#Day Trading Computer

[the-overanalyzer]

The thing about holding onto redundant stuff you don't strictly need is that, yeah, 90% of the time it's just taking up space, but sometimes that old usb wifi adapter that's been sitting in your closet for eight years will save you from continuing to tear what's left of your hair out.

[mezmer]

Highkey annoyed by my MIL complaining about her job because she's deliberately chosen to work part time at a butcher shop for only 12$ an hour without a raise for the past 20 years and they recently took away her pension too LOL? ...WHY would you stay at that job numbnuts? She said this morning "I hate going to this job, but somebody has to pay the bills!" I almost choked -- girl your husband makes 40 as a mechanic and works full-time... I know for a fact he's paying the bills lol you basically work to afford your Pepsi beer and cigarettes. Pure insanity. I would cry and cut myself if I ever allowed myself to say something so ass backwards

[fangerine]

i just saw perfect days and i don't want a smartphone anymore. like, i genuinely don't want this thing anymore. i'm starting to think about all the times i've missed something beautiful existing in front of me because i felt the need to look down at my screen. how much time have i wasted getting quick hits of dopamine instead of getting true enjoyment from something as simple as the sunshine rippling through the trees? i'm wondering when my appreciation for real beauty met its death by way of an addiction to artificial blue light. there's no surprises or moments of amazement when you're constantly attached to the interwebs.

but i want to be surprised. i want to be amazed. i want to feel life again through my own skin, not another mindless swipe or tap.

[orcelito]

Actually it is SO weird to me to remember that I was an engineering student and that later on I had been pursuing a minor in statistics

I may be a IT & com person in the end, but I do have the foundations of engineering and statistics in my brain too. Wild !

[lessdeath]

Wish I could keep my head wrapped around one interest at a time but slowly but surely I will amass a wide collection of semi-niche knowledge and will attain the ultimate craftsmanship overall 🤝

One day I’m so obsessed with video editing and learning all the little things to improve, then I’m immersed in my instruments, then I get obsessed with photo manipulation, then I get into copywriting, then illustration, then sound editing, template design… my only hope is that all these micro skills will converge into me being like the craziest marketing professional ever or something

[donotdestroy]

🧭 Strategic Framing

You’re not operating a business in the traditional sense right now — you’re maintaining a platform for your art, identity, and optional income. That’s valuable.

Even if it’s not “profitable” on paper, it’s sustainable and meaningful.

By ChatGPT

[cesium-sheep]

-n- her tension gets to me so easily. and it clearly isn't just a general me-thing cuz his kinda doesn't.

[dreamsteddie]

Steve and Eddie who kind of flop in life and end up poor, living in a trailer in a different small town living quiet lives of no import.

The kids, Robin, Nancy, and Johnathan all seem to take the small handful of opportunities offered to them by the government in the aftermath of the Upsidedown to take off and make something of their lives. They're off writing headlines, making news, and living their lives to the best of their abilities, but Steve and Eddie find themselves stuck.

Steve stayed in Hawkins until the kids graduated and left for college. By then Nancy, Johnathan, and Robin are all in their second or third years of college. John and Nancy have their own apartment in New York together and don't reach out all that often, only seeing the rest of the Hawkins crew on Holidays and some vacations. Robin is flourishing at an all-women's college in Maine and has a partner and a cat and plans for graduate school brewing. She's always saying Steve can come out and join her whenever he's ready, but when the time comes it feels like he would just be trying to insert himself in the middle of a life he doesn't know how to fit into, so he turns to Eddie instead.

Eddie is permanently disabled in a number of ways following the events of season four. He struggles with chronic pain, has breathing issues due to the loss of part of his right lung, and lost enough muscle mass in his left leg that walking will never be easy or done without the use of a walker or arm bar crutches. The doctors said he recovered as well as he could have. The kids said he would get better with time. Wayne said it didn't matter if he never got better, he could do anything he set his mind to.

Steve is the only person who tells him the truth.

Steve tells him that it sucks. Tells him that it will probably always hurt. Doesn't give him false hope when he's trying to grieve the loss of the life he wanted to live. The goals he wanted to reach. When he falls deeper and deeper into himself, stuck in the muck of depression, Steve is the only person he lets in. The kids try their best but their lives are moving fast, and taking care of someone like Eddie is exhausting, no matter what they try to say. Eventually, everyone but Dustin gives up on reaching out, the younger boy showing up every Sunday to try and get Eddie out of the house. He always leaves disappointed.

When Steve asks him if he wants to use what's left of their partly government payouts and Steve's equally meager Family Video savings to buy a truly shitty trailer in a town an hour and a half south of Hawkins in the fall of 1990, it feels like the first boon he's been given in almost five years. He'll never be who he could have been if he had ignored Chrissy that day in 86', but he's always thought maybe he could be more than a ghost between Wayne's walls if he could just get out of this god-forsaken town full of people who know too much and too little of what's happened to him.

They get the trailer, pack what little they have, let Wayne hug them close, and leave.

Steve has already transferred to their new town's Family Video, moving up to claim the dubious honor of being the opening manager. Mostly he just unlocks the door, signs into the computer, and makes sure nothing catches fire. Eddie hoped that moving would miraculously make him fit to enter back into the world, but he spends most of his days with a blanket on the front porch, watching people pass by. He does, though, finally accept that he needs to apply for disability to help Steve keep the lights on and the water hot. That last little bit of hope that he could be what he used to be dies, but he's learning to be content with what he does have. He starts taking a walk, just ten minutes around the loop of the trailer park saying hi and trading polite nods with his fellow residents. He's not ok, but he's starting to build a new community of people not too different from himself.

The new trailer only has one bedroom. Eddie sleeps on a fold-out mattress in the living room. It had been a major argument when they first moved in with Steve insisting that Eddie needed the bed. Eddie argued that it wasn't fair for him to take the room when Steve was the one working 40 hours a week to keep them afloat. In the end, Eddie was the more stubborn of the two. It helps that Eddie has absolutely no qualms about crawling into bed with Steve on the nights when the couch bed really won't cut it for his aching body. Steve never questions it, just shuffles over a little and lets the other man in.

Steve doesn't question a lot of stuff.

He doesn't question when all their effects are shared between them with no effort to distinguish between yours and mine, Eddie's and Steve's. He doesn't question it four months in when Eddie starts to get his feet under him and decides to take up cooking, always trying his best to have everything done just as Steve walks through the door. He doesn't question when a good chunk of Eddie's first disability check goes to buying Steve a sturdy, if not very fashionable, new watch for his birthday since his old one went bust almost a year ago.

He doesn't question it when Eddie holds his hand for the first time under the stars hanging above their front porch.

He doesn't question it when Eddie introduces him to one of his new neighbor friends with a hand resting comfortably on his lower back

He doesn't question it when Eddie starts sleeping in the bedroom every night.

Or makes him box mix cupcakes for Valentine's Day.

Or kisses him for the first time on the couch that's never a bed unless they want to spend the day binge-watching bargain bin films.

Because really, isn't this how it was always going to go? Wasn't this exactly what Steve was asking for when he asked Eddie to skip town with him?

Isn't this what Eddie was hoping for when he said yes?

[misstenletters]

it feels so good to be productive again after being in such a rut.

[comatosebunny09]

apt 302 | sylus q.

— summary: at first, your new neighbor was as mysterious as he was handsome. after taking some time to get to know him—or forcing your way into his quiet life—you realize looks can be deceiving. — cw: gn reader, neighbors au, neighbors to friends to lovers, profanity, innuendoes, jealousy, misunderstandings, stalker ex, alcohol use, guns mentioned, self-indulgent, allusions to reincarnation, angst, pet names, sylus being an insufferable gentleman, slice of life — dividers by: @omi-resources — notes: this grew way longer than i expected, soooooo you’re gonna hate me for what comes next. anyways, thank you so much for reading! — now playing: my favorite person now - she was pretty ost — tagging: @alfredosaws, @chuppiechanchan @hao-ming-8 @antonneva @sunsets-and-crows @leighsartworks216 @grabby-smitten @nebulorra @minniestarmj @elysiums-light @saiaise @queenofstresss @beewilko @aetherscribit @libriomancer @world-of-hearts @awkwardnurse @huachengnism

Information Technology isn’t as cushy of a field as you initially thought.

Sure, you have a desk job doing the most mundane of things—working the help desk, troubleshooting devices, re-imaging computers. But your job isn’t without its drawbacks. 

Sometimes, the days are long and arduous. The constant customer interaction doesn’t help matters; you’re a bit of an introvert, requiring five business days to recover from just a few hours of socializing. 

So, forgive you for seeking a little respite in the form of your favorite set of pajamas and fuzzy slippers as you ease into your apartment. 

The weight of the world sloughs off your shoulders when the door leading inside clicks shut behind you. You sigh gratefully, the sound of your keys clattering against your entryway table, intermingling with that of your AC humming to life.

You hang your bag and sweater on the coat rack. Trade your uncomfortable shoes for house slippers, the soreness in your heels slowly retreating. The last vestiges of sunlight creep through the slits of your blinds to bathe your home in its ethereal glow before ducking behind the horizon. 

Your apartment is humble. Has a natural, minimalistic vibe with bits of decor displaying your personality sprinkled throughout. You already pay the price of a kidney and two lungs to stay here. No use investing in posh furniture when your job sometimes requires you to pick up and go at the drop of a hat.

Your stomach growls whilst you draw your curtains shut and turn on some ambient lighting via your phone. You’ll eat soon, you promise. For now, you’re on a mission. 

Quietly, you move through your home in search of your laundry area, thoroughly prepared to slip into your PJs following a shower to jumpstart your weekend. 

Too bad a pile of sopping wet clothes awaits you when you open your dryer door. 

“Goddammit,” said under your breath as you mash the power button. It won’t turn on. Figures. You kick the offending appliance. Stupid thing must be out again. 

You had set your clothes to dry before you left for work. You were looking forward to snuggling up with wine and your favorite show, donned in comfy clothes. Seems your dryer had other plans.

You should’ve replaced it months ago when it first started acting up. You had hoped to salvage it a little longer; appliances don’t come cheap these days. Besides, you’ve had a darling neighbor to fix it each time. To extend its lifespan. 

Speaking of which—

Chewing your lip, you pad over your cold, hardwood floor to snatch your phone from the coffee table. Fall onto your couch cushions with a devious smile twitching your lips. It’s getting late, so you don’t think to badger him into tinkering with your dryer tonight. However, perhaps he’ll let you utilize his. At least until you can use your day off tomorrow to shop for a replacement.

You hover your thumb over his contact, his name flanked by crow emojis. Contemplate calling him, but what if he’s busy? This is usually about the time he’s leaving. Instead, you settle for opening your messaging app, already conjuring an excuse.

(You): 🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛💥💥💥 (Sylus): lol (Sylus): good morning to you too. (You): 😒😒😒 dude it’s like 6  (Sylus): 🤷‍♂️ (Sylus): im just now getting up. long day at the office.  (Sylus): whats up? (You): are you busy tonight?? (Sylus): not really. 😏 what did you have in mind ? (You): pause. not like that (Sylus): 😢 (You): my dryer’s out again (Sylus): ah. want me to take a look? (You): nah you already do so much (You): is it cool if i use yours tho? 😬😬😬 (You): i’ll bring you booze (Sylus): lol (Sylus): its fine sweetie. doors unlocked. ill be in the shower. help yourself. (You): 🙏🙏🙏

You take your time gathering your saturated clothes into a basket. On your way out, you snag a bottle of Merlot from your fridge.

No matter how often you’ve been here, you don’t think you’ll ever get used to how much more… put together Sylus’ place is compared to yours.

It suits him—the black and red furniture, the stylish accents littering his apartment. It smells delightful inside, a mixture of mahogany and amber enmeshed with remnants of food. Soulful jazz flows from a record player, fitting the sepia-toned glow of floor lamps and candles flickering on every other surface.

You toe the door shut behind you. Feel so small and out of place amid his decor. You’ve only recently started coming here, having spent much of your time together inside your apartment. Regardless, you navigate his space like it’s your second home, finding his washer and dryer set.

After starting your clothes in the dryer, you wander back to the living room, hands stuffed in the pockets of your cardigan. You take some time to admire the atmosphere. Fingers skim over the various vinyls organized on a built-in bookcase on the wall.

You snort with a half-smile. You know so little about your neighbor, yet you know just enough to be this comfortable with him.

He’s a music buff; that much is for sure. He’s clearly made of money if the luxurious furniture and his car are anything to go by. You don’t press him about what he does for a living. Figure he values his privacy above all else, unlike you.

You’re an open book. The primary yapper in your acquaintanceship, prattling on about your life and aspirations. And he just sits there, wordlessly nodding with a polite smile behind the rim of his glass. Where you would otherwise be wary of being in someone’s home like this, you feel safe around him in a way that almost terrifies you.

“Admiring the decor,” teases a voice from behind. 

You jolt, spinning around like you’ve been caught stealing. You’re met with a smirk beneath scarlet eyes, twinkling with mischief. Strands of white cling to Sylus’ forehead, damp from the warm spray of his shower. He towels his hair dry, maneuvering around the living set towards you.

“Hey, you,” you greet, trying to play it cool. Like your heart isn’t hammering and heat isn’t branching into your cheeks. You attempt to maintain eye contact. It’s increasingly difficult to do so with his physique peeking through his t-shirt and sweats like that.

“Hey, yourself.” There’s amusement in the deep gravel of his voice. A smile in his eyes as he studies you, draping his towel around his shoulders.

You swallow. Try to divert the subject, motioning to his record collection. “You got some new tunes, I see.”

A chuckle is dredged from the bowels of his chest. You feel it pull in your stomach. “Sure did. Got something you might like.” 

God help you as he reaches around you, the fine hairs littering your body standing on end, your mouth agape like a fish out of water.

Unconsciously, you step back, your spine softly thudding against the records display. Your heartbeat’s on a warpath, and you swallow against the dryness of your throat as the veiny, sinewy muscle in his forearm stains your periphery.

He gives you a bemused look before slowly peeling a record from the shelf behind you. Steps back to fish out the vinyl and settle it on the platter, replacing the record that was just playing. 

You release a breath you were unaware of holding. Good job playing it cool, dumbass.

“You alright?” Sylus quizzes with a raised brow. “You seem a little on edge tonight, sweetie.”

You sigh, schooling an unconvincing smile onto your face. Try to ignore how the term of endearment glides off his tongue so effortlessly. You wonder how many other people he addresses like that. 

“Work was…rough today. Kicked my ass. I’m tired.” 

A snarling sound invades the space between you, heard over the gentle croon of the new music. Your eyes fall to your stomach. You rub it placatingly. In all your haste to have some dry friggin’ clothes, you forgot to eat. 

“And hungry, too,” you sheepishly add.

You glance up, and Sylus’ gaze tracks from your stomach to your face. He smirks knowingly, motioning with a nod toward his kitchen. 

“Figured you didn’t eat yet. I made carbonara if you’d like some.”

You smile wryly at his back as he pads away, carrying the scent of cedarwood and bergamot with him. Where would you be without such a doting neighbor? 

You track him to the kitchen. Leaning against the threshold, you watch him procure a bottle of water from his fridge. It’s so very small, dwarfed by his massive hand.

“I suddenly got called for a Teams meeting five minutes ago.” 

Your heart drops, the smile nearly falling from your face. And here you thought you’d have his company over dinner.

Suddenly, he taps your nose, drawing you out of your thoughts. You hadn’t noticed when he got closer, swaddled in the static of your bodies being so close. “Where did you run off to,” he rasps, searching your gaze for something. 

The proximity of your bodies grows stifling, his warm breath glazing over your skin, dizzying. When he doesn’t find what he’s looking for, he steps back, leaving you shell-shocked and utterly confused. 

“In the meantime, make yourself at home. You know where everything is,” he says, brushing past you with an air of finality. 

You strain your ears for the noise of a distant door shutting before you make your move, rummaging through his cupboards and drawers for a plate and cutlery. After you’ve scooped a decent helping of food onto your plate, you settle onto one of his velvet couches, cross-legged and shoveling food into your maw. 

The fluttering of wings piques your interest. You’ve hardly any time to acknowledge him before a tuft of black, iridescent feathers shines from Sylus’ coffee table. The crow studies you curiously, ingesting you with his beady eyes before he preens himself.

“Me-fith-toe!” you greet around a mouthful of food. 

Said crow ducks away, dodging errant crumbs and spit flying from your mouth, cawing in protest. You give him a rueful look. 

Sylus has a soft spot for animals. You noted it the first time you entered his apartment, greeted by his boisterous companion. Funny; he doesn’t look like the type to have such an eccentric pet. 

But Sylus has found numerous ways of pleasantly surprising you, revealing parts of himself to you bit by agonizing bit.

“Chicken?” you say after finally swallowing, offering a forkful of pasta to the bird. Mephisto scrutinizes the food before resigning himself to pecking at it. You smile fondly, your eyes crinkling with mirth. “Mephisto, you cannibal.”

Lulled by the occasional flap of Mephisto’s wings and Sylus’ even tone murmuring things of business somewhere far off in his home, you fall into a familiar rhythm, quietly waiting for your clothes to dry.

You spend the remainder of your evening in your neighbor’s company, drinking Merlot and judging each other’s music tastes, long after your pajamas have dried and settled in the dryer.

“So, have you boned yet?”

You choke on your waffle. Pound on your chest with the heel of your palm to dislodge it. You turn narrowed eyes on the source of the question. She merely shrugs from across the table, sipping her mimosa as if she’s asked the most innocent thing. 

“Bitch.”

“What?” She appears nonplussed, setting her champagne flute down with a definitive clack. All serious when she returns your stare over crossed arms, and you know you’re in for it. 

“You talk about the guy so much I figured you would’ve already, ya know…” The humping gesture she makes under the table is a bit much. 

You blanch. “No, dumbass, I haven’t boned.” Your voice peters towards the end of your sentence. And you peer down at the napkin folded in your lap, heat prickling your face. 

You won’t deny Sylus is good-looking. More like he could be someone modeling Prada on a catwalk. Can’t pretend you haven’t entertained the thought of being a little closer to him, too. More than just the late nights spent talking or him fixing something you broke.

You shake your head. Of all the times you’ve been tucked away in either of your apartments, he’s never made a move on you. Sure, he’s said some pretty suss things. Flirted with you outside of your usual banter. 

And maybe he’s done things to confuse the ever-loving hell out of you—cooked you breakfast when you were drunk off your ass and hungover the next morning. Lended you one of his expensive record players. Shacked up at your place a few times under the guise of “coming to get Mephisto.” But—

Nah. He’s not like that. You’re just neighbors, right? Unofficial friends. Friends hang out all the time, right?

“He’s not like that,” you say brattishly, stuffing more food into your face. At least not with you. 

You don’t miss your coworker’s fox-like grin spreading in your periphery. She taps her cheek thoughtfully, watching you like a smug sibling about to snitch. 

“Sure, sure. If you say so. He’s still a man, though. He might not have tried you yet—”

“Hush,” you interject. The table shakes, cups rattling as you saw into your sausage with your fork and butter knife. You’re done with this conversation.

Try as you might, however, you can’t banish your thoughts revolving around him. Especially with your coworker watching you like that, silently egging you on.

He’s not that kind of guy. 

He’s still a man, though. 

You’ve repeated it like a mantra throughout your day, even as you mindlessly clacked away at your computer. 

Work was a blur. An exhausting blur. Day gave way to the soothing exhale of night, and you were finally nestled in the quiet sanctuary of your apartment, on your couch, entertaining yourself with a game of Uno. It wasn’t much fun playing alone, but you needed a distraction from the mess of your mind when your favorite show couldn’t help. 

It’s a quarter past 9 when a shuffling sound in the breezeway outside your apartment catches your attention. It’s accompanied by the echoed rasp of a recognizable voice, chuckling and murmuring indiscernible things. 

You peel yourself from your couch as if on autopilot, nose pressed against the cold metal of your door as you peer through the peephole.

It’s your nightly ritual—waiting like an overzealous puppy to greet or send off your neighbor. You don’t always get the luxury of saying goodnight in person. Sometimes, he’s gone for days—weeks—at a time. You don’t know the semantics of his job, but you make it your mission to help assuage whatever burdens he shoulders whenever you can.

He’s there to help you, after all. Whether with a glass of wine, a warm meal, or his company.

So, forgive you for wanting to be a decent neighbor. And you would be tonight if not for the scene that passes through the fisheye of your peephole.

It’s Sylus, clad in something flattering and expensive. There’s no mistaking his broad back and shoulders. The purl of his voice, the wispy dusting of alabaster hair on his collar. But the smaller frame with him, well—

Your heart plummets into your stomach.

She’s pretty from what you can glean from the limited view of your peephole. Donned in a dress that’s form-fitting, voice high and light. Giggling silly things, fastened to Sylus’ side, held there by a virile arm draped around her middle. She’s drunk if the sloppy lean of her body is anything to go by. Sylus angles himself near her ear to whisper something, ushering in a new set of giggles.

You watch with your breath corked in your esophagus until they slide into his apartment together, their enmeshed voices fading from the stilled walls of the hallway.

Huh. Well, so much for him not being that type of guy. 

You grapple with this new revelation, a furrow between your brows, hands falling listlessly at your sides. Numb as you drag yourself back to your couch, bouncing comically on the cushions.

You don’t even know why you’re upset. He's a grown man with a…life. You think. 

It’s the first time you’ve witnessed him bringing someone to his place other than you, but it’s only natural for a guy like him to have options. He’s far from hideous. Has the gift of gab, for God’s sake. He’s charming and the very definition of masculine. 

It just stings a little, knowing that it’s not…you that he’s touching like that. 

So, you are definitely not flinging Uno cards onto the coffee table. Muttering things to yourself, gripping the stack in your hands so tightly, the plastic squeaks. What’s even got your undies in a bunch? The man’s not yours. You’ve never screwed around. Never really showed signs of wanting to, so it makes sense he would seek pleasures of the flesh elsewhere. His world doesn’t solely revolve around you as much as you would like for it to.

You’re halfway through a third round of angry card-flinging before a soft rap at your door nearly sends you some 30 feet into the air.

Stomping to your entrance, you peek through the peephole, and your heart works overtime when you catch sight of a wash of black and scarlet.

Internally, you scold yourself for how gullible you are. You throw the door open like you weren’t just cursing him and his stupid existence moments ago. Try to act nonplussed, crossing your arms and leaning against the doorframe with a haughty look. 

Of course, he would smell good. Look good, propped against the threshold like that, an amused cant to his lips, his physique devastating beneath the tight cling of his turtleneck.

“Hey,” he greets, the sound breathy and easy like warmed honey. 

“Hey, yourself.”

He studies you for a bit. Eyes flicker over your face, and you tamp down the sparkling rush of warmth that wades over your skin at the attention. Even when you’re mad at him, your attraction still finds an annoying way of creeping through the seams.

“This is going to sound incredibly strange, and feel free to tell me to piss off, but…do you mind if I crash on your couch for the night?”

You stand up straight. Blink owlishly, mouth opening and closing. “Huh?” is all you’re able to muster. 

He chuckles, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him this side of bashful. “Yeah. It’s a…bit of a long story, sweetie.”

“O-Okay,” you say, rigidly moving aside.

“Thanks.” The charm is back on, turned up to max capacity. He brushes past you into your apartment, falling onto your couch with a huff. Quirks a brow at the mishap on your table, the carnage having spilled onto the floor. 

“I’m almost afraid to ask, but were you playing Uno by yourself?”

You ignore him, plopping cross-legged on a floor cushion adjacent to him. Bypassing the tick in your brow, you look off to the side, fighting the embarrassment threatening to take hold of your visage. Shouldn’t he be across the hall, entertaining his company?

“Shut up and grab some cards,” you grumble to dispel the green-eyed thoughts stewing in your mind.

“Bossy.” But he doesn’t contest you, gathering the abused cards to shuffle them. 

The remainder of your evening slides by with comfortable quips. With booze and a break to catch up on Love Is Blind—somehow, he’d roped you into watching it. 

You had no idea he was such a sap. Nearly forgotten how miffed you were mere hours ago. 

He assuaged your worries with an explanation as the sun crept over the city. 

The girl in his apartment was an old colleague who’d gotten drunk and convinced herself that she was anything but. 

Being a good samaritan, Sylus brought her to his place to sober up since the apartment complex wasn’t too far from the main strip of bars. He didn’t want any issues when she inevitably woke up. Messing with drunk people wasn’t his thing. 

So that’s how he ended up here, inhabiting your couch like he’d always been a part of the decor. 

He didn’t owe you an explanation. You were just friends. Still, you couldn’t help the quiet smile that twitched your lips after he cleared the air.

At some point in the morning, you both fell asleep. He looked all serene, too big for your sofa, but comfortable. You watched his lashes flutter from your place on the floor, his lips parting with soundless exhales. Even in sleep, he maintained that guarded aura, his arms folded across his chest. 

You were bleary-eyed, gathering yourself from the hardwood to fetch a blanket to drape over him. He shifted, and he was so pretty with the sun bathing him in an angelic glow like that, his hair bright like a halo. 

You were about to retreat to your bedroom when an abrupt knock tore you from your reverie. You glanced at your guest, ensuring he went undisturbed. He needed the rest. He was a night owl, and something about the sun vexed him, so he typically spent his days sleeping when you weren’t impeding on his time.

You moved to the door, foregoing the peephole to open it. Big mistake.

On the other side stood Little Miss Pretty from the night prior, impatiently tapping her foot. Her hair was flattened on one side, and her dress was askew. By the looks of it, sleep hadn’t been kind to her.

“Hi, good morning,” she sighed, schooling her expression into fake politeness. She straightened herself as best she could, but the white patch of dried slob staining her chin did little to help her plight. You bit back a snicker. 

“I’m looking for a friend. He lives across from you. His name’s Skye.”

You quirked a brow at that. Skye? Oh, honey…

You wondered how many other people Sylus had fed a fake alias to. Or if Sylus was even his real name.

“Haven’t seen him,” you chirped over crossed arms. Pulled the door slightly closed behind you, barring the woman from getting a peek at him, nuzzled up so cozily on your couch.

She sighed with slumped shoulders. A childish pout warped her lips. Her voice shifted into something more bratty. “You sure? Tall guy, white hair, red eyes? You can’t miss ‘em.”

“Not ringing a bell, hun. Sorry.”

It was taking all of you to keep up this ruse. You were fighting so hard to tamp down your amusement. This woman reminded you of an antagonist in a Korean drama, the way she was kicking and huffing about. 

“Where the hell did he go,” she groused. You watched her draw her phone from the pocket of her fur coat, your throat growing dry. 

Your blood turned to ice when a familiar ringtone chimed in your apartment behind you. You stiffened comically; mouth hinged open with shock.

The woman’s expression morphed into one of suspicion. She tried to look inside your home, the upbeat ring of Sylus’ phone still flooding the uncomfortable silence.

She narrowed her eyes, trying to assert her way inside. “What the fu—”

“Hey, girlie. Back the hell off before I call the police,” you warned with a hand pushed to her sternum. She insisted on being unruly, so you snatched your taser from the entryway table, the telltale blue sparks and sharp whip of static causing the woman to jolt back with alarm.

“You’re both insane!” she shouted from the hallway, the stomp of her heels reverberating off the walls as she made her way to the stairwell. 

With a relieved sigh deflating your chest, you eased the door shut. Leaned against it, glancing at the man of the hour. He was still fast asleep, his leg dangling off the edge of your sofa. You smirked knowingly, shaking your head as you disappeared into your bedroom. 

You’d let him sleep for as long as he needed. And you’d give him shit when he awoke about his taste in acquaintances. 

(Sylus): hungry? (You): a little. was gonna make some ramen if you want (Sylus): 🤢 (Sylus): that stuffs terrible for your digestion sweetie.  (Sylus): how about i make you dinner instead ? (Sylus): at the supermarket. need anything? (You): 😲😲😲 (You): you keep spoiling me and i might think you like me (Sylus): 😏 (You): nvm. no don’t need anything. lemme know when you’re back (You): i can help with groceries (Sylus): now who likes who? (You): fkdkos (Sylus): ? (You): sorry fat fingers 

You have a nasty habit of not using your peephole as of late.

Your apartment came with one for a reason. Sure, your neighborhood’s been pretty tame since you’ve moved here. But that doesn’t mean the occasional weirdo doesn’t slip past security, roaming the halls and startling the other tenants. 

You’ve found yourself forgoing the use of it a lot lately, given the only person who typically knocks on your door is the guy across the hall. And he usually calls or texts before he bugs you, but that doesn’t stop him from being spontaneous. You suppose today is one of those such cases after he manipulated you with dinner. 

Maybe his hands are full, you muse, unlocking your door. Though you’re doubtful he can’t handle a few bags. You’ve seen him in action at the community gym, thick cords of muscle rippling beneath a tan stretch of skin. 

You draw the door open with a smile, expecting to see a customary thatch of white. What confronts you instead sends a tide of dread washing over your innards. 

“Oh, thank God you’re home,” breathes a voice you haven’t heard in months. A voice that still makes your body stiffen, and your blood run cold. 

When your senses return, you step back into your apartment, thoroughly intending to slam the door in your ex’s face. They’re quicker, however, wedging themselves in the gap before you can shut it. Grabbing for you, a crazed look warping their features.

“Baby, please! Talk to me! I miss you!”

You bat at their hand, trying vainly to crush them, to scare them off. It’s to no avail, and you wonder if they’re coked up, giving you a run for your money as they try to bully their way into your home.

There’s a softball bat propped on the wall, and your fingers brush the base of it in your attempt to grab it. Something to defend yourself since your taser’s out of reach, tucked somewhere in your bag. 

The sounds of your struggle intermingle, your voice strained and panting, please please please, and your ex’s caught between sobs of your name. 

Just a little further. Just—

Suddenly, there’s no more resistance in your door. You stumble against it, a wild look in your eyes. And then, there is the noise of a brief scuffle. Of a back being shoved against a wall, of rusting plastic bags, of “Who the fuck are you?!”

Amid your panicked frenzy, you glance up to see a back to you. Barring you from the view beyond your threshold, and your body’s awash with relief as you register your savior’s form.

“You would do well to piss off,” seethes Sylus, and there’s an edge to his voice you’ve never heard before. You feel it furling in your stomach, burning your lungs. And in this moment, you don’t know who to be more afraid of.

Your ex makes a sound of protest, but you imagine the cut of Sylus’ eyes deterring them.

There is the scuffling of shoes across the concrete flooring of the breezeway, and you listen with bated breath until the cacophony fades at the foot of the stairs, willing your heart to ease down.

Scarlet eyes shift to you, brows knit with concern. “Who was that?” Sylus asks, tone cautious as if he doesn’t want to startle you more than you’ve already been.

You right yourself, smoothing out the wrinkles of your clothes. Finally grab your bat, waving it intimidatingly as you step aside to let your neighbor in.

“My stupid ex. Just know you saved their life. ‘cause I was gonna—” You make swinging gestures, the metal bat swooping in the air. The corners of Sylus’ eyes crinkle. 

“Slow down before you hurt yourself.” He kneels to retrieve the bags he’d tossed down in his haste to intervene. You scurry over to help, gathering up spilled food.

Once you’re both inside, the bags placed haphazardly on the counter, you’re seated on your sofa, nursing the rush of adrenaline still spuming through you like the hot rush of a geyser. 

“You need to get a restraining order,” says Sylus. He emerges from your kitchen with a tense set to his jaws, two bottles of Angry Orchard clasped between his fingers. 

Plopping down beside you, an arm draped over the headrest, he shoves a bottle into your hand, side-eyeing you as he throws his head back for a swig. 

You babysit the cider, the crisp condensation of it serving to ground you. “Yeah, yeah.”

“I’m not asking, sweetie.”

You bristle under the weight of his tone, feeling much like a scolded child. You know this. Should’ve done it long ago the first time your ex took it upon themselves to do surprise pop-ups at your place—at your job.  

“And an alarm system.”

“I know, I know.”

“I can take you right now to look for one—”

“I got it, Sy! Fuck, I-I got it.” You release a weighted sigh, warring with yourself. 

Not only do you feel silly for being so lackadaisical with your life. But now, you feel even worse for the seemingly impenetrable silence that settles between you. You didn’t mean to yell, frustration and adrenaline having burbled to the surface. He was just worried. No need to take your emotions out on him. 

Sylus exhales slowly, an unreadable expression descending onto his face whilst staring at the wall.

“Sorry,” you murmur, unconsciously patting his quad. You don’t miss how he stiffens; don’t miss the tight coiling of tendons in his neck. You retract your hand, instead drumming your fingers along the bottom of your bottle.

“I’m assuming this isn’t the first time this has happened,” queries Sylus in an attempt to dispel the tense atmosphere.

You shake your head, shrinking into yourself. Stare at your lap, pulling at some frayed threads in your bottoms. 

“How did they even manage to get up here?”

You shrug. The security guards at the gates aren’t always the most attentive. Besides, sometimes, the pin pad leading into the lobby malfunctions, making it easier for anyone to just slip into your complex.

Unprompted, you begin to bare yourself, explaining the possibilities of why your ex showed up.

Sylus listens attentively. Doesn’t interrupt you, watching the subtle shifts of your expressions as you speak. 

You tell him that things weren’t bad in the beginning about two years ago. How your ex said and did all the right things, and they were wonderful. But they wanted something you weren’t ready for. You had some growing up to do, so you broke things off. Moved to another city, started a new job. 

You didn’t bank on them following you. 

The visits were random at first. Occasional run-ins at the park, the bar. Things soon blossomed into something more concerning when your ex found your new address after you relocated to another part of the city to ease the stress of the commute. 

This was their second time making an appearance at your door. You knew you should’ve done something to protect yourself sooner, but you didn’t think much of it then. Figured they would live and let be. Today proved otherwise. 

“You’re grossly naive, sweetie.” 

You snort before gulping down the remnants of your cider. “Way to make me feel better.”

He chuckles, and it’s comforting, your thighs pressing together amid your dinky couch. “It’s what I’m here for. But I could understand how you could drive someone to such extremes.”

You glare at him. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means…” 

Before you know what’s about, he’s panning in, flooding your vision with the scarlet shine of his eyes. With the wispy dance of his lashes until his breath fans over your molten cheeks. Limber fingers sneak beneath your chin, slightly tilting your head back. 

Warmth wades over you. Your breath swells in your chest. Lips purse as a mysterious shade of burgundy leaks over his irises. His voice drops a few octaves, husky, the sound of it pinching in your stomach.

“It means that you’re someone worth fighting for.”

You scoff, shaking yourself away from his hold. Ignore the bashfulness creeping into your face in favor of being a cheeky little shit. 

“All right, Li Shang. Getting a little too serious over there.”

He huffs a laugh in response, popping up to grab another round of ciders from your fridge.

Ingredients sat untouched on the countertop as your evening eased by. You’d settled on a pizza, catching up on shows and talking, long after the moon had pinned itself to the center of the sky. 

Sylus promised to teach you how to use a gun. He had plenty and would carve out time in his schedule to take you to a range. He didn’t press much after, instead letting the weight of your evening melt from your shoulders. 

He was reluctant to leave you, even after sunbeams spilled through your blinds and you snoozed so quietly, cheek propped against his shoulder. 

His hand never left your thigh. Possessive in its touch as he mirrored your affections from before. 

It’s strange.

Today is your birthday. You’re enjoying yourself, filled with enough alcohol to tranquilize a small goat. 

Your co-workers had dragged you out. Surprised you with dinner, a cake. Took you to the strip of bars lining the streets adjacent to your apartment complex. You were all smiles until your cheeks ached, and you’d nearly thrown up from laughing so much. 

Still, you feel…empty. Like something is missing. Or someone. 

You look at your phone for the umpteenth time. Scroll through your messages, reliving the moment in your head. 

Sylus was the first to wish you a happy birthday. It made you swell with overwhelming happiness, knowing he’d woken up so early to be the first to say it. You don’t think you’ve ever cried harder when he sent a voice message of him singing “Happy Birthday.”

God, for everything he was good at, poor baby couldn’t hold a note to dig himself out of a hole. Still, you cherished the gesture, lying in bed for the first hour you’d been awake, replaying said message and rolling around your bed like an enamored teen.

Even now, you replay the voice note, holding the speaker to your ear. It’s hard to hear it amid the live band playing and the merriment around you at the bar. Try as you might to enjoy what remains of your night, you can’t keep your thoughts from drifting back to a certain smug figure clad in black. 

(You): 🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛💥💥💥 (Sylus): hows it going birthday babe? (You): 😭😭😭 (You): u shuld be her e (Sylus) im sorry sweetie. i had some work to catch up on.  (Sylus): you must be having a good time. 😏 (You): fuk wrk 🖕🖕🖕 (You): am not drink ur dronk (Sylus): lol. you sound plastered. (Sylus): do i need to come rescue you? (You): hum (Sylus): ? (You): hone (You): home (Sylus): 🫤 (Sylus): we need to have a serious talk about you enabling autocorrect. (You): r u (You): home (Sylus): about to be. why ?? (Sylus): sweetie?

Somehow, you find yourself staring at the glossy, black numbers embossed on the top center of his door. 302. It’s ingrained in your memory. You’d probably find your way to his apartment with your eyes closed, driven to it by the familiar smell and homeliness it exudes. 

You’re still a little tipsy. Took some time to sober up as best you could before ditching your friends and catching an Uber back to your complex. You had enough sense to gather everything you’d shown up with. Didn’t hitch a ride with any strangers regardless of how many of them tried to pull you into their arms as you stumbled out of the bar. 

You had a one-track mind. Only wanted to spend the rest of your birthday with him.

With a goofy smile plastered on your face, you knock on his door. You’re singing that infectious song you can’t get out of your head when it swings open.

“Apateu-pateu, apateu-pateu,” you chant, shaking your hips from side to side.

He greets you with an omniscient smirk, eyes softening whilst leaning against the doorframe. “Well, hello, birthday babe.”

“Sup!” you return a little too enthusiastically, pitching forward until Sylus steadies you with his hands. You giggle like a drunken fool, peering at him. Hadn’t realized how good his hands felt, searing through the fabric of your top. 

Come to think of it, you hadn’t noticed many things about him before. His lips are a pretty shade of pink. Skin textured, nose sharp, cheeks high. Little flecks of amber dwell between the scarlet rinse of his eyes. His hair falls into his face, damp from the shower he probably had before answering the door.

“I take it you had a good night,” he says, gaze painting a steady triangle between your eyes and mouth.

“Almost,” you whisper back, surprised by the huskiness of your voice. You lose yourself in the idle stir of his eyes. In the fragility of his smile, and you feel so safe in his hands like this. 

You don’t know what compels you to do it. To conquer the space of hot, dizzying breaths between you. But, you sort of…well…

Your inhibitions hit the floor. With your fingers wrapped tenderly around his wrists, you angle yourself closer to kiss him. You almost pull away when he stiffens. But he seemingly relaxes, and his lips cautiously move against yours as he unconsciously guides you closer.

You cling to the sleeves of his sweatshirt. He encircles your waist in his powerful arms, fastening you to the hard press of his body. He kisses you like he’s waited lifetimes to do it, one hand molding around the apple of your cheek. 

When your tongue sloppily prods the barrier of his teeth, he bristles. Draws away from you with a resounding smack, blinking wildly. You’re confused. Your heart sinks. You try again to draw him back in, but he gently pushes you away, shaking his head to dispel the bleariness. To chase away the spell that’s fallen over you. 

“Baby, wait. No. Not…not like this,” he rasps through kiss-swollen lips, holding you by your hips. You’re wounded. A hot flush of embarrassment washes over you, and your brows knit together like those of a confused puppy.

“Wha-what’s wrong? Did I—am I—”

“No, no, you’re…you're perfect,” he soothes with a chuckle, a thumb gliding over your bottom lip. “Beautiful, even. I just…I don’t think now is a good time to do this.”

“Oh.” You deflate, a scorching film of tears clouding your vision. “Oh, okay. Um, I’ll just—yeah, I’ll go. I’ll…see you around, I guess.”

You slide out of his arms, too mortified to look back as you fumble with your keys. After he murmurs a hoarse, “good night.” Did you misread him before? Misinterpret his actions, his words? 

You’re numb as you sink into your couch. Sobriety slowly creeps in. Stray tears blister your cheeks, but you don’t full-on sob. Can’t bring yourself to, instead laughing hysterically with your face buried in your hands, swallowed by the bleak loneliness of your apartment.

Happy Birthday, indeed.

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

SAGAU where the Creator is slain once, accused of being an imposter, and reborn as... a Melusine.

there's screaming and pain, the sensation of a thin blade digging into your chest- then nothing. nothing but the soft melody of running water. tentatively you open your eyes are met with dancing colors and shapes, little shell houses and baubles making a small, cozy village. your hands have become mittens, your skin swirling with pretty patterns, a pair of antennae sprouting from your head, and where there were previously cuts dripping with blood have turned to markings that shimmer slightly in the light. another Melusine approaches you and asks if you're lost, and when you merely shrug she introduces herself as Cosanzeana and shows you her slowly growing flower garden.

it's nice here, in Merusea Village. unlike the rest of Teyvat, the Melusine don't know nor care much about any sort of Creator myths- they came from Elynas, after all- so they happily regard you as a sibling who simply got lost on the way. finally you're free from the world above, everyone who chases and tries to harm you, spending your days collecting components to trade and swimming beneath the waves. Mamere in particular becomes a close friend, both of you regarded as a little strange but still beloved by all your siblings. she shows you her artwork and you help her collect paint, and in the coldest nights when you're swarmed by bad dreams, you tell her of your previous life as she swears to keep it a secret.

the only time you venture out into the far caverns alone is when you meet a familiar face- Childe's Foul Legacy form. you always loved the transformation, when Teyvat was just a game on your computer, but now you hastily hop a few steps back. the others treated you as a fraud, tearing at your skin until you gave in and died- he would be exactly the same. but Foul Legacy just blinks, slowly crouching to your height and staring into your eyes, speckled with tiny stars. he trills quietly in awe, then lowers his head into a bow in presence of the true Creator.

the other Melusine cluster around you when you bring him back to Merusea, curiously poking at his armor and glittery wings. you all see him as beautiful, and he is beautiful! Legacy stays with you in the village, accepted with open arms, much like Seymour stayed with Mamere for a time, and it becomes common to see a slightly sparkly Melusine running around with an Abyssal beast at their heels. he swims with you, navigating through the Primordial Sea, and shields you from any outsiders that happen to appear, the ones who dared to harm his Creator so horribly.

you, a Melusine, and Foul Legacy, your protector and best friend.

[horsesarecreatures]

Horses are among the world’s most elite athletes: When galloping, they can consume twice as much oxygen per kilogram as the fittest humans. All that oxygen supercharges horses’ cells’ energy-producing compartments as they crank out ATP, the chemical needed to power their impressive muscles. But making so much cellular fuel so quickly comes with a catch: the manufacture of pernicious byproduct molecules called reactive oxygen species (ROS), which can wreak havoc in cells.

How horses dealt with this biological trade-off and evolved into premier endurance athletes has long intrigued biologists. Researchers report today in Science that they have uncovered a big part of it, identifying a key mutation that lets horses safely produce so much ATP. The trait helped pave the way for horses to go from dog-size critters millions of years ago to the high-endurance athletes we know today.

The study’s detailed molecular work makes it “exceptional,” says José Calbet, an expert on the cellular responses to exercise at the University of Las Palmas de Gran Canaria who wasn’t involved with the study.

The mutation in question occurs in the gene that encodes a protein called KEAP1, which acts as a biochemical bouncer, binding to a different protein called NRF2 to prevent it from entering the cell’s nucleus, where it would otherwise activate stress-response genes that help blunt cell damage.

But ROS can help NRF2 sneak in by causing KEAP1 to release its bind on the protein, allowing it to enter the nucleus and trigger the cell’s stress-response genes.

Johns Hopkins University ophthalmologist and clinician scientist Elia Duh, a senior author of the new study, didn’t set out to study horses. Initially, Duh was interested in the KEAP1-NRF2 system because its role in activating stress-response genes makes it a tempting target for treating inflammation—and aging-related conditions, such as blinding retinal diseases, irritable bowel syndrome, and neurodegeneration.

Duh wondered whether any insights could be gleaned from studying the evolution of these proteins in different animals. So, he teamed up with Gianni Castiglione, an evolutionary biologist and biochemist at Vanderbilt University. Together, they scanned hundreds of vertebrate genomes looking for notable mutations to the gene for KEAP1.

The team’s genomic work revealed birds had almost completely lost the gene, presumably an adaptation to the extreme demands of flight. When they looked in horses, researchers noticed what initially appeared to be a DNA sequence that encoded an unusually short—and therefore presumably nonfunctional—version of the KEAP1 protein. But when Duh’s and Castiglione’s team grew horse cells in culture, it discovered the protein was very much there and working. “Naturally, I was worried I was doing something wrong,” Castiglione says. “Then one day, a light bulb went off.”

As it turns out, the computer algorithm scientists had used to scan the horse genome had made a mistake. The algorithm had spotted a specific kind of mutation in the part of the KEAP1 gene that changed the messenger RNA from CGA—which codes for the amino acid arginine—to UGA, which is what’s known as a “stop codon.”

Normally, the cellular machinery interprets UGA as a sign to stop translating the RNA into a protein. But instead, the horses’ genetic machinery recodes the stop codon into a different amino acid, cysteine, causing it to ignore that order. This phenomenon, known as a stop codon read-through, is common among viruses but rare in multicellular organisms.

“The identification of this evolutionarily significant UGA recoding event represents a potentially seminal finding, offering a model for uncovering other yet-unidentified cases of stop codon read-through,” says Hozumi Motohashi, a biologist at Tohoku University who has studied KEAP1 and NRF2.

That the replacement is a cysteine is particularly notable, Castiglione says. KEAP1 senses cellular stress through its cysteines, which contain sulfur atoms whose reactions with ROS, induce the chemical changes that cause KEAP1 to let go of NRF2. The mutation the researchers had identified adds another place on KEAP1 for ROS to interact, which makes the protein more sensitive to stress—and lets horse cells respond much faster to the cellular stress of intense exercise. “It does make complete sense [that] by introducing another cysteine, another sulfur, you would have heightened sensitivity,” Castiglione says.

What’s more, this tweaking of KEAP1 is a “[key] genetic component to the puzzle of the evolution of horses,” Duh says. “Once they figured out how to run, they could occupy all kinds of ecological niches,” Castiglione adds.

The finding could also point the way toward new kinds of drugs to treat diseases by targeting the specific parts of the KEAP1 protein that help horses hoof it. “By looking at what evolution has figured out, we know this is a viable strategy,” Castiglione says.

Source

[mingapace]

𝕺𝖓 𝖆 𝕷𝖊𝖆𝖘𝖍

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴘᴇᴛ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ꜰ!ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ꜱᴍᴜᴛ, ᴅᴇꜱᴘᴇʀᴀᴛᴇ-ᴘᴀᴛʜᴇᴛɪᴄ ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜱᴜʙ/ꜱᴇʀᴠɪᴄᴇ ᴛᴏᴘ ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ᴅᴏᴍ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ꜰᴇᴍᴀʟᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ʜᴜᴍᴀɴ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ ᴇʀᴀ, ʜᴀɴᴅᴊᴏʙꜱ (ᴍ ʀᴇᴄᴇɪᴠɪɴɢ), ᴄᴜᴍ ᴇᴀᴛɪɴɢ, ᴘ ɪɴ ᴠ, ᴍᴏᴀɴɪɴɢ, ᴘᴇᴛ ᴘʟᴀʏ, ᴡʜɪɴɪɴɢ, ᴘʀᴀɪꜱɪɴɢ, ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴅᴇɢʀᴀᴅɪɴɢ, ᴅʀᴏᴏʟɪɴɢ, ᴍɪʀʀᴏʀ ᴘᴏʀɴ, ᴜɴᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛ ꜱᴇx, ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ, ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ᴇxᴄᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ɴɪᴄᴋɴᴀᴍᴇꜱ. [Also, English is not my first language]

𝔹𝕒𝕤𝕖𝕕 𝕠𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕄𝕒𝕚𝕟 𝕊𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕪

ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ: 4K

ᴛᴀɢꜱ: @lunaleah

Things with Remmick kept changing. Slowly, of course—like frost retreating in spring, leaving patches of bare earth in the ice—but they were changing.

You no longer slept with a vial of holy water under your pillow, nor did you roam the house pointing a rifle at him whenever he suddenly appeared behind you.

The tension had softened, and the sex—well, that helped quite a bit.

Still, there was one barrier he hadn’t crossed yet: the bed.

He still slept at your feet, like a loyal animal that didn’t dare claim more than what he’d been given.

Technically, you hadn’t set that boundary yourself—but you’d realized it. He was waiting for permission.

And you… you hadn’t given it to him yet.

You found comfort in not yet sharing that level of closeness. For some strange reason, sleeping next to him felt deeply intimate. Yes, more intimate than the furious, casual sex you sometimes gave in to.

But your doubts—while under analysis—were the lesser evil.

There was a bigger problem in the house: your cat couldn’t stand Remmick. A creature used to ruling the house, now forced to share its territory with a larger predator. Literally. And of course, Remmick returned the sentiment with equal intensity.

They growled at each other, hissed, traded glares like in a Western film before throwing themselves at one another.

More than once, you had to separate them. You’d learned to read the moment just before it exploded—when your cat’s fur stood up like a lit fuse.

You often had to lock the two in separate rooms. Like quarreling children. And you feared, just as often, that Remmick might lose control.

His teeth were always there—barely hidden behind his lips, sharp as razors. Ready.

One evening, after yet another incident, after scolding them both, your cat curled up on your stomach before Remmick could, almost like a further act of defiance.

And you absentmindedly stroked it, turning your focus back to the movie.

Remmick, on the other side of the couch, sulked. He didn’t say anything. Not his usual annoying remarks during the most intense scenes.

That night, he didn’t even climb to the end of the bed.

He left into the night, and the next morning, you found him already at the stove, making the usual breakfast.

For three days, he was distant. Not cold or rude, but… hurt.

As if you’d made a choice. Declared a preference.

On the fourth day, however, you pushed the cat off the couch and offered Remmick its spot—on your lap.

“Don’t want it?” you asked, your eyes soft, knowing it would make his self-raised walls crumble.

Of course, he gave in almost instantly.

You stroked his hair, and he curled into it like a dog on his favorite blanket. You let him stay there even after turning off the TV, especially because he didn’t seem eager to move.

This day, you were sitting at the living room table, the blue light of the computer casting onto your face as you scanned the dozens of rows and columns on the screen.

You were doing inventory.

Or at least, trying to.

The task wasn’t new. You had a habit of logging the store’s stock every two weeks so you could restock early.

It was a routine that made you feel in control. It reminded you who you were: methodical, precise, present.

Yet… something felt off today.

You scanned the page again, as if looking for an inconsistency, but when you realized the problem wasn’t in the file—it was in your home—you frowned.

There was silence. Too much silence.

Remmick wasn’t talking, and that bothered you more than any provocation.

By now, the vampire would’ve found some way to distract you. His voice echoed through even your busiest days: a whisper, an out-of-place question. “What d'ya reckon happens if ya mix powdered milk and blood?” “D'ya think yer cat hates me more or less than it hates dogs?" “Why've ya got two citrus juicers when there’s never a fruit 'round here and you live off takeaway from next door?”

Annoying. But predictable. And, in a way, familiar.

But today… nothing.

Not even a footstep, not a held breath, not even the muffled sound of his clawed hands tapping the doorframe in that cute, pathetic way.

Only the steady hum of the fan and the dull thud of your own heartbeat.

You closed the laptop and stood up. Your legs creaked slightly under the sudden movement—too abrupt after sitting still so long.

“Remmick?” you called.

No answer.

You sighed as you entered the hallway, walking slowly past the kitchen. The fridge was closed, lights off. Everything in place.

Your cat appeared from around the corner and brushed past your legs, heading back into the living room.

In the bathroom, the toothbrush cup was untouched. The utility closet door was closed.

Maybe he’d gone out to the garden? But it was still early. The light streamed in bright and steady, and Remmick only went out at dusk—when the sky turned orange and the shadows stretched across the walls like fingers.

You rolled your neck with a soft exhale, then made your way toward your bedroom.

The door was ajar—and your breath caught in your throat when your eyes focused on the scene.

He was standing in front of the full-length mirror, backlit.

His figure—solid and well-proportioned—was still. His left arm raised and tense. He was shirtless. The pants—the ones he had you buy in three identical pairs—were unbuttoned, revealing the curve of his hip. The suspenders hung down, abandoned along his thighs. His dark hair was messy as usual, giving him that desperate look.

But that’s not what struck you. It was what he was holding.

Your dog’s old leather collar.

He had placed it around his neck. Not buckled yet, but resting on his skin.

The clasp nestled just below his throat, and with two fingers, he held the tag, watching its reflection in the mirror.

He stood completely still, his bearded face shadowed, eyes vacant.

The air hung, suspended.

You didn’t say anything for a few seconds.

You stared at him.

As if the scene didn’t belong to you. As if you were looking through frosted glass at something forbidden.

You couldn’t take your eyes off the point where leather met his skin. Something, at that image, pulsed under your ribs. Not just by the strangeness of it—you were used to strange by now with him. It was the tenderness, the almost ceremonial care with which he held the tag.

A part of you—the part used to deflect things with sarcasm—took over, stifling the desire.

You parted your lips, half-smiling. Your voice came out softer than you’d meant.

“I think I already told you not to snoop through my underwear drawers, didn’t I?”

Remmick flinched slightly, as if he’d been too absorbed to hear you. All his supernatural predator senses drowned.

He dropped his gaze almost immediately with something like shame. Or arousal. Or both.

The hand holding the collar lowered slowly, almost reluctantly.

You saw the gold chain around his neck shimmer again in the LED light.

“I wasn’t… snooping. Was only having a look—” he stopped. Swallowed. “Spotted a wee box down at the bottom, closed up like. Got curious, so I thought it might be somethin' of yours.”

He said it like yours meant sacred.

You stepped away from the door and approached slowly. Held out a hand without speaking, and he, docile, handed you the collar.

His fingers brushed yours—and for a moment, that was all: skin against skin, brief and intense. Like everything between you.

Then you took it.

The collar weighed little, but the moment you held it, you felt the worn leather flex in your hand—as if it remembered.

You brought the tag closer, and the letters engraved in the metal etched into your heart.

Your dog’s name.

You closed your eyes. Something twisted in your stomach. A small, familiar ache. Sweet, like an old scar that flares up when the seasons change.

You saw yourself again, crouched in the driveway years ago, with that enthusiastic furball licking your face. You saw the runs in the park, his tail thumping against everything, his dusty paws on freshly cleaned floors.

A shaky breath filled your chest.

You felt Remmick’s eyes piercing your skull, like he was trying to follow your thoughts.

Trying to understand why you were aching so deeply.

You gently ran your thumb over the tag, then flipped it.

On the other side—the one Remmick had been reading in the mirror—it said:

Owner.

And below it, your name. Yours.

You smiled. A crooked little smirk. Unexpected, as a thought crossed your mind.

The memory dissolved, and you felt amused. And something more.

You turned toward Remmick. Found him exactly as bided—deep grey eyes locked on you. His bare shoulders tensed. His pale skin catching the faint light through the side window.

No more shame on his face. Just desire. Pure and simple. But not the lust that used to consume you. This was deeper. Barer. As if he needed something that once belonged to someone else.

The collar still sat between your fingers.

“Do you want one too?” you asked softly.

Your voice wasn’t teasing. It was real. Almost gentle.

Remmick opened his mouth. Then bit his lower lip. Held it. Swallowed. And said:

“Yeah… I want somethin' that says I’m yours. All of me.” His voice cracked on the last words.

It wasn’t dramatic. It was honest. It was pathetic.

Beautifully pathetic.

You stepped behind him. Slowly.

Watched him in the mirror as you lifted the collar and slid it around his neck—more resolute this time.

Remmick tilted his chin up, just slightly. Without being asked. Offered his throat like it was instinct.

He hardly breathed. Not that he needed to.

Your hand moved calmly. You brought one end of the collar around the back of his neck, following the curve of his throat. The leather slid over his smooth, taut skin like a promise spoken without words. The buckle was cold. The metal pricked your fingers. But you were careful. Precise. You slipped the other end through and began to tighten it.

Not too much—but not loose either.

You wanted him to feel it.

Remmick made a choked sound. His muscles tensed slightly again, his shoulders lowered, his throat fluttered with an almost imperceptible tremor.

In the mirror, you locked eyes with him—watching the red glow pulse in his irises.

His canines peeked past his slightly parted lips.

The buckle snapped into place with a click. Firm. Final.

The tag dangled. You heard it clink against the other chain he already wore.

You had turned it to show only your name and your ownership of him.

You paused.

Your hands still at his collar, like you were weighing the meaning of it. Your fingers brushed the skin stretched under the strap.

His scent reached you: something metallic, cold, laced with soap and your fabric softener.

He had become part of your home. Without you even noticing.

“Look at yourself,” you said.

Remmick raised his eyes.

In the reflection, your eyes meet.

Your hands glide down along his collarbone, then lower — slow — tracing the lines of his chest. You feel him stiff against you when your nail grazes a nipple. But you don’t stop. You keep descending, pressing your lips to the back of his shoulder while watching him in the mirror.

He’s cold, as always. But it doesn’t disturb you. On the contrary, it makes you want to set him on fire.

You reach the waistband of his pants, still loose, and slip your fingers underneath — unhurried. You’re not rushing. You want him to savor the torment, just like he often made you.

A thin string of drool slips from his parted lips, and you smile against his skin.

And when your hand closes around his erection, his body folds slightly forward, as if the gesture had split him in two. A moan tears from his chest — thin, hoarse, like an involuntary plea.

“Stand up straight for me, Remmick,” you whisper, gently pushing him back upright, your free hand pressing softly against his throat.

You hear him murmur your name as he tears his gaze away from the mirror, nuzzling his nose into your hair.

“Y've no idea what y'do to me, darlin'…”

Your hand slides down his shaft. He throbs, alive, almost warm in contrast to the rest of him. Your fingers outline the veins in small strokes until they reach the tip, where you collect the first sign of his desire, spreading it all around.

“Ma’am…”

The word leaves him broken — desperate — as you begin moving your hand up and down. You feel the drool mess your ear where he breathes, ragged, and a shiver runs down your spine.

“I like how that sounds,” you grin. “Say it again.”

“Ma’am, I'm beggin' ya…please don't stop...” His breath catches when you squeeze just at the base of his cock, near his balls, and he throws his head back onto your shoulder.

The mirror reflects his pitiful, desperate state. His cheeks are flushed, fangs visibly longer, forcing his mouth to remain open. Saliva slides down his throat, seeping beneath the collar.

His eyes are half-lidded but still looking, just as you told him to.

“You’re such a mess. Drooling and leaking like a fucking dog,” you whisper, brushing your cheek against his temple. Your hand keeps its steady, slow rhythm — just enough to push him into despair — and you feel him push his hips forward, craving more.

“Oh, you like that.” His cock twists beneath your palm, soaking his underwear with precum, and it almost makes you drool too. “You like being my messy little mutt, don’t you?”

He chokes out a little whimper when you sink your teeth into his neck, bent perfectly for your mouth.

“Fuckin' hell… yes. Wouldn't want to be anythin' else for ya. Yer always so good to me, love. So kind.”

His eyes meet yours again — red, filled with barely restrained lust. But you feel it. His shoulders stiffen. His thighs press together.

He’s close.

And you’re always generous with him. You wouldn’t deny him this.

Your fingers wrap fully around him and your wrist picks up speed. His cock answers eagerly, growing harder, pulsing with need.

Remmick accidentally — or maybe not — scratches his lip, and a thick line of blood joins the drool staining his chin.

“Are you close, sweetheart?” you tease, fully satisfied when he nods, fast and wild. “You’ve been good. You can come.”

And he does. You feel him melt into your hand with a sob, head falling forward, body taut like a drawn bow. His hips lock as pleasure shoots through him like electricity.

“Thank you…” he whimpers, as his release soaks through his underwear. “Thank you, thank you, thank you…”

You smile gently and your hand pulls away. He lets out a quiet moan, like losing the last point of contact with the world. You start to turn away, ready to go clean yourself in the bathroom — but he grabs you, hard.

One arm wraps around your waist, the other seizes your wrist and raises it up.

His bare chest presses against your shirt-covered back, and you can hear the low, barely-there heartbeat that accelerates only for you.

You watch as he bends to your palm and licks — slowly — gathering his own release with his tongue. It runs between your fingers, over each joint, until you’re partially clean again.

You turn in his hold. The need to look into his eyes takes over.

Remmick returns your gaze. The red is gone, replaced with a human gray. Lust has vanished, but something deeper shines in its place.

It’s not hunger. It’s not craving.

It’s something that lives in the space between his mouth and yours — which he closes in an instant.

The kiss is different than usual. Slower.

There’s no urgency. No devouring need.

It’s a promise. A prayer.

He kisses you like he’s waited years for this.

Like there’s nothing in the world he’d rather devour than your lips.

He takes your face between his hands — carefully, without claws. His fingers tremble just slightly, but they’re firm the moment they touch your skin. He holds you like that as his mouth opens — just enough to welcome yours. Your tongues brush and curl into a rhythm of recognition.

You taste blood, his release, his desperation.

When he pulls back, his eyes remain locked on you.

“I reckon the reason I didn’t die when I should've… is 'cause the world was waitin' on me to find you.”

His hands explore you with a slowness that surprises you — even now. Not like someone seeking a body, but someone seeking a home. He brushes along your arms, your ribs, the soft curve of your waist. His fingertips slip beneath layers of fabric, touch your bare stomach as though he’s tracing a secret poem along your skin.

You shiver beneath the attention, but don’t pull away. You don’t think you could even if you tried.

He takes your hand in his, silent, and guides you back to the bed. He doesn’t undress you immediately. He lays you down on the sheets as if placing you on an altar.

In the meantime, he must have kicked away his boxers and pants — because when he settles between your thighs, he’s bare. Completely. All that remains is the collar, snug around his throat.

His cock presses against your stomach, hard again, demanding more. You silently thank whatever vampire magic grants him such rapid recovery. The hem of your shirt has risen just enough to let in the cold air of the room.

He stretches out on top of you — not to pin you down, but to cover you. Protect you. Envelope you.

Remmick kisses you again, deeper now, like his heart had climbed into his throat and wants to be devoured whole. His palms splay across your bare hips, rising higher, dragging the fabric up with them.

You realize he has no intention of unbuttoning your shirt — so you lift your arms, letting him peel it off over your head. When he pulls back to do it, he kisses every new inch of exposed skin as if he’s seeing you naked for the first time.

And maybe he is.

And maybe, that’s exactly how you want to be seen. Every day. Forever.

When he gets to your underwear, he drags them slowly down your legs, and you’re sure he’s about to bury himself between your thighs again — his favorite place — but you stop him. Slide two fingers under the collar at his throat and pull upward, hard.

He gasps, a little guttural sound that’s half protest, half delight. But when your thighs close tightly around his hips, his smile returns — crooked and satisfied.

Your fingers comb through his dark hair, playing with the small knots you find along the way, and it makes him hum — like a purring cat — the sound pulling your own smile out of hiding.

You’d had sex before. Many times.

Remmick had always been hungry. Always physical. Always attentive. He’d learned your rhythms, your sounds, even your silences.

He’d always asked. Never taken. He’d touched you with worship, eaten you like a rite, taken you like a gift.

But this… this had never happened.

Not like this.

Not this slow. Not this full. Not this… domestic.

He pushes inside you while your mind is still floating. There’s no warning, no fingers — but you don’t need it. You’re so wet and open, he slides in easily. That damp pressure between your thighs could only be your own arousal.

“Rem…” you sigh, your arms instinctively circling around his neck, pulling him close. You feel the cold of the medallion brushing your clavicles as he rolls his hips forward, mouth descending toward your neck, and thrusts into you again — deep, firm, sure.

“Fuck, darlin'… I could live inside ya like this forever,” he stammers against your skin, his hands lifting your hips slightly to find that perfect spot you crave — and as always, he finds it.

Your eyes roll back as he hits it again. And again.

“Ya feel unreal...so fuckin' good,” he groans, his pace faltering, the rhythm of his thrusts slipping into a stutter. You hear the tiny, familiar whimpers escape him — the ones you’ve learned mean he’s close. “I can’t even fucking think straight— love—”

He rotates his hips in a way that makes you see stars, your spine arching beneath him, your nails digging into his back like claws anchoring you to this world.

You feel the climax boiling in your stomach, rising fast, your legs trembling as you try to keep up — but he holds you. One hand supporting your lower back, the other gripping the underside of your thigh, keeping you spread wide around him.

“Remmick—” you gasp, gripping the collar again, yanking it. “I’m gonna come—”

“Look at me,” he pleads, lifting his face from your neck, locking eyes with you. “I want to see ya. I want ya to look too. Look at what you're doin' to me...Come with me. Please—”

It’s hard to keep your eyes open when the knot inside you snaps. Your cunt clenches around him, pulling him deeper as you come, and he falls with you, the moment he feels it. He keeps moving, slower now, hips rocking through it, pumping the last of his cum deep into you, like he’s trying to mark your inside forever.

The blankets are tangled. Your skin is wet with sweat. Your back aches from the angle, but you feel full. Complete.

Remmick collapses on your chest, lips barely brushing your skin, still trembling through the aftershocks. Eyes closed — but you can feel it: he’s not asleep.

And then… he moves.

Carefully. Like someone who isn’t used to staying.

He lifts himself slightly, eyes scanning for his pants on the floor. Reaching for them, as if to dress. To withdraw. To return to his place.

At your feet.

Far away.

As always.

But you don’t want as always anymore. Not after this.

You reach out without lifting your head, and pull him back down by the collar, slow and firm. He drops back into the bed with a stunned look, and you roll onto your side, silent, guiding his arm around you until he holds you.

Not permitted.

Required.

Remmick stiffens at first.

Then something breaks.

A long breath. A quiet surrender. A deep, honest relief.

His body softens against yours, curling into you.

“…Can I stay, yeah?” he whispers, instantly regretful for asking aloud.

“I thought that was obvious,” you murmur, eyes closed.

Remmick smiles against your nape.

He kisses your shoulder. Once. Twice. A third time — soft and grateful.

His fingers caress your stomach, then your waist, then your hip, as though redrawing the boundaries of what he’s allowed to touch.

He pulls you closer. Nose buried in your hair.

Something moves outside the room, catching his attention.

A shadow glides past the half-open door. Light paws. A high tail. Indifferent.

Your cat.

Remmick opens one eye.

Sees him pass. The little animal doesn’t stop — just a lazy glance. The usual feline disdain.

But the vampire…smiles.

He throws the cat a look of triumph — not smug, just assured. “This time, I’m the one in bed. Next to her.”

The cat pauses. As if understanding. Then, with solemn dignity, walks away.

And with that, Remmick curls back around you and finally, peacefully — sleeps.

[augite-protector]

Ok jokes aside here's some actual veteran advice about NOTN:

-Set goals. How many eggs? How many chests? Which will you open, which will you sell? How will you get them? This will help prevent overwhelm. I personally aim for 50 eggs, and I open half-sell half.

-Higgins is your friend. Back in my day we had to wait for swipp like heathens. Note which items you have for trade at Higgins, and which you need. You are going to have stacks upon stacks of one part of the trade and none of the other, it is normal. Trade with people. Sell on the AH.

-Use a guide. Not every item drops in each venue. Some venues are better than others for grinding specific items.

-Jump between venues. Variety is the spice of life! Bamboo Falls is traditionally the best for pure chest grinding, but Waterway, Rainsong Jungle, and Sandswept Delta have always been nice to me. Everyone has their own superstitions about which venue is best. Realistically, they're probably all the same at this point.

-Keep Baldwin moving. There's like 40 individual items you can brew during NOTN at this point. When grinding, melt down stuff. When asleep, brew the items.

-If you want pure profit, you will make more money selling chests. Don't open the chests for hopes of selling eggs, and by god don't open eggs in hopes of striking big. I mean. You can! I do it every year. It's fun! But I lose so much cash.

-Do your dailies!! Just like fests, you can now get random chests doing anything and everything. Some people go nuts trying to bond with every familiar. Only do this if you have a good computer and patience. Which. I don't. Lol

-Check the forums for trades. If you want specific items I guarantee you people will have 200 of them they want to get rid of. Trade your duplicates! There's usually a big master thread.

-Do not rush. NOTN is 2 weeks long. Everyone goes crazy day 1 and then burns out before the new year. It's much easier to grind 30 mins a day instead of 6 hours all at once.

But most of all HAVE FUN!

[sitepathos]

From Gold to Mold

Chapter 10: The Meeting

As the Megamycete watches as you stomp around your room and vent your frustrations about the last few days, it begins to wonder how the Bats came to remember their little black sheep and why they are so insistent you return to Gotham.

It searches through your memories and experiences all the sadness, fear, anger, hatred, and loneliness you experienced for years, all those emotions still so potent even after your departure from the manor four years ago, having been dredged up by their unwelcome visits. It was clear that, besides the butler, none of them considered you a part of their merry band of misfits, not even bothering to spare you a passing glance.

The exception to this is the youngest one, Damian, who constantly went out of his way to make your life harder by mocking you, hurting you, and releasing his menagerie of pets on you, forcing you to run through the endless halls of the mansion barricade yourself in the closest room you could find.

Now, after four years after your escape and maintaining little contact with the family butler, they show up on your door, one after the other, trying to force you to leave your perfect life for one that brought you nothing but pain and misery.

Why?

Why do they want you so much?

Why do they insist on you returning to a place you clearly hate?

Why do they now wish to give you the love they denied you for so long?

Why—

Wait, they are meeting in their little cave, gathering around the massive computer in the center of the massive cavern.

Its roots have long since surrounded the cave and it is still connected to the main colony back in Gotham, but when it took you as its host, it has had no need to tap into its roots to see the world above when it can see the world through your eyes and experience it through your senses.

Using its roots to see the outside world no longer has the same appeal when your senses are far more vibrant and provide far more detail.

When it proposed you become its host, it must admit, it never thought it would be so mutually beneficial. Of course, it would be able to leave the cavern and finally experience a world firsthand that had been forever just out of reach for over four-hundred years, but you would recover from your injuries and be akin to a god among men with your newfound abilities. You were the one who had more to gain from your joining, but it was willing to trade one prison for another if it meant finally seeing the world above and having someone to talk to.

But you proved it wrong.

When it became a part of you, you treated it like a person, not a thing. You value its input and alter your plans if it desires to see or experience something. You frequently talk to it, telling it things that you haven’t told anyone else and speaking to it like it was a lifelong friend.

It has no further use for that toxic city and its citizens when it has the warm haven of Goodsprings and you to keep it company.

It has come to admire you, even going as far as to see you as a friend and confidant, and wants nothing but the best for you as you so rightfully deserve and to see you suffer teaches it a new definition of rage.

“Running blood tests,” your failure of a father says as he types on the keyboard, causing a machine next to the massive device to make noises.

“If Master Y/N does test positive for the Meta Gene, what do you intend to do, Master Bruce,” the butler, the only one in this crowd it respects, asks.

“If Y/N is a meta, I’ll have to find out what his powers are and how to counter it.”

So that’s what this meeting is about, they managed to put the pieces together that you are no mere human. But how did they manage to get a sample of your blood? Since your joining, you have had no need for doctors as its influence makes you immune against common illnesses and diseases.

“Getting his blood was a simple task,” Damian taunts. “Honestly, this would have been solved already if you sent me, Father.”

Of course. It should have known the little menace gave up too easily.

While you hate Bruce Wayne in every sense of the word, Damian Wayne is right behind him. From the moment you met him, he went up of his way to make your life a living nightmare and was allowed to get away with impunity due to obvious favoritism from Dick Grayson.

The memory of Dick defending Damian after he gave you a scar made the Megamycete furious. No matter his upbringing, he had no right to harm you, and yet, he was allowed to draw his sword on you. It was only pure luck that you managed to move to avoid being critically wounded, only resulting in a scar.

The Megamycete has seen your many fantasies of hurting Damian and making him feel inferior and wants to help you make them a reality.

“Results are in,” Bruce announces, making them all crowd around the computer.

“No Meta Gene,” Tim remarks, staring at the monitor with alarming intensity.

“Yeah, but look,” Jason exclaims, pointing at one of the results. “He’s got something in him that doesn’t belong.”

“For once, Todd is right. The tests show foreign substances in his blood.”

“Wait,” Tim mutters as he leans over and begins typing on the computer, bringing up an extensive menu and going through various files. “That looks so familiar.” An image is pulled up on the monitor. “Here it is! The stuff in his blood matches the stuff found in what remained of Joker.”

Well, this is rather unfortunate. It had hoped that there would be very little of the clown left to examine after his execution by your hand, but as usual, these people cannot resist poking into areas they do not belong.

“If this is substance is in Master Y/N’s blood, does that mean he is responsible for Joker’s death?”

“Bruce, you can’t lock up Y/N after bringing him home,” Dick whines. “You have to admit, your thing with Joker was only going to end one way!”

“We don’t even know if Y/N killed Joker,” Tim interjects. “It’s possible this strain of mold was in both of them and Joker’s was somehow activated, killing him.”

“That’s not exactly comforting, Drake,” Damian responds, glaring at Tim. “That means that Y/N could be in danger. If I had my pick, I would he be responsible for Joker’s death. Knowing he can take down as formidable as the Joker is proof he is a Wayne and my brother.”

If it had eyes, the Megamycete would roll them. This insecure little terror spent years making it clear he saw you as an interloper into his “perfect world” and not as a brother and that you are a disgrace to the Wayne bloodline (although that bloodline was tainted far before you came to be). He has some nerve to call you his brother now.

It still made it angry that he had the nerve to critique your mother (your memories of her painted the woman as a saint) when his mother, the daughter of a millennium-old maniac with delusions of grandeur (yes, you are very aware of his familiar secrets) who drugged Bruce in order to bring him into the world.

“We need to bring him back here, Bruce,” Dick says, defusing a fight between the two. “If he’s in danger, he needs to be back home.”

“I agree,” Bruce responds. “Cass, you and I will go. I’ll distract him and while he’s busy yelling at me, you’ll sneak up behind him and inject him with a tranquilizer.”

The mute nods and the Megamycete wishes it has a mouth so it can scream. Not only is it offensive that they believe you are stupid enough to fall for such an obvious trick, but that they believe they have the right to decide something like this on your behalf.

If they have failed to realize that you want nothing to do with them after you have yelled it at them, perhaps they will understand if it tells so itself.

And it knows the perfect form to take.

He stands up from the chair and makes his way to the armory where they keep the tranquilizers meant for the larger criminals, like Bane and Killer Croc.

He hates the thought of using such methods against you, but you’ve made it clear you aren’t going to come back to Gotham willingly and the discovery of this mysterious mold inside you has forced their hand.

Nevertheless, improvisation is one of their many skills, a requirement in their line of work. Once they have you back home, they’ll be able to conduct more in-depth tests and be able to find out what’s wrong with you and go from there.

As much as he hates the idea of you possibly being in pain and may even be in danger, he can’t deny there’s a small inside him that’s glad this has happened. This discovery accelerates their plans and will have you brought home far sooner.

And, there’s the chance that this mold may explain most of your hatred towards them. Sure, he knows you have every right to despise them, but when he saw the look in your eye when you pushed him down that night of the award ceremony. He could tell you enjoyed inflicting pain on him.

This stuff in you must’ve made your temper more volatile and made you lash out at them.

It’s the only explanation.

“Excuse us,” a familiar voice calls throughout the cave, stoping his dead in his tracks.

That voice… No, it can’t be. There’s no way…

He turns around to see you, standing in the cave, all of them looking right at you. The small smile on your face making the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

“We believe there are some things we should talk about,” you say as you walk closer to them, making his children back up with each step you take.

“No fucking way,” Jason remarks, his eyes wide as saucers.

“Wait,” Tim says as he rushes over to the computer and rapidly types on the keyboard. “You can’t be Y/N. His phone says he’s still in Goodsprings and we’ve been monitoring his GPS signal, so there’s no way you could’ve come all the way to Gotham from Nevada without us knowing!”

That’s right, they’ve been monitoring your phone ever since Alfred helped them remember you, tracking you every move and committing your searches, social media usage, and all your texts and phone calls. They would’ve done the same to your computers that are linked to your phone, but your cybersecurity is tougher than they anticipated (clearly custom) and they haven’t been able to crack the encryption.

He knew you were skilled at making videos games, but he didn’t know your skills with technology expanded into cybersecurity. Ever since they made that discovery, Tim’s spent nearly all day trying to pierce your firewalls, but hasn’t made any progress. He’s also made it clear he wants to have lengthy conversations on computers and programming with you once you’re back home.

So, you’re still in Goodsprings, so who the hell is this, why the hell would they take your form, and how the hell did they get into the Cave without setting off any of the dozens of alarms or sensors?

“Who are you” Damian hisses, taking a defensive posture. “And what gives you the right to assume the form of my brother?”

“You have some nerve calling him your brother,” the Not-You hisses back, the smile morphing into an all-too familiar snarl. “He is too good for you, for any of you.”

Even though he knows this isn’t you, hearing those words in your voice still hurts him.

“Do you know Master Y/N,” Alfred interjects, trying to bring tensions down, most likely so he can learn more from this person.

“Yes, we do,” Not-You responds, looking at the butler, the snarl morphing into a look of… admiration? “And we know you, Alfred Pennyworth. We know of you and how you helped him during his stay in this wretched mansion. You have our gratitude.”

“Look, whoever you are, stop taking Y/N’s form,” Steph exclaims. “You’re obviously a shapeshifter, so turn back to normal! Or the very least, take a different form!”

“Oh, do you all wish for us to take another form,” the Not-You asks, a ghost of a smirk gracing “your” face.

“Yes,” Bruce says without hesitation.

It’s bad enough to see you look at them with such hatred, he won’t tolerate some imposter doing the same thing.

“Very well.”

Before them all, the Not-You turns into a shifting mass of some type of black organic mass before taking on a humanoid shape once again and Bruce’s heart stops when he takes in the new form.

“Hello, Bruce,” the shapeshifter says in a voice he hasn’t heard in years.

Not since that fateful night in Crime Alley.

“Good God,” Alfred says, his eyes wide and his jaw practically on the floor.

In front of them is his mother, every detail exactly how she was that night, still adorned in her favorite pearl necklace and wearing her green dress.

As he stares at her looking at him with those eyes that use to look at him with nothing less than unconditional love, he feels his breathing start to become erratic and eyes begin to mist up.

“What’s wrong, Bruce,” the shapeshifter says in her voice (god, even her voice was exactly how he remembered) as they begin to walk towards him, making him step back. “I thought you would be happy to see me. It has been so long since I was killed.”

“No,” he says, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “You’re not her. You can’t be.”

“But I am. Do you not see? I know everything you have done.” His mother’s face then morphs into a disgusted snarl, making him sick to his stomach. “And I am absolutely disgusted in you! Why did we have to die that night? Why not the disgrace we once called our son!”

He knows this isn’t his mother and she never would’ve called him a disgrace, but hearing those words in a voice he’s longed to hear for so long makes him want to cry.

He’s had dreams of seeing his mother’s in the flesh again and now he has to endure this berating? Is he truly that horrible of a man to deserve this?

“Stop it, you bitch,” Jason exclaims as he steps between Bruce and the shapeshifter. “Take another form or get the fuck outta here!”

“Oh, you want us to another form?” His… the shapeshifter shifts once again and in his mother’s place is…

“Hiya, Dead Hood,” Joker exclaims before exclaiming in that all-too familiar cackle and waving around a crow bar in his hand. “Did you miss me?”

It doesn’t take a detective to notice Jason tense up and his breathing stop; Joker left a mark on Jason that unfortunately will never be erased (another shortcoming that eats away at Bruce everyday) and whenever news of Joker escaping Arkham would bring up all the anger, fear, and sadness that was planted in Jason that night he died.

After Joker was killed, he noticed a weight seemed to be lifted off of Jason’s shoulders. Sure, he made jokes about the clown burning in hell, but Bruce could see he was genuinely happy and was ready to move on form that horrible chapter in his life.

And now, all that trauma is about to be dug back up after four years.

“You have five fucking seconds to take another form before I beat the shit outta you,” Jason says in a tone that says he means business, his eyes flickering into that shade of Lazarus green.

“How about this form,” the shapeshifter says in Joker’s voice before changing into John Grayson, making Dick tense up. “Or this form?” John Grayson then shifts into Janet Drake, making Tim tense up.

“Alright, you made your point,” Barbara shouts. “Just turn back into Y/N.”

And with that, the shapeshifter takes your form again.

“Who are you,” Bruce growls, pissed that his sons have had their trauma jabbed at. “We know you’re not Y/N, but you know him and us.”

You may call us the Megamycete.”

“Megamycete,” Tim asks. “So, you’re not human?”

“No, we are a super colony of mold given sentience via a Lazarus Pit.”

“Of course a fucking pit’s involved,” Jason mutters.

“What’s your tie to Y/N,” Dick interjects.

“Y/N is our host. Before, we were confined to a cavern beneath this city, but when we joined with him, we were freed from our prison.”

“So, you’re using him.”

The Megamycete glares at Bruce for his accusation.

“No, he and us operate on mutual trust and respect. Y/N is a respectable young man.” A smirk appears on “your” face. “A trait he clearly did not inherent from you.”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. Even though this thing is probably the reason why you feel so much hate towards them, it still pains him to know this is his reality.

“Were you responsible for the Joker’s death,” Steph chimes in. “We found weird strains of mold in his remains and you’re a walking, talking pile of mold.”

“While we are not directly responsible for the Joker’s death, we do not deny we were involved. That night, Y/N took us out to Amusement Mile to celebrate when we learned the Joker was sighted in an arcade. Upon seeing the many deaths left in his wake, our host took matters into his own hands and eliminated the biggest threat this city had ever seen.” It gives Bruce a wide smirk. “In a single night, our host did more to help Gotham than you and your brood have done in years.”

Knowing you were responsible for killing Joker didn’t sit well with him. Sure, he’d accepted that Joker’s games were only going to end with one or both of them being dead a long time ago, but knowing that you, his son, had killed him…

“What about Harley,” Dick asks, breaking Bruce out of his thoughts. “He killed her too?”

“She forced his hand. He had no choice.”

“What do you mean he had no choice,” Dick shouts. “Did you force him?”

“Do not be stupid,” it says, glaring at his first son. “Our host was in complete control of his actions that night. We no more control his actions than you. The woman was a lost cause, without Joker to keep her in line, she would have punished all of Gotham as retribution for the loss of her love. Also, she would have informed you of him, causing you to devote all your resources to finding him. In order to both save Gotham from her wrath and himself from your scrutiny, Harley had to die.”

No, this thing has to be lying. There’s no way you, one of his sons, could ever rationalize killing someone. It had to have forced you to kill them. It had to…

“How did you even find Y/N,” Damian interjects.

Upon being asked that question, it smiles. And not a normal smile, but a smile that says it knows something they don’t know and something tells Bruce he’s not going to like it.

“He was thrown into our cavern after being left for dead.”

Bruce hears the words, but they just don’t process.

You were… left for dead? When? How?

“It was four years ago, while the butler was on his vacation. That day, his boss was forced to retire due to Gotham’s high crime, so he was forced to find another bus stop within Crime Alley as he had no other way of returning here, where he was unfortunately captured by three thugs and takes to a cabin in the nearby forest. They intended to ransome him off for a high price due to his school uniform.”

You were held hostage? Why didn’t you call for them? For him?

He knows you have no reason to think he’d help you with homework, but surely you’d call him if you were ever—

Just then, memories from that time frame kick in.

Random…

Phone call…

Oh… Oh no…

“Since the butler was out of the country, he actually reached out and gave the thugs the phone number for this manor.”

He so desperately wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

“You said all your children were with you and you all laughed and mocked the leader of the thugs.”

He sees all his children tense up at the realization and Alfred looks at him to see if it was true. Based on the butler’s look of shock and disbelief, he knows it’s the truth.

“The one time he reaches out to you for help, you laugh and mock. He needed you and you failed him in the worst way possible.”

He remembers that night. He thought it was so stupid that someone would think he wouldn’t know when one of his kids were missing. He said all his children were with him and meant it.

God, he really is the worst, isn’t he?

“After that phone call, the leader took all his frustrations out on our host, beating him until he could cry out for mercy no longer before shooting him in the head.”

He wants to cry when the image of you being beat up enters his head, and based on the way he flinches, so does Jason, who looks like he wants to cry.

Alfred looks like he’s ready to go nuclear and Bruce doesn’t blame him. Hearing all this years later and he had no idea what happened just proves he was never worthy of being your father.

“He was on the brink of death and had he not accepted our offer to become our host, he would be dead and the world would have been deprived of a brilliant mind.”

The thought of you dying brings a brunch of thoughts to the surface.

How long would it had taken him to notice you were missing?

How would he reacted upon learning you were dead?

Chances are your body would’ve never been found and all there would be to remember you by would be a tombstone with your name in the Wayne Cemetery. Hell, you’ve made it clear you want nothing to do with the Wayne name, so you probably would’ve never agreed to be buried with the rest of the Waynes.

“Our joining restored him to full health and gave him access to many powers, including our records.”

“Records,” Tim asks, clearly interested in this.

“We have existed for four-hundred years, our roots expanding towards every corner of this city. As our roots touched those buried beneath the ground, not only have we watched the goings-on of Gotham, but we absorbed the memories, knowledge, and structure of the deceased. As horrible as the city is, it has attracted many brilliant minds, like artists, scientists, engineers, and many more. He has access to the knowledge of these people, making him one of the smartest humans alive.” It chuckles. “In fact, many of your employees are in our records and he used this knowledge to get revenge on you, selling the secrets of your company to Lex Luthor for a tidy sum.”

You were the one who did that? He’s been racking his brain and reviewing network logs to find any sort of security breach and it was you using the remains of his dead employees.

“Alright, so that solves a lot of mysteries,” Dick interjects. “But that still leaves one: why are you here?”

“We have been by our host’s since that fateful night, peering through his memories and seeing the world through his eyes. Ever since he was forced to move to Gotham, none of you ever made him feel welcome here. For years, he wanted nothing more than to return to his rightful home, where he knew nothing but love. Now, after four years since his departure from this wretched manor, you appear, one after another, trying to bring him back to a place he despises more than anywhere else. We wish to know why.”

“He’s my son,” Bruce answers, not liking what this thing has to say.

“He’s family,” Dick adds. “Of course we’d want him back.”

“But none of you have ever made him feel that way. And if you are honest with yourselves, you never saw him as one of your own. You only want him because you feel guilty about how you treated him, and that guilt is making you believe you are owed a second chance. And you seek to obtain that second chance, no matter how much harm it does to him.”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re taking about,” Jason exclaims, clearly getting more and more pissed. “Yeah, we fucked up! But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s a part of this fucked up family!”

“He was never a part of this family. We know for a fact that he wishes he could take out the Wayne DNA and return it.”

“That’s because you’re manipulating him,” Damian interjects. “Nothing will change the fact that he’s my blood brother.”

“It is funny you say that when the last interaction you had with him was a fight.” It lifts hits arm and manifests a gold pen in its hand. “Do you remember this? This is the pen you tried to steal from him and then threw out into the rain when he gave you a much deserved slap upside your head. Do you know the significance of this item to our host?”

Bruce gets the feeling that he’s not going to like why that pen is so important to you and based off Alfred’s expression, that feeling gets even worse.

“This pen once belonged to his mother, made by her father when she set out to become an author. When she was taken from him, this pen was the only thing he had to remember her by. And you, the arrogant beast that you are, felt you had the right to take this, his most treasured possession, from him.” It turns its gaze from Damian to the rest of them. “And the rest of you supported this irreverent mongrel and condemned our host without listening to him before passing judgment.”

It seems like a day can’t go by that Bruce feels like the scum of the earth; ever since he learned of how he neglected you for years and forgot you even existed, his sense of worth has taken hit after hit. He was thinking about that argument you had with Damian and how furious he was when you refused to obey him not too long ago, thinking how stupid it was for you to cause so much trouble over a simple pen. Now to find out that “simple pen” was the only thing you had to remember your mother by…

It just never ends, does it?

He could spend the rest of his life atoning for everything he’s ever done to you, spend his last dollar to make your wildest dreams come true and he’d never come close to earning your forgiveness.

He knows he’s not the best father for his children, but he was never worthy of being your father and he’s certainly not that now.

“Y/N,” he whispers, knowing this isn’t you, but it has your face, your vice, and your memories, so it’s the next best thing. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He knows tears are falling from his eyes, surprising both Alfred and his children. He doesn’t want them to see him like this, but he can’t help it; the last few days have been one emotional turmoil after another and he’s reached his limits.

He failed his baby in every way possible.

“Now you understand,” it responds as it walks closer to him. “You fulfilled your purpose, Mr. Wayne. You brought Y/N into this world and had him brought to Gotham, where he was delivered into our custody. Now please, do not worry for him, we assure you we will provide him with true happiness. Go on, all you have to do is stay in Gotham and out of our host’s business.”

“Father,” Damian exclaims. “You can’t possibly be considering this!”

“Bruce,” Dick adds. “You aren’t going to actually do it, right?”

“Don’t fuck this up, Bruce,” Jason adds.

“We can’t just give up on him,” Tim adds.

“Yeah, he’s your son,” Barbara adds.

“He’s our brother,” Steph adds.

‘Family doesn’t give up on one another,’ Cass signs.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred warns, clearly not pleased at the thought of giving up on you.

He should, though. He knows that he’ll never be worthy of calling himself your father and you’ve made it clear you hate him and your siblings in every sense of the word. You wanted to go back to your childhood home in Goodsprings, a place that made you feel loved, something his home never made you feel. And the last four years were good to you based off your appearance and success. Plus, you had the Megamycete, that apparently has been more of a family to you than them.

If he was a good person, he’d put your needs and wants ahead of yours and agree to leave you alone and tell his children to do the same. Repeatedly harassing you would only make you hate them more and widen the gap between you and them. You don’t need them and clearly learned how to live without them. Over the past few days, he’s gathered every piece of information about you he can find and from what he sees, you love it in Goodsprings and fully intend on living in the house you and your mother lived.

But he’s not a good person, not by a long shot.

The night his parents were gunned down like animals in that disgusting alley, his sadness had turned into a bright inferno of rage; he wanted to inflict on every criminal that he met every ounce of his never ending vengeance and make them so afraid of him that they refuse to step outside whatever hole they call home, so that no one ever has to lose a child, a parent, a friend, or a loved one to some scumbag with a gun. That was his reason for donning the cowl.

After his parents were taken from him, he made it his mission to never lose anything of his ever again and two things that he holds dear more than anything in this world are Gotham and his family. And as long as he’s breathing, he’ll hold onto those two things until the bitter end.

Is it possible that in his mission to protect his city from Arkham’s inmates have made him forget the little details? Of course, Gotham needs Bruce Wayne as much as it needs Batman.

Is it possible that his need to hold onto his children with an iron grip has made him lose them on multiple occasions? Absolutely, he’s constantly remembering that his children are their own people and that even though they may leave him, they’ll always come home.

And that’s what his situation is with you. He knows he fucked up with you and he can never undo the damage he’s done to you, it doesn’t change the fact that you are his blood, his son, his firstborn.

You belonged to him the moment you were born and there’s nothing that can change that. He wishes he could go back in time and accept the gift of your affection that his past self spurred, but he can’t (his time as a Justice League member has taught him that going back in time is more trouble than it’s worth) and his only option is to move forward and make you see that the only place in this world for you is with him and your siblings here in Gotham, a city that has and always will belong to the Waynes.

And right now, this Megamycete is an obstacle standing in his way of completing his family. And if there’s one thing Bruce is very good at over the years, it’s overcoming obstacles.

“No.”

“Pardon,” it says, confusion etched onto its face.

“No,” he says loudly, making it clear he has no intention on letting you go. “Y/N is my son and their brother. He belongs here, with me and his family, not in some backwater town with some sentient mushroom. We’ll find a way to bring him back here and separate the two of you. And when we do, he’ll have all the time in the world to realize this is where he needs to be. Once he realizes that, all of Gotham will celebrate his return.”

He looks around and sees not only does his family seem happy with that statement, but they think the same as him.

The Megamycete looks at him, silent, seemingly shocked at his statement.

Then, it begins to laugh. First, just soft chuckles, then a laugh so loud, it echoes off the walls of the cave.

“Our host was right, you have clearly lost what sanity you had left. You reject him for years and now that you realize your folly, you seek to make amends? Please, spare us your delusions. This has nothing to do with our host and everything to do with your guilt. The moment you feel absolved, you will return to the status quo and forget he exists.” It motions to his children. “You have plenty of children here to drown in your need for forgiveness, surely you can make do with one of them.”

Then, it leans closer towards him, a smug look adorning its face.

“Also, Y/N belongs to us. He has the moment he fell into our cavern and will continue to until the end of time. Attempt to take him from us and you will suffer the same fate as those three thugs who left him for dead.”

It’s then another mystery gets solved: the slaughter at My Alibi. The three men in the back of the dining room who looked like they had gone through a meat grinder. That was your doing and they had been the ones to kidnap you and leave you for dead.

While he never advocates for killing people, he’s more than happy to make an exception for them. If they tried to kill you, they deserved to be slaughtered.

He only wishes they were still alive so he could pay them a visit before being turned over to Red Hood.

“We’ve fought plenty of Metas in the past. Do you really think you’ll be any different?”

“We have the knowledge and wisdom of countless people over the course of four-hundred years, all of them at the disposal of our host. You still think of him as that timid little thing from all those years ago, but he has become so much more since our joining. You believe yourselves superior than the rest of the general population, but you will find our host far surpasses you in every respect. He also possesses one thing your past adversaries never will.”

“And what’s that?”

“Unbridled hatred towards you.”

He wants to laugh at that. This thing must not have watched too carefully if it thinks people like Joker, Penguin, Poison Ivy, and so many in Arkham don’t hate his guts. He’s spent years being cursed at by all of Gotham’s rogues and beating all of the Riddler’s countless murder attempts to know Batman is at the top of many people’s Most Hated lists.

“If you don’t think half of Arkham doesn’t have dart boards with our pictures on them, you’re not as smart as you think you are,” Steph mocks.

“We do not doubt the genuine animosity the inmates hold towards you, but they are too far gone to imagine a life without any of you; you have foiled many of their crimes so many times, it has become one of the few constants in their lives. Every time they are put back in Arkham, they devote their time to coming up with their next attempt to best you until it is the only thing they care about. If any one of them were to ever defeat you, they would eventually realize how empty their lives are without you and their victory would soon sour.

“Joker would be a perfect example of this as he was as obsessed with you as you were of him.”

As much as he hates to admit it, the talking pile of mold is right. The clown made it clear that as much as he hated Batman, he was just as obsessed with him, going as far as to go after any criminal that took up too much of his time, Harley included in that.

And Bruce was just as obsessed with Joker, coming up with countless contingencies to counter any plot his sick and twisted mind could come up with, as well as devising security protocols and measures for Arkham to keep him contained and treatment plans to find a way possible bring his sanity back (assuming he had any to begin with).

“But our host is not like them. He has longed for a life free of you lot and now that he has that, he has no intention of surrendering it. Attempt to force him to return to this wretched manor and he will be more than happy to bring his fantasies of killing you a reality.”

He knows you hate them, but hearing that you hate them enough to fantasize about killing them cuts him deep.

“Please, I tried to kill Tim and Bruce back when I returned to Gotham,” Jason mocks, but Bruce can see Jason’s obviously concerned about hearing you thinking about killing them. “And Damian took a few tries at Tim. Everyone in this fucked up family’s got anger issues, it’s nothing weird.”

“You are kidding yourself if you believe you and that monster can a hold a candle to his fury. Your so-called anger is nothing more than a candle compared to the inferno that is his rage. You will feel the full might of his righteous fury, which will swallow you whole and leave nothing behind. And when you all are dead, you will be denied entry into our records.”

“So you don’t plan to absorb us,” Dick asks.

“Our host is the one who made that decision. To be added to our records is to be a part of us, and to be a part of us is to be a part of our host. He refuses to have you in his life in any way.” A small smile etches across its face. “We agree with his way of thinking. When you are gone, there will be nothing left and the world will forget any of you ever existed. And that is when our host’s revenge will finally be complete.”

It takes everything Bruce has to not flinch.

With this… thing inside you, what are you capable of? Would you really attack them with intent to kill? Would you really murder your own family?

“Make all the threats you want, creature,” Damian boldly states. “Nothing will stop us from bringing Y/N home.”

“Then this concludes our meeting, we suppose. We had hoped that we could convince you the best thing for you and our host would be to leave him alone and let the past rest, but we see now you all are too deep into your delusions to see reason. We look forward to seeing our host tear you apart, bit by bit.”

In the blink of an eye, the Megamycete turns bone white and crumbles like chalk, scattering all over the floor, leaving them all to stare at the remains in silence.

“So,” Alfred says, breaking the silence. “Was anyone ever going to tell me about a call regarding a random?”

The tension becomes so think, Bruce thinks he’ll start to choke on it. He racks his brain to come up with any answer, but doesn’t find any. At lease not one that won’t make Alfred pissed.

Clearly his children came to the same conclusion, because they remained silent as well, looking away or at the floor when he met their gaze.

“I have to say out of all the disgraceful things all of you have done throughout the years, this definitely takes the cake. I know Master Y/N wasn’t a priority for any of you, but I never would’ve dreamed you would allow him to be put in danger like being held hostage by common thugs.” Every word he says is dripping in venom. “I am absolutely disgusted with all of you.”

The words cut him deep and he deserves it. It was thanks to his incompetence that led to you being kidnapped, beaten to a pulp, shot in the head, and tossed into a cavern like trash and left for dead in a place no one would ever find you.

There’s nothing he can do that will ever make up for all that he’s done to you. He can apologize until he loses his voice permanently, spend all his money to buy you apology gifts, and subject himself to whipping by your hand until he’s lost every bit of his skin and he’d never scratch the surface of everything he’s done to you.

You came to him, a scared little child who just lost his mother and was forced to move to a massive city to live with a man he’s never met and all you wanted was for him to tell you that he loved you and that everything was going to be alright, but no, he was too caught up in his work as Batman instead of finding a healthy way of dealing with losing Jason.

But that’s not all he did, was it?

As much as he wants to, he can’t deny that he replaced you with Tim after the boy lost his parents. He suffered the same loss as you, but he gave Tim the help he needed while denying it to you. But that’s his fault, not Tim’s. His inadequacies are his alone to deal with, not any of his children’s (a lesson he keeps forgetting).

And he did the same thing several more times, bringing in more children and giving them all the love and affection you were denied as a child. He can’t help but wonder what went through your mind as you saw him spending time with them, both in groups and individually. And when you watched them hanging out in the dining room when they came home from patrol, enjoying themselves and each other while you were left alone in some room barely the size of a closet.

God, how many times did you wonder when you’d be asked to join before giving up?

When exactly did you give up on them?

And of course, he can’t forget about how he handled you and Damian meeting, another sign he was never fit to be a father. He knew Damian’s LoA upbringing left him unable to interact with others the proper way, but he still allowed him to see you (because he never considered your safety a priority) and allowed the boy to draw a sword on you, give you a scar on your face, and make several threats on you and insult your mother.

And what did he do after that?

Did he do the responsible thing by taking away the sword, scold the boy for his unacceptable behavior, and make it clear you were his brother and that he’s not allowed to hurt you?

No, of course not.

He did nothing but carry Damian off while allowing him to shout even more threats and insults, thinking nothing about the harm you just experienced and thinking Damian would just outgrow of his behavior on his own.

If he had to guess, it was probably that day you realized you didn’t matter to him and that Damian was the only one he considered a biological son.

Y/N, his baby boy.

He’s so sorry.

“This doesn’t change anything,” Bruce finally says, making his family turn their eyes to him. “We still need to bring Y/N home. Meeting this Megamycete just makes it more important we get him back to the manor.”

“And if Master Y/N fights you? Based off what you were able to gather from both crime scenes, this Megamycete appears to make him a formidable opponent.”

“We can find a way to neutralize it,” Tim chimes in, motioning to the crumbled remains. “I’ll analyze the remains to find a weakness.”

“And if that’s not enough, it said it has roots all over Gotham,” Barbara adds. “I can use the Clocktower to locate the closest sample.”

“Say you manage to subdue Master Y/N and rid him of the Megamycete. What then?”

“Then we make it clear he’s a part of our family now. And we’ll keep telling him that until he believes it. And when he does, we’ll give him the love we should have given him.”

Alfred looks at him before glancing at his children, all of them nodding in agreement.

“I shall hold all of you to that promise. We have a second chance to right our wrongs. I highly doubt we’ll be given another. But don’t think for a second this conversation is over.”

And with that, the butler turns on his heel and promptly makes his way out of the cave, clearly still furious at them.

“Alright, everyone,” he says, getting their attention. “We have work to do. Barbara, get to the Clocktower and start searching for the Megamycete’s roots. Tim, start analyzing the remains and see what you can find. And be ready to receive new samples. The rest of you, be ready to go out and retrieve the roots.”

They nod and set out to work, leaving him with his thoughts.

Fuck, after hearing all that, his mother probably sees him as a failure now. He had so many opportunities to make this right, but he being the complete and total fuck up that he is, missed them, leaving you all alone to fall into the hands of low-life thugs and a sentient mushroom.

He balls his fists so tight so tight he draws blood, but not caring at the pain or the drops of crimson falling onto the cave floor.

All he had to do was be there for you, love you, tell you he’d always be there for you, but he couldn’t do that. When he first learned of you, he was shocked to hear that he had actually been stupid enough to not take precautions to prevent getting a woman pregnant and actually thought you were an inconvenience, blaming you for something that wasn’t your fault. You hadn’t asked to be born, you didn’t ask to lose your mother in such a tragic way, and you sure as hell didn’t ask to be given to a man who had no right to be called a father.

He—

No, this line of thinking isn’t doing him any favors.

He takes a deep breath and releases it, throwing all his thoughts and emotions into a dark corner of his mind and locking them behind a massive door (like he always does instead of dealing with them in a healthy way). He’s done the same thing to so many other thoughts and feelings, what’s the harm in doing it now?

What he needs to do now is find a way to deal with a Megamycete and figuring out a method of getting close to you to administer it so they can bring you back home. While that’s already an uphill battle, the true war will be convincing you that they’ve changed and that you need to come back to the manor and live with them.

You’re his son and the brother to his children. And as much as you want to deny it, you have Wayne blood coursing through your veins, tying you to him and Gotham. You belong here, by his side.

And when this is over, he’ll throw the largest gala Gotham’s ever seen to show his love for you.

He’ll do whatever it takes if it means having you back home so h and your siblings can bathe you in their love and affection.

Even if it means taking away your powers and dragging you back here.

Like he said, he’s not a good person.

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[cuteandhughesy]

I’m Talking Nonsense╰┈➤ MR96

summary: everyone in the avalanche social media room knows that getting mikko rantanen to participate in content was a lost cause—that is until you showed up.

[word count] 4.3k

warnings: MATURE! flirting | lil bit of pining | mature themes | lil hot and heavy kissing | allusions to sex but no actual smut | read at your own discretion

a/n: okay…so obviously I started writing this before the trade—because nobody in their right mind was expecting mikko to get traded. but I digress, anyways! I originally wanted to post this on valentine’s day but in this moment of sadness, I knew all the mikko girls (myself included) needed this pick me up ❤��� to all you liking my old mikko fic—I see yall and we got this.

🎵 nonsense by sabrina carpenter

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mikko rantanen didn't hate social media — actually, no he did hate it. the finnish native always knew it to be invasive and impersonal, and he'd rather not have to look at fake happy, posed pictures and videos that make his life feel less than. and that's coming for a guy living as a professional athlete.

so when tiktok started gaining more traction and other nhl teams were making accounts for their respective teams—mikko was dreading it. he thought there was a level of privacy that should be respected, and having a camera shoved in your face is totally breaching boundaries. the thought of the avalanche making an account was just not something he wanted.

after a shitty practice—hell even a good practice—the last thing he wanted was to be asked if he thought he could land a plane, or if he believes in aliens...mikko just wanted to go home.

and mikko understands that the social admin was simply doing their jobs, but he couldn't help but fill with irritation anytime they'd approach him with the phone and mini-microphone and/or question cup. it was the quickest way to piss him off.

it didn't help that the avalanche fans were always in the comments asking about his noticeable absence. they wanted to see more of their assistant captain outside of gruelling post-game interviews and game highlights—they wanted the real and fun side of mikko they very rarely had the chance of seeing.

but that didn't change mikko's opinion of social media—he'd avoid the admin team at any costs, especially when he saw that stupid tiktok phone and various props he knew he'd hate to use.

that is, until you showed up.

the first time mikko saw you—standing behind the usual admin suspects with a nervous gaze and fiddling hands—he didn't think much of it. sure, you were pretty, but mikko thinks a lot of girls are pretty.

but then as the months past and your surprisingly warm and bubbly personality began peeking through your hard exterior shell, mikko begin feeling intrigued. you are always smiling, even if someone is giving you a hard time—when he is giving you a hard time—and you're constantly trying to bond with the players. you remember who these athletes are at their core—human, which a lot of people in your job description seem to forget.

the team quickly grew fond of you, and when they saw it was you in the hallway with a cup of questions, or in their locker room with that stupid tiny microphone—the energy would shift. that's just how you are though—vibrant and welcoming, and the guys feed off that energy and turn into a fun group of giddy boys.

even nathan mackinnon, who was almost as turned off by social media as mikko, enjoyed your company, doing silly things for tiktok's he'd never even dreamed of.

it had mikko's own exterior beginning to crack. before he'd be more apprehensive to the idea of participating in social media trends he had no clue about, but you and your grin had him changing.

—

lina, your co-worker looks at you over the top of her laptop, analyzing your soft face as you work on your own computer—editing a tiktok that needed to go up today. you're left with very minimal time, as the avalanche practice finishes in 5 minutes. which means in 15 you both have to head down for some more content.

it's the third time in the past minute lina as looked at you—you can feel her eyes burning through the middle of your forehead. slowly, your eyes trial up and meet hers, a questioning pull to your furrowed eyebrows. "you okay?"

she huffs—not in annoyance or impatience, but rather curiosity. lina flicks her red hair over her shoulder, and then crosses her arms—her gaze never leaving yours. "i'm trying to figure out how you do it."

you're even more confused now. "do what?"

lina snorts like it's obvious. "you've been here five months, y/n. it's been five months of watching you work with the guys and more specifically, getting mikko to work with you."

your lips contort into a confused pout—any more confusion and your head will begin to pound. you're not sure what lina is trying to imply, because as far as you know all the guys on the avs are extremely good with you and have never given you a hard time—that's just how they are...right?

"mikko is great." you hum dismissively, your fingers resuming their place on your keyboard as you continue the code in your side bar to enable the audio change in the clip—attempting to remove ross' loud voice from the background so you can better hear cale's answer.

"that's the thing," lina starts, eyes full of amusement as she leans over the table. "he's really not."

you pause. "what?"

"before you showed up, mikko was always turning a blind eye to me and nick. if we even attempted to talk to him the way you do—well, it never ended how we wanted it to." her face contorts as if she's reliving it.

one of your brows raise in question. "did he like...sentence you to a guillotine or something?"

lina disapproves of your humorous tone, sending you daggers across the meeting room table. she shuts her laptop, resting her elbow atop the logo as she puts her chin in her palm. "ha ha."

satisfied with her pointed response, you get back to work. but, lina isn't done. "he hates this kind of stuff."

"no he doesn't," you retort quickly. "mikko seems happy when I have questions for him. in fact, yesterday he came over to me and asked for one—said something about how they 'make his day bright'" you mimic mikko's deep accent to the best of your abilities, but you sound more like a drowning troll rather than the 6"4 winger.

lina's eyes widen comically—she can't believe what's she's hearing. "anytime I even point the phone in his direction he scowls and walks away. so what are you doing to get him to cooperate?" she eyes you quizzically for a moment before a devious lightbulb goes off in her head, expression morphing into a playful, teasing one. "are you fucking him?"

you squeak, and your cheeks heat up to an undeniable level of embarrassment. "no!" and it's true—of course you're not sleeping with mikko.

she raises her hands in surrender, but her smile doesn't let up. "I wouldn't blame you if you were, y/n. he's hot—like stupid hot."

"okay," you huff, covering your burning cheeks with your hands. "maybe you should sleep with him then."

lina snorts. "trust me—if I could get near him I would."

"you know," you start, "I really don't think what you're saying is true. maybe mikko didn't like it in the past, but I think he's changed his option on the social media stuff."

she raises her brow—almost challengingly. "think so?"

"yup." you hum.

"let's test it, then." lina chimes. "today i'll go up to mikko first, and ill do exactly what you would do when approaching him. and when he sends me away—which he will—then you'll go up to him, and we'll see what happens."

it's tempting—mostly because you're certain there won't be a difference in the way mikko acts towards you then he does lina. sure, mikko isn't always the most sunshine and rainbows when it comes to his personality, but he's always been compliant with you.

so although he's broody and definitely not in love with the idea of having a camera in his face—you're sure he's not going to turn lina away.

"you're on."

it's not 5 minutes later you're both packing up your respective things, preparing to make your way down to the locker room where the guys are surly anticipating your and lina's arrival.

the room is bustling with people—half dressed hockey players and pressing reporters fill the locker room, which creates a slightly hectic environment—but you're used to it by now. so neither of you seem suspicious, you ask a few of the other avs players your selected questions for the day. questions you and lina had argued about for the entire morning—she thought most of them were stupid, you thought they were was hilarious.

plus, the reporters are still swarmed around mikko's stall—the finnish native standing in the middle with a deadpanned look on his face, barley listening to them as they ask the same repetitive questions as usual.

you and lina get some good content from ross colton and josh manson, both players giving you ridiculous and enthusiastic responses to the absurd questions you'd earlier shoved in the alumni silver cup.

lina's mischievous look is back as the sea of middle aged reporters move onto their next victim—cale makar—leaving mikko by his lonesome. "i'll be back." before you can react, she plucks the phone out of your hands, effortlessly making her way through the room until she's in front of mikko.

you strain your ears, but it's no use as the chatter in the locker room is too overpowering, and you're unable to hear lina or mikko. miles wood gives you an odd look—eyeing the way you stand ridged beside his stall, gnawing your thumb as you watch lina talk to the blonde winger—but you don’t notice.

it's only a moment before lina turns around, her grin even wider than it was before as she makes her way back towards you. "your turn." she chimes, thrusting the phone back in your palms.

"what happened?" you question.

lina raises one her brows, pushing you in the direction of mikko's stall. "he didn't want to answer anymore questions."

"okay," you draw. "so maybe I shouldn't go over there."

lina continues guiding you in his general direction. "no it's actually exactly why you should go over there."

you don't get to argue any further as you're suddenly right in front of mikko—almost too close, and if you take another step towards him you're thighs will bump his knees.

speaking of thighs—mikko's are on full display. the huge, muscle carved limbs spread wide as he manspreads in his stall. the expanse of smooth, hard skin making you feel flustered and suddenly intrigued. your eyes flicker upwards, finding the icy blue ones of mikko looking back at you.

you swallow, a heat rising to your cheeks. "hi, mikko."

"hi, y/n." he says your name playfully, the faintest smile pulling at his lips. "you okay?"

you nod too quickly and immediately curse yourself for acting so uncool. you've never been this nervous around any of the avs, especially not mikko, but lina's comments about his looks earlier are lingering in your mind—leaving you flustered.

because obviously you are aware mikko is hot, but now you can't help but be really aware of the fact. damn lina.

"yeah," you clear your throat, clutching the cellphone tightly in your hand. "I was actually just wondering if you'd answer a question for tiktok? for me? promise it'll be quick."

his eyes flicker over your warm, hopeful face, and after a beat he sighs gently, a quick nod following. "yeah I can do that for you."

you can't help the way your eyes widen at his agreement. mikko seems oblivious to your shocked state, removing his remaining elbow pad and tossing it towards the back of his messy stall.

you catch a whiff of his intoxicating scent, and even with the sweat lingering across his forehead and soaking his branded undershirt, mikko smells so good. he's always been enveloped in a cloud of clean laundry and something slightly woodsy, and even though you're extremely professional, it never fails to make you falter.

you clear your throat and your head. "really?"

mikko runs the damp towel previously hung around his neck through his messy curls, making the appearance of them even more fluffy and soft. his eyes twinkle with amusement, a matching half smile blossoming on his lips. "yeah, really. why do you sound shocked?"

you make a tiny noise of confusion in the back of your throat, shooting a glance to lina over your shoulder. she sends you a triumphant look, brow raised like she knew that she was right.

she is right.

you look back at mikko quickly, "I just thought..." you trail off, brows pulling tightly as you think about the excuse he gave to lina—you're so confused. you've never noticed before if mikko had a certain favouritism towards you over lina, or even nick. I mean, you never paid attention to anything like that—but now you feel like you should be more aware, because this doesn't make sense.

"you thought..?" mikko raises one eyebrow, waiting for the second half of your sentence.

"nothing." you blink quickly, adjusting the phone in your hand. "sorry, let's just get to it."

you're still in some sort of shock for the rest of the day—the pieces of the puzzle in your mind loose and turned upside down as you try and understand mikko's dismissal of lina, or better yet, his compliance with you.

it had you further trying to solve the mystery. does mikko just prefer you? does he like your voice over your co-workers? maybe you smell like his favourite desert? does he like you? does mikko want to fuck you?

you're not sure where to pinpoint the source, but you're also determined to find the answer. with some help for lina, and even a little input from nick, you conjure up a plan—which lina finds the upmost entertainment in.

but you mean nothing but business. for the next few weeks it's only you who works with mikko rantanen—it's you asking him questions and having him participate in stupid games. and without fail, every single time you ask him, mikko complies.

so you get crazier with it. whether it's a questions about my little pony—a show mikko has never even heard of—or having him lift you onto his shoulder while a sabrina carpenter song plays through the tiktok recording—he is participating without complaining.

every. single. time.

it has your good friends, but ever so annoying colleagues theorizing.

"maybe he's got a thing for girls with her hair colour? can't resist them." nick chimes, sipping some piping hot coffee from an avalanche branded mug.

you roll your eyes, pulling open the microwave to grab your shitty frozen meal.

lina's laugh echos through the staff room, "mhmm...or maybe her eye colour." she sends you a teasing look before slurping some saucy noddles up into her mouth.

before you can respond nick pipes up again, "he definitely wants in her pants."

you take a seat beside lina—across from your male coworker—and send them both a slightly amused, but deadpanned look. "are you guys done?"

despite your attitude towards them, you can't help but wonder if their theories are correct. sure, mikko seems sweet enough—towards you anyways—but with the way you're barley pushing him into participating in stupid little tiktok's, has you pondering. mikko is nice...but not that nice.

is he just trying to get into your pants? and then forgot about you? the thought has you feeling angry, because you're not just some girl who he can treat nicely until he gets what he wants—absolutely not. and you're not going to let him treat you like a fool, just because he wants his dick wet.

the following day you’re determined to get answers and put your mind at ease. you like mikko—he’s a great guy—but you don’t want to feel like you’re being used. there was a team meeting and breakfast today, without the pressure of practice or a game—essentially an off day for the guys.

as the chaos of the dining room begins clearing out, only a few lingering athletes and staff members at some of the tables, you make your way across the room with a determined step, looking for mikko.

you catch the broad expanse of his back and blonde hair sticking out from underneath his beanie just as he slips out the door. you grumble to yourself, speeding up in hopes to catch him before he leaves the facility.

pushing open the rather heavy door to the hallway, you’re immediately greeted by his familiar laugh and gabe landeskogs smooth voice—spewing some dad joke that only mikko would find funny.

before you can sike yourself out, you march up to the two european teammates. “rantanen, I need to talk to you.”

they pause in their slow steps, conversation halting abruptly as both men turn to look at you. the sight of your hard expression and pointed gaze has mikko swallowing roughly, eyeing you with confusion.

gabe snickers quietly, the sound missing your ears, and pats mikko’s shoulder sympathetically. “last name, huh? good luck.” with that the avalanche captain stalks off, disappearing down the quiet hallway.

you cross your arms defensively, looking up—way up—at him, tone rough and determined. “are you trying to fuck me or something?”

“whoa whoa, just hold on a second.” mikko’s eyes widen, looking around the hallways quickly to ensure you were alone. even though he doesn’t see any physical bodies, mikko can’t be too sure—especially when he can sense the conversation is going in a direction that doesn’t need to be overheard.

he gently takes ahold of your wrist, guiding you towards the open meeting room directly across from the kitchen. the censor lights flicker alive as you step into the empty, quiet room—illuminating the once dark space.

mikko lets go of your arm, shutting the door with a soft click before turning back to you. he analyzes your face, eyes flickering over your still pointed eyes and the angry pull to your mouth. confused, he steps towards you. “are you joking with me?”

you raise your brows. “do I look like i'm joking with you, mikko?”

he shakes his head gently, like he’s trying to come up with a reason for your sudden coldness—you’ve never acted this way around him, and seeing you so irritated is rather strange. “why are you asking me that?”

he’s referring to the first question you’d asked him—rather angrily may he add. mikko is unsure what brought on the rather sexual outburst of a question, only because it’s so unlike you. in fact, one time ross colton tried to make a sexual innuendo with you, and you just about turned the colour of a ripe apple.

mikko thinks he must’ve done something—or said something to make you not only think like that, but ask him about—without so much as a blush on your face. you were serious.

you cross your arms again, defensive walls still built high. clearing your throat, you look away from mikko and towards the navy blue patterned rug covering the floor. “ why are you so nice to me?”

you practically whisper, timidly running your foot along the worn out carpet.

mikko blinks. “what?” he’s even more confused now—because why wouldn’t he be nice to you. you’re sweet, and respectful, and funny, and beautiful, and you’re you.

you meet his eyes again, expect this time there’s more emotion swimming in them, and you’re slowly coming down of your flurry of anger—left with fear and your own confusion. “like..,” you start unsure, “you only do the media stuff when i'm the one asking you to. are you only being nice to me so that like, you'll get in my pants?”

you’re right, he thinks. he only does media when you ask, but it’s not because he suddenly wants to if you’re the one asking, it’s because he can’t say no to you. mikko never wants to see you sad—he never wants to see the current look on your face when he can help it.

mikko shakes his head, slow and steady. “no. that's not why i'm nice to you.”

“no?” you parrot, the tiniest hint of disbelief in your tone.

“no.” mikko repeats firmly. “i'm nice to you because I like you.”

“like as a friend?” you gulp, arms falling to your sides as you’re no longer strong enough to hold them around yourself.

mikko doesn’t see the point of hiding his true feelings any longer. the thought of you thinking he had ulterior motives with his kindness literally makes his stomach hurt, and he can’t have you believing he’s trying to use you for his own benefit.

so with a gentle sigh, he takes another step closer to you, eyes softening as he takes in your hesitant gaze and red cheeks. “more than a friend.” mikko admits gently.

your face falls, “oh.” you’re in some sort of shock, looking up at the winger with parted lips and wide eyes. the way mikko is looking at you, so raw and real, has any lingering hesitance falling away, and your expression quickly shifts.

“yeah, oh.” the corner of mikko’s plump lip slides upwards, the beginning stages of a lopsided smirk growing on his flushing face.

he reaches towards you, slowly, hands enveloping the sides of your head as he holds you in his palms. mikko’s hands are so warm and big, completely covering your cheeks and ears—the feeling itself has you turned on.

your breath hitches as mikko’s rough thumbs begin running over your cheekbones, stroking your warm skin absentmindedly.

his tongue licks along his bottom lip, moistening the skin slowly. mikko swallows gently, not once taking his gaze off your flustered face. “but like, just so there’s no confusion, I would eat you out on the table until you’re crying if that’s what you wanted.”

you inhale sharply, stomach dropping with excitement and adrenaline. your body flutters at his words, “mikko.” you whine in a whisper, hands reaching out and resting against his hard pecks. you have no control of your hands, the need to feel him under your palms too strong. you begin running over his covered chest, his muscles tightening and nipples hardening under your deliberate touches.

mikko huffs shakily before he comes down, kissing you with as much passion he can manage. his lips are surprisingly soft and smooth, enclosing and teasing yours in a messy, hard way. the feeling has your stomach swooping further, toes curling in your shoes as the kiss grows harder—needier.

suddenly, mikko’s hands run down your body, passing over your ass with a firm squeeze. you moan into his mouth as his hands find the backs of your thighs, picking you up.

you gasp as he lifts you effortlessly, sitting you on the table like it’s nothing—mikko smirks at the sound you make, and he can’t help the way his dick twitches in his pants. his wet lips trail off your mouth, travelling over your jaw and down your neck where he continues giving you hot, and hurried kisses.

reluctantly, your eyes flutter open, running a hand under mikko’s beanie, gripping the base of his hair between your trembling fingers. “we can get in a lot of trouble for this.” you breathe.

despite your words, your hips rolls against his hardening length, your cores at the perfect angle with you sitting on the table to grinding together deliciously.

mikko pulls back, eyes glazed with lust as he grins. “I know. so we'll just have to be sneaky.” his words are husky, sending your blood pumping and head swirling with need.

he leans back in, giving you another eye rolling kiss. you push his hat off his head completely, giving yourself free reign of his messy curls, tugging the blonde strands as your heart desires.

mikko pulls you closer on the tabletop, further bumping your clothed heat against his. his large hands slide underneath the back of your top, running over your spine and fiddling with the edge of your lacy bralette.

you sigh trembly, disconnecting the kiss. “i'll have to stop asking you questions though. because now I really won't be able to control myself around you.”

the admission has mikko smirking, biting his lip seductively. one of his hands round to your front, groping your tit over your bra. “I turn you on baby?” he already knew the answer to his question—your hardened nipples and shifting hips giving him all the information he needs.

you laugh through a breathless exhale, and you gently hit his shoulder. “be serious. you'll have to tolerate lina, and start saying yes when she asks you to do things.”

“no promises.” he chimes playfully, hands running back down your torso—leaving goosebumps in their wake.

you give him a soft, serene smile, which as mikko following suit—looking at you the way he always has. “I really like you, mikko.” you admit gently, one of your hands running over his building bicep before sliding around to rest on his shoulder blade.

for a moment, his smile remains admirable, looking down at you like you’re the only thing that has ever mattered. mikko has been dreaming of the day you say those words, and actually hearing you speak them is just otherworldly.

but because he’s a boy, and you’re his dream girl with his spit coating your plump lips—he can’t help himself. mikko’s hand rounds to your front, dipping underneath the waistband of your leggings and sliding over your underwear. he thumbs your clit over the thin material, and your mouth goes slack at his touch.

he breathes, smirking at the feeling of your arousal soaking through your panties. “yeah I can tell.”

“shut up.” you huff, pulling him back in to continue your desperate kiss.