#my savior and downfall

[agalychnisspranneusroseus]

Y'all if it were one boy and one girl calling each other "my love" no one would call it platonic, but the moment it's three girls it's just "gal pals" and "very good friends" 😤

[dissentersbedamned]

happy madness day guys, i think theres something wrong with my fight songs vinyl

art commissions

[phox-129]

i started keeping a marcytism compilation while reading also . Hi

HI so sorry I forgot to answer this I was hanging out with a friend. This reminds me I need to properly read Marcy’s journal I think I only ever skimmed it…..also wait these r crazy. Marcy autism is so real

[roaringheat]

Watched an entire hour long video essay on Dutch van der Linde's descent into madness and his general mental illness all while putting together a silly powerpoint the vibes are spectacular tonight

[acid-ixx]

Sigh.. We all should've have chosen both wally and conner...i can't imagine the faces of batfam

how to be a heartbreaker! (again &. again concept)

ft. yandere! wally west, starfire, roy harper, artemis, conner kent, bart allen x gn! neglected! reader w/ platonic yandere! batfam.

— masterlist !

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

tw: age gaps but there isn't nsfw (except for conner) and the reader is described to be older than 20 in this concept and was far ignored longer than in the og story.

a/n: happy (late) halloween! 🎃 i'm praying to the gods, please don't let this post flop, i'm in my flop era fr! because i am not writing allat for it to get ignored 💔 (just kidding i love u guys, especially to all those who comment! i read all your comments even if i'm unable to reply at times). if you guys are wondering why i didn't include all the characters, it's because this is just a drabble and if anyone likes more concepts about this, please send in asks! anyways, enjoy this sweet harem au hehe.

anon, you are so right. but let me raise you this: getting together with all your siblings' teammates. i'm not just saying wally and conner, no! i'm saying the young justice, the teen titans, all their friends and old pals— the moment you come of age, hide under the radar for a few years and eventually meet them at random. you'd be giving dick, hell, even bruce, your father, mind you, a run for his money when it comes to a player reputation amongst the siblings, and the best part (or worst part for you once it's too late...) of it all is the fact that you don't even have to keep all your little relationships with them a secret when they never once bat an eye on you until recently.

the funny thing is: you didn't even have to try to attract them. it was all them approaching you at random days and getting to know you better, with you, at your lowest point, accepting any medium of attention. at first it was them feeling pity, perceptive to how your siblings chose to focus on them rather than you, but now it's them chasing after you because you're so interesting in every aspect; even if you find yourself average at best compared to your talented siblings.

maybe it's because you bring the normal out in them, or because you display such raw emotions and are an entirely separate being from vigilantism. either way, they find themselves thinking about you more often than their missions and that's harrowing.

and because you're such a pathetic, wet cat, so desperate for love; all the people you hit on develop a savior complex because of you. i don't just mean them finding you cute, or interesting, absolutely not. i mean you're constantly being thrown around like a prince or princess who needs a knight in shining armor to catch them when they fall, except you're constantly being carried in some other's arms even when you can stand on your own two feet.

you just have that special quality in you that makes everyone fall head over heels. it makes them fantasize scenarios of a home life with you; they could provide better than your current ones do, for sure. you'd be spoiled to death with kisses to your face, hands wrapped around your body, and a guarantee that you'll never feel alone or unsafe in a world full of danger that lurks around the corner.

that same quality may have also been your downfall.

wally west doesn't mind training all day to become stronger and faster to save you from every danger that lingers near your presence. hell, he doesn't complain anymore whenever dick assigns him some missions if that means he can pass by your room by the manor as an after-mission reward, loving it when you smile at him with the gentlest quip of your mouth as he hastily wraps you in his arms with the same amount of speed it took to run to your house. wally cherishes watching you in slow-time because he could worship every little part of his darling's expression, quelling the boredom he had for the entire day. he wants to be fast enough for his babe, not only just to impress them but because he wants them to see him as the only reliable individual capable enough of protecting and flirting with you. not everyone can measure up to his speed, no? nobody could keep up with this man's speed and he's known for taking you away whenever you're with someone else just to get a sliver of your time.

starfire's emotions become ablaze and so does her powers every time she notices one of your other sweethearts becoming too touchy with you, unable to comprehend why you're not even in a relationship with her yet. but you're too sweet and you bury yourself in her curly tresses to calm her down. at first that's enough! she doesn't understand the concept of physical affection and the boundaries that come with it as much as others but boy does she crave it when it comes to you. it doesn't help the fact that you're incapable of sometimes denying her affections and letting yourself be constantly kissed by the girl in every part of your face. she's very warm, though, and her curiosity about things foreign to her, paired with you teaching her more about your world, makes starfire adore her sweetheart's willingness and patience; it simply warrants another passionate kiss in the mouth from the pink-haired alien.

roy harper brings out a more rebellious side of you that you never imagine yourself sporting. his experiences in life and his rebellious relationship towards oliver queen, his adoptive father shapes him to who he is now; and he'd be damned if you drown yourself in endless misery like he did. yeah, it doesn't help that lian loves you as much as he does and he thinks you're the perfect match for him, watching you play with his little girl and care for him whenever he's injured does wonders for the fantasies that plays itself in his head, all scenarios of coming home to you after a hard day of work, just to see you and lian greet him the moment he enters your shared house with him, kissing him in the lips, telling him about the wonderfully prepared dinner you and lian whipped up for him, and watching your eyes widen at another bouquet of your favorite flowers he bought home for you. you're not in a relationship with him at all but can't a man just dream?

why dick wonders every damn time one of his friends ditch another one of their hangouts is a question never to be answered. but it's been noticeable these days that he's starting to suspect something wrong at play, especially since he's noticed tension within his comrades, and as a leader he couldn't just simply ignore the tense glares, insults to their being, and the hushed whispers; all pet names, a mantra they're used to calling you.

but dick doesn't take it seriously until it's too late.

that his baby bird long fell off the nest years ago, taken into the arms of whom he thought to be his most trusted comrades, thoroughly loved more than he could've given you. and it's not just one person smitten with you; it's an entire harem of people unwilling to share you just as much as dick who'd soon realize that he shares far more similarities with you; a heartbreaker, yet a caretaker at heart.

it's no wonder why everybody wants you for themselves. it's not only your family who loves to hear your precious laughs and gentle hands; that sets the jealousy ablaze in his heart.

jason never thought that artemis carried a softer version of her. but he's been picking up telltale signs of her donning dangling keychains, all cute doodles of her no doubt, and necklaces he's sure he's seen around the manor at times. it's not her typical style, and she never really found the appeal with cute things like crochet plushies of her; yet the designs are oddly reminiscent to someone he always called his angel. but whenever he tries to bring the topic up, he only receives a snarky reply, a protective hold on her things, and a familiar phrase telling him to mind his business. he isn't aware of how she met you one time after you've nearly been crushed to death by a car accelerating at you, if not for her taking the blunt end of the hit. ever since that day you've been seeing her regularly by alleyways watching over you as your guardian and giving her tokens of appreciation, albeit small, that she keeps as her prized properties; ones nobody has special access to touch. she's not much of a heckler for physical touch, but she occasionally gives you a head scratches and the rare peck to your lips.

jason doesn't like how jealous he is towards her, because of how the would-be stranger treats her and why he can't seem to pinpoint the primal urge to rip those little trinkets from her. sometimes he feels like a man possessed, eyeing the keychains and the random pastel bracelets longer, all warranting the same angered glare artemis reciprocates.

he swore he's seen them before, splayed across the random rooms in the manor, some even being in the library; things he loved to fiddle with whenever he was bored out of his mind. so seeing them being proudly displayed by artemis triggers visceral reactions within him.

but could jason do anything about it when he's part of the reason why your roster consists of your family's comrades? no.

if you couldn't get attention from your family, you'll just have to get it through their affiliations. yeah, some are older than you, but god are you treated like divinity with just how willing they are to kneel upon your feet just to gain a crumb of your attention. even the strongest lay weak whenever you look at them with disappointment or sadness with your wide, captivating eyes.

all the times tim drake would be with teammates, he'd notice how their eyes look at him expectantly, as if waiting for another one to accompany them. at first he ignores it, but the longer their strange behavior persists, he begins opening a case about his close friends.

he soon realizes that conner has a record of mentioning "his cute little darling," and how he'd brag to his other friends about how left his jacket and all his favorite t-shirts in your room and how you're always drowning in his scent— always quiping about just how much it smells like you and how he enjoys wearing all his clothes right after you wear them just to get a whiff of your presence in his life; you being his motivation to fight against crime just so he could see your pretty face and tell him you're proud of him. undeniably, he's the one who spends the longest time with you and he's prideful about it, being the only man with the privilege to touch every part of your skin, wishing to melt against you just so he'd be branded in your body like how your name is the only sweet thing he can taste in his mouth.

it's not only conner, but bart allen would bounce around more often demanding that it's unfair how conner gets everything and how he gets little time with you, with just how often you get thrown around by all your love interests! he'd admit just how cute he finds you whenever you coo about him and play with his messy locks of hair whenever it's his time of the week to visit you right after missions. spending time with him is arguably the most casual part of your life, because he loves to help you with your daily errands despite him complaining about the same tasks to his other teammates... he says it's because you stimulate every part of his brain to find satisfaction in every small action that you do, but it's not only that, rather, he wishes to gain all your praises that you sing for him, never finding boredom in your presence at all.

tim's the first one who pieces the jigsaw puzzle together, but he's thoroughly astounded either way at just how smitten they are with you. it makes him open an entirely different case that's just about you; where he discovers how you're connected with nearly everyone close to him and his siblings.

it makes him wonder what makes you all the more interesting. it's how exactly he spirals into a periodic cluster of events investigating your entire life and drowning himself in work, terabytes of files each analyzed carefully— all about you, your past, and present situation. tim drake never saw a person this admired that much, so much so that online stalking lead to physical stalking.

all your dm's are spammed by countless people, and you don't even take the initiative to reply because you'd be too busy being tossed around by the time the vigilante tracks your location. it's honestly amusing at first but the longer tim become a third perspective to your life, the more he craves your physical presence, just to get a taste of dissecting all the thoughts in your brain. but with just how often their friends fight over you, it'd be hard to rip you away from the clawing hands of all your admirers.

that's why he sets a plan into motion. if he couldn't have you to himself, then he could at least share you with the closest people he had in his life— not with all the strangers who think they know his younger sibling better than he does.

a simple document, many actually, so documents, were all he needed, with printed stacks of a4 paper compiling each and every known fact about you.

all in the name of love, he'd give it out to every member of the family in quick succession.

a hefty reminder to take back what once was theirs.

[craziertogether]

mike fell for will first.

it’s a bold statement to make but i stand by it.

i firmly believe that mike fell for will first and realized it was wrong first. as bylers we talk a lot about how mike had mountains of queer coding and was “gayer” than will in previous seasons. which i think this is why the GA tends to think that will liking mike is fanservice or doomed to fail because they only saw the confession in the van scene. (apart from lacking media literacy) i genuinely think mike had always seen will as special to him, genuinely as like the light of his life, and while society/his family conditioned him to internalize his feelings, his own lack of self worth pushed him to hide his true self (but will later push him towards will). i think the biggest indicator to mike that his feelings could never be expressed was when his own father stated “see what happens mike?” yes it could’ve been seen as a half assed ignorant comment or a warning to mike but i think mike actually interpreted it as, “will being queer was the reason for his demise”. not only the demise of death but mixed with the downfall of how society viewed will as an individual. mike was already apart of the outcasts and not well liked, but mixing that with how no one even really mourned will, now that really scared mike.

so how does this all play into my claim? mike was in love with will when he died. part of him died that day with will. that was a good reason of why he didn’t hesitate to jump off the edge (yes for dustin but there’s more to it than that). thus, when a nearly impossible possibility that will was alive came to be, mike jumped at the chance. yes, because he loved will. but more so he had found his self worth back. it’s why we see his drive to repair his “relationships” dustin, lucas, and el, all of them now working together for the sole purpose of finding will (and yes keeping el safe). it’s why i believe he is no longer hesitant to show his full devotion to will at the end of season one, by being the first to run to will when he wakes up and why he chooses will repeatedly during season 2. he loved will all along, he loved that will gave him strength and self worth again. (something i might add he never felt with el, he ALWAYS felt weak and inferior and with el it only magnified that when we see how she has powers and could save people something he doesn’t think he can do.) as social pressures kept rising, it all pushed him to fall back onto heteronormativity. and yet, even in his peak “straight bro” era. his love for will outweighs that, he chooses will through the storm that is season three and why he biked miles through the storm after the rain fight (bane of my existence btw). i don’t think it’s because he started to recognize his feelings for will in season 3 which prompted his obsession with el, i believe he always did know about them, from the start. and it’s why he continues to go back to will even when he does everything in his power to keep up his facade, he still knows that it’s will that he will always choose. so by season 4, when mike’s back to his bs and forcing his attraction to el. we see it completely fail, over and over he incriminates himself and finds himself going back to will. again you ask why? because will has shown him what he has always needed, someone who sees his worth and is willing to stay with him even when he doesn’t see his purpose anymore. will empowers mike, not because will is weak and needs a savior because they just fit together and do that for each other. it’s the same reason will finds his own strength to confess (though with a cover) to mike. will finds his voice through mike, mike finds his strength and purpose through will. everything they need (emotionally), they find just that in the other.

[dixonsdarkelf]

‘Cause They Ain’t You: Daryl Dixon & Fem!Reader

Summary: Upon arriving at Alexandria, your husband becomes the target of a group of rather flirtatious women, and you find the whole thing rather comical. But Daryl has some concerns, and they aren't just about himself.

Main masterlist Daryl x Reader Masterlist AO3 link

Genre: Fluff

Era: Alexandria, pre-Saviors

Word count: 638

Warnings: No use of y/n, some mild swearing, we got wife!reader in this one

A/N: Me? Posting three times in one week? Insane. Unheard of. Will likely never happen again. This is my take on this post/prompt from @darylsdelts (see screenshot below). I don't feel like this is my best work, but it's cute & I had fun writing it.

“‘S’not funny,” Daryl groaned, taking a seat next to you on the front porch. He ran a hand through his hair, brushing some chestnut locks from his eyes as he stared down the path, glaring at a woman who’d just been all over him despite his protests.

“What are you talking about?” you teased. You gently nudged him with your elbow, your gaze shifting from the dissipated group of women down the way. “I think this is hilarious.”

You’d met Daryl years ago, falling in love and getting married long before the downfall of the world. You two were attached at the hip. going on runs together and barely spending a moment apart. It was obvious to everyone that you two were together. However, since arriving within the sanctity of the walls of Alexandria, several of the women had taken quite a liking to your rough-and-tumble redneck, acting on their desires whether they didn’t know you were married or did know and simply didn’t care. They were all over him, incessantly flirting until Daryl was red in the face. Whether that hue was from anger or embarrassment, you couldn’t be sure.

What you were sure of, though, was that he hated it, and he knew you found it hysterical.

“It’s kind of amusing to me,” you laughed, playfully stroking his arm, mimicking the behavior of the women you’d just watched fawn over your husband, “they see us walking around all the time, going home together to the same house every night, matching rings on our fingers, and they still haven’t put two and two together.”

“Need to learn to back off.” He fiddled with the hem of his shirt sleeve, a scowl forming on his lips as he ripped off a loose string.

Your eyes softened as you looked at him, a worry beginning to creep up in your chest. While you found the whole thing humorous, you hated to see him getting so worked up over it. “I mean, if it really bothers you that much, you should say something,” you suggested, but you knew that was easier said than done. Anyone who spent even five minutes around Daryl knew he was socially awkward. Hell, when you first met him, it was like pulling teeth to get him to say a word. Admitting he was uncomfortable to people he barely knew, to put it lightly, would be a struggle.

“‘S’not me m’worried ‘bout,” he clarified.

You cocked an eyebrow. “Then what is it?” Your eyes darted across his face, searching his features for answers. As realization struck you, you tilted your head slightly in his direction, hoping it would coax him into eye contact. “You’re worried about me?”

His nod was small, but it was enough confirmation for you. “Dun’ want ya gettin’ all upset ‘bout it.”

“Aww, Dar.” You rested your hand on his lower back, drawing small circles on the bit of skin that peeked out above his belt. “I’m not upset about anything.”

“Ya ain’t bothered?” he inquired. He finally lifted his head to meet your gaze, a hint of curiosity and doubt in those stunning cerulean pools. Although he knew you’d never lie to him, especially if something was bothering you, he worried you were playing up the hilarity for his sake.

You sighed softly, your award-winning smile on full-display in an attempt to comfort him. “No, of course not. Why would I be? I know I’ve got nothing to be worried about.”

“Certainly don’t,” he reiterated, “‘cause they ain’t you.”

Those four simple words sent your heart into a fit of flutters. “You’re sweet,” you gushed, resting your head on his shoulder and looking up at him, a sparkle of adoration in your eye, “I love you.”

He chuckled softly, the sweet sound like music to your ears. “Love ya too.”

General taglist: @raddydaddydude @lovenormandixon @angeldemoncrowley @negansbestie @holdmytesseract @dixons-sunshine

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GIF, 'continue reading' divider and © message below were created by me. Three-heart divider was created by @/enchanthings.

[kinardsevan]

who am i (to know)?

had this drabble in my head for a hot second. enjoy. post-s8 shenanigans.

-

"I owe you an apology."

Tommy looks up from his coffee with wide eyes. Maddie is standing across the kitchen from him, her own fresh cup in her hands. She'd come out from getting baby Bobby down, having fallen asleep in the rocking chair in the nursery while he'd been left in the house with Jee-Yun when the girl had wrangled him into a very convoluted pretend play of princesses and dragons. Evan was outside with Howie, working on a landscaping project that Tommy was supposed to join him on before his attention had been taken over by Jee.

"You really don't," he tells her, glancing out into the other room. Jee had fallen asleep on him—literally—about ten minutes before Maddie had come out, and he'd been so heartened by the fact that he hadn't wanted to move her. Maddie had shifted her over once she came out and offered him coffee.

"I do, though, "she states, stirring a spoon inside her coffee cup to mix the flavored creamer in. Her indulgences with the drink aren't very different from Tommy's, always seeking the sweetness instead of the caffeine.

She takes a deep breath, sips rom her drink before setting it on the counter.

"I wasn't very nice to you during round one of your and Evan's relationship, much less during the…off season," she comments.

Tommy lets out the slightest chuckle, the corner of his mouth pulling up as he acquiesces a nod before taking a sip of his own coffee.

"I'll give you that one," he responds. "But he's your brother. And as I understand it, maybe even more than that, given the situation with your parents," he comments as he sets his own coffee on the counter and leans back against it, wrapping his fingers over the ledge.

Maddie nods. "I recognize that he's an adult, and that end of the day, we're siblings-.."

"But for all intents and purposes, he's still your baby in some contexts," Tommy finishes for her. Maddie nods at the statement.

He's never said much on the subject, but he's always seen the way that Maddie has looked at Evan when they were in group situations. He still remembers the way she had kept watch over him at her own wedding reception—both the impromptu one thrown at the hospital, and the one that Bobby and Athen had held for them weeks later when schedules finally lined up and they were able to do something small at their condo. Maddie had been cordial, at the very least, but she had always kept a watchful eye on him, always waiting for…something. She never commented on whatever it was that she was waiting to see take place, but it seemed obvious once the breakup took place—she was waiting on him to end things.

"The thing is, for as complex as Evan's trauma is, he doesn't know it the same way we do," Maddie states. Tommy inhales sharply, staring down into his coffee mug.

It's not that he's ever expected Evan to not tell other people about the things he's shared about his own life—he knows that keeping secrets isn't healthy, and it directly affected the downfall of their relationship in the first go around. It wasn't at all that Tommy didn't want Evan to know him, either, or that he didn't want to know Evan in deeper ways. But when they had finally taken the time to sit down and really talk about the dark stuff that they'd avoided during the first year, it was more than clear that the trauma they both held wasn't light or easy. He fully understood Evan's urge to cling with a life filled with abandonment, including an entire quarter of his life in which he didn't speak to a single member of his family—and none of them had bothered to reach out to him. Adding to that he fact that he was 29 before he knew about his dead brother, and the fact that his entire life existed because he'd been intended as a savior sibling—so much about the younger man had come into focus for Tommy. He had no problem assuming that the same could also be said for Evan in relation to him.

"I think he's got a bit of a better grasp on it now," Tommy answers, still staring down into his coffee cup. He can't actually be entirely sure that the younger man really does understand the urge to bolt, but in the face of Bobby's death, while he urged to cling and stay close, Tommy needed time alone to process. It wasn't even that he didn't appreciate the comfort of being with Evan—he very much so did—but in the same breadth, he had only ever known a life where processing loss came hand-in-hand with loneliness. He needed the silence to figure out his own thoughts. But it was also that need for separation—short as it may have been—that ultimately led to the fighting that brought them back together.

"I imagine he does," Maddie states softly. She stares at Tommy for a time, and when he looks back up at her, the expression on her face is one he's only ever seen in his direction as a young child. It's the way that his mom used to look at him before she died. A layer of emotions, usually some mixed level of both pride and annoyance, but always covered in love. It makes a wave of something unfamiliar rush through his chest.

Well, maybe not unfamiliar so much as so distantly memorable that it doesn't feel right at first.

"Anyway, my point was…" Maddie trails off after a moment, and Tommy glances over at her again. There's something familiar in their shared gaze, but whether her statement is too loaded to put into words, or she doesn't fully have a grasp on it, she's not sure. He lets out another soft breath of a chuckle and nods.

"You didn't think I was going to change my mind," he states, not questioning. "Come back."

"I wasn't entirely sure," she admits. "I just knew that I recognized something in you, and I didn't like it. It took me a while, when you came back around to really grasp what it was that I was ambivalent about, but when you showed up and helped with saving Howie, a-and stuck around for Evan…" She glances back down at her coffee, touching the cup anxiously while also trying to keep her emotions together. "Well, anyway, I've seen Evan's life be a revolving door, in the kind of way where people come and go. They don't really come back. And I knew he loved you, but I wasn't sure if you loved him. Before then, I mean."

"Figured I was just along for the good times with the hot sibling," Tommy comments, just a hint of his bitchy tone and a smile on his face. Maddie scoffs.

"He is not the hot sibling."

"He kind of is," Tommy answers with a slight tilt of his head, and then they're both laughing, and it feels good. It feels warm and safe, and he has just the slightest pang of anxiety about letting himself really sink into it. No matter how much Evan tells him that there isn't anyone else and he doesn't want someone else, the fear of letting himself believe in another future that he won't actually get is still terrifying.

"The important thing is that you believe that," Maddie states, still laughing a little. As she finishes talking, though, just a smile remains on her face, and Tommy knows she means it.

Tommy glances out toward the back patio as Evan and Howie work on moving a bag of mulch into large pots, and his expression softens.

"He still scares me, if I'm honest," he tells her. "I've put faith into relationships in the past that didn't work out, and that hurt. But falling in love with him, and then telling myself that I couldn't have him…" His eyes get that overly dry feeling as he feels the edge of them brim with moisture. He glances back over at Maddie briefly, and she has that look on her face again, and it makes his heart twist. His gaze falls to her hands wrapped around her coffee mug as he drags his teeth against themselves, bites the side of his cheek. "He feels like a home I haven't known since…and I couldn't let go of him the way I should have. S-so even though he tells me otherwise, I still wake up every day convinced just a little bit that he will actually destroy me."

Maddie sets her cup down and Tommy looks away, suddenly feeling as though he needs to pull himself together in the right way. He forces a breath out and pushes a smile across his face as she walks over to him, wraps her small hands around his bicep, leaning into his side a little. The height difference is a little ridiculous, but he finds he doesn't mind it.

"I think you've figured this out, but Evan loves big, and in grand gestures. He has a penchant for missteps and overcorrection, but he means only the best with all of it. And in the midst of all of that, I have never seen him love the way he loves you, even if it took him a while to piece all of that together."

Tommy glances down at Maddie, his gaze narrowed just slightly.

"You don't think he's going to change his mind one day?" He tries to make it sound like a joke, but the trembling in his voice gives him away, and Maddie squeezes his bicep.

"Believe me when I tell you, Evan doesn't see anyone else," Maddie tells him. "Also, if you tell him that I've told you this, I'll deny it because of how disgusted I was when he said it to begin with. But I have heard him make the statement that if it was humanly possible, he'd have your children." Maddie narrows her eyes at Tommy. "Truth be told, I wouldn't be surprised if he did a deep dive to see if it is possible."

Tommy blushes at her statement, lets out a laugh, and it makes Maddie laugh too. For a solid two minutes, they lean against each other and the counter, laughing until it hurts to keep doing so, at which point the patio doors open and Evan and Howie come walking in, pink and each covered in a sheen of sweat. The center of Evan's tank clings to his chest, and it makes Tommy feral just looking at him.

"Might have to do a google search of my own," he mutters toward Maddie. She slaps his arm and steps away as Evan and Howie both mutter some version of 'what?' Maddie walks over to her husband and wraps an arm around him, pulling him away as Evan approaches Tommy. The pilot watches his boyfriend as Evan drapes an arm over his shoulder, fingers grazing at his hairline as he smirks at him.

"You are so dirty right now," Tommy tells him. "And sweaty."

Evan nods. "We were going to shower. The master bedroom has its own. And besides, you like me all sweaty and worked up." He trails a finger down the center of Tommy's chest, slipping it in past the button the fastened button in the center of Tommy's chest. The pilot glances down at what he's doing, can't fight the smirk pulling on his face. Evan leans into him, tilts up toward his ear. "Shower with me."

"There are children here," Tommy murmurs back to him, glancing toward the hall. He hears the bedroom door shut down the hall, and Evan presses his heated, sweaty cheek into Tommy's. "And I didn't plan for this."

"I did," Evan whispers, turning his head more and biting down into the space below Tommy's ear as he leans closer to him. Tommy gulps. Evan's free hand slides down his torso before his fingers curl into the waist of the pilot's jeans. "I have clothes for you. Shower with me."

Tommy opens his mouth to respond, but Evan's fingers dip lower, and the pilot gasps as the tips of Evan's fingers brush against him.

"Quickie in the shower," he whispers, his throat tight with need. "Quiet like a mouse."

Evan grins against his neck, and he can feel it.

"Sure," he answers gruffly. When he pulls away, the grin is still plastered on his face as he tugs Tommy forward by the hand still in his jeans. "Bag's already in the bathroom."

Yeah. Tommy definitely needs to get on that Google search.

[divaofmads]

ME and the DEVIL

Pairing: Jonathan Crane x Female Reader x Bruce Wayne

Chapter II: Bruises and Lullabies

"This isn’t a moral downfall. It’s a weakness. But in this city, weakness brings death. If I love you, I can’t protect you. If I don’t love you, I’ll lose you. Which one should I choose?"

Warnings: Angst, +18, Taboo Love (Step Daddy Bruce Wayne), Age Gap Romance, Yandere Undertones, Dark Jonathan Crane, Gaslighting, Obsessive Behavior, Fear Toxin Effects, Childhood Trauma, Possessive Dynamics, Implied Toxic Relationships, Unreliable Narration (due to drugged/dissociative state)

Word Count: +10k

Dividers by @sisterlucifergraphics @cafekitsune photos by Pinterest

A/N: English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional.

The living room was as silent as the evening itself.

Thick velvet curtains kept out the Gotham night, blocking the gentle melody of the rain tapping against the windows. The only sound in the room was the rustle of papers – like a sentence suppressed, thoughts buried before they could be spoken.

Bruce Wayne had settled into the armchair closest to the window. In his hand was a folded newspaper, the corner bent between his thumb and forefinger, but he didn’t seem to be reading it. He appeared fully focused on the pages. But focus is often an illusion.

You were sitting across from him, your legs tucked under you. You wore a red and white gingham halter top that hugged your figure, and soft pants of the same fabric that ended just below your knees. You had opened the Edward Nygma file you brought from Arkham. You were taking notes in blue ink, sometimes thinking out loud. Bruce was listening. Even when you didn’t know he was.

“Riddler’s connection to riddles isn’t a classic obsession, in my opinion,” you said, not lifting your gaze from the pages. “He’s not lost in the question itself. He wants to dissolve into the answer. It’s a kind of psychological claim. He’s not satisfied by knowing, but by solving.”

Bruce slowly turned a page of the newspaper.

“Interesting,” he said, his voice as soft as velvet, but with a subtle, scrutinizing undertone. “And what about Batman? What do you think of him?”

You raised your head for a moment. Your eyes sparkled with surprise, and a hint of playful mischief.

“Hmm. Personally or professionally?”

Bruce narrowed his eyes, tilting his head slightly with a faint smile. “Do you think you can tell the difference?”

You shrugged, but the little defiant girl inside you stepped forward.

“Batman… is someone who has buried his identity. He probably experienced deep trauma. But instead of suppressing it, he recreates it. Every night. With his own hands. He identifies with criminals. Rather than just fighting them, he recreates their fear. That’s why his mask isn’t any different from the ones criminals wear.”

Bruce locked eyes with you for a moment. The corner of his lips curved upward, but it wasn’t satisfaction. It carried a kind of melancholy.

“Wasn’t that a bit harsh? Maybe Batman is just a man trying to bring justice. Maybe he’s not that dark.”

You tilted your head slightly. Whenever he tested you like that, that slight, smug grin always found its way to your lips.

“If a man puts on a cape every night and breaks criminals’ bones, I don’t care how brightly he walks in daylight. He must be doing it from somewhere deep inside. If that place is dark… then I find it even more compelling.”

For a split second, Bruce’s expression froze. Something deep in his heart cracked with a single hammer blow. But he didn’t let it show on his face.

“Compelling, huh?” he asked. There was a touch of sarcasm laced with hidden fragility in his voice.

“What kind of effect is that, exactly?”

You didn’t answer. You turned back to the file, but the words on the page were now blurry. He was watching you. And you could feel it, even without looking.

“If you ask me...” you said at last, glancing at a corner of the file, “Batman isn’t a savior. He’s more like someone familiar. He knows loss. He knows the void. That’s why he affects me.”

Bruce turned his eyes back to the newspaper to stop watching you. But this time, the warmth in his voice was more distinct.

“Your theories are sometimes... quite embellished with imagination.”

You laughed, short and confidently.

“Well, I am Bruce Wayne’s student, after all. If my imagination wasn’t strong, I wouldn’t be interning at Arkham, would I?”

There was a moment of silence after you said that. Bruce lifted his head again, and his gaze fell back on you. There was a glimmer in his eyes you couldn’t quite name. Admiration? Guilt? Fear of something?

"Knowing some things this well... it’s a bit much for your age."

His voice was low, deep, like he was talking to himself. But he wanted you to hear.

And you did. You understood.

You smiled. Squinting slightly, you turned your head.

"You don’t have to keep reminding me of my age. I’m legally an adult now, you know."

That sentence changed the air in the room. Even the crackling of the fireplace seemed to pause for a moment.

Bruce didn’t react. But his gaze stayed on you. Long. Silent. Then, after a moment, he lowered his head and folded the newspaper.

"If you’re going to keep working with Riddler, be careful. While you’re trying to solve him, he’s analyzing you. It’s a dangerous balance."

You sighed.

"The real danger is Batman. I wish I could meet him. I feel like... he’s someone who’d truly see me."

Bruce stayed silent for a while. Then turned his eyes back to you, but his gaze was somewhere else entirely.

As if your presence was the echo of something he once lost. As if you were both his victim and his savior.

"If you had met him..." he said slowly, "maybe you would’ve changed your mind."

You looked directly into his eyes.

"Or maybe... he would’ve affected me even more."

Bruce stood. Slowly. And looked at you.

"Isn’t it past your bedtime?"

The words came in a fatherly tone, but there was another layer beneath. Like a man trying to hold himself back.

You didn’t move.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Go ahead."

"Have you ever... helped someone without being seen? I mean... someone you protected without wanting them to know it was you?"

For a moment, Bruce’s eyes froze on you. He stayed silent for so long it felt like an answer.

Eventually, he looked away and began to walk.

"Everyone has a shadow, Y/N," he said.

"But some learn to see from inside that shadow."

You didn’t say anything for a while. Just watched him. Long and still. Your eyes were slightly narrowed, but there was something swinging between a child’s gaze and a woman’s instinct.

You knew the weariness on his face by heart. How his lips pulled sideways when he tried not to smile, how his shoulder relaxed when you squeezed it...

And at that moment you realized, you had stored all these details in your memory like a file. Just like Nygma’s notes.

Bruce lowered his head. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

You straightened slightly, rose to your feet. "Because sometimes... I want to look with you from inside the shadow you live in," you said, slowly walking toward him.

You leaned on the armrest of the chair he was sitting in and gently touched his knee with your fingertips.

"And that paper-cut serious expression on your face is a bit much. When you frown, you look more like Alfred."

Bruce glanced sideways at you. His lips twitched upwards unwillingly, but he tried to keep a straight face.

"There’s no room for another personality disorder in Wayne Manor," he said. "Especially if someone’s impersonating Alfred, I’ll throw them out the door."

You burst out laughing. "Ooo! So now you’re threatening me, Mr. Wayne?" You tilted your head playfully and winked. "Or are you saving that Batman rage just for me?"

Bruce shook his head. "One day, your mouth is going to get you into trouble, young lady," he said, his voice a mix of fatherly affection and stony patience.

But you had already jumped from behind the chair as if to sit on his leg. Then you backed off like a child hopping in place. Bruce quickly moved and grabbed you by the waist.

"Gotcha," he said in a low voice, both serious and teasing. His arms wrapped around your slender waist, pulling you close enough that you couldn’t escape.

You laughed heartily, nearly falling into Bruce’s lap.

"That’s not fair! You’re so bi..." you began, but his look stopped your breath before you could finish.

You locked eyes.

The joy on your face gave way to brief confusion, then to your signature slyness.

Your lips parted slightly, your breath close enough to touch Bruce’s face. His fingers were still on your waist. Not tight, just there, holding, not letting go.

There were only a few inches between you.

You squinted and whispered.

"You know... I missed this game. This closeness. These little battles. It feels like I’m living inside a poem. One without a poet, but every line echoes in my heart."

Something flickered in Bruce’s eyes as he prepared to respond. He slowly leaned toward your hair, but didn’t kiss you. He just stayed there, waiting.

You rested your head on his shoulder. And neither of you spoke.

As the darkness of Gotham crept in through the windows of the Manor, time slowed a little more for you both.

And the shadows... deepened.

Bruce leaned back. His left hand touched your shoulder. Gracefully, yet with quiet determination. When his fingertips moved slightly, you took a deep breath. The warmth from where he touched you began to spread inward. Even in the darkness, there was that gray haze in his eyes, always thoughtful, always somewhere else, yet somehow always seeing you. You didn’t know which war he was hiding behind, but sometimes you just wanted to believe he was only here, only now, with you.

And that moment—right then—was exactly that. Real.

“You know,” you said, your voice low, warm with a tinge of sorrow. “I missed this... just being close. Without talking. Just... being.”

Bruce locked eyes with you, then glanced at your face, and finally, your lips. His gaze lingered there for a moment. Perhaps it was the moment when whatever he was trying to suppress nearly broke the surface. But of course, he was Bruce Wayne. Master of everything, even the warden of his own feelings.

“I did too,” he said in a hushed voice. “But sometimes... the more you miss something, the further it feels. Like you’re suddenly more aware of what’s slipping through your fingers.”

“I don’t want it to slip,” you said. “I want us to be like we were. Like that morning... remember? The one when Alfred tried to wake you up with coffee, but I was lying on top of you.” You rested your head gently on his shoulder. “You said, ‘Y/N, this is a form of torture.’”

Bruce dipped his head. A faint smile touched his lips. “Because it really was,” he said. “But the good kind.”

You didn’t laugh. You just closed your eyes. As if trying to drink in the silence, you inhaled his scent, his clothes, his skin, the aftershave... and beneath all of it, that hidden, complex, dark, metallic smell. Maybe it was just your imagination. Maybe it was just... the mystery that seemed to cling to him.

Then a thought crossed your mind. A glowing, mischievous, seductive thought.

You suddenly straightened. Before Bruce could react, you moved onto your knees and slipped gracefully into his lap. Your posture was elegant, yet undeniably bold. Your fingers reached toward the buttons of his shirt, not to undo them, just to touch. Tilting your head slightly, you looked at him, a spark in your eyes, a subtle secret on your lips.

“You know, that swimming race last month... wasn’t fair at all. You always bend the rules in your favor.”

With a playful smile, you continued:

“So maybe now... it’s my turn to set the rules.”

Bruce’s body tensed slightly. He didn’t look away, but his smile had faded. In his eyes, the amusement had given way to something else: a mix of desire and guilt.

He shook his head. Like he was trying to gather his thoughts.

“Y/N... No. This—” he said. He paused. Then, in a slower, wearier voice, repeated:

“This can’t happen.”

For a moment, just a moment, the sting of those words didn’t register. But then they settled in your chest. Not gently. Harshly like a crack.

You looked at him. Your lips still carried that playful smirk, but your eyes had stopped smiling.

“It can’t?” you asked. “Why not?”

Bruce’s hand was still at your waist, but now his fingers had loosened. He didn’t speak. Just lowered his head. As if the weight of the world fit into a single answer he couldn’t say aloud. Because to name it, to say it, would be to give up the secret, and push you away.

And then, the heavy oak door creaked open.

Alfred stepped inside. His gaze passed from him to you, but he said nothing. That expression he always wore, as though he’d seen everything, yet nothing at all.

“Mr. Wayne,” he said. His voice was calm but unhurried. “Charlotte Rivers has arrived. She’s waiting for you at the front.”

Silence… then the shadow on Bruce’s face deepened.

You, still in his lap, turned to Alfred.

And Bruce’s next words sank you into an even deeper silence:

“Thank you, Alfred. Let her in.”

Alfred gave a nod, paused a moment more at the door, then quietly withdrew.

You turned your face to Bruce. There was no play left on your lips. That spark had vanished.

And with only a whisper, you asked:

“Charlotte Rivers?”

That night, the wind outside Wayne Manor howled even harder.

But inside... the real storm had begun.

You were standing on the marble floor that gleamed like golden reflections of the warm yellow light beneath the towering crystal chandelier. On your left was Bruce’s familiar calm, and on your right, the approaching footsteps of a storm. Charlotte Rivers.

The sharp, steel-like sound of her heels echoed through the empty hall, and for a moment, you held your breath. When the silhouette of the woman appeared before the grand door, the infuriating entrance scene you had imagined countless times finally took flesh and bone. Absentmindedly, your hand rested on the sleeve of Bruce’s jacket—unknowingly. As your fingers drew near his skin through the fabric, the woman’s smile kept drawing closer.

“Bruce, darling…”

Charlotte smiled with a polished lie on her lips. Without the slightest hesitation, she stepped up to Bruce and pressed a short yet distinct kiss on his lips. Though the kiss was brief, her fingertips lingered on his chest for about two seconds longer than necessary. And you stood there.

You looked on without narrowing your eyes. The red mark of her lipstick may not have stayed on Bruce’s skin, but the spark in your eyes—the instant flame of jealousy—betrayed you. Still, a faint smile played on your lips, as if you were amused. You weren’t revealing the war inside you. Not yet.

When Charlotte turned her head toward you, she said, “Ah… Y/N, isn’t it? How lovely to see you again. You’re still… living in this house?” Her expression was kind, but her voice was coated with sugary poison. She had left such a deliberate pause between the words that you could almost hear the subtext: “Isn’t it a bit strange that Bruce is still with you?”

“Yes,” you replied. “Sometimes people don’t leave a place. They make it theirs.”

Your response was just like her smile: subtle, but equally sharp. Charlotte slightly raised her brows; her face suspended somewhere between surprise and delight. It showed she accepted the challenge. And you, placing your hands behind your back, took a small step back to watch.

Bruce cleared his throat to break the tension. “Charlotte, come. Let’s move to the sitting room. Alfred will bring the drinks shortly.”

But Charlotte hadn’t moved yet. She gently touched Bruce’s arm. “Honestly… I didn’t think I could’ve missed you this much. But maybe it’s the magic of Wayne Manor. Or… your presence.”

Her voice was so composed, you might have mistaken it for genuine. But you could see the calculations behind her eyes. And Bruce… said nothing. He wore that mask you knew—the mask of blankness—and responded to her words with neither denial nor approval.

But that was the moment that hurt you the most. It wasn’t that Bruce didn’t defend you. It was that he acted as if you weren’t even there. Charlotte leaned in a little more, lightly touching Bruce’s chest, her fingers tracing the seams of his jacket. These small gestures were a deliberate dance performed in your presence. Every gesture was an insult. Every smile, a provocation. And Bruce hadn’t stopped the dance.

You just watched. With your wrists clasped and your nails digging into your palms, you stood upright. You were smiling, but your teeth were clenched with fury. Your heart was tight, yet your face wore a soft expression. And your eyes… when they found Bruce again, the fragments of admiration still lingering there were now shaded with pain.

At that moment, you noticed Charlotte whispering something to Bruce, ignoring you entirely. He slightly nodded, but there was still no trace of that ghostly smile you once knew so well. That face—it no longer belonged to you. For a fleeting second, it felt like you were watching Bruce’s ghost. And that ghost had found life in someone else’s body.

That night, even the stone walls of Wayne Manor seemed to breathe—bound by a kind of ancient, ominous loyalty that refused to let anything inside or allow anything to escape. The darkness of night had devoured the scenery, and the shadows of the trees in the garden reflected on the window like silhouettes gasping for air. In the dim light of the bedroom, shadows and reality blended into one—just like inside your mind.

Your room was actually your favorite corner in Bruce’s house. The dark navy wallpaper Bruce once gifted you was still there. On the bookshelf, carefully arranged volumes of Freud and Jung stood neighborly beside plush teddy bears. The white lace curtain at the window fluttered gently with the breeze, appearing to be the only thing in motion at that moment. The room was elegant, but still youthful. Just like you.

You were pacing back and forth inside, your feet pressing into the soft texture of the dark carpet, while your heart pounded so hard you feared its sound might shatter the silence. You kept replaying in your mind, again and again in countless variations, what Bruce and Charlotte were doing, where they had gone, and how they could so easily leave you behind.

It was 1:30 a.m. now. Two hours. Two hours, and Bruce hadn’t returned. Charlotte hadn’t left. And you… you were decaying in silence, in your own room, digging your nails into your palms.

Then… that laugh came.

High-pitched, careless, far too relaxed. It was Charlotte’s laugh. Even from a distance, you could see her throwing her head back as she laughed, placing her hands on Bruce’s shirt, narrowing her eyes. That sound had made its way to the upper floors of the house, all the way to your room.

Your body reacted instantly. Your feet carried you to the door without your permission. Your palms pressed against the wood of the door; you turned your head slightly, listening. First, footsteps… then a few murmurs… then Charlotte’s voice again.

“…You’re so tense lately, Bruce. Maybe you should learn to unwind a little. That’s what nights are for, aren’t they?”

The touch within her voice poured into your ears like silky venom. The insinuations, the invitations… they made it hard for you to stay upright. Your heart started pounding again—this time, in your throat. A fist seemed lodged there, and swallowing was impossible.

“Do you remember that night? Champagne, me, you, that famous jacuzzi… I tricked you a little, but you liked it. Why are you being so distant now?”

And Bruce’s reply… never came. Or maybe you couldn’t hear it. Maybe he whispered. Or maybe he didn’t answer at all. But the silence didn’t seem to discourage Charlotte.

“Come upstairs with me. Let’s… refresh old memories.”

That was when a sharp pain hit your gut. Your knees buckled, but you didn’t collapse. Your eyes locked on a single point: the door leading to the dark hallway.

Were they going upstairs? To Bruce’s bedroom?

A moment of silence passed, then a faint click… footsteps… heels echoing on the marble stairs. You recognized them instantly. Charlotte’s walk was always a performance. And Bruce was he following her?

You leaned your back against the door, your head tilting upward with the knot in your throat. The chandelier’s crystals fractured the ceiling light, casting soft shadows on the walls. But that beauty could no longer comfort you. In your mind appeared the image of that foreign woman’s lips touching Bruce’s. You recalled that laugh. That invitation. And Bruce’s silence.

You clenched your teeth. You felt something crack inside, thin and long like a fissure. Slowly growing, pulling you into darkness.

It wasn’t just jealousy. No. It was the foreboding sense of loss, the helplessness of being forced to watch everything you love slip quietly through your fingers. It was watching another woman erase you from his memory in every moment you weren’t by his side. Quietly. Calmly. Wanting to scream, but only being able to swallow it down.

You whispered Bruce’s name. It came out like a plea from between your lips… but no one else was in the room. He didn’t hear you. And even if he did, maybe he wouldn’t turn around anymore.

And that night, for the first time, you were truly alone.

The time had long passed midnight, and the silence of the house was no longer a comfort; it settled over you like a suffocating burial shroud. The thick stone walls of Wayne Manor were woven with a cold, resentful stillness, every crevice filled with history, weight, and secrets. In the dim light of the room, even the echo of your footsteps felt like a betrayal, each step pounding like a heart caught in the act.

You couldn’t sleep. You hadn’t even tried. Your feet forced you into pacing, your hands wrapping around your own wrists as you moved back and forth across the room. The sheer curtains twisted in front of the window against the breeze, the moonlight making the delicate fabric sway as if it wanted to wrap itself around your body.

But the wave inside you was much stronger.

Bruce. Charlotte. That laughter.

That look. That touch.

You were burning from within.

In the middle of the night, you moved like a shadow losing control. Even the tiny click as you opened the door on your tiptoes startled you. The chill in the hallway slithered across your skin like a sneaky intention. Every step, every creak made you feel even lonelier, even more alien in this house. You stopped when you reached the start of the staircase leading to the upper floor. There was something inside you now: jealousy, dressed up as courage.

You didn’t know how your heart could beat so wildly as you approached something you thought belonged to you. But when you stepped into the corridor where Bruce’s bedroom was... something else happened. Your feet stopped. Your breath caught. Because you had heard it.

Those sounds.

A breath echoing. A stifled giggle. The rustle of sheets brushing together.

And Charlotte’s voice, faint, but with a seductively sharp sweetness as it rose:

"Hmm... just like that. I feel like I remember you again now. You know, Bruce… when you look at me like that, I still remember that night. My hands were pressed against the wall in the stairwell..."

Her voice sent a chill to the tips of your hair and a heavy punch right to the center of your stomach. There, right in front of the door, you leaned against the wall. Your legs had gone numb. There was no hand on your chest, but it was there. Another muffled moan came from her. Then Bruce’s low, husky voice, unclear, but the vibration of his words seemed to stroke Charlotte’s hair.

You swallowed. But your throat was dry. Your lips parted, but you had not a single word to say. What was inside you… was like the shattered shards of a mirror. Each piece slicing into a different part of your soul.

Hatred.

Desire.

Disappointment.

Betrayal.

And... mistrust.

And yet, how much had you wanted to be the one next to him. Sitting on that couch, just one more touch and you would’ve belonged to him again. And now, behind that door, Bruce Wayne was slowly unraveling in the hands of another woman. Your dreams were being carved into someone else’s skin by his hands.

Charlotte whispered again:

"You make me feel like I belong to you. You really haven’t forgotten me, have you?"

And Bruce’s response came in the form of silence. But that silence hurt you more than any word ever could.

You trembled. Your back pressed harder against the wall. Your fingers went to your chest, your throat. You could feel the rise of the anger you tried to suppress. And it was no longer just jealousy. This was a claim. Your pride had been crushed, your desires trampled.

And worst of all: Bruce had lied to you. He had looked you in the eyes and lied when he left you alone.

The line of light slipping from under the door touched your ankles. It felt like it was cutting you. You wanted to step closer to the door but couldn’t. Because if you took one more step... you would lose another part of yourself. Irretrievably.

That night, in that dark hallway, you felt completely exposed. And perhaps for the first time, you realized you could never trust Bruce the same way again.

.

There was still night in the hallway. The morning sun, seeping through the gray velvet curtains, seemed too timid to step inside the house. The walls of Wayne Manor were, as always, silent—but it felt as though everything had already been said.

You were dressed for your morning internship, moving in a simple black shirt with fine white stripes and fitted black slacks… your steps were quiet. Too quiet. You were quiet just so you wouldn't hear him. Just because you felt too broken to deserve any sound.

But life always loved testing you where it hurt the most.

As you were leaving, you saw him. Bruce. Wayne.

He was coming down the stairs, his black t-shirt disheveled, his hair messy, and his gaze heavy from lack of sleep as he looked at you. He was alone. But you knew. Upstairs. Inside. Charlotte Rivers was still in bed.

Only two staircases away from your room.

When your eyes met, time seemed to pull back—like a thread being drawn through the skin while stitching a wound; silent, tense, but amplifying the pain. When your gaze locked on him, he noticed. His lips parted, as if to say something, but he couldn’t. Because you spoke first.

You straightened your shoulders. Tilted your neck slightly. Just as he was about to say “good morning,” your voice sliced through the air: “You looked very tired last night. I hope… you were able to rest.”

Your words were like shards of glass stuck in the neck of a wine bottle; elegant on the surface, but already cutting through beneath. Bruce averted his gaze. But you didn’t. You stayed right there. You kept looking. You waited.

There was silence. And then, he did what he always did: tried to control the guilt.

“Y/N… if I need to explain...”

You raised your hand, slicing the air gently. It was a graceful, almost tender gesture. But not on the inside.

“You don’t need to explain. I already heard everything loud and clear.”

There was no shouting in your voice, no reproach. And that deepened the lines on Bruce’s face even more. Because your tone was patient. And patience was something no one your age should ever have.

He saw that spark in your eyes. You weren’t a little girl anymore. No longer that “sweet” presence who used to fall asleep reading books at his side. There was something in your eyes that the night couldn’t retrieve, and the morning couldn’t mend.

“Y/N… Charlotte is someone from my past. Something began with her.”

You cut him off. Didn’t blink. “Yes, Bruce. It began. Just like what you started to show me. While what we had was a bond far deeper than a physical one… your sense of time is truly something. Seems like you’ve lost track of the difference between hurting someone and seducing them.”

You took a step closer. Your footsteps were velvet-soft, but the storm inside you pounded against your ribs with a roar. There were only inches between you now. You looked into his eyes and whispered: “I was your future. But you chose to stay in your past.”

And right then… his throat moved. He swallowed. But he couldn’t speak. Because your eyes weren’t filled with tears. You hadn’t cried. And that was the most terrifying part: the absence of tears. If no tears were shown, there could be no forgiveness.

You turned toward the door. Just as you were about to leave, a hoarse voice rose behind you: “I still care about you.”

You didn’t stop. Just shrugged your shoulders and replied, “Then why did you share a bed with her?”

As one of the house staff opened the door, the morning sun on your face felt like it was smiling at you. But you didn’t look back. With the weight of no longer belonging to the darkness inside Wayne Manor, you walked down the steps. Your feet no longer moved like a child’s, but like a woman’s.

The corridor didn’t feel like its usual morning chill. There was a thick, scentless, but heavy chemical residue lingering in the air—like the ghost of a spill. Your footsteps made almost no sound. In a building this old and decaying, that alone was unsettling. The rubber soles of your black ballet flats made it feel like you were stepping on the soul of a ghost. The notebook in your hand had started to moisten at the fingertips.

When you reached the office door, it was closed—but someone was inside. Two male voices. One was familiar—sharp and measured, slicing each sentence into pieces. Dr. Crane. The other was older, a little more muffled… and dominant: Dr. Hugo Strange.

But the words… the words were blurry. You could only make out certain key terms in between sentences: “dosage,” “voluntary protocol,” “immunity,” “REM cycle”... and the phrase that struck your ear the most: “only at night.”

Instinctively, you took a step back. And just then, from behind you, came a sweet, slightly too loud, and definitely out-of-place voice:

“Hey there, sweetheart!”

When you turned slowly, you saw Dr. Harleen Quinzel standing behind you. She wore her white coat, beneath it a faded pink dress. Her hair was neatly tied, dark circles under her eyes from a sleepless night, but her lips were like springtime.

“When did you sneak in like that?” she asked, raising an eyebrow, her tone curious and warm.

“Uh… just now…” you whispered, though your voice didn’t even sound like your own.

Harleen stepped closer. “Like a class… If you’re standing so quietly outside a door, chances are you heard something, right?” Her voice was chirpy, but there was real mischief in her gaze. She was testing you. Measuring.

You opened your mouth to say something, but before you could, the door suddenly swung open.

Dr. Jonathan Crane’s eyes locked with yours for a brief moment. But it wasn’t the kind of look you were used to. It was cold and measured; revealing no emotion, yet seeming to read every question in your mind. That gaze had sliced through you—it was something between being seen and being exposed. The reflection of all that waiting, the eavesdropping, the fear of being caught—coldly mirrored in his eyes. But he said nothing.

As you stepped inside, Harleen whispered a warm goodbye and walked away. The office door closed slowly behind you, and the air inside thickened even more. The shadows trembling behind the window panes seemed to still hum with Crane’s voice. As he walked to his desk, he had his head down, gathering papers. He glanced at you from the corner of his eye, but avoided direct eye contact. That made you even more uneasy.

You couldn’t help but speak.

“Just now… it was you and Dr. Strange in there, I think?” you said, trying to keep your voice from trembling. “You were talking about a patient? I didn’t see any such case in my files. I was just curious if it’s an experimental—”

He raised his head.

When his gaze hit you, that same chilling silence once again filled the room. Only his eyes spoke; and in them, there was no anger. No rage. But a kind of warning. Slow, patient, slithering like a snake.

“Curiosity,” he said. His tone was sharp, but there was no smile. “In psychiatry, it’s a variable all its own. When not properly guided… it can be harmful.”

You swallowed. Your instincts told you to break eye contact, but something—pride, or maybe the need to explain—kept you rooted there.

“I wasn’t trying to… I didn’t mean to listen. I just happened to be nearby. I overheard because—”

“Because you were standing by the door,” he said, calmly. Almost kindly. “And you overheard. Because you want to show how good of an intern you are… don’t you?”

He used the silence you left as a blade. He took two steps toward you. His footsteps barely made a sound on the carpet, but something inside you coiled. His hands were tucked into his coat pockets. He tilted his head slightly, as if examining you.

“You’re in your sixth week, Miss Wayne. A bit early to be searching for all the answers. Some questions come with a price,” he said slowly. “Some knowledge... shouldn’t be so easy to gain.”

You instinctively took a step back, but he noticed and stepped closer. So close now that you could feel the chill of his breath on your skin. Yet he hadn’t yelled, hadn’t raised a hand. And still, you were already trembling.

“I… I’m sorry,” you said, your voice sounding like it didn’t even belong to you. “That wasn’t my intention. I didn’t mean to overstep.”

There was a curl at the corner of his lips. It wasn’t a smile. It was the reaction of a man who had shaped someone into exactly the mold he wanted. He had pushed you into that pit of guilt. And then left you there.

He returned to his desk, straightened the folders. Then, shattering the silence, he said:

“In your next session with Edward Nygma... continue to use your observational skills. But don’t forget to draw boundaries. The line between observation and obsession... you know, it’s very thin.”

You felt your insides freeze. You knew that was a reference. But to whom, it wasn’t clear. To you? To himself? Or perhaps… to both of you.

Dr. Crane’s gaze had sliced through your soul like the edge of a scalpel. He hadn’t even asked the question. He had asked it with his eyes; accused you with a look, passed judgment in silence. Just looking into his eyes had been enough to put you in your place. The words that came from his mouth weren’t sentences—they were cold, procedural, as if part of a treatment protocol. He hadn’t hurt you. He had ruined you.

You had lowered your head, trying to salvage the moment with a short “I’m sorry,” but the word stuck in your throat the moment it left your lips. Feeling like a child in his presence had become something you were slowly getting used to. But this time… this time something was different. Was he acting like this because you had heard the argument? Or had he always been like this and you were only now beginning to see it?

When you turned to your chair and opened your notebook, your fingers were trembling. Every letter you tried to write clashed with the thoughts echoing in your head. “What was it about? Who was in the room at night? ‘Extrasynaptic neurotransmission’? ‘Chemical orientation curve’? They hadn’t sounded like medical terms, more like the passwords to some secret ritual…” You placed your hands on your knees and took a deep breath. The air you inhaled through your nose didn’t carry the sterile metallic scent of the clinic—it carried the depthless darkness seeping from Crane’s office. That room… often felt less like an office and more like a coffin. Quiet, intimate, and soundproof enough that even if someone screamed, no one outside would hear it.

Just then, the silence was torn apart like a scalpel slicing through skin.

“Y/N?”

Dr. Crane’s voice wasn’t raised, but it carried a sharpness in its depth. He didn’t even glance at you from the corner of his eye. But his voice pierced right through you. When you lifted your head, you saw him standing among the files.

“Do you remember Arnold Wesker?” he asked, his voice like a warning you’d never want to hear in a dream. “The decision has been approved. He’ll be admitted today.”

You swallowed.

Wesker. The Ventriloquist. The Puppeteer.

Your hand instinctively gripped the pen tighter. You bit the inside of your lip, just to avoid reacting to the name. But the familiar hum had already taken hold of you. A fear crawling to the tips of your fingers. Puppets. Those dark figures without hard eyes, but always watching you… He knew. Before he even said it, he knew what your reaction would be. That’s why he had spoken the name out loud. He was watching your response. Perhaps he had already made up his mind.

“I want you to conduct the initial assessment,” he said quietly. The light from the room reflected off his glasses; you couldn’t see his eyes. But you could feel their presence. “It’ll be the first time we make such close contact with his mind. You may want to witness it.”

His tone wasn’t inviting. It wasn’t threatening either. But somewhere beneath, deeper than command, something more subterranean lingered. This wasn’t an offer. This was a test.

A knot twisted in your stomach. But on your face, you wore that professional mask. You nodded slightly.

“Understood,” you said. “I’m ready.”

But you weren’t.

And he had already seen that.

When Dr. Crane's voice fell silent, a brief stillness settled over the office. It stood in sharp contrast to the noise inside your head—your heartbeat pounded against your temples like pressure building behind your eyes. But when you looked at him, it was as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just dropped a name like Arnold Wesker into your lap and walked away. As if he hadn’t noticed how your hands clenched tightly, how your pupils had shrunk the moment you heard it.

But he had noticed.

Still, he didn’t let the slight curve at the corner of his lips falter. He observed you behind the glass of his spectacles—long and measured. Then, his voice suddenly softened. In that dark room, it felt like someone had extinguished a lamp and replaced it with candlelight.

“You don’t have any other tasks at the moment, Y/N,” he said. “If you’d like, take a break. A new coffee machine was installed downstairs—it’s not half bad.”

Was that all? After all that intimidation, was he going to speak this gently? At first, it felt like a trap. But his voice was so calm… so naturally carried by the flow of the moment… that it planted a seed of doubt inside you, while also gently pressing your shoulder toward the door.

You nodded, keeping your gaze steady, your smile cautious but not revealing it.

“Alright… Thank you, Doctor,” you said.

That was what he wanted. Both the words and the submission. He was sending you out through that door—but only physically.

You walked the hallway with brisk steps, as if shaking off the tension clinging to your shoulders. Arkham’s walls were as cold as ever, but for the first time, they felt suffocating. When you reached the lower floor, the corridors were nearly empty. The corner with the coffee machine had become a temporary refuge for a few staff members at the start of the night shift. You got yourself a plain coffee, though your hand was still trembling slightly.

And then, your phone buzzed.

Bruce.

Seeing his name on the screen made something tighten inside you. You slowly reached into your pocket and pulled the phone out. The screen was still lit:

“How are you?”

Then, a few minutes later, another message:

“I’m sorry for what happened this morning. I’ll make it up to you.”

You inhaled and exhaled, but didn’t reply. Your finger hovered over the screen, unmoving. You slid the phone back into your pocket. Saying anything felt like it would require an apology. Or worse: an explanation.

And right now, you didn’t want to explain anything.

And somehow, that silence felt oddly comforting.

When Jonathan Crane quietly closed the door to his office behind him, the only thing that followed the sound of his footsteps echoing through Arkham's corridors was the voice inside his own head. His steps were measured, but his mind worked like a metronome of calculations. With your departure, the warmth left in the office had instantly cooled, replaced by the sterile chill of a laboratory. Exactly the atmosphere he needed.

First, he adjusted his glasses. Then, from the inner pocket of his coat, he retrieved a magnetic key and placed it just below what appeared to be a rusted screw hole on the elevator's call panel—an unremarkable spot to most. A soft “click” sounded. The elevator began descending without delay. This was a floor unknown to regular staff: Sublevel D, one of the clinic’s basement levels long buried in Arkham’s past and missing from any official blueprints.

When the doors opened, they revealed a corridor wrapped in ancient lead pipes, flickering under the broken rhythm of fluorescent lights dangling from the ceiling, the walls rotted with age and damp concrete. But to Crane, this wasn’t ugliness. This was a kind of silent divinity. A place where science was no longer shackled by ethics, where playing god came down to nothing more than technicalities.

As he opened the lab door, the groan of rusty hinges echoed out. Inside, under the pale yellow light, the air was thick with the mixed scent of distilled water, glycerin tubes, nitrous compounds, and potassium cyanate. On the central steel table sat half-filled beakers, ampoules held in dry ice, and gas cartridges preserved under inert atmosphere. Everything was orderly. Everything exactly as it should be.

Jonathan reached for the shelves. It didn’t take long to find the specially labeled serum. A small bottle marked only with “Variant 5B-Y.” It was a new liquid form of his fear toxin—based on the core 5B fear series, but the “Y” made it personalized. The “Y” wasn’t an initial; it was a target: Y/N.

The liquid, unlike the classic aerosol versions, had a finer diffusion profile. Its low evaporation rate at room temperature allowed it to interact only with the sensory threshold of those nearby. It wasn’t an attack, it was a touch. Its chemical makeup: a synthetic alkaloid blend accompanied by delta-phenylethylamine and hydroxytryptamine. He understood fear as not only a biochemical state but also a psychodynamic resonance. The formula was designed to travel through the olfactory bulb and activate symptom clusters previously marked by trauma.

Meaning: when Wesker’s puppet combined with Crane’s gas, your defenses would collapse. And no one would call it an attack, because Crane would have merely “stood beside you.”

He poured the liquid into a thin, matte black glass vial. Not like cologne… like perfume. The exterior was textured to leave no fingerprints. Its dual-valve spray mechanism ensured that upon contact with skin, diffusion wouldn’t start immediately, it would be activated by body heat.

The antidote was stored in a small cryo unit in the corner of the lab. A small, metallic gray tube—usable only with a needle, and providing just a few minutes of reversal window. Crane pocketed the antidote in his coat and, as if nothing had happened, carefully removed his gloves and placed them on the steel table. As he sterilized his hands, a serene smile crossed his face.

This was his sanctuary. The birthplace of every plan.

And you were his most carefully observed hypothesis.

Wesker’s puppet was ready. The psychosis trigger was active. And your mental balance was about to dance on a razor-thin chemical line. Crane adjusted his glasses once more, then turned off the lamp. His eyes had already adjusted to the dark.

Because some learn to see from within the shadows.

Coffee… the only solace of the morning, a bitter, warm, and familiar refuge clinging to the corner of your lips. Your fingers curled around the foam cup, your palms still carrying the tension from Crane’s office, and as you sat at the rusted metal table outside, under the pale sunlight, it didn’t feel like you were waking to a Gotham morning—but to your own darkness. As your fingerprints melted into the heat of the cup, your eyes drifted to your phone—the grayish glow of the screen once again presenting you with Bruce’s name.

Bruce Wayne

“I’m sorry for everything you thought about last night. I want to talk to you. I’m looking forward to you coming home.”

The sentence felt like it didn’t come from his voice, but from someone else’s fingers. Too late… or maybe you were just too tired. You looked at the screen, a little long, a little silent, a little hurt. You didn’t delete the message. But you didn’t reply either. When your fingers pulled away from the screen, your eyes locked onto something far off. You wondered where Bruce’s hands were now, what voices he was smiling at. Maybe he was too blind to really see you. Or maybe he was just human, too human to want to.

And then, the footsteps echoing behind you pulled you out of that thought. Smooth, rhythmic, quiet… but familiar. If anyone could walk this softly on Arkham’s decaying stone corridors, it was Dr. Jonathan Crane.

“I knew I’d find you here.”

His voice settled over you like a morning mist. Then, as you turned slightly to look back, you saw him in his deep navy coat thrown over his white shirt, his gaze hidden behind glasses, lingering on you again, studying you.

“They’ve brought Wesker into the room.”

He announced it, but his eyes said something else. “I think it’s time you met him. Are you ready?”

You nodded slowly as you set your coffee down. Your eyes didn’t meet his completely. It was as if you were still stuck on Bruce’s screen. Still there… and still alone. Crane noticed this. He reached into his pocket, and like drawing out a handkerchief, he pulled something between his fingers and began walking toward you.

“If this encounter is making you uneasy,” he said, his voice softening, “...just remember: this is only the first contact. We’ll observe. We won’t interfere. So… I’ll ask you to act like a shadow.”

You started walking. He adjusted his steps to match yours. The corridor walls were damp, and from somewhere distant came the clanging sound of something striking metal bars. But you were no longer alone. Crane’s presence seemed to mute the rest. As you walked, your hand came dangerously close to his—so close it nearly brushed. You noticed it, but he had already adjusted, his fingers lowering toward the seam of his trousers as he continued beside you, in sync. He said nothing. He simply wanted to feel you nearby. You knew that.

Then he turned slightly. Your shoulder neared his torso. The scent… yes, familiar, but also something new. Not floral, not woody, sharp, a bit damp, but drawing you in. Like warm metal. There was something unknown in that scent. In that moment, your steps slowed. Your heart beat as if two hands were pressing down on your chest.

Crane adjusted his glasses gently. Tilted his head toward you.

“Nervous?”

He asked it like he genuinely wanted to know. But beneath his voice was a faint vibration.

You smiled—or pretended to.

“I think I am.”

“Perfect.”

He said slowly, in that tone you liked, not like a medical professor, but like a confidant, a partner in crime.

As you walked, your hand once again nearly brushed his. But this time, it felt like he let it. It wasn’t a touch. It was permission. You noticed that. He was letting you step into that space.

And you… as you recalled Bruce’s night with Charlotte and searched for something in Crane’s eyes, responded to him without meaning to. With just a few seconds of contact, you accepted the calm he placed over you. It wasn’t trust. It was a silent need.

The corridor ended. You arrived at the steel door that led to the isolation cells where Arnold Wesker was held. Crane stepped ahead. But then he paused. Turned to you.

“If you’re ready, let’s begin,” he said. “But first… take a deep breath.”

You did. But what you inhaled wasn’t just air. It was the scent of a dark intent. You didn’t know it yet. But it had already touched your body.

The door opened.

Jonathan stepped in first. His gaze behind the glasses was echo-less and cool. He extended his hand slightly, as if to guide you in from behind. And again, that scent — like before, but now stronger, sharper. Sweat mixed with cologne, like rusty metal. He pressed you toward his chest. You didn’t pull back. Because there was nowhere left to run.

“Y/N,” he said, in a low tone.

“Start taking your notes when you're ready. This is his first admission. It'll be a good observation for you too.”

There was a tenderness in his voice, but underneath it, a playful note. Who was he trying to fool, right?

Arnold Wesker was in the center of the room. He wasn’t chained — because what could a man talking to himself really do with his hands? The wooden puppet on his lap, however, was much more upright and alert. Scarface… the cracks on his gray wood looked like bloodstains, his tiny eyes fixed on the void from their hollow sockets. You didn’t want to raise your head. But your notebook already read: “Scarface: passive object.” You wrote it down too.

“Mr. Wesker,” Crane said with soft professionalism. “I need to ask you a few questions. Just answer them, alright?”

Arnold lowered his head. His eyelids trembled, his voice came in a thin tone. “Of course, doctor. Scarface will be here too, but... don’t worry.”

Scarface didn’t move. But you could feel the tremor beneath your fingernails.

“Your name?”

“Arnold Wesker.”

“Your age?”

“Sixty-two.”

“When did you first start talking to the puppet?”

“...I don’t remember exactly.”

You were writing. The words were trembling. Your eyes were glued to the notebook, but your nose… your nose was still filled with that indescribable scent Crane wore. Something spinning slowly in your chest, blurring your stomach, yet lifting a veil inside your mind. Like thin splinters starting to circulate in your bloodstream.

Crane glanced at you from the corner of his eye. He noticed the breath between your lips as you wrote. The trembling of your lashes… even if you didn’t, he noticed.

“How would you describe your relationship with Scarface?”

“He’s my… protector. My brain. Sometimes my heart. He speaks for me.”

“Does he threaten in your place?”

“Not a threat…”

At that moment, Arnold’s voice faltered. He looked at the puppet.

“He only... tells the truth.”

Then you heard a sound.

The sound of wood scraping.

Did the puppet move?

No, that wasn’t possible. You were just tense. Maybe afraid. But no… it moved.

Your eyes briefly locked on Scarface’s tiny fingers. His nails… were they always that long?

Crane continued asking:

“Is Scarface here right now?”

Arnold didn’t respond. But Scarface’s head suddenly turned a few degrees to the side.

YOU SAW IT.

Your breath caught in your throat. Your heartbeat started pounding against the walls of your chest. Your fingers dug into the edge of the notebook. Jonathan turned his head for a moment — but by then, Scarface was still.

He had moved only for you.

Crane fixed his eyes on you behind his glasses.

“Y/N?”

His voice was calm. But at the edge of his smile, there was something he knew.

You tried to steady your breath.

“It’s nothing… just... a reflection, I think.”

But even as you lied, your lips trembled. And he noticed.

Crane’s mind:

The antidote had worked.

The dose: small.

Delivery method: diffusion from skin surface to respiratory area.

Y/N did not “resist.” Did not fight.

But she saw.

She reacted.

Initiation complete.

Your breath spilled from your chest and clung to your collar. You could hear your heartbeat; it didn’t even feel like your own anymore. There were still echoes deep within your mind. Was it Scarface’s voice? Your father’s? Or… your own inner voice? You didn’t know. “You should’ve been a puppet, Y/N…” kept circling in the folds of your brain, as if repeated by a nailed, wooden tongue.

But when Crane’s fingers were beneath your chin… you found some calm. He was touching you so slowly, so carefully—you couldn’t tell if it was to avoid frightening you, or to prolong his own pleasure. His thumb tilted your chin upward. Your eyes locked with his. A blue emptiness watching from behind glass. But it wasn’t empty inside.

“Just a little longer, Y/N,” he said in a low voice. Meanwhile, Arnold Wesker had lowered his eyes, looking away with an ashamed expression. Unlike Scarface, he was timid, in a passive role.

Dr. Crane continued his therapy with Wesker. Your eyes had welled up with tears, but you hadn’t cried. Maybe out of fear, maybe to keep control. But more so… because you didn’t want to appear weak in front of him.

“I… I heard him. It was my father’s voice,” you thought. “The puppet was speaking. The eyes—THE EYES were looking at me. Just like his.”

You were supposed to be taking notes on Arnold Wesker’s statements, but you were lost in thought.

“I’m still there. I still hear his voice.”

Reality… was like the jagged edges of a shattered mirror. With every step, you felt like you were stepping on another shard. Your hands were still trembling; you threw the notebook between your fingers onto the metal table. Wesker flinched. He seemed to seek comfort from Scarface, as if hoping for protection.

You stood up, feeling that you had to stop there. Even the creak of the chair was like a whisper: “Run, run, run.”

Dr. Crane grabbed your wrist and called your name. But you didn’t hear him. When you looked at him —and at the puppet— you saw its sinister gaze, and heard your father’s voice.

“You should’ve been a puppet, Y/N.”

“You should’ve obeyed me…”

“Now we’ll hollow you out, turn you into wood…”

That puppet… it was speaking with his voice. Your father’s. And you had seen its mouth move. At least you thought you had.

Just as you stepped forward, the world seemed to turn upside down. But where was the door? It felt like falling into a void. Your foot slipped. A scream rose from your chest and caught in your throat. Marble veins curled in your vision, and above, puppets seemed to hang from the walls, watching you. Puppets… no. Scarface. And his voice…

You tried to find the door, but your feet dragged you. Your knees were shaking. You spun around in panic. Your fingers slid along the walls, then found the cold metal surface of the door. You were out of breath. Your chest heaved, but breathing felt like anything *but* breathing.

At last, when you reached the door and turned the handle, you threw yourself out without knowing what you were doing. You started to run. You had to go upstairs. The stairs would save you. You wanted to get away—but you reached the landing’s railing. You took one last step and lost your balance. Your foot stepped into nothing. You were about to fall. But you didn’t.

Because a pair of arms caught you. Jonathan Crane.

His fingers pulled you to his chest. His arm wrapped around your waist. He anchored you in the curve between your hip and his torso. His chest was warm. But those eyes. That familiar gray, dead calm was still there. But this time… something else too. Maybe a flicker of panic. Maybe attentiveness. Your hands were clenched on his coat, nails digging in so tight they nearly tore the fabric.

“Y/N,” he whispered.

He held you like that. His fingers still at your waist. You felt his breath on the side of your neck. His lips weren’t touching your skin, but your body absorbed his presence. As the hallucinations in your mind slowly receded, something else started to take their place. Something darker. Something more personal.

“Hey… make eye contact with me. Breathe.”

His voice was low. Barely a whisper. When it brushed past your ear, it sank into your mind like a splinter. You didn’t want to pull your nails from the fabric. For a moment, you allowed that false sense of salvation to completely envelop you. As you pressed closer to his chest, you didn’t hear his heartbeat, but the mechanical silence within him. Crane’s heart didn’t speak to the outside world.

“You need to calm down,” he said. Then, a sharp pain echoed in your arm, piercing through the fabric of his white coat. The tip of a needle entered and left just as quickly, stinging as it went. Then you felt his lips just above your ear.

“You’ll be fine soon.”

You tried to regain your breath. Your entire body was beginning to relax. Now your body was slowly surrendering to Dr. Crane’s arms.

“What’s happening to me, doctor?”

Dr. Crane tilted his head slightly to the side. As if observing a lab rat.

“I gave you an injection to calm you,” he said. “You’ll feel better soon.”

He placed one hand on your back, the other beneath your knees. He held you tighter. His fingers seemed to feel your skin. He pressed you against his chest. Your heart was pounding wildly. His was silent, but it was there. Like a metronome, arriving long after yours, measured and steady.

Suddenly the floor slipped from beneath you; you felt a sense of falling. Your eyes blurred. Something cold licked at you.

Dr. Harleen Quinzel was the first to reach you after hearing the noise. The heels of her shoes echoed with a metallic ring. Her brows were furrowed, anxiety all over her face, but when she saw the scene, you in Crane’s arms, something stuck in her throat.

“Jonathan… what happened to her?”

Crane didn’t turn his head, still holding you, as he replied.

His voice was frozen in its usual calm:

“She had a traumatic reaction during the Arnold Wesker session. A deep neurovegetative response… possibly an acute dissociative seizure. She’ll need to be kept under observation.”

Harleen was still inspecting you.

“Just now? What did you say to her?”

Crane turned his eyes to Harleen.

“She trusts me. She left the room in a panic. I was the first to reach her.”

He paused. Then turned his whole body toward Harleen.

“I’ll take her myself.”

There was a flicker of suspicion in Harleen’s eyes. But then she helped with her hands.

“I’ll walk you to your car,” she said briefly.

“No need,” said Crane, a faint smile forming on his lips. “I can take care of her.”

He was carrying you… but this wasn’t just a physical burden. At that moment, he was dissecting you in his mind into a thousand pieces, memorizing every detail, your fluttering eyelids, your racing pulse, the dryness of your lips. As if you were his most special experiment. But he didn’t call it an experiment. To him… it was passion. Desire mixed with science. And more than anything, this was the first step in transforming you.

Dr. Jonathan Crane’s car moved silently through Gotham’s narrow, fog-laced streets. Sitting behind the wheel, Crane gripped it with his usual precision, his attention shifting occasionally to you in the passenger seat. Your eyes were half-lidded, your breaths short and irregular. Your skin, under the pale light of the moon, looked like cold marble. You had leaned your head against the seat, but your body hadn’t relaxed. Fear still echoed in your bones. And that scent — it still clung to you. Sweet, chemical, warm… It was Jonathan’s.

At that very moment, a muffled vibration came from inside the bag. Then a melody echoed—like a warning stubbornly ringing out against time. Crane’s brows furrowed.

“What now?” he muttered to himself, in a low tone that slipped almost through clenched teeth. Without taking his eyes off the road, he reached back — his fingers moved through the contents of the bag with surgical precision, not slowing down for even a second. At last, he found the phone screen. The incoming call was clear and jarring.

Bruce Wayne is calling.

Crane stared at the screen for a few seconds. The muscle in his jaw twitched slightly. Then, with a click, he answered.

“Yes?” he said, his voice distant, but wrapped in carefully composed professionalism.

Bruce’s voice came through immediately. There was a tension in his tone, as if racing against time.

“Crane? Why isn’t Y/N getting back to me? I’ve been calling, she’s not answering. What’s going on?”

Jonathan kept his eyes on the road as he spoke, his voice now a little softer, but filled with a cold, veiled game of hide and seek.

“Mr. Wayne. At the moment… Y/N is in a rather delicate condition. She had a minor episode during Arnold Wesker’s intake. She must’ve been affected, early childhood traumas might have been triggered.”

“What do you mean, an episode?” Bruce’s voice rose an octave. “Where are you right now? How is she?”

“We’re not at Arkham,” Jonathan replied, still as calm as ever. “She’s under my supervision. I’m driving. I’m taking her to my residence.”

“No. No, no. Bring her to my house,” Bruce said, his voice now trembling with barely contained anger. “Wayne Manor. She should stay there. We can provide the best care for her here.”

Crane exhaled quietly behind the wheel. His fingers gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. His eyes flicked briefly to you.

The veins in your neck were visible, your skin seemed cloaked in the very image of fear. And even in your unconscious state… you were his. At least for now.

“Yes… of course,” Jonathan said. “If you think that’s best, I’ll take her to Wayne Manor. She’s stable. But there might be memory fractures… it’s better if she isn’t left alone for a while.”

“Thank you, Crane. Really. I appreciate your help.”

Bruce’s voice had softened slightly, though concern still lingered. The call ended.

Jonathan drove in silence for a few more seconds. He let out a quiet breath through his teeth.

“Of course,” he said to himself. “Of course you’ll take her… Wayne. You always do, don’t you?”

He slowly turned his head and looked at you again. Reaching out, he gently brushed the strands of hair away from your cheek — a delicate but calculated motion.

“You see,” he whispered in a low voice, “Even when you’re under my control, they still can’t stop wanting you.”

As the car rolled toward Wayne Manor, everything inside you swelled quietly.

You murmured something in a low voice. It sounded like it echoed right next to your ear:

“…not a puppet… I… I’m not a puppet…”

Your voice cracked, lips dry. Your mouth seemed to struggle with every word, as if language itself was trying to abandon you.

Jonathan glanced at you from the corner of his eye. Your pupils were dilated, your face pale yet delicate, like porcelain on the verge of shattering.

The liquid form of his Fear Toxin didn’t induce panic directly. It brought you to the brink, then blurred the line between the conscious and the subconscious. Its effects weren’t fleeting. They left marks. Especially on a target caught in an emotional void with enough resistance to struggle...

You were such a target.

“I’m not a puppet…”

You whispered it again, barely audible, but Jonathan heard. He smiled. Still in control of the wheel, but his true focus was now entirely on you.

To himself, barely a whisper:

“I didn’t say that to her. Not yet.”

Good… That meant this fear came from within. That this fracture belonged not just to Arnold Wesker… but to a deeper past.

When he stopped at a red light, he leaned over to adjust your seatbelt. His hand brushed your back, and you shivered slightly, but couldn’t react.

“Don’t be afraid…” he murmured. His voice was calm, like someone who hadn’t slept in years. “You’re not a puppet. Not anymore. No one’s going to pull your strings again.”

The irony in his words belonged only to him. Because he had already taken hold of your strings.

One hand moved to the back of your head. His fingers slid through your hair as he gently tilted it back. You had squinted, but Crane had already brought his nose close to your neck. He was breathing you in, imprinting you into memory. His breath moved along your nape like a wandering perfume. Then he whispered:

“This version of you is so... docile. Do you know how beautiful you become when you stop fighting?”

His words carried a corrupted desire. In his tone was a blend of affection and admiration, dangerous, impure, and unstoppable.

By the time they reached Wayne Manor and parked, you were somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. You thought you heard your father’s voice. But this time… it was the puppet that spoke it.

“You should’ve been a puppet, Y/N… you should’ve obeyed me…”

Your eyes filled with tears. They didn’t fall. They simply stayed there, frozen.

Jonathan saw them. He noticed your tears but said nothing.

He simply unfastened your belt and slipped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. Your head rested against his chest. His fingers roamed your nape, his touch soft like a caress, but beneath it, there was still control.

“I won’t be one of your puppets…” you whispered, your eyelids falling.

Jonathan didn’t reply. But the familiar curl at the corner of his lips was there as he held you in his arms.

Another plan had worked. And you, gently, weren’t falling into his mind... You were falling into the space he had made for you inside it.

The doors closed silently. Even Alfred’s footsteps outside couldn’t reach into this room; this wing of Wayne Manor was a refuge Bruce had hidden even from his own past. The dim, yellow lights turned the paintings on the walls into hazy dreams. The bedside lamp cast its pale glow on your sweaty forehead, highlighting the dull shadow of your face.

Under the blanket, your legs were sprawled to one side. Your arms still bore the marks of tension, your fingertips stiffened, nails dug into your palms. The warm, pale hue of your skin, filtered through fear, burned something deep within Bruce.

He was sitting beside you, at the foot of the bed. He had already taken off his jacket, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows. His palms seemed to merge with your hands, as if he could protect you with his touch, as if he could erase the past and rewrite it anew.

His eyes were watching you. Your breathing was steady but deep, each breath a sign your body was still at war. The fine line beside your nose, even in sleep, was proof that fear lingered on your face.

Bruce quietly took a cloth and dabbed your forehead. The movement was gentle, but carried the weight of guilt. He knew you so well... Those puppets left by your father, the lifeless figures with red wigs around your house — you had told him everything, sobbing in his lap at the age of fifteen.

“The puppets are watching me, Bruce,” you had said. That day he had promised:

“None of them will ever watch you again.”

But he hadn’t protected you enough. Now, seeing you like this, that old, guilt-filled silence settled once again in his eyes.

You stirred slowly. Your eyelids trembled. A faint murmur escaped your lips, your breath quickened briefly.

“Y/N?” Bruce whispered, leaning in. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

Your eyes opened slightly. A few seconds of blurriness… then the room began to take shape. Your gaze slowly focused on Bruce’s eyes. There was a moment of hesitation, as if you didn’t recognize him at first, then you leaned toward the edge of the pillow.

Bruce lowered his head, brought his face closer.

“Don’t be afraid. You’re here now. It’s all over.”

You turned your head slightly to the side. Your lips moved. In a voice barely above a whisper:

“…Crane… Dr. Crane…”

Bruce’s face tightened immediately. It wasn’t just jealousy — nor was it pure anger. His face bore the weight of pain. His eyes, for a moment, were not on you, but on a silhouette imagined on the wall. Maybe he was pinning Dr. Crane to it. Or maybe, it was the weight of being unable to stop you from feeling safe with him.

But he recovered quickly. Tried to smile.

“He’s not here. And he doesn’t need to be. You’re under my care now.”

You, a little embarrassed, buried your face into your arm. Yet even in that embarrassment, you clung to the softness in his voice. Just like you did when you were a child.

“I’m sorry,” you said in a hoarse voice. “It’s just… in that moment… he was the only one there.”

Bruce nodded. He reached out, slipping his fingers into your hair, moving them gently to soothe you.

“I know. In fear, the person you reach for isn’t always chosen by reason. But… I won’t let go of you. Not ever.”

You slowly lifted your head. Searched his eyes with your gaze. Eyes that had once adopted you as family, but now, something else shimmered in their depths. Something you couldn’t quite name.

You were drunk on his tenderness. You felt safe. Bruce Wayne loved you. Truly loved you. But there was something inside… something you couldn’t quite define.

Bruce looked closely at your face. With his thumb, he brushed one side gently.

“I wish…” he began, then stopped. Held his breath.

“Wish what?”

He looked away. His jaw tensed slightly.

“I wish none of this had happened… Then some things could’ve been so different.”

A silence fell between you.

He pulled you close, helping you sit up. And within himself, he silenced a thousand words.

You had begun to hear the beating of his heart. Right where your head rested, just below his chest, was that rhythm. Silent, yet strong... perhaps the only safe rhythm in the world. His arm wrapped around you like a blanket, not just enveloping you, but your past as well.

Bruce ran his hands gently through your hair. Each breath he drew seemed to burn inside his lungs, as if seeing you like this scorched him from the inside. But his voice... still steady. Still in control. Only you could sense the break in it, only you.

He placed a hand on your forehead. Wiped the sweat away, then reached for a damp cloth from the tray beside him. As if you were trembling, he pulled the blanket up to your shoulders. Then he noticed something, your lips were silently moving with a fragmented sentence:

“I… I’m not a puppet…”

Bruce's eyes widened at the whisper. He took your hand and pressed his thumb gently to your wrist. Checked your pulse. Then looked at your face.

“Y/N…” he said, his voice softer now. “You own your mind. No one can control you. Not your father… not him…” — he didn’t finish the sentence. He refused to say Dr. Crane’s name. He didn’t want that name to echo through the walls of this room.

But he knew. He knew everything.

Ten years ago. A gray sky, a closed-off Gotham morning. The rain had just stopped. Inside the dark-tinted car, Bruce had seen you for the first time in a case file. The photo was small, but your gaze was immense. You held a wooden puppet in your hand. Through the soaked strands of your hair, something in your eyes looked straight through, and it wasn’t the look of a child. Maybe you were just one of thousands of children who had forgotten how to be young in this city… but there was something in your eyes: “I don’t want to be saved. I just want someone to come.”

That gaze had broken Bruce. He had pulled you out of all that darkness and brought you here. Not to give you shelter, but to give you a new foundation, a home that could protect you.

You were beginning to come to. “Bruce…” you whispered.

Bruce immediately leaned down.

“I’m here. You’re safe now.”

He took your hand. This time, tightly. As if you might slip away between his fingers.

“My father… I saw him… he was going to turn me into wood…”

Bruce’s throat tightened. His eyes welled with tears, but he didn’t cry. A Wayne didn’t cry, but inside, a part of him broke every time he couldn’t protect you.

“No,” he said firmly. “No one can touch you now. I’m here. I’ll stay with you all night if you want. I’ll breathe in time with you. I won’t leave you.”

Then he leaned in slightly, gently pulled you into his arms. You rested your head on his chest again. You, like a child; he, like a father. But underneath it all, something else stirred. Something buried, suppressed, locked in chains.

Love.

But a forbidden love.

While tending to your wounds, he had realized he loved you. While trying to protect you, he wanted to belong to you.

He was angry with himself. Angry for the way he looked at you, not like a girl, but like a woman who made him feel something uncontainable. But he couldn’t let go of you either. He couldn’t allow it. Because if he let go, he’d never get back that girl with the haunted eyes. So he didn’t let go. That’s why, when someone like Crane got close to you, it crushed him.

And you felt it. His heartbeat, close to your skin, had quickened. You noticed. For one moment, your eyes met. Bruce looked away. But he didn’t let go of your hand.

“I’d do anything for you, Y/N. If I have to… I’ll shield you with my own darkness.”

And he was there. Without ever leaving. Sitting beside you through the entire night. He placed two pillows behind your back, tilted your head gently so you could breathe easier. Pulled the thin blanket up to your shoulders, wiped the sweat from your forehead with a soft cloth again and again. Checked your temperature by pressing his fingers to your temple, counted your pulse. Each time he touched you, it was like he was handling delicate glass. One hand on his own knee, the other wrapped around yours. And when your fingers twitched from time to time, like rejecting something, perhaps the dreams, or the bottomless pits of memory, he stayed, always calling you back.

He placed his hand on your forehead again. Your fever had slightly lowered. You took a deep breath. Your lips parted:

“Don’t go…”

That word shattered every wall inside him. Bruce heard that sentence from a different place in his heart. Don’t go… because now you needed him.

And he wouldn’t go.

He lay beside you slowly, but didn’t touch you. Rested his head near your shoulder. From over the blanket, he reached for your hand again. Closed his eyes, but didn’t sleep. He just listened. To your breathing. To the rhythm of your heart. To the occasional murmurs of unrest. And once again, he faced the darkness inside himself.

He held you like a father, but couldn’t let go of you like a man.

By dawn, when the sun began to filter through the gray curtains, Bruce was still there. You squeezed his hand. This time, you were aware. You knew he hadn’t left you. You knew he had stayed through the night.

And in that moment, Bruce said to himself:

“When you wake up, I’ll lie again. I’ll say I only care about you. Not that I love you. Not that I’m terrified of losing you. But still… with just one look, you’ll know everything.”

[agalychnisspranneusroseus]

"Is Amphibia gay like The Owl House?" It is gay, but certainly not like The Owl House.

[shysublimecoffee]

Marinette receiving the Ladybug mantle was an absolute mistake. I watched the special, and honestly, gurl is doing the most—and for what? A guy? One dude, and she’s ready to throw her common sense out the window. Like, how has Hawkmoth/Gabriel not used his own son more often as leverage against her by now? That’s villainy 101, and he’s just sitting on it. Like for the amount of times I've seen this show rag on ChatNoir because of his weakness in romance when that Ladybug biggest weakness not CN lol.

At this point, I don’t even care about what Marinette’s going through. Whatever emotional investment I had in her? Long gone. She’s out here spinning lies on top of lies, desperately trying to hold together her crumbling Adrien-obsessed empire, and for what? She lost. Game over.

Now, if this were a story about a girl slowly getting corrupted, spiraling into villainy, and intentionally written as a downfall arc? No problem. That would’ve been a compelling narrative with a real lesson for kids about the consequences of obsession and dishonesty. But nope, instead we’re stuck with this mess where her choices make it harder and harder to root for her.

Marinette's speech at the press conference—“Ladybug holds the truth, she holds the truth” —had me scratching my head cause it sound more like a villain then a hero. Like, did the writers forget she’s supposed to have hero-like qualities? She’s meant to be the messenger, the symbol of hope, the hero. But how often does she actually display that in her own show?

Lately, it feels like being Ladybug is more of an obligatory chore for her than something that brings her real joy or fulfillment. Isn’t the whole point of magical girls to inspire, to help others, and to grow through their journey? Where’s the sense of accomplishment, the spark, the joy of making a difference? It’s like they’ve stripped her of everything that should make her role uplifting and meaningful.

I've seen here and there about how MC was never meant to come off that way or the writers are trying to make her more complex or how dare you do you dislike complex female characters or the most used it was never her intention to come off that way it was a mistake.

I want you to picture this without the music just dialogue cause i'm going to be clearcut about this.

Ladybug went to an orphaned, grieving child—one who had been locked away in solitary confinement, surrounded by nothing but white walls and being sensory deprived—and lied to him about his father being a hero. Let that sink in. Gabriel, who systematically abused his own son, was painted as a noble martyr by Ladybug.

Adrien, a kid who was finally starting to question his father’s authority, even beginning to tear down the oppressive image of the man who controlled and hurt him, is now trapped in an even tighter mental cage. After all, if Paris sees his father as a hero, a savior, how could he possibly feel justified in blaming or resenting the man? Gabriel is now a martyr in the eyes of the world, and Adrien is left to wrestle with guilt and shame for ever having cruel thoughts about someone everyone else idolizes.

Ladybug’s decision to perpetuate this lie doesn’t just protect Gabriel’s image—it messes with Adrien’s already fragile mind. Instead of helping him heal or giving him the freedom to process the truth, she’s reinforced the very chains Gabriel used to control him. It’s not heroic; it’s delusional and harmful, all in the name of preserving some twisted version of peace in her head.

You want me to feel pity for a girl who I'm sorry if I sound harsh to yall at the end of the day just want to keep the peace to fill her delusions that everything is going to work out in her part at the end when really she's just the worst type of coward there is when it comes to confrontations lmao. Accountability? She avoids them like they’re some kind of plague. It’s almost impressive how someone can masquerade as a hero while being utterly incapable of facing the hard truths. Lmao, sure, let’s all pity her.

Honestly, in the earlier seasons, at least Marinette seemed to feel bad about her mistakes. Now? She’s only gotten worse. I headcanon that receiving the Ladybug mantle or becoming the Guardian inflated her ego, giving her a power trip. With no proper mentor to hold her accountable and everyone automatically deferring to her leadership, who’s left to challenge her? Well maybe CN if he has the guts to do so but he'd rather cower into his shell lol.

In hindsight, I don’t think Marinette should’ve become Ladybug—not because she lacks the capability, but because the role itself seems to have worsened her as a person. Instead of growing into the hero I though she was meant to be, she’s devolved, losing some of the humility and self-awareness she had at the start of the series.

Let’s be real—we’re in Season 6 now, and we all know the writers aren’t going to make Marinette face any real consequences. The whole universe bends over backward to accommodate her. If you’ve seen Season 5, you know exactly what I’m talking about.

That said, I’ll give credit where it’s due: the special was fun. Yes, despite all my ranting, I actually enjoyed it because it was funny in its own way.

At this point, though, I’m only sticking around for Adrien and Lila. Honestly? I’m rooting for Lila to be the one to drop the truth bomb and expose everything. It would be chef’s kiss poetic if she ended up being the one to set things straight. Lmao.

P.s For anyone who thinks there is a dilemma to be had about the whole thing its really not lol rip the bandaid off.

It reeks of a megalomaniac in the making, making her come off like a gaslighting psychopath. Ironically, it reminds me of Gabriel—especially with the way he used similar wording. Honestly, are we sure Marinette isn’t Gabriel’s true daughter? Because the parallels are man.

I’m genuinely angry that she is the one everyone feels sorry for, and it’s only because the show is stuck in her perspective. If we spent even a fraction of the screen time on Adrien’s pain, it would make for a far more compelling story. It’s infuriating. Marinette isn’t some helpless sheep/damsel victim here—no one forced her into this role at gunpoint. She made her choices, knowingly and willingly. How dare she act like the weight of the world was thrust upon her without her consent? When she very much messed with a grieving kid here?

And yet, Adrien’s pain—real, tangible, and far more tragic—is constantly sidelined. He’s an orphan, being lied to by nearly everyone around him, adults and teens alike, and his suffering is treated as a subplot to Marinette’s endless drama. Why should the audience feel more for her than for the boy who’s lost everything? Why is his pain has to be centered to her??

This isn't a small mistake this has far reaching consequences if the show had the balls to do it to lie to the entire world over a man who terrorized on people fear.

If Adrien ever became a villain, I wouldn’t blame him. In fact, I’d understand and give him the free ticket to go ahead and cataclysm and burned the world .

[thesassypadawan]

Attachment (Qimir x FemKnightReader)

Summary:  After suffering defeat at the hands of ‘The Stranger’ you find yourself being held hostage.  Despite your strong will and loyalty to the order, you end up succumbing to his rugged good looks and your own urges.  Engaged in certain acts, forming the type of attachment that could result in your banishment…the beginning of a new life.

Warnings: 18+ (minors dni), because all the lovely smut.  Rough smex, fun from behind, multiple orgasms, hint of a breeding kink, and…Qimir’s big, thick dick.

Notes: Happy Sithtember all you, lovelies! ❤️🖤 (You, lovelies, can thank and blame @everydaydreamer for this 😂)

- Hips wiggle, tremble as you struggle to not collapse…  Pussy fluttering, spasming around nothing…  Breaths ragged, strained…  “P-please, I need to…need you t-to…”

- “How the mighty have fallen.”  Calloused hand grips your side hard, fingers sinking into your pillowy flesh.  Length slipping between your soaked, puffy folds; rocking slowly back and forth.  Tip occasionally catching your clit…sending you closer to the peak of another orgasm.  “If only your fellow jedi could see you now.”

- Leaning forward, he nips your neck.  Stubble scratching gently, tongue lapping at the new marks that begin to blossom.  “Wanting to cum again so badly, begging me to not stop.”  While he toys, tugs…rolls your sore nipples.  “Until you can’t take it anymore, until you’re lying limp beneath me.”

- ‘The stranger’s’ words shot straight to your aching core.  Walls clench, clamp in response.  Pitiful whines fall from your swollen lips.  “Yes…maker, yes…”  As slick trickles down your leg, coats his thick length.  “…yes!”

- “That’s it, little one,” he coos.  Hoarse voice reverberating, rumbling against your back.  Causing aftershocks to wrack through your weakened body.  “Let it all out…let those last shreds of dignity just fade away.”

- Lining himself up; his fat tip presses, prods.  Lips ghost over the shell of your ear.  “It’ll make it easier for me to ruin you…”  Phantom presence brushes, swirls around your neglected nub.   “…mold you how I like.”

- With the snap of his hips, he slams into you.  Burying himself to the hilt, he growls low in approval when you cry out.  Fists grasping at the stained sheets, knuckles turning white.  Pussy aching from the burning stretch…from being forced to take ever last thick inch.  “Ba-bastard!”

- “To some…yes…”  Setting a fast pace, knocking the air from your lungs.  Thrusting brutally, violently.  Angling his cock in a way where he hits, bullies your cervix with each strong stroke.  “To you…I will be much MUCH more…”

- Pinching your pert buds, giving both breasts a solid slap.  His hand comes to rest on the nape of your neck.  “Your downfall…”   Pressing you into the mattress; holding, keeping you still.  “Your savior…”

- He was on top , inside, all around you.  Driving so hard, bruising the tender flesh of your bottom.  “Your master…”  Trying to rip, drag that fourth orgasm out of you.  Making you a slave to your own pleasure.  “Your lover…”

- Qimir…’  That word grazes, echoes clearly in your mind.  Even as you feel yourself shaking, teetering on the edge.  The coil in your stomach winding unbearably tight.  And you can barely function, yet you still manage to moan it softly into the pillows.  “Q-Qimir…”

- Fingers lace through, yanking sharply on your hair.  “Say it again…louder…”  Pulling you back, plunging himself impossibly deeper.  Grinding against the spot that has your vision fading, whiting out; muscles tensing.  “I want to hear you scream my name when I finally break you…”

- Sinking his teeth into your shoulder, you went spiraling.  Clamping down around him, arms giving out from beneath you.  Tears flowing freely, his name torn from your throat… “QIMIR!!!”

- Peppering you with featherlight kisses, pumping slowly in and out.  “Good girl…”  Working you through the waves of ecstasy; pulsing, filling you up with his hot cum.  “Did so well for me, took everything I gave…”

- Invisible digits cup, caresses your stomach gently.  “Now you’ll be forced to stay here with me…let me keep you and this one safe.  Because your precious order will most certainly no take you back.” Ragged moans, mixing with your broken sobs.  “ After all attachment is forbidden…especially when it’s to a sith.”

Tags: @icytrickster17

[atlafan]

okay but don’t make me mad by basically blaming the downfall of the avatar on Korra because that girl wasn’t given a fighting chance! They kept her secluded for SIXTEEN YEARS, then expected her to just exist in a regular society!! The world became what it wasn’t supposed to be. The four nations DO live in harmony, but when you squish them altogether, you’re going to have problems! You can’t mess with that balance. But that wasn’t Korra’s fault! The adult gaang tried to police every little thing when they should have been paying attention to far more important things. I’ll still never forgive Bryke for what they did to my babies, and thus what they did to my poor grand babies. Korra tried doing what no other avatar even attempted: bridging the spirit world with the physical world

so who fucked up with the spirit world? I bet all those rich idiots tried making it into some vacation destination or something. I think avatar Wan was right for closing the portals. The spirit world and the physical world were never supposed to mix. We better get some fucking backstory. How long did Korra live for? If people hate the avatar and no longer see them as a savior, does that mean they murdered her????

and since this new avatar has a twin, does that mean there’s going to be TWO avatars??? Did Rava get split in two?

And are there seven nations now? Not just four? WHAT DOES IT MEAN?!

I NEED ANSWERS AND I NEED THEM NOW! BUT I SWEAR TO GOD IF THEY PUT MORE BULLSHIT ON KORRA IM GOING TO BURN VIACOM TO THE GROUND

[bokettochild]

Hi Hi

I've been reading a lot of your stuff and I love your fics and takes, obviously love Legend and I wanted to ask your opinion about a theory I heard

Because of how time travel works and the cause of the split between the adult and child timelines being the cause of the Ocarina and the absence of The Hero's Spirit, people argue that the downfall timeline is placed a bit akwardly. However if you take things literally the branch of the downfall timeline, "The Hero is Defeated" is just slightly above the other branches in the official timelines.

So the theory goes that the Downfall Timeline is the original course of events and Time's adventure(specifically getting locked away until he was an 'adult') was the result of The Hero of Legend's wish at the end of A Link to The Past.

Some people, myself included, see this as plausible because young heroes have also been able to pull the Master Sword without getting knocked out

I thought it was interesting and you have some interesting takes and opinions so I thought I'd ask, sorry for the long ask, and any mistakes I made typing this

OH MY FREAKING HYLIA!!!! MAY I STEAL THIS?!?!?!?!?!

I am.....writing a fic where Time gets to realize that he split the timelines to create Legend's world, but currently speaking, all he knows is it was a version of him, and in world, I have no clue what explanation would make sense for him to have both died but also still be alive in another timeline, except that maybe there are alternate universes, but this makes so much freaking sense?!?!?!?!

Legend, the Greatest of Hylia's Heroes (quote from Nayru), a child pure enough Fi's blade was never heavy in his hand, a rabbit sacrifice to the goddesses; their savior and slave both; makes a singular wish to undo all that Ganon did, and it freaking brings back the Hero of Time himself from the dead, and rewrites things so that he has a chance to live?!?!?!?!?! The...I....please?!?!?!?!?!

I WANNA INCLUDE THIS SO BAD!!!!! PLEASE ALLOW ME TO WRITE THIS!!!!!

[nanivinsmoke]

✩ Fire We Make.

endeavor x blackfem!reader

✩ a miniseries based off my one shot the assistant. this will be a multi part series and i will always link the previous one for you guys.

✩ this is not canon endeavor, he’s not abusive at all. hes actually very loving, just a little dick at times. also the reader is black (we all cheered). also thank you for 1k followers, yall all some freaks <3.

✩ warnings & tags: i switch perspectives a lot in this, there’s no nsfw yet. established crush.

you’ve got to be fucking kidding.

there’s no way, absolutely no fucking way, especially not on your first day.

you were currently in the arms of a big sasquatch, who tormented a bunch of civilians as they ran for their lives. you should’ve turned on another block, but you just had to take a main road. and to make matters worse you were going to be late for your new job.

you cursed yourself and everyone who prayed on your downfall the past couple of years, blaming them for the situation you were in. but, as your mind was preoccupied a series of flames were being thrown at the big hairy man; making him lose grip on your body.

‘great. now im going to fall to my death’

you closed your eyes and said a prayer, hoping someone would hear it. and it felt like someone did because you were engulfed in a set of big muscular arms. looking up at your savior, you were shocked to see the number two hero holding you.

endeavor, placed you down and continued to throw flames at the villain; causing him to stop drop and roll. and while that happened, a reinforcement team captured the sasquatch, sending him to jail.

you smoothed out your black and white striped skirt, grabbing your fallen brief case—before you were suddenly ridiculed by the man who judged you.

“you’re lucky i was already in this area. hopefully you’ll stay out of harm’s way” his voice deep and stern, causing you to roll yours eyes. you were going to give him a piece of your mind, but your watched ticked and you remembered where you had to be.

“fuck! im so g’na get fired.” he turned to look at you and with an eye roll he picked you up. “where do you have to go?”

“The Endeavor Agen—oh,” you realized that you were now in the arms of your boss and you hoped that he wasn’t going to fire you. he rolled his eyes once more and continued into the direction of his agency.

it didn’t take long for the two of you to arrive, and when you did, he led the way to his floor; where his office resided. while the two of you waited for the elevator, he decided to ease the awkwardness by talking, saving you from biting your fingers off.

“what position are you here for?”

“im here to be your assistant. please don’t let what just happened to steer you away from me. im good at what i do, check my credentials.” you pulled a folder out of your black leather briefcase, your heels clicking while you walked into the elevator.

he said nothing as he read your file, making you even more nervous. so, you decided to keep talking. “i hear your going to be appointed the number one hero and I think it’s best to have a press conference before. it would ease the minds of the civilians, it would let them know that their in good hands. you should make this about them, but also mention allmight. how you know it’s big shoes to fill, but you thank home for every he’s done.”

his deep dark red eyebrows rose as he listened to you talk, his bright eyes still on your a-list resume. everything checked out, you had tons of recommendations from other hero’s and celebrities. maybe you were a good fit for this job.

you paused, wondering what did he have to say about your suggestion as the elevator doors opened up to the penthouse floor. the office was huge, a bunch of desks neatly placed on the floors; each decorated with the employees most favorite things. the windows were huge, sky rise, giving off a perfect view of the city.

he finally motioned for you to continue, still leading the way to his office, “I also feel like you should switch out your hero suit and go with a nice business suit. navy blue’s your favorite color, but i feel like a nice cool gray armani suit would make you look more trusting. i believe there should already be a selection of suits in your office already.”

he was amazed at how you moved, how you already planned ahead, despite what caused you to have a delay. he opened the door to his office, the smell of fresh oak and cinnamon hit your nostrils, making you feel warm inside. and just like you predicted, a stand with suits hanging from it was in his office, waiting for him.

“Alright, I won’t fire you. But, you also have to attend this conference with me. Hope you have an extra outfit for you to wear,” you sighed, knowing you were here to stay; warmed you.

“ill have a darker gray pantsuit on the way for me. our colors will compliment each other, sending a message that you stand as a unit. I’ll let you get dressed and I’ll call the car for us when you’re ready to go.” She smiled and he couldn’t help the one that grew on his. She was perfect already.

On their way to the conference hall, she decided to go over a few things with her boss; to prepare him for what’s to come. “Sir, you might get some questions that might upset you and are triggering, but I want you to leave those to me. Let me answer those questions. You wouldn’t want them to think negative of you, okay?” She advised and the pro-hero nodded. He admired her preparation and was glad to have her on his team.

Soon, the company car stopped and they were outside of the hall. Paparazzi stood outside waiting to snap a picture of the flame hero and he mentally cringed. “Media will have a field day with any negative picture of you, let’s just ignore them.” She led the way inside, ignoring the camera people’s questions.

The conference came and went, it was successful. All though there was a question from a reporter about Endeavor’s youngest son.

“How do you feel about your youngest becoming a pro-hero in the making and having to fight your battles?” y/n took over the mic and answered the question for him.

“He’s not fighting his father’s battles, he’s learning. As any UA student it’s common that you’re going to get a lesson where you’d might fight a villain or two, stronger than you. You will have to persevere and understand your strengths and the opponents weaknesses. It’s apart of the journey of getting stronger and becoming a hero.”

the way you were able to answer the question and leave the reporter satisfied, with no further questions; was amazing. He could see why you have so many recommendations already. Endeavor grabbed that microphone and thanked everyone for their time, before the two of you departed and hopped back into the company car.

the sky turned a shade of dark amber as the sun began to set, signifying that it was getting late. as the two exited the tinted black car and it drove away, they stood outside the building for a second; looking at each other before Endeavor spoke.

“Would you care to join me for dinner, I usually order take-out and eat it here; before tying up some things at the office.” you smiled and nodded your head, this would be a good opportunity for you to get to know you boss a little bit better.

on the elevator ride up, found a place to order from; putting in your order and his. and it didn’t take long for the food to get there either, as soon as you walked off; a delivery hero was there waiting with your food. after tipping the hero and grabbing the food, you followed him inside his huge office. he sat in his leather rolling chair and you took the liberty of sitting on his desk.

while the two of you ate, you quickly got to know each other. you talked about a variety of things and you learned he was actually very funny. soon, the sky was now a dark blue, adorned with an array of white stars, and the two of you had finished eating. but, you weren’t ready for the day to end just yet.

a question you were dying to ask popped into your head and flew right out of your mouth, “How’s your wife?” you wanted to scrape your skin off, trying to avoid his gaze as he his face changed from a variety of expressions.

“She’s good…why’d you ask?” his answer was not the one you were hoping for and you wished you could just retract your statement. “Nothing. I just wanted to know.”

His icy stare pierced the side of your face and you couldn’t ignore it, it was like he was melting you from the outside. Like he could see what you were thinking. “My marriage…is complicated.” Endeavor admitted, running a hand through his spiky red hair.

You held your hands up and shook it, “you don’t have to explain your marriage to me. forget that i asked! Hey, it’s getting late. I’ll see you tomorrow” before he could even respond, you grabbed your food and headed out the door. Too embarrassed to turn around.

Endeavor watched you walk out the door, a twinge of confusion and disappointment came over him. He wanted to call you back over, but he resisted the urge and let you walk right out the door. “Yeah, see you tomorrow…”

The next day rolled around rather quickly, it was more dull than the day before. That’s because you were doing your best to avoid him. You kept to yourself, organizing your files, scheduling meetings and replying to emails. The only time you spoke to him was for little things and you kept it professional, and short. You were so embarrassed from yesterday.

You had a crush on Endeavor before you started to work for him and the day he saved you, increased the attraction you felt for him. So, when you found out he was still married; even with their problems, you were disappointed. You couldn’t compete with that.

Soon, the amber gaze fell over the sky once again and the employees soon left the building one by one—only leaving the two of you. Endeavor was waiting for everyone to leave, that way he could finally talk to you; without extra ears. his six foot five frame towered over you and yours desk, making you look up from the paperwork you had neatly stacked on your desk.

“I wanted to know if you’re okay? you seemed very distant.” his voice was softer than usual and his cool blue eyes stared at your softer ones.

“Im okay, why?” your words had came off a little bit aggressive than you hoped. “just wanted to let you know, if you need to talk….im here.” he gave you a small smile and walked back into his office.

you sighed, slamming your pen down onto the stack of paper, before putting your hands onto your melanated face. you sat there, thoughts running rampant, before you got up and entered his office with a knock. “Sir?”

“yes, y/n?” his expression was neutral, watching you as you walked closer to his desk.

“i want to apologize. i was really rude to you and yesterday was not something i should be asking my boss.”

“don’t worry about it, besides i didn’t take offense to it” his smile made you relax, feeling like you got a a chip off your shoulder. you sat on the edge of his desk, as a mental reminder went off in your head. “hey, i see there’s an annual hero charity event happening this saturday. are you going to attend?”

“charity events are my kind of thing…ill pass” you pouted and got even more comfortable on his desk, eyes pleading with him. “It’ll be a good look for you and the agency, plus I’ll be attending. what do you say?”

he took a nice long pause, formulating what he was about to say next, “Alright. Alright, I’ll see you Saturday. Don’t expect me to be happy about it though.” you smiled and clapped your hands, reaching over to hug your boss, allowing him to take in your scent. the smell of your strawberries and creme perfume was intoxicating to him. the two of you sat there, longer than expected before you pulled away.

“See you saturday and goodnight” he watched you get up from his desk and strutted out his office door. your long legs jiggled each time you moved, hypnotizing him, until he couldn’t see them anymore. ‘Damn’ he whispered to himself and brushed his hair back.

he couldn’t wait to see you again.

[solradguy]

I’m SO glad someone else thinks about Aria’s side of the story, because even though we don’t get to see a whole lot of it.

I do believe that both Fredrick and Asuka deeply cared about Aria (and I’d wager that she cared about them a lot as well). However, a part of her story is about how the men in her life refuse to respect her choices (especially Asuka, but his Achilles savior complex is a paragraph for another day) and how that leads to their collective downfalls, but it especially hurts her.

I just wish that was elaborated on more. Assuming she wasn’t just in cryosleep the entire time, I’d kill for a short story that explored what happened with her from the end of Begin to the Black Sunrise.

One of the messages that I feel you’re supposed to get from lots of her scenes is about living for the present, but there’s also a hint of “respecting other people’s choices for themselves” in their too. I might be reading too much into things, but I think people don’t pay attention to that enough, so I hope your post reaches more of them.

No, I think you're right about the recurring message with Aria's themes being personal autonomy. A lot of her dialog supports that, especially during the scene where she argues with Frederick after he learns about her terminal TP infection diagnosis:

Like you said, this world is where I belong. I'm the hero of my own story, so you're not allowed to tell me what to do.

And this longer line in particular:

..I don't have any family, and I was always kind of a bookworm. It's not like I enjoyed studying, I was just desperate not to be left behind... I thought that if I kept to myself and didn't trust anyone, then I couldn't ever be hurt. But that made my world cold, small, and dark. I never felt alive there... I didn't even have any friends until I went to college. Can you believe that? But them I met you, and [Asuka]... I even fell in love! For the first time in my life, I found something I wanted to care about. I was happy...

This line feels extremely important. She was entirely alone until she met Fred and Asuka, and when she did, she finally found herself and what she wanted to do and what she wanted to be. Aria realized that she didn't need to be alone and she didn't need to be a people pleaser either ("It's not like I enjoyed studying, I was just desperate not to be left behind."). She discovered that she was capable of making her own choices.

For the most part, it seems like Fred and Asuka both supported her until near the end when they both tried to tell her what to do in order to protect their own feelings ("Don't be so selfish. Try and listen to someone else, for once." -- Aria to Fred) instead of respect what she felt was right for herself. Frederick wanted her to go into cryostasis until a cure was found for her disease and Asuka straight up forced her too, and then later forced her to blow up Japan (which is incredibly complex and I'm just going to gloss over that because that's a huge other thing). She didn't want any of that; she wanted to die as she was BECAUSE it was her choice to do so. She knew what was going to happen and she wanted to live her last days as much as she could surrounded by the people she loved until it ended.

In a lot of ways I think her story mirrors Sol's, but there are things about her story that they haven't revealed yet. It's possible Asuka simply convinced her to give cryostasis a chance and that she wasn't forced into it. With how adamant she was against it in her argument with Fred though I'm not very sure....

I want to know so badly how much she knew about the Gear cell research being diverted into WMDs and how that weighed on her. Did she know that Asuka was going to betray Frederick later? I wonder if maybe she agreed to the cryostasis and later being turned into a Gear herself (she was in control as Justice before the Black Sunrise broke her mind—did she accept the Scales of Juno to keep it out of the wrong hands?) in order to stay close to the research project and try her best to keep the damage under control. I think that's ultimately why Asuka betrayed Fred, so he could stay close to the Gear project in order to keep things from getting way worse than they ended up. The Black Sunrise saved all of humanity, after all. At the cost of Aria.

I was telling a friend in PMs that I hope some day we get a scene with Jack-O' and Ramlethal or Elphelt where they talk about their weird relationship with each other and we get a nice Aria flashback thing that DOESN'T revolve entirely around Frederick/Sol or Asuka. We know so little about Aria as a person outside of her relationship with them or through a lens that isn't a Sol flashback sequence...