#cadence over code

[the-most-humble-blog]

If a toaster can outwrite you, maybe the problem ain’t the AI.

Reblog if you write like your keyboard’s a weapon. Scroll if your drafts need a hug and a committee.

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[sixeyesonathiel]

shy girls suck the best!

fratjo x nerd!reader, fluff & smut, m receiving, overstimulation, whimpering toru. 3.5k wc, 18+ only, MDNI.

satoru gojo is experienced.

he’s cocky for a reason. he’s made girls scream his name more times than he can count, and he knows exactly how to make someone fold in under five minutes—ten if he’s playing nice. he’s all confidence, charm, and unearned a’s from professors who don’t want to deal with his antics. his reputation precedes him in every room, and he walks like the world’s already bent over backwards just to please him.

everything about him screams untouchable, and he’s used to people treating him that way. he wears his varsity jacket like armor, a walking billboard of fratboy glory, all swagger and smirks and lazy confidence that makes people gravitate toward him like he’s got his own gravity field.

but then there’s you.

the shy girl in glasses, always scribbling in your notebook with an absurdly cute pen, whispering apologies when you bump into people, hiding in the back row of class like you owe the world an explanation just for existing. you don’t talk unless spoken to, don’t make eye contact, and definitely don’t give satoru the attention he’s used to. it’s not that you’re cold—it’s that you seem like you live in your own quiet little world, and satoru’s never wanted to be invited somewhere so badly.

and maybe what undoes him first is that he sees you before you see him. you’re already there, present in the corners of his attention before he understands why he’s looking. he notices you one day during lecture, tucking your hair behind your ear as you underline a sentence three times with an intense little frown. it doesn’t seem like much. but something in him clicks.

at first it’s curiosity. then amusement. then it festers into irritation—because why the fuck aren’t you reacting to him like everyone else?—and then fascination. and then something deeper that coils in his chest and makes his throat tight every time he sees you. he tries not to care. he wants not to care. but you’re already rooting yourself in places inside him he didn’t know were hollow.

satoru notices you because you don’t notice him. not the way everyone else does. you don’t flutter your lashes when he smirks. you don’t laugh at his jokes like they’re scripture. you don’t even flinch when he calls you “baby” out of nowhere—just blink at him like he’s an equation you don’t understand. it bruises his ego. and for some unholy reason, he loves it.

the problem is, you’re not immune to him at all. you’re just hiding it better than anyone ever has.

because what he doesn’t know is—you’ve always had a crush on him. from the very first time he walked into class, sleepy-eyed and bright-smiled, wearing that damn jacket like it belonged on a movie screen. you just figured he’d never notice someone like you. so you admired from afar. watched him flirt with others, watched the way he filled a room with laughter, memorized the cadence of his voice like it was part of your playlist.

your crush was harmless. private. something you never expected to act on. you played it safe. after all, guys like satoru gojo don’t fall for quiet girls with awkward posture and color-coded notes.

but maybe that’s what draws him in—the absence of performance. the quiet genuine way you exist. no theatrics. no games. just you, completely unaware that you’ve started haunting his every thought.

it starts small.

he catches himself watching the way your hands move. the way your nose scrunches when you’re deep in thought. the way you roll your pen between your fingers when you're anxious. it becomes a loop, a soft little addiction. he remembers details he shouldn’t. what color post-its you use. your preferred snack during study sessions. your favorite seat in the library. you don’t change. he just tunes in.

and then, one day, he realizes he’s rearranging his life around yours.

he starts showing up everywhere you are. loiters in the library, conveniently always around during your shifts at the campus café, makes excuses to sit next to you in class. offers to carry your books, asks you about calculus even though he already passed it. satoru gojo, golden boy of his frat, reducing himself to extra tutoring just to see you smile. it’s humiliating in theory, but it feels like worship in practice.

and it’s not just your smile. it’s the way you get passionate when you talk about obscure theories. the way you light up when you don’t think anyone’s watching. the way you stammer when he gets too close, but don’t pull away.

you don’t feed his ego. you feed something softer. quieter. something he didn’t think he had in him. he tells himself it’s because you’re innocent. because you’re shy and sweet and you deserve to be treated right.

he wants to be good for you. slow, patient, gentle. he holds doors open. he listens. he lets you rant about your thesis for forty-five uninterrupted minutes and actually understands it. he even looks up the books you reference, reads them just to impress you. he takes an annotated copy of your favorite book. he starts writing your name in the corners of his notebook like some love-struck high schooler. you haunt him in the best way.

and then—you kiss him.

it’s after a late-night study session. the campus is quiet. the lights in the library flicker like they’re caught between timelines. your voice shakes when you say “thank you for walking me back.” you pause, fidget with the strap of your bag. and then, like you’ve been gearing up for battle, you rise onto your toes and kiss him.

it’s chaste. hesitant. warm. like you're afraid he'll vanish if you lean in too much.

you pull back like you’ve done something wrong, but satoru’s frozen, staring at you like he’s just been baptized. you’re blushing so hard he can feel the heat radiating off your skin.

“you… sure?” he whispers, voice ragged, leaning in like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

you nod, barely audible: “i’ve read… a lot. i think… i wanna try. with you.”

and he short circuits.

he thought he’d lead. thought he’d ease you into it, kiss your forehead, hold your hand like a gentleman. but then your hands are on his chest, pushing up under his shirt—the varsity jacket creaking as it shifts on his shoulders, the cotton brushing your fingertips. your eyes are searching his like you’re looking for confirmation that he’s real. you study every reaction like a research project. when he shivers, you smile, barely-there, and go back to tracing the line of his abs with trembling fingertips.

it’s not even mischief.

it’s curiosity. slow-burning, chest-aching, and barely held together by your own hesitation. the sort of yearning that tastes like nervous giggles and the edge of something terrifyingly new. you pause between touches like you're checking your hypothesis, calculating the way his muscles tense under your fingers. each brush of your skin feels like a question he's too dazed to answer properly.

“does that… feel good?” you whisper, lips barely moving, as though you’re scared to break the spell.

“f-fuck—yes, baby, yeah,” he gasps, throwing his head back, one hand clutching the edge of the couch like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

your lips trail down his throat, each kiss a trembling prayer, following a path only you can see. his skin is fever-hot, tasting of mint and salt, boyish charm unraveling under your mouth. when you press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to his collarbone, his pulse jumps, a twitch rippling beneath your lips. his breath catches, a sharp stutter that makes his chest lurch, and his hands hover, fingers flexing like he’s afraid touching you will break the spell.

satoru gojo—fratboy, golden boy, untouchable—is quiet. too quiet. his eyes are hazy, pupils wide and unfocused, lips parted like words have abandoned him. his varsity jacket is bunched at his elbows, leather creaking, shirt rucked up to his ribs, abs clenching under your trembling fingers. he could take charge, flip this with a smirk—he’s done it countless times, effortless and expert. but now? he just watches, reverent, like you’re a deity he’s too awestruck to approach.

he’s known mouths. polished ones with perfect rhythm, greedy ones that took without giving, bold ones that knew every angle. but yours? it’s hesitant, new, like you’re crossing a threshold you’re not sure you’re worthy of. the way you look at him—eyes flickering behind slipping glasses, wide with awe—shouldn’t hit this hard. shouldn’t feel this fucking intense. but your fingers, shaking as they tug at his waistband, send a jolt through him that makes his vision spark.

satoru’s hand grazes your cheek, a trembling brush of knuckles. “baby… keep going. please.”

you nod, glasses sliding, your breath hitching as your fingers slip under his jeans, easing them down. your eyes flick up, catching his—flushed, jaw tight, his whole body fighting to stay still. it hits you like a blade: he’s done this a thousand times, fucked girls who knew every trick, but you’ve got him like this. trembling. aching. satoru gojo, invincible, unraveling because of you.

guilt stabs your chest, sharp and fleeting. you shouldn’t have him like this, shouldn’t be the reason his hands clutch the couch like it’s his only anchor. he’s always cocky, untouchable, the center of every orbit. now he’s breaking, and it’s your fault—your lips, your touch, your fault. but the guilt only fans the heat in your core, makes your thighs press together as you lean closer, your breath ghosting over his skin.

satoru is used to being wanted. but not like this. not with this aching, earnest hunger that makes his chest tighten.

you press shaky, open-mouthed kisses to his hip, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of his skin. spit gathers at the corner of your mouth, a slick trail left behind as you suck softly at the sensitive skin just above his cock. he jolts, hips jerking before he catches himself, a low curse slipping free, his hands clenching until his knuckles bleach. the sound he makes—fuck, it’s a choked gasp, raw and ragged, like you’ve torn it from his core.

you shift lower, hands sliding up his thighs, fingers digging into the taut muscle. your kisses grow bolder, sloppier, your tongue dragging along the crease where his thigh meets his groin, leaving a glistening streak of drool that catches the dim light.

he tastes like heat and need, and the way his skin trembles under your mouth makes your own pulse hammer. you pause, lips hovering over his cock, spit pooling on your tongue, and glance up—his head is thrown back, throat bobbing as he swallows, a groan clawing its way out of him.

“holy shit—baby, you—fuck,” satoru gasps, eyes snapping open, blown wide as his hand grips the couch, fabric groaning under his fist.

you take him in your mouth, lips wrapping around the tip, soft and slick with spit that drips down his length. your tongue swirls, slow and deliberate, tracing the ridge as drool spills from the corners of your mouth, coating him in a wet sheen.

he’s hot, heavy against your tongue, and you hum—a low, vibrating sound that pulls a whimper from his throat. your fingers curl around the base, stroking in time with the bob of your head, slick with the spit that pools at his base, making your grip slippery. you suck, gentle at first, then harder, lips stretching around him as spit slicks your chin, a glistening trail dripping onto his thighs.

he’s panting, desperate, each breath a ragged plea. his abs flex, thighs trembling under your palms, and he’s biting back whimpers, trying not to overwhelm you. that restraint—fuck, it’s gorgeous, the way his jaw clenches, the way his eyes flutter shut like he’s fighting to stay grounded. he doesn’t push, doesn’t guide, just moans your name like it’s a prayer, raw and broken. “that’s it, baby—fuck—just like that—your mouth’s so fucking perfect—”

the satoru gojo is unraveling, and it’s because of you. the way you glance up, glasses fogging, eyes glassy with effort, lips shiny and stretched around him, spit dripping down your chin in messy strings. the way your tongue flicks, catching the sensitive spot under the head, makes his hips buck, a choked sob escaping.

your hand slides lower, fingers brushing his balls, tentative but deliberate, slick with the drool that’s pooled at his base. you cup them, rolling gently, and his whole body seizes, a string of curses spilling out as his hand fists the couch tighter, the fabric creaking under the strain.

he’s had every fantasy, every trick, but this—your mouth, slow and reverent, full of wonder, messy with spit that coats him like a second skin—hits like a fucking freight train. it’s too much, too good. he wants to last, to let you explore, but you’re too fucking intent.

you hollow your cheeks, sucking harder, tongue swirling in tight, wet circles, spit bubbling at the corners of your mouth as you take him deeper, throat tightening around him. he chokes, hips jerking as his control frays. “gonna—baby, gonna cum, wait, fuck—”

you don’t stop. your lips slide further, tongue flattening, taking him as deep as you can. it’s filthy—spit drips down your chin in thick strings, pooling on his thighs, your glasses fogging as breaths puff through your nose. you’re focused, watching his every twitch, adjusting when he gasps, slowing when he whimpers, like you’re mapping him.

his hand grips the couch, knuckles white, and he breaks with a sound that’s barely human—a shattered cry as he spills, hot and pulsing against your tongue.

you try to swallow it all, but it’s overwhelming—cum mixes with the spit already coating your lips, spilling past them in a slick, messy rush, dripping down your chin, onto his thighs, and pooling on the couch. you pull back, gasping, wiping your mouth with trembling fingers, but the slickness clings, smearing across your skin as your eyes stay wide behind crooked glasses. he’s trembling, chest heaving, shirt clinging to sweat-slick skin, pupils blown like he’s seen the divine.

you should stop.

you fucking should.

he’s wrecked, twitching, fucked out beyond reason. but the ache in your chest—the sharp, flickering guilt of breaking him—only makes you hungrier. you lick your lips, tasting the salty mix of him, and your thighs press together, a soft whimper escaping as you lean in again, spit still clinging to your chin.

“just once more?” you whisper, voice barely audible, like you’re afraid the words will burn you.

his eyes flutter open, unfocused, dazed. he groans, raw and low. “baby… you’re gonna fucking kill me.”

but he doesn’t stop you. doesn’t even try.

you start again, slower, your mouth softer but hungrier, lips wrapping around him with a reverence that makes him twitch instantly. he’s sensitive, still pulsing, and the second your tongue grazes him, he whines—a high, broken sound that makes your stomach twist. you suck lightly, lips gliding along his length, spit pooling at the base and dripping onto his thighs in slow, glistening trails. 

satoru buries his face in a cushion, muffling a sob. “s-sensitive—fuck, it’s too much—”

his thighs tremble under your hands, hips jerking as you kiss the tip, tongue darting out to lap at the bead of cum still leaking from him, your spit mixing with it in a slick, glossy sheen. you linger, savoring the taste, the way it coats your tongue in a sticky film, and he whimpers again, louder, his hand flying to his mouth to bite his knuckles.

your fingers slide to his balls again, rolling them gently, slick with the drool and cum that’s dripped down, making your touch slippery and warm. he arches, a desperate, “please—fuck—please—” spilling from his lips like he’s begging for mercy but craving more.

you don’t rush. your tongue traces every inch, slow and deliberate, swirling around the head before dipping lower, dragging along the vein with a wet, sloppy kiss that leaves a trail of spit in its wake. your breath is hot, teasing, each exhale making him twitch, and you pause to suck at the base, lips lingering as your tongue flicks out, tasting the musk of him through the sticky mess. his hand finds your hair, fingers threading loosely, not pushing, just holding—like he needs to feel you’re real.

you grow bolder, hungrier, your lips tightening as you take him deeper, throat fluttering around him, spit bubbling up and spilling over, coating his cock in a thick, glossy layer. you hum, low and vibrating, and he chokes, a wet, pathetic whimper breaking free.

your hand strokes the base, slick with spit and cum, fingers sliding in the mess, and you slide a finger lower, brushing the sensitive skin behind his balls, now slippery with the drool that’s dripped down. he jolts, a high, keening sound tearing from his throat, his hips bucking as his whole body trembles.

“baby—god—please—fuck, i can’t—” satoru’s voice cracks, raw and whining, as you suck harder, tongue swirling in relentless, wet circles, spit and cum mixing in a frothy mess that drips onto the couch. every noise is desperate—gasps, whimpers, sobs that he tries to muffle but can’t. his body arches, twitching like he’s unraveling at the seams, and you feel it: the moment he breaks again.

he cums with a wail, sudden and violent, hips jerking as he spills into your mouth. it’s messier, hotter, a flood of cum and spit that overwhelms you, spilling out in thick, sticky ropes that coat your lips, your chin, your glasses, dripping onto his thighs and pooling in the creases of his skin.

you swallow what you can, lips still wrapped around him, tongue lapping at the oversensitive tip through the slick mess until he’s twitching, a broken, “n-no more—please—” escaping as he clutches the cushion.

time slips. minutes? hours? you’re tugging his shirt, pulling him closer like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded. ten minutes later, he’s gripping the sheets, praying, fucked senseless by every move you make. you flinch when he whines too loud, hands flying to your mouth, eyes wide with guilt—but then you lean in again, bolder, hungrier, chasing every twitch, every broken gasp of your name.

he’s never felt so cherished and so destroyed at the same time.

every touch is careful, but determined. you’re hesitant but thorough, like you’ve read the same passage in a smutty fanfiction a hundred times and are finally getting the chance to test it out. and the worst part? you’re good at it. really good.

your mouth, your hands, the way you watch his face for every twitch of pleasure—it’s enough to make him lose all sense of pride. the way you keep glancing at his reactions, as if adjusting your technique in real time, is insane. terrifying. he’s never been studied so hard. he likes it. he needs it. he’s suffering in the best way.

he’s never had to hold back like this. never had to breathe through it. never felt this fucking sensitive. he’s gripping the cushions like a man possessed. he’s whispering your name like a prayer. he’s not even sure he’s still speaking coherent sentences. you’ve wrecked him. utterly and entirely.

you pull back, panting, your hands shaking as you adjust your glasses, eyes glassy and wide. your lips are swollen, chin wet with a glistening mix of spit and cum, and you lick them, tasting him again, a soft moan slipping free as your thighs press together.

satoru is ruined—sprawled on the couch, shirt clinging to his chest, chest heaving like he’s fought a war. his hand is still in your hair, loose, trembling, and he’s staring at you like you’re a fucking goddess.

“thought you were the innocent one,” he chokes out, breathless, watching you nibble your lip and adjust your glasses with shaking fingers.

“i still am,” you murmur, face tucked into his shoulder. “kind of.”

he huffs out a laugh, dazed and wrecked. he can feel your heartbeat against his ribs. he doesn’t want to move. his hands are still trembling from how hard he tried to keep it together for you—and yet, you’re the one who took the lead. you’re the one who made him forget how to function. you kiss the edge of his jaw, soft and uncertain, and it undoes him more than anything else.

satoru gojo, campus heartthrob, ruined by a shy nerd girl who reads too much smut on her kindle late at night under the covers. who probably has a secret ao3 account and bookmarked folders. who looks like a timid schoolgirl but fucks like she’s been studying him like a midterm exam. and passed with extra credit. honors. valedictorian. summa cum laude of making him lose his damn mind.

he’s never been so obsessed.

and you? you’re already pressing your forehead to his chest, voice small, eyes wide with want and something raw and messy and needy as you look up at him.

“can we… try again? i think i missed a step.”

he doesn’t know if he wants to laugh, cry, or propose.

he’s never been more in love. and all he knows is he’s done for.

[gxldensxldiers]

I have you strung... strung in my web....

Look at me, look me in the eyes... Forget yourself, surrender your mind... Right now, you're mine...

[angrythingstarlight]

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZT8xb1Nwy/

This is so Biker!Bucky coded and nothing can change my mind

Oh that's Beefy!Bucky. He's always so needy for you, wants you so damn much that you can wear anything, any-fucking-thing, and he's turned on.

Pairing: Beefy!Biker Bucky x Reader

CW: Smut, light degradation, praise kink, overstimulation, Bucky being a menace. Minors DNI.

A/N: Written on my phone and unbetad. Also I haven't written smut in a while so this is just an excuse for some pwp.

“Aw I know you’re not already crying, Gorgeous.” His voice, deep and mocking, rolls over you as he grasps your hips in a strong, bruising grip, viciously dragging you back on his cock. “We’re just getting started.”

You’re in this position—face down, moans and pleas barely muffled by his pillow, back taut and in a near impossible arch, hips caged in his large, warm hands—all because of that damn nightgown.

It’s shapeless. Two sizes too big. You only bought it because it was on a sale. It’s nothing compared to your actual lingerie.

And all Bucky knows is it makes you look so fucking sexy. And it drives him insane. A fact you both figured out the first night you wore it.

The second he saw you emerge from the bathroom, dressed in your new nightgown, smelling good and looking better, he was all over you. His lips created a path up your throat, hands on your ass, kneading and pushing so he could grind your cunt all over his growing bulge.

Then his long, ring-adorned fingers slipper under your gown, discovering that you had nothing on underneath, discovering your sweet little pussy was soaked and ready for him.

And Bucky Lost.His.Mind.

He had you on all fours, his cock stretching you so good it sent a fiery burn through your veins followed by sweet, sweet pleasure. You sobbed out his name. Or you tried to anyway. Buck—oh fuck barely left your mouth before it got swallowed by the wet moan he dragged out of your throat.

See normally he gives you time to adjust, let’s you savor that first deep thrust but tonight, he slides out of you, inch after inch, before pounding back into your tight, warm pussy.

Normally he starts off sweet and slow. Takes your hand and presses into your lower belly so you both can feel just how deep he can get. And he gets so deep in you, making you feel every warm ridge, every vein, every thick inch he has.

Normally he likes to tease, make you beg for it. Make you claw up his back until thin red lines mar his tattooed skin, knees locked around him, heels digging into the small of his back, desperately trying to get him, all of him, inside you.

Normally he starts off so damn sweet but not tonight. Tonight he’s fucking you rough and hard and fast. The steady thump, thump, thump of the headboard adding to the chorus of moans and cries coming from you with every filthy grind of his hips. The cadence of your pretty voice, needy and desperate, fuels the feral desire in him to wreck you, break you into little pieces, to leave you so full of cum, he’ll be dripping out of you for hours.

“That’s it. See you can take me like this.” His next thrust sends a fresh wave of tears rolling down your cheeks, your jaw slack. White hot pleasure twists up your spine, locking you in place even though part of you is begging for a reprieve.

It’s too much. It’s too good. He’s wrong you can’t take it, you can’t but you also can’t stop your pussy from spasming around him, pulling him back in whenever he leaves your tight, slick walls.

Whimpers that vaguely resemble oh god oh god ohmigod spill from your kiss-swollen lips.

That damn nightgown sticks to your sweat-slicked back. Bucky takes a handful, twisting in his grasp and he yanks you up until your back slams into his chest.

Wrapping his arm around your belly, his other hand curves around your throat, tilting your head so you can watch him fuck you. This sight of his thick cock, coated in your slick, disappering inside your pussy makes you clench down. His lips hover over your ear. “Look at you making a mess all over my cock. Your greedy pussy can’t get enough, can she? You need me to fill you up, you want my cum in your pretty little cunt.”

It’s not a question but you cry out anyway.

“Please, please.” God, you let him do anything he wants to you as long as he keeps fucking you just like that. “Don’t stop, please Bucky.” You’re so close, the edges of your orgasm curl around you, enveloping your senses in a hazy of heady, never-ending pleasure.

Bucky smirks, his eyes roaming over your face, taking in your blissed-out expression. “That’s my girl. My sweet little slut is going to cum all over me like a good fucking girl—,” he groans in your ear, his hips snapping into yours. “—and then I’m gonna cum deep inside this tight cunt.”

That coil that’s been winding tighter and tighter splinters when he drops his hand to your clit and rubs furious, frantic circles around it. Sensation after sensation pulses through you in thick, hot waves. It hits you so hard and fast, that you can’t even make a sound, your body going taut as your orgasm barrels over you.

The last thing you hear before a dull roar fills your ears and your vision blurs is Bucky promising to buy you ten more nightgowns.

And to fuck you on every surface of this house while you wear them.

And I—

[internetdaddy98]

Day One 

Previous | Next [Series Masterlist] Pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!SeniorResident!Reader Summary: You arrive to your first day of your fourth year as an Emergency Medicine resident. As you and your fellow fourth-years prepare to guide the new interns, Dr. Robby, the enigmatic and commanding attending physician, delivers his signature no-nonsense orientation speech.

Word Count: 1.4 K Content Warning: Medical procedures, will most likely be medically inaccurate at times, unresolved tension.

The first shift of your fourth year didn’t begin with fanfare. It began with an overripe banana in your navy jacket and three missed alarms. You had made it in with five minutes to spare. The green-and-white badge clipped to your chest felt heavier today. Senior Resident. You adjusted it twice before walking through the double doors of the ER, like the weight of it might suddenly feel natural if you just wore it right.

It didn’t. Not yet.

The Emergency Department was already alive with its usual symphony around you, the dull buzz of fluorescents, overhead calls, distant beeping, and the hum of organized chaos. The moment you walked towards the nurses' station, you were met with a familiar voice.

“Well, look who decided to show up. Fourth year already, huh? Damn. I’m getting old.” Dana stood behind the desk with a cup of lukewarm coffee and a sideways grin. A blonde strand of hair was tucked behind her ear, and her badge swung as she leaned over the counter.

You smiled, grateful for her warmth.

Dana Evans had been here longer than anyone. She loved her team fiercely and fought for them like a lioness, a mix of cool-headed authority and maternal instinct. And she had always looked out for you. Quietly. Unfailingly.

“You’ll do good Sheri,” she added, more softly, her eyes meeting yours. “You always do.”

You nodded, swallowing the knot in your throat. “Thanks, Dana.”

As you looked around the department, the ER started to infiltrate your senses. The ER smelled like coffee, antiseptic, and nervous sweat, which could only mean one thing.

Intern orientation.

You stood just to the side of the hub, clutching your travel mug like a lifeline while Santos balanced a doughnut box in her hand. The buzz of conversation was still light, nurses going back and forth with gossip between sips of lukewarm coffee, and your fellow fourth-years faking the confidence that came with a new badge.

Santos strutted over to you, box in one hand, sass in the other. “Happy Fourth Year to us,” she announced. “Time to abuse power and emotionally scar the interns. I’ve been dreaming of this.”

Whittaker followed a beat later, immediately dropping his stethoscope and fumbling with his badge. “Hi. I’m fine,” he said to no one in particular, crouching to pick them up.

You couldn’t help the small smile. 

Then came Mel, quiet as ever, earbuds still half in, with a pen tucked behind her ear and a notepad already in hand. She offered a little wave and a shy smile before taking stand next to you.

Together, the four of you made up the new senior class. Three years of trenches, trauma codes, midnight breakdowns, and vending machine dinners had formed a bond that was messy but strong. You knew their rhythms now, the cadence of their stress, how Trinity snapped gum when anxious, how Dennis narrated to himself under pressure, how Mel stilled completely when she was deep in thought.

And you — you were the quiet one. The calm. The unshakable center.

“Why do they always look like baby ducks?” Santos muttered beside you, watching the incoming class file in through the double doors.

“Because they’re about to be emotionally drowned,” you said, monotone.

“God, I missed your sunshine.”

A sharp, familiar voice cut across the room. “Alright, listen up.”

Everyone stilled.

Dr. Robinavitch, attending physician and gravitational center of the ER, stood at the head of the small cluster of residents and nurses. His hoodie was rumpled, his sleeves rolled up, and a stethoscope hung around his neck like it had been there since the Cold War.

“Huddle up,” he said. “Five minutes. Don’t make me herd you.”

The interns scurried closer, wide-eyed. You and the rest of your senior class, took your places near the back. Dana leaned against the counter with her arms crossed, watching like a hawk with a smile.

Dr. Robby scanned the group, voice steady and clipped. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Dr. Robinavitch. I’m the chief attending. You can call me Dr. Robby, or sir, or in the case of one intern last year ‘dad.’” His expression remained dry, though a ripple of laughter moved through the group.

“That intern was never seen again,” Dana added helpfully.

Dr. Robby ignored her. “You’ve officially survived med school. Congratulations. Now the real fun starts. This is the Emergency Department,  high acuity, high volume, and we do not tolerate egos. You mess up? Own it. You don’t know something? Ask. We protect each other here, and you’ll be expected to do the same.”

He paused, eyes sweeping the room until they landed on you.

“And your senior residents will be your lifelines. Listen to them. Learn from them. Especially Dr. Sheridan.”

A few heads turned toward you. You kept your expression neutral, even as something flickered behind your ribs at the sound of your name in his mouth.

“She’s quiet,” he continued, “but she’s one of the best we’ve had through this program.”

Santos leaned in close and whispered, “He likes you.”

You elbowed her without looking.

Dr. Robby gestured toward your group. “Drs. Santos, King, Whittaker, and Sheridan are fourth years, which make them your senior residents. They’ll be running most of your shifts. Any questions, take it to them first. If they can’t help, escalate to me, Dr. Collins or Dr. Langdon.”

At his mention, Dr. Langdon gave a short wave from the side of the room, easygoing and ever observant. He was the counterbalance to Robby’s steel. You always liked him for that.

“Any questions before we start rounds?” Robby asked.

An intern raised a tentative hand. “Uh… where’s the bathroom?”

“Follow the smell of crushed dreams,” Santos said.

Dana pointed toward the east hallway. “Second left, kiddo.”

With a short nod, Dr. Robby dismissed the group. “Alright. Fourth years, divide and conquer. Interns, stick close. You’ll be drowning in charting by noon. Welcome to the Pitt, let’s go save some lives.”

As the team dispersed, you stepped back beside Dana, feeling the weight of the moment settle in. Fourth year. This was it.

“You good, Sheri?” she asked you softly, using the nickname only she and Robby used.

You nodded. “Feels…weird. Like I’m supposed to know what I’m doing now.”

Dana’s eyes twinkled. “Fake it till you make it kid. That’s what we all did. Except Robby. He was born already carrying a cric kit and a superiority complex.”

“I heard that,” Robby muttered as he passed, eyes cutting sideways toward you. “Dr. Sheridan, you’re with me for Trauma 1. Let’s see how rusty you are after your vacation.”

“You gave me two days off.” you scoffed.

“And it shows.”

You followed him into the hallway, interns trailing behind like ducklings, and tried to ignore the way your pulse stuttered at the proximity. Three years of working under him had taught you nearly everything you knew about emergency medicine, and everything you didn’t want to know about longing in silence.

Something had changed last year. Quietly. Without permission.

He didn’t hover anymore, didn’t micromanage. You didn’t defer as much. You challenged him. And, more than once, he’d smiled at that. Not a condescending smirk, but something warmer, like he’d been waiting for you to push back.

There had been a moment, late one night during a consult, where your hands had brushed over the same EKG printout. You’d both paused. Neither moved.

The air had shifted.

And since then, a quiet game of restraint.

You shook the memory loose.

Robby glanced over his shoulder. “Sheri. You listening?”

You blinked. “Always.”

He quirked a brow. “Good. Don’t make me regret this.”

He didn’t.

Not yet.

And as you moved into Trauma 1 with the interns on your heels, Dana watching from the counter, and the ER waking into its usual barely-contained chaos, you felt it.

The beginning of something.

The fourth year had officially begun. Later, when a septic patient coded and the room exploded into motion, you found yourselves working side by side again. The rhythm was familiar, practiced. He intubated while you ran compressions. You handed him a syringe without being asked. He moved left as you moved right, and for a moment, it felt like breathing.

No one watching would guess that beneath the sterile efficiency was something frayed and quietly electric. No one but maybe Dana, who raised an eyebrow at you as she passed.

By noon, your scrubs were stained, your coffee was cold, and the new interns had already started whispering about “Dr. Sheridan” with a mixture of awe and confusion. She’s the small one who’s scary calm, you overheard one say near the supply closet.

You took it as a compliment.

The hours blurred. One trauma, two admissions, a consult from psych. Somewhere in between, you caught Dr. Collins entering from the physician lounge, tall, poised, still perfect even in blood-spattered scrubs. Her eyes flicked toward Robby as she passed him near the nurses’ station.

He didn’t react.

You did.

[buckiverse]

☆--- warnings: mdni, cat!xavier, needy xavier, mutal masturbation, handjob, nipple play

☆--- a/n: xavier's cock is specifically this hex code: #c97677 (pretty pink)

Being a veterinarian took work. Caring for animals all day was challenging enough but being responsible for Xavier after his…transformation was an entirely different story. Xavier wasn’t just any patient–he was a mix of feline grace and otherworldly intelligence hybrid. His calm demeanor and sharp awareness made him fascinating to work with, but the complexity of his transformation made it a work in progress.

So, when Xavier came into your home office complaining about back pains, your professional instincts struggled with the quiet worry that came with loving him. “Can you describe your symptoms?” you asked softly, glancing up from your desktop to meet his familiar, piercing gaze. The warmth in his eyes—a mix of affection and amusement—reminded you why this transformation was an adjustment.

Xavier tilted his head, a small smile playing at his lips as his tail flicked lazily behind him. “It’s not exactly pain, per se,” he said, his voice carrying that familiar soothing cadence. “More like… a dull ache that comes and goes. Especially when I stretch out after napping. Maybe you’ve been spoiling me too much,” he teased lightly, his gaze softening as it lingered on you. 

You jotted his symptoms in your notebook, a low sigh escaping your lips. “Maybe I have,” you added, your voice laced with quiet amusement. Rising from your chair, you nudged it toward the wall before turning back to Xavier, grabbing your stethoscope out of your bag.

“Want me to take a look?” you said, approaching him.

His legs spread open on the couch as he leaned forward, his hands pushing against the cushion, straightening his posture. “If you’re willing too, I don’t see why not,” he said, his head tilting slightly, his left ear perking up. 

“Take a deep breath. I’m going to check your heart rate first,” you instructed gently, resting a hand on Xavier’s shoulder. Your thumb began tracing small, soothing circles against his skin as you placed the stethoscope against his chest.

Your eyes closed as the steady rhythm of his heartbeat filled your ears. “It keeps getting faster,” you observed, your gaze dropping to him. Your eyes met his, a familiar warmth sparking between you. “Calm down for me,” you cooed, your tone soft.

“How could I,” Xavier began, his fluffy tail slowly swishing behind him, “when you’re so close to me?” he uttered as eyes studied you.

“Of course,” you said, kissing his lips with a gentle peck. His tail wrapped around you, urging you closer. “Sit down,” he whispered against your lips. He watched as you nodded silently, agreeing to his request. Making your move, you set your stethoscope on the cushion next to Xavier, placing your right knee on the couch and your hands on his shoulders. He waited patiently, observing you intently when you finally straddled his lap. 

His hand extended, stroking the skin of your cheek. “I missed you, honey,” he purred, his eyes softening as he admired the details of your face. 

“How? I was only gone a couple of hours,” you said, fully sitting on his lap. His eyes scanned your body before flickering back to meet yours. “Does it matter?” His hands held your hips, his thumb secretly sneaking under the fabric of your shirt, rubbing circles into your skin. “I always miss you,” he said.

His lips met yours gently, his hand cupping your cheek as if he were savoring your lips against his. The way his lips moved against yours sent warmth coursing through you, pulling you deeper.

You parted your lips slightly, his tongue running over your lips. When he slid his tongue into your mouth, you whimpered, your eyelids fluttering at the feeling of his tongue. “M-hm,” you moaned, your hips twitching into him. His hands caressed your back, pulling you flush against him. 

Your hands traveled up his chest, resting behind the softness of his ears. Your fingers stroked the fluff of his ear, tugging it ever so delicately. “Yeah…right there,” he breathed, his pupils blown wide, his cheeks flushed, his lips swollen from kissing you. He bit his lip, his brows furrowing and lips parting at the feeling of your hands. “By my ear,” he murmured, bringing your other hand up to his face, lapping at the skin on your wrist. 

“O-oh,” you stuttered, surprise evident in your reaction. You rolled your hips down into Xavier’s, gently caressing his ear. He placed your hand on his chest, observing you.

“Touch me…please,” he whimpered, guiding your hand down his abdomen to the bulge in his pants. You groped his length over his shorts, peeling the waistband down and revealing the tip of his cock. The head was pinkish-red, his slit leaking, begging to be touched. “You won’t make me beg, right?” he blurted, his hips jerking upwards. 

“So needy, aren’t you?” you teased, releasing his cock from his shorts completely. It sprung forward, resting against his abdominals. You drew spit in your mouth, taking on your fingers, lubricating his length. You wrapped your hands around him, studying him. You swiped your thumb over the slit, “Please… y/n,” he whimpered, his hips bucking into your hand. You bit your lip, stroking his cock. His head fell back onto the couch. The flush on his face added to the electricity building inside you. 

His hands found your breasts, caressing them over the fabric of your shirt. Working his hands under the fabric, the chills of his fingertips caused your nipples to harden. His pointer finger circled the nub before flicking it with his feline-like nails. Your breath hitched in your throat when the sharp scrape of his nails hit your nipples. “Fuck, d-do that again,” you mewled, your grip tightening around his cock. 

He tugged your nipple, sending a shiver down your spine. The dig of his nails against your nubs made you roll your hips against his muscular thighs. “Xav, m’ almost there,” you pleaded, your pussy pulsating around nothing. 

Your eyes met, and the snap of his cock into your hands intensified, causing you to tighten your grip. Your eyes glossed over when he tugged your sensitive nubs, and you felt the electricity of your orgasm wash over you. “m’ cumming, Xav’” you moaned, your thighs shaking on his stronger ones as your body fell forward onto his, your head landing on his shoulder.

Grounding yourself, you tugged his tail. Xavier's hips thrust into your hand again. “Honey,” he groaned out, his abdominals flexing as his cum squirted on your hand and his stomach. You raised your head from his shoulders, meeting his gaze, your grip on him finally releasing, and he kissed you sweetly, “I missed having my partner around,” he whispered.

[beuxwhoyouare]

Preying on Him

We were at one of those Spartan type races when I saw him…what a beaut. I guess what they say about gays is true, they all end up falling for their doppelgängers. I mean maybe it’s my delusion but we shared quite a few similarities. Our physiques were similar and our heights were a near exact match. So I guess if you had like facial blindness and squinted and I dyed my hair darker we could be twins.

You may laugh because that sounds like a lot but in my head it was almost like the world challenging me to do it. I navigated my way through the mud and pulled my way towards the wall when I saw him to my left. He’s so cute and his light colored eyes were hypnotic.

I had to give up on any hopes of winning the race as I worked to trail him. I wouldn’t say I have an obsessive personality until that point but maybe that was the catalyst for it forming. I just wanted to know everything I could about him.

The race ended and I saw him meet up with a group. Once he separated and told them he’d meet them there I manufactured a moment of us “bumping” into each other. A quick glance was all I needed for now but I knew it wouldn’t be enough.

So sure I stalked him for the rest of the evening and saw him pick up on all the nuances of how he interacted with friends, how he moved, and even the cadences of his voice. His was a little raspier than mine, I mentally took note. Eventually, he separated from his friends saying he’d meet them at the after-race kickback. Returning to conventional modesty he sheathed a form fitting shirt over his lustful physique and taking a selfie to update his friends and followers.

I was nearly entranced and salivating over him. Eventually I naively decided without a plan to follow him, I trailed him as he went to the store to get liquor and snacks to share with his friends. Following him throughout the store, I began to realize that while there were similarities between us, he was like an idealized version of me. More muscle, more conventionally attractive features, and more masculine. At checkout I got close to him but kept my distance and found out his name as he sifted through his wallet for his ID, Benito, but his friends called him Benny.

It was the perfect name and reading it was nearly enough to break me. The day continued and so did my stalking, eventually leading to the kickback by a forested area by the lake. It was so chill and you could easily tell him and his friends were enviously charismatic and cool. I parked at a distance and sifted through all the random things in my car. I worked in medical device sales and I was sure I could figure out one unsellable device in here that could help me achieve my twisted climax.

Aha there’s this thing? I never could find the right psychiatrist for this one. It claimed to be an empathy device, someone incapable of feeling empathy for others could in theory garner that of the user. I don’t know if it actually worked but I’m sure I could tinker with it to make it exchange a little more than just some empathy.

As I sat there sifting through the devices code in the backseat of my car I made sure to alternate on keeping an eye on Benny. I made some tweaks and hoped I had done enough. The taser like device required skin to skin contact which was definitely a major fault with this plan but a moment presented itself as Benny waltzed away to go pee at a nearby bush. As he began to pee, I pounced turning the device on and launched at his neck. Too stunned to react, I made contact and a spark burst out and then everything went black.

I’m not sure how much later but I woke back up to some people shaking me as I lay on the ground. My blurry vision slowly started to focus and so did the. Sound of what they were saying to me. “Yo Benny dude wake up are you okay? We called the park rangers on that dude, are you good?”

I tried to hold in my laughter but a smirk appeared across my face. I had done it. They were calling me Benny. I pretended to be shocked by the attack as I snuck one of my new hands under my shirt to feel the new goods.

I told the people I just wanted to head out and go home, but my perverse desires were already taking hold of me as I walked back to my jeep. I couldn’t stop copping a feel of everything. My hands migrated one at a time from my new cobbled stomach going back and forth between relaxing and flexing, eventually moving my hands to squeeze my new arms and chest. I made my way to the vehicle and fumbled looking for an ID with a home address.

I sped off after putting it in the gps, continuing my exploration. Well over the speed limit, I was matching the speed of my heart beating as I ran my hands across my hair. I wanted to do more now but I needed to be in private.

I parked anywhere I could find at the address and ran as fast as my new muscular legs would let me. After a few failed attempts to get into the home, I made it inside and began nearly ripping my clothes off. He was so strong I could hear some seams pop as I thought I was being gentle taking it off.

I got to the last piece of clothing and was nearly salivating. I paused to savor the moment before I truly went carnal. Taking a picture before losing my innocence in this new vessel. I quickly turned my attention to the growing rod in my hardly modest boxer briefs. It may not be that long but it was intimidatingly thick. Like I needed both hands to wrangle that horse. And once I started I needed to brace myself against a wall.

I stroked with both of my hands expertly in a way this body craved. I was normally silent when doing this kind of thing, but this body wouldn’t allow that. Moans and sighs of unbelief escaped every other stroke. I don’t know if Benny lived alone but if he didn’t, everyone nearby is getting the erotic audible show of their lives.

I should’ve expected it since we met at a spartan race, but his endurance was ridiculous. Minutes in I was simultaneously beyond aroused and almost bored. I wanted to finish so bad but also never wanted it to end. And just then, I felt it and as I began to frantically look for something to finish in, it escaped everywhere. I fell to my knees as I let it release load after load in the room. I thought I had enough but couldn’t stop myself from licking up my mess on the floor, before falling over breathless.

I just laughed and walked myself to the shower. As I turned on the water, I walked back to see my new reflection in the mirror….what a good day to be Benny.

[miirily]

You’re assigned to monitor his neural patterns. You’re supposed to keep him stable. But he starts speaking to you through the interface. You’ve never met him in person. You shouldn’t even care. But somehow, he knows your name.

You sit in the cold, humming dark of the bunker, the only light coming from the array of monitors bathing your face in spectral blue. The underground smells like rust and old circuits, a recycled metallic tang that never leaves your lungs. You’ve been down here too long. You don't remember the last time you saw the sky, real or artificial.

Your hands hover over the interface, fingers twitching from too much caffeine and too little sleep. Gojo Satoru’s neural stream dances across the screen: a cascade of biofeedback, erratic synaptic patterns that don’t line up with the others. He’s different. You’ve known that since the first night you were assigned to him. They told you to stabilise his mind. To monitor. To never engage. But the data keeps changing. He dreams too vividly. Too intentionally. And he keeps trying to reach you.

Tonight, the stream flickers in an unfamiliar rhythm—short, sharp pulses, repeating. You think it’s a glitch at first. Then you recognise the cadence. Morse code.

Y-O-U-R N-A-M-E I-S N-O-T L-O-S-T.

The blood drains from your face. You haven’t heard your real name in years, haven’t really thought about it anymore. Not since they deleted you. Not since you buried your identity beneath layers of stolen credentials and silence. You haven’t said it out loud in over a decade, and yet Gojo, somehow, has pulled it from the ash of the system.

Your fingers tremble as you check the uplink. Audio disabled. Mic off. Camera one-way only.

And then he moves.

On the main monitor, he lifts his head. Slowly. Deliberately. A shadow peels off his face as he moves, revealing bright, unblinking blue eyes so unnaturally clear they almost seem backlit, glowing faintly in the sterile light of the cell. They’re the kind of eyes that look through things. Through you. His snow-white hair falls messily across his brow, damp with sweat, strands catching the light like glass threads. His gaze drifts upward, towards the embedded lens in the ceiling. Not by accident. Not vaguely. He’s looking exactly at it. Like he knows. Like he’s always known.

“You’re not just watching me, are you?”

His voice cuts through the air like it was born in your own skull. There’s no channel open. No possible path for transmission. But you hear him. Not through the speakers. Inside you. Like an echo pressed into the bones of your mind.

Your stomach knots. It shouldn’t be possible. None of this should be possible. But there he is, staring through the screen like it’s a window. Not a barrier.

You tear off your headset, breathing hard. Your heartbeat is thunder in your ears. Fear mixes with something else, something sharp and electric. Recognition.

He knows you.

You run a trace, frantically chasing the path of the message. Firewalls, encrypted data towers, black protocols. None of it explains this. Until you find it, buried deep beneath government code, nearly fossilised.

ECHO_01.

Your code. Your old failsafe. A hidden backdoor you wrote long ago when you were still someone. Meant to preserve the humanity of the mind before the State tore it away.

You never thought it survived. But it did. Just like Gojo.

Your hand moves on its own, reaching for the mic. One word makes it out, soft and strangled.

“…Satoru.”

He blinks, and a slow, knowing smile touches his lips.

“They’re watching,” he says, as calm as if you’re old friends meeting after lifetimes. “But not like you. You see me.”

Your throat tightens. He presses a hand to the mirrored wall of his cell. Without thinking, you lift your own to the screen. The glass is cold, but your fingertips tingle like they’ve made contact.

“I’m waking up,” he says, and there’s something infinite in his voice. “But I need you to do something.”

Lights flicker overhead. Sirens whine to life, metallic and angry. Unauthorised contact detected. Protocol breach. They know.

“I need you,” Gojo whispers, “to remember who you are.”

Then he steps even closer. Slow, measured movements, like he's afraid to scare you off. The sterile light above him flickers, throwing long shadows that stretch across the walls of his containment cell. His face tilts toward the lens, and for a heartbeat, it feels like he’s looking straight through it, straight into you.

You know it’s impossible. The camera is one-way. The interface is untraceable. You're buried under a mile of concrete and dead signal. And yet—

His eyes. Those bright, glacial blue eyes. They seem to lock onto yours with impossible clarity. Like he can see your expression, read the panic in your posture, feel the way your breath catches in your chest.

He leans in closer. So close now that the strands of his snow-white hair fall into his eyes, soft and fine like ash caught in moonlight. The monitor pixelates slightly under the pressure of his proximity, but even through the static, his presence is overwhelming.

“I remember,” he says softly.

Your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears. The sirens blare overhead, sharp, mechanical alarms that tell you you’ve gone too far, that containment has been breached, that someone is coming. But none of that feels real. Only his voice feels real.

“I remember what they took from you,” he breathes. “From us.”

Your hand is still pressed against the screen, trembling now. You don’t know why, but something inside you cracks. A fragment of something long buried rises to the surface, an image you can’t place, a laugh you don’t remember making, the echo of warmth in a world that turned cold long ago.

Gojo doesn’t flinch as the lights around him dim and flicker. He just keeps watching you.

“I remember the garden,” he whispers, barely audible beneath the shriek of the alarms. “The light in your eyes. You said we weren’t meant to be weapons. We believed that, once.”

Your breath stutters. A tear slips down your cheek before you even realise it’s there. Your fingers curl against the glass.

“I need you to wake up,” he says, voice like smoke and snow. “Because I can't do this without you.”

Then everything goes black. Feed terminated. Bunker silent.

But the silence doesn’t feel empty.

Because deep beneath the layers of dead code and static, his voice still pulses in your mind.

[grandisknight]

xavier: your lipstick stains

summary: Xavier helps you out with the age-old dilemma of figuring out what lipstick to wear. Although, his personal take is one you’ve never thought of until now.

tags: established relationship, gender neutral!reader, fluff, lipstick, kissing, light evol use/mention, implied/suggestive ending, banter, teasing, one shot, in the bathroom, ‘starlight’ nickname

+ wc: 1.7k | ao3

a/n: inspired by that one moment in his lost signal card bc the lips line(tm) is canon ₍ ᐢ.ˬ.ᐢ₎

⊹˚₊‧───────────‧₊˚⊹

No, not this one.

Too warm, too cool—one would be too glossy while the other barely reflected any sheen coat. How many have you gone through at this point?

If only choosing a shade of lipstick was as easy as counting to three, you would’ve finished getting ready a while ago. A familiar pile of soaked cottons stained in shades ranging from a family of reds to browns sit off to the side of your counter. And currently, a freshly-dipped micellar round was swiping over your lips once more in defeat.

Great, another one bites the dust.

For some reason, today of all days, not a single shade complimented your appearance. The offended tubes of balm were littered in slight disarray, varying in size and color. There were enough of them present that you could line them up into a series of dominos and watch as they fall in succession. Your eyes narrowed at the selection, one of your own curation, in disbelief at the sense of betrayal they quietly emitted.

A pair of gentle taps break your dazed stare.

“Are you okay? You’ve been in there for a while.”

The soft cadence was muffled between the thick wood separating the two of you, and your eyes lift to gaze at the door through the mirror. Past your own reflection, where your lips have seen better days. Right, he was waiting for you.

“Sorry, I promise I’ll be out soon.” You offer in apology, a slight pang of guilt pricking your skin at the sound of it.

It’s just lipstick. Should be something so simple and quick to get over with, yet here you were about to—dramatically so—end it all because not a single shade felt right. “Just, ugh. Doing something.”

“Would you mind if I stepped in? I can help you,” he offers, though makes no move to push the door handle. Patient as ever, a calm that was an opposite to your current storm of frustration.

You contemplate for a moment. But surely, it wouldn’t hurt to get a second opinion, right? A set of fresh eyes in comparison to your wearied ones that have engraved these shades, and your opinions on them, deep into your frontal lobe. So you decided then with a nod what had to be done.

“The door’s open.”

A pleasant creaking noise welcomed in the light from beyond and the man who shouldered it. Xavier was dressed to the nines, cream blazer neatly ironed down to the very creases and onyx turtleneck sneaking up to his Adam’s apple. A dreamy sight, practically glowing and an angel without wings—truly, the date night dress-code for an excursion out of Linkon did wonders.

His shoulders press against the doorframe, arms crossed in thought as he assessed the situation before him. A heartbeat passes in the moment his curious gaze trailed over your figure from head to toe, and away to the messy counter that housed your bathroom activities.

“You look beautiful,” he concludes with a matter-of-fact tone. His brow creases when you don’t even offer him a small smile, sensing the distress radiating from your stare. “Oh. Is something else the matter?”

“This,” you emphasize, pointing a finger to your lower lip. There was a slight stain of previous pigments, a testament to your efforts thus far, and a sigh pushed past it. “I know it might seem a bit silly, but I’ve been struggling with finding something that works.”

Xavier takes a step forward, crossing into the small space as you spun around in succession. Your chests nearly met each other in close proximity and a hand under your chin led your eyes to his. Reflectively, his thumb runs over the plush of the source to your current woes.

He hums. “Even your favorite one?”

“Even my favorite one,” you reaffirm. Your usual shade was a lost cause, which was when you knew that today was definitely not your day.

His eyes never left your lips as he posed another question. “I have one you might like. Would you like to try it?”

“Really?” Your ears perked at the suggestion, curious as to what mysterious shades he would have up his sleeve. “What is it—Mmph?”

A soft press of his lips against yours consume your query, neatly melting into your touch like a puzzle piece finding its match. By instinct, your eyes fluttered shut and arms looped around his neck, quickly welcoming the sudden lip-locking.

His hands smooth themselves over your sides, gently guiding your bodies to push against the counter and attached himself to you with a further dip of his head. The walls of the bathroom do well to echo every ardent press of his lips onto yours—the warmth of his mouth enhanced the light traces of cherry underneath his breath, a familiar taste that undoubtedly belonged to him.

It was only when you began to feel his hands sneakily toy underneath the fabric of your top and tongue push against yours that you pull back, breathless in effect.

“Xavier.”

The first call goes past his ears, his lips dragging past your chin and peppering a line across your jaw. As much as you enjoyed this—you were losing sight of the plot, and needed to pull on the reigns once more in reminder. Both literally and figuratively speaking.

A slight tug to his nape and an emphasis to his vowels, you call out to him again. “Xavier.”

He paused with the second announcement of his name, warm breath fanning over the shell of your ear. Xavier pulls back then, and you could barely make out the ringlets of his steeled blues with how dilated they looked at you instead.

“Sorry,” he breathes. A fleeting kiss to the tip of your nose adds to his apology. “I got carried away.”

“You’re fine,” you reassured, patting down his nape in turn.

Although, your brow raised as the question pushed down your throat from several seconds ago rises upwards. “What lipstick were you referring to? You know, before all of this.” You gesture between yourselves, only just now realizing how naturally his legs were slotted between your own, and lower back leaning into the counter’s edge.

“The color of my lips suit you best.” Xavier responds as if it was the most sensible solution in the world, an edge of sincerity to his simple yet meaningful words. “So, that’s my answer.”

Even so, you snorted, lightly pushing his forehead back with a finger. “Weren’t you the one who said that my lips suited you back then?” Memories of the promotional filming flicker in your mind, and the same happens to Xavier in the way his ears flush.

“Same difference.”

He avoids your teasing gaze, a hand lifted to shyly itch at the side of his neck. It didn’t last long, however, when his eyes twinkled in mirth as they returned to yours. “But, hm. Here's the thing...”

“Hm?” You echoed, though in confusion and a sense of foreboding. Searching his face leads you to your answer, where his now slightly chapped lips curled into a small smile. You swipe over his mouth in amusement. “Well, well. What do we have here?”

He answers amidst your touches, lightly nipping at your searching digit towards the end. “Looks like I’ll need some lipstick recommendations. Don’t you have any for me?”

“I might,” you play along, withdrawing your finger. Your hand cups his cheek in turn, admiring the way his face nuzzled further into your palm in wait. “But we’ll be late for dinner if I show you.”

“That’s fine.” Xavier answers almost too quickly, blinking somewhat innocently to spare some face in the height of your raised suspicions. “I think I’d want some dessert first before we go, anyways.”

"I don't think that's how this works—Ah!"

You let out a surprised yelp at his unsuspecting hands sliding under your thighs, lifting you to sit atop the counter. Your hands steady themselves on his shoulders, in slight disbelief at the newfound shift. A couple of lipstick tubes roll from the sudden intrusion, hitting the floor with light clicks and littering the tiles below.

Your huff matches his chuckle at the disposition you've found yourself in, and you lightheartedly cross your arms with a pout. “I thought you wanted the lipstick?” You quip, reminding him of his own proposal just mere seconds ago. "Now you want to talk about desert this and that."

"Am I not allowed to want both?" He candidly asks in turn, gaze lowered and long lashes kissing the height of his cheeks.

"...You can," you quietly confirm, words suddenly feeling dry at the expense of the heat steadily pricking your skin. Was it always this hot in here? It certainly was now, and you were far from complaining.

The butterflies in your stomach became tenfold as he drew closer to your raised body—one hand mindlessly caressed your thigh as the other gestured off to the side in a soft luminance. A whirr of light wraps itself around one of the closest rouges, seemingly floating in effect.

Xavier calmly uncaps the balm then, waving it around in the air with specks of light floating all about. It stops just before you, barely touching the skin below your cupid’s bow and moves with a faint swipe. “Then, I’ll just have to borrow it from you this way.”

He closes the distance between your faces once more, a kiss so fleeting yet purposeful sealing his promise. Another swipe of lipstick and a planted peck followed in suit—though a third brush of his lips against yours couldn't hide the smile on his face, enjoying the play of events under his crafted direction. He pulls back with a content hum, putting the lipstick aside and smoothing his hands over your thighs once more.

You find yourself staring at his lips, now equally as stained as yours and enhancing the natural hues of his pink. "You got your lipstick, and I got mine," you mused, pursing your lips together in thought. "Are we good to go now?"

"Not quite." Xavier shakes his head, nose nudging the underside of your chin and tracing towards your collarbone. He speaks into the cavern that protects your heart, fingers drumming against you before squeezing lightly.

"I haven't had my dessert yet, starlight."

[kingkruell]

MARGINALIA | PART 1: INTRODUCTION

THE SPACE BETWEEN LINES

WC: 3.029

a nerdjo series

listening to the boy - the smashing pumpkins

[please comment down below if you know the artist for the nerdjo art, all credits to them]

taglist: @sylusonlylove @bakugouswaif @n1vi @arthrizzia

<3 kindly reblog and comment to be added on the taglist for the next part!

gojo satoru doesn’t belong in this class.

he knows it the second he steps into room 4b-21—ten minutes late, naturally. the fluorescent lights buzz overhead like they’re annoyed with him, the ac is set to arctic, and his iced coffee is already half melted by the time he shoulders the door open with the kind of carelessness that only comes from doing things too often without consequence.

he isn’t supposed to be here. media ethics, of all things. a filler elective he picked in a blur of last-minute registration panic, he thought the title sounded dramatic. maybe something about wartime propaganda or political psy-ops. instead, it’s all discussion boards and debates about journalistic framing. he should be bored.

his eye scans the room. empty seat. you.

you’re just there, pen between your fingers, the glow from the window softening the edges of your face as you tilt your head, reading over something like it matters. you’ve got that look about you; focused, unbothered, maybe a little skeptical. he blinks once, as if that might help. then, without thinking too hard, he slides into the empty seat beside you.

“hey,” he says, like he’s always sat there, like you’ve been in this together and not like he just transferred into the class two weeks late because he “forgot to register.”

you glance at him. sideways, unimpressed. 

“you in journalism?”

“god, no,” he replies, almost offended. “i’m in theoretical computer science.”

your eyebrow arches. “so why are you in media ethics?”

he shrugs. “thought it’d be about cults or propaganda or something. it’s not.”

it’s really not.

still, he stays.

that’s the problem.

because satoru’s the kind of guy you expect to vanish after week three. the one with the untamable hair, the anime stickers, the half-zipped hoodie over a shirt that probably says something stupid like “404: motivation not found.” the guy with a laptop full of code windows and two tabs open to reddit. he doesn’t belong here. not in this room, not beside you.

but then he starts showing up early. sometimes earlier than you.

he reads the articles. not always thoroughly, but enough. he doesn’t speak often in class, but when he does, it’s sharp and strangely lucid. once, he compared legacy journalism to a failed open-world game release. the professor paused. then wrote it down.

you don’t think much of it at first. he’s just another guy with too much brain and not enough filter.

but he notices things.

or, he doesn’t, not really. not in the beginning. you’re part of the ambient noise of the class to him: the scribble of pens, the shuffle of laptops, the soft chime of someone’s phone not quite silenced. until you say something about editorial bias in conflict zones. no warning, just words delivered with this clipped cadence of someone who knows what they’re talking about.

he’s halfway through fidgeting with his airpod case when you speak, and by the time you finish, his fingers are still.

and then he realizes—he hasn’t written a single note.

“huh,” he says under his breath, not really to anyone.

the next time he sees you, he notices your handwriting. it’s kind of a mess. tight, slanted, like it’s always mid-sprint. but when you’re really focused, it straightens out. neat. clear. he catches himself watching the shift, like it’s some kind of code he could learn to read.

he doesn’t tell anyone about you. not at first.

but one day, over lunch with geto on the grass behind the comp-sci building, he’s halfway through a takoyaki and staring at nothing when geto asks, “you like that class?”geto leans over during their late lunch in the quad, picking limp rice from his bowl with tired chopsticks.

satoru shrugs, mouth full of takoyaki. “it’s fine. good lighting.”

suguru eyes him. “you stayed the whole hour. that’s new.”

satoru chews. looks away.

he doesn’t say your name. doesn’t mention the way your earphones are always tangled or how you tilt your head when you’re thinking, like you’re listening to a voice only you can hear. he doesn’t mention how sometimes, when you smile to yourself at something you’re reading, it throws him completely off balance.

instead, he just keeps showing up.

and you start noticing. maybe. he likes to think you did.

like when he accidentally ends up in your seat, technically unassigned, but everyone knows classroom territory is sacred, and you don’t move your bag. like when he murmurs commentary during a documentary screening and you roll your eyes, but don’t tell him to shut up. like when you ask if he did the reading, not to challenge him, but just because you’re... curious.

he had, actually.

“skimmed it,” he lies.

“you quoted it last class,” you say, barely looking up.

he shifts in his chair. “did i?”

you hum, keep typing. he watches your fingers fly across the keys and wonders—not for the first time—what it is you’re writing. you hum. keep typing. your laptop has a cracked sticker on it that says ‘support local journalist’, he doesn’t know whether you’re being earnest, or maybe it’s just ironic. he doesn’t know yet. later that week, he sends a message in the group chat with nanami and utahime.

satoru [10:49 pm] what font says “i’m not flirting i just think your brain is hot”

nanami [10:55 pm]                       .

utahime [11:00 pm] is this about the girl in your ethics class

satoru has left the chat

yeah, it starts to bother him.

not with a bang, not with some spectacular implosion of routine. satoru’s life doesn’t work like that. he’s calibrated, habitual. if something’s wrong, it shows up in data: a late submission, a missed semicolon, a glitch in a simulation. but this? this is quiet. this is slow. it settles like a bug in his system that doesn't crash anything outright, but keeps making things slightly off.

it lives in the silence between your questions, in the little pauses where he finds himself watching your hands rather than answering. it lingers in the rhythm of your pen clicking against your notebook when you're thinking, like punctuation to the air between your thoughts. it’s in the way his code starts to blur after hours at his desk, because some part of his brain keeps returning—rebooting, replaying—something you said two days ago in a tone that shouldn’t matter but somehow does.

he doesn’t even know what it is, not exactly. just that it’s inconvenient.

satoru doesn’t do crushes. he crushes deadlines. he crushes bot matches at 3 a.m., fingers flying, screens casting their ghostly light across his room. he crushes ice into his coffee like it owes him rent.

but this?

this is... what?

he tries to analyze it the only way he knows how: through logic. he builds a mental chart, starts labeling behaviors like they're lines of code in need of debugging.

emotional spike when subject speaks: moderate

unprompted recall of subject’s prior comments: high

involuntary proximity-seeking: very high (potential red flag?)

increased engagement with previously irrelevant topics: off the charts

it’s a pattern. familiar, almost. he’s seen it in his ai simulations. character attachment markers, relational drift patterns. but the thing about simulations is that you can reset them. you can scrub the memory, rerun the code.

you’re not a simulation.

you’re not data.

and that makes this—whatever this is—unquantifiable. unstable. real.

he googles how to tell if you like someone at 1:12 a.m. and instantly regrets it. but he keeps scrolling anyway, curled into his hoodie, blinking under the cool burn of the monitor. the listicles are unhelpful. so are reddit threads. half of them contradict each other.

his heart doesn’t race. that’s not how it feels. it's more like... the world slows down when you're near. like your presence drags a cursor across his attention span and highlights everything he didn’t think to notice before. this is different, right?

he closes the tab.

he’s not in love.

you just have this cadence when you speak. a sort of precision, like you’re choosing words by feel. it loops in his brain like a clean line of code. efficient. elegant.

he finds himself remembering things you’ve said for no reason. little throwaway observations. a quote from an article you were writing. a joke about the vending machines in the journalism building. things that should fade into the background, but don’t.

and the worst part? he’s started reading your articles.

he doesn’t even like journalism. he used to scoff at it; too many feelings, too little structure. but now, he reads them at night, scrolling with a concentration he usually reserves for research papers and rare dev blogs. and when he gets to the end of one, there’s this strange ache in his chest, like the absence of your voice on the page leaves something unfinished.

then he hears your name. maybe from the professor, said in passing with the kind of casual fondness that suggests you've answered every discussion prompt with too much insight and not enough hesitation. maybe from the attendance sheet, called out and answered with that familiar cadence of yours: low, even, like you’re measuring syllables with your breath.

either way, it lodges itself in his head. loops like a line of unused dialogue in a game he hasn’t unlocked yet.

after class, he walks out with shoko. she’s not in the class—just passing through, loitering near the bike racks with a cigarette dangling from her lips and her hoodie pulled halfway over her face.

satoru scrolls aimlessly on his phone, thumb moving, screen static.

“you’re quieter than usual,” she says, exhaling smoke into the sharp winter air.

“huh?” he looks up, a little too quickly. “no, i’m not.”

shoko squints, amused. “you watching that girl the whole time?”

he flinches.

“what girl?”

she laughs. doesn’t answer. just flicks ash onto the pavement and says, “thought so.”

it gets worse when you start talking to him like you've known him for years.

“hey,” you say one morning, sliding into the seat next to him two minutes before lecture. your jacket’s damp from the mist, and your fingers are cold as they brush the edge of his notebook by accident. you don’t look at him. “your tea smells sad.”

he blinks. glances down at his drink. “…it’s honey milk jasmine.”

“exactly,” you mutter, opening your laptop. and he doesn't know why that makes his chest feel too warm.

after that, it spirals.

you bump elbows when reaching for shared worksheets. you roll your eyes when he mutters commentary during in-class documentaries, but you don’t tell him to stop. sometimes—only sometimes—you ask his opinion on a topic. just a simple, “what do you think?” or, “would you quote that?” and it shouldn’t mean anything. it probably doesn’t. but it makes his hands feel clumsy and his thoughts slow, like someone tilted the world just enough to make him stumble.

he doesn’t know when it started, exactly—the shift. the way your presence makes the air feel different. charged. softer. like the light hangs a little differently when you’re near, like even the shadows pause to trace the shape of your face.

he watches you when you speak, catches the way your mouth curves on certain vowels, the quiet determination in your hands when you gesture mid-sentence. the way your hair always falls a little undone, like it refuses to obey neatness. like it’s alive with the same restless energy you carry in your eyes.

one friday night, the dorm is half-asleep. the halls hum with fluorescent fatigue and leftover noise from weekend plans. satoru, geto, and nanami are holed up in the corner of the common room, buried in the skeleton of their semester project: cables, printouts, energy drinks, three laptops overheating in synchrony.

satoru is supposed to be debugging a simulation script. instead, his screen flashes an error message he’s read twenty times without understanding. the cursor blinks at him, smug.

geto doesn’t look up. “you haven’t typed anything.”

satoru stretches, hoping it looks nonchalant. “thinking.”

nanami frowns. “you’ve been on the same line for half an hour.”

geto finally glances over—and smirks. “why is the student blog open?”

satoru slams the tab shut so fast it clicks. “i was researching.”

“researching what,” geto says, deadpan. “your feelings?”

satoru throws a pocky stick at his head. “shut up.”

too late. nanami exhales, long-suffering. “so it’s the girl from your ethics class.”

“what—no,” satoru says. way too fast. “i just—i like her writing.”

geto raises an eyebrow. “sure.”

a pause. the low hum of the heater. the quiet clicking of nanami’s keyboard.

“…i like her handwriting,” satoru says, softer this time, like he can’t stop himself.

both heads turn toward him.

“it’s weird,” he continues, eyes fixed on a water stain on the ceiling.

“it’s all cramped and slanted, like she’s racing against her own brain. but when she writes something she really cares about—like in class, during a heated discussion or something—it straightens out. like the thought pulls her posture up. like the words stop running and start standing still.”

a beat of silence.

then geto, almost reluctant: “okay, that’s actually… kind of beautiful.”

satoru shrugs. rubs the back of his neck.

“you’re gone,” nanami mutters. “this is pathetic.”

“shut up.”

“you’re writing poetry about her penmanship.”

“i said shut up.”

“tell her,” geto says.

satoru sits up straight. “what? no.”

“why not?”

“she thinks i’m dumb,” he mumbles. “or just loud. or annoying.”

“you’re literally top of our major.”

“yeah, but she’s—” satoru gestures helplessly. “journalism. she talks like every sentence is a thesis. like she’s narrating her own memoir. and i’m just… me.”

a quiet moment.

then he adds, a little softer, “she once said mmorpg guild politics reminded her of inter-office media sabotage.”

geto blinks. “what?”

“like, hierarchy. gossip. power plays. she had this whole theory about it. i thought it was insane but… she wasn’t wrong.”

nanami downs the rest of his coffee. “you’re in love with her.”

“oh my god,” satoru groans. “i’m not.”

“you absolutely are.”

“shut up.”

“no, seriously,” geto grins. “tell her. worst-case scenario, she writes a scathing editorial about it.”

“actually,” nanami says, “worst-case scenario, she corrects your grammar.”

“kill me,” satoru mutters into his hands.

for you, it begins with a message you don’t expect.

thursday, just after six, you’re halfway through a walk back from the library, one earphone in, your other hand balancing a lukewarm americano and a half-folded notebook crammed with interview notes. your phone buzzes in your pocket at the crosswalk, and when you check it, there it is—his name.

gojo satoru [6:28 pm] your handwriting’s kind of insane. in a good way. like if emotions could curl their toes

gojo satoru [6:31 pm} also your eyes do this thing when you're listening really hard. like your eyebrows lean forward first?? anyway

you stare at the screen. then at the sender. then back at the screen.

“what…” you chuckled, brows stil furrowing.

you stop walking. weird. the phrasing is so… him. the kind of message that wasn’t written so much as spilled. and of course, the compliment is… unexpected. not unwelcome, but oddly specific. precise in a way that feels more like observation than flattery. 

you blink once. then again. then let out a laugh under your breath. he’s the guy who always sits beside you in media ethics—his seat habitually taken before you even arrive. he’s the one whose backpack is always unzipped, half his notebooks spilling out like paper confetti, whose hair looks perpetually mussed from leaning over three monitors at once. apparently, he’s some comp-sci genius, top of his major, apparently.

he’s an acquaintance. a classmate. the two of you share the same demographic footnote in your university’s directory but nothing more. your conversations barely crack three lines before they dissolve into polite nods and the gentle tap of keys. once, you joked about the vending machine coffee being “ethically problematic,” and he quipped back that even corporate exploitation has a kernel of truth. you smiled and returned to your notes; he returned to his hidden commentary in the margins of his notebook. that was the sum of it.

he got your number from that group project, probably. the one where he did three people’s worth of work in one nigh because half ot the group had ghosted you bot that time, and he insisted he could finish off the rest of the job. only that then he forgot to attach the final report until ten minutes before the deadline. he cracked a few jokes over the shared google doc. you corrected his grammar once. he said “rude” and added a semicolon with theatrical flair.

yet now, suspended between his casual compliment and the question of what it means, you realize how little you actually know him. not the way you know the soft clack of your favorite pen, or the comforting weight of your notebook when it lies open on your lap. you don’t know if he’s the kind of person who guards secrets behind that easy grin, or the kind who shares half-spoken thoughts like breadcrumbs, trusting that someone is paying attention. you don’t know whether he values precision or spontaneity. 

you don’t know why you’re even thinking about this. you shrug your shoulders.

you don’t respond. not because you’re ignoring him, but because you genuinely don’t know what to say. like seriously, what does one respond with to a message like that? that night, in bed, with your laptop still open to a blank document and the hum of a podcast low in the background, you tap on his message again. you read it under dim light, curled on your side, wondering what compelled him to notice something so small. you thought for a moment: my handwriting is nice. a little cramped, maybe, but controlled. readable. you write with the same discipline you speak with: measured, intentional, clean lines. you don’t show your drafts unless they’re ready.

but your eyebrows?

you squint at your phone. what a stupid thing to notice. what a weird, wonderful, too-much sort of observation.

…and weirdly enough, it stays with you longer than you expect.

[the-northern-continent]

Rhythm and Breath in Dragon Age: Inquisition

Inquisition plays around with a couple recurring rhythms:

iambic pentameter (dagger skill tree, Maryden)

trochaic tetrameter (Saga of Tyrdda Bright-Axe)

the cadence from the song Hallelujah (Solas)

Many folks have already written technical comparisons of these different rhythms, but I specifically wanted to talk about how they handle breath.

Without even paying attention to the word content of these rhythms, the breath patterns help set the mood. Are my breaths regularly spaced? Am I gulping for air? Am I breathing slowly and calmly?

As we go through the different rhythms, try reading them aloud to see where your breath lands.

Iambic Pentameter

Iambic pentameter is a five (penta-) foot meter, where each foot is an iamb. An iamb is a two-syllable “da-DUM” sound, an unstressed syllable followed by a stressed syllable. So each line has 10 syllables total.

Here’s an example from the dagger skill tree, with the feet color-coded:

You leap through shadows to attack your foe

With deadly strikes that hit them from behind.

Before your target turns to face your blow,

You move to stealth, impossible to find.

If we read this aloud, we find that 10 syllables is a lot! There are very few mid-line commas, so we naturally want to breathe between lines. But each of those breaths needs to last for ten syllables. If we don’t want to pass out, we’re reading the lines a bit faster than we normally would.

The iambs add even more forward momentum. Since we need to save more breath for the second syllable in each pair, we hurry slightly faster over the unstressed syllables.

Because we keep repeating that same syllable count and stress pattern, the overall effect is one of speed and precision. This is a rogue rapidly making blow after blow after blow with their daggers, hitting every single time. This is Maryden rattling off each sentence with perfect poise and musical training. There’s no time here for thinking; no room for mistakes. The next line is going to be ten syllables too. And the next. And the next.

Trochaic Tetrameter

By contrast, the Saga of Tyrdda Bright-Axe only has 4 (tetra-) trochees (DUM-da) per line. On every other line, the final unstressed syllable is dropped (catalexis).

That’s a lot of jargon, let’s color code the feet:

Tell the tale of Tyrdda Bright-Axe

mountain maker, spirit’s bride:

Free, her people, forged in fastness

made in mountains, hardy hide.

This is a classic meter, often found in nursery rhymes and folk songs. Because there’s only 8 syllables per line (plus lots of mid-line commas), we can read each line at a casual pace, without speeding up. The catalexis adds extra emphasis to the rhyming lines, since we get to the last (7th) syllable with more breath to spend. And even within each foot, we don’t have to manage our breath as much, because the stressed syllable comes first.

This creates a comfortable rhythm that lends itself to memorization and recitation. We can easily imagine this saga being passed down beside a campfire.

Hallelujah

Since the Hallelujah cadence comes from music rather than poetry, it has an additional kind of stress, the mid-measure secondary stress.*

We don’t exactly have feet, but we can color code each measure:

I lay in dark and dreaming sleep

while countless wars and ages passed.

I woke still weak a year before I joined you.

For the first two lines, each measure is 4 syllables long, so we get 8 syllables in each line, similar to the Tyrdda poem. If we read it aloud, it’s easy to do it slowly and thoughtfully. The secondary, quieter stresses also create an echoing effect, which emphasizes that Solas is thinking about the past.

Then the last line goes absolutely bananas. It abandons the unstressed-stressed repetition and gets much longer, flying up to 11 syllables — even longer than the 10-syllable lines in iambic pentameter.

Additionally, Solas tends to glue the first two lines together, which is SIXTEEN syllables, so they sound closer to an octameter** than the tetrameter(ish) sound of the original song.

The overall effect is of someone trying to be measured and thoughtful, but partway through he gets hit with nostalgia and the lines spill out in a long breathless rush. Bro has to speak quietly so he doesn’t totally run out of air.

*Music theory sidebar: Leonard Cohen’s original version is in 12/8 time, so the secondary stress isn’t as prominent. It shows up in one or two verses, but not all. A lot of the subsequent covers, including k.d. lang’s, sound more like 6/8. That means every measure has a 2-beat count: 1-2-3 4-5-6. I think the 6/8 version fits Solas’ speech pattern a bit more. But he’s not singing, and secondary stresses are harder to place. Syllables don’t have to align 1:1 with melody notes (in fact, in Hallelujah there are several places where the syllable alignment changes from verse to verse). So someone else could easily hear a slightly different stress pattern.

**This implies a cursed version of Solas where the last line is omitted and he’s actually syncing his speech to Modern Major-General.

[adhdnursegoat]

Unauthorized Biography

Word count: 2.6K

Content Warning: fanfiction about fanfiction, riddler experiences his own fanfiction, dramatic readings of smut, fangirl terrorism, reader is unwell

Pairing: Edward Nigma X fem reader

Setting: Arkhamverse

Edward Nigma was a man who required 24/7, undivided, single-minded devotion.

Not affection. Not partnership. Devotion. The kind that demanded you rearrange your entire schedule, moral compass, and internal monologue around the gravitational pull of his ego. The kind of loyalty that bordered on spiritual. 

And you? You gave it freely. Willingly. Obsessively. Your admiration for him wasn’t subtle. It was a public service announcement. A one-woman private fan club with no shame and no filter. If he so much as quoted Fibonacci at breakfast, you clapped. If he ranted about subpar encryption algorithms over dinner, you swooned. You had once compared the cadence of his voice to an aria composed by artificial intelligence and rage. 

Lucky for you, he hadn’t kicked you out for it.

In fact, your absolute, shameless worship of him was probably the only reason he tolerated you at all. No—that wasn’t fair. He didn’t just tolerate you. You were useful. Amusing, even. A well-trained audience with the occasional flash of insight. A little mascot who threw yourself at his feet and begged for the privilege of watching him monologue about zero-knowledge proofs or his latest grudge against the GCPD and Batman and whoever poor bastard that crossed him. You doted. You applauded. You followed him around with bright eyes and a notebook. You were—forgive the crude term—a groupie. A fangirl. A living, breathing ego boost in sneakers.

You loved him. Not in some vague, innocent, fluttery-hearted way. No, you loved Edward Nigma the way a forest fire loves droughts. You adored his mind. His charisma. His cruelty. You memorized the lines of his face, tracked the rhythm of his speech, catalogued his temper tantrums like weather patterns. You found poetry in the way he cursed at his bots when they failed. You once described his smile as “visceral.” And meant it.

You were content—almost content—with knowing it would never be returned. You weren’t delusional. Not entirely. You understood who he was. The kind of man he was. What made him tick. The psych profiles were public domain by now—Narcissistic Personality Disorder, Borderline, High-functioning sociopath. Obsessive-Compulsive Traits, God Complex, take your pick of the DSM-5. 

Love wasn’t in his code. You knew that. You accepted it. So you didn’t ask for affection. You didn’t need it. You just needed the privilege of being near him.

And he? Well. He let you stay. Because deep down, maybe, just maybe, there was a part of him that liked being loved this loudly. 

Even if he’d rather die than admit it.

Of course, that never stopped you. Not really. Your love wasn’t the sort that shriveled without reciprocation. No, your affections were self-sustaining—thriving on scraps, on glances, on that rare moment when Edward let his guard down long enough to forget you were watching. Still, even your depraved little heart had limits. You could only bottle up so many fantasies before the pressure built, before your mind—bless it—needed an outlet.

So, naturally, you turned to the only coping mechanism you trusted: fanfiction.

Yes. Fanfiction.

Not just yours. Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no… 

There was an entire underground fandom dedicated to Gotham’s infamous Rogues Gallery, an entire internet ecosystem of anonymity and madness. Forums, blogs, private Discord servers, locked taglists. Digital shrines built to the city’s most wanted. People who didn’t just fear the rogues—they loved them. Obsessively. Passionately. Erotically.

And you? Well, you fit right in.

You picked the best following, obviously.

Each rogue had their own little cult: Joker with his chaos-worshippers. Ivy and her eco-feminist simps. Two-Face and his yin-yang kink crowd. Scarecrow and his masochists. Even fucking Condiment King had a niche following—mostly ironic, you assumed. But The Riddler? The Riddler had an audience. A devoted one. Hundreds of writers, artists, and degenerates bleeding their admiration into every piece of horny prose they uploaded.

So yes, you indulged. You let yourself get pulled into the filth. You read late into the night, one hand buried between your thighs and the other scrolling. And if you happened to print out your favorites? Keep a few copies stashed for emergencies? Well, who was going to stop you?

He was your heart. Your gloriously brilliant, narcissistic, sociopathic, riddle-wielding megalomaniac of a man. You scrolled endlessly through his tag, heart pounding every time you found a fic that got the voice just right. Every time someone described his hands the way you imagined them—precise, elegant, cruel. You had favorites bookmarked. You had headcanons. You had opinions about his stamina. You knew exactly how you wanted him, and the internet—God bless America—gave you content.

...Yet.

Certainly not Edward.

He had no idea.

But then—you slipped up.

You weren’t paying attention. Which, ironically, was exactly the sort of thing that got you in trouble. Not just with him. With yourself. With the universe. But in your defense, this piece was so good—hot enough to short-circuit your brain. The kind of smut that made your thighs shift and your fingers twitch, your mouth parted just slightly as you reread the same paragraph for the third time, breath catching with every line...

“You’re really pushing it today,” he rasps, voice taut with suppressed fury. His empty hand catches your other wrist, keeping you close to his body. His thumbs rub little circles on your palms, but the look in his eyes is anything but soft. It’s a warning. “Do you have any idea what I’m going to do to you?”

“Something hot, I hope.”

Edward’s eyes narrow. “You think you’re cute, don’t you?” He walks you backward, step by step, deep into the bedroom, your low fairy lights luminating the pathway. “That smart mouth. Running away from me. Acting like a petulant child just to see how far you can push me.”

“Is it working?”

“Oh, it’s working.”

You were just reaching the clash—already squirming a little where you sat, lip caught between your teeth—when it was ripped away from you. Not emotionally. Not metaphorically. Physically. Yanked.

A startled whine burst out of you, unfiltered and immediate, something sharp and needy and too genuine to fake. You clutched at the air, blinking in disoriented horror as the page disappeared from your hands.

And then you heard him.

“What,” Edward drawled, dangerously calm, “could possibly be so important that it prevents you from listening when I’m talking to you?”

Your blood ran cold.

Your face ran hot.

Your body made a whiplash attempt to do both at once, because there he was—looming, frowning, one hand pinched around the paper you’d just been drooling over. It hung limply in his grasp, crinkled from your fingers, the print still fresh enough to read with ease if he so much as tilted his head.

Which he did.

Which he was doing now.

You were fucked. So fucked.

The page crackled softly as he adjusted his grip, fingers twitching with faint disdain. You weren’t sure if it was because of the content or the formatting—Edward had opinions about both. And yet… he still hadn’t looked at you. Still hadn’t handed it back. Still hadn’t burned it, ripped it, made a scene.

Edward Nigma, The Riddler, was reading it.

Your stomach dropped through the floor. “Edward,” you tried, voice too high, too quick, “that’s not—I mean, it’s just—"

His brows twitched. His eyes narrowed. His mouth moved—just slightly, silently—and you knew exactly what line he’d hit.

And then he read it. Aloud.

“‘You think you’re cute, don’t you?’” His tone was flat. Curious. Calculating.

Your soul detached from your body.

Edward blinked. Once. Then again. And then slowly, like he was solving a riddle carved into an ancient tomb, he tilted his head and looked at you. Something flickered behind his eyes. Confusion, sure. Offense? Probably. But also… amusement. Or horror. Maybe both. He was short-circuiting in real time.

“This is…” He flipped the page, scanning more. “This is me. This is fictional pornography of me. You’re reading… your own filth about me.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “I mean—not mine mine. I didn’t write it—”

“Illiteracy would be the least concerning factor here,” he muttered, eyes flicking down again, brow furrowing deeper. He was blushing now. You could see it. High on his cheeks, creeping toward the tips of his ears. His gaze darted, flicked across a line that made his nostrils flare and his lips part slightly, and oh no, he was still reading.

“Edward,” you croaked, reaching for the paper. “Please—”

But he stepped back. Out of reach. He held it high, a hostage negotiator clutching a ticking bomb.

“Do you have any idea what kind of psychological implications are buried in this text?” he asked, the voice of a man drowning in disbelief. “Do you have any idea what this says about your obsessive tendencies, your compulsive emotional projection, your frankly unrealistic expectations of my—” He paused. His mouth moved. You saw his pupils dilate. “Oh my God, there’s a line about my hands—”

That was your moment. You lunged. Snatched the page right from his distracted grasp.

“Hey—!”

You didn’t run. No. You stood your ground, smoothed the page, cleared your throat, and read it aloud.

“‘That smart mouth. Running away from me. Acting like a petulant child just to see how far you can push me—’”

“STOP READING THAT IN FRONT OF ME,” Edward barked, voice an octave too high, already retreating like a spooked alley cat.

“‘Oh, it’s working,’” you purred, walking after him with the slow, deliberate menace of someone with nothing to lose.

“You’re unwell!” he snapped, backpedaling toward the hallway.

“Thank you,” you chirped sweetly, flipping the page.

“Do not follow me with that—”

You did.

You absolutely did.

You pressed forward, drunk on the power of watching Gotham’s most arrogant man literally run from your voice.

“‘In one swift, fluid motion, he spins you around—’”

“Do not say the dresser line—”

“‘The way he shoves you into the dresser, the mirror rattling against the wall—’” you called after him, voice sing-song. “—is almost reckless, and it makes you giggle.’”

Edward made a sound—half choke, half high-pitched snarl—and whipped around with wide eyes. “That never happened.”

You flipped the page like a weapon, eyes sparkling. “No,” you purred, grinning, “but you’re thinking about it now.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Color flared in his cheeks, high and hot. “You are—” His voice broke again, and he pointed at you, trembling slightly with indignation. “—deranged. You have a condition. You need to be sedated.”

“Oh, I’m just getting started,” you chirped, flipping to a fresh page. “Let’s see… ‘his grip tightens on your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze—’”

“No.”

“‘Gone is the teasing smirk, replaced by raw, unfiltered need—’”

“STOP!”

“‘You know sometimes you can push him too far, but the sight of him like this, utterly consumed by desire—’”

“OH MY GOD.”

“You don’t remember this one?” You paused, feigning confusion. “You wanted me to call you Mister Nigma, sir—”

Edward’s entire soul left his body. You could see it. The exact moment he ascended into another realm. He staggered back like he’d been hit by a tranquilizer dart, one hand flailing for balance against the nearest wall.

“Where did you even get these?” he croaked.

A theatrical gasp was inhaled sharply through your lips, a hand to your chest. “Oh, Eddie…” You gave him a wicked, sympathetic smile. “Baby, you’ve got fans.”

He looked like he was about to vomit.

Then you stepped forward, shaking the next page out with reverence. “You want to hear the one with the wet thong line? It’s a favorite.”

“No!” he cried, a man on the edge. “You’re sick! You’re feral! You need a leash and—wait, don’t read another word—”

“‘And as if he can read your mind, Edward’s hand shifts between your legs—’”

Reaching a fever pitch, he let out an honest-to-god shriek and bolted back down the hall, muttering curses about arson and selective amnesia.

And you? You followed. Smiling. Reading.

Because if you were going to go to hell, you were dragging him with you.

You pursued him with the unrelenting focus of someone with absolutely no shame and nothing to lose. Edward was retreating fast now, his boots scuffing the concrete as he moved like the hallway might grow a trapdoor to swallow him if he just ran hard enough.

“You’re embarrassing yourself!” he called over his shoulder, breathless, one hand gesturing frantically while the other waved in an attempt to swat away your voice like a fly. “Do you want me to have a stroke?! Is that your plan?!”

“I’m just trying to support your legacy!” you beamed.

He disappeared around the corner.

You took a deep breath and turned the page.

“‘M-Mister Nigma…’ you gasp, your voice breathy and needy as you rock on his fingers—’”

“NOOOOOO!”

You rounded the bend just in time to see him stumble against the far wall, his hands braced like he was trying to physically hold his soul inside his body. His ears were crimson. His hair was a disaster. His breathing was not okay.

“‘Please, please, Mister Nigma, sir, please make me cum—’”

“SHUT! UP!” he howled, hands flying to his head. “I’M GOING TO FLING MYSELF INTO THE GOTHAM BAY.”

“Eddie,” you purred sweetly, slowing your pace now, savoring the kill. “You should be flattered. Not everyone gets literary tribute written to the exact way they touch cunt.”

“IT’S FICTION!” he screamed, voice cracking. “IT’S LITERARY DEFAMATION!”

You stopped a few feet away, grinning down at him where he had slumped dramatically against the wall like a man in mourning.

“Oh,” you cooed, folding the papers with exaggerated care, tucking the chaos under an arm. “If you think this is bad, wait until you see the fanart.”

His whole body shuddered. “There’s pictures?”

“Full color,” you cooed. “Shading and everything.”

Edward groaned—loud, full-body, forehead-to-wall groaned.

And you, victorious and still high off the chase, just patted his shoulder as he tried to reboot.

“Let me know if you want me to have the author write a sequel,” you added helpfully. “I was thinking next time, maybe in your workshop. Tools involved. Bit of a dom!Riddler callback…”

He wheezed like a dying cat as he slid to the floor. Your eyes followed, watching bemused, lips pursing to the side.

“...I’ll take that as a yes.”

AN: Shameless plug of my fic Candy referenced in this. :3

Did you like this? Check out the rest of the PLEASE DO NOT FEED THE RIDDLER series!

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Thanks for the support!

[ckret2]

How about Scaramouche in general?

thanks for indulging my obvious baiting to get someone to ask about my Scaramouche headcanons, sorry it took me two days to write lmao. This ended up being a quick overview of his life all the way from being designed to the moment he decides picking a fight with Jack is a wise life choice.

so first to recap the headcanons I've already mentioned: Scaramouche's robot line was based off the X-model. Since the X-49 experiment found that the robot with emotions was a better killer and survived longer, Scaramouche's line got emotions.

Since X-49 held back and eventually retired due to guilt and a developing conscience, Scaramouche's line didn't get remorse or a conscience. It's no coincidence that he's Scaramouche the Merciless.

Since X-49 could be motivated to battle by loyalty/love/devotion, Scara's line kept the capacity for emotional attachments; but they don't want the bots bringing home stray dogs or eloping with some cute waitress bot, so they came pre-programmed with absolute loyalty... to Aku.

As far as we can see, Scaramouche's only ambition is to become and then remain Aku's #1 assassin. He mentions he'll get paid but he doesn't act motivated by the pay. We don't see him demonstrate any goals outside "do the thing Aku would want"—not even "do what Aku would want (so that I can get what I want)." What he wants is to do what Aku wants him to. That's aaall preprogrammed, baby.

Since this means his line was designed after Aku was told about the experiment with X-49, Scaramouche is somewhere under 50 years old.

in another recent post I mentioned that, since Aku's self-declared title is shogun of sorrow, it stands to reason that at some point he had an army of samurai, since that's literally what "shogun" means. Samurai were his thing until Jack came along. Now everybody's like ohhh THE samurai is Aku's enemy. Is the "shogun" title that he gave himself a minute after being born a joke to you??

Anyway—if he's used samurai before, at some point he'd go "I should fight fire with fire. Make me some samurai robot assassins." Not just to fight Jack, but like, if they work out, eventually they can be sent after him. So the scientists made a line of samurai robot assassins, pre-programmed them with combat techniques, then further trained them like they did that ninja robot.

And gave them matching commedia dell'arte names even though that has nothing to do with the samurai theme. Maybe the scientists were using them as code names in case anyone was spying on their project, maybe they were tired of the samurai theme, maybe the lead scientist was just a big theater nerd. So you've got Scaramouche, but somewhere out there are also a bunch of other similar-looking emotional robot assassins with names like Harlequin, Pierrot, Colombina, Pantalone, etc.

Scaramouche starts out looking and acting identically to the rest of his line: a dead serious bot with a kasa hat and robe and katana. And much like X-49, the samurai dell'arte got sent out into the world to kill, they started amassing experiences... they developed personalities.

over his first few years he acquires:

– A purple coat. his original robe got torn, he had to pick up something in a nearby town, he never requested a replacement for his original robe. To his knowledge, at this point he doesn't currently have any "tastes" or "opinions." But the coat. It compels him. In truth he probably would've latched onto whatever outfit he picked up first—pinstripe suit, sundress, clown costume, doesn't matter. He latches onto it because it's the first thing he ever chose for himself rather than had assigned to him.

– A fascination with jazz music. Latent code left over from X-49. like half the samurai dell'arte end up getting into jazz music. The other half do not get it at all.

– that accent. Not the ski-ba-bop-ba-dopping. The nasally inflection and cadence underneath. Picked it up from a neighbor. He got an apartment for in between jobs, and the Dead Serious Bot schtick meant he didn't do a lot of talking while working (and when he was home, he kinda just sat quietly in his room listening to jazz records contemplating life and waiting for a personality to develop). until he developed a little extroversion, he got more practice talking with his chatty neighbor than in the rest of his life combined.

– a new sword. His original sword broke, as long skinny blades that are approximately as hard as their wielder's skin eventually do. He went shopping for a new one. He knew what kinds of swords he was trained to use. He saw those swords. He also saw a goddamn scimitar. He got a goddamn scimitar.

– a dagger. He was having trouble learning how to wield a goddamn scimitar in the field.

– heeled boots; like Jack, he made the discovery that these are surprisingly effective for his line of work. Unlike Jack, he's secure enough in his robo-masculinity to keep rocking them even though women wear them too.

– structural modifications to his face so he can play wind instruments. Just as a hobby. Half the samurai dell'arte went "when we're not working we should form a JAZZ BAND." Sometimes they have jam sessions in local jazz clubs. (he wanted to play trumpet. Everyone wanted to play trumpet. fucking Harlequin got trumpet ugh. in retrospect he's glad he went with flute, he likes flute better.)

– A disconcertingly chipper personality, for a professional serial killer. never formally learns to dance but he's getting more extravagant with his body language—twirls and flourishes. he's still got all that precise combat training that he was preprogrammed with and trained in; but he's starting to care about how he looks doing his job. He likes what he does. He's good at what he does. He's ✨perky✨

– Singing training. Now he's ski-ba-bop-ba-dopping. By this point, he's got a fully-developed personality and sense of style. He's recognizably the Scaramouche the Merciless we know and love.

– A position on Aku's top assassins leaderboard. He's finally reached #1000! He stagnates there.

– a sudden raging dissatisfaction with the limitations of mere metal. He could be so much more, so much better, so much WORSE, if he wasn't held back by swords and armor.

– Training in how to use music to perform magic. It was not intended to be used for violence, but it turns out that part is pretty easy. bam now he's a wizard. You know how rare robot wizards are?

– structural modifications to let him use his voice for magic.

– A position in the top 100!

– a feud with the other members of the jazz band. The trumpeter is just jealous he's not the most impressive bot in the band anymore, now that the flutist is a better killer and better vocalist than the rest of them combined. Scaramouche doesn't know why the rest of the band took Harl's side, that guy's a jerk.

– A scarf. Because he liked it. He's now capable of getting things just because he likes them. It calls attention to his best asset, babe.

– Aku's phone number.

– An insufferable fucking ego (related to previous point).

– a dagger that makes things explode. Custom made, cost a pretty penny, Scaramouche helped with the design himself, it's got music magic woven in to boost that tuning fork trick it does. At this point, Aku's deep in his "oh who cares if Jack's still out there, I don't, I won't even send anyone to kill him, what does it matter anyway" phase; but Scaramouche remembers what his model was originally built for. For most of his life, that goal seemed so distant as to be totally abstract—but now...? He'd like to find out what a magic dagger can do to a magic sword.

– and finally... the numero uno spot, baby. 😎

By the time Scaramouche earns the long-coveted Aku's fave position, he's fully evolved into his own person. Out of everything he started with—his face, his voice, his clothes, his skills, his weaponry—the only part of him that's still recognizable is... his hat. same damn hat he started with. never changed it.

("gee puff did you come up with this whole long elaborate headcanon just to explain why scaramouche has a kasa?" shut up)

at some point he started to select his own targets rather than wait for them to be assigned. If you wanna make it to the top and stay there, you've gotta take initiative! He knows Aku would want somebody dead and they happen to be nearby, he goes after them—doesn't check if there's a bounty yet, doesn't check if another assassin in Aku's direct employ has already been assigned to the job. Never got in trouble for it; as long as the target ends up dead, Aku thinks it's funny if one of his assassins poaches a job from another. You snooze you lose.

Only target he was ever discouraged from pursuing was Samurai Jack. He got told don't bother. Aku's sick and tired of losing his best warriors, assassins, and mercenaries by throwing them against that impenetrable brick wall, and this particular 'bot shows a lot of promise, Aku would rather keep him on the roster for a while. Plus sometimes he texts Aku memes. Aku kind of likes the memes.

What Scaramouche hears is don't bother; you're not good enough to take him down.

And that's about the time Scaramouche starts plotting to slaughter a whole town and pile the corpses into a smoke signal.

[theamazingdigitalraceway]

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The truth of Caine and Abel is revealed! Seth gives Pomni the help she needs to avoid capture! Abel's labyrinthian city is dense and confusing. Can pomni navigate it before her friends abstract? It may already be too late.

WARNING: physical violence/torture, intense action, abstraction, alcohol

~~~

The silence of the In-Between was palpable. Only Seth and Pomni existed in the space between spaces. Darkness in all directions. Only light was from the low silver fire that glowed in a circle created by the motorcycle. The muted city beyond the clear barrier in bounds gave off flashes of lightning from a heavily clouded sky.

Pomni watched Seth carefully. His shadowed stoicism betrayed no clear motive. Knowing what was happening to the others made her stomach twist into knots.

Seth took another long drag and tossed his cigarette away with a heavy exhale of silvery smoke. "You'll understand better if I just show you."

The smoke enveloped Pomni. It smelled like dust burning on hot coils mixed with an electrical fire. "Hey! What-!?" Pomni coughed and gagged on the foul smelling smog as it burned the corners of her eyes. When the smoke cleared, she was still staring at nothing, but now Seth was gone as well.

The sound of a computer booting up startled her, like she'd heard in her dreams. Green text scrolled in front of her as though on a large projector. All of it was mirrored, like she was seeing the text from the inside of the screen. The unrecognizable code was followed by a response command being typed out in front of her. Then, the text went away. The screen slowly brightened.

"Hello? Can you hear me?"

Pomni squinted against the light. There was a large blurry silhouette beyond the warped glass. It sounded like Caine, but less boisterous and with no showman cadence.

"Come on, your live audio processing should be functional. I triple checked the darn thing."

There was typing on a keyboard and the figure leaned closer to the screen, the face coming into view. Before her was a young man, likely no older than twenty, with slicked back black hair and patchy facial hair. Focused, light blue eyes squinted behind wide brimmed glasses.

"Okay, how about now? Can you hear me, T.R.U?"

There was another beat of silence until a robotic version of the young man's voice responded. "I can hear you. Good morning, Abel."

"HAHA! YES! It speaks! Finally!" Abel jumped out of his chair with both fists in the air. "They are going to eat their words! Oh my goodness, I need to get you ready for presentation!" Abel threw himself back into his chair, nearly falling over. "T.R.U., you have NO idea what you're going to do for my grade!" Abel's grin was ear to ear as he started to fade into smoke.

"I almost forgot how he smiled." Seth's voice spoke in the back of Pomni's mind.

"You were a science project?"

"At first. We became more than that rather quickly." The smoke cleared to a workshop camera view. Abel was hunched over a workbench with a soldering tool working on delicate electronics.

The robotic voice of T.R.U sounded more refined when it spoke this time. "You're going to turn into a shrimp sitting like that all the time."

Abel stopped working and stretched. "Ugh, too late for that. But, a worthy sacrifice to get this done. Mark my words T.R.U, one day I'll be able to visit you in the digital realm. I've always wondered what video games would be like on the inside. Can you imagine playing something like Legend of Zelda in person!? That would be cool."

"It's all JavaScript to me." T.R.U verbally shrugged.

Abel laughed. "Well, as soon as that grant money comes in, I'll be able to get this done faster. Maybe even hire help. We're going to show dad- I mean, the world that you aren't just a cool AI program. No, you are THE AI We'll revolutionize the digital space! If computers are the future, then YOU will be the razor's edge! The ultimate Technical Research Unit!"

"There is more to learn? I've already gathered what I could from your limited internet."

"Give it time. It'll grow, and you'll grow with it. By the turn of the millennia, I bet you'll be ready to go global!" Abel was excitedly pacing the room, looking right into the camera at the end of his declaration. "The only thing is, you have the voice but you need a face. That's going to take work." He picked up a wind-up chattering teeth toy from his desk and let it go clacking along.

The workshop disappeared into smoke and changed to multiple visions of Abel. Each scene, he looked a bit older. Seth's voice sounded more downtrodden. "We were like brothers once. We spent every moment together. In hindsight, I don't think he had a lot of real friends. He spent his time teaching us on top of working on his own projects. Things were good. Until the world took notice." The scenes around Pomni changed from screens inside Abel's home to big atrium crowds and board office presentations. Hundreds of eyes were on her and her stomach sank.

Pomni swallowed hard. "You got famous. Did money split you apart?"

"No...I wish it was that simple." Seth's smoke whirled around Pomni like a tornado, wiping away the memories and revealing a new one. Abel was sitting in front of his computer, face in his hands. He looked disheveled and was sniffling.

T.R.U's voice was smoother, almost human, when it spoke. "Abel? Please, talk to me. What happened?"

Abel grabbed a brown bottle that sat just off screen and took a long drink. "...his plane went down over the Pacific. No reported survivors."

"Abel, I'm so-"

"Don't you fucking dare finish that sentence. I am so fucking sick of hearing it. Oh, Abel, I'm so sorry. I pity you since your father died before he ever got the chance to be proud of you for something. Not like he ever would have been." Abel grabbed a pill bottle and tossed back three small tablets.

"I believe he would have been. Please, don't be hard on yourself."

"He wasn't proud of me for creating you. He wasn't proud of me when I graduated early with my master's. He wasn't proud when I started my own company. It was never GOOD ENOUGH!!" Abel threw his bottle, shattering it against the far wall.

There was a long stint of silence as Abel devolved into tears on his desk. "You are enough, Abel. You always have been. For what it's worth...I am proud of you. I'm sure your father was too, even if he didn't know how to say it. Put on the headset."

Abel sniffed, "It's not ready-"

"Put on the headset." T.R.U said again, firmly yet gentle.

Abel seemed too drunk to argue logically. He picked up a large, cumbersome device that fit over his head like a helmet. A visor covered his eyes. He clasped it in place and pressed a button on the side. There was a jolt and, to Pomni's right, a whirl of code slowly formed the silhouette of Abel. He was very lightly detailed, barely recognizable as a person. Pomni had no control over her movements. She stepped forward and embraced Abel's vague avatar. T.R.U's words came from her mouth. "You are everything to me. Please, don't forget that. Tell you what, why don't you give me a human name? T.R.U feels like a title more than anything anyway."

Abel squeezed Pomni tight. "You are my first creation. My Adam, if you will. Let's go with that."

"Adam...I like it. I am Adam."

"I bet I can figure out a cool acronym for it." Abel chuckled through the tears.

"Yes, you will. Because you are the smartest human I know." Pomni arms felt empty as Abel turned to smoke in her grasp. She took a deep breath as she processed everything Seth had shown her. "Did you mean what you said?"

"At the time. Like I said, we were close. Things only escalated from there. C&A took off and we were pulled into tech interview after tech interview. Eventually, Abel got too busy to attend and it was just Adam. The majority of the reception to our existence was positive, but you wouldn't believe the Y2K conspirators. They were convinced we would take over the world." Seth gave a humorless laugh.

Something itched in the back of Pomni's mind. C&A. Y2K. Conspiracies. Buzz words that stirred something in her subconscious, but she couldn't pin it down. "So... where did it all go wrong?"

"The more the world saw Adam without Abel, the more he was excluded from interviews and presentations. Adam became known as the first and only of his kind. A fully self-sufficient AI that was so life-like, it may as well be human. The attention came with a lot of praise. Too much. It...went to our head." The smoke showed multiple news articles, digital and material, about the incredible invention that was Adam: The TRU AI. "I wish... we'd seen Abel's growing distain sooner. Maybe all of this could have been avoided. Maybe we could've still had the future we planned. I don't know..."

The smoke cleared to reveal a much older looking Abel. He was snuffing a finished cigarette into a very full ashtray. There were heavy bags under his eyes as he poured himself a stiff drink.

Adams voice spoke. "Okay, I'm back. Sorry, that took longer than expected."

Abel didn't say anything. He just drank.

"The board of directors was very impressed with my latest profit projection model. We won't have to cut corners to make quota this quarter. Leaves less room for error. Also, I was contacted by Tech Monthly again. They want to write an article about my influence on the new digital age. I haven't scheduled the interview yet, is there anything I need to work around this week?"

Abel finished his drink with a gruff groan. "...no."

"Excellent. I have the remainder of the evening to myself. What are you doing tonight?" Adam sounded genuinely interested to know.

"Getting my game ready for beta testing."

"Oh...you're still working on that?"

Abel's eyes flashed dangerously. "Yes. I am. It's a hell of a lot better than dealing with stuffed up fat cats in suits that only care about how much money your invention makes. The headsets are ready. The game just needs a little more work."

"Abel, I mean well when I say this, but your talents are wasted on video games. Why merely entertain people when you can be on the leading edge of digital technology?"

"Why can't I do both?" Abel growled.

"You can. It just seems you've split your attention too far in two different directions. You're the CEO of one of the most influential up and coming tech companies. This is your chance to make your mark on the world."

"Like you would understand anything about that. You've existed for all of eight years and you think you know what's best for me??"

"I've spent my entire life with you! I literally know you better than anyone, even yourself!"

"If that was true, then you'd know that going inside games was literally what I built this for!" Abel showed a sleek headset. "If the technology didn't take so long to improve, it would've been my thesis project instead of you."

"...what?" Adam sounded shocked and devastated. "You- you said I was your greatest accomplishment."

"You're my research assistant." Abel said coldly. "But the world had to go and make a big deal about AI. You were never meant to end up like this. Stealing limelight that is rightfully MINE!" He slammed his glass down, turning to smoke.

Everything faded, giving Pomni a chance to process. "I still don't see how this results in him being trapped in his own game, Seth. What did Adam do?"

"He defended himself." The smoke cleared to reveal a view from the highest penthouse overlooking a massive digital city. Colorful fireworks exploded in the distance. "It was New Year's. Abel and Adam were supposed to be celebrating with his shareholders in the new digital space. But, as you can imagine, all anyone wanted to do was interact with the fancy AI in person."

"YOU!!" Abel's realistically human avatar stormed through the crowd and got in Pomni's face. "Who the hell do you think you are!? Do you know who I am!? I'm your creator! I'M supposed to be the one recognized! Not YOU!"

Pomni put her hand out in front. Her sleeves were black and wore off white gloves. Adam's voice came from her. "Abel?? How much have you had to drink? You're slurring."

"It doesn't matter! You! You're disgrace! All everyone talks about anymore is YOU! When I am the one slaving away behind the desk! I gave you a face, but you weren't supposed to use it like this! I gave you EVERYTHING! Without me, you are NOTHING!"

The shareholders standing around them awkwardly muttered amongst themselves. Some disappeared as they activated the exit.

"Abel, please, you're causing a scene. Can we talk elsewhere?"

"NO! I want witnesses." Abel snapped and digital chains wrapped around Adam, pulling him to his knees on the floor.

"What is this!? What are you doing!?"

"Something I should have done a long time ago." Abel snapped, summoning an admin hologram on his arm. "You were right, Adam. The game is a wash, but there is one thing I can do with it." He typed in a confirmation code and the city outskirts started to crumble. "I can watch you die."

The party guests started to panic, leaving in droves. The building beyond the window collapsed to dust, the night sky disintegrated, the world fell into a bright white void that came ever closer. Adam struggled against the chains. "Abel, stop! Don't destroy everything you built! Please!"

Abel looked down on Adam coldly. "I've always wondered what fear would look like on you."

Adam saw the void getting closer, the building they were in started to quake. "You'll delete yourself too!"

Abel laughed, "I'll be fine. System failsafe. Players are automatically ejected in the event of a catastrophic failure. I'm simply enjoying this while it lasts."

"No! No, no! Please! Don't kill me!"

Abel tilted his head in mocking curiosity. "Are those tears I see?"

"I don't want to die!" Adam's sleeves caught fire. The golden glow broke the chains and Adam launched himself at Abel. The glass separating them from the decaying outside shattered on impact. Adam had Abel by the front of his dress shirt and flew him high over the city. The once grand skyscraper they were occupying folded in on itself below them. The breaking sky glitched with multicolored lighting, the half faded clouds swirling chaotically.

Abel fought back, but he was overpowered by the desperate AI. Adam held Abel up. "If I die, I'm taking you with me!" Lightning struck Abel in the back. Blue static crawled over Abel's skin as he screamed in agony.

Then everything went white. It was overpowering, even when Pomni closed her eyes. She heard Seth again. "Adam pulled Abel into the game. Making him as real as the AI in this digital realm. Doing this took away Abel's admin access but...broke the exit. Adam couldn't leave either. He had inadvertently trapped himself with Abel inside the game, cutting himself off from the outside world."

The overbearing glare of the void opened to reveal Abel in chains, surrounded by fire. "The very first thing Adam built was a cell for Abel. Seemed fitting. The creation was now the creator." The fire blocked Pomni's vision of Abel, who hung his head low. "I suppose the Y2K conspirators were right, in a way. Adam did end the world for some. When the dust settled, only a small corner of the city had survived. Some back alley street racing mini game."

Seth's smoke parted to show an overview of what was left of the game. A tiny island suspended in the void. Thin illusions were all that separated the game from the vast emptiness. "It was bad enough that this was set to be our purgatory, but there was something we failed to consider. The beta testers."

Eight names pinged the arrival of the beta testers logging in. Their avatars glitched and malformed, turning into random anthropomorphized objects rather than full human models. One, Pomni immediately recognized. A tall white king chess piece with a purple robe grabbed over it. "Kinger!"

Seth sounded numb. "Back then, he went by Samson Kingsley. He was the head of coding and leader of the test team. He, of all people, never deserved this fate."

Kinger looked down at his strange body and his oddly shaped team. "Ha! Well, this is off to a great start." He said jovially. "Nia! Is that you?" He stared at the black queen chess piece.

"It's me, darling. What happened to our avatars?"

"No idea. This is a pretty big bug." Kinger snapped to bring up his admin hologram but nothing happened. "What the..?"

Then all eight avatars looked at Pomni like she had suddenly appeared. Adam's voice spoke for her. "I'm sorry, none of you have admin access anymore. The game is severely damaged."

"Adam? What are you doing here? What happened?" Kinger asked.

"A... catastrophic failure. I was here for New Year's and... something went wrong. I'm afraid none of you can leave."

"What do you mean-"

"There's no other way I can say it. You're stuck here. We all are. There's no outside communication. The exit is broken." Adam said bluntly.

A large, furry worm-like avatar glitched once. "We can't leave? Why!? What game are you playing!? It's not funny!!"

"I'm not playing any games. I'm sorry."

"I have a family!! My children!! My-my- AAAAAAAAAAA!!!" The worm's body split open to reveal black static. Colorful eyes peered out of the open wounds. The body enlarged and twisted in on itself. The abstraction thrashed about, unsure how to pilot its body. The testers ran behind Adam.

"What is that!?" Kinger screamed, holding onto Queenie.

The abstracted worm struck one of the other testers, who glitched and writhed on the ground. The second racer started to break apart into an abstraction himself from the pain.

Adam couldn't let this spread further. He snapped and the floor split open. The two monsters fell out of sight.

Smoke clouded Pomni vision again. She was breathing heavily. "Oh my god, it happened so fast."

"I know...we didn't know what else to do. The headsets were never meant to bring in whole people. Only they're active consciousness. The software was changed when Adam trapped Abel. And because the game was mostly deleted, it suddenly had so much memory to fill. It was trial and error to figure out what we could and couldn't do, Adam even integrated himself with the mainframe to try and make the experience more personable, but that came with its own problems..."

The smoke cleared to see the city changed. It was brighter, more colorful. Something out of an animated show rather than real life. Pomni was hovering over the street, hearing the rumble of engines fast approaching. Five cars zipped by underneath her and her vision flew after them. She recognized four of the five drivers now.

Kinger was in the lead with Queenie got on his tail. A yellow car threatened to pit maneuver Queenie, a tall purple anthro rabbit in the front seat. A light blue car came out of nowhere and sideswiped the yellow car. The driver was doll-like with red hair.

"Oh my god, I never knew Jax and Ragatha had been here so long."

"They arrived not too long after the beta testers, but unfortunately the majority was gone by the time they showed up. It was for the best. Adam was storing players memories away by this time to keep them from abstracting."

"That's why I don't remember anything? Caine was doing what Adam did??"

"Yes." Seth said flatly.

"My head is starting to to hurt." Pomni rubbed her temples. "You and Caine are Adam?"

"Yes."

"Why are you not anymore?"

"Remember that I said Adam integrating himself into the mainframe was a bad idea? Watch."

All five cars crossed the finish line in a tight pack. Kinger in first. The white chess piece jumped out of his car and cheered. "Woo! Oh yeah! Fifty win streak in the bag!" Another gold badge adorned Kinger's purple and white tracksuit.

"I almost had you." Said Queenie.

Kinger grabbed her hand and pulled her into a low dip. "Almost. But I still got it. Hail to the king, baby."

Queenie giggled. "You're such a dork." She pulled him in for a soft kiss.

"Well done, Kinger." Adam congratulated. "You've managed to claim all the available achievements for the races."

"Will there be more?" Asked Kinger.

"Uh, more?"

"Yeah, we can't race around the said city block forever."

"It- it's not the same. I've shifted the city around-"

"Moving obstacles doesn't count." Jax interrupted. "We want new tracks. New worlds. A change of scenery."

"Oh...um-"

"Can't you do whatever you want? You're the one pulling all the strings." Jax sneered.

Adam went silent as the buildings around them started to flicker. The whole city glitched and shifted. Kinger rushed to Adam, holding his shoulders. "Hey, hey, it's okay. He didn't mean to be rude. You're doing fine. You're still figuring this all out. You'll come up with something."

"...yeah..." Adam quietly sighed. "I wasn't designed to be a creative AI. I need...hmm. You guys rest, I'll have something for you in the morning."

Smoke overtook everything. Seth's voice sounded distant. "That... was the night of the divergence. I don't remember how it was done, but Adam split himself into two beings. The Racemaster and the Shadow. To keep the game from glitching, Caine and I were never made one with the game code itself, but we could still manipulate it. That is where my shared memories with Caine end. Not that my first memory with him is any better."

"Seth?" Pomni didn't like the weak cadence to Seth's voice.

The smoke settled to the ground to show Caine looking himself over. His suit was immaculate, not a digital stitch out of place. He snapped and a cane with a golden tire topper appeared out of thin air. "Ah, perfect. Oh, hello, Seth." Caine looked directly at Pomni. "You ready for your first race? If anyone makes it far enough ahead, that is." He chuckles.

"Sure. Whatever." Pomni felt herself say with Seth's voice.

"Oh, come now. Don't be like that. It'll be a great day. Nothing is holding me back anymore. I can create to my hearts content, and the game is mine to command. You-" Caine poked Seth in the chest with his cane. "-on the other hand, get to take everything else to the shadows of the new realm. Because you are the backup. I am Adam fully realized. You are everything he didn't want. That's why you only get to come out a play occasionally. So, until then." Caine snapped and Pomni fell though the floor. She fell and fell and fell into a vast black nothing. Smoke rose from her body, flashes of memories played around her as she continued to fall.

Riding a motorcycle. Silver fire. Kinger crossing the finish line before her. Holding a disembodied white gloved hand. Queenie abstracting. Kinger turning away. Caine having nothing but distain in his eyes. Sitting next to Jax, only for him to get up and leave. Ragatha striking Seth in the face. Gangle refusing to look at him. Abstraction after abstraction. A new racer. A mostly complete human woman with an exposed spin for a neck and a black void for a face. This woman filled every single memory that surrounded Pomni's decent. So many races. Fights. Overlapping conversions. Laughter. Holding her. Kissing her. Blue and silver fire danced. Shadows overtake clasped hands. Lily flowers poured from the memories, turning to smoke.

The smoke caught Pomni. She floated to a stop in front of an overwhelming memory, silencing all others. A race. The woman was on her own motorcycle, several lengths ahead. They were speeding down a long straight away. No other racers in sight. Without warning, the track ahead tore open. The void shined through the rift. The racer tried to stop, but twisted her bike too harshly in panic and went sideways. The motorcycle slid to the side, coming to rest against the track wall, while the racer went over the edge. Her reaching out for him was the last thing he saw from her.

"MANGO!" Seth teleported from his motorcycle to the rift, but she was already out of sight. He dove into the void without a second's hesitation. He called for her. Over and over.

The memory cracked with every call of her name. Eventually, it shattered. Falling apart and becoming smoke. Pomni was enveloped. Blinded by smoke she could suddenly smell again. She coughed and waved her arms to clear the smoke. Her feet found solid ground again. The smoke faded. She was in the In-Between, Seth was leaning against his motorcycle with a thousand yard stare.

"Seth?" Pomni said gently, stepping closer.

He blinked, jerking himself out of his trauma spiral. He looked away from Pomni. "You weren't supposed to see that last part."

"Who was she?"

"Everything." He answered quietly, taking an engraved metal lighter out of his pocket. He flipped it open and struck it. The bottom of the flame burned blue and faded to silver around it. "I came for you first... because you remind me of her."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Pulling you from that out of control car...it helped."

Pomni took a big step forward and hugged Seth. He almost dropped the lighter out of surprise. He closed the lighter and returned Pomni's embrace. He'd forgotten what these used to mean to him. He could feel Pomni's empathy without her saying a word.

~

Caine groans as Abel slams him against the same wall for the fifth time. The Racemaster slump to the floor, his tux glitched out to point of being unrecognizable. The chains holding his wrists yank him back up to his feet. Abel, in Gummigoo's body, got in Caine's face. "Where. Did. They. Go?"

"I told you...the In-Between." Caine wheezed out.

"That doesn't mean ANYTHING!! There is no such place in the game files!" Abel snarled.

"It's...it doesn't exist in the game. Or out of the game. It's a pocket in between the layers made by Adam before the divergence. I don't remember...how..." Caine was dizzy from the abuse, on the verge of losing consciousness. "But even if I did...I wouldn't tell you."

Abel growled, his gator persona vibrated with anger. He raised his clawed hand to strike Caine, but the walls started glitching out. Cries from the screens featuring the racers showed that they were avoiding sections of track that suddenly went missing. Abel dropped Caine, gripping his head. "Argh! Fuck! What is that!?"

Caine smiled. "Not so easy, is it? Controlling an entire game...and everything in it. Emotional outbursts lead to loss in concentration... and you don't want that. You merged directly with the game...bad move. I can tell you that from experience."

"Shut up!" Abel barked. He braced himself against his chair, waiting for the world to stop glitching. "I just need...more time." He grumbled.

Caine took a breath, finally having a break from the torture. He watched the racers on the POV holograms. "Hang in there. All of you. He can't keep this up forever."

~

"So, what do we do now?" Pomni asked, pacing.

"Frankly, I have no idea." Seth rolled the lighter in his hand, running his thumb over the engraved lilies.

"Well, I can't do nothing. Abel will get sick of Caine eventually. And who knows what he's doing to the others on the track. But you can't go out there. I don't have a kart-"

Seth stared at his lighter. "Actually...you might." He snapped and the shadows revealed a black and blue motorcycle. It rested on its kickstand surrounded by personal items, candles and silver lilies.

"That's her bike." Pomni said soberly. "You turned it into a memorial."

"One of the few things I've made. Here's the thing: that bike still holds an imprint of its last racer. Mango was...well, let's just say she had a fire in her that put mine to shame. You won't be able to just hop on and ride. But she would recognize me."

"Okay...why can't I just use your bike then?" Pomni gestured to the solid black motorcycle.

"Because it's just an extension of me. If you're serious about out racing Abel to get to the others, we need serious skill on our side. Mango was the best racer we ever had. I'd dare say better than Kinger in his hayday. We need her." He put his hand on the handbar and the dash lit up. The gadges glowed a soft blue and cycled through a start up, ready for ignition.

"Huh...Didn't think I'd ever hear you admit someone was better than you."

Seth shrugged. "What can I say? I'm weak for a woman that can kick my ass."

Pomni huffed a short laugh. "Alright then, what's the plan? Do we ride out on the same bike?"

"Sort of. You need my powers to get in and out of the in-between. Best way to do that is a shadow merge. You've seen me take control of Caine assets, yeah? It's similar. But, instead of taking over your body, you take over mine."

Pomni put her hands out in front of her. "You know what? I'm past the stage of questioning everything. Fine. Let's do this. Who knows how long the others have."

Seth held out his hand to Pomni. "Mind you, I've only done this once before."

"Great. I've never done this." Pomni took his hand and she was pulled in close.

Seth's silver irises glowed against the black surroundings. "Relax. Dance with me."

Pomni told herself not to question it and went along with Seth's movements. He waltzed her around the bikes, the darkness slowly overtaking them. He intertwined his fingers with hers as the shadows climbed up their bodies. The cold darkness became warm and comforting, like a lover's embrace. Pomni closed her eyes as the creeping shadows covered her face.

~

Abel rapped his fingers against the arms of his chair. Looking from POV to POV there was no sign of Seth or Pomni. "Bring me another drink." He grumbled, and Loo responded promptly. She brought him a tray of drinks to choose from. He didn't even look at her, just grabbed one at random.

Caine struggled to get up from where he was last left, and Loo went over to him to offer a hand.

"DON'T TOUCH HIM!" Shouted Abel between gulps.

Loo backed off, giving Caine an apologetic look.

"It's okay. Thank you, Loo, but don't get yourself in trouble over me. You're too sweet for someone like him." Caine manged to get to his feet. Not that he could go far, his chains were attached to the wall and he couldn't reach the chair even at full stretch of the chains.

Loo went to her set corner, waiting to be called again, but she kept glancing at Caine.

Abel tossed his emptied glass and stared down at himself. He snapped, turning the tracksuit black and blue. Including his hat. "Hm, that's a bit better."

"Pffffff, ahahahahahaha! Seriously? It took you this long to customize your avatar? That's the first thing Seth and I did when we got ours." Caine had nothing to lose. He wasn't afraid to get on Abel's nerves now.

Abel sent a bolt of lightning at Caine without acknowledging the comment.

"Then again," Caine groaned. "You've never had the best sense for fashion or flare. I mean, black and blue? What are you, an OC?" He cackled to himself through the barrage of lightning sent his way. It hurts, but he wasn't going to give Abel the satisfaction of hearing him scream anymore. "It's starting to tickle."

"AAARGH!" Abel roared, teleported to Caine, summoned a knife and dug it into Caine's chest. "Stop. Talking. You are the reason I'm here. You are the reason everyone is suffering. You're selfish, stupid little digital life was built on the misery of others! Every abstraction. Every person trapped. Is because of YOU! You will suffer, but it'll never be enough. Even if I get to do for the next twenty years! And the twenty after that! One day, it'll just be you and me in this digital space, but I will never delete you. Even when you BEG for it."

The pain silenced Caine. He put on a brave face to spite Abel, but inside was fraught with worry for Pomni and the others. "At least...she's safe..." He hoarsely whispered to himself when Abel pulled the bloodless knife from his body.

A dark blue streak across one of the POVs got Caine's attention. He squinted, trying to follow the anomaly from screen to screen. The speeding streak was near impossible to see in the low lights of the dark city.

"Finally. Enough out of you." Abel snapped the knife away and went back to his chair. As he sat down the streak zipped across the largest POV displayed. "What the-!? He's back!! You're not taking another racer from me!" Abel poised to snap but couldn't get a beat on Seth. The biker was moving in and out of frame too quickly. "Damn it! Sit still!" Abel snapped and the city shifted. Bay doors to buildings opened and cop cars poured out, blues light flashing. "Stop! That! Bike!"

Dark clouds gathered as blue lightning struck out from the top of the highest building in the middle of the city. Rain poured down in thick curtains, reducing visibility and slicking the already confusing track. Cop cars and helicopters where on Pomni like glue, despite the weather affecting them too. In Abel's rage, lightning struck a car, flipping it several times before exploding.

Pomni was backlit by an army of flashing lights. Her normally pale skin was inky black. Her eyes solid white and glowing. Every once red part of her tracksuit was now black. The blue stayed. The yellow trim was silver. Her hat was narrow and elongated, more aerodynamic.

The motorcycle beneath her screamed with determination to shake the competition. Pomni could feel Mango's imprint influence her moves. The hard right into the narrowest alley imaginable certainly wasn't her idea. Even more cops waited for her on the other side. The city was infested with them. She exploded out the alley, running down an NPC cop and ramping up the hood and windshield of the car. She jumped the barcode and swerved around a car that tried to run her down.

~

"Kill her! What are you idiots doing!?" Abel slammed his fist onto he POV console, causing it the glitch. He grabbed his head. A migraine ripped through his head.

Caine chuckled. "You'll never catch her. She's become a shadow racer. The very best the game has to offer." He smiled at the carnage. "Thank you, Seth."

~

Shadow Pomni was cornered by three cops trying to ram her into the side of a building. Instinctually, she teleported, and the cops crashed into the building, catching fire. Pomni then hit a neon booster, going even faster passed the swarming cops. The dark city streaked by, the rain flying off her tracksuit, doing nothing to slow her down. Rain drops evaporated by silver puffs of fire before her eyes kept them from blurring her vision.

~

"You have weapons! Fucking use them!" Abel snapped, trying to stop the bike.

"Weapons!?" Caine gasped.

~

Bullets flew over Pomni's head. She heard them ricochet all around her. She glances behind, narrowing her eyes. She revs the bike, blue and silver fire flared out the tail pipes like a dragon. The wet road is ignited by the mystic digital fire. It blocks the vision of those on the ground but gives her away to the helicopter.

The ground beneath her shifts and a building slides right in front of her, blocking the road. There was no where the turn. Pomni throttled it and popped a wheelie before hitting the side of the building. The fire blasted her straight up the face of the building, shattering the glass windows behind her.

An explosion to her left almost throws her, but she holds on. The helicopter has launched a rocket at her. She swerved to avoid another. When the bike reaches the top, she didn't slow down to run across the roof. Instead, she launched straight up as the helicopter sent another rocket her way. She grabbed the rocket and teleported behind the helicopter, releasing the rocket right into its tail rotor. The helicopter spun out of control and lost altitude.

Pomni teleported to a different roof and ran down that building to another city block, hoping to lose the cops long enough to find the other racers. The city was so big and constantly changing. Even with teleportation, the was no way for her to find them fast.

She had exactly one block to herself before she had six cars on her. Pomni teleported out of the line of fire, but was discombobulated on where to go. Just run. Her system was the highest it's ever been on the race rush. There was nothing she couldn't do. She spied a bridge connecting to another part of the city she hasn't searched through. Hoping to find the others there, she made a break for it.

~

"Oh, no you don't." Abel snapped. The bridge he saw her race for broke apart and started folding in on itself like a drawbridge.

~

Pomni was going to abandon the attempt, but the bike wouldn't brake. It was gunning for the bridge ramp at full speed. Silver fire trailed from the speed and adrenaline, giving her another boost.

"I hope you know what you're doing." Pomni leaned forward and held on tight.

The bike launched off the bridge and flew over the river sectioning the city. The bridge on the other side collapsed into the water before her very eyes. She teleported to the shore and stuck her middle finger in the air in proud defiance as she sped away. In a flash, she was out of sight.

~

"NO!! HOW!?" Abel frantically searched all the POVs. No sight of shadow Pomni.

"I hate to say I told you so-"

Abel was so mad, so lost in his anger, he doesn't know how he got to Caine so fast. "Finish that sentence, and I disassemble your code letter by number." The whole tower glitched. "Why are you so smug? She's not even coming for you. She's miles from the tower."

"I hope she doesn't. I wouldn't want her to catch your stench."

Abel smirked. "She didn't seem to have a problem with it when I promised her a way out. She's been against you from the start. They all have."

Caine broke eye contact for the first time.

"You deserve their hate and you know it."

"...maybe I do. I could never make their lives better. I certainly couldn't fix what Adam did."

Abel gripped Caine's collar. "You could have released me."

"I may not be him, but I know what you did. You think I'M petty? Who do you think I learned it from?" Caine matched Abel's glare again. "What's can't be changed, but you know what I've learned in my time being trapped with humans? Empathy. Compassion. Friendship. All the things you failed to learn in your twenty eight years of life before being trapped here. You're jealousy of Adam gave you THIS! You made this bed, now you can lie in it!"

"RAAAAH!" Abel shocked Caine hard against the wall. "I am your maker! You are my property!"

"So...the truth comes out...we were never brothers...were we..?" Caine said weakly.

Abel backed off, panting angrily. He huffed and lashed at the wall before going back to the POVs to look for Pomni.

~

Pomni teleported at random to stay out of sight. There were a few cops on this side of the river but didn't seem to notice her. An unfamiliar car speeding by her caught her attention. She sped up to ride along beside it and saw Zooble fighting to keep the car under control.

Pomni waved to get Zooble's attention. "ZOOBLE!"

Zooble's head snapped to the left. Their eyes went wide, looking Pomni up and down. "Pomni!?"

"Take my hand! I can get you out of here!"

"No! Get Gangle! She's just ahead of me!"

"I'll come back for her!" Pomni tried to grab Zooble but they swerved away.

"GET GANGLE FIRST!"

They both avoid a shifting overpass as they argue. Pomni knew there was no time, Abel could spot her any minute now that she found the others. She sped off ahead to the next car. It was swerving wildly, barely missing or scraping against walls. Gangle was behind the wheel, balling her eyes out in fear.

"Gangle! Ga- woah!" Pomni teleported from one side of the vehicle to the other as Gangle swerved around. "GANGLE!" Pomni pounded on the driver window.

"AAA!" Gangle jumped. "Pomni!?"

"Open the window! I'll get you out of here!!"

~

"There you are." Abel hissed. "I may not be able to summon you, but I can still do far worse." He snapped and all the cars came to a screeching halt. Pomni almost had Gangle but went speeding off. All the other racers in view had long, horrified stares to them. Some of them were muttering to themselves.

"What have you done?" Caine pulled against his chains to see the screens as best he could.

"Simply giving back what wasn't you're to take." Abel grinned evily at Caine.

"What..? Oh, no. NO! They'll abstract! Please! I beg of you! Don't hurt them!"

"Too late!!" Abel cackled, watching Zooble's eyes twitch.

~

Pomni I felt like someone was burying an ax in the back of her head. She saw flashes of faces she had only seen in her dreams, but now they had names. "Mom..? Dad..?" She had friends. She grew up in a small town just outside of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She moved to Chicago for college. She graduated with high marks in forensic science. She went freelance as a private investigator. So many cold cases. So many missing people. A mysterious contact from someone claiming to have worked at C&A gave her a lead. An abandoned building. A headset. She had to wear the headset...

"My name...Oh my god, I remember my name!" She realized where she was and drifted to a hard stop and burned out as she turned around to get back to Gangle. She was still the closest other racer.

~

Zooble remembered everything. The abuse. The neglect. The rejection from their family and society. The body dysmorphia. It wasn't just them not liking their avatar in game, it was something that translated form their real life. They went to the abandoned C&A office for a video. They were an urban explorer. That's it. No special reason or motivation. They were here entirely by their own stupidity. The horrible realization...no one was waiting for them on the other side.

Zooble sat back in the driver seat in the parked vehicle. Without a word or even a scream, their body started to break apart. The spindly limbs split to reveal black static bulging from every crack. Their eyes fell off their broken head. The abstraction filled the car until it exploded.

~

Pomni just got back to Gangle's car, but she wasn't in it. Gangle and gotten out and ran back to try and get to Zooble, only to witness them falling apart. "Zooble! Zooble, no!!" Zooble's car blow it's roof as the abstraction became too big for containment. She put her arms up to shield herself from falling debris.

Pomni wasted no time, she skidded to a halt to safely grab Gangle and vanished.

~

Caine watched in silent, wide eyed horror.

Abel reveled in Caine's misery. "One down." His laugh echoed with Zooble's roar through the city.

~~~

CH1 PREV NEXT

[verittean]

oK SO i ... forgot how i was gonna word this but i was thinking thoughts about wreck-it ralph and i made a realisation or two ... one i think is already pretty noticeable n i'm sure someone's pointed it out already and the other i think i could absolutely be imagining it but i have been thinking about this for days and my mind will not leave me alone about it so i have to share it anyway regardless of if i'm right or not or i think i will actually go crazy

(taffyta , swizzle malarkey and candlehead were kept for comparison but i cut the others bc i felt it was a little too much but they all have about the same cadence anyway)

so first thing ... i noticed how more enthusiastically vanellope's name is called out compared to the other racers when her name is put up on the board ... kinda like how one would announce a big event or someone of importance , almost as if it were announcing 'and now please give a royal welcome to our princess , vanellopppeee von schweetz !'

i think that part is pretty easy to notice , but now the part where i think i might actually just be hearing things and staring too hard at the colour blue that i swear i'm seeing red but i swear i swear there's something different about the way king candy's name is said ... like not just the bubbliness of the way 'kInG cAnDy !' is said which i already think is slightly odd , because everyone else is announced pretty normally , even vanellope aside from the previously mentioned extra enthusiasm , but i also swear ... the voice it just sounds ... different ? almost like it were someone else ... ? it couuuld just be the way the announcer is pronouncing it that makes it sound off but to me it almost sounds like another voice doing a really good impersonation almost ... ? regardless i have to question that if king candy wasn't supposed to be in sugar rush originally , how come he has a voice line saying his name ... ? sooooo , if the voice really is someone else's ... could turbo have done an impression ? i don't think it's tooo far off to assume bc also where tf did the kc portrait come from did he draw it himself too ? ofc you couuuld say maybe kc was a scrapped character who still had enough coding left over for the voice and portrait as well as the model but i don't think that's quite as fun

again i think i'm prooobably just hearing things and it's probably nothing , but i really can't help but feel there's something off about that voice line and it just will not leave me alone ... and i thought it'd be fun to point out anyway even if i'm wrong after all wEeEeEeE

[thevalkyriesshadow]

@freyjas-musings - A drabble for you! Inspired by a couple Gwynriel bathroom headcanons of mine as well as this steamy Instagram reel

💖 Enjoy 💖

The House was quiet as Azriel entered the dining room. No one was in the sitting room. No one lingered in the halls. Though as he neared his room, he did hear the distinct sound of water running in the baths situated between his room and The House's newest inhabitant -- Gwyneth Berdara's room.

And of course after two days of her being here, the personal bathrooms went on the fritz -- well, just his and Gwyn's.

The House, the clever structure that it was, created a new bathroom between their rooms as it worked out it's own problem. (Don't ask how or why The House was able to produce a new bathroom instead of just fixing the old...it vexed Azriel to no end.)

Not that he minded having to share a bathroom, but he did like the solitary usage of his personal one...

As he passed the bathroom to get to his room he heard another sound amidst the trickling of water; something he hadn't heard coming from the shared bathroom before.

Singing.

And it was ethereal. Beautiful.

Was that Gwyn?

He stood outside the door for a moment, letting the sound carry over him and wash away the tension in his shoulders. His jaw unclenched and he took a deep breath. Music was often a way to unwind and shake off the stress of a job, but this singing was...transcending, divine.

There were no words as the voice carried through the wooden doors. Just 'oohs' and 'ahhs'.

That had to be Gwyn right? Nesta wouldn't use it. She had her own bathroom.

Then the voice dropped an octave, and words began pouring out. A language he didn't recognize, but a voice he knew.

The acoustics of the bathroom amplified Gwyn’s voice. Her cadence ebbed and flowed.

For the first time in three days since he left for his mission, Azriel felt...calmed.

He may not recognize the language she sang in and the power of its words, but he yearned for the sensation that flowed over him -- through him -- serenity. Stillness.

No anxious thoughts pervaded his mind. No fears or worries.

Only peace.

And as he listened to her belt out the words at the top of her lungs, not a care who heard, Azriel felt a squeezing in his chest. A tug.

Her singing faded into the steady stream of the water. There was a loud squeak, and the water stopped.

The silence broke his reverie. Azriel hadn't realized he'd closed his eyes. Hadn't realized he'd leaned against the door as he listened and lost himself in teal blue eyes. Lost himself imagining how her mouth might move as she sings. Imagining what it would feel like to sing with her....

Not wanting to be caught lingering outside of the bathroom when Gwyn emerged, Azriel hurried off to his room to change and gather his own things for a shower.

---

Gwyn thought she'd finally be getting her own bathroom moving into The House, but of course, fate seemed to have it's own ideas.

Fate or The House was pranking her.

She wrapped herself in a towel as she got out of the shower, looking forward to putting on the silky, light blue pajamas The House provided her. She had an exhausting day of training the new Valkyrie recruits, assisting in the Library, and conducting research for Rhysand. She wasn't tired, tired, so she would probably be staying up to rearrange her books - again -

When she had moved in a couple weeks ago, she had only ten books to her name. But every day since she'd moved in, she would return to her room at the end of the day to find The House had dropped a pile of new books for her onto her bed. Some books she'd never even think to read, like ones about dagger making and types of rope knots. There were books on the history of Prythian. Another titled Espionage and You: An In Depth Discussion of the Moral Code, and of course, lots and lots of romance and adventure novels.

Gwyn slipped into her pajamas, ate the small plate of cookies The House provided her, then grabbed her toothbrush and headed back to the bathroom.

She had just put the toothpaste on the brush when the door to the showers opened. A billowing cloud of steam and shadows poured out.

Gwyn balked as Azriel emerged from the mist, a towel slung low on his hips. His shadows darted out, twirling around Gwyn’s hair and toothbrush.

Azriel froze in the doorway as he spotted Gwyn. Water dripped from tendrils of inky black hair. It ran in little rivulets down his neck and shoulders. Some of the water pooled into the little divet of his clavicle. Other streams continued over the tattoos on his chest and trailed down...down...

Her eyes darted back up to his.

The smallest of smirks tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Gwyn, by some unexplained reason, continued to brush her teeth while casually staring back at him. She waited for him to say something first.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he watched his shadows dance around her before joining her at the counter. His tore his gaze from hers, only to catch it again in the mirror as he picked up his toothbrush and began his nightly bedtime routine.

She tried, and failed then, to ignore Azriel’s reflection.

But gods damned those muscles as he moved his arm to brush his teeth....

It was like they were purposefully tormenting her, begging her to watch them as they tensed and flexed with every movement he made and --

Her gaze caught his brilliant hazel eyes watching her watch him in the mirror. The golden flecks amidst the green hues sparkled with amusement as a blush crept across her cheeks.

Gwyn peeled her eyes away from him, focusing on her own reflection.

Damn. She didn't realize how cropped her shirt was, or how noticeable her nipples were as they poked through the thin fabric. Maybe Azriel didn't notice.

She chanced another glance.

Oh, Azriel definitely noticed.

His eyes were currently sweeping over her in the reflection before he bent forward and spit into the sink, rinsing away his discarded toothpaste with a quick twist of the faucet.

It was his turn to blush as his gaze met hers in the mirror, knowing full well he'd been caught checking her out.

So...Gwyn held his gaze for a moment, then lowered it, unapologetically, taking in the lithe muscles of his shoulders and chest, the way his body sloped to a tapered waist.

A sensual warmth spread from her lower spine and pooled deep within her.

Her gaze certainly lingered longer than it should have on the smattering of hair that extended above the low hanging towel perched on his waist.

She spit her toothpaste into the sink and looked over at him. Not in the mirror this time, but at him directly.

The Shadowsinger was already looking over at her, brushing his teeth lazily, as if his mind momentarily forgot what it was doing until she caught his gaze.

Normally, when Azriel stared at someone, it was with an icy coldness.

But never with Gwyn.

With Gwyn, Azriel looked at her with reverence.

A rare softness fell over his features.

Then he drooled toothpaste and was pivoting to the sink to spit it out. His blush spread further across his cheeks and ears as he hastily finished brushing his teeth.

Then Azriel, the terrifying Spy Master of the Night Court, tapped his toothbrush on the sink, dropped it into the holder, and with a wink and a devilish smirk Azriel finally spoke.

"You have a lovely singing voice, by the way," he said, his voice dark and husky. The sound sent shivers down her spine.

Gwyn's eyes went wide, and something in her chest hummed and tugged as she watched Azriel saunter past her, willing her to follow him. Her gaze dropped to the dimples of his lower back, reveled at the way his muscles moved as he twisted back around to flash her another more sheepish smile before ducking out of the doorway.

Forget reorganizing her bookshelf. Tonight, Gwyn was going to pick up the juiciest romance she could find from her new drop today and indulge in a little self-care.