#whose thread am i missing?

[lighting-and-shadow]

Ikigai, Part 8

Summary: You’re desperately in love with a man who already belongs to another.

Ikigai (n.) (Japanese): "A reason for being," the thing that gets you up in the morning.

Part 7, Part 9

The walk to Sylus’ room is reminiscent of one to the gallows. You’ve seen those walks in people’s souls, how each step makes their throat tighten more and how they seem to mentally wait for each heartbeat to come. Like every step or every breath or ever beat is going to be their last.

That’s the only way you can think of to describe how you feel right now. A place that once meant safety and comfort to you has been tainted. It’s been warped, smeared, and destroyed in a way that a you from a few weeks ago would’ve never imagined.

Because now, you’re walking there with fear. Fear of Sylus of all people. Your partner in crime. Your confidant. Your closest friend. Your Morana.

You don’t want to think of him this way. Far from it. But Miss Hunter’s words, her shaky tone and fidgety hands, make you this way. The chaos of emotions in her threads make you this way. Everything about how she was when describing her time with Sylus make you this way.

Modification of her Evol.

You know very well what those words mean. You know what it looks like, feels like. You know all of this because it’s woven into her soul.

And her own soulmate tried to do that to her. Tried to split her open. Try to warp her and smear her and destroy what makes her her.

Rage and betrayal and whole other slew of emotions boil up inside of you. Each step makes you wonder when you’ll explode, when you’ll break from all of this.

You try to combat this with each breath. Each deep, hard-fought, breath. You try to embrace a wave of calm, to tamper down the craziness and be who you normally are: in control.

Nothing helps. Nothing works. And before you know it, you’re knocking at that accursed bedroom door.

Since when am I so polite with him?

A weak laugh escapes your lips. You stifle it down the moment the door begins to open.

Sylus is disheveled, an odd sight for someone who can look put together even in the middle of a gun fight. He just stares at you. His eyes refuse to leave yours, as if you’ll vanish if he so much as blinks.

It’s awkward, strained. An uncomfortable atmosphere that hasn’t been between you two in years. You can’t stand it.

“May I come in? I believe we have some things to discuss.”

Sylus says nothing. He looks deeply uncomfortable. It’s subtle, something most wouldn’t notice. But you’ve known him far too long. The slight flicker in his eyes down to the way he walks tells you everything. He’s off. He’s lost.

Not that you’re much different. Your tone earlier was cold, professional, and distant. Entirely lacking the usual playfulness or joy you’d have from simply interacting with Sylus.

You quickly step in his room once he moves aside for you. You don’t spare Sylus a glance. Any further looks would just deter you from your task.

This cannot go on.

Sylus’ treatment of Miss Hunter weighs on you. If you thought it was bad before, it’s far, far, worse now. Experiments? Changing her Evol? Scaring her so much she subconsciously rejects her own soulmate?

It’s arguable the worst start to any love story you’ve ever heard or seen. And you have more experience with that than anyone. You see them in every thread. You hear them in every soul.

All except mine.

You stare at Sylus’ empty bed to distract yourself from that rabbit hole of emotions, one you’re familiar with. You walk towards the bed. But you don’t sit on it. Rather, you just trace mindless patterns into the sheets to calm yourself.

Eventually, you turn to face the man whose room you stand in. Sylus stands with his back on the door. The lock is turned shut. And his arms are crossed, as if he’s shielding himself from you.

Since when were you two like this: weary and afraid of one another? After the argument today? After the one a few days ago? When Miss Hunter arrived? Or was it always there, brewing silently beneath your soft touches and charming smiles?

Whatever the case, you’ve never quite felt such distance from Sylus. You stand in the same room you two have shared for god knows how long, looking right at each other. And yet, you couldn’t be farther apart.

You tap your fingers on the bed like you did the night before Miss Hunter arrived. Tap. Tap. Tap. It’s the only sound that fills your ears until Sylus finally speaks.

“Can I explain now?”

To anyone else, his tone would be calm, demanding, and dripping with that usual hint of arrogance that he has. To you, he practically begs. Screams, even.

He only does that rarely. Like earlier today during your argument after your collapse. Which, given that specific context, made sense. Sylus was out of rhythm. His emotions were chaotic. He does care for you, after all. And you had just screamed your lungs out and passed out in front of him.

Who wouldn’t be shaken by that even a little?

You think over your next words for a moment, pushing that memory of your mind. What is there to explain? You’ve heard everything from Miss Hunter. You know what he tried to do.

Old wounds open up the more you think about it. The pinpricks of needles. Your home becoming a revolving door of doctors when you had no sign of a soulmate by age 10. The increasing prevailing sense of something being wrong with you the longer it went on.

They’re phantom pains, echoes of a past that only emerges when you sleep. They’re ghosts you tell no one about. They’re wounds that only you have ever dressed.

What was done to you was done in good faith. Much like what Sylus did. You could see it in his soul, see it in his thread. And it told you he wanted her to remember. He wanted his sorceress back at any cost.

But you wanted here his words. His interpretations and thoughts from his own mouth.

“Go ahead,” you gesture with your hand.

So Sylus does explain. Just not what you thought he would.

He goes into detail about his deal with Miss Hunter. About the brooch. About her search. About the twins and their pranks. About everything.

You look at him with scrutinizing eyes. You don’t search his soul; you have no need to.

In him, you find the truth and only the truth. You find no deception, no hidden meanings, nothing. It’s probably the most honest he’s been with you since Miss Hunter’s arrival.

“I never even had the brooch on me,” he chuckles a bit before he continues. “I don’t know why she ever thought I did.”

“Then where is it?”

“In your favorite book. On page 70. You know the scene.”

You absolutely do know the scene. It makes you smile even in this moment.

“Seriously? How on Earth do you expect her to know anything about my taste in literature?”

“You two spend so much time together I figured you were “besties” by now,” he says the words a great amount of sarcasm that makes you relax a bit.

It’s not much. But, you lean into the familiarity.

“Besides. Even if she didn’t know the significance of the book, I thought I’d do her a favor and introduce her to something good to read. She claims to be bored during her time here, and I wanted to be a more gracious host.”

You snort at his comment. Sylus tilts his head at you.

“What?”

You want to say, ”A gracious host? After kidnapping her and threatening her and almost turning her into a lab rat for the second time in her current life?” But you shake your head and say nothing.

Sylus seems to brush it off. His eyes soften and he takes a step towards you. When you don’t move away, he comes even closer, standing beside the foot of the bed while you stand in the same position next to the head.

“That’s all there is to what you saw. It wasn’t,” he pauses for a moment, searching for the words. “It wasn’t anything like you thought it was. Just a series of… interesting events.”

You just nod once more, turning your head to the bed again. You go back to tracing patterns in it, trying to rally yourself for the real conversation.

“Gamayun?”

You give him a quiet hum, but you don’t look up at him. You trace words into the bed, words from the scene of the book he placed the brooch in. They comfort you.

“Say something?”

You say nothing.

“What’s got you so quiet? Normally you talk my ear off, even when I’m being a fool.”

You make a hasty drag against the sheets, and the irritating sound that follows shocks both of you.

“Because I’m not here about what you just talked about and you know it.”

Or, at least, he should know it. He should know that him taking Miss Hunter to Philip is why you’re here. He should know why you’re so angry about him doing that. He should know.

He should know because he knows you were the one to find the twins. Two boys in agony, one covered in crystals. Children suffering because of selfish adults. Just like Sylus did. Just like Miss Hunter did. Just like you did.

The logical part of you knows that his goals for what he did weren’t anything like the ones that got the twins in that state. But, the other part of you, the one that made you come here, won’t listen.

That part of you remembers all those doctors. It remembers the padded rooms and the repeated cycles of accusations. It remembers the fear. It remembers the pain. And it remembers when you finally decided to run from all that.

That part of you is loud. It’s loud, it’s obnoxious, and it wants to cry. It wants to shed vicious tears and wretched sobs. But it doesn’t. It can’t. Because it wasn’t listened to in the past.

Why would this time be any different?

Because Sylus isn’t them, you remind yourself.

He’d listen to you. He has to listen to you. Sylus is a flawed man, not a monster. He’s a desperate and flawed man who just wants the love of all his lives back. He’s a desperate and flawed man who made a mistake.

And he has to know that, right?

“Than why are you here right now, my sweet Gamayun? Surely not to repeat the earlier interesting series of events? Or maybe go even further?”

“You’re deflecting,” you say immediately.

His usual jokes don’t make you flustered. Instead, they make you angrier as he avoids what you need yet again.

“That’s not an answer, sweetie.”

Something in you snaps. Maybe it’s the use of an old nickname. Maybe it’s due to another deflection. Maybe it’s both.

Either the case, you finally address the dreadful elephant in the room, “Why did you bring her to Philip?”

You ask because you want him to admit it himself. Hearing him say the words, the man you’ve loved for over a year, rather than Miss Hunter, the soulmate of said man, will makes things clearer.

Maybe it’ll undo the knot in your stomach and the dread that courses through your veins. Maybe his explanation will make the phantom needles go away, and drown out the screams of your precious boys.

Part of you knows that neither will happen. The other, more optimistic and the one that clings to your love, begs for something otherwise.

All that hopes drains away when you see the color leave Sylus’ face. His color seeps away at the same pace as your fleeting hope.

Oh God, what did you do, Sylus?

Miss Hunter didn’t give you any details. You can only speculate. But with this severe of reaction, especially coming from Sylus (who’s done a lot of questionable shit that he knows you’d never judge him for), you’re not sure you can handle the answer.

Miss Hunter avoiding your questions and looking apprehensive to tell you anything is one thing. Sylus doing it is a whole other can of worms. You steel your heart for whatever happens next.

“We weren’t resonating. I thought there was a problem with her. There isn’t, so we left.”

It’s about the same thing she told you. Enough to give you the gist. Enough to explain her fear and her discomfort. But not enough to explain Sylus’. Not nearly enough, given everything he’s seen and been through in both of his lives.

So you push, “Did you two rehearse your excuses, or did you both conveniently give me the same nonsense in hopes I wouldn’t press? Whatever the case, you ought to practice lying to me better.”

Sylus appears unaffected by your words. You, of course, know better. The slight knit of his brows, the way he holds himself and leans a tad more to one side. He’s so obvious to you that it’s painful.

“You really going to lie to me again, Sylus? After what happened last time?”

That full on makes him flinch. Your heart wavers as a result. That was a low blow. You both know that. And yet, you can’t back down. Because all you can see in your mind’s eye is the twins.

Luke trying to claw at his face, to etch in the same scars his brother carries. Kieran forcing himself to grow up even more as a result of that instability. The way they would both duck from mirrors, or even flat out shatter them, during those first few days.

Dozens and dozens of memories like that just sit in your mind. A weight unlike any weight you’ve ever carried. It festers there. It seeps into your veins, into your heart, and into your words.

You can’t escape it.

“What exactly are accusing us of, sweetie? Be specific. You how I hate to beat around the bush, and waste time.”

You do. And that’s exactly why you’re the negotiator of this business and not him.

Soon, she will take that place. Soon, I’ll need a new role in a new place.

“Is there anything in particular I should be accusing you of?” You counter.

“Not in my mind,” he glances you over from head to toe. “But that seems to be the case in your mind.”

A smirk crosses his lips. It’s not one of humor.

He words hit you to the core.

“That’s not an answer,” you shakily manage to get out.

“Well, if my answers aren’t satisfactory, maybe you can give me a direct question? As you say, it’s harder to avoid something if there’s no room to do so.”

That stupid smirk is still there. His eyes are still cold, colder than you’ve ever seen them directed at you.

“Did you or did you not hurt her?” You tone gets firmer the more you speak.

Sylus’ expression changes again. Not to one of humor or playfulness or anger like you expected. No, the Sylus before you was none of those right now.

He was betrayed.

“Who exactly do you think I am?”

“I don’t know!” You finally raise your voice despite all efforts not to. “I don’t know… why do you think I’m here? I need answers, Sylus. I need conformation that I’m missing something and that you didn’t do what I think you did.”

You pause for a moment, choking on your own words and emotions, “I need the truth from you. Please. I need the truth about this at the very least.”

Sylus says nothing for a moment. And you worry that this’ll be a rehash of your first fight. The fight that broke you. The fight that drove you away.

“My relationship to her isn’t your problem.”

Suddenly, you feel sick. But then, Sylus finally says something and you chase that nausea away, kicking it down with your professionalism.

“I want her gone,” he says with an odd amount of levity. “She isn’t worth the trouble she’s causing, so I pushed my plans forward ahead of schedule.”

You don’t entirely know what to say to that.

“Pardon?” You laugh a deranged laugh. “You brought her here. Why ever would you want her gone now after no progress on what ever it is that you need from her?”

“Like I said: she isn’t worth the effort. And I refuse to waste my time on useless things.”

“Useless? You have the gall, the absolute audacity, to call her useless?”

You aren’t yelling, despite how much you want to be. And that want gets stronger the amused Sylus appears.

“Why do you care so much about her, sweetie? She’s my guest, not yours.”

”Because she’s your soulmate. Because she’s the key to your happiness,” is what you want to say.

Instead, what comes out is, “Because I’ve become quite attached to her. And I find your attitude towards her appalling.”

“Of course you would, sweetie,” his voice gets quieter and softer. “Of course you would.”

Sylus gets close to you, putting his fingers beneath your chin and tilting your head upwards. You don’t resist; in fact, you embrace the small touch as much as possible.

“Because you have such a bleeding heart.”

You roll your eyes at him. Normally, Sylus says that to tease you. Like on negotiations where you spare the business partner in question. Or when you talk him down from simply killing his opponent and into seeing their usefulness. Or any of the numerous times you’ve brought in a stray animal and nursed it back to health.

He always says it in a teasing tone, almost mocking. But now, he says it with fondness.

Or love, your delusional and desperate brain says.

As soon as that thought cross your mind, you take a step back. Sylus immediately releases his hold on your chin, disappointment flashing across his face. Or, at least, that’s what you think you see.

“My heart aside,” you say to calm yourself and get your heart to stop racing. “That doesn’t change the fact that your behavior towards her has been reprehensible. Deplorable, even.”

“Why are so obsessed with her, Gamayun? Should I be jealous? She’s been tearing us apart just by being here. Don’t tell me she’s gone even further…”

He says it with jest and usual nonchalant attitude. But something in you tells you there’s more to it.

“Because of my bleeding heart, as you say,” you smile a bit before going back to a more serious expression. “And the fact that you two seem to hold so many secrets that I’m not privy too despite your less than stellar relationship.”

Suddenly, something in Sylus changes. You can’t quite put your finger on it, other than the fact that you strangely feel like prey. Like he’s hunting you or something like that. You’re on your guard. You’re waiting for him to strike.

Sylus lets out a bitter laugh. “You’re not being truthful with me either, sweetie.”

That makes you pause.

“This isn’t about me.”

“Isn’t it?” He takes a step closer to you, the smirk on his lips thinning and his expression shifting to a more softer one.

You don’t know exactly what’s in that smirk. Anger? Bitterness? Hurt?

Hatred? Annoyance? Grief? your thoughts whisper before you can shut them down.

“No, it isn’t.”

“Sure, sweetie,” he’s surprisingly genuine and not sarcastic with his tone. “Sure it isn’t.”

“What in the world are you going on about this time?”

Fear drips into your words. You hope it isn’t noticeable. But judging by Sylus’ face, you didn’t succeed.

I’ve lost my touch.

Being so utterly emotional for the past few days has done this to you. Made cracks in your armor that show more and more with every passing second.

Sylus reaches for you again. And you, again, accept the touch. He cradles you head, hands delicately cupping your face, thumbs rubbing your cheeks in a way he knows soothes you.

Foolish man and his foolish tenderness when you’re supposed to be angry at him.

“Your obsession with her. I’ve never seen you act this way.”

You’ve never seen me try to mend the bond between someone I love and their soulmate before. But, hey, there’s a first time for everything?

“I am not obsessed. I do not do obsessed.”

Sylus frowns. You’re the one doing the deflecting now. You’re the one using humor as a distraction now.

“Than what you call all this?” He keeps stroking your cheeks with a featherlight touch.

“Care? Empathy? Because, as you know, I have a bleeding heart.”

It’s getting harder to keep your tone light. You hope that your voice never wavers. You pray that Sylus doesn’t notice how your skin warms from embarrassment or how fast your heart rate is.

You can’t even look him the eyes. And you struggle with all your might not to squirm.

“Your bleeding heart has never gone this far. Nor made you this mad at me,” the chuckle he lets out at the end of his sentence is bitter, but his eyes are still as sweet as ever.

Every statement Sylus makes feels like he’s ripping you open more and more. Like the claws of the fiend he was has made their way around the individual bones of your ribcage and is slowly but surely prying them open. It’s like he wants to expose your heart to the world.

Your brain is beginning to fog. Your mouth is beginning to dry. And the urge to run from here is getting heavier and heavier. Your feet are glued to the ground, and at the same time, they feel like they want to take flight.

When was the last time I felt this way? When I was still back home? At the jewelry store? Or maybe my old bar job?

“Well, most people I deal with are people of the N109 Zone. They’re far more secretive and, how do you and the twins put it, murderous than little Miss Hunter.”

You speak in hopes of cutting off your own horrible train of thought. It doesn’t work very well.

So you keep talking, “Speaking of Miss Hunter, I’m no closer to having an earthly idea of why she’s here. And whatever plans you have with her seem sloppy for your standards. I’d give them negative reviews. Maybe that’s why you didn’t share them with me?”

Another crack in your armor shows with your final teasing question. A crack that Sylus sees judging by how he takes his hands off your face and a step away from you.

“Than I’ll share my ideas with you to get some feedback for a better showing next time.”

You consider your words. Because this is your chance. Your chance to be in the know. The chance to know the truth. The chance to hear from Sylus’ own lips about why he brought this woman here.

But, you’ll also have to hear about their connection. Their past. And their future as soulmates.

You couldn’t hear that. You can barely think about it and see the proof with your own eyes everyday. Hearing it… well, that’s another story.

If he had offered this before their bond, you would’ve taken it. Jumped for joy, even. But you can’t now.

I can’t hear you say that you two are soulmates. I can’t hear you talk about your destined love and what that means for your future. I can’t.

Because hearing that means I can’t lie to myself any longer.

Hearing Sylus’ conformation means you take away that last layer of protection you have, that last bit of lies you tell yourself. Because you’ve know for years what the threads you see mean. You’ve confirmed it several times since you first saw them at age 7.

But, with Sylus, sometimes you cling to thought of being wrong. Of not seeing what you think you’re seeing. His words are all that it would take for that temporary peace to come crashing down.

Who in their right mind would do that to themselves?

“No. After all, I’m just a lowly actress in this show of ours. I’m no director.”

“Oh, you are no actress, Gamayun. If anything, you’re my director and writer. I’m merely here to finance whatever your heart desires to create. So, let us discuss our visions for Miss Hunter, and draw up a new episode this season.”

“I’d rather you consider this my resignation from that role into a new one. Because acting is starting to sound more appealing.”

Sylus pulls back. His face falls, and lets out a deep sigh that shakes you to your core.

“Than what do you want from me, Gamayun?” He pulls you close again, your head resting on his chest. “I’m so tired of fighting with you over something, someone, so trivial.”

Tired.

That one words carries so much weight. It seeps into your lonely soul.

It’s exactly how you feel. How all that’s happened recently has made you feel. How all the secrets and the soulmates and the unrequited love has made you feel.

You’ve been tired for years. For so long you no longer know what “rest” really feels like.

Tired of loving a world that would reject you in a second. Tired of holding it together. Tired of lying.

And maybe that’s why you did what you did. Maybe that’s why you hurt Sylus. Because you’re tired of always being the one to run.

People in your life drifted from you, yes. But it was always you that had to put the final nail in the coffin of your relationships.

So maybe that’s why you’re so tired. And maybe you wanted to make Sylus tired. Tired of you. So tired of you and your shit that he just turns his back on you permanently.

Tired.

“I’m tired too,” is all you can muster at the moment.

You pull back from Sylus. But not for long. As soon as you slip out of his embrace, you sit on his bed and pat the place beside you. He sits down immediately.

The way you two sit, facing each other and knocking knees together, reminds you of the position you and Miss Hunter sat in not too long ago. It warms you heart in an ironic and bitter way.

But you chase those thoughts away to focus. Focus on Sylus and focus on what you need to do right now. You take his hand, giving it light squeeze, before you look him directly in the eyes and begin speaking.

“I’m sorry,” it’s hard to get the words out, not out of pride, but out of pain. “For pulling away. For being so hostile earlier. For saying… no, threatening to leave you. And for not trusting you.”

For hurting you, and doing that so you’d chase me away. For making you believe I could just abandon you. For being jealous of you finding your destined love. For acting like a complete ass. For being hurt by some silly words.

I’m so sorry, my Morana.

“I’m sorry too.”

“For?” You press him, despite the discomfort on his face.

“For the lying. For what I said when you confronted me. For not telling you about my plans to bring Miss Hunter here. For not telling of my plans with—“

“You don’t need to apologize for that.”

The shock on Sylus’ face is evident. Even if he doesn’t completely show it.

“I’m not entitled to every little thing in your life. Just as you aren’t mine. We both need to learn to be okay with that.”

You pause before continuing, “And we both are entitled to space whenever we want and for however we want. Just as long as we communicate things.”

Sylus just nods. He squeezes your hand tighter. His eyes have his signature glimmer back. One so uniquely Sylus you don’t know how to describe it.

My selfishness dulled that glimmer.

As you and Sylus just talk for a bit, you think to yourself about your new plan.

I can’t just leave. And even with Miss Hunter as my replacement, I need a better idea for my departure. Somewhere away from the two of them, but with ties to my current life so that there’s no suspicion._  An idea hits you: Onychinus has many connections, many of which you forged yourself.

Kai did always want to recruit me. Maybe I’ll finally take her up on the offer?

Author's Note: Also, please go to the original blurb to ask to be added to the taglist (it's impossible for me to keep checking every part every time I update).

2nd Author's Note: Do you prefer long chapters or short chapters? This story will be pretty long regardless, i just want to see what people prefer.

3rd Author's Note: Ikigai, Fun Fact = I originally was going to make this a one shot (and then plot ran away after breaking my kneecaps) and one where Reader didn't realize they were dating the entire time (but I wanted Sylus to suffer more, so I just made them very touchy, but with a line in the sand).

Taglist: @eolivy, @rafayelridesfisheatsfish, @animegamerfox, @jasperjokester, @schrodingerskimdokja, @just--crys, @snowdynasty, @shi-thats-kiera, @mansonofmadness, @dwuclvr, @ameilli, @katiedoesstuff101, @everythingistaken00, @napa-the-yappa, @hanaluxx, @lovesick-sylus, @tenaciouszombiewombat, @ladyparamount, @applepi405, @midnight-reverie, @69-gojos-wife-69, @bellagrayson-wayne, @phisen, @idkmanimjusthorny, @munchychuusy, @autumn2534, @poptrim, @sillyfreakfanparty, @zaynesfirefly, @flamedancer13, @thissmartdumbass, @mrsllawliet, @jeondyy, @ssetsuka, @dels-page, @that-lost-one, @johnnysactualgf, @mariquitas-en-verano, @toelady, @sinnamon-bunn, @yesbiaswrecked, @doggyteam2028, @little-rays-of-darkness, @albatrossblue, @vyntheria, @silverianni, @browneyedgirl22, @tiklestar, @beaconsxd, @pepperushia

[daeniradraconis]

High on Love - Jack H.

Hey lovelies! 💖 I know I promised to work on Age is Just a Number and my Auston Matthews fic, but an idea for a story about Jack being high on pain meds after surgery popped into my head, and I couldn’t resist writing it first! But don’t worry, the others are definitely coming soon!

I hope you enjoy reading it! ✨

For more fun: masterlist

---

Jack stirs, his lashes fluttering against pale skin. He looks exhausted, the painkillers keeping him soft and pliant, his limbs heavy against the hospital bed. A slow, lazy smile spreads across his face when his bleary eyes land on you.

“Babe,” he sighs, his voice thick and warm, like honey. He reaches for your hand but completely misses, his fingers clumsily grasping at the air before falling back to the sheets.

You take his hand gently, threading your fingers through his. “I’m right here, love.”

Jack just stares at you, utterly smitten. His pupils are wide, his hair a mess, and there’s an almost childlike wonder in his expression. And yet, even like this, completely drugged out and ridiculous, he’s still stupidly handsome. It’s almost unfair.

“You’re so pretty,” he murmurs. “My pretty little girlfriend.”

You giggle, rubbing soft circles against the back of his hand. Yep, he’s definitely still high as a kite. “Thank you, baby.”

Jack’s brows knit together suddenly. “Wait. Are you real? Or am I… dead?”

Ellen sighs from the chair on the other side of the bed, watching all of this unfold with thinly veiled amusement. “She’s real, Jack.”

Jack’s head lolls toward her, his sleepy eyes blinking in surprise. “Mom?”

“Yes, Jack,” Ellen says patiently. She looks tired, but there’s something else in her expression, too. A tenderness, a quiet fondness, like she’s looking at her baby boy rather than her fully grown 23-year-old son.

Jack stares at her for a long moment before his eyes suddenly widen. He turns back to you, gripping your hand with what little strength he has.

“Babe. We got caught.”

Your stomach drops slightly. He can’t mean—

“What?”

Jack swallows hard, looking genuinely panicked. “She knows about us.”

You exchange a glance with Ellen, whose lips are already twitching with laughter.

“Jack,” you say carefully, “we’ve been together for three years. And, sweetheart, your mom caught us five months in. She’s known for a long time.”

Jack shakes his head furiously. “No, no, no. We were in spy mode. No one was supposed to know.”

Ellen snorts. “Jack. I caught you a long time ago.”

Jack frowns. “No, you didn’t.”

Ellen exhales sharply, rubbing her forehead like she feels a migraine coming on. “I walked in on you two.”

Jack tilts his head, eyes clouded with confusion. He looks far too cute to be taken seriously.

Ellen’s voice grows exasperated. “In your kitchen, Jack. You were barely dressed. And your father was with me. We saw you.”

Jack looks at her like she’s lost her mind. “Mom. Be serious.”

“I AM SERIOUS.”

Jack just blinks at her, completely unconvinced. “Nah. Didn’t happen.”

Ellen groans, rubbing a hand down her face. “Oh, for the love of—” She turns to you, confused. “You remember, right?”

You bite your lip, your face heating at the memory. “I definitely remember. It was the most embarrassing moment of my life. Jack, you didn’t have pants on. And I didn’t have anything on top.”

Jack squints at you, gaze searching. Then, suddenly, his expression softens, a slow, lazy grin tugging at his lips.

“I just remember how hot you look naked.”

Ellen groans again. “Jack, concentrate.”

You sigh, smoothing your fingers through Jack’s messy hair. “Baby, I think the pain meds are making you a little loopy.”

Jack hums, leaning into your touch like a lost puppy. “Love when you call me baby.” His lips quirk up at the corners. “Say it again.”

Ellen shakes her head, an incredulous but affectionate smile tugging at her lips. “And here I was, worrying that all those times you hit your head on the ice had done some real damage,” Ellen sighs. “Turns out, all you needed were painkillers to go completely off the rails.” She pushes herself up from the chair with a smirk. “I’m getting a coffee. You two lovebirds enjoy this little moment.”

She barely makes it two steps before Jack’s entire face lights up.

“WAIT.”

You both jump.

Jack gasps dramatically. “WHERE IS LUKE?!”

You and Ellen share a confused look. “Jack, you’re not at home, darling. You’re in the hospital. Luke’s with the team, playing.”

Ellen pinches the bridge of her nose. “These drugs are brutal, Y/N. He’s completely lost it.”

Jack squeezes your hand, looking so heartbreakingly lost that you almost feel bad for laughing. “But I want Luke! He’s the best roommate.” His voice is full of pure, unfiltered adoration. “And he’s so smart. Like, genius-level math smart. He knows how to do derivatives, baby. I don’t even know how to spell that. And his hair? So curly. So perfect. It’s—” He pauses, his voice dropping to a whisper. “It’s unfair.”

You and Ellen barely manage to hold back your laughter as Jack scowls, grumbling under his breath about “stupid, unfairly perfect genetics.”

“You’re really jealous, aren’t you, Jacky?” you tease.

Jack nods aggressively. “YES. And he’s taller than me. It’s messed up. I’m the older one. I should be the taller one.”

You smile softly. “But you love him, not right?”

Jack sighs. “So much.” His lip wobbles slightly. “He’s my best friend.”

Ellen tilts her head, amused. “Quinn’s not gonna like that, Jack.”

Jack gasps, eyes wide with panic. “Ohh, don’t tell Quinn that, Mom!” Then he turns to you. “Babe, Quinn is so cool.”

You bite back a laugh. “I know, sweetheart. I met him.”

Jack nods with absolute conviction. “No, no, you don’t understand. He’s not just smart—he’s brilliant. Emotional intelligence, problem-solving, all that deep, psychological stuff. And he can cook.” Jack’s eyes widen as if this is the most shocking revelation of all. “Like, really cook. Not just toast or eggs—actual meals. And don’t even get me started on his skating. He’s the smoothest, fastest, most effortless skater I’ve ever seen. It’s like he was born on the ice.”

Ellen arches her brow. “Best skater, huh?”

Jack looks deeply offended. “Mom. I’m serious. And you know he’s the best swimmer.”

You blink. “What?” You are seriously confused now.

Jack nods solemnly. “Like, if hockey wasn’t his thing? He’d go Olympic mode.”

Ellen sighs. “Jack, Quinn swims, like, twice a year.”

Jack gasps. “Lies! Mom, you don’t even know your own son. Shame!”

Ellen turns to you with an exaggerated sigh, giving you a knowing look. “You know, Y/N, with the way he keeps crashing all over the ice, it’s only a matter of time before he ends up permanently concussed. So… be prepared.”

Jack pouts. “Mom! I don’t even fall that much. That was so mean.”

Then, suddenly, he grips your hand tighter, eyes shining. “Babe, can we get a dog?”

Ellen groans. “Not this again.”

Jack gasps dramatically. “Mom, I don’t live with you anymore. I’m an adult. This is a decision between me and my partner.” He turns to you, nodding with conviction. “Two golden retrievers. And I’ll teach them to play hockey.”

Ellen pulls out her phone. “I cannot wait to tell Jim, Luke, and Quinn about all of this.”

Jack gasps. “Mom, no—”

“Oh, yes,” Ellen smirks.

Jack pouts, turning to you, desperate. “Babe, you won’t let them make fun of me, right?”

You just grin, brushing your fingers over his cheek. “I don’t know, Jacky. You did just deny our entire relationship.”

Jack’s face falls. “Oh my God. Are we still together?”

You burst into hysterical laughter.

Ellen sighs dramatically. “I’m so leaving,” she says, heading toward the door.

Jack lets out a contented sigh, sinking deeper into his pillow, his eyes locking with yours as he gazes at you with an overwhelming sense of love. "But this is amazing news," he says softly, a smile tugging at his lips. "Because one day, I'm going to marry you."

Your heart melts. “Oh, baby…”

Ellen pauses at the door, looking back at the two of you. “You know what? You should have your wedding in Michigan. The lake house would be the perfect spot for it.”

Jack’s eyes light up, and he looks at you with excitement. “Yes! And Luke can be my best man. Quinn can be yours. So they won’t fight. He loves you like a little sister anyway. You’ll be beautiful in your dress. And I’ll cry at the altar the moment I see you.”

Ellen rolls her eyes dramatically, just like Jack usually does, but the smile on her lips betrays the amusement she’s trying to hide as she exits the room.

You groan, dropping your head onto Jack’s shoulder as your heart swells with happiness. "Just so you know, I’ll hold you to that promise once you’re finally clean from the drugs."

Jack just grins, his eyes fluttering closed, as he drifts back to sleep, completely at peace with the world.

[bullet-prooflove]

Everything: Andrew 'Pope' Cody x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @fadeinsol @akotafi @yousigned-upforthis @cowardlycandy

Companion piece to:

The Professional - Pope meets the love of his life when Smurf hires her to crack a safe.

Ethical Thieving - You introduce Pope to a new skill set.

Crazy (NSFW) - Pope's always been crazy but now he's also a man in love.

Tomorrow - Pope's family always fuck up the good in his life.

Do Over Day (NSFW) - Pope tries to make up for the day before.

Pope wakes up to the scent of freshly ground coffee, to light kisses brushing over each and every single one of the freckles on his face. The edges of his mouth tip up into a smile, his hand threading through your hair, his lips capturing yours.

You taste like dark chocolate and vanilla, components from the mocha you must have just sipped in the kitchen.

“I want to wake up like this every morning.” He whispers as your fingertips chase an unruly curl away from his features.

The light in your eyes dims just a little and he knows it’s because that isn’t going to happen anytime soon. The two of you are still saving to get the hell out of Oceanside, away from his family, away his mother. That woman would rather you dead than with her eldest son. You place a kiss on his forehead before drawing away, placing his phone in his hand.

“Smurf’s been calling.” You tell him.

His hand scrubs over his features as he studies the screen, his heart sinking. He’d promised he’d spend the day with you but now he’s got three missed calls, which is the equivalent of Smurf sending up the bat signal.

Shit, he thinks studying the time of the last one. She’s probably already started tracking him. He flicks to the Find My Friend App, he has installed on his phone and sees Baz is already en-route.

“I gotta go.” He says tearing back the sheets.

You drift out of the room as he starts pulling on his clothes, tugging on his shirt, scooping up his boots. You live close enough to the beach that he can say he paddling in the water, that he left his phone on the sand because he was trying to clear his head. His always parks his car half a mile away in the lot used for public access anyway, just in case of shit like this.

You already have a bamboo mug of coffee waiting for him when he steps out into the kitchen. He shakes his head, tucking his socks into his boot as he stands barefoot on the tiles.

“I can’t.” He tells you, gesturing towards the recyclable cup in your hands. “If I take that, he’ll ask where it comes from, whose making me coffee at buttfuck o’clock in the morning.”

“Yea, sorry. I didn’t think.” You say tiredly, setting it back down. He can sense the hurt in you, he understands how it must feel. Him turning up late at night to fuck you, leaving first thing in the morning. The worst part is he knows what it’s like to not be a priority, to feel like you’re giving a lot more than you’re getting back.

“Dylan.” He whispers, cradling your face between his hands. “This won’t be forever, we just need a little more cash and then we can go…”

“I know.” You say softly. “I’m just impatient.”

“I am too.” He says, his forehead coming to rest upon yours. “All I want is for the two of us to go away, somewhere where we can be safe, where we can be happy.”

He wants that more than anything, a life with you, a family with you.

“You are everything to me.” He tells you, his thumb chasing over the blush of your cheek. “You are my heart, my soul, my reason for being. Never doubt that ok? Never doubt the depth of my feelings for you. You were the only thing that kept me alive in Folsom, the thought of this life we’re building together got me through the worst of it and I will never give up on that dream. I won’t let anyone take that away from us.”

Your mouth ghosts over his, a tender kiss that he feels in the very depths of his soul. He wants to thread his hands through your hair, take you back to bed but Baz is five minutes away and he needs to get moving.

“Go.” You tell him, placing your palm on his chest and pushing him towards the back door that leads down to the beach. “But come back later alright? We really gotta talk.”

“I will.” He promises you with one foot over the threshold. “I’ll be here.”

“Good.” You say, thinking of the pregnancy test you took this morning when he was asleep, the one that came back positive. “Because I really need you to be here tonight.”

Love Pope? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Before you join the taglist make sure to read the rules here as you otherwise you won’t be added.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[hs-is-loml]

Found My Love In Portofino. (n.c)

Pairing: Nicholas Alexander Chavez x Fem!Reader, Ex!Lando Norris x Reader

Summary: fans are starting to figure out that you and lando haven't been together for a while, and you've been soft-launching your new man lately.

Type: Social Media AU! face claim is Luisinha Oliverira!

Warnings: cheating rumors of lando with magui, probably a few grammar errors. very few lando norris mentions other than the first twitter thread. UNEDITED

a/n: haven't written anything in a hot minute so bare with me for this one! aka i have found a new hyper fixation and it got me out of my writer's block...

masterlist

twitter

instagram

iked by lilymhe, joaofelix79, flonorris1, and 1,041,972 others

yourusername i found my love in portofino

view all 98,593 comments

worldchampionsisaid she is glowing🤩

→ outer_bankzz it's that breakup afterglow...

→ carlosandy/n no fr cause that is not lando in the second picture

carmenmmundt missing you lately!

→ yourusername call me when you're back in monaco!!

lovelovelove ugh the caption!

→ plsmarrymey/n our girl is in love🥰

lilymhe Y/N WHO IS THAT MAN??

→ yourusername you might've seen him before...

→ welovey/n y/n, please just hard launch this man already

gayfory/n NOT JOÃO LIKING THIS

→ ogf1wags i hope she's not actually with him😭

→ kachowkachow imagine... lando with magui and y/n with joão

y/nismothering i can tell this man is hot

→ liked by yourusername and 417 others

twitter

instagram

yourusername just added to their story

instagram

nicholasalexanderchavez has posted

liked by yourusername, paytonkoch, and 1,461,537 others

nicholasalexanderchavez the view while we're in italy

view all 115,182 comments

oneaddiction I WAS RIGHT😭

→ staystrongy/n yeah, the girl's top matches with y/n's recent post about being in love in portofino...

→ comebacktogh you guys are like detectives or something. fbi should hire you guys for our man luigi😳

→ theauthor you see what i did there?

twitterstan came from twitter and safe to say this is definitely y/n-

welovey/n can't tell whose view is better y/n's or nicholas'...

→ mengoingaroundincircles this is my sexual awakening because they're both so hot.

landoandy/nforever y/n looked better with lando💔

→ welovey/n get over it. they've been broken up for AGES. let our girl go.

→ y/nismother yes because going to a 6'1 tall, beefy man is such a downgrade...

yourusername funny seeing you here-

→ liked by nicholasalexanderchavez and 1,596

→ nichloasalexanderchavez you've been to portofino lately?

lilymhe @/yourusername THIS IS HIM???

→ yourusername maybe...

shared post by yourusername and nicholasalexanderchavez

liked by alexandrasaintmleux, iamrebeccad, anasainzvdec, and 2,913,468 others

yourusername and nicholasalexanderchavez my better half.

view all 196,975 comments

nicholasalexanderchavez you've had me the moment you tripped on the red carpet because i caught you staring

→ yourusername NICHOLAS, you did not just comment that on here.

→ nicholasalexanderchavez does it help that i just love the hell out of you?

alexandrasaintmleuz what can i say ferrari just does it better🤷🏻‍♀️

→ iamrebeccad alex, this is not the time or place...😭

→ wagsforlife alex is not playing about loyalty

thepaddockfloor going to miss this girl during races

→ womenwomen this is so real because who am i supposed to stare at now while the men do their little races...

gfsidehoe we already saw this coming

yourbiggestfan the photobooth pics are just the cutest

→ liked by yourusername and 398 others

→ yourusername it's my absolute fav!!

netflix this couple is too hot to handle

yourusername can you tell that i love this man's hands?

→ lilymhe BABE THIS IS PUBLIC

→ yourusername oh i know.

gayfory/n they are so perfect together

[movingthisblogcelestialtarot11]

That was lovely 😍 Can you do eye contact in synastry pleasse

Eye Contact In Synastry

—Mars-moon asp, the moon person gives doe eyes, sweet and so whimsical, meeting the flaming passion and steam of the mars person. The mars penetrates the moon person to their core, and finds themselves melting like ice on a hot summer day. A cool chill blows their skin and for a moment their taken aback. The moon person yearns to crawl out their shell and into the mars persons arms.

—Venus-mars ultimate fuck me eyes. Lip bites and and leaning back as if inviting the mars person to pursue and the mars person eats it up. Eyes you like they found their prey. Ready to hunt and capture you in their arms, eyes boring into your playful ones.

—Moon-sun, the moon person hides their gaze away from the sun, retreating to their shadows. Scurrying off like the house pet they are, and the sun strides and shines their eyes onto the moon. Seeing them in their raw, vulnerable state. Exposing the moon. And the moon person gazes yearningly into the sun persons eyes, daring to ask the question: do you love me for who I am?

—Venus—sun, the venus persons eyes joyfully light up like pools of honey. Always expecting with eyes tracing the room, looking for the sun person. And somehow the sun person does the same until their eyes meet. Lines form underneath and wrinkles, unable to stop their grins.

—Neptune—Venus, the Neptune person create an escapade for the venus person. Alluring them and beckoning ever so slightly, if the Venus person blinked they’d miss it. Eyes wide and round, meek and transparent. And the Venus meets them with warmth, protection and familiarity, searching their eyes, as words unspoken pass between.

—Sun—neptune, the sun person looks for the neptune person in more ways than one. Looking to hold the neptune person in a comforting reassuring stare. You can do this. A subtle nod to the neptune person as their warm eyes trace over their figure, wrapping them in warmth like a blanket. Ensuring they’re tucked in and nothing is left behind. The neptune caresses the sun person and extends their mellow glances, calming them.

—Mercury-venus, the shiny and ever so bright mercurials eyes light up. Like a kid on Christmas day just to see the lovely, enthralling venus. How their eyes sparkle with enthusiasm and electricity to share their day with the venus person. And the venus surrounds them with loving, caring eyes, like a tender, invisible touch, only the eyes create distance for what hands would’ve done.

—Pluto-venus animalistic, raw in its entirety. Undressing each other in the room filled with others yet no one can compete. Eyes scanning the room for the familiar doe eyes of the Venus person, and deepening in desire. Persistently gazing until the Venus catches theirs and begins to play this game. Watching their every move and studying their mannerisms. Ingraining their image like a painting. The venus person knows there’s something so subconsciously disturbing and unnerving to the Pluto person. Your eye contact makes me shiver.

—Venus-venus and gazing at each other like it’s been decades since you two saw each other. Lovingly, caressing with eyes over forms with words unsaid. A slight furrow to the brows and a longing to be held, eyeing them, drinking them in as if this were the last moment you’d see them.

—Mercury-moon, instantly the mercury settles and their lively, frenzied eyes lower. Half lidded in a haze and grounded by the moon persons languid gaze. Calm. Soft. Patient. Alone their mind has so many tabs open, but with the moon person only one exists: this moment. Their eyes soften and a moment of reprieve crosses them.

—Mars-Neptune creating a violent clash, turbulent and unpredictable. Mars eyes are firm, set and locked onto the neptune whose eyes do nothing to help their impending curiosity. The neptunes eyes are boundless, held together by string and thread. The more the mars person glares to see them clearly, the image of their eyes blur more. Mars can never tell whats going on behind the neptunians siren eyes, always half lidded in a daze, far off in a fantasy.

—Sun-mars and your eyebrows raising, a pause and then theirs, and then a grin, and wrinkles line under the eyes as laughter spills out. Like two old friends seeing each other and catching up, always peering up from whatever they do, catching and affirming. Eyes never stay long on objects that don’t matter, like their mug. Keep talking to me.

—Pluto-mars feeling like each other’s gaze is like a hot poker tracing flesh. Warmth travels up the slender of your back, and eyes widen slightly to see the pluto person leaning forward to gaze boldly in your eyes. Eyes searching yours. Feeling the same escalating tension. They always do this. The leaning in thing. And yet the mars person meets back with resistance of their own, their gaze tracing the pluto persons flesh like a pointed knife, sharp and calculating.

—Mars-Venus and bringing venus person to the ninth circle of hell over and over again, eyes daring and blazing with an unbridled passion for life. The venus persons’ eyes widen like a gazelle, at the unpredictable nature of the mars person.

—Neptune-venus and being unable to sleep. The venus person cannot forget the neptunians eyes. It’s stained in their mind and years later they wake up, seeing their gaze behind their eyelids like the distant memory the neptunian was.

[millyondollarbaby]

Just saw your rules thing and HOLY SHIT YOURE SO REAL ON THE "he's yandere because he LOVES you" TYPA SHIT LIKE IM SO SICK AN TIRED ON SEEING "he chained you up because you were being naughty" LIKE UGHHH GIVE ME A YANDERE WHOSE WORLD WOULD FALL APART THE MOMENT YOU START EYEING SOMEONE ELSE!!! GIVE ME PATHETIC MEN THAT WOULD ABSOLUTELY DO ANYTHING FOR THE LOVE OF HIS LIFE!!!

Okay enough of my bullshit, can I still request??

Heh....Yandere prince (who is the heir to the throne) who is untouchable (figuratively and literally) by anyone falls inlove with a bounty hunter who he was tasked to kill? Like the scenario would be like:

•Prince was tasked by the king to slay a bounty hunter cause someone from the court died from their hands

•Prince (now disguised as an assassin) tries but fails, leading him very wounded

•Bounty hunter!reader sees him in his state and decides to nurse him back to health (they don't know he's a prince btw)

•Prince wakes up, grows wary of reader patching him up, but he quickly became Mr. Nice guy because he has plans on how to kill them

•all of his plans fail, and most of those plans lead him to getting injured, therefore extending his stay (much to the reader's amusement and his dismay)

•months turn to years, the kingdom is distraught over the crowned prince going missing, meanwhile the prince has grown to love the reader and is CONVINCED that they are married (delusional much??? Also reader does NOT know about this, they just assume that their Friend is way more clingy than usual)

Additional info: due to him being a prince, he prefers to stay indoors so that no one could take him away from his beloved❤ (he would burn the world and then kills himself if he were to be gone from them for more than 7 hours (he'll never hurt them, he'll rather kill himself than do that))

The ending is SUPER up to you!!! (Though I prefer it angst....though I am not sure if you do that) and can the gender of the reader be unspecified and they go by they/them? If no, then can the reader be female? (muscular females ohdodjdojdk)

Tysm for this opportunity to request for pathetic men❤❤ sorry for my rambling

The Crowned Prince is Dead.

(Not proofread. Will go back at some point)

That’s what the posters say now. The bounty’s been lifted. The court’s gone quiet. The palace is in mourning.

They buried an empty casket.

“Ash.”

That’s what you call him, the man you found bleeding on your doorstep two winters ago. He was half-dead, torn up, muttering nonsense in a voice meant for velvet robes and palace marble—not the woods. You didn’t ask questions. Just dragged him inside, stitched him up, and gave him soup.

You had no idea he was royalty. A crown prince. A sword sent from the king’s own hand to slay you.

Your name had reached the court after a noble’s blood stained your bounty ledger. Self-defense, really, but the nobles don’t care for context. They wanted a spectacle. A hunter hung at dawn. So they sent their perfect boy in a black cloak and a false name.

But he failed. Because when he saw you—not your reputation, not the price on your head, you—he hesitated. And in that hesitation, he was wounded. Left crawling, broken, slipping out of the castle’s grip and into yours.

And now you share a life.

Days slipped into weeks. Weeks melted into months, like snow thawing into riverwater.

Ash wove himself into your life so quietly, so seamlessly, that you hardly noticed it happening.

He began gathering firewood before you could ask, stacking it neatly by the door every morning, the scent of pine and sap clinging to him when he slipped back inside. He mended your torn clothes with clumsy stitches, tongue poking out in concentration as he tried to match thread to fabric. When you hummed old songs by the hearth, he listened with a kind of aching reverence, as if every note stitched him more tightly to this place, to you.

You teased him sometimes. Called him clingy when he hovered too close. Poked his side when he pouted in that wounded, boyish way that made you laugh. He would flush a violent red, stumbling over excuses, and you’d ruffle his hair without thinking, amused by his bashfulness.

Ash never protested. He only followed you more faithfully, his gaze tracking you with a devotion so profound it was almost prayer.

You thought he was just lonely. You assume he’s just… odd.

You thought—maybe—he was grateful for kindness after too many brutal winters alone.

You never realized what he truly believed.

In Ash’s mind, there were no blurred lines, no tentative half-steps. In his mind, you were already his spouse.

You were the sun he orbited, the river he would drown in gladly.

When you laughed, he thanked gods he didn’t believe in. When you touched him, even in jest, he memorized it, sealed it under his skin like an oath. Every night, when you slept, he sat awake in the dark, whispering prayers to whatever spirits might listen:

"Let me stay. Let me stay. Let me stay."

You didn’t know. You didn’t know that he had already killed for you—the strangers who had wandered too close, the bounty hunters still searching for your head, the royal scouts sent to reclaim their prince.

You didn’t know how ruthlessly he protected the fragile, stolen life he had built around you. How much blood had already been spilled in the name of your quiet, domestic peace.

But he never hurts you. He would never. He’d tear himself open before letting harm come near you. You are his divinity. His purpose. The axis on which his world spins.

All you saw was a boy with burnt hands and wide eyes, smiling too softly by your fire.

You have no idea he’s in love with you. You have no idea he’s convinced that this is marriage. That the gods dropped him at your door because you were meant to be his. That his entire being is now tethered to you.

And then one day, you disappear.

Just a short hunt. You leave a note. You’ll be back by dusk.

But the sun dips low and you don’t return.

Ash is calm for the first hour. Then the second. Then he starts pacing. By midnight, he’s wrecked the house. By morning, he’s on his knees in the forest, screaming your name.

He thinks someone took you. He thinks the palace finally found you. Or worse—you left him.

He doesn't sleep. He doesn’t eat. He patrols the woods like a cursed thing. His body withers. His eyes go hollow.

And then, finally—you come back.

Your hunt took longer than expected. You got trapped in a storm. You arrive soaked, shivering, cursing the weather and laughing like nothing happened.

You find him in the doorway. Knees bloodied. Face gaunt. Eyes wild.

“Where were you?” he breathes, and it’s not a question—it’s a confession.

You tell him. You smile. You reach for him like always.

But he flinches.

“I thought you left me.”

You frown. “Ash…”

“I was going to kill myself.”

Your blood runs cold. “What?”

“I was going to do it,” he says, smiling, like he’s proud. Like he passed some test. “But I didn’t. Because I knew you’d come home. You always come home.”

You stare at him.

And something shifts.

Now you know, you understand. Understand all those nights he looked at you a little too long, a touch that lasted longer than needed. Now you understand why he always seemed on his toes when you mentioned leaving. He couldn't handle it. He can't.

Will write a part two? i just couldn't structure it all in here.

[weirdmageddon]

the shift in lore literacy in homestuck’s fandom

i was thinking about how the people who got into homestuck after it ended—whose interactions with the comic are in a static, archived state, not an ongoing thing—missed out on information that was more common knowledge in the fandom at that time. i don’t know if this is true since i’m not on tiktok, but i wouldn’t be surprised if it was. the fandom certainly isn’t the same as it was before.

ive found that many people reading homestuck now simply do not understand things in homestuck that were common knowledge back in the day, with calls for “homestuck literacy classes to become mandatory” in response to baffling takes because so many people just now seem to have glazed over the comic without absorbing important plot points, and i think i know why this may be. i ended up writing a post reflecting on my time with the comic, my perspective and how ive seen this change. i still think and write about homestuck because it still fascinates me. earlier i quote retweeted that call in my thread talking about the temporal relativity of dave and rose’s god tier ascension in the green sun, saying “my homestuck literacy is 100% so guess im doing my part as a teacher by pointing out whatever i think is really cool about it”. this post im writing now started out as a reply to this tweet i got in response.

i joined the fandom in 2013. i was 11. i had been aware of it since at least late 2011, early 2012 when my friend ryan in fifth grade told me to read it but i couldn’t get past the first few pages. i remember writing a journal on deviantart around this time (late 2011-early 2012) that was mocking people who typed like gamzee, which ironically was very karkat of me. and i remember someone on flipnote hatena i was following was making flipnotes with the alpha kids.

i dont know what caused me to flip the switch into reading it but 2013. i got into it somewhere between april (i think closer to april—i remember it being quite a span of time between the last update before HOMOSUCK dropped.) this was the most recent page the comic, meaning there was no > [S] ACT 6 ACT 6 at the bottom.

i got into it during a pause in updates, which looking into it, was the year 4 megapause. i wasn’t sure of the month until seeing the news post detailing the reason for the hiatus and the status report of the comic’s development at that time. pretty cool i could narrow it down by referencing the dates of those updates and the news post to correspond with the pause!

according to readmspa, the year 4 megapause was a 59 day hiatus from Apr 14, 2013 ==> (EOA6A5) running to 12 Jun 2013, [S] ACT 6 ACT 6. then for a few months there were the first updates that i was apart of the fandom for.

and what an exciting time during the story get into the webcomic! when the updates resumed in june, part 4 of homestuck had begun. here was a glimpse of the updates in that span of time before the next hiatus began in october.

that hiatus was none other than the gigapause, the longest hiatus in the comic, which started october 2013 and lasted for a YEAR, and i already posted about what happened on the date of return.

but here were the main events happening in the story at the time i first actually got interested in it. i wasn’t aware of the full context of them then like i am now, but i was looking at the most recent updates anyway with interest:

the alpha kids just emerged as god tiers from their slabs in derse and prospit, blown up by the condesce and caliborn / lil cal-possessed b2 jack noir.

the journey to the new session started 24 hours after jack called an early reckoning in descend—for context that was about when dave entered around midnight central time and before jade even entered. it’s pretty easy to forget that side 1 of homestuck basically happens within the span of a single day—and at this point in the story, the 3 year journey (which was also 3 real life years) had just ended. john and jade emerged from the other side of the yellow yard through the fenestrated plane on LOMAX. john’s real body was asleep upon arrival in the new session, while his dreaming projection out in the dream bubbles came across vriska’s ghost ship to learn lord english lore with vriska and aranea, and go on the treasure hunt where they found the ultimate weapon at the X mark out in in the furthest ring. in the dream john stuck his hand in the juju, started warping all over canon which removed his real body from the ship on LOMAX. he zapped around for a while but eventually zapped back to LOMAX, now awake, completely out of the loop of what everyone else is up to, and bored as fuck. what was everyone else getting up to while john was asleep?

jade was now once again within the domain of the green sun. im pretty sure her space god doggy essence comes with the power to sense what was anywhere within the domain of the session since her face looks like she arrived at that spot with intent (and she literally has jack noir’s exact powers from bec’s prototyping. also this panel). she immediately dispatched b2 jack to the edge of the incinisphere, defending the newly god-tiered jane and jake. i think even if they weren’t in any danger, she would have warped to them instantly anyway because she COULD now, and i can imagine she wouldve been sooooo eager to meet everyone. even davesprite comments about her rapid departure.

the pre-scratch refugees arrived during the only time serious shit ever went down in the nobles’ months-long inert void session. the condesce used her freak psychic bronze-cerulean powers to commune with jade’s bestial side and mind controlled her, which is super dangerous as someone with the powers of a first guardian. she then used jade’s powers to corrupt jane with the tiaratop. no funtime meetup allowed!

the trolls’ meteor with rose, dave, and the remaining trolls was pulling up into the new session with no way to slow it down. grimbark jade warped there once it was in the incinisphere and took active control. she warped everyone off the trolls’ meteor and sent them to LOMAX.

as john was losing his mind on LOMAX waiting for everyone, the meteor crew warped in. after 3 years he finally reunited with rose and dave, and at least saw the trolls in person. close curtains, end of A6A5. this was the newest [S] flash page at the time, one of my first impressions of this comic, and still one of my favorite flashes. knowing the context of the flash in the story only enhances the retrospective joy i have at getting into the comic at the time i did because it’s such an anticipated moment in the story for everyone, while for someone with no context of the story it was still enjoyable.

so that’s what was going on plotwise when i joined the fandom.

from this time, through those few months of updates and through the gigapause, i was familarizing myself with the characters in the story and overseeing the state of fanbase, getting myself acquainted with the story and wrapping my head around everything.

at that time i found that a new-ish group called colab HQ who were producing a let’s read homestuck series on youtube. hearing the voices and the pacing of it like that really, really eased me into it (maybe it was my adhd that gave me trouble actually starting it?). i caught up to a certain point using lets read homestuck and from that point was able to continue with the comic on my own, and by the time the gigapause came to a close i was fully caught up. i remember the rebranding of colab hq into voxus about a year and a half after i discovered them.

but.. back to the main point of my post. even these posts from hussie’s tumblr exist in archived states. how many new fans know about hussie’s old tumblr? i don’t know, unless theyre a new fan that must scour the internet for more deep more dives on homestuck and its fandom as a whole. but since hussie deleted his tumblr (it exists archived now on homestuck.net which, alongside from the unofficial homestuck collection, has nearly singlehandedly kept the most important relics of the fandom and lore archived), that page is not an active part of the fandom now, because it’s gone. it’s a pile of bones. it’s not living and breathing. it’s in an archived state. the whole thing is already there. homestuck and its fandom history is something you now binge instead of slowly consume and meld with as it comes out. it’s now this rapid information intake that you might forget about if you read it now instead of engaged alongside it. you’re not surrounded by people actively talking and theorizing about developments anymore. the ability to have those sorts of conversations during the ongoing development of the story reinforced concepts, ideas, and lore over and over as we tried to make sense of it.

being in a fandom when the author is still delivering the story is like nothing else. it allows you grow alongside the characters and engage meaningfully with the media and people in the fandom space around you. it feels like you’re participating IN the media itself, especially if you’re interfacing with the creator. it’s in always having something to theorize or talk about and speculate. and people become very aware of these sorts of forgotten story facts because they were applying the logic of the newest official post from hussie into making their sburb ocs or something and share resources and discussion posts about “what just happened in this update?? recap????” it was this cultural osmosis thing. i think this is why homestuck literacy is now at an all time low, at least from what i can see on twitter.

reading homestuck then vs now is like the difference between serialized shows with spaces between episodes to discuss stuff and time to reflect and learn and become attached to the story, narrative, worldbuilding and its characters, vs the netflix model where it’s all dropped all at once and people forget about it after binging.

at this point in time im getting the sense that “homestuck elders” now are no longer just people who were there since 2009-2010, but now also people who were there while it was still updating, probably stretching into 2014-2015. there are many sources of lore that were common knowledge in the fandom at the time that, since becoming susceptible to the deletion of content and link rot, and with the thanosing of mspaforums, are no longer accessible at the source. and a lot of people moved on after it ended, especially following the epilogues, the kate drama, and the whatpumpkin-sarah z drama, leaving a void of information behind if not for archivists and people such as me who continue to keep old facts relevant in discussions. my friend has called me a fandom scholar before and seeing this post i think i get what they mean.

EDIT: there is a series of video essays ive watched multiple times (because theyre that good) and they are exactly what modern fans need to see more of. they really help contextualize the comic and the themes present in it help you appreciate the basic fabric of homestuck a hell of a lot more. i highly recommend them and encourage any fan of homestuck to watch them, or someone considering getting into homestuck to watch the first one.

i think this is arguably as close to the “mandatory literacy class for homestuck” that person was talking about as you can get, especially the first video.

additionally, there is also the website https://rafe.name/homestuck which is essentially a sparknotes for homestuck and can help you follow developments in the comic itself.

[divaofmads]

ME and the DEVIL

Chapter I: Not Yet

Pairing Dr. Crane x Female Reader x Bruce Wayne

Summary: When you're caught between the man who steals your heart and the one who dissects your mind... even you might forget who you are.

Wayne’s smile might feel safe. But Crane’s silence... is slowly consuming you. And by the end of the night, whose eyes will haunt you?

Warnings!: Slow-Burn Tension, Dark Romance Elements, Mild Stalking Elements, Step Daddy Bruce, Subtle Erotic Undertones (Non-explicit), Jealousy / Envy, Obsessive Behavior, Age Gap, Yandere Themes / Possessiveness, Angst, Emotional trauma and guilt, English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional.

Word Count: 9k

Divirder by @sisterlucifergraphics @cafekitsune

Darkness seeps slowly through the cracked walls. A clock ticks in the room, not counting time... but the end.

You open your eyes, but your body won’t move. You’re lying in a child’s bed, under a torn blanket pulled up to your neck. The nightlight on the bedside table is broken; a dim yellow light flickers faintly, then blinks and disappears into darkness.

A wooden creak.

At the foot of the bed... something is there. It’s not moving, but it’s there. A puppet. It looks like a grotesque marionette, but its eyes... its eyes are human. Old. Wet. Glowing in the dark.

It laughs.

“Y/N... Do you remember me?” The voice... it’s your father's.

You want to scream, but no sound comes out. Like a knot has been tied in your throat. The puppet slowly turns its head, the hinge in its jaw creaking.

Then... other puppets enter the room. Walking by themselves. Wooden feet scraping against the crackling floor.

And each one carries a piece of your father's voice.

“Puppets see everything, Y/N. They never blink at night.”

“I never left you, I’m still with you. Inside you.”

“They don’t love you. Because I didn’t either. You were never my puppet. You didn’t obey.”

One of them climbs onto the edge of the bed. Its fingers are cracked, nails missing. It touches your cheek. Cold. Like a frozen, dead hand.

And then something stirs in the corner of the room. A shadow. Not human. Its posture is off, its head crooked. No face. But in its hand... are the strings of the puppets. Each one is connected to it by invisible threads. It’s the Puppeteer. Speaking in your father's voice, but the words belong to something else.

“You were a little girl... I never loved you... but then you grew up. You should have been a mute puppet, Y/N. You shouldn’t have spoken in your own voice. You shouldn’t have turned your head. You shouldn’t have resisted. Now we’ll remake you.”

The puppets suddenly leap into the air. Strings tighten. One comes so close its wooden teeth are just inches from your nose. It tilts its head and whispers: “You will be carved. We’ll hollow you out. Fill you again... You’ll love me... This time, you’ll look like me.”

You thrash, but your hands are tied.

The Puppeteer pulls out a long, rusty needle from the shadows. He threads a string through it. A new puppet will be born tonight.

And then...

As the Puppeteer approaches, all the puppets scream in unison: “Don’t close your eyes, Y/N! Because in the dark, WE have the eyes!”

“You are no longer flesh. You are now WOOD.”

You try to scream, but you feel something in your throat. A string. A voice whispers: “Don’t move. You’re a puppet now.”

09:47 AM - Internal Security Zone, D-Block

The lab was filled not with the chill of a sterile chemistry room, but with the unease of a dark experimentation chamber. Pale yellow lights cast a sinister hue over the white tiles; every footstep echoed through the windowless walls, imprinting itself into the concrete.

Dr. Jonathan Crane pulled a black-covered notebook from the pocket of his white coat. His long, thin fingers carefully flipped through the pages. Among them were handwritten notes, brainwave maps, cortisol measurements, and several chemical formulas corrected in red ink.

“The controllability of subjective fear response through artificial stimulants...” he murmured. “...the unconscious mind can only be explained by the suppression of fear. Fear... is the shape of freedom.”

Behind the transparent wall stood Subject 27, chained to a chair. A large, bald man with tattoos on his chest, whose eyes held more emptiness than sharpness. According to the file, his name was Marcus Till. Severe dissociative episodes, delusional paranoia, and daytime visual hallucinations. His criminal record included three executions and one case of abandonment leading to death.

But for Jonathan, the past wasn’t what mattered only the response to fear.

The door opened.

The sound was soft, but Jonathan recognized it immediately.

You. Y/N Wayne. Attentive, cheerful, yet not afraid to appear a little “silly.” A young intern.

In Dr. Crane’s eyes, someone who “talked too much, smiled too much, and reeked too much of Bruce Wayne.”

Jonathan didn’t look up from the file. He hadn’t expected you to be punctual; no one with the Wayne surname ever is. Punctuality is a small courtesy for ordinary people trying to prove themselves. The Waynes had no need for that.

There was hesitation in your steps.

You didn’t stumble, but you didn’t walk with confidence either.

He noticed that. But didn’t care.

“Those who get their internship here through their surname usually don’t last more than two weeks,” he said with clear disdain. “I was surprised you managed to survive a whole month.”

He spoke without looking directly at you. As if he were addressing a piece of furniture. His eyes were still focused on Marcus Till’s EEG results.

“Come closer. We’re going to prep the patient.”

There was a faint shadow under your eyes. You hadn’t slept. Your skin, normally glowing with a well-kept complexion, now carried a grayish pallor. Jonathan merely filed this as an observation. He wasn’t interested. He didn’t want to be interested.

Your hands trembled slightly as you reached for the IV set he handed you. Maybe you didn’t even notice, but Jonathan did.

And for the first time, he looked directly at you.

He slowly lifted his gaze. Cold, sharp analysis. No empathy. Only observation. “Your focus is off.” He put his pen on the desk. His voice still monotone, but the sentence was sharper. “Weren’t you trained in trauma response? Any lapse at Arkham can lead to death. Not your death. You killing someone.”

In the background, Marcus’s breathing grew heavier. Serum data streamed across the screen. You didn’t speak for a moment.

You swallowed. But then... you smiled.

Such a genuine, warm smile appeared on your face that Jonathan’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“You’re right, Dr. Crane,” you said. “Just had a rough night’s sleep. But it’s fine. I was only expected to last two weeks, wasn’t I? Making it a month is quite the achievement.”

Your tone was cheerful. But beneath your words, there was a metallic resistance.

And then, something else happened.

A corner of Jonathan Crane’s mind twitched slightly. Because he recognized that expression. The smile of those who bury fear deep within...

But he didn’t show it. He was about to say something else, but just then Marcus’s brain waves suddenly spiked.

Crane turned to the screen immediately.

“Beta frequency spike... 14.2 Hertz... Triggered.”

He adjusted his glasses. You leaned over the table, looking at the monitor. But you had to squint slightly to understand what you were seeing.

Jonathan noticed this. The effort to comprehend a subject you didn’t yet master. Not by rote, but with real curiosity.

But he still wasn’t affected.

“If this is the level you’re going to stay at,” he said calmly, “I could recommend an easier supervisor for you. Dr. Langley, for example. Less technical, but more patient. You’d bring the reports to me; no one expects perfection from you.”

The condescension this time was sharper, much more personal, and you felt a sting right at the tip of your nose. It had struck your pride.

But along with your pride, another part of you stirred: stubbornness.

“Thank you, but I’ll pass,” you said. “I believe I have a lot to learn from someone as perfect as you.”

Your eyes met Jonathan’s.

And for a moment, just a moment, your gaze trembled by a mere millimeter.

Because his eyes were searching for something else. Watching. Looking inside you.

And he hadn’t decided yet: Were you just a waste of his time—or something unnamed…?

As you stood up without taking your eyes off the monitor, Crane watched you only from the corner of his eye. Your trembling fingers moved toward your left wrist, and you subtly tugged at your sleeve to hide it. Another tremor, one you suppressed quickly. Crane noted it, even with a side glance. His mind worked like a notebook; every micro-expression, every small physical reflex was logged like a symptom.

But this time… he had trouble categorizing you.

“That kind of eye contact,” he thought, “a typical defense strategy. But not out of confidence. That’s the look of someone swallowing fear to survive.”

And then another voice in his mind spoke: “Wayne.”*

“Bruce Wayne’s daughter can’t be this fragile. Maybe she’s putting on a show. Or… is there a trauma beyond the usual life of luxury?”

He held a grudge against your family. Crane’s antipathy toward the Waynes wasn’t simple. Bruce’s authority to evaluate him as a psychological consultant had created an irreparable fracture in Crane’s ego, and now here you stood—trembling, despite bearing the Wayne name. This suggested two possibilities to him:

1. Either you were genuinely weak, sensitive, painfully fragile.

2. Or… there were traces of a much darker past being hidden from you.

Crane glanced at the EEG graphs on the monitor one last time. The results were inconclusive, but sufficient. The Marcus Till experiment could end here.

He powered down the screen and slowly stood. Closed the file, but his gaze lingered on your face.

He peered at you over his glasses.

“Tomorrow at eleven a.m., the Forensic Psychiatry Jury will convene,” he said. His voice echoed off the corners of the room. “The subject: Arnold Wesker.”

It was the first time you’d heard the name. You couldn’t help but frown.

“Arnold… Wesker?” You hadn’t meant to ask, but your tongue betrayed you.

Crane tilted his head slightly. A faint smile appeared on his lips—but it wasn’t a smile, more the expression of a clinician making a diagnosis.

“You don’t even know who you’re working with, do you?”

You didn’t respond. That only dug your grave deeper.

Crane walked to the desk, pulled out a file, placed his hand on it—but didn’t open it. This was more of a test. As if he were measuring your patience.

“Arnold Wesker,” he said, “also known as the Ventriloquist.

A case of paranoid schizophrenia and dissociative identity disorder. But what makes him interesting isn’t the diagnosis—it’s the wooden puppet he owns. Scarface. The puppet is the dominant identity. Wesker is the passive host. Allegedly, the crimes are committed by the puppet. In other words… the mob boss inside his mind.”

That last phrase changed the atmosphere in the room.

Puppet. Scarface. Ventriloquist.

Each word stabbed your chest. Your heart rate subtly increased.

But your facial expression didn’t change a single millimeter.

Only your eyelids lowered slightly. Your pupils shrank by half a tone.

A trauma response of the type that shouldn’t be noticed.

But Crane noticed.

He didn’t open the file. Instead, he studied you.

And you were reliving the nightmare in your mind: Wooden joints. Clicking sounds. Puppets coming at you with fixed grins. And that dark sensation that turned you into a puppet against your will.

“Scarface…” Crane’s voice snapped you back to reality.

“Wesker fought on Joker’s side during the Joker-Riddler War. His psychotic breaks intensified afterward. Some sources claim that his puppet has evolved into a personality that no longer obeys him. Supposedly, the puppet… punishes him. A real projection of rage.”

You were silent. Very silent.

That gave you away. Not just to Jonathan—but to yourself.

Crane tilted his head slightly.

“Puppet phobia isn’t common,” he said suddenly. “But when combined with a sense of loss of control experienced during childhood… Puppets can lead to a collapse of identity perception in the unconscious. The fear here isn’t tied to the external object, but to the inner self.”

He’d hit a nerve.

Was it on purpose, or just analysis? You didn’t know.

But still, you didn’t give yourself away.

You smiled. So slight, so graceful a smile.

As if all this talk meant nothing to you. “Will you be attending the jury tomorrow, Dr. Crane?” Your voice was calm, but the tension beneath your tone laid you bare.

Crane paused briefly, then answered.

“I will. I’m an active member of the forensic psychiatry advisory board. The Wesker file is being brought with a recommendation for total isolation rather than medically assisted sentencing. And I don’t want him—or Scarface—back in Gotham.”

You nodded. “I understand,” you said. But you didn’t understand anything.

Well… you understood. But you couldn’t say anything.

Crane gave you one last look.

And in that moment… a spark.

Something about you unsettled him.

Your fear was deep. Very quiet. But real. And Crane knew how the subconscious worked better than anyone.

WAYNE MANOR – INDOOR POOL

Time: 9:27 PM

Outside, Gotham’s darkness had fallen like a gilded veil. The echo of footsteps in the wide halls of the manor had long ceased, the servants had settled into the rhythm of night. The indoor swimming pool, hidden behind the old stone walls of Wayne Manor’s west wing and rarely used, was now filled only with the sound of your breath and the soft rippling of water.

The towel left by the poolside, bearing Gotham’s crest, was damp. You moved through the water almost imperceptibly, surrendering your shoulders to the coolness with each stroke. When your fingers brushed the marble edge, the faint chime that rang out seemed to blend into the night like a melody. With every stroke, it was as if you were trying to shed the weight of the day.

Your head tilted back, hair spread out over the water. Your chest rose and fell quickly, but your face was calm. Your mind, however, was a storm.

“Swimming alone... not really your thing,” said that familiar voice, soft but carefully measured.

When you turned your head, you saw Bruce Wayne emerging from the shadows, dressed in a black t-shirt and loose gray sweatpants. With a towel slung over his shoulder and a relaxed walk, he almost looked ordinary. Almost.

“Shouldn’t you be at your computer by now, studying the city maps?” you said with a slight smirk as you turned in the water.

He smiled too.

But Bruce Wayne’s smile was more like a shadow of his past. It existed for a moment, then vanished again.

“Alfred told me,” he said as he came closer. “You haven’t talked much today. You probably mentioned Crane at dinner. You were smiling... but your eyes didn’t quite join in.”

He sat by the edge. Rested his elbows on his knees.

He didn’t look down at you, he spoke at eye level. That was his style. He didn’t corner anyone—he shared the space instead of stealing it.

You didn’t look away. But your voice was sarcastic, a little superficial.

“Oh, Dr. Jonathan Crane. The man who prides himself on terrifying everyone but whose shirt collar is soaked with sweat. I think he’ll always hate me. Actually, I’m sure. Today he frowned at the EEG monitor like it was me, probably the fifth time he couldn’t figure me out. Someone get him a coffee.”

Bruce let out a short chuckle through his nose. “Crane doesn’t like anyone. He doesn’t even consider himself. But if he’s trying to figure you out, that means he’s interested. He’s... a careful man.”

You tilted your head slightly. Your eyes seemed to shimmer, but it wasn’t joy—it was a kind of light seeping from a hollow place inside.

“Everyone who tries to figure me out ends up disappointed,” you said in a near whisper.

Bruce’s expression didn’t change. But he placed his hand on the edge of the pool, near you. Again, that silent space-sharing. Again, that “I’m here” stance.

“What happened?” His voice was slower now, lower in pitch. “Something happened today. It’s not just the Crane thing. Talk to me.”

You looked at the water for a while. You wanted to see your own reflection, but couldn’t. All that appeared were dim lights and emptiness.

“This morning... when I woke up,” you said, “it was the same nightmare again. Someone was there. Watching me. But it wasn’t me. I was like a puppet. Then... my father’s voice. Even though he’s dead…”

You paused. A knot had formed in your throat. Swallowing your pride was hard, but you didn’t fear being this vulnerable with Bruce. Because he always knew when you took off your mask.

“I know it’s stupid,” you said. “My dad’s dead. He put that gun to his own temple…” You closed your eyes. “But sometimes... I still feel like he’s going to come back from somewhere. Like... his darkness found a little place inside me. Like it’s still in my blood.”

Bruce lowered his head. Reached out his hand to the water, to you.

His palm was facing upward. He wouldn’t force you to take it. But if you did, he would offer it like a shelter.

You reached out without hesitation. When your fingers met his under the water, the touch of skin was warm and real.

“You’re not that man,” Bruce said. “And you never will be. Because I was there. That night, when they couldn’t silence you, you survived with your own scream. That shows who you are. You didn’t become a puppet to survive. You chose.”

His voice was deep enough to swallow every echo from the past. The affection he felt for you flowed silently.

You didn’t say anything for a while. Then you smiled slightly—this time, genuinely.

“Are you always going to read me this well?” you asked with a sweet reproach.

Bruce winked, then slowly stood up.

He took off his t-shirt. The old scars on his chest formed distorted shapes in the reflection of the water.

When he rolled up his pants and stepped into the pool, you tensed a little. Because with his entrance, the solitude was over. The darkness was no longer yours alone.

The water was warm. But Bruce’s presence was warmer. He came closer. He didn’t touch your face but placed a hand on your shoulder. That touch was not a father’s—it was that of a guardian, a friend, a...

...perhaps the one man you had always felt was missing.

“I’m here whenever you want,” he said in a low voice near your ear. “But unless you want it... no one can hold you.”

As you leaned into him, his warm breath echoed in your ears.

But your heart... had taken on a different rhythm.

Because he didn’t feel like a father. He shone like a fallen star. And without meaning to, you were growing more attached to him.

You were safe—and at the same time, that safety scared you. Having someone understand you this deeply... it was too much. A dangerous kind of closeness. The kind that blurred lines.

Then Bruce’s voice poured into your ear in a warm, slightly teasing tone.

“So... are you excited for the event in two days?”

You lifted your head slightly and looked at him. Your brows furrowed. He read the blankness in your eyes instantly.

“Event?” Your voice was laced with a suppressed panic, hidden behind a chuckle. “What event?”

Bruce narrowed his eyes slightly. Smiled.

That annoying smile of his—the one that told you he knew everything.

"Frankly, young lady," he said, his voice turning a little more theatrical, "for a young girl making her debut into society to forget a charity night planned months in advance... is definitely a scandal."

You put your hands over your mouth and giggled, albeit guiltily. "Bruce, I’m serious, it completely slipped my mind!" You splashed water toward him as you pulled back. "It was... because of Dr. Crane! I mean, he scolded me like, ‘the observation form is three days old but the linguistic analyses are missing,’ and I suddenly felt like a 45-year-old depressed academic writing a dissertation!"

Bruce staggered backward and fell, though he was already in the water — now he was submerged up to his shoulders.

He pushed his hair back after a wave hit his face, paused for a moment… then his gaze sharpened.

"So... you dared to threaten me with water? The one and only troublemaker of Wayne Manor... you little water creature."

You burst into laughter and tried to swim a step back, but it was too late. Bruce caught you in one swift move.

"No! No no Bruce, stop, don’t!" you said, flailing.

But he, maintaining his serious expression, wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you down into the water in one motion. The sound of your fall vanished among your shared laughter.

When you emerged, your hair was falling over your eyes, and you were breathless — but in the middle of a fit of laughter.

"You... you're so cruel!" you said, wiping the water from your face as tears streamed from your eyes from laughing.

Bruce, however, still looked serious. But it was a playful seriousness.

"If you ever push me into the water again, this won't be the end of it."

Amid your laughter, you rested your face against his chest. Your breathing was still uneven, but you could feel your heartbeat.

Beating in sync with his.

"But you never really get mad at me," you said in a sweet, childlike voice. "Because I always make you smile. Isn’t that right?"

Bruce lowered his head. His eyes grew more serious, but that protective gleam was still there. He cupped your cheek, brushing away a drop of water with his thumb as he studied you carefully.

"You... you're not someone easily forgotten," he said slowly. "Your laughter, sometimes it takes me back thirty years. But then I look again and you’re right here in this moment — and I find myself forgetting everything else."

You shivered inside. Leaning on him... wasn’t just about feeling safe. It was like thirsting for a warmth that shouldn’t be touched.

"Tomorrow Dr. Crane won’t be there," you said suddenly, as if changing the subject but actually making plans. "He’s on jury duty for the Arnold Wesker case. My whole day is yours."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. His smile now carried a different meaning. It also felt like a warning.

"That’s a dangerous offer. If you give me your whole day, I might threaten you with your whole life."

You smiled. But a seriousness settled on your face.

In the water, you moved closer to him, your fingers trailing on the surface as they reached for his chest. Your voice slowed.

"You’re the only one who's ever really stood up for me in my life. Maybe... everything started the moment I met you."

Bruce lowered his head, resting his forehead against yours.

He wasn’t touching — yet the closeness meant more than any touch.

And as the water enveloped your bodies, words gave way to presence.

Yours and his.

That morning, when the Wayne limousine pulled up at your door and you saw the gleaming black leather seats, the mini bar, and the soft notes of jazz playing inside, the feeling you suddenly had wasn’t one of indulgence.

It was acceptance.

You felt like you truly belonged to Gotham now — from the very top.

Bruce sat beside you. Wearing sunglasses, a classic Patek Philippe on his wrist. The most expensive suit in Gotham, but one that never showed off its brand. Navy blue, made of silk, tailor-made.

"Remember," he had said along the way, placing a hand gently on your knee,

"In this city, money talks, but attitude commands. When you walk in, make them forget who the Wayne is — but never let them forget who the Wayne is."

You smiled. As you walked in with him, every window display seemed to change in the blink of an eye. The moment you stepped into a boutique, the store was cleared out. Customers were politely ushered outside, and the staff lined up.

Bruce had only said one word: "Wayne."

That was enough.

Then everything began for you. Haute couture consultants, off-season collections specially brought from Paris and Milan, the quiet moments when tailors took your measurements.

Classical music drifting from a corner of the room, silk fabrics brushing gently against your skin, the Louboutins you tried on one after another, followed by Roger Vivier, and then a pair of avant-garde heels from Maison Margiela...

"If you wear this dress, every eye will be on you," Bruce said, handing you a Givenchy dress adorned with a sheer back.

The look in his eyes wasn’t just that of a father seeking elegance. He was studying you closely.

But with a kind of admiration he would never say aloud.

Maybe not even to himself.

Yet in every decision he made in silence, you were always a part of it.

As you tried on a dress, you looked at your reflection in the mirror. You gently grasped the thin gold necklace at your neck and said:

"Bruce, you know what? I wish the whole of Gotham wouldn’t see me or recognize me for just one night. But you... you, see me."

He paused for a moment. "I always see you," he said, slowly.

At that, you had let the dress fall, letting the silk slip away from you like it was leaving of its own will.

Then, suddenly, while your back was turned, you caught yourself watching him in the mirror.

He was sprawled on the armchair, resting his elbow on the armrest, watching you.

Not your nakedness, but you—as you were standing there.

"You’re beautiful enough to turn this city upside down," he said, as if the words slipped out without thinking. "And I love you not for that, but for being able to stay good despite yourself."

Something cracked in your heart at that moment.

You tried not to look at him, but you smiled. And taking the blame on yourself, you said,

"Unlike Dr. Crane’s gaze that tears me apart, you… you look into me without breaking me."

Bruce lowered his head, smiling. Then he stood up and took your hand.

"You have to make the final choice now," he said. "Because Alfred is already about to lose it. We had to open the third floor’s private gallery just for the shoes."

You tilted slightly, turning your hand inside his palm and narrowed your eyes.

"So if my little shopping frenzy has pissed off Alfred... we should blame Bruce Wayne’s spoiled ward. Everyone in this city has a role. Mine’s the fancy, pretty, but troublesome girl."

Bruce burst into laughter. He slowly leaned toward you, brushed your hair to the side, and whispered into your ear:

"No. Your role... is to be the woman who will change this city.

But tonight, first play the girl who will enchant it. With your eyes, your mind, your smile."

You let yourself fall into his hands.

But inside, another whisper was passing through:

"A man who blesses me this much... I must bless him in return."

And maybe that night, not just Gotham, but you too would change.

You were already on a path with no return.

And Bruce Wayne was waiting at the center of it.

Outside, Gotham’s purplish mist was pouring into the night…

The flickering reflections of yellow lights on the streets bent under the streetlamps like a kind of hopelessness.

But as you stepped into Le Pavé Noir, the city had left you at the door.

It was as if you had entered a protected zone.

As if Gotham paused at the sound of Bruce Wayne’s voice.

You and Bruce were sitting at the most isolated table inside, with a tall, thin vase between you, holding just one blue orchid.

Outside the glass, in the zen garden, tiny koi fish were circling as the ceiling slowly opened above you.

A starless Gotham night overhead… but still peaceful.

That evening, Bruce had chosen a black tuxedo. No tie, the first button left undone. A classic watch on his left wrist, his fingers resting on the stem of the glass.

And his eyes… were always on you.

You, on the other hand, were the embodiment of elegance that would make Audrey Hepburn jealous.

The Chanel dress Bruce had picked left your back completely bare, but somehow, it covered you even more.

Because it was his choice.

Even being at his boundary felt like armor.

"You look stunning," he said, as quietly as water.

You averted your gaze. Smiled. But your heart paused for a moment at those words.

"You spoil me too much," you said, trying to soften your voice.

"Just being here with you already feels like a dream."

Bruce watched you, long and carefully.

Maybe there were no lines at the corners of his eyes, but his gaze… was aged.

That night, he was not only cherishing you, but himself, too.

The waiters arrived almost invisibly and placed the food.

Thinly sliced wagyu beef sashimi, wild mushroom risotto heated on lava stone, and truffle butter brioche covered in gold dust.

But your appetite wasn’t for anything on the plate—it was for the man sitting across from you.

You watched him for a while without saying anything.

Drew circles in your food with the tip of your fork.

Then, tilting your head slightly, you lowered your voice:

"You know… as a child, my mother’s plates were always half full. My father… always finished everything.

Maybe that’s why I’m learning to feel full while working.

Like… when my mind is busy, my hunger disappears."

Bruce paused. Looked at you with that typical expression—not with pity, but trying to understand something.

"When someone can’t digest certain pains… they develop a different kind of appetite," he said.

"Yours is the hunger for work.

Some burn the city, others bury themselves.

But you… you chose to build yourself."

You didn’t want him to see the mist clouding your eyes.

You turned your head away.

But then his eyes pulled you back.

"Tomorrow," he said slowly, "if you want, you don’t have to go to your internship.

Tonight will be long. I don’t want to push you.

I can talk to Hugo Strange.

Taking a day off… wouldn’t be a problem at all."

You responded with that familiar, gentle smile.

"I have to go, Bruce. Dr. Crane wasn’t even there, and Arnold Wesker’s case kept him away from the hospital.

If he doesn’t see me tomorrow, I’ll have to deal with his annoying comments the day after." you said with a teasing tone.

Then, with a slightly somber look, you added,

"Actually… sometimes, my only way to quiet my mind is being with those people at the hospital.

And in their problems… I feel myself a little less. And I can live that way."

Bruce’s lips tightened.

He wanted to say something, but stayed silent.

Because there you were—glowing like a fragile, yet stubbornly resilient being, right in front of him.

Slowly, he reached out and took your hand.

He gently wrapped your tiny fingers in his palm.

It wasn’t a father’s tenderness—it was a man’s.

"I wish I could protect you from everything," he said.

"But that darkness you were born into… it made you different.

And that’s exactly what made you strong."

But you didn’t let go of his hand.

For a moment, you looked into his eyes.

There was another sentence inside you you tried to silence, but it slipped out anyway.

"When you look at me… sometimes I feel like someone else.

Not just the girl who carries the Wayne name.

Not just a student or an intern.

Like… actually me. Really me."

Bruce’s eyes became slightly misty, but he quickly gathered himself.

He looked away. Took a sip of his wine.

But you saw how hard it was for him to hide that.

Because just like you… he was holding himself back.

"Stay who you are," he said.

"I... I just want to be a light on your path.

Never… turn you into me."

But that sentence—“never turn you into me”—cut through you.

Because maybe… he already knew exactly who you most wanted to become.

And that night, after dinner, as he was putting you into the car, he looked at you once more before closing the door and whispered:

"Don’t forget... tomorrow night, you’ll show Gotham who you are.

But I see you today, at night, without the mask... too."

And in that moment, Bruce Wayne buried a feeling even deeper—one he would never confess.

But you?

The moment you looked into his eyes… you already understood everything.

06:12 AM

Location: Arkham Asylum – Psychiatry Wing, Dr. Crane’s Private Office

There was still over an hour left until the shift started. Gotham's heavy metal sky was cloaked in a dull gray, as if it resented the sun. The Asylum’s windows let in almost no light at this hour; outside was nothing but a world of mist drifting like sheer curtains. You had come in earlier than usual that morning. Your insides were restless, you were sleepless, but your mind was sharp like a blade. You had straightened the layout of the files on Dr. Crane’s desk and noted down a report listing the order of the cases to be reviewed that day.

No one had actually asked you to do any of that. But you wanted to prove that you were more than just a spoiled rich intern in Jonathan Crane’s eyes. Maybe an assistant. Maybe... something more.

After finishing with the files, you had moved to the leather chair tucked just behind the metal bookshelves in the corner. You took your notebook onto your lap. After biting down on the tip of your pen, you began to draw. The page filled first with a dark void; then emerged serpents eating their own tails, forked tongues, interwoven eyeballs, and eventually a humanoid figure with decayed internal organs... A woman, head bowed at the shoulder level. She had no eyes. Only sockets. And on her forehead was carved a single symbol: a “?” question mark.

Just then, the door opened. It wasn’t heavy, but you heard those signature dark footsteps Crane always walked in with—silent, composed. When you looked up, his tall silhouette had grown even larger against the faint backlight.

Dr. Jonathan Crane was wearing a dark navy suit. The collar of his cashmere coat was still up. He was cleaning the fog off his glasses when he noticed you.

He put on his glasses and tilted his head slightly, almost as if he’d seen a ghost.

“It’s rare… almost unheard of, for interns to be in my office before me.”

You smiled as you quickly closed the page you were drawing.

“Being early never hurts, right, Doctor?” you said, reaching to place the notebook on the table. “I just... wanted to prepare for today’s schedule. Thought I could be helpful.”

Crane’s eyes studied you carefully, but his gaze didn’t remain fixed. From behind his glasses, he examined you with the clinical chill of a scientist scanning data. Your clothes, how neatly your hair was arranged, whether you had washed your face that morning—he seemed to be decoding it all.

“Help... is a valuable word. Help… can save lives, if it comes from the right person.” His voice was soft. Almost hypnotic. Then he walked to his desk and reached toward the notebook you had just closed—but without letting you notice.

He paused suddenly.

“Actually… since you’re so eager, I could ask something of you. A file needs to be retrieved from Lab 3 on the lower floor. It requires my seal to open, so take this card.”

He handed you a silver-colored ID card embedded with a microchip.

“But be careful. It’s not the best place for the claustrophobic. The tunnels are... narrow. Dark. And due to the soundproof insulation, if you hear screaming, it’s not real.”

He smiled. It wasn’t warm. But it was polite. And strange.

As you stepped out, you turned slightly to glance at your notebook. Going back to get it might seem odd. You just hoped he wouldn’t look inside.

After you left, Dr. Jonathan Crane didn’t sit at his own chair. Instead, after sending you off, he walked toward the chair you had just occupied, where your body heat still lingered in the synthetic leather. He slowly removed his glasses and laid the metal frame on his knee. Your notebook was in front of him. Black cover, slightly worn corners, yet carefully used.

He stared at the cover for a few seconds. No name. No label. Only a subtle embossed phrase on the corner: “Nulla Vita Sine Arte.”

(Life without art is meaningless.)

With his long, slender fingers, he opened the cover. The first page was blank. Like a silent warning. A threshold. Crane turned the pages. One by one.

First Drawing

On the left, a female figure suspended by thin strings tied to her neck, being lifted skyward. No face. Just a flat, mask-like surface. Her abdomen was split open; a heart inside, fastened with spiderwebs. Beneath her right ribcage, a small cross mark. Her feet were chained—but the chains didn’t lead to the ground. They vanished into empty space.

Beneath it was written: “The order from above is balanced by punishment from below.”

Crane thought: “She codes herself as both victim and judge.”

“By erasing the skull’s features, she anonymizes her identity. This could either be from shame or to conceal a destructive urge. The heart is still fixed in place, that... is interesting. She retains the capacity to love. But what if she had to tear herself apart to keep those feelings alive?”

A faint smile traced his lips.

“She’s forgotten who she is, but she still remembers what she feels... how strange.”

Second Drawing

A hospital bed. A woman lying on it. Tubes connected to her veins, but instead of fluids, ink is flowing through them. The tubes link up to a massive pen-tip structure hanging above. Her eyes are blindfolded. Her face looks like it’s melted from crying. Above, a single word: “Diagnosis.”

Crane frowned.

“Ink… transformed into the venom of words. She’s attempted therapy through writing, but drowned in the text. In trying to empty her mind onto paper, she’s triggered incubation from within.”

Crane’s gaze darkened. A psychotic patient injecting herself with words through her veins. He was enthralled by the idea.

And only someone who harbors true darkness inside could draw such things, he thought. Yet his assumptions about you had always leaned another way. How could you have hidden the real “you” so well, especially next to someone like Dr. Crane?

Jonathan eagerly flipped through more pages. And there it was—the last drawing. The one you had just done.

Then he leaned back. Closed his eyes.

He inhaled the scent of your notebook. Printing ink, graphite dust, and that faint, citrusy perfume you used—sweet but bitter…

Silence.

His breath… almost stopped.

Suddenly, he stood up. He didn’t throw the notebook on the desk. He closed it gently. Then walked to the corner of the office.

Looked outside. Gotham was still drowning in mist.

“I need to understand her,” he thought. You were no longer just a subject for contemplation. This “understanding” had become something ritualistic. In Crane’s mind, you were no longer just a case… you were beginning to feel like a possession.

A subtle smile appeared at the corner of his lips. It wasn’t lustful.

It was closer to obsession.

And as Crane slowly returned to his desk, he whispered:

“I’ll enter your mind. With your own will… maybe even your desire. Because fear, Y/N... is the most powerful form of lust.”

The door handle knocked three times. Precise. Calm. Confident.

Crane slowly looked up. His voice was softer than usual. But the low-frequency vibration beneath it was something only trained ears would catch—a trace of extra attention, extra interest.

“Come in.”

There you stood at the threshold. Your left hand clutched a file tight to your chest, your right shoulder slumped slightly. Under the flickering fluorescent light, your pupils vanished in the dark for a moment, then gleamed again.

When you entered, the notebook was exactly where it had been.

As you handed him the file, Crane let his thumb brush briefly across the back of your hand. The touch stayed within professional bounds—but it was calculated. He wasn’t wearing gloves.

“Lower floor, Lab 3... I’m surprised,” he said softly, without looking at you. “Many interns manage to get lost down there.”

You laughed lightly, partly to ease the tension.

“It’s... interesting down there. A lot of old equipment, useless bottles, but organized. As if someone archived the past.”

Crane turned his gaze to you. Behind the lenses, his eyes met yours directly for the first time.

“You try to understand the spaces you enter. You believe you can’t move forward without understanding.”

You averted your eyes. For a moment, you felt naked in his gaze.

As you leaned forward to place the file down, Crane placed his hand on the edge of the desk. His fingers were level with yours. At that moment, only a hand’s width separated your bodies. And that space… seemed to shrink with every breath.

You placed the file on the desk. Just as you were about to ask what else you needed to do—

"Starting today, you’ll be present in some of the sessions with me," he said suddenly.

His words seemed to fall from the air.

No explanation given, none needed.

As if it wasn’t a task, but… a ritualistic invitation.

You didn’t understand. Your eyes widened, but your mouth stayed silent. Then, with a forced smile:

"You... weren’t very warm to the idea at first."

Crane sat in his chair and fixed his gaze on you.

"Trust should be chosen carefully. Trust doesn’t form through chemistry, but through physical proximity. Your observation skills are sharp. Besides... watching patients opens more than just them. It opens you, too. It allows me to discover you."

That last sentence. It slithered between the words like a snake. Discover... you?

You didn’t know what to say. Your lips twitched.

You turned, took a step toward the door.

"Y/N?"

It was the first time he said your name with such weight. His voice held both syllabic admiration and restrained command. You paused.

"Have you ever analyzed your own fears?"

That question… wasn’t random. He had read your notebook. He had touched your words. Maybe he had decoded your mind, line by line.

But you didn’t yet know how deep he’d delved into your psyche.

"Fears… open doors," he said in a low voice, almost like whispering to himself. "But some doors... once opened, never close."

Then he looked down. Gave you permission to leave.

But one thing had become clear: He would no longer be content just watching you. He wouldn’t just use you — he would *understand* you. He would *transform* you.

And you... you wouldn’t realize you were changing until it was far too late.

Location: Arkham Asylum – West Wing, Corridor 4

Among cold, sterile, and suffocating walls, two figures walked: Y/N and Dr. Jonathan Crane.

The flickering white of fluorescent lights reflected off the ceiling, echoing their footsteps through metal-lined marble beneath. The west corridor of Arkham… the oldest, narrowest, loneliest stretch. Hanging cables from the ceiling, soot stains casting shadows on the walls. This corridor carried the echo of souls that had long since given up on daylight — and now, another tension added itself to that echo with every step they took.

Dr. Crane walked ahead, his back straight. His coat lightly fluttered behind him, his thin fingers twitching impatiently near his pockets. You followed a step behind, but mentally you were further ahead — your mind filled with a name you were about to ask.

"Dr. Crane?" you said, your voice deliberately low and composed.

Jonathan didn’t turn his head. "Speak," he said plainly.

You bit your lip, hesitated. Then:

"Any developments about Arnold Wesker’s case? Has the court… decided?"

This time, Crane tilted his head slightly and kept walking. A smirk may have crossed his lips, or perhaps it only flashed in his eyes. Your voice had a distinct tone. A mix of fear and curiosity, a deviation, a sort of… personal pull.

"Wesker…" he said. "How long do you think someone like him would last in prison?"

You remained silent.

"He’ll most likely be admitted to Arkham. Why do you ask?"

It sounded like a jab, but there was no mockery in his tone. Only measurement. A test. An experiment. Your face flushed slightly. You looked away. You didn’t realize it, but even your lack of answer was recorded in Crane’s mind. Silence was his data. A sign of deviation, suppressed impulse, unconscious admiration.

And you weren’t even aware of how personal that question was.

Suddenly, a scream rang out from one of the cells. Crane turned his head with a smile:

"Did you hear that? For some, therapy is just another form of torture. I hope it won’t be for you."

You didn’t say a word. You gripped the file in your hand a little tighter.

You arrived at the security checkpoint with glass walls and uniformed guards. Inside… Edward Nygma.

The door opened with a special code. The room was one of Arkham’s most sterile. It was divided in two: one side for doctors, the other for patients. A glass partition allowed light through, but distorted reflections. The patient could see the doctors, but couldn’t hide from their gaze.

Edward Nygma sat in a chair in the corner, dark circles under his eyes, hands propping up his chin as he stared at the floor. He was mumbling. The words didn’t make sense, but there were letters... unraveling into words that hadn’t yet formed.

Crane turned to you and whispered as if saying something mundane:

"Today, you're the therapist. I’ll just be watching you."

Your eyes widened. "Me? But..."

"I’m not asking for a diploma. I’m curious about your reactions, your instincts, your analytical mind. Let’s see which mask Edward wears when he looks at you."

You stepped toward Edward. Your breath caught in your throat, but your face remained neutral. Like Scarecrow without the mask. You crouched to his eye level and sat.

"Edward… do you know who I am?"

He lifted his head. His eyes were glassy. Then he flinched.

"You… you’re the one bringing the answer," he said. "You’re the answer to the riddle, aren’t you? Or don’t you know? If you don’t, I could destroy you."

You didn’t flinch. You smiled.

"Destruction would be easy, wouldn’t it? But no one kills the answer."

There was a pause.

Crane’s eyes looked as if they might burst from their sockets. Not in shock… but in delight. A twisted admiration blooming in rot. You weren’t speaking with Edward — you were *dancing* with him. With words, fear, and balance.

Edward nodded.

"You… you’re a complicated answer. But an answer, nonetheless. Beautiful…"

The session lasted forty-five minutes, though it felt like days to you. Still, you didn’t falter. Edward suddenly turned in his chair, gripped his head, and screamed. He had collapsed inward.

Dr. Crane stood up. His eyes never left you.

"That’s enough. You were brilliant. Braver than I expected. More instinctual."

You didn’t know what to say.

But what Crane thought in that moment… was silent. And terrifying.

The voices in his head had begun to form a single face.

"Untrained. But instinctual. There's something untamed in her..."

When Crane returned to his office, he washed his hands. The scent of soap lingered as he stared into the mirror.

Your face filled his mind. Eyes that gleamed even in darkness, a stillness that knew fear from the inside.

"She’s no longer Wayne’s daughter. She’s... a variable that must be rewritten. Unpredictable. Definitely… mine."

He had decided: you should never be left alone again. No session should be free from your observation. No smile, no tremble should go unrecorded.

And touch... yes, that must increase. The reaction he got when his hands brushed yours — it was a crack in the surface. He needed to watch you. Direct you.

This wasn’t just scientific obsession.

This was Crane’s darkness falling in love with its own reflection — in you.

When you entered, you noticed the room had a scent of its own.

Chloroform-like, but older… perhaps a memory seeping from a long-forgotten lab, clinging to the walls.

Dr. Crane leaned on the edge of his desk, hands clasped behind his back.

His eyes studied the girl entering from the door. Deep and tinged with red, his gaze focused on one thing only: control.

"You’re here. Good. Sit," he said.

"To my left."

You slowly sat down on the chair. You weren’t nervous, but you weren’t exactly comfortable either. Your shoulders were straight, your knees together. You traced the corner of the file with your fingers. Crane, however, didn’t move the chair. Instead… he stood right behind you.

“You’ll enter today’s session notes into the system using the CR-47 template,” he said.

“But first… you need to bypass the software password.”

As he spoke, his tone was serious yet soft. It carried a suggestion that left no room for questioning, without being overtly threatening. You nodded. Crane leaned in. Just slightly. You could barely feel his breath on your shoulder. But there was something you did feel… like a finger touching your heart from behind your ribcage—a quiet unease.

Crane didn’t place his hand on your back. But as he spoke, the shadow of his fingers danced across your shoulder blades. He inhaled through his nose. Vanilla. And… adrenaline. A hint of sweat, but mixed with a velvet shiver.

The glow of the screen washed Crane’s face pale. Yet his eyes never stopped watching you.

“CR-47 is a template used for cases of post-traumatic dissolution and projected identity change. Suitable for subjects like Edward Nygma. Check the box labeled ‘dissociative symptoms’ at the bottom. If you get stuck… ask me. Or… let me show you.”

You reached for the keyboard. Your fingers touched the keys, and Crane leaned closer, placing his hand over the keyboard—not to restrain, only to guide. Yet it lingered. The distance between you was no more than a breath. His fingers brushed your wrist ever so slightly. It could have seemed like nothing from the outside. But from within… something stirred.

A voice inside you, repressed, the kind born in childhood as a form of protection, warned you. “Be careful. This touch… isn’t ordinary.”

Still, you didn’t turn your head. You only blinked. After a moment, Crane spoke again, barely louder than a whisper.

“Sometimes, to understand a patient… empathy isn’t enough. You have to become them. Project your identity into their mind and confront it with your own darkness. Do you have the courage for that, Y/N?”

You swallowed. “I think… yes.”

There was silence. The computer fan hummed quietly. Then, Y/N gently turned in the chair.

“Dr. Crane… I have a favor to ask.”

“Of course.”

“There’s a charity event tonight. Hosted by the Wayne Foundation. I was wondering if I could get ready here and leave a little early.”

At that moment, the room’s temperature shifted. Like the instant a chemical reaction begins. Dr. Crane’s facial muscles didn’t move. But his eyes… his eyes deepened like a blade.

“Wayne Foundation?”

“Yes.”

“Bruce Wayne?”

“Yes, I’m going with him.”

Crane took a step back. He didn’t look away. But his voice, now a lower tone, came like ice—like anger with no garnish.

“Mr. Wayne… doesn’t frequent Arkham very often these days. But when he does, it’s as if he believes he can magically solve every case.”

“You don’t think his help is… genuine?”

“It may be genuine. But it’s arrogant.”

You lowered your head.

Crane walked over to the edge of his desk. He clasped his hands behind his back. He turned away, but his voice came from him like a wall. “Enjoy your evening, Y/N. But a mind that belongs to you… if it stays too long in foreign lights, it may no longer recognize its own shadow.”

That sentence… was a warning. Not a threat, but more like a vow.

“Dr. Crane?”

Crane slightly turned his head. But his eyes remained still.

“If one day… those lights don’t let me go back… will you be the voice that helps me recognize my shadow?”

Crane smiled. But it wasn’t a man’s smile… it was a shadow’s.

“I already am… that voice.”

And you stood up, walking toward the cabinet in the office. You took the dress you had hung on the hook and looked at Dr. Crane one last time before closing the door behind you. As the door shut, Crane clenched his fingers. Beneath the blanching of his skin, there was jealousy. The name Bruce Wayne had stirred something venomous in his veins.

“I won’t let him watch you,” he whispered to himself.

He slowly sat down in his chair. His fingers touched the edge of the desk, then his gaze shifted to the chair you had been sitting in.

The fabric that had touched your body still felt like you to him. The curve of your shoulders, the arch of your back… your breath, the warmth your skin radiated…

When he closed his eyes, he could still smell the vanilla on you. But to him, that scent wasn’t just an aroma; it was a call. A dangerous call.

“Bruce Wayne…”

He murmured the name like one would utter the name of a disease. The thought of him standing beside you now was slowly rotting Crane’s mind.

“He’ll watch you with his hands in his pockets. He’ll smile. Pretend to care.”

Crane constructed the image in his mind. His eyes misted over.

“But he won’t know. He can’t analyze your weak spots like I do. I feel them. Because I... will touch your mind.”

He laced his fingers together. Pressed his nails into his palms. The veins in his hands bulged.

“I could rip your mind out. Break every dream into pieces and show them back to you. And what will Bruce Wayne do? Offer you a drink and look into your eyes? Weak. He tries to keep you at the edge. I… would devour you.”

At that moment, he imagined you behind his eyelids. But this time at the benefit night, dressed elegantly… your back bare, your shoulders gracefully exposed…

And Bruce Wayne whispering something to you. Touching you.

Crane clenched his teeth. A deep rage twisted in his stomach. But it wasn’t just jealousy. It was a claim.

“I won’t give what’s mine… to anyone. You don’t know it yet. But I will shape you. Slowly, carefully. And soon, I’ll be the only one left there.”

He rose from the chair. Walked to the window. Rain was pounding against the glass now. The drops blurred the world outside. But in his mind, he saw your silhouette. Wet hair falling onto your shoulders. A smile on your lips. Bruce beside you.

And at that moment, Crane touched his darkest urge: He didn’t want to destroy him. He wanted to watch him decay in front of your eyes. Because the real punishment wasn't disappearance—it was losing what you couldn’t have, again and again.

And Crane smiled. But there was no warmth at the corner of his lips. Only a cold patience. Time was his weapon. And you… were on his clock.

When the door opened again, the first thing to fill the room was the familiar, but this time stronger, scent of your perfume. As if that smell had taken you away from yourself and made you belong to that other life outside.

Then he saw you. You entered the room.

Slowly. As if time itself obeyed the rhythm of your heels.

He saw the dress first. That fabric in which midnight competed with navy blue, leaving your shoulders exposed… you glided like a shadow. Your hair cascading down your neck looked like a mark. And in that moment, Crane’s mind filled with a void. No—this void wasn’t absence. It was hunger. Even if he devoured you with his eyes, it wouldn’t be enough.

But he said nothing. Looked at you with the corners of his eyes. Gave a slight nod. As always. Stillness was his mask. Silence his armor. But inside… inside, a forest was burning. He didn’t need to swallow—his throat was already dry. He suppressed the word that came to his tongue: Mine.

Your lips moved. “I’m ready,” you said. “I just wanted to let you know before heading to the benefit. I straightened up a bit in the office. I’m leaving now.”

Politeness… pressed down on Crane like a weight.

Every time he looked at you, the fragments of clinical knowledge in his mind began to scatter. You weren’t his patient. But in his mind, he couldn’t help turning you into a kind of diagnosis. Obsessive-compulsive transference. Beyond the classical countertransference line. The cognitive layers inside him were collapsing with a crackling sound. You made him something more than human. And at the same time… a monster.

“Of course. You may go,” he said. His voice was calm. But that calm was like lava flowing just beneath ice.

“Good evening,” you said. And turned around. A smile not born of joy but shaped by courtesy. Your footsteps joined the corridor once again.

He didn’t leave immediately. He waited. Counting. Six. Five. Four… He closed his eyes, inhaling the time your scent lingered in the room. Then he stood, slipping out of the dark office toward the door. Silently. His feet barely touched the ground, like a ghost.

He reached the end of the corridor. The dimmest part, away from the cameras. He fixed his eyes on the small window that offered a view outside.

Despite Gotham’s gray descent, a sliver of light filtered in. Wayne’s armored, sleek black car was parked at the curb. And there he was. Bruce Wayne.

Smiling as he watched you.

You walked toward him slowly, heels tapping. The car headlights cast a glow on your shoulders. Your skin trembled… maybe from the cold, maybe from excitement. And at that moment, one sentence echoed in Crane’s mind: Everything inside you trying to leave no space for me… now bears the name Bruce Wayne.

He pressed his lips together. A deep line settled between his brows. What he held down in his chest now was not just desire. It was justified fury.

Because no matter how clever Bruce Wayne was, he would never understand you. He would smile at you.

But he would never know where you break.

The hands that repaired you weren’t his. They were the eyes that watched you bleed. And those eyes… right now, were watching from that window. Like a predator that knew your every cell. Not focused on you—but on the man watching you. Bruce’s hands, his gaze, his steps. How he touched you.

A whisper rose from inside Crane: You’ll go with him. But in your mind, the mark I left will remain. At the end of the night, he may be the one unzipping your dress…

But the only one who’s solved your secrets… is me.

He didn’t take his eyes off the window. Watched as you got into the car. The door closed. And with Bruce Wayne, you slowly disappeared into the night.

And this time, Dr. Jonathan Crane… did not smile.

Beyond the city lights, in the silence of the car, soft melodies slipped between the seats. The interior of Bruce Wayne's car felt isolated from the outside world.

You stared out the window, your thoughts twisting with the curves of the road. Bruce was saying something, his voice was gentle, but you couldn’t focus.

The fabric of your dress against your shoulder merged with the stillness around you, making your body feel all too real.

When you chose that dress, a part of you knew it was for him. The way Bruce’s eyes lingered a bit too long on your shoulders, on the curve of your neck… it hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“You look comfortable,” Bruce said, eyes still fixed on the road ahead. “Doesn’t seem like you’re afraid to be in the same room with Gotham’s richest five hundred.”

“You’re here with me,” you replied, careful not to let your voice sound too natural.

He only nodded. He didn’t look at you for long—but when he did, you were sure he always saw more than he should.

As the car pulled up to the main entrance of the hall, flashes burst in rapid succession.

Journalists, crowds constantly tracking Wayne Enterprises, shouts... You were already blinded by the lights before the door even opened.

The door was opened for you. And Bruce extended his hand, helping you out. The moment your hand touched his, time seemed to freeze.

You were twenty-two.

But in Bruce Wayne’s eyes, you were still sixteen.

The crowd fell silent for a moment. Because they didn’t recognize the young woman who had arrived with him.

“Mr. Wayne! Is there a special reason you’ve come with your ward tonight?”

“Mr. Wayne, is it true that you claim Y/N as your ward because of the age difference between you?”

“Is it true that there’s a romantic relationship between you two?”

The questions came one after another, each one pushing a different boundary.

Bruce’s lips curled slightly. That famous, careless businessman smile was on his face.

But you could feel the other man behind that smile.

“Tonight’s guest of honor,” he said. “And no… I won’t be answering your strange questions.”

“So Mr. Wayne, are the rumors about a romance true?”

“In Gotham, Alfred might be the only one without any romance rumors,” Bruce said. “Though he was apparently quite the flirt in his youth.”

Laughter echoed. Microphones were held up to you, cameras flashed, lenses zoomed in... You were being objectified.

Part of you felt like it was all a game. But another part remembered the old, old days—when Bruce looked at you that way.

Once inside, the hall was filled with white flowers. Crystal chandeliers glittered, live music played behind velvet curtains.

Champagne flowed everywhere, along with furs and expensive jewelry... The mayor of Gotham was giving a speech on stage, but no one was listening.

They were just watching each other. Who came with whom. Who wore what. Who was holding Bruce Wayne’s arm.

You.

But then, your eyes caught her.

Charlotte Rivers. She entered in a black satin dress. As if she *belonged* to the night. Her hair was perfectly styled, her smile trained for television.

Your stomach tightened. Because you knew how she looked at Bruce. And how Bruce had once looked back.

You had seen them.

Years ago. Charlotte had been his woman—at least in Gotham’s eyes.

Charlotte’s gaze settled on you. One second. Maybe two. Then she smiled. But it wasn’t warm. It was the smile of a woman who pets her dog while tightening the leash.

Bruce stood tall beside you, a show of strength. But you noticed the way his jaw tensed. He didn’t turn to you. Nor did he move toward Charlotte.

But between the two of you, a history hung in the air. And that history was heavier than the most expensive jewel in the room.

The music kept playing. Flashes still burst now and then. But your mind turned further inward. Bruce’s hand on your shoulder—maybe it was to soothe you.

But maybe to control you.

Maybe to remind you that you were his.

Or maybe… just to remember.

“Y/N?” His voice pulled you from your thoughts. “Want to get some air? Let’s go upstairs—the terrace is quieter there.”

The connection wasn’t broken. But it had shifted into something else.

Tension.

Something historic, buried, repressed.

Unspoken—but known by all.

The night was heavy. Tangible, almost. Even Gotham’s chaos echoing below couldn’t pierce the stillness that wrapped itself around the terrace.

The first thing you felt stepping onto the upper balcony wasn’t the cool brush of the wind against your skin.

It was the contrast.

Inside, laughter still rang over the tinkling of piano keys, light pooling from chandeliers like golden wine—warm, indulgent.

But out here…

Time hesitated.

As if this place belonged not to the masked crowd inside, but to another world.

A forgotten summer night, perhaps.

Or a future that never happened.

Your heels clicked against the stone floor as you approached the wrought iron railing.

You didn’t need to turn around to know Bruce was following.

He made no sound—he never did.

But you felt him. Every molecule of him.

The heat from his body nearing yours. The air shifting as he breathed.

His presence always quiet, yet commanding enough to change the way your heart beat.

He made you alert.

Made you softer, somehow.

Sharper.

More woman.

More exposed.

"Still nervous?"

His voice was low. Calm.

But something was caged within it.

You shook your head slowly. But you turned your face away, knowing he wouldn’t be looking into your eyes.

Because when you met his gaze, you both knew what it could become.

And one of you always looked away.

Usually him.

"Of course I’m nervous," you said, voice light with forced amusement. But your tone carried layers even he couldn’t ignore.

"Walking into a room on the arm of Gotham’s most powerful man isn’t exactly a stroll in the park. Especially when everyone knows where I came from."

Bruce turned toward you, his eyes tracing your shoulder, trying to catch your face.

"Y/N... No one cares about your past," he said softly. "They care about you. Who you are."

Something ached inside your chest.

Because when he said "you"… You didn’t know who he meant.

The child he once knew?

Or the woman standing before him now—whose curves and edges he had memorized in a single glance, but whose gaze still terrified him?

You lowered your head, hiding behind the skyline.

At night, Gotham looked like a different city.

Far in the distance, Arkham’s gothic spires loomed like a ghost in the mist.

And then you said it.

You didn’t know why.

"I had my first session."

A beat.

"Crane put me face to face with Riddler."

You felt the tension snap through Bruce’s shoulders.

But he said nothing.

"I thought he didn’t trust me at first," you continued. "But it wasn’t that. It was a test. For both of us. Me and Riddler. We were… measuring each other. It was strange. But I learned things. About myself. Even Crane looked at me differently by the end. Like he finally saw me not just as ‘the intern’… but something else."

You could feel Bruce watching you now.

Even if he hadn’t spoken yet.

"Something else," he echoed, his voice low, rough.

You turned.

And for the first time that night, he met your eyes.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t look away.

That alone gave you courage.

You stepped closer.

Like a woman realizing her power.

Dangerous.

Beautiful.

Real.

The wind brushed your skin. But Bruce’s nearness was warmer. Heavier.

His gaze held the war within him.

Yours held a decision.

"You never saw me as a child, did you, Bruce?"

The question hovered in the silence.

Even Gotham’s sounds seemed to pause.

His eyes darkened.

But he didn’t step back.

Didn’t lie.

He just swallowed hard, looked down, and took in a breath like it hurt him to breathe.

"You… were never a child to me," he said. "But this—Y/N— this isn’t right."

You smiled.

Because when he said it’s not right, what he really meant was I’m trying not to fall apart.

You stepped closer again. The flicker in his pupils. The twitch in his jaw.

The way his hands no longer knew where they belonged.

You tilted your head, letting your gaze fall to the hollow at the base of his throat.

You’d imagined pressing your lips there, once.

Back when you didn’t know what that desire meant.

Now you did. Now you saw the fear in his stillness.

"I haven’t seen you as a father figure in a long time, Bruce," you said, voice soft but unyielding.

"And I know how wrong that sounds. But knowing it’s wrong… doesn’t stop me anymore."

He looked at you. And there was fire in his eyes. But also something chained behind them.

A Batman who held himself back—for you to protect you. But you didn’t need protecting anymore. You were past that.

Bruce turned. Took a step away.

His fists were clenched at his sides.

"No, Y/N," he said.

And his voice was jagged. Like he hated himself for saying it.

"Don’t. Please."

For the first time, you saw the anger. But it wasn’t just at you. It was at himself. For wanting. For needing. For losing control.

"This isn’t about how I feel," he said. "This is about protecting you."

You leaned against the cold iron rail, your heart crashing against your ribs.

But you smiled. Proud. Defiant. Because now, you knew.

You knew how much he wanted you.

And that knowledge made you powerful.

The terrace had grown a bit quieter now.

The mechanical joy from below—laughter and the clinking of crystal glasses—had been drowned out here by the whisper of the wind. The darkness that settled over the city covered everything like a heavy blanket; not just you, but the man in front of you too. The way he looked at you moments ago still lingered on your skin. The echo of the feelings you had just confessed hung in the air with a boldness that surpassed the words themselves.

You were leaning against the iron railing, trying to push back your hair whipped by the wind, and you could hear your heart not just beating, but pounding. Bruce had stepped away a little. As if he realized he had gotten too close to something growing inside you—and recoiled. His hands were in his coat pockets, his head bowed. And as you watched him pull away, you faced something you'd never had to face before: not the fear of rejection—because you knew he wanted you too—but a deliberate retreat.

Then the terrace door opened. And a silhouette as cold as the moonlight glided in.

Charlotte Rivers.

Her arrival was like stepping onto a stage—dramatic, calculated, and perfectly timed. Her satin evening gown shimmered with dark red undertones beneath black fabric, slithering like a snake, cascading in waves across her skin. The fur draped over her shoulders wasn’t vulgar—it was a statement of power. Her lips were flawlessly painted—but not like yours. Hers were made for the stage. Yours were made for truth.

Charlotte saw you. She scanned you. Not the way a woman looks at another woman—but the way a woman sizes up a girl with condescension. With a smile that seemed to recall every moment between you, she turned toward Bruce.

"Bruce," she said, her voice hitting the night like the shatter of a glass. "I didn’t expect you to leave me all alone."

Bruce’s expression softened for a brief second.

But that softness wasn’t for you. It was a defense mechanism. A wall he was building against you, his feelings for you, and the things you had just said.

And Charlotte positioned herself right in front of that wall.

"Charlotte," Bruce said. "If you can still escape the crowd, it must mean no one in there has caught your interest."

The woman smiled faintly. Stepped closer. She leaned toward Bruce’s collar—not to kiss, just to hover, barely touching. But that delicate threat had already started to slither into your veins like a slow sting.

"You always manage to distract me, don’t you?" Charlotte murmured. "But I see... tonight you’ve brought a young companion. Very young."

She turned to you. But her voice wasn’t really directed at you—it was aimed at Bruce, evaluating you as if you were a decision he hadn’t made yet.

"I’ve heard a lot about you," she said. "The young intern under Bruce’s wing. What an honor. Bruce is improving in the fatherhood department, isn’t he?"

That word—“fatherhood”—twisted in the air like a sharp blade and pierced you. You instinctively took a step back. But Bruce didn’t respond. He didn’t defend you. He said nothing.

And then it happened.

Charlotte gently touched Bruce’s arm.

Her hand rested on the inside of his wrist.

And Bruce didn’t hesitate to accept it. He even smiled.

That smile... it wasn’t for you. It didn’t belong to you.

And the moment you realized that, something inside you collapsed. A part of you dropped, like falling from a height.

Like when you're a child and jump down the stairs, knowing you’ll fall but letting yourself go anyway—that feeling.

Something didn’t break, but it cracked.

"Charlotte, would you like to go inside?" Bruce said. "There are a couple of things we should probably talk about."

That sentence. Simple. Polite. But the most graceful form of betrayal.

You were still there. At the edge of the terrace.

Just minutes earlier, you had opened your heart to him. And now, he was speaking to another woman without even turning his back on you—as if trying to forget you.

Charlotte turned to you and nodded slightly. Not with triumph. Just with a look that said: Know your place.

As they walked back inside together, Bruce turned his head one last time. Your eyes met.

Inside... maybe there was an apology. Maybe a self-defense. But mostly... there was escape.

And you stood there, leaning your back against the iron railings. The wind was tossing your hair across your face. Your eyes were burning, but you didn’t cry. Because this wasn’t something tears could fix.

This was the beginning of a war.

Bruce had hurt you. Not unintentionally. On purpose.

Because he wanted you. But he was afraid of that want.

And men who are afraid—hurt the ones they love.

The rain hadn’t fallen yet, but the city was already grey. On this night, dressed in expensive coats and adorned with expensive intentions, no one spoke the language of shadows.

Inside the car, it was silent. The engine was off, the windows fogged. Motionless. But inside the car, a storm raged in the mind. He was sitting. Back straight, hands on the steering wheel.

And behind that wheel sat one of the city’s most cold-blooded doctors, a man who knew the chemistry of the human mind by heart, yet had long lost control over his own emotions: Dr. Jonathan Crane.

Behind his glasses, his eyes gleamed with a passion that didn’t shine. Without blinking, he aimed his small binoculars at the upper terrace of the opera house. Yes, he saw you. In all your nakedness, your vulnerability, the raw state of your broken heart.

You were up there, leaning against the iron railing, slowly sipping a drink from your crystal glass. That glass in your hand was actually filled with the empty phrases that had fallen from Bruce Wayne’s lips, and as you drank it, you knew exactly what you were consuming. Betrayal. Neglect.

And most of all, the helplessness of watching his eyes turn to another woman.

Charlotte’s laughter, the small, involuntary gestures Bruce gave in response—each one chipped away at you.

Slowly, but surely.

And this was what Jonathan Crane loved watching the most.

Weak moments. Vulnerabilities. Shaken pride. Tiny cracks forming in the walls of the mind. Because through those cracks, he could seep in. He could seep into you.

He lowered the binoculars. Slowly leaned back in the seat.

As if a warmth washed over him, he exhaled deeply, but that warmth didn’t come from compassion or empathy. It was the primal satisfaction of a predator. The dark, poisonous pleasure taken in a victim’s pain.

He slowly moved his left hand into his pocket and took out his phone. The screen lit up. Your name appeared—like a trembling anticipation. When he saw your name, the corner of his lips curled into a smile. But this smile wasn’t one of affection; it was the thrill a chemist feels when the right element reacts in the perfect crack.

His thumb began to type a message. But what could he say?

How could he make you feel possessed without showing ownership… reveal he was watching without being caught… pull you in without overtly reaching out?

He wrote:

Your communication with Riddler today was more effective than I anticipated. I’ve been following your behavioral patterns with curiosity from the beginning. They don’t see it, but… I do. Everything. Your early synchronization with criminal psychology—does it stem from past observational experiences, I wonder? Let’s talk in the morning.

When he pressed send, something flickered across his face.

Not pride. Not victory. A sense of right. His right over you.

You were his student. His object of analysis. His project. His! And now, even emotionally, even with the shattered pieces of your heart that still belonged to Bruce Wayne, it was time to seep into you.

He saw you take out your phone under the dim yellow light coming from the terrace above.

You tilted your head down. Looked at the screen. Your eyes scanned that familiar message. Your face froze for a moment. One second, two seconds… You read it. Looked at the screen for a while. Slowly put the phone away, but something in your expression shifted.

As Charlotte’s laughter echoed below and Bruce’s exaggerated chivalry whispered from ear to ear, he kept watching you. You stood there, unaware you were being watched by a psychiatrist who saw you as a test tube. Broken. Exposed. Accessible.

Jonathan’s pupils dilated. His gaze, shining from behind his glasses, processed every detail like a microscope—every muscle twitch, every tiny facial expression, every flicker of emotion.

You swallowed. Blinked. Briefly turned your head toward Bruce, then back to your drink. And maybe you weren’t even aware, but that message had made you feel warm for a moment.

Like a drug injected into your cracked moment—it had left you dazed.

Crane knew the effect. He could explain it scientifically. But this time, it wasn’t about science. It was personal. He wanted to see you. In your wounded state. In your chaos. And he believed only he could pull you out of it.

And now, as Bruce continued to ignore you, that sense of ownership grew even more.

Because no mask could hide this fragility.

“Go on, Bruce,” he murmured in the dark. “Hurt her a little more… leave her a little more alone…”

Because in that loneliness, a space was opening. And Jonathan Crane was impatient to enter it.

He didn’t write the next message. Not yet.

It wasn’t time. When the time came, he would write that sentence—the one that would reach into the depths of your darkness and pull you all the way to the surface. But until then, he only watched. Watched you unravel, fall apart—

But only to be pieced back together by his hands.

[reomikagekin]

What if Ryusui with a reader that just... doesn't really know how to express gratitude?

like. I do not process any emotions well, but I usually mask decently & am friendly. but one thing I CAN'T replicate well for some reason is gratitude for unexpected gifts. I appreciate all gifts i get, but I'm pretty sure I always just seem like "oh thanks... an avocado..."

I don't. purposefully try to be ungrateful or anything. I wear clothes people give me (as long as they're not Sensory Hell), jewelry goes in My Collection Of Shiny, I'll draw in sketchbooks, cuddle stuffed animals, etc, and I REFUSE to get rid of anything that was given to me as a gift lmao

i just think Ryusui trying to woo a reader who's default reaction is just a calm "oh- uhm- thanks-" would be a funny premise.

"I don't think reader likes my gifts :("

"... they hissed at me like a feral cat when I suggested using the jewelry for science-"

A Dragon’s Greatest Challenge

Ryusui Nanami was, in most things, a man of certainty.

Business, politics, exploration — all required clarity of vision, confidence, drive. And those were qualities he had in spades.

Wooing others? Please — effortless. He’d once made a career of it. Lavish gifts, charming words, the right timing — it was practically a science. An art form he had long since mastered.

But you…

You were a mystery wrapped in calm tones and polite smiles, and it drove him mad.

He’d noticed you early on in the Kingdom of Science’s growing community. You had a sharp eye, a steady presence — friendly enough, good at playing along, but something about you always felt… held back. Not distant, just controlled.

And Ryusui liked puzzles.

So naturally, he began his campaign: small, thoughtful gifts. To show you he was paying attention. A way to say “I see you.”

The First Gift It was a bracelet — handmade from golden threads, small beads and shells, woven with care. Light enough not to be irritating, elegant in a subtle way.

He presented it with a grand flourish, because of course he did.

“For the most intriguing one among us,” he said, flashing a grin. “A token of admiration.”

You blinked up at him, startled.

A beat of silence.

“Oh. Uhm— thanks.”

A quiet voice. No flush, no spark of surprise. Just that small, soft phrase — and then you tucked the bracelet carefully into your pocket.

Ryusui stood there for a long moment, brows lifting. That was… not the reaction he expected.

The Second Gift Maybe you didn’t like jewelry? He pivoted. This time: a rare fruit, sweet and juicy, one that took effort to find on the coastline.

He found you near the workshop, set the fruit before you with a wink. “For you,” he said, tone playful. “A delicacy worthy of a discerning palate.”

Again — that blink. A pause.

“Oh. Thanks. I’ll eat it later.”

You picked it up and moved on, leaving Ryusui standing there again, dumbfounded.

The Third Gift Determined now, Ryusui crafted a beautiful leather-bound sketchbook, the cover embossed with a dragon — his signature motif.

He handed it to you with a note, a dramatic tilt of his head: “For the one whose eyes always see what others miss.”

And… the same reaction.

“Oh. Thanks.”

You took it gently and walked away.

By the fourth attempt, Ryusui was sprawled dramatically across a log in camp, arm slung over his face.

“They don’t like my gifts,” he moaned to Senku, Chrome, and Minami. “It’s tragic! No joy, no delight — nothing! Doomed, before I even begin!”

Senku didn’t even look up. “You’re being ridiculous.”

Chrome tilted his head. “I saw them using the sketchbook earlier.”

Ryusui shot upright. “What?!”

Chrome pointed: across camp, there you were, sitting beneath a tree, completely absorbed in your drawing — the dragon sketchbook open on your lap, bracelet glinting on your wrist.

Minami crossed her arms. “Maybe your ego’s too big to see it, but they like your gifts. They just don’t show it the way you expect.”

Ryusui stared at you for a long moment.

You weren’t faking. You weren’t being polite out of obligation. You were using the gifts, wearing them. Treating them with care.

A grin tugged at his mouth. “How fascinating…”

From then on, he adjusted his strategy. No more grand gestures, no big expectations. He would give quietly — and watch, and learn.

Weeks later, he left a delicate necklace in your work kit, with a simple note: “For no reason but my own greed — to see you shine.”

He didn’t approach you about it. Simply waited.

Later, he spotted you — the necklace around your neck, no fuss, no words.

That was better than any blushing thanks.

But the real breakthrough came soon after.

Ryusui was helping Senku test a new metallurgical process, in need of a conductor for the circuit. He happened to spot, neatly tucked in your box of personal things, a few of the necklaces and trinkets he’d given you.

“Mind if I borrow this for science?” he called lightly, reaching.

You froze mid-step. Your gaze sharpened. And then — you hissed.

An actual hiss. Shoulders hunched, eyes narrowed, arms wrapping protectively around your collection.

Ryusui blinked. Then — he laughed. Loud and full of life.

“Oh-ho! So that’s how it is! A dragon guarding their hoard!” He beamed. “You do like them — you treasure them! I knew it!”

You flushed, but stubbornly didn’t deny it — simply gathering your things and tucking them safely away.

From that point on, it became a private game.

Ryusui still brought you gifts: small, thoughtful, useful. A rare stone for your collection. New cloth, smooth and soft. A book of pressed flowers.

He never pressed for thanks. But each time, he watched.

When he saw a bracelet appear on your wrist, or you used a tool he’d repaired for you, or found the fruit he’d left tucked in your bag eaten the next morning — it thrilled him.

You weren’t cold. You weren’t ungrateful.

You were simply… someone whose heart worked in quieter ways.

And that — to Ryusui — made you all the more fascinating. A new kind of treasure, one he had to learn how to read. And he would — gladly.

Months Later Sitting beneath the stars on the deck of Perseus, you glanced up at Ryusui where he leaned against the railing, arms crossed, watching the sea.

“… You’re still giving me gifts,” you said softly.

He looked down at you, grin lazy but warm. “Of course. I’m greedy, remember? Greedy for everything beautiful.”

You fiddled with your bracelet — one of his first gifts. “I’m… not good at showing thanks. I do appreciate them. A lot.”

Ryusui’s grin softened. “I know.”

A pause. He reached out, gently flicking the dragon pendant at your throat.

“I see you wear them. Guard them like treasure. That says more than words, my dear.”

You blinked at him — then, for once, smiled. Small. Real.

“…Thanks.”

And for Ryusui Nanami �� king of the new world, sailor of seas and hearts — that was worth more than all the riches in the world.

[yena-enha]

Request - 2 (in comments) By @nithxhoon

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐇𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐬, 𝐇𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐬 - 𝐏𝐉𝐒

Warning - Heated argument, yelling, emotional distress, crying, oral sex (f receiving), overstimulation, hair-pulling, vulnerable Jay, praise, soft aftercare, strong language, implied established relationship

Note - MDNI (MINORS DO NOT INTERACT) / Interact At Your Own Risk / NSFW CONTENT

Genre - Angst + Smut + Fluff

Pairing - Jay x Fem!Reader

Song Inspiration - "Lose Control" by Teddy Swims

Word Count - 2.8k Words

Prompt - #1 + #59 + #88

#1 - When he yelled at you for the first time.

#59 - When he softly says, “I love you,” like a prayer.

#88 - When he ate you out like he was starving.

It started with the smallest thing.

A text you didn’t reply to.

A phone call he missed.

The way you were quieter than usual at dinner. But for Jay—whose love was loud in quiet gestures and control—it festered.

“I don’t get what you want from me anymore!” he snapped.

“You act like I’m not trying, but I am. Every fucking day, I am!” Your heart dropped.

“Jay, I never said—”“You don’t have to!” he cut in, voice rising.

“Your silence says it all.” The room went still. Your breath caught.

“Did you seriously just yell at me?”You weren’t crying yet, but your voice was already thick.

“I’ve never… I’ve never made you feel like you weren’t enough.” He flinched.

That was the moment he realized he went too far. But the damage was done. You walked past him, brushing his shoulder.

“You can sleep on the couch.”And he didn’t fight it.

Jay barely slept. He sat in the dark, shirtless on the cold leather, guilt crawling down his spine like ice water.

He’d never raised his voice at you before. Never wanted to see your eyes so full of disbelief and pain.

He’d made mistakes—but this… this was new. Unforgivable.

At 2:36 a.m., he cracked. The apartment was silent, save for the gentle hum of the fridge and his bare feet padding toward the bedroom.

He opened the door slowly. You were curled on your side, facing away.

A blanket swaddled you, but your shoulders shook—small, choked sobs slipping out despite your best efforts to be silent.It shattered him.

“Baby…” he said softly.You didn’t move.Jay stepped closer, crouching beside the bed.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” he whispered. “I don’t even know who that was earlier. I hate myself for making you look at me like that.”

Silence. His throat worked hard. “Please let me fix it,” he whispered, lips brushing your covered knee.

“Let me show you I mean it.”

Still nothing—but you didn’t pull away. So Jay gently peeled the blanket down. He crawled on the bed and settled between your legs, parting them slowly.

Your eyes finally met his—puffy and wet. Silent. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, voice cracking.

Then he leaned down and kissed your inner thigh.And again. And again—higher each time.

Your breath caught.You whispered his name, barely audible. “Jay…”But his only reply was his tongue—sliding through your folds like salvation.

He groaned softly at the taste of you. Like your body was the only absolution he deserved.

He mouthed at your clit slowly at first, circling with precision, but soon—soon he lost control.

Because this wasn’t just about your pleasure.

It was penance.

His grip on your thighs tightened, pulling you closer as he sucked harder, tongue flicking relentlessly, devouring every whimper you gave him.

“F-fuck,” you gasped, fingers threading into his dark hair.

He moaned into you, spurred on by the way you shook. His tongue worked fast, then slow—drawing out every bit of arousal, every cry that fell from your lips.

He needed to hear it. Needed to hear you fall apart for him again.

You arched under him, thighs trembling. “Jay—Jay—oh my god, I—”“Come for me,” he murmured, voice hoarse, lips brushing your soaked skin.

“Let me taste how much you still need me.”And you did.

With a choked sob, you came on his tongue—body arching, nails digging into his scalp, moaning his name like it was all you remembered.

But Jay didn’t stop.He kept going—slowly, then faster again—licking up every drop, overstimulating you until tears welled again in your eyes, this time from sheer intensity.

“Jay, I—I can’t—”He finally pulled away, face slick with you, eyes glassy with emotion.

He crawled up your body, kissing your lips softly, tasting you on both your tongues.

Then he looked in your eyes and whispered it.

“I love you.”A breath.“I love you.”Another.“I love you so much it scares me.”

You burst into fresh tears—because the way he said it… it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t even soft.

It was desperate. Like a prayer. Like he was begging the universe to forgive him through you.

“I love you too,” you whispered, broken.

Jay wrapped you in his arms, holding you tighter than ever before. “I’ll never raise my voice at you again,” he swore into your hair.

“Never. You didn’t deserve that. You never do.”

He kissed your temple, your cheeks, the corners of your lips.

Every part of you that had cried because of him.“I’m sorry,” he murmured again, over and over until your shaking calmed and your fingers found his chest.

That night, you fell asleep tangled in each other—still healing, still hurt—but together.

Because love wasn’t perfect.But Jay… Jay would spend forever learning how to love you better.

Masterlist || Introduction

Tell Me Your Desire|Prompt List|200 Yennies Celebration

[andy-wm]

i feel like i missed a chapter somewhere lol whats with the itaewon house? i know nothing about this, did one of them build a house?

Hey Anon

Yup, JK built a house

A few years back (2020? 2021?) He bought a very fancy property in the same neighbourhood as the embassies and Chaebol mansions - in the most expensive part of Itaewon.

I remember at the time, news sites were frothing over the house and how it reflected Jungkook's excellent taste. The common thread was that the prestige of the property showed how urbane he had become. It clearly indicated that he had grown into an astute and mature investor.

There was a lot of chatter about it being a fine family home in an exclusive locale.

I mean, it definitely was a flex. A freestanding house on a 6ooM2 allotment in Seoul? Please, the man clearly has a bottomless well of money. And even more impressive than the hefty price was the fact that he paid cash for it.

Of course, the straight-boy-JK brigade were ecstatic about his pretty new house. To them it was demonstrable proof that he had plans to find himself a pretty wife who would pump out pretty children for him. They were very smug about the hereronormative imagery his picturesque little cottage conjured up.

It was all very tiresome.

But what came next is my favourite part of the story. We all woke up one day to discover...

He unceremoniously flattened that house

Yup, the news broke one morning that the house was... gone. Bulldozed. He clearly had zero regard for its prestige, refinement, or family friendliness. I love that about him. He really does follow his own compass.

I was secretly delighted interested to see what would replace it, and Anon, I have not been disappointed.

Can a house have sex appeal?

This one does.

Where that frankly underwhelming red brick meh once stood, we now have a gloriously ominous and uncompromising statement that looms over the street.

Jungkook has built a neobrutalist fortress.

It is a thing of beauty. Sophisticated and dominant in a way that makes me feel just a little bit breathless, the fine balance of weight and lightness is magnificent. It has charisma, refinement, and a hint of malice. If it could speak, I imagine it would tell the people who try to impose their values on him to fuck off in several different languages.

Anon, on my honour I had absolutely no intention of going anywhere near his house before I saw it complete. Now I'm afraid that the desire to gaze at it in person it might outweigh my distaste for lurking near the home of a celebrity like a sasaeng. I'd die of mortification of he was actually at home. Maybe I can go when I know he isn't there?

Ugh i hate this for me. I just wanna see the bloody fluted concrete walls for myself.

But lets move on from my whining...

I find myself appraising the aesthetic and stylistic choices he's made with this building and truthfully I'm seeing Jeon Jungkook in a new light.

I am pretty fucking impressed with what he's doing here. This house shows far more finesse, maturity, and sophistication than the gable-roofed clipart homestead ever could. It's the absolute antithesis of that twee vision of traditional values and domestic boredom bliss.

This monstrosity is dark, brooding, and beautiful. And I'm a little bit in love with it.

Yes, i admit that some of the images come from tiktok accounts that have been stalking the build.

Yes, i am aware of my double standards.

Other photos come from the architect who posted progress shots on his insta, and he's quite entitled to do so since this is his work. He never mentioned whose house it was or anything else that could compromise our boy.

[satorusugurugurl]

Caught You

Summary: Detective Nanami has you; a notorious criminal right where he wants you. Bent over the counter, handcuffed, and legs spread!

Pairing: Nanami Kento x AFAB!Reader

Warning: language, mentions of a 🔫, rleplay, rough sex, cop play, handcuffs, kitchen sex, unprotected sex, creampie

Word Count: 2.1K

A/N: Kinktober day four: Detective/Criminal! I am guilty Detective Nanami, I need to be punished 🥵

Nanami sighed, rubbing at the bridge of his nose as he looked at your house. This was it; he was going to do it. The metal of his badge reflected off the street lamp above him as his eyes remained transfixed on the two-story house he had been staring at. He had a plan, a play-by-play of what he would do.

He wasn't going to screw this up.

Here it goes; he’s been searching for you for such a long time—a notorious serial killer whose days of luck had finally run out. You had been nothing more than a significant pain in his ass for the last three years of his career. Nanami had missed you several times before, but tonight would be different. Unlike the other times before when you were out in public, where you could slip away from officers in the crowd quickly, you were at home, this time in the comfort of your own house.

There would be no escape, not this time.

Nanami exited his car, gripping the gun in his holster as he approached the house; he breathed in and out through his nose, keeping himself aware of his surroundings as he walked up to your back door. Seeing no cars in the driveway, he assumed you weren’t home, giving him the perfect opportunity to gather evidence to get you booked away forever.

He eyed the inside of your house before grabbing the doorknob and giving it a turn. He was surprised to find that it had been left unlocked. This was easier than he thought. It would be almost too easy. Pushing aside his concern, Nanami cautiously headed into your house as he entered your living room. He kept his honey-brown eyes focused on every dark corner you could be hiding around. But much to his relief, the living room and dining room were cleared. You were nowhere to be found. But as he entered the kitchen, he saw you. Covered in blood and splatters in your hair, which was a chaotic mess as you washed off a knife in the sink.

This was the perfect opportunity he had been hoping for. Nanami Kento finally had you right where he wanted you.

He pulled out his gun, aiming it directly at you. “Freeze,” he commanded, watching you drop the knife into the sink in momentary shock.

Once the shock wore off, you grinned up at the handsome man. “Detective Nanami.” you heard of licking off a speck of blood from the top of your lip. “ what a pleasant surprise!”

“Shut up and put your hands behind your back.”

“Soo bossy~!” There was an almost condescending talking to your voice, but you did as he said, placing both hands behind your back. “You're lucky you’re handsome. I wouldn’t take this shit from just anyone.”

“Yeah—shut up.” The cool chill of handcuffs latched around your wrists as you grinned mischievously, rocking back against his clad bulge. “Stop that.”

The anger in his voice didn't deter your actions. It only made you want to push this stuck-up detective further. You purred, fingers twitching as you rolled your hips sensually against the bulge, grinning ear to ear as you felt his cock twitch within the confines of his dress pants. The feel of his erection hardening against the fat of your ass had liquid heat pooling between your legs.

With each slow roll of your hips, Nanami felt his self-control snapping like the threads of a thick rope. He observed you, those warm-hued eyes focusing on your hips, before watching your fingers curl in as you bit down on your bottom lip with a satisfied groan. You were insatiable.

But now was not the time to lose himself in the feel of you grinding down on his cock. “Oooh, Detective Nanami~ is that your gun?” You felt his cock twitch from your words, and it was those words that had him snarling above you in pure annoyance. “Oooh~ is it loaded?” That was the final push Nanami needed.

His hand left your arm, grabbing a handful of your hair and forcing you to look at him as he slammed his lips against yours. You gasped, but your eyes fluttered before shutting. You hadn't been expecting him to lose control so suddenly, but you eagerly accepted it, kissing him back as you continued rocking yourself back with a whimper.

“You little minx.” The sweet smell of cinnamon and musk flooded your senses, making you feel drunk from his scent alone. But as his lips trailed over your neck, you found yourself melting your breasts pressed against the island counter. “Pushing me, trying to make me lose control.” his large hands grabbed your lips, pulling them back so your ass was sticking out. “You want this? For me to be mean, to lose control?” His dress shoes tapped your ankle, forcing you to spread your legs. “Fine, I can be the bad cop.”

His voice was sultry and full of smoke. Sending shivers down your spine as you ached for more. “Ooh yeah~ give it to me.” The was a hiss in the air before his hand connected with the fat of your ass. “Nngh!” Nanami scoffed, leaning closer to your ears as he ground his hardening erection against your already wet core.

“What was that? I barely spanked you. I thought you wanted me to lose control.

“I do!” another slap across your ass had you whimpering in pain and pleasure.

“Such a dirty needy slut. You needed this, didn't you?”

He spanked you several more times, leaving your assatinging in the perfect way as your legs shook. “Yes! I need it, Detective! I need you so bad.” Nanami’s palm began massaging your ass, rubbing out the sting.

“You need it bad enough to give up your life of crime?”

“Yes!”

There was a beat of silence before Nanami squeezed your ads. “You promise you’ll be a good girl for me?” Nanami questioned, his lips brushing against the tip of your ear, his hot breath tickling your over-sensitive, heated skin. Nodding your head in response to his question, your fingers twitched, the cool metal of the handcuffs digging into your wrists with a delicious sting. Picking up on your desperation, Nanami reached down, unfastening his belt; the sound of the metal clacking and zipper being pulled down had you squirming. “Good Girl.” He growled, nipping at your earlobe as he pulled his pants and boxers down, allowing them to pool around his ankles.

Those strong hands then reached down, pulling your own shorts down. The second they dropped to the ground, Nanami spit into his hand, lubing up his erect cock before pressing the head against your throbbing center until the tip made it past the tight ring of muscles. Your fingers curled in as you took deep, shallow breaths, adjusting to his size.

With each inhale and exhale you took, Nanami pushed himself deeper inside of you. He kept that up until he was balls deep inside of your tight wet pussy. Kento’s hips stilled as you both breathed heavily, adjusting to the feeling of him stretching your walls in a sinfully satisfying way. The pleasure was rushing through the two of you, pushing you both dangerously close to the edge, but neither of you was ready for that pleasure to end just yet.

You wanted it to last; hell, you didn’t want this feeling ever to end.

“God,” Nanami growled in your ear, slowly beginning to thrust in and out of you, “fuck.”

You gasped, hearing the clean-decorated detective cursing as he pushed himself deeper inside of you, “Holy shit.” He thrust a bit harder, your pussy burning in the best way with every drag of his cock inside of you. Every move left you longing for more from him; every touch and caress of skin left you wanting more. So you pushed back against him, forcing his cock to slip deeper inside of you. The head of it slammed against your cervix, causing your back to arch as sweat began beading along your forehead. “Detective Nanami, fuck, you’re so fucking big.” Whining, you pushed yourself back more, wanting to feel every inch of him buried deep inside of you.

“Yeah, you like that, don’t you, Love?” He gripped your hips harder, thrusting faster and harder inside of you. “You like it when I fuck you like this? Punish you for being such a pain in my ass?” He planted kisses down the back of your neck; the only sound was your moans and skin slapping against your skin. “You’ve been so fucking naughty.”

“I-I,” you tried to speak, but a moan escaped your lips instead, “I am naughty, Detective; I’m such a bad girl for you; please be sure to punish me thoroughly.”

He growled, moving faster inside of you, his balls slapping against your skin with each thrust. “Yeah? You want me to punish you? Fuck you into submission?” You groaned loudly at his words, and as he moved faster, both of your orgasms came closer to slamming into the two of you.

“Yes! Nanami, I'm yours! All yours.” You arched your back against him, trying to keep up in time with his thrusts. The handcuffs dug harder into your wrists, holding your hands in place as Nanami fucked you hard.

It didn’t take long until the two of you were moving in perfect timing with each other. Every touch pushed both of you closer to the edge, and you both wouldn’t stop until you met that sweet, blissful ending. It was the perfect way to end a long, stressful evening.

Your senses were swimming with the chill from the handcuffs, the smell of cinnamon and musk, and how Nanami lifted you, pressing your back against his chest. He kissed you as the familiar tightening of muscles in your abdomen had you throwing your head back against Nanami’s shoulder. They clamped and curled tighter and tighter with every stroke of his cock along your inner walls. “Nanami, fuck, I’m close! Whatever you do, don’t fucking stop; I’m gonna cum!”

“You’re going to cum for me, Love?” Nodding your head, you felt Nanami’s hands reach down, gripping your hips in a vice. “You want to come all over my thick cock, pretty girl?”

“Yes,” you begged as your breasts bounced as his thrusts became harder, “I want to cum for you; I want you to know how good you make me feel, Nanami.”

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his movements becoming erratic as he came closer to his climax. “Do it, cum Love, come for me.” His words sent you over the edge, and you came hard, his hand reaching up to cover your mouth as you came. His teeth bit down into your shoulder as his seed coated your walls, the two of you coming together.

Once the white dots started to fade and you remembered to breathe, you looked back at Nanami, a smile curled on your lips, and you saw the blissful smile plastered on his face. He grinned while looking at you through half-closed eyes. You both were in no hurry to move and just enjoying the post-orgasmic glow.

“I need to pull out,” Nanami whispered as you whined at his movements. “I need to get these cuffs off of you.”

You hummed, licking at the fake blood that still covered your lip. The taste of strawberries and chocolate danced over your tongue as your husband unfastened the handcuffs. The second your wrists were free, he gently took them in his hand and gently kissed them.

“You aren’t hurt, are you?”

“No, I'm great.” You dazily grinned as your husband lifted you off the ground. “I didn’t think you’d go for this.”

Nanami rolled his eyes, turning the lights off in the kitchen before treading through the house. “My darling wife wanted to roleplay and use the handcuffs I had. How could I ever deny her?” You giggled, burying your face in his neck.

“Our party went off as a huge success.”

Nanami resisted the urge to nuzzle against you, carrying you into the bathroom instead. “It was, but I don’t think we’re done yet.” He placed you on the counter, tugging your fake bloody shirt up and over your head, throwing it to the ground. “I need to conduct a thorough investigation.” You squealed as he forced your legs apart with a smirk. “I need you to spread your legs, Ma’am.”

“Of course, Detective~” What sort of beast had you awakened!? Not that you were complaining.

Forever Tag List:

@darkstarlight82 @pandoness @nealeart @simp-plague @sugurubabe @chilichopsticks @reap3erslov3 @wil10wthetree @msniks @lana18918

Kinktober Tag List:

@candy-s72

[gay-dorito-dust]

Another, another Drabble that might be longer than I originally planned…the ending was dogshit🦦

‘It’s cute.’ Sylvia Newbon of the Aphrodite cabin cooed as Luke flashed you a charming smile.

‘Then you can have him then,’ you began, plucking loose threads from your jeans, ‘he’s been nothing but an annoying pain in my ass as of late.’

Sylvia merely chucked as she playfully nudged you in the side. ‘I don’t think that’s possible at this pount, Luke seems dead set on you, and I honestly think you’re being dramatic about all this. You’ve got someone pinning after you and your response to that is to be rid of it?’ She said aghast. You shrugged, not really understanding what Luke saw in you, a child of Hades, a forbidden child other than that; a forbidden child whose existence shouldn’t have come to pass.

‘He’ll get bored of me once he realises I’m not who he thinks I am.’ You defended, now watching Luke as he took a small break from training, face still bearing that smile that only seemed to grow to the point his dimples and pearly whites were on full display. You didn’t want to be the one responsible in taking take away that shine. Ever. For it seemed that ever since your first arrival to camp, Luke had been the only one to stand by you without an ounce of trepidation for who your godly father was; He had been there during the sleepless nights despite the fact he didn’t need to, during your time at the Hermes cabin he would be beside you in the dinning pavilion or even save you a seat.

He did everything in his power to help you and be of aid, all without expecting a simple thank you in return…You genuinely hated how you felt towards him. You originally put it down to the fact that Luke Castellan was conventionally attractive, only to soon learn that it was much deeper than that, which had scared you to the point of becoming recluse.

‘Don’t say that.’ Sylvia said sternly. ‘Don’t do that to yourself, don’t sell yourself short. I hate it when you do that because that means missing out on something pure, something beautiful, something real.’ She then grasps onto your hands, holding them with a strength that was reflective of her passion. ‘I don’t want fear of rejection, for fear itself to control you any longer because if there’s anyone in camp who deserves to be happy, it’s you. You’re the child of hades for fuck sake, fear is beneath you and you know it but you still willingly give it power over you. Why? Why deny yourself true happiness when it’s served up to you on a silver platter-‘

‘Because I’m afraid!’ You exclaimed, cutting Sylvia off but find it difficult to stop. ‘I’m afraid that I won’t be enough for him, that I’ll take away his smile that shows off his perfect teeth and cute dimples! I’m afraid that he’ll never be satisfied being with me because even in a camp full of people like me, much like Nico, I still feel the outcast and I don’t want to burden Luke with that.’ You finished, slightly out of breath. ‘So it’d be better for the both of us if I just kept my distance.’ Neither of you spoke, you just stared at each other, letting nothing but the silence to take hold, but then you saw the sudden shift in Sylvia’s eyes as they looked to something just behind you.

You didn’t need to know who it was behind you, not when you could clearly see from where you sat that Luke was missing from his little group of friends that were heading off elsewhere; which was probably why you didn’t express surprise upon hearing his voice from behind saying. ‘I know I probably fucked up my chances by eavesdropping but I completely disagree with everything you said just now.’ You didn’t even react when Luke sat himself down, nor make any attempts to move away when he then shuffled closer to you as humanly possible. Sylvia -obviously knowing what was going to happen- smiled softly as she stood up and promptly left you and Luke to your much needed conversation.

‘And why’s that?’ You rhetorically asked, looking at him as though you weren’t having an internal breakdown as to what might come out of his mouth next. ‘Would me saying I like you be substantial enough evidence?’ He asks.

‘We’re not in a romcom movie Luke, a simple I like you is never going to be enough, especially for people like me who have never been given much of a reason for staying, never mind a good one at that.’ You replied and Luke hummed in acknowledgment before grabbing you hand in a similar fashion as Sylvia did prior; with a strength reflective of his passion. ‘Then let me try again by saying that the day you came to camp was probably the most important day of my life.’ Luke began. ‘From the moment Chiron brought you to the Hermes cabin I knew right then and there that I was a goner. I must’ve been obvious as even some of camp began to notice how I acted towards you and would come up and tell me to tell you and get it over with…but I didn’t because I’d thought I would have enough time to tell you eventually.’ He chuckles, squeezing your hand while you listened intently.

‘I was wrong on that front because it wouldn’t be long until you were claimed by Hades and soon after you had already packed your stuff to move into your new cabin. It wasn’t until then did I realise that I took our friendship for granted, I knew that sooner or later you’d be claimed but at least not for a while, I often asked myself why did I cling onto you so desperately and now I know why.’ Luke finished, looking at you deeply.

‘Why?’ You asked, already knowing the answer.

‘It’s because I didn’t want you to move on and forget about me when I was very much liked the thought of you being close to me, closer than a friend should. So while your cabin was being built I took that as a final attempt in getting closer to you before being forced to wake up in a cabin void entirely of your presence for good.’ Luke replied.

You licked your lips, suddenly overtly away of how dry they were. ‘and here I thought you were just being the friendly head of the Hermes cabin.’ You admitted humourlessly, resting your head against his shoulder without a care. ‘How oblivious was I?’

‘How oblivious we both were you mean.’ Luke corrected as he rested his head atop of yours, briefly closing his eyes. ‘I just hope that I’ve given you enough reason to stay at camp.’ At those words you squeezed his hand in reassurance and uttered softly for him to hear. ‘you gave me that and so much more.’

Luke pressed a kiss to your head. ‘Good because I would’ve followed you into Tartarus and back if I hadn’t.’

[zyxelia]

Whispers Of Forever — Hajime Iwaizumi x Fem! Reader

Starring: Hajime Iwaizumi x Fem! Reader

Summary: After your marriage, you and your husband have your own drawer beside the bed. One day while cleaning, you see something on the drawer that looks like... A love letter? Oh, how could it be? You thought you already read all his love letters for you! (Spoiler: Curiosity gets the best of you!)

Word Count: 498 Words

Things To Note(s): -

Estimated Reading Time: 2-3 Minutes

a/n: It's almost new year!

Main Masterlist | Haikyuu!! Masterlist | Main Series Masterlist

My precious one, iwa-channn!!

To you, my dearest love.

For the first time in my life, I am enchanted— caught in the kind of spell I once thought existed only in dreams. Before you, everything felt distant and muted, but with you, the world feels softer and gentler, as though every corner of it has been touched by your light. You’ve filled the empty spaces within me with something so pure, so full of warmth, that I can hardly remember the cold that came before.

Whenever I think about you, it feels like a soft melody playing within me— a song only I can hear, yet it feels as though the entire universe is in tune with it. You’ve healed parts inside of me I thought would always stay broken, and in their place, you’ve brought light, love, and hope. There is a lightness in my soul now, a peace that I had long since forgotten was even possible. You make me feel whole again, like a puzzle whose missing pieces were always meant to be found, and you— my love— are the key that completed it.

Your eyes hold a gravity that draws me in, leaving me suspended, weightless, and unmoored. They hold stories, secrets, and worlds within them, and I feel privileged to be the one who gets to see them. The world fades away when I am with you. I lose myself in the depths of your gaze; I could spend an eternity simply losing myself in you.

It’s also the way I am fascinated by your voice. Every word you speak lingers in my heart like a melody I wish to never stop hearing. Each time you speak, I find myself drawn closer, wanting to hear more of your thoughts, your dreams, your fears— every piece of you that makes you the person I love more than anything else in this world.

It’s you.

Always you.

In the whispers of yesterday, the embrace of today, and the endless horizon of tomorrow, it will always be you. No matter where life takes us, or what challenges we face, you are the constant thread that ties me to this life.

You are my light in the darkness, my constant in the chaos, and the love I will cherish for as long as my heart is still beating. You are my beginning and my end, the keeper of my heart and soul, the one I will choose forever.

Upon meeting you, I have found my home, my peace, and the endless beauty of what it means to be truly alive. My love, in your arms, I have discovered what it means to truly live— to live not just with my heart, but with every part of me.

I have to admit, writing this letter is easier than speaking it directly to you. Thank you for being everything I never knew I needed, for being my dream made real, and for loving me in ways I could never have imagined.

You are, and always will be, my everything.

©️ zyxelia, 2024. Please do not translate, modify, or repost my work on any other platforms without asking. Thank you for understanding.

[thepascalparadox]

Chapter Seven: Princess of Nowhere

Word Count | 5.5k Pairing | General Marcus Acacius x F!Reader OC Chapter Warnings | none, more (a lot more) angst, switch pov an: I (unintentionally) am doing chapters bigger and bigger, I'm sorry! I'm loving to hear your thoughts, and for this one I'm even more excited! thank you to everyone reblogging and commenting, it makes me very happy and eager to keep telling this story!

It did not take long after leaving the General's lands for the red banner to appear on the horizon, its bold color cutting through the muted greens and browns of the countryside—a herald of the army camp that lay ahead. The sight filled you with a strange mixture of dread and resignation. The last three days with Acacius had been unexpectedly revealing, peeling back layers of the man whose presence once felt like an enigma. He had answered your endless questions, each reply tinged with a patience that surprised you. What once stirred a dangerous heat deep in your chest had softened into something steadier: admiration, perhaps even fondness.

He might not feel the same for you, and you had long stopped hoping for anything more. His friendship, for now, felt like enough. Yet, as the camp drew closer, the harsh reality of your situation loomed larger. Acacius had become the last familiar thread in a tapestry that was unraveling too quickly. Your home was gone. Your parents were gone. You were a princess of what? No land, no future, and no allies to call upon. The weight of it pressed heavily against your chest, stealing the air from your lungs.

What will become of me once we reach the camp?

The thought turned over and over in your mind, each repetition sharper than the last. You imagined your aunt, your mother’s sister, whose letters had been scarce and formal at best. She lived in the distant lands of North Africa, across vast seas you would have to cross alone—an impossible task for someone in your fragile position. The mere idea made your pulse quicken with unease.

The silence between you and Acacius felt tangible now, broken only by the steady rhythm of the horse’s hooves on the dusty ground and the faint rustle of the wind through the sparse trees. It was not an oppressive silence but one that carried a bittersweet weight. You glanced sideways at him, wondering if you should ask another question to break the quiet. Yet something held you back. This moment, this quiet farewell to the intimacy you had shared over the past days, felt strangely sacred.

I think I’ll miss him.

As the first signs of the camp came into view—soldiers moving purposefully, their forms growing sharper against the backdrop of tents and banners—the shift in atmosphere was palpable. The men recognized Acacius immediately. Their gazes snapped to attention, shoulders straightening as they acknowledged his presence with murmured respect. Some stopped their tasks entirely, their voices carrying hushed words you barely caught: “The Princess…” The tone was laced with something unfamiliar—sympathy, perhaps.

They pity me.

“They respected your father above all else,” Acacius murmured, his voice low and steady as if he had read your thoughts. His gaze remained fixed ahead, his jaw tight with purpose. “They will help us. You have no reason to worry.”

You nodded, though his words offered little comfort. As the two of you dismounted, Acacius moved with practiced ease, first offering you his hand, then bracing your waist as you slid from the saddle. His touch was brief but grounding, a subtle reminder of his presence. Together, you walked toward the largest tent, its fabric swaying gently in the afternoon breeze. A soldier stepped forward to take the reins of the horse, nodding in deference as he led it away.

The whispers followed you, and with each step closer to the tent, your unease deepened. At the entrance, Acacius gestured for you to go first. You hesitated, turning toward him in search of reassurance. His eyes softened, the hardness of the soldier momentarily replaced by something warmer, quieter. His hand found the small of your back, guiding you forward with a touch that spoke of unspoken promises.

Inside, the air was thick, the heavy canvas walls trapping the warmth of the day. The room was dimly lit, streaks of light filtering through seams in the fabric. A central table dominated the space, its surface strewn with maps and figurines—an unmistakable strategy table. Three men stood around it, their gazes lifting as you entered. One of them, clad in armor as elaborate as Acacius’s, straightened immediately, his face breaking into an expression of palpable relief.

“Finally, my friend…” The man’s voice carried a weight that matched his stature, a breath exhaled after what felt like years of tension.

Before you could fully take in the scene, a figure emerged from the shadowed corner of the tent—a woman. She moved swiftly, her voice ringing with unmistakable warmth as she called Acacius’s name.

“Lena,” Acacius said, clearly caught off guard by her approach. She reached him in moments, her hands cupping his face with an intimacy that made your chest tighten.

“You’re alive,” she breathed, her eyes glistening with relief. “I was so scared... I thought we had lost you.”

His hands found her waist instinctively, steadying her as though she might collapse from the weight of her emotions. “You’re not rid of me yet,” he said, his voice lighter now, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

The tenderness in her gaze was undeniable, her fingers lingering as if reassuring herself that he was truly there. You looked away, suddenly acutely aware of how small you felt in this space. The warmth between them was palpable, a bond forged long before you had ever entered his life.

The other man approached Acacius with the familiarity of an old friend, pulling him into a firm embrace that spoke of years spent side by side in battles unseen and victories hard-won.

“Missed you, brother,” he said, his voice carrying the easy warmth of someone who had long grown comfortable in Acacius’s presence. “Your men arrived days ago and said you were just behind them. What kept you?”

It was then that you were noticed. Slowly, deliberately, the attention in the room shifted, settling on you like a weight pressing against your chest. Their eyes, sharp and questioning, lingered a moment too long, and despite the heat of the tent, an icy shiver ran down your spine.

You wished you could meet their gaze with the boldness of a woman who belonged here—a princess unshaken by the sudden shift in her life. You wished you could hold your chin high, your shoulders square, like the noblewoman you had been raised to be. But confidence felt like a distant dream, slipping further from your grasp with each passing second.

Instead, your eyes faltered, dropping instinctively to the ground as if the canvas beneath your feet could offer refuge. The voice in your head whispered cruel truths: you were out of place here, a fragile shadow of who you once were. A princess of nothing, nowhere, standing in a room of men who carried the weight of empires on their shoulders.

Acacius, perhaps sensing your discomfort, shifted subtly beside you. His presence, solid and steady, anchored you in a way you could not explain. You took a slow breath, trying to gather the fragments of your courage, willing yourself not to shrink beneath their scrutiny.

Be strong, you thought, the words a soft plea within the silence of your mind. You’re still standing. That must count for something.

"Princess..." The man bowed his head respectfully. "I am General Valerius, Commander of the Iron Legions, Loyal to your father, Antoninus Justus. I am deeply sorry for your loss." He extended his hand to you, and you placed yours in it — as any lady should. He was a strong man, his stature almost equal to that of Acacius, though younger in years. His shoulders were broad, yet there was a weariness in his eyes, a quiet burden carried beneath the weight of his armor.

"I appreciate your loyalty, General. My father is—" You faltered, the truth of his absence settling heavy in your chest. "My father would be most grateful for your services to the empire."

"He will be missed dearly." General Valerius’s voice softened, his gaze lingering for a moment on Acacius. "Sit down, Marcus, Lena will fetch you wine and bread. You must be hungry."

"Thank you, brother, but first, I would ask something of you." Acacius’s tone was low, measured. "Could you prepare a tent for the princess? She is weary and not quite... accustomed to such a life." His words, though respectful, carried a certain delicacy, as if speaking of a world you no longer belonged to.

"I'll see to it," Lena replied quickly, her voice calm and assured, as she brought a cup for both of you. Your cup held water, while the General’s contained wine. A subtle distinction, one you pondered as she drew nearer, noting the curve of her belly—her child. Who is this woman? She offered you a smile, kind yet unsettling, and for reasons you could not place, doubt lingered in your heart.

"It will be arranged, Acacius," The General continued, his voice carrying a hint of finality, "but first... I’m afraid we have some political matters to discuss."

The words hung in the air like a shadow, and as you prepared to rise and leave—so accustomed to doing so with your father’s matters—you were met with the soldiers’ expectant gazes. You hesitated.

"Do you... wish for me to stay?" Your voice faltered, barely above a whisper.

"You must, Princess. It all revolves around you," came his reply, almost too obvious, as if the weight of your presence could not be denied.

"We have received a letter from Rome," General Valerius continued, his tone now somber. "From one of the Senate’s men, Macrelius."

The words struck you like a blow. Fury flared inside your chest, a fire burning bright and hot. If the man stood before you now, you were certain you would strangle him with your bare hands.

"I’m sorry for reading it, Princess, but we weren't certain of your... survival. We thought it might contain important information."

"What did he say?" you demanded, your voice trembling with a rage you had not yet realized resided within you.

"Well..." General Valerius hesitated, his face tightening as he recounted the words. "He spent a great deal of time apologizing, claiming that the plot was never intended to kill the emperor. Though it didn’t sound sincere. Then, he asked for your hand."

"He what?" Acacius’s voice cracked with the intensity of his anger, his posture stiffening in a way that made the air thick with tension.

"He said that the people are enraged," Valerius continued, his voice heavy with the weight of truth, "that the riots will soon bring the fall of Rome. The only way to quell their fury is for you to show your support for the Senate by marrying him."

The notion sickened you to your core. How could this man, the very one responsible for your father’s death, propose such a vile marriage? His treachery knew no bounds.

"He’s a madman, Valerius," Acacius whispered, the coldness of his tone betraying the fury that swirled beneath. "Minutes before the chaos at the castle, he was laughing with Antoninus. He is the greatest traitor of all."

"The problem is, Acacius," Valerius’s voice grew more contemplative, "he’s not entirely wrong. The people of Rome adored Antoninus, and his death has left them grieving. They mourn for him as they would for their own kin. And they adore the princess just as fiercely." His gaze softened as he turned to you, his tone almost comforting. "Where your loyalty lies, the people will follow, Your Grace."

"I cannot accept such an offer, General," you said, the weight of it sinking into your bones. "He is responsible for my father’s death."

"I know," Valerius sighed, his eyes dark with understanding. "But I’m afraid you must make a decision. The people believe you dead. A marriage would give them direction. It would show them who they should stand with."

"What do you have in mind, Valerius?" Acacius’s voice was tight, his usual calm replaced by a flicker of unease. His eyes locked onto his friend’s, searching for any sign, any hint of the true intentions behind the words.

"Well," Valerius hesitated, then his voice grew quiet as he paced the room, "if a marriage must happen to show the people where they stand... then she could also marry one of us."

The words hit you like a storm. Your heart seemed to sink, your blood ran cold, and the room around you blurred into fog. You had known, somewhere deep within, that one day you would be forced into such a union, but not like this. Not now.

You noticed how Acacius, too, seemed struck by the suggestion, his expression one of disbelief, and before either of you could voice your protest, the other General spoke, his tone measured but unyielding.

"By 'us,' I mean Acacius—thank the gods, I am happily married." He stood, placing a hand firmly on Acacius’s shoulder as he faced you, his expression somber as he laid out the harsh truth. "What I’m saying is this: such a marriage would serve as a declaration that the events of that night were an act of treason. It would show that neither you nor your father condoned the attack. However, it would also provoke war with Rome, even if those now in power are not rightfully in command. And we can’t predict if Macrelius would retaliate against the people for it."

The words hung in the air like an iron weight, and you could only blink, overwhelmed by the rush of information. How could you possibly make a decision now?

Lena entered the tent again, her hand resting lightly on her swollen belly. "I have prepared everything for you, Your Highness," she said respectfully, her voice soft.

"I shall leave you to rest, Princess," Valerius said, his tone gentle but filled with gravity. "You can make your decision tomorrow. Goodnight."

· · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · ·

You walk in silence beside Lena, your thoughts swirling like a storm that refuses to settle. Every step feels heavier than the last, burdened by the decisions looming over you, their shadows stretching far beyond the flickering light of the campfires. Lena's soft voice pulls you from the maze of your mind.

"My brother may seem a little... stern, but he's a good man, I assure you, Princess," she says, her tone gentle, though it does little to quiet the turmoil within you.

"General Valerius seemed very interested in deciding my life," you reply, your voice sharper than you intended. The words hang in the air like a blade unsheathed. Tired, drained, you’re in no mood for small talk, especially not with someone you barely know. Trust feels like a luxury you can’t afford, and as far as you can tell, this woman, with her kind smile and soft tone, could be hiding knives of her own.

"Well," Lena says, a light playfulness threading through her voice despite your tone, "my husband has a habit of deciding my life too." She glances at you with a smirk that feels too knowing, too practiced, before adding, "But I was talking about Acacius. I noticed the way he looks after you—even in that serious manner of his. I’ve told him countless times that his temper will only ever be matched, or tamed, by a woman as fierce as he is."

The words surprise you, slipping into your thoughts like a stone breaking the stillness of water. Your steps falter for just a moment as Lena reaches forward, pulling back the tent flap to reveal the space prepared for you. The realization hits you suddenly, as if the pieces of a puzzle have been snapped into place.

"You're his sister?" you ask, your voice soft and uncertain. A faint heat rises to your cheeks, embarrassment mingling with exhaustion. The doubt you’d clung to earlier now seems cruel.

Lena’s laugh is light, forgiving. "I am. Did you think otherwise?" she asks, though there’s no mockery in her tone—only quiet understanding.

"I’m sorry," you whisper, the words fumbling out before you can stop them. "I thought—"

"It’s all right, Your Highness," she interrupts gently, waving off your concern with a small, graceful motion. "Would you mind if I help you bathe?"

The question takes you by surprise, though the very thought of being clean again nearly undoes you. You swallow against the sudden tightness in your throat and nod, unable to form words. Lena steps into the space with practiced movements, wordlessly preparing the water as you begin to untangle yourself from the layers of dirt-streaked fabric that cling to your skin.

The quiet that follows feels heavier now, but not uncomfortable. Lena works in silence, her motions sure and precise as she tends to the water and brushes out your hair. When the warm water touches your skin, you feel yourself exhale—a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. The sweet, calming scent of lavender rises from the water, lingering in the air and weaving itself through your senses like a balm for every raw edge inside you. You close your eyes for just a moment, letting the warmth seep into your bones.

When you open them again, Lena’s hands are steady, her expression gentle as she tends to you. It’s only then that you notice the familiarity in her face—the shape of her eyes, the quiet resolve in them. The same eyes as Acacius.

"How far along are you?" you ask softly, your voice tentative.

Lena pauses, her hand lingering for a brief moment as she works. When she looks up at you, her smile is small, almost wistful. "Not long now," she says, her hand settling lightly over the curve of her belly. The glow in her face speaks of something deeper—hope, perhaps, or the quiet strength of someone who’s lived through storms and learned to steady herself in the aftermath.

You don’t say anything else, and neither does she. The silence between you shifts, no longer heavy but something softer, like a fragile thread of understanding weaving itself between two strangers—two women standing at the edge of worlds far larger than either of them.

Lena’s hand lingered over her belly as her gaze drifted somewhere far beyond the tent, beyond the present moment, as though she were reaching back into the folds of time. A faint smile curved her lips—soft, wistful—as she broke the silence.

"Valerius and Acacius... they’ve always been like brothers, even when they weren’t," she began, her voice carrying the weight of old memories wrapped in fondness. "When we were children, the three of us were inseparable. My father used to call them shadows, always following each other about. Where one went, the other was sure to be close behind."

You watched her as she spoke, the calm rhythm of her voice like the gentle ripple of water over stone. It was the kind of tone that made you feel like you were eavesdropping on something sacred, a glimpse into lives lived long before you became part of their world.

"Acacius was always the quiet one, though," Lena continued, carefully wringing out the cloth and dipping it into the warm lavender-scented water. "Stubborn, serious, even then. He carried more weight than a boy his age should have. I think he was always preparing for this life, even before it came for him." She looked up at you briefly, her gaze searching, as though measuring whether you understood the man whose loyalty had been given to you. "And Valerius... well, he was the storm to Acacius’s stone."

Her words painted a picture as vivid as any tapestry you’d seen in your father’s halls—a boyish Acacius with the same unwavering stare, his shadow matched step-for-step by a younger Valerius, wild and laughing.

"They balanced each other," Lena continued after a pause, her voice softening. "Valerius brought light and laughter where Acacius would have built walls. And Acacius... he steadied Valerius when the world felt too wild for him."

You felt a pang in your chest at her words, as though the truth of them weighed on you. It made sense now, the silent understanding between the two men, the trust so deep it didn’t need to be spoken aloud. It was a bond built in youth, forged through time and tested by the world’s cruelty.

"And you?" you asked, your voice quieter than you intended. "Where did you fit in?"

Lena laughed softly, a sound full of warmth and reminiscence. "Oh, I was the little tyrant, always trailing after them, determined to be part of their adventures. They hated it, of course—Valerius once tried to lose me in the fields, thinking I’d give up and go home. But Acacius, ever the protector, carried me back on his shoulders, scolding Valerius the whole way."

Her smile softened, her gaze drifting as if caught in some far-off memory. "Despite it all, I think Valerius and I were always bound to find each other. We fought like sworn enemies back then, but somewhere between those childhood battles, I think we realized we couldn’t live without one another. He grew into the man who wishes to decide every step of my life—much to my annoyance at times—but also the man who has held my heart ever since."

The tent fell into a moment of peaceful silence as Lena finished her work, carefully laying the damp cloth aside. The lavender still lingered in the air, a quiet comfort against the unknown weight pressing at the edges of your thoughts.

Lena smiled then, a small, knowing smile, before rising to her feet. "Rest, Your Highness," she said softly, smoothing her dress over her rounded belly. "Tomorrow will come soon enough, and you’ll need your strength."

She left you alone then, the flap of the tent swaying gently as it settled back into place. For a long moment, you remained still, staring at the basin of water where lavender petals floated in soft spirals, their scent lingering like a promise.

· · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · ·

The tent now was dimly lit, the shadows flickering against the fabric walls as the oil lamp sputtered. You sat at the edge of the small cot, fingers twisting the hem of your tunic, lost in thought. Outside, the camp was quiet, save for the distant hum of soldiers settling into the night.

Acacius hesitated before pulling back the flap to Aemilia’s tent. It was unlike him to linger, to question himself, but tonight he did. He told himself he was only checking on her, ensuring she was well after such a long and trying day. That’s all.

Steeling his resolve, he stepped inside. Aemilia sat at a small wooden table, her hands resting on an open scroll she hadn’t been reading. Her posture was slumped, and though her face was turned away, Acacius could see the weight of exhaustion in the curve of her shoulders.

"Your Grace," he said softly, breaking the silence.

Aemilia startled slightly, her head snapping up to meet his gaze. For a moment, she just stared at him, her expression unreadable, before masking it with cool detachment. "General Acacius," she said, her voice polite but distant. "To what do I owe the honor?"

Her words were measured, but he noticed the fatigue beneath them—an exhaustion not of body, but of spirit. She looked like someone who longed for the oblivion of sleep, yet her mind refused her rest.

I know the feeling.

“I came to see if you were comfortable. If...” He hesitated, the unusual uncertainty making him shift his weight. “Perhaps you need anything?”

He hated how the words faltered as they left him, stripped of the firm authority he was so used to. The days spent together had chipped away at his armor, leaving a vulnerability he hadn’t felt in years. She trusted him now—he believed it. And more importantly, he hoped she understood he wasn’t just a soldier in her service, but perhaps something more. A friend. Maybe the most loyal one she would ever know.

“Oh.” She gasped, genuinely surprised by his concern. “Thank you, General. Not just for this but... for everything you have done. For me, for my father, and for the empire.” She paused, looking down, her fingers nervously tracing the seam of her tunic. “Unfortunately, I can’t possibly repay you now, but I promise you, as soon as I—”

“Stop.” His voice was quiet, yet firm as he stepped closer, his shadow stretching across the floor. “There’s nothing to repay. I did it gladly, and I would do it a thousand times again if necessary. Not out of duty.” He hesitated, the next words slipping from his mouth before he could stop them. “But because I...”

He faltered, his eyes searching for hers, trying to measure how much of his heart he could expose without shattering completely. “We can be considered friends, can we not?”

Her gaze softened, the hardness in her expression melting ever so slightly. “Yes...” A small, almost timid smile touched her lips, though she quickly averted her eyes, unable to bear the intensity of his. “I suppose we can.”

Acacius remained still, restless in a way that felt unfamiliar. He wanted more from her—more words, more understanding, something—as if her voice alone could unravel the tension within him.

Finally, she broke the silence, her shoulders slumping as her mask crumbled. “I’m sorry, it’s just... I’m so confused.”

She rested her face in her hands, elbows propped on her knees, and he felt a pang deep in his chest at the sight of her. The proud, unshakable woman now seemed small, fragile. Mortal.

“I’ve spent my whole life preparing for this,” she said quietly, her voice muffled against her palms. “Learning, studying the best possibilities. And now that the time has come... everything feels out of place. No matter what I choose, I fell like I'll be doing something wrong.”

His brow furrowed, her words gnawing at him. What does she mean?

She lifted her head then, and he realized his thoughts had slipped aloud. Their eyes met, and for a fleeting moment, she looked like she might weep. “Marrying Macrelius would bring peace to the Roman people,” she whispered. “There would be no retaliation. Perhaps things could go back to normal.” She swallowed, as if the words physically hurt her. “But marrying you...”

Acacius stiffened, feeling a cold weight settle in his chest.

“Marrying you would mean war,” she continued. “And I can’t do that to them. It wouldn’t be fair.”

She can’t possibly be thinking to marry that man. The thought churned through him like a poison. Am I that repulsive?

His fists clenched at his sides, though he fought to keep his voice steady. “Peace is something the Roman people haven’t seen in a long time.” His tone was colder now, the softness gone, replaced by something harder—something she hadn’t heard from him before.

She nodded faintly, as if she understood. “I miss home,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I miss my father. My friends. Marrying Macrelius would mean going back to everything I know. It feels... safer.”

The words stung him more than he cared to admit.

“I’m not sure I can handle everything here,” she added, glancing at him briefly, her gaze calculated. “Staying here would mean staying alone.”

You speak carefully, your words chosen like pieces on a chessboard, hoping—praying—that the General might reveal his true thoughts about the matter. Your heart is a tangle of confusion, but the weight pressing hardest is your uncertainty over him. Would he truly want this marriage? Would he stand beside you willingly, not out of duty or obligation but because he chooses to?

The very idea unsettles you. For all you know, Acacius may see this as nothing but strategy, a burden to shoulder for the good of the empire. He says he is loyal—fiercely so—but would that loyalty extend to your happiness? To you?

The alternative feels like swallowing stones. Marrying the man responsible for your father’s death—whether by intent or fate—twists your very soul. Yet what choice remains? If Acacius doesn’t want you, doesn’t choose you, then what else can you do but sacrifice yourself for your people’s safety?

If only he would say it—just once. "I’ll never leave you alone."

· · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · ·

Your words struck him in a way he wasn't expecting. You feel safer with Macrelius than with him. And this time the anger inside can't be tamed or discased. 

“Well then,” he said bitterly, his voice carrying an edge sharper than any blade, “perhaps it’s better for you to return to the palace and go back to the easy life you had. Perhaps what happened in the last days can be forgotten with a good wedding feast.”

Her head snapped up, her eyes wide with hurt. “How can you say that?” she whispered, her voice shaking. The sadness in it, however, was quickly swallowed by anger—an anger that blazed as fiercely as his own.

“How dare you say that to me when I’ve lost everything? Everyone I love? Everyone who could care for me?” She stood abruptly, brushing past him toward the tent’s exit, but she stopped short, hesitating. Her back was to him now, her voice low but seething.

“Maybe the truth is you have no idea what real loss is, do you, soldier?” She turned, her gaze burning into his. “How could you know anything about caring? About love?”

She took a step forward, giving him no chance to reply, tone sharp as a dagger, her voice mocking now, “I wonder if that night you kissed me... was it pity? Or did you simply want to send me away so I wouldn’t interrupt your precious lonely time?”

Acacius’s eyes darkened, the fire in them matching hers.

“You’re a brute,” she spat. “The worst kind of man.”

The words landed with precision, but instead of hurting him, they ignited something worse—his pride. He laughed, a low, bitter sound that sent a chill down her spine.

“So that’s your opinion of me? A brute?” He stepped toward her, his gaze unrelenting. “Perhaps I should truly show you my worst. Then the feelings you once said you felt would go away, wouldn’t they?”

“Stay away, soldier,” she warned, though her voice faltered at the end.

“But I can’t, can I?” His voice broke then, the frustration spilling out of him like water through cracked stone. “Because even you, being the most stubborn and spoiled woman I have ever met, I can’t stay away. When I’m not thinking of you, I’m thinking of ways to protect you. And when I’m not doing that...” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I’m thinking of ways to love you. And that—that—is the worst part.”

His chest rose and fell with the weight of his confession, and for a long moment, silence filled the space between them.

“Because even if I had a thousand ways to show my devotion to you, it wouldn’t be enough. Not in this life or the next.” His voice grew quieter now, the anger fading to something almost sorrowful. “It wouldn’t be enough because you deserve a prince. One on a white horse. Young. Perfect. Not a scarred, brute of a man like me.”

· · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · ·

You noticed how his eyes flickered from pure anger to something quite diferent, almost a little sad. Your lips parted slightly, as if to speak, but no words came.

Does he really think so low of himself?

“Marcus...” your tone soft, reaching out toward him.

He shook his head, his expression hardening again, the walls rebuilding before your very eyes. “You should rest,” he said abruptly, the emotion disappearing from his tone. “You have a decision to make tomorrow. And by the way this conversation has gone... I already know the answer.”

Before you could say another word, he turned and disappeared into the night, the tent flap swaying behind him.

You sat back down, the weight of the conversation pressing down on you like a stone. The silence he left behind was deafening, and though you knew you should rest, all you could do was replay his words—I’m thinking of ways to love you.

And yet he was gone, believing you felt nothing. Believing he was nothing to you at all.

[doc-pickles]

hat trick | sidney crosby

summary: sidney goes three for three on and off the ice.

warnings: mentions of sex, kids, pregnancy, morning sickness, breeding kink if you squint

a/n: this is my first hockey fic! I missed writing so this was a fun little intro back into it. enjoy!

xoxo nina

one.

You sighed as you settled onto the couch, watching as the Penguins skated off the ice. They’d just been eliminated in the first round of playoffs after a tough five game series. You knew Sidney would be devastated when he came home the next day.

What you weren’t expecting was Sidney coming home before 6 AM. You were still fast asleep when a pair of arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you close.

“Mmm Sid? You’re not to supposed to be back till noon,” you mumbled as Sidney’s hand trailed under your sleep shirt.

“Missed my favorite girl,” Sidney’s words were muffled as his lips pressed to your neck, eliciting a low moan from you.

You rolled onto your back and looked up at Sidney whose lips were trailing over your skin, “As much as I love you, the sun isn’t even up yet. Did you even change before you jumped in bed?”

“No, I’m on a mission,” Sidney’s lips were still pressed to your skin as he spoke, his hands trailing up your sides to brush at the curve of your breasts. “I’m gonna win the Cup next year.”

You giggled as Sidney stripped off your shirt and his before his lips met yours in a hot kiss. You pulled back, meeting his eyes, “Which is a great goal babe, but I don’t see how us having sex has anything to do with that.”

“Our baby is gonna sit in the Stanley Cup next year,” Sidney grinned down at you.

“What baby?”

“The baby I’m going to put into you,” Sidney’s voice was low and thick as his fingers reached down and slipped under the lace of your panties, coaxing a low gasp from your lips. “Gotta start now, there’s no time to waste babe.”

“Sid-“

Your words were cut off as Sidney kissed you once more, his fingers slowly sliding into you. You’d talked about kids before, but you always thought he was the more hesitant one. His eagerness to start trying right away made you smile as his teeth gently sunk into the delicate skin of your neck.

“Fuck baby,” Sidney groaned as he leaned away to look at you. “Can’t wait to fill you up, see you growing with my baby.”

You blinked up at Sidney as he waited for you to answer the question hanging between you. With a small grin you reached up and threaded your fingers through his hair, leaning your forehead against his.

“Well what are you waiting for? Put a baby in me Captain.”

-

The excitement in the arena was contagious as Sid skated across the ice, the Stanley Cup held high above his head. Your husband had never looked so happy, his grin threatening to overtake his face as he skated over to you.

“I’m so proud of you baby,” you grinned as Sidney pulled you in and gave you a passionate kiss. “So freaking proud.”

“I love you,” Sidney grinned before extending his arms towards his mom who was standing behind you. “Hand her over, I’ve been waiting far too long for this.”

Trina grinned as Sidney kissed her cheek and then took the baby in her arms. Your daughter Sophie was only three months old but she wore a bright smile as her dad brought her against his chest. Tears threatened to run down your cheeks as Sidney leaned down to place her in the top of the Stanley Cup, cameras flashing all around you.

“C’mere,” Sidney gestured to you and you quickly pressed yourself into his hold. “Wouldn’t be here without you. I love you baby.”

“I love you too Sid.”

two.

“Babe! I’m home!”

You groaned as your head rested against the cool porcelain of the toilet bowl, your stomach churning as you took deep breaths. You could hear Sidney come into the house, dropping his bag and ducking into Sophie’s room before heading towards your bedroom.

“Babe?”

You went to answer but your stomach decided to roll unpleasantly and you’re bent over the toilet again as you gagged.

A warm hand rested on your back as you groaned, your body lurching forward again. Sidney pulled your hair back from your face.

“You need me to go get anything for you,” Sidney asked as you finally stopped puking, your head resting on his chest. “Meds or some soup and crackers?”

You shook your head as you groaned, “No I’m fine. I just wanna nap.”

“You sure you don’t need anything? I love you but you look awful,” Sidney pushed your hair away from your face as he pressed a kiss to your head.

“I’m fine,” you sighed as you leaned further into his hold. “Your demon spawn is just trying to take over my body.”

“What the hell does that… Wait,” Sidney leaned back and looked you over. “You’re pregnant?”

You let a small grin take over your face, “Don’t sound so shocked, you’re the one that insisted we celebrate the Cup win everyday for two weeks. Multiple times. I’m pretty sure this baby is a result of a shit ton of champagne and the time you dragged me into the broom closet during that gala.”

“Hey! This baby was not conceived in a broom closet,” Sidney grinned as he leaned down and pressed his lips to your forehead. “I love you. And I’m excited for another little one to chase around.”

“I’m excited to, but I’d love to stop puking up my guts,” you smirked as Sid squeezed your shoulders.

three.

“Sophie! Stop running, you know I can’t keep up with you!”

You groaned as your four year old raced ahead of you through the crowds of the arena. While Sophie had grown up within the walls of the PPG Paints Arena seeing her sprint through the halls still made your heart flip. Thankfully Taylor took off after her, scooping the little girl into her arms.

“Oh sweetheart, you need a nap,” Trina Crosby settled her hand on your shoulder as she sidled up next to you. “Running after two babies is hard work enough, throw in another one on the way. I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

You smiled and hoisted Violet higher on to your hip. Trina and Taylor had both offered to carry her but the little girl was glued to your side, even with your nine month baby bump in the way.

“I’m okay for now. Besides, this could be Sid’s last time winning the Cup, I’m not going to miss it for anything,” you grinned and settled a hand in your bump. Your third baby was giving you a hard time today but you tried to silently convey to them that this game was important. “Plus Taylor has Sophie covered and all Vi wants is cuddles.”

Troy chuckled as he joined your group, placing a hand on your shoulder, “And what will you do if this next one is a spitfire boy like Sid?”

“Hand him off to his dad,” you grinned as Trina and Troy both laughed. You headed into the suite behind them, settling into a chair as Violet scrambled toward Troy who gladly hoisted her up.

Game seven of the Stanley Cup finals was eventful, everyone in the suite cheering loudly as Sidney scored his first and second goal of the night. Sophie was bouncing excitedly between Taylor and Trina while Troy was trying to explain the game to Violet who simply kept yelling ‘penguin!’ any chance she got.

“C’mon boys! You got this,” you yelled as you watched the Penguins battling it out on the ice. “Let’s go Sid!”

You watched with bated breath as the tied game ticked down to its final seconds, Sidney commandeering the puck and shooting it into the goal for win and a complete hat trick.

Trina, Troy, Taylor, and you cheered loudly as Sidney and his teammates celebrated their victory. Sophie and Violet cheered as well, not quite knowing what was happening but excited none the less.

You and the Crosby’s headed down to the ice to congratulate Sidney on another win. Your hand floated down to your bump as a sharp kick from your third child hit you, “I know, you’re excited too. But can we settle down a bit please?”

“Baby giving you trouble?” You grinned widely as Sidney skated up to you, placing a hand across your bump as he leaned down to kiss you.

“Congrats baby,” you smiled as you placed your hand on Sidney’s chest. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” Sidney mumbled into your hair as he pulled you close. “You and the girls and this little one mean more to me than the Cup.”

“But the Cup is sure nice,” you giggled as Sid looked over your shoulder at the Stanley Cup.

“Sure is,” Sidney laughed just as the baby produced a harsh kick against his hand. “Hey there buddy, you excited about the win too? Once you get here I’ll sit you in the Cup, promise.”

Sophie ran up behind you, looping herself around Sidney’s legs. “Daddy! You won again!”

Sidney hoisted Sophie up, Violet reaching for you from Troy’s arms. With both girls between you and your husband, you smiled as the Penguins media team snapped photos of your family. You were notoriously private about your kids but today was a celebration for Sidney so you didn’t mind sharing your family moment with the world.

“You’re missing this Cap,” Kris skated over with the Stanley Cup, settling it in front of you and Sidney. “Honorary family member.”

“I think it’s Vi’s turn to sit in the cup,” Sidney grinned as Violet smiled up at him. “C’mere pretty girl. Crosby tradition, littlest one sits on top.”

Sophie wiggled out of Sidney’s arms as he took Violet from you, the 18 month old smiling widely as her father placed her in the top of the silver cup. You smiled for a few more photos before the celebration continued. You stayed glued to Sidney’s side as he accepted congratulations from everyone, his hand rested against your bump as he held you close.

“Mommy! You peed your pants,” Sophie gasped as she pointed at your leggings that were now sporting a dark stain. You could feel the wetness seeping through the fabric just as a sharp pain radiated through your stomach.

“Sid we might need to take this celebration elsewhere,” you looked up and met your husbands wide eyes. “Looks like the baby really was excited to celebrate.”

Excitement buzzed around you as everyone scrambled to get you and Sidney out of the arena as quickly as possible. You let Trina fawn over you, checking to be sure you had everything and assuring you they’d take care of the girls.

Once you and Sidney were settled in your car with an escort out of the crowded parking lot you turned to him with a grin, “Going for the double hat trick?”

Sid’s brows furrowed as he glanced over at you, “Double?”

“Yeah baby number three means you’ve officially achieved the dad hat trick,” you grinned and Sidney chuckled as his hand gripped yours. “I’m so proud of you Sid. You were amazing tonight.”

“Thanks baby,” Sidney smiled and pressed a kiss to the back of your hand. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”