to follow it.

She didn’t hear him return.

But she felt it.

The earth shifted beneath her. The breeze changed direction. And then—

“Y/N.”

His voice.

Soft. Empty.

She froze.

“I gave you warmth,” he said behind her. “Safety.”

She turned her face toward the sound. “You took me.”

“I kept you.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but then she heard it—

Footsteps.

Closer now.

She ran.

Blindly. Desperately. Her cane was gone, her bearings slipping with every heartbeat, but she ran.

Branches tore at her arms. Roots caught her feet. The sound of the stream was lost behind her, and his voice—

“Come back.”

It wasn’t angry.

It was hurt.

That made it worse.

She didn’t get far.

He caught her by the waist, lifting her off her feet like she weighed nothing. Her breath left her body in a single choked sound.

She didn’t scream.

She just whispered, “Please.”

He carried her back in silence.

Not a word between them.

Not even as he set her down on the cold stone floor of the cave.

“You lied to me,” he said at last, kneeling in front of her.

She couldn’t see his face, but she felt the heat coming off his body. Heard the shake in his breath.

“You smiled. You touched me. And the whole time, you were just… waiting.”

“I wanted to go home.”

“This is your home.”

“No,” she said, her voice breaking. “It’s a prison.”

That was the word that finally made him flinch.

He stared at her, breathing hard. The silence between them was thick and sour.

Then, slowly—he moved closer.

Y/N felt the shift in the air first, then the heat of his presence in front of her. Before she could speak, his hand came up and grabbed her face. Not hard enough to bruise, but firm. Controlling.

“Look at me,” he hissed, even though he knew she couldn’t.

She flinched. Her hands rose instinctively, hovering, unsure where to land. “Franklin—what are you—?”

His grip tightened, and the edge of a sneer crept into his voice. It was the first time he’d sounded less like a man and more like a thing. A creature beneath the skin.

“I gave you everything,” he growled. “And you try to run?”

Her breath caught. “I was scared—”

“I love you,” he snapped, and his other hand tangled in her hair, yanking her head back slightly.

Y/N gasped. Her hands finally found his arms, pushing, slapping, trying—but he was too strong.

“Stop,” she whispered.

He didn’t.

His face was close—too close. His breath hit her skin, hot and uneven. And then—

He kissed her.

Not soft. Not kind. Desperate. Claiming.

Y/N didn’t understand what was happening, only that it felt wrong. Her arms flailed—hands smacking against his chest, his shoulders, her fingers clawing for space she couldn’t see.

“Get off me!” she cried, her voice sharp with fear.

And for a second—just a second—he froze.

Not because she hurt him.

Because she spoke with fire.

He pulled back.

Still crouched over her. Still breathing like he’d run miles. But something in his face cracked. The monster he kept hidden had surfaced—and she had seen it. Not with her eyes. With everything else.

Y/N scrambled back, her hands finding the cave wall behind her. Her chest rose and fell fast. Her lips trembled.

He didn’t touch her again.

He just stared.

“I didn’t mean—” he started, but the words choked in his throat.

“I don’t know what you meant,” she said, voice shaking. “But that wasn’t love.”

The fire in the cave had burned low, casting long, twisted shadows on the stone walls.

Y/N sat curled in one corner, knees pulled to her chest, hands trembling where they gripped the fur beneath her. She didn’t cry. She didn’t speak. She just breathed—slow and careful, like she might shatter if she let it slip.

Across the space, Franklin paced.

Once.

Twice.

Again.

He hadn’t spoken since. Not since she pushed him away. Not since he realized what he had done.

But the silence was loud.

And getting louder.

Finally, he stopped. Turned to face her.

“I can’t let you go,” he said.

Y/N didn’t answer.

“I won’t.”

She lifted her head just slightly. Her voice was barely there. “Then what are you going to do, Franklin?”

He looked down at his hands—those too-large, too-wrong hands. Then back at her.

And smiled.

“I’ll show you.”

Outside the cave, the wind died.

A branch snapped somewhere in the trees.

And something else began moving through the dark.

[peejay-docs]

[1 - Caffeine and Chaos]

A Daredevil x Vigilante!OC series

Trigger warnings: 18+ ; mentions of violence, swear words

Word count: 2.6k

Prompt:

#9 - "Close your eyes, you don't need to see this."

Author's note:

This is my first tumblr post, and official entry for @bellaxgiornata's 4k Follower Celebration Writing Challenge! It has been quite a while–and I mean YEARS–since I last wrote anything close to this. This concept was already in my mind for a while and when I saw the writing challenge, I figured what the hell, let's do it. As mentioned, this is an OC one-shot but feel free to imagine yourself as the OC in this series. This is also my first experience writing action sequences, so please be gentle.

Huge thank you to @sleepyflorian for helping me edit and proof-read my work. I can't thank you enough ❤️

Might also continue this and turn it into a series 👀. Anyway, I hope ya'll enjoy.

Update: It is a now a series. I repeat. It is now a SERIES! I just made a Masterlist, which you can find by clicking on the hyperlink provided, or you can find it in my page. Hope that you'll join me on this journey. Man, i'm excited!

"Hi, what can I get you?" I ask the customer in front of me with a tight-lipped smile, itching to finally get off of work and be rid of the scent of roasted beans that will probably stick with me even after I leave the shop. Before the man in the overcoat could tell me their order, I felt a light tap on my shoulder by a recently hired barista, asking for assistance about the steamer. With no hesitation, I immediately had someone else to take over for me and went to help out the rookie.

As I counted down the minutes until my shift was over, the blend of soft indie music, the gentle hiss of steam, and the clatter of porcelain echoing through the place—mixed with the scent of roasted beans—was already making me sick to my stomach. Again, I continued showing her the ropes and how the steamer worked, making sure she was paying close attention. I took a quick glance at her pinned name tag.

“You got it, Mal?” I asked reassuringly.

She smiled and gave an enthusiastic nod. Watching her, I was suddenly reminded of when I was in her shoes—starting out behind the counter. I began working at the shop two years ago, right after moving to Hell’s Kitchen looking to start anew.

My mentor at the time was harsh with me and would throw insults whenever they could. Sure, I could’ve just punched the daylights out of that person with no problem, but that wouldn't exactly help me achieve the somewhat 'normal' life I wanted for myself. I wished I had been treated the way I treated Mal back when I was just starting–but unfortunately, that wasn't the case. Now that I am assistant manager, I made it a point to be kind and patient with the trainees, not wanting them to feel the way I did back then.

Once again, I was tapped on the shoulder—this time by Kyle, a colleague-turned-friend who started working here about a year ago—signaling that a drink was ready to be handed to a customer. With a long sigh, I smiled at Kyle and made my way to the counter, ready to hand it over to whomever ordered the drink.

"One white chocolate mocha for..." I raised the cup to eye-level, squinting at the name scribbled on the to-go cup. "Froggy?" I said, my voice laced with confusion. Rolling my eyes, I let out a quiet huff. I swear, some of the baristas here write names wrong on purpose just to mess with me.

Just then, a faint laugh echoed from a corner of the shop and I turned toward the sound and spotted a familiar blonde woman grinning widely at a man grimacing—probably her friend. I see them here often, always stopping by for their daily coffee. There were usually three of them and only now did I realize that their other friend—whom I've always thought to be intriguing—was not with them. They’ve certainly come to the café enough to be deemed regulars. I took note of the other one's absence, which I found just now to be more significant than I'd ought it would be.

"I think that's you." The pretty blonde woman teased.

Begrudgingly, the pale-skinned man walked over to collect his drink. Once he was close enough he said "It's Foggy, actually."

“This isn’t one of our finest moments,” you admit. “And probably not our last." I say with threatening eyes directed toward the crew behind me in search of the culprit, only to be met with their collective, muffled laughter.

"Ah, it's alright, I guess." He says lightly. "As long as the coffee’s good, it’s more than enough compensation." He reassures me with a kind smile. "Besides, as much as it kind of pains me to hear my name mispronounced, I can't deny that I'm also curious to see what you guys come up with every time I come here."

I let out a soft chuckle at his comment before he thanked me and left the shop with the blonde woman.

Turning towards Kyle who was making another drink, I caught his eye—and as if he could feel my gaze, he shot me a knowing look, brows raised.

"That's my last one for today." I expressed through a tired breath. He chuckled with a shaking head as I turned and headed toward the back of the shop.

I swiftly untied the knot holding my apron together, and lifted it over my head. Opening my designated locker, I grabbed my backpack and replaced it with the apron I just worn. Then I aimed for the backdoor of the shop, pushing it open. As I was about to step outside, Kyle called out to me and said his goodbye.

After hours of making and serving caffeinated beverages, I was finally free and out walking through the busy streets of Hell's Kitchen, mentally preparing for another night of patrolling. Last night had been smooth, to say the least. I stopped a mugging, two pickpockets, and even retrieved a stolen bike from a teenager who clearly had nothing better to do with his life. It was one of the more peaceful nights around here, but nonetheless, I was glad to be of help—no matter how small the impact might seem.

My apartment was just a few blocks away from the coffee shop, and my main goal at the moment was simple: get home, change into my suit, and stop crime where I could. Even though I trusted the people back at the café, I still kept my suit and gadgets at home, not wanting to risk someone invading my privacy and snooping through my things only to discover that I'm actually a certain vigilante roaming the streets at night.

Occasionally, I’d end up in the papers—usually after stopping a major crime, like the time I prevented a jewellery store robbery.. But I don't do it for the glory or fame. And to be honest, even if I did, I still get nothing out of it, not with my strong conviction to keep my identity a secret.

As I rounded a corner, just a few meters ahead, I spotted five men in jumpsuits cornering a man clutching his bag for dear life, right outside some establishment.

"Ugh, I'm not really dressed appropriately for this." I mutter to myself looking down at my jeans and sneakers, mustering the courage to interrupt them.

"Hey!" I shout toward the group of men. All five of them—and the defenseless man—turn to face me at once. "Leave that man alone."

"This ain't any of your business, missy." The bulkiest of the bunch spoke menacingly, his voice low and threatening. "Get lost."

I sigh in disappointment. "I should've seen that coming." I mutter under my breath. Then, raising my voice again, "Look buddy," Staring straight into him. “I really don't want any trouble, Just please don't hurt the guy."

He laughs at my attempt at bravery, urging his jumpsuited friends to laugh with him. "And what makes you think I will do whatever you tell me to?" He snarls.

"Honestly, I don't.” shifting my weight from one leg to the other.“But I was hoping you would since it would probably be best for all of us." I shrug. “Most especially you.”

"Little lady,"

A chill ran down my spine—and not the good kind—as I heard his nickname that he’s clearly made up for me. He starts walking closer, with each step of his growing heavier and more deliberate.

"Why don't you go on your way and let us finish our business?"

I sigh, "I didn't want to do this." I said while shaking my head in disapproval.

"Do what, exactly?" He smirked, completely unthreatened by my words.

Unfortunately for both of us, my patience doesn’t run very far—so I took it as a challenge.

Without another word, I swing my right leg up, my foot merging with his jaw. He crashes to the ground with a thud, grunting in pain.

His friends glare at me, eyes wide, fists clenched—I could practically see steam flowing out of their ears and noses.

That was my cue to run.

As I sprint down the street, I hear his voice yelling behind me, faint but furious, "Get her!"

With urgency, I passed through the crowd in Hell's Kitchen—doing my best not to bump into anyone—and shouting a quick, genuine "Sorry!” to those I couldn't. The sky was growing darker so the bright green glow of the stoplight up ahead immediately caught my eye. That’s when I quickly conjured up a plan to shake them off.

I pick up speed, ignoring the ache in my legs from all the sprinting. Patrolling at night was one thing—but this? Running away from trouble? That wasn’t my usual style.

Without looking back, I dashed across the crosswalk, dodging people as best I could, Escaping them was proving harder than I thought.

As I neared the other side of the road, the light turned yellow, giving me only just a few seconds to execute my spontaneous plan. I took it as a sign and pushed myself to run faster.

By the time the light turned red, I had already crossed. Behind me, the intersection exploded with the chaotic roar of engines and angry car horns. Still I forced myself to calm down—just enough to steady my breathing. Hands on my knees, I fought through the burning sensation in my legs which were intensifying by the minute.

This was already too much for one night.

And yet... It only reminded me why I do what I do.

I glanced behind me with hopes of finally losing my tail—only to feel that hope evaporate. They were still coming. Determined. Reckless. They darted across the road, dodging cars and buses, ignoring every traffic law in the book.

"Oh, come on." I mutter, breath hitching as I keep sprinting down the sidewalk.. I turn a sharp corner—only to find myself in a dark, dead-end alley.

"Shit." I cursed under my breath.

I spin around, desperate to make a run for it, hoping they still haven't caught up. But the sky has now turned nearly black, and the shadows aren’t doing me any favors.

Then I see them.

They’re just a few meters from me, the bulky one trails close behind, pushing through the group like a tank.

My heart slams against my chest, adrenaline buzzing through every vein.

At this point, there's no way out.

No more running.

I clench my fists, steady my breath, and brace myself.

I have no choice now—I have to fight.

And without my suit, this is going to be a whole new problem.

"Hey boys," a voice called from somewhere above the alley.

All of us—including me—looked up, scanning for the source.

There, standing atop the building behind me, was a dark figure looking over us.

"You can do better than ganging up on a girl." The figure taunted, his low-pitched voice carrying a smug edge.

"Daredevil." I whispered in realization.

It was the vigilante, in the flesh.

He casually leaps off the building, using his baton’s grappling hook to land smoothly a few feet in front of me. He stood tall, planting himself between me and the men, his stance protective—broad shoulders blocking their view of me completely.

"Tell you what," says the man in the red suit, "I'm gonna let you off easy if you just leave her alone. How about that?" He negotiates.

In reaction to what he just said, one of the men laughed mockingly—but his expression hardened in an instant as he lunged forward with a punch towards Daredevil.

The vigilante swiftly dodged to the left, grabbed the assailant's arm then yanked him down to his knee, slamming hard into his gut. The man bent over as he grunted in with a pained grunt.

The men looked at him with anger, ready to retaliate..

"Close your eyes. You don't need to see this." He told me.

I remain standing, now even more unsure of what to do with this situation I put myself in.

Seconds later, he's already in full brawl mode with thuds and grunts echoing through the alley as he took on three at once with surgical precision.

The remaining two—including the bulky one—were eyeing me as they smugly approached, ignoring his group taking a beating from the vigilante.

Big mistake.

As soon as they were close enough, I sprang forward. Then, with one fluid leap I vault off the wall beside me, with my foot landing on one guy's jaw, sending him sprawling. The bulky one lunged at me but I twisted, caught his arm mid-swing and I drove my elbow into his throat. He let out a wet cough and collapsed in a heap.

When I looked up, Daredevil already got two guys on the ground, dealing one last big swing, making his final opponent drop unconscious.He turns to look at me, still in his fighting stance, only for his body to relax the moment he notices how quiet it had gotten and the bodies scattered around me.

"You alright?" He asks in-between breaths.

"Yeah," you exhale, "I'm fine."

"Did you do that?" He asks, nodding towards the unconscious men at my feet.

"I think so," I joked. "I mean, who else could've done that?" I shrugged, aiming to seem casual though I instantly worried it came off arrogant.

But he chuckled anyway.

"I'm sorry.” I quickly added, “I meant to say yes."

His head tilted slightly, as if analyzing me. I couldn't really tell the expression on his face through the mask. But the way he was looking made me little self-conscious.

“How’d you do that?" He asks, curiosity threading in his voice.

Panic flickered in my chest as I scrambled for an answer without giving anything away.

"I -uh," I stammered. "I took some classes." I answered, which was technically true, but probably not in the way he would imagine.

His lips curled into a smirk. "That's some class."

I let out a breath of a laugh in response.

"I better head home." I said, urgency creeping back into my voice. The whole encounter had reminded me—clearly, I still had work to do. Not that I blame him. He was just one person against an endless city of crime.

"Of course." He says as if coming to his senses. "And you'll be okay?" Asking with a softness in his voice, almost sounding like care.

"Yes, and um..." I respond, trailing off. "Thank you."

He dipped his head in a quiet nod, and then raised his grappling hook. My eyes followed his figure as he ascended effortlessly, vanishing onto the rooftops—probably off to save someone's day again.

With determination, I started walking towards my apartment with renewed urgency. My mind drifted off to the possibility of a new threat unfolding while I was still out of my suit. The thought unsettled me.

I need to get home.

And get out there—now.

I jogged along the same path where the goons had chased me earlier, with deja vu settling in with every step. Then my mind trailed off to the man I helped get away from the men in the jumpsuits. I certainly hope he found his way home safely.

As my apartment building came into view, I couldn’t help but feel a little uneasy. I stopped for a moment and turned, scanning the street behind me. People moved about, immersed in their own lives—laughing, talking, rushing in and out of nearby shops. Everything seemed normal.

But I felt it—eyes on me.

Watching.

Studying.

I searched the crowd, narrowing my eyes as I looked at every corner, every shadowed doorway, waiting for something—or someone—to stand out. Nothing did.

After a minute of fruitless searching, I shook my head. Probably just the aftershock of the night’s events. Adrenaline messes with your instincts sometimes.

Still uneasy, I pulled my keys from my bag and pushed open the door to my building, trying to brace myself for whatever the rest of the night had in store.

[autolenaphilia]

The main reason to use Firefox and Linux and other free and open source software is that otherwise the big tech monopolies will fuck you as the customer over in search of profits. They will seek to control how you use their products and sell your data. When a company dominates the market, things can only get worse for ordinary people.

Like take Google Chrome for example, which together with its chromium reskins dominate the web browser market. Google makes a lot of money from ads, and consequently the company hates adblockers. They already are planning to move to manifest V3, which will nerf adblockers significantly. The manifest V3 compatible chrome version of Ublock Orgin is a "Lite" version for a reason. Ublock's Github page has an entire page explaining why the addon works best in Firefox.

And Google as we speak are trying to block adblockers from working on Youtube, If you want to continue blocking Youtube ads, and since Youtube ads make the site unuseable you ought to want that, it makes the most sense to not use a browser controlled by Google.

And there is no reason to think things won't get worse. There is for example nothing stopping Google from kicking adblockers off their add-on stores completely. They do regard it as basically piracy if the youtube pop-ups tell us anything, so updating the Chrome extensions terms of service to ban adblocking is a natural step. And so many people seem to think Chrome is the only browser that exists, so they are not going to switch to alternatives, or if they do, they will switch to another chrominum-based browser.

And again, they are fucking chromium itself for adblockers with Manifest V3, so only Firefox remains as a viable alternative. It's the only alternative to letting Google control the internet.

And Microsoft is the same thing. I posted before about their plans to move Windows increasingly into the cloud. This already exists for corporate customers, as Windows 365. And a version for ordinary users is probably not far off. It might not be the only version of Windows for awhile, the lack of solid internet access for a good part of the Earth's population will prevent it. But you'll probably see cheap very low-spec chromebookesque laptops running Windows for sale soon, that gets around Windows 11's obscene system requirements by their Windows being a cloud-based version.

And more and more of Windows will require Internet access or validation for DRM reasons if nothing else. Subscription fees instead of a one-time license are also likely. It will just be Windows moving in the direction Microsoft Office has already gone.

There is nothing preventing this, because again on the desktop/laptop market Windows is effectively a monopoly, or a duopoly with Apple. So there is no competition preventing Microsoft from exercising control over Windows users in the vein of Apple.

For example, Microsoft making Windows a walled garden by only permitting programs to be installed from the Microsoft Store probably isn't far off. This already exists for Win10 and 11, it's called S-mode. There seem to be more and more laptops being sold with Windows S-mode as the default.

Now it's not the only option, and you can turn it off with some tinkering, but there is really nothing stopping Microsoft from making it the only way of using Windows. And customers will probably accept it, because again the main competition is Apple where the walled garden has been the default for decades.

Customers have already accepted all sorts of bad things from Microsoft, because again Windows is a near-monopoly, and Apple and Google are even worse. That’s why there has been no major negative reaction to how Windows has increasingly spies on its users.

Another thing is how the system requirements for Windows seem to grow almost exponentially with each edition, making still perfectly useable computers unable to run the new edition. And Windows 11 is the worst yet. Like it's hard to get the numbers of how many computers running Win10 can't upgrade to Win11, but it's probably the majority of them, at least 55% or maybe even 75%. This has the effect of Windows users abandoning still perfectly useable hardware and buying new computers, creating more e-waste.

For Windows users, the alternative Windows gives them is to buy a new computer or get another operating system, and inertia pushes them towards buying another computer to keep using Windows. This is good for Windows and the hardware manufacturers selling computers with Windows 11 pre-installed, they get to profit off people buying Windows 11 keys and new computers, while the end-users have to pay, as does the environment. It’s planned obsolescence.

And it doesn’t have to be like that. Linux distros prove that you can have a modern operating system that has far lower hardware requirements. Even the most resource taxing Linux distros, like for example Ubuntu running the Gnome desktop, have far more modest system requirements than modern Windows. And you can always install lightweight Linux Distros that often have very low system requirements. One I have used is Antix. The ballooning Windows system requirements comes across as pure bloat on Microsoft’s part.

Now neither Linux or Firefox are perfect. Free and open source software don’t have a lot of the polish that comes with the proprietary products of major corporations. And being in competition with technology monopolies does have its drawbacks. The lacking website compatibility with Firefox and game compatibility with Linux are two obvious examples.

Yet Firefox and Linux have the capacity to grow, to become better. Being open source helps. Even if Firefox falls, developers can create a fork of it. If a Linux distro is not to your taste, there is usually another one. Whereas Windows and Chrome will only get worse as they will continue to abuse their monopolistic powers over the tech market.