#whispered secrets morbid collections

[oceantornadoo]

Just thinkn here 🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️

Simon is on his way back from the shops, and when he does get home reader is sat on the floor crying over a broken vase or somthing for absolutely no Reason!

so your ask reminded me of this post i saw! which is price x reader and lovely. because of that i’m going to spice it up a little so im not rewriting it lol. this is f!reader

unedited! simon is able to pick up reader but let's be real that man is built like a tank so yes he could pick up anyone.

stalking simon riley is not for the weak.

well, it’s not exactly stalking if he knows you’re doing it.

ghost doesn’t open up easily. you sensed it when you joined the team, having to translate his grunts and small quips over comms into real facts.

infiltrating an eastern european town, combating snow and christmas lights, just for simon to grunt "fuckin' hate this holiday" in your ear.

commenting on how he only wears a certain sweatshirt one base. he shrugged and said "doesn't have those strings", letting you know he hates the bounce of them against his chest.

you collect these bits like puzzle pieces, building the image that is simon riley. but it's never enough, it doesn't quell this ache in your chest to know your fellow lieutenant. so tonight, you've decided to knock on his door under the guise of checking in after a nasty hit he took from you last mission.

"hi, ghost." he opens the door a crack, scanning you up and down. you take in his medical mask and the remnants of eyeblack surrounding his eyes. it's a casual look on a man you've never seen be casual. "bird." he says, his nickname for you murmured like a secret. "i wanted to check on you after last mission. haven't really seen you around base." he opens the door further, a surprising change of events. you step in cautiously, checking your surroundings like some hostile is going to jump out of his closet. ghost chuckles gruffly at your actions and you relax at the sound, shoulders dropping easily. you toe off your boots silently, then move further in.

ghost plops down on his bed, patting the space beside him. you (and soap) are the only people he lets close to him, but even with that, you've never sat on his bed. "it was your shoulder, right?" he nods, tapping the shoulder closest to you. "nothin' torn to flutter over, bird. jus' sore." you roll your eyes, leaning back on the bed so you can see the back of him. the massive breadth of his shoulders almost blocks the fading sunlight from your vision. you prod at the sore muscle, noticing how he tenses before letting his shoulders fall back down.

"does this hurt?" you ask, almost a whisper. he grunts out a 'no' but lets you continue to poke it this way and that, finding where it hurts the most. the pain seems to be minimal, but ghost feels like the type of soldier to hide a gunshot wound until he fainted from blood loss. "you should go to PT." you press your palm into the meat of him and you can't even pretend it's for medical reasons when truly, you have a morbid curiosity to know the limits of his body. ghost hisses and you jolt back like you've been burned. "i'm sorry, i'm sorry!" he shakes his head, one heavy paw clamping down on your thigh as it kicks out in shock. "'s fine, birdie." when you move forward, his hand stays, anchoring you to the mattress. it's gloved but the heat of it is searing through your fatigues. "maybe you should grab an ice pack for tonight." he squeezes your thigh before returning his hand to his lap like it was never there. suddenly, your body is wracked with chills.

"back soon, then." ghost stands up from the bed, the mattress creaking with effort. he's...leaving? "so i'll see you in the morning?" you make to get up but he shoots you a look, locking you in place. "said i'll be back. you can stay." he moves to the dresser and you watch him peel his mask off, exchanging it for a simple baclava. you've seen his face before but take the time to examine the back of his head. his haircut is choppy, like he did it himself. the image is gone a second later when black fabric encases the rest of his head, hiding his face from view. he leaves with a head nod, favoring his other shoulder to open the door. the moment he leaves, your spring up in fervor.

you start with his desk. ignoring the paperwork and private journals, you look at the few items sprinkled throughout. extra masks, pens for work, a few books on military strategy. no photos of family or friends outside of the military, but one of the task force from a few months after you joined. it was the first time ghost had ever touched you on purpose, his hand around your waist as the five of you smiled at the camera. soap is grinning, gaz looks like he's seducing the person behind the photo, price's smile is hidden by his beard, and you're squealing like a kid while ghost squeezes your waist. his mask is on, of course, but you delude yourself into spotting smile lines around his eyes.

you move on to his windowsill. surprisingly, there's a very dead succulent that was clearly never watered after being gifted. next to it is a small vase, completely out of place with the rest of the barebones room. it only has enough space for a singular flower but sits empty next to the dead plant. you reach out to trace the beautiful blue pattern but with one unsure flick of your thumb, it falls to the ground with a small crash. you freeze.

shards of porcelain surround your socked feet. tears well in your eyes as you think about how disappointed ghost will be. your hands cover your mouth like a bad mime, shock etched clearly on your face. of course, that's when ghost decides to return.

"snagged the last cake slice from mess, figured you'd want- oh." he stands at the door entrance with an ice pack in one hand and a plate of cake in the other. the sweetness of it hits you in the gut and the tears that were already forming fall hard down your cheeks. "i'm sorry, i'm so sorry, simon. it was so fast and i didn't mean to wreck it." you sniffle out, wiping fiercely at the tears sliding down your face. he sets the cake slice down on the bed, then nears the scene of disaster. "can ya jump?" he asks, standing at the edge of the broken pieces with his arms open. you gulp, then nod. it's a small leap but he catches you easily, awkwardly pressing you to his chest as your legs scramble for purchase. his hands shift downwards and you get the memo, wrapping your arms around his neck as his own hike your legs around his waist. he walks the two of you over to the desk, plopping you down unceremoniously. your legs drop from his waist, but he still stands in between them, letting your feet brush his calves.

"you hurt?" you shake your head 'no', swiping at the remaining tears on your face. "i'm sorry again, simon, i really am." instead of answering, he pulls off his mask and tosses it on the table. he doesn't look mad, per say, but there's conflict in his eyes. you mumble out another apology and train your eyes on his legs instead of his face.

a gloved hand reaches out and tilts your chin up to meet his eyes. "was jus' a stupid vase, bird. nothin' special." you hiccup, unsure. "are you- are you sure? i'll pay you back, i promise." his thumb strokes the soft skin of your lips, a relaxing rhythm back and forth. "saw it in a flea market after my first mission." you frown at how sentimental it was. "that means it was special." he shakes his head. "got somethin' more special an' harder to break." you don't know how to reply to that. he presses down on your lip until his thumb meets your teeth. it's terribly intimate. instead of ending the conversation there, you ask a question, always needing to no more about him.

"like what?" you whisper. he grunts, thumb swiping against your teeth before pulling back to cup your cheek. "this bird who breaks my shit, 'pparently." you bark out a laugh, then stop when you realize he means it. "really?" he nods. you wrap your legs around the back of his, tugging him in closer. "i am really sorry, though. maybe we could buy a new one or-"

he cuts you off with a kiss. it's gentler than you thought he would kiss. there's a scar running through his lip and you love the feel of it, biting his bottom lip playfully as you pull him in closer. "such a magpie, goin' through my shit." he murmurs, breaking the kiss just to give you another one. "simon." you respond, whispering his name like a promise. your hands find purchase in his hair, nails digging into his scalp. he rips away with a low moan and you whine at the loss. "need to clean this up 'fore someone gets hurt." you lurch to slip off the desk but strong hands keep you there, his eyes scrunched in a glare. "one of us is wearin' shoes, birdie." you glance down and sure enough, your socks are already covered in porcelain flakes. skeleton hands tug them off, fingers caressing the delicate bones in your foot reverently before pulling away.

"stay here." you nod, feeling childish with your mistake. he can sense it, always does, so he leans in to peck your forehead. "stay put. no touchin', magpie." you grin. he shakes his head, a small smile on his face. "you don't mind cleaning up my mess?" you ask. he snorts, caressing your chin before pulling away.

"i'll always clean your messes, birdie."

[batsycline69]

What Remains in Wayne Manor

Summary: To make ends meet, you start to give tours at the historic Wayne Manor. Around that time, you start having strange dreams that lead you to a Gotham urban legend.

Pairing: vampire!Bruce Wayne x reader

Words: 15.2k (lmao)

Content/warnings: manipulation, blood/bloodsucking, hunter/prey dynamic, toxic relationship, bruce wayne as a graying at the temples vampire, major character death, major character undeath, not related to DC vs Vampires

intro + playlist

For over a century, Gotham whispered of a shadowy protector. Rumor tinted blood-red by folklore and superstition. Most haven’t seen him. The ones who claim they have usually get written off as conspiracy theorists.

You know better.

Before Wayne Manor, you dreamed of that night. The terror in the voices of your would-be attackers ringing in your ears as you woke.

Even in the horror of your dreams, you found comfort. Something horrible watching over you is better than nothing at all, you’d managed to content yourself with thinking. You needed something better—evidence that you saw what you did. You looked for Batman in the people who claimed they saw him, in the morbid visitors making a pit stop at Wayne Manor on their way to look for Gotham's vampire.

Maybe that’s how you ended up in your car. You woke from your dream with your start, mind fixed to Batman’s gloves dripping with blood. You tried to remember as the city shrank in your rear view mirror, but it was a blur.

You should run away, quit your job and content yourself to never step foot in Wayne Manor again.

You should.

Instead, you wander through the musty hall into the closed-off west wing—it’s always been closed off, hasn’t it? you think to yourself—fingertips collecting dust along the wainscoting. Maybe you’d fallen asleep again after all. Maybe this was another dream. You figure you must be once you find yourself in a room you recognize.

Books with spines too dusty to read stretch up the length of the wall. Furniture draped in white, dust piled heavy on the sheet. A large desk at the top of the room. The sort of room you would imagine an earnest man pacing up and down. Wide windows with shattered glass glittering beneath—you suspect the willow stretching up to the room to be the culprit. Cobwebs in the great fireplace obscure where warm fires once roared. Above the mantle, a portrait you recognize.

Martha stares down at you. Her gentle smile feels too aware. You came into her home outside your usual terms. Stepped through the veil that kept you separate all this time. You’ve broken your rules, and who’s to say what would happen now that you share a secret with her.

The painting is the one pristine thing in the room you realize with another quick pass about the room. That, and your incriminating footprints in the dust are the only signs of life. Every other ornate frame and marble bust are obscured by grime tucked into each curve. The Wayne Family portrait remains so well-maintained you can see the brushstrokes in the moonlight.

Your gaze falls to the boy. He looks exactly as he had in your dream, so far from stern the stern Bruce Wayne portraits on your tour route. The eyes preserved in oil paint had yet to see his parents’ death.

“I hated that tie.” A voice cuts through the wind rustling through cracked panes of glass. “My father had to remind me not to fuss with it.”

Every piece of furniture was covered with a sheet when you walked in—of that you are certain. Yet now a long camelback sofa has been revealed in front of you, a beautiful carved wooden arch on the back. And on the couch sits a man a near mirror of the late Bruce Wayne.

His eyes are are such a pale blue, they nearly look silver. The sort that look as though they can see everything. Save for the thick, dark hair combed neatly on his head, he's ghostly. His skin is white as a sheet as if he hadn’t seen the sun in weeks; from the dark circles beneath your eyes, you would guess it had been as long since he slept. Even then, he's beautiful. His crooked nose, cleft chin, and sharp cheekbones, he looked as if he could be a dazzling movie star. His long, thin lips tug into a smirk that sets you on edge. Like Martha on the wall, you share a secret with this man, and you’re not sure you want to.

One wide leg crosses over the other as he leans into the arm of the couch. His thick fingers rest beneath his jaw as he regards you. Motes of dust catch in the moonlight before him—thick from the disrupted cover—and make him look magic.

His gaze is ice driven through your skin. Puncturing, burrowing, spreading. He watches you as a member of an audience would watch an actor as the curtain rises.

You don’t move, so he does.

He’s tall, and looks even bigger standing than he did as he sat. Broad shoulders, sturdy arms covered by a worn but well-made sweater. Thick wool fibers knitted into cables, though the collar was frayed, ladders of stitches beginning to loosen.

How had he managed to sneak into the room without you noticing? Wouldn’t you have seen someone in the room as you looked around?

He takes a single step toward you. Two sheeted chairs and a large covered coffee table stand between you. They offer you no comfort.

“My name is Bruce Wayne,” he says as if this were a normal introduction. As if he’s not claiming to be a long dead scion.

You don’t introduce yourself. Fright freezes your body, glues your tongue to the roof of your mouth. He doesn’t wait for you to catch up. “We had only just gotten the portrait and hung it up when they were killed. Alfred hung it up while my mother held me at a distance so I wouldn’t get in the way.”

Alfred Pennyworth. You know the name through work. Even without a portrait of him hanging on the wall in the gallery you show guests, you try to imagine him perched atop a ladder to place the painting on the wall. You imagine a young boy eager with the excitement of something happening, eventually growing disinterested as his parents remarked on composition and lighting.

You shouldn’t believe him, but you do. You’re not sure why. It feels almost out of your control. What other choice is there than to believe this man is Bruce Wayne?

“You were so afraid the first night I saw you. It reminded me…” He trails off. Despite your curiosity, you’re still immobilized by your shock. You still hadn’t gained the ability to utter a word.

“I’ve grown...attached. Even unconsciously, I’ve been reaching out to you,” he says, finally noticing your silence. You’re not sure if it’s your surprise or his words, but you don’t understand. “You see what I want you to see. Or what I’m thinking of. You’re here because I wanted you to be.”

You blink, trying to remind yourself you have a body and vocal chords. “No,” finally you say. “I’ve been having dreams.”

“You saw the entrance to the cave,” he says.

The will to feign ignorance evades you. You’re not even sure if you’re talking about the same cave, but there is no question in his voice. Obediently, you nod. “Yes.”

Does Bruce Wayne know Batman is in his basement?

“You saw my mother the night she was murdered.”

This time, you hesitate, not because you want to withhold, but because you aren’t sure. You saw Martha tonight—seemingly in pain—but you weren’t be sure she was dying. Only that she needed help. You tried to help her.

Swallowing hard, you nod again.

“You’ve been having these dreams for close to three years now, haven’t you? Since the night you ran into that alley.”

All that’s left to do in your reticence is nod again, the rest of your body feeling utterly useless. The pacing of your heart continues to grow. He recognizes you, but apart from the paintings you’ve seen, you don’t recognize him. He can’t be one of the men from that night.

You think of the cave somewhere below your feet. Think of the blood in the stone. Think of the masked man who had appeared so suddenly behind you—whose face you still saw as you woke—filling you with dread in the place that warped comfort once resided.

Bruce notices your spiral. His long legs take him too close for comfort. You stumble away, but he carries on gracefully past you. You wonder if you should make a run for it. Would you be able to outrun him? Would he even try to stop you, or would he allow you to go freely?

A loud scraping noise overtakes your thoughts. You nearly jump out of your skin as the ground rumbles beneath you. Bruce observes the stone fireplace as it falls further into the wall. A dark passage emerges in its place.

You’ve seen the entrance to the cave. Yes, this you’ve seen, though you’d hoped such a thing only existed in the fancifulness of dreams. Now you’re one step closer to seeing what lurks beneath the manor. Despite your admiration for the Batman, you’ve never envied the fact you hadn’t seen him up close that evening. Only the swoop of his cape. The points of his cowl.

“Follow me,” he says, voice cool as the breeze.

Your feet move of their own accord, following Bruce into the dark stairwell until he pauses at a familiar elevator. The iron gate screeches as he pulls it open.

He waits for you to walk in first. You don’t want to but find yourself moving regardless.

The elevator rocks down the shaft, metal sparking now and again on the way. In the pockets of your coat, you dig your fingernails into your hands. Each shriek rattles in your skull. Breath catches in your lungs as if the act of breathing could send the whole thing crashing. As you wait to plummet to your death, you hardly have time to worry about the strange man next to you.

The cart stills. You breathe yet again. Through the crosses in the gate, you strain your eyes in search of blood puddles. You make out nothing but candlelight flickering across stone floors and cavern walls.

Bruce doesn’t move after he pulls the gate open. A moment passes before you realize he’s waiting for you to step out first. As you do, you can take in the whole of the cave, this time in reality. No blood. No Batman.

You flinch as something moves above you. Bruce’s low chuckle rumbles as he walks past. Bat wings flap over you in a great retreat from the noise.

“The city is getting unsafe. I want you here,” he says, pulling your attention.

Without hesitation, you begin to shake your head. The absurdity of your situation suddenly dawns on you. This man has lured you into an expansive cave. He claims to be a man who drank himself to death almost a century ago. He wants you to stay in the ruins of a manor he claims as his own.

You would be running to the elevator if your legs didn’t still feel like jelly from the ride.

Without a response, he gives an unimpressed grunt. He doesn’t check if you’re following him. Only once a seemingly safe distance stands between the two of you do you begin to trail behind. The light of candelabras highlights rows of bookshelves, the same as in the study. Unlike the study, however, you realize these are notebooks, dates penned carefully along the spines.

The rugged tables around are littered with papers. Books stacked high, microscopes and vials. You try to imagine how long this must have taken to put together. The collection of materials you see alone had to have taken decades.

“You say you’re Bruce Wayne, but Bruce Wayne died 95 years ago,” you say. You don’t feel bold enough to make an accusation out loud; every possibility crossing your mind sounds impossible even by Gotham City’s standards.

Bruce continues ahead in silence.

“Are you supposed to be some kind of...ghost?” You want to flinch from your diffidence.

A wry smirk grows on Bruce’s handsome face. “Not quite,” he replies. “What do you remember of that night?”

There’s no need to question what night he means. You remember your part. And though you mean to keep it to yourself, the words slip out as you recall.

Racing from your pursuers in the dark of the alley. Cold wind whipping past your face. The icy ground below your feet—icy like the eyes of the man in front of you. Laughter dying as the light of the moon disappeared.

“Did you know it was me?”

An oppressive grip seems to take hold of you. Something cold and suffocating. The same feeling you’d gotten as you stepped into the elevator.

“Yes,” you respond, the line between Bruce Wayne and Batman becoming clearer in your mind.

“I believe my...concerns for you are what caused you to have these dreams,” he says, choosing each word carefully.

You make a poor attempt at a laugh. The fear lingering in your chest chokes it out, turns it to a pitiful wheeze.

Nothing seems to break you from him. You used to dream of coming here—to understand Batman; to bind you to Gotham as you seemed to drift further away. Now you realize your mistake. You would content yourself to facing the city alone if it meant you’d live to see the sun again.

He makes one last glacial pass over you before he continues to walk again. You hold yourself tightly, feeling yourself walking into a trap but not having the will to step out. You can’t help but think of him as a predator. Agile. Decided. You haven’t seen him truly falter this entire counter. Hesitation, yes, but intent to withhold. He proffers information only after his story has been carefully edited.

You peer at him from the corner of a bookcase and catch the glare of glass. Only once you step closer do you realize what you’re both looking at. Batman’s suit is encased in a glass stand before you. You notice the cape first and remember the way the material moved as he did. As it hangs motionless, it looks far heavier than you would have guessed.

Batman, you begin to realize, is far from the average citizen helping out the city as you thought he might have been.

“I saw them before I saw you,” he says, eyes fixed on the suit in front of him. “I tracked them from a robbery a few blocks away, only thinking of my hunger. I could feel their excitement, and I assumed it was for a job well done. Then I saw you.”

The silence that follows is unnerving. Forces your mind to the dreams. Alone. About to be swallowed by Gotham’s never ending appetite.

You were so afraid the first night I saw you. It reminded me…

Now you wish he hadn’t cut himself off so soon.

At last, he turns to you, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his slacks. “When you’ve been alive as long as I have, you grow familiar with the dangers of the world. But I’ve forgotten how easy it is for a mortal to be injured. One small slip up, and your life is over in an instant. More likely, one major mistake from someone else, and you’d be taken from me forever.”

Being so suddenly claimed by a stranger has you speechless. It wasn’t enough you’d followed him to his cave; you’ve already become something that could be taken.

“There are things far worse than me in this city,” he says, his cool breath brushing over you as he steps closer. “I’m what stands between you and them.”

Danger is a native tongue to Gotham; that is a fact no one in the city can escape. Your home is paramount to others in its oddities and cruelties. A place that raised a unique kind of person. Gotham is a hungry city; its citizens inherit its voracity.

Bruce ambles past shelves. The soles of his expensive shoes barely make a sound. You’re so busy taking in as much as you can, you almost run into him as he stops suddenly.

He pulls out a journal, the dust in that spot already disrupted. Practiced fingers leaf through worn, yellowed pages until he lands on the page he searches for. He doesn’t pass the notebook like you thought he might.

“After my mother and father were taken from me, I was fixated on their undead murderer. I looked for answers. I found him at the cost of my mortality.”

You don’t want to believe it, but acceptance creeps up on you. The casual disregard as he speaks of mortality. The way he spoke of his hunger within the same breath as the men in the alley.

Passively, he scans the page. Is he threatening you, or is he giving you answers you so badly are looking for? The line seems so thin with him.

“Gotham was my parents’ legacy,” he continues. “I found myself in a unique position to protect it. So I did. I could atone for becoming the same kind of monster that took them from me.”

You’re relieved he suggests fresh air, traveling closely behind him through the manor. Your head spins with the wealth of new information, trying to occupy your thoughts instead with the moon shimmering in Gotham Bay, watching waves crest before crashing into the jagged cliff edge.

He stops you a mildly overcautious distance from the edge and studies you. “I mean it when I say I’ll do everything I possibly can to keep you safe.” Somehow, his smooth, low voice carries over the sound of the tide below. You believe him. You can’t be sure the feeling is your own, but it doesn’t come with an invisible hand squeezing at your chest. Even if some part of you still wants to run, the larger part wants to stay.

Now more than ever, you feel now as if you’re in a dream. You sneak your hand up the sleeve of your coat to pinch at your arm. Bruce smirks next to you. You don’t want to dwell on how small and foolish you must seem to him.

The neon emerald of the Ace Chemicals sign glimmers in inky waters. His legacy is just as much there as the ruins of the home behind you.

He hasn’t said as much, but something inside of you grasps Gotham is no longer the same as he once saw it. The city’s many problems troubled him in different ways when he was mortal. Now, the people there—you and everyone else with a beating heart—are nothing but ants. Little things to be squashed unless protected.

Doubt gnaws at you. Anyone could have run into that alley. Anyone could have been as scared as you. That night, it just happened to be you.

Your first date starts at the Gotham Museum of Fine Arts.

You refused to move into the manor when he asked, insisting you would only consider his offer if you got to know him better. You’d felt so childish choking out the word—dating—bracing yourself for Bruce to laugh at you, but he never did. Instead, he agreed. But he didn’t think spending all your time inside Wayne Manor counted.

You wander through the portraits of famous Gothamites unable to relax. You wait for someone to see the large painting of Bruce Wayne hung on the wall across the room; you wait for someone to stop you both and say, “that portrait looks exactly like you!” Worry someone might make a connection that your date has more than a passing to the late Wayne.

Bruce notices. His cool fingers thread through yours—a habit of his, you’ve begun to notice. “They won’t see,” he assures.

“How do you know?” you whisper, leaning in close so no one overhears.

He chuckles as he gives your hand a gentle, affirming squeeze. His breath brushes over the shell of your ear as follows suit. “Practice.”

You travel through time together, drifting from period to period, taking comfort in the presence of his hand. Eventually, you relax. The gravity of him pulls you in, nudging at your mind to remind you what drew you in to begin with. With each moment you spend with him, you find it harder to pull away. His presence calls to you, fills you with such self-consciousness and relief at the same time. And if there’s relief, isn’t it worth it not to fight against the physics of it?

No one pays you any mind. You and Bruce are tucked inside a private world. Yet, watchful eyes scan the room, searching for threats. He wants to protect you; he’d said so from the start. Whatever danger in Gotham could hurt you, Bruce would be your guard. You feel giddy with the freedom, but too hesitant in front of him to show it.

“When was your last date?” you ask. That’s what you do on first dates, isn’t it? Get to know each other? But the task feels so threatening with Bruce. You’re unsure of what will count as a mark against you. Each topic feels like a potential hazard, and the last thing you want to do is give him cause to get angry.

He hums. “As a human, a few months before I was turned. A woman I met at some party or another. We went to the theatre. I can’t remember what it was we saw. I remember I had to leave early.” A darkened look crosses his face. “Other obligations came up.”

You let out a hesitant ‘oh,’ that brings Bruce attention to you again. “There was another after I'd turned. Like me. It was...complicated.”

This time you don’t respond. What was he hoping to find in you after another vampire?

How long Bruce has been alone? Those empty halls of the manor seem so vast. How many years of silence had he been inside its walls? You’ve felt the desperation he had to keep you nearby. You feel the loss he doesn’t speak of. The weight of everything taken from him.

“What about your last date?” he asks.

“Oh.” You weren’t expecting him to ask in return, didn’t have anything prepared. You worry there’s nothing you could say that would sound impressive to him. “I don’t know. A few months ago. We went out for dinner, but it was nothing special. We didn’t keep in touch.”

Bruce doesn’t respond to your silence. You wonder, somehow, if you’d made a silly admission. You try to recover from whatever faux pas you made, pushing conversation again.

“When did you become Batman?” you ask, glancing around carefully. Testing how true his assurances no one could hear you were.

There are no shocked looks thrown your way. Only Bruce’s face softening at the sound of your voice. The gentle look on his face makes him look so different. Buried beneath Bruce’s endless seriousness, a resemblance of the boy he once was still remains.

“I was 36. Single-minded about finding a way to get rid of the creatures that took my mother and father from me. But people were dying from my idleness. I couldn’t only rely on research and a medical school dropout’s education. I needed a more direct approach. So I became the Batman.”

“But why Batman?” You glance around anxiously again, waiting to be found out. But the moment passes.

He doesn’t answer your question. The chill of his hand slips from you as he tucks his hands into the pockets of his trousers. For a moment, you think you’ve asked a forbidden question, but his voice comes out low and smooth. “What are you afraid of?” he asks.

The unusual chill grips your chest again—the one that hints that Bruce isn’t playing fair.

“Being alone here,” you admit. Your face burns with shame, wishing you hadn’t said it out loud. Bruce doesn’t respond, which only makes it worse. You stare at the ground, still trailing along behind.

“I don’t intend to leave you alone here,” he says.

Your unoccupied fingers curl into your palm. “You don’t need to make me tell you things.” It’s a quiet fight, but one you put up nonetheless.

He regards you. You wonder if he’s trying to get you to back down. If he is, you refuse to give him the satisfaction.

“I was still mortal when I became Batman,” he says finally. “I needed my opponent to think I was one of them.”

You feel the urge to ask what opponent he means, but you don’t want to feel silly in front of him again. And your irritation still lingers. You’re not sure how you would fare his self-important stare again.

“Are there others...like you?” you ask, gazing at the deep, vivid colors of the baroque pieces you pass.

“There are,” he says. “None in Gotham, however. They understand this is my territory.”

He guides you to the impressionist wing. You pause in front of a Monet. The arc of the bridge and the water lilies in the water are familiar. You peer into the reflection of the water as if you were in front of the pond yourself.

“This was my mother’s favorite,” Bruce tells you. “She grew up near a pond with water lilies. She said it reminded her of then.”

You think of the Martha from your dreams. Her childhood feels so impossibly long ago, lifetimes away from you. Even without ever meeting her, you mourn her. You wonder how true to life your version of her is.

Bruce shows no signs of the same wear you feel as you wander the galleries. His feet don’t tire; his mind doesn’t go groggy with the quiet.

After thoroughly exploring the museum, you’re relieved he suggests dinner. The relief, however, is short-lived. You’d only thought of your hunger; you hadn’t considered if Bruce would eat, nor where he would bring you.

Warm candlelight flits over Bruce’s face. Shadows flickering beneath the hollows of his eyes makes it hard to focus on your food. You wish he would have ordered something for your sake. You cut into your food, trying to give yourself something to do other than meet his gaze. Yet again, you’re a spectacle for him. Something to be observed. A zoo animal.

The marble pillars around you, the quartet playing in the corner across your small table, the vampire who doesn’t eat. All of it feels designed to make you feel inadequate. Why would he bring you here, to a place he wouldn’t participate?

Bruce had suggested dinner here. You had never heard of the restaurant. He’d explained the place was one of the oldest in Gotham. But unlike Wayne Manor, this place had no oppressive presence, only the oppressive rules of society that seem so natural to Bruce even now but so illusive to you.

You haven’t tasted a bite of your meal; you’ve felt too ungraceful beneath Bruce’s unwavering gaze. The guilt dawns on you as he finally breaks the lingering silence.

“Are you enjoying your food?” He leans close. His voice rolls over you like gentle thunder.

With your mouth full, you can only reply with a nod. You force your bite down glancing at the tables around you. Couples laughing softly only a few feet away, their lavishness apparent to you even in the low light.

You don’t want to be alone. Even if you can’t understand his attention, don’t know if you’re anything other than a pet to him, you don’t want to direct him anywhere else. As cold as his safety is, you will take it. You will find whatever shelter in it you can.

His eyes are on you as your head tips back to drink the last of your wine. You can feel the weight of his gaze. The waiter comes by with the check, and you’re thankful for the distraction. You set your glass on the table as if you’d been caught in the middle of committing a crime.

Out the window, you watch large flakes of snow dance from the sky. The first snowfall of the season come early.

Bruce guides you outside. His broad hand rests on the small of your back. You expect for him to guide you towards the valet parking. You step that way, alarmed as Bruce ushers you toward a side street, away from prying eyes.

“You’re upset,” he notes.

With your rigid spine and tense silence, you can’t be surprised he noticed, but part of you wishes he hadn’t. You need more time to wrap your head around your situation—around him.

“Why did you bring me there?” you ask, your arms crossed over your chest in defense of the cold your worn coat seems to be unable to keep up with.

“It’s a wonderful restaurant,” he replies simply.

You’re not sure if he’s missing your point deliberately or not. “You don’t eat. Just stared at me.”

“So the first date didn’t go well?” Bruce asks, quirking a thick brow up at you. “Alright then, what would you like to do?”

Flakes of fall on his hair. White stands out stark against the deep black. The cold seems to mean little to him even as you shiver.

“I want to get to know you!” you say. “I’m at a disadvantage here because you seem to know plenty about me, but just about everything I know about you I learned in a history book.”

His stare feels inescapable. Too consuming. You’re plagued by mystery. “If there was something worth knowing, I would tell you.”

You scoff. “That’s not how this works,” you hiss. “If you want me in your house, I need to know who you are. How else am I supposed to know I’m any safer with you than I am at my apartment?”

The air grows colder as he crowds you. You barely feel the chill of his hand as it cups your cheek. “I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“No, you’d withhold information instead.”

His hand falls as you turn from him, instead watching the snow as it melts on the ground. Flakes dropping to the concrete. There in a moment, gone an instant later.

“Come with me,” he says, hand outstretched toward you. Against all sense, you take it.

At the manor, you drift hand-in-hand through the snow-dusted rose garden. Damp gravel rustles beneath your feet. Bruce barely makes a sound.

The garden was kept maintained for tours. On nice days, you bring the visitors out here, talk about the staff the Waynes would have kept, mentioning now a team of gardeners is employed through the estate.

In a month or so, the blooms will die. Their petals will wilt and dry, withering with time. The glistening roses in the darkness puts you on edge for a reason you can’t place. Maybe because you’re so used to the sunshine shining on them, drawing out their splendor.

Bruce snaps a deep red rose from its bush. You bite back the urge to reprimand him as you would a guest. He pinches the stem between his fingers, turns it over carefully. “My mother kept roses in the house,” he says. “As a boy, I would turn my nose up and complain of the sweet smell.”

He raises the flower to his nose. His lips turn up so slightly, you’re not even sure if you can call the look on his face a smile. But nonetheless, he lowers the rose, holding it out for you to take.

Soft petals brush against your nose as you smell.

This evening, you retrace your steps to the dining room. Amid the dizziness of your thoughts—nights before, you and Bruce danced across the room after he’d cleared the tables away himself—you’d forgotten to lock the door on your way out.

The empty room fills your thoughts with fantasy. You imagine your life if you’d met Bruce earlier. Would he have brought you to the grand galas hosted in this room? Would you have felt more at ease in the lavish clothes he would get for you?

You imagine a time his hand would have been warm in yours. His hand on your waist would only cause you to shiver from the thrill of contact.

How long could the two of you dance before your feet hurt? Would he carry you off to the bedroom after your guests had gone home after listening to you complain about your shoes?

The days are longer now, and you have more time to kill before Bruce comes up to see you; you struggle against the bitterness of getting less time with him than you had in the cold months of winter. So much of your day now is a hazard to Bruce. You would never see his rare and dazzling smile in the light of day. Never feel his skin warmed from the sun.

Warmth from Bruce seems so unnatural. You’ve never experienced anything other than a chill beneath your fingertips as you brush over his skin.

With your extra time, you’ve taken to learning the layout of the manor better. You’ve grown used to dusting cobwebs off your clothes, imagining the two of you laughing and dancing through these halls as you cleaned as you had to the study a few nights prior.

You poke your head into the unlocked rooms, trying to place yourself on the map of great Wayne Manor. Behind each door is another dusty room, furniture draped just as you’d found the study that night those months ago. Finding a perfectly clean room freezes you in your tracks.

Heavy curtains block out the light. You make out a large four-post bed against the wall. All but the shapes of vanities and dressers are obscured. Thomas and Martha’s bedroom, preserved almost exactly as they had left over a century ago, save for the drapes over the mirrors.

You look up and down the hall the way a trespasser would before taking a single step inside. For a moment, you imagine Martha stepping out of the shadows, ready to link arms and show you about the same way she had in your dreams. But it’s you alone in her musty room. Even if it’s been cleaned, you wonder how long since fresh air had passed over the expensive sheets.

On one of the shapes in the room—a dresser, you think, by the brass handles you can make out as your eyes adjust—you see an ornate circular frame and what you can only jut make out as three faces.

Yet again, you check for standers-by before you pick up the frame, crossing deeper into the room to carefully pull the heavy velvet curtain away from the window. The last rays of the setting sun streaks across the photograph.

Martha is younger than you’ve ever seen her. The softness in her eyes is familiar, but the longer you stare, the harder it grows to place. Beside her is Thomas, his shoulders broad, face stoic. And on Martha’s lap is a very young boy, dark hair atop his head neatly combed back.

This picture feels as though it was taken such an impossibly long time ago. Bruce couldn’t be any older than two-years-old here. You stare at him wishing there was anything you could do to warn him of the tragedy that would become of his life. Wish there was some wisdom you could impart that would somehow make the grief he’d have to hold later in life easier.

So long ago, Bruce had been a child running in these halls. No amount of time passing would take that away as long as Wayne Manor still stood as it did. Before that, he’d learned to walk. And you wonder if maybe Bruce’s idea of himself had been skewed by the calamity of his life. Maybe the bad he saw in himself wasn’t really there. Maybe you could prove that to him.

The curtain falls closed as you pull your hand away. Guilt sneaks up on you again, like Thomas and Martha will burst through the door, laughing in their comfort with each other, and catch you in the act of rifling through their belongings.

Your thoughts wander as you slip into the hall again. Tiny footsteps echo in your ears, racing along the carpeted corridor. A small laugh that resonates through the routine quiet in the manor, still boisterous, yet to be subdued to the soft chuckle you’ve grown accustomed to. You imagine Bruce darting from room to room, waiting in silence for his mother to find him hiding in an armoire or a cupboard.

Ghostly laughter subsides, and you realize you’d been stuck in your daydreams for several minutes. You continue on your way, glancing over untouched console tables and the little bits the Waynes had left to furnish your home.

You find another staircase. The landing looks familiar—you’d be able to follow it and head to the study, wait for Bruce there until he comes up for the night to collect you. You’ll read the books on the shelves, blow dust away from the covers and not take in a single word on the pages as long as you look occupied.

You make your careful descent, taking each step slowly, learning from countless past mistakes how easy it is to slip on dust.

The pattern on the thick carpet down the steps is hard to make out between the grime and the darkness. Fibers fray at the ends. Boards creak beneath so loudly you worry one of them might snap off.

You worry as you stay on your path, eager to see Bruce as a lovesick teenager would be. In the dim of the landing, you aren’t able to catch the split in the carpet, threads stretching up like fingers.

In the dip, your foot catches. There’s no time to recover. A dreadful second passes as you flail, trying against gravity to stay upright. You lose the battle, and Wayne Manor pulls you down. Awkwardly, you turn, your shoulder hitting the ground first before you continue to tumble.

At the landing, your elbow burns. No doubt carpet burn to accompany the dust covering your clothes. Limbs ache and throb, but nothing feels severe. You wince as you sit up, glancing over for any other damage, freezing up as a drop of blood beads from the scrape across your palm.

Your body goes cold at the sight. Before you can rise to your feet, Bruce is at your side. His jaw clenches. His eyes zero in on the blood. The strong muscles of his body go taut.

“Bruce—”

He bends down and takes you into his arms with such ease, you’re not sure it’s happening until you fall against his cold chest.

You try not to wait for the moment he can no longer control himself, but you still find yourself holding your breath as you wait for the other shoe to drop. The pain is secondary to the worry squeezing at you.

“Stay here,” he demands after he sets you on the old camelback sofa. You don’t get a word in before he slips from study. Moments later, he returns with first aid supplies in hand.

Bruce works in silence. Once you move beyond the stinging as Bruce cleans, you’re jarred by the focus in his eyes. Unlike what you’d imagined, there is no ravenous blood lust. If you didn’t know what you did, you wouldn’t have doubted he was anything other than a man tending an injury. He holds your scraped hand tenderly, tending to you with great care. Only once everything is bandaged and Bruce is satisfied you don’t have any other injuries that need tending, does he look up at you.

You only manage to mutter out a feeble thanks.

“The carpet will need to be replaced,” he says in place of a reply to your gratitude.

The reply stings worse than the alcohol on your wound, aches more than the bruises that will develop as you sleep tonight. But what could you expect? Your injuries must seem trivial to him now. He wouldn’t think to ask if you were okay.

You nod.

He has your hand in that same firm but cautious grip. He raises your palm up to his lips and presses a gentle kiss to the bandage, a demonstration of his control. Even handling your blood, you still have yet to see the monster he so feared he is.

“I think you might be misjudging yourself,” you say, your voice gentle. Your mind returns to the picture of the young family, a baby sitting upon his mother’s lap.

You hear leaves rustling in the breeze from outside the open windows. Fresh air now slips through replaced panes of glass, the chirps of crickets filling the silence that settles between the two of you in place of the crackling fires Bruce would light for you in the winter.

The ice of his eyes falls back onto you. His face grows severe, brow twitching up as he regards you. “In what way?” There’s a hesitance in his reply that you somehow feel is reserved only for you.

“I trust you a lot more than you seem to trust yourself. I don’t think you’re the threat to me you insist you are.”

He tenses before he stands up from the couch, turning his back to you. “Thinking that way could cost you your life one day.” The words are clipped. He gathers up his supplies—supplies only now are you wondering why he had to begin with—and swiftly moves from the study.

You stay where you are, aching and stunned, wondering if you should follow after. Part of you wonders if he only needs time, but you think of his bouts of quiet. Giving him time to settle likely wouldn’t do much in your favor.

When you finally will yourself to your feet, you find no trace of him in the hall.

Darkness surrounds you, and you are perfectly aware what lurks within it.

“Bruce?” you call, squinting into the gloom for movement. Your voice doesn’t carry in the dead air. Only you and the whistling wind. Somewhere down another hall, a door slams shut. Your best guess sends you left.

Your body grasps what your mind isn’t willing to accept. You’re being hunted. Your muscles are stiffened, ready to run. But your heart. Your heart wants you to find Bruce, to understand what you’d done to cause him to storm out.

“Bruce?”

The manor still feels so labyrinthine even after weeks of visiting and roaming this side of things. Larger than life, much like the legend living inside it. Uncanny, at times, the way you find yourself surrounded by the stage of your dreams.

You look for Bruce’s expensive footprints in the dust, only to find they disappear not far from the door you’d seen him walk out of.

Something rustles behind you. You gasp. Spin. Nothing is there.

“Bruce, this isn’t funny,” you insist, turning over your shoulder expecting to see him. You’re still alone.

You stomp down the hall, floorboards gnashing with every step. A softer creak comes from the opposite of where you came. You turn, something rushing before your eyes, vanished in an instant.

Your heartbeat has found a home in your throat. You wait for him to move again. For any sign of him anywhere. You feel breath on your neck, but you are alone at every turn, out in the open until Bruce decides he no longer wants to play with you.

It’s horrible, your wait for the end. Part of you understands this is his way of proving a point, but still you brace for something worse. The real lesson, perhaps, where Bruce proves once and for all just how much harm he can do.

You’re yanked back by a force that nearly knocks the wind out of you. A scream rips out from your throat as you try to fight away.The hands that hold you are too firm to be broken from. You’re alert enough to know you’re being held, at least. This is far from the worst outcome, but your heart flips and race anyway.

His strong fingertips dig into the meat of your hips. “Never let your guard down. I am an animal acting on instincts. You may not always find me with such a level head,” he hisses into your ear.

You hold as still as you can, hoping somehow it will deter him from doing whatever he could possibly do with you. One of his hands comes up, wraps around your throat. His fingers are soft as they find your pulse, lingering as if he’d found something luxurious. He does not squeeze.

“I will do everything I can to protect you. There will always be some things I can protect you from better than others.” His thumb swipes over your pulse point again with a tenderness so stark against his words.

Later, as he holds you against him on the camelback, you’re still stuck on his words.

“Would you take it back if you could?” you ask.

Bruce does you the service of pretending he’s too deep in thought to hear your naive question.

It feels childish, your desperate plea to be needed. But of course Bruce would go back. It’s no question you need answered. He’d give everything up, you included, if he could have what he used to. You feel foolish for thinking you could worm yourself into Bruce’s life.

You don’t look at the portrait above the fireplace. You can’t stand to see the ghostly youth on Bruce’s face. It reminds you of the photograph you found on the dresser in Thomas and Martha’s bedroom. Makes you think of the moment this afternoon when you’d been so certain you understood Bruce. But you might be after something impossible.

The idea of him as a child playing hide and seek no longer fills you with the same delight as it had while the sun was still shining.

“I’m not sure what to do about how badly I need you.” You feel Bruce’s gaze before you look up to meet it.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

He’s silent for a moment. You think he’s going to pretend he didn’t hear you again. Instead, he squeezes you closer to him. Following his lead, you curl against his chest. “There’s a darkness that festers inside of me. There always has been. This...disease draws it out.” Another long pause. His grip on you doesn’t waver. “But you remind me of the good out there. You remind me of my humanity.”

In that moment, you think once again of the screams of the men as you ran from the alley. You’d stopped only once, as a great shadow swept in front of you, blocking the path. Milky, glowing eyes stared at you in the darkness before sliding past, hulking towards the group.

You ran. Whatever you had encountered that night hadn’t wanted you, so you saw no reason to stay. What would have happened if you had? Tonight was the closest you’ve ever come to seeing what Bruce does out on the streets of Gotham.

If you knew then what you knew now, would you stay? You wonder if it would have made a difference before you loved him.

You swallow roughly. Wishing you could tell him you need him too feels so pitiful, so predictable.

After Bruce’s insistence at being dangerous, you don’t want to tell him now that he offers a safety you’ve never known.

The chill of his fingertips creeps across your skin. In this moment, you’re grateful silence is a language Bruce is fluent in. You slip your arm from where it curls around his sturdy torso, and crawl up onto his lap. He pulls your chest flush against his. You sink into his grip, arms tossed over his broad shoulders.

His fingertips drag up and down your vertebra with leisure. No doubt, in an hour, Bruce will sweep away into the cave to attend to his nighttime activities. You soak up the moment while you have it.

Your forehead dips into his neck, hands raking through the ends of his dark hair. Being this close to Bruce feels forbidden. Something too special to be real. You feel yourself falling into him every time; everything else gets swept away and only the two of you remain.

Bruce’s lips press into the side of your head.

Jealousy twinges in your chest at the idea of him disappearing off for the city. It’s a silly feeling, envy over Gotham. But Bruce stalks the streets nearly every night, leaving hungry, coming home fed. Well-fed, probably not, but enough to keep his hunger level in front of you.

That’s when the idea first sneaks into your head. You imagine, instead of Bruce kissing your bandaged palm earlier, if he’d lapped up the blood slipping through your scrapped skin. What if Bruce didn’t need to feed from the Gothamites he dedicated his immortality to instilling fear into? What if he had everything he needed right here?

Perched on his lap, you imagine taking hold of the hair your fingers run through, pulling him into your neck and keeping him there until the scent left him no choice but to bite. Imagine the strength of his fingers as his hunger has him pinning you in place. You’d trust him. He says you shouldn’t, yet you do. You can allow yourself to be foolish for him. Allow yourself to imagine his cool lips dragging across your skin. Coming from him, a bite could be a reward.

Your mind twists with the desire of it, the itch to satisfy him, but your tongue is too clumsy to form the suggestion. You swallow it whole.

You move into Wayne Manor like an invasive species. A cheap imitation of people who knew how to live in grand places such as this. Bruce, however, got to the point of insisting.

Bruce brushes off complaints of your very sudden unemployment brought on by an email from the tour company; you’re no longer needed while the manor undergoes renovations. Of course, this is his doing, because he’s been the one pulling the strings from the start. A long-term ploy to get you into the manor; anything that lessened the time you spent alone out in the city.

The contractors wandered in and out of the manor, minds fixed on their work. Bruce wanted you away from them. You complied, save for the times you cut through the foyer. Their focus never wavered, yet their eyes seemed glazed over. Later, when you asked Bruce about it, he only nodded, said the workers would have no memory of being in Wayne Manor. Their generous paycheck they’d receive for their efforts would keep them plenty satisfied.

So construction continued, disrupting the spell that had fallen over you and your time spent within Bruce’s childhood home.

Your days were primarily occupied by Bruce now. A taste of life as you had lived months earlier made reality seem so harsh. Brought up worries you’d managed to put off in lieu of the dreaminess of your life with him.

You keep waiting for him to change his mind. To grow tired of you, your humanity nothing other than a passing infatuation. Yet, the smooth ride of the elevator as you go to the cave makes you wonder if Bruce really does mean for you to stay.

Bruce has told you he prefers not to be distracted while he works. You often combat by reminding him he’s always working.

Candlelight spills over scattered papers on a scarred, sturdy table. Bruce makes no indication he’s aware of your presence, but you know better than to assume otherwise. He’s been here for the better part of two days, save for when he hasn’t been out in the city. The distance is becoming harder for you to tolerate.

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” you say as you approach.

Bruce gives a hum to acknowledge you spoke. He straightens up slightly, but his eyes don’t leave the page. When you try to peek, he picks them up. The movement is controlled, seemingly a coincidence, but a certainty he’s keeping information from you.

“Something came up,” Bruce says,

You nod in hopes he’ll continue. Sometimes he does, speaking out loud as he puzzles through his current deliberation.

“Why don’t you take a break? You’ve been at this for days. Maybe tonight we could go out walking in the garden,” you propose, forcing a hopefulness into your voice than you feel.

Bruce shakes his head before you’ve finished your suggestion. “This can’t wait.”

You don’t want to be hurt by his words. Bruce is focused; you’ve always known this. His unwavering dedication to his cause will always come before you, because you are not what he’s pledged his eternity to. Still, you miss him. The knowledge he’s a few floors away isn’t enough to comfort you as you try to sleep in an empty bed. Even before he leaves, there are excuses. Preparation for a case he’s cracked as he worked the day. Training a body that almost nothing in Gotham could harm. Needing to feed from veins that aren’t your own because you still grow too skittish whenever you think of speaking your desires out loud.

Doubt puts you on edge, especially as you ease into the certain comforts of your new life. No work leaves plenty of leisure time, but your mind tends to utilize most of it worrying about what happens after Bruce finally gives up on you. By now, you imagine your affordable little apartment has been snatched up. If Bruce puts you where he found you, you won’t even have your not-even-cushy income to protect you.

Without prompt, Bruce moves across the cave to a microscope, sitting to examine the cell.

You linger a moment longer, feeling humiliated as you wait for him to recognize you’re still here. When he doesn’t, you trudge towards the elevator, hating the echoes of your footsteps. Hating the way your face gets hot.

From outside the study windows, you watch the sun set, understanding soon Bruce will leave you as he does every night. He’ll come home with even tempers, at ease from sated hunger or satisfaction of his job. He won’t share the scraps of his good humor with you; in your sleep, you’ll miss it all.

The sky turns inky. Luminescent lunar threads weave through the grass. You can’t see the city from here, only the stormy waters off in the distance. You imagine Bruce there anyway, wondering what it is he fights against, what battles he wages you’re unaware of.

Once you’re certain he’s is gone, you walk with heavy heart towards your bedroom. The same bedroom that had once been his as a child. You think of Thomas and Martha’s room down the hall, the family photograph sitting on the dresser. With the history residing within the walls of the manor, you wonder if your presence will ever feel natural.

Part of you wants to check and see if the room is still spotless. Had Bruce been up there to clean, so close to you, never bothering to visit?

You decide you don’t want an answer.

You lay in your bed imagining how things would be with him beside you as you slept. Your body curled around his broad chest. You think of a time where you could sleep beside Bruce the whole night, no fear of the rising sun encroaching on your time together.

Sometime later, your bed dips, and you realize you must have fallen asleep. Your hazy mind wills you back towards slumber. You manage barely to grip onto wakefulness long enough for your eyes to flutter open.

Bruce sits beside you, back bowed as his elbows lean into his knees. The sheets rustle as you move. He doesn’t turn toward you, but lifts his head as if the weight of the world is on his shoulders. He’d never tell you if it were; he insists his burdens are his alone.

“Go back to sleep,” he urges.

“What are you doing up here?” you ask, voice rough.

“Checking in.” The words hang heavy in the air. Checking in because something is weighing on his mind. Seeking assurances that you’re still safely tucked into the bed he’d made for you. Calming his racing thoughts.

You prop yourself up for a better look at him. “Rough night?”

You shouldn’t ask. You know better than to expect an answer, but a youthful optimism twists at your heart. Bruce makes you feel so naive in comparison. Everything feels so fresh to you, but everything bewildering comes so naturally to him.

Bruce turns to you. His fingertips trail down your skin as he gives his standard procedure response: “Nothing for you to worry about.”

“Would you tell me if it was?”

He says yes. You don’t believe him.

Wind rattles at the windowpanes. You’re thankful Bruce replaced them before the weather started to get cold. It’s the subtle sort of sign you cling to in hopes it means he’ll keep you at least through another winter. He envisions you being around long enough you’ll have to stay warm in this room.

“Do you come up here every night?” you ask. Your hand stretches out, questing for his in the dark of the room.

“Not every night,” he murmurs, obliging your search as his fingers curl around yours. “But it makes the hours before you come down to the cave more bearable.”

“You didn’t seem very interested in me earlier.”

He seems relaxed in a way he hadn’t been earlier. Eyes clearer, posture more relaxed. He’s fed recently.

“I was working.”

Never ending secrets. Ones that ate away in the spaces where you wanted to trust Bruce. To surrender to the acceptance that he wants you here. If he wants you around, why is it these days he only comes to find you as you sleep?

Bruce suddenly kicks off his shoes. You watch, mind sluggish with sleep, as he slides into your bed still in his slacks and turtleneck sweater. He pulls himself to your chest, his head resting against your beating heart.

“What happened tonight?” you whisper.

Bruce doesn’t move. Without breath, he’s as still as a statue, moonlight illuminating the sallow of his skin. Try as you might to outrun it, Bruce is undead. In his eyes, a monster. He’s never been shy of reminding you of this; even as he’s told you to flee, you’ve never been sure he’d ever actually let you go. Yes, you could live outside the walls of Wayne Manor, but would that mean Bruce’s eyes wold never seek you out? Even if he outgrew you, would he accept anyone else having you?

“A group is moving towards Gotham,” he finally says. “Scouts have been casing the city. They need to be reminded whose territory this is.”

You tense. Bruce so rarely spoke of other vampires. Really, just that day in the museum when he’d so firmly told you he’d scared the others away.

Without a response, Bruce shakes his head. “This isn’t good bedtime conversation,” he says.

Your hand trails his spine lightly. You don’t want to admit you agree. The thick yarn of his sweater obscures the muscles of his back. You wish you could feel all of him, but that too is a luxury you’re allowed with such trepidation.

He holds so still, you might have guessed he’d gone to sleep. The cool weight of his head against your chest start to lull you again. Thoughts of impending danger slip away from you, and with Bruce at your side, you fall asleep.

“No.”

Bruce had come home from patrol minutes earlier when you first broached the subject. By then, you’d managed to pick up on his tells. He wouldn’t look at you, paced in place of his usual unnerving pause, snapped instead of grunted when you say something that displeased him. You could tell the city had been quiet that night. Bruce hadn’t fed as much as he needed to.

Bruce turned you into someone who hoped for danger upon the city so he wouldn’t return to you irritated. The hope made you slightly sick with internal conflict.

What if I gave you some of my blood? The question that appalled Bruce so.

“But you’ve said so yourself,” you replied. “You’re always careful. And I trust you.”

He shook his head. “You should know better than that by now,” he scolded, turning away from you. His hand closed into a fist, knuckles rested onto the surface next to the shuffle of papers.

“Bruce—”

“I will not,” he snapped, “resort you to a meal.” Before you could rebuttal, he cut you off. “No. We are not having this conversation.”

You flinched from the sharpness of his voice.

In hindsight, you should have guessed your question wouldn’t be well-received if he was already irritable. But the predictability hadn’t done much about the sting. The ability to see it coming did nothing for the ache of your desire.

Tonight, he comes home well-fed and finds you in the darkness of your bedroom. You press against his firm chest, fingertips brushing over the arm tossed across your torso.

He stays in bed longer now. When he needs you to help pull him back to himself, he wakes you with kisses peppered along your neck. You always afford him these moments. Bruce has given you almost everything but all of himself. In his eyes, the monster and the man you love are supposed to be two different beings. You wanted to prove to him your love wasn’t conditional; there was nothing he needed to hide from you.

“Have you given more thought to my offer?” you ask, your skin still tingling from his lips.

He goes rigid behind you. “There’s nothing left to think about.” You feel the beginnings of a lecture in his voice.

You turn to him in an attempt to pacify his argument. “What if I want to do it?”

“You have no idea what you’re asking for.”

“Maybe I do,” you grumble. You could be the one who sustains him. Who keeps him full with your commitment. Maybe it would be enough for him to understand the way you see him, if you were willing to do that.

Giving food to a scared beast could be the thing to gain its trust.

Bruce has said himself, you’ve got a way about you that he can’t resist. Even though his every other word to you seems to be ‘no,’ he still claims he finds it hard to deny you anything.

He gives you a stern stare. “If you did, I would be concerned for your well-being.”

“You aren’t already?” you joke, curling toward him. “I mean it. You take care of me. I want to take care of you too.”

The whole home he’d contented himself to lay to waste had been renovated for your sake. You could help keep food on the table.

“You do,” he assures, his hand wrapping around the nape of your neck. Bruce is always so sure, always aware of the next steps in whatever greater plan he plays at. All that seems to go out the window when it comes to you. Even the idea you’d be willing to give him your blood seems impossible.

“Let me help you. Maybe I like the idea of you saving Gotham running off my blood.” Maybe you like the idea of being needed more. But it’s a way to show Bruce how much you care when the words you say don’t seem to get the point across enough for him to believe it.

It is enough.

Days later, Bruce whisks you off to the cave to run countless tests, each one dedicated to find precisely how much of your blood he could take without harm. There could be no margin of error for this. Not with you, he’d insisted. Your safety was paramount to his hunger.

You’re in your bedroom when he finally gives you what you ask. Silk grazes your skin as you lay down at his request. The brawn of Bruce’s arm cage you in. His head dips to your neck. Your eyes wince shut, bracing for a bite that doesn’t come. His lips instead tingle your skin as they travel the length of your neck.

You let out a breathy laugh. “Gentler than I thought it would be,” you tease.

“I’m tenderizing the flesh,” he murmurs dryly.

Another cluster of slow kisses. You squirm beneath him, anticipation flipping your stomach. You want this without question. Unfortunately, your desire does nothing to dull instinct screaming in your head.

He pulls away. The air grows heavier as Bruce prepares himself. “Tell me if you feel dizzy or nauseated,” he orders. The intensity in his voice mounts. An urge he’s always kept behind iron gates is beginning to slip loose. That, too, makes your stomach flip. His voice grows rough with thirst, his chest rumbling against you as he growled his command.

You nod, your mouth too dry for speech.

Bruce nods back. The vigor lit in his eyes matches the enthusiasm of his head ducking again. His nose drags down your neck, savoring you as he breathes you in. You shutter against him.

His cool hand smooths over the raised skin on your arm, a silent comfort to you, before busying his expert fingers with the buttons on the fancy pajamas he’d gotten you. Kisses grow impatient—you’re surprised to find Bruce is capable of such a thing—the lower he trails.

At your heart, he stills. Forehead presses on your pulsing chest as if he were attempting to absorb its frantic beat. Your eyes slip shut, surrendering yourself for what will follow. The bridge of his long nose drags across your skin as he pulls away, every movement so deliberate. He’s drawing you into him, making it impossible to escape from his pull.

Like an intoxicating perfume, Bruce breathes you in. Your stomach flips, anticipation driving you mad until you feel the damp of his tongue over your skin. His breath is cool across the mark from his pleasured sigh.

Bruce’s fangs finally take purchase, so sharp they puncture the skin immediately. Your eyes shoot open, not catching the gasp in time to stop it. Your body jolts, managed easily by his weight on top of you. His eyes are black as night staring at the blood rolling lazily from the bite. He’s fixated as he tests his own power of will.

Desperation is the only word you have for the way he dives to lap up your blood. Between hungry mouthfuls he whines, too aware of how much he loves your taste.

Your limbs are heavy, tension sapped from your body when it could no longer expend the effort. Your mind’s spinning give way to a high-pitched ringing in your ears. A show of love. A demonstration of how willing you are to trust him. You’ll give yourself to him in whatever ways he’s deemed monstrous if it means he’ll let you in. If it’s enough to have access to his heart, you’ll let him do whatever he wants to yours.

You’re falling again the way you had down the stairs those months ago. Tumbling without direction, but this time, Bruce is here with you. Someone to fall into.

His body rocks as he devours you. This isn’t the grizzly bloodbath you’d seen from your dream. Bruce collects you carefully between his lips. Satisfied hums buzz against your skin. This isn’t how he feeds out in the city. You feel a sliver of his guilt absolved with the eagerness of something given freely.

Your breath fills the room along with springtime rain on the windows. The swipe of Bruce’s thumb against your exposed collarbone keeps you tied to your body. With the most reluctance you’ve ever seen from him, he pulls away. His lips flush with your blood. “Do you need me to stop?” he asks.

“No,” you breathe, giving a dazed shake of your head. “You’re still hungry.”

He kneels between your legs. “That doesn’t matter.” His voice lacks its usual firmness, softened with desire.

“It does,” you whisper, arm lazily flying to meet his. You tug his hand weakly and pull him back. You’re heavy and floating at once. A hazy smile grows on your face. “Take more. Dessert.”

You feel drunk off the sight of your blood staining his lips. The taste of you lingers on his tongue. He’s always consumed you; the fact that he should more literally only seems right.

He satisfies your wish, sucking at the mark he made, bruising your skin with his enthusiasm. You’ll have a mark for days to come and look at it with pride.

Finally sated, he drops to his elbow. Your blood is metallic on his lips as he kisses you. You drag your tongue against him, fingers loosely tangle in the hair at his nape again. You give a gentle tug. He allows you to guide him toward your chest. Presses kisses to the puncture wounds. The flat of his tongue gathers up the very last of your taste.

By the time you realize you’re cold, Bruce is already pulling your blanket around you. The time passes lazily as you hold each other. He murmurs against you he worries he may have taken too much, but you promise him you’re fine. You’re content. Safe.

You’re not sure how long it’s been when Bruce presses a kiss to the crown of your head.

“I’m going to draw you a bath,” he whisper. The weight of his arm disappears. From the other room, you hear the rush of the tub. You think of the sounds of running water in the cave. Grown fond to listen to it in the lulls of your conversations with Bruce.

Moments later, you’re in his arms. He carries you off to the clawfoot tub in your bathroom.

You sigh as the warm water envelopes you and melt into the bath. You manage to open the heavy lids of your eyes and give him a spent smile. His hand is gentle as he cups your jaw, fingers soft as he swipes away the blood smeared over your lips.

“You taste divine, by the way,” he murmurs to you as he gathers a handful of water and pours it down your chest.

Your weak smile grows. “Do I?” Your heart does a back flip within you.

“You do. Rich. Like Chianti and dark chocolate. From what I remember, at least.”

He cleans the blood off of you, handling you as he would glass. You’re pliant at his fingertips, allowing him to put your limbs wherever they need to be. Once you’re clean, he dresses your wound with steady fingers, and when he’s done, you’ve returned to bed beside him.

He holds you gently, an unspoken thank you for the luxury of feeding without a fight.

You tilt your chin, nipping at his neck. “I wonder how you taste.”

Somehow, these are the words to break the post-feeding bliss.

Bruce pulls away. Your hand falls onto the mattress in the growing space between the two of you. “Like rot. Let’s hope you’ll never have to find out.”

If you weren’t missing approximately a quarter of your blood, you would have thought the question over enough to grasp you’d be better off leaving it unasked. Current circumstances doesn’t allow you the same tact.

“Why not?” you hedge.

“It doesn’t matter.”

You know it would. Saying so wouldn’t get you anywhere, though. If you press him any more, he’ll get up. Leave you for the city, because even fed, he still is committed to Gotham more than he is to you. You don’t want to be alone in this bed. Don’t want the afterglow to succumb to something darker so late at night. You drop the subject.

Cold sweat drips down your spine as you lurch up, but the dream that left you so shaken is fleeting by the time you’re upright. You’re only left with the smell of rain-dampened concrete and blood.

Rattled by an unknown fear, you find yourself scurrying to the cave.

A week has passed since Bruce has uttered more than a word to you. Something plagues his thoughts. He hasn’t been feeding; not from you or anyone else. You can tell from the way he stalks through the cave. Whatever he’s after has been keeping him too busy. Your attempts to relax him are always a lost cause. You no longer try. Seldom does he hear you over the sound of his own mind.

Night after night, you wake from horrible nightmares hoping to find him at your bedside. Night after night, you are alone. Lonelier than you have since you moved into the manor. Martha even evades you in your sleep. You have your safety, but it’s left you secluded.

Funny. Another nightmare brought you here long ago. At least, you wish you could find your circumstances funny. Instead, you’re one-track-minded on finding Bruce, eager for his presence to console you.

In the cave, you find nothing but the bats.

Bruce’s name echoes against the cave walls after you call it out. It goes on and on, reminding you exactly how massive the structure beneath the manor is.

Thomas and Martha’s musty bedroom comes to mind. You are yet again a trespasser sneaking someplace you aren’t supposed to be.

Any other night, you wouldn’t think of a single reason you’d want to be here without him—you’ve always found the place unnerving. Now it feels safer than anywhere else. It’s foolish, you’re aware; the manor is secure, even more so since you’ve moved in. Your fear feels too abstract, though, lost in the frays of wakefulness. In its stead, you fear everything.

If you tried to go back to bed, you know you wouldn’t find sleep. You stay.

Bruce could return in five minutes or in five hours. You peer into the darkness between candles looking for a clock. Passing the wall of shelves, you spot the journal Bruce had pulled out the night he first brought you down. The one he’d reached for more than any other.

Even the thought of looking at the notebook makes you feel dirty, but for once, you could actually understand Bruce’s life. The temptation to understand a little more of Bruce’s forbidden world feels too good an opportunity to pass up.

With an unsteady hand—presumably written after a rough, late night in the city—Bruce writes about a young boy hiding in shadow as a creature holds his father and drinks his blood. His mother robbed of her own will and forced to watch as she waited her turn.

After the creature had left—too occupied with its thirst to notice Bruce hiding nearby—all he could do was stare at his mother. Wait for her to blink. Wait for her to react to the voices that eventually came to find him and drive him off to the police station to ask endless questions.

It wasn’t just that Bruce couldn’t speak—though he didn’t for two days—but who would believe him? Even his young imagination struggled to comprehend what happened.

Bruce doesn’t talk to you about that night. How could he? How does one talk of final memories when they’re open wounds? Even reading the account Bruce held at such a great distance makes you set the book down until your stomach stops turning.

A long time ago, Bruce was an eight-year-old boy alone in an alley. The ground had been pulled out from beneath him. Horrors beyond his young years were confirmed. At the top of the list, he now lived in a world without his parents.

And through the haze broke Alfred Pennyworth, the man now responsible for Bruce in his parents’ absence.

Alfred Pennyworth is dead, Bruce’s trembling hand reports. Alfred, who had been an accomplice as Bruce took up the Batman mantle. Alfred, who stayed by his side even after the transformation. Alfred, whose body Bruce found in the cave on a night he’d been out in the city fighting an ambush by more like him. Opportunists had found his safe haven.

Bruce gives a clinical account of the body. By the next entry, he gives thorough accounts of the status of crime in the city. He logs the blood he took from criminals he stopped on the street; more than he had before Alfred’s death. Another death he never spoke of, another he’d never dealt with. Had you been there at his side, he would have assured you he was perfectly fine.

Your palms itch as you gaze at the rows of dusty leather spines. You feel greedy with the answers to all the questions you’ve been asking yourself right in front of you. Bruce holds so much of himself at a distance. He kept himself locked away, even now, you’re still left without a key.

What would happen if you picked the lock?

You go to the beginning, leafing through pages of what you eventually put together as Bruce’s early research. He speaks of vampires as something entirely unfamiliar. His human days. Your fingertips brush over the delicate page, imagining the warmth of his palm as it ran across. His face younger than the one he’ll wear for the rest of eternity, the dip between his brow not as deepened. The dark of his hair not yet dusted with wisps of gray at the temples. Breath in his broad chest. Heart pumping fresh blood in his veins.

He’s restless through medical school, writes of drifting directionless as he tries to make sense of what to do with his life. But life after medical school led him to his calling.

A body. One that pulled up years of what he’d buried. For most of his life, he’d dismissed what he’d seen that night. He was a man of logic, and logic said his memories were those of a scared child who’d lost his parents. Something dreamed up to lessen the blow. But the body was evidence the night terrors he had more nights than not were more accurate than he believed.

He vowed to protect what remained of his family’s legacy, the one last remaining part of their love.

Your mind is gripped by the horror of it. Not fear of Bruce—especially not for what you had expected to find in these journals—but the atrocities he’d faced and commented on with such casualness.

Is your name etched into a page in one of Bruce’s journals? How much longer do you have before it disappears, buried beneath the hazards in Gotham? Will he lament for the taste of your blood that would never again slip through his lips?

“What are you doing?”

The voice is sharp and comes from out of nowhere. You snap the book shut and see Bruce looming behind you. Never have you seen him so furious. Hands curled into fists. He looks larger than you’ve ever seen him. Something more, even, than the way he’d stalked you through the halls. Worse.

“Bruce.”

He steps toward you. “What are you doing here?” His voice strikes you, sharp as lightning. A burning in his throat replaces the usual coldness of his presence.

“I...I had a dream...I came to find you…” The look on his face stops you from continuing. You cling to the journal as if it could do anything to help you now.

“Go back upstairs.”

“Bruce—” You flinch as he snatches the book from your hand.

“Now,” he growls.

Pushing against him feels unsafe, but your feet stay glued to the cave floor. “No. I want to know—”

“If there was anything you needed to know, I would tell you.”

“You wouldn’t!” you yell. “You don’t! I’ve spent a year telling you I want to know you, and you only give me slivers. How many times do I have to tell you I love you until you finally accept that means you don't have to hide from me?”

“Go upstairs. You can’t be trusted down here, so I will no longer allow you to visit.” He lectures you like a child. Your pleas do nothing to change it.

Frustration gives way to anger simmering up your chest. “What am I doing here, Bruce?” you cry, throwing your arms out in exasperation. “You only want me around half the time you’re home, so it’s not my company. You never tell me anything about yourself, so it’s not to be understood. You’re not after my blood—that was my idea. So why am I here?”

Silence is his intimidation tactic, but you don’t care, not even as his cold eyes stare you down. The wall between the two of you feels insurmountable, and you’re past the point of tolerating it. You deserve to know the man whose roof you live under. The man you love.

“I’ve told you, the city is dangerous—”

“That’s not enough!” you yell. Bat wings rush overhead as you try to even your racing breath. “I love you, and it hurts. You would think after a hundred years you might have learned how to treat someone. I’m not sure how you’d know I’m around most of the time. I can't keep waiting for you to care that I’m here.”

“Then leave!”

No noise competes with Bruce’s roar once the bats have left. His anger echoes, berating you again and again.

Tears sting your eyes as you fulfill his wish. Without another word, you run up to the sunlight where he can’t catch you.

In a daze, you find yourself in the city, back at the fine arts museum. In the impressionism wing, you stare at a Monet. This time, you stare at strokes of warm red, orange, and yellow, a faint arc made up in lines of deep rust and blue—so different from the soft blues and greens Bruce had told you Martha adored. But the fire of the hues appeals to your sinking heart. Instead of thinking of the vampire you’d abandoned within his manor, you stare where the colors blend together, get lost in the blur of pigment.

Without Bruce, you feel exposed. Your safety net is gone. What first starts as an unsettling feeling twisting in your cut slowly bleeds through to the luxury of freedom. You’re thankful it comes on gently, otherwise the relief would catch you so off-guard you’d run to Bruce in the cave you’re no longer welcome in.

You picture him sitting in his gloom, hunched over papers, as he stews over your betrayal. At first, you wonder if he’ll ever forgive you; the thought gives way to wondering if you want him to.

Rare Gotham sun shines as you sit on one of the benches in the hall. Despite the frigid air outside, the sunlight kisses your skin. The warmth blooms from within as you remember the light is not something you can be limited by. There’s nothing lethal as you bask in it, watching your fellow Gothamites walk in front of you. Friends complaining about work. Couples with fingers intertwined whose relationships weren’t shrouded in secrecy. Families unaware of the atrocities that threaten them, nor the shadow who protects them.

Once, your life was the same. You gave tours in a historic home because you had rent to make. You believed Batman was real but never believed the rumors of vampires could be true.

Golden sunset spills across the floor. You can’t outrun Bruce for much longer. You wonder if he’d try to find you, to check up on you at the very least, though you’re not sure why you want him to.

You content yourself not to search him out. If he finds you, he finds you, but you will occupy yourself with your life however you chose until he does.

Bruce is relieved to find your belongings still in your bedroom. A book on your nightstand. Expensive gifts from him atop your dresser, things you’d told him you didn’t need, never understanding that he wanted to give you everything he could. What could ever be enough for you? A light in his never ending darkness?

He wanted you safe inside these walls, made a fortress where you could be happy. Hired teams so you could never so much as trip over a loose floorboard. After every patrol, he stole to your bedroom to watch the rise and fall of your chest to be sure nothing had crept into your room while he was away.

When vampires closed in on Gotham, he decided it was best if he didn’t tell you. The threat was his to take care of, not something for you to worry over.

Perhaps he’d reacted too strongly after he found you in the cave on your own. But your curiosity concerns him; what lengths would you go in search of answers? He called you here, but you still answered the call. If you wanted information about the others like him, would you go to them if you found they were here?

He thought showing you the other side of him—the side he’s told you repeatedly to be cautious of—you might see things the way he did. He thought maybe it would be enough to show you his world was not one to play around in. It only seemed to make you more ravenous for secrets as if they were treats.

In the city, he attended his duties, but his mind lingered on thoughts of you. You hadn’t returned to the manor before dark, which meant you were still out there somewhere.

You can’t imagine what Bruce felt finding you in that alley.

Past and present flashed before him all at once. Over a century’s worth of memories. Far too many for one being to hold. So much death. So much agony.

Your blood is too fragrant in the wind. He can taste it on his tongue from smell alone. Chianti and dark chocolate.

He needs to focus, but he tastes you as he fights.

His enemy has an edge—your blood. All the more reason for Bruce to win.

His anger burns so bright inside of him, he swears his heart is beating again. He feels a fury he hasn’t felt in decades.

A very small part of him is relieved you’re too dazed to have see him lose his composure the way he does. The important thing is the vampire that attacked you is no longer a concern. Bruce ripped him to ribbons. The beast will have eternity to put himself together again. The same as any other fool who steps into his city, he’ll have to crawl to whatever hole he came from.

Blood is sticky on your neck. He can’t tell how much of the puddle beneath you is melted snow and how much is blood.

He falls to his knees. Doesn’t hear the sound of his suit hitting the ground.

Blood soaks into the wool of the coat he'd gotten you last year. Snowflakes are stark on the black fibers. He wishes it would do more to preserve the last of your warmth.

If it weren’t for the rapid rise and fall of your chest, you would look—

Bruce understands what he has to do even if he detests it. He wants to give you the world, and now he robs you of it. You may never forgive him, but you can hate him forever as long as you’re still here. He can no longer fathom a Gotham without you in it.

He wants you safe. That’s all he’s ever wanted.

His fingers curl around the cool metal of a batarang. Alabaster skin surfaces from beneath his heavy glove, tinted sickly yellow in the dim light. You barely meet his eyes as he pulls you effortlessly against him. He doesn’t know if you can see him.

His face is stone as the knifed edge of the batarang slices through his palm. Nothing else here is worth his attention more than you. The strain of your breath is overpowered by metal clanging to the ground. The tips of his fingers curl into the meat of your cheek until your lips pucker.

You make a noise. He ignores it. There’s no time for anything else. He will not lose you. His fingernails dig into his palm as he curls his fist.

“I’ll take care of you,” he whispers, though he knows you won’t remember this. “Forgive me.”

His blood drips onto your lips. In his unbeating heart, he knows this is a betrayal, but he refuses to walk through Gotham alone. Maybe you can still guide him. And maybe if you lose your way, he’ll help you remember yours.

Another slurred murmur slips through your bloodied lips. You turn your head weakly, trying to get you away. He told you his blood wouldn’t taste good. He keeps you in place. “Just a little more,” he mutters. “You’ll be safe.”

He brings you to the safety of the cave. He saves you, but you have to die anyway.

That damn transformation.

The hours pass slowly at your bedside. Your feverish mumbling come and go until the cease entirely.

He doesn’t like it. You deserve better than the cave. You should be upstairs in bed, blankets pulled up to your chin. Maybe out in the yard, dewy grass tickling your ankles as you gaze at the sunrise sparkling in Gotham Harbor.

He doesn’t know how long it will take, but he scribbles everything furiously the moment they happen and compares them with his notes from his own transformation, as mostly illegible as they are; he’d done his best to cling to whatever lucidity he could before the fever took him.

Every moment passes as a reminder to Bruce; he’s failed you. He swore to keep you safe. Now, you’re damned by his own selfishness.

When you open your eyes, Bruce is standing over a journal.

Something is wrong. You feel so cold. Too alert for what you remember going through. Someone drinking your blood. Had Bruce taken too much…?

Bruce notices you’re awake as you assess the emptiness inside of you. More than emptiness. A gnawing from deep within you. A need you don’t understand.

“Bruce…” you say. Your voice feels cold.

He snaps the journal shut and hurries over to you. “You’re safe now,” he urges.

Your heart stops. No, it doesn’t. No, the coldness comes from within you. Your heart doesn’t stop because it isn’t beating to begin with. “Bruce…?” Fear pitches your voice. You look up at him with dread.

Sunlight is still so fresh in your mind. You remember it. Bruce assures you he’ll help with your transformation, but you don’t hear him. You cling to the memory of sitting in the sunshine. Even then, you treasured it, but not nearly enough.

Come nightfall, you walk beside Bruce. You have a new life to make sense of. With the loss of your mortality, you gain the information you’d sought. Bruce withholds little now, explaining the ways of your kind as waves crash against the bay.

White caps break on the cliff side. Above you is a moonless sky. The glow of the city blocks out the stars even from here.

Across the bay is Gotham City. A stomach more than a city, you feel now more than ever. You’d always known it would take you. The only question was when.

A/N: thank you so much for reading! this fic was an eight month long process, and i hope you enjoyed reading it as much as i did writing it 💛

a gigantic shoutout to #1 beta reader @janybabyy for reading this through for me (and to @pedrasacorn and @jasontoddismyhusband for reading this in various heinous states of draft) ily

[shesjustanothergeek]

The Gods We Can Touch Chapter Nine: Time Mends the Broken

|Aemond Targaryen x Strong!Reader|

Masterlist of Series

Summary: The older twin of Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, you were a picture of the maiden, untouched and untainted by man's sins. At least, that was what Alicent Hightower believed when she held you in her arms moments after her old friend's labors. You were her shining light, her dream. Though you were never hers, she believed you were meant to be.

What will become of you as time passes and the Queen's shining light grows within the blackened darkness? Will her eldest son's morbid fascination with the light burn the realm? Or will her second son's obsession with the only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen change the course of the Seven Kingdoms as we know it?

Author's Note: 9.2k words later and here we are! That's almost as much as the other Ch. The Long Night. Finally, Jace and his sister talk about what's happened to them! I know some of y'all have been waiting for that. We really go deep into the reader and Aemond's dynamic in this one too. As always, thank you for your patience and happy reading! (⁠｡⁠•̀⁠ᴗ⁠-⁠)⁠✧

Chapter Warnings: ✨Targaryen queerness✨, melodramatic young adults, mentions of rape, Alicent being delulu, toxic relationships.

As your family arrived at the Red Keep, they quickly vanished, and your mother ordered your maids to repack your belongings. If you ever were, you were no longer welcomed in King’s Landing and planned to return to Dragonstone within the night. Part of you thought you would be relieved at the notion of ending your stay abruptly, seeing as you never wanted to return in the first place, yet you couldn’t help but feel a sense of disappointment in the pit of your stomach as you helped Edwina collect your belongings. 

The magnitude of the situation engulfed you, leaving you unable to carry on with your duties. While the other maids of the Keep merely cast fleeting glances in your direction, Edwina, your lady-in-waiting, observed your distress with sincere concern.

“Your Highness, are you feeling well?” Edwina asked as she finished folding a pearl and turquoise dress into your trunk.

As you nodded, you offered her a weak, forced smile, which resembled more of a grimace. Your eyes quickly darted towards your weathered, old wooden wardrobe. You couldn’t quite remember if it was positioned in the same spot as it had been six years ago.

“I am,” you sighed, walking to the balcony doors. These were not welded shut as you pressed the handle. “The day has been tiresome, and now we must depart after being here for a mere breath. I want to take a moment of solace.”

She gazed at you with a weary expression, her eyes filled with apprehension, as she observed you making your way to the overlook. As you breathed the fresh air, recollections of the last time you were on a balcony flashed before Edwina. Still, her anxiety gradually subsided as she noticed you choosing to sit on a stone bench rather than the railing.

The imposing walls of the Red Keep emanated a chilling aura that seemed to seep into your very marrow. The unknown secrets concealed within its ancient stones caused an involuntary shiver to run down your spine. You couldn’t help but wonder what tales they would tell if given the chance. 

Would they reveal the long-buried truths about your family’s past and confirm the whispers surrounding your lineage? Would they speak with a tender understanding as they recounted the night of your most profound sorrow? Or perhaps they would steadfastly guard their secrets, refusing to yield to any interrogation. 

It almost felt as if the walls were already whispering, hoarding their enigmatic knowledge until the distant future when they would finally crumble and release their concealed truths.

You longed for a glimpse into Aemond’s formative years and the events that molded him into the individual he is today, these red stone walls witnessed. Understanding the circumstances of his upbringing would clarify the questions that troubled your mind concerning the correspondence you penned. You held onto the hope that he read them, but uncertainty clouded your thoughts.

The heavy doors to the chambers of your childhood bedroom swung open with a resounding clang as the guard stationed outside announced the arrival of Queen Alicent. Your maids bowed as the formidable, angular figure of the Queen Consort of the Seven Kingdoms entered the sanctity of your bedroom. You could not refuse her presence in this private space despite your reluctance.

“Your Majesty,” you greeted, rising from your seat. Refusing to give her any more pleasantries that would be customary, you observed the maids leave, Alicent’s round amber eyes focused on you.

“Won’t you come inside, princess? I wish to speak with you after all these years,” she humbly requested. 

You understood it was a command and acquiesced. A part of you wanted to be obstinate and force her to meet you in the cold late winter air, but the courtly manner instilled within you since birth prevailed as you gently shut the hickory-framed balcony doors. 

“Sit.” 

Alicent gracefully motioned towards the inviting, opulent settee in front of the crackling fire, asserting her ownership of the space with a subtle yet commanding gesture. Despite the prickling sensation of anxiety coursing through your skin, you obediently followed her lead, attempting to conceal your unease. With a deep, almost wistful sigh, she fixed her gaze upon you, exuding an affectionate warmth that reminded you of your mother, and tenderly placed her delicate palm on your hand. Struggling to suppress the instinct to pull away, you grappled with conflicting emotions.

The hush that filled the space between you stretched on, heavy and suffocating, yet the Queen remained oblivious to its weight. To her, your company was a balm after enduring years shrouded in darkness without her guiding radiance.

“I wanted to apologize for Aemond’s behavior this evening. ‘Twas unbecoming of him,” she began, a prominent frown on her plump lips. “These grievances from childhood have gone unjust for so long that his anger has consumed him.”

Nodding grimly, you focused on the hearth, the orange and blue flames dancing with the moaning drafts. “Indeed. Jace, Luke, and I were not always kind to him growing up, but we did not know any better. We followed Aegon around like newborn pups until...”

“I know, my light. Perhaps an apology could soothe Aemond’s wounds?” she comforted, smoothing the unruly strands of your updo. You apologized years ago for your part in his torment, but you didn’t believe your brothers would extend the courtesy, nor would you change Aemond’s blackened heart. “You’ve grown so much in years past. I mourn not being able to be there to guide you.”

You sat there, not saying a word, and responded with a noiseless, polite, yet uneasy smile. You carefully withdrew your hand from hers, and to mask the action, you casually scratched the back of your neck, noticing the sensation of the tiny strands of hair beneath your fingertips.

“My letters? Did you get them?” Alicent questioned, desperate to prolong any contact with you.

You were unsure how to answer, knowing it would be unwise to tell her outright that you did but didn’t answer out of malice. For six years, Queen Alicent was left to stew with her thoughts and illusions, and you worried that if you conflicted them, she would become as unstable as she did the night of Driftmark.

“I was worried what my mother would say should she discover them, so I never wrote.” You supposed telling her part of the truth wouldn’t be a lie. You were concerned about what your mother would do if she found out you wrote to Alicent, but you still had no desire to speak to her.

She looked at you with sympathy, coming to caress the plumpness of your face with her knuckle. It seemed as if she couldn’t become close enough to you. “I see. I’m sorry you must endure that, but you are here now. Together once more.” 

What could you say to her and still keep the pleasantries? After everything that happened, from Aegon to Driftmark, you no longer held Queen Alicent in the same regard. The conversation did not come easily, and you could tell she noticed. 

“Rhaenyra plans to return on the morrow once she sees your family home. I would like you to come with her. You’ve barely just arrived, and Helaena would enjoy more time with you. She and I would love for you to meet the twins,” she smiled, sounding so hopeful it caused a pit in your stomach. “You and Aemond were friends before he lost his eye. I understand he seems to have changed greatly since you last saw him, yet I feel that the goodness inside him will prevail over time,” the Queen retook your hand, disregarding your obvious discomfort, “with you by his side.” 

Stare growing wide, you turned to Alicent, feeling a panic beat inside your chest like the wings of a dragon. “What do you mean?” 

Was the Queen still so desperate to have you join her family? 

She gave you the briefest of smiles as she tilted her head, studying your countenance as if you were some holy text. You changed as much as Aemond in Alicent’s eyes, yet she knew you were still hers. No distance or time could break the cord that tethered her to you. You were back home where you belonged, and although she was happy to be united with Rhaenyra, she would not let her dream be taken from her once more.

“No person knows one’s child better than their mother. I saw how he looked at you, eye never trailing too far from yours, poised to protect your honor. I worried I would witness a fight between Aemond and Aegon when he took you to dance,” she confessed. Your breath quickened, and you felt relief knowing what you felt wasn’t inside your head. 

“You want me to return to King’s Landing so Aemond and I…” You couldn’t say it aloud; words stuck in your throat. 

“Yes,” Alicent grinned, showing perfectly white teeth as she brought you close. Instinctively, she pulled your head into the crook of her neck, smelling her distinctive scent as she rubbed circles across your back. It was still the same frankincense after all these years, and you felt the fond memories of time spent with Alicent come flooding back. 

The tea times filled with sweets, laughter, and smiles entered your mind until it was replaced with the sound of Aemond’s scream, blood dripping from your mother’s wrist. You could not bring yourself to part from the Queen out of fear of what she would do. Alicent seemed so happy, yet you could sense the undercurrent of instability should you suddenly reject her affections. There was no choice but for you to accept whatever she wanted if it meant that there would be no more animosity between your families.

“I will confer with the king before bed and inform your mother when you return. This is a joyous occasion for us, my light,” she said, pulling your body impossibly tighter as you felt your hidden face contort into a weary grimace. 

You loved Aemond after all these years, but you held an uncertainty about whether he would overcome his grudges for the good of your House, and that did not account for whether your mother would agree to the proposal. She refused for you to marry into the Greens before, and with you being her heir, she might use you as all people did to their daughters, though you hoped you would be allowed to have some choice. Even if this wasn’t one, you desired to wed Aemond, if not out of love, but to secure peace between the two warring factions and your mother’s inheritance. 

Suddenly, the shared door to your childhood chambers opened and unexpectedly revealed your twin. Jace stood there breathless, not expecting you to have a visitor as he observed you tucked within the Queen’s embrace. He noticed the uneasy expression on your visage, brown eyes flicking from you to her, unsure what to do. 

At the acknowledgment of Jace’s presence, Alicent released you without a word, smoothing her structured gown with an air of cold indifference that enveloped her as she stood. 

“Sleep well, Princess,” she dismissed with a gentle nod. The necklace of the Seven-Pointed Star resting on her chest glittered in the candlelight as she left, not sparing a glance at your brother.

You and Jace did not speak. He was too stunned to see you and Alicent in a shared embrace, especially after what happened in the dining hall. That person shaped Aemond into the man he is today, sculpting the fresh clay of his mind into despising his niece and nephews. 

“What did she want?” Jace finally decided to ask with a defensive stance on his thin body. 

Sighing, you held your temples in your palms, a dejected sensation coming over you like a shroud. What could you say to him? The truth, you supposed. You never lied to your twin, but this did not feel like something you could tell him, especially after what occurred tonight. He would be upset at the notion and run to tell your mother.

“She apologized for Aemond’s behavior at supper,” you answered with exhaustion, the day’s turmoil finally taking its toll. You faced the trauma of your past without preparation and watched a man’s head get sliced clean through. You deserved to take a moment’s rest. 

Jace’s dark brows furrowed, more questions than answers coming to mind as he approached your slouched form. Typically, you would lean into his presence like no others, seeking comfort only your blood could give. At this moment, it did not feel right to do so. The past, present, and future hung heavy on your soul.

“You were embracing her,” your twin stated, which seemed to disgust him. “Where do you think Aegon and Aemond learned their behaviors?” 

Standing with a groan of annoyance, you paced to your partially packed clothes trunk, attempting to find anything to distance yourself from Jace’s pointed interrogation. “Yes, brother. When one apologizes, they tend to form some connection to express their sincerity.”

Jace scoffed, his lean body swiftly following your steps. “Are you unwell? Since the hearing, you’ve been cold with me.” 

“And why do you suppose that is?” you spun with a bark, eyes wide with vexation. Jace said not a word, curling his lips to wet them in anxiety. You knew he knew the reason but couldn’t understand why your brother refused to act as if nothing changed. “The future we grew up believing together is now nothing but a childish fantasy. Do you not comprehend how that makes me feel? To live with one thing so constant in life only for it to be ripped away in mere moments?”

Silence decorated the room, leaving the only sound to be the crackling of the roaring fire and thumping of your broken heart. Tears burned your nose, flowing down your cheeks in a salty mixture of scorn and sadness. 

“I understand that you feel as upturned as I do, but you have someone to love and hold in your life. Something that can give you that certainty in your life only it can. I…” your voice broke, filled with emotions that threatened to drown you. “I now have to find that something—to navigate a world full of men who will lie, betray me, and think themselves worth more than they are so that they may reach ultimate power. I will become a prize to win rather than someone’s daughter, someone who lives and breathes and has desires of her own.”

Jace could see you spiraling, sinking into a pit of melancholy he feared you would not crawl out of. He realized he hadn’t stopped to think about what you could genuinely be feeling. It was given that you felt the same shock, rage, and disappointment he did, but beyond that, he hadn’t considered what this meant for your relationship or future. 

To have someone be your first in everything and grow up with the idea that they would also be your last stunted emotional and social growth with others. Jace was given the comfort of knowing who would be his new end, but you weren’t afforded the luxury. A selfish part of him hoped you would never find someone in this sense. You were his sister. He realized this was the ego of a self-centered man speaking, not the brother you cherished with your body and soul.

Not knowing how to improve this impossible situation, Jace brought you close, holding your sobbing form in his familiar arms. He felt your fingers clench his tunic as you attempted to ground yourself. Tears soon fell from his dark lashes and onto your crown. You looked at him with matching sorrow, instinctively stroking the soft bone of his cheek in the manner you knew simultaneously weakened and emboldened him. 

Sleep did not come easy to Aemond on this night despite the intense wine he drank at dinner to ease his soul. How could the Prince find sleep after what happened? After he was forced to sit and break bread with the people who altered his life forever? You were never his family, yet thoughts of your shared youth and camaraderie infected his mind like grayscale. It loomed over him like dark clouds beckoning a storm.

Alicent, his mother, whom he cherished dearly, cowered in her beliefs at the mere notion that her long-lost friend gave even the slightest acknowledgment. She impressed upon Aemond, and his siblings Rhaenyra’s flaws and the sins she called children were abominations unfit to inherit the Crown. Now, after merely six years, none of that seemed to matter. He felt angry—betrayed. Was this not what his mother wanted of him? For Aemond to stand behind Aegon’s claim and their family regardless of the web, Rhaenyra spun around her.

The sting of tears sprung in his violet eye, but Aemond quickly willed them to stop by replacing them with his fury. He was not weak. He held the family together, and you were not the family his mother claimed you to be. Had it not been for your kin’s unprecedented arrival, all would be as it should be. A father he longed for attention from but never got, on the Stranger’s door, his brother drowning himself in his cups instead of your presence, and you, far across Blackwater Bay on Dragonstone, living a life you were undeserving of. Aemond did feel slightly vindicated when he saw your ghostly expression when Princess Rhaenys stated Jacaerys’s betrothal.

The Prince understood then that your life was capsizing, but at least you still had two plain, working eyes.

His ire was no longer contained, and his mind continued to reel, boiling over until he threw the bedsheets from his tense body and dawned a nightshirt. Aemond hated you. He loathed you and was not one to leave a conversation without the upper hand as he left his chambers, slinking into one of Maegor’s secret passages. 

It was involuntary how Jace’s body responded to yours, your touch so familiar it was impossible not to succumb to the sins of the past as your moist lips met. Heat ignited inside your loins as it did his, your hands winding themselves inside his choppy hair, barely taking a minute to breathe. You were unsure who was the first to disrobe the other, grabbing one another’s buckles and strings until there was nothing but air between your hot flesh.

“We shall say goodbyes to our previous beliefs tonight, Jace. I shall not be your whore and sister,” you declared against his cheek as you lowered him onto your childhood bed. “Nor shall you be mine. I respect your union far more than that.” 

“And I yours,” Jace quickly replied with a strained grunt, settling his cock between your wet folds as you rocked yourself to full arousal.

It would be difficult for both of you to navigate new bodies for the first time again, to find what made the other person curl their toes in abandon. For Jace, you knew how he loved the way it felt to be inside you to the fullest extent and saw how his older sister rode him to take her pleasure. For you, Jace knew that the little nub at the top of your silt was the epicenter for the majority of your pleasure, teasing the thing with his mouth, tongue, digits, and whatever else he could to see you so grateful for him.

You suddenly longed for your twin despite being in his presence, reminding yourself of your torturous time apart as you leaned forward, devouring his pouty lips and balancing yourself to become one. Your slick walls welcomed Jace inside like they were his home, feeling the head brush against the sensitive spot deep inside, the pair of you moaning into each other’s mouths as you began to move with gradual and firm movements of your hips. Each grind and lift of your body slowly bloomed ecstasy between your thighs, using your hands and core to savor yet heighten the experience to reach that inevitable peak. 

Aemond expected you to be alone, or at the very least, with a maid when he reached the destination Aegon had shown him. He did not ask how his brother knew of such things, though the answer was clear. Whatever semblance of a plan Aemond conjured on his march through the damp tunnels was abruptly extinguished once he heard your girlish cries—loathing to admit it aloud, the Prince’s ire softened at the noise. He grunted, poised to open the wall and have him be the reason you wailed, but he ceased his movements at the deep timbre that comforted your sorrows. 

It was Jace. The beloved brother you would willingly give up your life for, holding you within his arms as you sobbed. The sight flared his nostrils and sent a burning sensation to his stomach that he tried to ignore.

It was expected that your twin would be in your bed chambers. Aemond knew of the rumors surrounding your closer-than-normal sibling relationship. While it wasn’t seen as taboo in Targaryen customs, the common folk who practiced the Faith certainly would see it as a sin if they knew. 

The One-Eyed Prince stood silently in the dim recesses concealed behind the rough-hewn stone wall. His breath barely made a sound as he cautiously pried it open enough to glimpse the unfolding scene. A flicker of annoyance shot through him at the thought of Jace unexpectedly discovering his presence. He stifled the urge to groan, focusing instead on the poignant sobs that echoed through the air. 

Before him were the illegitimate children of his half-sister, caught in their web of delusions, seemingly convinced that they could escape the relentless strains of duty that had ensnared so many before them. Aemond watched with disdain and pity, realizing they were blissfully unaware of the sacrifices the world demanded of them in exchange for power and prestige. You and your brother sat huddled together, your voices trembling thick with emotion as you expressed the despair of being forced into marriages with people you barely knew, let alone desired.

Aemond’s gaze narrowed as he observed your youthful faces, illuminated by the waning light flickering with the candles. Your immaturity was evident. The rawness of your feelings revealed how little you understood the harsh realities of noble life. It was a bitter irony, this burden, the necessity of sacrificing personal happiness for strategic alliances. The weight of such obligations pressed heavily on your shoulders, a burden that felt especially crushing in your youthful naivety.

Embraces soon turned to caresses, which morphed into kisses as he observed Jace untie the laces of your crimson gown. Aemond felt his stomach lurch, the involuntary fear of the events being nonconsensual guiding his sudden urge to protect you. He halted his movements as he watched you disrobe your brother, blood draining from his heart and into his cock when he saw your naked form.

The womanly figure he saw within the courtyard was able to be admired. The slope of your elongated neck that still held your necklace led down to your two perfect mounds of flesh, rounded and shaped almost to the teardrops that sparkled on your skin—a soft place to rest your head in comfort. Curves and rolls decorated the rest of your body as he watched you move in time with Jace, bestowing upon Aemond the perfect view of your hips that were sturdy and plush, housing a womb to bear your future husband’s children.

Your body was a picture of the Maiden, Aemond mused, feeling his cheeks heat with growing desire. You were a depiction of a woman, so soft and plump, a perfect contrast that would fit with his muscular and sinewy body. The Prince could imagine your stomach stretched with a child and breasts full of milk as they leaked through pert nipples and onto his tongue.

The shame Aemond felt at thinking such things of his bastard niece warred in his mind, logic battling with lust as his breeches became too tight. He refused to succumb to his sinful desires and embraced the pain of his longing.

A flicker of callow hope lingered in the shadowy corners of Aemond’s mind as if clinging to the possibility that the gossip regarding you and your twin was nothing but a cruel fabrication. He wrestled with the notion of you as a sensual being, a struggle deepened by the haunting memories of Aegon’s transgressions against you. Like the common folk, he had unknowingly fallen prey to a comforting illusion—seeing you as a paragon of virtue, a righteous martyr navigating the treacherous waters of adolescence with grace and fortitude. 

To him, you were a pure maiden, your spirit untainted, who had bravely borne the trials and tribulations that beset young women, emerging with a noble resolve. The small childish part of Aemond wanted to believe you had sworn off the temptations that often ensnared others, choosing instead a path marked by selflessness and a profound commitment to righteousness. This image of you, painted in broad strokes of light and virtue, had unwillingly taken root in his mind, making the idea of you as anything other than an emblem of purity feel surreal and disconcerting.

The Prince noiselessly grunted in agony as his manhood painfully beat against the confines of his trousers, only for it to be swallowed by the soft sounds unique to only sex. He childishly hoped that he would be the man to break his imagined vow of chastity you took, but now he realized how much of a fantasy it was as he watched you take your twin’s cock between your glistening folds. 

Jace was the only thing that felt right to you today, like the embrace of a loved one you hadn’t seen in years. Your hip movements were practiced as they held the knowledge of what made your brother’s abdomen clench in ecstasy. You could feel your brother’s hands on you, so gentle, tender, and loving, having nothing of the malice your uncle carried today. 

Seeing Aemond now a man instead of the wide-eyed boy you knew stirred something within you that you had pushed aside earlier, igniting a fire you had never known existed in your soul. You imagined him here now and what it would be like to feel his manhood nestled so profoundly within you that there was no end. While you enjoyed the recognizable feeling of Jace and his delicateness, now that you had gotten a taste for the depravity of your uncle in his place, you found your movements daunting. Your knees began to ache, and your thighs started to burn, abruptly extinguishing the pleasure that was blossoming in your core.

This had never happened before, and you pushed yourself to continue, crashing that high that was always promised at the end. 

Praying that Jace did not notice, you leaned forward as you attempted to lose yourself in his kiss, stroking the sides of his visage. The more you moved, the more discouraged you became, resorting to seeking your pleasure with your own hands as you rubbed at your pearl, but nothing worked.

Frustration overshadowed any fulfillment. Your ministrations and Jace’s cock felt like an intrusion into your walls. Faking your release would not end this once-enjoyed act, and you steeled yourself to ensure this would be over soon. 

You felt terrible for Jace. You knew he would stop at his detriment to ensure you were well, but you refused to utter the reason behind why your body had become so ineffective. 

“You feel so good, brother. I need you to…” The dryness in your mouth halted your lies as you concealed it with a look of satisfaction. “I need you to finish. I’m so close.” Jace was none the wiser, too lost in pleasure as he profusely nodded.

It was painfully evident to anyone who glanced your way that you had lost interest in the moment. Your posture was rigid, and your eyes were clouded with discontent. Aemond couldn’t help but feel a troubling sense of satisfaction at that realization as if he had uncovered a hidden complexity in the situation. 

Your brother, Jace—the very same person you always believed understood you on a deeper plane—remained blissfully unaware of the turmoil swirling within you. His gaze lingered on your face, but it lacked the perceptiveness needed to grasp the subtle but clear signs of your unhappiness.

Aemond’s thoughts raced. If only he were in his nephew’s shoes, he would have sensed the disturbance immediately. Unlike Jace, who seemed consumed by his emotions, Aemond had a keen intuition that allowed him to read the room with sharp clarity. He would not have focused on the fleeting pleasure of the moment. Instead, he would have delved beneath your act, seeking to uncover the reasons behind your discontent. Aemond envisioned himself beneath you, looking up at your flushed body with the intent of understanding the causes of your spiral, eager to address your needs and reignite the spark of ecstasy that once illuminated your expression.

If only…

Though it was mere minutes, it felt like hours, and you squeezed and loosened yourself around your twin’s cock, milking him in a way that would cause him fulfillment. He tried to stop you, taking hold of your plump hips as you continued. 

“Stop, sister. You haven’t… fuck…” Moving his palms to your breasts, you took control, sweat running down your neck from exertion as Jace struggled to keep himself from releasing. 

He was helpless. Toes curling and stomach clenching as you quickly lifted yourself off, stroking his pink shaft in place of your womanhood. Spurts of his pearlescent seed left from his pink tip and onto his waist and your hand, biting his lower lip in an attempt to silence his grunts of satisfaction as you slowed your movements so as not to overwhelm him. Jace’s heart raced inside his chest like a horse’s hooves as he came down from his high, fidgeting his legs and bringing your body up to kiss him. You did not mean to torture him, but it was finally done, and that was a relief in itself as you laid down beside him, stroking his hot torso. 

“You did not peak,” Jace began with a pout, moving himself to settle his body between your legs. “Let me make up for it.”

Inhaling a deep breath, you shook your head, pulling him up to rest beside you again. “There’s no need, brother. Your pleasure is enough to satisfy me,” you lied, stroking the choppy strands of his short hair behind his ear. He stared at you skeptically as you felt disgusted with yourself at the smell of sex in your bed chambers, causing revulsion to churn in your stomach. “Edwina will be back soon, and while I trust her, we do not need to risk another tongue-lashing from Mother. You are to be married soon and must be in her good graces. Come. Let me clean you.”

Jace sighed, slumping over his drying seed as you poured your drinking water into a bowl and gathered a cloth to wipe his stomach. You engrossed yourself in the action as you were too ashamed to speak, though your brother couldn’t possibly hate you more than you already did. 

Without many words between you, you helped him dress, throwing over an appropriate dress slip, smiling, and bestowing him fleeting touches not to have him worry. It was evident that Jace understood something was wrong, but the consequences for you and him, a betrothed man discovered in a compromising position, far outweighed any concerns. 

“Mother wants us ready to depart back to Dragonstone within the hour. We mustn’t waste any more time,” you ordered Jace in the way only you could, as he nodded.

Before he closed the door to your adjoining childhood chambers, he gave you one last kiss, saying farewell to the childish dreams of a future together. 

“I love you,” he stated. You gave him a bittersweet smile in return.

“And I you, more than the Gods allow.” 

Shutting the door behind him, you locked it, countenance dropping from the neutral expression to one of despair, sobs breaking from between your lips as you balanced yourself against the warm hearth.

The world around you felt utterly ruthless and deeply unjust, a suffocating weight pressing down on your heart. You couldn’t shake the bitterness that churned within you, directed at the memories of your past with Jace. It was painful to reflect on the years you spent entranced by the fantasy of life together, imagining the vows you would exchange and the family you would build. The reality, however, was a far cry from those dreams, each illusion crumbling under the harsh light of truth. 

Your mother’s actions echoed in your mind like a haunting refrain. It felt like she had orchestrated this betrayal all along, waiting for the opportunity to use her children. She wielded Jace and Luke as pawns, manipulating emotions to untangle her political complications, leaving you feeling forgotten and unutilized. In her quest to alleviate her burdens, your mother dismantled the very dreams you held dear, leaving you adrift in a sea of disappointment, grappling with the profound loss of a future you thought was within your grasp.

Through the haze of tears clouding your vision, you caught a glimpse of the wall beside your wardrobe, protruding ever so slightly as if it were hiding a secret. The air hung heavy with tension, and a chill ran down your spine. Only one person could be moving through the shadows of the Red Keep at this hour. Panic gripped your heart, tumbling down to your bare feet and leaving you frozen, an unwilling statue in the dim light. 

As you willed your limbs to move, you shuffled awkwardly across the cold wooden floor, acutely aware that Aegon was most likely watching you. The door to your brother’s room and the hallway felt painstakingly far away. The only option left was the balcony, its railing looming like an unwelcoming edge over the moat of spikes encircling Maegor’s Holdfast. 

The thought of plunging into those treacherous spikes sent a shiver through you. For now, hiding seemed your best chance. If you could buy yourself time, you might gain enough distance from Aegon to run to the hall full of guards.

With a whisper of dread, you crawled beneath your bed, the coarse dust and sticky cobwebs clinging to your dress and skin like the entrapments of a forgotten cellar. The muffled thud of footsteps echoed from the far wall, sending shivers down your spine as you watched Aegon’s boot enter your chambers, its polished leather glinting ominously in the dim light. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears, a frantic drum of terror, as he paused at the foot of your bed, the air thick with unspoken tension.

With a sinking feeling, you covered your eyes with trembling hands, desperately praying to the Seven for Edwina’s swift return, but your silent plea hung unanswered around you. You heard Aegon grunt softly, the sound unsettling as he shuffled closer, his heavy shoes brushing against the stone floor. Every nerve in your body was taut with fear as you felt his gaze sweep beneath the bed, searching for you in the shadows.

A firm hand clamped around your arm, jolting you with a scream that echoed in the stillness. As your eyes fluttered open, you were met not with Aegon’s familiar, cropped hair but with a cascade of silver locks flowing down a lithe figure. Aemond knelt before you, his intense gaze focused and calculating as he studied your trembling form. The tension in the air hung heavy around you, amplifying the fear pulsing through your veins. You felt the warmth of his grip as he observed you, the world around fading into a blur, leaving only the sharp clarity of his presence.

Aemond found it almost laughable that you thought cowering beneath the bed, like a frightened child, could shield you from the world outside. He noted how a part of your gown, delicate and flowing, peeked out. In comparison, some of him relished his power to instill fear in you. A more profound understanding stirred within him as he noted your quivering lips, brows arched in fright. It wasn’t merely his presence that had regressed you to this vulnerable state. The haunting memory echoed in your mind whenever you lay in the stillness of twilight.

He recalled, in vivid detail, the night Aegon had violated you—a night marred by betrayal and anguish. You had confided in him, recounting how his older brother lured you through the shadowy tunnels with sweet promises of a secret just for you. The realization struck Aemond like a dagger. Your reaction was rooted in that traumatic experience, a natural response to the horror you had endured. Yet, as those memories surfaced, they ignited a fierce anger within him that dulled his compassion and overshadowed his instinct to comfort.

“If you’re here to hurt me, know that my Lady will be here any moment,” you whispered, tears glistening on your cheeks. The Prince felt transported back in time, seeing your girlish face before him like it had not aged from when you crawled into his bed and shared your first kiss.

“I have no want for depravity,” Aemond announced, releasing your arm. He rose from his crouched position but did not leave your room. This reminded him of the night you came to sleep in his chambers for this very reason, and he felt his black heart lighten at the tremble of your frightened voice.

“Then why are you here?” You were so weak and pathetic, nothing like the strong dragon you had portrayed yourself to be hours prior. 

Aemond sighed through his nose, seemingly exhausted from the conversation, sitting on the mattress above you as it creaked. “I’ve come to finish our conversation from earlier,” he declared casually with the cross of his leg. “Won’t you spare me the dignity of discussing such matters face to face?”

“I am quite content down here,” you quipped with a sniffle, fear still controlling your actions. “Say your piece.”

You heard him chuckle from above, a smirk no doubt on his features. “My brother will not harm you. He’s off to the Silk Streets at this very moment, drowning himself in wine and women,” the Prince offered in consolation. He hoped to get you out from under the bed, but he did find the situation amusing. 

“I pity them. Do you blame me for being so cautious after what happened tonight?” You wanted to prolong this momentary peace even if it was surrounding the gossip of another. “How Aegon so shamelessly flouted about the room? You saw how he acted, Aemond.”

“You are not innocent in the matter either, niece,” Aemond hummed as you covered an offended scoff. “If I recall, your dear twin took his wife and flouted about the room with her.” 

Your fierce sense of injustice compelled you to wriggle out from beneath the bed, carefully brushing off the dust and specks of debris that had settled on your gown. It was a soft fabric that now seemed to bear the marks of your hiding place, but you paid it little mind. Aemond lounged atop your rumpled bed sheets, occupying your space with an air of casual superiority as if he belonged there. 

His loosely draped clothing accentuated his figure, and you found it challenging to divert your gaze from the exposed expanse of his collarbones. The pale sheen of his skin contrasted starkly with the messiness of the room, momentarily captivating you and stealing your breath away. The atmosphere thrummed with an unspoken tension, drawing note to the uncharted territory between you.

“He-he touched me as if he did not tear my womanhood and make me bleed!” you exclaimed, a fresh wave of tears collecting at your dark lashes. “And you were there, uncle. You watched it happen. Do you not recall your promise made on a night such as this? Would you protect me from him so long as I was by your side? I am here before you.”

Aemond’s face was impassive, a blank stone carved with only his features. “You couple with your brother, and yet you are the one to lecture me? You’re a whore.”

You knew it was only a matter of time before he spoke about what he saw in the shadows, but having it brought to light did not ease the knot of shame within your stomach. 

“Whatever insults you have conjured up, know that I’ve already thought of them myself,” you braced, attempting to build a wall around your heart. Despite the difference in position, Aemond sitting in what would be a submissive manner, you felt like the lesser one, embracing your torso in self-consolation.

The Prince remained unnervingly quiet, his expression a hardened mask of arrogance. Shadows danced across his chiseled features as the dim light caught the high curve of his cheekbones and the sharp line of his jaw. He tilted his head slightly, allowing his moonlit hair to fall just enough to enhance his regal demeanor. A deep, resonant hum emerged from his throat, filling the air with a somber melody that seemed to echo the weight of unspoken thoughts. His eyes, usually filled with a fierce brightness, now held an undercurrent of fear—a fear that crept in like a shadow. He was aware that if he broke this silence, his voice might waver, revealing the regret that festered within him. 

Aemond feared you would hear the tremor of the boy he once was, the dragonless child who had craved approval and affection and still felt the sting of past failures. The thought of you seeing him in such a vulnerable light sent a shiver of apprehension through him, driving him to maintain his proud appearance. 

“I have been told since birth that Jace was to be my husband, yet now the foundations of my life have been uprooted because of one man’s ambitions,” you argued, feeling your body flush with anger instead of this dreadful sadness. “I feel like a fool for doing such things. I understood it was wrong at the time, yet this part of me was so bent on taking back something stolen from me. To prove to myself that sex was not about pain and control but something to enjoy.”

“All people succumb to sins of the flesh,” Aemond replied. It was a bland reply that showed little sympathy for you, but you expected nothing less from him. You were grateful enough that he hadn’t closed the conversation off so that only his wrath spoke.

Inhaling a stuttered breath, you wiped away the water that soaked your skin, a futile attempt at returning your dignity. “Men can fuck as they please without the stigma that surrounds women. If they fault and dabble with the flesh, it’s considered nothing more than their culture. When I am queen-”

“Aegon took me to a brothel when I was three and ten,” Aemond interrupted your tirade, causing you to pause with dissatisfaction, coloring your features. “He said, ‘Time to get it wet.’ I didn’t want to, but he paid the brothel Madame good coin, and I was forced to endure to show my brother that I was a man like him.” The fire within you softened, the tense muscles of your body deflating in empathy at his confession. “You are not the only one subjected to hypocrisy. I was supposed to enjoy it like a man, but all I felt was disgust.”

Perhaps it was the rich, intoxicating wine that Aemond had been consuming, or maybe the insidious notion that he held a threat over your head compelled him to confide in you. His revelations were not born out of genuine concern for you but reflected your insignificance in his eyes. 

That was the reason, nothing more.

He did not regard your thoughts or feelings as worthy of consideration. After all, a Prince of his stature would not be so vulnerable as to divulge his most profound shame to his illegitimate niece, expecting that with her bleeding heart, she would offer him understanding or solace. 

Aemond carried the weight of the pig incident like a brand upon his soul, an indelible memory that refused to fade. The sting of Aegon’s words lingered in his mind, a fresh wound that festered even after losing his eye to Lucerys, a brutal reminder of his vulnerability. 

The image of Aegon loomed ominously in his memories, particularly the night in the brothel, where the air was thick with the stench of spilled wine and sweat. Aegon’s skin glistened with an unappealing stickiness, the remnants of revelry clinging to him as he towered over Aemond, his posture a hazy blend of mockery and drunken arrogance. Beneath the veil of alcohol swirling in his veins, Aegon’s cruel laughter cut through the air, sharp and unforgiving, each word a fresh dagger aimed directly at Aemond’s heart. The echoes of that taunting laughter haunted him, a bitter reminder of the pain inflicted by the very brother who should have stood by his side.

“Ensure that you stay perfectly still, brother. We don’t want you to miss it.”

You exhaled slowly, a deep sigh laced with a sense of melancholy as a rush of emotions threatened to spill over. The fresh start of tears hovered beneath the surface, their warmth urging to escape, but you clenched your jaw and willed them to remain hidden, trapped within your mouth. 

Aemond sat before you, his expression hardened and his stance resolute. He did not welcome sympathy or pity. Those sentiments would isolate him further, pushing him deeper into his turmoil. What Aemond truly needed—more than any platitude about family values—was someone who could listen and sense the heavy shadows lurking behind his guarded words. He craved understanding, a connection that transcended judgment, a safe space to unburden his heart without fear of condemnation or lectures. At that moment, all he needed was an empathetic ear, ready to hear him amidst the chaos of his thoughts.

“Aegon is vile. A part of me hoped he would spare you from his cruelty, though I should have known. His mind is twisted and barbarous and holds no honor. You know this as I do,” you preached. 

The longing to embrace Aemond was overwhelming, a fierce yearning that coiled tightly within you, causing your fingers to flex and relax in a restless rhythm. You understood the delicate nature of his emotions, aware that a sudden move could send him retreating into the impenetrable and cold fortress he had constructed around his heart. With that thought in mind, you opted for a tentative approach, positioning yourself at a respectful distance on the plush feather mattress, allowing the space between you to serve as a shield and a bridge in this intricate dance of intimacy and caution. The softness of the mattress cradled your form, yet your heart raced with the desire to close that distance, to reach out and let him know how deeply you cared.

“Your mother spoke with me tonight. She wants me to return tomorrow with my mother and finally propose an engagement to unite our House.” You steadied your breath as you felt Aemond’s piercing, violet eye on you, his face turning into a mask. You could see his mind reeling at your proximity and your following words, trying to decipher what would come next.

“I owe my life to you for what you did for me. You stopped Aegon from debasing me further and became my friend despite how poorly I treated you,” your voice cracked with conviction as you reflected on the regrets of your childhood. “Accept this betrothal, and we will live out those childhood times again. You’ll be my husband and I, your wife, taking to the skies together like I promised. We will rule the Seven Kingdoms, and you will be king. Aegon will no longer hurt us.” 

Your words were like honey in his ear, dripping from the comb full of its viscous sweetness and into his blood. The tension within your stomach began to morph into something different, something warm yet exhilarating, as you saw fierce emotion crack through the lines of his face.

Courage filled you, rattling your bones and lifting your muscles to cup the side of Aemond’s scarred cheek as you softly stroked the indented skin. 

The surge of boldness that once ignited within you flickered and vanished, leaving a feeling of vulnerability that wrapped around you like a heavy cloak. Memories of the heartbreaking tragedies that life had heaped upon both of you flooded back, causing you to instinctively pull away, uneasy with the weight of it all. Yet, before you could fully retreat, Aemond’s hand closed around your wrist, his grip steady and unyielding, anchoring you to that fragile moment. 

Your breaths hung suspended in the air as you found yourself lost in his gaze, two souls suspended in time, teetering on the brink of understanding. It felt as though you could plunge deep into the shadows of his thoughts, unraveling the secrets he kept buried within. The silence stretched around you, thick with unspoken words, and a part of you was terrified to break it, fearing that doing so might shatter the delicate tranquility that had settled between you.

Time ceased to exist. It was only you and your uncle, two souls that had once been connected and torn asunder by hate that erupted long before your conception. You felt the gravity of the situation pulling you towards Aemond, and he, you, no longer seeing the world around you. The candlelight shade danced across the aquiline sculpture of his visage, creating a haunting beauty compared to the soft, cherubic plumpness of your face, round with conviction and moist with tears.

The moment couldn’t last long enough as you felt your knee collide with Aemond’s, sending a jolt through your core that made your breath hitch. The hand on your uncle’s ridged thigh clenched, fingers digging into his muscle as you observed how the tendons rippled with the movement, sending a wave of heat to your skin. You were certain Aemond felt the same, too, with his cheeks and ears tinged pink, tongue poking out to briefly wet his lip as his violet eye flicked to your swiftly rising and falling breasts.

Without warning, the doors to your bed chambers opened with a clang, revealing the Lady Edwina you had prayed for earlier. You did not want to pull away from him but knew the consequences of being caught in an improper position with a man. Aemond gave you no choice, curling his lip in dissatisfaction as he tightened his grip on your arm, refusing to let you remove the warmth of your touch on his face. 

It had been an eternity since he had felt the soothing warmth of a feminine embrace, a gesture that had become increasingly rare from his mother as the years had passed and he had grown older. The absence of that nurturing touch left a hollow ache in his heart. He craved the security and intimacy that such an embrace offered, and when you tried to pull away, he instinctively tightened his hold.

Edwina gasped with a quick “My Prince” as Aemond begrudgingly loosened his grip.

“Edwina, thank you for returning,” you said, voice cordial and gaze misty, “though I wish you would announce yourself.”

She curtsied, her cheeks scarlet. “Apologies, Your Highness.” 

Sighing, you glanced at Aemond, who had a dark expression, half thinking he should order the maid away or have her quartered for insolence. Sensing his vexation, you stood, placing a hand on your uncle’s sturdy shoulder, and offered a weak grin.

“All is forgiven. My uncle and I just finished discussing, didn’t we?” Aemond grunted in response, following your movements and brushing off your kind gesture. “Sleep well tonight, Prince Aemond. Know that my thoughts are with you.” 

He remained silent, his mask of the ruthless Prince falling perfectly back into place as he strode out of the room, leaving behind an oppressive air and not even a hint of a farewell. You sighed exasperated, rolling your eyes at the heavy doors as they swung shut with a resounding thud. Glancing over at your Lady, you caught her gaze, which held a deep, understanding glance that spoke volumes without the need for words. She surveyed your attire keenly before returning to her task of meticulously packing your belongings, her movements graceful yet methodical.

“Shall we summon the other maids?” Edwina asked with an airy shift in her tone that she acquired when in a jesting mood. She finally knew the answer as to who you so ardently sent ravens to in the Keep.

You offered a subtle nod, your gaze drifting to the elegant pitchers that adorned the polished writing table, each glinting softly in the dim light. With a graceful motion, you poured the deep crimson wine into a delicate glass, the rich aroma rising to meet you as it filled the vessel. The thought of leaving this stuffy gathering behind ignited a thrilling hope within you, quickening your heartbeat at the anticipation of returning to Aemond. The idea of being reunited with him filled you with an intoxicating sense of longing and excitement, making your pulse race with the promise of what was to come.

A profound sense of satisfaction enveloped Aemond as he walked through the torch-lit halls of the Keep. The flickering flames cast a warm glow, illuminating the intricacies of the stone walls that had witnessed countless secrets and whispered promises. The air was thick with the scent of burning resin and age-old timber, enhancing the atmosphere of history surrounding him. 

As he stepped into his chambers, a serene calm washed over him, slowly releasing the tension from his muscles as if he were shedding a burdensome weight. A curious sensation flickered within his chest, akin to the rush of emotions he had felt when he first kissed you all those years ago—a moment forever etched in his memory. A grin stretched his thin lips, a blend of nostalgia and anticipation brightening his features.

He envisioned a future where you would stand proudly by his side as his wife, the thought filling him with warmth. The image of your hands intertwined and the promise of building a family together painted a vivid picture in his mind. In that profound moment, he realized that the sacred ties of marriage would firmly anchor your loyalties, binding your fates together in a covenant that would weather any storm, ensuring that your heart would forever belong to Aemond.

Princess Rhaenyra’s only daughter would be his. 

Aegon’s ascension to the Iron Throne was inevitable, and he understood that accepting such a fact would put your new marriage to the test. The Prince convinced himself that in the end, you would love him and stay by his side, and that was enough for him to forget the vexation at his mother’s schemes and agree to the proposal. Mors Martell and Queen Nymeria, at last. 

Though the war had not yet begun, Aemond felt a sense of victory swelling within him.

Masterlist of Series

Spotify Playlist

The reader really couldn't catch a break in this chapter. It was literally one trauma after another. XD I've debated putting in some smut scenes with Jace and the reader in the previous chapters, but it never felt right. They've definitely done it quite a few times, tho. In my head, they've accidentally had a pregnancy scare like Rhaenyra did, and that was one of the turning points to separate them and send the reader to Dorne. Anyways, Aemond is at the beginning of his Prince Regent Era with his arrogance, but oh boy. The man won't know what hit him in the following chapters... (⁠◠⁠‿⁠・⁠)⁠—⁠☆

Tagged Peeps: @millies0bsimp, @britt-mf, @marvelescvpe, @haikyuusboringassmanager, @discofairysworld , @lottiemsgf , @nessjo , @fiction-fanfic-reader , @qvnthesia , @hotvillianapologist , @p45510n4f4shi0n , @theendlessvoidofdarkest , @readerselegance , @gothamgurl2024 , @aleemendoza2425-blog , @vaylint , @ln8118 , @prettyduckling22 , @primroseluna , @baybaybear1

[iridescentdove]

I need a BSD x Reader where it’s just the reader casually rizzing up everyone like no one is safe from the reader’s infinite rizz, not the ADA, not the PM, not the DOA, not the guild, and definitely not the Hunting Dogs, not even civilians; it’s literally everyone that is getting rizzed up, while the reader is aware and laughs and points at every clown they rizzed up.

THE ULTIMATE RIZZLORD.

various!BSD x reader

A/N: anon, I would like to point out how much I love you and this request right now. also, I put the reader in the port mafia for fun because why not.

Absolutely speechless.

This is how everyone felt – well, whether whoever it may be, there was just one thing all could collectively agree on. They may all be feared and powerful factions that anyone could basically kneel down to, however ...

Who THE FUCK is this audacious person?

MORI was the first to witness your ass flirt with every single person you saw. But no, did you even care? Not at all. He stares, bewildered and mildly in concern as you came up to every single person you saw – completely distracted from the mission at hand as you asked women to step on you, choke you ...

He wants you throw you back from where you came from.

Oh wait, nevermind. You were now flirting with HIM. MORI is in even more shock at your confidence. Damn, pretty bold of you. But he actually thought you kinda hot fr. Elise still #1 bae tho

And somehow, you were taken up to being an executive. Everyone is morbid and utterly terrified.

How the fuck is someone like you an EXECUTIVE?? HELLO??

CHUUYA turns as red as his hair could ever be. Look man, he just wanted to complain about Dazai and you here just ..

"That fucking idiot Dazai! I'll rip him apart!"

"Yes daddy- I mean, can you do that to me too?"

"... What?"

"Ooh~ those fingers are so slender and pretty .."

"Wh-"

"Mind if I ... caress them a little, babygorl?"

"(Y/N) WHAT-"

Aww, look at that, Chuuya is deader than Odasaku <3

But God forbid you be taken on important missions against another factiom because fuck man. All you're there for is 1% fighting, 99% rizzing.

Y'know when everything was in chaos in Yokohama bcz of the Guild trying to take over? Everyone's fighting their ass off, God knows where DAZAI is but no one cares, and you?? Uh yeah already guessed it.

Tryna rizz up the agency.

Like yes, they're in trouble, everyone is, we know but fuck war we want fictional men. And women.

"Are you lingo? Because we can make a good duo 😏" - you

"... Did you just make a duolingo pickup line" - kunikida

Man times when the port mafia and the agency are in a truce, you're there back and forth flirting nonstop. Everyone is red, turned on from your oh so amazing rizzler skills

DAZAI enjoys your company obviously. Both of you create so much chaos, but even sometimes you're so much worse than him. You're the only one who can actually surprise him. Like wtf bitch stop flirting with the damn secret police?? Uh??

You make suicidal jokes, whispering them so sexily in his ear he wanna take you to the bed right there mamasita lip bite

Oh, the Decay of Angels wanna achieve world domination? They can dominate sumn else if you know what I mean

No words can express how terrified u keep making everyone THAT'S FYODOR HE'LL KILL YOU WITH A TOUCH BITCH- oh wait nvm he's melting from all of your rizz and affection.

You are literally so sweet but so confusing. SIGMA sees you around the Sky Casino just chilling and flirting with everyone you see. He don't mind cause you hot anyway

The Guild kinda ... actually, no. They're not safe. FITZGERALD? More like Rizzgerald cause this bitch 'bout to get rizzed so hard he turns poor

Yeah .. I don't take it to heart.

You'll just be up in their ass even after the Yokohama incident. Literally all of them both love and hate you. "Should we throw her off a cliff or kiss her" "Idk the second option is kinda tempting tho" "Boss, what do we d-" "Both."

DAMN LOVECRAFT AND BRAM TOO?? BITCH STOP 😭

No one can escape from your rizz. Okay one time you got kidnapped by the fuckin Hunting Dogs but you just?? Started to rizz up and call JOUNO ur bbygorl?? He is seconds from slicing your head off but he gave up at this point.

Where you got that rose from 🤨

Why the fuck is romantic music playing 😐

You asked FUKUCHI himself to choke you and slam you against the wall. Not even an ounce of regret of fear.

Everyone officially is scared of you.

ANGO isn't free from this either, bitch. You'll strut into the room all happy to talk for a mission and all but ... uhh. "So you're from the Special Division? I can't blame you then ... I feel as if I have something special going on for you."

ANGO, internally: iamnotasimp- iamnotasimp- iamnotasimp-

Sadly, he is now a simp.

The fact his face turns so red is not unnoticed by you. You laugh, clowning everyone you literally rizzed up no joke. They're so in love with ur pretty/handsome/hot ass 😔

No one is free. If you find a pretty bird, ask it's hand for marriage. There is no other way but that.

Mk but the way you literally hit on AKUTAGAWA do be funny. Bitch is so oblivious, he just thinks you're another certain blonde hair slaying bitch 😳

By the time he actually knows you're rizzing him up by being more direct about your advances, he is questioning life.

But bcz you're SOO close to DAZAI maybeee we can ...

Work sumn out, you know? heh

One day the mafia just be chilling and BOOM heree comes the wh00000re~ hello wh000re~ welcome~ 😍

(i am so sorry if this offends someone it's a meme-)

Cue everyone sighing as you come in and start your daily routine which is rizzing. You'll be caressing KOUYOU's cheek, talking to CHUUYA with that sexy ass deep voice, whispering in MORI's ear, and everytime you breathe the vine boom sound effect comes off.

Can't say they don't like it though. We all know we have some horny deviants lovestruck little cuties <3 but let's just say it's hard being here with those hoes 😔✌️

Yet most especially,

You.

*bites lip* (i am sorry.)

[alittledizzy]

"secrets (your fire)" by magdalena bay!

ty i already deleted that bc no one was replying and i felt awkward but i appreciate you coming through

We're worldwide! I want all your secrets You're not gonna get my secrets No secrets anymore, yes

Nick is sick in bed, burning up from the inside out. George sits on the edge of it, one hand on Nick's ankle. It's deceptively fragile feeling underneath his touch. It feels like it would be easy to bruise if George just grasped it and dug his thumb in, like maybe he could pop through the thin flesh and rub the knob of bone from the inside out.

George doesn't, because he's nice like that, but he does spare a second to imagine the shock on Nick's face if he woke up to a gaping rend in his flesh. His eyes would go so big and he'd probably look confused more than hurt until the pain caught up to him. George rubs the spot, the fascination easily confused for tenderness in a touch.

"What?" Nick mumbles into the pillow.

"Get up, idiot," George says. "We're going to eat."

"I can't," Nick says.

"Yeah, you can," George answers. "Food goes in the mouth. Chew, chew, chew. Swallow. Digest. Then you like, shit it out. You're good at that part."

Nick rolls over onto his back. He's shirtless and sweating, the hair on his chest matted against his skin in dark, wet swirls.

"Bro, I literally can't," Nick says. "I'm dying."

George has seen Nick dying a lot lately. Eyes red and bloodshot, punching at walls, not crying but almost there. Nick has vomitted out feelings George thought he'd never in a million years hear. He never thought he'd be the person Nick confided in like that.

But he is. He doesn't wear the knowledge like a badge of honor or a point of pride. He collects the things Nick says instead, like seashells on a long stretch of shore. He puts them in his pockets, every broken jagged thing Nick whispers, and then pats them now and then to reassure himself they're still with him.

He knows things about Nick that no one else knows. He's sure of it now. No one else can handle the things he knows. He absorbs it all and he sees the way Nick looks at him a little differently now, like George is something he feels safe enough to cling to. George has never wanted to be that safe for someone before. He's a little put out that it's Nick he's feeling that way about now, that alongside the morbid fascination sits an undercurrent of something softer.

Nick when he's sick is a little like Nick when he's heartbroken. He's staring at George now like George is the one that can fix him. George can't fix him; his immune system has to do that. But George can squeeze his ankle, and think about the blood that pumps through Nick's veins and the way that squeeze momentarily stops it in that spot, and then soothe it with a rub.

"You're not dying," he says bluntly to Nick. "You're just a baby. Wah, wah. I'll have to bring the little baby food, then. I'll bring you like, actual baby food."

"Fuck off," Nick groans, and rolls half over. The line of his back is shiny with sweat, too. George reaches out and traces a line down Nick's hip to collect it on his fingertip until the flesh is thick with a layer of it, then pops the fingertip into his mouth. Muffled against the pillow, Nick says, "Freak."

Nick doesn't actually mind. It's his fault, anyway. He leaves himself all vulnerable in front of George. It's like he's asking to be tasted. To be tested. To be picked apart.

George gets up to leave.

"Bring me food, though," Nick says.

George doesn't respond. Can't let Nick get too comfortable. Can't let him actually know that George was already going to do that. Everyone else will just think George is being a good friend.

They won't know that George can taste salt back of his tongue, or what he's thinking about when his vision goes unfocused staring down at his plate.

They won't know he's thinking about Nick being defenseless inside and out now, fragile from his heart to his bones to his mind to the flesh of his inner elbow. He'll bring Nick back food and Nick will thank him.

George will let him eat and then George will lick the sickness off of Nick's skin and pin him down on the bed and maybe make him cry cathartic tears. And George - embarrassingly, humiliatingly, in the most cringe of ways - will lick those tears from his pale, stale skin just as readily as anything else, because George has had a taste of how Sapnap looks at him and he doesn't plan on giving it up.

[ardentcuttle]

"Death's a silent brigade, a solemn march,

It's the only way the weary find their peace.

To escape from this hell, this echoing cage."

"If we can't decide, if our hands are tied,

We can only cry, our voices lost to the wind.

Let's greet the other side... and find what silence brings."

Chapter 1: The Summons

London, 2002.

A rain so punctual it felt less like weather and more like a liturgical ritual, each drop a chime.

8:04 a.m.

Every single day, the city held its breath.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The droplets struck the academy's ancient, leaded glass like a clock counting down – always preceded by a soft static in the air, the ghost of a frequency fading, like a cassette reel rewinding a little too far, catching a phantom echo.

The usual cacophony of students – whispers, sudden bursts of laughter, the annoying scrape of soles on polished stone as classes ended – seemed to swirl around, deliberately clouding the sharp edges of one particular mind.

Lloyd had his head buried in his arms, his voice a low hum, a current beneath the surface noise. A poem? Perhaps, or a private incantation one couldn't quite decipher.

"Lloyd!"

A feminine voice, sharp as cut glass, sliced through the air. Lloyd stopped his recitation abruptly, his head snapping up.

"You've been summoned. Would you please come with me?"

A sudden hush fell over the room, the collective breath of dozens of teenagers held. Lloyd looked around, the quiet itself a heavy weight. His gaze landed on the girl standing at the hallway door. Her hair was pulled into a neat bun, bangs framing a face that was both composed and watchful. Her uniform, while adhering to the school's black and red, had a subtle flair of Victorian elegance – a hint of a bygone era in the crisp lines of her collar, the slight puff of her sleeves.

A flicker of something – recognition, resignation – passed through Lloyd's otherwise monotonous eyes, his face, already stark, becoming almost entirely blank. How was that possible? How could he feel so little, yet know this was bad?

"It seems like you enjoy disturbing my beauty sleep, bloody Marceline."

"I'd appreciate you refrain from placing my name in one of your swear words, Lloyd."

The girl, Marceline, replied to Lloyd's sharp tongue, the two students walking down the hallway, a path clearing before them as other students gave way. Lloyd grew conscious; the whispers from the students became more noticeable now, a low hum of curiosity and fear.

"Is it that bad?" Lloyd whispered.

Marceline didn't reply, her pace steady and unwavering.

Climbing the grand, winding staircase down to the courtyard, Lloyd was struck again by the sheer scale of the school grounds, a sprawling gothic beast of stone and history.

The eerie atmosphere wasn't just melodramatic; it hummed with an undercurrent of something deeply unsettling, clashing beautifully with the thematic feel of a classic 1980s prep school film – all polished brass and whispered secrets. Hazy rays of sun, thin as stretched silk, peeled through the perpetual London clouds, the patter of raindrops on the ground a strangely reassuring whisper, a steady pulse beneath the growing tension.

Lloyd shivered, not just from the inherent chill of the London air, but from a prickle of unease. He tugged his black blazer tighter, seeking comfort from the damp cold.

Marceline, however, seemed entirely unfazed, her movements precise as she opened the umbrella she held close, its dark canopy blooming like a morbid flower.

"Care to join me?" she offered, her tone flat.

"What if people think we're a coupl–" Lloyd started, a nervous habit of deflection.

Marceline merely arched an eyebrow, her expression utterly devoid of amusement or interest.

"I guess not," Lloyd muttered, shrinking into his own space.

Navigating their way through the main district of the Third Sanctuary – a moniker that now felt less quaint and more ominous – they were met by a thick cordon of police personnel. Every officer was armed and tensed, their state of alert palpable, like a stretched wire about to snap.

The perimeter covered Los Duos Park, typically a vibrant hub for school activities and clubs. Now, it was a forbidden zone, a silent testament to something profoundly amiss. Lloyd gulped, a knot tightening in his stomach. He glanced at Marceline, whose face remained a mask of practiced indifference, as she continued her deliberate stroll towards the grim sight. Lloyd, legs heavy, reluctantly followed, his fingers absently scratching his thigh.

One of the officers, a burly figure hunched beneath a standard-issue umbrella, squinted at them.

"You young'uns shouldn't be here," he rumbled, his hand instinctively hovering near his belt buckle.

"Yes, I'm aware," Marceline replied, her voice cool and composed. "But we are part of the Students' Council. I've been asked to bring him over."

The surrounding officers looked to their superior, who, after a moment of wary hesitation, nodded. "This way," he conceded, ushering them through a gap in the tape.

Lloyd dragged his feet across the damp grass of the park, each step feeling heavier than the last. "Well, that was easy," he mumbled, half to himself.

"You'd be surprised by the power this school holds," Marceline stated, without inflection. "The Students' Council included."

Marceline and the officer stopped at the entrance to the taped-off area, the air suddenly thick with a metallic tang. This wasn't just a crime scene; it felt like a sacred, violated space. But how bad could it be?

Lloyd's question was answered the moment he saw it. A grotesque tableau of his fellow students, arrayed in a precise, chilling circle, gathered not around a victim, but what could only be described as a ritual.

"What in the bloody—" Lloyd began, his murmur cut short, his scratching turning into a frantic, unconscious clawing at his thigh.

"Stand back," Marceline ordered, her tone sharper now. "Martha, I've brought him."

Lloyd's pupils dilated, his eyes widening to impossible saucers. "Martha? As in the Martha?" The name was a whispered legend, a force to be reckoned with even among the elite of the academy.

The girl in question stood at the center, motionless, two students holding an umbrella for her, shielding her from the relentless drizzle.

Her pale blonde hair, almost translucent, blended with the depressing atmosphere, reflecting the dull light of the day. Lloyd had never met her in person, but the aura she exuded, even from a distance, confirmed every unsettling rumor: she was something else entirely.

Her uniform was drastically different from Marceline's – a pure, unblemished black, with only the subtlest lining of deep red, a composition so stark it evoked the image of a creature from a gothic tale, a Dracula-esque figure. It covered every inch of her skin, including her neck, adding to the illusion. Yet, the flush of her visible ears betrayed a human pallor beneath the severe fabric.

Lloyd instinctively recoiled a step, a primal instinct against an unknown threat. Her voice, when it came, was a calm, almost musical whisper that cut through the silence.

"Good morning, Lloyd."

She turned, slowly, with a smile that was not warm but utterly eerie, her eyes, like shards of ice, calmly, unsettlingly, fixing on him.

Lloyd stood frozen, his lips barely parting, his voice a strangled wheeze.

[yummygummys]

The Jester

.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ . .·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ . .·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ . .·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ . .·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ . .·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ . .·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙

Once upon a time , in a small, secluded village surrounded by thick forest, lived a peculiar Jester.He was known as Mortimer, the most eccentric and enigmatic entertainer anyone had ever seen.With Pale skin, sunken eyes, and a permanent twisted grin, he struck fear into the hearts of children and adults alike.Mortimer had a dark and twisted sense of humor that left his audience both bewildered and terrified.The villagers would gather every moonlit night in the town square,drawn by a strange and morbid curiosity to witness Mortimer’s performances.He would captivate his audience with his eerie juggling of knives,his contortionist acts that seemed to defy the limits of the human body, and his macabre stories that sent shivers down down their spines.But it wasn’t only the performances that unsettled the villagers.It was his uncanny ability to read their innermost fears and secrets.Mortimer seemed to possess an otherworldly knowledge that allowed him to pluck their darkest thoughts from the depths of their souls and expose them to the world.It was as if he could peer into every depths of their being and mock their vulnerabilities.As years went by , the village began to suffer from a series of unexplained tragedies.Crops withered away,livestock turned up dead without any signs of illness,and eerie howls echoed through the night.Fear gripped the hearts of the villagers, and they began to whisper amongst themselves that Mortimer was the cause of their misfortune.Inevitably stormy night ,as the rain poured heavily and lightning streaked across the dark sky,the villagers decided it was time to confront Mortimer.Armed with torches and pitchforks,this once united community marched towards Mortimer’s eerie abode at the edge of the forest.As they approached, they could hear sinister laughter emanating from within,sending shivers down their spines.inside, Mortimer awaited his visitors with a twisted grin on his face.The door creaked open , and the villagers cautiously stepped inside , their torches casting flickering shadows on the walls.They found themselves in a large room adorned with sinister artifacts , bones and a vast collection of peculiar mask.The mask each more grotesque then the last,seemed to mock the villagers’ deepest fears.Suddenly,the door slammed shut,plunging the room into darkness.Panic filled the air as Mortimer’s haunting voice echoed through the room,proclaiming their impending doom.One by one, the villagers disappeared trapped within the endless labyrinth of Mortimer’s sadistic mind.Alone and trembling a young girl named Lily knew it was up to her to face Mortimer and put an end to his reign of terror.She had listened carefully to the stories he told, searching for any clue that might uncover his weakness.With her heart pounding in her chest , She ventured deeper into the maze , where she came face-to-face with Mortimer.His twisted grin widened as he stared into Lily’s eyes.However,he was unprepared for the fierce determination burning within her.Lily unleashed her own power , which stemmed from a secret she buried deep within her soil.She realized that Mortimer”slower relied on fear, and by facing the darkness within herself , she could strip away his strength.Mortimer’s laughter turned into a grotesque scream as Lily banished his power freeing the trapped villagers from his malicious enchantment.The mask in the wall crumbled to dust , and the room began to fill with light , washing away the shadows of Mortimer’s dark reign.The villagers emerged, grateful to Lily for her bravery and strength.The village returned to its former tranquility, the nightmares of Mortimer’s horrors slowly fading away.Lily was hailed as a hero and carried memory of her triumph throughout her life.The jester , Mortimer nothing more than a cautionary tale, a reminder of the dangers that lurk behind twisted smiles and dark laughter.And so, the village lived on forever altered by horrors they had faced.The memory of Mortimer , the haunting jester , lingered in their minds, reminding them to confront the darkness within themselves.

[sweethoneyrose83]

Nerdy Goth Girl Dialogue Prompts

"Oh, you're into horror movies? That's cute. Let me introduce you to some real nightmares. Ever heard of The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari?"

"I'm not obsessed with death. I just think it’s fascinating how people spend their whole lives avoiding the inevitable."

"Did you know that Edgar Allan Poe was terrified of being buried alive? Imagine waking up in darkness and realizing you’ve been sealed away forever. Fun thought, right?"

"I was reading about the multiverse theory last night. Imagine—there’s a version of me out there that actually likes sunshine. Horrifying."

"So, is this your idea of flirting, or are you genuinely interested in discussing the finer points of Gothic architecture?"

"If you think my room is dark, wait until you see the abyss where I store my emotional attachments."

"Listen, I'm not saying curses are real, but if you suddenly feel like you're being watched tonight, don't say I didn't warn you."

"I actually find the sound of thunderstorms comforting. It’s like nature is finally expressing how I feel inside."

"I could explain the paradox of Schrödinger's cat, but that would require you to appreciate both metaphysics and the macabre."

"My favorite season? Autumn, obviously. Everything is slowly dying, and it’s beautiful."

"The concept of eternal life is cool and all, but if I had to spend it in fluorescent lighting? Pass."

"You know, the universe is constantly expanding. But it still can't contain how much I dislike small talk."

"People always say, ‘Don’t judge a book by its cover,’ but let’s be honest—it’s the dark, leather-bound ones that have the best secrets."

"I’m like a black hole of useless trivia. Did you know a group of crows is called a murder? The goth aesthetic practically writes itself."

"Are you one of those people who think black is just a phase? Because I’ve been perfecting this look since middle school."

"Oh, this old necklace? It's not just a fashion statement—it’s also rumored to be cursed. But hey, I like a little danger."

"You can call it ‘creepy’ if you want, but I just think it’s efficient to plan my funeral playlist ahead of time."

"You say I'm morbid, I say I'm well-read. There's a difference, trust me."

"Not to be dramatic or anything, but if I could live in a crumbling Gothic mansion surrounded by ravens, I would."

"I just think there’s something inherently romantic about stargazing. You know, staring into the vast, cold void of space, realizing our insignificance… really sets the mood."

"Do you ever wonder if the universe is just an endless library of forgotten stories, each of us just a page about to turn?"

"People say 'embrace the darkness' like it’s an edgy trend, but I say it's better to invite it for tea and let it tell you its secrets."

"Goth isn't just about wearing black. It’s an aesthetic commitment to staying enchanted by the things most people are too afraid to understand."

"I don’t read tarot cards because I think they tell the future. I do it because they tell me the truth I’m not always ready to see."

"There’s something oddly comforting about stargazing. You look up at a vast, uncaring cosmos and think, ‘Yes, this is my aesthetic.’”

"Yeah, I collect old, dusty books with titles in Latin. But no, I’m not casting curses… not yet, anyway."

"I could’ve been anyone in any time. But apparently, fate chose to make me a walking vampire playlist in the year of our lackluster reality."

"Life is basically one giant 'Choose Your Own Adventure' book, but someone tore out all the pages with the happy endings."

"Call me morbid, but I like to imagine every shadow I see has its own little story. We’d all look a little closer if we thought shadows could feel."

"I’m a hopeless romantic, really. I just think love poems sound better when they’re whispered in graveyards."

"Some people see black as absence, but I think of it as potential. Like, what do you want to fill that void with?"

"People call it morbid curiosity; I call it appreciating the part of life no one else wants to think about."

"I’d say I’m a realist, but realists don’t usually hang around places that remind them life’s a fleeting speck of dust in an indifferent universe."

"Sure, my room might look like a museum exhibit on Gothic literature and existential dread, but you can’t tell me it doesn’t have style."

"People always think goths are lonely. It’s more like we’re friends with the parts of life most people are scared to look at."

[delicatefaedaydreams]

Okay sketchbook doodle since im fighting my drawing tablet (done in sharpie bc i cant find my pens) but have a loose idea of a rise of the guardians oc lololol i based her off a mixture of scottish and irish mythos (yigdrisyll, willow of the wisps, those aquatic horses that eat people, etc. Etc) since i wanted to play around with myths and stories i heard growing up

Lil info ab her

- A wonderful multitasker! Her four arms easily help her with her job.

- Her will o wisps are her collectors, like Toothainias little helpers, they collect childrens secrets (be it pinky promises, promise rings, etc. Etc.) And whisper them to the Secretkeeper, where she writes them on slips of paper and ties those to the Tree of Secrecy

- She gets along quite well with Mother Nature and Jack Frost, though she prefers to stay by herself and work

- On the off chance that shes pulled away from her work, she has a system of mechanical helpers that have been trained to do her job (At a lesser rate than her though)

- A chronic over worry-ier, she hates when things arnt under control and easily stresses herself out

- When she hears a secret thats rather... morbid (Like a child wishing that they didnt hurt or smth like that) she personally goes and visits them. Those that are abused get turned into her will oh wisp helpers

- On slow days she works on the mechanical helpers or upkeeps the orchard that grows new trees of secrecy

- Lived and died around the time Vikings invaded Scotland

- Has an irrational fear of water due to th stories she heard as a girl about those man eating water horses

- Still has her familys crest on most of her robes and dresses

- Selectively mute but has strong lungs- her voice, while usually quiet, is rather monotone and not exactly expressive. Her facial expressions make up for this

- Facinated by modern technology

- Enjoys the Winds company, though does get a bit annoyed when it and Jack mess with the Tree of Secrecy

- Her appetite scares the other guardians- as she can down a good 12 or so pounds of raw meat and mead before slowing down

- While not one to fight, she is rather strong and has a surprisingly explosive temper

[empathydm]

Sherlock Story Chapter 7

Help me roleplay Sherlock Holmes in this collaborative story adventure. Last text: The chamber seemed to swallow the feeble glow emitted by our flickering lanterns. Shadows loomed over distorted shapes wrapped in cobwebs that dangled from the high ceiling. The air was heavy with the stench of decay and the echoes of chilling whispers. Holmes's steely resolve did not waver as his eyes pierced through the abysmal darkness. "There's more to this chamber than meets the eye," he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. Watson's grip tightened on his revolver, readying himself for whatever unspeakable horrors awaited us. "Holmes, what exactly are we facing here?" Holmes observed the surroundings, the slow, methodical scan of his sharp eyes betraying his calculating mind. "This is no ordinary library," he replied grimly. "It's more akin to a devilish vault, a theater of buried secrets where the Order indulges in unfathomable rites." A collective shiver ran through our spines, and the woman's voice trembled with haunting recognition. "I've seen what they're capable of," she said, her voice quaking with unsettlement. "But their intentions and endgame still elude me." Lestrade remained stiff, his muscles coiled with tension. "Enough talk," he growled. "Let's find out what this damned organization is up to." With nerves taut like strained wires, we swept through the chamber, casting beams of light onto ancient artifacts deemed forbidden by time. Malevolent sculptures loomed around us, chiseled countenances twisted with evil intent. As we navigated the eerie maze of relics and arcane tomes, Holmes's eyes caught a flash of movement in the corner of the room. He hastened his pace, sniffing out the source, and soon we discovered a hidden recess masked behind an ethereal tapestry. The four of us stepped into a hidden chamber nested within the already-labyrinthine depths of the library. Shelves stacked haphazardly with damnable texts, ancient writings that seemed to whisper with otherworldly tongues. It was at this sight that the true scope of the Illustrious Order's dark machinations revealed itself. "This...this is their collection of forbidden knowledge," Holmes exhaled, his gaze roving over the volumes." Watson raised an eyebrow, overcome by morbid curiosity. "What secrets may lie within these decrepit pages, Holmes?" Holmes plucked a book from the shelf, cradling it gently in his hands. "These texts are said to contain forbidden rituals and spells, replete with abominable knowledge that can unleash the darkest of forces onto the world." Lestrade, for the first time, showed a flicker of unease. "Are you implying that they are attempting to harness these dark powers?" Holmes nodded gravely, a somber expression etched across his features. "That seems likely, Lestrade. The Order seeks to wield these powers for...god knows what purpose." Silence enveloped us, broken only by the distant chirping of forlorn rats somewhere in the hidden recesses of this wicked chamber. The gravity of our discovery plunged our hearts into a bottomless abyss, reminding us of the unimaginable challenges we still faced in grappling with the horrors that lay before us. The woman's gaze locked with Holmes, a shared sense of determination emanating between them. "We must find the leader of the Illustrious Order and put an end to their depravities. We owe it to the lives lost and those still in danger." Holmes gave a curt nod, his eyes shining with unwavering conviction. "Agreed," he said. "But let's not forget—within these twisted halls, their insidious secrets dance like shadows. The true face of the Illustrious Order, whoever they may be, still eludes us." With that unsolved mystery spurring us forward, we left the cursed sanctum behind, ready to face the horrors concealed in the catacombs of Mudie's Select Library. In the inky darkness, each step was a march toward the light of truth, no matter what unnamable evils lay in wait. How should the story continue? Please vote by liking the following posts: Option 1: Leader unveiled; darkness challenged #UnmaskTheTruth Option 2: "Unmasking Illustrious Order's depravity." Option 3: Fellowship confronts dark secrets. Full text for each option in following posts. The votes are counted every 6 hours. #Sherlock #rpg #fanfic.

[xkuja]

|| || With a brisk wave of his hand, Kuja gracefully snatched away the swirling orb, a gesture that triggered in its stead a magical spark coursing through the object hidden beneath the unveiling sheet. As the sheet fell away like the flourish of a phantom's cape, the chandelier erupted in an eerie, shimmering glow. A collective gasp surged from the awestruck audience.

There it sat, (nearly) as immaculate as the day it had plummeted-- No trace of the bloodstains marring its golden arms and glistening crystals remained, and even the dents in the gold had been meticulously hammered away. Yet, there was no mistaking it. This was indeed the fearsome chandelier which had taken the life of Lindblum's most cherished young actor.

...To be more precise, it was the head of his stunt double that had met an untimely end beneath the chandelier's crushing weight.

Kuja gracefully lifted his wineglass to his lips, masking a most unbecoming sneer.

It couldn't have been mere coincidence that an unknown understudy had been thrust onto the stage in Bridges' stead that fateful night. Coincidences were the stuff of fairy tales, and the world seldom operated on serendipity alone. No, on that night, his carefully laid plans had surely been thwarted by some unseen hand.

Even so, Lord King remained ever the opportunist, a master of adaptation~.

The theater's proprietor had required precious little persuasion to agree to keep Lowell's continued existence a secret. A handful of compelling arguments, backed by a sprinkling of veiled threats and a pinch of whispered promises had all served to convince the man to agree to maintain the illusion of Lowell's demise long enough for the Treno Auction House to auction off the infamous "haunted" chandelier to the highest bidder. And thereafter, there would be an opportunity for Lowell to make a highly publicized, celebrated surprise return to life during a memorial performance held in his posthumous honor. The situation was a win-win~! Except, of course, for the understudy.

....And the arts, but he would have time aplenty to remedy that once the Elephant Woman was dealt with.

"We commence the bidding at 400,000 Gil!" With the Auctioneer's proclamation, the financial duel commenced in earnest.

"...Oh~?"

It was only in the midst of the ensuing clamor that Kuja's attention was fully captured. There, in splendid isolation, stood a dove amidst the cacophony of squawking fowl.

It was h e r.

Had she come for the chandelier? No. It seemed unlikely... She had not struck him as a collector of morbid mementos, that night.

Curiosity ignited, Kuja's most intense gaze fixed upon her like a palpable spotlight. Fate, he mused, was as much a work of fiction as coincidences; There was little harm in testing it.

While the wayfarer often did accompany the friendly little Lindblum trio during their travels, making the merriest of music and most musical of merry, she did not always. Her tendency to wander would forever be a "bad" habit unbroken. There was plenty of fun to be had at the card stadium (she could vouch for it, having just left) her rounds of partaking in that social extravaganza had been made, however. She found herself unable to keep "still" there for any longer.

A leisurely walk led her to yet another spectacular sight to be found on the waterfront: the auction house. This wasn't the first time she had experienced this specific estate, yet, even so, its grandeur drew her inside once again.

Scanning the scene with an inquisitive gaze, ever radiant, its denizens and decor were given brief study. She noted the familiarity of the Lord King, reigning on high above the gallery of bidders and onlookers whose attention (including her own) could not help but eventually be directed to the forefront of the room by yet another gentleman of partly known identity. There, the auctioneer had begun exhausting his breath anew over some quizzical curio. Did he just say "magical fingertip?"

Sal drew closer, daring to fraternize with the now boisterous bidders doing monetary battle, though she merely skirted their edges. She kept silent, watching. An assortment of oddities lie in wait. One in particular - aside from this "magical fingertip" - truly warranted intrigue, however; something large, nothing more than its massive stature able to be gleaned from beneath the sheet which covered it. The bidding came to an end. "Sold for 64,700 Gil!"

What a truly magical fingertip. It must be, at that price!

And speaking of magic... It was then that, suddenly, there was a twinkle in her peripherals. A small light, dancing somewhere above her. Following it, her eyes landed upon what she soon realized was some manner of very small, but very curious light show, choreographed by the "King of Treno." What would have been merely another passing observation proved to be a lingering one this time as she tried to discern what that luminous little ball of something was... to her and the supernatural senses she bore, it felt just as peculiar as it looked. What sort of energy was being manipulated there...? It differed from the other ones that were present...

Before she was given the chance to finish this forming train of thought, however, her attention was guided back down by the introduction of the next object of interest. In what could best be described as uncannily dramatic, the cloth which had withheld this auction day's biggest secret (quite literally) was drawn back, fabric billowing across the stage as it yielded to the auctioneer's hand. Hanging from golden branches, rows of crystalline drops wavered with subtlety, glittering upon reveal. It was a chandelier. A giant, partially damaged and, notably, placeable chandelier.

This was an offbeat reunion of familiar faces and facets. Disaster bred business opportunity in yet another corner of the cosmos, so it would seem. A tale as old as time.

And thus, the thrilling backstory of this pendant of faded glory began: an allegedly haunted treasure of the Feugert Memorial Theater. In the wake of this tragedy, what could have been nothing more than an accident turned to superstition among the masses. Some had begun to theorize it had been possessed to fall and claim the now late Lowell Bridges, one of the theater's most esteemed actors - and that it may have, in fact, been an act of paranormal wrath.

Haunted, huh? Sal would certainly know if it was... the tales of a chandelier's possessor may prove to be fascinating to hear, surely, should such a specter exist. Alas, every ounce of mystery would remain; her lips were sealed on the matter.

True or false and unfortunate as it was, the narrative had a nice ring to it. A phenomenal sales pitch. Now, it was time to see who would be the lucky - or unlucky - owner of this chandelier...

[rainbowfox-art]

I'm obsessed with another red-and-blue masked jester

[tiens-letters]

upon autumns day, where you and I met. upon autumns day where I remember all of what we were before youve passed. and upon autumns day would I have ever so slowly let go of that pain of the past

zhongli (angst)

@albeidoof its somewhere here hehehe

Time was a luxury. A treasure each and everything holds.

Yet time is a curse as well. It covets, devours and leaves. which humanity neglects to cherish until the heart ceases its steady rythmn, only then do they regret of the wasted minutes, hours and seconds.

Beneath the flow of the rushing waves of things that have come and gone. Only on this particular day would he sit beneath a certain tree. The rough bark brushing up against his back as leaves fell effortlessly to the ground, as if it were ready to let go of from the branches that gave birth to it, only to return once again to the waiting soil.

It was a sunny afternoon, clear of any clouds and only clear unblemished blue, a good time to enjoy a warm cup of tea yet there was no energy in his bones to even move from where he was.

He felt exhausted. Desultory even.

Gone were the halcyon days of the past, and now the present time of the vivid reality he had to face.

Morax, rex lapis, the geo archon. Names that weighted more than one could carry, memories that shackled his soul that lived for a thousand years on end, all but a stain that could never be washed away.

The breeze slowly danced in, playing with his hair softly, kissing his skin and welcoming him. It carried a hint of aromatic essence only he would know belongs to.

You.

He tried to desperately recount the days after youve left the face of the earth and yet he could not remember or did his mind not allow him to as if he did, it would bring him terrible and heavy consequences for an answer, one sane mind would never want to know.

Sighing, he sat back and recalled back the memories of you instead. When you were alive, warm and breathing in his arms. He remembers the way your eyes would shine brightly whenever he would be around, or the small sound of delight you would make when you have finished another one of the many interesting blends of tea youve done over the course of a week of mixing different flowers and tea leaves. Youve made up quite the fortune with this as your little hobby bloomed into a fully run business known across teyvat.

"Zhongli." he froze, youve never called him by his name ever since youve started getting close, it made him feal uneasy as he turned to look at you who stood by the doorway, a neutral look on your face.

"y-yes?" nervousness clawed at him as he racked his brain to what he couldve done for you to call his name like that, he couldnt think of any.

"I came back from the market and I heard youve made quite the generous payment. Why is that, I wonder?" he's done it again, that spending habit of his

"The price was reasonable for such a fine ceramic tea set, I dont seem to find why it shouldnt reflect its quality?" you sighed as you pointed towards the glass cupboard behind him

"You bought the same exact set a week ago, Zhongli. Thats why." having to realize his mistake after looking over the two identical set that on the shelf, he turned to apologize but only to see you missing from the doorway. Footsteps can be heard from the floorboards above him. You were upset.

After minutes of pacing in the living room, he finally mustered the courage to climb the stairs and enter your shared bedroom. A figure already under the sheets as the warm glow of the lamp illuminated your delicate features. The mattress sunk as he sat beside you, fingers brushing away the stray hair that fell on your face.

"Im still mad at you Zhongli." his hand flinched slightly at the way you called him

"I apologize. I seem to not have learned my lesson again. I would gladly return the set tomorrow."

"Its no use, they dont accept refunds." you replied without sparing a glance at him

"What can I do for you to forgive me then?"

"Just go to sleep, Zhongli." groaning you reached for the switch to shut the lamp off but a gentle grip stopped you, forcing you to look at his gloomy expression. Perhaps you went too far this time.

"Please stop calling me in that way. I dont like it." he whispers, drawing your palm to his lips, leaving small kisses upon it. He sure does know his way around your heart, no wonder why you could not stay mad at him.

"Just be mindful next time." you cursed yourself for being weak to his charms.

"I will." yet something was missing "Then can you call me as you did before?"

"Zhongli?" you could see the slight grimace in his face as you teased him

"Stop it." he kissed you without warning "Call me as you did before."

However, his lips didnt stop as they began to travel. From your cheeks to you forehead and then to your neck. Oh dear, he wasnt having any of your teasing.

"A-li." you giggled beneath him as he finally stopped and met your gaze

"Thats better."

He still remembers the faint smile that graced your lips whenever he would wake up next to you tangled in the same sheets. The softness of your skin on his calloused touch. Your lips melting his and your voice lulling his raging mind to peace.

Then everything changed when you drew blood that spilled from those lips he's kissed for a thousand times, painting a morbid image on the sheets. Anger and despair boiled inside of him once he learned of the secret youve kept. Zhongli was a calm and collected man all of the time except when he was with you.

Having to witness him at such a point felt as if his own spear was being driven right through his very chest. He held you in an arms width away, the panic and pain in his eyes increasing over the minute as he begged for you to explain why youve decided to lie about the flowers that bloomed in your lungs, the sickness youve inherited from your deceased mother, whose fate you soon would follow. You didnt want him to find out, not in this way.

He couldve done anything if he knew from the start but alas, you wanted to be cruel, thinking it was for the best. Until your symptoms persisted, a heavy reminder of the remaining distance of the string you have to walk on to reach the end. The heavy feeling in your chest started to worsen as cherry sweet liquid poured from your mouth.

Soon the once pristine sheets were stained in haunting crimson shades as you heaved and he watched in agony. If only he had the ability of what he once had back then, if only he could plant the seeds of the flowers from yours to his then he would, if only he hadnt met you one autumn evening

" please dont look at me like that. " you told him, cold hands caressing his cheeks, catching the streams of salty warm beads that fell freely from your darling's amber eyes.

"Im sorry. Im so sorry..." the last thing you wanted to see was this man to cry. The last thing you wanted to see was to see him relive the past tragic memories you promised to bring him out of

" my disease has nothing to do with you. In the end it was mine alone to handle. oh, you are far from that so please dont you ever blame yourself."

"How can I not? If I havent fallen so deep then you would experienced so much more in life, you couldve been happier if you met someone else. Yet you chose me and I couldnt give you anything, I--. " the words knotted up as he began to shake, hands holding yours as knuckles turned to white

You slapped him.

With all the strength youve gathered in that fading body of yours. The sound cutting the grieving sounds that spilled from him, soul and flesh alike.

"A-li, look at me. Do I look like someone whose unsatisfied with what youve given me? Did my smile ever fade when Im with you? Did your affections ever lack? Answer me." his watery gaze met yours, a torrent of emotions swimming in them

"No. Never." a soft smile was carved unto your lips

"My dear, youve given me all Ive ever wanted in this life and I regret nothing of it."

To him, you were the flower that bloomed at the highest peak of the mountain he's never reached and yet its petals voluntarily detached and fell down, making him the happiest as one thing he's admired was untouchable and now, lay softly in the palm of his hands. To cherish and to protect.

But of course, all things are evanescent.

The familiar feeling of soreness that wasnt supposed to be there rose, ebbed and flowed through his throat. He knew it all too well, it was after he woke from his week long slumber did he feel it along with what his ancient beating heart felt.

"You collapsed." the worried words of the qixing echoed in his head. He frantically got up but as soon as his feet touched the floor did his legs give out underneath him, what use was he in this sorry state. He was helped up and sat back on the edge of the bed.

He wanted to ask many things yet was unable to.

Ningguang spoke as if you were still breathing and was visiting her minutes ago with another one of your tea blends. "Dont worry and rest first, go to jueyun karst after. They will be waiting."

To where the adepti resides, who as well, favored you, that one soul among thousands of others. One to which they shared a few good memories with was allowed to slumber there in peace.

Zhongli found himself waking up to the sun setting in the horizon. Just like how youve gone and resurfaced back into his memories. It was time.

He stood up from where he sat, gloved hands brushing any dirt that clung to him as he made his way to where you slept.

The red bean that was planted by himself still remained, a token of his love for you. Picking one bead and placing it inside the hollow dice he brought along, completing another one of the similar handicraft he's made every visit.

The sun finally died and the moon began its reign. The small wisps of light gathered around before him, forming a blurry image.

It was then he felt at ease, he saw you smiling at him with all there is in the world. Your light seemed to dim a little, hinting the blessing the adepti gave was slowly diminishing. Soon your visits would cease and you were sure that by the end of the power spent, he wouldve let go of the torment that plagued him.

"A-li. Have you been well?" he knew what you meant

"Im letting go slowly my dear. Perhaps in time, I would learn breathe easily once again."

Longest yet lol. Hope yall liked it ehehe

[lucadina]

What’s Wrong With Me?

A/N: ereannie, intimacy issues

'You always look a little sad.'

It's an observation Eren had made in passing; it shouldn't bother Annie much, but it does— probably because it's the first time she's felt seen.

Although, being seen is never a good thing when all you have left are your secrets, the broken bones beneath the scars that burst into wildfire whenever someone cares just enough to look at you.

'When you space out,' he had said, 'That's when it's like you're about to cry. But you never do.'

Because I don't want to cry in front of you.

Annie sometimes wonders why that is.

The answer feels right at her fingertips, tangible when the realises that he's too good to be true. These moments are brief and unexpected, creeping up on her like morning mist and dissipating to reveal an untold, personal dream of hers: how insane would it be, if someone could love her for real? Past the excitement of her scathing words, beyond the tease of a pale, perfumed neck— how crazy would it be if he actually loved her for all that she is?

He may not love her, but he sees her.

Once in a while, when they're facing each other over dinner or laying side-by-side in bed, he'll look at her with intent, with morbid fascination, until the verdant veil of his gaze lifts, and suddenly she's confronted by his firm judgement.

The verdict is always the same: You think too much, you hurt too much.

'But if I didn't, then I wouldn't care about you.'

That always gets him to shut the fuck up, because it's true. He doesn't give her much to love and yet she cares for him; she can't help it. And that works for him; he doesn't need to be loved for who he is; he likes himself and that is more than enough. He's with her because having another person feel for him proves to the naysayers that he isn't unworthy of affection. That he's normal, he can do it, he can have it— he's normal.

Yet at the back of his head, her low voice whispers that he isn't special. That she chose him not because he's godly, not because he's extraordinary— but because he's familiar.

He is proud and places himself over others; he doesn't have the tools to love her back; he's her history reflected back at her without promise of anything better.

He's honest, and that's refreshing. She's tired of disappointments.

So she can do it. She can tough it out where others have cried themselves to sleep.

Bitch was crazy, he had said about the women he'd left torn and grieving.

And that pisses her off because he doesn't know. He doesn't know what it's like to have a broken heart, a real one. To have that flutter in your chest ripped out, twisted, and trampled over till it's smashed back into you as this resilient ache, tortuous till you start thinking: maybe it'd be better if it stopped beating.

So she says:

'There must be something wrong with you then, if you fall for crazy over and over.'

'I haven't this time, though.'

And you never will, she thinks, because you'll never see all of me.

It's why she's so confident. She's certain that he's kept at arm's length, that he doesn't pay attention when her thoughts throb in her mind's eye, that he doesn't think about the reasons as to why she begs to be alone at random intervals in the day. He never asks questions; but she makes the mistake of allowing him to collect too much intel on her tricky character.

In Annie's preoccupation with distance, she can't see when he's close enough to peer into the cracks of her skin. And he sees how she bleeds every day, how wounds never close, and how she stays silent because she thinks she's ugly when she screams.

Eren watches. Even when she thinks he isn't, he is.

He catches her when the mask slips. In the bright afternoon, with the light filtering in through the window she leans her forehead on— yet her eyes are midnight.

Eerily still, corpse-white and barely breathing.

He leans forward, a rough palm on her knee: 'Snap out of it, honey.'

Annie startles— 'Huh?'

He tries to smile.

It's an intimate memory; it should be venerated, just how close they've come to each other. Up close, all their (especially her) flaws in full view— it's spilling out of her like boiling tar. Not sweet or sophisticated— instead, bitter and aching.

She can't care. He's just going to leave anyway, and she wishes he'd do it soon before he takes too much of what's left.

Except, he takes nothing and gives her all he has.

When she pulls away, he doesn't let go.

When she's barely holding it together, he looks the other way so she can cry.

When her mind goes a million miles an hour, when she's thinking herself into circles— his tender touch brings her back.

It starts to tire her out.

Because she begins to wonder if maybe he actually does love her.

That's impossible. It can't be reality, it can't be true, because people don't know how to love anyone other than themselves. They would if they could, but they can't; that's just how it is, and so suffering is a nimbus cloud looming overhead.

And Annie's fine with that, because it explains everything.

It all makes sense now— why it hurts, why it has always hurt, why it can't stop hurting.

With each passing day, she teeters on the precipice of heartbreak.

She shares this with him; it moves him. Somehow, he changes, he desires change. And while he likes himself and wants for nothing, he thinks he can do with a little less of what makes him superhuman.

It starts as an effort to be close to her. In the end, he decides it's better to be flawed and imperfect— it means that there's space for someone else, even if that someone deems herself too jagged to ever fit properly with another person.

They're at the beach when he tells her he loves her; they're lounging on the oat-sand prickling their bare legs, the faraway thunder of the crashing waves lulling them into daydream. As they gaze at the dull stars fighting for brilliance against the maddening colours of a somber sundown, his confession rings inside of her with the steady force of church bells.

Annie feels a surge of heat in her chest; she realises she doesn't want to be here, next to him, looking on at the endless ebb of ice-water.

She wants to burn with the stars above, to flicker and fall and fade.

She wants to ignore this moment. To get up, turn her back, and forget she ever met him. She doesn't want to give him the chance to hurt her. But to lose him? She doesn't want that either. There's an invisible fear coiled tightly around her throat; she can't speak. What is she even supposed to say?

And he's so good, so gracious and understanding, that he tells her that she isn't obliged to say anything at all— I just wanted you to know, he whispers, and means it.

Her voice is shaky: 'You don't understand how hard this is for me.'

'I do understand,' he purposely softens his tone—, 'What I don't get is how you don't understand where I'm at.'

'Where you're at,' she echoes, 'Where you're at...?'

'I feel that I've earned the right to say I love you. That I've proven, in every way I can, that I do— why don't you believe me?'

'Because you don't even know me.'

Eren extends his hand, demanding hers (which she doesn't give): 'I don't have to. You won't open up to me, and I won't make you— despite that, I still want you— doesn't that mean that I love you?'

She can only watch in silence as he finally takes her hand in his. He thumbs over her knuckles, and her gut coils as it dawns on her that she has never loved or needed anyone the way she does him. It's worse that he isn't cutting her open, that he's waiting patiently for a response, that he sees her for what she is and chooses anyway to commit to what they have— even if it's a nightmare; and it nauseates her, the idea that there are no more secrets, that she's fully exposed and for once, she is neither judge nor jury—

'What's wrong with me, Eren?'

And it's surprising how much he knows.

[soyforramen]

Daffodils and Hyacinths

Or that Beronica Flower Shop/Tattoo Shop AU no one asked for.  (Cross posted on Ao3)

The second to last thing Veronica expected when she moved to the sleepy town of Riverdale was for the shop owner across the street to show up with homemade cookies.  It was such a quaint and nostalgic image that she had to suppress a laugh least she offend the women.  Instead she thanked her and wrote the whole incident off.  Even if they were neighbors of a sort that didn’t mean they’d ever mean anything to each other.  In New York Veronica hadn’t been able to name a single one of her neighbors.  Why should this town be any different?

-

It only took a few glasses of wine after the local town meeting, and Veronica found herself leading Betty through the flower shop.  Her neighbor’s quirky arrival last week with a basket of cookies, initially seen as a power play to prove to the town how kind and benevolent Betty was, had turned into a tense sort of friendship.  Veronica was cool every time Betty had made a point of waving good afternoon.  And the few times they’d run into each other at the only grocer in town, Betty had made a genuine effort in asking how Veronica was adjusting to life in the small town.

Veronica, a consummate city girl, did her best to rebuff Betty’s attempts at friendship - an indifference borne largely to bearing the Lodge name for so long - but it didn’t take much for her resolve to break down.  Betty, it turned out, was one of the rarest people in the world - someone who didn’t try to act like someone they weren’t.

And thus an odd friendship was struck up, one that was set in stone tonight as they both stood against the ridiculous zoning ordinances balefully aimed at the lower income neighborhoods in this ticky-tacky town.

Both bemoaned the tragedy of white gentrification afterwards between shots of tequila and three bottles of wine.  Unwilling for the night to end, Veronica asked Betty to join her at the flower shop.  A simple, innocent question that nonetheless brought a pretty rose blush to her cheeks that climbed downward through the night.  

They raced through the shadows of the shop, hands clasped together like narcissus and chinodoxa blooms in spring.  Giggling at the strange shapes the grow lights cast along the walls, Veronica lead her to the office door.

“I keep a bottle of rum in my desk,” she said breathlessly.  As she stepped through the door, her fingers automatically reached towards the leaves of her own personal plants.  “My grandmother’s secret recipe.”

“So much color,” Betty murmured.  She slipped off her jacket and set it on a chair as the hothouse humidity took its toll.  “I never realized orchids came in so many different colors.”

“One for each of my exes,” Veronica said as she pulled out the bottle of rum.  She gazed lovingly at each and set two shot glasses on the desk.  “They love the grow lamps.”

She held out a shot glass and felt a tremor when Betty’s fingers grazed hers.  Veronica watched as Betty threw back the shot, the muscles in her long throat working against the sharp flavor.  

“What is that?”

“Cardamom,” Veronica said as she sat on the corner of her desk.  She sipped at her own rum and let the flavor roll around her tongue.  

“Why flowers?” Betty asked as she reached for the rum bottle.

The question made Veronica pause.  It was a question she’d never been asked; a question she’d never thought to ask herself.  After all, flowers were one of the few ways her mother showed genuine affection.  Perhaps it was even how she showed love.  Almost before she could walk, Veronica knew that flowers meant different things.  Lilies for purity; blood red poppies for refusal.  Lavender for admiration; buttercups for childish ingratitude.  Veronica had been around flowers and plants her entire life, reading their meanings was as easy as breathing.  The thought that she could ever live without them was anathema.

The language of flowers was the one gift from her mother that really had any meaning in the long run.  It was a practice that Veronica had lost herself in many times, one that no one seemed to understand.  

But to tell Betty all of that, to open up to that kind of vulnerability?  As much as she might like her, as much as she might trust her, Veronica was not ready for that sort of confession.

“Why tattoo’s?” came her response.

Betty chewed on her lip and stared with unfocused eyes at the long-out-of-season Bird of Paradise - Veronica’s daily reminder that she was in this tiny town because she valued her freedom above all else.   At first, Veronica wondered if she’d committed a faux pas; perhaps she wasn’t the only one who had trust issues.  But after a while, she came to realize that Betty was also weighing how honest, how vulnerable she wanted to be.

“I like the pain,” Betty finally admitted.

She gazed at Veronica, already defensive against any sort of judgment or condemnation.  When Betty didn’t find it, she continued, her voice relieved.

“I was always the good kid.  My sister was wild, and when she ran away the whole family fell apart.  Dad moved away, Mom joined a cult.  My brother went to live halfway across the country.  In less than a year I lost my whole family, and I was just so angry.  Both my parents hated tattoos; they said they were trashy and vulgar.  So…”

Betty tugged at the neck of her sweater, and Veronica eyed the soft skin.  In soft, looping script along Betty’s collarbone read, “my life is my own.”

“My senior year of high school I lived with the one person who meant the world to me.  But he’d gotten into Yale and I hadn’t, so we got matching tattoo’s.”   Her fingers caressed the space over her heart, and Veronica longed to know what lay under all those layers.  It was one more puzzle piece to the enigma that was Betty Cooper.  But just as Veronica had her secrets to keep, so, too, did Betty.

“After that, it just became an addiction.  The steady pain of the needle, the infusion of ink.”  Betty rolled up her sleeve and set her arm on Veronica’s lap.  Veronica traced the delicate lines along the snow globe that depicted the sleepy town.  From the town square to Pop’s Diner, it seemed the only thing missing was Betty’s own tattoo parlor.

“My grandfather helped build Riverdale, and when he passed my mother gave away everything to the cult.  So I got this instead of his snow globe collection,” Betty said, sadness etched in her eyes.  She laughed despite it.  “You can only imagine how my mother took it when I showed up to his funeral in a sleeveless dress.”

Veronica’s lips quirked into a smile, her fingers dancing across Betty’s skin.  Carefully, Veronica raised Betty’s tattooed arm to her lips and pressed her lips against the skin of her wrist.  The faint aroma of rosewater greeted her.  When she glanced up, Betty drew a sharp breath, but that rose pink flush at the base of her neck was back.  Encouraged, Veronica leaned forward to press a kiss along Betty’s collarbone, then another at the base of her neck.  

Betty pulled away, only to meet Veronica’s lips with her own.

-

Riding a wave of romanticism - one that had started with a hothouse tryst a few weeks ago and seemingly had no end in sight - Veronica picked up dinner from the only decent restaurant in town.  She knew Betty’s schedule was tight, but fifteen minutes together was enough to make her day.  Besides, Veronica had become accustomed to idling in the tattoo shop while Betty worked, the soothing pastels and new art calm enough to make Veronica forget about the barrage of legal notices in her mail box.  And if that wasn’t enough, Betty always kept a  stash of rotating pulp mysteries beneath the register.

But when she walked into the shop, Veronica’s stomach dropped.  A pink-haired woman sat far too close to Betty to be anything but a customer.  She leaned forward to whisper something, and Betty let out a peal of laughter.  Veronica set the food down and watched, irritation rising climbing like ivy in her throat.

When the woman finally left, Veronica made her way over to Betty’s station as casually as she could manage.  She knew she was being unreasonable; after all, Betty was allowed to have friends Veronica didn’t know about.  It wasn’t as if they were dating.

“Who was that?” Veronica asked, her eyes locked on a photo of the old Riverdale rail station.

“An old friend,” Betty said.  She wiped down the station, seemingly unaware of Veronica’s frustration.  “I think you’d like Toni, you two are a lot alike.”

That turn of phrase sparked a fuse and Veronica couldn’t help but grip the pearls at her throat.  Despite the innocent, entirely plausible explanation - and Veronica’s bone deep conviction that Betty wasn’t that kind of person - the afterimage sat at the forefront of her mind.  The pair were too casual, too close emotionally, for Veronica’s demons not to flare up.

“What’s up?” Betty prompted.  “I thought we were going to meet at the Wyrm later tonight.”

Veronica shrugged, still playing at nonchalance, and walked towards the waiting area.  She picked up a magazine and flipped through the pages to keep her hands still. On every page, Toni’s smiling face, inches from Betty’s, stared back at her.  They’d been dating a few weeks, and yet Veronica had never felt that sort of closeness with Betty.

It was the realization that Veronica wanted that sort of connection was frightening.  She was a Lodge, after all, and love was never an option.  Not unless it came with strings and attachments, political and social gains otherwise closed off to her family.  As a Lodge, hers was a morbid, skeptical view of love.  And how could it not be, after all the role models she’d had in her life?

And yet, what she had with Betty felt more solid, more real.  It was a mutually beneficial relationship where Betty expected nothing more than a little of Veronica’s time.

“I closed up early,” Veronica finally said.  She dropped the magazine on the table and forced as much carelessness into her voice as she could manage.  “I thought we might eat in tonight.  I didn’t realize you had company.”

Betty grimaced - apparently Veronica’s attempt at nonchalance had fallen flatter than a late May rain garden.  A pang of guilt went through Veronica; yet she couldn’t help but twist the knife.  It was the only other hobby her mother had shared with her.

“V, you know I’m booked solid -“

Veronica waved her off and pulled on her jacket.  “It’s fine.  I’ve got things to take care of.  Enjoy dinner.”

She stormed out of the door, ignoring Betty’s call.  Something broke against the wall and Veronica forced herself to keep moving.  

Whatever this was had taken root deep within her very cells, but a few days in New York would be more than enough to uproot it.

-

It had taken a week before Betty showed up in the flower shop.  The look on her face told Veronica not to try and pretend they weren’t anything more than neighbors.  Despite Veronica’s refusal to take any texts, calls, or dms from Betty, it seemed the stubborn blonde worked on an entirely different plane.

“What’s going on?” Betty asked, ignoring the customer Veronica was helping.

Veronica finished setting the baby’s breath among the white roses - a strange, uninspiring choice for a get well bouquet - before acknowledging her, a move that only served to irritate Betty further.

Thankfully, Betty waited until they were alone to round on her.

“Why have you been ignoring me?”

Veronica lifted a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug.  A coy move, meant to signify her own feigned indifference.  Betty crossed her arms and fixed her with a stare.

With a sigh, Veronica said, “I don’t know.”

“Seriously?”

“Look, this isn’t easy for me,” Veronica snapped.  She picked at the left over cuttings. Idly she arranged and rearranged them into strange shapes that seemed to reflect her own indecision.  “I’ve never had… I’ve never …”

Somehow, despite all her own musings on the subject, the words about why Betty affected her so much wouldn’t come.  

“Who was she?”

Betty quirked an eyebrow.  “Who?”

“That woman with the pink hair.”

“Is that what this is about?” Betty sighed and walked towards a nearby plant stand that held a range of hyacinths.  Her hand grazed over the yellow petals as she regarded Veronica.  “Toni and I grew up together.  Now she’s engaged to my cousin.”

The air went out of the room and Veronica sagged against the table.  She felt as foolish, as silly as she knew she was being.

“Oh.”

“Veronica,” Betty began, her hands still grasping the flowers, “if we’re going to make this work -“

The world shifted, and suddenly all Veronica could see and hear was Betty.  It couldn’t possibly be this simple.  It never was.  Betty was after something, and now that Veronica had misstepped it would finally come to light.

“-you have to talk to me about these things.  I don’t want to lose you over something as stupid as jealously.”

“That’s it?”

Betty gave her a sharp, bewildered look that sent waves of guilt through Veronica.  Veronica dropped her eyes to the cuttings in front of her.  It was strange, truly, how much she wanted Betty to understand.  They both came with familial baggage; the only question was whether that baggage would match in the long run.

“I’m sorry,” Veronica said with a wince.  “It’s just… everyone’s always had these … expectations of me.  There was always something they wanted.  Comes with my father’s legacy I suppose,” she scoffed.

When she looked up, she was startled to find Betty standing in front of her.  With a gentle smile, Betty took up Veronica’s hands in hers.  

“The only thing I want from you is a little of your time,” Betty said.  With a sly grin, she added, “And maybe that yellow flower over there.”

Veronica huffed out a laugh.  “The hyacinth?”  

Betty nodded.

“No, not that one,” Veronica said.  She slipped her hands from Betty’s and walked to the far aisle.  It was easy to know what she was looking for, even though she knew the meaning would be lost.  

When she set the plant in front of Betty, Veronica’s heart fluttered at her smile.  

“It’s gorgeous,” Betty murmured.  Her fingers toyed with the long yellow leaves.  “A daffodil, right?”

Veronica nodded.

“What does it mean?” Betty asked.

“New beginnings.”  Veronica bit her lip, oddly shy.  “And forgiveness.”

Betty grinned and leaned over the counter to press a kiss to Veronica’s forehead.  “You won’t always be able to buy me off with flowers.  And you promise to talk these things through with me in the future.”

“I promise, so long as you give me a chance.”

-

Late one evening, as the neon lights cast a blue and red glow across Betty’s bare skin, Veronica lay her head on Betty’s chest, her breath heavy and her skin still flush with sweat.  The sound of her heartbeat lulled Veronica into a meditative state as a contented drowsiness began to take hold.

“I’ve got issues,” Veronica breathed.  Her confession, honest and vulnerable, slipped out of her without a second thought.

Betty’s chuckle was laced with sleep.  She wrapped an arm around Veronica’s shoulder, her long fingers tracing patterns along the skin.  “We all have issues V.”

Veronica raised up on her elbows.  Betty’s hair fanned out around her, a pink halo in the neon light, with her eyes half closed in satiety.  

“Give me yours, then,” Veronica said with a sudden protectiveness.

“Only if you give me yours,” came the swift reply.  

Veronica held up her pink, and Betty grasped it with her own.  Sealed with a kiss, Veronica settled back against Betty for the long haul.

[poorlittleminkmink]

Workday Naps

I know it’s late but here’s the blondmementos ficlet I promised I’d post for Sleep Day

Antigone Funn typically prided herself with her ability to work diligently no matter the circumstances. She had always been a hard worker as a child and now that she was fully grown, she’d manifested that same nature in the form of being a workaholic. When Funn Funerals still had plenty of customers, this wasn’t an issue. Antigone was able to spend her days happily working away on whatever body had come through her mortuary door that day. The introduction of a certain outside factor led to this, amongst other routines, being entirely disrupted. That factor was one man.

Eric Chapman.

Yes, when he’d first moved in, Antigone hated him for his looks and his charm and his attention to detail, but she found that she didn’t hate him— not truly. Maybe some minor loathing on the surface, but mostly she found herself wishing to spend time with him.

She wanted to be the object of his affection, similar to Lady Templar, but maybe not so loud about the situation. After all, Chapman was still a business rival. Even if he had been very kind to take Antigone to the circus. And even if he had reached out more to her to get to know her better. They were rivals first, whatever-the-hell-else second. It was infuriatingly complicated, Antigone had discovered after the circus, and while she did enjoy a good puzzle now and then, emotions should not be such a complex jigsaw.

On those rare, rare moments though, when Antigone wasn’t working away at a body or stopping Rudyard’s crazy schemes or keeping the family business afloat, she allowed herself to slip into a softer fantasy.

Today’s particular installment contained being held tenderly by one certain undertaker while he whispered sweet nothings into her hair. His touch was so delicate, as though she were the most precious thing in the world. Antigone could feel herself relaxing in the familiarity of Eric’s arms, practically melting into him. She wished she could stay in this moment forever, just Eric pressing feather-light kisses to her nose and cheeks while she laid blissfully in his arms. She allowed herself to burrow deeper in the warmth he provided, happy to doze off—

“Antigone? Are you down here?”

A voice cut through the mental haze of Antigone’s daydreams and the woman grabbed a scalpel from a nearby tray, swerving to scold whoever had dared to disturb her quiet time.

“Rudyard, what in the name of sanity—“

She’d barely managed to get the sentence out when her gaze met one of gentle blue instead of harsh brown. Oh. Oh. It was Chapman. Chapman. Here. In her mortuary. A bright blush broke out across Antigone’s skin, spreading like a fire as Chapman descended the steps into the mortuary.

“Oh— err, not Rudyard. But he was the one who said you’d be down here.” The blond replied, almost sheepishly despite his never wavering cheeriness.

“Of course he did. Is nothing sacred anymore? Can a woman not enjoy time alone in her mortuary without something or another barging in?” She grumbled out, earning herself an halfway apologetic look from the other.

“Well, I was going to ask if you had any down time…I thought maybe we could grab a cuppa over at my place? I know we aren’t exactly friends—“

“Of course we aren’t friends. We’re rivals, Chapman.” Antigone swiftly reminded him.

“Yes, but I figured, from one mortician to another, maybe we could- I dunno, talk shop?” Chapman gave the lanky woman a charming smile, hopefulness in his tone.

“Why?” Came the suspicious response as the receiver of said smile narrowed her eyes.

“Because I want to get to know you? And we have at least one thing in common and that’s our businesses.” He nearly fumbled with his reasoning, seeming surprised that she’d ask such a thing.

“Right…” A brief pause while the now bemused mortician eyed her companion before continuing flatly. “Caffeine makes my hair turn green.”

“Then a hot chocolate—“

“Can’t have sweets.”

“A decaf?”

“Tastes dreadful.”

“How about a nice book then? Maybe a meal or a movie?”

Another pause. Longer than the last, but more filled with anxiety on the part of the pseudo-Prince Charming in front of a rather dismal Cinderella. She found it almost funny that he was trying so hard to spend time with her, but of course she wouldn’t ever say that. It wasn’t as though she didn’t want to spend time with Chapman, she just found that she tended to be difficult around.

“A movie would be acceptable. Something morbid and foreign if you don’t mind…” Antigone finally answered, biting back a laugh when Chapman seemed to visibly relax.

“I happen to enjoy French films quite a bit, so I have no issue supplying a few of my favorites. Morbid may be harder to fulfill, but we’ll see what I can pull together.” Chapman gave a confident nod, turning his full attention back to the woman across from him.

A light mirrored nod of agreement was all that met his small self-check before Antigone started up the stairs and made her way over to Chapman’s, the proprietor on her heels. She was still plenty suspicious of his intentions for the day, but if she could manage to consume some deliciously depressing cinema on her slow day, she wouldn’t be too upset. Even if it did turn out Chapman was using her for her business secrets, which she’d never tell of course.

Thirty minutes and a minor verbal scuffle later, Antigone Funn found herself seated on a rather fluffy sofa with Chapman beside her and a beautiful French film in front of her. One she hadn’t seen as well. Seems that Chapman’s collection didn’t disappoint.

Deep brown eyes locked to the screen, giving her full attention to the film and occasionally shifting her body to find the most comfortable place on the couch. A few minutes of moving around and muttering to herself and she settled on a comfortably warm spot for her head. Truly, she hadn’t realized that where she had settle in that moment was one Eric Chapman’s chest, nor did she see the gentle look the man had given her before settling back into the sofa himself. He wouldn’t disturb her now, so as not to stir up the particular brand of chaos Funns seemed to be proficient in.

It wasn’t until Antigone’s breathing had settled and she stopped muttering lines of French that Chapman noted that she had fallen asleep. With a light smile on his face, he adjusted his body ever so carefully and allowed himself to drift off to sleep.

If he had been conscious of his decision to wrap Antigone up in his arms, he certainly didn’t let that on. No, he was much more content with having this one minor victory under his belt. One success was enough for him today, no need to overdo it lest he jinx his luck with her. Baby steps were enough for him, just until he was sure of her feelings towards him.