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baldursgate3tempobsessed · 7 months

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I have an idea I would love to request but I wanted to check with you first! I couldn't help but think Astarion would be so infuriated & confused by me. Like when he held a knife at their throat, they're willing to give him a chance. Their reason is he has no real reason to trust them since he doesn't know them at all so they would show to him that they can be trusted. Then he's more confused when the first time he tries to drink blood from them, reader is shocked then immediately asks questions if it hurts, do they need to be healed, how should their position be so it's easier for him to drink, what would happen after that, etc. Even after he drank & they were feeling the effects, they asked if he still needed more. He answered them no confusedly before they were satisfied with his answer then passed out. He is both relieved and baffled at what just happened. What do you think of this? Please tell me if you're not interested! Thanks!

Local Vampire Spawn confused by care and offers of friendship, more at eleven.

Astarion, surprisingly, had gotten pretty lucky when it came to his newfound traveling companions. Two master swordsmen, a barbarian tiefling menace, and a Shar priestess were about the best one could ask for when it came to having protection. He could probably do without the do-gooder druid and walking time bomb of a wizard, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

And then there was you. The unofficial leader of the merry band of weirdos. Hyper competent, kind, and a powerful, and admittingly gorgeous, warrior. You would be perfection if you weren't so... frustrating.

Simply put, Astarion thought you were an idiot. A well-meaning, naive idiot, but a moron nonetheless.

What other explanation was there for your delusional trust in him? Your introduction had involved him pressing a damned blade to your throat, with every intent to kill you if you decided to struggle. Maybe even if you hadnt, if you had been alone. The correct response to a first meeting of that caliber would be to completely disregard him. Or kill him, for someone who had any conception of self-preservation.

But no, instead you gave him the offer to come with you, like that wasn't an absolutely insane thing to do. You had been so understanding, insisting that his penance for trickery and threats was justified. That you would be sure to earn his trust, like that was something worth obtaining.

At first, Astarion tried not to look too deeply into it. You were all going through hell, it made sense to travel in a pack, to find solidarity in others while trapped in a land full of endless horrors. It would explain why you kept the violate gith and the walking bomb around, despite their faults. There was also that foolish air of empathetic care about you at all times that helped explain things, one that extended far past Astarion himself. Though it did have limits. Astarion had borne witness to how unforgiving you could be when someone manipulated your trust. Though he completely agreed that the Hag known as Auntie Ethel fully deserved a slow, painful death, he hadn't been prepared for just how... literal you would take it.

So while you weren't completely without common sense, you still lacked a good deal of it. Like the fact that letting a vampire spawn drink your blood at night wasn't included in those same limits.

He hadn't even meant to open that particular door of feeding on you. It was just... so terribly hard to resist. You smelled divine, the scent of your blood always lingering beneath the surface of your skin. Cloying and decadent, the slightest whiff nearly enough to make his mouth water. He had been trying so damn hard to hide his true nature, feeding on whatever he could find in the dead of night. But none of it felt like enough. It should have been, he had more access to sustenance in the forest than he ever had under Cazedor's thumb. And wild boar were certainly better than sewer rats at the least.

But it wasn't enough to tame his growing desire for your taste. It had just happened. One moment he was simply on his own bedroll, staring up at the stars. And in the next the hunger was overtaking him. He was crawling over you before his mind could even catch up to his actions, his mouth already widening.

And then you woke-up, startled enough to knock Astarion out of his all-consuming thirst. You scrambled to your feet, staring at him with wide eyes as he struggled through an explanation. He had every expecation that this was it. This as the moment you would toss him to the side, realizing once and for all that he wasn't worth the danger.

But instead you just nodded along, the first question out of your mouth when he finished a simple, "Will it hurt?"

Astarion blinked at you, confused at you lack of reaction. He had admitted to being a literal monster for gods' sake. And that's what you were most curious about?

"Yes," Astarion said slowly, watching your face for every microexpression, "It will hurt, briefly. Then the pain fades into something a bit more... tolerable."

You nodded, asking another question, "Would I need healing after? Or would a bandage be enough? I would hate to wake Shawdowheart so late."

That was-he-were you actually considering this?

Astarion shook his head, hope and excitement starting to bubble to the surface, "No, a bandage should be fine. You might want her to top you off with something in the morning, but it won't be anything that can't wait."

"Okay," You said, nodding to yourself once before meeting his eyes with a determined gaze, "In that case, should I lay down? Or would standing be better?"

Astarion could scarcely believe your willingness. Part of him wanted to ask if you were sure that you wanted to do this, but his sheer lust for the taste of your blood shut that part down. Instead Astarion was reaching for your hand, gently tugging you down to lay back on your bedroll.

"This will be perfect," He murmured as he crawled back over you, his fangs protruding on their own accord, "Now stay still darling, we don't want to tear anything, do we?"

Astarion could just make out a lovely flush grace your cheeks at the pet name, barely visible by the campfire. It was a good look on you, that mixture of embarrassment and nerves, one that he wouldn't mind seeing again. But for now he had other appetites to attend to.

Astarion bit down, nearly moaning when the divine taste hit his tongue. Somehow it managed to taste even better than it smelled, warm ambrosia sliding down his throat, filling him with pure energy. It was an exhilarating experience, so much better than anything he'd ever tasted before. It was nearly too good, decadent enough for him to feel greedy.

He could feel you shaking under him, letting out the occasional whimper and whine. He was vaguely aware that this had been going on for too long, that he was taking too much. But it was so damn hard to resist.

It wasn't until you were gently pushing at him, whimpering, "I-I think that's enough."

There was the slightest touch of fear in your voice, the only thing that worked to pierce through his bloodthirsty haze. Astarion rolled off of you, licking his lips with a happy sigh. That was... better than he could ever have imagined.

He hopped up to his feet, sticking a hand out to help you do the same. You seemed woozy and unsteady as you stood, proving his suspicion that he had taken too much. It made the smallest lick of guilt creep up his spine. But it's not like you were ever going to let him do it again, he might as well indulge-

"Are you sure that was enough?" You asked, completely derailing his train of thought, "Will you be okay with just that? Or should we try again in a few hours?"

Were you actually insane?

"No my friend. I think I'll be fine," Astarion said carefully, "Another night perhaps. But, uh, are you okay?"

You shrugged, already sinking back down to your knees, snuggling back into your bedroll like nothing was out of the ordinary, "I'm sure I will be. Just a little tired now is all. Good night."

And then you were closing your eyes, out like a light while Astarion stood above you. Confused beyond belief. That was... how were you still alive? If this was the kind of thing you were willing to do for a near stranger, with nearly 0 reservations?

It was insane, idiotic, stupid. And now you just fell asleep right in front of the same man who cannibalized your blood? What the fuck was that? How was one supposed to respond to that? Astarion was grateful yes, beyond so. He went on to have a very successful hunt, even if his catches tasted worse than ever, they still left him feeling satisfied and capable. But he was plagued with thoughts of you the entire time. Thoughts that followed him through to the morning and the days to come.

You were so damn lucky that he was the spawn that was kidnapped. Half of his brethren would have already used your trust to bleed you dry before fleeing into the night. Gods knows what would have happened to you if it was Cazador who was taken in his place. That thought alone was enough to make shiver, clouding his brain with a massive discomfort at what someone like that would do with someone as... kind as you.

Astarion would never allow it. As stupid as you were, it didn't mean you deserved to be used. Well... by anyone besides himself of course. He was starting to think that he could use all of this blind trust to his advantage. Get you attached to him, force himself as a priority in your life that was worth protecting. But for that to happen you would have to stay alive. And that would mean someone would have to protect you from your infuriating self.

Astarion supposed that would just have to be his job. What it meant that the idea of doing such didn't fill him with resentment? He wasn't sure, and he sure as hells wasn't going to try and find out.

#astarion #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #baldur's gate 3 #asks #you'll pry my long posts out of my cold dead hands #basically pre-relatioship #but the feelings are there

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scrivenger-grimgar · 2 months

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its entirely unethical that there are no monster hunter/svsss crossovers. the system manager messes up and just shunts shen yuan to a holding world while trying to sort shit out, and SY just wakes up in the middle of the darj snowfields (mh:s) as a wyverian and gets taken in by hakum village. SY would go batshit insane for the whole taming monsters and keeping the balance thing, especially once he meets the hunters guild research people, and just goes 'yes, thats what i want to do' and then he proceeds to become a hunter/scholar and travel around all of the known world and into the new world.

he'd have two different sets of armor/weapons/gear of different purposes, one for all out hunting and another for quick quiet movements for field research.

some monster friends he has are a Najarala, Lagiacrus, Nerscylla, Tobi-Kadachi, Paolumu, and Beotodus (going off of MH:stories with having 6 party members total).

he just starts exploring the hoarfrost reach (23 years post system fuck up) when the system fixes the problem but then it looks at the replacement soul it chose and is just like 'oh. oh no. he's competent now. fuck.' but it cant go back on it cause of its user policy and so its forced to take This Guy and put him into the new situation, and unfortunately for the system all of SY's soul bound stuff goes with him, which means his wyverian body and his monster familiars.

the system CAN however make all of his familiars be deaged into eggs.

eventually the beast peak lord picks him off the street like a wet rag because this weird feral kid refuses to give her the eggs that he's hoarding, but shes never seen these eggs before and she really wants to study them, so she just forcibly adopts the 'kid.' he's not a kid, hes just a wyverian, who can get really really old even without cultivation, so he's like the human equivalent of a 16-year-old when he's actually around 44.

anyways, liu qingge is absolutely whipped for his weird shixiong who is both older and younger than him, who can delicately flip over a massive Earth Boaring Slime Muskrat with his spear, and who can smash a Tiger Footed Armadillo Dragon in the face with a massive hammer that shatters its skull, and who is so excited to sit down in a small roadside teahouse and rant about trophic cascade, and Liu Qingge has no idea what that is but Shen Qingre (clear restlessness/zeal) is extremely pretty when he's passionate.

#svsss #mxtx svsss #shen qingqiu #shen yuan #svsss au #mxtx #mo xiang tong xiu #liushen #liu qingge x shen qingqiu #svsss monster hunter au #grim talks #cang qiong mountain sect #monster hunter shen yuan

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fantasy-anatomy-analyst · 6 months

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quick orc tusk update

(image description: a digital portrait of a very old orcish man, in a side profile bust. His white-gray hair is braided, and he has multiple piercings on his face. His tusks are large and curled into circular shapes, creating a full loop with the tips moving up above his pig-like snout. The tusks have simple metal cuffs around them, connected with short tight chains. end description.)

having done more research, I decided I was being far too tame with my orc tusks. Here's a photo of a real boar tusk with the root intact:

(image description: a photo of a boar tusk that almost forms a full circle. The root is about half the circle, covered in dark lines and much thicker than the tip of the tusk. there is a clear line where the tusk emerged from the gums. end description.)

boars, as in male pigs or hogs, have tusks that grow until they die. and sometimes the tusks are the cause of death, because they will curve back and stab the boar right in the face and keep growing. sows, as in the female pigs/hogs, will have tusks that stop growing in adulthood. frequent fights can break the tusks, and the upper jaw tusks that stay shorter actually keep the lower jaw tusks sharpened. which is cool.

this is why domesticated pigs usually have their tusks removed while they're young. the size of that root would make removal extremely difficult later. if you think a wisdom tooth removal is bad, try having that thing taken out of your jaw. ouch.

I have been drawing my orcs with smaller tusks, tastefully small. just big enough to stand out. But I think from here on out I'm going to draw them much bigger and start adding more interesting dental jewelry to show how they got the tusks to grow in specific directions, like how this old orc's tusks have been manipulated into spirals far enough away from his face to keep them from stabbing him.

Of course, there could also be interesting differences between orc cultures. Those that place more value in people who use their tusks, allowing them to break and grow in more natural ways through fights that are considered honorable, social bonding time, even a form of diplomacy through combat. maybe a great warrior would prove their prowess by keeping their many broken tusk tips as a necklace.

and in other orc cultures, perhaps they place more importance in keeping their tusks long and carefully shaped, considering the long tusks to be a sign of wisdom, of someone who thinks more before acting, rather than recklessly solving their problems by force, or they could be a sign of spiritual power.

Neither option is more correct than the other, it just shows the different ways orcs might build their cultures and make their tusks part of their traditions.

#tusks #orcs #my designs #worldbuilding

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thisisallthehattersfault · 4 months

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Someone makes a choked, shocked sound. Someone else yelps. It occurs to Ace, somewhere between the howling in his ears and the ache in his lungs and the taste of salt and iron flooding his mouth, that this is probably pretty surprising for his brothers to witness. Maybe even downright upsetting.

The thing is, Ace was wading into the jungles on his own as early as four years old. Dadan taught him how to do basic shit like talk and wipe his ass, but he honestly didn't have a ton of human interaction before meeting Sabo. And the thing about Sabo was that he had more than enough human interaction for the both of them. Ace learned some manners from Makino, but while Sabo was still around, there wasn't really any reason to get... good, at people.

But then Sabo died, and Ace needed to teach himself not only to talk his way out of trouble but also how to be the nice brother, how to treat Luffy with the softness he needed and deserved, how to gentle his hands and his voice and his words. So Ace did that, because he needed to, and it turned out to actually be pretty useful for dealing with people when he wasn't actively looking for a fight. So he stuck with it.

Which is all to say that by the time he'd joined up with Whitebeard, Ace was as close to tame as he had ever been. Almost downright domesticated.

Ace snaps his head to the side, putting some real momentum into it, heaving with all his weight until something tears. When he drops to his feet he springs right back up again, lunging. He spits out his mouthful as he goes, lets his jaw drop open.

The thing is, Ace is a child of the wilderness. He raised himself among that wilderness, and then he raised Luffy among that wilderness. He's a son of the jungle at heart, no matter how good he's gotten at pretending to be a person.

The sea-stone cuffs are chaffing his wrists. He feels tired and heavy, but he doesn't need his fire to be dangerous. Doesn't even need his hands.

Teeth find an artery. Body-hot blood sprays his face as Ace bites down, lock-jawed and snarling. Rears back and rips.

Another marine goes down. Ace spits out a chunk of the man's throat and is already rounding on a third. Notices, with a vague annoyance, that he's gonna need to find a toothpick -- there's a scrap of tendon or something caught in his teeth.

Mmm. Boar. They had pork for dinner, ah, the other night? Three days ago? Something like that, but it doesn't taste the same as wild boar does. And anyway, meat on the Moby is always overcooked. Ace is allowed to eat blue steak, but everybody always yells at him when he tries to steal bites of poultry or Sea King or whatever else while it's still tender and bleeding. This fight is giving Ace a real craving!

Duck. Lunge. Bite down, hard, thunder of a rabbit-quick pulse against his tongue, bulge of tender flesh against his soft palate. Iron and salt in his mouth.

Fear has a flavor. It is bitter and acrid, reminiscent of char, and Ace hadn't liked it much when he was young and still learning how to hunt. It stiffens up the meat, too, makes it kinda chewy. Somewhere along the line, he'd acquired a taste for it, though. He still marks it as a point of pride, his ability to hunt and kill prey without it ever knowing he was there, roasting something that is tender-sweet and gives easily under his teeth -- but the taste of fear isn't so bad either. Sometimes he even prefers it, gets a craving for it. Like wild boar, he hasn't had it in a while. Maybe he'll chase down his own dinner tonight.

Ace rears back. Muscle fibers split, skin stretches until it snaps. A heave, and a body crumples to the ground, gurgling. He gnaws kind of idly on his mouthful while he catches his breath, snorting blood out of his nose and straining his ears. Sounds like the fight's over, then.

Another lump of trachea gets spat into the dirt. Ace turns to face his brothers, counting heads -- good, it looks like nobody got hurt too bad, everybody is still standing! He grins. Ah, they're all pretty pale though, that's a little bit concerning, he hopes nobody's in shock. He learned from Marco that that can happen to anybody, even if they've been in a whole lot of fights.

"Hey!" Ace chirps. "Is everybody okay?" His wrists are killing him. Also, he really needs a shower. He's got blood in his ears, how the hell did that happen? But first he jogs over to where the others are all standing, clumped together, still just. Kinda staring at him.

Okay. Concerning. "You guys alright?" He asks again, lower. "Is anybody hurt? What happened?"

"Ace, man," Deuce says. His voice sounds kind of shaky. He drags a hand through his hair, fucking it up even worse than it already is. "What the fuck was that?"

#One Piece #portgas d ace #fire fist ace #feral jungle child ace my beloved #cat in human body ace my beloved #Do you think ace has ever proudly presented whitebeard #with dead marines or enemy pirates or whatever #the way a cat presents their humans with a bird they caught?#Do you think ace gets lectured about the dangers of cannibalism and blood-born disease #because he ends up with human blood in his mouth during fights so often #and he gets offended and confused every time the conversation comes up #he's not a cannibal! He doesn't EAT people! What's wrong with you!#he's just fighting!!! That's all!!!#Marco tries to explain that blood in the mouth is blood in the mouth no matter how the blood got there #Ace is. Not listening.#Luffy does this too btw #Sabo did this once before his memories came back #and got the blood born disease lecture #and then he gets his memories back and goes right back to biting people #because it's What Ace Would Have Wanted

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devilfic · 1 year

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❝right place, right time❞

IV. the hierophant.

parts: previously / next plot: you ask bruce to take his shirt off. pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x gn!reader. cw: surgeon!reader, secret identities, slow burn, emotional hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, alfred’s a little mean but he’s just being protective, you’re making serious life choices on four hours of sleep and a dream, you’re getting warmer, mentions of guns (none used). words: 7.3k.

a/n: this one is longer than usual and it is largely due to the fact that the last half of this fic came to me at six in the morning and I deigned to part with it. enjoy!

You get about as far as the lobby before your confidence wanes. The woman behind the desk has the kind of look that fits in a place like this: pristine brows, glossed lips, nary a flyaway not tamed by gel and a boar-bristle brush. You realize, quite belatedly, that you stick out like a sore thumb.

Even with a phone tucked between shoulder and cheek, her stare pins you down and tells you to stay where you are. You listen because, frankly, you don’t know where else to go.

She’s in no hurry to finish her call, but it’s all too soon before she’s fixing you with that stare again. You’re already nervous. “Can I help you?” She—Alexandra, you gather from her name tag—doesn’t blink.

You feel ridiculous saying it out loud, “I’m here to see Bruce Wayne.”

Alexandra’s head tips to the side, examining you more closely. Perhaps looking for your audacity, you think, because she doesn’t look too keen on helping you with that request. “He sent me flowers.” You add on, lamely.

Finally she blinks, unimpressed, “Did he now?”

You feel unnerved when you hand it over and she doesn’t immediately take it. Eventually, after your arm has begun to shake, she plucks it from you.

It takes her but a few seconds for her entire expression to change. The next time she looks up at you, her stare is curious, memory jogged. “You were on the news, the doctor from Gotham General,” Alexandra recalls, “did you have an appointment?”

“No. I uh... well, I just... the delivery person dropped these off a half hour ago. I just wanted to thank him.”

Alexandra’s face softens. “I’m sorry, I can’t let anyone up without a prior appointment. I can relay a message, however. Or give you his office’s number.”

You wouldn’t be seeing him today, would you? You’d come here on an adrenaline high, a little angry and a little woozy on pain meds. You hadn’t even been thinking when you’d left your apartment, had turned off your phone as soon as your mother started calling, and now you were on the other side of the city hoping to see the most important man in Gotham. Of course you should’ve called. He left you his number and you thought you could just walk right into his office.

But then again, he’d walked right into yours. Why couldn’t you do the same?

Behind the desk, one of the (heavily armed) security guards is keeping an eye on you. That... answered your question. Maybe you’d have to make that call after all.

You’re about to do just that, thanking Alexandra for her time, when you hear your name being called from a few feet away.

You recognize him in an instant. The weathered, greying face of Bruce Wayne’s right hand man is approaching at impeccable speed, nearly making you stumble back to keep the distance, “Mr. Pennyworth.” You breathe the name at the same time as Alexandra, who goes a step further and stands to acknowledge him. You don’t think it’s customary with the way his quick smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

You, on the other hand, get no smile at all, “What a surprise to find you here. I hope the flowers were received well? We were unable to gather if you’re prone to allergies.”

You wonder how he would’ve gotten that information without asking you first, “No- I mean yes, they were fine. I was actually coming to deliver my thanks.”

Alfred straightens at this. It’s not hard, with all your experience, to recognize a veteran when you see one. He’s got the determined, flawless gait along with the endless eyes (the ones that go on forever with stories and horrors not so far beyond your imagination). He’s also got the immovability of one. You understand why he’s Bruce Wayne’s right hand man. If a bomb was unable to take him out, you doubted much else could. Not even if you asked nicely. “That’s very kind of you. I’ll have to pass your thanks on to Master Wayne.”

Master? It’s not so out of place, situated in his West London accent, but it does throw you off in 21st century America. Everything about him read as other than, and yet you felt the most out of place in this conversation. “Actually, I was hoping if I could see him. I’d like to tell him in person. If that’s alright.”

Alfred’s eyebrow twitches upwards, “Does Mr. Wayne know you’re coming?”

You flush. You really should’ve called first. “No. He doesn’t. I thought-” that you’d all make an exception for me, “I was in a hurry to get here. I didn’t even think to call.”

“Mr. Wayne is a very busy man.”

“I know, I’m sorry. Truly. I just really need to talk to him.”

“Perhaps you can come back another day. I’ll be happy to schedule that with you, if Mr. Pennyworth is needed elsewhere.” Alexandra interjects. There was no way you could tell her or Alfred that if you had more time to think about what you were about to do, you might as well ask to be put down.

Mr. Pennyworth extends his arm, bringing his wrist to his eyeline where he reads the time on his watch. You glance at your phone and realize it’s just a few minutes after one. “Actually, Alexandra, there’s no need. I believe Mr. Wayne has just finished his workout and should be headed back to the penthouse to rest for the afternoon. I don’t believe he’d mind our guest coming up for a chat.”

You cut your eyes to Alexandra, then back to Alfred who’s now looking at you. Either you were really lucky, or there was something you didn’t know going on here.

Regardless, Alfred turns on the spot and begins to walk away.

With one last “thank you” thrown at Alexandra, you head off after him, slowing to a more graceful pace as employees pass pointed looks at you. You shrink closer to Alfred, then further behind him when he casts an inquisitive glance in your direction.

He leads you around the corner, down a long hallway where the suits and ties grow fewer and fewer. A few more turns and you both end up in the elevator alone.

The silence is only cut through every few seconds by the occasional ding! letting you know you’ve passed another floor. This was all starting to feel just a little too easy.

After the first five floors, Alfred speaks, “I trust you’re recovering well?”

“Yes, actually. I’m lucky. We all were.”

Alfred hums, “Yes. It is rather lucky having the Batman around.”

You turn to him, curious, “You’re a fan?”

For the first time in your presence, the old man actually cracks a real smile. It’s faint, but realer than the one he’d given Alexandra. “A critic.”

“A critical fan.”

“I think he’s done a better job taking care of the people in this city than some, though his methods could use refining. And you?”

“I might be biased given that he’s saved my life and all, but I’m a fan,” you wonder if you should tell him. Then, in line with your other decisions thus far, choose to do so anyway, “I actually got to tell him that. When we first met. Before the... hospital. Patched up a nasty bullet wound for him.”

For some reason, Alfred doesn’t look as surprised as you were hoping for. You’d have to find another way to impress him. “Is that right?” His gaze becomes more pointed, “Think he was looking out for you?”

It sounds so absurd to you at first that you laugh, but even thinking about it for a second, it isn’t that absurd. It’s easy, even, to come to that conclusion. You’d saved his life. He’d saved yours. Perhaps he’d just wanted to do away with owing you, but you know that isn’t quite right, “I think he’s just a good person. It was just-”

“Lucky.” He finishes for you, smile gone now. You get the feeling that he knows something you don’t.

Before you can be so bold as to question him about it, he starts talking again, “If I may, Master Wayne informed me of his interest in you prior to his job offer. And it’s my understanding that you politely declined. Now, it’s none of my business as to why you turned down his offer, that was your decision and he must respect that, and it’s neither my business why you’ve insisted on coming here after the fact, but I do want to make one thing clear: as Bruce’s butler, I have seen many come and go through these halls with intentions I’m more than privy to. I know when someone is looking to gain something from him. This is the first time I’ve not been sure what to predict. It’s not clear to me what you plan to get out of this arrangement, but I request that whatever you do, you do not make me regret allowing you past these doors.”

The elevator comes to a full stop, the final ding! alerting you that you’re one floor away from the penthouse. A mechanized voice requests over the speakers to “present identification”. Alfred does not move. He stares at you, awaiting your response.

You don’t know whether to feel angry or sheepish. You stand here in little more than sweatpants and ratty sneakers, shaking like a purse dog where at any moment, someone could come around the corner and put a bullet between your eyes for saying the wrong thing. In fact, no one needed to come around any corners. You’d seen the outline of the 9mm under Alfred’s vest on the way to the elevator. You had little more than your keys on you for self-defense.

You weren’t a threat. You were barely anything without a scalpel in your hand.

And yet this military man with more bullets than you’d have seconds to escape him thinks you enough of a problem to lecture you. God, alright, you’re a little angry.

“If I may,” you start, “I have no clue what Bruce wants with me either. And frankly, I’m more worried about that than you should be about me. I just want to talk to him. If you’re lucky, you’ll never have to see me again.”

He holds your gaze a little longer, wondering if you’ll crack. It takes very deep, measured breaths to keep from doing so.

You don’t know how long the two of you just stand there, but eventually Alfred touches a screen on the wall with his thumb that seems to be the magic password. The voice from before confirms as much, jolting the elevator the last few feet before spilling the two of you out into the penthouse. Alfred says nothing more, simply guiding you down another hallway, up some stairs, and into a room larger than the upper half of your apartment complex.

You don’t have time to pause at the one-of-a-kind art on the wall, nor the shelves lined with books of all languages and disciplines. You don’t even have time to examine the city outside the window (from what you glimpse, the view is beautiful).

You stand out in the open beneath twin winding staircases either side of you, leading up into a dark unknown. You feel like a child staring up at the ceiling, breathing in the gloomy castle. It’s worlds away from your quaint unit stuck in the 80s.

“He should be here,” is the first thing Alfred has said to you since the elevator, “I’ll just be a moment.”

You watch the old man wander up one of the staircases, calling for Bruce. Without anyone watching you, you’re free to explore. And really, what if this was the last time you’d ever step foot in this place?

The first thing you approach is the large table in the middle of the room. There’s a W engraved in the wood, polished to a shine, surrounded by abandoned teacups and loose papers you try not to look too closely at.

The next thing you approach is a small study off to the side where more books live, but your stomach drops when you chance a glance out into the city. You’ve been this high up before, but you couldn’t imagine this being the first thing you see every morning. You could see most of Gotham from this high. Every skyscraper, every dingy alleyway, every car and boat and train from miles around. This far above, it was no wonder they called the Waynes royalty.

You also couldn’t imagine the money it took to build this place. It was cheaper back before anyone in this building had been born, but if Bruce Wayne wanted, he could build one just like it in every major city. You can even see Gotham General from here. It’s... it makes you feel so small.

Your fingers press into the glass and leave behind prints. You doubted anyone would even notice.

You’re seconds from whipping out your phone and texting Emily a photo of the view when Alfred’s voice breaks the silence, “Master Wayne! There you are.”

Shit, he was here already?

You turn, expecting him to be at the staircase or by the front door or even by the table you’d been pondering. You don’t expect him to be just a few feet behind you, watching you watch the cityscape. The sudden closeness makes you tumble back into the window, your head thudding on the glass so loudly that you see Bruce wince.

When Alfred’s voice carries again, he’s much closer. Close enough for you to hear the displeasure in: “You have a guest.”

Alfred leaves you both alone in the study. He cites some phone calls he needs to make and swears to keep “Dory” out until the end of your meeting. You’re assured it’s just the two of you up here. As if that would calm your mounting nerves.

At the very least, Bruce looks just as unsure as you.

He puts the desk between the two of you, still standing, only now his shape has changed. In his fancy suits, he was angular, a person who parted crowds with his size. Now, here, in a t-shirt that hangs off him so loosely he looks gaunt, he looks smaller somehow. Tall and lean but smaller. Softer. It helps a little, doesn’t feel so out of place when his voice matches his demeanor, “Did you get the flowers?”

Only then do you realize that Alexandra still has the card he left you. “How do you know where I live?”

His expression turns frightened for just a moment, then softens, “Your boss called when they arrived at your office, told me you were on leave. He offered to send them to your apartment.” He takes the way your eyes narrow as you not believing him, “He didn’t tell me where. And I didn’t ask.” He hastily tacks on the last part.

Of course, he says all this as if you had lawyers on speed dial. Was it because he had something to hide?

“They were... beautiful. I can’t remember the last time someone gave me flowers.” You reply, honest, and it takes a little of the tension out of his shoulders. Yours too.

“After I saw the news, I was just glad to know you hadn’t been seriously harmed.”

“No, I was lucky. Or someone was looking out for me.” The last bit slips out without you meaning it to. When you look up to hazard Bruce’s reaction, he’s entirely impassive. Whatever got you into this penthouse convinces you to ask the next thing that comes to mind, “Do you believe in the Batman?”

You catch the genuine confusion flit across his face as he asks, “Like... the boogeyman?”

“No, I mean... do you believe- I mean he’s just a person, right? Clearly. But do you believe he’s doing something good for Gotham? Mayor Reál seems to think he’s a sign that the city has gone to shit. I know you’re a supporter of hers. I was just curious.”

“The city’s always been... shit,” he catches your eye as he reuses your wording, “I don’t think he’s a sign. I think he’s a side effect.”

“So... the city gets better and, what, Batman no more?”

“That’s the ideal.”

“I can’t imagine a Gotham that nice.”

Bruce studies you. You find it alarming how still he can be, “Do you?”

“Hm?”

“Do you believe? In the Batman?”

Why do you feel so naive when you blurt out a confident “yes”? Is it because Bruce looks skeptical? Because you realize that maybe you’re more attached to the vigilante than you should be, even if he saved your life? That maybe you’d placed all your hope for a better world in him, and if he ever failed, you’d be in for a rude awakening? All of the above was your best guess. “You didn’t answer.”

Bruce fidgets. “I don’t know.”

“That’s a cop out.” It hits you that the conversation has begun to flow on its own, the longest you’ve ever talked to Bruce. Maybe the suits were the issue after all.

“It’s... like you said: Gotham gets better, the Batman is no more. I want Gotham to get better.”

Whether he’s playing diplomat or not, it’s such a neutral stance that you begin to reevaluate what you know about Bruce Wayne. You shift the conversation to shallow waters, “Your butler is intimidating.”

“Alfred?”

“He interrogated me on the ride up here. Felt like I was being lectured by my girlfriend’s dad.”

Bruce laughs all of a sudden, even less tense. The smile that splits his stoic in two is so very different from anything you’ve seen on him so far, “I’m sorry about him, he’s protective. I hope he didn’t scare you.”

You go to say he didn’t, but then you remember the gun he’d had hidden in his slacks and reconsider, “It’s fine. He let me up here, didn’t he?” Whether he’d done so hoping this would be the last time you ever step foot in the tower or not, you would leave that unsaid. “But I didn’t come here just to thank you for the flowers or talk about Batman. There’s been something on my mind for a while. Ever since you came to offer me the job. I was too stunned to think about it then, but I’ve been meaning to ask you... why me?”

You expect to have to clarify. Bruce takes a long look at you and doesn’t ask you to, “Because you’re good at what you do.”

“There’s hundreds of talented doctors in Gotham. Millions in the world. You met me once and you wanted to put your life in my hands.”

“You’re one of those talented doctors.”

“But you... aren’t just anybody. You have to... you’ve gotta know that, right? You could have asked for anyone. I should’ve been a blip on your radar as soon as you met me. There’s no logical reason for someone with your resources to come to me, in person, and ask me to work for you.”

“Of course there is.”

“Like what?”

Frustrated, he maneuvers around the desk until it’s no longer blocking the both of you. It makes the conversation feel more personal. You don’t feel like you’re talking to the same Bruce Wayne from before, “You noticed I was hurt right away. No one else did.”

“It feels like more than that.” And it does. All of this. Every interaction has felt like something bubbling under the surface, waiting to break skin and bleed out for everyone to see. You keep getting that feeling that you know. Bruce even looks like he knows. Alfred, too. But you’re the only one who can’t quite name it.

It doesn’t help that for a second, you think Bruce is going to say more. He doesn’t. He schools his expression into stoicism again. You find that you don’t really like that look on him, can’t stand not having that glimpse of someone human now that you’ve been spoiled on it.

He takes one step after the other, assertive. You feel like you should step out of the way once he’s right in front of you, when the fresh scent of green apple invades your senses and you notice that the soft strands on his head are still damp. You realize then that you’d probably caught him fresh out of the shower, that it wasn’t just the lack of suit that had changed him. You realize too that his knuckles are still bruised, only now the flesh looks like it’d been freshly broken recently.

You’re so focused on the injury that you startle looking into his eyes for answers. For a shining, blinding second... you’d seen someone else.

“I wasn’t trying to change your mind. The flowers were a courtesy. Nothing more.”

You believe him. He’s not acting. He’s so earnest you don’t even think he’s breathing as he waits for your reply.

You’d come here in a haze and you’re finally sobering up, but you wouldn’t sound like it from what you say next, “And if I changed my mind?”

The stoicism melts. Bruce exhales a heavy breath.

It starts to catch up with you that you still have no idea if the offer is even still on the table. “If you haven’t already found someone else,” comes your buffer, trying not to let embarrassment seep into your words, “and if you’d still like me to-”

“Okay.” His answer is sure, final. His certainty reassures you in a strange way. You still feel way in over your head but God be damned, you got this far.

“Okay. And I have some conditions. I’ll still be working at Gotham General, you’ll just be my priority. And I want to do a physical exam, figure out what I’m working with.”

“Whatever you need. It’s yours.”

You glance back down at Bruce’s hands. He needs no convincing. You think back to that day when you first met him: the limp in his walk, the barely contained pain in his expression, his excuse that had felt more practiced than your speech. If you recalled, he’d favored his left side, which would put his sprain just about...

Your hand is touching his waist before you even realize that it’s left your side. Through the shirt, you feel the muscles that are deceptively concealed. No matter how much softer he looked like this, there was power coiled beneath his skin.

To your surprise, it’s you who reacts first.

You yank your hand away and put one whole step between the two of you—which does nothing. You didn’t recall being this close before you touched him. Just how out of your mind were you?

You take stock of Bruce’s expression. If he had looked any sort of way when you’d been so bold as to touch him, you’d missed it. You summon enough strength to ask, before you could throw yourself out of those beautiful windows behind you, “Can I use your restroom?”

You don’t know what you’re doing, you don’t know what you’re doing, you don’t know what you’re doing.

It’d be better to think something more positive, something that would get you to release your death grip on the sink, but you’re Icarus and you can smell something burning. You can also hear voices outside; Alfred’s, unmistakably, and Bruce’s which would be easier to hear if you pressed your ear up to the door. No doubt, they were discussing you.

Your palms are so slick that they start to slip and you have to run them under water. You don’t even want to think about drying your hands on the towel hanging beside the mirror, quality visible even to your eye, but if you wiped them on your sweatpants, everyone would know.

Your second idea is to check your phone, swiping through the missed calls and messages begging for you to have some sense and call your mother back. You check the weather (clear skies for the night), pull up pictures of kittens, scroll online until you’ve seen every news report and viral video on mute and have no excuse to hide anymore, because the only thing worse than having a borderline panic attack in a rich person’s bathroom was the rich person thinking you were absolutely destroying their plumbing.

You take a few breaths, decide against splashing your face, and begin to turn the knob.

The hallway you’d been abandoned in is far enough away from the main part of the house that you can’t see Alfred and Bruce, even if their voices carry fine. Everything about the penthouse was stately, old money etched into the deep honeys of the wood and warm lamps casting more shadows than light. Any windows on this side of the house are covered with heavy drapery, blocking what little sunlight the city allowed in the waking hours. It’s easier to imagine that you’re not sixty stories up this way.

You can still hear Alfred and Bruce talking as you drift in the opposite direction.

There are a few doors down this way, past the restroom, all doors shut and imposing enough to keep you from taking peeks inside. Outside one of the doors at the end of the hall, you do catch a whiff of clean linen from under the door. The laundry room, maybe? You recall Alfred smelling the same.

On your way back, you look back down the stairs you’d come up earlier and spot an old-timey landline with a notepad and a pen beside it. Chancing a closer look, you see a note with something scribbled across it.

Dory,

Call about the leak. Tomorrow at the latest. Preferably before evening. Bruce won’t be home.

There was that “Dory” again. Was she the maid? The one Alfred promised to keep busy?

“...it has nothing to do with you.”

For the first time, Bruce’s voice carries out into the hall ringing clear. Alfred scoffs, tone bitter, “No, by all means. Bring a stranger home. Give them a key to the place, too, while you’re at it. You might as well rip the bandaid off in one go. I’m sure that won’t be a liability.”

You carefully ascend the staircase again, sticking close to the walls. You strain to hear without drawing any attention to yourself.

“You wanted this, Alfred. You were the one telling me I couldn’t do this alone.”

“But not... bloody like this. Look, this has never just been about you- and don’t you give me that look. I’ve stood by your side since you were a child. Since you were born. And like it or not, what you do has consequences far beyond yourself. When you’re reckless, who do you think’s gonna make sure your mess is taken care of?”

It’s when you slip around the corner that the two come into view, warring voices echoing off the walls no matter how quiet they tried to be, “I’ve never asked you to clean up after me.”

“But you’ve needed it, haven’t you? I’ve done alright, haven’t I? And all I’ve asked of you is to be careful.” From your vantage point, you can see Bruce’s face twist with determination. At the same time, Alfred’s has softened. You get the strange feeling that this isn’t entirely about you after all. “As your butler-”

“As Alfred.”

“...I’m always keeping my eyes open for you, and I’d appreciate it if... if you could keep your eyes open for you too. And mind the overlap. Lest your nights become your days.”

The silence is deafening. Even worse, you realize a second too late that their spat has come to an end because they both turn to where you stand in the archway, clinging to it to hide. Alfred gives you one hard look, forcing out pleasantries, “I trust the amenities were to your liking?”

Your mind blanks for a moment, still stuck on what exactly they’d been yelling about, “Oh, yes. It’s lovely. All of it, the whole place.”

The soldier gives a firm nod. “Bruce tells me you’ve reconsidered. I’m happy to hear it.”

Right. So much for him being lucky.

Before you can muster up some way to curb the tension, Alfred excuses himself from the room, going back where you’d came. Moments later, you hear a door shut a bit too loudly. Bruce hovers several feet away, conflicted. Somehow, this is even worse than the first time he’d left you two alone.

It becomes fairly clear after a while that neither of you know where to go from here. Were you to pretend you didn’t hear all of that? Pretend that Alfred’s anger wasn’t, at least in part, directed at you?

This was all starting to feel too much like a minefield to maneuver. Perhaps all three of you would sleep on this tonight and wake up in your right minds, but for now, all you could do was hope to God this didn’t bite you in the ass.

“Your conditions,” Bruce starts, “have them sent over to me. Whatever you need, I’ll make sure you have it.”

It takes a lot out of you not to jump back when he’s close enough to touch again. As if you couldn’t trust yourself not to reach for him. Or trust that he would even bother to stop you. “Of course... Mr. Wayne.”

By the time you arrive home, darkness has risen over the city and you’re back in your apartment building before your day could get even more exciting.

You’re operating on fumes, fantasizing about what’s left in your fridge from meal prep earlier this week, barely sound enough to get your key into your mailbox.

You feel a presence nearby as you’re sifting through bills and junk. Her scent (that of cinnamon and myrrh) gives her away immediately, “Hey, Judith.”

The little old lady doesn’t smile at you—she rarely does, severe as she is devout—the crow’s feet about her eyes fold in on each other as she assesses you, “You should apologize to your parents.”

You don’t mean to. You usually have better manners than this, but you can’t hold back your sudden, audible groan. Even Judith is startled. “They’ll get over it.”

“They’re worried for you.”

“Did they tell you to tell me that?”

“You need to be careful, dear. Strange spirits are drawn to you.” Her hand chronically trembles as it reaches into her purse. Out comes her handheld copy of the Bible, lovingly worn and dressed with tabs of all colors from her studies. You watch her pick at a neon green tab and flip the little thing open, “I’ve been praying for you ever since I saw the news. That... Batman may have saved you, but I fear you’re still in danger. I have some verses that might help you keep him out should he come looking for you again-”

Judith has never needed to care this much. On your first day moving in all those years ago, she’d struggled up a flight of stairs just to prepare you dinner and offer to show you how to get your janky dishwasher open. Your roommates had found her offputting, had turned down her offer for tea at her place, but you had gone. It’s how you found out that she’d lost her husband and only son years prior. Gunned down, wrong place wrong time. Nothing new in this city. God was all she had left.

If babying you helped her sleep at night, if praying for you gave her peace of mind, you would let her ten times over.

“He’s not a demon, I promise. He’s as much flesh and blood as you and me.”

Judith frowns, not at all convinced, “You’re not in debt to him, are you?”

You shake your head, locking your mailbox back, “We’re even, actually. I saved his life. He saved mine. We’ve nothing to do with each other anymore.” You realize that she’s dressed to head out just then. Her coat is buttoned to the neck and she’s got her beret clutched under arm while she puts away her Bible. “Got Bible study tonight? Stay safe.”

Once she fits her hat over her salt and pepper curls, she caresses your arm. Her hands hadn’t been warm in years, but they weren’t any less comforting than when you’d first felt them. “You too, dear.” Then she reaches for your keys and picks out the one she’d copied for you forever ago, “Whenever you need to, don’t hesitate.”

You watch her totter off onto the sidewalk, swept away in the waves of commuters getting off work. You hoped you’d never have to take her up on her offer.

It turns out that not only had they put your flowers in your bedroom, your parents had also taken the liberty of cleaning out your fridge. You hated that on top of all the incessant texts they’d left you since this morning, you’d be expected to break the ice with a “thank you”. You’d prolong that for as long as humanly possible, that’s for sure.

Somewhere between popping your dinner in the microwave and turning on the news, you found yourself standing at your window staring into the dark. He wasn’t there. You kind of wished he would be, though. For some reason, he was the only one you wanted to talk to.

And then, somewhere between the timer going off and your stomach growling, you’d pushed the curtains aside and propped the window open.

You practically inhaled dinner, glancing every so often at the window during infomercials. With every breeze that shifted your curtains aside, you looked. Every squeak and creak of the fire escape, you looked. By the time there’s nothing left to scoop out of your bowl, night has fallen completely. It makes it harder to see out, harder to gauge if you see him or just a shadow. Your eyes start to cross again and you force yourself to shower the day away.

You don’t expect the window to be closed when you get back.

Even better, you don’t expect him to be standing right outside it.

You’re far too eager to get it open again, cursing the old thing all the while, “Shit- sorry. Must’ve fell closed while I was in the shower, I left it open for you.”

You’re bending out of the window where Batman stands just a step or two away. You have to crane your neck to look up from your position, wondering how long he’d been standing there. He looks a little peeved at you. Had he been waiting long?

“I know. I closed it.”

You blink, “Why?”

“You were in the shower.”

You’re about to reiterate “I left it open for you” with feeling this time when it dawns on you that he’d already clocked that. You shut right up. “Okay—admittedly—stupid move. But you haven’t considered the fact that maybe I knew you’d get here before someone with a gun.” Batman doesn’t look impressed at all. In fact, he looks like he’s going to turn around and abandon you forever. You frantically back away from the window, “Sorry. Are you hurt?”

He waits to answer you until he’s stepped fully inside. He takes a short survey of the room, peering into every corner, before he’s turned his attention to you. It’s clear skies tonight. He doesn’t smell like rain for once, “I just came to check on you.”

Your chest has the audacity to swell with stunned breath. “Really?”

“Were you expecting me for something else?”

“Well, no, I just... I was just... when I said I left the window open for you, I meant... I hadn’t really expected you to stop by. Was more wishful thinking. An invitation.”

Your admission should’ve stayed secret. You watch him work through a host of expressions, landing on a firm scowl.

“Okay, again, admittedly stupid move. Can we move past the window already?” His glare could freeze you dead. No wonder he was so good at his job. “And I’m fine.” He continues to stare. “Seriously. I’m good.” Now he just blatantly looks like he doesn’t believe you. You would find it funny—you do find it funny, actually, though you hide it well—if you weren’t so annoyed that he’d found you just as convincing about your wellbeing as you found him about his own, “But you would know about being a hypocrite, wouldn’t you?”

That last part is said with a little more venom than necessary. You regret it as soon as his face softens. His eyes tells you he takes no offense.

“I’m sorry,” you found yourself saying that a lot tonight, “I don’t know what’s going on with me today. Are the people you save usually susceptible to rash, impulsive decisions?”

“What did you do?”

You exhale through pursed lips, saying with the same cadence of a teenager admitting they’d crashed the family car, “Got a job.”

Batman’s expression doesn’t change except for a teeny, tiny glint in his eye. Teasing, it looked like, “You’re insane. What on earth were you thinking?”

“Okay, ha ha.”

“No, really. You might have brain damage. We’ve got to get you to a hospital, stat.” It would’ve shocked you that he reached forward to press the back of his hand to your forehead had you not been giggling deliriously. You smack it away like he did this all the time, though once you’re touching him, your fingers cling for a little longer than needed. You aren’t exactly sure what about touching him made you want to hold on, monopolize the feeling. Was it because every time you’ve touched him, it’s been an anchor? For comfort? Something that extends beyond words? Probably.

You release his hand before he can notice. Or comment on it.

But then you’re stumbling toward your couch and dropping your head in your hands like you’ve made a big mistake. You don’t have to look up to hear him follow you. “I must be insane.” you grumble, tracking his body where it stops in front of you, where he kneels, and you clench your eyes shut tighter.

You barely feel it at first. It’s faint, lighter than a breath. It doesn’t register as a touch, let alone his touch, until all five of his fingers are hovering over the surface of your knee. You peek through your fingers and sure enough, his hand is right there. He doesn’t dare press his fingers into your skin and it almost feels like he’s dangling you off a ledge.

You don’t want him to let go.

You place a hand over his and hold it there, closing around the leather. You don’t know how long you just stay like that, trying desperately to cool down what feels like a creeping panic. There’s too much happening. Too many sensations, too many thoughts, too many emotions. You just need him to stay there, quiet, and let you touch someone.

You don’t remember the last time you’d been properly hugged. You surely hadn’t been since you’d left the hospital. Your parents had been too focused on getting you to come home with them that you hadn’t thought to ask for one, hadn’t expected that you’d get one. And, to be fair, if you’d been given one, you’d probably have brushed it off.

Because, truth was, you did not know what you were doing.

Batman doesn’t seem to mind being still. He waits, breathing slowly and deeply. At some point, when you zero in on him (because how could you not? How could it be lost on you that this isn’t just anyone you’re touching right now?), you start to match him.

You begin to apologize for the other night when you remember how you clung to him, but fear that another “sorry” might actually annoy him more than leaving your window open again. You search Batman’s face for any sign of “I need to get the fuck outta here” and find none. “I’m asking you this because I trust you: have you ever met Bruce Wayne?”

You watch him shift uncomfortably, but he never breaks eye contact with you. “What?”

“Bruce Wayne. Can I trust him?”

He hesitates, picking apart your face for something, “I’m not following.”

“He asked me to work for him. Apparently, he thinks I’m very talented even though he’s never seen me work.”

“You are. I would know.”

“Yeah, you would. It’d have made more sense for you to ask me. What I don’t get is why me. His answer wasn’t very enlightening. That’s why I’m asking you.”

“...What do you think?”

“I think I want to. But I’m worried I’m being reckless again. I’m used to... I used to chase danger a lot when I was younger. Kind of had a taste for it. I’m worried that that’s what this is.”

“There’s a lot of danger in change.”

“You’re saying I’m afraid of things changing?” He was starting to feel like a therapist now, prodding at old wounds and everything, “Is that what this is? Things change all the time. I’m a doctor. Nothing is ever predictable... and you didn’t answer my question.”

Batman frowns. You realize this is the second time you’ve said that today. “Bruce Wayne isn’t corrupt, if that’s what you’re asking. You can trust that. The rest is up to you.”

You’d think that would have been enough to put all your worries about him to bed, but it left you with more mystery. The bruised knuckles, the pain in his side he’d passed off as just stress, the warning Alfred had given you in the elevator, Bruce’s sudden interest in you... all of it felt connected to something bigger. If it wasn’t corruption, what could it be? And if it was, how deep did it go for even Batman not to know?

You’d be much more prepared for concerns like this on more sleep. And less pain meds.

You start thinking about the skin healing beneath your bandaged leg, the dull pain that shifted with every movement. You also think about Batman’s hand on your knee (the one you’re still holding, the one he doesn’t look eager to retrieve), “Do you have somewhere to be?”

You’d missed looking into those deep blues. He holds your gaze steady, speaking quietly as if not to break the moment, “It’s quiet tonight.”

“Don’t suppose you’ll react kindly to me asking to see your wound.” As soon as you lock eyes with him again, his eyes narrow. You get the feeling he’s getting better at clocking your bullshit. “Unless you’ve got some other doctor friends I don’t know about taking care of you.”

He gives you that look again, the same one on the fire escape that made you worry he’d up and leave, but his hand doesn’t shift from under yours.

You watch him look around, searching. It takes him a few seconds before he reaches for something on the other end of the couch. Your mouth gapes a little when you realize he’s holding one of your shirts, the not so fresh one that you’d forsaken for the shower just an hour ago. He removes his hand from your knee and grabs the other end of the shirt, stretching the material before looking back up at you. It takes you an embarrassingly long moment to figure out what he’s asking for, his hands motioning for you to lean forward.

You slowly tilt closer until the fabric of your shirt caresses your eyelids. You feel Batman pull the shirt around your eyes, around your ears, and to the back of your head where his fingers begin to tie a knot with it. You’d be mad that he was stretching one of your favorite pieces of clothing if you didn’t feel his breath ghost your lips, letting your head be lightly jerked around by his tying, “No. Just you.”

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yourheart-inmyhands · 8 months

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Hiya, I love your yandere archons and a someone else request got an idea brewing in my head. You said the reader can’t be powerful or more because it would make them like the traveler… But what if the reader isn’t even a human? Like a primordial deity/being or something like lovecraft? An eldritch being? Basically a darling who can’t be physically chained or overpowered? How can they charm/persuade the darling? Like trying to seduce Azothoth!like darling, like those scheming yandere they are? Like you know those court drama where the consorts fight for the emperor? Ya know poison, blackmail, etc? That’s the archons for the darling. Is this too complicated? Anyway keep up the good work.

ah this was such an interesting ask! it definitely let me bring out some more obscure head canons of mine so thank you so much! :3c

Warning: this post contains yandere-themes, including delusional behavior, mentions of animal slaughter, uh not much this is actually a pretty tame post, archons are actually kinda nice for once, and other potential topics. Please read at your own risk!

Yandere!Venti would hound you constantly, showing up wherever you seem to be staying to constantly chat you up. At first he starts just straight up begging but slowly it devolves into just chatting, slowly making you fall in love with him as he learns more about you and you him.

You couldn’t help the smile on your face as you saw the familiar green bard bounding over to you, a bottle of wine in his hands and a basket of some human food you had mentioned enjoying. He made sure to always bring something to share with you while you talked, just a little something to keep the conversation going for longer. The bottle of wine was usually for Venti but if you showed interest he wouldn’t mind sharing. Slowly, as he visits you day after day, you find yourself enjoying the presence of the boisterous male. He may have fallen first, but you fell harder.

Yandere!Zhongli would use his history of Liyue to woo you, thrilling I know. This somehow seems to work in his favor though as he can invite you on walks with him and then spend the whole time telling you about the history of the area and all the fun little details. It may seem boring, but somehow the century old dragon seems to make it fun, his passion for history rubbing off on you just a little bit.

You listened intently as Zhongli told you random, generally useless facts about the spot you currently stood at. While you will admit that he had bored you at first, you had come to love his strange little information tidbits. The passion he had for history was admirable and the joyful effect it seemed to have on him rubbed off on you the more he told you. It had started with a simple proposition: join him for a walk and if he told you something you didn’t know, that he could prove was true, then you’d join him for another. If you did know it already, then he would leave you alone. What he didn’t tell you though was that he had no plans of leaving you alone, setting up something that was entirely untrue just to win the little deal. It’s the only time he’s ever lied to you.

Yandere!Raiden would act similarly to male birds, where she flaunts what she’s capable of to entice you to choose her. Though she doesn’t do a silly dance with pretty feathers, instead she showcases her power. She flaunts her capabilities as a partner and uses that to entice you.

While your power as an eldritch being was scaled differently from Raiden, it didn’t mean she couldn’t still showcase her strength to you. Showing you the skeleton of the giant serpent she had slain was only so impressive so instead she challenges you. Bring her anything and she’ll kill it. From wild boar to giant whales, everything you had brought to Raiden she made quick work of. She even offered to dive into the waters and hunt down something herself but you insisted it wasn’t necessary. She had proven herself plenty, you were simply giving her a hard time to see how far she’d go. It almost made you feel bad, killing the insignificant wildlife simply for a bit of a show, but Raiden always made sure the animal went to good use. That was something you liked about her, even if she was busy showing off and flaunting to you, she still made sure that nothing was wasted.

Yandere!Furina would have nothing to offer but herself. She isn’t incredibly funny, she’s not super strong, she can’t tell you cool facts about her nation or even spend all day talking to you. All she can give you is late nights under the stars, laying there as she points out all the constellations to you. In her early years as the Hydro Archon she would often spend her time stargazing, finding the action perfect to unwind when she was stressed.

Every night, after finishing up with court proceedings for the day, Furina would meet you at the same spot. She’d lay out a blanket, whether you lay on it with her or not, and stare up at the sky. Sometimes she’s silent, just enjoying your presence as a calming figure in her life, and sometimes she’ll point out the constellations to you. Furina thinks you’re absolutely darling but you’re way above her league and she doesn’t have anything that she can use to attract you to her. So she settles for these quiet nights with you, gazing at the stars as she used to in her youth. On nights where she does tell you about the constellations, she tells you how to find it, where the name comes from, and if it applies, the story behind each one. Her favorites are Cassiopeia and Cetus.

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throwaway-yandere · 2 years

Note

I wont give up writing for anything, even if that means I have to leave the Akademiya.

Creative Differences (Yandere!Tighnari/Reader)

A/n: compadre I lowkey got scared reading this message cause I was procrastinating on reviewing college algebra by writing a fic. It was kinda ominous haha! (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠). Anyways, I'm not sure if this is a writing prompt or who it's about, but here's a short (prolly ooc) yan!Tighnari fic. Enjoy!

gn!reader

CW: yandere!Tighnari, toxic relationship

—---

You're breaking up with your boyfriend of two years this afternoon.

Yes, you dated him despite knowing his flaws. You went out with him, knowing that he can be a killjoy and a bit condescending. And yes, you admit, that at first, you thought it was cute how Tighnari acts more abrasive around you when he is easily cordial around others. That you thought you were special since he doesn't act this falsely repulsed towards anyone else. That his facade will progressively melt soon as your relationship progresses.

Spoilers: it didn't. Somehow, instead of controlling his sharp tongue, you made it uncontrollably worse.

You were considerate and thought it was just stress. Being an underappreciated forest watcher would bound him to a few troubles on its own and the Akademiya's insistence on bringing him back is another factor. He had no need for the Sages' favors while they remained deaf when receiving his declinations. You chucked his behavior as a result of stress, and since he "trusts you more than anyone". Tighnari feels freer when he's with you compared to his associates. He openly expressed his frustrations because he's aware that you won't leave him, much like family.

But he smiles so much softer when he’s with Collei…

You know it's bad, really. To get jealous of his poor student as a final straw. It doesn't look good for your case, but one night you accidentally eavesdropped on their conversation and noticed how Tighnari's ears seem to straighten up whenever Collei calls him "master."

He never has time for you. He's always so busy, it's like he was avoiding you on purpose.

But you're mature and didn't act on those unpleasant emotions. You think of Collei as a little sister, and you can't imagine something bad happening to her. So, to lighten your mood, you jokingly called Tighnari "master" like the forest rangers.

And not so jokingly did he grab your wrist iron tight and tell you that if you say that again, he'd have you locked up in a cage like a filthy boar.

The remainder of the evening featured Tighnari avoiding eye contact. He never offers you an apology and acts as though he hadn't uttered anything horrible that left you feeling groggy the next day.

But being on the receiving end of his anger hurts. Especially when you know you've done nothing to deserve it, at least, it's nothing to you.

He vehemently opposed your enthusiasm for penning romantic light novels for grounds the fox refused to divulge. Instead of being proud that your novel "The Knight Tames the Villainess" beat Zhenyu's notorious "Legend of Sword"' for a week, Tighnari rained on your parade by insulting your readers and the characters of the book.

The fox said that the love interest behaves like Cyno and that he's not a hero worthy of wasting anyone's time. That if you're going to write a male love interest, he should've been more snappier and honest with the female lead's flaws instead of being stoic.

"He's done nothing to help her improve." He rolled his eyes. "The black kitsune antagonist had more chemistry with the female lead than him. That white-haired bodyguard is a joke of a protagonist. Your readers have no taste."

You didn't question why he was affected and offended by this. Tighnari was certain that if you did read between the lines, you would've rooted out the cause of the problem immediately.

He picked your characters apart while he engaged in a Socratic-like method of patronizing you.

None of his complaints, aside from his assertion that your novel lacked "logical structure," were verifiably true. Although the male character is silent and unfunny, he has done everything in his power to help his loved one become happier in all areas of her life. In addition, it is absurd that he believes the traumatizing antagonist was a greater role model than the boy who fell in love with the female lead.

You were surprised. From the years you've spent together, not once did he talk about your hobbies with you– and you wished he never did.

"Stop wasting time and focus on your thesis. How else are you going to pass the board if you're too busy behaving like a big lummox? I'm saying this because I care about you, (Y/n). If you need extra cash just say so. You don't have to write for those people, they're all just–"

Tighnari didn't stop there. You loathe recalling the rest of what he said.

You wouldn't mind his words if he attacked your skills in writing, but to call your readers illiterate and dimwitted spinsters with no taste in men was enough to unseal everything you had bottled up for the past 2 years.

The entire argument was a blur. There were screamings and loud thuds, but what stood out most from your memories was the bold declaration you uttered by the end of it all.

"I won't give up writing for anything," you spat. "Even if it means I have to leave the Akademiya– if it means I have to leave you."

Normally, debates with him are futile, but at least there was one major key takeaway from this exchange.

You had an epiphany. There was never a need on your end to be with Tighnari. That your writing was more than an escape– it was a clear cry for help and a reflection of your needs and desires. And you were hoping for someone to depend on and a chance to break free from the "villain" in your life.

It had been days since that fight, and you calmed down. With the way things are going, this conversation should be a breeze on your end.

"(Y/n), you wanted to see me?"

Speak of the devil.

You put your cup of coffee down.

"Yes, please close the door. This is pretty important."

He locked the door.

Tighnari looked indifferent– as usual– and flopped his tail down the nearest chair. His ears were twitching slightly as he fixed his hair, puffing it to add more volume.

You nodded, fishing a paper out of your pocket. Tighnari raised an eyebrow.

Since he was so keen on reminding you that you are awful at holding academic presentations without a little "cheat card", you decided that you'll bring one this time too. Albeit, it only had the words "FUCK YOU" written eloquently, it's enough to make you remember the many woeful sorrows you want to communicate. You don't care that it's petty. Even though you’ll be civil about the break-up, a little card wouldn’t hurt. At least when the afternoon's finished you can joke about it at parties.

Tighnari would laugh at your face after you say your piece. He's a natural-born sophist– some might call his wisdom false for it, but his persuasion is influential. Hence, you fully expect him to gaslight you midway. The fennec fox would remark that your performance was funnier than any material the general Mahamatra came up with. But you don't care.

There's an exciting world out there once this is settled. You can't wait to be single and get nervous around anyone you find remotely attractive.

"So? Get on with it, (Y/n)." He tapped his fingers on the table. You almost forgot he doesn't like it when people get too distracted. "I still have to plan the next cleansing ritual."

"Course you do." You let out a snarky retort without realizing it. "But please bear with it, this shouldn't take long."

He hummed curtly.

You cleared your throat again, trembling anxiety making its way up your fingers.

"Tighnari, let's have a clean break up."

"Sure."

"Oh." You nervously smiled. "Thank you, I apprec–"

Tighnari hurriedly sprang from his chair and slammed both hands down. His eyes widened as your thoughts took a moment to sink in. He laughed without mirth.

"... Wait, come again?"

He squeezed his nose and closed his eyes while taking a breath. The slight grin on Tighnari's face proved your assumption was accurate. He was laughing at you.

"What are you trying to play here?"

Of course, it'd be too easy if he just agreed with you.

"Whatever it is that you're trying, quit it. If you want to go on dates then sure. We could visit Liyue Harbor this Saturday–"

"No. I'm being serious here." You breathed shakily in a mediocre attempt to steel your nerves. "I want to break up, Tighnari."

He paused, his stone-cold gaze unbreaking.

"Why?"

"Because we're both unhappy."

His ears twitched and drooped down slightly. "We are?... You're unhappy?"

"Yes." You said it almost like a question, so you repeated it to make things clear. "Yes, I am. And so are you."

Tighnari slowly shook his head.

"No, no I don't. I love being with you, (Y/n)."

You sucked air between your teeth. Your heart started to pound loudly as your hand clenched a handful of your shirt tightly. It's unfair. He can't say that after every verbal abuse he subjected you to hear.

"Tighn–"

"I know what this is about. You're having an affair with Cyno, right?" He snarled.

Huh?

This time, it was your turn to be stunned and simultaneously enraged. You glared daggers at him while your closed hand hit the table.

"Excuse me?!"

You both went silent. The fox heard your heavy breathing and knows you're too baffled to speak.

"I can't believe this." Tighnari sneered, but his voice was raspy and strained from disbelief. His tearfully frustrated eyes contorted as he forced words out of his mouth. He raised his hands abruptly before languidly motioning his thoughts in the air.

"I can't believe you didn't even realize you're in love with him. I-I was willing to turn a blind eye if you were fucking him behind my back. That’s how much I love you. I thought turning a blind eye would stop you from stirring up this– this rebellion– You're a fox's mate– my mate!"

He shook, mad.

"And I can't and won't find another. Damn it (Y/n)– you know this!"

"What made you think I'm having an affair with Cyno?!" You balled your fists, and your knuckles paled.

One more absurd comment and you'd be convinced that he's under the influence of hallucinogens. It wouldn't be a huge stretch. What kind of boyfriend would let someone else bed their lover? An incompetent one maybe– if it were a healthy polygamous relationship and everyone consented then you wouldn't bat an eye, but it isn't.

You're not some debauched "doll" shared against their will.

"I've never cheated on you!" You screamed.

"From the way I see it, your patrols with him should be considered an emotional affair." Tighnari deadpanned. "Playing with his hood, pulling his arm, laughing at his unfunny jokes– you're practically a whore for him."

Holy shit.

"You're insane."

That was the only response you could say.

So painfully, you wanted to nitpick the flaws from his argument. How satisfied you would've been if you pointed out that's how humor is subjective and that's how platonic relationships work. Even though you wanted to make him feel tiny with your stream of unwarranted reprimands, you don't want to be like him.

Let his delusions simmer and stir– you have nothing to do with him anymore.

"You know what, we both don't need this talk. We're done, Tighnari."

You walked past him and reached for the doorknob.

It rattled, however, it did not open.

You tried again, frantically in an attempt to loosen the locks. This was the worst moment for a door to jam. You slouched forward and pulled harder. There's no way he won't use this moment as a way to drop more inane comments. You heard a chair being dragged out behind you.

"It's no use. I locked it."

"Then open this fucking door."

"Why should I?"

You shivered, not noticing Tighnari right behind you. His lips hovered above your ear.

The reputable forest watcher trusted by travelers and citizens alike pressed a doused handkerchief against your nose.

Panic overrode your rationality when you realized what you were inhaling, and stupidly you gasped. It smelled faintly made out of dendro energy and plants created by Greater Lord Rukkhadevata. You and Haypasia, whose major research concentrated on the Irminsul, are more than familiar with its aroma.

It's the incense.

Normally, it's taken for the sake of connecting with the Irminsul, but his motivations make you dread why it's being utilized. Continuous exposure increases the susceptibility of researchers to its effects, and in this context, Tighnari is exploiting that for...

You jumped and clawed his arm, but your vision wavered like it would in the desert. His arm encircled your waist, and he was, unfortunately, stronger than you. The card you were holding fell. Tighnari's ears perked up as he sensed your strength waning.

He caught you right on time. Consciousness evaded you, and you weakly leaned on his chest.

Tighnari smiled.

He smiled so much softer than when he talked to Collei– and everyone else in Teyvat.

"Why should I open the door, when I have you right where I want you?"

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