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comphetkoncass · 7 months

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6 or 27 for the promts both seem soooo good, i cant decide

here ya go! 6: “Don’t move, you’re still hurt.” Kon/Tim – injured tim, kon keeping tim’s blood where it’s supposed to be <3 (cw medical)

///

Tim wakes to ringing in his ears, and a sense that an unknown amount of time has passed since he was previously conscious. He was on a mission, Tim thinks – that much is clear given the pressure of his Red Robin uniform against his skin. He can’t remember which team he was with though, or what he was fighting. He definitely doesn’t remember losing consciousness – never a good sign, given that he could very well still be in danger.

Tim hopes his team – whichever it is – has bailed him out. No one’s actively wailing on him, sure, which points to someone helping him or at least losing consciousness far away from the action – but he should really check for himself.

So, groaning, Tim tries to open his eyes, tries to sit up.

But sitting up is impossible – what is with the elephant on his chest? – and even the briefest glimpse to the world around him sends a dizzying blast through his skull. Light is the enemy, Tim decides. Meaning he’ll have to use his other senses to figure out what’s wrong with him, where he is, and what he needs to do to get home.

Fortunately, as soon as he started to move, he hears something start to break through the ringing.

“Rob?” someone asks. “Rob, can you hear me?”

The voice is too muffled to make out. A guy, Tim thinks. Probably.

“Mngh,” Tim says eloquently.

The guy chuckles. That, above all, tells Tim who it is.

“Kon,” he manages, his friend’s name like a sigh. “Did we win?”

Kon hesitates for a minute. Then, reluctantly, “Not sure yet. Cassie’s handling it.”

“Then what’re you doing here?” Tim tries to get up again, but the elephant remains on his chest. That’s when he realizes the rest of his limbs can’t move, either. For a second, he’s terrified – but then he realizes Kon just has him in a full-body TTK lock. “Let me up.”

“No can do,” Kon says. He sounds like he’s in intense concentration mode, which Tim grudgingly appreciates. He’d hate it if Kon’s TTK accidentally immobilized his heart or lungs – but seeing as all that could just be avoided if Kon just let him go…

Tim fights against him again.

“I’m serious, Tim,” Kon says, voice low and warning. “Don’t move, you’re still hurt.”

That, more than anything, tells Tim what he needs to know. He goes stock still. “How bad is it?” he asks, because ‘How long do I have left?’ sounds dramatic.

“You’ll be a lot more okay and a lot faster if you let me concentrate.”

Tim clamps his mouth shut.

That’s when he recognizes the tang of iron in his mouth – oh. He has internal bleeding, he realizes. Kon probably knows about it already. Tim decides not to point it out, given Kon sounds awfully strained.

As Tim lies there for a while longer, he slowly checks in with himself. Tries to see which body parts are in danger. Internal bleeding causing blood in his mouth means something happened to his lungs – maybe his digestive system. A knife to his stomach, maybe? Punctured lungs?

Yet, to Tim’s surprise, he can’t feel much of anything. Little to no pain. With serious injuries, that’s clearly a bad thing – it usually means he has minutes left, if that.

Yet somehow, there’s a nagging suspicion that wounds to his torso are the least of his worries.

Tim almost risks opening his eyes again – but the blinding light make him think there’s a head injury, and if he only has a few minutes left, he’d rather not spend it in blinding pain. It’s enough to know that Kon’s here. It’s enough that his last moments won’t be alone.

The ringing in his ears has waned though, and Tim slowly listens for anything else around him. Anything to tell him where he is.

He realizes, far too long after starting, that he can hear wind, far away, but absolutely roaring outside. That’s about it.

“I’ve been studying field medicine,” Kon tells him, breaking the silence. Tim feels something strange in his lungs. “When I’ve got time, I just… I sit in the sun and crack open a medical book, cozy up with Krypto if he’s in a lazy mood. Then I learn all I can about how people’s insides are supposed to work.”

Tim makes a soft sound in the back of his throat. He’d suspected, after noticing several medical books appear on the credit card he’d given Kon a few years ago. The one he swears he doesn’t track.

“Yeah?” Tim manages, still tasting blood in his throat. “How are mine?”

Kon breathes through pursed lips. Winces, audibly; Tim feels a sudden flicker of pain in his right lung. “They’ve definitely been better.”

“Can- you tell me what it was?”

“Thrown into a building,” Kon says. “Like, really hard.”

It should be embarrassing, Tim thinks. He’s survived a lot worse. But instead of shame or regret, all he feels is pain.

“You’re going to be okay,” Kon insists. Leans down, even, to kiss his forehead. Tim feels floaty; he still doesn’t know how Kon’s managing to keep the worst of the hurt at bay, but he appreciates it. For now, he chalks it up to forehead kisses. “I’ve got you. I’m just here to make sure you can still breathe until an actual surgeon can take care of you. And making sure your brain doesn’t leak out – always said your brain was too big for your head.”

Tim wheezes a laugh. It hurts.

“Sorry – forgot to mention no laughing.”

Tim squeezes his eyes shut tighter, and hopes that if this is their last moment, that Kon knows Tim doesn’t blame him.

“How far away is help?” Tim asks, voice feeling far away.

“Don’t pass out,” Kon says urgently. “Five more minutes, give or take. A magic user with healing powers. Raven, I think. Someone. Once they get here, you’ll be okay.”

Kon says it like he really, truly believes it. Five more minutes of limbo, five more minutes of Kon keeping his organs where they’re supposed to be, keeping his blood flowing instead of spilling out. Five more minutes of traumatizing his best friend with what has to be the scariest moment in his life, literally holding Tim’s life in his hands.

Tim distantly realizes that if Tim does die here, Kon will see it as his own failure.

That, more than anything, keeps him alert. “You’re doing all you can,” Tim says. A clumsier attempt at comfort than usual. “Thank you for trying.”

“Don’t say that like you’re saying goodbye,” Kon warns. “I swear to god, Tim, if you let yourself slip away right now-”

“Jus’ in case,” Tim manages. His words taste even stronger of iron now. “Don’t want you feeling guilty. I know you’re trying.”

Kon’s voice is thick with tears. “You’re going to be fine, damn it. If I have to keep your heart beating myself, I’ll do it. You hear me?”

Tim does, but Kon’s voice is growing fainter and fainter. The ringing in his ears is back again, and getting louder, and louder.

Tim’s last regret is not being able to open his eyes and see his friend’s face one last time.

But with his eyes already closed, and his body so numb when the shards of bone aren’t actively puncturing his lungs, Tim can’t help it.

He slips away – and it feels like a freefall.

///

Tim is surprised when he wakes up. But he does.

He can even open his eyes this time, even though the world is still a bit too bright, he can at least make out the room he’s in. It’s the Titans Tower. He’s a little surprised – somehow, he was expecting to wake up in Wayne Manor with Leslie, or the Watchtower.

He supposes that the Tower is better, though. Raven has healing powers, and Cyborg is further in biomechanical advancements than any other human on Earth, except for possibly his dad.

Tim’s in good hands, he decides. But he remembers the hands he was in before, and he frowns as the gravity of his injuries hits him. He really should have died.

He doesn’t know how much later now is, compared to when he was hurt. It could be hours later, or even days. He shouldn’t expect Kon to still be here; Tim isn’t even sure he can remember those final moments properly, considering he still doesn’t remember the actual point of impact. But he does remember Kon holding him together. Kon’s TTK being the only thing between Tim and bleeding out, or worse. (Probably worse.)

He no longer feels that pressure of that TTK field. Whatever it did, it’s long gone.

Its owner, however, is much closer. Tim realizes too late that he can hear snoring, a distinctive hnkkkk-sss that could only come from one super. (Tim still doesn’t believe Kon, that a heartbeat can sound distinct enough to track. But he will always be able to recognize Kon by his snoring.)

It takes a while for Tim to sit up enough to turn, but when he does, the movement startles Kon awake.

“Hey,” Tim says.

His mouth doesn’t taste like blood anymore.

Kon stares at him, bloodshot eyes wide and hopeful. Tim didn’t even know he could get bloodshot eyes. “Hey yourself.”

It doesn’t escape Tim’s notice that Kon’s sitting in the windowsill. He must have needed an awful lot of sun to regain energy.

He doesn’t seem to care about recharging now, though. Tim blinks, and Kon’s on the edge of his bed, sitting on him without actually putting any pressure on him. Tim can’t tell if it’s TTK or true flight, but it’s nice.

“You passed out even though I totally told you not to,” Kon says, faux-sternly. “Guess you can dish out orders in the field, but you can’t take them.”

A laugh bubbles out of Tim’s throat. This time, he realizes, it doesn’t hurt.

Tim didn’t realize at first, that there was a haunted look on Kon’s face. Whatever Kon had to do to keep Tim alive, it must have stuck with him. But when Tim laughs, it passes, if just for a moment.

“It’s good to see you awake,” he says honestly. “Cyborg and Raven weren’t sure you were gonna make it, but I wouldn’t let them give up on you.”

“Yeah?” Tim wonders just how close he got to dying. Wonders, briefly, about just how far TTK can go to keep a body alive after it stops keeping itself alive. Remembers what Kon said about his heart. A chill runs up his spine as he realizes that technically, Kon might have been telling the truth. A heartbeat wouldn’t be that difficult to replicate artificially.

Given the look on Kon’s face, Tim had better not ask.

“Well, you kept your promise,” Tim says, and reaches for Kon’s hands. He squeezes, and it seems to be the right move. Some of the tension bleeds out of Kon’s shoulders. “I’m fine. You can stop worrying now.”

“Never,” Kon says, but there’s a smile on his face, and he looks a thousand pounds lighter.

///

[For my own reference, and for everyone else’s pain: Tim ended up with metal plates in his head and three replacement ribs. Kon actually still had to help with the medical process; he had to fish out the ribs that punctured Tim’s lungs so that Raven could heal Tim’s lungs. Kon had to get over his fear of a laboratory setting by being present for the whole surgery.

Last fun fact: After Tim passed out, he would have died, but Kon did in fact keep his heart beating. The uses for TTK are absolutely limitless.]

#timkon #conner kent #kon-el #tim drake #tim drake-wayne #cdw writes

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euphoricfilter · 11 months

Text

like crazy ~ part two

☆ﾟpart two of five

pairing(s): namjoon x reader, seokjin x reader, yoongi x reader, hoseok x reader, jimin x reader, taehyung x reader, jungkook x reader

genre: fluff || smut || angst || non-idol au || reincarnation au || friends to lovers || strangers to lovers || established relationships || regency era au || gang au || college au || slight yandere au? ||

summary: the story of how the universe sent you Namjoon.

word count: 9.3k

tags/ warnings: gang leader! namjoon, fluff, a lot more love, angst, namjoon is tatted up, death/ murder, mentions of blood, mentioned sex trafficking, mentioned drugs, obsessive relationship, smut in the forms of: dom/ sub themes— kinda mean-ish dom! namjoon, lots of hickies, spitting in a mouth :), biting, strangely feral sex, pussy slapping, unprotected sex (this is fiction, don’t be stupid), pull out method (again, don’t be stupid), doggy style, squirting, the briefest ass play, implied/planned aftercare!! because namjoon isn’t heartless

notes: not a promise but i'm going to try and get yoongi's part uploaded next week!! it's basically all written i just have to edit it all but this section of the story was getting way too long so i decided to just split it. again, feedback is always encouraged!! i really like this series and would love to know others' thoughts too <3

‘like crazy’ mini series masterlist || my main masterlist

🪐 🌠 ∘₊✧─── *ੈ✩‧₊˚ ───✧₊∘ ✧ ˚ 　· 　　 . 💫

Your third life was perhaps the strangest.

It had also been the shortest of all your lives, and perhaps the shortest of your loves.

You hadn’t loved Namjoon any less than you had Taehyung or Jimin.

Stupid, undying love had wormed its way into your heart; maybe without you even realizing this time. And then once again, you found yourself sinking with no escape and more heartbreak than you knew what to deal with.

When you truly think about it, the universe had been a little crueller in this life.

And in hindsight, she probably had taken pity on your poor soul for all the stories that follow this one.

From the day you could produce a coherent thought, you’d known everything.

There was no life-changing realisation that you’d had with Jimin, no obliviousness to what your life had once been or everything you’ve ever lost.

You’re pretty sure your whole world would have been different had you not been aware of your previous life, the butterfly effect is a real bitch when the knowledge you never asked for is thrust into your hands and you aren’t exactly sure what to do with it.

At eighteen you’d moved out. Because as much as you’d tried, you’d never truly felt anything for your parents in this life.

It wasn’t hard to play the role of a doting daughter, not when your parents never paid much attention to you anyway. Or how you knew attaching yourself to people that would eventually pass was a whole new wave of pain you weren’t ready to put yourself up for.

There was no guarantee that once you died in this life you’d come back for a fourth time, there was no guarantee that if you did ever make your way back into this world that you’d ever gain the knowledge of what once was. But it was a risk you had never been willing to take. If you’d lived another life, come back again and again, then what was there to say it weren’t to happen once more?

You often wondered how your old mother must have felt, finding out the only family she had left was murdered. How horrified she must have been after hearing the news. Or if she’d been the one to stumble across yours and Jimin’s cold corpses.

You doubted she was still alive either way, time hadn’t exactly been on your side, the world so much different than when you were last alive.

So much more advanced than it had been. You had so many more rights as a women than you had in your previous life. Everything seemed so new, the smallest glimpses of the past peeking through the new age that you found yourself living in.

The story of you and Namjoon starts where you and Jimin had ended.

You look up at the set of apartment buildings. The land that used to be the foundation of your home no longer what it used to be. The garden was buried under cement, and all your secrets that had seeped into the walls were probably rotting somewhere in the landfill.

What was once a small house for two had been reconstructed, and built so much bigger and better. Better than anything you could have imagined your home to be.

It felt a little patronizing, the land you’d died on morphed into something so much more spectacular.

You remember how hard it had been to simply own a house of your own. How hard it must have been for Jimin to save enough to buy it. How you felt as though you’d finally achieved something in your pitiful life the day the two of you had moved in.

How when you look at the building stood before you, it didn’t seem like such a wonderful place anymore.

It wasn’t special. It wasn’t yours.

Once again, it was so far out of reach, so different, the familiarity, the warmth, all of it had died along with you and Jimin.

Yours and Jimin’s lives had been so insignificant that no one had thought to keep the land your sacred burial ground.

You don’t resent the world for stripping away such a large piece of your life away. (even less so when the change had been the sole reason you’d found Namjoon. Or rather how he’d found you).

Meeting Namjoon had become somewhat of a blur. Words slipping off your tongue as the wind dug its nails into your cheeks, and your fingers and toes felt numb from the cold. Grey cottony clouds had been stuffed in your ears and your mind had been so far from your body. Perhaps seeping into the gravel, slipping between the frost and the soil as your mind reels with every little moment you’d ever spent on this very piece of land.

Jimin had been the spring, but Namjoon had been the winter.

You see, Taehyung and Jimin had been the gentle things that wandered in the sunlight, flowers and warm afternoons, sweet kisses and heart-swelling love. Namjoon is what lurks in the shadows, and ugly thunder storms or gnarly bite marks imbedded into tender skin. He was every rough edge and anxiety filled heartbeat, his touch gentle as poison seeps into every pore he traces over.

“What are you doing here?”

Your head snaps in the direction of Jimin’s voice. Words catching in your throat, your mouth opening and then closing and then falling open once more.

Your eyes widen only for prickly disappointment to drown your heart when you’re met with the face of a stranger. Jimin's saccharine voice echoing through one ear and out the other.

You lips fall shut, heat creeping up your neck to your cheeks as your eyes meet those of the stranger.

“I used to live here” you point to the block of flats. And although that may not exactly be true, you don’t bother elaborating.

(And Namjoon doesn’t bother to tell you that no one had lived in that building since it had been built. It was his land before it had been constructed and he had no plans of ever renting out any of the rooms.)

He takes a step closer to you, maybe only an arms length away, “It’s not safe in this area”

You turn back to look at the building, “That’s a shame” you hum, “Maybe I should get going then”

A weird sense of guilt runs through your veins. Guilt because you weren’t at all scared. And maybe it’s because after being killed twice, the idea of death doesn’t scare you all that much anymore. Not when you were tired of life, not when you could come back and have the chance to live all over again as a whole new person.

“I never caught your name” he says, mild curiosty dancing in his eyes.

The air is frigid as it fills your lungs, “Y/n”

“Namjoon” he holds a hand out for you to shake.

You look at his hand, debating whether to risk it, wondering if he had plans to grab you, erase you from existence. You’d tell him it were useless if that were the case, that you’re estranged from your family and you barely had any friends that would risk themselves for your own safety. That he’d be wasting his time more than he would be yours.

His lips curl up at the corners as you shake his hand, “Want me to walk you home?”

You meet his gaze, pulling your scarf tighter around your neck, “No. I’m quite capable”

─── · 。ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

“I think there’s someone staring at you” your friend nudges you, hand cupping your ear.

As much as you wanted to live a life of solitude, unprepared to face another life that ended in heartbreak, it was hard not to befriend someone along the way.

The both of you would have probably quit this deadbeat job if it weren’t for each other. And luckily the place was run by an old woman that didn’t mind your shifts being practically identical. The income helped with rent and you got most meals free with the job, so really you had no plans to move anywhere else.

Somehow, platonic love was a little easier to let go of, a little easier to mend, soothe until it doesn’t hurt as much and the memories fade like a painting left in sunlight for too long. You’d never wanted to come off as cold either, and what was one friend when you had a whole life ahead of you?

Because as much as you liked to slip into your own world, replay the stories of Taehyung and Jimin until tears slip down your cheeks and you had half a mind to pull your aching heart out of youe chest, the strange sort of catharsis that hurts as much as it heals— having a friend wasn’t all that bad.

And maybe you’d be upset if one day the two of you were to wander down separate paths, only to never meet at the crossroad and continue on with life like you hadn’t trekked for miles together; but maybe that hurt was worth the risk if it were easy to heal later on. A selfish thought, but you’d learnt that humans were simply built that way. That being selfish wasn’t all that terrible.

You look up at her, dropping the mug and cloth behind you in favor of leaning on the counter, arm to arm.

“Who?” your head falls on her shoulder.

“The guy over there” she nods her head in his direction. You follow her line of sight, eyes meeting the strangers’ very briefly before your gaze flitters out the storefront window.

“Do you know him?” she asks, your head falling off her shoulder as someone stalks up to the counter.

You squint as she takes the order, watching as the curious stranger flicks open a newpaper.

You weren’t sure if he was simply confident or overly arrogant. His posture that of a man who gets his way, the kind of man you try to avoid when the sun sets. The kind of man you try to avoid when you go out for drinks and they offer you a night you’d never forget.

His shoulders were lax, open. One leg crossed over the other. Chest broad and arms bulging under his thin dress shirt. He was handsome. Very handsome. And you knew he was aware of this fact, especially with the way all eyes were on him as people left the cafe. Their unrelenting stares doing nothing to deter his relaxed demeanour.

“I don’t think so, no” you shake your head, turning back to grab a to-go cup, “Maybe he’s one of those creeps that have a thing for baristas”

She frowns, hip knocking against yours with more force than intended, almost sending the cup you were holding flying. “Don’t say that, what if he’s a rich CEO and wants to take you on a date?”

You can’t help the laugh that spills from your lips, “Doubt it. I don’t think rich CEOs drink cheap coffee on this side of town”

She hums, “His suit does looks pretty expensive”

“It does” you agree, meeting her eyes.

“French make?”

You tilt your head, taking another glance in his direction, “Italian”

“Freshly pressed?”

“Definitely”

You slide the hot coffee across the counter, bitter annoyance creasing your eyebrows when you don’t even get a thank you.

“I mean, there’s more ways to get money than just being a rich CEO” she tilts her head, eyes squinting ever so slightly.

“Maybe he’s a doctor” you run a finger over your bottom lip, and she throws her head back in laughter.

“Maybe he does shady gang related stuff”

Your nose scrunches up at that, “Like sex trafficking? What if he sells drugs?”

She bites her lip.

“You fiend” you laugh, “There’s bad boy, and then there’s just straight up criminal”

She gives you an exasperated sigh, “What if he’s a nice? What if he wants true love, and cares about his family?”

Your mouth falls open in disbelief, “I don’t–” you swallow, “You have strange preferences” is what you settle with.

“Okay?” she laughs, “And what about you?”

“A gentleman. The sappy ones that believe in true love”

“Doesn’t seem to be many of those around anymore, not in this area at least” she nods, “Maybe we both have unattainable types”

Your lips quirk up into a smile, “Maybe. I’m not really looking for love”

“Why not? Add something fun to your life”

Both of your attention is snatched by the door swinging shut, the stranger that had been keeping as eye on you slinking down the street, newspaper tucked underneath his arm.

“I’m happy where I am”

“You don’t go out” she deadpans.

Your eyes narrow, “I do. For work, groceries, you know all that kinda stuff”

It’s barely a laugh that puffs out of her, more an exasperated sigh, “How are you ever going to meet the love of your life?”

Something bitter coats over your tongue, and you will yourself not to frown. You think your heart slowly starts to sink inside your chest, an ugly weight that has your eyes stinging a little.

“I don’t think everyone has soulmates” you turn away from her, picking up the mug you’d put down earlier.

“You’re so cynical sometimes, you know that? Besides, it’s not like you have to find a soulmate per say, just— a fling or something”

“Yeah” you look at her over your shoulder, “Wanna go change? I’ll lock up today”

She hums, “Are you sure? I don’t mind helping”

You shake your head, pushing yourself onto your toes to place a mug back on the shelf, ‘I’ll be fine, you have somewhere you gotta be right?”

“Yeah. My dad’s in the hospital again, I don’t know how I’m gonna pay the bill this time”

You tuck your hair behind your ear, “Sorry to hear that” and truly you were. But as much as you wanted to offer to help her pay off the bills, you had your own utilities to pay for, a life to live.

And maybe you were a prime example of a selfish human.

She shrugs, “Life is shitty sometimes, not much I can do about it”

She waves before she leaves, the door clicking shut behind her. You watch as she walks, only blinking when she’s out of sight.

You stand there for a moment, time inside the cafe stopping as the world continues to move outside.

You can barely hear the chatter, muffled through the glass, though you see people’s smiles, watching groups of them laugh. Or two people holding hands. You see lovestruck looks in people’s eyes. Eyes that don’t seem to hold much emotion at all. Distress from someone on the phone. The smallest hint of happiness from someone listening to music.

You fall back into reality when one of the boilers in the backroom rumbles, your attention quickly snatched as you duck under the counter to wash the tables. Your world now quiet enough for your thoughts to amplify. They fill up the room like thick smog, skipping around you with quick steps you almost stumble over your own feet.

Some days you found yourself wondering what Taehyung would think of you now, how the both of you might have danced around the cafe, a piano piece playing in the background from a jukebox as you closed up for the night. Or what would happen when you’d finally go home to your one bedroom apartment and Jimin would be sprawled across the sheets, hair damp, and skin still damp, wet from just taking a shower.

You startle when someone approaches you just as you lock up the door, “Willing to take my offer to walk you home this time?”

With widened eyes you turn to meet the stranger, acute terror tickling your mind as you think he must have been hanging around the shop since he left earlier, just waiting for you to lock up, “Excuse me?” Your voice breathless.

“It’s pretty late, and girls like you don’t fare well when the sun goes down”

You slip the key to the cafe into your pocket, “I think I’ll pass” your shoulder barely brushes his as you slip past him, though you don’t miss the thump of footsteps behind you. Too close, yet not close enough for you to do anything about it.

You stop, “What do you want?”

“Come on, Y/n, We’re past that, I’m just making sure you get home safe” you watch as a dimpled smile tugs onto his face and you pull your coat tighter around your body, unsure if the shiver was from the cold or from him.

Your eyes narrow, skeptical, “How’d you know my name?”

Something akin to a scoff vibrates from his chest, “You’re fucking serious? Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten already?”

You bite your bottom lip, eyes glazing over his face, memories playing like a strip of film in your mind, click click clicking until you pause when you catch sight of his face, a little blurred but his eyes are hard to forget. “Ah–” you sigh, “Namjoon”

You will yourself no to smack the shit-eating grin off his face, rather turning back around, starting your walk home.

“So i’m not that forgettable?” his steps fall in time with yours. No longer walking behind you, all caution thrown out of the window.

“It took me all day to remember. Why were you just hanging out at the cafe? Don’t you have better things to do?”

“No” he shakes his head.

You don’t open your mouth the rest of the way home, and neither does Namjoon. Not until you’re stood on the step of your apartment building, slightly looking down at him.

“Thanks for walking me home” you rock back and forth on your heels, “You don’t need to do it again though”

Namjoon wets his bottom lip, pulling his scarf a little tighter around his neck. Condensed air whispering into nothing as he open his mouth to speak.

“I want to see you again” Plain. Simple. Straight to the point. But not what you wanted to hear.

You sigh, back of your throat drying as you inhale frost riddled air, “That’s a bit too forward, don’t you think?”

He runs a hand over his chin, “I wouldn’t say so”

“Whatever it is you want, Namjoon, I don’t want it” you tell him, hoping that by some miracle, your little hint penetrates his thick skull.

“And how do you know what I want?” His arms fold across his chest.

It doesn’t apparently, and you are so close to losing your tether.

“Dating. Marriage. Sex. Simply a fling. I don’t want any of it”

It irks you how he laughs, “Marriage is a bit too soon, I barely know you. But I’m not opposed to the rest”

“But I am”

“We’ll see about that” he waves you off, “i’ll see you around, yeah?”

You choose not to reply, willing yourself not to look back as you push open the door to your building.

─── · 。ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

“Do you fuck on the first date?”

And for a moment you think your mind short circuits, neurones working overtime to piece together a coherent thought. Sparking against one another as his question replays in your mind.

Everything with Namjoon was always so quick. What had been him walking you home had somehow melted into him taking you out to dinner on the nice side of town for a date that truly you hadn’t had any interest in. That was until he’d shown up at your door out of the blue barely a week after the two of you had met.

You’d never told him your apartment number, and it had left you mildly curious as to who you’d gotten yourself involved in. You could only hope that if you came off dull enough he’d choose to go and flirt with another human that was willing to spread their legs for him on the first date.

“I haven’t before. So, no”

Namjoon hums, hand running over his jaw in thought.

“How charming” he muses, and you’re unsure if it’s a laugh that rumbles from his chest or a scoff, perhaps a mixture of both. “They must have been true gentlemen. Let me know what I’m working with”

You raise an eyebrow, and he nods for you to continue.

“The first guy.. I suppose we never exactly had a first date. The second…we ate by a lake and talked about dreams and the universe, and then he made me a flower crown so I made one for him”

Namjoon’s eyebrows furrow, “Men like that exist?”

The corners of your lips quirk up, wistful memories of still-there emotions seeping back into your heart. “No. Otherwise we wouldn’t be here”

“They’re dead?”

You swallow, breath catching in the back of your throat. Namjoon’s head tilts, expectant.

“Something like that” is all you can find yourself to manage.

“You kill them yourself?” his eyebrow raises, though you think the both of you know the answer. And maybe that had been the moment you’d gotten an inkling of what Namjoon did for a living, and how utterly fascinating it was to talk about death so freely with another human being.

It had always been so taboo. But it was simply the end of life, the end of a story. Everyone were to experience it one day, so why would no one ever talk about it?

“No” you shake your head, “And this isn’t about them”

“It’s not” he agrees, “I’ll leave the sex for next time as well”

You cover a laugh with a cough, “How thoughtful of you”

“You don’t seem upset” he points out, piercing eyes making it a point to hold eye contact.

“About you wondering what happened to my dead lovers?” And he nods, “You’re understandably curious. I’m not going to hold that against you” you shrug.

Your finger runs over the seam line of your dress, some small part of you on edge, always wondering what Namjoon’s next words would be. He was always so calculated. And a small part of you was scared he’d ask things you had no intention of mentioning.

“And you’re not curious about my past relationships?” he asks, somewhat surprising you.

You shake your head, “I think I’ve made it clear that I’m not interested in a relationship. So I really couldn’t care what your past endeavours were like”

You sit up a little straighter when his lips quirk up into a smile, “I wonder why you’re here then. If you truly wanted nothing to do with me”

Your tongue wets your bottom lip, “You’re awfully similar to a parasite, you know?”

He raises an eyebrow, “Elaborate”

“Do you believe in destiny?”

“That doesn’t answer me” he shakes his head, “What does destiny have to do with parasites?”

“You’re like a parasite because no matter where I go, you cling on to me like it’s all you know” you say, “For the last week since we’d met that one evening all you do is sit in the cafe all day while I work, walk me home and show up at my door on my days off even though I told you I’m not interested”

“And destiny?”

“I said yes to today, because destiny is a bitch. And maybe it had been her that had sent us to one another”

Namjoon leans back in his chair, “I do believe. To answer your earlier question”

You sigh, “That doesn’t mean I want to dive head first into a relationship with you”

“But you’re not opposed to the idea of us getting to know one another?”

You bite your lip, maybe trying to hide a smile, “I didn’t say that”

“It was implied though” Namjoon’s own lips curl upwards.

“Was it?”

Namjoon’s eyebrows furrow, “Don’t start acting like a brat now”

“Or what?”

He leans over the table, lithe fingers taking a hold of your jaw before he runs his thumb over your bottom lip, “Are you willing to play that game, love?”

“Maybe one day, but I have a shift soon so I better get going. Thanks for dinner, I’ll make sure to add a complimentary cake with your coffee tomorrow”

Namjoon’s fingers fall loose around your jaw, “You want me to visit tomorrow?”

You push yourself to stand, chair squeaking against the tiled flooring, “Something like that”

“When does your shift start?”

“I open up tomorrow”

He nods, “And you’re closing up tonight?”

“Mmhmm” you hum.

“I’ll come pick you up after I get some work done” he calls out to you, and you simply wave over your shoulder as you weave through tables towards the exit.

Everything about life with Namjoon was fast paced. So quick you often found yourself stumbling after him as the both of you wander in the dark, no clear destination in mind. But as you stray away from him, he always seems to find where you are.

Arguable coincidences turning a little more purposeful. You never thought much of it when you’d run into him while shopping, or out drinking with your friend. Never thinking it was weird how no matter where you seemed to be, Namjoon would be there too. Always there to find you, always there to bring you home.

He loomed behind you like a shadow, an obedient guard dog that lurked in your shadows.

When you truly think back to your time with Namjoon, every moment together was clouded by rose tinted glasses that you seemed to have refused to take off.

It wasn’t long after that first encounter with one another that you started dating. And merely weeks after that, somehow Namjoon had convinced you to move in with him. He always told you how he didn’t like the side of town you lived on, how worried he got dropping you off at your door.

Because he knew what happened when people slept, and the world was a little quieter. When the light of the moon didn’t spill into the dark corners of alleyways and brutish men think they run the streets that belong to him.

“I have a lot of people’s blood on my hands, you understand that right?” he tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

You blink up at him from where you’re sat on his bed, “Yes” you nod.

“That if you accept me like this– wholly me– there is no going back for either of us?”

Your tongue wets your bottom lip. “I understand”

The corner of his lip curls upwards, “Good. Because I had no plan of letting you go”

And maybe that’s when you should have turned your back on him. That through the misted veil of sickly belief that fate had played a game with you again, you’d stayed– evidently leading to another tragedy.

─── · 。ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Namjoon was the epitome of obsession, it coursed through his veins just as much as blood did.

He was comparable to a magpie, though his form of treasure was delicate little beings like you that he liked to lock up. And watch as you dance for him behind the bars of a cage, eyes piercing into your very soul until it melts and he mends you back together again.

“What’s wrong, my darling?” Namjoon frowns, slouching back into his chair.

You lay the book over your chest, heart-wrenching deja vu tickling your insides. “It’s just work. The old lady that owns the place is lowering our pay”

Namjoon hums, “Why don’t you quit?” he takes off his glasses, hand running over his face.

“Quit?” you sit up, eyebrows furrowing, “I probably have enough saved for a couple of weeks but after that I’m done for. It’s not like I’m paying rent anymore”

Namjoon pushes himself to stand, slinking around his desk to stand before you, “That’s why I’m here. You don’t have to work anymore, I’ve got the both of us”

You shake your head, “Namjoon I can’t do that” you tell him, leaning into his touch as his thumb caresses your jaw.

“And why not?” He crouches down, head tilting in a way that is so very much Namjoon.

“It’s unfair on you. Plus, I’m capable of taking care of myself”

He runs his thumb over his bottom lip, “I know you are, but why have all the added stress when I’m more than happy to do this for us”

Some days Namjoon seemed awfully normal. Integrated perfectly into society, just like the rest of human kind. And some days you found it scary how ordinary he seemed when you knew of the things he did. He always seemed so in control of his own mind, thoughts easily articulated into convincing words, dressed proper, a kind smile.

It was unnerving how someone so perfect was so very much the evil that you fear as a child. The grim reaper who melts into the darkess, takes a life and thinks no more of that pitiful being’s existence as he stalks through the night ready to chew on another soul.

Maybe it was blissful ignorance that had chained you to him. If he were the being that men feared then it was only smart to latch onto him, to pretend he didn’t do all these bad things and let him squeeze his way into your heart. For you to be docile and quiet and everything he wanted from you. Even if his love hurt, thick shards of glass piercing their way into your heart and your mind and your body and your soul.

It was suffocating. Emotions too hard to decipher when he treated you as if you were the only thing that mattered in this cruel world. His love having a tiny semblance of your previous lovers. Foolish in the way you clung on to the smallest parts of them that you could, even though you knew it was never going to be the same. Namjoon was so far from being Taehyung. He was never going to be Jimin. His love a new type of raw, skinned alive and thrusted into your hands without much thought.

Namjoon’s finger’s slip between your own, grass prickling the bare skin of your arms as you shift, “Sirius”

“Pardon?” you tilt your head to look at him, the softest smile on his face as he looks up at the sky.

“You’re my Sirius” he closes his eyes, smile still lingering.

“I don’t–” you start, mouth falling shut when he turns to look at you, eyes an endless abyss that you find yourself falling into. Every bad thing he’s ever done, suddenly no longer that evil when he looks at you like this.

“If Sirius is the brightest star in the sky. Then you must be my Sirius”

You blink, utterly baffled as to where this had come from.

“Are you ill?” you dare ask, breath catching in the back of your throat. Warm, gentle, love heating your cheeks the lightest pink, though you doubt Namjoon would be able to see it in the light of the moon.

A laugh bubbles from his chest, “No” he shakes his head, “Love turns us into fools sometimes”

You push yourself up onto your elbows, fingers slipping from between his own.

“That wasn’t foolish” you tell him, “Surprisingly profound. And incredibly sweet”

“Is that the way to your heart? Sweet words and a pretty face?” he teases, sitting up. And you fall onto your back.

“It seems so” you say, “Though you’ve already found a home in mine”

“Is that so?” his hands run over your thighs, fingers teasing the hem of your shorts.

“Mmhmm” you hum, eyes flickering back towards the sky.

“Then it is lucky you’ve also found a home in mine” He leans down, arms caging your head as he presses a plush kiss to your cheeks, following the slope up to the tip of your nose before he presses a gentle kiss to your lips.

“Not here” you murmur just as he pulls away, curious hands wandering over whatever bare skin he can grab onto.

“But how is the world to know you belong to me?” he asks, warm breath fanning over your lips.

You swallow, “I’m sure they’re all aware by now. More than a few men have lost their lives because of me”

Namjoon pushes himself to sit up, frown morphing on his face, “I told you their blood is not on your hands, but mine”

And he had told you that. Many times. Between kisses of reassurance, where his hands wander down for back as you cling to his suit jacket, guilt chewing away at your mind until you couldn’t take it anymore and begged him to stop his merciless ways when it came to you. Because in truth, no matter how many times he’d told you, their deaths are your fault. And will latch onto your weary soul.

And maybe one day when death knocks at your door, he will open his book and list out every man that had ever died because of you, and then he will tell you the devil is waiting downstairs with the door open and a spare room just for you.

Never once had you asked him to slip out of the bedroom as you slept, slaughtering every man that dared lock eyes with you for longer than Namjoon deemed necessary. Or utter your name from mouths made of filth, or gawk at the small sliver of skin you would show at dinner. Skin that was wholly his to touch and defile and bite at until he’d become the artist, painting you red only for flowers of purple to bloom across unblemished skin.

“That doesn’t change the fact their premature demise wasn’t linked to me”

“None of that” he hums, helping you sit up, fingers raking through your hair. “Angels don’t have human blood on their hands, it is above them”

The day you’d kneeled before him, begged for him to stop killing on your behalf, that he didn’t need to do more than he already was, that those men didn’t mean anything at all to you– he’d never mentioned another instance where he erased the existence of another human.

That didn’t mean you were naive enough to believe he’d stopped killing. You weren’t stupid. It wasn’t hard to piece together the little things that happened when you’d wake up during the nights, sheets cold beside you and Namjoon nowhere to be seen until the sun had risen.

Familiar faces printed on the front pages of newspapers, gruely deaths typed out without a lick of sympathy, just another face, just another story.

And maybe it had been all your fault, bringing up such trivial things like destiny. Uttered how you thought fate had brought the two of you together, solidifying whatever little budding obsession Namjoon had for you. And it was ironic, how even after the tragedy of this life, the little flicker of hatred you held for fate herself was blown out, because as fucked up as it was; you had no regrets when it came to Namjoon.

He’d built you up into an entirely new person. So different than you had been. Shown you a life that was so different from what you’d had before. So fresh. And new. And exciting.

Impossible to hate.

─── · 。ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

A choked moan catches in the back of your throat when Namjoon’s teeth clamp around your nipple, his chin spit-soaked as he lathers his tongue over your flushed skin.

“Fuc– Namjoon” you huff, hips rutting upwards, desperate to chase after every lick of searing pleasure as your clit rubs against the soft fabric of your panties.

Your pelvis knocks against his stomach, head tipping backwards as he kisses over your tender skin, tongue soothing over every divot that his teeth had left over your body.

His hand slips down between your bodies, awfully mean as he hooks his fingers in the waist of your panties, tugging them upwards until the crotch is tucked snug between your folds, soaked fabric rubbing deliciously against your throbbing clit.

“Yeah?” he laughs when you moan out his name, tears gathering along your waterline as you rut upwards. A feral sort of pleasure consuming your entire being, emotions rubbed red-raw, heart thrusted for Namjoon to chew on, to consume like it were his only life force.

You whine when he lets go of your underwear, pleasure fizzling out, orgasm ebbing away. Your poor clit sending barely-there pleasure up your spine— utter frustration wracking throughout your body.

You tug his face parallel to your own, fingers digging into his jaw, “No, no– Namjoon please” you whisper against his lips, fingers slipping to tangle into the hair on the back of his head.

“What do you want?” he asks, fingers dancing across your thigh.

Your mouth drops open in another shaky moan as his fingers dig into a hickey on your thigh, perfectly crafted; almost a hollowed heart shape. Proof of the rawest lust that’s mixed between your sweat slicked bodies, and his salvia that drips into your open mouth, tongue already out to catch his spit. You swallow, prickly heat dusting your cheeks as he smiles down at you, so proud as your tongue laps up the remanence of his saliva from your bottom lip.

“You– want you so bad” your hands wander, anywhere they can grab on to him.

Nails that dig into covered biceps— muscles flexing, over his pecks, sinking into the plush skin; perhaps some small part of yourself hoping that you could carve a chunk out of him to keep for your self, a part of Namjoon that will always be with you for when he’s gone.

A strange desperate sort of need that has bloomed into your body and mind. Slithering through each valve of your heart, sinking its claws into the muscle, just Namjoon

Namjoon

Namjoon.

He’d consumed your life, your every thought. Your skin alight as he touches you, your mind constantly buzzing with thought of him him him when he’s gone and just more more more of him when he’s with you.

“Yeah?” he kisses your jaw, teeth nipping over the skin, sucking hard enough that you know you’ll be littered in marks of his lust for days to come.

“Yeah” you nod, thighs clamping shut as you try and relieve some of the ache, beyond desperate for some form of release. The sort of release that you know only he would ever be able to give you, the feral sort of release that you never knew were possible if not for him.

“My poor baby” he croons, sitting back on his heels. Goosebumps prickle the skin of your arms, the heat of Namjoon’s body leaving you cold when he pulls away.

Your bottom lip is tucked between your teeth as he shucks his shirt off, you eye the ink that slithers up his chest, spreading across his arms. Deep black that stains his skin, bare hints of color peaking through.

“It’s rude to stare” he reminds you, unbuttoning his pants, underwear soon following the rest of his clothes on the floor.

“You’re just very pretty” you say, sitting up, chest heaving as you gasp for breath. Namjoon leans down, lips pressing against yours in a kiss that holds so many unsaid words, both from you and from him.

“Not as pretty as you” he whispers, one hand taking a hold of his cock. He lathers pearly beads of precum down his length, his other hand slipping between your legs, thumb running over the length of your still-covered slit.

“Take these off for me?” he asks, catching your attention that had been on his thick cock, “How precious” he whispers as you fall onto your back again, bare and wholly his to take.

Your hair fanned out beneath you, teeth marks littering your skin and hickies that he doubts you’ll be able to fully cover; the whole world knowing that you’ve been claimed by him.

You wriggle under his sharp gaze, eyes raking down the length of your body as though it were the first time. (He had every little dip of your body ingrained into his mind, though nothing would ever been the tangibility of you spread bare like before him)

You thighs fall open, silent temptation— a silent invitation for him to fuck you senseless.

“Turn around for me, darling. On your hands and knees, I plan to absolutely ruin you tonight” he runs a hand down the length of your thigh.

You roll over, lifting your hips for him, cheek pressed against the duvet. Your outstretched hands grasp onto the pillows, though you doubt they’ll be much help if Namjoon does exactly what he had promised.

You wiggle your hips, breath hitching in the back of your throat when a warm hand ghosts over your asscheeks.

“Precious” he kisses the back of your thigh, sharp inhale from him causing your cheeks to flush the darkest shade of red.

This thumb parts your folds, barely dipping into your hole before he’s trailing wet fingers upwards; free hand pulling your cheeks apart.

He teases over your puckered asshole, nail raking over the delicate skin. “You’re a slut sometimes you know that?” he laughs, choosing to dip his index finger, nail deep into your ass.

Your breath hitches, something similar to a moan spilling out and onto the sheets as you rock backwards.

“Not a slut” you tell him, slick dribbling over your clit.

“No?” he croons, pushing his finger further into you, empty cunt clenching around nothing as he teases a second finger around your ass hole.

“No” you breath, fingers digging into his pillow.

“Not a slut, but you like you like me toying around with your ass?” he laughs, finger slipping out as he finishes.

A watery moan follows, asshole clenching around nothing as he toys with your pussy. Pulling your folds apart, and you hear it before you feel it, wet slap reverberating off the walls, sting following soon after.

Your mouth falls open, fresh wave of arousal slipping from the entrance, dripping onto the sheets.

“More” you beg, thighs quivering as you try to hold yourself up, “Please, more” you try to get a look at Namjoon from over your shoulder.

You hear a mocking laugh rumble from his chest, squeak of surprise punched from your throat as he lands another harsh slap over your cunt, string of slick snapping as he pulls his hand back towards his body.

His next slap lands on your clit, pain morphing into a strange sort of pleasure as you feel it wrack up your body, mind muddling into a mushy mess that has you rocking your hips backwards; desperate for at least one more measured slap to your flushed pussy.

Namjoon groans, wetting his bottom lip as he gets a glimpse of your puffy folds, so wet and messy he’s awfully tempted to lean down and lick you clean until you’re pleading for him to let you cum, only for him to push you over the edge so many time that you have to beg him to stop, and maybe if you start crying, delicate little tears cascading down your pink cheeks, then he’d take a little mercy on you.

Another wave of arousal dribbles onto Namjoon’s cockhead as he runs it through your folds, blunt head pressing against your hole, walls stretching to accommodate his girth.

“Oh” you whine, back arching a little deeper as he feeds an inch into you.

His hands fall onto your hips, fingers sinking into the meat of your hips, ragged crescents far from majestic digging into your skin “Feels good” his hips stutter, your body jolting forwards.

“Fuck– Namjoon” you cry when he loses all resolve, pelvis smacking against your ass, impatient to have your walls fully wrapped around his cock, the closest he’ll ever be to sinking under your skin and becoming one with you. The closest the two of you would ever physically be.

“Fuck” he groans as your walls clench around him, your hand slipping between your chest and the bed, down to your stomach.

It felt as though Namjoon had weaved his way into your body, so far inside of you, you wonder if he’d sunk into your stomach. His cock touches places you never knew felt this good, pleasure buzzing up your body with every unintentional sway of your hips.

He barely pulls out, cockhead dragging deliciously through your walls before he eases himself back into you fully.

“Faster, please, Namjoon” you swallow, throat awfully dry– and Namjoon hums.A hand leaves your hip, tangling into the hair on the back of your head.

His cock drags through your walls, tip still wedged inside of you. You’re unsure if it’s a moan or a garbled scream that leaves your lips when he tugs you back by your hair; back arching uncomfortably as his hips snap into you.

Arousal seeps onto the sheets past his cock and down his ball that barely brush past your swollen clit.

“Ah–” you cry, fingers gripping onto the pillow as he punches back into you.

“Like that? Yeah?” he grunts, the hand that was on your hip slipping underneath you, keeping you propped up as his finger leave your hair to press down on your shoulder.

Tears dance across your waterline, raw pleasure consuming your entire being until all you feel is Namjoon’s thick cock dragging rapidly against your cunt, mind so wholly consumed by him you’d forgotten where you were. Who you were. What you were.

His hands burn where they hold you, your ass red from each wet slap of his pelvis against your ass and the backs of your thighs.

Your moans somewhat harmonise, pleasure coursing through both your bodies, rush of dopamine clouding any sort of sanity you thought you had left.

“Play with you clit for me” he groans, tugging you back onto his cock, position causing his cockhead to hit your g-spot perfectly from this angle.

Your hand shakes as you bring it to your clit, swollen and pink, the barest touch enough to sent you lurching forwards; though you don’t get very far, Namjoon pulling you back with the grip he still has on your waist. Making sure he’s buried deep inside of you, making sure to hit that little sweet spot that has white dancing behind your eyes.

“Oh” you cry, staccato of noises spilling from your lips as you toy with your clit, messy as your nails drag over the bundle of nerves.

Namjoon feels you clench around him, ready to tip over the edge with him.

“That’s a good girl”

You hiccup a sob, “Gonne cum. Joonie I–”

“I know, darling” he huffs out a laugh, “Cum for me, all pretty”

Your thighs quiver, and you’re sure you would have collapsed by now if it weren’t for your boyfriend holding you up.

You peel the pressure build in your stomach, fingers messy as you try to keep the stimulation up on your clit. Climbing higher and higher towards your peak.

“Oh– Fuck” your free hand clamps over your mouth, eyes squeezing shut as you tip over the edge, squirting onto the sheets, soaking the fabric, little squeezes of watery cum tumbling past your fingers as you ride out your high— hips stuttering forward with each soft drag of your palm over your clit.

The insides of your thighs shine, wet with your release, Namjoon’s balls seemingly just as wet when they smack against your clit.

“Shit” his head tips backwards, and you cry as he slips out of you, sudden emptiness causing your cunt to clench, another spurt of cum dripping onto the sheets below you.

Namjoon’s hand is rapid around his cock, pulling your ass cheeks apart he groans one last time before he shoots his seed over your red ass.

It drips over your hole, dribbling down to your messy pussy; mixing with the mix of your cum and arousal.

He smears his cum across your puckered hole, rubbing it across your folds and down to your clit. A low groan rumbles from Namjoon’s chest at the sight, your labia creamy white and shiny.

“No” your thighs give out under you, his finger still smearing his cum over your sodden clit, throwing you into a less intense orgasm that has you trembling, sob catching in the back of your throat.

“You’re so good, my darling” he whispers, wet fingers sliding over the expanse of your back, rubbing his release into your sweat slicked skin, “How about a bath?” he smiles when he catches sight of your closed eyes, “Hmm?”

You nod, “Drink too” you whisper, voice hoarse and Namjoon traces over each hickey, feeling the dips in your skin that his teeth had left and over the swell of your ass.

“And a drink too” he nods, “can I go to the kitchen to get a drink? Or would you want to come with me?” he asks.

Your tongue slips past your lips, wetting your bottom lip as your muscles relax, “Come with you”

“Yeah?” he laughs, “I’m gonna pick you up, okay?”

You hum, rolling yourself onto your back. Your eyebrows furrow when your ass is met with wet sheets. “Clean sheets too”

“Of course” he brushes the wet hair from your forehead.

─── · 。ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

The day Namjoon had acted on impulse, your story had reached its climax– and it had been downhill after that. That is how most stories go after-all.

And for the first time your ignorance to what Namjoon did behind your back had come to bite you in the ass. A sick little reminder that you should have listened to yourself all those months ago. That you should have never gotten involved with Namjoon. Should have just lived this life through with no hiccups and hopefully finally lay to rest at the end of your cycle.

And somehow you found yourself here.

It should have been nothing more than a night out together, nothing more than drinks and hands that wandered in intimate places under the table, no one any the wiser. Clothes imbedded with cigarette smoke and cheap liquor, Namjoon’s lips on your neck and yours on his cheek before he wandered to the bar for refills.

All it had taken was one man to bring you both to downfall. One lingering, sweaty hand, five chubby fingers and two beady eyes that had no respect; one unruly man for your life to once again fall to shit.

You’d never seen Namjoon anything but level-headed. He always had such control over his own life, knew how to control a room, his people, part of the city. He was always on top. It’s always been Namjoon’s world and you were simply living in it.

A small whisper in the back of your mind had told you that surely— surely a man with that much power would one day snap. Perhaps not at you, but you’d placed yourself in his line of fire. Dominoes stacked up one after the other and no matter how fast you ran, they would always catch up to you, knocking you over with them.

And you knew. You knew that a story with you and Namjoon was sure to be another tragedy. And maybe you wanted to believe that he was invincible, that death wouldn’t rattle at behind him like it had the last two of your lovers, and you suppose he didn’t.

Death was after you.

Death was scared of Namjoon, but not you.

“I told you” you whisper, eyes flitting back to your lover when you catch the attention of an officer, “I fucking told you not to do it, that we could sort something out later but you just had to–”

He had to kill him. Well, he didn’t have to. But he did.

“I’ll sort it out” he takes your hands, “Don’t stress too much”

You exhale, chest deflating, utterly defeated, “And how do you plan to fix this?”

“I’ve got a good lawyer” he tells you, leaning into the table a little more.

And you want to tell him his lawyer was shit, that there was no way for him to plead innocent when so many people had seen him slaughter someone out of pure rage, no matter if it were in the back of a club, in a drunk daze, you doubt many would forget the shrill cry of a man slowly losing his life. You doubt many would defend a man that was known for chewing up the lives of any man or woman that he deemed unworthy.

“You trust me? Don’t you?” He interlaces your fingers, squeezing.

You nod, swallowing hard as an officer slinks past your table. Unnerving as you eye the weapons strapped to their belts and the haunting jangle of keys.

“Yes. Yes I do”

“Good.” he nods, “I need you to do a few things for me while I’m held up”

“Okay” you whisper, foot tapping anxiously against the floor. Palms flushing in a cold sweat.

“Pack your bags, there’s money under the bed, go away for a while”

Your eyebrows furrow, “What?”

“I need you to leave the city for a while until I’m out of here”

“Namjoon I don’t–”

He tucks your hair behind your ear, smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Ever so gentle, a lame attempt at reassurance. Though you only find your heart rate picking up, hands trembling ever so slightly. And you wonder if he can feel it; your fear. You wonder if he can taste it on the tip of his tongue.

“A lot of people are going to be after you now that I’m not around”

You shake your head, mouth opening to say something though you’re unsure what.

“I have a lot of enemies” he says carefully, slowly, “And they all know about the delicate little flower I hold, and they’ll want to pluck her and tear her petals off one by one”

You swallow, “Namjoon” tears threaten to fall to which he brushes a thumb over your cheeks.

Shaking his head, “None of that” he smiles, “Soon we’ll be together again, and everything will go back to normal, and we’ll be happy”

You flinch as a bell rings, hands trembling when chairs scrape against the laminated flooring. You swallow down the lump in your throat, bottom lip tucked between your teeth as you simply stare at Namjoon. Curious to see how long it would take for you to get lost in his eyes, to be able to wander his mind and simply live there., Safe, happy.

He told you that you’d be happy. ,

“Go” he nods behind him, “I’ll see you soon, yeah? I think I can have one more visit before trial”

The both of you stand, Namjoon pulling you into his chest. He kisses your forehead, displeased scoff tumbling off his lips when one of the officers towers over you. Eyebrow raised and expectant.

He lets go, and you clench your jaw. Your chest expands, lungs stinging with the rush of oxygen— and you will yourself to look up at Namjoon, painting every little crevice of his face into your mind before you’re slipping past him towards the door. Unable to say anything.

Because you know if you did you’d break down. And you wouldn’t do that to him right now. Not when he’s told you how much it physically pains him to watch you suffer, how your tears should never fall, how your heart should never hurt.

“Sirius” Namjoon calls out and you look over your shoulder, “Remember that. My brightest star”

You wave, swallowing down the sob that claws up your throat.

And you’d barely made it halfway home before your life had slipped from beneath your feet for a third time.

Stem snapped, and petals picked; a rotting rose left to decompose on blood-soaked concrete, with the regrets of not even leaving Namjoon behind with a final ‘I love you’. And a faint wish that life after you would fare him a little better.

thank you for reading!! <3 🌌

permanent taglist: @m1sss1mp @supernoonanyc

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thebadboyfanclub · 1 year

Text

I Promise (Harwin x Reader)

This was requested by @ladystrongofharrenhall I am so excited for this it is my first time writing for the gorgeous Ser Harwin, I hope you guys have more requests for this sexy man.

(y/n) was Laenors twin, she was a dutiful lady and was named the heir to driftmark due to her father’s soft spot for her, Corlys and Rhaenys loved all of their children but Corlys saw a bit of himself in (y/n).

“When I held your brother I knew I would die for him, he is my precious boy, but when I held you I took one good look and felt like I would kill for you, my beautiful heir”

He confided in her once when they took a walk down the shore after the declaration of the new heir, (y/n) teared up and hugged her father tightly, she felt like a little girl that attempted to become one with her father.

“I hope that one day I will find a man like you”

“Knowing what you are my dear, that man better be strong”

(Y/n) was always close to her brother, the young twins were attached at the hip since they were babes, refusing to sleep in separate cradles and would even feel each other's pain when the other was hurt, they leaned to one another and would confide to each other about everything.

(Y/n) met Ser Harwin at Laenors wedding feast, such a grim day, from the moment she found out about it she felt a lump form in her throat, she was well aware of her twins' nature and his dear love for Joffrey, to be thrown into a wedding with someone you respect but do not crave at all was a crime to her, especially since they grow up in a household that was booming with love.

“Excuse me, dear cousin, may I dance with Ser Harwin?”

“Of course”

Rhaenyra responded with grace when (y/n) interrupted them. Rhaenyra spared one last smile before she left them to it, (y/n) took a slight curtsy while Ser Harwin took a bow.

“Lady (y/n), it is an honor to be your partner in this dance”

“You are utmost kind Ser Harwin, it is a pity we have not met before”

“I believe you reside on driftmark, I’ve heard it is a spectacular place”

“Indeed, I would love to show you around someday”

“Is that an invite?”

“I am so glad you noticed, I had no other plan about asking you to join me”

(Y/n) and Harwin let out a cheeky laugh at the remark, (y/n) enjoyed his presence, a handsome man that was so pleasant and a knight, he could protect her and keep her safe, maybe (y/n) and Harwin could be the next Corlys and Rhaenys, a love story that generations will swoon over.

Unfortunately, all good things come to an end, Harwin was close to (y/n) when the bloody incident occurred and the crowd started to run everywhere, (y/n)s first instinct was to walk off and look for her brother, naturally, Harwin protective nature swooped in and grabbed her wrist.

“We need to leave”

“I must find Laenor”

“He is a man grown, he will be fine”

“No, I need to see him”

Before she could realize what was happening (y/n) was thrown over Harwin's shoulder and he was running towards the door, at that moment she found a glimpse of her brother, who was trying desperately to pull the soldier off of someone.

Once Harwin felt like they were safe, he put her down, due to stress and her concern (y/n) stumbled a bit, so Harwin wrapped his arms around her to help her stay firmly on her feet.

“Thank you, Harwin”

She lifted her eyes to meet his, blue hues that shined under the sunlight, Harwin noticed the princess biting her lip when she glanced at his lips, the only thing that could be heard was the sound of the waves crashing.

“Princess”

“I know, we shouldn’t”

“We mustn’t”

“But don’t you want to?”

She questioned him. (Y/n) haunted him ever since he became her sworn knight, her cheeks grew red as her breath became shallow, for the briefest moment they weren’t lady (y/n) and Ser Harwin Strong, they were just two young people who yearned for each other.

“Someone could see us if your father hears about this”

“Is your fear over my father stronger than our fate?”

(Y/n) fought for her love, she went on a hunger strike when lord Corlys refused to wed her with Harwin, she snuck out the window of her room and landed on her dragon so she can have just a few hours with him.

Harwin would hug her like she was the most fragile thing that ever graced this earth, (y/n) had snatched his heart right out of his chest, and Ser breakbones Strong was defeated and became a pile of mush in (y/n)s hands.

Corlys had no choice but to give in, (y/n) did not wish for an extravagant ceremony nor a feast, an intimate ceremony with people that were genuinely happy for them was enough, married under the seven gods and in old Valyria ways, lord husband and lady wife, till the sorrow day of death.

“Do you have to go?”

“It is my duty to be the Lord of Harrenhall my dear, I will be back before you know”

Harwin reassured his lady wife, he knelt to her growing belly and placed a gentle kiss on the bump while his hands slowly rubbed circles.

“Be good to your mother”

He whispered before their oldest daughter jumped on his back, earning a grunt from the knight as the girl wrapped her little arms around her father.

Their son was just a babe, little Corlys had just celebrated his first name day only one moon ago, and now his father had to go back and claim his place.

“I want to go with you”

“I know my love but your mother will be here and take care of you, I will send a raven as soon as I get there”

“Promise?”

“I promise”

Harwin kissed his daughter on the cheek before he lifted her as he stood in front of his wife. (Y/n)s eyes clouded with tears that were ready to spill, Harwin had left her side before, yet this time it felt like he was being ripped out of them, maybe it was her pregnancy that compelled her to be emotional or an instinct only women had.

Harwin reached to caress (y/n)s cheek with his free hand, (y/n) leaned into the touch as a meek smile sat on her lips, tears spilling down her cheeks and landing on Harwin's thumb.

“You mustn’t cry my love, I will come back before our little babe is here”

She did not respond, she just gazed back at those ocean eyes she adored for so long, biting back her worries she watched him put their daughter down and walk away, Rhaelle grabbed her mother's dress and hid behind (y/n) as her father departed, (y/n) remained strong for her daughter until she finally drifted off to slumber.

(Y/n) slept while she hugged Harwin's pillow for dear life, his scent lingering on it was the only source of comfort. Her sleep was interrupted by nightmares, all of which ended with (y/n) giving birth to a son who she named Harwin and her lord husband far away from them, like a spirit in the room.

“Father, I did not know you would break your fast with us”

“(Y/n), a raven came from harrenhall”

“Oh that is wonderful news, Harwin informed us he would send one as much as he could”

“It’s not from Harwin”

Corlys saw the color drain from (y/n)s face, instinctively a hand went over her belly as she eyeballed her father. The eerie sensation made her skin crawl at how her fathers' stiff behavior was, “the children” she thought, she couldn’t do this in front of them.

“Wet nurse, please escort the children out”

“Right away princess”

They stood there frozen until the sound of the door shutting was heard, (y/n) waited to hear the news, she could tell from the empathetic look Corlys had on his face that her worst fear had come to life.

“There was a fire”

“No, no”

“He managed to escape but the burns were too severe”

“No, please no”

(Y/n) collapsed in her father's arms, the screams of agony and cries of loss could be heard from a mile away, Corlys hated himself at this moment, his precious daughter was experiencing her heart getting ripped out of her chest so violently, she became the little girl again and this time he could not protect her.

(Y/n) was inconsolable for hours on end Rhaenys had never seen her so shattered, she held her daughter dearly and pet her head, there were no words that would make this better, what could Rhaenys do to mend her daughter's pain? Her love was gone and on top of that, she was with child, his child.

Her family took care of everything, the body was brought back to them for the funeral, and they gave strict directions to the wet nurses when it came to (y/n)s children, Rhaenys went so far as to even feed (y/n) when she refused to eat.

When (y/n) saw her husband's body all she could do was lean to place a kiss on top of his head, the burns had turned him in such a condition that he was barely recognizable, still, all (y/n) saw was the man of her dreams, the father of their children, her soldier.

“Rhaelle is asking about you, I do not know what to tell her, she was always her father's daughter. Corlys won’t even remember what you… looked like”

She managed to say while her voice broke, she held his hand as sobs took over her body, she missed his warm touch, his smile, his warmth, and reassurance, Corlys would never know Harwin's love and compassion, the babe she bared would never feel their fathers touch, he left before he could hug their third child.

There they stood, at the place where (y/n) had been wrapped by a towel that Harwin held, it was not a warm and sunny day, a grim morrow with clouds hiding the sun as the wind blew strong.

Rhaelle cried silently in her mother's arms whilst Laenor held Corlys and stood next to his twin, this scenery reminded everyone of Queen Aemmas funeral, the Stranger has been visiting them quite often.

Harwin's body was wrapped up and placed in a wooden small boat it was released into the ocean. (Y/n)s dragon circled the sky per (y/n)s request, her beautiful black dragon, nightshade had been grieving with its rider, the keepers reporting the she-dragon yelling and crying ever since the day (y/n) found out about Harwin's death.

“I can’t do it”

“You must, Harwin needs you”

Laenor encouraged her. (Y/n) spared one look to her daughter, how would she make it work now that Harwin is gone? She could not fail her children, she was now left to defend and protect her family.

“Dracarys Nightshade”

Nightshade did not obey, hesitantly she kept circling, maybe she sensed the uncertainty in her rider's voice, or she recognized what she was about to burn.

“Dracarys!”

She demanded, her voice booming through her and pulling everyone out of their trance. Nightshade obeyed and a light of fire appeared, burning her rider one true love, her knight in shining armor, her Strong husband.

“It is alright Rhaelle, I am here”

“I miss father”

“I know you do, but he will always be with us, we must remind your siblings what your father was, Corlys will need you to tell stories of your father, soon enough we will have a new sibling”

“I do not want another sibling, I want father”

“It will be hard my dear love, but we must be Strong, he will watching over you now”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise”

“Push my lady”

“Get it out!”

She yelled between grunts, Rhaenys was holding her daughter's hand and letting her squeeze as hard as she wished, a wet cloth would cool her forehead that Rhaenys was using to pat away the sweat and show her support and love through the action.

“One more push and this will all be over”

(Y/n)s screaming was interrupted by the blissful sound of her babe crying, Rhaenys smiled at the sight of her grandchild who was bloody and honestly kind of gross, though it was still the most beautiful thing Rhaenys had ever seen.

“A boy my lady, congratulations”

“Let me hold him”

The nurses wrapped the boy in a piece of cloth before they passed it to his mother's arms. (Y/n) started to cry the moment she felt his little hand wrap around her finger, the sweet boy was the last gift Harwin gave her before he was taken away from her.

“He is so beautiful my love”

“Harwin, his name is Harwin”

Rhaenys kissed (y/n)s temple and then reached to wipe away the tears that had run down her daughters' cheeks, it was such an important moment, new life was brought to them, the blessing of a child, a son, yet it could not overshadow the distinguished pain that had shattered her.

“He would be so proud of you, you did so well”

“Thank you, mother, for everything”

“I will always be here for you, do not dare to forget that”

(Y/n) smiled for the first time in a while as she leaned on her mother's shoulder and held her son close to her chest.

Something caught her attention from the corner of her eye and maybe it was hallucinations from the pain or just a gift from the Gods but there he was, her Harwin standing next to the window, in his shinning silver armor smiling at her, his dark love falling perfectly and his warm aura engulfed her after what felt like an eternity to her she felt at peace.

She could not wait to go to bed, if someone asked her about it (y/n) would simply say that in her dreams she could be with her husband, away from all the horror she returned to the times that she escaped her home to see him, the familiar routine of her having to survive on just crumbs of moments with him, to hold him, kiss him, tell him how much she missed him, but she was fine with that, she had him all to herself, forever frozen in time to the gorgeous Ser Harwin that adored his family and wife until he took his last breath.

She did not know it but when he was mi utes away from death he used the strength he had left to grab the maesters hand and whisper his last few words.

“Tell my wife, my (y/n), that I love her, tell my children, I am sorry I could not be there, I will wait for them... On the other side”

Requests are open!

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morverenmaybewrites · 2 months

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Do you think Jason would ever contemplate getting tattoos to cover up the scars?

Contemplated it? Maybe, in passing. I'd like to think that back when he was working as the Arkham Knight or still healing from his injuries in Santa Prisca, he'd stare at a tattoo sported by one of his militia men or by one of the mercenaries he encounters.

And for the briefest of seconds, he'd entertain the idea of using tattoos to cover his scars. Maybe he'd even start thinking about where to get the first one: his shoulder which was just a mass of keloid and scar tissue or perhaps his hands to hide the ugly dents left behind by clumsy stitching? Could the random patterns of acid burns on his back be turned into constellations? But then, reality hits and it hits hard.

The simple fact is that there are just too many. I sort of envision his entire body as being absolutely riddled with scars, and this was done on purpose: so that no matter where Jason looks, he'll always be reminded of what happened to him.

Even if he tries to cover up a scar with a tattoo, there'll always be the next one, and the next one, and the next one--because when the Joker said that he was going to make Jason his, he meant it.

Can you imagine how awful it must have felt for him, realizing that someone had destroyed you so thoroughly that your body no longer feels like it's your own? To realize that even if he tried to cover it up, he will never able to get hide all of his scars? Maybe he'll cover them up just enough to be able to forget, just for a little while. But then, one day--maybe while changing, maybe while in the shower, he'll catch a glimpse of a scar and he'll remember all over again. I think. after that realization, Jason pretty much gave up at the idea of covering them up.

#ask #kibblbread #jason todd #jason todd analysis #i had to dig around and look for my copy of the girl next door #because there's that one passage that really informed how i write how jason feels about his scars

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sirianasims · 4 months

Text

“Come on, Gracie! You almost got there! You just need to try again!”

Underneath her, Grace was laughing, lying flat on the ground.

“But Freya, I can’t hold on! I’m not strong like you!”

“You’ll get stronger! Try again!”

I watched the girls as Grace made another attempt across the monkey bars.

“Girls, go wash your hands, dinner’s almost ready.”

“In a minute, dad! Grace is almost across this time!”

“Hey, dinner time. That goes for you too, Miss Author. “

“It’s Mrs. to you, darling.”

“Oh, I’m aware.”

I kissed her, enjoying our brief moment alone before the girls came back inside.

The sudden hiss of boiling water hitting a stove came from the kitchen.

“Shit, the pasta.”

I stalked to the kitchen while my wife giggled and went to set the table.

Freya inhaled her food in minutes, then asked to be excused. Samuel was coming over for their usual homework routine. Cecilia let her go.

Samuel arrived, on time as always, waving awkwardly before they went upstairs. I couldn’t help but wonder if there was something more between them.

Born just weeks apart, they had been friends forever, and grew especially close when Freya moved in with me permanently a few years ago.

Now they were 16 and still spent hours together almost every day, either here or at Kailani and Colten’s house. I wasn’t even sure Freya had other friends – apart from her various team mates, but they rarely visited.

I had barely finished helping Grace with her homework when I heard the sound of feet walking quickly down the stairs. I caught a brief glimpse of Samuel as he shut the door behind him without saying goodbye.

Worried, I went upstairs and knocked on Freya’s door.

“Go away.”

“Freya? Samuel just left, what happened?”

“Go away, dad!“

Her voice was hoarse. I could always tell when she was trying not to cry.

“Honey, I’m coming in.”

There was no reply.

I slowly opened the door. Freya was on her bed, crying. I sat down next to her.

“Hey, monkey, talk to me. What happened, did you guys have a fight?”

She wiped her nose on her sleeve.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

I saw her glancing at the picture on her nightstand.

“Well, I think we should talk about it. Because Samuel won’t be welcome in this house if he makes my favourite monkey cry.”

The briefest of smiles flashed across her face, but then the tears continued.

“It’s so embarrassing. He… he tried to kiss me.”

“Oh.”

Shit. I wasn’t prepared for that. I mean, I had suspected that these things were coming, but it still felt sudden. I waited for her to continue.

“And then I pushed him away and he just said sorry and left. And now I don’t know if we’re even friends anymore!”

“I’m sorry, monkey. Maybe try to talk to him tomorrow, when you’ve both calmed down a little?”

“But he wanted to kiss me, dad! If he likes me and I just want us to be friends, it’s going to ruin everything!”

I was way out of my depth. I looked at my daughter. Strong-willed, capable, sensitive. She was so like myself and yet there was a lot of Katherine in her. I didn’t know how to help her.

Instead, I just sat with her for a while, until she asked me to leave so she could finish her homework.

beginning / previous / next

#duchellilegacy #duchellichapters #duchelligen3 #eric duchelli #cecilia bell #freya duchelli #grace duchelli #samuel ward #would you like to build a snowman?#freya is probably not in the mood to build a snowman

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ginneke · 8 months

Note

POV

Prompt list here: [link] POV — something that’s already happened, retold from another character’s perspective

Original scene from A Seed of Song - Chapter 4 Some Revali perspective for you all. And this prompt+idea inspired me enough to make it a long one. Approx 600 words. (I might have to start a SoS ficlet collection at this rate...)

That thing is fast, for its size.

Of course, Revali is faster. But that doesn't count for much when his foe is of such outrageous physical proportions. Against a normal Kargarok, his speed and command of the sky would outclass even a swarm.

Against this mutant, it's all he can do to maintain enough distance to line up a shot.

Its body is well-armoured; his bomb arrows glance off, incapable of damaging the plating across its wings, its neck, its head, and Revali has enough of a job evading its attempts to knock him from the sky to seek out an alternative target.

Its feet don't look to be armoured, but he can't orchestrate enough of an opening to take advantage of that observation.

He snarls, tumbling out of range of its attempt to snatch him with those wicked talons. By the time he rights himself, buffeted off course by the turbulence from those vast wings, it is well out of easy range.

It turns a wide arc, one eye fixed on him, and prepares to make another pass.

Think — think! Revali refuses to go down against an oversized mutant. His pride won't allow it. And if its attention were to leave Revali, for whatever reason, it is bound to turn next to Li—

The chick. He swore to see it safely to Rito Village. He won't allow that promise to be broken. He cannot permit it.

Revali flips his bow from his curved talons, and in one fluid motion, he aims a trio of arrows directly into the mutated Kargarok's face.

Though the creature is frustratingly immune to the attack, it lacks the intelligence to know that. It veers off target. Revali seizes the opportunity to call up his Gale and escape to a higher altitude.

Think.

What would she have done?

Revali had only ever fought off one Kargarok swarm, when - just a few years back - a colony had attempted to establish itself on the far side of Passer Hill, only for their nests to be shattered against the rocks and the foul creatures slain or routed. But that colony had been the first sighting in almost a decade. None had ever made it so close to Lake Totori while she patrolled the southern frontier. She had made driving off the Kargaroks her life's work, keeping them from pushing north towards Rito Village; even a hatchling hadn't slowed her down.

(She never allowed them to so much as glimpse him. Chicks, and even fledglings, were easy prey to a Kargarok.)

"Stay low," she'd told him, as soon as he was old enough to understand the order, and, "Don't come out." Her words had promised safety. He'd believed them.

(He still remembers that moment, the small and bright figure hung in the sky, sunlight glinting on dark green feathers before that distant form turned to a dive, to freefall, to — )

Feint. Draw it away. That's the way to do it. That's the way she always did it. It had almost always worked.

When it tries to come for him again, Revali is resolved, ready.

He veers out of range at the last possible second, lets the turbulence buffet him. Though it goes against his instincts, though ceding the open sky is the last thing he would have chosen, Revali surrenders to the sensation of freefall.

(He won't let the same story play out again.)

The only clue that his descent is not so uncontrolled as it appears… is the bow clutched tight in the curl of his left foot.

(He'll defeat this thing.)

The creature shrieks and dives after him, and as the cliffs of Tanagar Canyon rise up to swallow them both, Revali allows himself the briefest flicker of satisfaction.

It took the bait.

It can't go after Li— the chi— them. He won't allow it.

He'll defeat this thing here and now.

(He has to.)

#an anon appears #thanks for the ask!#ginnefic #fic: a seed of song #feat: a surprise guest appearance before you really start to (not) learn about her in ch5 #revalink #(sort of? he's very much trying not to think about Link but if you've read ch4 you'll know exactly why this really is revalink)#(and thank you to the other two anons - I'll get to your requests for 'end' as soon as I have enough brainwidth to think about endings.)

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silcoitus · 8 months

Text

One-shot WIPs

I have a pile of silco/reader one-shots that are starting to collect dust and I want to see if I can try to at least get one of them done. But I have no idea which I should do, so I'm going to let y'all decide! Below the cut are summaries and snippets of my incomplete WIPs. Let me know which you think I should finish first!

The Campaign (3)

Current word count: 1084

Summary: Technically not a one-shot. Third and final chapter of the campaign manager!reader from when Silco was in the DILF tourney

You spend that night in Silco’s bed, wrapped in his arms. He makes no advances on you, content to hold you as you both drift off to sleep. His breath is warm in your hair, the soft rumbling of his breath a soothing sound that lulls you to slumber. You feel content and satisfied as your eyes flutter closed and your breathing calms. Perhaps it was this moment of comfort that made the impending loss sting just a little less.

Magnet

Current word count: 2634

Summary: You finally manage to catch the attention of the Eye of Zaun after countless nights at The Last Drop. Based on the Punch Brothers song "Magnet"

His smile is wicked, showing a hint of his chipped teeth. It's then that you finally find your wits enough to respond. Feet work quickly to get into position; you wrap an ankle around the back of his as your hands grab his vest's lapels, shoving him downwards. He trips over your foot, crashing into the floor, and you're quick to follow him, straddling his hips. You look to the bodyguard to see him paying you no mind. Perhaps he's not there to ensure you don't do anything so much as to make sure you both aren't interrupted.

Revolutionary

Current word count: 279

Summary: This is actually a rejected scene for this request fulfillment that I might add more to. You and Silco grew up together in the harsh streets of the Lanes. But now that you're both older, can you finally admit your true feelings to each other?

"I would never tell you that you're the only family I've ever had. And the only one I'd ever want." You turn to face him, your cheek pressed into the warm concrete of the roof. He turns to you and his expression is unreadable, a stoic, practiced poker face. "And I certainly would never tell you that I love you. And that I've wanted you ever since we were stupid teenagers." It happens for the briefest of seconds, but you swear you see a flash of recognition in those twin oceans, a glimpse of vulnerability.

Fallen Star (working title)

Current word count: 1514

Summary: The Silco/you POV for this request. This might actually turn into a longfic/slow-burn but goddamn I have too many of those lol Unhappy with making Topsiders lives even more luxurious than they already are, you bring your engineering talents to the Undercity. Your steady improvements do not go unnoticed by the Eye of Zaun.

"We could make a lasting change for people who truly need it. Don't kids growing up in the Undercity deserve to have the same great living conditions we have growing up here?" Your boss says your name low and in warning. "That's enough. Sit down." "No!" You storm your way to the door, an invisible hand pulling you out. The veil over your eyes lifting. "You know what? I quit. I'm sick of sitting here doing nothing when I know for a fact I can be doing some good elsewhere. Have fun with your toys and your profit margins. I'm done."

Visit Family (working title)

Current word count: 576

Summary: You bring Silco home to meet your parents for the first time

“You’re nervous.” Your partner sits back up again, turning to you. “I am not.” “Are too,” you tease back. “It’s why you’ve been pouting all morning.” He slumps into the swing again, resuming his indignant position. “I’m not pouting,” he mutters under his breath. “I just don’t see why I need to meet your parents.”

Practice and Patience

Current word count: 710

Summary: You admit to Silco that he's your first. He responds just as well as you could have ever hoped he could.

"I want you," he starts. "And I want you as you are." Warmth blooms in your chest at his words. You can do nothing but stare silently up at him as he speaks. "I want you to do whatever is comfortable for you. Your comfort is paramount to me."

Nightingale

Current word count: 3352

Summary: As Chross's nurse, you come into contact with many different characters in the Undercity. After a particularly eventful Chembaron assembly, you find yourself face-to-face with the Industrialist.

You press your ear to the door again and hear a chorus of coughs, multiple Chembarons struggling to breathe. Not only that, but there seems to be a sort of hissing sound coming through the door as well as a low hum. Someone is speaking through the cacophony in a melodic tone, wandering and at complete odds with the stifled gasps and coughs of the other Undercity elite. What is happening? You step back and feel something tickle your nostrils. Quickly, you bring your hand up to cover your nose and mouth as you look down. Gas is seeping out from the crack at the bottom of the door, slowly dancing its way up into the air toward you. Your eyes widen and you scramble backward away from it until your shoulder blades hit a nearby window. Heart racing, your mind works overtime to assess the situation. Is a paycheck worth this?

#silcoitus #silcoitus writing #silcoitus polls #silcoitus asks #silco x you #silco x reader

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the-scythes-pen · 1 year

Text

Hate - Yandere!Solomon x Reader

Another fic for my dear friend ♥ ilysm, I really hope you enjoy!! <333

Warnings include vague mentions of seasons 1 and 2 spoilers, as well as a mention of some dirty stuff at the very end >;3c

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

It was quite a familiar scene now, to anyone who regularly attended the Royal Academy of Diavolo.

A small, helpless human- you- surrounded by a group of powerful, dangerous demons.

But they weren't there to threaten and eat you. Oh no. They laughed, joked, flirted with you, even.

Seven of the most powerful demons in the entire Devildom, wrapped around a human's finger. A human who, prior to arriving here, had no idea that they existed. Had no magical ability whatsoever. A human who was, in all sense of the word, normal. Boring.

And you had formed a pact with all seven of them.

Seven pacts in its own right was quite a feat. Anyone who managed to make seven pacts was incredibly skilled- or lucky.

Of course, seven pacts was nothing to Solomon's 72 pacts.

Not like that mattered. After all, having pacts with the seven demon lords of the Devildom made you stronger then someone with 100 pacts. Yes, Solomon was the oldest, wisest sorcerer in the three realms, with 72 pacts- including one with Asmodeus- and he knew how to use them. He knew some of the the vast majority of ancient magic ever performed; he knew the most powerful of alchemical creations and all the ways they could affect you. Hell, he was constantly being chased by a reaper, and still managed to stay alive with ease.

Solomon was the sorcerer that everyone looked up to- even if most people deemed him sketchy,- he was still the best authority on magic, even without access to the sorcerer’s society.

That was until you came along.

You, with no prior knowledge of demons, magic, alchemy, or anything. You, who managed to make a pact with all seven demon lords in less than a year. You, who turned out to be part angel, who had even the demon prince and his butler wrapped around your finger even without a pact, who caused disasters in all three realms because of your untapped power.

And Solomon hated it.

No demon paid any mind to the snow-haired man who stood idly in the hallway; a scowl on his face at the sight of you laughing and talking with the demon lords. Sure, he didn’t care to have a pact with all of them, particularly Mammon, but you even had Lucifer bowing to your every whim. The demon who turned away from God and commanded thousands of angels to fight with him against their very creator.

And you, a mere human, just so happened to have a background that attached yourself to them. Who just so happened to be thrown into the Devildom, who just so happened to unveil all your unused powers-

The sorcerer’s glare darkened as he caught sight of one of the pact marks on your shoulder. A deep, sapphire blue poked out from under the fabric as Mammon tugged on your clothes- to get your attention solely on him, no doubt- and yet despite only the briefest glimpse of the glowing sapphire mark, Solomon knew who’s pact mark that was. It emanated power, demanded authority, and essentially told any and every being who ever knew about the three realms that you couldn’t be touched.

Nobody paid any mind to the seething human who stood in the hallway. Already so used to the presence of the age-old sorcerer, all of them failed to notice the anger rolling off of him in waves.

Only Satan was the one who had responded. A twitch of his hand, a shift of emerald eyes towards Solomon. But that was it. Satan’s gaze refocused on you.

Solomon had never hated a human so much before.

It should be him with those pacts. Those pacts he’s been fighting to get for centuries. It should be him commanding those demon brothers to do what he wants. It should be him feeding off their power- he knows how to use it-!

Your eyes shifted to the man himself, and your face instantly brightened. Anyone who looked at you would know that you had just seen something you truly cared for. Not like Solomon cared.

Yet still, your gaze now on him with that bright smile stretching across your lips made him feel like you two were the only beings in the entire Devildom- as if his intense brooding didn’t already make him feel like that- and you waved at him. Waved him over to come and chat.

Ever the gentleman, Solomon’s glare instantly became a charming smile; friendly and warm and perfect as he casually strolled up to the seven demons and their pact holder.

“Hey Solomon, we were just talking about going out to get a bite to eat. Would you like to come with us?”

Your smile was bright. Comforting. Beautiful. You always were. Despite everything you’ve been through, you’ve always been able to smile for him- at him. You’ve always been able to be a shining star in the darkest of nights. Your beauty so delicate and ethereal, yet you burned so bright when seen up close. It never mattered what kind of state you were in. Tired, angry, depressed… hell, you could even be ugly crying and Solomon would still say you were the most beautiful being he had ever seen.

“Solooommooon~!” Asmo cried, throwing his arms around his pact mate. “Please come with us! I don’t want to have to deal with my brothers just to be with (Y/N)!”

Solomon gave a light chuckle, patting Asmodeus on the back before his gaze turned back to you.

“Of course I’ll come with you. I wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to be with you for the world.”

The walk to a local devildom cafe was lively as usual. The brothers are always so animated when talking to each other; their own little conversations happening between them as they all head to their destination.

And yet, despite all of the conversations that graced his ears, Solomon couldn’t focus on a single one.

He trailed along behind the group, his eyes focused on none other than you as you spoke with Lucifer about… something Solomon couldn’t care less about.

You certainly were special. To be able to charm so many demons, angels, and humans- even if you remained completely oblivious to the latter- was incredibly infuriating, yet also… intriguing. You were always in danger when left on your own in the Devildom, and it’s not like you could escape a gaggle of ogling angels in the celestial realm either. So many different beings charmed by you in so many different ways, it was a wonder how you had only died once this entire time.

Despite all of your power, all of your pacts, all of your friends and connections… you still were human. Just like him. Someone among the 8 billion people he had quietly vowed to protect above all else.

You had the demon lords, the prince and his butler at your beck and call. You had connections with Simeon and Luke, and he was sure you could meet Michael anytime you wanted. You had all the resources needed to become one of the most powerful sorcerers in the world- far surpassing even Solomon.

And yet, you always turned to him. A fellow human. Someone you barely knew, who wasn’t entrusted to protect you, who you didn’t know until a couple years ago. Yet you always turned to him.

You turned to him to ask for help with homework. You turned to him to ask if he would accompany you places. You turned to him when you were in a dangerous situation- you asked him to protect you from potential threats, you asked him to stay with you. Him him him him him him-

“Sol?” You called out softly, breaking away from the demon brothers and falling back to walk with Solomon; your voice drawing him out of his thoughts. You gave him another beautiful smile; your soft hand taking his own as you tugged him forward to catch up with the group.

Your hand felt so warm in his cool one; so soft and precious and comfortable… it was like you were made to hold his hand. As if you, someone so much more powerful and above him were made just for him.

He stopped walking abruptly, suddenly becoming a dead weight you couldn’t tug along anymore. You stopped, turning back to him before he pulled on your arm to cause you to fall into his chest; his hand falling from yours only so he could wrap his arms around you. And just as he had thought- you felt perfect in his arms. Like you were meant to be here.

Not with Lucifer, not with Diavolo, not with anybody else but Him. Solomon. He didn’t even let you finish a soft inquiry of his name before his lips were pressed against yours, slotted perfectly together and so soft against his own that he knew that you were his and his alone.

The kiss wasn’t long, and before you could even process what happened Solomon pulled away. He had a glint of something in his eye- something you couldn’t quite place.

And Solomon reveled in the look of shock on your face; in your wide and shiny eyes as stared up at him in awe.

“Oi, what the hell are you two humans doin’!? Solomon, get yer sketchy hands off of my human-”

Before anything else could happen, Mammon was on the two of you and tugging you away from the sorcerer; Asmodeus cooing over his ‘adorable humans’ in the background as Beelzebub whined over his empty stomach. Solomon only remained silent, a playful smirk on his face as you were dragged back to the front of the group and away from Solomon.

Solomon continued to trail along behind you and the brothers, thoughts playing in his head of what was to become of the two of you.

He hated you. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to despise you- if anything, he just wanted to keep you by his side. Observe you. See if he could charm you, like you had done with so many others.

….perhaps you weren’t so bad after all. You were made for him, weren’t you? So there must be something about you that he would love. Perhaps you just needed a little coaxing for him to see it.

Perhaps being his apprentice would suffice. Or rather, the illusion of being his apprentice. Perhaps he could toy with you, figure out how you work, figure out just what makes you so infuriating yet intriguing.

Perhaps, with you safely tucked away in his study, he could finally find out why he felt so strange around you, why the thought of you tied up and begging for him turned him on so much- and why he could only cum to the thought of you underneath him now.

#solomon x reader #obey me #obey me swd #obey me shall we date #obey me solomon #reader insert #otome games

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eupheme · 2 years

Text

Penny For Your Thoughts | Part 9 - Resilient

masterlist

Alfred Pennyworth x F!Reader

Rated E - 8.6k words

Tags: plot heavy, canon-typical violence/injury, depictions of a fictional flood (along with emotional/physical/structural damage as seen in The Batman), anxiety/worry, mentions food, and lots of found family moments

Summary: The final riddle, some hard decisions, and a glimpse of a bright, shining future.

The danger is finally over.

Alfred's vital signs have stayed level, his body slowly healing in the days since he's woken up. The thudding panic slowly ebbs from you - replaced with a tentative, hopeful relief.

A new sort of routine starts to settle in. You spend the day with him when you can, when he's not meeting with the doctors, doing physical therapy, or sleeping - his schedule somewhat erratic with the medications. Bringing more books, old movies from home. You’ve gotten good at fitting on the hospital bed together.

Sometimes, you play cards - sitting knee-to-knee, his back propped up against the upright angle of the mattress. Passing the time quietly together, trying to keep his mind off of everything.

Other times, the bright overhead light is turned down low, your ear pressed against his chest as you listen to the steady thud of his heart.

It’s then that he opens up, the snug lid cracking open at the seam - small bits of him spilling forth for you to catch with cupped hands.

Never a full recount, but more like small moments, carefully strung together. The words coming slowly sometimes, as if he’s afraid that they will be too much. The last straw.

But you don’t see them that way. To you, it’s like part of a photo finally coming into focus. One that you long to memorize, to know by heart.

He tells you of his childhood, the briefest mentions of his parents.

When he had enlisted.

When he had met them.

When he had moved into the Tower.

It’s there that the beginnings of the stories start to fade - memories that are pleasant in his heart, but make his throat go tight when he tries to speak them out loud.

There aren’t words you can say that would be of comfort. That’s something you thought about, figured out on your own.

He had loved them. He still did. Thomas. Martha. They had been his family. Bruce still was - and for a long time, all they had was each other.

The memory another scarred wound - days passing where it was bearable, then becoming a dull ache when the weather turned cold. Never forgotten, not completely.

What could you possibly say to ease that pain?

So instead, your grip tightens around him - sending a silent message.

You’re not going anywhere.

———

As the days start to tick by, you can tell Alfred doesn't take any pleasure in being so idle. Irritation prickling in his words and expression when he's told that all he should be doing is resting, and not trying to get you or Bruce to let him check his emails, to log into work.

At the Tower, you've gotten better at keeping track of some of the things he does. Dory is still on leave, so the general level of cleanliness is lacking just a bit - though honestly you don’t have the energy for that. But, the refrigerator is no longer sparse, nothing is at risk of being overdue.

But even though things have started to mend, it's impossible to forget what happened.

You're there with him when the GCPD come to talk to Alfred, asking him questions about that night. Filling in more details about their case against the Riddler, the serial killer unmasked under the name of Edward Nashton.

The coverage you’ve read says he was a forensic accountant.

Just a man.

It’s hard for you to understand how someone could stomach doing all the things he did, even if in some sick way he thought he was right. But you’re not going to even think about trying to empathizing with someone who hurt Alfred the way he did.

You’re glad he’s behind bars.

The afternoon is carefully arranged. Bruce is intentionally absent, not wanting to come into close contact with anyone from the station. You were given the option to wait outside, if that made you more comfortable.

But you wanted to be there.

Tucked in the corner as Alfred detailed what he remembered. The package, the address, the stamps. The weight and smell of it as it was unwrapped. The bright, blinking light. The note left behind, for The Batman - a photocopy shown because Alfred had never opened the fireproof envelope.

The dripping, white letters - SEE YOU IN HELL. It sticks with you, unease prickling when you think about the message.

All of his answers are answered carefully - privately rehearsed to careful perfection. With his military history, his knowledge of the C4 was not questioned. Every detail is written down, recorded dutifully by one of the officers.

It makes your stomach turn, to hear his account. Trying not to picture it, the guilt still gnawing at you.

The time seems to pass slowly, though they are not there long. Lt. Jim Gordon - who seemed kind, you understand why Bruce likes him - gives Alfred a sad smile as they wrap up.

“Thank you, Mr. Pennyworth. We appreciate your cooperation, and if there’s anything we can do for you, please let me know.”

Leaving a business card with him. His tone speaks with a silent apology, though he can’t give one.

Sympathetic. A good man, you think.

Afterwards, you curl into him. A mark settling between your eyebrows as a movie plays in the background, worry making your lips curl downward. Fingers twining with his as your cheek presses into the meat of his shoulder.

"Are you feeling okay?" You ask him, into the silence, “I’m so sorry you had to go through it all again. I am sure that was so difficult.”

A pause, you considering the words before adding, "I should have-"

"Please, love." He cuts you off, an edge to his voice. "Don't. I know what you're going to say."

His words leave you blinking, head tilting up to see his face. Where his own expression is resolute.

"I have my regrets about that night, but the only thing I am truly thankful for is that neither you nor Bruce were there."

That has you pushing yourself up, your torso twisting toward him, "How can you say that? I've been so scared-"

Scared for his life.

And then later - scared that maybe he just might run, leaving you behind again.

Sometimes you still were.

"I know." He soothes, "But I was comforted, knowing that both of you were safe. That's all that mattered."

"What about you? What if it had been worse?" Tears prick your eyes now, a flare of anger, anxiety sparking to life.

"It wasn't. It was fine. I’m fine." He counters, so sure of his answers, of his decision.

But it didn't feel fine. You had spent hours alone in the dark, hoping, bargaining. Even wishing it had been you, instead - when your exhaustion got to you, when your thoughts had turned desperate and bleak.

"I just needed you to be okay. I don't want you, us, to go through that again. Please." Your words come out resigned, regretful.

He inhales before his answers, his words slow. Like he knows their weight, how they will affect you, "I can't promise that, darling.”

Another moment, before he lays the truth bare, “There's not a world where I wouldn't have opened that letter. Even knowing what I know now, I still would have. Do you understand?”

Your jaw grits.

It's not a fight, but it feels like one. You do understand - because you think you’d want to do the same, for him. Part of you understanding just that little more about him - how deep the loyalty, the love, truly lies.

What it means to be a part of his life. Some of his worries, his previous hesitations from earlier in your relationship making more sense.

Maybe this was inevitable.

It doesn’t dissuade you.

But still, you slip into silence, your body easing back down to rest against his.

The movie you were watching ends, and the start of another begins. Later, if someone were to ask you what it was about, you wouldn't have been able to answer.

———

You had thought that things would get better - now that the Riddler had been caught. But Bruce had missed the final clue, all but hidden in plain sight.

That night was one you’d remember for the rest of your life. The plans for that evening had been watching the broadcast following Bella Reál's election announcement as the new Mayor at the Gotham Square Garden. On any other night, the two of you might have been there, amongst the crowd.

But the speech had been interrupted as the video recording shuddered - as a series of groans erupted throughout the city.

Car bombs. You had learned, after a few moments of frantic scrolling on your phone. When it was happening it had been impossible to tell - the bright bursts of light across the river, the booms that echoed in slow succession.

No one could have predicted the flood that washed over Downtown Gotham in what seemed like a matter of minutes.

Hands pressed against the window pane as all you could do is watch, while Alfred unmuted the news.

Trying to call Bruce.

Getting his voicemail.

The hospital went on lockdown, no one at the time knew if similar bombs had been planted in other parts of the city. There was no one to check, with all hands on deck downtown.

It had become apparent very quickly that all you could do - all anyone could do - was just wait. Alfred wasn’t supposed to get out of bed just yet, but you weren’t about to stop him. His hand heavy on your shoulder as you helped support his weight. Arm curling around his back, both of you leaning into each other.

Watching the flashing lights of emergency vehicles bouncing off the rows of glass buildings. A piece of the seawall you could just barely make out crumbling further, spilling chunks of concrete into the ocean.

The water, washing in after.

His expression was grim in the reflection of the glass, eyes sharp - standing still as stone beside you.

“What do you think happened?” You had asked, voice hushed, “I mean, why would someone do this?”

“I have no doubt who it was.” Alfred’s gaze was far away now, eyes unseeing, “But as to how, or for what reason, I cannot say.”

The updated headline caught both of your attention - an assassination attempt of the newly elected Mayor Reál. Figures dressed in the costume and masks of the Riddler attacking the people who were forced to seek shelter within the Square Garden.

It was terrifying.

You had pressed close to him, neck craned so you could watch the screen. Not wanting to let go. The bright glow of his phone illuminated his face in the dim room, checking his messages again.

Nothing.

“He’s okay.” You had assured him, hands smoothing against his back - but the words came out weak and hollow. Even though you had tried to be brave, to be encouraging, for him.

Minutes, hours, ticked by as you both waited. In a quiet, stunned silence - eyes never leaving the screen. Eventually you had coaxed him back into bed, but he adjusted the controls until the back of the bed sat him up straight. Glasses perched on his nose so he could see the small screen, eyes darting down to his phone, again and again.

And then finally, mercifully - he was given a break. As the people trapped inside were brought up to the roof, just as the sun started to crack over the horizon.

You could hear the helicopters as they flew by overhead, coming from all sections of Gotham. Hanging briefly in the sky before they dissapeared out of sight behind a skyscraper - on their way to airlift people out.

It was a tightening of fingers in yours, a low sigh of relief as the channel flipped to coverage of the rescue.

In the background, behind the reporter, there had been the flicker of something tall - dark. The ripple of a cape, and then you had been sagging in relief as well. Alfred had spotted him seconds before you did.

Bruce - the Batman - carrying people to safety. Carefully lowering them onto a stretcher, almost like a machine as he repeated the movements, again and again and again.

Alfred didn’t hear from him until hours later, but the glimpse had been enough to settle some of the worry. It had come as a text message, your faces pressed cheek-to-cheek as you had read it together.

“On my way.”

You had thought that meant he was on his way home.

Was done for the night - well, morning, at that time. Not expecting the door of the hospital room that creaked open a little more than an hour later. Bruce slipping inside the room, all but soaked through in his street clothes, a hand pressed across his chest.

The slightest tremble in his limbs as he sagged against the closed door, as Alfred worriedly pushed himself to his feet.

Head hanging between his shoulders before it rolled up, holding out a placating hand - palm facing outwards - halting him mid-step.

"'m fine." He had told you, but he hadn’t looked it - red-rimmed eyes, movements slowed with unseen aches and injuries, "Just needed to make sure that nothing had happened here."

Sagging into one of the seats, as Alfred slowly lowered himself back down to the bed. You could tell there were a million questions running through his mind, and there were already ones in yours as well. But you both waited, your own eyes bouncing to the clock, out the glass window set into the door.

Surely, his appearance like this would raise questions. You're not even sure how he had gotten in - the entrances were all supposed to be guarded right now.

"How is it?" You had eventually asked into the hush of the room, when you were unable to hold back your questions any longer.

He blinked, as if unsure how to answer, the words coming slowly.

"It’s bad. Almost all of downtown is flooded. It was a setup." Bruce exhaled a breath, eyes fixed on the floor, "I didn't see it. Not until it was too late."

It bothered him - furious with himself, the knowledge of how he was strung along with each step and riddle. His jaw worked, his booted foot bouncing against the ground.

"His actions and choices are not your fault." Alfred had argued, his tone firm, a frown crossing his features.

"I was a catalyst, Alfred. Bruce Wayne. Then, Batman." But he looked up then, fingers lacing together as they rested on his knees.

"You caught him, though." You had tried to encourage as well, but he shook his head.

"He knew where he was going. 'See you in hell'." Bruce quoted the last card left behind, "He meant Arkham. And that's just what I did."

You hadn’t been sure what to say. Things like “well, he can’t hurt anyone anymore” was incredibly untrue, and insulting. Instead, you had lapsed into silence, Alfred’s worrying eye turning to Bruce instead. The split skin across his knuckles, the dried, half-wiped remnants of blood settling into the grooves of his skin.

Alfred’s shifting into the role he knew well, cataloging the details, as he asked short questions about what happened. Bruce’s almost hesitant answers - an account of how he had had to take down the Riddler’s followers, to protect the Mayor, the people inside.

Pushed into mentioning that he had used the adrenaline shot that had been stored for emergencies, causing Alfred to swear roughly under this breath.

"If you were hurt enough to use that shot, then you should really let me look you over." A disapproving tone laced through his words, and for a moment - you felt like you were back in the Tower again.

It had been achingly familiar, a brief and almost welcome reprieve.

There was the grunt as Bruce acquiesced, and then a low groan as he rose, moving towards the attached bathroom.

"Will you watch for any nurses, dove?" Alfred asked, and you were immediately agreeing, already trying to remember when the last one had stopped by. Comparing it to the cycles you had come to know so well.

"I'll let you know." You promised, but then Bruce was glancing your way, a hesitance in his expression.

"The flood, downtown." He had begun - circling back - and part of you thought you knew what he was going to say.

Had been trying so desperately not to think about it.

Trying to focus on other things.

"It reached Gotham Village."

Where your little apartment was tucked away, just at the edge of downtown.

Your jaw gritted as you nodded, chest feelings tight. Alfred halting beside you, as he realized what you both were talking about - an "oh, sweetheart" rumbling from his chest that you forced yourself to ignore.

Swallowing the lump in your throat before answering, "I figured. It's okay.”

Immensely grateful for the opportunity to be alone, because if he had tried to comfort you further, you know you would've started crying. In that moment it had felt selfish to do so in front of them, with everyone else suffering as well.

So, seeing your expression, he had let you go. Eyes still following you as you left - watching the small smile you had sent his way, before it dropped as the door shut.

His own steps now reluctant as he made for the bathroom with Bruce, even though it had been at his own insistence.

Forcing himself to concentrate at the task at hand, clucking his tongue when he saw the cluster of the raised, reddened marks already forming from the gunshot Bruce had taken to the chest. His armor had protected him from the worst of it, but it still left the flesh horribly bruised and sore beneath.

But it was different this time. Alfred realizing this after watching the news coverage - seeing Bruce's actions himself - that this was no longer just a blind, vigilante form of revenge.

That it’s become more than that.

He saw that now.

Saw a glimpse of what The Batman could be. What he could mean, what he could stand for, to the people of Gotham. The good he could do.

Because that night had changed something in Bruce.

It had changed something in all of you.

——

It's the helplessness of watching - of not being able to do anything - that finally has you making up your mind about working for Bruce.

The little bit of peace upended - time starting to lose all meaning again. The hospital on lockdown, Alfred’s stay extended even though he grew stronger, better, each day. Until they sorted out whether there was additional danger, each day began to bleed into the next.

The catalyst of your decision came in those days after. When it's hard not to stare out the window, squinting until you can just see where the water is still being slowly pumped from the submerged downtown streets, back into the ocean. Draining into the sewers in areas where the seawall has been hastily repaired.

For now, it holds back further destruction. But already you, along with everyone else, are worrying about the approaching winter. The potential of freezing ice storms, thick snow - it would not take much to make them crumble again.

You're sitting on the edge of the bed when Bruce arrives - it's a surprise to both of you. Something is on his mind, you can tell by his distracted greeting, the way his bag thuds to the ground before he stoops to dig through it.

Pulling out a battered manila folder, handing it wordlessly to Alfred.

Who takes it without thought, his brow furrowing, "Where did you get this?"

"It was in the Tower. We found it while cleaning up." Bruce replies, and it’s then that you recognize it, too. One of the folders you had given him, after they spilled from the desk. One that he had started to read, though he had never mentioned it again.

"What are your thoughts?" Alfred's answering question is calm as he flips it open, a short hum of acknowledgement as he reads the neat script printed alongside his own.

Bruce pulls the chair closer to the bed, close to Alfred's shoulder. So he can lean over, point to some of the changes he's made.

"I want to work with Lucicus and adapt his proposal. These ideas are for the Foundation as a whole, but some of his proposal could be used to make a Relief Fund for Gotham."

A pause, before he adds, “I think we, I, could help in other ways. I’d like to bring him here and discuss it with you.”

For a moment, Alfred does not say anything. Stunned into a moment of silence, something so unusual that it has your eyes bouncing back and forth between them.

And then - after a moment - he agrees.

Calls are made, and Lucius agrees to a meeting a few days later. That morning, you make a special stop to the Tower for a few things.

So far, Alfred has denied all work-related visitors, not feeling like himself. You had protested, telling him how handsome he looked, how no one was going to think twice, but he had stood firmly resolute.

It wasn't in his nature to be comfortable with the vulnerability that all the wires, the hospital gowns, the clothing, seemed to evoke.

So, you had decided you'd bring some of his things from home, for this meeting. Some of the clothes you think are his favorite. His own shampoo, the heavy silver safety razor, his cologne.

Anything you could think of to make him feel more comfortable. To soothe the bit of irritation at the lack of independence - unsettled by the hair that has grown in, the undercut getting long, the edge of a beard that’s no longer so neat.

Another reminder of how long it's been since he's been home.

It softened him, the sharp polished edge dulled. You sort of liked it. It reminded you of early mornings together in bed, stolen away under the sheets. When it was truly just you and him - but you keep those private thoughts to yourself.

Instead, you bring everything to the hospital when you arrive, the box tucked under your arm. Taking them to the room early so he could get ready before the meeting.

Alfred is working when you get there - the sight making you smile as you lean for a moment in the doorway. Pen scratching notes into a fresh copy of the proposal, a new pair of glasses perched on the end of his nose.

Peering over them to see you - his expression going soft, leaning up to kiss you good morning when you sit on the side of the bed. The smile widening when you flip open the lid, an almost groan of appreciation when he sees what you brought him.

“Christ, I love you.” He murmurs, fingers running over the thick wool of the sweater, pulling it from the box, “Do you know that, darling?”

The words still make heat bloom in your chest, traveling up to your cheeks.

You hope they will, forever.

You hope you’ll never tire of them.

But for now, you smile shyly - offering to take them to the bathroom for him. He catches your hand before you make it too far, his expression turning a little more serious.

“I mean it, dove. Thank you. I know it’s been hard, for both of us.” His voice is low and earnest, and your stomach flips, fluttering even more.

“I love you, too.” You tell him, pulling the hand up to press a kiss against his knuckles, “And I’m happy to do it. I’d do anything for you.”

And you would - even though you wished desperately that things had happened differently. That the evening could have ended with dinner, dessert, waking up together the next day with nothing happening. Just a plain old regular day.

Still, you reminded yourself how you were lucky, the little pep talk long memorized now - and pushed on.

You were needed, there wasn’t time for that now.

His hand flexes in yours when he feels the touch of your lips, a victim to his own wishing and wanting. Lingering as long as he can until he’s realizing the time - leaving you reluctantly so he can clean up.

Instead of waiting, you make a run for coffee from the little cafe downstairs. Sighing when you see the long line, but waiting anyway for three coffees, a hot tea for Alfred.

Balancing the cardboard cup holder when the barista hands it over, carefully heading back up to the room. Almost bumping into a neatly-dressed man standing just outside the elevator, murmuring an “excuse me” as you scoot around him.

Pausing a couple steps away, turning around when you realize he looks a little lost.

“These hallways get confusing.” You smile at him, and he looks away from the small map stuck to the wall, “Where are you headed?”

When he gives you the room number, you realize who you’re talking to - realizing you’ve seen him before, coming out of Alfred’s office the day you had all but begged for him back.

You hadn’t really been paying attention that day, too busy trying to keep it together, but there were things that you recognize now - like the choice of a neat, cream-colored bow tie. An interesting detail, in a sea of the plain, black dress ties that seemed popular in Gotham.

And how kind his smile had been, in contrast with the blank faces and scowls of the people in the lobby, scurrying off to work.

Juggling the coffees to your other hand, you extend your right as you give him your name, “You’re Mr. Fox, right? I’m heading that way, too.”

“Just Lucius, please.” He smiles, and you let him take the coffee from you when he offers, following you back through the hallways, “And thank you, I appreciate the help.”

A beat, before he asks, “I feel like I’ve seen you before at Wayne Enterprises. Have we met?”

“Not officially.” You glance his way, slowing as the door comes into view, “We just sort of bumped into each other. Outside Alfred’s office?”

His brow furrows, whether remembering or at your casual use of his interim-boss’s name, you’re not sure.

“That’s right, I remember now.” Lucius nods, as he explains, “I never forget a face. Do you work for him, too?”

That makes you laugh, though you swiftly try to turn the sound into a cough, “No. Definitely not-”

Hearing the chatter, Bruce is opening the door before you could explain further - a flicker of surprise in his eyes before he steps back, ushering you both in.

You smile in thanks as you move through the doorway, feet stumbling to the briefest stop when you get inside, making Lucius almost bump into you.

Distracted by Alfred, sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed in the clothes you brought for him. Looking so close to how he did at home, an ache forming in your stomach from the memory.

For a moment, you don’t want to look away.

"There you are." He smiles when he sees you, and you can't help but match it. Rising to shake Lucius's hand, adding, "Mr. Fox. I see you've already met my better half."

His words seem to shoot straight into your chest, making it feel tight. They steal both your breath and your tongue, leaving you unable to form a response as the ache drops down low - turning warm and pleasant instead.

"Ah, yes." Lucius's smile dimples as he places the cups down on the overbed table tucked off to the side, "Lucky that I did, or I'd still be wandering those halls."

You move to the side then, as they pull up chairs - Bruce throwing a look your way. There's a gap in the half-circle they make around the hospital bed, you think it's left intentionally.

But you're still not sure how you feel - still undecided about the so-called job offer. Your mind has been too busy just trying to put one foot in front of the other.

So instead, you tuck yourself in one of the plastic seats along the wide window as they start. Watching the waves outside, trying to see from here if they're letting people downtown yet, or if it's still blocked off.

Unable to help listening with one ear to the meeting.

It's almost fascinating to hear Bruce be the one that's the briefest step behind, though Alfred had done his best to catch him up over the past few days.

Impressed with how he still tries to keep up with the easy back-and-forth of the other two, his brow furrowed in concentration.

And then again - while hearing Alfred's quick answers, his knowledge of the company - reminded just how much he does. How busy he has been, is still.

As you listen, you realize you’re impressed. Your initial impression, all those weeks ago, is that his interest was perfunctory, no more than a necessary obligation.

But when he’s taking now, there’s intent behind his ideas - shaky, still forming - but it’s there.

The small nods from Alfred giving him confidence, the small upward tick of lips as Lucius smiles.

Together, carefully reworking the proposal to fit Bruce's vision, turning the general structure into something that would benefit those affected by the disaster. The suggestions are thoughtful, and you gradually find yourself getting pulled in.

The briefest of ideas flickering in your own mind, your teeth biting into your tongue to hold them back. But it's then that you realize, that this is how you can help.

Perhaps in more ways than one.

"I'll handle the applications. I am sure with the company’s name attached the forms will be expedited." Lucius is offering, a quick flick of his wrist as he jots down notes on his own pad of paper, "Especially if it's submitted through the Wayne Foundation. We'll have to draft up a press release to spread the news, when you're ready."

And then you're unable to hold back the little noise of disagreement in your throat. One that turns heads, heat creeping up the back of your neck.

Plucking up courage, before explaining.

"If this is to help the people of Gotham, you should tell them directly. Press releases are good for journalists, but your everyday person isn't reading them. Not right now." You suggest, turning in your seat until you're facing them fully, "We could give Bella Reál a call. It's a win-win for her, maybe she could set something up?"

There's a moment as they absorb what you said, as your eyes turn to Bruce. Remembering what he had told you, in the hallway, those weeks ago, "You said she wanted to work with you, right?"

"She did," He nods.

"It's a good idea." Lucius adds, and you're catching the look on Alfred's face. The shine in his eyes, and you think he understands what you're considering agreeing to.

How you could still help Bruce, help them - without being in the direct danger of those connected to the Batman. Keeping yourself safe, for both of your sakes.

Your eyes are still on his when you offer, “I could get a hold of her, when you're ready. See what she thinks.”

“Thank you." Bruce's voice is genuine, "Are you sure?”

“Yeah." There’s a beat, before you add, “I’m your publicist, after all. Right?”

There’s the hint of a smile, a huff of amusement.

“Right.”

And when you stand, pushing your chair closer - the little half-circle around Alfred’s bed is complete.

———

While you all work to iron out the details, you get the news that the streets have been cleared enough for you to make it back to your apartment. You want to cringe at taking Alfred’s expensive car - one that still makes you uneasy to drive - back through the damaged streets.

But you don’t have another option, so you do, at his insistence.

When you had picked the place out, years ago, being semi-close to downtown - where surely you’d run into affluent people - had seemed like a good thing.

Now, you wish you had stayed in Midtown, where you had grown up. Or even Uptown, though there’s no use thinking about “what if’s.”

When you arrive, you’re half expecting ruins, your windows broken, or even the whole place just - flushed away. Instead, you go through the door in the back. Sliding on gloves, armed with trash bags and just a smidge of hope.

Alfred had wanted to go with you. You could tell it hurt him that he couldn’t - that he felt guilty, even embarrassed. Feeling like he couldn’t support you when he needed him - though he had no reason to be. He was still recovering. You couldn’t ask that of him, wouldn’t want to.

Your hands had been on your hips before his mouth could open, reminding him to save his strength for Bruce. He had been cleared to leave for the afternoon of the speech, provided a nurse accompanied him.

That was more important, you had told him.

“I’ll be fine.” You smiled, “Don’t worry about me.”

He had done enough over the past few days, his shirt darkening with tears when you finally broke down. The feeling spilling over - that yes, they were just things, but they were yours. That of course you knew how lucky you had been, but that the loss still aches.

So instead, you promised to take the offer up from your friends for help. They had reached out, that morning after - a relief in your heart when you were reminded that their apartment was on the second floor. That they had been lucky, too.

That morning you kissed him goodbye, and then blew him another from the doorway. Pretending not to catch the worry in his expression, the subtle slump in his shoulders.

But as you enter the living room, things aren’t as fine as you had hoped. Too much time had passed, though you’d gotten there as soon as it was safe.

The landlord had been there recently - there’s a carpet dryer parked in your living room, the cord thick and curling across your couch. The laminate floor of the kitchen swollen and splitting at the joints, the cabinets already stained at the bottom.

Your steps slow as you move throughout the rooms, figuring out what to pack up, what you could do without. It’s not long before your friends meet you - both of them wrapping you into hugs, your nose crinkling as you tell them, “it’s okay, really.”

Putting on a brave face. Because - what else is there to do?

Sympathy still in their eyes as Hazel takes over, it’s the planner in her. Moving from room to room, all three of you eyeing furniture to see what can be cleaned. Some of it can, with a little bit of work.

Others - the pieces you picked up a long time ago, made from pressed wood and particleboard - are slowly brought outside, set on the curb, the bit of front yard.

You’ll call someone tonight - have them pick it up. For now, you just want it out.

Some of the damaged pieces are difficult, your muscles straining as you try to maneuver an old armchair backwards through the doorway. Rowan carries the bulk of the weight on the other side but even then, you don’t have a good grip.

You’re afraid you’re about to drop it, when you’re being bumped out of the way by a hip, a set of stronger arms replacing yours. Lifting the front much easier than you did, and with a joint push and tug, it’s through the door.

“Where’s this headed?” Bruce asks, and Rowan’s nodding towards the front door.

Throwing you a “what the fuck” face, one that matches Hazel’s when you finally turn around.

“Is that Bruce Wayne?” She asks you, her eyebrows raised, watching as they step carefully through the front door, “He just sort of, walked in.”

“Yeah.” You’re a mix of amused, exasperated, and honestly - a little bit touched.

They both knew the story, well - most of it. But you get where she’s coming from. It was pretty weird to see the young billionaire just showing up in your kitchen, wearing an old worn hoodie and jeans. Carrying that beaten up old armchair through the door.

You almost have to corner him, motioning him into the kitchen the next time he comes through. Bruce follows, his arm swiping across his forehead, wiping away sweat even with the November chill.

“What are you doing here?” You ask him, more out of sheer surprise than anything else.

“Helping you.” He replies, voice flat, as if he’s not sure why you’re asking.

“Thank you.” You are, and you don’t want to make him feel like it’s unwelcome. It was just unexpected.

A moment, before you ask, “Did Alfred ask you to come?”

“He told me about it.” His arms cross, as he leans against the counter, “But no, he didn’t ask me.”

“Oh.”

It’s all you can manage. You had assumed Alfred had asked him to come in his stead. And maybe he sort of did - a tiny, verbal push.

But Bruce was stubborn. So if he was here, then it meant that he really did want to help. The realization feels like a weight - a tightness in your throat, the earlier thanks now not feeling like it was nearly enough.

Before you can think of a way to voice your thoughts, he’s changing the subject - gesturing to the boxes stacked on the counter, scribbling descriptors like “books” and “clothes” onto the side.

“Are those going to the Tower?”

His question makes you freeze, not fully expecting it. Your answer comes out slowly, as you frown, “I’m not sure.”

When he had figured out what happened, Alfred had offered to let you stay, for as long as you needed. But you felt a little funny about it. Guilty, you supposed, though you had been sleeping over more often than not.

It wasn’t the way you had wanted to take that step, even if it was only temporary.

“I think I might leave these here?” Your voice tilts up with nervousness, and he shoots you a strange look. His expression makes you want to clarify, “I’m uh, still thinking about it.”

Which does nothing, other than making his eyebrows lift. Your gaze drops, until his shoulder lifts in a half-shrug, and he leaves you be.

Going back to Rowan as they go in the study again, this time grabbing the empty bookcase. With four sets of hands it goes more quickly, and soon - a large dent has been made in the rooms.

You spend the afternoon thinking about it, still unsure. Carefully folding your clothes into boxes, other into bags to be washed. Clearing the dresser to be taken outside - the particle board swollen at the bottom.

Trying to decide what you can tackle tomorrow, as this certainly won’t all be done today. Exhaustion creeping in, along with a numbing grimness at the situation.

Another box on the table, another trash bag filled to the brim and taken outside.

Hazel disappears and comes back with sandwiches, after pitching everything in your refrigerator. It feels like almost too much then - tears pricking at your eyes as you all sit and eat together on the stoop outside. Her hand resting on yours, gently squeezing.

A silent message. They’re here for you.

Just like you had always tried to be there for them.

Later, when you’re moving back through the living room, you almost miss it - the mail scattered under the slot to the side of the door.

Crinkling in your hands, the ink bleeding in spots. Most of it is junk, bills you keep meaning to switch to paperless. Almost pitching the entire stack into the bag of trash you’re holding, until one catches your eye.

It has your name on it, with no address. The letters typed like they were made with an old-fashioned typewriter - and remembering what happened to Alfred, you hesitate.

But surely a letter -

And you’re nobody.

That’s different, right?

You slip outside to open it, standing on the tiny bit of porch. The paper sticking together where it had been soaked, then dried over hours, days. Ripping the edge of the envelope open, a single news clipping inside.

The ink has run there too, the water yellowing the paper, turning the edges pulpy.

It’s a photo. The one of you, and Harvey, and Bruce, from the night of the party. Though it’s been clipped, Harvey cut out of the frame, leaving just the two of you remaining.

A smudge of ink at the margins, writing you can just barely make out.

THOSE WHO HAVE LEFT THE NEST MAY NEVER RETURN

Then, beneath.

WE’LL BE WATCHING

It makes your heart thuds in your ears, body going still as you read the words again as ice floods your veins. You haven’t been back since that night - had just stopped showing up.

Thinking that maybe they’d forget, would just leave you alone. Wondering if you had made the right decision. Wondering when this letter had been left.

The door bangs open behind you, Rowan and Bruce carrying out the empty drawers of your dresser. It startled you, making you jump as the photo crumples in your fist. The briefest second before you’re shoving it deep into the trash bag - tying it tightly shut before tossing it with the others.

Trying to keep your breath steady, as you head back into the house to grab one of the boxes on the counter. Bringing it outside, shoving it into the bed of Bruce’s truck, parked near the curb.

Letting him know you’ve changed your mind.

That you’ll stay with them, after all.

———

It turns out that if you drop the Wayne family name, getting through to the Mayor proves to be easier than you thought. She seemed surprised to be talking to you, and you understand - trying quickly to explain while you still have her attention.

And as you predicted, she's on board.

With one, teeny, tiny, little catch.

"I can't do a speech." Bruce is protesting, as you hover at the end of the hospital bed.

You've been dreading telling him, half-cringing when he asked how the call went.

"Sure, you can." You encourage, glancing towards Alfred for help.

Who is looking supportive, a calm nod of his head as he agrees.

But Bruce remains unconvinced, his eyes dropping to the floor. Silently running through a million scenarios, until Alfred's voice finally cuts through the silence.

"Your father never enjoyed speaking, either.”

His words transfix Bruce, his eyes lifting. Staring at him for a long moment, his brow creasing, "But he was so good at it."

"He was." Alfred's smile is wistful, reminiscing, "But you were too young, already in bed. You never saw him the night before. How he would pace for hours."

"How did he do it, then?" Bruce looks at him like he's wishing for some sort of magical solution. A miraculous quick-fix.

The smile turns knowing.

"Practice."

Bruce's face falls then, his eyes shifting away in disappointment.

But Alfred is still encouraging, "I can help you. We can help you. I know you can do it."

It takes a lot of convincing.

Even more practice.

Hours of notecards, late evenings at the hospital - until he's donning the cape for the night. Working a few more hours in when dawn hits.

But finally, Bruce agrees to Bella Reál’s suggestion of a live announcement. Broadcasted on all the local news, across Gotham.

A date is set, the notification of the time and place already gathering traction online. The days have seemed slow, but now - with this looming on the horizon - they fly by.

Until that morning is finally here.

Even though you arrived early it still feels like you're scrambling. Double-checking the sequence of the note cards for the speech, though they are more of an insurance than anything.

Trading a set of worn travel boots for the nicer ones you stashed in your bag, shoving them beneath the chair that sits under the large window.

Both of you fussing at Bruce's suit jacket, his cufflinks, the shine of his shoes. You're in the middle of asking him if he's ready, if he needs anything else - when he's swatting Alfred's hand away from fixing the crooked knot of his tie, saying that he'll meet you outside.

You know he's anxious, too.

It's a big day.

Even more so for him.

The last few minutes are spent quietly together in the bathroom, your hip leaning against the white porcelain skin as Alfred’s comb smooths his hair back one more time. Buttoning his jacket, his eyes focusing on the mirror as you watch him, eyes drifting across his face.

Across the healing pink marks, new scars that will litter his face. A small reminder, every time you look at him. Not that you mind them. Not one bit.

"How are you feeling?"

You've been trying not to pry. Happy that he's getting better so quickly of course - but there's a small twist in your guts that worries that he's pushing too hard, even though today means so much to him.

Stubborn, even still.

His eyes flick your way, and you wonder if he can tell what you're thinking. He always seems to have some idea. The edge of his lip curve upward, his answer soft.

"Proud."

It's not what you're expecting. You can't help but smile, leaving the sink to circle around him, your chin resting against his shoulder, cheek pressing against his.

Faces side-by-side in the mirror as you look at yourselves together, the smile lingering.

"Yeah." You answer, "Me too."

There's a knock soon after, an alert from Bruce that it's time to leave. It pulls you out of the moment, a “to-do” list already pushing forefront into your mind.

Alfred grabs your elbow as you go to step away, drawing you back. Eyes tracing over the curve of your dress, his arm sliding around your back to gather you carefully to him.

Your own hands splaying across his chest, as he tugs you a little closer. Until his nose is brushing against your temple, followed by his lips.

“You look beautiful.” His voice dips, pitched low and quiet, “I haven’t been telling you enough.”

It’s unexpected - your heart thudding in your chest. Small moments like these were precious.

Even though the two of you were sometimes left alone, there was always the looming knowledge of where exactly you were that drew you back out of the moment.

“You tell me plenty,” you argue, his eyes dipping down to your mouth. Before he cuts off any other retorts with the press of his mouth, soft and warm against your own.

Stealing you away, the stress and worry that’s been building disappearing for the briefest moment. The points of your concentration narrowing down to the places where you connect, lips and carefully wandering hands.

Until another knock comes, more insistent this time.

It’s harder than you expect to pull away.

You break apart reluctantly, hurrying to grab your bag, your coat, as the nurse - one you adored, a young woman named Tilly, she had been there from the beginning - escorts the three of you down to the car that Mayor Reál sent over.

A podium is already set up outside the massive double-doors of the Gotham City Hall when you arrive. The space set-up hastily, a crooked line of metal safety barriers lined up at the foot of the stairs, manned by members of the GCPD.

There had been brief talks of broadcasting this afternoon from somewhere inside, somewhere safer. But Mayor Reál has disagreed - the bandages from the attempt at her life still visible under the neckline of her blouse.

I’m not afraid, she had said. I want Gotham to know that.

You’re all escorted up the steps, to where she’s waiting for you - a hand extended to greet each of you in turn. Guiding Bruce off to the side for a quick conversation, Lucius gesturing from his spot off to the side for the three of you to join him.

“How’s he doing?” His voice is low, his brows furrowed in concern, throwing a glance Bruce’s way.

Alfred’s answer is equal in pitch, his words firm, “He’ll be fine.”

You find yourself on the end, Alfred’s hand slipping into yours. Fingers squeezing comfortingly, his skin warm and familiar against yours.

It feels important - purposeful - that the first significant public event you went to together is this one. Supporting each other, supporting Bruce.

Your eyes shift, glancing out across the crowd. From up here, your view is just a sea of faces. But every one of them had lives touched by the disaster. Their daily routines upended, their homes damaged - leaving them feeling as lost as you did.

Even more.

It makes you hope that they will listen - and that what Bruce is trying to do will really help.

There’s the short burst of feedback from the mic as Mayor Reál steps up to the podium, Bruce moving back to stand beside Lucius until he is introduced.

You’re reaching into your purse - catching his eye as you lift the edge of one of the note cards, asking a silent question.

He gives a minute shake of his head.

You smile as you carefully stash them back away.

Trying to listen to the Mayor’s speech, a variation of the one she gave the night of the attack. Saying that together, we can rebuild the city. Doing it right this time, making its roots strong and just - building a solid foundation for generations to come.

The words start to buzz in your ears, your mind on more personal thoughts. Worrying, hoping, wishing. And then it seems like in no time at all, she’s taking a step back - looking over towards Bruce expectantly.

His jaw is tight, teeth clenching so tightly they could crack. She's waving him forward, and there's the briefest hesitation - his shadowed eyes flitting to Alfred's, then yours.

You give him a small nod, your smile encouraging. He glances at Alfred again, you know in your heart that his expression mirrors your own.

Then, he's facing forward, stepping up to the podium. Hands splaying flat against the wood, carefully leaning forward towards the microphone, a section of hair slipping out from its careful styling to sweep across his forehead.

His eyes taking a second to drift over the crowd. Almost as if searching - finally landing on a spot that he almost has to tip his chin up to see. Whatever or whoever it was seems to give him courage - there’s the bob of his throat as he swallows, before beginning.

“Mayor Bella Reál believes that we can make a real change in Gotham. And I do, as well.” His voice starts quiet, even with the mic - no more than a soft rasp.

Eyes flicking across the crowd again, and then back down as he clears his throat, starting again, “I believe in her, and I also believe in my parent's vision.”

The crowd is all but silent, the mere appearance of Bruce was a novelty - hearing him speak had them all captivated.

There’s a tiny part of you that had half-expected him to use his voice - drawing upon the power it gives him, the sound pitched down for confidence.

But it’s Bruce’s clear tone that rings out now, strong and sure. His hands now steady against the podium, even though his knuckles are white as they grip the wood.

“My father started the Gotham Renewal Fund to help the people of Gotham. To help you, your friends and your neighbors, directly.”

The hand in yours squeezes tightly, almost enough to hurt. Your head tilts the slightest bit, catching the way Alfred’s jaw clenched, his eyes focused on Bruce. A shine that tugs at your heart, seeing the emotion in them.

Proud doesn’t even begin to cover it.

You squeeze back as he sniffs quietly, your eyes shifting back to Bruce - giving Alfred a moment of privacy. Catching the tail end of Bruce’s segue into the new project - the whole reason for this appearance.

“I know that I am not my father, or my mother.”

Because he's not - in many ways he falls short. But he will - in even more ways - surpass them. It's the only reference to the Riddler's message he wanted to include, nothing else was needed.

“But I also know my parents loved this city, and would have done everything they could to help if they were here. So, in their stead, I will now. I’m here to announce with Mayor Reál a new project that Wayne Foundation will be heading, the Gotham Relief Fund.”

It had been discussed. He could have changed the initials of the project, but he didn’t want to. Considering it a quiet tribute to his parents intentions. How they hoped to help the city - how he hopes to do the same, now.

A redemption, in a way.

Mayor Reál steps forward, until they are side by side. Together, they explain Bruce and Lucius’s ideas - how they will use the fund to set up temporary shelters, to aid in funding repairs to people's homes. Expediting insurance, providing food, covering medical expenses.

Opening the door for other companies to step up and donate, as well.

The anxiety in your chest ebbs, the toughest part now over. You know their words by heart - knowing he’ll be wrapping up soon, having helped him practice, again and again.

But there’s a moment of clarity as you realize - as Bruce is standing there, speaking with such earnestness and honesty….

That you truly believe in him, too.

Thank you so much for reading! It means so much. 💖 If you missed the note, I am hoping to have the next part out on Thursday, and the then finale the Thursday after that.

(Taglist: @rescuethewretched, @slavicwitchling, @zinzinina, @bacarasbabe, @kakashibabe02, @princessxkenobi, @maskhoper, @thelastemzy, @celestianstars, @squidlywiddly87, @queensgirl718, @obiknights)

#thank you for reading 💖#alfred pennyworth x f!reader #alfred pennyworth x reader #alfred pennyworth x you

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inexplicifics · 2 years

Note

I'm rereading Three Bells and I just had a thought that Voltehre would have LOVED to be a trainer in AWAU under the new rules (and also would probably adore Milena). So two questions :

what do you think the reaction would be if a Three Bells situation happened and Voltehre was suddenly alive again in AWAU?

For Want of A Nail: what would the story be like if Voltehre had never died in the AWAU? Would we still have the same Labert we know and love? Would he and Adien still have the same relationship? Would he have been adopted post haste by the Griffins and started a mini good natured fued between Cohen and Lamb?

Lambert with a living Voltehre would have been…probably a lot less of an asshole. Still prickly, because I think that’s baked in, but less so. Voltehre would probably have a reputation as “the Lambert whisperer.”

I don’t know if they’d be lovers or just best friends. Aiden might actually have had an easier time of befriending Lambert, because Lambert isn’t constantly set on “mistrust everything and bite it before it bites you.” Voltehre and Aiden would probably also be very dear friends, united in their fondness for their prickly, marvelous Lambert.

As for a Three Bells variant on the AW AU…hmmmmmmm.

Ciri did not mean to do whatever the hell she just did, and when she gets back to Kaer Morhen, she’s going to tell Aunt Yen they need a lot more safeguards when they’re trying to figure out what powers her Elder Blood gives her.

She’s somewhere very dark, and there’s something large nearby - she can hear it breathing, a steady deep huffing snore - and cold slightly slimy stone against her back. Far off to her left, she can see a faint gleam of what might be sunlight.

She starts edging in that direction, keeping her steps light and careful just the way Kiyan has taught her, dagger easy in her hand. It won’t do her much good against most monsters, but it might give her just enough time to get away.

There’s a soft sound off to one side, and she freezes, peering through the gloom and wishing she had a Witcher’s eyesight. Another soft sound - a footstep, leather brushing against stone. There are other people here.

Ciri presses herself back against the stone and breathes as quietly as she can. More people is…bad. If they wake up whatever is snoring…

The thought, unfortunately, appears to summon the reality into the world. Someone stumbles, tripping and sending something clattering into the darkness, and the monster wakes with a roar.

“Run, Lam!” someone yells. “Go. Go!”

There’s the sound of scampering feet - lots of them - and the monster roars again, and then there’s light.

Igni, from the hands of a terrified Witcher trainee she doesn’t recognize at all.

Ciri gets only the briefest glimpse of the fucking cyclops before the trainee who summoned Igni is snatched up in an enormous hand and crushed like a rat in a terrier’s jaws. The other trainees scatter in every direction, and the cyclops, clearly well-adapted to the darkness, strides among them. Ciri huddles against the wall, shaking, as scream after scream is swiftly cut off.

She wants to help, but there’s no way she can kill a cyclops. A cyclops is a task for a full Witcher patrol, not one half-grown girl. She has no idea why there’s one close enough to a Witcher keep that there are trainees in its cave, but that’s a question for Papa once she’s out and has figured out what is going on.

She sees a silhouette against the distant daylight, and thanks the gods that one of the trainees has made it out safely. The others…by the horrid crunching sounds, she doesn’t think many of the others are going to follow suit.

There’s a soft thump as someone runs into the wall maybe an arm’s length away from her, and Ciri strains her eyes to see a lanky, tall young man pressed against the stone. He doesn’t seem to have noticed her; his eyes are fixed in the direction of the terrible sounds.

And then there’s the sound of a heavy footstep, and Ciri gasps as the cyclops looms out of the darkness, maw dripping with gore. The trainee glances over at the sound and sees her.

“Fuck,” he breathes, and then snaps, “Run, girl!” and slaps the wall.

Drawing the monster’s attention away from her. Trying, even now, to save someone else.

Ciri can’t let him die.

She lunges, tackling him around the waist as the cyclops swings its massive fist, and as they topple to the ground together she reaches out for whatever the hell power brought her here and yanks as hard as she can.

The world goes oddly blue, and then she and the trainee are rolling together onto the floor of Aunt Yen’s workroom.

“What the hell,” Aunt Yen says as Ciri lets go of the trainee and bounces to her feet. “Cub, what -”

“I don’t know what happened but there was a cyclops,” Ciri says. “It was awful.”

Aunt Yen goes white. “A what?” she blurts.

The trainee sits up. He’s blond, Ciri sees now, with a spray of freckles on his cheeks and a snub nose and big hands and feet that suggest he’s not done growing; he’s sort of cute, really.

“That was Old Speartip,” he says. “Where am I, who are you, and what in hell is going on?”

“You’re in Kaer Morhen,” Ciri tells him. “I’m Ciri, the Wolf’s cub, and this is Yennefer of Vengerberg. Who’re you?”

The trainee gives her a very confused look. “I’m Voltehre,” he says. “And I suppose I’m still of the Wolves, since I’m not dead. But there’s no girls in Kaer Morhen.”

Ciri swallows hard. She has a very odd feeling about this. “What year is it?” she asks Voltehre.

“What year? 1178, I think, unless you want the elven reckoning.”

“Ah,” Ciri says, and sits down, hard. “Aunt Yen? I think I figured out what I did.”

“Did you travel in time, cub?” Aunt Yen asks. “Oh dear. That makes two time-related catastrophes for you. I’m going to have to find a proper expert in this, and I frankly haven’t the first idea where to start looking.”

“What year is it now?” Voltehre asks warily.

“1244,” Ciri says. Voltehre’s jaw drops.

“No shit,” he says weakly after a moment. “Sixty-six years?”

Ciri nods. Voltehre swallows hard.

“I have a sort of weird question,” he says slowly. “And I…I don’t expect you to know, necessarily, but I have to ask. Is - is there any chance that there’s a Witcher named Lambert still alive?”

Run, Lam! in Voltehre’s voice, cracking with terror. Ciri swallows hard.

“Dark hair, swears a lot, really good at alchemy?” she checks. Voltehre nods, eyes going huge. “Yes. He’s still alive.” Ciri stands and offers Voltehre a hand up. “Come on. I’ll take you to him. I - I think he’ll be very glad to see you alive.”

#questions answered #ask meme #fic specific asks #accidental warlord au #voltehre #ciri #snippet

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echonk3 · 8 months

Text

999 Week 2023 - Lotus

from the view of one nona kashiwabara

There’s been two constants in your life. Your twin, and your mother. The former you’ve been attached at the hip with, especially after nine years ago. The latter was the only parent you’ve ever known. She taught you what you needed to know. To budget and save money, the best ways to get what you want whether it be by arguing or manipulation, to keep pepper spray on you at all times.

Your mother was the one who made you and Ennea feel safe after the Nonary Game, she was the one who helped you adjust back to normal even if she didn’t understand what was going on. And now, you think it’s your turn to do the same. She may seem to be adjusting normally, but things have changed. The paranoia and reflexes that you and Ennea had after your kidnapping is something that she now has. You’ve seen her deck a man who got too close to her recently, even if he did deserve it.

But while you both clammed up, it seems she’s a bit more open since her disappearance for a few days. And you’re pretty sure it’s connected to the Nonary Game. The coincidences just seem to pile up.

First, she’s found in the Nevada Desert, a place that’s haunted Ennea since she was young and escaped the building with five others, that just so happen to also be connected to what happened to your game. Gentarou Hongou in the news was too obvious. His face haunts your nightmares now, just like it did even when you only had the briefest glimpse of it and him pulling that girl into the incinerator. But the moment you laid eyes on Seven and Light, there was recognition. It’s hard to forget the man who saved your life and comforted you in that time and the boy who had been so dedicated to his sister that he managed to find multiple four-leaf clovers despite being blind.

Your sister recognized Clover, with her bright hair and the memories of her being the youngest. They may have all been children, but the others in that game made sure to keep her close. Junpei, on the other hand, wasn’t somebody to recognize. But he was around your age and he seems like a fun dude, even if you do have to push him to sleep and not drink a bit. He’s fun, though he was somebody who extra tipped you off. Mentions of an Akane and an Aoi. That brought back some… unfun memories. Of screaming and panicking because oh god you’regonnadieyou’regonnadieyou’regonnadie.

So you make some things easier for her. Do the same as she did to you. Renting her favourite movies, making her favourite recipes, and the in-between. Your mother’s a smart woman though. She’s noticed, but she lets you do what you want to do.

Your and Ennea do your best together, leading up to a quiet conversation on what should’ve been a mundane day.

“Were you in a Nonary Game?” you blurt out, almost dropping the mug you’re holding.

To which your mother shakes, and grabs you both and hugs you.

#zero escape #nona kashiwabara #lotus 999 #hazuki kashiwabara #999 week

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wanderleave · 6 months

Note

inquiry…girl talk! what is ittt

This was! (Is?) My post-Tears of the Kingdom get out my feelings fic!! I know many other have noticed that while Rauru had no idea who Link was, Sonia knew EXACTLY both WHO he was AND was comfortable teasing Zelda a little about him, and this was my take on how Sonia found out. (I'm going to post everything I've written because the chance of me actually finishing this is fairly low.)

Zelda is pacing in her borrowed room, trying not to think about what is happening in the future, when she hears a soft knock on the door.

Expecting Queen Sonia, who has promised to bring another dress for her to borrow, she instead finds one of Mineru’s constructs, holding the Purah Pad and chiming softly.

“Thank you,” she tells it, as it returns the Pad safely into her hands. She watches as it turns to travel back down the hallway, marveling at the differences between the Zonai and Sheikah technologies in front of her. Purah would click-snap with joy if she was here.

She wishes Purah was here.

She wishes she was back home.

Whenever that may be.

Zelda taps the Pad, noting the travel functionality that Mineru has enabled, a chance to learn again the land that she’s spent the past few years relearning, then lets out a cry of dismay.

The camera is broken.

She spends a futile few moments trying to bring it back to life, before quickly examining the rest of the Pad’s contents to ensure their survival.

And that’s when she finds them.

The three photographs she took, showing the last few moments she’d spent in her own time.

Before the fall.

She remembers the rising excitement she’d felt, the discovery of the Zonai depictions, the images of what she now knows to be Rauru and Sonia. How fortunate she’d felt that she’d remembered the Purah Pad, Link wordlessly taking the torch from her as she giddily snapped away.

The first two images bring a smile to her face—she’d been so awed at the discovery of the sculpture of a Zonai, and now she has dinner with one every day—but it’s the third one that makes her heart skip a beat.

The mural showing the Imprisoning War.

An undeniable vision of the future—their future, not hers—as long as she can make it back to her own time.

Should she show it to Rauru? To the queen? Tell them of the events depicted before they even occur, prepare them somehow, for what’s coming. Would it change anything, in the end?

“And what’s this?” she hears from over her shoulder.

Zelda jumps with a start, fumbling the Pad, her heart racing as she looks up to find Queen Sonia looking at her with curiosity.

“Oh Zelda, I apologize,” she says with a small grin. “You were just staring so intently—I was just interested to see what could hold your attention like that. I’ve been calling your name for some time now.”

Zelda opens her mouth to stutter out an apology, to find some way to avoid talking about what she was looking at, but Sonia is already peering through Zelda’s fingers to see the image on the pad, the image of the Imprisoning War clearly visible.

“Oh I see,” Sonia says with a glint in her eyes. “I can see now why you are quite anxious to return to your own time.”

Zelda is speechless. How can she know already what is to come, from the briefest glimpse at the mural?

She stammers out, “Queen Sonia, I—”

Sonia continues, “May I ask his name?”

Zelda frowns, then glances back at the Purah Pad, finally noticing the figure in the corner of the image.

Link.

Holding the torch he’d taken from her without her even having to ask, dwarfed by the imposing largeness of the mural. Standing by her side as he’d done for years—decades, centuries—now.

She hadn’t even realized she’d caught him in the picture.

“Oh,” Zelda says.

She doesn’t know how she missed him, not when his well-being has occupied most of her agonized thoughts since she arrived in the past.

She doesn’t even know if he’s alive.

He’d jumped after her, to catch her, his fingers reaching for hers only to close on empty air. Had he continued to fall? With no secret stone, with nothing to stop him, could he even survive? And what of his arm, covered in gloom, in malice?

She would know, if he’d died. She’d be able to feel it, even through the ages that separate them.

This is what she tells herself.

“That’s . . . his name is Link,” she stammers out, feeling the fear and worry she’d tamped down since she’d arrived threatening to spill out and over her defenses.

“And who is this Link?” Sonia asks, seemingly oblivious to Zelda’s rush of emotions.

Her constant companion. Her loyal subject. Her best friend. Her partner in destiny. Her partner for eternity. Her savior. Hyrule’s savior. Everything.

“A knight,” Zelda says, hearing the words as she says them—how inadequate they are, how strangled her voice is—and tries to clarify. “My knight.”

“Oh?” Sonia smiles, light and warm and knowing. “Your knight? You must be missing him terribly.”

Zelda nods.

And to her horror, bursts into tears.

Sonia’s eyes widen in distress. “Oh, Zelda,” she says, her voice soothing, and gathers her up in her arms.

Zelda stiffens and thinks, only for a moment—this was what her mother felt like—but her sobs won’t stop coming, and Sonia’s embrace is so warm that she lets herself be held until her tears slow.

“I apologize,” she says eventually, wiping at her eyes ineffectually. “I don’t know what came over—”

Sonia shushes her, pulling her over to the couch in the corner of the room, sitting her down and taking her hands into hers, saying, “When you appeared before us, falling out of nowhere . . . you were so calm, so collected. I knew it was only a matter of time until it all caught up to you.” She shakes her head. “There is no shame in your emotions, Zelda. You are far from home, far from those you love. I know how much you want to return to them, how trying it must be to still be here.”

Zelda tries to protest, but Sonia goes on. “But it is the nature of my power that I understand this better than most—it is the memories that we hold dear that give us our purpose, our strength, our path forward.” She leans in. “Why don’t you tell me about . . . Link, is it?”

So she does. Haltingly at first—how he’d been appointed as her knight, the Master Sword in its guard mocking her from his back, her powers still dormant—then faster. How she’d spurned him for ages, how he took it all, silently. How he’d saved her life, and her awkward apology, and how they’d started over from there. Learning each other. The countless days traversing Hyrule, the countless nights spent in silence after her prayers failed. The Calamity. How he’d fallen. Her powers awakening. The century after, watching, waiting. Waiting for him.

“When he finally appeared in Hyrule Castle, I didn’t even know if he remembered me, or our journey together. What he’d almost died for. But he saved us—all of Hyrule. He saved me. And he hasn’t left my side since.”

Sonia makes a little noise, then. Zelda looks at her questioningly.

She raises her eyebrows. “I think you may have more control over your time power than you realize. A hundred years of holding evil at bay . . . ”

Zelda blinks. She hadn’t considered that. Had it felt like a century?

“And your light power, surely, was able to overcome the Calamity.”

She nods, slowly.

Sonia smiles. “Forgive me, Zelda. I have no doubt that your Link is a capable knight. But it also sounds to me that you are more than capable, yourself. It was your powers that were able to dispel the evil threatening Hyrule. Your powers that brought you here, to our time.” She glances down at the Purah Pad, Link’s image still frozen, torch held aloft. “From what you’ve told me, you are each formidable on your own. I can only imagine what you both could do, together.”

Zelda blushes.

“Now,” Sonia continues, her gaze thoughtful, “tell me more about what caused your powers to awaken. Perhaps there is a clue, there. A way to focus our efforts on your time power. A way to allow you to return to your era.”

Zelda breathes out. She thinks back to that terrible day, of the slow journey down from Mount Lanayru, each step dragging her closer to the inevitability of having to admit her failure. Of what Mipha had been trying to tell her, before the world had started to end.

“One of the Champions, a princess of the Zora, had a healing power. She was trying to explain it to me when the Calamity struck.”

“She said . . . ” Zelda trails off, trying to unravel her complicated feelings around that day, around Mipha, around what she knows caused her powers to awaken. “She never finished telling me, but I knew. I knew what she thought of when she healed. I know why my powers awoke. I knew it for a hundred years. I knew it then, and I know it now.

“Love,” she says, simply. She’s never said it out loud before, but here, now, with everything on the line, she has no reason not to tell Sonia the truth. “I’d lost everyone I’d loved that day. Everyone but Link. I couldn’t lose him too. I couldn’t save my father. I couldn’t save the Champions in their Divine Beasts. But Link was in front of me, and he was about to die.”

She glances down then, at the back of her hand, and stares into the distance, into the past, into the future. “I loved him,” she says, and then corrects herself, because she’s telling the truth now. “I love him.”

Sonia smiles at that, looking almost sad. “Does he know?”

Her eyes flutter closed. “No,” she says, but once again, she’s lying. “Yes.” She presses her lips together. “I don’t know.”

“I’ve tried to tell him, so many times, but . . . ” Zelda shakes her head.

Sonia waits patiently.

“He’s lost so much. Because of me. Any chance for a normal life. It was all gone the second he found the Sword. And I know even if he hadn’t been chosen, he would have done it all anyway, that’s just who he is! Once the Calamity was sealed, I told him to leave, to live his life, I pushed him out of the house—it’s his house, it’s not even mine—and he was outside the next morning, cooking us breakfast.” She can feel tears pricking at the corner of her eyes again, even as she can’t help but smile.

She looks back down at the Pad, pressing her fingers to the tiny figure on the screen. “I miss you,” she says quietly, not caring that Sonia can hear her, sending her words through the years, hoping that he’ll receive the message somehow.

“If it was love that allowed you to awaken your powers, then it will be love that will allow you to strengthen them.”

She thinks back to the moment she fell, the anguish, the determination on his face as he reached for her, and she knows.

#totk #it's not good!!!#but it is feelings

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