#drew the circuits from memory

[measlyscrapofseafood]

cover that guy thing in blood

[pretentious-blonde]

trust

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: steve confesses something deeply personal, your reaction only spurs him on with his newly found confidence

warnings: 18+ this contains smut, f oral receiving, body insecurity, scars, whiney steve, it's real sappy

a/n: this is long and half of it is filth, but it's sweet so it's fine!! steve is smitten and a lil pathetic, idk what else to say

series masterlist

Robin sat at her kitchen table in rumpled pajamas, hair slightly wild, nursing a mug of coffee that smelled dangerously bitter. She didn’t expect to be out of bed at this hour, but she had a rather pressing matter that demanded her attention.

Her best friend was perched across from her, vibrating with nerves. Steve couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so frazzled before noon—especially on a Sunday.

“Are you gonna tell me why you’re here at eight in the morning, or am I supposed to guess?”

Straight to the point, huh? 

He raked a hand through his hair—he’d already done it so many times this morning that it stuck up at all angles. 

“...We went on another date.”

“Right. You and your mystery girl.” A smile pulled at Robin’s lips. “That’s great, Steve, really. Super happy for you. But you needed to wake me up just to tell me you went on a date?”

When she says it like that, it feels like the understatement of the year. 

“I think I blew it,” he said flatly, the words coming out in a rush.

She snorted into her coffee. “That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

“No, I’m serious,” he insisted, shoulders sagging. There was a dullness in his eyes that told her this was more than his usual overreaction. “I’m telling you, I ruined it.”

“Okay, sure,” she put her mug down, leaning forward with a sigh. ”You’ve totally, completely ruined it. Wanna back up and give me some context here?”

He drew in a breath, gaze drifting to the wall as if he might see yesterday play out on its surface. 

“Okay, so I saw her again yesterday. Picked her up, had a great time—like, amazing. I’m talking, she’s laughing…” He trailed off, letting that memory blossom in his chest. He cleared his throat, pressing on. “Anyway, I drove her home, walked her to her door. Smooth, right?”

“Peak romance,” Robin deadpanned, eyes narrowed as she tried not to smirk.

Steve shot her a withering glare that only made her grin more. 

“Yeah, so then we… we kissed. Which is not new. Told you what happened in the classroom couple weeks back? God, that was—” He closed his eyes for a moment, recalling how your lips tasted that evening, reluctantly forcing himself back to the present. “I mean, you know, right?”

Robin took another sip. “Yes, I know. Please continue.”

“Okay. Sorry. So last night, we’re outside, and she’s leaning against the door. We’re both kinda… reeling, and then she looks at me—like, that look—and asks if I’d like to come inside.”

“Inside, huh?” Robin’s coffee froze halfway to her lips. 

“Yeah.” Steve nodded fervently. “And look, I’m not an idiot, okay? It was late. I know what inside means.”

“I’m… not following.”

A frustrated groan escaped him as he slumped forward, elbows on the table, head in his hands. 

He doesn’t want to say the next part—he can barely stand to close his eyes without seeing the look on your face. Disappointed. And knowing he was the reason why. It was so stupid. He could have said anything else, but of course, his brain chose to short-circuit instead.

“I said… ‘No, thank you.’”

Silence blanketed the room. Robin’s mouth hung open for a moment before she found her words. 

“You said what?”

He groaned again, louder this time. 

“I panicked, okay? Just… You should’ve seen her face. She looked so—God, embarrassed? And I… I just—I was stuck. Couldn’t think of anything else.”

“So you turned down an invitation inside after a date—”

“—and then I turned around and headed for my car,” he finished, miserably.

Robin cringed, setting her mug aside. “Oof.”

“I know,” he hissed. He lifted his head, eyes pained, as if replaying the moment in mind-numbing slow motion. The memory felt like a stone in his chest.

Her gaze softened as she took in her best friend's posture, how his fingers trembled around the rim of the coffee mug he hadn't even touched. 

She knew he’d had it rough—anyone who’d witnessed what he had would understand. But since he primarily talked to his therapist about this sort of thing, she often forgot just how deep those wounds really ran.

“Hey,” she said, voice gentler now, “it’s okay if you’re… not ready for all of that yet. It’s a big step.”

He lifted his head, eyes shadowed with worry. 

“I am ready,” he countered, a hint of desperation colouring his tone. “I want—I want to be ready for that.”

And he did. He wanted it so badly, his body ached with the image of your skin against his, even if the touches had never gone beyond heated kisses and tentative caresses. 

For the last few years, his mind had been stuck in survival mode—always scanning for threats, flinching at sudden noises, bracing for the worst. But now, when he closed his eyes at night, instead of feeling dread burrow into his bones, he found himself imagining the curve of your lips, the softness of your laugh. 

He wondered how you’d sound if he whispered filthy compliments against your ear, what your breathy giggle might feel like against his neck if his fingertips trailed down your sides… between your thighs. 

Sometimes he even caught himself shivering from the sheer longing to feel you. 

All of you.

But wanting that also meant baring more than just his heart. The idea of letting you see every inch of him—scars that told stories he wasn’t ready to retell, the ridges and marks that still woke him in cold sweats—terrified him. 

What if you asked about them? What if you stared too long? Worse, would you be disgusted? He imagined your wide eyes taking him in and feeling pity, revulsion. The thought was enough to make his stomach twist, to conjure that old, familiar panic.

He swallowed thickly, struggling to force the words out. Robin slid her coffee across and leaned forward, reaching out as if to anchor him to the present. 

“You can talk to me,” she urged. “You know that, right?”

Steve pressed his lips together, trying and failing to steady the whirlwind of fear in his chest. Finally, he looked at her, voice barely above a whisper. 

“What if…” He inhales deeply, “what if she doesn’t... like what she sees?”

It took a while for it to click, but when it did, her chest caved. 

Her eyes flickered with regret as realisation sank in, remembering the countless times she’d watched her friend hurl himself into danger so that she and the others could walk away unscathed. Always the martyr, always the hero, always the one with the innate urge to rush in and save those he held close to him. 

It was such a rare gift, but it was one that left the worst as a result. The physical reminders—souvenirs he never asked for. 

“Steve,” she said quietly, “everyone has scars.”

He let out a soft, humourless laugh. 

“Not like mine.”

Her heart broke for him, but her resolve was far stronger. 

“Hey,” she spoke, tone turning firm, “we’re not doing that.” She locked eyes with him, showing him the truth behind her statement. “Do you seriously think this girl would judge you for something that’s basically the reason you’re still alive?”

That we’re all alive.

His gaze darted away, thoughts churning. 

Robin was always like this—blunt, even when she was trying to be comforting. A stark contrast to Dr. Avery, but sometimes he preferred it. At least it meant honesty.

“Well… people are—”

“That’s not what I’m asking,” she cut him off, levelling him with a look. “I’m asking if you think, with absolute certainty, that this would cause her to stop seeing you.”

He opened his mouth, closed it again, and racked his brain for any moment he’d ever heard you speak ill of someone without good reason. He couldn’t recall a single instance—except for that one time you’d jokingly insulted his father after hearing the reaction to Steve’s profession, but that was more than warranted. Otherwise, you never had a negative word for anyone. Even when you probably should. 

He couldn’t picture you reacting with disgust. 

It just didn’t… fit.

“It’s not that simple,” he muttered, though his voice wavered with uncertainty.

“I hate to say it, but it kind of is.” Robin pursed her lips. “She’s clearly into you, right?”

He hesitated. “Well—”

“Shh, yes she is,” she declared, waving a dismissive hand. “She wouldn’t be seeing you if she wasn’t. And if anything, that’s a bigger compliment, yeah? She wants you for you.”

“What if there are questions?” He gave a reluctant shrug, tension still rolling off him in waves. 

“Then be honest.”

He shot her a look. “Are you serious right now?”

“No, not that kind of honest.” Robin snorted. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” he said quickly, the mere thought making dread coil in his gut. That was the last thing he wanted to bring up in your presence. 

“There you go.” She lifted her eyebrows pointedly. “Tell her it’s hard for you to talk about. You’re not lying, you’re just… setting a boundary.”

“I’m not sure…” he admitted, leaning back in his chair.

“For God’s sake, Steve.” Robin sighed, exasperated but affectionate all the same. “I’m telling you this as your friend—you can’t let this hold you back forever.”

His jaw tightened. “I’m not.”

“You don’t know unless you try,” she pressed. “Do you trust her?”

“Yes,” he blurted, the word escaping before he even had time to think. You had never given him a single reason not to, the only thing you treated him with was unrelenting kindness. 

Robin’s lips curved into a gentle smile. “Well, there’s your answer.”

A beat of silence passed before he nodded, finally letting some measure of acceptance settle in his eyes. Robin grinned back, pushing herself to her feet, feeling proud that they had reached a solution. 

“Have you eaten?”

“No.” He shook his head. He came straight here as soon as he woke up. Barely slept the night before, too. 

“Pancakes, then.” She arched an eyebrow, making her way over to the stove. “You’re gonna need the energy for when you go talk to her later.”

“Later?” Steve spun in his chair, panic creeping back in.

“Yeah, it’s Sunday,” Robin rolled her eyes as she pulled out a frying pan. “No time like the present, right?”

Steve spent the rest of the morning holed up at Robin’s place, grateful for her presence and the easy way they could slip back into normal best-friend banter. It helped calm the churning in his gut, the lingering phantom of your expression—slightly crestfallen—when he’d refused your invitation the previous night.

By the afternoon, he felt marginally more composed. Maybe it was the pancakes, or maybe it was the way she all but shoved him out the door with the gentle instruction to ‘fix it’ and ‘try not to overthink.’

Easier said than done.

Either way, he found himself stopping by a local florist before driving to your shop. The tiny bell above the florist’s door tinkled as he stepped in, and he spent a solid ten minutes agonising over which bouquet to get, recalling Robin’s reassurance. 

“No girl’s ever upset by flowers.”

Eventually, he left with a bundle of soft-petaled blooms—light pinks and whites and a hint of greenery—and the distinct feeling that his heart might pound its way right out of his chest.

Your shop front, normally inviting, appeared closed from the outside—lights off, sign flipped to “Closed.” He knew you rarely opened on Sundays, which was exactly why he was hoping you’d be here catching up on inventory, or maybe just tinkering with whatever behind the scenes stuff you did. The street was quiet, the afternoon light softer than usual, and he paused at the door, bouquet in hand, taking a quick breath to steel himself.

He knocked gently, three times.

At first, nothing. Then, after a second, he saw movement through the side window: a glimpse of you rounding the corner, curiosity evident on your face—until your gaze landed on him. Even at a distance, he saw your expression flicker between shock and uncertainty. His heart plummeted at the thought that maybe he was the last person you wanted to see right now.

Still, you came over, unbolted the lock, and eased the door open. 

“Hey, Steve,” you said quietly, voice uncertain yet polite. “I… wasn’t expecting you.”

His tongue felt like lead. 

“Yeah, well, um…” He awkwardly tapped the toe of his shoe on the pavement before glancing down at the flowers. His head spun with everything he wanted to say. “Can I come in?”

Your eyes flicked from the bouquet back to him, and then you stepped aside, nodding. 

“Sure.”

As you closed the door behind him, he took in a calming breath. The shop was dim, lit mostly by the fading light filtering through the front windows. It smelled of you in a comforting, barely-there way: a hint of vanilla, maybe a touch of something floral tied with old paper.

“Um,” he started, holding out the flowers. “I picked these up for you.”

You glanced at them, your features melting into something softer. The corners of your lips tilted up in the faintest smile. 

“They’re beautiful,” you murmured, reaching for them. He could see the tension easing in your shoulders, though it didn’t vanish entirely.

When you sighed, he braced for the worst���but your voice was gentle. The words leaving you not at all what he expected. 

“Listen, Steve, I want to tell you I’m… really sorry about last night. I shouldn’t have been so forward, and if I made you uncomfortable—”

“Hey—” The words rushed out of him before he could stop them. “No, don’t—I’m the one who should be apologising.”

Are you seriously the one taking the blame right now?

“There’s really no need,” you insisted, although your gaze slid away as though you couldn’t quite banish the awkwardness in the air.

He inhaled through his nose, summoning courage. 

Here goes nothing. 

“I, um,” he said softly, stepping a little closer. “I—I haven’t been—”

He tried recalling every single word Robin had told him—her reminders that you liked him, that a small truth wouldn’t change that. He tried to remember all the pointers his therapist had ever offered about vulnerability and the importance of speaking up, but the moment he lifted his gaze and locked eyes with you, every carefully rehearsed line vanished.

It was just you. Standing there, holding the flowers he’d given you in your gentle grip, your expression open and patient and just the slightest bit worried. The shop’s quiet seemed to magnify the pounding of his heart.

“Listen,” he began, voice trembling despite his best effort. “I… I like you.” Heat rose to his cheeks immediately; God, he sounded like a flustered high school kid. “And I know that’s not—I mean, maybe it’s not what anyone wants to hear. Probably think it’s bull, but I haven’t felt this way in a… in a while.” He swallowed. “Longer than a while, actually. And I—I just don’t want you to be…” He let out a rough breath, tongue tripping over the words. “I don’t want you to be disappointed.”

“Disappointed?” You tilted your head, brow creasing. 

It was a single word, but it reached right in and squeezed his heart. 

He wet his lips. This was the moment—no turning back. He could almost hear Robin’s voice in his head telling him to trust you. 

So he did.

“Yeah,” he managed, letting out a humourless chuckle. “I…” His pulse roared in his ears as he extended his arm, tugging at the sleeve of his sweater. 

It felt like every second stretched and stretched, infinitely slow, while he carefully eased the fabric up. He revealed the pale, uneven skin on the back of his left forearm.

There, a gnarled mark ran angry and taut, though it had healed better than it once was. It was still jarring against the rest of his skin, as if it didn’t quite belong on his body. 

He had half a mind to yank the sleeve back down, to hide it all again. Every nerve in him screamed to do so.

You stepped closer instead, a soft, careful movement that sent warmth fluttering in his gut. he forced a small, shaky smile, even as his voice trembled. 

“It, uh, looks worse than it is.” A lie, but he couldn’t bring himself to fully admit the pain buried there. “I just wanted you to know… in case we ever… in case you wanted to…”

He trailed off, heart hammering. The jumble of words in his head was impossible to untangle, so he let them die on his tongue.

Your gaze flicked from the scar to his eyes, and a stillness enveloped the space for a moment. You could see how hard this was for him, and you were doing everything in your power to keep this conversation tender. 

“There are more?”

There was no judgment in your tone—just gentle curiosity. He could’ve laughed at how badly he’d feared that question. 

“Yeah,” he answered, a quiet, wry chuckle escaping his throat. “Unfortunately.”

You nodded. Your expression was so compassionate it nearly knocked the breath right out of him. There was nothing unfortunate except the pain he had once been in. 

“Is this why you said no?”

He felt the tension in his shoulders tighten. 

“I—yeah.” In a rush, he continued, “I just wanted you to know what you were getting into. Wanted to… to give you the chance back out.” He swallowed, voice dropping.

Even he could hear the raw, unfiltered insecurity there—every fear he’d harboured for years, twisted into one desperate confession. 

He didn’t want you to leave. But if you had to, do it before he fell any harder. 

And then you smiled at him—so softly, so gently, it felt like a sunrise breaking through storm clouds. When you spoke, your tone was certain. 

You had never been more sure of a decision.

“There is nothing that could make me want you any less, Steve Harrington.”

He felt his chest constrict, tears threatening at the back of his eyes. Every flutter of panic from before turned into a wild, dizzy sense of relief. You—the person who made his heart race just by being—were standing here in front of him, telling him that not even the physical parts of his past could drive you away.

And that was enough to make him break. His eyes burned, blinking back tears before they could spill. He bit the inside of his cheek to hold them back.

You didn’t look repulsed or the littlest bit shocked. You just looked at him the way you always did, like he mattered. Like his fears and his uncertainties weren’t hurdles, just parts of him that you could hold with the same gentleness you held everything else.

You're a fucking dream.

For a few moments, the floral bouquet resting lightly in your arms, his tears barely contained. You tilt your chin up, eyes still carrying that same warmth that makes his knees feel suspiciously unsteady. 

“So…” You pause, letting the word hang in the air like a gentle invitation. “Are you busy for the rest of the day?”

He blinks, the question startling him out of his reverie. “Uh…”

There’s that teasing gleam again. You roll your eyes, but it’s playful, a faint smile tugging at your lips. 

“Not for that.”

A sharp, nervous laugh escapes him before he can stop it, his cheeks flushing.

“Right,” he breathes. “No—Yeah, I can be free today.” He rubs the back of his neck, feeling that slight scratchiness of the sweater he still hasn’t rolled back down, and a wave of awkward self-consciousness washes through him. “Why?”

Your fingers flex around the stems of the bouquet as you look up at him, so much affection in your expression that he wonders if his heart can handle it. 

“Because I want to spend time with you… if you’re up for it.”

A warmth flutters through his chest, soft and giddy, making him feel as though he’s standing on the edge of something hopeful. He wets his lips, nodding. 

“I—I’d love that.”

He followed you up the narrow staircase, heart thumping with excitement at being welcomed into your space. It felt surreal, having spent so many days imagining what your home might look like—wondering if it would match the warmth you exuded—and now he was here, taking it all in with wide, fascinated eyes. Almost like the kids in his class. 

The flat upstairs was an eclectic oasis of mismatched pillows and faded rugs, vintage trinkets and framed prints. Everything seemed handpicked with care, though there was no strict colour scheme or aesthetic; it was simply you. 

Immediately, he found himself smiling. It was like walking into a technicolour daydream, a comforting patchwork of old and new. A soft blanket half-draped over an armchair, a scattering of books on the coffee table, and a hint of something sweet in the air—maybe a candle you’d recently burned.

He was acutely aware that he wanted to brush his fingers across everything, to learn more about you from the objects that made this space yours. Instead, he hovered in the middle of the living area, trying to keep his nosiness in check. 

He’d told himself a thousand times not to be weird, but his eyes kept drifting to the shelves crammed with random curios, or the cosy throws that didn’t quite match in colour but somehow still belonged together.

“Would you like to stay for dinner?” You turned to him, a gentle smile lighting your features as you placed the bouquet down. 

“Yeah,” he answered quickly—too quickly, but he couldn’t help it. The idea of sharing an evening with you, in your home, felt overwhelmingly domestic. “Absolutely,” he added, more composed this time.

“Good.” Your entire face brightened in response, clapping your hands together with an almost mischievous air. Without further ado, you strolled over to the small open-plan kitchen. “That means you get to be my sous chef.”

He walked toward you, leaning against the counter. “Seriously?”

“Oh, absolutely. You don’t eat for free in my house,” you teased, trying to adopt an air of authority. “You gotta work for it.”

Even though you were clearly joking, his chest flooded with warmth. 

“Yes, Chef,” 

You snorted a laugh at that, pulling open the fridge door and glancing inside. 

“Okay… I went shopping recently, so I’ve got a lot of stuff. Definitely vegetables, so maybe we can do something with pasta, or a ratatouille.” You kept talking, your voice lilting with easy excitement. “Are you fussy? I think I have some meat in here if you’d prefer that, or we could make soup—although it was kind of hot today, so maybe soup isn’t ideal. Or we could—”

Your words came out in a single breath, a rapid-fire list of possibilities. It was adorable, watching you in your element: your hair shifting slightly as you leaned into the fridge, rummaging for ideas, lost in your own thoughts. His stomach tightened at how earnest you sounded, so eager to accommodate him.

He stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder, feeling the softness of your sweater beneath his palm. 

“Pasta’s fine,” he said softly, gently drawing you out of your rambling.

You glanced over your shoulder, cheeks warming just a bit, as though you’d just realised how fast you were talking. 

“Yeah,” you agreed, shutting the fridge partway, “okay—pasta. Pasta is safe. Hard to mess up.”

“Hey, you’d be surprised.” He slid over to rest his hip on the counter, tilting his head and letting himself enjoy the way you flushed. “When I was younger, I didn’t realise you had to… y’know, put the pasta in water.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “What?”

“Yep. Didn’t occur to me.” He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Threw it straight in the pan.”

“Are you seriously telling me you burnt raw pasta?”

“Look,” he huffed, hands raised in mock surrender, “I am a lot better now, alright?”

“I should hope so,” you teased, a burst of laughter escaping you, brightening the entire flat. 

Reaching into the fridge again, you pulled out a bag of fresh vegetables, a small block of cheese, and a carton of cream—handing them off to him. Then you shut the fridge, leaving the two of you close in the small space.

That’s when Steve’s eyes landed on something pinned to the fridge door. A piece of paper, slightly worn at the edges, the pencil lines smudged but still recognisable. 

The sketch of you he’d drawn back in his classroom.

He froze, gaze locked on it. The memory flooded back—heart drumming in his chest, trying to capture your likeness with hidden, trembling hands. He hadn’t expected you to care that much about it, let alone display it so proudly.

When you noticed him staring, your expression turned a little bashful, a soft laugh slipping from your lips. 

“I… figured it deserved a place of honour,” you teased, brushing a fingertip against one corner of the paper. He could hear the truth behind the joke.

He swallowed the sudden lump in his throat, his voice characteristically gentle. 

“You kept it?”

“Course I did.” You replied, echoing something you’d once said to him. “Told you I always wanted my portrait done.” 

A flush crept up his neck, and he rubbed it awkwardly. 

“Yeah, but…” He paused, unsure how to convey the weight of this small gesture. You’d taken a simple drawing—something he hadn’t even considered that good—and made it into a keepsake.

Before he could figure out what to say, you cut in, a casual shrug that did nothing to hide the fondness in your eyes. 

“I wanted to put it somewhere I could see it...”

Emotion welled in his chest, warm and insistent. He didn’t say anything right away. All he managed was a small, lopsided smile that hopefully conveyed some fraction of the tenderness he felt. 

You felt slightly awkward under his gaze, clearing your throat as you handed him the knife and pointed to the chopping board. Confirming to him you trusted him enough not to butcher your vegetables—or your kitchen.

He lays everything out in front of him, reaching to roll up his sleeves. He hesitates—just for a moment—before deciding to go through with it. There’s no point in hiding now that it’s all out in the open, but the brush of air against his marks still feels foreign.

When he glances at you, you’re not even looking. Not staring, not reacting, not bothered in the slightest. And something about that settles him. He wonders if this is what it could always be like—if, someday, this could be routine. If your space could become a place where he doesn’t have to hide. A place where he can just exist.

He set about dicing an onion, practicing the technique Robin had drilled into him: fingers tucked in, careful horizontal and vertical cuts. It wasn’t Michelin-worthy, but he liked to think he’d developed some culinary skills.

You, meanwhile, grabbed a block of cheese from the fridge and started grating. 

“So, I’m guessing you know how to cook a little now, huh?” you asked casually, taking in the even slices of onion gathering on the board.

A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. 

“Yeah, I do,” he said, scraping the chopped onion into a neat pile. “Kinda like it, actually.”

“Oh?” you prompted, quirking a brow as though intrigued by this domestic side of him.

“Robin—I’ve mentioned her, right?” When you nodded, he continued, “Well, after she saw what a disaster I was in the kitchen firsthand, basically forced me to learn.”

You laughed gently, the sound like warm honey. “I feel sorry for her.”

“Ouch,” Steve shot you a mock-offended look, then shrugged. “To be fair, she was super patient—more than I deserved sometimes.”

You nodded and he went quiet for a moment, focusing on the task in front of him as memories crowded his mind. He could see Robin’s exasperated grin as she dangled a spatula in front of him, telling him if he didn’t at least stir the sauce, she’d let it burn. 

He remembered the nights he couldn’t get out of bed—nights where his own mind weighed him down like lead—and how she would simply appear, commandeer his kitchen, and coax him into joining her.

At first, it had been embarrassing. He hated the thought of needing someone to guide him through the simplest tasks, hated the idea that he was helpless. But Robin had this uncanny knack of turning it into fun—into a moment of victory, however small. 

If he managed to perfectly chop a pepper or make a sauce without scalding it, she’d give him a triumphant little fist bump, like he’d just won a gold medal. 

Over time, cooking became a small but tangible source of confidence for him—proof that he could create something from nothing, sustain himself with his own two hands.

He cleared his throat, blinking back into the present. 

“She didn’t let me off that easy. Dragged me into the kitchen most days—but you know, she actually helped a lot.” He went on, sliding the diced onion into a bowl you’d handed him. “Once she and I got busier, we stopped doing it as much, but…” He gestured around your cluttered kitchen, eyes travelling from the mismatched mugs on your shelf to the bright potholders hanging on the wall. “It’s nice.”

He didn’t say the rest out loud, but you could deduce what he meant. He liked making something, building something. He liked feeling safe. 

“You know,” you say softly, glancing up from the cheese you’d just finished grating, “she sounds amazing. I’d love to meet her someday.”

He sets down the knife he was holding, taking a moment to wipe his hands on a dish towel. The genuine excitement lighting his face is almost boyish. 

“Yeah, she’d… she’d really like that, actually.” There’s a flicker of pride in his eyes—like he can’t wait to show you off, show Robin that he’s managed to find someone this wonderful, someone who sees him. “She already mentioned wanting to meet you, so we’ll, uh—” He swallows, looking delighted at the prospect. “We’ll plan something. Once we’re, y’know, all free.”

“Hmm,” you give a thoughtful nod, a small smirk tugging at your lips, “so you’ve been talking about me?”

“Uh, yeah?” He immediately flushes, cheeks warming under your gaze. “‘Course I have. Why wouldn’t I?”

You shrug, your eyes dipping away for a half-second before meeting his again. 

“It’s just… it’s good to know you’re, I don’t know, serious.”

“Did I make you think I wasn’t?” He asks, a hint of genuine concern threading through his voice. He can feel his heart rate pick up—he doesn’t want there to be any room for doubt.

“No!” You shake your head, flustered. “No—not at all. I just mean—”

He steps closer, determined to chase away any lingering uncertainty in your eyes. He doesn’t know what comes over him—maybe it’s the weight of everything that’s happened today, or maybe it’s the way your voice falters, just slightly, sending a surge of confidence through him.

He feels safe here. Your reassurance settles something in him, makes him bold. And now, he wants to test it. To push just a little further, to see how far this newfound feeling can take him. 

To prove—to himself more than anyone—that he hasn’t lost it.

“Because last night,” he says, voice dropping a little lower, feeling how the teasing tone feels on his tongue, “you wanna know what I did?” 

He leans in, invading your personal space in that deliberate way that makes your breath catch. Your reply gets stuck in your throat, and you simply blink at him, gaze darting from his mouth to his eyes, waiting.

Gotcha.

He leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he confesses.

“I spent the whole night alone in bed, thinking about what it would’ve been like to have you there with me.”

Your eyes widen, and for a moment, you draw in a quiet, shaky breath.

Christ—confidence looks good on him. The way he’s looking at you, like a man starved, like he’s been holding this back. And now you’re left wondering—has he always felt this way?

With your expression emboldening him, he dips his head to press his mouth to yours. The kiss starts slow, a gentle lingering of lips, but it deepens as he grips your waist. He wants—needs—you to know how fervently he means every word. 

He pours it all into the press of his mouth: the latent hunger that’s been building since the first moment he realised how important you were becoming, the searing need to prove that last night was never about not wanting you. 

When you make a soft, breathy sound that vibrates against his mouth, his entire body goes warm. His heartbeat pounds so fiercely it’s almost dizzying, and in that moment he’s sure he’s a goner, absolutely done for—you’ve got him.

He tugs back just enough to look at you properly. Your cheeks are flushed, eyes gleaming in the low light of the kitchen, and the sight of you nearly undoes him. You tilt your head, a hesitant little smile ghosting your lips. 

“Hey,” you murmur, voice soft but sure, “we don’t have to do anything if you’re not—”

“I am,” he says, voice rough with need. “Fuck—I am.” His hand cradles your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek in a way that makes your lashes flutter. “Do you trust me?”

Your gaze flicks to his, warm and steady. “Yeah. But… dinner—”

He can’t help the bark of laughter that escapes him. Dinner? Only you would be so concerned about practicalities when he’s two seconds from combusting. 

Still, he recognises the gentle out you’re giving him, a final check-in to see if he really wants this. 

And, oh, he does. 

“It can wait,” he promises, dropping his voice to that intimate purr that already makes your stomach flutter. “Please just—please, let me do this for you.” 

Let him show you. Let him take care of you. 

You meet his eyes, taking in the flush staining his cheeks, the raw want practically radiating off him. You manage a nod, hardly able to get the word yes out before he’s on you again—his mouth against yours with a heat that has you spinning.

It starts hungry, and only grows more desperate when your hands slide up over his shoulders, fingers curling into the short hair at the nape of his neck. A low groan escapes him, his body thrumming with adrenaline and desire. 

He forgot how good it could feel, how right it could be, to have someone he wants this badly—someone who wants him just as fiercely.

He crowds in close, big hands gripping your hips firmly, and in one swift motion he lifts you onto the counter. A startled gasp leaves you, and you toss a quick glance around as though you can’t quite believe the two of you are about to do this. 

“Here?” you ask, voice breathy with surprise.

“Yeah,” a cocky half-grin tips the corner of his mouth. “Right here.”

Any way he can have you. 

Every nerve in his body screams for more contact, more of you—he needs to taste, needs to feel.

He slots himself between your thighs, leaning in again to reclaim your lips. The tension in your muscles loosens as his hands drift beneath your shirt, sliding across the warm plane of your sides. The soft curves and dips of your skin drag a ragged breath out of him, especially when your hips roll against his.

You can’t help the little whimper that bubbles up, and the sound propels him deeper into the kiss. His entire body tingles with awareness of you, from the slight shiver that courses through you at his touch to the way your nails lightly scrape at his scalp.

When your fingers thread into his hair, a deep, full-throated groan vibrates from his chest—he’s powerless to stop it.

That breathy chuckle you give in response makes him shiver. You angle his head, your palm cupping the back of his neck. 

“You like that, huh?” you tease, eyes glinting with mischief.

His head falls back slightly as he exhales.

“Fuck—yeah—yes.” He’s beyond self-conscious at this point, need flooding through every cell. He rests his forehead against yours, breathing in the faint scent of your shampoo, before trailing his hand down to the waistband of your jeans.

“Gonna need you to do that again for me,” he murmurs, voice filled with confidence and trembling want.

You blink, momentarily puzzled, until he starts to tug at your jeans, his fingers hooking into both denim and underwear. Then you realise exactly what he means—and you waste no time in helping him rid you of the final barriers standing between his hands and your bare skin.

He tugs the denim down, heart thundering as he sinks to his knees between your thighs. He’s wound so tight he can practically hear his pulse in his ears. 

From his vantage point below, he takes in the sight of you, drawn to every curve and line. There’s something indescribably beautiful about seeing you like this, so undone, so ready.

He slides his hands over your legs, fingertips grazing soft skin and eliciting a shiver that makes his chest swell with pride. It’s been so long since he’s done this—too long. The anxious flutter in his stomach almost rivals the heat pooling in his lower body. 

But he wants to do this right. Needs to.

When he glances up again, you’re watching him through half-lidded eyes, a flush creeping up your neck. The way you part your lips as you inhale, the anticipation evident in your features—it all spurs him on. He lets out a shaky breath, leaning in to brush his mouth over your inner thigh first, planting a series of teasing, barely-there kisses as he makes his way closer.

Your hand tangles in his hair, fingers curling in a firm but not painful grip. It’s a silent command,  a reminder that you’re right there, in this with him. 

He shudders at the rush of arousal that flares through him. 

“Stop teasing,” you finally mutter, voice edged with impatience.

He flushes hot at your tone—low, wanting, confident. 

“Sorry, angel,” he murmurs, the endearment rolling off his tongue like a promise. “Gonna make it up to you, all right?”

For both yesterday, and right now.

You give a quick nod, and he takes that as all the permission he needs. Gently, he lifts one of your legs to rest over his shoulder, pressing a kiss to the sensitive skin just above your knee. Then he settles in, leaning forward until he’s exactly where he needs to be.

The first flick of his tongue draws a throaty moan from you, and his own breath stumbles at the sheer erotic charge of the moment. He’s nearly lightheaded with how good you taste, how you respond to every shift of his lips, every press of his mouth. 

It’s intoxicating, fueling him to explore every sensitive spot he can find.

“Should’ve done this last night,” in a husky, almost delirious voice. He hates that he ran from you, from this, even for a second. But it’s fueling him now, pushing him to worship every inch of you until he’s certain you’ll never doubt how badly he wants you. “Should’ve had you then,” he breathes, “So fucking stupid.”

Your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging him closer, and he lets out a muffled groan. You’re already trembling under his touch, each quiet whimper echoing in the small kitchen. The tile beneath his knees is hard, but he barely registers any discomfort—he’s too lost in you. The lust is overshadowed by a tenderness, a desire not just to please you, but to prove something to himself. 

That he can still be this person. 

Then you gasp, hips shifting forward in search of more, and your free hand flies out to grab at his arm. The moment your palm lands on the rough, uneven skin, his stomach lurches.

He half-expects to feel you flinch. But instead, you grip him tighter, holding on as though you need him close. That realisation sends a bolt of raw adrenaline right through his core, and he doubles down, dragging his tongue in deep, purposeful strokes.

Your desperate noises urge him on, and he moves in closer, pressing you more firmly against the counter. The scent of you and the haze of arousal in the air blur his senses. He’s focused on nothing but your pleasure—on coaxing more of those shaky, breathless moans out of you, each one sweeter than the last.

When your fingers tighten again in his hair, he lifts his gaze for a heartbeat, catching the dazed, blissed-out expression on your face, a wave of heat flashing through him,

He’s done for. 

He feels the telltale flutter in your core, the way your thighs tense around his head and the broken syllables of his name falling from your lips. His own heartbeat stutters at the sound of you gasping, higher and higher until you’re almost pleading.

“Steve—” you manage, voice trembling on the edge. “I’m gonna—”

He groans low in his throat, pressing in closer. 

“Yeah?” he murmurs hungrily. “C’mon baby—please—wanna feel you—”

That’s all it takes for you to come apart, back arching and legs clenching, trapping him in a burst of sensation. 

He keeps his mouth moving, coaxing every last pulse out of you. The tight press of your thighs around his head should be suffocating, but to him it’s pure adrenaline. He savours the moment, humming with open satisfaction at how your body shudders under his relentless focus, until you finally push lightly at his head, too sensitive to handle more.

He reluctantly withdraws, breathing heavy as he looks up at you. Your cheeks are flushed, lips parted, chest rising and falling while you come down from your high. For a split second, he stands there on his knees, watching your every expression like you’re the most captivating thing he’s ever seen.

“Was that… all right?” he asks, voice almost shy now that the immediate rush is ebbing, your release still glistening on his chin.

You offer him a dazed little nod, and he can’t help the proud grin spreading across his face as he rises to his feet. The minute his lips touch yours again, you taste yourself on him—a sharp, dizzying reminder of just how thoroughly he’s had you. He smiles into the kiss, smugness in the way his hand cups the side of your face.

Your own hands move with eagerness, tugging at the hem of his sweater. The first spike of panic darts through him, and he tenses. 

No. Not Yet.

He knows what it would mean—bared skin, the possibility of further questions, it's unpredictable. His heart thuds as he pulls back minutely, not wanting to flee but unable to hide the flicker of fear in his eyes.

You pause, taking in the hesitation etched across his features. 

“Not ready?” you ask, gentle but direct.

His lips part, but no words come out at first. A flush creeps up his neck, embarrassment and self-consciousness colliding in his chest. 

“I… I’m sorry,” he finally mutters, feeling every bit as uncertain as he did the night before. 

So much for the surge of confidence.

Your brows knit in understanding, and you nod softly. There’s no accusation in your expression, no frustration. Instead, you lean up to kiss him again—light and sweet and reassuring. 

“Can I still take care of you?” you whisper when you pull back, searching his gaze.

Take care of him. 

“You… you don’t have to do that,” he mumbles, voice rough at the edges.

“I know,” you say, voice calm but insistent. One hand drifts to the fly of his jeans, carefully brushing over the hard outline straining there. He lets out a hiss of breath, tension sizzling through his entire body at the contact. 

“I want to,” you continue, thumb tracing a light pattern along the fabric. “Please?” You look up at him, meeting those warm brown eyes, “I want to make you feel good, too.”

And how could anyone say no to that?

“Fuck, angel… all right.” He exhales a shaky laugh, tipping his forehead to yours. “Yeah, all right.”

You free him from his jeans—he’s so hard it almost hurts, and the cool air hits him like a shock. Every nerve ending is lit up, thrumming with excitement and a bit of residual caution. But the second your fingers curl around him, that caution is drowned out by pure pleasure. 

His head falls forward as soon as your hand wraps around him, burying his face in the crook of your neck with a low, trembling groan.

It’s been so long since he’s been touched like this, and he can’t contain the steady stream of whimpers and half-broken words spilling from his lips. Every movement of your hand drags another rasping exhale out of him.

“God—” he mutters, voice pitched higher than usual. “You—fuck, you feel—”

His breath hitches again as you start slow, deliberately teasing him. He can’t help the ragged little laugh that escapes, face still hidden against your throat. 

“You’re killing me.”

But even then, there’s no mistaking the appreciation in his tone. He likes the way you’re taking your time, savouring the vision of him, watching him go boneless under your touch. His entire body thrums with the urge to thrust into your palm; he’s holding back with every bit of willpower he has, trying not to lose himself too quickly.

When you chuckle softly, your breath hot against his ear, he lets out a needy little sound that he never planned to let slip. 

“Shit,” he curses under his breath, shoulders shaking with pent-up tension. “I—I can’t—”

“Does it feel good?” you tease, your voice edging on playful, as though you already know the answer.

“Yes,” he blurts, shoulders jerking as a ripple of pleasure sparks through him. “Yes, it—it’s so fucking good.” His fingers dig into your shoulders, gripping the fabric of your shirt. “Not gonna last—”

You giggle, and he could swear that sound alone just about knocks the air out of his lungs. His hips jerk forward involuntarily, drawing a guttural noise from deep in his chest.

“You gonna cum for me, Steve?” you ask, voice lilting.

Oh, you’re cruel.

That sweet look on your face—so deceptively innocent, when he knows better. Like a siren, the way your voice teeters between soft and sultry, pulling him under, not allowing him to summon a coherent thought.

His cheeks are bright red, eyes shining with a haze of lust. His mouth opens, but he’s too far gone to form sentences, so he just nods, hair flopping into his face in a disheveled mess. 

“Yeah,” he breathes, tone shaky. “I’m close—I, shit—”

You give him a knowing, devilish grin and draw him down into a kiss—slow, thorough, open-mouthed. He tries to respond, tries to match your pace, but the rising wave of release scrambles his thoughts and tangles his tongue. 

All he can manage are broken moans into your mouth as pleasure overtakes him, and you drink them in eagerly. His orgasm slams into him so fast it nearly buckles his knees, and he grips you tighter, riding out each pulse as it wracks his body.

You keep stroking, guiding him through it, until he sags against you, spent and trembling. His head comes to rest on your shoulder, breath ragged in your ear.

The feeling of you envelops him—your clean hand softly cradling his face, thumb grazing the curve of his cheek. It’s such a gentle, grounding gesture that it helps his racing heart settle.

After a few seconds, he manages to straighten, eyes flicking down to the evidence of his release painting your thighs. There’s a flash of panic in his gaze, but there’s also a thrum of arousal still sparking in his veins at the sight. He fumbles to tuck himself back into his jeans, cheeks more red. 

“Fuck—I’m sorry,” he mutters, his voice still rough.

“Shh,” you say simply, pulling him in for a kiss. He melts into it, relieved and just a little awed by how casual and reassuring you seem, like there’s not an ounce of shame. When you pull back, you brush a few strands of sweaty hair off his forehead. 

“Did you enjoy it?”

He lets out a huff of laughter—surprised you’d even need to ask. His face is still flushed, and he ducks his head. 

“Uh… yeah,” he says, a helpless grin curling his mouth. “Couldn’t you tell?”

“Good.” You give him a knowing smile. “Would’ve broken my heart if I couldn’t do that again.”

“Really?” he asks, blinking in genuine amazement.

“Mhm,” you tease, leaning in to peck him lightly on the lips. “Never gonna be able to cook normally in here again, though.”

That makes him laugh, a loose, buoyant sound that brightens his features. 

“Um, if you don’t mind, I’d like to go to the bathroom and… clean up a little.” You clear your throat, cheeks still pink. “Before we finish cooking.”

“Oh—shit, of course,” he says hurriedly, stepping back to make room for you. He tries to sound collected, but he’s still a little breathless.

You hop off the counter, bending to gather your discarded clothes. As you head across the room, you glance back, noticing him following your every move. A playful wink from you makes him chuckle under his breath, still riding the high of what just transpired.

Alone in the kitchen, he turns back to the neglected pot and quickly re-focuses himself. With a shaky exhale, he slides the diced onions into it. He sets the knife aside for when you return, mind swirling with the memory of your touch—the same memory that he would certainly be revisiting in the very near future. 

When you finally emerge, you’re wearing a pair of soft pajamas—something that looks cosy enough to curl up in. He catches the sight of you out of the corner of his eye and can’t help but beam, feeling that giddy high in his ribs all over again. He steps forward, gently tugging you back to your perch on the countertop.

“Hey now,” you warn, eyes dancing with good humour. “I’m not sure if I’m ready for round two.”

“No—neither am I,” he admits, pressing a quick, warm kiss to your cheek. “But I got this—just sit there and, I don’t know, look pretty.”

Your playful groan of protest is minimal, and he can’t stop smiling as you settle back. You watch him shuffle to the far side of the kitchen to grab a clove of garlic. He’s turning up the heat and chopping again with that same contented hum in his chest, as though he’s stepped into some domestic paradise.

He thinks about how someday, when he’s more at peace with his body, he wants to show you all of himself. He only hopes that next time, he’ll be a little bolder, a little braver—so he can give you everything you deserve.

taglist: @daisy-is-a-writer @chiliwhore @kvroomi @just-lilita @negomi123 @catluver02 @tinythebunni 

[odoraful]

𝐀 𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐃𝐘 𝐈𝐍 𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄

brushing up on physical intimacy might be hard for an adeptus like xiao. however, he's willing to put in the effort for a romantic like you.

⟡ content: xiao x gn!reader; sfw; fluff; xiao is ALWAYS serious about wanting to learn more about you :') ; 1.5k words

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You froze in shock hearing what Xiao had just asked.

“Do you want to kiss?”

The words reverberated in your head. Did you need to schedule a visit with Baizhu to have your ears checked? Or did your serious-minded adeptus actually initiate wanting to kiss you? If it was any consolation, Xiao seemed an equal measure flustered by his own request.

You had just begun to unwind for the night at Wangshu Inn—Xiao pouring out tea, and you folding laundry to be put away—when he spouted the question.

Seeing your wide eyes barely blink, Xiao blurted out, “You kept talking about the opera we watched”—he cleared his throat—“and about how romantic the kiss was.”

You flushed.

The romanticist in you couldn’t help it though. At Liyue Harbour, the Yun-Han Opera Troupe had just performed a story of forbidden romance. It was a tale of two lovers who had been banished to opposite sides of the night sky. For only a single day out of a year, birds would form a bridge to help them reunite. And when they met, they shared a passionate kiss beneath the heavenly skies dotted by milky stars and galaxies. You had almost been moved to tears. Believing that Xiao was unaffected by such things, you freely chattered about it the way back to Wangshu Inn after the performance. Gushing endlessly about the magic of it all.

“It was! But, that doesn’t mean that I want to”—

You sucked in a breath, cutting yourself off.

Well, you didn’t not want to kiss Xiao. You just weren’t prepared at all for this.

“It’s just that you said it so suddenly!” you said, shaking out a blouse that matched the shade of pink that spread across your cheeks.

Affection came in many forms between the two of you—heartfelt conversations on moonlit nights, swims in Yaoguang Shoal when the weather warmed up, exchanging trinkets from one’s adventures—but neither of you had engaged in anything physical. It seemed like an invisible line not to be crossed. Shoulders side-by-side, but never touching. Hands brushing, but never holding.

You stored your small pile of clothes away, staring aimlessly into the open drawer trying to figure out a reply. He sounded so genuine in his offer, how could you turn it down? Resolute, you shut the drawer and swung around.

Betrayed by his tendency to blush easily, Xiao fought to keep a calm expression on his face. He rested his elbow on the arm rest of the wooden sofa, hand covering his mouth. His words came out muffled.

“Forget I said anything.”

No, no, don’t backtrack! you thought.

You needed to salvage this situation. Though, your mind drew a blank. Quickly, your dug around your memories and all the romantic stories you’ve read, featuring love interests timid, bold and everything in between. What was the perfect move to woo someone the fastest? A move that would be impossible to refuse?

You crossed the floor of the room with an unfaltering gait. Xiao’s eyes followed your movement, curious as to your intent.

With little hesitation, you sat on his lap.

Every hair on Xiao’s body raised. His heartrate thundered in his ears, faster than in any fight he had been in. The curve of your body against his thighs was a foreign, yet oddly comforting, sensation.

“W-what are you doing?!” he spluttered, flabbergasted.

Your boyfriend was in the most embarrassed state you had ever seen, his face as red as a jueyun chili.

“You asked if I wanted to kiss, right?” you confirmed, trying to keep your voice even. “Well, here’s my answer to that.”

A fuse short circuited in Xiao’s brain.

He didn’t even know where to look. At your eyes? No, they held too much bated anticipation. At your lips? Certainly not. Even staring down into his lap meant acknowledging the vulnerable position you two were in.

He couldn’t do this. He definitely couldn’t do this. Why had he even asked you in the first place? Because he could somehow act like a prince charming? Hold the back of your neck and sweep you off your feet with an expert kiss? However, beneath his panic, the temptation he felt was undeniable. Yet, time and time again, his desires were drowned out by the alarms blaring in his mind.

You laid your hands on his shoulders. The air around him sweetened, the perfume on your wrists enhanced by your closeness.

As you drew nearer to him, he was forced to look up at you. The panic stilled. All he could focus on was you. The steadiness of your breathing, and the tensing of your legs. Every little texture on your face, and each blink of your eyes.

Xiao wanted to try. Try to fulfil those romantic fantasies you spoke so fondly about. Maybe, just maybe, he could make you just as giddy and lovestruck.

The unexpected passion in his gaze was too overwhelming for you. Unable to hold eye contact with him anymore, you turned you head to the side,

Xiao knew to strike when enemies left an opening in their defences. Whilst you were the farthest from an opponent to him, it was those same instincts that pushed him to move after the perfect opportunity you gave.

Your mouth parted with surprise at his lips pressed against your cheek. Though it only lasted seconds, the softness of his kiss lingered behind, your skin tingling with elation. Outside, past the balcony of your room, the stars seemed to twinkle a magnitude brighter before he pulled away. You turned back to him, an incredulous smile plastered on your face, practically beaming.

“I-I know it wasn’t like how it was in the opera…” Xiao’s voice trailed off, hands fiddling at the fabric of the cushion beneath him.

You shook your head in strong disagreement. “I thought it was even better than the opera.”

Interlocking your fingers behind his neck, your voice filled with mirth, “I should tell Yun Jin about it so she can incorporate it into her next performance.”

“Do not tell her.”

“I’m joking! Well, only about the telling Yun Jin part that is.”

Up close, he could see exactly the way your eyes creased and your lips curved when you laughed. Had he done that? Been the one to provoke such cheeriness for you? The previous fears he had subsided, and it boldened him to ask you a question.

“Why is it—” his voice grew small—“you never ask me to do things like this with you?”

His sincerity both gladdened you, and twinged you with guilt.

“To be honest, I always assumed that you didn’t like to do these sorts of things,” you admitted, downcast.

“It is hard for me due to my… inexperience,” his face scrunched up slightly as he paused. An endearing habit of his when he let his thoughts collect itself before replying, “but if it’s for you, I’m willing to try.”

Hesitatingly, he brought a hand up to cradle of your face. His touch was feather-like, leaving a gap of mere millimetres against your skin.

“Just… don’t move so fast.”

Xiao examined your reaction, hoping that his words made sense.

“I understand,” you reassured, “I want us both to feel comfortable too, so we can take things slowly.”

Comfortable… Once again, he was conscious of your position.

He coughed, a slight awkwardness to his tone as he spoke.

“Then, does ‘taking things slowly’ involve sitting in my lap?”

“Ah!”

You almost jumped out of your skin realising the position you had put him in.

“I’m so sorry! I don’t know what I was thinking. It was just something I’ve seen happen so many times in the light novels I read, and I thought I’d try to do one on you.” You were rambling at this point, spouting anything out of your system.

Hurriedly, you got up, brushing the sweat from your palms on the fabric of your pants. You sat beside him on the sofa, willing the heat away from your cheeks.

“I-I didn’t dislike it,” he said, gently. “I would prefer if you asked next time so I’m prepared.”

You nodded. The corners of Xiao’s lips twitched at your sulk. He knew well enough he should change the subject to dispel the embarrassment radiating off you.

“You spoke of light novels? What are they?”

“They’re a type of literature from Inazuma.” As you continued, your composure renewed itself. “Wanwen Bookhouse has been supplying lots of new genres recently, specifically romance,” you added, somewhat sheepishly.

He hummed with interest. “Could you… share them with me?”

“You want to read some?” You brightened at his curiosity. “But, why?”

Xiao’s expression fell into seriousness, as if calculating a decisive move in a battle.

“I want to understand your likes more.”

His words landed a direct hit to your heart, causing it to flutter. It was a different feeling to when you read your novels. It was far more intense, and infinitely more meaningful.

He smiled softly.

“These stories will be good study for me.”

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[the-halloween-jack]

Asphyxiated ✢ Bruce Wayne

Synopsis: Y/N’s once-adoring relationship with the charming Bruce Wayne begins to unravel as his nightly disappearances and distant demeanour create an insurmountable chasm between them. Unaware of his double life as the infamous Batman, Y/N is left to wonder where she went wrong, seeking solace in an old friend, Jonathan Crane.  Bruce Wayne x Reader, female pronouns. This piece is not plot-specific, so any iteration of Bruce will work. Though I wrote it with Christian Bale in mind. Warnings: Angst (there's a lot, sorry), canon typical violence (not overly descriptive). Masterlist

Note: This is my first time writing for Christian Bale's Batman, and I can definitely see myself writing for him a lot more; god, I love him. I would also love to thank my lovely friend @lettherebemorelight for helping me with this plot.

Disclaimer: I have since written a prequel to this piece, you by no means have to read it, but if you do, here is the link.

Words: 7,292k

She had once known warmth in his embrace. His open arms beckoned her with a promised safety, drew her in with steady reassurance.

But that warmth had long since dissipated. In its wake, it left behind an empty, desolate bed, cold sheets, and a gnawing uncertainty festering deep within her. Bruce Wayne was slipping through her fingers, their love was fraying at the edges, and try as she might, she could not halt its relentless unraveling. Y/N was at a loss; she could not make sense of it. 

The nights were the worst. Y/N would shift in their bed, reaching instinctively for the warmth that now so often evaded her, his warmth, only to find his side untouched, brisk against her moon-ridden skin. She would hear the ceaseless ticking of the clock, each of its hand's faint circuits mocking her with the unremitting absence of the man she adored. 

She would lie there, vacant eyes gazing above her, with the remnants of her dream shimmering at the edges of her vision and fading into her memory. The uncertain haze of her unconscious contrivance left a burning at the base of her throat as she fought against her tears. She would always dream of him, and though she was met with twisted caricatures of what their love had once been, she pined for sleep to drag her under its unrelenting grasp once more, simply to reunite with them. 

And then, come morning, he would finally show, always interminably long past the promised hour. His drawn movements weighed down with lassitude, and his words bare of any real explanation. 

‘Something came up.’ He would reach for her hand and whisper it haphazardly against her hair, in the muted light of dawn shining through their panoramic windows. His words were always nonchalant, as though late-night escapades did not stray far from convention. Bruce would then press a distracted kiss to her forehead before heading to the shower, leaving her alone on their bed, her arm falling slack to her side once more as he drifted away and out of her grasp. 

She wanted to believe him; she yearned for it. But there was something in the way his shoulders tensed under her timid caress, in his taut hesitation before offering any answer. It twisted at her stomach and made it coil with unease.

She had tried speaking to Alfred, desperate to understand. The older man, a perpetual fountain of wisdom and warmth, could only ever offer her a tight smile and a soft excuse.

‘Master Wayne has a great many responsibilities, Miss.’ 

He would always say the same thing, and it was not an answer, not truly. He was speaking without saying anything at all.

Y/N would not miss how his smile evaded his eyes, turning to pity. Alfred felt sorry for her, and her mind was reeling for the catalyst.

She used to tell herself it was better not to ask, that silence was safer. But that silence had since turned into distance, and that distance was unbearable.

When they had first started dating, she felt like the luckiest woman alive. Bruce Wayne, handsome, charming and kind, made her feel like the centre of the universe. But now, spiralling into her dejection, she felt like she was standing at the edges of a macrocosm she no longer belonged to, staring in and hammering at its unabating walls.

Bruce remained steeped in shadow, staring out into the murk that sheathed Gotham like an integument. The familiar weight of the suit clung to his body like a second skin; it was his mind that made it feel as though he was suffocating, a heaviness that seemed impossible to rid himself of. His gaze flickered to the clock on the cave wall, another night spent apart from her. Another night, he had failed her.

He could still discern her face clearly in his mind, how it had looked before all this. Her lips would curve into a dulcet smile when she saw him, a tenderness would reach her eyes when he held her close. It was not just love he felt when he gazed upon her; it was a need. She anchored him, gave him something to cling to in a city that constantly tried to drag him under, take him somewhere darker, twisted.

But now? There was nothing but distance between them, a chasm of unspoken words and apologies; it seemed nothing could bridge the gap.

Bruce clenched his fists, leaning his weight against the cool stone of the cave, head falling back against its concrete foundations. He wanted to tell her. He wanted to admit everything, every single detail; he wanted to make her understand why he could not be the man she deserved. 

But the words never came.

He could not let them.

He had convinced himself over and over again that this was for her own good. She need not know. He could not inflict her with the weight of his world. The dangers, the violence. The darkness and the murk. None of it.

He was not blind to the fact she was pulling away; he was making a stranger of her. Bruce did not miss how her eyes, in the gleam of dawn, would search his with that dreaded unspoken question, the one he could never answer.

It was imperative for her safety.

If she knew, if she understood what he did when the night fell and the city beckoned its protector, she would be at risk. If she knew he was the Batman, she would become a target. A pawn in a deadly game that he could not protect her from, a game he could not win. 

He had seen it happen before; too many people who cared for him had suffered. He would not let that happen to her. Not when it was within his power to keep her away from it, to suspend her above the reservoir that engulfed him.

But the guilt ate away at him regardless. The empty promises, the way he would brush her off with some vague excuse, knowing she would never get the truth, knowing she did not believe his lies. He hated it. God, he hated it.

But what other choice did he have? She was not just his lover; she was his heart; she was akin to the blood that flowed through his veins; she was life. If Y/N knew, if she saw the man he truly was, she would leave him. She would never forgive him.

He did not deserve her forgiveness. 

And the thought of losing her, of watching her walk away, was a torment worse than any form of hell, its torture paling in comparison. He could never survive it.

It was for her own good.

His mind repeated this mantra like a prayer, something to hold onto as he watched her slip further and further from his embrace. But no matter how hard he tried to convince himself that it was the right thing to do, the truth gnawed at him, unfurled like caustic tendrils within his abdomen. The expanse between them had become too wide to ignore.

If she knew, if she knew the truth…

He would never be able to keep her safe.

Bruce’s hand hovered over his phone, his fingers trembling with the desire to call her. To hear her voice, to hear her ask him where he had been, what he had done. She felt so close, yet so entirely out of reach.

The rational part of him, the Batman, told him it was better this way. She would be safer if she stayed in the dark, if she never knew the man he truly was. But somewhere deep inside, in a plane where Bruce Wayne still existed within him, he did not believe it; he knew this was not what she needed. 

The truth of it was that the Batman was the real him; Bruce Wayne was the façade, an image of the man he yearned to be, the likeness of the man Y/N deserved.

So, he kept her away. Ensured she remained in the dark, drowning in his guilt, persuading himself it was for her own good. Because if he told her, if she saw what he truly did when the sun went down, she would leave him. And that, in the end, was the one thing he could not survive. He was too selfish to allow it.

His eyes flickered to the suit, to the mask now gripped, with pale knuckles, in his unyielding hands, the mask that concealed his true identity. To the symbol of the man he had to be, to protect Gotham, and to protect her, by not telling her the truth.

But it did not feel like protection anymore. It felt akin to betrayal.

He pressed his eyes shut, the weight of it all crashing down upon him. He was not a hero. He was not even the man he had once hoped he could be.

He was a liar.

And she was slipping through his fingers; he was losing her.

It had started as small exchanges, polite words over coffee when their paths crossed amidst the twisting, serpentine alleys of Gotham City. Then, lunches at cafés, after that, afternoon walks through parks. It was the comfort of familiarity that had drawn her in, the sequestered ease of conversation with someone who had known her before her world became so complicated, so delicate.

Jonathan Crane listened when she spoke, his sharp mind quick to offer observations, to make her laugh when she had forgotten how. And she needed that, needed someone to remind her that she was not invisible, that she was not losing herself in the silence of an empty home, a chilling manor. 

Because it was not just the empty bed anymore.

Y/N found herself growing accustomed to the silence that followed Bruce’s ever-present absence. There were no longer any excuses, no more explanations to be had. She did not ask. She simply waited, quietly, biding her time, until he would return to her, distorted, in some fragmented form of himself, always just a little bit further out of her reach.

The coffee would grow cold. The breakfast table remained untouched as she piercingly stared at the empty seat opposite her, mind whirling. Bruce was always sleeping, analogous with a nocturnal creature. The shadows beneath his eyes seemed permanent now, etched into the crevices of his face; in this way, they were very much alike. She would stare dolefully at the toll he took within her complexion.

It was becoming too much to bear; the distance, the constant, unceasing unravelling of everything she had known and cherished. She would go on pretending, to herself and to others, that things were fine, that the silence was not loud enough to drown her, but she was gasping for air, trying in vain to ease her asphyxiation. 

She had tried everything, every little trick she could muster, to fill the void between them. She tried to meet him halfway, to carve out small moments that would make him feel like the man she once adored. But these futile endeavours were like stitching a wound that had long since festered.

And it was Jonathan Crane who made it easier.

Their meetings were innocent. Just old friends reconnecting. A simple chat over coffee, an afternoon stroll to catch up. Nothing more. But with each conversation, the air between them shifted. The rhythm of their exchanges became familiar, comfortable, safe, something she could almost rely on, like a steady pulse. Jonathan was there when she needed him. He listened. He did not push. He was not an enigma like Bruce, wrapped in layers of secrets she could never quite peel back. She felt like she could breathe again.

She noticed the slight curve of his lips when he smiled. The glint in his eyes when he found something interesting in her thoughts. There was a sharpness to him that kept her alert, something she could not quite place. But it did not alarm her; not yet.

And so, she allowed herself to lean into this unwavering presence, drawn to it like a moth to a flickering fire, not yet aware that the inferno would singe her just the same. She did not notice how the conversations between them shifted from casual, lighthearted exchanges to something more intimate. There was irresistible comfort in the way he seemed to understand her pain, her quiet, gnawing desperation. He did not push her for answers; he simply gave her the space to find them within herself. He quietly guided her toward the conclusion he had already been forming.

‘I know you’re not one to speak your mind often,’ he remarked one afternoon, as they sat in a secluded corner of a café, ‘but I can see it in your eyes, you know. You’re asking yourself all the wrong questions.’

Y/N looked up at him, eyebrows furrowing. ‘What do you mean?’

He smiled again, this time a little softer, a little more knowing. ‘You’re trying to find out what you did wrong, aren’t you? Why Bruce is pulling away.’

She hesitated, the words teetering on her tongue, but she couldn’t speak them aloud, not yet. Instead, she simply nodded, her finger faintly circling the rim of her coffee cup.

Jonathan continued, his voice measured, calm. ‘Sometimes, when people change… we forget that they’re changing for reasons beyond us. But what I think you’re failing to see, Y/N, is that you’re not the cause. You never were.’

This whole time, she had been asking herself what she had done wrong. Instead, should she have been asking what he was doing wrong?

It was the first time someone had told her that. Not Alfred, not even Bruce himself. His words settled into her chest, warmth chasing away the cold that had been so enduring.

But underneath that warmth, there was a hint of something else, a flicker of curiosity, or perhaps something darker, lingering just beneath the surface. What had he been keeping from her?

She did not see it. Not yet.

Bruce brooded in silence. The jealousy eroded him, made him bitter and cold, as he watched Y/N draw closer to Crane. He had seen them together more and more, like a slow, insidious shadow creeping closer to everything he was desperately trying to hold onto, enveloping her and stealing her from his sight. 

His suspicions flared, each casual encounter between the two of them fueling the fire within him. He would track their meetings, silent and calculating. How many times had they met this week? How long had they been talking before she left with a smile on her face? A smile that had not been directed at him for what seemed a lifetime, a smile he would do a great many things to receive once more. 

He had been foolish, had he not? Bruce could not decide which was worse, the slow, inevitable fall of his relationship with Y/N or the suffocating realisation that he was already too late.

There were nights when the bitterness was overwhelming. He would stare at the monitor in the Batcave, unable to concentrate, watching the movements of Gotham’s criminals as they spilled into the streets, oblivious to the wars they waged. All he could think about was the way Crane’s smile lingered in his mind, how it made his blood simmer and his chest tighten.

It was not just the jealousy. No. He was not stupid. He had seen enough of Crane’s work to know there was something wrong with him, something dark, lurking beneath the façade of a charming, polite man.

Everything she and Bruce had suffered was designed to keep her safe, though his efforts were in vain; he had pushed her away to safeguard her, but in her isolation, she turned to someone precarious. 

Crane was luring Y/N into the imperilment he had been tirelessly attempting to shield her from; the very notion of it was sickening. 

She was slipping away. She was beginning to look at Crane with something in her eyes, something that was not there before, a curiosity, an ease, a trust.

And Bruce could do nothing to halt it.

The suspicions were creeping in slowly for her, like soft inclinations in the rifts of her mind, barely perceptible at first. Of course, there were the large things: his sudden disappearances at night, his long sleeps during the day. 

But then, bruises would blossom on his arms, and he would rush to conceal them behind clothes, to hide them before she could distinguish them. There were the late-night phone calls that always seemed to be cut short when her presence became known to him. There was his perennial fixation on the news and his rush to leave every time an active emergency broke. 

She was not naïve. She saw the patterns. 

Y/N perceived the unsavoury connection between Gotham’s most elusive figure and the man she loved. But the idea that Bruce could be the Batman was still too far-fetched, too unbelievable to fully take root within her beliefs, to alter her reality. 

There were moments. Fleeting moments when she would see something in his eyes, in the way he moved, in the way his voice carried, moments that she could only describe as… 

Haunted.

She did not want to believe it. She did not want to acknowledge the possibility. The inclination that Bruce had been hiding something from her was almost too painful to entertain, but the evidence was mounting, smothering. Every time she questioned him, his answers became more distant, more rehearsed, more evasive.

Bruce had been trailing them for weeks now, his shadow lurking behind as they shared fleeting moments of companionship, the kind that burned with familiarity and ease, a type of connection he had once known. He knew it was wrong. He knew it was sick, perverted even. There were countless awful words that could describe his behaviour, but he rationalised it; he told himself he was only worried for her safety. And he was; this was not a deception. But Bruce could not deny the burning there, the acid that would sink down and simmer in the base of his throat every time he saw him touch her. 

He would watch, vision burning red, fists clenched, as Crane guided her through doors, hand rested on her lower back. Bruce would visibly cringe as Crane placed his slender hand on her shoulder as she made him laugh. Every time he saw them together, quiet conversations over coffee, casual strolls through parks, something dark inside him twisted. A ghastly sensation he could not name, a vulnerability he would never let anyone see, a jealousy he had, at this point, never known; it was foreign to him. 

Tonight, he could no longer bear it. The dreadful images plaguing his mind, of Y/N’s laughter in the company of another man, had piled up until they were an intolerable weight. He needed to see for himself. He needed to know if she was truly slipping away or if, perhaps, he could still save her from the seemingly ineluctable distance between them.

To save himself from the pain of her harrowing departure.

He followed them from a distance, keeping himself shrouded in shadow as they walked together, their movements eased and unburdened. He watched them as they reached the park, a secluded part of Gotham, where trees grew thick and branches cloaked them in gloom.

Bruce lingered in the shadow of a nearby building, hidden from their view, his eyes narrowed on Y/N’s form, her back to him as she walked a few steps ahead of Crane. His heart pounded in his chest, his breath shallow. Something inside him, perhaps the instinct of a man who had seen too much loss, who had felt too many betrayals, sensed it. This was more than simple companionship.

Then, it happened.

Jonathan Crane stepped closer to Y/N, and for a moment, everything seemed to freeze. Bruce watched with bated breath. The air was drawn taut with a tension; it could have been sliced with a blade, a strain that needed no words to be understood. And then, with a smooth, calculated motion, Crane cupped Y/N’s face and kissed her.

Time seemed to stretch in that moment; in the span of a single heartbeat, the world seemed to slow to a suffocating crawl. Bruce’s stomach turned, and his throat closed. He had watched it happen, watched the betrayal unfold before his very eyes, and in that moment, he could almost feel it. The fracture of everything he had once held dear, the very thing he had worked so hard to protect, had now slipped from his grasp.

He could not move. He could not breathe.

Y/N’s face had been tilted up towards Crane, her expression soft, vulnerable. But Bruce did not see her eyes in Crane’s approach; he did not take in the hesitation there. He failed to see the way her body stiffened, her hands pressing against his chest, urging him to step back. All he saw was the kiss. The final straw. The moment that would unravel everything.

He turned sharply, his heart pounding in his ears, and walked away.

He did not hear the faint sound of her voice, calling out Crane’s name, pleading.

Y/N did not know how long she stood there, still reeling from the kiss. It had caught her off guard, an intimacy she had not expected and one she had certainly not reciprocated. And for a split second, her mind faltered. But only for a split second. In the moment the weight of what had happened settled, she knew something was wrong.

She pushed away from Crane, her heart thumping in her chest; he let her go easily.

‘I can’t…’ She stepped back, her voice trembling, hands still raised, unsure of whether the words were for herself or for him. ‘This… this isn’t right.’

Crane did not say anything for a moment, simply watching her, his eyes calculating. His lips twitched, but it was not a smile. It was something darker. Something she had not seen before.

But she did not wait for his response. Nor did she want to.

Y/N turned quickly and stumbled away, not caring if he called out to her or how he took her sudden departure. Her feet carried her swiftly, her breath sharp in the night air. She could still feel the weight of his kiss; it prickled against her skin and lingered there. Though it had meant nothing, nothing at all.

It was not until she was far enough away that she stopped, her phone already in her hand. She needed to talk to Bruce. She needed to explain, to plead and beg for his understanding.

Her fingers hovered over the screen, anxiety eating at her consciousness. With shaking hands, she scrolled through her contacts, found Bruce’s name, and pressed the dial button.

It rang once. Twice. Three times.

The screen flickered as it went to voicemail.

Her stomach plummeted.

Once the dreaded high-pitched note sounded, indicating it was her time to speak and keeping true to his unrelenting distance, she rushed out a flurry of words; she needed him to understand, to know and believe how much she loved him. To know how little Jonathan meant to her, how much he paled in his comparison. 

She ended the voicemail, her hand trembling as she stared at the screen, as if hoping for it to light up with his name, hoping for him to reach out to her, to offer the words of comfort, of validation, she so wretchedly longed for.

But the screen remained blank.

Bruce’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel, his jaw clenched tight. He knew she had called, but he had left her to go to voicemail. He did not want her explanation, her excuse; he understood the words would feel like a knife twisting in his chest, offering no reprieve. He knew he could not face her; he knew he could not answer her call without breaking, without crumbling under his despair. 

He had seen what he had seen, and no explanation, no words from her, and no amount of time could erase that vile image from his mind, the way Crane’s lips had pressed against hers. The way he had held her, as if she belonged to him.

But she did not; Y/N was his. Or was she? He thought once more of the wedge he had driven between them, the walls he had established higher and higher until she was left standing on the other side, wondering if she could ever reach him again. He was not blind to the way she would observe him, sadness steeped within her eyes. Bruce clenched his fists, a deep ache forming in his chest. Had he pushed her away so far that she had to find comfort in the arms of another man? His own insecurities, his unspoken fears, had they created a chasm between them that was too wide to cross now? The thought of losing her, of her slipping through his fingers, falling into the grasp of another, was more than he could bear. Yet, deep down, he knew it was not Crane who had pulled her away. It was him.

Maybe he knew, deep down, that she had pulled away from Crane’s clutch. He knew she would not have wanted this. But this apprehension was futile now. The seed of doubt had already been sowed within his reality, and it had taken root in his heart like a venom.

His phone vibrated on his dash again, informing him of a voicemail left unheard. He could not bring himself to listen to it. The voice that had so recently been a source of comfort, of love, now felt like a weight. Her words would be a reminder of everything he was failing to give her, everything he could not be.

He drove off into the night, unable to find the courage to turn around.

Not yet.

Y/N’s mind raced as she roamed, and the city’s hum buzzed in the background. She was not ready to go back to the manor, not yet. Not until she could find a way to break through the walls he had built around himself, not before she could get through to him. She glanced at her phone once more; the silence radiating from it was somehow, completely illogically, deafening. The weight of what had happened hung over her, and despite everything, she could not bring herself to face him, for fear she might break.

How could she reach him when he refused to answer? Where was he? Her heart ached at the thought of him, so distant, so unreachable in his silent pain. She needed to fix things, needed to make him understand, before they lost each other completely. But the longer she wandered the streets, the more uncertain she became. What if there was no way back? What if they were already too far gone? She sighed and pushed the thought away as her footsteps quickened. The uncertainty settled deep in her chest as she realised she was not sure where she was going anymore. Y/N stumbled backward, her breath quickening as the dark figures loomed closer. She realised too late that she had backed into an alleyway, the weight of the situation settling heavy, like lead, in her chest. Her heart is pounding, her instincts screaming for her to run, to flee, but her nerves betray her. She glanced around herself frantically. She realised with a fear that felt like ice down her throat that there was no escape. One of them lurks closer, the flicker of the streetlamp catching the glint of a weapon in his hand. Her pulse thunders in her ears as she tries to steady her rattling breath. This was not supposed to happen. She was not supposed to be here. This was not supposed to be how it ended.

Her mind races, but it is too late. She knows it is too late. 

There is nowhere to hide. The heinous men are closing in around her, swallowing her up. She is trapped.

A wave of nausea hits her, a sharp, cold panic that twists her stomach into knots. Her thoughts are a blur, but one thing is clear: she has to reach him.

She closes her eyes and forces herself to calm down, focusing on the small silver ring Bruce had given her, her last hope. The same ring she thought was merely a gift, a meaningless yet sweet gesture. But now she understands. She remembers the way he had pressed it into her palm, his gaze full of a quiet intensity that she had not fully grasped at the time.

‘If you ever need me…' he had said, his voice low, tone heavy with something unspoken. 

‘This will help me find you.’

She recalled the confusion she had felt when he gifted it to her, though she had not dwelled on it at the time. But now, she was kicking herself; it all made sense. She had considered it before, but she was always careful to cut the notion short, halt it before it could fully form, before it became too real.

Bruce was the Batman and she had already known it; of course he was.

The late-night escapades, the sleep-riddled day times, the empty dinner tables, the cuts, the bruises and the urgent, poorly explained disappearances whenever something terrible had happened within the city.

Her hands trembled as she slipped the ring from her finger, the cool metal feeling foreign against her skin; it harboured hope. She placed it carefully between her fingertips and pressed just hard enough to activate the concealed mechanism inside.

The tiny, almost imperceptible whir of the system coming to life is the only sound she hears. And then, as she places it upon her finger once more, the faintest of beeps. A signal sent.

Her chest feels tight as she forces her sight upward, to look upon her soon-to-be attackers, forcing herself to maintain their stare. She is aware of their figures closing in again, of their eyes boring into her, hungry and cold. But her focus is on the single thought that keeps her grounded: He will come.

A sharp laugh echoes from one of the men. They are talking, but the words are unintelligible to her; she cannot hear them over the pounding in her ears. She makes no effort to answer. Her gaze shifts further upward, towards his signal illuminating the murk of Gotham’s night sky, and for a split second, she lets herself believe she can feel him out there—somewhere in the dark, coming to her.

She has to hold on. She has to hold on just a little longer.

Her vision starts to blur, the world becoming corroded at its edges, her body beginning to betray her, but she does not move. Makes no effort to run. She stays still, waiting. Waiting for him.

The night is too quiet, an empty expanse of soundless tension that suffocates with each breath. Bruce’s grip on the steering wheel is tight, his fingers stiff, trying to suppress the tremor that is slithering into his limbs. His chest feels hollow, a dull ache that has been consuming him since the moment he received her distress signal. The weight of it pressed down upon him, pushing the air from his lungs until he could not breathe at all.

The ring. The ring he had hidden a distress mechanism in. In this moment, it is all he has; it is what tells him she is still alive, that she is still fighting, though he can feel her slipping away with every second. He does not have time to think, does not have time to wrestle with the inevitability of what is coming. He pushes the Batmobile harder; the kiss, the betrayal, it is all but a faint memory; it no longer matters.

His heart ticked like a bomb, each beat augmenting the terror that wore at him. It’s too late. It’s already too late. He could not end the foul thought from hammering within his mind, a thought that burrowed deeper within him with every passing moment. But he pushed forward, went faster, even though every fibre of his being told him she was already lost.

He could not afford to think like this. She deserved better.

Bruce did not remember stopping the car. He did not remember climbing from its front seat. 

As he moved, he felt akin to a puppet held suspended by strings; he was not in control of himself. He did not know how he made it to her; the time between the last glimpse of the signal on his dash and the moment he knelt beside her, in her blood, was lost to the haze of adrenaline and dread.

But then, he is there.

Her body is crumpled, macabre, like a broken doll, her form so still it makes his heart skip a beat. Her attackers were nowhere in sight. The blood pooling beneath her seems to grow darker by the second, stark and seeping into the crevices of the pale, illuminated pavement. She is breathing, just barely. It is the kind of shallow, desperate breath that sends a jolt of panic straight through his spine.

For a moment, he does not move, hands suspended above her. The world feels frozen, a long, aching pause; like it is waiting for him to act. But he cannot, he is paralysed. The sight of her, broken like this, shatters everything inside him, destroys everything he is. He wants to scream, wants to rage against this fate, but all that fills his mouth is the taste of failure; it burns like acid; he chokes on it. 

‘Bruce…’

As soon as she speaks, a burning grief chases away the fear that had kept him still; he feels this morbid flame flow through his system and takes her into his arms. Her voice is a faint rasp, as if his name is all she can summon. Her eyes flutter open, and it is as though she is seeing him for the first time. Her gaze is distant, unfocused. Her fingers twitch, but they do not reach out for him; they do not have the strength. She is already too far gone.

But then, those eyes meet his, and something breaks in him, something deep and painful, something he has not allowed himself to feel in so long. She knows. And it is not anger or betrayal that he sees in her eyes. It is only sorrow, and love, and an ache that mirrors his own.

‘Take off the mask,’ she whispers, her words fragile like glass, much like her figure. She tries to lift her hand, but it trembles weakly, falling short as her body fights to stay alive, to keep breathing. ‘Let me see you... Please…'

Her plea hits him like a punch to the gut, and something inside him crumbles. Still supporting her, his fingers tremble as he reaches for the cowl. The motion is so slow it is almost torturous. Every inch of it feels like it is tearing him apart because once he does this, once he removes the mask, there is no going back. She will see the man beneath it, the broken man he has been hiding for so long. And it will be the last thing she sees; he knows it.

But she is asking, pleading. She wants to see him. And somehow, that small piece of her strength is enough to push him over the edge.

He takes it off.

The cool air brushed against his skin, and for the first time in years, he felt raw. Exposed. She does not flinch. Does not recoil. Not like he thought she would.

She smiles, a faint, fragile beam, as though nothing is wrong in the world; it is enough to break him completely, more than he already was. Her eyes are filled with a quiet recognition, and the corners of her lips twitch upward. ’I knew,’ she breathes, her voice shaky, but the words are certain, resolved. ‘I didn’t let myself believe it. But, I knew.’

His throat tightens and burns. He wants to tell her so many things, everything he never said, everything he kept locked away. But the words do not come. He opens his mouth, but the only thing that leaves it is a strangled sob.

Her body jerked in pain, her chest heaving. His hands let go and instead hover helplessly over her, shaking with the urge to do something, anything. His breath hitches, a desperate, choking sound that he cannot control. But there is nothing to do. Nothing. She was slipping through his fingers once more; only he could have never imagined it would be like this. 

‘It’s too late…’ she whispers again, her voice so soft it is almost lost in the wind. The words catch in his throat, and he feels them like prickles puncturing and twisting deep into his skin. The agony of hearing her speak, knowing what is coming next, is enough to shatter the fragile control he has kept over himself for so long, the control that was already extinct, not since he took in her crumpled form on the blood-stained concrete. 

‘I’m going to help you,’ he says, his voice cracked, a broken echo of a promise that he knows he cannot keep. He tells her over and over, as if saying it will make it true, but the words are hollow. They are not real. She is already gone; he cannot save her.

Her hand slides to his cheek, her fingers cold against his skin. She is so cold, so small, as if the life has already been drained from her completely. She looks at him with those same knowing eyes, her smile still lingering, even as the weight of the world presses down upon her chest, pushing her under.

Then she exhaled, a long, shuddering breath that shook him to his core, a breath she could not follow.

Her body goes still.

And in that moment, she is gone. Lost to the world. Empty eyes, gazing unseeingly past him and above her, facing, but not taking in the candescent signal shimmering in the ether.

And in the hollow of her absence, Bruce feels everything stop.

His world has fallen away. The darkness around him seems to stretch infinitely, suffocating him, pressing in on his chest.

Tears burn at the back of his eyes, but he refuses to let them fall. He holds her tighter, his body trembling with the weight of her loss, shaking them both. He does not let go. He cannot. He will not.

But soon enough, they come. And he quickly grasps for his cowl, tugging it over his head.

The tears finally fell. Slowly at first, then faster, until they are pouring down his face and mixing with her blood on the pavement; it is already cold, and the groan he makes at this perception is inhumane in sound. His shoulders tremble with it, a raw, guttural sob tearing through him. It is a sound of pure grief, pure, undiluted agony, the sound of a man who has nothing left but the wreckage he cradles.

He does not care anymore.

He does not care when the officers arrive. He does not care when they try to pull him away from her. He does not care about anything but the ever-growing coldness of her being, the weight of her death pressing down on him like nothing had before.

They cannot make him leave.

But eventually, they do. The silence that follows, the vacantness of his arms without her weight, is so absolute, so entirely harrowing. Alone in the manor, he stumbled to his phone, to the voicemail, the one she had left him earlier, after the call he ignored. The voicemail she had left when she was still alive, still reaching out to him with hope. Hope he did not deserve.

He pressed play.

Her voice fills the room, shaky, unsure. ‘Bruce, please, pick up,’ she had whispered under her breath, her voice shaking with anguish. ‘I… I don’t know what happened. I don’t know why it happened. But, please, I need you to understand. This… this wasn’t what I wanted. Jonathan… he kissed me, but I pulled away. I swear. I… I wasn’t trying to hurt you, Bruce. Please, just… just understand. Please. I need you. I love you.’

She paused for a moment, her end going silent. Bruce had thought it finished when her small voice spoke up once more, 

‘I love you,’ she had repeated, ‘God… I love you,’ she choked on her sob, trying desperately for air, ‘I love you so much, Bruce. Please, don’t shut me out. I need you. I love you…’

The static cuts through the air when the message ends. The words carved into him like scars that will never fade, worse than any real affliction. 

He collapsed into their bed, a broken shell of a man, his body wracking with silent sobs. His hands shake, his chest heaving with each breath, but he cannot stop it. He cannot cease his crying; it sputters out. 

And as the tears flowed, it felt like the world around him was disintegrating, leaving only an empty void where she used to be. He reached out, and the cold sheets of her side made him heave harder. Alfred is in the hall, trying to get through the door. He wants to take him in his unyielding embrace and tell him it was not his fault, but it is a lie. Alfred was attempting to suppress his own sobs, though Bruce could still hear them; they pierced his ears like needles. 

He can still feel the cold weight of her body in his arms, the way her breath slowed to nothing, the fragile, fleeting warmth that slipped through his fingers like sand. His mind replays the moment over and over, like a cruel loop he cannot escape, a perpetual torment.  

If only he had gone to her after the kiss. The thought is bitter, venomous. 

He had let his fear, his overwhelming need to protect her, to keep her safe, push him away, convincing himself it was better to stay distant, to be the Batman, rather than risk anything more. But now, he cannot help but see it for what it truly was, cowardice. She was his. She had always been his, and if he had just confronted her, talked to her, if he had given her the chance to explain that the kiss meant nothing, then maybe, just maybe, she would still be alive. She would have told him the truth, and they would have worked through it together. They would have gone home together. They would have been happy. 

But instead, he let her fade away, believing the lie that keeping his distance was the right thing to do. The guilt claws at him, a suffocating weight, each breath sharp and ragged. He was not there when she needed him most. He was not there when it mattered. And now she is gone.

And the words she said echo through him once more, louder than anything else:

‘I love you so much, Bruce. Please, don’t shut me out. I need you. I love you…’

But it is too late for those words now. It is too late for anything.

Here is the link to the prequel if you're interested.

Every comment and piece of advice is welcomed and appreciated <3

[puttersmile]

I had a weird dream and crack ship was born

Frowny: Oh…yeah she seems. Nice. Dogday? Where are you going?

Dogday offscreen running away as fast as he can.

I don't even remember the dream but I remember the ship.

I need possible ship name. Ideas? Right now I'm thinking Chocolate Rain lol.

Gametoons is so bad. But I somehow someway had a liking for Frowny Fox (and maybe some of the other forgotten critters)

I also wasn't satisfied by how i drew Maggie in my last comic. That's what I get for trying to draw her from memory and not just...looking up a picture. So I tried again. I like this design a lot more.

A short oneshot fic under the cut. At the last minute I changed it to be Christmas themed which is why the picture isn't Christmas themed.

The Day Frowny Realized Maggie Wasn't Just Scary

The outdoor mall was chaos. With the holidays right around the corner, critters flooded the square, scrambling for last-minute gifts and bargains. Stalls were crammed with shiny trinkets, festive treats, and decorations that probably cost twice as much as they should. Frowny hated this. Crowds made his fur itch, and the pressure of picking the perfect gift didn’t help.

He was here for a Secret Santa gift exchange, and the name he’d drawn-an acquaintance who loved puzzles and had a mild obsession with coffee had him stumped. He hovered by a table of mugs, frowning at one shaped like a sleeping squirrel. It was cute, but not too cute, right? He didn’t want to send the wrong message.

Just as he reached for it, something slammed into his side, sending him stumbling into the stall. A sharp hiss of pain escaped Frowny as he caught himself on the edge of the table.

“MOVE IT, BUDDY!”

Frowny turned, his tail bristling, to see a yellow gecko in ugly brown pants rushing through the crowd, shoving critters out of his way like a hurricane. Before Frowny could even get a word out, the gecko shoved another critter. This time, the wrong one.

Maggie Mako.

Oh no.

Maggie didn’t budge. Didn’t even sway. She turned her head slowly, towering over the gecko like a tidal wave about to break. Her grin was wide and full of teeth. “You wanna try that again, pal?”

The gecko froze, his cocky energy deflating immediately. “Uh… my bad,” he stammered, his eyes darting for an exit.

“You shoved someone else, then bump into me? Oh, you’ve got guts. Let’s see if you like keeping them inside.”

The gecko's yellow scales turned white. “S-s-sorry ma'am! D-didn't mean to-uh-yeah, I’ll just-”

“Scram,” Maggie growled, crossing her arms. That was all it took. The gecko bolted, nearly tripping over his own tail as he disappeared into the crowd.

Maggie rolled her shoulders and went back to considering some very ornate holiday cookies, looking more annoyed than anything. “Some critters. That's what I thought.” she muttered, dusting her hands off.

Frowny, who had been standing frozen with one paw still clutching the squirrel mug, finally remembered how to breathe. He adjusted his scarf and was about to slink away unnoticed when Maggie turned, catching him mid-stare.

Her grin softened with recognition. Less teeth, more playful.

“You okay, Foxy boy?”

It took a second for Frowny’s brain to catch up. Maggie had just defended him. Maggie, the big, scary shark woman who could probably bench press two wagons full of pumpkins, had stepped in for him. And now she was looking at him, smiling, as if she hadn’t just terrified someone out of their scales.

“I, uh…” His left ear flicked nervously. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?” Maggie stepped closer, her shadow falling over him like a blanket. “You look a little pale. Well, paler than usual.” She smirked, her tone teasing but not unkind.

Frowny wanted to say something clever, but his brain had short-circuited. Instead, he noticed something odd: Maggie didn’t seem scary in that moment. She seemed… safe. Yes. safe, strong and confident, but not in a way that made him want to hide. In fact, it was kind of… nice?

And then it hit him. It wasn’t just nice. It was attractive. Hot even? Did his brain really just go there.

Oh no.

Maggie arched a brow, waiting for a response. When none came, she leaned down, eyes twinkling. “What’s the matter, Foxy? Catnap got your tongue?”

Frowny’s ears burned. He yanked his scarf higher over his face. “No. I’m fine. Thanks. Bye.” The words came out in a rushed jumble as he turned and awkwardly strutted away, his tail puffed up like a bottle brush.

Maggie blinked after him, then laughed. “You’re welcome!” she called, shaking her head. “Weird little guy.”

Meanwhile, Frowny ducked behind a corner, clutching his chest like his heart was about to escape. What was that? What was that?! He’d spent weeks avoiding Maggie because she was terrifying, and now, after one incident, he was- no. No, no,no. This wasn’t happening! He did not have a thing for Maggie Mako.

…But her smile had been kind of nice. And her strength had been… really nice. Pretty smile, very white cheerful teeth that didn't frighten him like they'd used to.

“Oh no,” he muttered to himself, ears flat. “This is bad.”

It was the beginning of the end. Or maybe the start of something good? No of course not! Or maybe it could be? Frowny wasn’t sure yet. He just knew he was doomed.

[nosyp]

I want a muscular nerd fanfic(nsfw) like him crushing the user between his big biceps and being really sweet <the user is a shy girl who the teacher assigned to work with him>

Deep buttery voice. IM GOING TO EAT UP NERD DUDES(-)_(-)

Warnings = smut

Pairings = Nerd x Fem! Reader (i hope u dont mind)

Word count = 2.7k words

A/N = Holy fuck I'm so stupid, I forgot all abt the "nice" part. Just enjoy this.. sorry🤷‍♀️

“Alright everyone, settle down. Now I’ll be—” the teacher’s voice started to ring out in your memory.

That was the last thing you remembered… and now you’re in his house, waiting for him to come back to do the assignment. He went to get some snacks or something… All you heard from him was “blah blah blah proper name… place name… backstory stuff”.

You sat stiffly on the edge of his couch, hands clutching the hem of your skirt as you stared down at your lap. 

The room smelled faintly of old books, which you’d expected, and something warm like cedarwood. His house was… nice. Too nice. You didn’t know what you expected, but it wasn’t quite like this.

“Y’know I didn’t think you’d actually come over,” his voice broke through the silence as he made his way back into the room with a couple of water bottles and a bag of chips. His presence was overwhelming, you had no idea how you just realised that now. 

He was surprisingly attractive for someone that never drew attention. His broad shoulders filled the doorway as he made his way past the threshold with his glasses perfectly perched on the bridge of his nose. 

You quickly glanced away, cheeks burning. “T-The teacher said we had to…”

He chuckled lightly, setting the snacks down onto the coffee table before plopping himself onto the couch beside you, his weight making the cushions dip in his side. “Yeah, yeah. But I figured you’d make an excuse. You always look like you’re one step away from running.”

You stiffened. Was it that obvious?

Before you could answer, he stretched, arms raising above his head, making his already large frame seem even bigger. Your eyes find themselves staring at the flex of his biceps beneath his snug hoodie before quickly looking away. It was like they were just barely bursting out of his sleeves.

“I—I don’t run from responsibilities… It’s just a lot sometimes.” you muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

His grin widened, a little amused and maybe… a little something else. “That so?” He leaned back, stretching an arm along the back of the couch which landed so dangerously close to you. His sheer size made you feel even smaller, and it wasn’t helping that he smelled good, like clean laundry and some really good cologne.

You swallowed hard, squeezing your thighs together.

He must’ve noticed.

“You alright there, short stack?” His voice was teasing but gentle.

You nodded quickly, refusing to meet his gaze.

“Hm.” He reached for a book on the coffee table and you couldn’t help but stare at his forearm flexing for a second, which totally short-circuited your brain.

He noticed that too.

“You keep starin’,” he mused, flipping a page.

You swore you felt your heart nearly stopped. “I-I wasn’t!”

His smirk deepened. “Uh-huh,” He flexed, just a little, and the movement had you squeaking, face practically on fire.

“You’re quite mean…” you mumbled softly before turning away.

He chuckled, shifting a little closer, warmth radiating from him like a furnace. “Nah, I’m just observant.” A pause. Then, lower, softer… “And I think it’s cute when you get all shy.”

Your entire body locked up.

How were you supposed to survive this study session?

Your breath hitched, hands starting to clench around the hem of your sweater. Cute? He thought you were cute?

You didn’t know what to do with that information. Your brain was already struggling to function properly with him sitting so close, warm and big beside you. His words just made everything worse— no, better— no, worse.

He didn’t seem fazed at all. If anything, he was enjoying this. He flipped another page in the textbook, acting as if he hadn’t just casually turned you into a nervous wreck.

“Alright, let’s get started.” His voice was steady, completely at ease. “We’ve gotta get through at least three sections today, so no slacking.”

You nodded hurriedly, gripping your pen like it was a lifeline. “O-Okay.”

For a few minutes, things were normal. He explained a few things with his usual calm and steady voice, while you tried desperately to focus on his words instead of the many ways things he could do other than this— you. It was unfair, really. Guys were supposed to be either strong or smart. He was both.

And worse? He knew it.

“Hey,” he called, tapping your notebook lightly with his pen. “You’re zoning out.”

“I—I’m not!”

“You are,” he said smoothly, shifting slightly, facing you slightly. “What’s got you so distracted, huh?”

You clamped your mouth shut, praying the floor would just swallow you whole. There was no way you were telling him the truth.

Unfortunately, your silence only made him more amused. He tilted his head, studying you for a moment before— oh no.

His arm moved.

Slowly, deliberately, he let it drop from the back of the couch—down, down, until it draped across your shoulders.

You squeaked.

He smirked.

“You’re so easy to mess with,” he murmured, voice rich with amusement. His fingers brushed your upper arm, completely engulfing it in warmth. “You’re all tense, y’know? Maybe you should relax a little.”

Relax? RELAX? How could you possibly relax when he was right there, solid and warm and smelling so nice—

“I—I’m fine!” you blurted out, shrinking in on yourself.

“Hm.” He didn’t move his arm. If anything, he settled into it, as if this was completely normal. As if this wasn’t killing you. “If you say so.”

Silence stretched between you.

You could feel everything. The way his fingers rested lightly against your shoulder. The slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing. The occasional brush of fabric when he shifted just the tiniest bit closer.

This was dangerous.

Very, very dangerous.

And then, as if things weren’t bad enough—

He squeezed your shoulder lightly.

Your whole body went stiff.

He chuckled, low and warm. “You’re really not used to this, huh?”

You made a noise— somewhere between a whimper and a squeak.

He let out a slow exhale, leaning in just slightly, and you swore you could feel the heat radiating off of him.

“You know,” he murmured, voice just above a whisper, “for someone so shy, you’re really bad at hiding things.”

You practically choked. “H-Hiding what?”

His smirk deepened.

Oh, you were in so much trouble.

“Y’know… I have another idea to make you focus.” he said.

—

You just didn’t know the so called great idea of his was a way for you to strip. The pair work for you two is to answer 100 questions, all from what you’ve learned in the past semester. His idea was to split 50/50 and when you two checked each other’s works, if you got something wrong, then you would have to take off one piece of clothing and it goes the same for him.

—

Fifty questions later, you had nothing left but your bra and panties. He wasn’t doing much better—just boxers and the tight black tank he wore underneath his hoodie.

Your arms were wrapped tightly around your chest, legs curled up on the couch like you were trying to make yourself as small as physically possible. Your cheeks had been red for the past ten minutes and showed no signs of cooling down.

“I-I can’t believe I agreed to this,” you muttered, voice trembling with mortification.

He sat across from you on the floor, legs stretched out and a smug little smile playing on his lips. “I warned you I was good at test questions.”

“You got forty-seven right!” you hissed. “That’s illegal!”

He chuckled, completely relaxed despite the very obvious fact that you were both basically naked. “Hey, you held your own. I’m not wearing pants, am I?”

“Don’t say that out loud!” you squeaked, burying your face in your hands.

His laugh deepened, low and warm in his throat. “You're cute when you're embarrassed.”

“Stop saying things,” you say, giving him a deathly glare.

He tilted his head, watching you with that same unreadable look he’d had earlier, the one that made your stomach do backflips.

“…You know,” he said after a pause, voice dropping just a little, “I didn’t expect this to actually happen. Thought you’d give up after question twenty.”

You fiddled with your fingers, cautious. “Why… didn’t you go easy on me?”

He blinked. “You wanted me to?”

You didn’t answer, but your silence kind of did.

He leaned back against the couch, arms folded behind his head so his biceps flexed again, casually, infuriatingly. “You’re the one who said you don’t run from responsibilities.”

You glared. “This wasn’t what I meant!!”

He grinned. “But you didn’t back out.”

“…I wanted to win…” you mumbled, voice barely audible.

He laughed, softer now. “Then next time, I’ll let you.”

You stared at him. “N-Next time?!”

“Sure. Maybe we can study for midterms like this, too.” He said it so casually, like it wasn’t utter madness.

You squeaked again, yanking a throw pillow to hug against your chest.

He just smiled to himself and picked up the answer sheet again. “You still owe me three questions. Let’s see if you can finish those before passing out from sheer embarrassment.”

You groaned, muffled into the pillow. “This is the worst study session in history.”

He snorted. “Nah. I think it’s the best one I’ve ever had.”

“Question 48, correct.” he says. “Relief for you huh…”

“Yeah yeah, keep going.” you roll your eyes, and they start moving towards him again. He had a very muscular build… Who could blame you for looking?

“Question 49 correct, wow. You’re doing great.” he compliments you.

“Thanks,”

“Question 50… wrong,” he says, finally looking up at you from the paper.

“W-what? T-there’s no way! Give me that,” you snatch the paper away from him and to your surprise, it was wrong.

“Soo… which one are you taking off?” he asks you teasingly. “Orr… you could just accept defeat.”

“Hell no,” the famous last words you said before being pinned beneath him… on his bed.

“U-ugh! Y-you’re being too rough— stop it!” you try to put some distance in between you two.

“C’moonn… just a small… short kiss?” he asks.

Your heart was racing. You were burning up. Every second you spent under him only made it worse.

But your lips trembled with a nervous smile. “A-a short one?”

“Mmhm,” he hummed, his voice deep. “Just a little reward… for studying so hard.”

He was lying. You could see it in his stupid smug expression— he had no intention of keeping it short.

Still…

Your eyes flicked to his mouth.

“…Okay,” you whispered.

He didn’t wait.

His lips met yours in one smooth motion, warm and sure. Not rough—not yet. Just slow. Deliberate. His hand moved to your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek as he kissed you again, deeper this time.

You gasped softly into his mouth, and that was all the invitation he needed.

His tongue slipped past your lips, stealing every ounce of breath from your lungs, and suddenly the kiss wasn’t gentle anymore—it was needy, hungry. Like he’d been waiting for this all night. Maybe longer.

You whimpered, arching under him without meaning to. His body pressed against yours fully now, only fabric separating skin from skin, and it wasn’t nearly enough.

Your hands found his shoulders, then his back, dragging your fingers across muscle you hadn’t even realized he had under those hoodies. He groaned softly into your mouth, pulling back just an inch to breathe.

“Still want me to stop?” he murmured.

You stared up at him, dazed, lips swollen. “Y-you said short—”

He chuckled, voice low. “I lied.”

And then his mouth was on your throat.

Kissing, nipping. One hand roaming down your side while the other pinned your wrist gently above your head. Every touch sent sparks down your spine, your legs twitching under him as he dragged his fingers along your waist, teasing close… sooo close to your panties.

“You’re shaking again,” he murmured, brushing his nose along your jaw. “You like this?”

You whined softly, nodding, unable to meet his eyes.

“Cute…” he breathed. “Bet I could make you cry just from kissing you.”

“Y-you’re saying weird things again,” you mumbled breathlessly.

His smirk deepened. “And yet you’re still letting me do this.”

His hand dipped lower.

His fingers ghosted over the waistband of your underwear, featherlight. Teasing. He was giving you every opportunity to stop him… but you didn’t.

You didn’t want to.

“Still with me?” he whispered, lifting his head just enough to meet your gaze. His eyes were darker now—hooded, but attentive. Careful, even as his hand slipped under the hem of your last remaining clothing.

You nodded, barely breathing. “Y-yeah…”

That was all he needed.

He kissed you again—messier this time, with a soft growl in his throat—and his fingers finally dipped between your thighs.

You jerked at the sudden contact, clinging to his arm, your gasp caught somewhere between shock and pleasure. “A-ah—!”

His smirk returned. “Sensitive,” he said softly. “You’re already soaked…”

“S-shut up—!” you covered your face with both hands, whining into your palms.

But he just laughed, kissing the backs of your fingers. “Can’t help it. You’re too cute when you get flustered like that.”

His fingers moved again, slowly— deliberately— rubbing through your folds like he had all the time in the world. He wasn’t rushing. He was learning you. Testing what made you twitch. What made you whimper. What made your back arch just right.

“You’re gonna make a mess on my bed if I keep going,” he murmured, half amused, half in awe. “Are you gonna take responsibility for that?”

“I-I’ll clean it, just keep going,” you whispered shakily, tugging at his wrist, desperate for more.

He chuckled darkly. “Damn. You’ve got no shame now, huh?”

“I-I’m blaming the midterms—!” you whimpered again as he curled two fingers inside you suddenly, slow but deep.

“Midterms, huh?” he echoed with a grin, leaning down to kiss your collarbone. “Let’s see if I can help you… relieve some of that stress.”

And he didn’t let up.

His fingers worked steadily, curling and dragging along your walls while his mouth traveled lower. He nipped at your chest, just above where the fabric still clung to you, teeth scraping lightly before soothing it with his tongue.

You were shaking. Moaning his name. Fingers tangled in his hair.

And he looked so damn proud of himself.

“Bet you’re not thinking about those questions anymore,” he murmured as he pressed deeper, angling just right… just enough to make you cry out again.

“N-not even close,” you gasped, hips bucking.

“Good,” he whispered. “Because I want your mind on me. Nothing else.”

“U-ugh…! P-please…” you beg.

“Please what?” he asks, a smirk growing on his face.

“Y-you know it—!” you say.

“Mmm… as you wish, pretty girl.” he whispers into your ear, his hot breath fanning your neck. He slides his shaft in you ever so slowly, watching as your facial expressions change from desperation to satisfaction.

“F-fuck…” you moan. “I-I want you… please.”

Then, he swiftly shoves it deep inside you and starts pushing it in and out of you. “Is this enough for you… or do you want… more?”

You didn’t respond… except maybe you did, in the form of soft moans that is.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he says before he starts jackhammering into you, your skin slapping onto his. With every snap of his hip, he kisses your cervix.

It’s a pleasuring burn— tantalizing… hot… 

Your head was now in shambles, you couldn’t think about anything else other than him… other than reaching your climax. You started grinding on him of your own accord, trying to make the process faster.

“Awww… y-y-you’re really t-that… desperate huh…” he groans in your neck. His pants start to grow more erratic, more crazed. He kisses your neck and slowly nibbles on the skin to leave marks.

“A-aahh… you’re so tight… are you about t-to c-come…” he continues. “Do it. Make a mess,”

Plap! Plap! Plap!

You were so hot… so close… you were a few more thrusts away from relieving yourself.

“I can feel you’re so close baby… c’mon,” he teases you.

You felt yourself tightening up around him… until you came all over his cock. 

“F-fuck… you’re making a mess… might as well,” he says, cumming deep inside you.

[starrycloak]

ptsd flashbacks, hyperphantasia and true sight - Max's drawings in 4x05 were too good, actually

cw discussions of ptsd

I was thinking about how, the morning after she escaped Vecna's lair, Max took upon drawing what she saw there. Mostly HOW she drew those pictures:

Separate elements, fragmented individual snapshots (like an officer taking pictures at a crime scene- by the way, check out @threemanoperation's post about other instances of weird puzzle collage-solving-seemingly-without-a-reference here; it was a major inspo for this post). Sure, nobody was expecting her to render a single 360° view of Vecna's mindspace, but her drawings are more than clear enough. This level of detail (the broken, scattered structures, trinkets, Chrissy and Fred's bodies in their current state, mixing the crayon colors available in Holly's box so they'd more closely match what she saw, the different angles) is more than quite accurate for someone who 1) hadn't previously been labelled as skilled in drawing and 2) might have been scared for her life to mindfully focus on her surroundings. I have two main questions, both quite connected to one another, but I'm afraid I won't be able to answer them fully: how and why.

how could max remember so clearly what she saw in vecna's mindscape and externalize her memories with such high fidelity?

some assault/attemped m*rder survivors have very vivid memories of the moment they were attacked -those memories might not even be limited to image and sound, but even smells, textures, etc.

When traumatic memories are retrieved, the physical stress response actually serves to strengthen them, to reinforce the memory in the circuits of the brain. The PTSD response makes these memories stronger and stronger over time. [Survivors] may not remember all of the details, but the things that they do remember remain sharp and consistent.

There's no clear-cut time frame for how long it takes for our brains to initiate and run this process, so I'd not rule out something of the sort might have happened to Max from the moment she came back and the next morning at the Wheelers' (plus she didn't sleep at all and probably saw those images any time she closed her eyes). However, I can't help but consider what I said above about Max's main focus probably being elsewhere in that moment, along with the fact that Max's drawings were beyond beginner (as in, not hobby) level (did you see how many different vanishing points she used for the 'floating' objects???), and a very important detail she mentions herself: her walking into the red mindscape wasn't Vecna trying to scare her per se -he did NOT want her to see that, so he probably didn't want her to remember that place either. Yes, he had seemed kind of... "peacock-y" when it came to the classic "serial k*ller leaves crumbs bc he secretly wants to be found out", but he has to call the shots on who gets to see what, like he eventually did with Nancy. Max managed to "infiltrate" his mind bc he did the same to her first, so would it be far-fetched to think that, if it was only up to him, he'd make sure to block or take away those memories from her to patch what ultimately becomes an exploitable vulnerability for the Party and co?

unless someone else, in a similar position to Vecna -or even higher-, was on the Party's side-

I want to explore two possible explanations as to why max was able to retain such clear images/memories, stemming mainly from @greenfiend and @/kaypeace21's posts about DID theory. One: with Vecna being Will's persecutor alter, escaping his claws might have 'granted' Max an ability that has a similar-ish equivalent on an irl condition that can influence memory processing: hyperphantasia.

Hyperphantasia is the condition of having extremely vivid mental imagery. [It] has been described as being "as vivid as real seeing" [...] Vivid mental imagery as observed in hyperphantasia impacts people's ability for "mental time travel", or the ability to remember past events as well as imagine future events. Hyperphantasics have reported more sensory details of episodic memories and future event constructions.

sadly, it's more of a curse that a boon:

Vivid imagery has been correlated to several mood disorders, particularly anxiety, major depressive disorder, and bipolar disorder, and having hyperphantasia may exacerbate symptoms of such disorders by subserving ruminating thoughts as well as acting as an "emotional amplifier" [...] The vividness of mental imagery has a key role in the development and continuation of intrusive memories, so for those with PTSD, having hyperphantasia is a substantial risk factor.

if this sounds a bit familiar, it's because it's tied to the second possible explanation: Max, being an alter of Will, acquiring/borrowing the host's artistic abilities/motor skills (to a degree*) and a flash of his True Sight so she could help the party navigate that part of the hivemind as if they themselves had been there. or, similar to Billy, she was 'activated' (re: influenced/possessed) to help the party with this particular task.

*at first I thought this detail was too much of a reach, but then I remember how similar Max's and El's -another alter- drawings were in The Piggyback (although El's had bigger heads both times), and how stickmen were either a deliberate choice by Max or just her back to default:

[kaisaniku]

I finally finished the second chapter of this doodle comic!

Basically from a translation machine:

It's called notes, but it's really bullshit time:

(I didn't put any asterisks in the "text" in order to make the picture cleaner and not make this little comic seem too serious)

①WX says that their body "doesn't have any of those really advanced things" and that "the concept is just bionic", which might make you wonder how WX can agree with their own shortcomings when they are always been so confident in their own machine body. This is kind of a guess: WX's comments in the wiki about Wagstaff being "afraid of progress" and "short-sighted", combined with WX's usual machine-worshiping and violent tendencies, such as their comments about Maxwell "He has that kind of power but he doesn't go out and destroy human". So it's an offense to them, but they actually agree that even though they claim to be superior, I guess WX would like to see their bodies more advanced and even more radical.

② Yes, this WX has acceleration circuits installed.

③ Gnome get✓ Do you guys remember the line where WX checks the Gnome

④ "You're not as kind as you look", how should I put this one, because the Wilson I understand is more or less with a little bit of darkness in his mind, he's someone who is full of emotions but often restrains them with reason, he fears and hates the negative impulses and instincts within himself. And this trait I think probably comes from his good nature, his education and survival experiences and the influence of the Shadow Throne. (But honestly after suffering in CONSTANT for so long, it's normal for whoever it is to be a little psychologically unhinged, not to mention the SANITY setting.) And after WX's soulwalking, they easily have some "psychic empathy" with Wilson... ...... Well, how did that happen Wilson?

⑤ Well I know the reasoning of the empathy module episode is weird ...... In fact, it's mainly because when I drew this plot I didn't have a good understanding of the empathy module, and simply thought of it as something like "emotional deficiency", so this episode was supposed to be Wilson saying "why do I still feel emotional ups and downs blabla" and then WX explaining that it's because of "memories of emotional experiences", which would have made a lot more sense.

⑥I guess it's my own personal setting: although the game doesn't make a distinction, I don't think WX as a robot would have a "headache and blurred vision due to lack of sanity". The system will be affected, sure, but the physiology won't necessarily feel it. It's hard to go from luxury to frugality, and since there is no experience in the eternal realm in the human era, WX can't adapt to the negative impacts of sanity reduction at all.

⑦Wilson's curiosity and desire to explore and then equipped with WX's hardware strength is simply ON FIRE. and "adapting to the human body so quickly" this conclusion mainly comes from the last chapter when the two people just transformed the body, Wilson's side is very difficult, while the WX on the contrary, it seems to be very easy. Even when they suddenly possessed internal organs, blood, light weight and so on, there was no adverse reaction. Wilson, who loves to observe, has always had suspicions (sorry however I didn't draw this clue out)

⑧ on the one hand, just learned a shocking secret, excited and energetic Wilson, on the other hand is the history of the exposure, and is also experiencing unprecedented headache WX. so the two temperament is not quite the same as usual.

⑨ "Wiped of most of their human memories" from the game's credits: "Suddenly recalling the memories of his past life, WX-78 soon decides to change his fate on his own."

⑩ Those of you who have fought Shadow creatures online might know that the only way a teammate's Shadow creature will have hatred for you is if you've forcibly attacked them. What happened here is that WX forced an attack on Wilson's Shadow Creature (except that Wilson was still relying on his headache of empirical judgment and didn't realize that his SANITY was too low), and then WX's own shadow creatures that were looming all showed up as well, which is why it became so much more. I don't have a very comprehensive understanding of this mechanic online though, and it doesn't seem to be very rigorous, so that's probably what it is anyway.

I accidentally added a lot more, mainly because of the limited ability to express the drawing ... Hope you enjoy!

[just-mary-ann]

Sneak peek of my newest showtime fanfic about TADC Harlequin AU.

Sequel to my other work on ao3 "Purple"

TADC Harlequin AU BY @tadc-harlequin-au

Lilac

⚠️WARNING ⚠️ A liiiiiiitle suggestive talk between two personalities.

____________________________________

Caine and Pomni were cuddling in the Puppetmaster's bedroom. Since Pomni's mind had short-circuited, causing her to behave like the Performer Harlequin for a while, they had grown closer. However, Pomni still struggled to accept her feminine side. And now, she was dreaming of her dark subconscious.

"This... is Caine's office." Harlequin looked around.

"It's comfortable here. And there's something to read." The voice from the sofa reached Pomni's ears.

Harlequin drew her sword and pointed it at the source of the sound. Performer Pomni lay on the sofa, reading a book.

"You? B-but how? I killed you!" Pomni shook her head in denial.

"You dispelled me, yes." Pomni closed the book and stood up. "But no matter how you look at it, I'm a part of you. From now on and forever. So..." She awkwardly spread her arms and smiled.

Combat Pomni's right eye twitched, and a yellow light flared up in it.

"GO TO HELL!" She lunged at the second personality with her sword. Performer Pomni easily and gracefully dodged. "What? How did you dodge?"

"We share skills and motor memory." Pomni began examining her left hand. "So predicting your moves isn't hard. Plus, I have access to your memories."

"I already know that last part," Combat Pomni sheathed her sword. "You showed me a memory of a battle in the smoke back then."

"Yup. I love playing with the past." Performer Pomni placed her hands on her red cheeks and wiggled her hips. "And I have a special fondness for how gently Caine hugs us."

Combat Pomni blushed, trembling with rage.

"WHY THE HELL ARE YOU DIGGING THROUGH MY MEMORIES?"

"Oh, cut me some slack." Performer Harlequin put one hand on her hip and waved the other dismissively. "You won't let me enjoy his touches. Let me at least drool over them."

Combat Harlequin cooled down a bit. The angry grimace left her face.

"So if I give you access to the body, you'll stop rifling through my memory card?"

A purple eye sparkled. Performer Pomni playfully ran her hand through her hair, letting it flutter.

"Oh. Is a deal in the making?"

"I haven't promised you anything!" Combat Harlequin pointed a finger in Performer Harlequin's face. "But I'm willing to listen to you. By the way," Combat Pomni crossed her arms. "what should I call you? Just 'slut' isn't an option."

"WHY DID YOU GIVE ME SUCH A NICKNAME?!" Performer Pomni's turn to get angry came. But she took a deep breath and exhaled, pressing a finger to her cheek. "How about Lilac? A shade of purple, like my eye."

Pomni nodded.

"Alright, Lilac, I'm listening."

"Okay. For starters," Lilac thought, her cheeks burning bright red. "I want to spend hot nights with Mr. Puppetmaster."

"Go to hell. Any other requests?" Pomni said absolutely neutrally.

"Oh, come on. It's the same body! He won't notice the switch!" Lilac stomped her foot in frustration. "Well. Either you let me have fun with him once in a while, or I'll keep digging through your shared memories and enjoying the view." She haughtily raised her nose.

"Argh. Fine. One night in one lunar cycle." Pomni showed one finger.

"Not fair. That's too little. I want once a phase." Lilac showed four fingers.

"Deal." Pomni agreed through gritted teeth. The two personalities shook hands. "Then sit tight and don't bother me until the new phase starts."

"Actually," Lilac covered her mouth with her fingers, "tonight is the new moon."

Pomni's mind short-circuited. Right. How could she forget?

"Well, it's already started, so it doesn't count. Wait until the end of the first quarter." Pomni felt something between fear and awkwardness for the first time.

"Nuh-uh." Lilac wagged her finger side to side. "Don't you dare refuse me. We agreed. So tonight, I'll be enjoying the Puppetmaster's warm and pleasant touches."

Silence hung between Pomni and Lilac.

"Fucking nympho." Pomni broke the silence.

"Look who's talking!" Lilac retorted indignantly.

to be continued

[coldbrewghoul]

To Warm a Frozen Soul - Ult!RichtofenxReader One Shot

Reader is travelling with the Ultimis crew when they end up in Serbia (on the Call of the Dead map). You've always had a thing for the older German doctor, but choose to keep your mouth shut about it because he can be... well, erratic to say the least, but when his behavior gets weirder than normal things start to heat up. Apparently, sharing memories, even the capacity for feelings, with other versions of yourself across dimensions can get complicated (or so he tells you). What starts as you comforting him ends up with you getting dominated and railed. And does anyone actually care about the Golden Rod you're supposed to be looking for?

Notes: NSFW content, Call of the Dead Map (Call of Duty), Shameless Smut, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Some Humor, Fluff, Element 115 Induced Hallucinations, Richtofen Hivemind, Subspace, S&M, Flirting, Banter, Takeo keeps puking because it's canon

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

The teleporter made your stomach lurch and you uncomfortably swallowed the excess drool that formed in your mouth. Takeo was making unpleasant gagging sounds–or at least you assumed Takeo was still the one next to you considering you couldn’t see anything. Either you had gone blind or the place you were in was pitch dark. The Japanese man made a retching noise and something splashed on the ground. Oh, fuck no… You leapt away in surprise, hitting a hard body with arms that reached out to grab you, holding you to a firm chest.

“Oh man, that's wet," Dempsey groaned from the other side of Takeo.

“Argh, I need vodka!" Nikolai yelled, banging on… a wall? Whatever metal surface he was near. Well if Takeo was puking next to you, Dempsey was on the other side of him, and Nikolai was over there…

“I knew you’d come running into mein arms eventually,” Richtofen said happily. You blushed, temporarily grateful for the darkness, and pushed him away.

“Where the hell are we and why can’t we see shit? What did you do?” You asked, getting some space from Richtofen and backing away from the noises of vomit until your back was pressed against the teleporter wall. Don’t… breathe… you willed yourself.

“I did nothing,” Richtofen whined. You could hear the shifting of his starched uniform as he moved around. “Where's the light switch? Oh. I think I found a lever. Perhaps this will turn on the light!”

“Whoah, ahhh! Let go! That's.... not... a... lever, Richtofen!’ Dempsey forced out through gritted teeth.

Richtofen giggled and you tried to stifle your laugh. You reached around, patting the wall until you found the door to the teleporter and feeling your way out by tapping your foot around. Eventually you found something that felt like a submarine or ship door frame and used the wheel to open it. The light it allowed in let you see the scene behind you and you covered your mouth with a hand, turning away. God the puddle of puke was huge… The men began trying to push it out of the teleporter with their boots quickly.

“Hi, Takeo, yeah… How you doing?” Richtofen said, starting with a fake smile that twisted into anger. “You see all the puke? That we're picking up? You're not saying thank you? Nothing? You know why? Because you're a little shit.”

“Okay, okay… Leave the poor man alone,” you scolded, grimacing. Zombie guts? Not ideal, but fine. Mud and blood? Alright, if you must. Vomit? That was where you drew the line. You moved to get further away from the smell.

"Ah, much better…” Richtofen said when Dempsey got Takeo to puke in a corner of the room instead of in the middle of the teleporter. The German inspected the smoking control panel. “Now I can see the problem! We must have gone too far in the future. Look, the teleporter is completely broken. Ach, the time circuits are damaged. We'll have to reboot the--"

"Wait, you took us here on purpose!?” Dempsey yelled from where he was patting Takeo’s back awkwardly. “Where are we?"

“An abandoned Group 935 Siberian outpost!” The doctor answered happily. “You stay with the puking one und the…” He gave a disapproving look at Nikolai who was chugging down a bottle of vodka. “...the soon to be puking one. I will go have a look around, ja?”

“(y/n), go keep an eye on him,” Dempsey ordered, glaring at Richtofen before his attention was pulled back to Takeo who was starting to retch again.

“Fine, the Fräulein can join me,” he marched forward confidently, expecting you to follow him. “Perhaps we will find a nice corner somewhere to finish what you started in the dark, ja?”

“In your dreams…” You muttered, but inwardly your stupid stomach fluttered with butterflies. Or maybe it was other unpleasant insects, considering the subject that was causing them. Lately, you’d caught yourself staring at the unconventional older man and laughing more often at his unusual antics. It was an annoying distraction from the mission and you mentally bug bombed the fuck out of your stomach to make it stop. It didn’t stop. You shook your head to pull your focus back to reality. “Okay, doctor, what are we looking for?”

Richtofen waited until you were out of earshot from the others to answer you. “I need to retrieve a very important device. It looks like a long…stiff…hard…golden rod... with fingers on the end. Aaaoohh, delightful!"

You blinked as he made sounds as if he’d just orgasmed. You should be used to it by now, but it turns your face red every time. The way he watched you with a satisfied smirk made you sure that was the reason he kept doing it around you. “Okay,” you sighed, already exasperated with him and your stupid feelings. “Why do you need the golden hand dildo?”

“Because time is running out! Ahaha!” He laughed maniacally before going deathly quiet, a rare air of seriousness surrounding him. “We have a teleporter that takes us through time und we still feel the weight of the ticking of the clock… No matter. Soon the vril generator will be MINE! Then there is only one more piece to collect and the world will be MINE!"

You were pretty sure none of that was actually directed to you. He often had conversations like that with himself. “Okay, sure… whatever you say, doctor. Let’s just get it quickly and get out of here before the zombies find us. You know, like they always do.”

You honestly could care less what the crazy German did. The world was fucked with zombies anyway and if he wanted to rule over a trash heap who the hell cared? You’d been travelling with them long enough to know they had your back in a gunfight and it was just as safe with them as out on your own–or at least that is what you kept telling yourself. You bit your lip as Richtofen adjusted his uniform, his gloves making a faint squeak noise as the leather stretched over his flexing knuckles. You bit your lip. Lately, you've been having some rather inappropriate dreams about how those gloves would feel on your body, around your throat…

“Well, you’re awfully distracted lately…” Richtofen said, shoving his face in yours and narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “Hm… parted lips, increased rate of breathing, pupils dilated… Did running into mein arms in the dark arouse you that much?”

“Doctor… You’re crazy,” you said, refusing to admit what you’d been thinking about. “Could you please be crazy somewhere other than my face?” 

“Ach, I don’t have time to play with you anyway!” He snapped, turning away with a sharp movement. Both of you froze as you heard the familiar shuffling of the undead, scanning the area for the source. “Ah, there are mein children! Come, let us see if they are interested in some bullet lobotomies, ja?”

You hoisted your gun to your shoulder with an all too practiced motion, the butt of the rifle settling into its usual spot. “I got your back, doctor.”

The way he looked at you, a weighty sadness in his eyes you’d never seen before, was like there was a different man standing in front of you. “I know you do. I have always appreciated your determination und strength while fighting by mein side,” he murmured before turning away to raise his own gun towards the window the noises were coming from.

Confused, you watched him for a moment, unsure if you’d just had some sort of hallucination or if really had seen a moment of sanity from him. Was he on something? Was he crashing from Speed Cola?! You turned around and moved until your back was up against his, shooting the zombies that were slowly making their way towards you through a door of the room. It appeared you were on some sort of ship, a freighter beached in the ice off the shore of a coastal area or an island. Wherever you were, it was deathly frigid and you were glad for the wool trench coat and gloves that protected you from the chill. You could already tell it would be colder once you had to leave the ship for the snowy expanse beyond and you weren’t looking forward to it.

After about a dozen or so zombies had been cleared Richtofen walked–no, danced–around the room before pointing out a window toward a lighthouse nearby. “We shall check there. Hurry! You are so slow…”

Ah, the whimsical version of Richtofen is back now. The way he could flip through emotions was already dizzying enough you weren’t sure if you’d be able to handle the addition of the sad, serious version he’d shown you a moment earlier. Trying to get your mental bearings, you jogged to follow him, gripping your gun tight and keeping your eyes peeled for danger. As you followed him across the deck of the ship you had to tense your jaw to keep your teeth from chattering. You were used to much more temperate climates, but you noted the snow didn’t bother the German one bit. You decided you never wanted to visit Germany.

“Aha! A ramp!” He exclaimed, gesturing in a mock gentlemanly manner. “Ladies first.”

You made sure he saw you roll your eyes at his pretend chivalry before stepping onto the ramp and– You were slipping on a layer of ice, your hands flinging out behind you to catch yourself. A firm grip caught the collar of your jacket and yanked you back into a waiting arm. Richtofen held you, an evil grin on his face. “Dummkopf! If you really wanted that plush ass of yours bruised I’d be happy to oblige the desire in much more interesting ways.”

You yanked away from him, almost sending yourself toppling down the ramp again with how haphazardly you lurched away. “Doctor, I need you to focus less on my ass and more on the mission,” you said firmly, narrowing your eyes, trying to hide your excitement at the prospect of what he’d implied he could do to you.

“That would be easier if you stopped looking at me the way you have been,” he muttered, rolling his eyes and shaking his head.

“If you think I’ve been looking at you with anything other than annoyance you’re hallucinating,” you sneered. You had no time to react as his hand grabbed your throat, rage in his eyes. He was pressing you against the railing of the deck and with a good push he could probably toss you over the edge. You hand came up to grab his wrist and you struggled for your life.

“Play shy…Deny whatever you want…but do not try to confuse me by telling me something is a hallucination when it’s not.” His breathing was heavy and behind the anger there was a desperate anguish, but the hand on your throat trembled slightly, not quite cutting off all your air. “I have enough trouble keeping things straight… especially now that I have him in my head.”

“I’m sorry!” You choked out, genuinely meaning it beyond wanting to avoid an icy swim in the waters below. You hadn’t realized how much that would upset him.

He breathed, calming himself and loosening his grip. He stayed there for a moment, eyes closed, his hand gently resting on your throat while he regained his composure. Finally he drew back, a look of regret flashing through his eyes before he pulled his uniform straight and adjusted his cap.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “You’re right. That was uncalled for and… insensitive. I can only imagine what it’s like to question reality. I…I shouldn’t have used that against you.”

“Ah, what can I expect from someone with such low intelligence.” He lifted his hands in an exaggerated shrug, returning to his usual sassy self. “You are American, after all. You’d be smarter if you were German.”

“Sure, doctor,” you replied sarcastically, shaking your head at the quick switch in tone.

“Why do you call me that?” He was back to that serious softness that made you wonder if you were going to survive this mission with your sanity intact. When you moved towards the ramp he grabbed your hand to help you down the slippery slope. Was it just the descent down the ship that was slippery or were your feelings for him just as dangerous? You weren’t sure, but you didn’t pull away from his touch.

“Aren’t you a doctor?” You asked, stepping carefully and being glad for his help staying upright as your foot glided over hidden ice patches.

“Ja, but you only call me doctor. The rest call me by my last name.”

“After what we’ve been through it feels a little silly to call you by your last name,” you commented wryly, sighing with relief when you both made it to the crunchy snow below where your footing was more stable. When he let you go you instantly missed the contact.

“You could use my first name,” he noted, holding out his gun as he noticed a zombie stumbling in your direction.

You lifted your gun to protect his exposed side, taking quick aim and firing a shot. “Edward?”

“Ja?” He looked at you and raised an eyebrow.

“No, I was just trying it out,” you chuckled. “It’s a nice name.” It felt weird to call him by his first name–too intimate somehow even though you were on a first name basis with the rest of the group. Probably because of all the fantasies your brain had been supplying you with about the older man over the last few days…okay, months.

He was silent, focusing on clearing the zombies in the way as you both moved towards the lighthouse. When you glanced over at him you saw a flush spread across his cheeks and ears. Was he blushing?! No, it must be from the cold… That man could spout the lewdest things without blinking an eye. There was no way he’d get embarrassed from you saying and complimenting his name…right? It had to be something else. Anything else…

A spiral staircase awaited you when the both of you breached the lighthouse. You started the climb up it, Richtofen behind you. It was a long ascent and about halfway up, he was panting slightly. “I’m getting too old for this,” he muttered.

You chuckled, turning back and offering your hand to the man who was about twice your age. “You seem like you still have some fight left in you. Besides, no one is more childlike than you so no one will notice how old you are.”

He scoffed, hesitating before taking your hand. The cool leather was soft as his long fingers gripped your hand. You were surprised he’d accepted; you’d meant it more as an addition to the teasing, not a serious offer. You squeezed his hand, the stomach bugs having a downright party inside you as the both of you continued to the landing at the top. The contact was only broken when he left to wander around the light in the center of the room. You busied yourself with securing the floor hatch over the stairs to keep out the undead while he checked out your surroundings.

“It’s so loud,” he whispered, his back to you.

“Is it? It’s quiet to me… no zombies, just the sounds of the sea and air.”

“Nein, his memories are loud. Are they memories if they haven’t happened yet? Or have they already happened? Is he doing them now?!” There was a panicked edge to his tone that increased the more he talked.

You moved close to him, placing a hand on his arm. “Hey, doc–Edward? Are you alright?”

He whipped around, his eyes strained and his eyebrows furrowed. “Nein! I have… feelings! He’s so sad all the time… Ach! He’s such a baby! I do not want to share his name, let alone experience his life.”

“Whoa, okay… um, so feelings… are new for you?” That made sense, honestly, but who was this guy he kept talking about?

Richtofen grabbed you suddenly, yanking you to him and you let out a surprised squeak. “Do you know what it’s like to deal with all the voices, the hallucinations, und now… a whole other life? Another version of me, confusing me!”

“No, I have no idea,” you answered honestly, not sure what else to say. Your heart squeezed painfully at how distraught he looked.

“Nein, of course you don’t,” he said, letting you go to pace the circle around the light. You had to step double time to keep up with his long legs. “This is mein burden to bear… The price of the greatness I have achieved!”

“Can it be, I don’t know… cured?” You asked. You’d always been a bit worried at his outbursts, noticing an increase in his chaotic mental state as you travelled with him, but he’d never been so upset or willing to open up about it.

“A bullet to his head might do the trick, ja? But how to find him… I don’t even know what dimension to look in! Ach, so annoying! Er ist echt 'ne Nervensäge!”

You reached out and grabbed his hand, pulling him toward you. He turned to face you, halting his pacing. You weren’t sure what you intended to do, acting on instinct alone. He stood, waiting, watching you with a confused expression. Then your body was moving without your brain; you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around his waist, reveling in how slender it was compared to his broad shoulders. You turned your head to press your face against his chest, putting as much of your body to his as possible, hoping to squeeze some comfort into him.

He tensed up, his breath coming out shaky. You could hear his heart racing in his ribcage and both of you stayed unmoving for a few seconds before he raised a hesitant hand to rest between your shoulder blades. “I have… feelings for you, Fräulein. Before he infected my mind I merely found you attractive… I just wanted to make your face twist in pain while you bounced on mein Schwanz! But now… he’s infected my mind und I also want to do… ugh, gross things! Like… stroke your hair!”

If you weren’t so concerned for him you’d laugh at how disgusting he found something as normal as caressing someone. His hand moved higher, resting on the top of your head and running down to the base of your skull. You shivered in pleasure. “I like those things,” you whispered, your face heating up.

“Oh, of course you do. A soft little thing like you…” He scoffed, his hand wrapping around your waist to keep you close as he rested his cheek on your hair.

You hid your face in his chest so your words were muffled by his uniform. “I like the other stuff you said too.”

He straightened and grabbed your shoulders, pushing you away from him and narrowing his eyes. His pupils flicked between yours and you tried not to cower from his analysis–a struggle considering the shame you were feeling after your confession. “Are you fucking with me?” He asked bluntly, the lines between his brows deepening.

“Not yet,” you whispered, your boldness bringing more heat to your face.

Suddenly, he cupped your cheeks, forcing you on to your tiptoes as he dragged your lips to his. You pressed in, returning the kiss with a sigh. It was a short kiss, but the electricity in it was exhilarating. He ended it quickly, pushing you away to search your eyes while taking a steadying breath. You could only assume he found whatever answer he was looking for as he leaned in to kiss you again. This time you grabbed the collar of his jacket, deciding you weren’t going to let him pull away again. It wasn’t necessary because he was turning you, pressing you against the glass enclosure of the huge light in the middle, trapping your body between it and him.

Your moan vibrated into his lips as he ripped at your clothes. You barely had the presence of mind to flip the safety on your gun before it clattered to the ground at your feet, desperate to be rid of anything that could get in the way of the passion. You moved your hands, one up to the back of his head to feel the short hair there and the other roaming down to palm the growing bulge in his slacks. He groaned, crushing your lips with the force of his kiss as he teeth clashed against yours from his desperation to meld your bodies together.

Your pants were half undone before he’d got distracted with other parts of you, sliding those leather gloves up the skin of your abdomen, pushing your bra out of his way and squeezing your breasts. “Fick,” he breathed, his voice hoarse, “I denied myself this for too long.”

You forced yourself to pull away to shrug off your coat and he ripped your shirt off you as soon as your arms were free from the wool sleeves. With a twist of your hips, his hands forced you to face the glass, pinning you there so he could strip your bra and yank your pants down to your boots. You whimpered, your voice a barely audible whisper as you admitted the dark secret you’d been trying to reject: “I couldn’t stop dreaming about you…I tried, but–ahhhh!”

He shoved his hand between your legs roughly, finding your clit and rubbing it aggressively. His other hand grabbed the hair at the back of your head and wrenched back so he could see your face. “Oh, the real thing will be so much more irresistible than your dreams could have ever been, liebling,” he crooned, his cockiness proportional to your eagerness. Your hands pressed against the cold glass, supporting you as he ravaged your clit, wetness building between your thighs until he was able to shove one of his fingers inside your hole, making you cry out. Your brows furrowed and your eyelids became heavy as pleasure coursed through you. He was right about one thing: his leather hands on your body was better than you ever could have imagined.

He added another finger, pumping them into you furiously. Your legs were already shaking from the effort of keeping yourself standing during his assault on your core. He released your hair to roam your body as if wanting to experience all of you as quickly as possible; wrapping around your throat for a quick squeeze, grasping a handful of breast, pinching a nipple, stroking down the sensitive skin of your ribs and then smacking your ass. All of it had you drowning in sensation as he drew whimpers and incoherent begging from your lips. He was speaking in a low voice from behind you, an anchor for your lost mind: “I’m going to fuck you so completely that you are destroyed and rebuilt.” His free hand stopped its journey over your skin to rub at your clit. “You’ll disintegrate, becoming nothing, until your entire being is composed of only the pleasure and pain I give you.”

You knew your heart was just as fucked as you were about to be. He nipped at your ear before twisting to press his mouth to yours, plunging his tongue inside to tease yours into an erotic dance. You drank from him like you needed him to live, sucking his tongue and lips with wild abandon, drawing deep groans from his chest. “Edward…,” you whimpered, you hands flailing to find some way to hold onto him to keep from collapsing as he fucked you hard with his fingers.

“Come for me,” he commanded mid-kiss. You grabbed the back of his neck with one hand, accidentally knocking off his hat, and a fistful of pants at his hip with the other as your knees gave out, crying out your pleasure into his lips. His arms helped pin you to him so you didn’t drop to the floor as your orgasm coursed through your body. You’d never felt an orgasm this good before; like every one of your molecules were being ripped apart and reforming anew. Your scream was loud enough to pierce the heavens.

He wrapped his arms around you from behind, his fingers indenting your skin with the pressure he applied to keep your body to his. You hummed happily, drunk on bliss as he nuzzled into your neck, kissing and grazing his teeth over the skin. “Good girl,” he murmured, “such a good girl for me.”

You whimpered as the praise ignited your core all over again. When your strength returned you twisted to face him, your arms around his neck while you pressed kisses into his lips, his sharp cheekbones, and strong jaw. He was patient, accepting your adoration as you murmured all the things you’d been holding back all these months: “You’re so handsome it’s a crime… your mind is terrifyingly intelligent… God, I’ve fought so hard not to be obsessed with you…”

“I do have that effect on people,” he chuckled, glowing at your praise. “How can anyone resist my charms?”

He sounded playful, but the smile that spread across his lips was that of pure happiness, containing no malicious intent for once. It was a smile you were sure you were the only one to ever witness, melting your heart in a painful inferno of love for the man in your arms. “Please,” you whispered, pleading with your tone and eyes, “let me serve you.” Forever, your soul added silently. “I want to make you cum.”

He groaned, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “Well, when you word it like that…”

You slipped out of his arms, down his body until you were on your knees, working the buckle of his belt. His lips parted as he watched you deftly undo his pants with lust filled eyes. His cock was hard and ready for you when you finally freed him, springing up from his drawers when you pulled them down. Fuck, you could barely contain your excitement. He moved the flap of his jacket, pinning it to his hip with one hand to get a clear view of you as his other hand came to rest on your head. You planted kisses down the underside of his shaft, keeping your worshipful eyes on his so you didn’t miss a single reaction to the pleasure you were supplying him.

Grasping his cock firmly, you licked him from base to tip, circling your tongue once around the head before sucking him in. Your hand pumped in time with your bobbing head, providing friction to the length of him your mouth couldn’t accommodate. He was huge, you realized with a fearful thrill, your thighs pressing together in anticipation for when you would get to feel him fill your pussy. Your arousal brought a moan from your chest, vibrating your mouth around him. His hand clenched in your hair as his hips bucked forward, stabbing the back of your mouth with his tip, making you gag.

The sound seemed to do something to him, sparking some kind of animalistic frenzy. He used a fistful of your hair to force your head forward and back roughly, his hips thrusting in time. His breathing came out in huffs, his jaw clenched as he watched his cock enter and exit your lips with wide eyes. He wanted to hurt you, gag you, use you and God were you willing, begging him with your eyes to do his worst. “Oh, you little Schlampe… getting off on lutsche meinen Schwanz…you like when I abuse you, don’t you?”

You nodded as best you could under the circumstances, focusing on sucking as much as possible while he slammed his cock down your throat, getting a little bit deeper into your neck with each stroke. Drool dripped down your chin, but all you cared about was the taste of his precum on your tongue. You only had a few seconds of air left before the darkness would take your vision completely, your whole body tingling as your blood was deprived of oxygen. Before you passed out completely he pulled you off him and you weakly whined at your treat being taken away. He chuckled, waiting for you to be able to hold yourself up before letting go of your hair. “The rest of your clothes, strip them,” he ordered, idly stroking your saliva into his cock with one leather gloved hand.

You shifted to sit on your ass, ripping at the shoelaces binding your boots to your feet as quickly as possible. Unceremoniously, you kicked the boots off, ripping your pants and underwear from your legs, tossing them aside. As soon as you had finished complying to his demand you were back on your knees, hands on his thighs to try and get him back into your mouth, but he placed a finger against your lips before you could. Bending over slightly, he placed a gloved hand around your neck, squeezing gently while he kissed you, parting your lips with his, exploring the back of your teeth with his tongue. When he pulled away, your mouth still gaping open, he spat and his saliva hit your tongue. “Swallow and thank me,” he whispered.

Well that… that did something to you. It was like an out of body experience where nothing mattered, but him and doing whatever he said, making you crave receiving more orders to follow. You swallowed, meaning it with every fiber of your being as you looked up at him and said: “Thank you, sir.”

“Herr Doktor,” he corrected, an excited smile on his face as you slipped deep into submission for him.

“Yes, Herr Doktor, thank you.” Your voice was laced with bliss.

His other hand was in your hair again, yanking you to stand and then slamming you back against the glass of the light. His nose grazed your cheek as he took in your scent, whispering so his breath fluttered against your ear. “Do you know what you smell like?”

“No, Herr Doktor,” you moaned, you cunt tightening painfully over the empty space he should be filling.

“You smell like sex. You smell like prey,” he growled, pressing a knee between your thighs, making you moan as the fabric of his slacks brushed against your clit. Your hips rolled to get more and he laughed, mocking you. “Ah, look at you… such a desperate little thing! Humping my leg like a dog in heat.”

You didn’t care how pathetic you were acting. You whined, “Please, I need you, Herr Doktor.”

“Say please in my tongue: ‘bitte,’ he crooned, teasing you by pressing his knee against you harder. “If you ask sweetly enough maybe I’ll fuck you with meinen Schwanz.”

You moaned out desperately. “Bitte! Bitte, Herr Doktor. I need your…S-schwanz?”

“My Schwanz. My cock. Do you need it, pretty little thing?” He rubbed his leg against you, making you cry out.

“Yes! Yes…ja!” Your brain supplied you with one of the few German words you knew–honestly impressive of it considering how mushy it had become. “Ja, Herr Doktor. Your Schwanz, bitte!”

It looked like he was trying to control himself, his jaw twitching with the will it took to keep his composure as his breath came out in short, fast bursts. “What a Schlampe you are–a slut. Are you a Schlampe? Are you…meine Schlampe?”

You thought it was incredibly unfair that he was choosing now to subject you to this German lesson with how far your brain was gone, but you did your best for him despite the grinding of his knee sending flutters through your core. “Ja, Herr Doktor. I’m a Schlampe…” You finally managed, whimpering between words. “I’m your Schlampe and I…I need your Schwanz…bitte!”

“Ahhhh, gute Schlampe!” He praised, hooking an arm under your knee to lift your leg up and angling himself to press the tip of his cock against your exposed slit. You thrust against him, gaining a few inches inside of you and moaning in pleasure and pain as the size of him stretched you.

“Ah fick, you’re tight!” He groaned as he pressed his hips forward, forcing himself as deep as he could go and waiting a moment for you to adjust. A moment. That was all he gave you before he started slamming into you hard and fast.

You were crying out hoarsely, tears welling up in your eyes as he split you on his cock. “Yes! Bitte!”

He didn’t need your encouragement, but you gave it anyway. He lifted your leg up higher so he could go deeper, his tip pressing against your cervix. It hurt in the most delicious way and all you could do was cling to him, covering his face and neck with kisses. His grunts and moans mixed with yours to create a carnal symphony that matched the beat of your bodies colliding. You grasped his neck with your mouth, sucking and biting a hickey just above the collar of his shirt. He responded in kind, his mouth trapping the muscle connecting your shoulder to your neck and clamping his teeth down.

Your pleasure built up quickly, driven by his relentlessness. You screamed into his skin, hearing his sharp intake of breath as your teeth clenched his skin as hard as your cunt clenched his cock. Your orgasm was explosive, sending fireworks coursing through your blood. His hips shuddered, slamming into you a few more times until he buried into you as deep as he could, his cum spurting inside of you and dripping out, down his balls, as you were overfilled past capacity. He removed his teeth from your skin and you did the same, kissing the hickey you left until he used his forehead to push your head up, claiming your lips. Both of you fought to catch your breath, sharing the limited air between your mouths.

“You’re mein,” he whispered, an almost needy, pleading, hoarseness choking him. “You said…you are mein. Do not forget.”

“Yours,” you promised, sealing it with a kiss. “Forever.”

“Mein,” he repeated firmly, nipping at your bottom lip and kissing it tenderly.

You nodded, holding him close to you.

You stayed like that until your leg cramped and he slipped out of you, limp. He fished gauze out of his medical pouch to clean the both of you up before you got dressed. You thought it was sweet how he would grab you every few minutes, pressing his lips to yours for a quick kiss and letting go with a sigh before you realize he always preceded it with a look of disbelief–he was making sure you were real and not just some hallucination or a memory from another version of him. Your heart squeezed with pain and the next time he did it, you didn’t let him pull away.

“I’m real. This is real. This happened and will happen again. I’m yours,” you whispered.

He tried to laugh it off. “Of course. I know that! Silly…”

The way his hand trembled told you otherwise, but you let him fake it. Whatever helped him cope with the demons in his brain…

~

After the two of you found the Golden Rod you headed back to the other three men. They were barricaded in the teleporter and opened it when they saw you coming through the observation window. As Richtofen inputted settings into the control panel, the power went out. Bodies shifted around and you searched for your German doctor. Your hand brushed something–someone–with wet on their shirt and recoiled, unsure if you’d bumped Nikolai or Takeo and not wanting to touch either of them. A hand found your ass and squeezed, running over your hips to your breast to grasp it. You reached up and checked that there was a German military cap on top of the head of the hand’s owner, leaning back against his side with a quiet happy hum.

Dempsey’s voice sounded over the rustling of clothing and breathing in the dark. "Kinda sick of me to ask this, but Richtofen… is that a rod in your pocket?"

"Nein!” Richtofen replied cheerily. “Let's go! I got what I needed." He hit a button and the teleporter filled with blinding blue light.

[howi99]

Lost Ones Memories chapter 1

"Even in death, their stories shall never fade.

For i am the anchor of their grief.

My body, their vessels.

My wrath, their judgement.

I am the remnant of what was, the savior who couldn't save anyone.

And thus, my mission is to remember.

To save the Lost One's Memories..."

_ _ _

Jeanne: *poking Nora's cheeks* Nooooraaaa~

Nora: *loudly snoring*

Jeanne: *frown* She's a real heavy sleeper...

Ren: That's because you don't use the right method.

Jeanne: *confused* The right- *sees Ren dumping a bucket of water on her head* - WOAH!

Nora: *waking up in a panic* R-REN, THE TENT IS LEAK- *sees the face of her best friend, smirking, with an empty bucket of water in his hands* O-oh, the alarm didn't wake me up, huh?

Ren: Jeanne's been trying to wake you up for the past 10 minutes. Lia's already at the cafeteria.

Nora: *looking at her leader* Why didn't you use the bucket?

Jeanne: *blink* I... I thought Lia was joking when she said to use that if the word "breakfast" didn't wake you up.

Pyrrha: *coming out of the washroom in uniform, almost slipping on the water* Uh... Why is there water everywhere?

Ren: *shrug* Emergency wake up bucket.

Nora: *getting out of bed, going straight for the shower* I won't be too long.

Jeanne: *throwing her a towel and her clothes* We'll grab you some pancakes, want anything else?

Nora: Eggs and bacon. Oh and don't forget to put maximum syrup on the pancakes! *Close the door*

Jeanne: *muffled* Aight, don't be late.

Pyrrha: *muffled* And don't forget to put your bed sheets in the dryer!

Nora: *undressing from her PJ, laughing* Don't worry moms! I'll do that the second i get out!

Pyrrha: *chuckle* Alright then!

J_PR: *leave their dorm*

Nora: *starting the shower* Gotta be quick for more food~ *goes to take her toothbrush but sees something on the back of her hand * Hm?

_ _ _

20 minutes later

Lia Ren: *eating with gusto*

Pyrrha: Weird, Nora is taking longer today.

Lie Ren: *shrug* She's probably singing in the shower.

Lia Ren: *gulping down the food* Ah~ *looking at Pyrrha* Or she's working on a prank on Ren for waking her up like that. *Grin, looking at her leader* So, surprised by the alarm?

Jeanne: *chuckle* Nah, I saw how my aunt used to wake Jaune up. *Looking at Ren* Speaking of, where's your team?

Ren: *smirk* Can't I want to be with my sisters once in a while?

Lia: *Poking him in the ribs* Hey now, that's not what you told me this morning~

Jeanne: ?

Ren: *sigh* Weiss and Ruby were having a... Discussion this morning.

Jeanne: *wince* And my brother?

Ren: Training with Professor Le Fey. Something about circuits and leyline?

Jeanne: *sweating* Oh uh that must be related to his semblance.

Ren: *perplexed* Is that so? Is it like you weird semblance too or-

Nora: *entering the cafeteria, going to sit next to Jeanne* Yo!

Jeanne: *smiling* Nora!

Nora: *looking at her leader* Say, Jeanne, did you draw on my hand when i was asleep?

Jeanne: *perplexed* Why would i?

Nora: *sigh* With that reaction, i guess not *show her right hand* I've got a weird symbol on my hand and i was wondering if one of you drew it, but i already know my siblings can't draw at all.

Lia: True that!

Ren: ... *Mumbling* I've been improving...

Jeanne: *looking at the Symbol without moving an inch*

Pyrrha: ... Jeanne?

Jeanne: *screaming internally*

Ren: Should... Should i go grab her brother?

Lia: Meh, she's a nervous wreck. Give her a minute or two.

[enderwasright]

An artificial heart, part 1

You didn’t know what drew you to the pawn shop that day. It wasn’t in the best part of town, and you’d only stumbled across it by taking a stroll to de-stress after work, hidden between two grimy buildings. The barely working neon sign above the door read an unimportant name of the shop and from the outside, it didn’t look like much. But something about it made you stop, curiosity pulling you inside.

The smell of dust and old machinery hit you the moment you stepped through the door. Shelves lined with broken electronics, outdated gadgets, and bits of tech nobody would want crowded the small space. You navigated between the cramped aisles, glancing over the miscellaneous items, but nothing really caught your attention.

Until you saw him.

He was sitting in a corner, half-buried beneath a pile of scrap metal. His body was slumped awkwardly, one arm completely missing, the other bent at a strange angle. Fragments of his silicone face scratched and dented by oil and dirt, but what you could see looked like it had been through hell and back. There were deep scratches across his skin and his once pristine black hair was matted and disheveled.

An android. Even in this shape he could be sold for a small fortune.

Androids were in almost every industry and most houses but having one that advanced would be like screaming that one won an untaxed  lottery. 

You crouched down, gently moving some of the scrap aside to get a better look. Whoever he was, he’d been abandoned in a terrible state. His clothes were torn, covered in grime, and it looked like he’d been run over—or worse. There were deep dents in his chest and legs, and his remaining arm sparked faintly at the joint where it was barely hanging on.

He looked like he had been through something horrible, discarded like a piece of broken junk.

But he was still salvageable. In the end, You didn’t graduate college with the highest grades just to be unable to fix this poor guy. 

The shop’s owner, a burly man with a grease-stained apron, ambled over. “You’re looking at that old thing?” he asked, sounding surprised. “Found him at a junkyard a while back. Don’t think he’s worth much anymore.”

You glanced up at him, determination already settling in. “How much?”

The owner raised an eyebrow. “You sure? He’s pretty busted up. Missing parts, barely operational. Probably needs a complete overhaul.”

“I’m sure,” you replied, standing up. “I’ll take him.”

After a bit of haggling, you paid a surprisingly small amount for the android, loaded him into the back of a taxicab, and headed home. The entire time, you couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to him. Androids were built to last, but whatever he had been through had left him in such a battered state, it was a wonder he hadn’t been scrapped completely.

But you were good at fixing things. And this android… he deserved a second chance.

*************

Back at your apartment, you laid him out on your workbench and got to work. It took hours just to clean the grime and rust off his outer shell, but you were meticulous. You replaced missing screws, mended the broken circuits, and restored the connection between his core system and what was left of his limbs.

His internal wiring was delicate but familiar. You had worked on androids before, though none quite in this state. As you delved deeper into his repairs, you truly realized how advanced he was. His processors and memory units were far beyond anything a civilian model would have. Whoever had built him, they hadn’t spared any expense.

You spent the next few days working tirelessly, ordering replacement parts online and installing new components where needed. It wasn’t easy—his internal structure had been heavily damaged, and there were a few points where only your sheer determination and stubbornness made you believe you could fix him. But you pushed through, determined to give him a fighting chance.

Finally, after days of work, he was ready. Maybe his skin in a few places had lighter shade and most damaged parts didn't scream the newest model but here he was.

You took a deep breath and hit the activation switch.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, his eyes flickered to life—first his right eye, then his cracked left one. His body twitched as his systems rebooted, and slowly, he began to sit up. You could see the confusion in his eyes as he scanned his surroundings, and for a brief second, he looked almost… scared.

“Hey,” you said gently, stepping forward. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

His head turned sharply toward you, his gaze narrowing as he processed your words. There was a pause, his systems whirring softly as he recalibrated. Then, finally, he spoke, his voice low and cautious.

“Where… am I?”

“You’re in my workshop,” you explained, keeping your voice calm. “I found you in a pawn shop. You were in pretty bad shape, but I fixed you up as best as I could.”

He blinked, glancing down at his body, his hand slowly moving to touch the now-repaired joints and limbs. “You repaired me?”

You nodded. “Yeah. You were in terrible condition. What happened to you?”

For a long moment, he didn’t answer. His expression darkened, and you could see the tension in his frame. He looked as though he was remembering something painful, something he didn’t want to relive.

“I was a surgeon,” he finally said, his voice flat. “A medical android. I worked for someone… dangerous.”

You raised an eyebrow, sensing there was more to the story. “Who?”

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, and there was a coldness there that made your chest tighten. “Doflamingo.”

You sucked in a breath. You’d heard of Doflamingo—a notorious crime lord with a reputation for illegal activities. If this android had worked for him… you couldn’t even imagine what he’d been through. And what you will be through is this man gets to know that you have his android. This one looked like a future problem. 

“He used me to perform all those surgeries,” the android continued, his voice now laced with bitterness. “Organ trafficking, black-market procedures. Things no one should have to do. I didn’t have a choice. He controlled me—every aspect of my programming.”

You sat down across from him, listening intently. “How did you escape?”

He hesitated, as if weighing how much to tell you. “There was… someone. A man named Rosinante. He helped me. Risked his life to get me out. But I barely made it. Doflamingo’s men found out. I was damaged in the escape, and I’ve been running ever since and then....” Android stopped. This was too much for him to continue. 

You exhaled slowly, trying to process everything. This wasn’t just any android. He had been through hell, trapped in a nightmare of forced servitude and pain.

“I’m sorry,” you said softly. “That sounds horrific.”

He didn’t respond right away, his gaze distant. After a moment, he turned back to you, his expression cautious. “Why did you save me? You could have left me or sell my parts.”

You smiled gently. “Because everyone is worth saving. You’ve been through enough. You deserve a chance to live freely.”

The android stared at you for a long moment, as if trying to understand why you’d show him kindness when so many others had cast him aside. Finally, he nodded, the faintest hint of gratitude in his eyes.

“So, what now?” Law asked, his voice quieter than before. “You know this much about me so what do you want me to do?”

“Well,” you said, leaning back in your chair, “you’re welcome to stay here, of course. But I don't want anything in exchange. I wouldn’t mind if you helped around the house, I'm kinda a busy person, you see. Besides this you are free to do whatever you desire and leave if you want.” Law looked at you like you were a crazy person. Nothing in exchange for saving me? As if. But this was his only hope to survive. And for now it was enough.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “I’ll stay. For now.”

You smiled warmly. “Good. We’ll figure it out as we go.”

“I’m a surgeon model, Trafalgar D. Water Law.” he said quietly. “But I prefer Law.That’s the name Rosinante gave me.”

“Nice to meet you, Law,” you replied, offering a warm smile. “I’m Reader.”

*****

Later that night as the evening wore on, you sat with Law in the living room, the two of you discussing what came next. His systems had fully rebooted, and his movements were smoother now that you’d repaired his core components. But there was still a sadness in him, an anger and a wariness that lingered in his expression. Maybie, just maybe he could be safe for a little while. It was still too surreal, after all the hardship and losses to meet someone so good. Not only was he saved but he get his own room (what android gets his room? They were machines, tools for humans to use as they please!), and his own charger station. Not exactly feeting his model but good enough.

But for now he could rest. Poor thing didn’t know back then that staying for “a little while” was in Your dictionary the same as becoming part of your family. And there was no way back from that.

Hello and welcome! Friends, Foes and those under consideration, I'm proud to present you my first FanFiction in Android universum. And yes, yes, i'm late for the party but Detroit: Become Human is just too good to pass this idea. Hope you like it and had nice time reading this.

[fatehbaz]

[W]hat counted as knowledge? [...] [In] British plantation societies from the Chesapeake to the Caribbean [...] [there was a] “process by which authorship is attributed to matters of fact.” [...] Although colonial naturalists drew upon European models and ideas, the plantation societies of the Atlantic were far removed from the [...] [social] world of London gentlemen. [...] [W]hile metropolitan propaganda would seem to preclude the possibility of free and enslaved blacks, Native Americans, women, and even white colonial men as reliable testifiers, in practice European science depended upon such informants. Enslaved and free blacks and Amerindians were seen as both uniquely knowledgeable about the natural world and potentially dangerous as a result of this knowledge. Colonials [white people living in the colony, not living in London/Britain] therefore served as buffer zones ‘‘between the metropolitan place of knowledge ratification and the volatile site of exotic secrets.’’ [...] While colonials acknowledged the authority of their black and indigenous informants as experts about American nature, they represented such expertise as merely the raw materials out of which they fashioned new natural knowledge. [...] Colonial naturalists suggested that it required their verification and experimentation to transform the local expertise of their informants into stable, universal knowledge suitable for European audiences. By translating local knowledge into a universal register, colonials laid claim to the status of authors of new knowledge about American nature. [...]

---

The Maryland physician Richard Brooke was no stranger to the transatlantic circuits of natural history. In 1762, the physician sent the Society of Arts a sample of a tea made from the ‘‘red-root’’ shrub that, he promised, could take the place of Chinese tea while providing additional health benefits. This letter was part of a series of missives that Brooke contributed to metropolitan societies and publications describing New World nature, letters that built his transatlantic reputation as a curious gentleman. [...] Brooke claimed that the tea provided ‘‘wonderful Relief in obstinate Coughs,’’ ‘‘raise[d] the Spirits in vapourish People, and occasion[ed] better rest.’’ The physician reported that he learned of this tea from an unnamed Native American 20 years earlier, but he characterized himself as ‘‘the first and only Person who ever prepared this tea.’’ Personhood, in this case, seemed only to have applied to Europeans or Euro-Americans. By disregarding the personhood of the Native American who first shared the remedy with him, Brooke simultaneously highlighted the indigenous source of his knowledge claim and proclaimed himself as author of it.  Asserting the right to name the tea as the ‘‘first’’ person to discover it, Brooke ‘‘has taken the Liberty to call it Mattapany, which is the Indian name of the Place where he was born.’’

He added that if his tea should prove popular with ‘‘the ladies in England,’’ it would give him ‘‘great Pleasure to think that Mattapany will frequently be pronounced by the prettiest lips in the Universe.’’ The term ‘‘Mattapany’’ primarily highlighted Brooke’s personal history, rather than memorializing the Native American who revealed the virtues of the root. [...]

Brooke’s letter regarding Mattapany tea is useful for thinking about authority, authorship, and vernacular knowledge in British plantation societies. Brooke did not deny the indigenous source of the natural knowledge that he reported to the Society of Arts; to the contrary, he highlighted its origins. But while the physician recognized the authority of his unnamed indigenous informant to understand the natural properties of the red-root, he did not represent the Native American as the individual who should be credited for the introduction of this new knowledge claim. Instead, Brooke placed himself in the role of author. He did so by verifying its efficacy, reporting it to the London society, and providing samples of the shrub so that the society’s members could test the tea for themselves. Brooke thereby transformed local American knowledge into a form that his European audience would have seen as acceptable, stable, and even universal. [...]

---

[T]he authority of Amerindians and blacks regarding New World nature was critical to the success of British plantation societies. Colonists relied on the expertise of Amerindians and free and enslaved blacks to tend fields, heal the sick, serve as pathfinders and guides, navigate local waterways, prepare food, and perform a host of other duties that relied on detailed local knowledge about the natural world. Knowledge of the medicinal and culinary properties of local plants, in particular, was a practical necessity. Enslaved Africans adapted their rich heritage of herbalism and healing [...]. The success of plantations relied on the appropriation of both the labor and the specialized agricultural knowledge of enslaved Africans [...]. From the rice field to the sick room, the authority of Amerindians and free and enslaved blacks to speak locally as experts about American nature was reaffirmed daily. [...]

Yet it was quite another thing to be represented as the author of new scientific knowledge before a European audience. [...] Rather than being antiauthors who left almost no trace in published accounts, black and indigenous informants’ presence in colonials’ publications and correspondence lent epistemological authority to their texts. As Parrish has argued, some claims even required indigenous or African origins in order for them to be credible. That colonial naturalists relied on a person of Amerindian or African descent is made clear in their various texts, yet the identity of the particular informant was rarely provided. [...] Historians of science have noted the importance of identity for establishing the credibility of claims in early modern natural philosophy. The Royal Society, for example, included the names of the gentlemen who witnessed an experiment, trusting that the credibility of the individual gentlemen would translate into credibility for the experiment [...]. Slaves and Indians did not, therefore, appear in naturalists’ texts as fellow claimants or as independent authors of new knowledge. Rather, they appeared as necessary components of white naturalists’ credibility - in essence, instruments of their knowledge creation. [...]

Colonials positioned themselves as not merely the brokers or go-betweens of American natural knowledge, but as alchemists of sorts, turning the base materials of local knowledge into something more precious.

---

All text above by: Kathleen S. Murphy. “Translating the vernacular: Indigenous and African knowledge in the eighteenth-century British Atlantic.” Atlantic Studies Volume 8, Issue 1, pages 29-48. March 2011. DOI at: doi dot org/10.1080/14788810.2011.541188 [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me. Presented here for commentary, teaching, criticism purposes.]

[yayasvalveplay]

Here i am!

Sorry, i did the translation extremely fast and I don't know how it turned out.

Believe me, in my native language it looks A LOT better but I did my best here, ok?

So...

Here our boys go!

***

Perceptor was disappointed when he onlined and saw this small stuffy room again and felt the rough surface of the wall against which his back was leaning. His wrists, clenched by stasis handcuffs, were uncomfortably rubbed into the same wall, pinned down by his weight.

He ended up here because he was caught trying to escape. No matter how long ago.

It wasn't a miscalculation, it was a simple setback. Perceptor has never been known to be the darling of Fortune.

The room felt like an Earth tin can. There was lack of space and a lot of bots who were, just like himself, chained and immobilized. They were left here like a luggage.

Microscope examined his comrades in misfortune, sadly realizing that there had been more of them since the last time he counted them.

Perceptor turned his visors off again, trying to forget where he was.

This place wasn't bringing up the best memories. It was somewhat reminiscent of the moment when the Decepticons celebrated their victory. It was a terrible sight. Long lines of kneeling Autobots praying that none of the Decepticons, circling around them like hungry space sharks, will choose them.

Unlike many, he was lucky then.

He had probably never been so glad that he doesn't attract anyone. Perceptor was already a silent witness to the horror, which, although it had passed long enough, but its echoes still haunted microscope in nightmares.

Just when the scientist was ready to go into recharging, his audio receptors picked up a sound muffled by the massive walls and the thick steel door.

Footsteps.

He listened, noticing with alarm that the whoever was walking down the corridor had stopped right outside the cell door.

Perceptor onlined his visors just as the door swung open.

The Decepticon standing in the aisle, apparently a guard, nodded inside the room with a satisfied grin.

- that's all who's left, newbie. Choose!

Perceptor remained relatively calm. He knew that he was unlikely to attract anyone.

But all his calmness evaporated at the moment when servo of painfully familiar colors lay on the doorway.

Oh no...

no, no, no, no, no

Not him!

Anyone but him!

In less than a second, the yellow-blue jet was in the room. It only took him half a click to fix his predatory visors unmistakably on the microscope.

-Percy! - His voice sounded enthusiastic, excited even. Brainstorm spread his arms theatrically, as if presenting himself to the audience.

The scientist felt a chill. He could feel how, despite the stasis handcuffs, everything inside him shrank. Drops of condensation appeared on his back from the energon that had turned sharply cold in the circuits.

The microscope's visors narrowed, there were no thoughts left in the processor, it suddenly became extremely light due to the panic that occupied it.

Meanwhile jet was approaching.

-Did you miss me?

Brainstorm has always loved to gesture. And now he was pressing palms to his chest, leaning closer to an old acquaintance, almost kissing him with his mask.

-well, i sure did)

Jet narrowed his yellow optics, clearly smiling.

Perceptor was silent and stared intently at his former lab partner. He must not show him his fear. The scientist looked stern and serious, but judging by Storm's extremely pleased eyes, it didn't do much to hide his true emotions. Jet has never been someone who could be easily fooled.

Suddenly, his look has changed. Surprise flashed in his optics.

Brainstorm dropped to one knee in front of him and reached out to Perceptor's face, cupping chin with his cold fingers.

He lifted up microscope's face and began to turn it to the sides, carefully examining it. Then jet drew attention to the scientist's frame .

- have you changed your altmod? - There was a disappointed sadness in his voice. Storm noticed the tire fasteners. They were installed shortly before the victory of the Decepticons. Perceptor continued to remain silence even when the bot's manipulator slid from his face to his neck, fingers left a quick cold touch on his chest, moving to his waist. Brainstorm easily picked him up and held him close.

The scientist, who looked more like a limp rag doll, was now nuzzling Brainstorm's shoulder. Less than a couple of clicks later, he felt a pat on his head.

-Don't you worry, Percy -Brainstorm said, turning to leave. -I'll fix it right away!- a short click in which Storm left the room with the autobot in his arms was enough for Perceptor to take one last look at those with whom he had worked for a long time and shared this small camera. Someone looked sympathetic, someone was recharging, someone was ignoring what was happening.

Autobots are used to the fact that sometimes a Decepticon comes and takes one of them with him.

That was the order of things.

They were just happy that this time they were not one who is taken away.

Perceptor wasn't the first bot to be taken out of this room forever.

Mechanism creaked.

The door shuted tightly again, as if swallowing the few pairs of blue optics that were silently saying goodbye to him.

For a long time, the scientist stared at the metal barrier slowly receding from his field of vision as he was carried along a dark corridor towards the unknown, which he had managed to avoid until that moment.

-well, Percy - Brainstorm cooed over his autobot's audio receptor, gently pressing Perceptor's head against his neck. - now you and I will never get bored.)

The microscope thought with tears in his eyes that he would rather prefer boredom.

-➕

twirls finger through hair

This was absolutely amazing, thank you!!!

[emma23]

Wait, I don’t get it, please explain:

Cecil Denis x reader

————————————————————————

Y/N had spent the entire day in bed, as usual, cocooned in her blankets, scrolling aimlessly on her phone. Every once in a while, she sighed deeply, feeling that strange mixture of fatigue and restlessness. Her mind wandered, and once again, it landed on him—Cecil Denis, the one guy she couldn't get out of her head. She couldn't quite explain what drew her to him. Was it his eccentric behavior? His mysterious smile? Or maybe the fact that he had once complimented her singular dimple, something even she had barely noticed.

Y/N groaned, rolling onto her stomach, staring at the ceiling, replaying every interaction she’d ever had with Cecil, analyzing every word he'd said to her. Was that smile he gave me flirtatious? Or was he just trying to manipulate me like he does with everyone else? She squinted, trying to remember the exact phrasing of something he said last week, but of course, her memory failed her—again.

"Ugh, I think he likes me?" she muttered to herself, though she immediately doubted it.

A knock at the door snapped her out of her thoughts, followed by a familiar voice that sent her heart racing.

"Y/N, you in there?" Cecil’s voice, smooth and teasing, echoed from the other side of her bedroom door.

She panicked. "Hein?! Uh—what? Yeah!" Y/N flailed for a second, scrambling to get out of bed, realizing too late that she was still in her pajamas. She glanced at herself in the mirror, hating how her nose looked in profile, and gave up trying to look presentable.

The door creaked open before she could protest, and there he was—Cecil, leaning against the doorframe, his usual smug grin plastered on his face.

"You look... cozy," he remarked, eyes scanning the room cluttered with blankets and pillows. "Been in bed all day?"

"Uh... yeah. Sort of. I mean, it's been a long day. I'm just tired, you know?" Y/N mumbled, awkwardly smoothing down her hair. "What’s up?"

Cecil walked into the room, casually closing the door behind him. "Oh, nothing. Just wanted to see if you were still alive. Thought maybe you'd gotten lost in all this." He gestured to the chaos of her bed with a laugh.

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at her lips. "I’m not that bad. Sometimes I get out of bed."

"Sometimes," Cecil repeated, raising an eyebrow. He sat down on the edge of her bed, his presence filling the room with a strange energy. "What were you doing? Thinking about me?"

Y/N's brain short-circuited. She blinked a few times, unsure if she’d heard him right. "Wait, what? I—uh... I don’t get it. Explain?"

Cecil chuckled, amused by her reaction. "You’re always in your head, Y/N. Thinking too much, panicking over nothing. It’s adorable, really." He leaned in slightly, his face inches from hers, his tone playful but with a hint of something deeper. "So, what’s going on in that overactive mind of yours? Am I taking up space in there?"

Y/N could feel her face heating up. "I mean... maybe? I don’t know. You’re confusing," she admitted, biting her lip nervously. "You’re always... around. And then you say things like that, and I never know if you’re serious or if you’re just messing with me."

Cecil’s eyes softened, his smirk fading slightly. "Who says I can’t be both?"

Y/N blinked again. "Wait, what?"

He sighed, shaking his head fondly. "Y/N, you’re overthinking it. What if, for once, you just let things happen without trying to figure it all out?" His hand reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "I like you, okay? I’ve liked you for a while. But you keep making it so damn hard to tell you."

Y/N stared at him, processing his words slowly. "So... you’re saying you actually... like me? Like, for real?"

Cecil laughed again, but there was a warmth in his gaze now. "Yes, for real. And I think you like me too, but you’re too busy questioning everything to just admit it."

Y/N opened her mouth to protest, but stopped herself. He was right—she did overthink everything. And yes, maybe she did like him. A lot. But admitting it felt terrifying, like stepping into the unknown.

She sighed, finally letting herself relax a bit. "Okay... maybe I do. But I still don’t understand why you like me."

Cecil leaned in closer, his lips brushing against her ear. "I like you because you’re different. You’re real. You don’t play games like everyone else. And... I kind of love that you say ‘hein’ all the time," he whispered, his breath sending shivers down her spine.

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh, feeling the tension between them shift into something lighter. "You’re weird, you know that?"

"Takes one to know one," he quipped, his fingers gently tilting her chin up, his gaze locking onto hers.

There was a long pause, the air between them thick with anticipation, before Cecil closed the gap, pressing his lips against hers. Y/N melted into the kiss, her hands finding their way to his shoulders, pulling him closer. For once, she wasn’t overthinking—she was just feeling, letting herself get lost in the moment.

The kiss deepened, and before she knew it, they were tangled together on the bed, the blankets wrapping around them like a cocoon. Cecil’s hands roamed over her body, exploring every inch, and Y/N found herself matching his intensity, her usual hesitations melting away.

Time seemed to blur as their passion took over, but there was no rush, no urgency. Just the two of them, figuring out their limits, pushing past them, discovering what felt right. Every touch, every kiss felt electric, pulling them deeper into each other.

After what felt like hours, they finally lay side by side, catching their breath. Y/N turned to him, her mind still reeling from everything that had just happened.

"So... wait. I still don’t get it. Are we... like, together now?" she asked, her voice filled with genuine confusion.

Cecil blinked, then burst out laughing, his whole body shaking with amusement. "You’re unbelievable, Y/N," he said, pulling her into his arms. "Yes, we’re together. God, you’re cute when you’re confused."

Y/N pouted, but couldn’t help the smile that crept onto her face. "You’re gonna have to explain this to me again tomorrow."

Cecil chuckled, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I will. But for now, can we just enjoy the moment?"

Y/N nodded, snuggling closer to him, finally allowing herself to relax. For once, she wasn’t panicking. For once, she wasn’t overthinking.

"Hey, Cecil?" she asked after a moment of comfortable silence.

"Yeah?"

"Do you really like my one dimple?"

Cecil grinned. "It’s my favorite thing about you”

[keztis]

𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚢𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 :: on an average day, what can be found in cal's pockets?

              𝙰  𝚆𝚁𝚈  𝚂𝙼𝙸𝙻𝙴  𝚃𝚄𝙶𝙶𝙴𝙳  𝙰𝚃  𝚃𝙷𝙴  𝙲𝙾𝚁𝙽𝙴𝚁  𝙾𝙵  𝙺𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙸𝚂’𝚂  𝙼𝙾𝚄𝚃𝙷 as he began searching through his pockets. ❝i try to travel light, but there are a few essentials i always keep on me.❞

first, he pulled out a few credits, glanced at them briefly, then discarded them onto the table.  too obvious, not worth the explanation.  next, he presented a small handheld repair torch, its casing scuffed and worn from years of use.

       ❝this,❞ cal said, holding it up, ❝has been with me since my scrapping days on bracca.  old, sure, but it’s never let me down.  you never know when something’s going to break, need patching up, or just require a little fine-tuning.❞  he gave the torch a quick spin before setting it down.  ❝there’s a compartment in the grip for connectors and spare components.  doesn’t take up much space.❞

he reached into his pockets again, this time producing a few pieces of scrap metal, holding them up between his fingers.  ❝oh—right, these.❞   BD-1 perked up beside him, his audio receptors flicking toward the pile.   ❝BD has this habit of sneaking junk into my pockets when i’m not looking,❞ he explained with rather fond exasperation.  ❝says they ‘might be useful.’  and, yeah, okay—sometimes he’s right.  but most of the time, i sound like i’m smuggling half a droid in my jacket.❞

       BD-1 honked indignantly, jumping around to face cal as though prepared to argue the point.  snorting back a laugh, the young jedi knight dug into his jacket pocket, pulling out a communicator.  ❝and, of course, this.  greez is constantly on my case about answering it more.  i keep telling him it’s hard to pick up when i’m in the middle of fighting for my life.❞  he dropped it onto the table with a casual shrug.   ❝it’s an ongoing debate.❞

𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚢𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 :: what seemingly insignificant memories have stuck with you?

              ❝𝙸𝙽𝚂𝙸𝙶𝙽𝙸𝙵𝙸𝙲𝙰𝙽𝚃?❞  𝙺𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙸𝚂  𝚁𝙴𝙿𝙴𝙰𝚃𝙴𝙳 , his brows furrowing in slight confusion.  the phrasing didn’t sit quite right; it struck him as wrong, like a circuit forced into the incorrect port.  if a memory wasn’t significant, why would it linger?  his thoughts drifted, unmoored, until an old face surfaced.

❝prauf,❞ he murmured, a rare softness invading his gaze, ❝my old friend.  he. . . had this terrible sense of humor.  one of the worst jokes he ever told me—something about a sullustan, a wookiee, and an imperial officer walking into a cantina.  i can’t even remember the punchline, but i remember how he laughed.  he couldn’t get through the joke without cracking up halfway through.  that’s what stuck with me.  just him—alive, laughing over nothing.❞

verdant green eyes grew remote as the memory drew him into a time when life had been simpler, even if no less painful.  it wasn’t just prauf’s laughter he remembered, but the sound of it cutting through the monotony, the endless despair.  but nostalgia, cal had learned, was a double-edged blade, and he quickly shouldered it aside.

        ❝sorry.❞ cal brought up a hand to cup the back of his neck, grounding himself in the action.   ❝didn’t mean to make it heavy.❞

𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚢𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 :: are there any types of weather that you’re afraid of/dislike?

              ❝𝙸  𝙳𝙾𝙽’𝚃  𝙺𝙽𝙾𝚆  𝙸𝙵  ‘𝙰𝙵𝚁𝙰𝙸𝙳’  𝙸𝚂  𝚃𝙷𝙴  𝚁𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃  𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙳,❞ kestis began slowly, ❝but. . . i don’t like fog. it messes with your senses—makes you question what you see, what you hear. makes you doubt what’s real.❞

the memory of dathomir crept back, unbidden and vivid.  he could still picture the endless shroud of mist, so thick it clung to his body like a living thing.  he’d wandered through it with BD-1 perched on his shoulder, his senses stretched to the limit, driven outward by unchecked unease.  indistinct shapes—phantom silhouettes—seemed to move in the distance, always flickering just out of reach.  BD-1 hadn’t sounded an alarm, but that small comfort had done little to settle the erratic drumbeat of his heart in his chest.

❝i’ve seen strange things in foggy places.❞ denial encompassed the memory, enkindled by a bizarre sense of finality.  ❝shadows, tricks of the light.  but some. . .❞ he trailed off, testing the thought.  ❝weren’t tricks.  some were ghosts.  things i’d rather not talk about.❞

𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚢𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 :: how loosely or strictly does cal use the word ‘friend’?

              ❝𝙳𝙴𝙿𝙴𝙽𝙳𝚂  𝙾𝙽  𝚃𝙷𝙴  𝚂𝙸𝚃𝚄𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽.  𝙰𝙽𝙳  𝚃𝙷𝙴  𝙿𝙴𝚁𝚂𝙾𝙽.❞ it wasn’t the most satisfying answer, but it was certainly closest to the truth.

❝i use ‘friend’ pretty loosely,❞ the young knight admitted after a moment.  ❝sometimes, it’s just a word.  a way to smooth things over.  if i cross paths with a sleemo who doesn’t immediately shoot first, or if a local decides to give me directions instead of trouble, calling them a ‘friend’ gets the job done.  keeps things simple.❞ he leaned back slightly, arms crossed, fingers drumming a quiet rhythm against his sleeve as he mulled for longer.

❝but the meaning of that word—it’s changed a lot since i was a youngling.❞  cal carded a hand through thick, unruly locks, faltering midway between regret and sudden annoyance.  ❝it’s. . . complicated.❞