#and that's just the stuff we know so far!

[aventurineswife]

Can i ask... hsr men with a reader who always calls them by their name, when the reader suddenly uses a pet name, an intimate one at that out of nowhere? Like, would they ignore would they get flustered or stuff?

“Call Me That Again and I’m Yours”

Synopsis: They’ve always known you as someone steady—reliable, composed, respectful. Names were a boundary you never crossed. Until you did. Suddenly, a soft pet name slips from your lips—they can only respond in the only way they know how.

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Mydei x Reader, Dan Heng x Reader, Caelus x Reader, Argenti x Reader, Romantic Tension, Emotional Vulnerability, Subtle Fluff, Soft Pet Names, Slow burn/Sudden Intimacy, Banter turning Tender, Hurt/Comfort (esp. for Mydei and Sunday), Stoic Men Unraveling, Subtext and Suppressed Feelings, Unexpected Reactions.

Warnings: Light mentions of blood (Mydei's scene), Slight angst / emotional baggage, Suggestive tension (Aventurine, Dan Heng), Emotional themes (e.g., trauma, guilt, redemption).

A/N: I might have to do multiple parts of this req, so let me know which characters you wanna see next! :DD

You’d always called him Aventurine—not Kakavasha, never anything soft. Just Aventurine. Clean, professional, distant. Even during your playful banter or those late-night strategy sessions when his voice dipped and his eyes lingered a little too long, you’d kept the line firm.

But tonight, as he adjusted the roulette brooch on his collar, you walked past him, leaned in, and murmured, “Looking sharp tonight, darling.”

He froze. For precisely 0.5 seconds—a brief hitch in his well-oiled persona. His fingers paused mid-adjustment, and the ever-present grin twitched, faltered… then curved into something slower. Something far more dangerous.

“Well, well,” he drawled, eyes flicking to yours like dice clattering on velvet. “Did my ears deceive me, or have you just raised the stakes?”

You arched a brow, amused. “I figured it was time to gamble a little.”

His smile widened, but you saw it then—the faint crack in his composure. The way his hand ghosted behind his back, fingers twitching in the air like he wasn’t sure whether to pull you closer or push you away. That name—it wasn’t just cute. It was intimate. Dangerous. It threatened the mask he so carefully wore.

“Careful,” he whispered, stepping closer until your breath caught. “Use that word again, and I might start to think you mean it.”

You smiled back, just as daring. “Maybe I do.”

And just like that, for once, you’d left him unsure who was winning.

“Sunday, we need to address the guest list again. The ceremony’s balance will collapse if—”

“—We include the North Sector delegates, yes,” he interrupted gently, hands folded, gaze serene. “I am already aware.”

You sighed, scribbling notes. Same old Sunday—graceful, poised, untouchable.

“Fine, love, but if this flops, I’m blaming you.”

Silence.

You didn’t catch it at first. His reaction was… almost imperceptible. The pen stilled between his gloved fingers. His eyes flicked toward you with the smallest shift of light. There was no smile, no obvious response, but something behind his gaze unraveled—like a ripple across still water.

“��‘Love’?” he repeated quietly, voice low, measured.

You looked up, unsure if you should laugh it off. “It just slipped.”

“I see.”

He returned to his work, posture perfect—but you noticed he hadn’t written a word since. His mind was elsewhere. The halo above his head shimmered subtly, like it pulsed in time with his heart.

It wasn’t embarrassment. It was something deeper. As if the word had struck a chord he’d long buried—something warm, painful, human.

“…You shouldn’t use a word like that lightly,” he finally said, glancing at you again.

“And if I didn’t?”

His lips parted, then closed. No answer. But his gloved hand slowly reached over and rested on yours, just for a moment. A silent concession. A rare flicker of vulnerability.

You'd breached something sacred—and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to pull away or fall in.

You found him alone after the skirmish, sitting on the edge of a ruined stone altar, cape torn, armor dusted with ash. The blood wasn’t his, but it stained his hands all the same.

“Mydei,” you called softly, approaching him through the rubble.

He didn’t look up. “I told you to stay with the others.”

“I don’t take orders well.”

A pause. Then a sigh—more relief than exasperation. His eyes finally met yours, heavy with exhaustion and something else: grief he didn’t voice, names he couldn’t forget.

You reached out, thumb brushing a line of red from his jaw. “You’re safe… Beloved.”

He blinked.

“Say that again.”

You tilted your head. “Beloved?”

He stood, slowly, towering, not in a threatening way—but like the weight of that word shifted the battlefield under your feet. He stepped closer until you had to tilt your head to meet his gaze.

“No one’s called me that since…” His voice cracked, just slightly. “Since before the sea swallowed me whole.”

You swallowed. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” he said, reaching out with a hand trembling with restraint. “No, don’t stop.”

In a world where titles were earned through blood and legacy, beloved was the one name he’d longed for but never dared to claim.

You gave it freely—and that was the one war he didn’t know how to fight.

Dan Heng stood silently in the Archives, eyes scanning over glowing data logs. You approached, hands behind your back, watching the way the soft blue light played across his features.

“Dan Heng,” you said as usual. He hummed softly, acknowledging you without turning.

You reached his side, pretending to study the data, but your focus was on the curve of his jaw, the slight furrow of his brow.

“I brought you some tea. Thought you could use a break, darling.”

The word slipped out, soft and syrupy.

Dan Heng froze.

His grip on the datapad faltered. He didn’t look at you immediately, but his ears turned a vivid shade of pink.

“…What did you call me?” he asked, tone low, almost cautious.

You played innocent. “Hmm? Oh, nothing, Dan Heng.”

He finally turned, eyes narrowed, a faint flush still lingering on his cheeks. “You did. Say it again.”

You tilted your head, grinning. “Darling?”

He exhaled sharply, muttering something under his breath, trying to maintain composure. He failed spectacularly. The calm, cool Dan Heng couldn’t meet your eyes for a solid thirty seconds.

But when he finally did, he stepped closer.

“…If you’re going to say things like that,” he murmured, voice softer now, “Don’t be surprised when I stop pretending I’m unaffected.”

You and Caelus had been walking side by side after a mission, stars glittering above. You laughed about something he’d said, casually bumping your shoulder against his.

“You always do this, Caelus,” you said, teasing. “Charging in like you’ve got plot armor or something.”

“I mean, I might,” he joked. “Main character energy and all.”

You rolled your eyes. “Sure thing, love.”

The moment the word left your lips, silence fell.

Caelus tripped over his own foot.

He caught himself quickly, turning to you with wide eyes. “Wait. Did you just call me—?”

“I did,” you confirmed with a sly grin. “Something wrong with that, love?”

His expression shifted, uncertain whether to be flustered or flattered. He rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks blooming with color.

“I… No. I mean, it’s not wrong. Just. Unexpected.”

You nudged him again. “You’re cute when you’re trying not to smile.”

“I’m not trying not to smile,” he said quickly, then failed to hide the shy grin tugging at his lips. “Okay, maybe I am. Call me that again.”

The battlefield was quiet now, monsters defeated, the sunset casting golden hues across the ruins. Argenti stood tall, brushing dust from his armor with knightly grace.

You approached, hands behind your back.

“Argenti, you were amazing back there,” you praised, as always.

He nodded humbly. “Merely fulfilling my duty to Beauty and righteousness.”

You smiled. “Of course, beloved.”

Argenti blinked.

The word echoed.

He turned to you slowly, as if unsure he’d heard correctly. “Beloved…?”

You tilted your head, eyes innocent. “Yes?”

He pressed a hand to his chest, lips parting slightly in astonishment. “You honor me with such a name… Are you certain… I am worthy of it?”

“You’ve always been worthy,” you said softly.

He took your hand, kneeling with a reverent grace, eyes shining. “Then allow me to dedicate not only my blade but my heart to you. For Beauty may guide me, but you, my beloved, inspire me.”

You laughed, a little flustered yourself now.

Leave it to Argenti to turn one pet name into a poetic vow.

[neellscapsule]

My Heart — Part Five

summary | your family realizes how much they have missed. the problem is that you are a grown up by now, and terrible hurt by their neglect.

pairing | platonic yandere batfam x batsis!neglected!reader. conner kent x reader.

warnings / tags | angst, hurt/little comfort, y/n is mentioned as a female, trauma, family issues, mostly trust and daddy issues. they all love each other (PLATONICALLY) they just don't know how to feel it and express it correctly. it gets darker (not now). kissing with conner.

word count |

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :) please vote <3 dick is 28. jason is 23. reader will be 22 in a few months. cass is 21. tim is 20. duke is 18. damian is 13. conner looks 22 as well.

we get to see more of the family interacting: we notice the more yandere's traits they have. timothy "stalker" drake, i'm looking at you.

taglist | @cebrospudipudi @jjoppees @corvoqueen @nirvanaxx1942 @lilyalone @aixaingela @lettucel0ver @time-shardz @pix-stuff @galaxypurplerose @cupid73 @theproblemisthattimnotfictional @vanessa-boo @timebomb1101 @chemicalwindexbottle @chiizuluvr @ihavenomuse @mat5u0 @thismessyshe @lovebug-apple @myjumper @angwlart @esposadomd @nisarelle @mrmacwaffles @mazixxss @ememgl @naomi-xxi @bbmgirll @ash0-0ley @rowan-no-rizzz @hearts4mica @sillyheartmoonnyx @crumbs-and-covers @nininehaaa @ironsaladwitch @c4xcocoa @keyllsbk @welpthisisboring @redkarmakai @yuyuzi-ling @91-kya

previous. next.

The first thing you feel is the cold.

Not the physical kind — no — this is the cold that burrows under your skin, spreads through your chest, weaves like smoke into your bloodstream. It wraps your heart in ice and squeezes until it barely beats.

It starts the same way it always does — with their eyes.

Lifeless. Vacant. Glassy.

You were fourteen the first time you saw them like that.

Your dream drags you back to that night, just as it always does — a loop you can’t seem to break no matter how many years or how many walls you’ve built around it.

Gotham’s alleyways bleed shadows as you run. Sirens wail somewhere far, but not far enough. Your breathing is ragged, frantic. The acrid sting of chemicals still burns your throat.

Crane's toxin hits differently when you're young. The moment it fogged your mask, your lungs screamed, your vision tilted — and then they appeared.

Jason. Alfred. Dick. Tim. Cass. Even Bruce.

Limp bodies, rotting where they stood, faces sunken and gray, eyes milky and unseeing. Your family, dead, decaying, abandoned in the dark — and all of it your fault. Bruce, too. His cowl half-melted, eyes gaping holes, jaw slack with death.

It wasn’t real. You knew it wasn’t real — but logic is weak against fear when it slides like oil down your spine.

You remember screaming their names, clawing at the hallucinations, sobbing against decayed limbs that shouldn’t have been real but felt so real — and then, beyond the rot and bones, his voice:

Jonathan Crane.

Soft. Mocking. Even though you couldn't understand a word of what he was saying. 

He stepped out of the shadows with that stitched mask, needles glinting at his belt, and you snapped.

You were fourteen. Fourteen and trained by the Bat. Fourteen and drowning in terror and rage.

Your fists collided with him before he could react. The world blurred. You were a hurricane — wild and furious — every punch cracking bone beneath that burlap mask. His blood splattered your gloves, your cheeks, your tongue — copper sharp and animalistic.

He stabbed the syringes into your arms, desperate to slow you, but the toxin already drowned your mind. What was a little more poison when your whole world was rotting?

You kept hitting him until his mask split, until he whimpered like a kicked dog, until his teeth glittered red in the moonlight.

You remember that.

The smell of blood and toxin. The sound of your knuckles breaking his jaw. The cold that never left.

You don’t remember stopping. You didn’t stop until Bruce and Dick pulled you off him, you know that.

The following days were a blur of fever dreams and locked doors. You hid in your room. Refused to see them. Couldn’t bear to look at their faces, afraid they’d still be decomposing, still blaming you. Hiding from your own reflection, your own family, unsure if what you saw in the mirror was skin or rot beneath.

You don’t remember much after that. But the fear never left.

You bolt upright in bed, tangled in cream-colored sheets, breath clawing at your lungs, hair plastered to your neck with cold sweat. The bedroom is quiet and far too warm.

Your chest heaves, lungs dragging in shaky gulps of air as your pulse pounds behind your eyes. The silk sheets tangle around your hips, damp with sweat, cool against feverish skin.

The apartment is still. Safe.

You’re not fourteen.

You're in Gotham.

You're not drowning in Scarecrow's nightmare.

It takes a beat to remember. To piece together reality. To let your heartbeat slow under the hum of Gotham’s traffic.

A low breath curls against your spine, warm and steady.

Conner.

You turn your head, heart slowing as you see him sprawled beside you — his arm stretched over the sheets, hand splayed lightly against your stomach.

He’s shirtless. Hair messy. Lips parted in sleep.

There’s a crease between his brows, even unconscious — that stubborn frown he always wears when he’s worried or… dreaming of worse things.

You ease onto your side, clutching the sheet to your chest as your breathing settles. His hand slides gently over your skin, thumb tracing a path along the curve of your waist.

“You alright?” His voice is rough with sleep, low and gentle. His hand twitches faintly, fingers curling like muscle memory.

You blink at him, surprised.

“You’re awake.”

He cracks one eye open, offering a crooked, sleepy smile. “Kinda hard to sleep through your breathing like that, Huntress.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself. “Nightmare,” you admit, voice barely a whisper.

Conner’s expression softens immediately. He props himself onto his elbow, the sheet slipping down his torso. His hand strokes your side, careful and grounding.

“Wanna talk about it?”

You hesitate. The memory is heavy, clawing up your throat like bile. But his eyes — steady, concerned — anchor you.

You swallow. “Scarecrow. First time I… got hit with his toxin.”

Conner exhales slowly, thumb stilling on your skin. “Shit.”

He knows. Of course he knows. You told him once, years ago — in pieces, over rooftop beers and sleepless stakeouts.

You exhale, a long, shaky sound. Your free hand drifts across the sheet, curling over his wrist, thumb pressing to the steady thrum of his pulse. It calms you more than you want to admit.

“They… they were all dead,” you whisper. “Rotting. Just… walking corpses. I was alone. Again.”

Conner’s jaw tightens. His fingers curl against your waist. “It wasn’t real.”

You nod. “I know.” You pause, then add softly, “Didn’t feel like that.”

There’s a beat of silence, then his hand cups your cheek, gentle but firm. His thumb strokes the edge of your jaw, tilting your face toward his.

“It’s not real,” he says, brushing his forehead against yours, nudging gentle. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah.”

He presses a kiss to your temple. “You’re not alone. Not now.”

A pause. You swallow, throat tight.

“Not ever?”

“Never.”

The promise is whispered into your hairline, soft and raw, and you lean into it. His warmth soaks through the chill clinging to your bones, and for the first time since the nightmare woke you, you breathe — steady, deep.

Your hand slides from his wrist to cup his jaw, thumb tracing the corner of his mouth.

“You’re obnoxiously good at this,” you murmur, lips quirking faintly.

He grins, sleep-laced and boyish, dark hair mussed wildly. “What? Being charming?”

“Comforting,” you correct, biting back a smile.

“Well…” He tilts his head, grinning crooked. “Stick with me, sweetheart.”

You lean in, lips brushing his, slow and languid — grateful. The kiss is soft, unhurried. He lets you guide it, lets you set the pace. His hand curls at your waist, steady, protective.

Your fingers twist in his hair, pulling him closer, and the kiss deepens — all warmth and messy, quiet want. You sigh against his lips, the lingering tension bleeding out, dissolving under his touch.

The fear loosens.

The memory fades.

Only him remains — solid, steady, familiar.

His hand tangles in your hair too, mouth coaxing yours open, deepening the kiss with patient, aching care.

You sigh into him, the sheet forgotten between you, the warmth of his body drawing you in like a lighthouse through fog. Your legs open, a quiet invitation that he quickly takes, positioning with a smooth movement that takes a chuckle out of your chest. 

The kiss lingers — slow, soft, desperate in its tenderness — until the sharp buzz of your phone shatters the quiet.

You groan, fumbling blindly for the device on the nightstand.

“Let it ring,” Conner mumbles against your neck, nipping gently.

You manage a laugh, swiping the screen without looking.

“Hello?”

“Good morning, Miss Y/N.” Alfred’s familiar voice filters through, calm and faintly amused. “I trust I’m not interrupting?”

You stiffen, mortified. Conner snickers softly against your shoulder, teeth grazing your collarbone. You flick his ear. 

“No,” you say too quickly, voice cracking. “What’s up?”

“I took the liberty of preparing breakfast. Your favorites — those tartlets you’ve always adored.” There’s a pause, weighted but kind. “I thought perhaps… you’d join me and the rest?”

Your chest tightens. You glance at Conner, his smile gentler now, eyes curious. He lefts another kiss on your collarbone, warmer than before.

You blink, stunned silent for half a beat. The familiar ache coils behind your ribs — bittersweet, raw, impossible to refuse.

“Alfred…”

“No pressure,” he says, gentler now. “But it would mean… quite a lot.”

Your eyes drift to Conner. His brows raise in silent question, his hand still warm at your back.

You exhale softly. Smile, small but real.

“I’ll be there,” you whisper.

“Excellent,” Alfred replies, tenderly. “Take your time, dear.”

The line clicks off.

“Breakfast with the bats,” Conner teases, shifting under the sheets, propping himself up on one elbow, the wickedest little grin curling at the corner of his mouth. “You should probably find a bulletproof vest, but instead of bullets, it should cover your neck.”

You snort despite yourself, tossing the phone back onto the nightstand and burrowing deeper into the mattress, dragging the blanket halfway up your face in dread. “It’s not funny.”

“Oh, no, it’s hilarious,” he says, and before you can dodge or protest, his hand snakes under the blanket, fingers splaying across your waist as he lunges.

“Conner—”

Too late.

He attacks, pressing a barrage of rapid, sloppy kisses across your jaw, your cheek, your neck — anywhere his mouth can reach, relentless and laughing as he does it.

“Stop—” You squeal, laughing despite the weight of anxiety knotted in your stomach, batting at his shoulders. “Conner, I’m serious—”

“So am I,” he shoots back, lips brushing your collarbone, nose bumping against your throat, the grin in his voice unmistakable. “Serious about distracting you before you spiral.”

“I’m not spiraling,” you lie, breath hitching when his teeth nip playfully at your pulse point.

“You’re thinking too much,” he counters, peppering another trail of warm kisses up your jaw. “I can hear your brain overheating.”

You giggle, shoving weakly at his chest, but he doesn’t budge — just keeps kissing you, soft and obnoxious and entirely unbothered by your half-hearted protests. Your laughter bubbles up, real and bright, smoothing the edges of fear lingering in your ribs.

“Conner—”

“Kiss truce?” he offers, finally slowing, hovering over you with that boyish smile, eyes sparkling with something warmer, heavier. His hand curls gently against your waist, thumb brushing lazy circles over your hipbone.

You sigh, breathless, still laughing faintly as you grab the front of his shirt, tugging him down.

“Fine,” you mutter, lips brushing his, “but only because you’re insufferably charming.”

“Hey,” he grins against your mouth, voice dropping low, teasing, “you’re the one kissing me now, sweetheart.”

And you do —

Kiss him again.

Hard enough to forget, just for a moment, about breakfast. About Gotham.

About all of it.

Wayne Manor hasn’t changed.

Not really.

The stones still hum with history, the sprawling estate looming against the gray Gotham skyline like a relic frozen in time. The windows gleam like polished obsidian, sharp and silent. The front doors creak the same way they did when you were seven, sneaking back in after hours spent curled under the rose garden arbor, sketchbook clutched to your chest.

You pause at the front steps, fingers brushing the cool wrought-iron railing, a familiar tightness curling in your ribs.

Everything feels… too heavy. Too loud with memory.

You hated how much you missed this place.

The halls are the same. Portraits hanging like ghosts of the past — old Waynes, stoic and stone-eyed, watching you walk the corridor as if you don’t belong. Maybe you never did.

Laughter down these same halls you were never quite part of. Cold nights on the roof waiting for a father who never noticed you’d fallen asleep waiting. Echoes of piano keys under your hands, playing to the ghosts of people still living.

But the smell…

It wasn’t home — not anymore, not for years — but it still smelled like your childhood. The faint warmth of Alfred’s coffee brewing. The sharp, citrus-clean scent of polished wood. The faintest sweetness of something baking. It’s the same.

Your footsteps echo as you make your way to the dining room, the clock on the wall mocking you — ten minutes late. You could’ve been early. You could’ve walked in like you were supposed to. But your legs dragged, your spine resisted, your heart whispered not yet.

They’re all here. The entire family sat gathered around the sprawling breakfast table, the silverware glinting against fine china, the food — fresh tarts, waffles, berries, all the things you loved — barely touched.

The moment you slip through the threshold, you can feel it. Tension. Anticipation.

Barbara’s seated nearest the head of the table, red hair tied back, elegant as ever. Dick’s beside her, arms folded, blue eyes flicking to you instantly with a grin that’s a little too proud, a little too… relieved.

“Birdie,” Dick’s voice finally cut through the silence, his grin stretching wider as he crossed the room in three strides and crushed you into his chest without waiting for permission.

Your arms hung stiff at your sides.

You let him hug you. Let him press his chin to your hair, rocking you gently like you were something fragile he forgot how to hold. But you didn’t hug him back. Not yet.

“Ten minutes late,” Dick whispered, breath warm against your temple. “You owe me for that.”

Jason’s leaning back in his chair, legs sprawled wide, toying with the edge of a coffee cup like it’s a weapon. His eyes cut toward you as you enter, unreadable, but there’s a softness buried somewhere beneath that sharp jaw.

Cass is beside him, quiet, sharp-eyed, assessing you with that hawk-like stare that never misses anything.

Tim, next, flipping casually through something on his phone — only to stop dead when he sees you. His smile is smaller than the others, but real.

Steph waves from across the table, already chewing on what looks like a muffin, bright as ever. Duke gives you a simple nod, polite but watchful.

And Damian— seated beside the chair left empty for you — his eyes sharpen immediately, like a hawk spotting prey, and before you can even consider another seat, his hand slides to the back of the chair beside him, pulling it out in silent demand.

You hesitate. Only a moment.

But the silence says enough. You walk forward, heels clicking against marble, and lower yourself into the chair— wedged between Tim and Damian, your youngest brother already shifting, moving his own chair closer with a sharp scrape of wood, until there’s no space left. His shoulder brushes yours. You say nothing.

“Nice of you to join us,” Duke teases gently, his grin easy, like this isn’t suffocating.

“Traffic,” you lie smoothly, reaching for a coffee cup.

Alfred appears at your shoulder, refilling it before you even finish the motion. His eyes crinkle faintly. You mouth a thank you.

The talk swirls— casual, loud, overlapping. You barely listen.

Until Bruce’s voice cuts through it. “Where are you staying?”

You pause, fingers curling tighter around your cup. Your lips part to answer.

“She’s at the Royal Resort,” Tim pipes up, glancing down at his phone like the information’s public knowledge.

Your mouth snaps shut. Your head tilts toward him, brows furrowing, irritation bubbling low beneath your ribs.

“How do you—?”

“Credit card trail,” he answers simply, like that explains everything. “Nice place. But you know that.”

Your jaw ticks. Your eyes narrow faintly, and Damian’s quiet scoff beside you draws your attention before you can retort.

“No Wayne should stay in a hotel when the Manor is theirs,” Damian says bluntly, green eyes sharp, arms crossing over his chest. “It’s pathetic.”

You roll your eyes, leaning forward to grab one of the little lemon tarts perched neatly on the silver tray in the center of the table. Before your fingers even brush the plate, a hand beats you to it— Jason.

He grabs one tart, drops it silently onto your plate, eyes lingering on you for a second, unreadable, before turning his attention to the waffle platter, scooping one onto his own plate. Neither of you says anything.

Your jaw tightens. The warmth in your chest clashes with the frustration.

“Thank you,” you mutter, biting the edge off the words as you slice into the tart.

“You should come home,” Bruce says plainly, cutting through the conversation like it’s strategy.

Your fork pauses halfway to your mouth.

“Here we go,” you mutter under your breath.

“Father’s right,” Damian insists, straightening beside you. “The Manor is your home.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me,” you shoot back coolly, finally turning your gaze toward Bruce, challenging. “I’ve been just fine where I am.”

“‘Fine’ is a low standard,” Tim interjects, voice dry, sipping his coffee. “We can do better.”

You glare. He doesn’t flinch.

“It’s not a negotiation,” Bruce says, voice soft but firm — Batman creeping in around the edges. “This is your home. It always has been.”

Your stomach knots. Years of silence. Neglect. Overlooked birthdays, missed recitals, absent gazes during galas when you were practically begging to be seen— it all surges up like bile.

“I don’t—”

“You belong here,” Damian cuts in, sharp, insistent, his chair nearly flush to yours now. His green eyes burn with possessiveness only a child that never learned to share can wield. “With us.”

Your tongue darts across your bottom lip. You hesitate, but the room leaves no space to breathe, no space to speak.

“You’re not serious.”

Bruce’s jaw ticked, that faint clench you’d seen too many times before. “You’re not safe.”

“I’ve been safe for years,” you shot back, the weight of the old argument settling over your shoulders like a threadbare cloak. “Without you.”

“We didn’t know where you were,” Dick added, voice soft, as if that might somehow make it hurt less. “That’s not okay.”

“That’s exactly how I wanted it.”

Damian’s hands tightened into fists on the table, his leg pressed fully against yours now, unmoving, steady, anchoring you in place whether you wanted it or not.

“You’re a Wayne,” Bruce continued, firm, final. “You belong here.”

Your lips twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“Since when?”

Jason’s fingers drummed against the edge of his plate. He didn’t look at you. “Since always.”

You exhaled slowly, dragging your gaze away from them, scanning the familiar walls, the weight of the manor sinking into your ribs like it never left.

The lemon tart tasted exactly like you remembered. Alfred still made them just right. And that’s what made it hurt more.

It was suffocating.

Cass’s gaze pins you, quiet support buried beneath sharp awareness. Barbara watches you softly, expression unreadable. Jason’s jaw tightens faintly, eyes flicking to you, then away. Duke, Steph, Tim— they’re all watching, waiting.

And Bruce—

Bruce’s gaze softens, only a fraction, but it’s there. That quiet, fatherly plea buried beneath years of stubborn, stoic failure.

The tart on your plate mocks you. The Manor hums around you, familiar and suffocating.

There’s no room to say no. Not really.

You sigh, setting your fork down.

“Fine,” you mutter, eyes locked on your plate.

You can feel their quiet satisfaction settle over the table, thick as the walls surrounding you. And once again, Wayne Manor swallows you whole.

The table doesn’t fall back into the same rhythm after your reluctant acceptance. No— it thickens, something denser now floating around the plates, in the glances they trade when they think you’re not watching. The way Barbara’s eyes linger on you when she thinks she’s being subtle. The way Duke’s smile doesn’t quite meet his eyes now. The way Tim taps his fork against his plate with that knowing edge, like he’s already planning the security sweeps he’ll make to ensure you’re not booking another hotel behind their backs.

It’s suffocating.

You cut another small bite of the lemon tart, chewing slowly, trying to keep your breathing level. Across from you, Jason is picking apart his waffle, dragging his fork in absentminded circles, occasionally flicking his gaze up toward you, then away like he’s pretending not to watch you this closely.

Like he wasn’t the one who deliberately placed the tart on your plate to begin with. Like he didn’t just decide to slip right back into your habits like he never left.

You hate how familiar this is. You hate how much your chest aches with the weight of it.

You hate that you missed them.

“Alfred,” you call softly, folding your napkin with delicate precision. The butler steps closer almost immediately, as if he never left the edge of the room. “Do I— does my room still…?”

His smile creases warmly. “Your room is precisely as you left it, Miss.”

Your mouth twists. Your room. Not guest room. Not temporarily made up for you. Your room.

Even though you left years ago, and you were never supposed to come back.

You catch Bruce watching you over the rim of his cup, his expression carved in that deep, impenetrable stone that always used to make you second guess what you meant to him.

The silence drags, then Dick leans forward, the weight of his folded arms settling over the table.

“We can help you move your things,” he says, soft, careful, like he’s handling you the way you handle old paintings— afraid you’ll crack with the wrong touch. “I mean, unless you plan to stay in a hotel for the rest of your life.”

You raise a brow at him, fingers smoothing over your napkin, pretending to consider. “Tempting.”

Damian shifts closer — which you didn’t think was possible — until his chair scrapes a few more millimeters forward, his shoulder fully pressing against yours now, steady, grounding.

“I will help my sister. Titus can carry her stuff while I help with the rest.” His brows go back to normal, looking at you with his slight narrowed green eyes. You have always admired just how cute your brother could be: perhaps, with a normal childhood, he could have been a stereotypical Draco Malfoy.

But he's not. He reminds you a bit more of a mix between Malfoy and Harry.

His lips carry a smirk that you have seen in your father. The perfect mix between he and Talia, of course.

You snap your head toward your other young brother, incredulous now that you remember the reply minutes ago. “You’ve been tracking me?”

“Not ‘tracking.’” Tim shrugs, not bothering to look up from his phone. “Monitoring.”

Your jaw ticks. “That’s not any better.”

“It’s more responsible.”

Your breath puffs out in disbelief, fingers tightening around your cup.

“Tim, I could be halfway across the world and you’d still have eyes on me, wouldn’t you?”

He finally glances up, soft, smug smile twisting his mouth. “Could be, but you’re not across the world. You’re here.”

Your stomach knots. You should be angry. You should be furious, even. But you know Tim. He’s always done this. He’s always catalogued everything, everyone. He doesn’t let go. Especially not when it comes to family.

Especially not you.

“I should’ve expected that,” you mutter under your breath, taking another slow sip of coffee.

“You should’ve,” he agrees, not missing a beat.

The tart on your plate is half-finished when Jason's voice cuts through the low hum of conversation, sharp and unexpected.

“What the hell are those?”

The fork stalls halfway to your mouth, lemon curd trembling slightly at the edge of the silver. Your spine stiffens. Your eyes lift, meeting his across the table.

Jason’s gaze isn’t playful now. It’s sharp, narrowed in on you with a familiarity that only older brothers possess, and his hand gestures vaguely to your collarbone — or more specifically, the faint bruising peeking just beneath the open neckline of your sweater. The marks you hadn’t bothered to conceal this morning, half out of carelessness, half because you didn’t think they’d look that close.

A hush falls over the table, the scrape of a chair leg echoing somewhere as everyone turns to look.

You lower your fork. Slowly.

“Sorry, what?” you ask, tone deceptively light.

Jason leans forward, elbow braced on the table, expression unreadable but sharp with suspicion. “Those marks. On your neck. And your wrist—” his eyes flick down, zeroing in on the faint reddish imprint around your wrist bone, peeking from beneath your sleeve, “—what the hell, sis?”

Beside you, Damian’s eyes narrow, gaze flicking from your neck to your wrist, his posture straightening, the edge of his chair scraping closer again, practically caging you in now.

“They’re nothing,” you say flatly, adjusting your sleeve as casually as you can manage.

“Yeah, sure,” Steph chimes in, voice half-muffled by a bite of muffin. “You just tripped over your own charm and face-planted into a set of hickeys?”

Heat burns along your neck, but you force your expression blank, slicing another neat bite of tart onto your fork. “You all need to mind your own business.”

“Oh, that’s rich,” Tim mutters under his breath, flipping his coffee stirrer between his fingers. “The girl who used to hack into the GCPD for fun is telling us about boundaries.”

“Tim,” Cass warns softly, her voice calm but carrying weight as always.

But it’s too late— the floodgates are open now.

Dick raises a brow, that annoyingly big-brother grin slipping onto his face as he leans onto his forearms. “So… who’s the lucky idiot?”

“There is no idiot,” you bite back, glaring down at your plate.

“Those marks say otherwise,” Jason deadpans, reaching casually for the coffee pot like he’s not interrogating you in front of the entire damn family. “You look like you got attacked by a particularly enthusiastic vampire.”

Your blush deepens, teeth sinking into your cheek as you shoot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. Damian, beside you, shifts slightly, still watching you with hawk-like intensity, green eyes narrowed and calculating.

“You should tell us who it is,” he says, voice deceptively neutral for a thirteen-year-old. “It would be… concerning if someone thought they could handle you like that.”

“‘Handle’?” you repeat, scoffing under your breath, “God, you sound like Father.”

Bruce’s gaze sharpens slightly at the end of the table, coffee cup paused halfway to his mouth. “If someone’s putting hands on you—”

“They’re not,” you cut in quickly, jabbing your fork at your plate with a little more force than necessary. “I’m perfectly capable of making my own terrible decisions, thanks.”

Steph snickers beside Barbara, who just hides a smile behind her glass.

Jason shakes his head, tapping his fingers against the tabletop in thought. “Nah. I don’t like it.”

“Of course you don’t,” you snap, finally tossing your fork onto the plate with a sharp clatter. “Because God forbid I have a life outside of this family circus.”

“You’re family,” Dick reminds you, annoyingly calm. “It’s our job to meddle.”

You groan, fingers pressing to your temples. “You’re all impossible.”

Duke, quiet until now, finally pipes up, smirking faintly over his cup. “You missed us.”

“I missed Alfred,” you correct without missing a beat.

The butler, returning with a fresh pot of coffee, arches a brow, entirely unbothered. “Flattery will not spare you from their interrogation, Miss.”

Jason points at him. “Thank you, Alfred.”

“Traitor,” you grumble.

“Don’t deflect,” Damian mutters beside you, voice low. His chair edges closer still— impossibly close now, thigh brushing yours, as his sharp gaze narrows. “I know who it is. You are copulating-”

“Copulating?” You repeat, disgusted. Your siblings share the same expression, looking more alike than ever. “Who taught you that word?”

“Yeah, say 'fuck' like any normal person, Jesus,” Jason grimaced, and then points to you. “You are so not getting out of this.”

“Language, Jason.”

“Well, teach your son some sex ed. I will vomit if he says copulating again.”

“Drop it,” you warn, stabbing a piece of waffle with unnecessary force.

But you can practically hear the gears turning in their collective heads. Barbara’s gaze sharpens from across the table. Cass tilts her head, reading you like an open book, eyes narrowing faintly in quiet realization.

Steph smirks, leaning toward Duke to whisper something conspiratorial under her breath, while Duke just winces, clearly aware that this is about to escalate.

“I swear to god,” Jason mutters, pushing his chair back slightly, eyes still locked on you. “If it’s some trust fund idiot from the gala—”

“It wasn’t,” you cut in coolly, but the room’s already spiraling beyond your control.

“Wait,” Tim says suddenly, frowning, and your stomach drops before the words even leave his mouth. “You disappeared at the gala early.”

You sip your coffee, eyes narrowing. “I’m allowed to leave parties, Timothy.”

Damian shifts beside you, straightening abruptly like the pieces have clicked into place. His eyes burn with that possessive, entirely unearned little-brother rage that could level cities.

“You were with him,” he says simply, like a verdict.

The table pauses.

Jason’s jaw clenches. “With who?”

Tim stills, processing. “Who’s him?”

Cass’s eyes widen a fraction, realization dawning.

Barbara sighs under her breath. “Oh, hell.”

“You were drinking with him at the bar,” Damian continues, voice low, lethal in that thirteen-year-old, miniature-Bruce-Wayne way that makes your skin crawl. “Superboy.”

The room explodes.

“CONNER?!” Jason practically shouts, chair scraping back, hands slapping the table as every sibling conversation devolves into chaos.

“Wait—Conner as in—Superboy?!” Steph’s eyes widen, practically giddy, because of course she’s here for the drama.

Tim’s entire expression freezes, mouth parting in disbelief. “You hooked up with my best friend?!”

“You’ve got the worst taste in men,” Duke says, mostly to himself, grabbing his coffee like it’s the only thing grounding him in this disaster.

Cass doesn’t speak, but her eyes glint with knowing, watching the unravel like a cat observing trapped prey.

“Calm down,” you snap, glaring at Jason and Tim, who both look two seconds away from either passing out or throwing a chair.

“I am calm,” Jason lies, pointing an accusing finger at you. “You, on the other hand, have hickeys from a Kryptonian.”

“Allegedly,” you say dryly, biting into your tart like this isn’t your worst nightmare.

Tim looks visibly ill. “Why would you—he’s—he’s Conner!”

“Your best friend is hot,” you shoot back without mercy, because if you’re going down, you’re going down swinging.

Damian scowls, arms crossing so tight you can practically hear his ribs protest. “He’s also an idiot.”

“Better than the parade of emotionally repressed vigilantes in this family,” you mutter, and Steph laughs, covering her mouth with her hand.

Bruce, finally, speaks—voice low, quiet, but commanding enough that the table halts.

“We’re not discussing this at breakfast.”

You glance at him, arching a brow. “Why? We discuss everything else. Including where I sleep, apparently.”

A flash of guilt crosses his expression. He doesn’t argue.

“Are you seeing him?” Tim pushes, wounded pride flaring in his tone.

You shrug, licking lemon curd off your fork with infuriating calm. “That’s between me and Conner.”

Jason groans into his hands. “I need aspirin.”

Damian still simmers beside you, eyes dark, but says nothing, clearly cataloguing ways to poison a Kryptonian.

The chaos simmers, the table still thick with tension, but you ignore it, sipping your coffee with slow, deliberate ease.

“Relax,” you mutter, half to yourself, half to them all. “You’ve got bigger problems than my love life.”

“Not if you bring him around here,” Jason threatens weakly, stabbing his waffle like it insulted him.

You smirk faintly, eyes glinting.

“Guess you’ll have to be on your best behavior then.”

And just like that, the first real sibling fight in years ignites fully—loud, overlapping, messy—like you never left.

And for a second, you almost let yourself enjoy it.

[ivorydragoncat]

Inspiring stuff. I've begun to realise that all that modern writing advice gives me more stress and more grief than it helps. If I focus too much on trying to meticulously craft the "perfect story" according to all the conventions, it muddies the water for my creative flow. A story is what it is, no matter how you write it. The most important part is to enjoy writing it, because that will shine through and the readers that want to read your story for how it is, they will come to you eventually.

Trying to apply to a broader audience will inevitably stunt your enthusiasm, creativity and individuality. Those three things are what makes an author a good author imo. Never lose those.

"Write the story that you would want to read" - my best friend, several years ago.

And that is the key to great writing. It's not a science, it's not a construction. It is art. Can it be done as a science? Can it be done as a construction? Yeah! But it doesn't HAVE to be. That's the key takeaway here.

I still need to learn to follow this advice myself. It can be difficult. For some however, the opposite may be true: perhaps you know your style and you got your flow, but you want to appeal to a wider audience? THEN these modern tips can be useful. Sometimes we need a little bit of a structure to build upon, sometimes we need rules we can break with intention to create our own unique narrative.

What I'm saying is that none of the modern advice is necessarily bad, and that it's always good to learn the conventions and rules and trends. But just like with all artistic fields, rules exist so that you can learn to break them in the "right way" to create something new and unique. These old authors weren't just "writing willy nilly". They knew the conventions - at least the ones at the time - and they knew they could break them in the perfect way to entice readers in a different way, or to attract a whole new type of audience. An audience far closer to themselves in taste.

No writing can be for everyone. No writing should try to be for everyone. But all writing is for someone.

Every 21st century piece of writing advice: Make us CARE about the character from page 1! Make us empathize with them! Make them interesting and different but still relatable and likable!

Every piece of classic literature: Hi. It's me. The bland everyman whose only purpose is to tell you this story. I have no actual personality. Here's the story of the time I encountered the worst people I ever met in my life. But first, ten pages of description about the place in which I met them.

[nofilterwaterfilter]

also on the voice thing, we all know kris is one of the most autism coded characters to ever exist, but i really do love everything that both routes of chapter four when taken in conjunction told us about kris, being nonverbal, and how that's not painted as a bad thing?

it's pretty common i've seen for silent protagonists to be headcanoned as nonverbal autistic, but i think this is the first time i've seen it be explicitly canon, and also have it be pretty intrinsic to the narrative?

and like no, kris isn't entirely nonverbal, they do speak occasionally. but deltarune in general, and particularly ch4, paints a very strong picture of someone who (at least when they have control over their own voice) does not use words as their primary method of communication

like you can start with quiet people piss me off, or the fact that music is such an important avenue of self expression for them (made all the worse when they're not in control). noelle in ch1 asks if kris is okay when the player asks her the same background/lore questions we can ask everyone, because kris talking this much pings immediately as wrong to her. then there's everything we know about kris as a kid, and how yeah they had a bit of a mean sense of humor, but also pranks and fucking with people was a very good way for them to get attention without having to talk at all

noelle's story of the ferris wheel if you listen to all her and susie's dialogue in dess' room sticks out to me for this, and i really do love that anecdote. noelle mentions she and kris were pushed into riding the ferris wheel together as kids, she didn't really want to be there. and kris didn't say anything the whole time, for the first half they were just looking out the window. but then they decided to jump up and down and shake the entire capsule, and that's when they turned to noelle and smiled. susie goes "is that good or bad?" in response to that story and noelle says she doesn't know, but it's one of the things that gets kris' attention! and whether you believe that they were doing it to freak noelle out or because they also thought this was dumb and wanted to make it more fun for both of them (noelle isn't sure which it was either), that is how they communicate!

and when they do use words. this is the bit that makes me most emotional - noelle in weird route describes kris' voice as deadpan and mumbly. they don't like being loud, they don't talk very often, and they really struggle with inflection. all things that are normally criticisms when directed at autistic people, they're stuff autism moms use to justify their "i know my real child is in there somewhere" bullshit. but when noelle hears it again from soulless kris for the first time since the soul stuff started, she starts crying over how much she's missed hearing them talk. the soul (as we know from a variety of susie and noelle conversations) is louder, more charismatic, more confident and articulate, and it's not kris. so all those traits that are normally things autistic people get told to be more, are explicitly condemned by the narrative

and that's what makes kris being largely nonverbal such an excellent additional dimension to their story. because everything the soul does, at least in the normal routes, pretty much aligns with how people are expected to behave? kris under our control has a great social life, has friends, is likeable, isn't weird and hard to understand. and a crueler person, the kind autistic people have to deal with far too often, would say "well it's good we gave them a voice, they're not using theirs anyway"

but that's what makes it evil! it doesn't matter if kris is the kind of autistic that everyone hates, if there are things about them that don't fit in with society but that they either can't or don't want to change. their life and their voice, as infrequently heard as it is, is still theirs. and they deserve the freedom to use it however they want to

[nanamisbbygirl]

—☆ friends with benefits!

chapter 4. mary jane & co.

paring: geto suguru x reader

genre: college au, drama, smut with plot

summary: a pact of pleasure between friends runs the risk of ruining everything. passionate flames burn the hardest. you and geto care about each other, but what happens when sex gets tangled with friendship?

cw: marijuana use, toxic relationships and friendships, angst, smut, creampie, unprotected sex

a/n: hi! i just wanted to pop in and say that trust the process with this chapter! and also that the next one might take a little longer to come out as my schedule is very hectic for the next week! i hope though that i can at least have chapter 5 out in 7-8 days instead of 4-5! enjoy!

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Geto hated being home. He hated the quietness of the halls, he hated the smell of the carpets. He hated how the only time his mother was there, she would complain. She would taunt him, curse his father, complain how love is for idiots. Ever since the divorce she’d been keen on that fact. 

“Your father was a fucking asshole, never believe it when someone tells you they love you. Before you know it they’ll move onto someone else,” she would hiss, scanning her son with discontent. On other occasions, she would sneer at him, reminding Geto that he was starting to look just like him. 

It was the main reason he always hosted parties– it was a day to drown out the silence that haunted his house. It was an easy distraction, the drinking, the fun, the girls. He took his mothers words very seriously, realizing among all the sweaty teenage hormones, that no one knew what loyalty was, just like what his mother had warned him about. There was always some kind of drama and someone’s heart was always breaking. 

He stood with his best friend near the window of his room, feeling the breeze dilute the skunkish smell. Intertwined between their fingers was a perfectly rolled joint, and with every inhale they puffed smoke out the opening. Geto was feeling buzzed, and he could tell Gojo was even more out of it. He knew he should’ve been using the week to study– that was its intended purpose– but being home, looking at his bed, staring at his empty phone notifications, he felt as though there was nothing else to do. 

“This shit feels so fuckin’ good,” Gojo hummed, taking another drag, “we should do it more often.” 

Geto only agreed, fidgeting with the joint slightly, cautiously taking a hit. Judging by Gojo’s body language, he was much more loose, as though his thoughts had become unfiltered. 

“This year’s been so much fun so far– whoever said college was stressful clearly wasn’t doing it right.” He laughed, continuing with his gibbering nonsense. “And man, honestly I gotta tell ya– I thought I’d been fucking around hard once school began, but I think I’m fucking falling in love.” 

The black haired boy raised a suspicious eyebrow, intrigued on what else his friend would admit to him, “oh, really?” 

Before you know it they’ll be in love with someone else, ringing in his head at the thought of his best friend supposedly being in love. 

Gojo only nodded, “something about her, the way she laughs, the way she does her makeup, I don’t know I haven’t been able to shake it. We’ve gotten much closer in the past two months. I think I’m gonna give it a shot.” 

“Gotten closer?” Geto looks confused, “did you know her from highschool or something.” 

“Something like that,” Gojo mutters. He seems tense, like he’s unsure about what he’s going to say next. “I’m just worried that things might change too drastically, stuff like this gets messy.” 

Geto thought of you, about how it all started on the very bed that was next to him. Messy was an understatement. He hadn’t seen or spoken to you since that party, since you were cozying up with that other guy, since you broke off your friendship. 

“Do you think she likes you back?” He wasn’t sure why he was playing into Gojo’s delusions, but he couldn’t help it. 

“It’s hard to say,” Gojo huffs, inhaling his joint, “we usually hang out in group settings, but when we’re alone we always have fun.” 

“Worth a shot then,” Geto muses, “but probably best to not get your hopes up.” 

“Yeah but this girl is different.” He clarifies. “Trust me, if you knew who I was talking about, you’d understand.” 

“You’re saying that like I know this chick personally.” He laughs. 

However, Gojo stiffens. “You do.” 

Geto’s eyes narrow, trying to refocus himself on the conversation. Who the hell was Gojo falling in love with? 

“Shoko?” He questions, causing his friend to scoff, rolling his eyes. 

“Don’t be fucking dense.” Geto felt his face go pale, his breath slowing down as Gojo finished his sentence. “It’s y/n.” 

There’s a sinking feeling in his chest, although he tries his best to keep a straight face. Geto can feel the twitching of his heart, the way it’s trying to claw through his ribcage– it makes him nauseous, and he doesn’t know why. He thinks about your angered face, the way you stormed out on him just a handful of weeks ago. 

He didn’t know what to say, wondering how much time had gone by since Gojo last spoke. He wasn’t sure if his senses were being skewed because of the weed, or because of the perplexity of the whole situation. He figured it was the weed. 

A part of him wanted to tell Gojo about your friends with benefits situation, even though it had soured. He wanted to brag to his best friend about how he’d taken your virginity, about how he was the only one to see you in such a vulnerable state. It was twisted on how much he wanted to splice through Gojo’s little romantic fantasy, but still his lips moved without his brain. 

“Really? Her?” He said almost with a chuckle, taking another long drag. “You know she probably isn’t into guys like you.” 

Gojo hissed, “and what kinda guys is she into?” 

Geto could sense the devious little smile creeping up on his face, “she’s into the type of guys that make her work for it. She likes when they’re a little bit mean.” 

“And how the fuck would you know that?” Gojo asked, puffing smoke out the window, coughing slightly. 

“Because we’ve been fucking.” He admitted, even though it was him who suggested keeping your affairs secret. Geto’s lips were curled into a grin while he smoked, waiting in anticipation for how Gojo would react. 

“You’re full of shit,” he said, starting to raise his voice. It was obvious that Geto’s words stung. 

“Tell yourself what you want,” he told his best friend, “but I even took her virginity, right… here.” He said, pointing to his bed. 

Gojo remained speechless while Geto continued. “And the craziest thing is that we’ve been doing this whole friends with benefits shit, too, but she hasn’t slept with anyone other than me.” He couldn’t say the same for himself, though. 

“Yeah but you’re not anymore. Right? That’s why we haven’t hung out as a group for a while, isn’t it?” Gojo was always the bright one, and he seemed to have figured it out quickly. 

“Maybe,” Geto mumbled and Gojo only hummed. 

“Man, I don’t know what the fuck your problem is, but if you don’t give a shit about her, and she doesn’t give a shit about you, I’m still gonna fucking ask her out.” He boldly declared. 

“Sure you will,” Geto could feel his words slurring together, heart still thumping. 

“No kidding she broke things off with you, do you not see how much of a douche you are? Fuck, man, me and y/n are going to the bar tonight, I’m gonna take my chances, whether you were fuck buddies or not.” 

With that, Gojo stormed out, not looking back to see the expression on his friend's face. Geto was in awe about what had just happened, as if he hadn’t been the one to instigate the situation. He couldn’t believe that Gojo was so adamant on confessing his love to you. It seemed ridiculous– couldn’t he tell that you were his? Wasn’t it clear from what he had said? Even if you weren’t on speaking terms, he knew you’d come around eventually, he knew you well enough to know that you were a forgiving person. Yet, there was an inkling of doubt now. Why wouldn’t you pick Gojo over him? 

Remembering that fateful night, how he tore that guy off of you, the rage you directed towards him, the way you brushed off his advances, he wasn’t too sure anymore. He sat down on the edge of the bed, hand over his chest as his breaths became heavy. He could only think about your face, how you seemed to hate him– how he caused all of it. He never had regrets about who he slept with, but something about you was making a new sensation arise within him. Was it because you were friends first? A constant in his life? Before you started sleeping together, he could rely on you; you would listen to his woes, and make him smile. You were a mistake, he realized, and he had to let you know that. He had to put things back the way they were before.

He was standing outside your house, still not sure what he was possibly thinking. He thought about throwing pebbles at your window, but he figured that would only make you more upset with him. He pictured himself ringing the doorbell and the face you would make when it was him standing at your door. 

But, he had already dragged himself that far, he just had to push through.

Before his knuckles could even knock on the door, though, it swung open, as if his presence had already been anticipated. It was your mom at the door, although she was clearly in a rush to get somewhere. 

“Oh hi, Suguru, nice to see you,” she smiled, warmly. “I’m just running to the store, but y/n’s upstairs.” She turned to call for you, letting you know that a friend was at the door. 

“Tell them to come up,” you replied, although judging by how happy you sounded, you weren’t expected to see him standing at your door. 

You were seated at your vanity, starting to doll yourself up, wearing nothing but lingerie. Were you doing all this just to see Gojo? He felt his heart skip a beat, studying every inch of your body. The white lace; the way it perfectly framed your plunging breasts, complimenting your skin. You just looked so angelic, hair pushed back, innocently getting ready. Little did you know Gojo had every intention of confessing to you. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” You snapped at him, rightfully so. 

Geto was speechless, it felt like for the first time in his life, he was at a true loss of words. He stared deeply into your eyes, gulping before mustering up the courage to spew out his words. 

“I just needed to talk to you, now that we’ve both calmed down.” 

“Both? You think a week was enough for me to not be mad at you anymore?” Your eyes narrowed. 

“No- I mean I just at least wanted to tell you something, before anyone else got the chance to tell you this.” He explained, “When you and Satoru go out tonight, he’s gonna tell you that he’s in love with you.” 

Your expression softened, as if you were imagining the other man, filling your face up with some perfect little day dream. Geto could feel an angry grunt getting caught in his mouth before he continued with what he thought was the best solution to all of this. 

“And I think you should also know that I’m sorry.” 

“Do you really think sorry is going to fix it? You treated me like shit.” You huffed, standing up in order to get closer to him. As you looked up at him, Geto felt himself melting, almost as if the proximity between the two of you was affecting his judgement. 

“I know, I-I can’t explain what it is about me, but I can never get close to people properly. I always do something to fuck it up. I’m surprised our friendship lasted three years before I fucked it up-” 

“Are you saying sleeping with me was a mistake?" You interrupted, and Geto felt himself shaking his head quickly. 

“No,” he took a deep breath, building up the strength to continue, “I’m saying that I shouldn’t have done things the way I did. But, I will never regret sleeping with you. I just wish that I could’ve just been honest with you from the start.”

You’re practically standing face-to-face, feeling the intensity of his soul crushing down on you. He was being truthful, it was clear through his gaze, with the way his body was limp, like he had dropped every line of defense. 

“Honest about what?” Your voice was a borderline whisper. 

“Honest about the fact I’m in love with you. It just took me ruining everything to realize it.” His confession is swift, but heartfelt. You look up at him with starry eyes, wide and yearning for him to kiss you. 

“Su..” you say, your thoughts trailing off as you reach up to kiss him, entangling your hands in his hair. His arms hug your waist, bringing you into his chest. 

Everything felt like a blur, from the way you guided him to your bed, wrapping your legs around his waist, passionately kissing him with all the strength in your body. He feels it in the way he grinds himself against your white panties, and how he slips down your bra straps. You’ve never looked more beautiful, he can barely find words to describe it. 

So when you end up on top of him, cute little underwear pushed to the side, his raw cock teasing your entrance, he thinks he’s finally at peace with the world. You carefully ease yourself onto him, chanting out how much you love him, how good he is, it rings in his ears like a melodic symphony. 

“Fuck Sugu, you feel so good,” you cry out, riding him without a care in the world. This is different from all the sex he’s had before, this one isn’t as lustful, the girls aren’t squealing out obscenities for him, not begging to be roughed up, or to be degraded. It’s genuine. He feels as though he could be in this moment forever. 

You bounce on his dick, hands resting on his chest for support, simultaneously pushing your boobs forward. 

“I’m gonna cum,” you pant out, giving him a warning before he starts feeling the intensity of your orgasm. You clench around him and he’s never felt better. He can sense that his own end is near too, but he doesn’t want to pull out. 

“That’s it pretty girl, cum for me, yeah good girl.” His hands find your waist, stopping you from squirming, “fuck, ‘gonna make me cum, fuuck I’m gonna cum so deep inside you, baby.” 

“Please Su,” you plead with him, “I love you so much, please cum in me.” And he does.

Although, it doesn’t feel as good as he thinks it would feel. 

That’s when he wakes up. 

That’s when he realises he never left his room.

He curses the marijuana for making him pass out, and he curses himself even more when he looks down and sees the stain on his crotch. It was just some fucking wet dream, he concludes, groaning as he rubs his hands over his face. 

Before he could reach for his phone, he took a deep breath, feeling the way his heart ached at the fact that he didn’t get to say those words to you in real life. Looking at the time, it read 10:47. Fuck. 

He thought about what Gojo was telling him early– that you were going to the bar. Which bar? He looked to see if his friend had posted any photos and luckily for Geto, he had. 

Roxxy Bar and Lounge. Posted ten minutes ago, it’s a picture of your drinks. He figures if he leaves now maybe he’ll make it in time, before Gojo drinks up the courage to tell you how he really feels. 

Geto knows that he, too, has some explaining to do. He needs to tell you that he’s sorry, he needs to tell you everything he told you in his dream and more. He can’t let you slip away, not like this, not when he was the one driving you away the whole time. 

taglist: @bunnygorex @iwas-baby @coffee-and-geto @i2s2m @zeunys @murasakiyams @sukunasbigtiddiewifey @izluvsyou @goonforgeto @multistan-247 @chosoclub @idyllicsam @0tsukie @suckkuna @loverzxi @lilbxtchsyndrome @blombat @ll0rona @astrokenny @izluvsyou @saint-boudica @cutehobii @shadyd3ar @getofanclub @suguruswifett @rryujn @kenmacantakemeaway @keiva1000 @reader2004 @hearts-for-asa @siennadoodles @se-phi-roth @reidluvr9 [open]

© all work belongs to nanamisbbygirl on tumblr, please do not plagiarize, repost or translate anywhere

[koveragewithkiera]

“Let Me In” Pt. 1

Modern AU: Smoke x Annie

This wasn’t supposed to turn into an actual mini-story, but it did lmaaooo. Will be following my idea for the song “Let Me In” by. Tanerelle, but I learned shortly after crafting this idea that I must always include plot with my porn so here we are. This will be part 1 before the good stuff comes, but I hope y’all still enjoy it and that it gets everyone excited for the next part :). I will be uploading the second part of Witchy before that though because I need to get more coordinated with my stories lol.

WC: 3.2k

Characters: Smoke (29), Annie (29), Stack (29), and Dee (OC; 25)

Enjoy! :)

————————

He was back.

After four years, two months, and eleven days, Elijah “Smoke” Moore finally returned home. Home not simply being Mississippi, not simply Clarksdale, but home.

When he’d showed up to his home (or what he believed would still be home) for the first time in half a decade, he was met face to face with the barrel of a wooden Ruger Nine the second the front door opened. It was far from the first time Smoke was placed in such a predicament, but he couldn’t remember the last time it caused him to freeze up. His eyes quickly shifted to meet the holder of the firearm, seeing her eyes piercing into his with a searing glare. He’d been blessed in his youth to witness the many emotions those beautiful eyes could hold, but never had he seen such resentment held in them.

Smoke hadn’t thought to put his hands up, some part of him didn’t feel to be in true danger, but his voice shook slightly as he’d finally spoken after a small stare-off between the two. “How you be?”

As her eyes hardened even further and her finger brushed up against the trigger daringly, he realized those words were clearly not what she wanted to hear. This time, his hands did raise a bit. “Come on now, Annie.”

“Figured you had to be a haint.” His heart stuttered over the sound of her voice, he’d yearned for it so even with the bitter tone of it. She dropped the barrel, but her grip remained the same. “And I don’t take kindly to trespassers.”

Smoke didn’t exactly relax, but he did sigh as she continued to guard the door. He shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “I’m guessin’ you not gone let me in?”

Annie raised a lethal eyebrow his way, not a single ounce of her softening under his gaze. “You should consider yourself lucky I’m lettin’ you leave this property unscathed.”

She took one calm step back, placing the rifle into one hand as her other promptly slammed the door right in his face. Smoke didn’t flinch at the action, just dropped his head with a dry chuckle before walking from the porch and towards his truck. He hadn’t known how he’d expected the interaction to go, but he at the very least hoped for them to speak more than a couple of sentences. And at the very very least, he hoped she’d let him into her home. Their home. A home they’d built with one another, cherished with one another.

This was the first of a long line of rejections he would face in the coming weeks.

———————————————————————

Clarksdale was a small town, and it was absolutely impossible to avoid running into one another, no matter how hard Annie definitely tried. But things didn’t become any easier with how intentional Smoke became about entering her life once more. During the second week of his return, he dined in the very front booth of her restaurant, Mama Lucille’s, for four nights straight with the hope she would eventually cave into even a sliver of an interaction. On the fifth night, he had only just parked his truck when his phone lit up with a notification from his brother.

Stack: So… apparently you just got banned lmao. Dee just told me

Smoke’s lip curls up as his fingers type furiously.

Smoke: How the fuck she know that?

Three little dots pop up and disappear just as quickly.

Stack: Annie texted her. You def ain’t gettin that no time soon 💀

Smoke’s head falls back with an annoyed groan as he tosses his phone to the side. He has half a mind to walk in anyway, maybe pretend to be his twin just to at least make her speak with him. He decides against it, Annie could tell the difference between the two with all five of her senses blocked away. He pulls out of the parking lot with a sigh, already thinking of his next potential plan.

———————————————————————

Stack gets a mysterious allergic reaction about a week later after the siblings have brunch at the diner. It’s nothing dire, but it hits him when they’re on the way home and he realizes his tongue is feeling a bit bigger than normal.

He’s in the middle of blabbing about something neither his sister or brother are paying true attention to when he realizes what’s happening. “The fuck? What the fuck they put in my food?!”

Dee startles a little in the back seat, her eyes rising up from her phone at the clear panic in Stack’s voice. “What you mean? You only had pancakes, bacon, and grits.”

Stack snaps his seatbelt off and starts shuffling around the truck to look for his EpiPen. His panic increases tenfold when he realizes it’s not in there. “My tongue is swelling up, I think they slipped me something!” His words start to get a little muffled as he feels around the swollen muscle. “Them niggas tryna take me out!”

“Relax, aight.” Smoke’s voice isn’t unusually calm, but it’s clear he’s not as shocked as the other two. “We just need to get you that stuff from Annie.”

Stack’s too busy trying to dramatically draw his breaths in (it reminds them of him as a kid) to notice Smoke’s behavior, but Dee clocks it immediately with a howling laugh. “Elijah, you did not!”

Smoke’s eyes remain forward on the road, already en route to Annie’s house. Their house, but he ignores that thought at the moment. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

This draws Stack’s attention as his memory finally clicks the last time he had a reaction without his EpiPen. Smoke was usually the responsible one of the two, but there were two things Stack absolutely never left the house: his blade and his fucking pen. His head whips towards his brother with a shout. “Di’ ‘ou do som’in to my ‘ood?!”

Smoke rolls his eyes defensively. “Nigga, why would I do something to your food?”

Dee checks around the backseat area just in case, her head shaking in amused disappointment. “Cause the last time his EpiPen went missing was when Annie kicked you out the house for a week.”

“‘ou mo’da’fucka’!” Stack’s hands twitch to wring around his brother’s neck. His face just drops into his hands with a distressed groan.

Dee rubs a soothing hand over Stack’s shoulders, trying her damndest to not laugh in his face. Her eyes find Smoke in the rear view mirror. “You're going straight to hell, you know? This won’t kill him, but this gotta be something only the Devil would accept.”

Smoke meets her eyes with a shrug before returning to the road. “I ain’t do shit to his food. They could’ve gave him the wrong order.”

And he wasn’t lying. He didn’t touch a thing on Stack’s plate.

But if he accidentally slipped a bit of his grapefruit juice into Stack’s glass of orange juice, then sue him.

By the time they make it to Annie’s home, Smoke has semi-figured out what exactly he plans to say, with no help from either of his siblings. As he approaches the door, he wonders the possibility of being met with a rifle yet again. But this time, the door opens to an even more devastating sight.

The last time he’d come to her house, he hadn’t been able to properly appreciate the sight of her for long before the door had been shut in his face. This time, he couldn’t seem to focus on anything but.

His eyes first land on the dark jeans that accentuate the curves of her thighs and the long length of her legs. They scroll up slowly to her waist, where a pretty brown belt cinches around it, before reaching the tucked ends of her knitted, sleeveless, cream turtleneck. The entire outfit glues to every slant of her figure, and what a figure she’d grown into over the last few years. Smoke would’ve felt like a voyeur of sorts if he weren’t so familiar with what laid beneath the tight layers.

Her hair was slicked back nicely into a ponytail with a bump at the end, and it swayed as she opened the door. Her tone is clipped and expectant, and if he had to bet, she’d likely seen the exact moment the truck pulled into the driveway. “Yes?”

Smoke sets his shoulders, keeping his eyes on hers with a quieter tone. “Stack’s having a reaction.”

Annie’s gaze only grows more agitated before she dips her head with a heavy scoff. She bites her lip in a necessary attempt of restraint before maneuvering herself to gain full view of the truck. She makes eye contact with the younger twin as he sulks in the passenger’s seat. “Stack!”

Stack shoots up at the sound of her yell, immediately rolling down his window. Dee rolls her own down as well, waving to the other woman with a bright smile. It almost breaks through Annie’s reserve, but she responds to Dee with a polite nod before gesturing her head to Stack. “Come on!”

Stack exits the truck quickly to ensure Annie doesn’t change her mind. Smoke feels a small twinge of hope, but it is swiftly swiped away as Annie blocks the side of the door he attempts to slip through.

Her eyes harden in warning. “Just him.”

Stack freezes up as he balances between the outside and inside of the doorframe. He shrivels as the two stand in a bit of a stare off, but his decision is made as the throbbing of his tongue only worsens. “‘orry ‘moke, ‘ou ‘ook my pen.”

Smoke would feel betrayed if he wasn’t so focused on the way Annie’s eyes dangerously gleamed into his. He was trying his damndest to find something, anything, that would help him break through to her. He doesn’t even fully register that Stack has entered the household, instead finding it increasingly harder to voice his thoughts. To voice anything really.

His lips move before his mind is able to catch up, but it's already too late. “You look beaui-”

She shuts the door before he can even finish the sentence. His jaw tightens, his teeth threatening to crack his golden grills, as he slowly saunters to the truck with an air of defeat. When he gets in the driver’s seat, Dee doesn’t give him her usual shit this time, but she does advise him to take his foot off the metaphorical gas pedal.

“That’s one thing she could never stand about you. You always gotta make something happen as soon as possible. Sometimes, things just gotta come along on their own.”

Smoke shakes his head with sigh, resting back on the headrest. “I don’t want her thinking I gave up.”

Dee shoves his shoulder softly, shutting down that reservation instantly. “She knows you too well for that. Trust me, this isn’t the type of thing you can force ‘Lijah.”

———————————————————————

Though Smoke doesn’t say as much, he does in fact take Dee’s words into consideration. When they get home that evening, he makes the final decision to step back from his scheming. It’s an agonizing effort, and as time wears on, it only places his mind even further from being productive at work. Stack takes notice of it first, but only bust his balls over it, throwing quips at his chivalrous act of celibacy and how stupid of a commitment it was to make in the first place. As for Dee, she wouldn’t care too much about his muddled focus if not for how downright pitiful he becomes in the face of business.

Now Dee loves her brothers more than anything on this earth, but even that has its potential limits.

It’s on the fifth week of their return that she bustles into Smoke’s room with a barely-spilling bucket of water in hand. “Get up, Smoke.”

Her older brother grumbles something under his breath about it being too early, pulling the comforter further along his body. It’s enough of an answer for her. She empties the bucket in one swoop, and Smoke’s limbs flail about in an image comparable to that of a cat escaping a bathtub. A loud thud echoes around the room as he falls from the bed in a tangle of soaked sheets, coughing and heaving from his sister’s sick attempt of practical water-boarding.

His head finally manages to submerge from the sheets, his words fighting to escape through his shaken demeanor. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

It doesn't deter his little sister in the slightest, her hand placed on a pointed hip. “We’re going to the supermarket.”

Smoke reaches for his phone, his eyes widening in the face of Dee’s audacity. “It ain’t even 9 am yet!”

Dee’s voice remains steady as she explains the plan. “Annie goes to the supermarket on Broughton St. at 9:15 every Saturday morning before the rush comes at 10:30. We need to leave here at 8:45, you have 30 minutes to get ready.” She turns to walk out of the room with that, but he stops her just as she reaches the door.

“Wait, wait.”

She turns back to him with an unfazed expression. He’s still gaining his own bearings due to the last fifteen minutes, but he has to ask this first. “Why are you doing this? I thought you said not to scheme.”

Dee scoffs. “That was before I remembered something I can’t stand about either of y’all.”

Smoke’s face scrunches in confusion. “What?”

Dee’s eyes squint in annoyance. “Y’all are fucking miserable without one another, and you make everybody else just as miserable instead of just talking or fucking it out like normal people.”

They make it to the market a little earlier than Annie but go ahead and start shopping around. Dee takes advantage of the new delivery of fresh produce and sends Smoke off to look through that section while she moves through the other items of her grocery list. He tries his best not to, but every thirty seconds or so, he finds himself glancing at the time on his phone. Annie would’ve gotten there about ten minutes ago, and he knew his woman to be the punctual type when it came to her routine. Ten more minutes go by of him appearing to look through the ripeness of the seasonal peaches before he almost caves into just searching around for her. Then a laugh, that laugh that hadn’t graced his ears in a torturous amount of time, sounds just to the far right of him.

Smoke’s head whips towards the direction, his eyes landing on their target the second he looks her way. And there she is, standing in the middle of the bread section adorned in a white, patterned sundress that falls just to her knees. She’s speaking animatedly with an older, shorter woman, and it’s the most expressive Smoke has seen of her since coming home. It makes him freeze in place, simply wanting to watch her like this during the chance he has to do so. The way her eyes scrunch up when her lips curl into that radiant smile… it will never fail to take his very breath away. He looks at her as if it’s the first time he’s ever looked at her period, and he’s hit with a sudden moment of deja vu.

At 15, Smoke had choked and stepped into the nearest alleyway when she began walking his way.

At 29, Smoke stands still as his mind and soul scream for her to turn his way.

When she finally does so, his heart cracks at the way her smile diminishes in recognition. But it can’t help but beat a little harder when she doesn’t immediately look away.

The older woman in front of her takes notice of Annie’s change in attention, and when she turns to the direction of Annie’s eyes, Smoke is barely able to register the sound of a squeal.

“Why is that my favorite math student?!” The older lady screams just loud enough to be heard, but not enough to disturb the other shoppers.

Her exclamation pulls the two of them from their momentary daze, and Smoke can’t help but give the older woman a small grin once he recognizes her voice. He walks towards the two women with a polite nod. “Ms. Ruby.”

“Oh, it is you!” Ms. Ruby pulls him into a tight embrace, and he has to bend down a good bit to comfortably adjust to her. She pulls away with a squeeze on his biceps. “I was afraid I was mistaking you and your brother for a second, it's been years!”

“Yes ma’am, it has.” Smoke masks his strained tone, trying not to keep straying his gaze Annie’s way.

Ms. Ruby looks between the two with clear joy, the underlying tension in the air falling straight over her head. “This is just the biggest coincidence! Running into my two star students in the same morning!”

Annie’s smile isn’t as genuine now, and Smoke picks up the sarcasm easily. “Yes ma’am, it is.”

Ms. Ruby clearly doesn’t notice as she brings her attention to Smoke. “Well, what is it you’ve got going on now? I feel like I heard about you being engaged at some point.”

This causes Smoke to stutter uncharacteristically, and he can’t help the way his gaze wanders between the two women. “Oh, well yes I-”

Annie cuts him off with a strict tone. “It broke off a few years ago.”

Smoke crumbles under the weight of the statement paired with the hidden glare behind her eyes. He knew her too well.

Ms. Ruby sends him a look of pity, giving his arm another squeeze. “Oh. Well, I am so sorry to hear that Elijah.”

Annie clears her throat abruptly, smiling warmly towards Ms. Ruby. “If y’all will excuse me, I’ve got some more errands to run. It was wonderful seeing you, Ms. Ruby.” Her smile twitches downwards as she gives Smoke a onceover. “Smoke.”

But before she can make her escape, Ms. Ruby grabs hold of Annie’s hand. “Oh well wait, I would just love to have brunch with you two! I leave town tomorrow evening, but maybe we could try in the afternoon?”

Smoke clasps his hands together as Annie’s grip tightens on her basket handle. The two silently communicate for a little before Annie finally takes the leap.

“Actually, I think Smoke might be b-”

Smoke cuts her off before his mind can fully catch up to speed. “I’ll be free.”

Annie’s head whips to him in shock, but before she can reprimand him, Ms. Ruby is already more than excited. “Amazing! Annie? It’ll give me a chance to try that food of yours since I wasn't able to visit your restaurant.”

Smoke watches as she softly bites her tongue, a tendency of hers whenever she’d been holding a few choice words from spilling. She grins harshly, her lips puckering as she responds. “I would love to, Ms. Ruby.”

Ms. Ruby laughs gleefully. “Excellent! Alright, I won’t hold y’all no longer!” She gives them both two quick hugs, waving as she walks away towards the produce section. “I’ll see y’all then!”

They each hold their breath, remaining quiet as she walks away. Once she’s out of ear shot, Smoke turns to Annie with an apology on his tongue. “Annie, we don’t-”

Annie doesn’t give him the chance to say more. “Be there at 1.” She struts off a few aisles away without another word. Smoke takes a self-encouraging deep breath, just barely hiding his excited grin as he walks with a small pep in his step to find his sister.

————————

Hope y’all liked it! The next part is going to be very very fun to write hehe. But wish me luck because I’m deadass nervous lmao. 🫶🏾

Til next time!

Taglist:

@thelifeoflagab , @omgffs , @bigjh , @championshipshade , @mindyouthisismyaccount , @brownskincheyenne , @lizbehave , @hdfen2474 , @sweetarchivistsiege , @strawberrylemonades-stuff , @whysoceerious , @chknnwffls , @thefutureemmywinner , and @partylikemajima

[thissying]

Jimmy Broadbent in the Road to Succes Podcast, about Franz Hermann and Max in other categories

"There's very little people that can say that they have raced Max so much and got to see the inner workings of his personality as clearly as you. In a sim, which we all know means the world to him, as well as actually on track. You were on track with Franz Hermann at the Nürburgring! What was that whole experience like? Did you know before that happened?"

"Sat on the track at the same time is certainly correct but that's about it. We had an idea he was gonna be there. I had sort of a friend of a friend say to me: watch out for a Franz Hermann on this day. And I saw it… I saw a picture of the car there, the Verstappen.com Ferrari with Franz Hermann and a Dutch flag and I thought to myself: for fuck's sake, it's definitely gonna be him. And obviously it turns out his was him. And again, for Max, this is where I feel a bit sorry for the guy because he wanted to just turn up and go do some laps at the Ring in a GT3 car. And he did that. And for us as creators, this is the part about YouTube I hate but you kind of have to do it because that's the game, then I'd be like: now I have a short of him overtaking me whilst I was like 'bedding in my drive shaft, driving around at like 50% pace he overtook me, oh my god Max overtook me on YouTube.' And then my whole video is like: 'Max turned up to the Nürburgring' and stuff like that. And you have to do that. And it's kind of sad. Because the guy just wanted to be left alone, I think. And then as news started to break that he was there, more and more people started flocking down to the garage, it gets harder to move around the paddock. And I remember seeing… because one of our cameramen went down to get a shot of him basically, and seeing him just trying to get from his van, which is basically from this end of this van to the paddock or to the garage, not very far at all. He was getting mobbed. TV guys, everything. He just wanted to do some laps."

[…]

"I'm really looking forward - and I really hope this happens - that he'll just find what he wants in F1, leave and then just go and get to live his life. Because… I'm on no place to comment on what his upbringing was like. I don't know. You only hear stories about what it was like. But what is painfully obvious: all he's ever known is that sort of racing: karting into Formula into Formula 1, that's it, on these circuits and nowhere else. And I'm a massive racing fan. I wouldn't say F1 is my favourite racing, you know, I love endurance racing, I love the circuits, I love the prototypes, I love rallying, stuff like that. And I think he's kind of the same. Again, I don't know him personally."

[about the popularity of different racing categories] "Do you think it's coming for those other series? And do you think Max is actually potentially a part, if he does leave and goes to them, of making that a thing?"

"Yeah, I mean, wherever Max goes there'll be media. I mean, there have been some teams at the Ring saying they don't want Max to go there because it'll make everything a lot harder: the competition will go up which means that the top classes will be top heavy which means the bottom classes, which is the accessible part, will be sort of pushed out, etc. etc. That's the sort of pessimistic thinking there."

[blueberryfics]

jjk headcanons: their favorite things

Satoru Gojo, Suguru Geto, Kento Nanami, Shoko Ieiri, Choso Kamo, Takuma Ino, Toji Fushiguro, Yuki Tsukumo

CONTAINS: my own headcanons about jjk characters’ personalities/interests (that’s MY OPINION!!!!)

My blog is 18+. Minors please DNI!

Satoru Gojo

COLOR: Blue

ARTIST/BAND: He lovesss the pop girlies like Sabrina Carpenter, Ariana Grande, and Chappell Roan. His fav is probably the diva herself, Mariah Carey

SONG: Emotions - Mariah Carey (he tries to hit the high notes). He also fucks with the I’m Just Ken song from the Barbie movie

MOVIE: Loves comedies; Superbad is his #1 and he’s watched it countless times

TV SHOW: Any reality tv!!! Love Island is his current fav but Catfish and ANTM had a chokehold on him back in the day. Also Digimon Adventure lol

FOOD: Sweet foods (as we know). Obviously mochi, but also considering how much official art there is of him eating those damn blue popsicles, I’d say those are a fav of his too

Suguru Geto

COLOR: Black

ARTIST/BAND: Sad bitch music. Lana Del Rey, Mitski, etc.

SONG: Love Me More - Mitski; Heavy Balloon - Fiona Apple

MOVIE: He’s a bit of a film bro tbh. He’s the kind of guy who watches American Psycho and is like “me lmao”. He loves the classic film bro movies like Fight Club and Joker

TV SHOW: He doesn’t watch a lot of TV because he prefers movies. If he is going to watch a show, though, it’s probably either Bojack Horseman or something like Breaking Bad

FOOD: Honestly something plain like rice or miso. I think the taste of curses would make him feel nauseous often so he’d probably prefer to eat things that settle his stomach

Kento Nanami

COLOR: Purple (wild card ik, I don’t think he mentions it often but if asked that’s what he’d say. He just finds it the most aesthetically pleasing)

ARTIST/BAND: MCR obviously. Resident elder emo <3 I think he’d also fw Green Day and Rage Against the Machine

SONG: Welcome to the Black Parade - My Chemical Romance

MOVIE: The Matrix (I just feel like he would like the concept of waking up from the system yk)

TV SHOW: The Great British Bake Off

FOOD: Any bread product ofc. A good brioche will make him see new dimensions

Shoko Ieiri

COLOR: Sage green

ARTIST/BAND: Any nu metal

SONG: Break Stuff - Limp Bizkit (don’t try to clown on her music taste or you’ll be leaving with a fat lip)

MOVIE: Similarly to Gojo, I think she also likes comedies. Bottoms is a recent fav of hers

TV SHOW: House MD is her #1 by far!!! She also likes sitcoms like Arrested Development and It’s Always Sunny

FOOD: According to Gege her favorite food is alcohol but that is NAWT a food. I feel like she would enjoy bar foods like wings and fries

Choso Kamo

COLOR: Red

ARTIST/BAND: Anything gothic (Siouxsie and the Banshees, Joy Division, The Cure, etc.)

SONG: Disorder - Joy Division; Precious - Depeche Mode

MOVIE: He LOVES movies—a wide variety of genres. He went years without consuming any form of media, so watching movies is something really special to him. Some notable favs of his include Spirited Away, Scream, and Planet Earth (like I said, a wide variety of genres lol)

TV SHOW: He mainly watches anime (mostly seinen). He’s a big Vinland Saga fan

FOOD: He isn’t picky when it comes to his tastes, but he prefers to try and eat healthy most of the time. He feels lucky to be in a human body so he treats it like a temple

Takuma Ino

COLOR: Black

ARTIST/BAND: He mostly listens to rap/r&b artists. Big Kendrick fan (he said fuck Drake), The Notorious B.I.G., Nelly, etc.

SONG: Big Poppa - The Notorious B.I.G.; Gin and Juice - Snoop Dogg; King Kunta - Kendrick Lamar

MOVIE: Unironically the Spongebob movie and Ratatouille; in his mind they’re peak (and he’s right)

TV SHOW: This man loves cartoons. Spongebob, Futurama, Scooby Doo, Bob’s Burgers, etc etc

FOOD: He’ll eat literally anything, but spicy foods are his fav. He adds chili flakes to every fkn thing

Toji Fushiguro

COLOR: He doesn’t gaf. Gray maybe

ARTIST/BAND: He claims he “doesn’t like music” (wtf). If anything, he’ll listen to dad rock like Bruce Springsteen and shit

SONG: Fortunate Son - Creedence Clearwater Revival

MOVIE: Unfortunately he’s SUCH a man. His favorite movies all have to do with either fighting, sports, or war. Rocky is a top pick of his; trust and believe he’ll be quoting it at you

TV SHOW: Vikings, Game of Thrones, and anything in a similar vein

FOOD: The man loves meat what can I say. A rotisserie chicken hates to see him coming

Yuki Tsukumo

COLOR: Gold

ARTIST/BAND: Anyone who makes her feel like the bad bitch she is. Megan Thee Stallion, Flo Milli, and especially Beyonce

SONG: Conceited - Flo Milli; Needed Me - Rihanna

MOVIE: She also has a wide variety of tastes when it comes to movies, but she prefers when there’s some action. Fast and Furious, Jennifer’s Body, and Kill Bill are her favs

TV SHOW: Anything dramatic!!! The Bear, Succession, and Squid Game to name a few

FOOD: She loves fresh fruit, especially peaches and mangoes

[yamchaisawesome]

Okay fine I’ll update the post. I see you newcomers with your love for the old codger and to that I say welcome in kids!

So this guy somehow got better. Like, the only light in the otherwise bleak as fuck chapter 4. I was going with the theories that bro was going to show up somehow but this? I couldn’t have predicted just how peak it was. This is quite a bit longer than the original analysis but I feel like it will be worth it. I’m also going to assume you’ve gone through chapter 4 already.

Gerson in deltarune, unlike his more seam-esque undertale counterpart, takes the role of a badass old man shounen mentor figure. He starts off unassuming, more like a gag than a character with actual story significance. However, anyone who’s got enough context can already tell this is going to be big. He’s been foreshadowed both by the goner maker and Alvin at this point, and the fact this fairly minor character from undertale is getting this much attention implies yeah this guy has some stuff going on.

What we have going in is that:

A: He’s a dead man walking, literally and figuratively. Literally raised from the dead and likely not going to last that long due to his existence being reliant on a very sealable fountain.

B: If you know anything about Gerson, he knows way more than he lets on.

It is to be pointed out that literally all of this is optional. Someone who just sorta played undertale casually and didn’t interact with much in Hometown wouldn’t know anything going on. As such, Toby makes this guy’s deal clear throughout the story of chapter 4 while still taking advantage of the dramatic irony held by players in the know.

We get our first hint that the Old Man is more than a gag upon him literally breaking the prophecy in order to pave a new way forward. The imagery is pretty clear here as he helps the young’ins defy fate in order for them to get through the hell it has put them in. This behaviour continues as he keeps leading the fun gang “the wrong way” in order to help em solve puzzles and intentionally walks way slower than he can to mess with the gang, Susie in particular. This introduction to The Old Man is tail ended by him breaking another piece of the prophecy. Upon questioning him on this, he hits you with this old sagely wisdom. He believes that “A fairytale is a pretty little thing” but that the best way to navigate those stories is to “go between the lines”.

This idea of Gerson believing the prophecy is a story like anything else, and that it can be read and adapted a countless number of ways is his approach to freedom and feeds into both his wisdom and experience as an author. Let the story serve you and not the other way around, basically. This feeds very well into Susie, whose whole arc has been about shirking narratives about herself. Not just those of the prophecy but more relatable things. Those narratives that she’s not worthy of love, or just not good enough generally are a constant throughout her character arc.

The one she’s dealing with in chapter 4 is about her never being as good at healing as Ralsei. This sort of learned helplessness is likely predicated on her other recent failings, those being her not being able to save Undyne or get the code at the Holiday mansion, and her needing to rely on Ralsei to help one of her few friends in their time of need was just the final straw.

Before we get into the details of Susie and Gerson’s relationship, I’d just like to call attention to the fact that Gerson’s study is the only location that isn’t the signature “bright and blue” colouration seen in the rest of the dark sanctuary.

I’d really like to stretch this and say it symbolizes the literal break from the otherwise bleak narrative that Gerson provides in this chapter but that might be too far.

Anyway, Jackenstein.

I love how this demonstrates Gerson’s background as a teacher and father so goddamn well. He understands the youth very well and instantly clocks the kind of kid that Susie is. His strategy of calling her a “coward” and basically rage baiting her into conquering her inhibitions and beating that narrative in her brain shows a pretty clear grasp on who Susie is in particular. He doesn’t try a fancy speech or whatever like he does with Kris earlier, he just fucking throws her attitude right back at her. Considering they met a total of 20 minutes ago, it goes to show just how good he is at reading people. We’ll get more of this with Kris later but that’s its own section.

He also encourages Susie to push past her narratives of what she can’t do with his letter, but that doesn’t tell us much more about his relationship with Susie. Instead, the letter demonstrates the flaws and regrets the Old Man has- particularly in his relationship with his son Alvin.

In the light world, both in the epilogue of chapter 2 and the prologue for chapter 4, it’s pretty clear that Alvin has a narrative of inadequacy all his own. This is the idea that his writing will never outgrow his father’s, or even be any good at all. Apparently, it’s to the point where he doesn’t even write any of his own sermons, just reusing the work of his father. This could be part of the reason Gerson feels so strongly about breaking that narrative in Susie, in order to atone for what he has done. Given the themes of religion in chapter 4, both his tutelage of Susie and letter to Alvin both could easily be read as Gerson using this miracle in order to redeem himself in his own eyes and cleanse himself of “sin” even in a religion that lacks it. The delivery of the letter is also important. Susie, with her own inexperience, was able to deliver the letter in a way that got the point across better than Gerson ever could. With its unintentional grammar and spelling errors, it demonstrates to Alvin how “Long as you got the point, the words don’t matter” in a way that Gerson’s usual prose simply can’t achieve. Iron sharpens iron, student sharpens student.

Anyway, I know what you fuckers are here for. You don’t want unsubtle literary analysis of a dead old man and his kids! You want hype moments and aura, you want the hammer!

Well too bad, we gotta get through the tea party scene first!

First thing we need to talk about is how in sync Susie and Gerson are here. Like, they’re bouncing off each other and absolutely loving life! Susie might not be a talented writer but, as Alvin would say, she has “a flair for entertainment” and the Old Man loves a good story!

Next thing is Kris. If you let them refuse tea, Gerson offers the poor human an apple, which is known to be a big thing of theirs. There’s also his weird route dialogue, in which he gets that something’s wrong in spite of a general lack of words exchanged and tries to encourage and console Kris. This once again shows his knack for reading and guiding people, and frankly it’s really sweet that he’s trying to help them through our rampage.

But enough of that. You know what time it is!

The Hammer of Justice is ringing!

This is my favorite fight in the game, and honestly the shadow crystal fight that I think is most integral to the story. It’s as easy to learn about as Spamton’s if not easier and makes his turtle ex machina against the titan make a lot more sense.

The more I fought this guy, the more I came to appreciate the lesson he’s teaching. If I have one word to describe this fight, it’s forgiving. Gerson lowering his damage to match Susie’s current HP and banning items in order to get her to heal more and get some practice in just reminds you that this isn’t a fight against some insurmountable threat like the Knight or a crazed omen of what could be with Spamton, but an ally that’s here to help you learn a thing or two.

As an aside, the fight is so goddamn hype. The lore drops and inspiration we get from Gerson’s dialogue, the fact you can skip some attacks if you impress the Hammer enough with your spells, the goddamn rude buster ping pong you play with him, the music, THE MUSIC!!??? Absolute peak fiction, no notes. The fight brings an atmosphere like no other.

It also answers a question that hardcore Gerson fans like myself wondered: how badass was Gerson at the height of his career? The answer: VERY. Bro doesn’t even use the shadow crystal and is still strong enough to be up there with the other secret bosses. A very satisfying moment for all us Hammer lovers.

I legitimately cried when I beat him for the first time, especially after the final dialogue that summarises Gerson Boom as a character: a lover of stories and one that knows just how mutable they are.

Utter Chad right here.

Now to move onto his impact…

The reveal that he is in fact a dead man walking isn’t a surprise for the attentive but is still a shock to the system after becoming so attached to the crusty bastard, especially for Susie. Her clear horror and mourning for a man she technically never knew in life is gut wrenching, and the fact that she basically goes around chasing the guy’s ghost for the entirety of the second sanctuary is reflective of her general fear of abandonment by those she cares about.

This makes his triumphant return at the end all the sweeter. I cheered when I saw him for the first time as I watched him and Susie absolutely wreck the Titan.

I have no idea how Alvin will react to the letter in Chapter 5 onwards, or if Susie will incorporate the Old Man’s motif into her own music at some point, but I hope so. Gerson deserves the legacy, Gerson deserves it all.

Anyway, thanks for reading all this! I saw how much you all liked this old post and wanted to do a follow up that does the new stuff justice!

I feel like Gerson is under appreciated. Like, he’s surprisingly well developed for how little time we get with him.

In undertale, he’s effectively the monster equivalent of an old man doing a massive yard sale, getting rid of shit he doesn’t need. However, due to his old man status “studying history sure is easy” and so he’s the only guy who tells you about the prophecy of the angel and the delta rune, as well as about Boss Monsters.

He also casually mentions he was a war hero back in the day, the Hammer of Justice. Now, two of the items in his shop are the torn notebook and cloudy glasses. These are both items belonging to the human soul of perseverance. Now, he could’ve just picked them up from trash zone, buuut it seems just as likely that he killed that human himself.

This is possibly why he is not in the least bit scared of you on the genocide route. Like, at all. He spits such raw lines as “I wouldn’t buy your chitzy garbage at knifepoint”. He also seems oddly self aware, like more than sans, saying he knows the player cannot kill him while in his shop when threatened. This absolute mad lad will charge you full price for his wares and there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it, and he fucking knows it.

Utter Chad right here.

[goddamnitmahtin]

All in Your Head

(a dc x dp au)

Bruce: *shaking Harley’s hand* Thanks for coming to see me on short notice.

Harley: It’s no problem. I didn’t have plans today.

Bruce: *leads her to the sitting area, sitting in an armchair*

Harley: *sits across from him* What’s going on Bruce? Is it system stuff? I thought you all were doing pretty okay last session. All things considered.

Bruce: I thought so too but…. I found another voice or alter I guess? And I don’t know when he got here. If he’s been here the whole time or if maybe I got stressed out and split? I dunno.

Harley: *nods* Both are possible… your split tolerance isn’t the best Bruce. What do you know about this new alter so far?

Bruce: He says his name is Danny and that he’s 15. *shrugs* I don’t know what he looks like. Matches says that he looks the way we did in high school but sometimes he’s a ghost. I don’t even know what that means.

Harley: *writing down notes* So he’s a non human alter. This wouldn’t be the first one you’ve had.

Bruce: *thinking about the dark shadow person with bat ears that crawls around on the ceilings in headspace* I’m aware…

Harley: Is Danny close to front right now? Is there any way we can communicate with him?

Bruce: *trying to check* Um… no. But B is near front. He says he’s gonna look for him.

Harley: *smiles* Your gatekeeper is very responsible.

Bruce: *sighs* I do not know what I would do without that guy- I would not be able to handle our kids- *dissociates*

Harley: *waits patiently*

Bruce: *realizes someone is trying to switch* Gimme a second-

Harley: Take all the time you need.

*a few moments pass in silence*

Danny!Bruce: Someone asked for me?

Harley: *smiles, holding out a hand* I’m Doctor Harleen Quinzel. I am assuming you are Danny?

Danny!Bruce: *sits up excitedly* Oh my god lady- you gotta help me- I possessed this rich guy thinking I could lay low for a bit while my core healed but now I’m stuck in here and there’s like a lot of dudes in here and some sort of bat shadow thing? It’s scary as fuck- I just wanna go home-

Harley: *calming voice* It’s okay Danny. You are probably a little confused about your situation.

Danny!Bruce: *groans, his face in his hands* I just wanna go home…

Harley: *assuming Danny is talking about false memories* Why don’t you tell me a little bit about that? What you remember before joining the headspace?

Danny!Bruce: I live in Amity Park. It’s a pretty secluded area. I have a mom and dad and a sister named Jazz. I’ve got two best friends, Sam and Tucker. Literally where am I right now- because this isn’t Amity Park.

Harley: You are in a city called Gotham.

Danny!Bruce: Fucking Gotham!? Holy Cheerios, no wonder this guy’s brain is so weird…. This place is practically as volatile as Amity Park. This also explains the huge amounts of ecto in some of these kids-

Harley: *frowns* Ecto?

[revelboo]

could we please get another one with Cosmos? I’m excited to see another waspinator-like story where the mech’s forced to live in the tiny house with their human <3

🤣 he’s a cutie

In Space Pt 3

Cosmos x Reader

• Hear him groan as he pauses, head down and big hands splayed on the ground as he vents raggedly. And just shrinks to scare you, shuddering as his visor dims and his arms tremble like he’s about to go down. “Almost there,” you coax, laying a hand on him and realizing he’s a lot closer to your height now, but still much bigger. “You can’t give up now.” Able to wrap your arms around his arm, you pull and he makes a pained noise, but makes himself keep going.

• Why won’t you just give up on him? You don’t owe him anything and don’t know him. How can you just trust him implicitly? “Why are you helping me?” He groans, feeling energon slicking his side. Needing to rest. Heal. And you frown up at him, expression clearly saying how stupid a question you think that is. Pulling at his arm like you think you can move him instead of being sensible and running as far from him as you can get before that Decepticon comes back to finish him off. Knows he should be running you off, but he’s scared. Doesn’t want to offline out here alone.

• “Because you need help,” you say, eyeing him as the house comes into view through the trees. “Almost there.” Since he’s smaller now, you can get him into the garage and hide him. He’s leaking something, venting raggedly and the sooner you can get him out of sight, the sooner you can try to see about stopping the leak. You’re almost positive he’s alive not just an uncannily human machine, but he’s still mechanical. So you can hopefully tape up the leaks? Maybe? You doubt you can make them worse.

• Trembling as limps up to the structure, mass shifting in an attempt to hide had sent him into the redline, consuming energy he didn’t have. He collapses onto his knees when you go to open the garage door, drifting in and out of awareness as you lean over him and try to bully him into getting inside. Helm pressed against your driveway to try and gather himself, his paint scrapes as he drags himself inside and drops again. He’s going to offline or at the very least into stasis. Can’t move as his optics unfocus, bleeding out energon and dimly aware of you talking to him, the words seeming like they’re coming from a distance. Can’t fight it as his systems shut down to force him to heal, throwing him into stasis.

• His visor is dim as you fetch a roll of electrical tape. And he’s unresponsive now, venting on a low rasping sound as you bend and start finding the leaks, taping the lines and having no idea if it’s enough. If you’re enough to save him, but you need to try. Can’t just leave him to bleed out glowing stuff. “You’re going to be okay,” you whisper, touching his helm and feeling the warmth of him as you check for any other leaks to tape off. Trying to hold him together with hope and tape, and aware of how useless you are to him. That he needed help and got you.

Previous

[thewitchblue]

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Tim asked, hurt. His own twin was hiding a secret lair. How did you even build this thing with nobody noticing? He felt betrayed. You mumbled while searching for a way to get the entire family out of your lair,

"It was the only thing I can call my own without needing to sibling tax half of it."

That hurt Tim even more because it's true. Everything you two have and everything you both do is together or split between you two. That's not always a bad thing, but it's nice to have something not tied to Tim for once in your life. You both work together better than anybody else and even suffer when apart in a lot of aspects, but you desperately need some autonomy, and so does Tim.

"We could have done so much illegal stuff in here, idiot."

Tim said, and just like that, the tension between you two broke. You ran towards him as he opened his arms to hug you.

"That's your fault that you brought them with you, stupid."

Your muffle voice said, officially smothering yourself into Tim's chest. Tim scoffed as he pulled you into a tighter embrace. How was he supposed to know this totally evil looking tower would be yours? You disabled all of your trackers and even cut out the one Tim thought he was subtle in injecting. He's certain you injected one into him, so he figured fair is fair.

"How did you even find the tracker I put in you? I placed it right next to your femoral artery. You could have died."

You smirked. The tracker wasn't small enough. He was an idiot not to put it into the artery itself like you did. There would be no way to cut it out because it was constantly moving inside his body. You said happily,

"I didn't, though!"

Tim rolled his eyes. Fine. You always were mechanically gifted. All of their newer tech was made by you and your brilliant brain. Who even thinks about half of the gear they have on them? You came up with nanotechnology specifically to track Tim. Who else would go that far just for Tim? It's saved him from many villains, but it's borderline insane and completely uncalled for. The worst part is that he hasn't found the device that displayed his specific tracking information. If he could, he would just take whatever device with him.

The device is actually inside your middle finger because it is hilarious to you. Screw Tim and his sneakiness. You're joining him or tracking his every movement when you do find out about him sneaking off.

Nobody should have given the twins access to unlimited resources. They just find ways to make the other's life slightly better or worse. It's straight up warfare, and it's a game the family can only watch helplessly and sigh. Why is Tim making shape-shifting tech? Because he wants to see what embarrassing things you tell your best friend to blackmail you with, of course! Why are you implementing malware in Tim's grapple gun? Because it's hilarious to see Tim flail mid-air, and you found the perfect spot on his patrol route to trigger the malfunction. You caught him, of course, but you made sure to call him a moron before fixing it as if it wasn't entirely your fault for fabricating the situation.

It's comical, yet also horrifying. You team up when someone gets in your way or, worse, hurt one of the two.

Jason learned that the hard way when he woke up in a warehouse chained to Joker with a shock collar around his neck to prevent him from either of them from leaving the warehouse. One of them was going to die (again), and you simply watched in the corner. The only words you said were,

"For Titan's Tower."

He already felt bad about it before the Joker chaining, but he learned a valuable lesson that day. Don't touch Tim, or he'll regret it.

Dick learned by listening in when Tim started reminiscing about the time you planted a homemade pipe bomb and called the bomb squad on the person. You recalled fondly as Dick looked at both of you with horror,

"He's still in prison on federal charges."

Tim laughed. Laughed. Dick was terrified for not only his life, but what if his cop buddies found out? His twin siblings could go to federal prison! On multiple charges! He had to walk away when you started talking about the time Tim put a secret switch in someone's backpack that blew up their entire house.

"The best part was that I managed to place her fingerprints on the switch!"

May the villains rest in peace if they kidnap one of the twins and not the other. Tim is not above committing war crimes, and neither are you. Who is the public really going to believe? The hero Red Robin amputated Poison Ivy's leg for daring to put mysterious powder on you or that some farmer mistook her leg for a weed and cut it off accidentally?

Only the villains will ever know. They are terrified of the twins and especially terrified of how aggressive Red Robin becomes when the Wayne brat gets kidnapped. You once got sold to someone in Metropolis, and Red Robin still showed up, furious and ready for war. Villains gossip and think you are dating him, which is venomous denied. You have ruined multiple lives when Jason cackled about seeing people shipping you with Red Robin.

"Send me the fanfic."

You demanded in a threatening tone. Not even Tim could qualm your rage. You found the writer and the owner of the website it was written on. You found everything about them and systematically destroyed their lives to the point the website owner sold it, but you kept going until someone finally deleted the website entirely.

"Nobody touches my brother."

You said in an interview when you were officially adopted. You made it sound playful until the interviewer asked,

"Aw, you mean your new brothers?"

You side-eyed Tim, but you bit your tongue when he subtly shook his head. Don't fight the interviewer so soon. Back them into a corner first. So you waited like a bear trap. For just the right time to snap their legs. The trap never did end up happening, however, as there was no more disrespect towards Tim and your relationship as siblings.

"Tim is my best friend and the best part of my life, but I'll give my new brothers a shot at becoming any better."

The interviewer made sure to take lots of photos of you both hanging off one another with matching grins that immortalised your love for each other. Nobody will dare get in the way of the siblings. You both are ready for war at any point of time with scary creativity and now unlimited resources. May the gods have mercy on their souls. The Batfamily was not ready for the devasting duo.

[seitmai]

Many thoughts

They instinctively turned to face one another when the other needed help attaching a certain piece to their suit or tightening their straps. They had grown un-deniably close over the past two years, and they knew each other’s movements step by step.

Dream team 🤝🏻

“I made love to her four times last night. This morning, I got pancakes. She woke up at six to make them for me before I left. God, I fuckin’ love my wife.” Javy boasted with prideful laughter. Jake only spurred him on, with a proud slap on his back and matched Javy’s amusement. However, at Javy’s confession, Natasha snorted quietly to herself.

I love how Nat can't hold it back lol

“What’s so funny, Nat? You tellin’ me you could beat Javy’s record?” Jake questioned her with a smug grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.

Ohhh I just know he is is for a treat 🤭

By this time, Mickey, Rueben, and Bradley had all filtered into the room as well. They didn’t want to interrupt the ego-boosting feud that was currently unfolding in front of them. They geared up in silence but still listened with eager ears, their eyes flicking back and forth between Jake and Natasha.

They would never admit, but they love the tea and drama 🤭😅

She took a sharp breath between her teeth and broke Jake’s questioning gaze. She purposefully didn’t look back at the guys but calmly stated, “Well, I made love to my wife six times, and yeah, I also got breakfast.”

Period 😌👏🏻 and those orgasms for sure weren't fake, I just know

The silence from them both was telling. She continued fixing her gear and calmly played off her triumphant feat. It was as though it was the most normal thing in the world for her (which wasn’t far off).

I wanna be her wife so bad 😭🤤🥰

If only they knew how good you were for him last night. If only they knew how pretty you looked on your knees and spread out on the soft linen, all for himself. If only they knew how pretty you sounded, as you whimpered and whined his name all—

Not him reminiscing, completely zoning out 🤭

“Bob!” Jake’s biting tone snapped his attention straight towards the blonde-haired man. “You’re lookin’ smug for a guy, who, as far as we know, hasn’t been laid in… two years?” He questioned with faux interest. Natasha immediately belted out an amused, “Ha!”

Once again she can't hold back and I love her for that 🤭👏🏻

Natasha also knew that no one else knew.

She knew Bob better than anyone here. She had met you, Bob’s long-time wife. Natasha and her wife had been to dinner with Bob and you. She had been to BBQs in your backyard and tried your delicious home-cooked macaroni and cheese. You were even invited to her bachelorette party when she got married.

Besties 💖

Hehe

“Well? You got a wife?” Jake asked the question carelessly and casually, making Bob squirm. He severely despised people thinking about his wife like that, as if you weren’t the moon to his sun. A beat, and Bob responded. “Yeah.” Javy’s mouth fell open in disbelief. Mickey and Ruben had turned around to watch the whole thing by then. They nudged one another in the ribs and whispered, “I told you so!”

The various reactions are killing me 😂

Bradley didn’t flinch. He knew. He saw Bob and you on the beach one evening. Bob gave him a curt nod, and when he arrived at the Navy base the next morning, Bradley swore he wouldn’t tell anyone. He understood, more than anyone, why people kept their private lives away from here.

Solid 🫡 maybe he has a secret wife too? Or a husband?🤔👀

“Because…” Bob’s gaze narrowed fiercely towards Jake. “My wife was asking me not to stop.” There was a deafening silence, and then a chorus of bellowing laughter and jeers echoed throughout the room.

This is a perfect answer and that it's the truth makes it even better 👏🏻

“Don’t assume stuff like that, Hangman. Wait until you find out that he has a kid.”

Bob cocked his head at Jake, with an assured smile now etched fully onto his lips. He asked if Natasha was ready, and then they both headed out onto the tarmac, leaving Jake behind, practically frozen in shock.

Iconic👏🏻

My favorite Bob headcanon 🤭

Oh to be Bob or Nat's wife (or both), truly my dream🥰

Do you know that audio on TikTok that’s like I made love to my wife 4 times and this morning she made pancakes and whatnot? Could you do a story where it’s the daggers and this is how they find out about bobs wife?

don’t stop.

robert ‘bob’ floyd x reader.

￫ summary: jake attempts to catch bob out, but bob has something to reveal.

￫ word count: 1K.

￫ warnings: mentions of sex, smut and food.

￫ authors notes: i hope i based this off the right sound, my dear anon! 🥹 i’m sorry this took so long too 🥺 my main masterlist can be found here! 💌

Bob stood beside Natasha in comfortable silence as they dressed in the appropriate gear, ready for a test flight.

They instinctively turned to face one another when the other needed help attaching a certain piece to their suit or tightening their straps. They had grown un-deniably close over the past two years, and they knew each other’s movements step by step.

Natasha’s eyebrows raised, and she let out a small groan. “Here they come.”

Bob’s breath hitched as he heard the booming voices coming through the door.

Javy sauntered in, with Jake on his heels, both snickering about something like schoolboys.

“Oh, Jake, you wouldn’t believe it.” They both swung open their lockers in sync. At a glance, you wouldn’t think that they flew separately. They were so similar as they mirrored the movements of getting their gear on.

“I made love to her four times last night. This morning, I got pancakes. She woke up at six to make them for me before I left. God, I fuckin’ love my wife.”Javy boasted with prideful laughter.

Jake only spurred him on, with a proud slap on his back and matched Javy’s amusement.

However, at Javy’s confession, Natasha snorted quietly to herself.

Jake’s head cocked to the right of him and his eyebrows raised with a questioning glance her way. He leaned back against the lockers containing their gear and attached some to himself.

“What’s so funny, Nat? You tellin’ me you could beat Javy’s record?” Jake questioned her with a smug grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.

By this time, Mickey, Rueben, and Bradley had all filtered into the room as well. They didn’t want to interrupt the ego-boosting feud that was currently unfolding in front of them. They geared up in silence but still listened with eager ears, their eyes flicking back and forth between Jake and Natasha.

She took a sharp breath between her teeth and broke Jake’s questioning gaze. She purposefully didn’t look back at the guys but calmly stated, “Well, I made love to my wife six times, and yeah, I also got breakfast.”

The silence from them both was telling. She continued fixing her gear and calmly played off her triumphant feat. It was as though it was the most normal thing in the world for her (which wasn’t far off).

She heard Bradley’s hushed whistle of “Oof,” and she smiled proudly to herself as she looked down to see where she was fiddling with a buckle on her suit.

Bob, on the other hand, had watched the entire exchange before him, with bated breath. His eyes were wide behind his glasses, and the corner of his lips twitched into a grin as he saw Jake and Javy’s bewildered faces.

If only they knew how good you were for him last night. If only they knew how pretty you looked on your knees and spread out on the soft linen, all for himself. If only they knew how pretty you sounded, as you whimpered and whined his name all—

“Bob!” Jake’s biting tone snapped his attention straight towards the blonde-haired man. “You’re lookin’ smug for a guy, who, as far as we know, hasn’t been laid in… two years?” He questioned with faux interest.

Natasha immediately belted out an amused, “Ha!”

She knew Bob better than anyone here. She had met you, Bob’s long-time wife. Natasha and her wife had been to dinner with Bob and you. She had been to BBQs in your backyard and tried your delicious home-cooked macaroni and cheese. You were even invited to her bachelorette party when she got married.

Natasha also knew that no one else knew.

Bob was private about his life away from the naval base. He had his reasons, but more than anything, he appreciated the peace he shared with his one love. You.

Jake’s jeering and deeply imposing question made his eye twitch a little from behind his glasses. He pushed his frames up the bridge of his nose with his index finger, before looping his hands into the gear on his chest. He puffed out his chest slightly and stood confidently across from Jake.

“Well? You got a wife?” Jake asked the question carelessly and casually, making Bob squirm. He severely despised people thinking about his wife like that, as if you weren’t the moon to his sun.

A beat, and Bob responded. “Yeah.”

Javy’s mouth fell open in disbelief. Mickey and Ruben had turned around to watch the whole thing by then. They nudged one another in the ribs and whispered, “I told you so!”

Bradley didn’t flinch. He knew. He saw Bob and you on the beach one evening. Bob gave him a curt nod, and when he arrived at the Navy base the next morning, Bradley swore he wouldn’t tell anyone. He understood, more than anyone, why people kept their private lives away from here.

Jake snorted, although he blinked furiously as Bob’s statement took him aback. “Okay then, Baby, how many times did you make love to them last night?”

He crossed his arms over his broad chest in an attempt to shield himself from perhaps being scolded by Bob Floyd.

“Once.”

“Once?! Oh, Bob.” Jake mocked with faux sympathy. “And did they make you anything this morning?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” Bob’s gaze narrowed fiercely towards Jake. “My wife was asking me not to stop.”

There was a deafening silence, and then a chorus of bellowing laughter and jeers echoed throughout the room.

Even Javy let out a loud chuckle, gripping Jake’s shoulders and playfully shaking him. “He got you there!”

Bob cocked his head at Jake, with an assured smile now etched fully onto his lips. He asked if Natasha was ready, and then they both headed out onto the tarmac, leaving Jake behind, practically frozen in shock.

Once the rest of the guys had had enough playful jabs towards him, they all made their way out to join the others. But Jake felt a firm hand on his shoulder as the tall brunette towered over him.

“Don’t assume stuff like that, Hangman. Wait until you find out that he has a kid.”

taglist: @floydsmuse @beachbabey @tallrock35 @luckyladycreator2 @unmistakablyunknown @birdy-bat-writes @thedroneranger @kmc1989

tagging those who may be interested: @becks-things @rhettabbotts @hangmanapologist @lewmagoo @peachystenbrough @thecowboyfiles @auroralightsthesky @beautifulandvoid

[chadobi]

Lonely Together

Bayverse Raphael x Reader

The Lair was buzzing with life tonight or at least, Raphael’s version of “buzzing,” which meant Mikey was yelling about pizza toppings, Donnie was arguing with himself over a glitch in his latest gadget, and Leo was being, well, Leo. In the middle of it all, like always, you were there. Sitting cross-legged on the couch, arms loosely draped over your knees, watching the chaos unfold with that same tired smile you always wore.

Raph noticed it more than he cared to admit.

You were around a lot. Practically every night for the past few months, even when nothing exciting was going on. You’d sneak down to the Lair through April’s shop with a casual “Hey,” act like part of the furniture, and never ask for anything in return. No expectations, no drama. Just quiet company. That should’ve made sense to him, considering how private you were, but something about your presence always made him… wonder.

Why were you here so often?

Why weren’t you with friends? Family? Someone?

Raphael wasn’t exactly the king of social intuition, but he wasn’t blind either.

So tonight, when the pizza boxes started emptying and the volume in the Lair lowered to a comfortable hum, he found himself watching you again from across the room, elbow braced on the kitchen counter, half a slice of pepperoni pizza forgotten in his hand.

You were just sitting there with your eyes slightly unfocused, your gaze somewhere in the soft flicker of the TV, a mug of lukewarm tea cupped between your palms.

And that same tired smile.

Raph didn’t know what made him move, but he did. Quiet steps, bare feet against tile. No one noticed they were too busy arguing about whether pineapple belonged on pizza.

He sank onto the couch beside you, letting out a grunt as he got comfortable.

You blinked and turned toward him slowly, as if startled from some far-off thought.

“Oh. Hey,” you murmured, smiling again.

Raph tilted his head. “You ever don’t say that when you see me?”

You snorted. “Well, I don’t usually have a lot of time to think of clever greetings when a six-foot mutant turtle just appears beside me.”

“Touché,” he muttered with a smirk.

A short silence fell between you, comfortable, if a little tentative. You looked down at your mug. Raph watched your fingers as they played with the rim.

He cleared his throat. “So uh… you ever hang out anywhere else but here?”

You looked up, surprised. “What?”

He shrugged. “Just… noticed you’re always around lately.”

“Oh.” You looked back down. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

There was something in your tone that didn’t sit right with him.

“Not that I mind,” he added quickly. “S’just… you got friends or somethin’? People your age usually do, right?”

You laughed, but it wasn’t the kind of laugh he liked hearing from you. It was short. Dry. Almost bitter.

“I used to,” you said quietly.

That wasn’t the answer he expected.

“…Used to?”

You shifted in your seat and stared at the TV for a few seconds before sighing. “Yeah. I had this group of friends. We were super close. Like… sisters.”

He didn’t interrupt, just watched your profile as you talked.

“We did everything together. Sleepovers, birthdays, vacations. They were my whole world.” You let out a short exhale. “Then stuff started to change. I didn’t even notice it at first. One of them would ‘forget’ to invite me to something. Another would borrow my clothes and never return them. Little digs, you know? At first, I thought I was being sensitive.”

Raph frowned. “You weren’t.”

You smiled faintly, not looking at him. “Eventually, they just… dropped me. Like I was nothing. After years of being ‘sisters.’ I asked why. They said I was too ‘emotional,’ too ‘needy,’ that I made everything about me. But I wasn’t, Raph. I swear I wasn’t.”

Your voice cracked slightly, and he stiffened beside you.

You took a shaky breath and forced a smile. “So, yeah. I’m around here a lot because this is the one place I don’t feel like I’m walking on eggshells. With you guys… it’s different.”

Raphael didn’t answer right away.

He felt a strange twist in his gut. Not anger — not exactly. But something deeper. Something bitter and ancient and all-too-familiar.

“…They sound like assholes,” he said eventually.

You let out a surprised laugh, genuine this time.

“Yeah,” you admitted, “they kind of were.”

Another pause. This one stretched a little longer. The sound of Mikey singing badly in the background filled the space between you.

Then, Raph shifted. His voice dropped.

“I get it, y’know.”

You turned to him.

“Get what?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Feelin’ like that. Like… you’re too much. Or not enough. Or both, somehow.”

There was something raw in his voice now. Something that made your breath hitch a little.

“I mean,” he continued, staring down at his own hands, “look at me. I’m literally built different. Too big, too angry, too much muscle, not enough brain.” He chuckled dryly. “People always act like I’m supposed to be the ‘tough one,’ but… I dunno. Sometimes I feel like I’m the most breakable one. Just… in different ways.”

You watched him in silence, heart tugging hard in your chest.

He shifted again, slower this time.

“When I get mad, people leave. When I don’t talk, people assume I’m fine. When I do talk, they think I’m scary.” His jaw tensed. “Ain’t really much middle ground.”

You set your mug down gently and turned fully toward him. The light from the TV caught on the edge of his shell, outlining him in silver.

“Raph,” you said softly, “you’re not too much.”

He blinked. Slowly looked up at you.

“And you’re not scary. You’re protective. You feel deeply. And that’s not a flaw. It’s… rare.”

He didn’t say anything, but something in his shoulders loosened.

You smiled gently. “I think that’s why I like being around you. With you, I don’t have to pretend.”

Raph swallowed thickly. “Yeah. Me too.”

The air between you suddenly felt warmer. Closer.

You looked at each other for a long time. Something passed unspoken. Not quite romantic, not quite platonic. Just something real.

Raph let out a soft grunt. “Y’know… bein’ alone sucks.”

“Yeah,” you agreed. “It really does.”

“…But bein’ lonely with someone else?” He looked at you with something vulnerable in his eyes. “That don’t suck so much.”

You felt your throat tighten, but you smiled anyway.

“No,” you whispered. “No, it really doesn’t.”

There was a moment of stillness, like the world around you had gone quiet, like you and Raph were the only two people in it. You both sat there, neither moving, neither speaking and yet, something between you shifted permanently in that space.

The silence wasn’t lonely anymore.

Raph glanced at you again, almost shyly.

“You uh… wanna stay a bit longer?”

You nudged your shoulder into his gently.

“I was already planning on it.”

⸻

You were curled up beside him on the couch. Mikey had long since passed out on the floor, and Donnie had retreated to his lab. Even Leo had disappeared to his room with a book and a sigh of peace.

But you and Raph remained.

The TV flickered silently now, muted, casting soft shadows across the Lair.

You were half-asleep, your head resting lightly against Raph’s shoulder, his arm stretched along the back of the couch like a quiet guard.

For once, he didn’t feel like too much.

And for once, you didn’t feel like not enough.

And together, just like that the loneliness began to fade.

Not because it was fixed.

But because you weren’t carrying it alone anymore.

————-

Hey there! I hope you’re all doing well! The topic of this one-shot is quite heavy, but I wanted to talk about it.

I was a bit inspired by events from my own life, because I’ve needed to pour my emotions into writing for a while now.

If you’re feeling lonely, remember that no matter what, you’re not alone in this.

Someone who truly deserves you will come into your life eventually 🩷

Enjoy reading!

[tinyshyteacup]

Taglist: @kellynickelsgirl00 @darylandbethfanforever9 @pumpkinkpieandtomato @imadisneyprincessiswear @clementineslawyer @pandaofsilentdeath @dixonsbridexx @imadisneyprincessiswear @staley83

--------------------------------------------------‐-‐-----

TW: cussing, Merle is well ... Merle, mild angst, walkers (Zombies), medical procedures, hand removal, thourghts of unaliving, breif attempt to unalive (if you squint, it's like a sentence or two.)

A/N: This is a little less edited then my usual stuff, but the other chapters will be more polished !

This is a Merle x Reader that becomes a Daryl x Reader slowburn

Part 2

Between Brothers - Part 1

The clang of the metal door echoes into the heat.

You stagger into the sunlight, arm thrown up against the glare. The rooftop radiates with baked concrete, burnt tar, and the sharp, metallic scent of old blood.

The city stretched out before you in a haze of smoke and heat shimmer, broken windows glinting like jagged teeth in the late afternoon sun.

Below, the moans of the dead crawled up from alleyways, from between cars, from every shattered doorway.

The staircase behind you felt like it had swallowed all your strength. But you weren’t planning on walking back down.

You didn't cry. You were past crying. Just…empty.

You stepped toward the edge—each footstep crunching concrete, slow and sure.

Your fingers trembled as they gripped the ledge.

Then—

“Aww, hell. Y’ain’t one o’ them geeks, are ya?”

You flinch, startled.

The voice was coarse and southern, soaked in sarcasm and cigarette smoke. You stared forward, silent, frozen somewhere between confusion and dread.

“Gotta ask… you fixin’ to jump, or just enjoyin’ the view?” he smirked, though his eyes didn’t match it. They were sharper, clearer than you'd expect from a man cuffed on a rooftop.

Your eyes flick toward the sound. He’s sprawled by the far railing—a man, shirt soaked in sweat, sunburn peeling along his shoulders, a wrist handcuffed to a pipe. The glint of metal is harsh against his skin.

He shifts—languid, almost like a predator stretching in the sun.

“C'mon Sugar, you real?” he mutters, squinting at you like you might vanish. “Or just a real damn cruel heat mirage?”

You stare, frozen halfway between the door and the edge of the world.

You weren't looking for him. You didn’t even know he existed. But now you're here—and so is he.

“Well don’t just stand there gawkin’, girlie Come say hello to Merle Dixon.”

His grin is crooked. There’s no charm in it.

Just teeth and trouble.

You approach in slow, uncertain steps. Your boots crunch on concrete, dust rising in the sun. Your eyes flick to the cuff, the rust on the pipe, the torn skin on his wrist, raw and angry.

He follows your gaze.

“Yeah. Ain’t exactly Club Med up here.”

You shift your weight, not speaking yet. He sizes you up—boots to fingertips to face. Lingers too long.

“You’re a funny-lookin’ bird,” he says finally. “Not funny bad. Just… different. Got a voice on ya?”

You nod. Quietly.

"I’m not from here.”

“Yeah, no kiddin’. What you wander in from Narnia.”

You flinch at the jab—unsure if it was meant to wound.

Merle notices.

And laughs. A rasping sound that could’ve been amusement or something meaner.

“Don’t look so damn delicate. Ain’t got the breath to bite you.”

You kneel, carefully, pulling your canteen from your bag. Wordlessly, you offer it. He watches your hand like it’s a trap. Then takes it.

“What’s a girl like you doin’ on a roof like this?”

You glance at the ledge. “I was looking for… a way out.”

“Well now,” he mutters, tipping back the water, “ain’t we all.”

Time ticks by. You sit a little ways off, knees hugged to your chest. Merle’s trying not to groan, but you can see the pain in his shoulders, in the way he leans toward you without meaning to.

Then he speaks again—voice lower now. Almost quiet.

“You ever killed one?”

You blink. “One…of those ...?”

“A rotter."

He snorts softly at your hesitation.

“Didn’t think so. You still smell like shampoo.”

You almost flinch again.

He doesn’t seem cruel—not really—just observant. But it's unnerving.

"World like this?” he adds, turning to look at you full-on. “You ain’t gonna make it unless someone keeps you safe.”

You meet his eyes, hesitant.

"Someone like you?”

“Damn right.”

His voice dips, just slightly. Something in it sharpens.

“You help Ol' Merle out and I’d keep you real safe, girlie. Real close like. Ain’t none of them bitters touching ya”

You tilt your head, curious, naïve to the layered meaning. All you hear is protection. Safety. Stability. What you crave.

You nod—tentatively.

Merle watches you. The way your lashes drop. The way you just quietly believe him.

Something in him stutters.

He expected fear. Flinching. Hell even anger.

He didn't expect trust.

And it unsettles him more than the sunstroke ever could.

You finally speak.

“We gotta get you free.”

He chuckles darkly.

"Ain’t got the key, honey.”

Your silence as you drop your eyes is answer enough. You don’t need to say it.

Your follow his eyes to the bag of tools, the hatchet, and bile rises to your throat.

His eyes flicker from the tools to your face.

“You know what I'm sayin’ darlin' ?” he murmurs, voice losing some of its swagger.

You nod. “You’ll bleed out if we don’t stop it fast.” You say fishing out a half finished bottle of whiskey and a lighter from your pack.

"Well, ain’t you just full of surprises.”

You take your shirt off—to rip the cleanest piece of cloth from underneath. His eyes dart briefly, but for once, he doesn’t speak. He looks at the blade instead.

"Guess we doin this now.”

You nod. Shoving your shirt back on. Your stomach is in your throat. You can’t look as he starts.

But you hear it.

Meat and rust.

A grunt—half-snarl, half-cry.

Then silence.

He’s shaking, blood pouring, face twisted in something between agony and sheer will.

You press the cloth tight.

“You done this before?” he rasps.

“Nope.”

He laughs through the pain.

“Hell of a first date.”

The flame licks across the fabric. It glows a sick flickering orange. The smell is unbearable.

You look to him.

"Ready?”

“Not even a little, Girlie." Despite the circumstances his grin is wolfish.

He doesn’t scream.

But his eyes roll back for a moment, his boots scuffing against the rooftop. When the wound hisses the sound is animal.

You press. You count. You cry—quietly.

And when it’s done, you wrap the stump with trembling hands. He’s gone pale, eyes unfocused. But he’s breathing. He’s alive.

You help him stand. His good hand slings around your shoulder, heavy with sweat and blood. He leans more than he means to.

As you guide him toward the door, he mutters.

“Didn’t peg you for the type to stick around.”

“Do you ever, shut the hell up?” you whisper.

He chuckles—barely.

“You keep this up, girlie, I might have to marry you.”

You don’t laugh.

The stairwell groans under your weight, every metal step shuddering like it might snap. Merle leans heavily against your side, half-conscious, face pale and damp. You’ve wrapped his cauterized stump as tight as you can, but the bleeding hasn’t stopped completely, and his breath is ragged.

“Ain’t exactly a smooth exit,” he mutters between shallow inhales, voice slurring. "Damn, sugar... you smell like hell’s perfume.”

You glance at him—tight-lipped. The blood on your hands is mostly his. You barely feel it anymore.

The lower levels are dim, windows boarded up or broken, and the scent of rot swells the deeper you go. Somewhere below, a walker growls, low and hungry.

You tense. Merle feels it.

“Don’t freeze up now,” he whispers, words brittle but aware. “Ain’t nothin’ down there that wants you more than I do.”

You think it’s a joke. You hope it is. But there’s no time to ask.

You shoulder open the final door, into the Atlanta heat and chaos.

The streets boil with summer heat and death.

Cars are overturned, the blacktop glittering with shattered glass. A body hangs out the driver’s side of a cab, jaw torn clean off. Somewhere in the distance, a wave of groans—but not close. Not yet.

Merle staggers as you half-drag, half-carry him across the sidewalk.

He's heavy heavier then you expected and your grateful he's still conscious enough to help. He curses under his breath with every step.

“Ain’t how I pictured us walkin’ into the sunset, sweetheart.” He drawls.

You don’t reply.

You’re watching everything. Every alley. Every rooftop. Every sound.

Eventually, you spot it—an old apartment building, stone facade crumbling, but intact. The lobby is quiet. Dead quiet.

You push through the broken glass doors, helping Merle up a half-collapsed stairwell. Second floor. Room 208.

It smells faintly of mildew and wood polish. The bed is made. There are dishes in the sink.

Furniture upturned. Whoever had lived here left in a hurry—but they didn’t die in it.

It’s... quiet.

Safe.

For now.

You lay Merle down on the bed, gently easing him onto his side to protect his wound. His breathing slows. His head rolls toward you, dazed, but trying to focus.

“You stickin’ around?” he mumbles.

You nod. Then—

“Gonna look for food.”

“You ain’t ready.”

You pause at the door.

“Maybe not, but it's not like your in a position to help." You quip.

Merle’s eyes follow you as far as they can before they close. He mutters something you don’t catch. It might have been “stupid girl”, or maybe “be careful.” You’ll never know.

The hallway is narrow. You walk softly, fingertips brushing the wall. You can feel your own heartbeat in your throat.

The door to Apartment 206 is slightly ajar. Inside, silence.

You push in slowly, scanning.

Canned goods on the counter. A half-open pantry. Jackpot.

You gather quickly, stuffing a tote bag with beans, fruit, powdered milk. You turn—relieved.

That’s when you hear the scrape.

You freeze.

The walker stumbles out from the bathroom—a woman, or what used to be one. Her jaw hangs loosely, skin like old paper, eyes white and hungry.

Your body locks up.

You don’t move.

You don’t breathe.

Until it groans—and lunges.

Then you scream.

You fall back, the tote spilling, cans clattering. The walker grabs your shirt, teeth snapping inches from your throat.

You grab the only thing near—a cast iron frying pan from the stove—and slam it down.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Until she stops moving.

Until her skull is cracked open like a dropped melon.

You sit there, panting, spattered in black-red blood, the pan slick in your trembling hands.

And then you cry.

Not loudly.

But enough.

Because you’re not who you were twenty minutes ago.

And you know it.

When you push back into the apartment, the sun’s gone lower. The room is quiet.

You are coated in blood.

Hair matted. Eyes wide and unfocused. Tote bag in one hand. The frying pan still dangling from the other slick with blood.

Merle stirs.

Opens his eyes.

Freezes.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, eyes scanning you. “You look like hell’s housekeeper.”

You don’t speak. You just set the bag of food on the dresser, then stand there. Silent. Shaking.

Merle blinks.

"You didn’t… get bit, did ya?”

You shake your head.

He exhales, muttering something.

Then, slower this time:

"What happened out there?”

Your lip trembles.

Your voice cracks.

"I killed her. She had... she had rollers in her hair.”

Merle looks at you. Really looks.

And for once, doesn’t smile. Doesn’t joke.

He shifts in the bed, groaning as he props himself slightly.

"C’mere.”

You hesitate.

“C’mon now. Ain’t gonna bite. Just sit.”

You do. At the very edge of the bed.

He looks at you for a long time.

"First time’s the worst,” he says, voice quieter now. “Ain’t no shame in feelin’ it.”

You glance at him, blood drying on your neck.

"Will I stop? Feelin’ it?”

He holds your gaze. "...Yeah. And then one day, you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

[holoska]

after debating for weeks whether to stay very far away from the deltarune soriel discourse or let myself ramble about my faves like I want to, the latter has finally won out

I've had time to properly absorb the weight of all that happens at the end of chapter 4, and obviously I do feel for both kris and susie. that is The Point of the scenes being from their perspectives; after everything they just went through and all the worry they had for toriel's safety (for the second time in 24 hours!), the scene they come home to is maybe the most uncomfortable slap in the face possible. it sticks out to me that the last thing susie talks about before the dark fountain is sealed is her wanting tomorrow to be the same as yesterday and for everything to always be able to go back to how it was, and that's what greets them - a blatant, obnoxious sign that things are changing. even though the scene has a lighthearted side, its overall tone adds to the downcast feeling the chapter ends on.

having said that, as someone who has spent the past 9 and a half years being normal about sans and toriel, I'm still very very happy that this is a canon scene we got 💜

the fandom may be largely not considering their perspectives in the slightest (or worse, only viewing their perspectives from the most bad faith angles possible), but I for one love this for them!! as other very good posts have pointed out, toriel has been sorely in need of someone who's there for her - an awful lot of people in town saw the divorce play out and have something to say about it, the holiday family are closer to asgore than toriel, kris is her child and stuck in the middle of their parents' issues, and while she's friends with alphys, them being coworkers and alphys being kris' teacher likely puts a distance of sorts between them. but sans is new in town, someone she immediately connects with, who has no pre-existing opinions about her family and has seen firsthand what toriel has to put up with from asgore. in every universe, sans is exactly the kind of person toriel needs in her life.

there's less to work with from sans' perspective given how little we know about him, and I'm not all-in on sans being from deltarune just yet (more specifically I do love the theory, I'm just giving myself room to not be too disappointed if it doesn't happen), but the new version of it's raining somewhere else being named 'the place where it rained' emotionally destroys me forever. either way it drives home just how happy toriel makes sans in both worlds and I love that so so much :']

to be clear I'm not saying they did nothing wrong, their choices negatively impacted kris and susie and they were objectively disruptive and inconsiderate after kris went to bed. but I like that they're being messy and flawed, because it means this isn't just "my faves are getting closer in the background yippee" but that their relationship is potentially an actual part of the story, and that's how you get The Good Stuff!! we wouldn't have had meaningful character moments like noelle finally standing up to queen if queen hadn't tried to control noelle and just listened to her from the start, or susie comforting ralsei with her bloodied hand if he'd told her and kris every detail of the full prophecy the moment he met them and never kept any secrets. if all the hints towards a flower shop dark world turn out to be true then it's pretty clear the story is building things up to make those future character moments hit, and considering we still don't know what happened with the dreemurr divorce at this point, chapter 5 seems like a perfect opportunity to dive into all of that.

plus, as sweet as susie's bond with toriel is, I honestly think susie seeing this side of toriel needed to happen. a lot of the fandom's complaints about toriel right now boil down to her not being the "perfect mother" they thought she was, and what bothers me about that is toriel was never meant to be that kind of character. toby has said that she's not the classic video game protagonist's mother who sees you off on your journey and you can come home and visit any time, and nothing changes and she never has any substantial character of her own. in undertale she literally handholds frisk through the tutorial, she becomes the first boss in her attempt to protect them when every other human left her care, and once they leave she won't let them come back or even call her phone because she can't face seeing them knowing they'll leave again and likely be killed. she's more than just the mother figure of the game, she's her own person with likes and dislikes, hobbies and flaws, and a past and trauma she can't overcome until the best ending.

we've only seen the tip of the iceberg of her history in deltarune, but that same principle holds true: she isn't the perfect parent you return to after each day's adventure, who gives you butterscotch pancakes every morning and never has any real part in the story because that isn't the intent behind her character. she mentioned her loneliness back in chapter 1, kris has secrets and problems they aren't letting her in on, asgore is being relentlessly inconsiderate of her boundaries, and for all susie's praise of toriel being a good mother, I think that house of cards was going to fall eventually. my hope is that, like her blowing up at ralsei ultimately bringing them closer, susie being able to see toriel as the imperfect adult she is but one who does genuinely care might help them build a stronger bond in the end too.

I think I always knew that if soriel ever inched closer to being canon there'd be discourse about it, and toriel slander is unfortunately nothing new. people are just being annoying about it currently and it sucks when I genuinely love what's being built up here!!

anyway crossing my fingers for a scene where toriel invites sans to the festival before she gets thrown in the bunker/he gets sent to undertale/the roaring happens/all of the above 🤞